Silent Saturday

The day after you lose your best friend is actually worse than the day that you watch him hang. Because at least while you’re watching him die, the whole thing has an air of reality somehow, even if it’s the worst reality you’ve ever experienced. But the day after he’s dead, you wake up with this sense of unreal-ness, like maybe you dreamed it all, and now it will all be put right.

Every corner you turn, you expect to find his face on the other side. And every time a conversation starts, you strain to hear his voice. I think that’s really why we’re hiding. I mean, we’re hiding from the authorities, of course, because if Jesus is… dead, then surely the rest of us are soon to follow. But I think we’re also hiding from seeing him everywhere we used to spend time with him–in the market, at the table, sitting by the sea.

The truth is, it’s the silence and the emptiness that’s the worst of it. Because at least when you’re crying, you’re doing something. Most of us have spent the day together, and sometimes we’ve talked, or prayed, or cried together, but mostly we just sit in silence and stare at the wall, wondering what to do. Wondering how this man who we gave our whole lives to could suddenly be gone. Continue reading

Veni, Veni

A couple of years ago, I put up a short story for Christmas (which you can find here) which used some characters from my current novel, Go. I thought I’d write another one for this year instead of just cheating and putting up the old one! Enjoy! If you’d like to learn more about the MacMasters, ask me about being a beta reader. I’m hoping the rewrite will be done (very) soon!

“And so man was made higher than the angels, and God said that it was very good.”

It was the first time in five years that the four MacMasters had been in church together. Twelve-year-old Xandri sat between her parents, with Curt, her little brother, sitting on her mother’s other side. It was Christmas Eve, and Xandri could just make out snow swirling around outside the stained glass windows of St. Paul’s Cathedral, in Shadyside, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The huge sanctuary was chilly, but made warmer with its closely packed congregation and the ceremonial candles lit on the altar.

“Humans are in a very unique position,” the priest continued, looking out over the filled pews. “We are the only beings in creation who can neither call ourselves good nor evil.” Continue reading

The Invasion: A Christmas Story


I did National Novel Writing Month in November, and I realized that the characters and the world I’d created lent themselves perfectly to a Christmas-themed short story. Like what you see? Keep your eyes out for more goodies and, at some point, a full-fledged novel!

Violet tried not to be nervous as she sat in the lobby outside Zaniah’s office. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she reasoned. Well, nothing wrong enough for Zaniah to get involved. Had to be a routine meeting. Of course, Violet knew well that there were no routine meetings with Zaniah.

Zaniah’s secretary, a little demon with a pinched face named Yildun, nodded sharply, and Violet swung open the huge, heavy doors.

This office probably hadn’t changed in several hundred years, Violet thought. It was rustic and gothic at the same time, like a crypt with a fireplace. Violet wouldn’t be surprised if the office had first come together in a crypt, actually. Continue reading

A Murderous Wench

You know, it seems to me that one usually only gets called a murderous wench once in one’s life. If one is, one is henceforth hanged; if one is not, well, it is generally not an accusation one hears repeated. But the people around me have caused an exception to this generality. They’ve been repeating it so that they almost have me believing it. But, you see, I am not a wench. A wench is a piece of property, and a poor one at that, who sits about rustling her petticoats and calling for maids. Oh, no. I am not a murderous wench. I am a murderous pirate.