Daniel

My love affair with writing started at an early age. I fell in love with stories and reading when I was still a toddler. I was always frustrated by the library’s check-out limits for children, and spent as much time at our local library as I could. Apart from baseball, this was my favorite thing to do. I devoured all of the books I could get my hands on as though I were a starving beast who will never be full, no matter how much I eat. I remember going on enchanted adventures of learning on The Magic Schoolbus, solving mysteries with Nate the Great, and feeling true belief while I rode The Polar Express. When I ran out of things to read, I made up my own stories. I lived in a world that enabled my every childhood fantasy, and confronted many of my childhood fears. Discovering the ability to create gave me a sense of joy that anyone who gets lost in the forest of creation will understand. One of my favorite books was called Davy’s Dream, by Owen Paul Lewis. Imagine my delight to find out that not only was he coming to our school, but that he would read stories that we were supposed to write for an assignment. My work would be read by a REAL author. My nervousness rose into my throat as I waited in line for him to sign my copy of Davy’s Dream in the school’s gymnasium. When I gave my name for the autograph he stopped, looked up and asked me if I was the same Daniel who wrote a certain short story (the name of my story is lost to my memory, and I am certain the actual story is lost in the great dusty attic of time). When I said yes, it was, he looked me square in the eye, and told me that I should become a writer. The environment I grew up did not encourage self-confidence. I was autistic in a time when people thought of safety helmets to prevent the screaming children from bashing their brains into the wall. My diagnosis of Asperger’s would elude me for another six or seven years, plenty of time for me to develop into a mess of hopeless dreams. I didn’t believe him. Couldn’t believe him. My love of writing became lost in the smoke of my vanishing childhood and lie dormant for decades. I still wrote on occasion, but the phantom that lived in my head always hissed, “failure, worthless, hopeless.” In March of 2020 I was among the first to catch COVID-19. COVID never left me, and I began to fall deeper into despair as my ability to do any of the things I enjoyed doing slipped away. Eventually I was unable to continue working at my day job, as a software developer. I had no physical energy, even making a trip downstairs to fill my water bottle could cause me to fall into a crash of such exhaustion that I would be unable to rise from my bed for months at a time. Any kind of intensive logical mental task would throw me into a state of paralyzing fatigue and throw massive migraines as the fuck-you cherry on top. Most of my hobbies revolved around being outdoors, or playing video games or reading indoors. I was unable to play video games without throwing myself into a crash, and I couldn’t read at all. Later I discovered audiobooks, which was one activity I could do. Later on, I found that I could also do more creative tasks, and rediscovered writing. I started work on a short story, setting a word count goal of 7000 words. I hit this goal within a few weeks, pacing myself at no more than 10-30 minutes per day of writing. Now, I am working on my first novel. This is a dream that has simmered for decades; one I lacked the confidence to try doing. It’s a dream I will see fulfilled, and I am happy you are here to share the ride.

Ghost Dreams – Part Two, A Nightmare in Beatiful Gossamer

Short Stories, Writing Prompt / / / , ,
An alien or ghostlike figure is a black form behind a semi-translucent substance. A light shines from somewhere behind the creepy figure, its human-like hands pressed up against the membrane holding it back.

Read part one of this story here. A cold hand brushed Tommy’s cheek. The touch dilated his eyes, turning his world into a bright light shining into his soul. He blinked several times in an attempt to clear his vision. Slowly, his vision resolved into something more coherent, although his mind refused the images he

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The Pack – Part Six, A Mother’s Nightmare

Short Stories / / / , ,
A stag stands with its head pointed skyward. The background is shrouded in deep fog. The stag is a black figure, shaded by a tree. You can see a crow near the stag.

Luna led the cubs in a playful dance beneath the falling snow, snapping at the fluffy white flakes as they floated down to the earth.  She savored the looks of joy on her children’s faces, the youngest lolled her tongue in glee.  She understood her place in the world, her life was for her children.  She would do anything

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The Pack – Part Five, Hunger and Exhaustion

Short Stories / / / , ,
Two purple orchids stand out in a blurry field of green. There are some burry forms of purple hanging in the background that hint that this is a field of wild orchids.

The sun pulled Alpha from his rest.  The sun was already high overhead, he couldn’t remember having ever slept this late—or being this exhausted.  They had been running for several days already.  The puppies wouldn’t survive this frantic running for much longer, and though she tried to hide it, Luna was still recovering her strength

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