Writing Samples
Also feel free to check out my
website for more samples of my work, including the first chapter of my upcoming novel,
Magebound.
Exerpt From: Broken Wings
"Where's the fire?" Jak said with a laugh as Zaiden practically dragged him down the hall. "We've got almost fifteen minutes." Zaiden just grinned back at him.
They burst out through the double doors into a chilly blanket of fog, the mist hanging in the air, still and silent, the nearby trees and bushes nothing more than dark, formless shapes. Zaiden stepped off the walk, into the damp grass, and headed west along the outside wall of the teacher's apartments, away from the greenhouses, toward...
"Zaiden, what's out here?" Jak asked, glancing around. Aside from the stone wall, he couldn't see a thing. He slowed, resisting the fire mage's insistent tugging, and tightening his grip on Zaiden's hand. "Zaiden, where are you taking me?"
Zaiden stopped and turned back to him, a hurt look on his face.
"Do you think I'd drag you out into the fog and- and leave you here?" he asked, taking a step toward Jak and letting his satchel drop to the grass. Jak opened his mouth, didn't like what he was about to say, and closed it again. That's exactly what he'd thought. He was a mage, after all, and he was used to mages acting like mages. "Jak, I just didn't want anyone to see us."
"See us--" Zaiden silenced him with a soft, almost hesitant kiss, the fire mage's warm hands rising up to cup Jak's face, his fingers sliding up into Jak's hair. Jak drew back, breathless, and stared into Zaiden's bright, flickering eyes, flames dancing within their depths. "Are you for real?" he whispered. Zaiden just grinned and kissed him again, more confident this time, his lips parting, coaxing Jak's mouth open, his tongue slipping inside.
He tasted faintly of campfire smoke, that wild, outdoor scent that would linger for days on Jak's clothes after a family trip into the mountains. With a groan, Jak shrugged off his book bag and wrapped one arm around Zaiden's waist, drawing the slender young man tight against his body, his other hand rising up to tangle in the hair at the nape of Zaiden's neck. Great Maele he felt so good, so warm and eager in Jak's arms.
Suddenly, Zaiden stepped forward, pushing Jak back against the building. Jak shivered as the cold ate through his jacket, the stones hard and unyielding behind him. Zaiden's lips slid down to his throat, scalding hot on Jak's chilled skin, teeth scraping, biting. Jak gasped and tightened his hand into a fist, gripping Zaiden's hair.
"We should stop," Jak said, out of breath, his voice rough and hoarse. "You're making me so hard." Zaiden pressed against him, grinding his crotch against Jak's erection. "Oh, s**t, Zaiden--We gotta get to class."
"Just two more minutes," Zaiden whispered in his ear, his hands wandering down Jak's chest, teasing his nipples through the soft fabric of his T-shirt.
"I can't go to Herbalism with a hard-on," Jak said, his teeth clenched as he reluctantly grabbed Zaiden by the shoulders to push him away. Zaiden raised his head, his hands sliding down between their bodies, grasping the top of Jak's jeans, pulling at the button.
"I'll take care of it," the fire mage whispered, his lips brushing against Jak's.
Exerpt From: Broken Wings
More than a little uneasy, Jak stepped into the foyer and began digging through the pile of coats and hats. Zaiden's long, red coat was easy to find, and lying beside it was his and Izeri's. He grabbed them and jumped as the doors at the other end of the hall burst open, two young men spilling out into the corridor. At first glance, it looked like a fight, but after a moment, Jak realized that only one of them was throwing any punches. The other just cowered and tried to protect his face.
"Hey," Jak shouted, taking a step toward them. "Leave him alone!"
The one doing the beating paused to glare at him, his chest heaving.
"Mind your own business," he snarled, and then raised his fist to hit the other boy again. Before he could swing, something large and dark came barreling out of the party and slammed the attacker against the wall, hard enough to rattle the sconce on the wall next to Jak. It was Shadorak, his chocolate brown skin glistening with sweat, his teeth bared as he lifted the guy off his feet and threw him down the corridor.
The guy hit the floor with a sickening thud and screamed, his shoes scuffing across the carpet as he writhed in pain, clutching his arm to his chest, his wrist bent at an unnatural angle. Shadorak turned to the beaten boy, gently coaxing his head up. It was Moonsinger, the shy werewolf from Jak's Cooperative Learning class, blood running down his chin and from a cut above his eye.
"What happened?" Shadorak asked, his deep, rumbling voice filling the hall.
Moonsinger shook his head and winced, his eyes drifting back down to stare at the floor.
"I said no," Moonsinger said, his voice thick, like he was fighting tears. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble."
"Don't be sorry," Shadorak said, running one large, dark hand through the werewolf's sandy hair. "I'm very proud of you."
"Really?" Moonsinger asked, his eyes bright as he glanced up, his expression heartbreakingly hopeful. Jak could almost imagine him wagging his tail. With the crisis over, Jak turned to go.
Exerpt From: Rayne's Story (Working Title)
Fifty bags of potatoes was a hell of a lot of potatoes. Rayne didn't know what his father was thinking. It was a bargain, of course -- less than three laenes a bag -- and if he could sell them for eight or nine -- the going rate for potatoes in their corner of the world -- they'd turn a fine profit, but that was only
if he could sell them. Not that he doubted his father, but ... fifty bags was a hell of a lot of potatoes.
Rayne discovered that first hand as he unloaded them from the farmer's wagon. He had to get them out of the wagon and stacked beside the building before the farmer finished his drink in the inn next door. His father always bought a drink for the men he did business with -- kept them coming back, he said. Rayne sure envied them at that moment. He had half the bags -- at least twenty pounds each, they were -- off the wagon before he paused to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his face. He counted himself lucky that it was late fall, with a brisk wind blowing up the main street from off the sea, instead of high summer. 'Course, if it was summer, he wouldn't have had to move the damn potatoes at all -- unless they were last fall's potatoes, and then three laenes a bag was too much.
He gave his head a little shake -- like he always did when his mind wandered -- and grabbed the waterskin sitting on the front steps of the shop. He took a drink and splashed some on his face, his skin prickling as the cool water rolled down his neck and under the collar of his sweaty shirt. He tossed the skin back onto the step and brushed his hair back out of his eyes, his fingers catching in the tangled curls, before clambering up into the back of the wagon again.
He reached for another bag, but stopped as something unusual caught his eye. A man was walking up the middle of the street, from the direction of the docks. Few travelers ever came to Traxen by ship -- merchants sometimes, and slave traders, but this guy wasn't either. His clothes were muddy and patched, and he carried only a single leather knapsack slung over one shoulder. His hair hung lank and dirty to his collar, blacker than anything Rayne had ever seen before, and his eyes were the dark blue of sapphires, shadowed by a fierce scowl. Rayne watched him approach, and felt his pants grow a little uncomfortable. This guy was hot, in an angry, mess-with-me-and-I'll-hurt-you sort of way.
Rayne licked his lips and wondered where he was going, what his name was, where he was from, what his mouth tasted like -- He grabbed the nearest bag and jerked the tie loose as the stranger trudged past the wagon. He heaved it onto his shoulder and pretended to lose his balance.
"Oh, damn it," he said loudly as potatoes rained down onto the packed earth below, some bouncing halfway across the street. The guy glanced at him, but didn't stop. Rayne jumped down, scrambling around in the dirt as he stuffed potatoes back into their bag, a stream of curses pouring from his lips. He looked up hopefully, but the guy was still walking away. He hefted a potato and considered throwing it at him -- just to get his attention -- but being beaned with a tuber was hardly what Rayne would call romantic. He decided to try a less violent approach.
"Excuse me, sir," he called. "Excuse me. Sir! Hey!" The dark man stopped and turned, scowling harder. "Could you -- uh, could you give me a hand? These damn things spilled all over the place and I've got to get the wagon unloaded before my father gets back or he'll ... he'll beat me." His father had never laid a hand on him and the stranger could either tell, or he didn't care. He started to turn away again and Rayne was again tempted to hit him with a potato.
Instead, he called out, "I can pay you." The man hesitated and Rayne quickly searched his pockets to see how much he had. "Two laenes," he told him. "Help me clean up this mess and finish unloading the wagon and they're yours." It was hardly a fortune, but it was probably two laenes more than he had. After a moment, he walked back to Rayne and dropped his bag next to the steps. "Thanks," Rayne said, beaming. The guy just started picking up potatoes, his scowl still firmly in place.
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