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The Second Amendment—Except During Dissent

All text copyrighted ©️ 2026 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

President Trump, on whether someone should have been carrying a gun at a constitutional or human-rights protest:

“You can’t have guns. You can’t walk in with guns. You just can’t.”

But the Second Amendment has never been just about hunting or home defense.

In the way many gun-rights advocates understand it, the 2A exists for three basic reasons:

• Individual self-defense

• Collective defense when the state fails

• And, most uncomfortably, as a last safeguard against tyranny

That third one makes people nervous — but it’s not some fringe idea. It’s core to how a lot of Second Amendment supporters think about the right.

So when Trump says, even in a “specific situation,” that you can’t have guns, and that situation happens to be a protest against government action, this is what a lot of people hear:

The moment you challenge state power or engage in political dissent, you lose the very right the Second Amendment was meant to protect.

That may not be a formal policy announcement, but it absolutely cuts against the philosophical foundation of the amendment.

It sounds an awful lot like this:

The right exists — just not when you might actually need it.

If guns are considered inappropriate precisely when citizens are protesting constitutional or human-rights violations, then the Second Amendment stops being a functional safeguard and becomes a symbol. And a symbolic right doesn’t protect anyone from tyranny — it just decorates the idea of freedom.

So the real question isn’t whether this take is controversial. Of course it is.

The question is whether Trump’s supporters will honestly grapple with what he just said — or whether they’ll do what they’ve done before and twist themselves into knots trying to explain why this time it somehow doesn’t mean what it clearly sounds like.

You Know I’m Gay. So Why Are You Still Voting Against Me?

All text copyrighted ©️ 2025 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

🏳️‍🌈 Forward:

I’ve been struggling with whether to share this for a long time. I’ve kept quiet—not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings or make anyone in my life feel attacked. That’s never been my intention.

But the truth is, it’s getting harder and harder to stay silent. As the MAGA movement and its aligned Christian nationalist factions become increasingly aggressive toward LGBTQ+ rights, I find myself feeling more and more conflicted—especially when people I love and care about support that movement, even if they don’t see it that way.

I’m not making this up or blowing things out of proportion. Here’s just a glimpse of what’s happening:

1. Anti-Trans Legislation:

Hundreds of bills have been introduced across the U.S. banning gender-affirming care, bathroom access, and trans participation in sports. These are overwhelmingly pushed by Republican lawmakers aligned with MAGA ideology.

2. Book Bans and Censorship:

LGBTQ+ books are disproportionately targeted and removed from schools and libraries—often by groups backed by MAGA supporters.

3. “Don’t Say Gay” Laws:

States like Florida are passing laws that erase LGBTQ+ identity from classrooms under the guise of “parental rights.”

4. Rhetoric from Leaders:

Trump and others in his orbit have used language that dehumanizes LGBTQ+ people—calling them “groomers,” mocking gender diversity, or denigrating Pride itself.

5. Religious “Freedom” Laws Used as Shields:

More and more businesses are using these to justify open discrimination against LGBTQ+ individuals, particularly same-sex couples.

So, while I never set out to start a fight, PRIDE MONTH is a celebration of visibility, of protest, and of truth. And in that spirit, I’m choosing to share mine.

What follows isn’t an attack. It’s a reflection—a hard one—on what it feels like to try to show up with love for people whose political choices are hurting me and my community.

——

Every time my phone buzzes with a text from my mom or her husband, I brace myself. It’s usually something like, “When are you coming by? Any chance you can come by this weekend? We need help with the roof shingles.” Or a leaky water pipe. Or cleaning. Or whatever else two aging retirees can’t—or don’t want to—do anymore.

And here’s the thing: I almost always say yes. Of her three kids, I’m the one who visits the most. I help them the most. I show up the most.

But it’s getting harder. Not because of the chores. Because of everything around the chores.

My mom and her husband are Trump supporters. MAGA people. Fox News is on from the moment I walk in until the moment I leave—louder than it needs to be, always blaring something about “radical leftists” or “the transgender agenda” or “protecting our children” from people like… well, me. I’m a married, openly gay man. I exist. I love. And in their home, I’m expected to sit quietly while a whole damn network questions my right to do either.

One time, I worked up the nerve to ask—just ask—if we could maybe turn the channel for a little while to something less hostile. The response came swift and loud: “I’ll watch whatever I want in my own house!”

Immediate. Final. Case closed.

So I said nothing else. I continued mopping their floors. I told them I loved them before I left.

And then I went home and stewed. For days.

What am I supposed to do with the knowledge that they love me—but vote for people who wouldn’t blink at taking away my rights? Who openly say I shouldn’t be allowed to marry, to adopt, to teach, to exist as I am in public spaces?

They don’t say those things themselves, of course. They’re not overtly homophobic. They’d never use slurs or disown me. They’ve been kind and welcoming to my husband. I know they love us both. But they also support a political machine that’s running full speed toward erasing everything I’ve built, everything I am.

And I wonder if they honestly believe it doesn’t hurt me. Or maybe they do know, and they’ve just decided it’s worth it.

I don’t know which possibility is worse.

Lately, I’ve been drafting text replies I never send. I open the thread and start typing, trying to walk the impossible line between honesty and peacekeeping:

“Hey, I can come by Tuesday, but I won’t be staying long.”

If they ask why: “Just got a lot on my mind lately. I need some quiet time.”

It’s polite. Vague. Low-risk. And completely dishonest.

The real message—the one I don’t send—is sitting in my Notes app:

“I know this is your house, and I respect that. But Fox News has gotten really hard for me to be around. It’s not just noise—it’s a constant reminder that people like me are under attack. I’m not asking you to change your beliefs. I’m just asking for enough space to protect my own peace. If that can’t happen, I’ll probably need to visit less often.”

That one’s closer to the truth. Still careful, still calm. But honest. A line in the sand drawn in empathy ink.

And then there’s the version I write late at night, when I’m tired of biting my tongue:

“You’ve known I’m gay for years. And yet every time I walk into this house, I hear a worldview that says I shouldn’t have the same rights or dignity as anyone else. You may not say those things—but you support people who do. That hurts more than you probably realize.

“I love you. But I’m tired of pretending this doesn’t affect me. When I pull away, it’s not because I’m being dramatic. It’s because I’ve finally decided to value my well-being, even if no one else in the room is doing the same.”

I’ve never sent that one. Maybe I never will. But it’s the closest I’ve come to saying what I really feel.

Here’s the truth I keep circling back to: I’m being asked to emotionally self-regulate around people who aren’t doing the same for me. To be the better person. The peacekeeper. The dutiful son. The one who quietly endures because “they’re family” and “they mean well.”

But I’m tired.

And yes, I still hope—stupidly, stubbornly—that maybe one day, I’ll hear my mother say something like: “I don’t agree with how our politics treat you. That’s not okay.” Or: “I see what you’re carrying, and I’m sorry.” Or even just: “I understand now why you feel this way.”

But that hasn’t happened. Not once. Not even close. And the fact that I keep hoping for it hurts more than I like to admit.

I don’t know what comes next. Maybe I send one of those texts. Maybe I just stop replying for a while. Maybe I go, and keep it short, and come home feeling gutted—like a stranger in my own story.

What I do know is this: It’s hard to keep showing up with love In my heart for people who keep checking the box that breaks it.

Yes, it could be worse. Some LGBTQ+ folks face outright rejection—being disowned, kicked out, verbally attacked. And I’ll acknowledge that I’m blessed with an abundantly loving family in comparison.

But that doesn’t make it painless—showing up for people who support a movement that is actively hostile to your rights. People who smile at you, hug you, even tell you they love you… but also vote for leaders and laws that threaten your dignity, your safety, your very ability to exist freely.

I’m not saying, “Look at how terrible my parents or relatives are.”

I’m saying, “I’m tired of pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

It’s a more subtle kind of pain. A slowly bleeding wound that never fully closes. And sooner or later, you either speak your truth—or you bleed quietly forever.

I’m not sure I can keep bleeding.

And I shouldn’t have to.

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!! 🌈

The Real 2028 Threat to the GOP: A Democrat Who Knows How to Win

All text copyrighted ©️ 2025 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

When Fox & Friends starts making more sense than your Twitter feed, it might be time for Democrats to take a long, sober look in the mirror.

Yes, I said it. I found myself nodding—more than once—during a recent segment where the Fox & Friends crew floated some possible 2028 Democratic presidential candidates. The conversation, filled with equal parts snark and cynicism, still managed to articulate what many voters (and donors) on the left are thinking but afraid to say: Democrats have a winning problem. And a messaging problem. And, whether we like it or not, an identity-politics problem.

Lawrence Jones pointed out, not inaccurately, that Kamala Harris was gifted the vice presidency after dropping out early in the 2020 primary. “They gave it to you,” he said, “and you still lost.” And by “you,” he meant the progressive wing of the party—the part obsessed with representation optics over electoral math. To be clear, Harris didn’t literally lose the 2020 election, but she’s done little to broaden the ticket’s appeal. If anything, she’s become a symbol of what happens when symbolic politics takes precedence over strategy.

That might sound harsh, but let’s not pretend Jones is pulling that opinion from nowhere. Across all demographics—including Black voters and young men—Donald Trump gained ground in 2020. That trend should terrify Democrats. As Jones rightly pointed out, “The Democrats have a man problem.” They’re bleeding male support at alarming rates, and it’s not because these men are all suddenly racist or regressive. It’s because they’re sick of being treated like villains in a morality play instead of voters with concerns.

What followed was a rare moment of consensus. Brian Kilmeade, Ainsley Earhardt, and Jones all nodded toward an emerging truth: moderates win elections. Progressives win hashtags.

So when they rattled off potential Democratic nominees for 2028—Gavin Newsom, J.B. Pritzker, Tim Walz, Andy Beshear, and Pete Buttigieg—I listened. And I judged. And honestly? I agreed more than I disagreed.

Let’s go down the list.

Gavin Newsom looks the part: sharp suit, slick hair, confident delivery. He’s a gifted communicator. But his greatest liability is geography. California has become the go-to cautionary tale for conservatives. Sky-high housing costs, homelessness, and the visible decline of cities like San Francisco give Newsom a national branding problem. He could be compelling in a debate, but he’ll be relentlessly tied to California’s perceived failures. His presence on the ticket risks turning the race into a referendum on West Coast liberalism.

J.B. Pritzker is, frankly, a nonstarter for me. Nothing personal, but he embodies every aesthetic and narrative vulnerability Democrats should avoid. He’s a billionaire heir, and he looks like one. Fair or not, optics matter. Democrats can’t afford to run someone who looks like the caricature the GOP already paints of them: elite, out of touch, bloated both literally and fiscally. Voters don’t want to eat the rich and elect one.

Tim Walz has a more down-to-earth image, but his proximity to the Biden-Harris administration’s political arc taints his brand. He doesn’t offer enough contrast or novelty to excite the base, nor does he have the national charisma to break out. “Generic Midwestern Governor” may play well in theory, but it’s not going to light up the donor lists or the campaign trail.

Now, to the two I’m actually intrigued by.

Pete Buttigieg remains, in my view, one of the party’s most strategically viable assets. He’s smart, articulate, and able to spar with conservative media without flinching. His military service, small-town roots, and command of policy detail give him broad credibility. Sure, he’s suffered from overexposure and hasn’t exactly turned the Department of Transportation into a launchpad. But he’s still got the most crossover potential, especially with moderate independents. Also, let’s not pretend his sexuality is a non-factor. Buttigieg is proof that LGBTQ+ representation doesn’t have to come wrapped in culture war theatrics. He shows up, does the work, and keeps it moving. That kind of understated strength could be just what Democrats need.

Andy Beshear is the stealth weapon here. He’s the popular Democratic governor of Kentucky—a deep red state—and he won re-election in 2023 with a strong bipartisan margin. That alone should put him near the top of any serious short list. Beshear has a calm, empathetic presence and a clear record of governance that appeals to working-class voters. In short, he can win over the very people Democrats keep losing. He doesn’t come with coastal elitist baggage or big-money flair. And that’s precisely what makes him dangerous—to Republicans.

The real question isn’t who Democrats like. It’s who can win. And that brings us back to the core problem with modern progressive politics: the obsession with ideological purity over pragmatism. A candidate can have all the right pronouns, the right hashtags, and the right virtue signals—but if they can’t flip Pennsylvania or Wisconsin, none of it matters.

We’ve confused activism with electoralism. We’ve turned moral absolutism into a political strategy. And we’ve pushed out nuance in favor of purity tests that only serve to shrink the coalition.

This doesn’t mean we have to compromise our values. But we do have to prioritize. If you want universal healthcare, climate reform, LGBTQ+ rights, or voting protections, you’re not going to get them by running a candidate who can’t carry Michigan.

The best way to honor progressive ideals is to elect someone who can implement them—even imperfectly.

It’s time to stop looking for saviors and start looking for strategists. The GOP is vulnerable, but only if the Democrats are willing to stop preaching to the converted and start building a broader tent. The future doesn’t belong to the loudest. It belongs to the smartest.

Can the Pope Save America from Christian Nationalism?

All text copyrighted ©️ 2025 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

In an era where the line between pulpit and podium has all but disappeared, the United States stands at a perilous threshold. The rise of Christian nationalism has transformed religion from a source of spiritual guidance into a cudgel for political control. Dogma has become policy. Crosses hang not just in churches but at campaign rallies, beside flags and slogans, like holy props in a jingoistic theater.

And then, a curious twist of fate: the Vatican elects a new pope—an American.

Pope Leo XIV, born in St. Paul, Minnesota, is the first pontiff from the United States. His election was met with cautious optimism among progressives and with giddy anticipation among conservative Catholics. But from his very first statement as pope—delivered with Midwestern ambiguity—he offered no thunderbolt of clarity. When asked what message he had for America, he said simply, “Many. God bless you all.” That’s the kind of cryptic beatitude you expect from a sphinx in robes.

But let’s be blunt: we don’t need riddles. We need resolve.

The Christian nationalist movement is no longer a fringe undercurrent. It has hijacked a major political party and wrapped itself in the language of divine entitlement. We are witnessing the spiritual equivalent of a hostile takeover—complete with branding, messaging, and a pitch deck that includes God, guns, and grievance. This movement doesn’t merely blend church and state—it marinates in it, and wants the rest of us to stew in it, too.

And here’s the kicker: they’re doing it in the name of Jesus, a homeless brown-skinned pacifist who preached love, humility, and the dangers of wealth.

Irony has left the chat.

Now, I’m not a Catholic. I’m not even especially religious. But I am a concerned American—one who sees how faith, when weaponized, can undermine democracy, fuel culture wars, and degrade human rights. The Christian nationalist movement isn’t about Jesus. It’s about power. And the people who follow it aren’t worshipping Christ so much as they’re following a cultural totem that looks suspiciously like themselves.

That’s why Pope Leo XIV matters.

He has, at this moment, something no one else does: the spiritual legitimacy to speak on behalf of Christianity at a global level—and the cultural awareness to understand the uniquely American mutation of faith that has taken root back home. He could become a necessary counterforce. A global voice to remind us that being Christian does not mean being cruel, exclusionary, or obsessed with authoritarian “order.”

But will he speak?

One of the defining traits of modern religious leaders—especially on the progressive side—is their reluctance to enter the political fray. They’re taught to tend to souls, not to soil their cassocks with electoral mud. But the truth is, the soil is already stained—and silence is its own kind of complicity. In the absence of bold moral leadership, loud immoral voices take the microphone.

And those voices are everywhere: calling for prayer in schools, but banning books from libraries. Decrying abortion while defunding maternal health. Invoking scripture to deny queer people their humanity. Preaching family values while pledging allegiance to a man who boasts about sexual assault and vengeance as if they were beatitudes.

What these leaders need—what this country needs—is someone to say: “This is not what Jesus taught.”

Pope Leo XIV, with his American upbringing and Vatican authority, is uniquely positioned to call it out. Imagine what it would mean if he traveled to Washington, or even just issued a papal encyclical addressing the distortion of Christianity in American politics. Imagine the weight of a sermon that reminds us Christianity is about service, not supremacy.

Of course, he’ll face backlash. If he does speak out, right-wing media will paint him as a socialist infiltrator, a traitor to traditional values, or (my favorite go-to slur for compassion) “woke.” But moral courage has never been about popularity.

He wouldn’t be the first pope to speak out against authoritarian movements. Pope Pius XI criticized fascism in the 1930s—though far too late. Pope John Paul II stood up to communism in Poland. But no pope has yet had to confront the rise of pseudo-theocratic populism in the nation of his birth. Leo XIV could be the one to draw the line in the sand and say: enough.

And let’s not pretend this is merely a Catholic issue. When Christian nationalism dominates public discourse, it doesn’t just marginalize atheists and Jews and Muslims and Hindus and everyone else—it makes a mockery of Christianity itself. It hollows it out into a bumper sticker. It reduces it to a platform plank.

I’m not asking Pope Leo XIV to endorse a political party. I’m asking him to defend his faith from those who twist it for power. I’m asking him to show us that the Church still has a spine. That God is not a mascot for fear.

Because we, as a nation, are at a moral tipping point. And for better or worse, people still listen to popes.

So let’s hope this new one is willing to speak—not in riddles, not in diplomatic niceties, but in the fierce and fearless spirit of the carpenter from Nazareth.

Because if Pope Leo XIV won’t defend Christianity from Christian nationalism, then who will?

The Experiment—An excerpt from upcoming novel The Allure of Sea Bass.

All text copyrighted ©️ 2025 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

The fluorescent lights flickered slightly as Elliot stepped into the Dollar General, immediately assaulted by the faint scent of cheap plastic and cinnamon air freshener. He weaved through the narrow aisles, feeling a growing sense of dread as he approached the spinning tower of paperbacks in the corner, the words “ROMANCE SECTION” emblazoned above it. The sign above the tower of books flickered, as if reluctant to announce its own existence. The romance section, squeezed between a refrigerator of half-melted ice cream and an overstock of discounted seasonal decor, looked like it had been abandoned by good taste.

The tower of books swayed precariously as Elliot gave it a tentative spin, the warped metal screeching like a tiny protest. His eyes scanned the selection with mounting horror. The covers were a riot of neon colors and absurd illustrations: brooding shirtless men clutching breathless women, their hair and breasts defying the laws of physics.

Elliot sighed. “I can’t believe this is my life now.” He picked up the first one that caught his eye. Highlander’s Lust: Swept Away by the Laird. The title was embossed in gold, the muscular hero draped in a tartan so artfully placed it barely qualified as clothing. The woman in his arms seemed moments away from fainting—or possibly breaking her spine, based on the angle. Either way, she looked like she needed a hospital.

He flipped to the first chapter, skimming the text, then snorted. “Her heart thundered like a war drum…” He paused, eyes wide, before muttering to himself, “Really? A war drum? Okay, sure” He continued, “…as he pinned her with his smoldering gaze, his kilt rippling in the winds of destiny.”

Elliot’s lips twitched, a chuckle escaping before he could stop it. “Winds of destiny? Is that what they’re calling it now?”

He set it aside and grabbed another: The Tycoon’s Forbidden Desire. The cover featured a man in a designer suit, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal an oiled chest that glistened unnaturally, as though someone had taken a bottle of baby oil to Photoshop.

The blurb didn’t disappoint. “Betrayal. Passion. Redemption. Billionaire playboy Damien Steele always gets what he wants—until he meets the one woman he can’t have.”

Elliot groaned and rubbed his temples, eyes narrowing as he scanned the next title. How had he ended up here? He hadn’t even imagined these kinds of books existed outside of parody. “Do people actually read this stuff unironically?”

A sudden voice startled him. “Oh, honey, they don’t just read it. They devour it.”

“Elliot turned to see an older woman in a floral tracksuit, her shopping cart piled high with crossword puzzles, cat food, and books that looked like they belonged in an adults-only bookstore. She caught his eye with a playful wink.

“You planning to buy that one? Or can I snatch it up from you?” She gestured at the billionaire book, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Uh, sure.” Elliot handed it over, trying to ignore the heat creeping up his neck.

She winked again, her voice lowering with a mischievous twinkle. “Thanks, sweetheart. These boys are the only reason I look forward to bedtime,” she added as she shuffled away.

Elliot stood frozen for a moment, clutching the remaining stack of novels like they might combust in his hands. He quickly grabbed a few more at random—Pirate’s Passion, Lust in the Bayou, Alpha’s Desire—and shoved them under his arm before anyone else could strike up a conversation. He figured the more absurd, the better for “research”.

When he approached the checkout counter, the cashier—a bored-looking teenager with neon green hair—barely glanced at his selections before ringing them up. “Got a theme going here, huh?” they said, lazily scanning the stack.

Elliot opened his mouth to explain, then decided against it. What was he going to say? He chuckled nervously, wishing the earth would swallow him whole. “Just doing some light research,” he finally muttered.

“Right.” The cashier smirked, handing him the receipt. “Enjoy your—research.”

That evening, armed with his new research material, Elliot found a quiet corner in his favorite café. A steaming latte sat next to his notebook as he cracked open Pirate’s Passion. He was determined to dissect the appeal of these stories, even if it killed him.

By page five, he was already cringing, feeling both secondhand embarrassment and morbid curiosity as he read aloud under his breath.

“Her sapphire eyes sparkled like the Caribbean sea at sunset, a siren’s call no man could resist. His rough pirate hands traced the curves of her body, a treasure map only he could decipher. She gasped as he leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear.”

Elliot snorted into his latte. “A treasure map? Really?” he muttered under his breath. “I’m pretty sure I already know where the treasure is buried.”

He continued, reluctantly.

“‘You’re mine now, lass,’ he growled, his voice as dark and dangerous as the storm brewing on the horizon. ‘And I don’t share my gold.’”

Elliot let out a long groan, slapping the book shut as if it had personally offended him. “Gold? I mean, come on, was she even consulted on this arrangement? Or is he just claiming her along with the booty?”

He shook his head, setting the book aside like it was something toxic. “Treasure maps, stormy horizons, and possessive declarations—do pirates even have time for all this melodrama? Aren’t they supposed to be, I don’t know, battling scurvy on the high seas, or catching syphilis from some filthy Caribbean brothel?”

Elliot grabbed his notebook and scribbled furiously: No treasure maps. No storms. No brooding pirate stereotypes who growl like they’re auditioning for a bad theater production.

Still, as ridiculous as it all seemed, there was something addictive about the over-the-top drama. These books weren’t about realism; they were about fantasy, escape—apparently, an endless parade of brooding, shirtless men staking dubious romantic claims. Elliot exhaled, rubbing his temples. God help him, he was starting to get it.

He flipped a few more pages, his notebook at the ready.

“Her breath hitched as she felt his manhood press against her, like a mast in a storm.

“‘But… what about the crew?” she whispered, her voice trembling, torn between propriety and passion.

“‘Let them watch,” he said, his lips finally crashing against hers like a wave breaking on a rocky shore. His kiss was fierce, claiming, as though the very act would bind them together against the tempest that raged outside.

“Her knees buckled, and she clung to him, her fingers digging into the rough fabric of his tunic. She could feel the raw power in his arms as he swept her up, holding her as though she weighed nothing, his grip as unyielding as the tides. He carried her to the captain’s quarters, the lanterns swaying with the rhythm of the storm, casting flickering shadows on the wooden walls.

“‘Tonight,” he said, his voice a husky promise, “we write our own legend.’

“And as the ship rocked beneath them, their bodies moved in perfect harmony, like a dance only the sea could choreograph.”

He slammed the book shut, dropping it onto the pile of “research materials” at his table. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed another one from the stack. The cover featured a sword-wielding rogue with rippling abs, and the title didn’t disappoint: The Rogue’s Burning Desire.

Flipping it open, Elliot scanned a particularly cringe-worthy page. He muttered the lines under his breath.

“His throbbing length pressed insistently against the soft linen of his tunic, a storm of passion raging within his loins. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, his chest heaving as he fought the war within himself—a battle between desire and duty.

“She stood before him, her gown slipping from her shoulders like moonlight spilling over the sea, leaving her bare to his hungry gaze. Her lips parted, trembling, as though she were about to speak, but no words came. Her eyes, wide with a mix of innocence and longing, locked onto his, silently daring him to close the distance between them.

“‘I shouldn’t,” he rasped, his voice raw with restraint, though his body betrayed his resolve, inching closer, drawn to her like a sailor to the call of a siren.

“‘But you will,” she whispered, her voice soft yet commanding, a promise laced with certainty. Her hand reached out, tentative at first, before resting boldly on his quivering member. She could feel the heat of him through the fabric, his manhood undulating beneath her palm like a caged beast.

“The tension between them snapped, and he pulled her flush against him, his hands firm on her waist. His mouth descended on hers, devouring her lips with an intensity that stole her breath. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer still, as though she could anchor herself in the tempest of their shared need.

“As the storm within him finally broke, his arms wrapped around her, lifting her off the ground, her gasp swallowed by the fervent kiss that seemed to last an eternity. Together, they surrendered to the tide, the world around them dissolving into the all-consuming heat of their passion.”

Elliot stared at the page, the corners of his mouth twitching in reluctant amusement. He jotted another note: Quivering member is officially banned. Also, raging loins = a medical concern?

He shook his head, flipping back to the passage for one last look. “His throbbing length—raging loins—oh boy,” he muttered, rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stay that way.

He was so engrossed in mocking the prose that he didn’t notice the waiter's approach.

“Need anything else? More coffee? Or maybe just—alone time?”

Elliot’s head shot up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Heat surged up his neck, settling in his ears like they were twin beacons of shame. The waiter—a handsome, tall guy with artfully messy hair and an impish grin—nodded toward the book in Elliot’s hands. It was still open to the offending paragraph, which, to Elliot’s horror, was accompanied by an illustration—yes, an illustration—of the hero cradling a swooning damsel in a pose so anatomically impossible it looked like the artist had used a pretzel as reference. The hero’s throbbing length and raging loins were on prominent display.

“I—uh—no, I’m fine!” Elliot stammered, snapping the book shut and nearly toppling his coffee in the process.

The waiter smirked, holding up his hands. “Hey, no judgment. Just let me know if you need a refill—or a cold shower.” He shot Elliot one last smirk before walking away, leaving him to stew in his mortification.

As the waiter walked away, Elliot buried his face in his hands. He could still feel the heat radiating from his cheeks. Why did I think this was a good idea?

He pulled out his notebook, flipping to a fresh page, and jotted down: Sassy barista seduces awkward customer with latte art. Hero ends up with foam heart tattooed on his soul. He stared at the page for a moment before shaking his head. “Nope. Never writing that one.”

He smirked, shaking his head. The notebook was already half-filled with bad ideas, crossed-out concepts, and the occasional starred note of inspiration.

As he picked up the next book from the pile, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder to make sure the waiter wasn’t lurking nearby. He read the blurb quietly then set the book down, adding another sarcastic note to his growing collection: New genre: epic tales of sentient sex organs. Coming soon to a bookstore near you.

This experiment is going to kill me, he thought grimly.

Building Nuclear Power Plants in Hurricane Alley: Think Again?

All text copyrighted ©️ 2025 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

Dow Industries recently unveiled plans to construct four nuclear power plants along the Texas Gulf Coast—an area famously nicknamed “Hurricane Alley.” While the company promises clean, reliable energy, the proposal raises critical safety concerns that can’t be ignored.

Texas’ coastline is no stranger to nature’s fury. This region faces a trifecta of extreme weather threats: hurricanes, flooding, and increasingly unpredictable power grid behavior. In recent years, we’ve seen firsthand how these forces can cripple infrastructure. Now, imagine those same forces converging on a nuclear facility.

When hurricanes make landfall, they bring not just high winds, but massive storm surges and torrential rains. These can knock out power, flood backup generators, destroy infrastructure, and limit access for emergency crews. Add to that the Texas heat, which can stress cooling systems, and winter storms like the 2021 blackout event that left much of the state in the dark for days. Every one of these hazards could pose serious challenges to a nuclear plant’s ability to maintain safe operations—not just during normal use, but especially during shutdown and emergency conditions.

The risks aren’t hypothetical.

During Hurricane Sandy in 2012, the Oyster Creek Nuclear Generating Station in New Jersey—though already offline—issued an emergency alert as floodwaters rose dangerously close to disabling its spent fuel pool cooling systems. Just a few more feet, and it might’ve mirrored the disaster that unfolded in Japan the year before.

Fukushima Daiichi, one of the most technologically advanced nuclear plants in the world, was also shut down ahead of the 2011 tsunami. That didn’t stop catastrophe. Flooding knocked out the backup generators that powered its cooling systems, leading to a partial meltdown, hydrogen explosions, and widespread radioactive contamination. The world learned that even a powered-down plant can become a disaster zone if cooling is lost.

Which brings us to a common misconception: Can’t we just shut down a plant before a storm hits? Yes—and operators often do. But turning off the reactor doesn’t mean the danger ends. Even in shutdown, nuclear fuel continues to generate heat for days or weeks. That heat must be actively managed and cooled—usually with pumps that require power. If floodwaters knock out the electrical systems or disable generators, it could lead to a cascade of failures. The same applies to spent fuel pools, which house older but still highly radioactive fuel rods. If those pools overheat, they can boil off coolant water, ignite fuel rods, and release radiation.

So while Dow Industries may tout their plan as safe and forward-thinking, the public deserves more than assurances. We need absolute clarity on how these facilities will be hardened against storm surges, flooding, wind damage, prolonged grid outages, and cooling system failures. We need to know whether emergency responders can access these sites during a hurricane. And we need to ask why—after all we’ve learned—any company would choose to build nuclear reactors in one of the most weather-vulnerable regions in the country.

Clean energy is critical. But it cannot come at the cost of basic common sense. If we ignore the lessons of the past, we may end up repeating them—with consequences too great to bear.

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Counterarguments:

1. Proximity to Industrial Demand

The Texas Gulf Coast is home to some of the largest petrochemical and manufacturing complexes in the world, including Dow’s own operations in Freeport and along the coast. These facilities require massive, stable, around-the-clock electricity, far beyond what wind or solar can reliably deliver on their own.

• Nuclear energy offers baseload power—it runs continuously and isn’t subject to the intermittency of renewables.

• Locating nuclear plants close to demand centers reduces transmission losses and costs, and increases grid stability.

2. Nuclear is a Clean Energy Source

In an era of accelerating climate change, even traditionally carbon-heavy industries are under pressure to decarbonize.

• Nuclear power produces zero carbon emissions at the point of generation, making it a crucial tool in the fight against climate change.

• Texas already leads in wind and solar, but pairing those with reliable nuclear could help phase out coal and natural gas faster.

3. Advanced Reactor Designs Are Safer

Since the Fukushima disaster, U.S. plants have undergone significant upgrades, including the implementation of FLEX strategies, redundant safety systems, and passive self-shutdown capabilities that don’t rely on electric pumps or operator intervention to stay safe in emergencies. Newer reactors, especially the small modular reactors (SMRs) being proposed by Dow, are designed to be even more resilient.

• These designs can automatically cool themselves, even if power is lost.

• New containment structures are engineered to withstand flooding, high winds, and seismic events.

4. Economic Development

The project would likely bring thousands of high-paying construction and engineering jobs, as well as long-term skilled employment for plant operators, security, and maintenance crews.

• It could transform coastal communities economically, providing tax revenue and infrastructure investment.

• It may also attract other industries looking for stable, low-carbon energy sources.

5. Texas is No Stranger to Big Infrastructure

Supporters might argue that if any state has the resources, space, and technical capability to build resilient nuclear facilities in a challenging environment, it’s Texas. They may point to the state’s experience with large-scale oil & gas infrastructure and its growing leadership in energy innovation.

Additionally, there is already precedent for safe nuclear energy along the Texas coast.

The South Texas Project (STP), located near Bay City, has operated two nuclear reactors since the 1980s without a single severe accident, radiation leak, or environmental contamination. Even when tested by nearby Category 4 Hurricane Harvey in 2017, the plant remained stable and fully operational. While there have been a few minor incidents—like a transformer failure and a switchyard fire in 2024—none compromised safety systems or public health.

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But… Asterisks Everywhere

Each of these arguments comes with caveats:

• Modern reactor designs are promising, but not yet widely deployed or tested under real-world hurricane stress. No current reactors have been tested against a direct hit by a category 4 or 5 hurricane. Hurricanes are getting stronger due to climate change. A direct hit from a Category 4 or 5 storm—even if not catastrophic—could still force expensive shutdowns, damage infrastructure, and disrupt energy delivery.

• Clean energy goals are crucial—but placing critical infrastructure in high-risk zones may undermine those goals in the long term.

• Economic development is good—but who bears the risk if something goes wrong? Likely the surrounding communities.

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Side Note: Is Nuclear Power Truly “Clean” Energy?

While nuclear power generation itself emits no carbon dioxide, labeling it as “clean” overlooks the significant challenge of radioactive waste management. High-level radioactive waste, such as spent nuclear fuel, remains hazardous for thousands to hundreds of thousands of years, depending on its isotopic composition. For instance, plutonium-239 has a half-life of about 24,000 years, meaning it takes that long for half of its radioactivity to decay. Managing such long-lived waste necessitates secure containment strategies to prevent environmental contamination and protect human health over extensive periods.

Currently, most high-level waste is stored on-site at nuclear facilities, awaiting the development of permanent disposal solutions like deep geological repositories. The long-term stewardship required for this waste poses ethical and logistical challenges, as it demands reliable containment and monitoring systems that can function effectively for millennia.

Therefore, while nuclear energy contributes to reducing greenhouse gas emissions, its classification as “clean” must be weighed against the enduring responsibility of managing its radioactive byproducts.

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Note: This editorial is based on publicly available information as of April 2025. For the most current developments regarding Dow Industries’ nuclear projects, please refer to official announcements and regulatory filings.

#nuclear energy #nuclear safety #nuclear power #SMR (small modular reactors)#nuclear waste #nuclear risk #hurricane preparedness #storm surge #flood risk #climate resilience #grid reliability #nuclear Texas #protect the coast #lessons from Fukushima #energy ethics

The Progressives’ Thelma and Louise Moment: How the Left Is Devouring Its Own

All text copyrighted ©️ 2025 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

It used to be that the ire of progressives was reserved for MAGA Republicans—the red-hat-wearing caricature of right-wing extremism. But somewhere along the way, the left’s political energy shifted. What began as a crusade against far-right ideology has mutated into a purity test so rigid, so unforgiving, that even allies are now treated as enemies.

Moderate Democrats, classic liberals, and Independents who once marched shoulder to shoulder with progressives are finding themselves pushed aside, shouted down, or labeled as part of “the problem” simply for expressing a willingness to compromise or voice a nuanced opinion. In today’s progressive circles, if you’re not moving at full ideological speed, you’re apparently standing in the way.

This isn’t politics anymore—it’s performance art. And it’s leaving a lot of people behind.

Take John Fetterman, for example. A blue-collar Democrat who flipped a red Senate seat in Pennsylvania—no small feat—Fetterman should be a progressive success story. He wears hoodies to the Capitol, speaks plainly, champions labor rights, and survived a stroke mid-campaign without backing down. But today, he’s being vilified—not by Republicans, but by progressives. Why? Because he dared to work across the aisle. Because he spoke out against antisemitism without checking if it aligned with the “woke” mob’s trending hashtags. Because he supports Israel’s right to exist and believes in pragmatic governance, not performative outrage.

Incredibly, some progressives are now calling for his resignation. A petition started by a Democratic representative in Pennsylvania, James Marino, demands Fetterman step down for “inadequate representation.” But what they really mean is that he refuses to parrot the party line at all costs. He has voted with Republicans on certain issues—not because he’s betrayed his base, but because he’s doing what the job actually requires: solving problems, not perpetuating tribal warfare.

To many on the left, that’s enough to warrant exile.

This isn’t just about Fetterman. The same progressive dogma has turned on Joe Manchin, Kyrsten Sinema, and any Democrat who doesn’t treat bipartisanship as a dirty word. Working with Republicans is now considered treasonous. Standing in the middle—where most voters actually are—is seen as weakness. It’s not enough to disagree anymore; progressives want total submission to the ideology. No nuance. No room for conscience. Just scorched-earth politics all the way down.

And in doing so, they’re alienating a massive swath of their own party. Centrists, independents, moderate liberals—people who might share most of their values but reject the extremism—are being cast out, shouted down, and told they’re the problem. Not the obstructionists. Not the chaos agents. But their own allies. That’s not a movement.

Progressives often talk about coalition-building, about unity and inclusion. But how can you build a coalition when you’re alienating 75% of the electorate? Most Americans live somewhere in the ideological middle. They want basic decency, reasonable policy, and leaders who actually listen. Instead, they’re being told that if they don’t speak the right language, post the right hashtags, or endorse the most extreme positions, they’re no better than the “fascists” they supposedly oppose.

It’s political cannibalism dressed in moral superiority—devouring your own in the name of ideological purity. The left is no longer just attacking the right; it’s turning inward, eating itself alive, and in doing so, handing victories to the very forces it claims to stand against.

This Thelma and Louise approach to politics—pedal to the floor, off the cliff, and damn whoever tries to grab the wheel—isn’t brave or noble. It’s reckless.

If progressives truly want to enact change, they need to stop shouting and start listening. They need to make room for allies who don’t agree on everything but share the same general vision for a better future. Because without that coalition, there is no progress. Only a cinematic ending, complete with a glorious crash.

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Supporting Data:

• According to a 2023 Gallup poll, 43% of U.S. adults identify as independents, the largest political bloc in the country.

• In the same poll, 36% of Americans described their political views as moderate, and 25% as liberal, indicating that a significant portion of the electorate does not align with the progressive wing’s more extreme positions.

#democrats in disarray #progressive purity #party cannibalism #moderate voices matter #common sense coalition #middle ground matters #political tribalism #divide and alienate #bipartisanship matters #not left enough #reject extremism #independent voices #bridge the divide

When Justice Becomes Dogma: The Cult of Moral Absolutism on Both Sides

All text copyrighted ©️ 2025 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

Author’s Note:

So many of us—smart, thoughtful, empathetic people—find ourselves keeping quiet these days, not because we don’t care or have nothing to say, but because we’re afraid of being misunderstood, misquoted, or mobbed for being honest. It’s a sad reality, but that’s not how free expression or meaningful progress is supposed to work.

What I’ve come to realize is that this fear is part of a much bigger issue:

• The loudest voices aren’t always the most thoughtful.

• Nuance doesn’t go viral. Outrage does.

• People are quicker to label than to listen.

But here’s the hard truth: If everyone who thinks deeply about these issues stays silent, the extremes win by default. They dominate the narrative while the middle ground erodes. The only way to change this is by speaking out, even when it feels risky or uncomfortable.

I don’t have all the answers, and I’m certainly not trying to provoke or stir things up for the sake of it. I’m just trying to use my voice—carefully, respectfully, and honestly. And I think that’s more necessary now than ever.

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In today’s hyper-polarized political climate, calling the other side a “cult” has become almost reflexive. Progressives often point to the MAGA movement and say, “Look at them—blind loyalty to one man, refusal to accept facts, demonization of outsiders. It’s a cult.” And in many ways, they’re right. The MAGA movement has undeniably fostered a kind of fervent, unquestioning loyalty that feels more like religious devotion than political support.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: some activist spaces on the progressive left are not much better.

This isn’t a defense of MAGA, nor is it an attack on liberal values (many of which I passionately support). It’s a recognition of a dangerous pattern that’s emerging on both ends of the spectrum—and especially within movements that claim to champion empathy, tolerance, and inclusion. Because while those ideals sound noble in theory, in practice they’re often replaced by performative morality, rigid dogma, and social control.

Let’s start with the most basic contradiction: many people who identify as “woke” claim to value inclusivity, yet practice ideological exclusion. If you deviate from the accepted narrative—even slightly—or if you admit confusion or uncertainty about a sensitive issue, you’re labeled problematic. There’s no room for error, no tolerance for disagreement, no grace for learning. One wrong word and you’re out.

That core contradiction—the gap between professed inclusivity and practiced exclusivity—is virtue signaling taken to an extreme. Another name for this type of hypocrisy is performative morality: a public display of values without private commitment or sacrifice. It’s the person posting about saving a library they’ve never once visited. It’s the person who posts a black square on Instagram for #BlackoutTuesday, then returns to their regular content without further engagement in racial justice issues. It’s the influencer hashtagging #BLM or #FreePalestine from a luxury resort without offering any material support for the cause.

And perhaps nowhere is this performative morality more visible than among young, progressive voters, who are often highly vocal online but notably absent at the ballot box. Passionate and idealistic, yes—but frequently disengaged from the slow, tedious mechanisms of real change. They’re disillusioned by the system, unimpressed by moderate candidates, and often unwilling to support someone unless that person reflects their beliefs 100%.

But politics is not religion. It’s not supposed to be about purity. It’s about compromise, strategy, and incremental wins. Adults vote for the lesser evil because they understand that moving the needle slightly forward is better than letting it snap backward. Expecting a candidate to embody every personal belief before supporting them isn’t just idealistic—it’s politically immature. It’s like refusing to take antibiotics unless they come in your favorite flavor. The infection doesn’t wait for your palate to be satisfied.

This refusal to engage with compromise or imperfection creates a culture where ideological purity is the only currency, and any deviation is punished with moral condemnation. That, in turn, breeds groupthink, social pressure, and even fear. It leads to performative expressions of solidarity—retweets, hashtags, aesthetic posts—rather than meaningful action. It demands total allegiance to the movement’s latest values or vocabulary. And if you fall behind—even unintentionally—you’re no longer “one of us.”

At some point, you have to ask: isn’t that kind of behavior cult-like?

Let’s break it down.

Cults often exhibit moral absolutism (“You’re either with us or against us”), punishment for dissent (shaming, ostracization, cancellation), insider language as a gatekeeping tool, rigid social hierarchies based on devotion, an us-vs-them mentality, suppression of doubt or discussion, and blind loyalty to a central figure or idea.

Sound familiar?

Because these same patterns are visible in both MAGA and certain woke circles. One side wears red hats and chants slogans. The other shares infographics and cancels anyone who asks too many questions. Different aesthetics—same psychological structure.

Both claim to be fighting oppression. Both speak the language of righteousness. And both end up creating systems that reward conformity over thought, allegiance over curiosity, purity over pragmatism.

What’s most tragic is that these movements often start from a place of real pain and real purpose. Marginalized voices deserve platforms. Racial and economic injustice are real. LGBTQ+ rights, climate change, healthcare inequality—these are not fringe concerns. They’re urgent. They matter. And yet, when the pursuit of justice becomes indistinguishable from the demand for ideological obedience, the cause loses its heart. It becomes about optics. About clout. About punishing the imperfect instead of persuading the unsure.

Ultimately, movements that demand total purity will cannibalize themselves. They turn potential allies into enemies. They alienate moderates. They reject compromise. They lose elections. They sabotage progress.

Real progress doesn’t require cult loyalty. It requires critical thinking, compassion, and humility. It means being able to say, “I believe in this, but I’m still learning.” It means showing up to vote even when the candidate isn’t perfect. It means listening to people who disagree—not to “own” them—but to understand them.

We don’t need more cults.

We need more citizens—independent thinkers with moral courage and open minds.

Maybe—just maybe—it’s time to stop pointing fingers at “them” and start asking what parts of the problem we’re silently upholding ourselves.

#critical thinking #independent thinking #performative morality #virtue signaling #cancel culture #moral absolutism #think for yourself #progressive voices #moderate voices #political commentary

Dealing with the Proximity Paradox: Finding Validation as a Writer, Artist, Musician, or Entrepreneur

All text copyrighted ©️ 2025 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

One of the most unexpected challenges of pursuing a creative or entrepreneurial path is realizing that the people closest to you—friends, family, even long-time peers—might not provide the validation and support you anticipated. Instead, it often comes from strangers or distant admirers. This phenomenon, sometimes called the Proximity Paradox, is a common experience for writers, artists, musicians, and entrepreneurs alike. Here’s how to navigate it without losing focus or heart.

What Is the Proximity Paradox?

The Proximity Paradox refers to the strange irony that those who are closest to you emotionally or socially are often the least likely to recognize or celebrate your success. They’ve seen you in your most unpolished, everyday state—struggling, experimenting, doubting—and that familiarity can make it difficult for them to view your achievements objectively.

Strangers, on the other hand, only see the finished product: your polished novel, your soulful performance, your stunning artwork, or your thriving business. Because they don’t have the personal history to color their perspective, they can respond with unfiltered appreciation and excitement.

Why Does This Happen?

1. Familiarity Breeds Complacency

Those closest to you have known you through many phases of life. To them, you might always be “the kid who loved to doodle,” or “the cousin who tinkered with guitars,” not the professional artist or musician you’ve become.

2. Cognitive Dissonance

Your success might challenge their perception of you. If they’ve always seen you as a peer or someone on a similar path, your achievements can make them question their own progress or create a subconscious discomfort.

3. Fear of Change

Success often brings change—new priorities, opportunities, or relationships—which can feel threatening to those who value the dynamic they’ve always had with you.

4. Unrealized Expectations

Friends and family might subconsciously feel entitled to be your biggest supporters. When they see others praising you or celebrating your work, it can create resentment or jealousy, even if they don’t fully understand it.

How to Deal with the Proximity Paradox

1. Shift Your Focus

It’s natural to crave validation from those closest to you, but remember: their support, or lack of it, does not define the value of your work. Instead, focus on the people who genuinely connect with what you create, whether they’re strangers, colleagues, or online followers.

2. Build a New Community

Seek out people who understand your journey—fellow writers, musicians, entrepreneurs, or artists. Join creative groups, attend workshops, or engage with online communities where your efforts will be appreciated and understood.

3. Celebrate Small Wins Privately

If your immediate circle isn’t supportive, don’t let it stop you from celebrating your successes. Keep a journal, reward yourself, or share milestones with a mentor or trusted friend who will genuinely cheer you on.

4. Communicate Openly

Sometimes, the lack of support stems from misunderstanding. Share your goals, process, and dreams with loved ones. They may not fully grasp what you’re doing, but helping them understand can bridge the gap.

5. Use It as Motivation

Instead of dwelling on the lack of support, channel that energy into your work. Let it remind you of why you’re creating: for the art, the craft, or the vision itself, not for external validation.

6. Remember the “Stranger Effect”

Strangers often see you for what you’ve accomplished, not who you’ve been. Their praise is not diluted by familiarity. Embrace it and recognize it as a powerful, unbiased affirmation of your talent.

Reframing the Proximity Paradox

Rather than viewing this paradox as a source of frustration, consider it a natural part of the creative journey. The Proximity Paradox is a reminder that growth and success often push us into new circles and opportunities. While it may feel lonely at times, it also opens doors to relationships with people who truly value what you bring to the world.

Your work matters—whether or not your inner circle sees it. Keep creating, growing, and connecting with those who resonate with your art, music, writing, or entrepreneurial vision. The right supporters will find you, and your success will speak for itself.

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What’s your experience with the Proximity Paradox? How do you find validation and support? Share your thoughts in the comments!

Breaking Free from Tradition: A Journey into Secular Storytelling

All text copyrighted ©️ 2024 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

From an early age, I found myself questioning the traditional narratives I grew up with. As a member of the LGBTQ+ community, I was constantly at odds with the religious teachings that surrounded me. I went to Sunday school as a kid, studied the gospels, and spent hours contemplating the biblical narratives. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never reconcile the idea that someone who has strived their entire life to be ‘good,’ to live a ‘moral’ life, could be condemned simply for being born a certain way. It was a contradiction I couldn’t ignore.

It wasn’t just my personal experience, though. As I studied these religious texts more closely, I found myself deeply unsettled by the stories I read. Take the story of Abraham, for example—where he’s prepared to sacrifice his son Isaac because God commanded it. Or the battles fought in the Old Testament, where entire cities were wiped out, supposedly in the name of righteousness. How could actions that seemed so violent, so cruel, be framed as good, while people like me were condemned for something as fundamental as who they loved?

These contradictions planted a seed of doubt that grew over the years. I wanted to believe in a loving and just world, but the narratives I was taught didn’t reflect that. Instead, they seemed to create a world where morality was dictated by obedience to authority, rather than by compassion or understanding.

As I grew older, this need to question everything around me only intensified. It wasn’t just religion—I began to see how historical narratives were shaped by those in power, often ignoring the voices of the marginalized. That realization fueled my passion for history, but it also pushed me away from traditional storytelling. I wasn’t interested in repeating the same tired stories that reinforced the status quo. I wanted to dig deeper, to find the untold truths, the uncomfortable questions that most people were too afraid to ask.

This is what led me to embrace secular storytelling. For me, it was about finding clarity—not just in my writing, but in my understanding of the world. Stepping away from religious and traditional narratives allowed me to see history in a new light, one where evidence, logic, and human experience were at the center. It’s the same reason I created characters like Kelton Thorne from my upcoming novel The Forbidden Manuscript—people who, like me, are unafraid to challenge the stories we’ve been told, and who seek truth above all else.

Kelton Thorne: A New Kind of Historian

Kelton Thorne is, in many ways, an extension of my own journey. He’s an historian who operates outside the bounds of traditional narratives, especially religious ones. Like me, Kelton grew up with an intellectual curiosity that was never satisfied by the explanations offered to him by authority figures. He questioned the contradictions in the stories he was told and sought evidence-based truths, even when those truths were uncomfortable or unpopular.

When I created Kelton, I wanted him to reflect the kind of person I believe more historians should aspire to be—critical, skeptical, and willing to follow the evidence wherever it leads, regardless of societal or religious expectations. In his work, Kelton refuses to allow dogma to obscure facts. Whether he’s investigating ancient manuscripts or unraveling mysteries long buried by time, he approaches every question with the belief that truth matters more than tradition.

Kelton’s atheistic perspective doesn’t make him cold or cynical—though he can be impatient with those who cling to beliefs without evidence—but it does give him a sense of clarity. His goal isn’t to disprove anyone’s faith, but rather to bring to light the facts and truths that have been obscured, hidden, or forgotten. He’s motivated by a desire to help others break free from the narratives that limit their understanding of the world, much like I was driven to break free from the limiting narratives I grew up with.

The Power of Secular Storytelling

Secular storytelling has given me the freedom to explore complex, nuanced truths without the constraints of traditional narratives. In history, as in life, the truth is often messier than we’d like it to be. It doesn’t always conform to the stories we’ve been taught, and it often challenges our preconceived notions of right and wrong. But that’s exactly why it’s so important.

For me, writing from a secular perspective allows for a more honest and inclusive exploration of history and humanity. It’s a way to step outside the biases that often shape the stories we tell, and to instead focus on the evidence—on the people and events that have been left out or misrepresented. In my work, I aim to create narratives that aren’t just about telling a good story, but about uncovering the truths that have been overlooked.

This approach is especially important today, when we’re seeing a rise in secularism and skepticism, particularly among younger generations. People are looking for stories that reflect their reality—stories that aren’t bound by religious or ideological constraints, but that instead explore the world as it is, in all its complexity.

Why Secular Narratives Matter

Secular storytelling matters because it opens the door to a more inclusive, evidence-based understanding of the world. It allows us to question the narratives we’ve been told, to seek out the truths that have been hidden, and to challenge the status quo. For me, it’s about more than just writing—it’s about creating a space for voices and perspectives that have been marginalized or ignored.

In a world where dogma often dictates the way we interpret history, secular storytelling offers a way forward. It’s a way to break free from the narratives that limit our understanding, and to instead embrace the complexity, diversity, and truth of human experience. That’s what Kelton Thorne represents, and it’s what I strive to achieve in all of my work.

Introducing The Forbidden Manuscript

If you’ve enjoyed this exploration of secular storytelling and historical questioning, you’ll love my upcoming novel The Forbidden Manuscript. It follows Kelton Thorne, an historian, as he uncovers a centuries-old secret buried deep in religious history. Set against the backdrop of ancient Rome and modern-day Europe, Kelton’s journey takes him through hidden societies, lost manuscripts, and a dangerous web of lies built by those who’ve sought to control history.

The Forbidden Manuscript is a fast-paced thriller that challenges the narratives we’ve been taught and asks tough questions about faith, truth, and power. If you’re ready for a story that breaks free from tradition and dives into the heart of historical mysteries, then this is the book for you.

Stay tuned for the release date, and join Kelton as he embarks on a journey that could rewrite everything we know about the past.

The Catacombs of Sofia, Bulgaria—An excerpt from upcoming novel The Forbidden Manuscript.

All text copyrighted ©️ 2024 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

Dr. Petrova adjusted her glasses and began to carefully translate the faded text surrounding the octagram. Her fingers traced the ancient script, her voice steady as she read aloud.

"This passage," she said, her tone growing more intense, "speaks of a place of great refuge and hidden knowledge. 'In the shadow of the great mountain, where the sun's light barely kisses the earth, lies the sanctuary of the enlightened. There, beneath the sacred symbol, the faithful will find the true path and the hidden relics of the past.'"

Kelton and Luca exchanged glances, their excitement palpable.

"Could this be referring to a specific location?" Luca asked.

Dr. Petrova nodded. "It very well could be. The 'great mountain' mentioned here might be a reference to one of the significant mountains in the Balkans. The way it's described, 'where the sun's light barely kisses the earth,' suggests a place that's either very shaded or perhaps a valley or cave."

Kelton leaned in closer. "And 'beneath the sacred symbol'—that could mean there are physical markers or inscriptions of the octagram at this location."

Dr. Petrova continued translating, her eyes scanning the text rapidly. "The text goes on to describe a 'sanctuary of the enlightened,' which would be a hidden place where the Bogomils gathered to preserve their teachings and sacred objects. 'The faithful will find the true path' suggests there might be a specific route or series of steps to reach this sanctuary."

Luca's eyes lit up with realization. "This could be a reference to a hidden trail or an ancient pathway leading to their secret refuge."

Kelton nodded, his mind racing with possibilities. "And 'the hidden relics of the past'—that sounds like there could be artifacts or documents preserved in this sanctuary."

Dr. Petrova looked up from the manuscript, her expression serious. "This is a significant find. If we can locate this sanctuary, it could provide unprecedented insight into the Bogomil movement and their hidden knowledge."

Kelton felt a surge of determination. "We need to follow these clues. This sanctuary could be the key to understanding the true extent of the Bogomils' influence and their connection to the manuscript."

Luca's voice was filled with resolve. "Then let's not waste any time. We'll start by identifying the 'great mountain' mentioned in the text. From there, we can search for any geographical features that match the description."

Dr. Petrova nodded. "I'll assist you in cross-referencing historical and geographical records. Together, we can piece together the puzzle and find this hidden sanctuary."

As they continued to examine the manuscript, the significance of their discovery sank in. This was more than just an academic pursuit; it was a journey into the heart of an ancient mystery, one that could rewrite the history of the Bogomils and their enigmatic legacy.

After hours of poring over maps and historical texts, Dr. Petrova suddenly paused, her eyes widening. "I think I have it," she said, pointing to a map. "Belogradchik Fortress. It's located near a significant mountain range in Bulgaria, and the fortress itself has been a place of refuge throughout history."

Kelton leaned over the map, tracing the route with his finger. "The Belogradchik Rocks. They fit the description perfectly. The rocks are known for their unique formations, which could easily create shadows where the sun's light barely kisses the earth."

Luca nodded, his excitement building. "And the fortress—it's been a stronghold for centuries. If the Bogomils were hiding something, a fortress like this would be ideal."

Dr. Petrova smiled, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. "It seems we've found your next destination. Belogradchik Fortress. This could be the sanctuary described in the manuscript."

Kelton's determination solidified. "Then we need to get to Belogradchik as soon as possible. This could be the breakthrough we've been searching for."

As they retraced their steps through the ancient tunnels, heading back toward the modern surface of Sofia, Kelton turned to Dr. Petrova with a curious expression.

"You mentioned the octagram as being a significant symbol in the Bogomil religion," Kelton began, his tone thoughtful. "Have you ever come across a depiction of it as two interlocking squares inside a circle?"

Dr. Petrova paused, her brow furrowing as she considered Kelton's question. After a moment of reflection, she shook her head. "No, that particular representation doesn't align with the classic depictions of Bogomil octagrams that I've encountered. While it still symbolizes the octagram, it seems to be a unique variation."

As Kelton, Luca, and Dr. Petrova were headed back to the surface, the air grew heavier with each step. The ancient tunnels, lined with centuries-old stone and illuminated by their flashlights, seemed to close in around them. Shadows danced on the walls, creating an eerie, almost oppressive atmosphere. The faint, distant echoes of dripping water and the scurrying of unseen creatures added to the unsettling ambiance.

"Stay close," Dr. Petrova whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their footsteps. "These tunnels can be confusing."

Suddenly, Luca stopped and turned, his ears pricked. "Did you hear that?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

Kelton listened intently. At first, there was nothing but the sound of their own breathing. Then he heard it—the faint but unmistakable sound of footsteps, more than their own, echoing from deeper within the tunnels.

“Someone’s following us,” Kelton said, his voice tense.

Dr. Petrova glanced back, her eyes wide with concern. “Who is following us? What is going on?”

Kelton took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. “We’re being pursued by dangerous people. They want to stop us at any cost. They’re part of an organization that doesn’t want the truth about the manuscript to come out.”

Dr. Petrova’s face paled. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“There wasn’t time,” Kelton replied, his voice urgent. “We need to move quickly.”

Dr. Petrova nodded, her expression resolute. “Alright, follow me. I know these tunnels well. There are many exits, but only if you know where to find them."

They picked up their pace, the sense of urgency driving them forward. The footsteps behind them grew louder and closer. Kelton glanced back, catching a glimpse of dark figures moving swiftly through the shadows.

"Faster," Luca urged, his voice strained with worry. "They're gaining on us."

They rounded a corner, only to find a dead end. Panic surged through them as they turned back, but Dr. Petrova quickly led them through a narrow, hidden passage that branched off to the side.

"This way!" she hissed, pushing aside a loose stone to reveal a hidden door. They squeezed through, entering a smaller, darker tunnel. The sounds of their pursuers grew faint behind them.

Kelton's heart pounded as they navigated the labyrinthine passages, guided by Dr. Petrova's expert knowledge of the ancient tunnels. They twisted and turned, the walls closing in around them, the air growing colder and damper.

Just as they thought they had lost their pursuers, a sudden noise echoed through the tunnel. The sound of heavy boots and harsh whispered orders sent chills down their spines.

"We need to find another way out," Dr. Petrova said urgently, her eyes scanning the tunnel walls for another hidden exit.

They stumbled upon an old, rusted gate blocking a narrow passage. With a concerted effort, they managed to force it open, slipping through just as the agents appeared at the far end of the tunnel.

"Go, go, go!" Kelton urged, pushing Luca and Dr. Petrova ahead of him. The narrow passage opened into a larger chamber filled with ancient ruins, columns, and statues partially buried in the earth.

They weaved through the debris, the agents hot on their heels. The sound of their pursuers grew louder, more desperate. Kelton's mind raced, searching for any way to slow them down.

As they reached the far side of the chamber, they found a staircase leading upwards. They scrambled up the steps, their legs burning with exertion. The light at the top grew brighter, a promise of escape.

Bursting through a final doorway, they emerged into the open air, the cool breeze a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the tunnels. They didn't stop running until they reached a busy street, blending into the crowd of oblivious pedestrians.

Breathing heavily, they paused to catch their breath. Dr. Petrova looked at Kelton and Luca, her face a mix of relief and determination.

"We can't stay here," she said, her voice firm. "They'll keep looking for us. We need to get back to the Serdica Archaeological Complex. We have armed security there.”

Kelton nodded, his resolve hardening. "Let's head in that direction," he said, glancing at Luca. "Cautiously, but quickly, we need to stay ahead of them."

With renewed determination, they made their way back to the Serdica Archaeological Complex, knowing that the agents sent to stop them were still out there, but also aware that they had something invaluable—the knowledge that would eventually lead them to Belogradchik Fortress and the hidden truths they sought.

Jewels Leclair, Private Investigator—An excerpt from upcoming novel Curtains for Astrid.

All text copyrighted ©️ 2024 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

The Golden Lantern was alive with energy, a place where the past and present mingled as seamlessly as the generations of patrons who had passed through its doors. Established in 1964, this was one of the oldest gay bars in New Orleans, its legacy entwined with the vibrant culture of the city.

Outside, the Golden Lantern's facade carried the weight of decades of stories, its weathered bricks and faded paint speaking to its storied history. The neon sign flickered in soft pinks and blues, casting a nostalgic glow onto the sidewalk. Above the door, the marquee proudly read ‘Jewels & the Fondlers’ in bold, vintage lettering, illuminated by small, twinkling bulbs that lined the edges. The windows, tinted from years of sun and wear, revealed just enough of the dimly lit interior to tease the atmosphere within.

The narrow entryway was adorned with flyers promoting past and future shows, their corners peeling slightly from the humidity, each flyer a reminder of the bar’s enduring presence in the heart of the city. A faint hum of music spilled into the street as the door opened, inviting curious onlookers into the lively, sultry world that awaited them inside.

Across the entrance, string lights hung loosely, their warm glow mingling with the neon, creating a welcoming ambiance. Beneath them, clusters of patrons, some in small groups and others lingering alone, smoked cigarettes or sipped from plastic cups, their conversations blending into the rich New Orleans night air.

The bar’s walls were plastered with vintage posters and photographs, capturing moments of Southern Decadence festivals from years gone by. The dim lighting cast a warm, amber glow over the room, reflecting off the polished wooden surfaces and the rows of bottles that lined the bar, each one a silent witness to countless stories told in hushed tones and raucous laughter.

Jewels Leclair was the star of the evening, as she always was on Thursday nights. She stood on the small stage, her elaborate costume catching the light, the sequins shimmering with every movement. Tonight, she had chosen a look inspired by the roaring ’20s, a time when jazz ruled the streets of New Orleans.

Her dress was a cascade of deep emerald green, fringed with black feathers that danced with her as she moved. A flapper headband adorned with a single black plume rested atop her carefully styled curls, and her makeup was as bold as her performance—dark, smoky eyes, and a deep red lip that could stop traffic.

She belted out the final notes of her last number, her voice powerful and filled with emotion, reverberating through the room as the audience erupted into applause. Jewels' finale was a sultry rendition of "La Vie en Rose," a timeless classic that perfectly encapsulated the spirit of old-world glamour she loved to channel. Her voice, rich and velvety, filled the room with a haunting beauty, each note dripping with emotion. As she sang, she moved slowly and gracefully, her eyes half-closed as if lost in the romantic nostalgia of the song. The audience was entranced, caught in the spell Jewels cast with her performance, hanging on every word as she poured her heart into the final, lingering notes.

The song ended with Jewels holding a single red rose, which she tossed into the crowd with a dramatic flourish, leaving the audience in rapturous applause as the curtain fell. Jewels knew how to work a crowd, and tonight was no exception. She stepped to the edge of the stage, microphone in hand, and addressed her audience with a playful smirk.

“Now, darlings, don’t you think it’s about time someone bought this queen a drink?” Her voice was a blend of sultry and sweet, with a hint of mischief that made the crowd roar with laughter and cheers. She scanned the faces in the room, catching the eye of a few regulars who smiled back at her, their admiration evident.

Jewels continued to banter with the crowd, throwing out witty remarks and charming her way through the last moments of the show. She could feel the love in the room, the acceptance that had eluded Julian Leclair in his day-to-day life but was abundant here, within the safe haven of The Golden Lantern. This was her domain, a world where Jewels reigned supreme, and every cheer, every whistle, was a reminder of the power she held on this stage.

As the show came to a close, Jewels blew a final kiss to the audience before disappearing backstage. The curtain fell, the lights dimmed, and the buzz of conversation filled the room once more as the patrons returned to their drinks, already reminiscing about the night’s performance.

After the show, Jewels took her time backstage, carefully touching up her makeup in the dim, flickering light of the dressing room. The hot stage lights always left a fine sheen of sweat on her brow, smudging the perfect lines of her eyeliner and softening the edges of her lipstick. She wiped away the small imperfections with practiced hands, reapplying powder and adding a fresh coat of her signature deep red lipstick.

Satisfied with her appearance, Jewels took a deep breath and prepared to re-enter the bar. The familiar din of clinking glasses, overlapping conversations, and distant strains of jazz music greeted her as she stepped back into the Golden Lantern. The bar was packed as always, the crowd buzzing with the energy that lingered after her performance. She made her way through the throng of people, offering a smile here, a wink there, until she reached her usual spot at the bar.

Jewels slid onto her designated stool, a well-worn seat that had molded itself to her over the years. Beside her, a row of older regulars sat nursing their drinks, their faces creased with time and experience, the lines of their lives etched deeply into their skin.

"How’s it going, Bob?" she asked, turning to the man beside her. Bob was a fixture at the Golden Lantern, a retired cop with a fondness for bourbon and a dry wit to match. His graying hair was slicked back, and his piercing blue eyes still held a sharpness that belied his age.

Bob looked over, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Evening, Jewels. You were something else up there tonight. Almost forgot I’m too old to fall in love again."

Jewels laughed, a throaty sound that was equal parts charm and irony. "Flattery will get you everywhere, darling. Anything exciting happened while I was on stage? Got any crimes that need solving?"

Bob shook his head, taking a sip of his drink. "Not much going on in our sleepy city lately. Though with the way this place fills up every night, you’d think the whole town was one big party."

Jewels sighed, swirling her drink in hand. "The private investigation business has been slow lately. Guess the criminals are taking a vacation. My cabaret singer side hustle is fun, but it isn't paying the bills."

Bob chuckled, his gaze softening as he looked at Jewels. "It's disgraceful, what they did to you down at Headquarters—forcing you out like that. Well, if anything does come up, you’ll be the first to know. Hell, you’re better than half the detectives still on the force. They don’t make 'em like you anymore."

Jewels smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Thanks, Bob. I’ll drink to that."

She raised her glass, clinking it against his, and took a long, deliberate sip. The whiskey was smooth, warming her from the inside out, but it didn’t chase away the lingering worry that had settled deep in her bones.

Back within the solitude of her Bywater apartment, the transformation began to reverse. Jewels shed her feathers and sequins, each piece of her costume carefully removed and hung with the reverence of a ritual. The flapper headband was the last to go, revealing Julian Leclair’s short, tousled hair beneath. With a final glance in the mirror, Jewels disappeared, leaving Julian to take her place.

Julian’s apartment was a far cry from the glitter and glamour of The Golden Lantern. The walls were a dull, faded beige, the paint peeling in places, revealing the years of neglect. The furniture was sparse and worn, a battered couch that had seen better days, a coffee table littered with empty glasses, cigarette butts, and a stack of unpaid bills. The only light in the room came from a single lamp on the end table, casting a dim, yellowish hue that barely reached the corners of the small space.

Julian sat at the edge of the couch, a glass of whiskey on the rocks in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. The makeup removal process was slow and methodical, each swipe of the cotton pad revealing more of the man beneath the mask. He stared into the small mirror propped up on the table, watching as Jewels faded away with every passing second. The ritual was both a release and a reminder—a release from the persona he had created and a reminder of the reality he could never fully escape.

The stack of unpaid bills loomed on the edge of the table, some of them stamped with bold red warnings of service cancellations. Julian glanced at them briefly, the weight of their presence heavy on his mind, but he pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the task at hand. He took a long drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling upwards in delicate tendrils, disappearing into the dimness of the room. The whiskey burned as it went down, a comforting warmth that settled deep in his chest.

With Jewels now fully removed, Julian stood and made his way to the small closet in the corner of the room. He pulled out a set of satin chiffon pajamas, the fabric soft and delicate in his hands, a stark contrast to the harsh reality of his surroundings. Slipping into the luxurious pajamas, he felt a small measure of comfort, a momentary escape from the world outside.

Julian returned to the couch, his body heavy with exhaustion, and collapsed onto the worn cushions. The half-finished cocktail sat on the table next to him, the ice long since melted. He closed his eyes, the cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray, and within moments, he was asleep, the weight of the world temporarily lifted as he drifted into a restless slumber.

The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale light across the room. Julian stirred on the couch, groggy and disoriented. The phone’s shrill ring pierced through the fog of sleep, pulling him back to reality. He fumbled for the receiver, his voice rough and thick with sleep as he answered.

“Hello,” he said with a tinge of apprehension.

The voice on the other end of the line was soft, solemn, with a hint of resignation. A woman spoke, her tone carrying an edge of nervousness. “Good morning. I hope I have the correct number. I’m trying to reach the office of Detective Julian Leclair.”

“This is Julian Leclair,” he replied, a sudden wave of anxiety jolting him upright. His muscles tensed, nerves prickling. “Are you a debt collector?”

There was a brief pause, as if his question had taken her by surprise. “No, quite the opposite. Mr. Leclair, I’m calling in the hope of engaging your services for an investigation.”

“I see,” Julian said, choosing his words carefully. “But before we go further, you should know I’m no longer Detective Leclair. I was let go from the New Orleans Police Department over a year ago. Now, I’m a licensed private investigator.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” she responded, her voice tinged with empathy. “And I apologize for using your former title. I know about your recent setbacks, but that’s precisely why I’m calling. If you’re available, I’d like to hire you.”

“There’s one more thing that you should be aware of upfront,” Julian added, his tone firm. “I now go by the name Jewels Leclair professionally.”

There was a brief pause before the woman spoke again. “I see. In that case, I would like to hire Ms. Jewels Leclair to find out who murdered my daughter.”

Julian felt his breath catch in his throat, the weight of her words sinking in like a stone. “Your daughter?” he repeated, his voice quieter now, the initial nervousness replaced by a sharp, professional focus. “I’m… I’m sorry for your loss. Can you tell me her name and what happened?”

The woman hesitated, as if gathering the strength to continue. “Her name was Astrid St. Croix. She was murdered seven years ago. The case remains unsolved, and the police have long since moved on. It’s a cold case, but I can’t let it rest. I need someone who can look at it with fresh eyes, someone who isn’t afraid to dig where others won’t.”

Julian felt a surge of determination rising within him, the gravity of the situation sharpening his focus. “I understand. I’ll do everything in my power to help you. Let’s meet in person to go over the details. When and where would be convenient for you?”

There was a moment of silence on the line, the weight of the conversation hanging between them. Finally, the woman spoke, her voice filled with quiet resolve. "Thank you, Ms. Leclair. I can meet you at the Royal Café on Chartres Street, say around ten tomorrow morning?"

"That works for me," Julian replied, making a mental note of the time and place. "I’ll be there."

"Thank you," she said again, her voice softening. "I know it’s been a long time, but I have a feeling you're the only one who can help me find the truth."

Julian nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. "I’ll do my best, Mrs. St. Croix. I’ll see you tomorrow."

As he hung up the phone, Julian sat back, the details of the conversation replaying in his mind. The name Astrid St. Croix seemed familiar, and the gravity of a cold case, especially one involving the murder of a young woman, was enough to stir something deep within him. He glanced around his dreary apartment, the stack of unpaid bills on the table a stark reminder of his own troubles. But for now, those concerns could wait. There was work to be done.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals, and then exhaled slowly. Tomorrow, he would step back into the role that had forced him to leave his old life behind, but every ending is a new beginning, and this time, this life would be on his terms.

Journeys in Creativity—My Path as a Writer, Musician, and Content Creator

All text copyrighted ©️ 2024 by Lancer Gareth Bailey

Every word I write is a step on a journey that began in my childhood, a path that has shaped not only my stories but the person I’ve become. My passion for storytelling began in childhood, when I would fill spiral notebooks with short stories. As a teenager, I was fortunate to have my work recognized with several awards, which encouraged me to keep pursuing my creative interests. At 17, I was honored to become a published author after winning a college writing competition while still in high school.

Since then, I’ve followed a multifaceted path, exploring various creative outlets. Building on my early literary achievements, I’ve had the opportunity to grow as a record-producing musician, a self-published novelist, content creator, and business owner.

I’m thrilled to share my journey with the readers of the Authors’ Lounge. Writing has always been a deeply personal and transformative experience for me, and I’m excited to take this opportunity to reflect on the path that has brought me to where I am today. From my early days of scribbling stories in notebooks to my current endeavors as an author and creator, each step has been a part of a journey I’m proud to share with you.

I began writing at age 15, but my journey to becoming a writer started a bit earlier, rooted in a challenge I faced during Middle School. My teachers believed I was lagging behind my classmates in reading development and wanted to place me in a remedial reading class. The truth was, I wasn’t struggling with reading itself—I was struggling with anxiety.

I was a slow reader, easily distracted, often needing to re-read paragraphs multiple times before continuing. The thought of reading aloud in class terrified me. My mother, a middle school teacher and writer, recognized what I was going through. Instead of letting the anxiety define me, she encouraged me to read more, and she also bought me stacks of notebooks to write in.

Writing quickly became my refuge, a way to channel my anxieties into something creative and constructive. I discovered that I had a natural talent for creative expression, and in many ways, my writing became an act of defiance against the anxieties that once held me back. What began as a way to cope with my struggles soon blossomed into a passion that continues to drive me today.

My writing style has evolved significantly over the years, influenced by my changing interests and life experiences. I started off writing suspense and horror short stories, heavily inspired by the books I was reading at the time—authors like Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Michael Crichton. These early works were dark and intense, reflecting my fascination with the unknown and the macabre.

As I progressed through high school, I began to explore new genres, venturing into the realms of science fiction and fantasy. Reading J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Philip Pullman, Roger Zelazny, and H.G. Wells opened my mind to new possibilities in storytelling. My narratives began to incorporate more fantastical elements, blending the real with the surreal in ways that allowed my imagination to run wild.

In college, my studies in Archaeology and History further enriched my writing. I became deeply interested in weaving historical and archaeological elements into my narratives, grounding my stories in real-world settings while still allowing room for speculative fiction. This academic background added depth to my work, enabling me to create stories that were not only entertaining but also thought-provoking and informative.

Coming out as gay at the age of 19 was another pivotal moment in my life. Over the years, as I embarked on a journey of self-discovery, I realized that the most authentic expression of my creativity came when I combined all these elements—horror, fantasy, history, and personal identity. My writing became a way to explore not only external worlds but also my internal one, allowing me to tell stories that resonate on multiple levels. Each story I write is a reflection of my experiences, my influences, and my journey toward understanding myself and the world around me.

As I moved into adulthood, I began branching out and experimenting with other forms of creative expression. In my mid-20s, I joined a band and immersed myself in the world of music. This new venture was a significant departure from my earlier focus on writing, but it allowed me to explore creativity in a completely different medium. I taught myself to play several musical instruments and poured my writing skills into drafting song lyrics and composing music.

While our band didn’t achieve widespread success, we did manage to release an album before eventually going our separate ways. This experience was pivotal, not just in terms of creative growth, but also in my ongoing battle with anxiety. Standing on stage, performing music I had helped create, was an intense and often nerve-wracking experience. But it was through these challenges that I began to conquer the personal obstacles that had been holding me back for so long.

This process of self-discovery and creative experimentation profoundly influenced my writing. It gave me new tools for expression and a deeper understanding of how to convey emotion and narrative in ways that resonate with others. Ultimately, it was through these experiences that I was able to claim victory over many of the personal barriers that had once seemed insurmountable, unlocking my true potential as a writer and creator.

Since those years, I have returned to my truest passion: writing stories. My newest book Lost and Found in the Andes is now available in hardcover, paperback, and Kindle eBook on Amazon’s website at:

https://a.co/d/0fX0xNh8

Embark on an exhilarating journey with Carmelo Quiñones De La Cruz, a celebrated gay romance novelist writing under the pseudonym Cameron Quinn, and his enigmatic companion Alejandro (Alex), as they plunge into the enigmas of an ancient Incan treasure hidden deep within the majestic Andes Mountains of western Argentina.

The adventure begins when Carmelo’s sister is abducted just as a cryptic map surfaces, believed to have been crafted by the legendary Spanish Conquistador Jerónimo Luis de Cabrera. This discovery ignites a thrilling escapade fraught with peril, deception, and unexpected passion. As Carmelo and Alex decode the arcane symbols on the map, they unravel a saga of conquest, avarice, and the relentless pursuit of supremacy, taking the reader on a gripping journey through treacherous landscapes and the intricate dance of trust and betrayal.

Throughout their journey, the past and present collide as Carmelo and Alex confront their own burgeoning emotions. Navigating the challenging currents of desire, they find themselves drawn closer together, even as the trials of their expedition threaten to tear them apart. Guided by the whispers of history, they race against time to unlock the secrets of the Incan treasure before it falls into the wrong hands.

But their quest isn’t just about riches; it’s also driven by a deeper, more personal mission: rescuing Carmelo’s kidnapped sister and bringing justice to those who seek to harm them. Will their journey yield the fabled riches of the Andes, or will they discover a different treasure altogether—a love that transcends time and trials?

Lost and Found in the Andes is an enthralling tale of discovery, adventure, and the redemptive power of love amidst the echoes of a forgotten past.

If you find a few of the plot points familiar, that’s because the inspiration for my book traces back to one of my favorite movies from the 80s, Romancing the Stone. That classic film, with its adventurous spirit and romantic undertones, captured my imagination and sparked the idea to create a story that embodies similar elements. However, I wanted to bring something new and original to the table.

My goal was to infuse the story with LGBTQ+ themes and address some of the issues and plot holes I felt were glaringly present in the film that inspired me. By blending the thrilling adventure and romance of Romancing the Stone with a fresh perspective and a focus on diverse representation, I aimed to create a narrative that resonates with modern readers while paying homage to the classic adventure genre.

Through Lost and Found in the Andes, I sought to explore not only the excitement of an epic treasure hunt but also the complexities of relationships and identity. The novel is a reflection of my desire to blend compelling storytelling with inclusive and meaningful themes, offering readers both a thrilling adventure and a story that celebrates diversity and love.

Lost and Found in the Andes has resonated deeply with readers, earning praise for its captivating plot, well-crafted characters, and vivid portrayal of the Andean landscape. One memorable review came from Katelyn H, who gave the novel five stars, calling it an “Interesting Read!” Katelyn elaborated by saying, “This is a mind-catching journey that merges suspense and emotional depths. Its complex plot keeps one on their toes…incorporating thrilling action scenes with emotionally tender moments. Lancer’s vibrant portrayal of the Andean landscape as well as his well-crafted characters lends a palpable feel to the narrative. Furthermore, themes such as resilience and truth-seeking support this backdrop that makes it unforgettable…”

Another stand-out review was from John, who shared his thoughts from the beautiful English countryside. He wrote, “I loved Lost and Found in the Andes. Two wonderful central characters; a glorious landscape; a sometimes terrifying threat looming over the guys—and a gentle romance. A thoroughly satisfying read.”

These reviews, along with others, affirm the impact of Lost and Found in the Andes on its audience, highlighting the novel’s blend of adventure, romance, and emotional depth that keeps readers engaged from start to finish.

Being a writer has been one of the most transformative experiences of my life. Writing is more than just a profession or a hobby; it’s a profound part of who I am. Through the years, it has served as a vessel for self-discovery, a way to confront and conquer my personal challenges, and a means to connect with others on a deeper level.

The journey has been filled with countless moments of introspection, where I’ve been able to explore the depths of my own mind and heart. Crafting stories allows me to share pieces of my inner world with readers, inviting them into the universes I create. Each character, plot twist, and setting is a reflection of my thoughts, experiences, and imagination—offering a unique glimpse into how I see the world.

The impact of writing on my life goes far beyond the stories themselves. It has provided me with a sense of purpose, a channel for expressing emotions, and a way to process the complexities of life. It has taught me patience, resilience, and the importance of perseverance—lessons that extend into every aspect of my life.

Ultimately, being a writer has been about growth—both as an artist and as a person. I am continually evolving, learning, and adapting, and I’m grateful for the opportunities that writing has given me to do so. Whether through the triumphs of publishing a new book or the quiet satisfaction of finishing a draft, writing remains my greatest passion and the truest expression of who I am.

I’m excited to share a couple of projects in the works that I’ve been slowly crafting, each offering something unique and intriguing.

One of these is a cyberpunk adventure graphic novel titled Welcome to New Ultra City. This project is an exotic blend of cyberpunk sci-fi and dark, dystopian fantasy, set in a world where technology and myth intertwine. The story dives deep into a futuristic cityscape where the boundaries between humanity and machinery blur, and where the shadows hold secrets that could alter the fabric of reality.

Another exciting work in progress is my multidimensional fantasy story titled Destiny’s Twin. This epic fantasy spans the multiverse, exploring the timeless battle between good and evil. It’s a classic tale with a twist, serving as a powerful reminder that even the meekest among us have value and can change the course of history.

Additionally, I’m putting the finishing touches on a new novel titled P.O. Box 1142, which I anticipate publishing by the end of September. This historical fiction romance is set within a highly classified POW camp during WWII. The novel delves into the intense and secretive world of wartime intelligence, weaving a compelling story of love, duty, and sacrifice.

For those interested in getting a sneak peek, excerpts from Welcome to New Ultra City and Destiny’s Twin are available on my Tumblr blog. I’ll include the link below for anyone eager to explore these worlds before they fully come to life.

I want to take a moment to express my heartfelt gratitude to everyone who has supported me on this journey. To my readers, your enthusiasm and encouragement are what keep me inspired to continue writing and exploring new creative horizons. Your feedback, whether through reviews or personal messages, has been invaluable in shaping my work and helping me grow as an author.

A special thanks to Authors’ Lounge for providing this incredible platform to share my story. It’s opportunities like these that allow writers like me to connect with new audiences and share the passion behind our work. Your support means the world to me, and I’m honored to be a part of this wonderful community.

In reflecting on my journey as a writer, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come—from filling spiral notebooks with stories as a child to publishing novels that resonate with readers around the world. My work, including Lost and Found in the Andes, is a testament to the power of perseverance, imagination, and the courage to confront one’s fears. Whether it’s through the thrilling adventures of Carmelo and Alex or the upcoming historical romance of Benjamin and Erik in P.O. Box 1142, my goal is always to transport readers into worlds where they can experience both the thrill of discovery and the depths of human emotion.

If you’ve enjoyed learning about my journey, I encourage you to check out my books and follow me on social media to stay updated on my latest projects. Lost and Found in the Andes is available on Amazon, and I regularly share updates, excerpts, and more on my blog and social media.

Links:

Lost and Found in the Andes - on Amazon

Amazon.com

Destiny’s Twin—A Multidimensional Fantasy [Excerpt]

The Medhoum

In the treacherous heights of the great mountain of Kragdnom, thousands of feet above the barren wasteland below, beyond the reach of most ground dwelling creatures, deep within the blackened depths of an immense chasm—a gash of razor-sharp rocks—perched the giant fortress Kragonhold. The castle sat precariously on the edge of the cliff, backed by the soaring peaks of the mountain itself. Black and gray, the seemingly colorless walls of rock soared to heights unseen, disappearing into the darker fog of clouds that clung to the rugged, ice-capped summits. It was a forbidding place, one not easily accessible.

There were no roads to Kragonhold. No horse trails led to the gates of this behemoth. No carriages visited this malignant domain. No travelers dared pass this way. It was a place of great dread and disquietude. It was a foreboding place built for utter intimidation.

Built over a thousand years ago by a powerful evil no one dared whisper about in stories, this was a desolate place. Deprived of warmth, beauty, light, and life; it was a place people tried very hard to forget. Legend tells that the keep of Kragonhold was constructed in a dark time, a time before history could say for sure, by a wizard of great evil: Lucius.

It was said that Lucius, unrivaled in power and intellect in his time, possessed the ability of levitation, among many other dark talents. The only way to reach the massive, sharp, black iron gates of Kragonhold was to make an extremely treacherous, seemingly vertical climb up a twisted and slick stairway carved from the black rocks of Mt. Kragdnom itself. The stairway led to a small landing thousands of feet in the air, overlooking a giant gash in the earth—a crack in the mountain that virtually split it in two. From this precipitous landing, no bridge, tunnel, or stair would lead around the crag. From this point, there was no way forward. It was a dead end—unless you could fly.

The legend also tells that some thousand years ago, there existed one single wooden elevator. Crafted from logs and hemp, it stretched from the belly of a small crank house at the top of the towering ridge, delving deep down into the giant chasm. This elevator led to a secret road known and traveled only by the twisted minions of Lucius himself, who brought him supplies and objects imbued with great power, which he coveted. It was said that this secret roadway was guarded by evil spirits, demons, and fearsome monsters conjured from the darkest of dreams, underworld forces bent on murder and utter destruction. Spellforms and traps lined the path—if triggered, they would send an avalanche of massive boulders pummeling down the cliff face with fatal force. Nobody who had ever attempted to find such a path or elevator had ever returned.

Thus, no human or creature of the earth had entered the giant keep for a millennium, except, it is rumored, an old crone—a witch, a servant of the dark times, a servant of the dark ways of magic, a servant of Lucius. Of course, nobody knows for sure if the legends are true, for nobody dares to prove them, or even think on them for any length of time, for fear they would attract the attention—and therefore the wrath—of the black witch of Kragonhold and perhaps even the vengeful spirit of the long-dead evil wizard, Lucius.

The only creatures still existing with the ability to reach such treacherous heights as Kragonhold were the fairies; however, no fairy could survive the deathly cold and torrential winds of those peaks. The temperature at those lofty altitudes could plunge well below freezing for months at a time, and the wind was so forceful it could easily send a fairy smashing with deadly force into one of the many walls or jagged outcroppings of rock at any moment. To make matters worse, the wind hurled shards of razor-sharp ice like a maelstrom, making any attempt at flight near impossible.

The lightning storms around those massive peaks were said to be death itself. They seemed a force of malicious and sentient power, bloodthirsty and death-hungry, striking down anything possessing life within miles of the impenetrable fortress. The place was cursed. It was a place of death, a black maw on the face of the surrounding world.

The witch, Ekwamedhua, is said to have lived in the castle of Kragonhold for nearly three hundred years, never seen outside the confines of those massive, forbidding walls, and possessing dangerous and lethal powers. Lore says that Ekwamedhua possesses powers of shape-shifting and has been known to transform herself into a giant black dragon. On the new moon, she would swoop down from her lofty nest to capture young maidens, using them in rituals rumored to be the cause of her unnaturally long life.

Ekwamedhua, it is said, was a pupil of the dark wizard Lucius. Created by Lucius, Ekwamedhua was spawned from the blackest of magics, a daughter of Lucius and his queen, Maghya. According to legend, Lucius's wife Maghya was a goddess, her name meaning "powerful one," and indeed she was. Queen Maghya was a woman of unfathomable beauty and power, but she was not evil. Maghya possessed great powers of both white and black magic, and Lucius knew that if he could ever break her bonds of benevolence and goodness, together they would be an unstoppable and utterly devastating force.

Lucius devised a plan to resolve this problem, for he loved Maghya desperately, but he could not tolerate her empathy and unrestrained goodness. He saw it as a terrible and disgusting weakness, a disease he must stomp out, rip out of her no matter the cost. So, he drugged his wife one night and tied her limp body to a great stone altar, carved with ancient runes said to be names of terrible underworld demons. With a sacrifice of infant blood, he summoned great forces of evil magic, creating a great mystical sword, Krentos, and cleaved Maghya in twain.

With one forceful swing, he divided Maghya's existence—her mind, her memories, and her magics—into two equal and opposite offspring. These two children were thus spawned, born into the world possessing the halves of their mother, Maghya.

Lucius, knowing that one of these children would contain all the dark powers he sought and cherished, and the other would contain all the white powers of creation and goodness which he loathed, separated the two children. One child he claimed, Ekwamedhua, holding close to his bosom, investing it with all his malice and hate. The other, not being able to kill the child, as it was a part of his beloved Maghya, he sent away from his sight, locking it in a dungeon deep in the belly of the mountain Kragdnom. This solution did not satisfy him for long, however. He knew he could not bring himself to kill the child, for fear of forever losing part of his queen, Maghya, and thus her love, but he also knew that as long the child remained alive, it would forever haunt him. He knew that as the child aged, it would grow stronger, and more powerful, and with its hate of him and its vengeance for his mistreatment, it would one day come to destroy him. So on the day of the first cycle of a year in the child's life, he concocted a sacred potion, a drink, the Medhuom, which took eight months thereafter to ferment into full potency. During this time, as the story tells, he held eight separate festivals, each celebrating a particular alignment of the stars in accordance with his most worshiped constellation structure, Artus, which is the name of the structure that lies behind the universe. Once the sacred drink was prepared, he made preparations for the ritual of banishment. This process required that a massive, ten-foot stone petroglyph be carved into a perfect circle and placed within an altar of the child's blood, black and yellow candles, and rare blue and white crystals. Onto this petroglyph would be drawn an image, a random setting of the mind's design, in white chalk. The child was then placed inside the altar, inside the ring of lit candles and shimmering crystals, and fed the thick, pungent liquid from a wooden chalice. After this was accomplished, Lucius began to chant softly. As the speed and volume of the chant increased, the blue and white crystals began to sparkle and radiate a soft glow. Lucius, ever-increasing the volume and fanaticism of his chanting, threw his arms into the air dramatically, pointing directly at the constellation structure, Artus. Suddenly, a gale blew through the altar room and blew out all the candles as a lightning bolt struck the stone tablet, blinding Lucius who stood mere feet away. The only light left was emanating from the now brightly gleaming crystals, and the soft flickering glow emanating from the lines of chalk on the stone tablet. Lucius wiped his eyes, trying to adjust his vision to no avail, and kneeled down at the altar. With broad sweeping motions of his arms, he felt for the body of the child lying there in a pool of blood. Creeping up onto the platform of the altar, Lucius searched with his hands. He felt the stinging heat of the candle wax and the jagged edges of the surrounding crystals, but no baby was lying among them. The child of legend was gone. From that fateful day the dark enchanter Lucius lived for many more years, teaching the heir to his wicked empire, Ekwamedhua, everything he knew about the forces of black magic, wizardry, necromancy, alchemy, and conjuration. Blinded by that singular event, he was never again able to leave his lofty fortress, instead tutoring his young protege and investing her with abilities not unlike his own. Though she grew more powerful every day, Lucius knew that she would never become the woman he dreamed she would be, his beloved wife Maghya, for she was only half of her mother and possessed only half of the potential of her predecessor.

After a time, Lucius grew to hate Ekwamedhua for her shortcomings and began to mistrust her. He knew that the more he taught her, and the more of his own powers that he invested in her, the weaker he became. He feared that one day she would revolt against him and seize her place as his successor, so he ceased to tutor her in the ways of magic and spellcasting. Instead, he banished her from his libraries and forbade her to practice the craft in any form within the confines of his castle. Ekwamedhua continued to study in secret, however. Confined to the lower quarters of the castle, she was not allowed anywhere near her father's libraries, so she began dispatching servants to smuggle her father's texts down to her. Many of her servants were also elemental students of witchcraft and sorcery, so, committing treason against their lord Lucius, they assisted her with her studies, helping her to translate the cryptic texts and spell forms, tutoring her in the history and applications of several forms of magic as well as the techniques of many notorious witches, such as the great Cerridwen. Cerridwen was a master of the great arts of regeneration and transformation. She had possessed a mythical cauldron, named Ceres which was said to have a ring of pearls around the rim and was kindled by the breath of nine maidens. Cerridwen's cauldron was also said to excrete a poisonous residue which was alleged to enhance the collective consciousness and bestow the gift of prophecy. It was then, with this knowledge, in secret, that Ekwamedhua commissioned to have a great cauldron built, investing it with powers of black magic and forces of the underworld, and named Annwyn. As the story goes, with time, all her vast new knowledge, and armed with a new weapon, a cauldron of immense power, Ekwamedhua's dark talent grew immeasurably. She soon began to notice that some of her father's most secret of texts were going missing, vanishing, so her increasingly unfaithful servants would profess. She began to suspect that her father, ever fearful of her improving ability, was having them systematically destroyed in order to protect his secrets.

One evening, in a rage, Ekwamedhua gathered together ingredients in a brew and drank it down. It was a fiery concoction that forced her to gag and thrash violently, clawing at her throat and screaming in unbridled agony. As she writhed on the floor, panting and dripping blood from her neck and broken fingernails, she began to breathe heavily. With each heaving breath, her arms and legs grew thicker and stronger than they were. Her flesh tightened around her muscles like leather on a drum until she felt like it might rip right off her and leave her bones, muscles, and tendons stripped and pulsating with intense fury. Unable to stand for fear she might rip her body into threads, she lay there convulsing. Her breath became as hot and noxious as the vent of an active volcano. Her eyes dilated, and a thin film developed over her retinas. The taut skin over her shoulder blades suddenly ripped open spraying blood across the floor. Giant black appendages burst out of the torn gashes in her wet back. She screamed in utter terror as the room fell to blackness. As she reawakened there came a ravenous hunger. A hunger for flesh. A thirst for blood. With a mighty thrust, she leaped into the air and smashed into the grey stone outer wall of her cell and into the blackness of night, leaving a giant heap of dust and rubble billowing and crashing down around her cauldron. Instictively she spread her arms, and the great webbed appendages on her back exploded outward arresting her fall and sending her soaring out into the night. Hunger. Intense hunger. She knew what she was hungry for. She swooped into the air, giving her new wings a mighty thrust, accelerating and climbing simultaneously. She reached the turrets of the highest tower of Kragonhold and circled it, peering down at it greedily. With a grin, bearing massive, razor-sharp teeth, bringing her front arms around and flashing her fearsome talons, she dove for the tower, ripping the roof off with one fierce slash of her right claw, ripping it to kindling. There, just inside, below a shallow pile of rubble, on a massive bed lay her sleeping father. Whipping her neck around like a striking serpent, she seized the sleeping wizard in her yellow jaws and clamped them down, grinding, squeezing his bones to a pulp, and squirting his innards across the bottom of her jaw. The taste of fresh, warm blood flowed down her throat and made her tongue quiver with ecstasy. With one mighty gulp, she swallowed the pulverized body down and licked her lips. The taste of blood was riveting. The taste of vengeance--sweet. The legend was born on this day. She had just ascended to her rightful place as the supreme power, the supreme ruler of Kragonhold. She had just earned her throne. She had just eaten her first meal as a dragon.

And so, the tale of Ekwamedhua and the destruction of Lucius ends and not much else is known of those dark times or those dark magics. It is said that many of her servants, teachers, and fellow students of the craft fled from the castle of Kragonhold fearful of their lives and their souls. It is speculated that perhaps as they fled, they brought with them many of the secrets of Lucius, the ability to wield dark magic, the ability to conjure spirits from the underworld, and perhaps even what would become the most important secret of all, the lost recipe for the sacred drink, the gateway to other worlds, the key to the universe, the Medhuom.

Destiny’s Twin—A Multidimensional Fantasy [Excerpt]

Shaemus (Part 1)

The flowers were beautiful this year, especially down by the river’s edge, where Shaemus had spent countless evenings of his youth. He swam in the dam behind his family’s property, dug up grub worms for fishing, and climbed the massive, ancient cypress trees that lined the shoreline. Their dense canopies cast a cool shade over much of the river, creating a peaceful oasis.

He spent many a midsummer afternoon roaming the softly rolling hill country of his homeland, playing in the pasture behind his grandparents’ house, building forts, and drawing scenes from his surroundings—capturing the diverse flora and fauna that thrived across the land.

It was a serene place, one he loved for its quiet beauty. But sometimes, he equally hated it for its remoteness and small-town feel, which made him feel trapped, as if living in a bubble, cut off from the larger world waiting to be discovered beyond the canyon.

His father, Samuel, often scolded him for running off in the mornings and not returning until sundown. Shaemus knew his father expected him to help around the place—tending to the garden behind their small country cabin, feeding the puppy and the sheep in the pasture. And he didn’t mind doing any of those things, but some days, he simply couldn’t resist the urge to take his sketchbook and chalks down to the river. He’d draw pictures of the butterflies, the ripple of the water as it flowed along before tumbling over the stone dam, or even Sakura, his best friend, a tiny fairy who lived in the thicker woods edging his grandfather’s property.

That was another cause of his father’s scoldings. He didn’t approve of Shaemus associating with a pesky fairy. "Fairies are troublemakers, pests, simply put," his father would rant. "You be nice to them for one minute, and you can’t get rid of them. They’re like bugs. Before you know it, they’re in your crops, stealing all your potatoes and carrots, picking your mother’s flowers to build nests in the attic! They scare off the good critters that hunt down the snakes and spiders that nearly frighten your poor mama to death… and me, if truth be told!"

"Heck, Sakura doesn’t hurt anything. She’s a good fairy. She’s never done anything like that," Shaemus would reply, feeling offended that his father would even suggest such antics from her. The truth was, fairies were notorious troublemakers, and he knew their reputation all too well. He’d witnessed many of their shenanigans firsthand—clever little pranks like flying at you when you least expected it, scaring the willies out of you, tripping you up in a field, dropping acorns or small fruits on your head if you stood under a tree branch, even sneaking into your bedroom at night and tying knots in your hair. Oh yes, he knew. He’d been the brunt of many of Sakura’s nasty little tricks.

He didn’t care, though. He loved Sakura. Playing with her was his favorite thing to do. She was his only true friend, and he knew she loved him too. Most of the other kids in town, just across the river, didn’t much like Shaemus or have much to do with him. He was a quiet kid, lacking in social skills. He was good in school, always on the honor roll, but despite his efforts, he never seemed to make friends. He figured he was just a loner, and that suited him just fine.

The other boys in the fourth grade would get together in the summertime to play baseball in the park or go up the river to the big jumping tree. They’d climb up to the top, leap off, and do giant cannonballs in the water. Shaemus always wanted to try that, but the other boys were bigger than him, intimidating. He figured one day he’d climb up there and do flips off the top, making big splashes in the water, and all the other kids would think he was cool and brave. But that would be some other day. Today, he didn’t feel like climbing that big old tree. It was just so high!

Shaemus was a small boy, but he thought himself to be somewhat good-looking, with semi-wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes. He had a good complexion, aside from a few freckles on his nose and plump cheeks. He was healthy, but he seemed to lack the same athleticism or endurance that most of the other boys had in abundance, and for that, they often teased him. So, he spent most of his time alone, playing with Sakura, reading adventure books or comics, or drawing.

This day was particularly sunny, with a clear blue sky. The rainy season had just passed, and the prairie cactus were all blooming with big, bulbous fruits and giant yellow flowers. He had lugged his easel, with much effort, down the slow decline from his home to the top of a grassy knoll overlooking the river.

The previous year, he had built a trail to this exact spot by clearing the tall grass, wildflowers, and cactus out of the way and paving the short path with hefty, flat river rocks made of limestone. This was his favorite spot for drawing. The view was the best here, it was nice and breezy, and Sakura always knew where to find him.

He hadn’t seen her in a couple of days and wondered where she was and what she was up to. He supposed she’d come around eventually to boast of some adventure or chat his ear off about the goings-on of the woodland people, who didn’t make much commerce with the bigger folk. She wasn’t usually gone for long and was often quite hyper and joyful to see him again once she returned.

She had once shown him where she lived, which was something fairies rarely did. They were extremely protective of their lairs and didn’t take kindly to visitors. It wasn’t far, just an hour’s walk through the woods. He figured that if he really got worried about her, he could always try to find her there, but she would probably only get mad at him for going there. If any of the other fairies saw him, she would hear no end of grief from them.

He heard a rustle just as he had finished setting up his easel, and the thought of Sakura vanished from his mind. He peered around his sketch pad to the left, just at the edge of the clearing, where the thicker woods met the field, and saw a beautiful white-tailed doe step into the open. Behind her came a spotted fawn.

"Wow," he whispered, his eyes widening with amazement. He didn’t often get the opportunity to draw wildlife this close, and he wasn’t about to miss it. As quietly as possible, he grabbed his little wooden box of chalks and set to drawing the forms onto his sketch pad. He knew he wasn’t a bad artist and was getting better with every try.

"Practice makes perfect," his mother would encourage him whenever he showed her his latest masterpiece—or what he thought was a masterpiece. That always left him wondering if there really was such a thing as perfect art. That would be something he’d surely learn when he got older.

The deer didn’t seem to notice him as he scratched away with his chalk. It was a noble and impressive creature, standing with grace and elegance, keeping a close watch on its young. He started as he always did, with the basic outline, using a rusty umber chalk. Once the exterior form was complete, he switched to cream, then white, and even a dash of black. It was coming along quickly. He truly was a gifted artist—or at least that’s what his family and teachers seemed to think.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the deer’s head raise stiffly. Its ears perked with full attention. With lightning speed, it swung its body around and leapt back under the cover of the woods, the fawn close at its heels. Just as the deer disappeared, a crashing of limbs reverberated through the calm of the pasture. Out of the thicket sprang the tiny sparkle of a fairy, bouncing off branches, dodging limbs and leaves, and bounding into the open sunlight, heading straight for Shaemus. He knew instantly who it was.

"Darn you, Sakura!" he scolded as she flew closer. "You scared away the deer. I was almost done with it too!" He tugged the bottom corner of the sheet, separated it from the rest of the drawing book, folded it, and set it on the ground beside him.

"Deer, oh dear! I’m so dreadfully sorry, then," she said with a flippant tone, panting from what was apparently a speedy and exhausting flight. "Perhaps I should rustle up a nice, fat, stinky, ill-tempered skunk for you to draw?" She added with thick sarcasm, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at him challengingly. "I’ll see to it right now if you like." She batted her eyes coolly.

Shaemus grunted. "Where have you been?" he asked, arching his eyebrows inquisitively.

"Business. Sorry I’ve not been available to amuse you."

"That’s not what I meant," he replied with a sigh. "What sort of business?"

"I’ve been given a mission," she said, her annoyance barely concealed.

"A mission?" A wave of tension shot up his spine, making his palms sweaty.

"I’m being sent to Kragodnom. I leave tonight, but I had to come by and tell you myself before I go." She turned her eyes away from him, a distant, nervous expression overtaking her. "Don’t get upset. It’s nothing, just a simple reconnaissance mission."

"Simple? What are you talking about? Why are you going there? Sakura, that place is forbidden! Nobody ever goes there! Aren't you afraid of what might happen to you?"

"Of course I am afraid! You've heard the rumors. You've heard about what's happened to those of my kind who have tried to go up there. Only one has ever come back, and she didn't even make it all the way to the keep. And even she barely survived. They found her collapsed on the riverbank way downstream, half drowned and with a broken wing. No one else has ever returned. I fear I may not return." Her fluttering slowed, and she sank down onto his lap, weeping softly.

"No! You can't!" he yelled frantically, springing off the flat rock he had been sitting on, sending her springboarding up into the air in front of his tear-filled eyes. "You can't go to Kragodnom, Sakura, you can't! Tell them you can't!"

"I have no choice," she squeezed out between sobs. "News has come from Mapleton, from outside of the canyon, that another child, a maiden, has gone missing. There have been rumors of a shadow stalking them in the darkness of night, a phantom circling the skies, burning houses as it goes, killing livestock. It can only be a dragon. People are in an uproar! They don't know what dark magic is terrorizing them. They fear that the legends are true, that the evil witch is indeed alive! We can't just sit here and wait for our turn to die. We have to act!"

"But why you?" he pleaded, swiping tears from his puffy red eyes.

She took a slow breath, sniveling, regaining her composure, and looked deeply into his frightened eyes. "Why not me?"

"Surely there is someone else capable of doing this? Why you? It doesn't have to be—"

"It has to be a fairy. Only one of us can do this. No other person could possibly make that journey. There are no roads to the keep, no mountain passes available; it is impregnable by land. It was designed to be so."

"But what if something happens to you?" he cried. "I couldn't bear it."

"Dear boy, you do know that I love you, even though you are a scrawny little boy. Don't fear for me, I am Sakura! I will be back before the moon changes. And when I return, I will tie your hair up in so many knots it will take weeks of your mother pulling at that ratty mess to get it undone!" She gave him her most convincing smile, though it didn't appear to make him feel much better. "I have to go. Remember what I said." She shot straight up like a rocket, arching her trajectory up and over the river toward town.

"Wait!" he called, but it was too late. Sakura was gone. "I didn't get to say goodbye!"

He crumpled back onto the rock like a wet noodle, tears streaming from his eyes like tiny rivers. He had never felt so alone. He had never felt so afraid. With trembling hands, he reached down and grabbed the folded drawing lying beside his feet in the grass and crushed it into a tight ball with his fist. He no longer felt like drawing.

Destiny’s Twin—A Multidimensional Fantasy [Excerpt]

Katherina (part 1)

The door groaned as Katherina tiptoed into the colossal room. She winced at the noise, leaving it partially ajar to avoid the need for more creaking when she left. Two disruptions were better than four, especially when the queen was in her personal chamber. Katherina feared being the slightest disturbance, particularly on nights like this, when she knew Her Majesty had been out.

On these nights, Katherina moved like a ghost, slipping in and out of the shadows, careful to stay out of sight. It was no easy task for the queen’s personal assistant and beauty consultant, but she dared not draw attention to herself.

Katherina was not a woman prone to timidity. Most people feared her, knowing she held the sentence of death at the tip of her finger. She was confident in her ability to commit atrocities if necessary. But the queen—she would not challenge.

Katherina had studied the arts of magic for half a century under the queen's tutelage. The queen, pleased with her pupil's quickness and enthusiasm, had personally overseen her lessons. Now, Katherina was the chief among the queen’s servants, her right hand, her enforcer.

The queen valued her loyalty, especially in running the castle, dealing with the numerous servants, maintaining order, and preparing the queen’s chamber for her monthly baths. However, Her Majesty was known to be particularly testy and prone to lashing out on nights like this, after hunting. These were nights Katherina preferred to go unnoticed.

She carried a small wooden bowl half-filled with alcohol and a soft cloth rag. It was a ritual she performed every evening, but especially on these nights when the queen would sit before her mirror for hours, inspecting every detail of her body, the softness and tension of her skin, its brightness, and the thickness and luster of her hair.

It was Katherina’s duty to ensure that Her Royal Highness saw only perfection in the mirror. The dusty castle required daily cleaning, and this was one chore Katherina dared not neglect.

She slithered across the dark room to a small sitting area adjacent to the queen’s bed. The room, designed like a cathedral, had a ceiling that soared twenty feet high in an arch of stone, making the acoustics sharp. The slightest sound could echo through the chamber like in an immense cave. She could hear soft breathing from the other corner of the room. The queen was still sleeping. Katherina relaxed a bit.

Reaching the small sitting area, she carefully maneuvered around a set of tall brass candlesticks beside a large wooden chair. This was where the queen would examine herself after her baths. The chair, thickly carved from a giant block of dark reddish-brown wood, was ornate, with carvings covering the back and legs. The armrests were shaped like vigilant dragons, their heads capping the handholds, mouths open in fierce snarls. They resembled baby sphinxes with vicious dragon heads. On the seat lay a plump pillow made of thick, crimson velvet.

In front of the chair stood an ornate golden-framed mirror. The oval mirror, as tall as a person and half as wide, stood on a golden pedestal before two giant arched windows that nearly reached the ceiling. The windows were draped with thick crimson velvet curtains.

Katherina inspected the mirror thoroughly. Seeing no smudges or streaks, she decided to clean it again anyway. It was better to be safe than to risk the queen finding a flaw and exacting severe punishment.

She dipped the cloth in the alcohol and began wiping the mirror from top to bottom in slow, meticulous strokes until she had covered the entire surface. Then, she turned to the large chair facing the mirror, dusted off the pillow, and wiped down the back and arms of the chair.

Everything seemed ready for the queen’s awakening. Katherina knew it wouldn’t be long. The queen had been out for several hours and usually enjoyed a brief nap after her outings. When she awoke, she would be ready for her bath. Katherina had yet to make all the arrangements. She needed to hurry.

As she stepped out of the queen’s chamber, she noticed a faint shadow at the end of the dim hallway and stopped.

“You there,” she whispered, careful not to disturb the sleeping queen. A young man in tattered gray clothing reluctantly peeked around the corner. “Come here. I have a task for you. Quickly, there isn’t much time.”

“Yes, my lady,” the man whispered as he rushed toward her, dropping to his knees and staring at the floor. “What is it you wish of me, my lady?” He appeared strong, likely in his mid-twenties, with short brown hair and green eyes. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“What is your name?” she asked with disdain.

“Marcos, my lady,” he replied nervously, peeking up to meet her icy glare before quickly dropping his eyes again, as if afraid that looking directly at her would turn him to stone.

“Marcos, come with me. We must prepare the queen’s bath.”

Marcos looked horrified, as if he knew what the task involved. Indeed, he might have, though she could not recall ever summoning him before. To her, all the servants looked the same—mere tools.

Katherina quickly moved toward the end of the hallway where she had first seen the man, but turned right at the intersection, heading in the opposite direction from where Marcos had been going. The hallway she entered was much longer than the one leading to the queen’s bed chamber and was lit by lanterns hung by hooks in the walls. Marcos followed closely behind her.

At the end of the row of lanterns, a staircase twisted down to a lower level where another intersection of long, well-lit corridors awaited. She turned right again.

After passing three evenly spaced lanterns, she stopped at a wooden door on her left. Reaching into the pocket of her elegant red dress, she fished out a small ring of keys. The lock clicked as she turned the brass knob and swung the door open. Just inside was another stairwell.

This set of stairs was different from the polished ebony stone of the hallways above. The steps were made of slate-gray, crudely chiseled stone, giving it the feel of a basement. The light in this stairwell didn’t come from brass lanterns but from bowls carved into notches in the walls, filled with oil and spitting raw flames into the air.

Marcos followed her down the staircase to a small landing at the bottom. Ahead was another door. Katherina found a second key, seemingly identical to the first, and unlocked it. She reached inside and grabbed a wooden torch resting in a bracket mounted just inside the door.

“Here, take this up the steps there and light it off of that fire in the stairway," she ordered the trembling young man. He took the unlit torch and scurried up the steps, returning with a flaming stick, spitting and crackling with burning oil.

"Go on," she motioned him ahead. The room was as black as pitch. There were no lights or fires to brighten the emptiness ahead. The young man hesitated an instant and Katherina shoved him through the doorway into the void. "We're in a hurry. Keep going."

The torch lit their footsteps as they marched along, sending light shooting but a few feet ahead into the passageway and then darkening again once they passed. It was enough light to see where they were going, but not enough to see the end of the rough tunnel. It did, however reveal a network of conjoining tunnels and alcoves, some appearing to lead further down into the bowels of the mountain. Others looked as though they were once used as quarters or stations for officers, possibly assigned the task of watching over prisoners locked in the depths of this underworld labarynth.

The tunnel appeared to have been carved out of the mountain itself. There were no stone blocks lining the walls, no seams of any kind. There was only the same slate gray rock, an eternity of it. Though this extensive maze was built over a thousand years ago, there still could be seen the original grooves and chisel marks made by the ancient masons who had hammered away at the tough material.

As they walked deeper into the tunnel, slender metal doors began to appear on either side of the pathway. Each door appeared to be rusted and locked by heavy iron bars that bored into the rock. Cobwebs dangled throughout the hallway and over the narrow doorways. A thick collection of dust coated everything.

They continued ahead. Marcos was in the lead holding the torch which was throwing a thick smoke into the cramped tunnel, making their breathing difficult. They came to one of the metal doorways that appeared to have fresh scrape marks where the bolt had been slid across the metal. It was clear that this doorway had been used recently.

"Step aside," Katherina hissed, pushing him back away from the door. She then reached down and jerked the metal bar free from the rock hole with a heavy grunt. The door shreiked loudly as it scraped across the stone floor.

Inside there was a small chamber. There was no light in the room except what radiated from the torch behind her that Marcos held, and no furnature, windows or adornement of any kind except for a stone bench carved from the wall itself and a small wooden pot filled with human waste.

As they entered further into the room, Katherina motioned Marcos to bring the light closer so that it would illuminate the back corner that still lay in shadow. Bent and trembling in the corner, was a beautiful young girl. Her hair was a thick, dark auburn tangle. In places, it was matted to her head with clumps of dried blood. Her simple white dress was ripped off of her right sholder and sagging down almost to her breasts. Her eyes were wet and puffy. More dried blood was splattered across the left side of her dress around the waisteline and it appeared that she had several deep gashes in her flesh running across her rib cage and abdomen.

"Hello my dear," Katherina said warmly, reaching her hand out to help the sobbing young girl to her feet. "Sorry to have kept you all alone down here for so long. No doubt you are starving and thirsty and with much desire for a bath and a change of clothing. It shall be so, for you are a very special guest," she smiled politely. "I do pitty you for the treatment you have received and the manner for which you were brought here. You must be frightened beyond imagining."

She placed her hand gently on the girls cheek, making her flinch back as if she were about to be struck. "Such treatment is, in my opinion, intollerable for such a special guest," Katherina smiled again trying to appear as unthreatening as possible, which given her glacial exterior, was a challenge. "The queen has gone to great lenths to bring you here. You will meet her soon. She is very eager to make your aquaintance. She requests your assistance in her royal chamber. You are to have the honor of attending her as she bathes."

Katherina examined the young girl standing before her. "Indeed we will need to clean you up a bit. Such a state as you are in would not please Her Majesty at all. No, we will have a nice hot bath made up for you immediately, please come with me." She reached out and gently grabbed the girls trembling hand. "We have no time for standing around, we must get you ready for your queen."

The girl didn't appear to have been affected much by Katherina's friendliness. She was still sobbing and just as frightened as ever. It just went to show Katherina that kindness got her nothing. She always received better results by being terrifying, however, she didn't have the time to drag a kicking and screaming child through the twisted halls of Kragonhold. It was imperative that everything was in place when the queen awoke. The queen did not appreciate having to wait.

They mounted the staircase that opened into the larger, more elaborately constructed and decorated hallway, where the floors were once again a polished alabaster stone and the walls were brightly lit with dozens of flickering brass lanterns. They turned to the right and headed down the corridor, toward the staircase that led up to the queen's rooms.

Pausing, Katherina spun around to look for Marcos, who had fallen behind when he had stopped to snuff out the flaming torch and place it back in its bracket, just below the staircase. "Marcos, go find a bucket and fill it with hot water. Find a washcloth and some bread...and a hair brush. Bring it to me. I will be just down this hallway, in one of the guest rooms. Quickly!"

Passing that bank of stairs, Katherina and the girl continued down the corridor. Fine colorful tapestries hung from the ceiling along the walls of this hallway branch interspersed with towering columns cut from the same lustrous stone as the floor. It was an impressive collection of artistry with subject matter ranging from breathtaking landscapes resembling the rolling foothills surrounding the area, to scenes of battles with fine, brilliantly armored warriors on horseback fighting giant serpents and dragons. One depicted a mysterious wizard dramatically conjuring unimaginable forces between his outstretched hands and sending them tumbling into the hordes of approaching armies. The skill of the artisans who had created these tapestries was unparalleled.

Once past the collection of tapestries, there came a series of large carved stone doors on either side of the hallway. Each door was identical and evenly spaced along the seemingly endless corridor. Katherina stopped at the first door to her left and opened it.

The room was lavishly furnished. Thick burgundy rugs were thrown all over the floor, Fine, richly embroidered pillows were piled on a massive four posted bed in the center of the room. There was a wash basin to the immediate left of the door and a small mirror for grooming.

"This will do," Katherina said plainly, glancing at the still-traumatized girl she held in her grasp. "Get yourself cleaned up. I have sent Marcos to fetch you some water and cloth." She pointed to the basin on her left. "Don't dawdle. I will be back for you in thirty minutes. I will lock the door behind me so you will have privacy." She shoved the girl into the room and turned to leave. Just then, she saw Marcos come running down the hallway with a bucked in his hand, splashing water across the floors as he ran.

"My lady," he offered her the pail. She motioned for him to set the bucket inside the doorway, so he stepped into the room and set the bucket, washcloth, hairbrush and a chunk of dried bread at the girl's feet. He gave her a brief sorrowful look and then headed out the door. Katherina slammed it shut and bolted the lock.

"I'm not done with you either. Don't make me come looking for you," she gave him a look of stern authority. "I will have further use of you shortly. Be here when I return." She turned and headed off in the direction she had come, back up the stairs and toward the queens rooms.

She bounded up the steps and into the hallway of the queen's person rooms. Instead of turning down the short branch entering into the queens bedroom, she passed it and another doorway to her left, moving to the end of the passage leading to the queen's tower. She opened the door to the tower stair and climbed the spiral staircase.

The landing at the summit opened into a glorious solar. This was the queen's gallery. This was where the queen spent most of her time. Katherina knew, this was the room that Ekwamedhua had slain her father, Lucius, hundreds of years ago.

The room was at the top of the highest tower of the castle. It was a giant circular room with a dozen narrow windows open to the blackened sky. The air was thin in this room. The wind blew through the thin slits of the windows and whaled like crazed banshees. Lightening bolts flickered and sliced through the air just outside, throwing bits of light randomly across the room making the shadows dance like tortured spirits.

In the center of the giant room was a pit of spent coals and kindling. Suspended above the pit hung a sizable black cauldron with delicate pearls rimming its mouth. This was the great cauldron Annwyn.

Along the edges of the room, numurous shelves mounted the walls upon which were an array of glass vials containing a wide variety of ingredients for potions and spells. There was a collection of stones and gems as well, and many ceremonial tools of various nature.

Katherina moved around the cauldron toward her left to a low shelf holding a jumble of stones. Crystals and rocks of various shapes, sizes and colors lay in organized piles on the long, low shelf. She picked out four fist sized amethyst stones and slipped them into the deep pockets of her dress. Amethysts were powerful transmitters of energy. These stones were to be the corner pieces surrounding the queen's bathtub.

A little further around the room was a large cedar chest sitting on the floor. Inside were candles of every color, most of them conical in shape. She selected five black candles, three green ones, and two yellow ones.

Next to the chest was another set of shelves. Upon these shelves sat a golden thurible, filled halfway with sand. There was also a small felt bag filled with little charcoal blocks and an assortment of different types of incense. She fished through the incense and selected a small block of maidenfern, then grabbed the thurible and bag of coal and headed back toward the door.

Back down on the floor below the solar, she turned toward the first door to her right. This was the queen's bathing room. She set the thurible and coal down on a small side table and used her freed hand to open the door. She let it swing open, then picked up the items and entered the small damp room.

The room was nothing more than an oversized stone cell. There were no adornments or furiture pieces in the room. There was simply the bare rock floor that opened in the center and dropped about three feet down to create a large rectangular vat. Suspended directly above the queen's tub were four chains suspended from the ceiling, strung through pulleys and extending across and down the wall to a hefty wooden crank shaft. Two of the chains were connected to a candleabra in the shape of a pentagram, each point of the star designed to hold one small candle. The other two chains hung down lower, through the center of the pentagram, and were tipped with steel manacles.

Katherina set the thurible down at the far end of the tub and removed one block of coal from the bag, placing it atop the sand inside the thurible. She set the small bag with the remaining coal down beside it. She then places one of the green candles, in the center, at the head of the tub, one at the lower right hand corner, and one in the center of the left side of the tub. The yellow candles were placed in the center of the right hand side and in the corner of the lower left hand side.

She fished around in her pocket and collected the four amethysts and set each one at the four corners of the tub, one sitting next to a green candle, and one next to a yellow candle. The five small black candles she took and placed on the floor next to the crank shaft.

She grabbed the splintery wooden wheel of the crank and began to spin it around, bringing the suspended chains lower. Once they were to a manageable height, she again picked up the five black candles and placed each one into a holder on one of the pentagram's points. She dug into her pocket again and pulled out a bundle of matches. Striking one match on the side of the stone basin, she lit all of the candles and set the incense to burning inside the thurible.

She was nearly prepared. Now she just needed to attend to one more thing. She walked out of the room, leaving the candles lit and the incense burning. The room needed a little time to fill with the dense smoke from the crackling block of incense. By the time she returned, it would be perfect. She walked back down to the level below where she had left the young girl locked in a guest room. She approached to find Marcos sitting on the floor just outside the door.

"Get up. It's time," she said as she unlocked the door and swung it inward. The girl was laying on the bed in a fetal position, sobbing softly. She was freshly cleaned and the tangles had been brushed out of her hair. Katherina could tell now that she was a stunningly beautiful young girl, as they all generally were. The queen did prefer them to be lovely.

"The queen awaits you, my dear," she said softly with a menacing undertone. She strode over the the edge of the bed and grabbed the girl by the arm, pulling her off the bed. The girl did not have time to catch herself before she smacked against the floor and began crying hysterically.

"Please don't hurt me," she pleaded as Katherina dragged her toward the door.

"Don't just stand there!" Katherina looked over her shoulder at Marcos, standing just outside the door. "Grab her! We must take her upstairs to the queens bathing chamber."

Marcos stood there petrified for a second and then rushed beside Katherina seizeing the screaming young girl by both arms and dragging her to her feet. He hunched down, picking the girl up, and threw her over his shoulder. She kicked and twisted violently. Her fingernails dug into his back, ripping his shirt to threads and tearing into his skin. She tried kneeing him in the face, but he quickly swung his arms around her legs and secured them tightly. Still, she fought with every ounce of her energy.

They quickly ascended the stairs and rushed down the hallway, the girl screaming bloody murder and pounding her fists against Marcos's back. As they passed the queen's chamber, Katherina quickly glanced over toward the door wondering if the queen was yet awake. The soft glow of candle light escaping from under the door told her that she was.

They reached the bathing chamber, the air now dense with incense smoke, and Katherina swooped around to address Marcos. "Keep holding her. Stand right over there." She pointed to the foot of the stone basin.

As Marcos faught with the thrashing and screaming young girl at the edge of the tub, Katherina quickly rushed over and unfastened the bolts of the manacles, slipping them around the girl's ankles and locking them tightly. She then bolted toward the crank shaft and began raising the chains back toward the ceiling. The girls legs slowly lifted as the chains grew taught.

Once finally suspended, the girl hung just under five feet from the edge of the tub directly below her. Katherina reached around her back and pulled out a shiny silver athame. She reached up and cut the fabric of the girl's dress and with one mighty tug, ripped the whole dress off. The girl hung there, twisting and screaming. Katherine smiled up at her.

Marcos slowly withdrew to the far corner of the room and squatted down, cupping his face in his hands, sobbing. Katherine turned around to leave the room and saw him there. "You may leave now. I am finished with you," she said, flicking her wrist as if discarding a piece of garbage. He stood up instantly and fled the room, running down the hall and dissapearing down the stairs at the far end of the corridor.

Katherina slowly walked around the corner and knocked twice on the queen's door. She didn't wait for an acknowledgement, but proceeded to crack the door open slightly and peek inside. "You're bath is prepared my lady."

She immediately withdrew and closed the door, stepping back around the corner and into the bathing room again. She stood at the edge of the tub, just to the right hand side, mere feet from the head of the dangling girl. Moments later, a tall, slender woman wearing a long, hooded black robe that drug the floor by several feet stepped into the room. She cast off her cloak revealing her stark nakedness. Slowly, she stepped down into the stone tub, sat down in the center and pulled back her long flowing black hair.

Without a word, Katherina reached up and seized the hanging maiden by the chin. With her other hand, she took her athame and ran it deeply across the girl's throat. Blood sprayed out of the girl's neck as she thrashed in mortification. Slowly, the life drained from her and she fell limp.

The beautiful, fair-skinned queen sat in the middle of the pool, mumbling softly some inaudible incantation. Blood showered down upon her. She rubbed it into her arms and legs as it dripped down. She craned her neck back and looked up at the dead and naked body swaying above her. Blood dripped down into her eyes and in her mouth. She stuck her tongue out and lapped it up with delight.

Destiny’s Twin—A Multidimensional Fantasy [Excerpt]

Shaemus (part 2)

The entire canyon of Summerland was alive with anticipation, preparing for the day's festivities. The Vernal Equinox had arrived, lifting spirits and filling the air with joy. The Festival of Ostara would be held just across the river from Shaemus's family property, in the community park where ancient stone ruins stood as silent witnesses to centuries of tradition. It was a grand event, steeped in history and filled with elaborate customs.

Residents from all over the canyon gathered around the ancient ruins to celebrate the return of their supreme goddess, Ostara, from the underworld. Large bonfires were constructed around the site, symbolizing the warming of the soil. Young men and women wove flowers, leaves, and stems into their hair, dancing around the fires, while children buried acorns to ensure an abundant harvest. They raced around, collecting brightly painted eggs adorned with colorful flowers, birds, and animals.

It was a time of rejoicing and celebration, yet despite the vibrant energy and palpable excitement, Shaemus didn't feel like joining in. He was mired in a deep depression, consumed with worry for his friend, Sakura. She had been gone for just over a week, and Shaemus had spent most of that time in his room, studying an old map of the land of Ostaria and brooding. He had calculated that it would take her about this long to reach the edge of Summerland and the base of the mountains, so he knew she wasn’t yet in immediate danger. But in the next two or three days, she would pass through the most inhospitable land in all of Ostaria: the Krag.

His mother, Marlinda, called to him from the living room, pulling him from his thoughts. Reluctantly, he set the map aside and rolled off his bed. He knew he couldn’t avoid attending the festivities. It was a sacred event; no one dared to miss the Festival of Ostara and risk angering the goddess, who might curse their crops or render the soil barren. Unless gravely ill, every resident of Summerland attended, dressed in their best and brightest clothes, carrying offerings of sweet treats, seeds, nuts, and flower buds.

"Shaemus, let's get going. Don’t forget your basket!" his mother called again. "You don't want to miss the egg hunt, do you?"

In truth, Shaemus didn’t care about the egg hunt. The basket he carried was filled with brightly colored, intricately designed eggs he had decorated himself, trying to distract himself from Sakura's absence. He preferred his own collection over those of the other children, and instead of hiding his eggs for others to find, he preferred to keep them for himself.

With a heavy sigh, he slipped on his sandals and headed for the door.

It was a beautiful, warm spring day. The sun shone brightly, and a gentle breeze whispered through the trees. Birds filled the sky, gliding and swooping, flitting from branch to branch, their sweet songs filling the air. Grasshoppers bounced here and there, leaping from blades of grass onto the stone walkway in front of the house and back into the green yard. Their steady clacking accompanied Shaemus as he walked past.

The sight did little to lift his spirits, but he decided to make the best of the day, even though he would rather be with Sakura. He took his mother’s hand, and they headed down the dirt path toward the bridge that crossed the river into town. His father, Samuel, followed behind, carrying cloth bags full of gifts for Mother Ostara in each hand.

As they crossed the bridge, they turned left, skirting the edge of town and heading directly for the park on the river's opposite bank. The sound of music grew louder as they approached. Groups of people were already gathering, chatting, shaking hands, and laughing. Children scurried about, eager to start the egg hunt.

Just at the park's entrance, a small ball field where the children often played kickball in the summer was filling with older teenagers, apparently preparing for a game. Spectators were already claiming spots on the bleachers surrounding the field.

Further into the park, a stone and wood pavilion served as a concession stand, offering festival-goers sausages on sticks wrapped in corn batter and baked, as well as beer, water, and lemonade. Beyond that was a large stone slab, scattered with sand and sawdust for dancing. In the distance, the ancient ruins stood beside massive piles of wood, ready to be burned during the evening celebration.

A small band of musicians had set up between the dance floor and the first bonfire pile, already playing happy, celebratory tunes—songs of bountiful harvests and warm sunny days. Nearby, people sipped ale and tapped their feet, some spinning around with partners in their arms. The sight brought a small smile to Shaemus's face; he did love this time of year.

The formal festivities had yet to begin. The children’s egg hunt would likely start once enough had gathered, but Shaemus had already decided not to participate. He was more interested in the group of elders gathered around a low stone fire pit, grilling deer steaks and rabbit meat, and conversing quietly. He was desperate to know what would become of Sakura, and he knew the elders held the information he needed.

Of course, the elders wouldn’t divulge such sensitive information to a child his age, so he knew he would have to be sneaky. His parents wouldn’t allow him to linger near the elders, so he pretended to join the egg hunt, hoping to slip away unnoticed.

Once out of sight of his parents, Shaemus ducked around the back of the concession stand and worked his way up the other side, close to the fire pit. A squat old oak tree pressed against the building provided perfect cover. Shaemus was a skilled tree climber, and it took little effort to position himself within the branches where he wouldn’t be seen. From this spot, he could easily listen in on the elders’ conversation, unnoticed.

Shaemus recognized one of the men as Aarnyn, the oldest resident of Summerland Valley. Shaemus remembered his father telling him stories about Aarnyn. The old man lived deep in the canyon, near the headwaters of the Summerland River, on a hilltop overlooking one of the few passable routes into the canyon by horse or wagon. He was a scraggly old man with long, flowing silver hair that reached his shoulders in uneven strands. His teeth were crooked and yellowed from years of decay and pipe smoke, yet he seemed in good physical condition for a man supposedly in his seventies.

Aarnyn appeared agitated. His eyes darted between the other men as he spoke of news from villages outside their secluded canyon. In many ways, Aarnyn was an ambassador for the Summerland Canyon residents. Few people aside from him ever left the canyon or had contact with travelers from beyond. His home, perched like a watchtower on the summit of a ridgeline, gave him a view of the happenings on both sides of the canyon wall.

"It’s her, I tell you!" Aarnyn’s voice was urgent. "A young man came from Mapleton, a solid three-day ride from my home, warning of an attack of dark magic. He says the witch is to blame. He said a messenger came from the witch herself, carrying a proclamation signed in blood. It declared that all lands were now under the rule of Castle Kragonhold. Ekwamedhua! He says her powers have grown, and we are now under her fist. The proclamation demands we pay a tax of fifty marks per person each month and, on the full moon, send her a maiden, still pure and untainted, as an offering of goodwill and obedience!"

"Ekwamedhua is dead!" one of the elders protested. "Nobody has seen her in three or four lifetimes! Nobody can live that long!"

Aarnyn stared coldly at the protesting elder. "Dark magic indeed. There are things we do not know--things we do not understand, but we all know the legends. Young maidens have already gone missing across the countryside of Ostaria. The plateau to the north has sent similar rumors. We cannot afford to ignore this. Would you prefer to wait until our own children start disappearing in the night?" He looked around at the faces of the men. "Kragonhold is alive and afire. It is the shadow cast upon us now. We must face this evil!"

Several men rose to their feet in protest. "We cannot possibly defeat Ekwamedhua if it is truly dark magic!" one of them shouted. "To defy her would mean the destruction of our homes, our lives, and the lives of our families! If this is how she wants it, let it be as she commands! Let us live in what peace we can find in the shadow of that forsaken mountain!" Several others cheered in agreement.

"Until it is your daughter she comes for, Garrow?" Aarnyn asked solemnly. "We must discover what power she holds, what evil aligns with her. We must know her plans, and we must find a way to stop her. We must make a stand!"

"Impossible, old man!" another elder shouted passionately. "No force can challenge the power that creature possesses! The legends say she can transform into a mighty dragon, that she can breathe fire, that her very cauldron exudes a deadly vapor! She is the daughter of the great Maghya, half of that magic. Only one being could ever hope to defeat Ekwamedhua, and that is a hopeless fantasy."

Aarnyn remained calm. He waited until the crowd quieted, so they could hear his whisper. "I have sent fairies to the keep. If they succeed in reaching it, they will investigate and gather information from within. We need to know what knowledge still lies within those walls. We have all heard the legends. Only one person can save us from the shadow of Ekwamedhua's empire. There is only one thing that can bring that person to us. Without it, Ekwamedhua is our destiny. We must recover the lost secrets of the Medhuom. We must find Ekwamedhua's twin."

"Impossible!" several elders yelled in unison. "We must form an alliance with the lands surrounding the Krag. We must form an army to destroy Ekwamedhua!" one of them added.

"I agree," Aarnyn responded, "that we need to align ourselves with those lands that suffer around us. They should not face this alone, nor should we. Together, we are stronger and more able to throw off the shackles she would see us all wearing. We will send ambassadors to each of the lands surrounding ours. To every village along the Krag, we must make our pact. We can only hope that by standing together, we can hold her back. However, that alone will not be enough. Ekwamedhua is capable of summoning powers greater than any of us have ever seen, or can possibly imagine! She holds herself within an impenetrable fortress where she can attack at will, but we cannot reach her. Steel alone cannot win this victory. The legend must be fulfilled. The other half must be found."

"You're a crazy fool!" Garrow exploded again. "Even if we were to recover the lost secrets of this ancient potion you speak of, this Medhuom, it would be useless to us. We haven't the slightest idea where to look for Ekwamedhua's twin if she is even still alive!"

"I never said it was a perfect plan or that it would be easy," Aarnyn replied, showing signs of increasing annoyance. "But it is the only way! We must try! Our fairies who have been dispatched to Mt. Kragadnom will report if there is any information within the keep on how to recreate the potion. If they find nothing or do not return, we must hope that someone in Ostaria still possesses the knowledge. We must waste no time in sending these ambassadors out in every direction. Not only will they be charged with forging an alliance, but they must search for any clue, any remnant of this forgotten knowledge. It will be an extremely dangerous task, one that must be carried out with the utmost secrecy. If Ekwamedhua discovers our plans, she will rain fire and acid down upon us, and a war that we are not prepared for will begin."

"We must think on this," one of the elders who had remained silent throughout the discussion said calmly. "We will reconvene in three days. This meeting is adjourned. We must begin the festivities!" He jumped up and looked around, forcing a smile. The men began to disperse, searching for their wives and children among the throngs of new arrivals. The elders had been so focused on their discussion that none of them had noticed the large crowd that had gathered since the meeting began.

Shaemus clung to the tree branch on which he sat as if it were his lifeline. His brow was moist with sweat, and his breathing was shallow. He had heard nearly every word of the elders' conversation and was mortified. Ekwamedhua! War! He could not believe it!

He felt even more worried for Sakura now that he understood the gravity of the situation. He wondered if she would find anything useful within the castle. He hoped she would not be captured or hurt by the evil forces surrounding that place. He wished more than anything that she was with him now to comfort him and tell him everything would be okay.

Alone, he had no idea what to do with the information he now possessed. He could not tell his parents—they would not believe a word of it and would likely punish him for eavesdropping on the elders' meeting. He could not speak to the elders themselves, for he was just a boy. The only person he could talk to was Sakura, and she was on her way, headed straight for the lair of the enemy, the evil witch Ekwamedhua.

He slowly loosened his grip and began to slither down from the squat oak tree. In a crowd full of people talking, laughing, dancing, and singing—a canyon full of celebratory neighbors—he felt completely alone. He scanned the crowd for his parents and eventually spotted his father, Samuel, standing next to the dance floor, watching people spin and twirl to the beat of the music.

Shaemus ran to his father's side and wrapped his arms tightly around Samuel's right leg. "Oh, there you are," Samuel said, startled by the sudden embrace. "Your mom just sent me to look for you. The festivities have started. Did you find many hidden eggs?"

"No," Shaemus said, looking down at his basket. "I didn't find any."

"Not any? Did you look?" his father asked, concerned. "This is a celebration! You should be off having fun!"

Shaemus sighed, "I don't feel much like celebrating."

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