Brief section of the chapter I’m working on for the third installment of Heartstone:

Her eyes brightened revealing happiness so stark that he bent at the waist, closer, sinking over her, helplessly drawn like a line had yanked him forward. It was a simple thing then to return her half-smile, to match the intensity of her gaze, to acknowledge the bubbling heat unfurling like late petals in spring between them.



He kisses her temple, graceless, conflicted. Anything to distract him from the ardent look in her eye, where tenderness lingers — enough to make him feel unworthy.


He wakes just past midnight, half-stricken, half-annoyed, as his thoughts excuse themselves from his mind. The nightmare is an old one. Its horror gone with the familiarity.

Yet, it still never fails to trick him in the wee hours before first light when he’s most vulnerable. When he turns, addled with sleep, only to find himself alone. No one to stroke his hair in comfort. No one to whisper in his ear or smile in his mouth.

Just the silence.

Cold and encompassing.


I keep writing all these awful things, penning feelings that no longer seem to pass. Words that keep my fingers busy as my head runs with notions that keep me from sleep. I’m lost in amazement by how people seem to find pleasure in what my sadness brings to their reach.