Category Archives: reading

Based on the Elder Scrolls series,

An Enchanting Tale, by Aaron Dennis

an enchanting tale skyrim

This is a fanfiction based on The Elder Scrolls series of video games and incorporates the worlds from Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim. An Enchanting Tale is free, thus eliminating any copyright infringement. This novel is not intended for profit.

S’maash is a young dark elf bent on making new discoveries in the field of enchanting. After discouraging words form his fellow mages, S’maash and his brother, S’maath, venture into the dwemer ruin of Dmalzthur in an effort to discern just how the deep elves crafted items such as Volendrung, Keening, and Sunder, yet they find only death and ash in the ancient ruin. S’maash then travels into Cyrodiil, hoping to find some clues on the ayleids’ enchanting practices. When things go awry in the ruin of Anutwyll, S’maash makes his final move into Skyrim, joins the College of Winterhold, and finds himself on a quest for the Daedric Prince of Knowledge, Hermaeus Mora.

The daemon sets the dunmer on a path to reforge the Heart of Lorkhan, meet the dwemer in their new city of Xranthrnl, and eventually break ground on unknown forms of enchanting. This is the perfect addition to The Elder Scrolls.

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Chapter One

S’maash always had an affinity for magick—enchanting especially—his natural talent was rivaled only by his love for the art. In his days as a child of Morrowind, he ran about with his friends and siblings stirring up all sorts of trouble. While they tried to stow away on silt striders, large insects utilized for the purposes of traveling long distances, S’maash normally found himself in trouble for different reasons, such as skulking into a mage’s workshop to catch a glimpse of a master spell craftsman at work. Most of his endeavors ended with a slap to the back of the head followed by the derogatory you s’wit, but that did little dissuade him.

Upon reaching adulthood in the year 4 E 221, S’maash, a striking, young, dark elf with a shock of gray hair on his head, and a gray-blue complexion, took a job as an inventory manager for a local union of mages in the town of L’Thu Oad. It was a small settlement southwest of Narsis, and his home town.

Working with the Mages’ Coalition consisted of little more than taking notes on their studies and cataloging their findings. Other menial tasks involving the organizing of reagents, soul gems, and magickal equipment kept him busy enough. Although he did learn a great deal about enchantments, the dunmer’s curiosity was never satiated. His knowledge of over fifty enchantments was a testament to the fact that knowledge led only to more curiosity, and that led him to speak to one of the elder mages, an old altmer—or high elf—named Rosoleola, the head of the Mages’ Coalition in L’Thu Oad. Ancient and surly with a shimmering, gold hue to his skin, he was not an easy person to approach.

“Master?” S’maash called.

The old altmer was stooped over an arcane enchanter, a malevolent-looking table adorned with the skull of a three-eyed beast, several candles, and a misty, green bauble. Rosoleola turned to the young dunmer while flipping through the pages of a journal.

“What now?” he barked.

“I couldn’t help, but notice you’re attempting to enchant that steel dagger with fire damage,” S’maash stated the obvious. Rosoleola winced as he returned his steady gaze to his journal. He remained quiet, absorbed, so S’maash stirred nervously before breaking the silence. “Why is it that we can imbue a weapon with fire damage, but not a shield or gauntlets?”

“S’wit…must you ask such a foolish question?” The altmer’s voice was raspy and condescending.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Sir. I’ve been watching and taking notes for these past seven years. Along the way, I have realized many truths, but some of them seem to have no logical base.”

Rosoleola turned to the youngster with contempt. He pushed an errant strand of silver hair behind his ear.

“What are you babbling about now, boy?”

“Sir, a flame cloak spell can be cast by a mage. This provides him the ability to damage an opponent by merely standing adjacent him without so much as warming his own skin. Why not can a piece of iron armor be enchanted as such?”

Cayneian A man From Blood By Aaron Dennis

A man stands resolved. Dysart, clan Bloodhammer, has returned to the island of Volgunther to purge it of the evil called Salamandrus. He has given his tongue, so that he may speak no contracts. He has given his manhood, so that he may not know his power as a man. He has given his mind, so that no God may take pity upon him.
Wielding the forbidden power of Sang Daemanus, Dysart imbibes the blood of Daemons to cast his spells, to grow his strength, to fuel his powers, but will he be able to stave off the bloodlust before the evils upon the island claim him?

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Prologue- The expedition

There was a time when man was powerful, and hungering for more power, he set his wizard’s gaze to search for the unknown. A forgotten king learned of an island. It was said no one had ever been there, but that was not the truth.

Before man was powerful, Daemons ruled by flame. Whether it was divine providence from above, the steely determination of heroes, or the Daemons’ hubris, they were defeated, driven deep, deep underground.

Time passed. Man flourished. It was forgotten that a Daemon cannot die, and so the residents of an island grew reckless as all those with an insatiable thirst for power do. They stole deep beneath their proliferous kingdom. There, they found flame. The flame beckoned, and the flame promised, but fire devours all.

When the haughty king sent his men on an expedition to that island, his men discovered evidence that it had been very much inhabited. Though no sign of battle was evident, whole forests were cut down, homes sat in disrepair, and ominous clouds covered the skies, but still the expedition trekked forth in search of power for their king.

Every turn held great trepidations for both the soldiers and those brave men whose purpose it was to find the unknown source of power. Starting with an errant bolt of lightning destroying their only vessel, evil quickly reared its head, matters grew out of hand.

The sun set never to rise again. Vile monsters came forth from shadow and feasted on human flesh. The very air poisoned the voyagers’ souls, and when they pressed beyond the domain of the sealed, they, too, found Daemons.

It is unclear whether or not any of the king’s men survived, but what is known, is that a great wizard begot of great wizards sealed the Daemons away as had been done ages prior. For a time, immense destruction was averted. On the island, the worst of dangers subsided, yet disasters lurked behind darkened recesses.

Like men who hunger for power, Daemons hunger, but theirs is a fierce hunger. From a sealed tomb, one Daemon continued to beckon. It continued to prod at the souls of good men. Good will alone does not stay evil, and even good men fall to bad judgment.

A progression of tribulations accosted those left upon the island. Some settled in as there was no alternative, no escape. It was an awful life, but any attempt at sailing away was met with an untimely demise.

The horrid living conditions broke the spirits of men and even twisted some into monstrous creatures. Thirsting for more power, the Daemon sought out and away from the island by ways of hellish rituals. Upon satiating its hunger, it beckoned once more.

Long before the expedition, one good man was promised a power from blood. Seeking vengeance on those whom had done him ill will, he accepted. The practice of Sang Daemanus came to be.

While only men may undergo this ritual, and the power is nearly without limit, most falter at the very mention. Men brave enough to attempt the ritual normally go mad within days. The indomitable are the sole successors to Sang Daemanus, but they are twisted creatures. Often, they do not return alone.

Only now has it come pass that it was this abominable power which the Council of Five had discovered. It was unfortunate that these wizards, advisors to the king who sent the expedition—though cunning—lacked the practical knowledge required to assuage the soul from evil provocation.

Now, deep beneath the island of despair, the wizards seek only reprisal. A broken kingdom is ruled by fear and hatred. The Daemon calls, and the Daemon burns.

Chapter One- Dark shores

Dysart coughed uncontrollably as he attempted to spew salty water from his lungs. The tide forced him into the rocky shore. Having had no choice but to strip himself of armor after his sloop shattered, he incurred several scrapes. His fresh wounds ravaged by the sea had turned sore before even setting foot on the forsaken island. On hands and knees he looked back at the floating debris, but remnants of his escape vessel. What a beginning.

He rolled onto his back—legs still lapped by waves—and with a push of errant, gray braids from his face, he saw the glittering of stars. Was it not day a moment prior? His thoughts gave way to anxiety. Flopping onto his side, he heaved the remaining water from his lungs. Then, he heard something in the darkness.

The sound was rapid, repetitive, like hooves. With eyes darting, he glossed over the surroundings for movement. There were freshly cut tree trunks, a cabin in the distance, a worn path through rocky hills. A twitch of the ears accompanied realization. Bare feet!

Forcing himself to a knee, he whipped his head to the left. A glimpse of a figure clad in raggedy, dark clothing demanded attention. The rabid attacker hissed and delivered a rising kick into Dysart’s flank. A snap followed by the vacuum of wind from lungs ensued. Gasps escaped his mouth while the assailant—frothing at the lips—latched gnarled fingers round his throat.

The two tussled—Dysart coming to his knees, and the rabid man thrashing all about. He brought both forearms from his lap into the attacker’s elbows. The man did not buckle, so Dysart struck both palms into his opponent’s emaciated chest, and the two fell into water. In the sea, they rolled over sharp rocks. The man came to hold Dysart’s face beneath the waves. He scrambled for a stone as salt water rushed into his sinuses.

Once fingers grasped a rough stone, a powerful swing of the rude weapon connected against the wild man’s skull. He fell into the water. Dysart burst forth, secured the man’s throat with his right arm and beat him in the head until there was nothing left. The sea washed away most of the blood, but a glance at his hands revealed not all of it departed.

Taking a breath, he dropped the rock in the water then sniffed his hands. This one was corrupted…that sulfuric scent, pungent. What a waste. He stumbled onto the rocky shore—the restless sea crashing waves behind him—and scanned the dark horizon for the cabin, and then he moved on; bare feet trudging over cold stones. A chill on the night wind brushed over his wet form.

Breathing from his mouth, he was forced to stumble onwards. Adrenaline wore off quickly, and the pain in his flank mounted with each step. He wrapped arms round his torso. Before long, he was shivering uncontrollably.

Roughly hewn logs barely illuminated in the moonless night were close. Another hiss erupted. A man rose from behind an old stump. With arms spread out to the sides, the wild man crashed over the damp soil. Dysart steadied himself for another fight.

Within seconds, the twisted man set upon him. Dysart gripped the wiry creature’s jaw and tossed the assailant through the air. Wasting no time, he pounced; repeated blows unleashed a flat, hacking sound. The scrambling man writhed beneath Dysart’s weight. Then, he bit him, drawing blood from torn flesh. Dysart howled from the separation of his meat from bone. Falling onto his rear, he glared at the man with widened eyes. The grotesque enemy stood quickly before thrusting a knee into Dysart’s chin.

Three sounds swiftly cut through the wind. Each one stopped abruptly with a reverberating thwang. Both Dysart and the wild man held firm. Three arrows protruded from the creature’s chest. He slumped to his knees, so Dysart broke off an arrow, stretched the man’s neck then stuck the splintered shaft into his throat. A gurgle escaped. A trickle of blood spilled from the wound. Death rattled. Dysart sighed. A rough beginning.

Raising Dead by Aaron Dennis

Raising Dead By Aaron Dennis
Raising Dead By Aaron Dennis

An ancient necromancer seeks but one dream, the power of perfection, the power of immortality. What he finds leaves him speechless. Is he but chasing the wind?

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I heard a story, once…it was about a powerful magician of sorts. He had obtained the power of creation, and as such, decided to craft creatures in his likeness, but because his was a power born of Earth, those creatures, which looked human enough, were impervious to fires.

Truth, it was an odd story, but there is more, you see…. Those creatures often found themselves in the midst of flames for one reason or another. This led to them to the discovery that they were unnatural. Inevitably, they returned to their master asking why it was that such an oddity was prevalent.

“Because I have created you. You are not human.” Such were his responses, and more often than not, those creatures went mad from learning the truth…hmph, truth.

It is has always been about truth, and perhaps it is why I like this story so. Now, here’s my favorite part. One day, that powerful magician found himself chased from his home, due to awful practices no doubt, and so he set up a camp. While sitting at the campfire, a creature, we’ll say it was a wolf. I am partial to wolves…but that is another story for another time.

Anyhow, this wolf attacked, and the magician fell into the fire. To his dismay, it did not burn. You see…he, too, had been created, but by whom? He had no way to learn such.

Why do I like this story? I like truth. It never plays out the way we expect. It is not a pure light. It is not epiphany. No, my, no.

Often, truth is a dark and murky thing; a veil of sorts, which we must learn to wield in ways proper to the culmination of our very own and personal life experiences.

What is my truth? Well, let’s say…death is not the end, and leave it at that.

He calls himself a necromancer

Gaulder ran across the valley of ash enroute to Cormaire’s lair. T’was valley was rife with death. Ancient bones, or cinders thereof, remained strewn about the gnarled and blackened trees. Puffs of ash kicked up behind the man’s wake.

Cormaire, the necromancer—as he called himself due to his practices involving unlife—hid away deep in the valley of ash. His lair, a cave beneath the putrid land, was denoted by a wicked entrance. The cave mouth was carved from a lone stone, which stood near the center of the valley; a stone chiseled to resemble a disfigured and pear-shaped head. Rows of teeth lined the maws of the head—the actual entry.

Ducking his head to enter, Gaulder clutched a bundle of gray cloths; an item master Cormaire required to create a revenant was ensconced within. Being an apprentice meant being a liaison of sorts, and because Cormaire was unable to travel into town—it was an unworthy risk to his life—Gaulder ran errands in exchange for knowledge.

The young man in tattered, dark clothing worked his way through the labyrinth of stone corridors. Each hallway was alighted by torches perched in sconces. Eternally, they burned. Finally spilling into the sepulcher, the apprentice spotted the bent, aging necromancer pulling entrails from a recently deceased.

“Master,” Gaulder called.

“Mm?” Cormaire mumbled without giving his attention.

Instead he dumped the viscera into a bronze bucket.

“It was no mean feat, but…I have it,” Gaulder announced with a smile.

“Yes. Bring it into the light.”

Gaulder swallowed hard. The master was neither pleasant to work with, nor look upon. Mostly, the man was covered in dark robes. Even with the hood pulled low over his face, the wizard exuded power, and a foul odor. Gaulder approached the stone worktable where the dead subject lay with chest cavity open.

“Here,” Gaulder whispered, placing the bundle adjacent the body.

Cormaire waved his apprentice off before unwrapping the bundle. Amidst the gray cloths was a polished piece of amber the size of a child’s fist. Encased within was a dried, angel trumpet flower.

“It was not easy to obtain.”

“Powerful items seldom are.”

“How, how does it work?”

The old man walked around the worktable. A plethora of ancient tomes sat on rotting shelves behind him. Candlelight flickered. Cormaire drew back his hood revealing deep wrinkles. He smiled like a Cheshire cat; his teeth surprisingly clean. The apprentice shuddered.

“Revenants, my boy, are particularly difficult to raise,” Cormaire explained. “Firstly, the body must have perished from unnatural causes, and the bloodier the better. Next, as you just saw, the entrails, gallbladder, and bladder must be removed. Then, the cavity is stuffed with chaff bound in burlap…this is to keep the body dry.

“Now, we prefer as little trauma to the brain as possible, lest our raised be a simpleton. Furthermore, I prefer to add multiple adrenal glands. These can be obtained from any dead person, so long as they are not overly decayed. Splicing the glands into the body is a rather simple task, and it provides our revenant with boundless strength and endurance.

“Finally, the dried flower encased in amber is used to tie the deceased’s spiritual nature to the aether; the…between, if you will. If this is not done, a revenant will be unable to follow the orders of the necromancer–”

Gaulder made the mistake of interrupting by saying, “But, master, the others didn’t require–”

The master’s eyes turned fierce. A furrow creased his brow, and his jowls sank at the corners. The dread immediately filled Gaulder’s heart. He looked away.

“Are you finished trying to tell your master what you think is correct?” Cormaire hissed.

Gaulder nodded emphatically. The necromancer’s demeanor relaxed, and he continued his lesson.

“Revenants are refined creatures. They are unlike the boorish zombies, or ghouls, which any inexperienced Necromancer can raise. Revenants need a connecting link between the world of the living, and the world of the dead.”

“What purpose do they serve?”

“Ah,” Cormaire nodded, approvingly. “A most intelligent question. Revenants nearly pass for the living. With the proper series of incantations, this…young thief, here, can certainly be mistaken for a drunken ne’er-do-well.”

“And what will you have him do for you?”

Cormaire grinned again.

Apollo by Aaron Dennis

Cover art for Apollo

John Lay is recruiting a new member for Phoenix crew. In order to educate her, he recounts the story regarding his first mission with The Bureau. It was then that he met with an exceptional group of people, and it was then that he first learned of aliens, and closed door political ties to piracy.
In joining The Bureau, Lay and crew infiltrate the Illuminati’s base of operations, witness the destructive properties of alien tech, and uncover the truth about Montrose’s involvement in alien pacts.

The mission takes a bad turn when the undercover crew is discovered, and worse, pirates start overtaking Apollo.

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Chapter 1- When we got there

“This was quite a few years ago,” Admiral Lay said. “I was just a Lieutenant then. No one turns down commissions, so when I got the green light, I didn’t waste any time. When we got there, everything was in disarray. A band of space pirates, who called themselves The Illuminati, had some nasty weaponry. It was something we’d never seen before…then things got out of hand.”

Sergeant Cheng sat across from the admiral. With the new coalition of united races only a year away, several service members had applied for Earth forces’ new position, Phoenix Crew, a special operations team no longer under the direct command of Earth, but under the command of a council of aliens. The new base was erected on planet Eon, the planet surveyed by Lay’s former protégé’, Riley O’Hara, and Cheng had been lucky enough, tough enough, smart enough, to have earned herself a position among Phoenix Crew.

“I can’t believe aliens have been involved in Human affairs for so long. I thought we’d just made first contact like a few years ago or something,” she said, fidgeting in her seat.

Lay shook his head; a frown worked over his aged and scarred face. “Not at all. I won’t lie to you, Cheng, there’s a great deal even I don’t know, but your record of service is impeccable, and your prowess on Earth during the invasion stands on its own,” Lay took a long inhalation before continuing. “At any rate, the people you really need to know about are members of a secret organization referred to as The Bureau. They specialize in this sort of thing—extraterrestrials—and you’ll be dealing with them quite a bit. I’m telling you this story because you have to understand how things work, not in the real world, mind you, but in the real galaxy.”

Cheng nodded enthusiastically. Though a bit nervous from sitting across a war hero, who was an extremely decorated individual, she was all ears, eager to listen, and even more eager to learn.

“You must have felt like I do now, when you first received the commission. I mean, I’m bursting out of my skin here,” Cheng grinned.

Lay gave a subtle smile. Remembering what life was like before knowledge of aliens was surreal.

Expedition by Aaron Dennis

Expedition By Aaron Dennis
Expedition By Aaron Dennis

King Eidon of Ilteriel learns of a new island, far to the south. He sends an expedition in search of new resources, allies, and power. Jorunhaal, Ilteriel’s greatest warrior, is to lead the expedition. Upon setting foot on the island, one disaster after another occurs. The men battle small were-wolves, fall prey to a foul sickness in the air, and uncover demons once sealed away.

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The rhythmic sound of low waves crashing onto the sand was a relaxing melody to the ears of Jorunhaal. He was a great and mighty warrior; legends of his triumph over an entire clan of Medsai, though exaggerated, stuck to him like his own shadow. He was young, yet, and taught the various weapons of Ilteriel by the finest warriors who preceded him. King Eidon placed him in charge of the team of eighteen men and women. His sole purpose was to keep the expedition safe.

A few weeks at sea brought the ship of warriors and workers to golden sands. They had arrived on the island as their king had wished. Jorunhaal methodically scanned his surroundings. The broad-shouldered and burly man saw hills in the distance, mountains stood beyond.

“Sotha, unpack the furs and linens first,” Jorunhaal ordered.

Having only just anchored the ship, he knew his fellow party members were weary, and erecting camp was of the utmost importance. Sotha, a lithe woman who bore her age well, was charged with inventory, logging discovery, and sound planning. She was tasked with returning accurate information to Eidon’s hands.

“Aye,” she replied while shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

She wore traditional clothes, heavy linens. Her hair was thick and dark. Her eyes sparkled with a keen intelligence.

A warm wind caressed the backs of the party as they worked to erect tents, unload crates of supplies, and finally relax. During the hours that passed, Jorunhaal took stock of the immediate surroundings. About what I would expect, he thought. Blue waves continued crashing against golden sand. The beach before him was pristine, and the wind, heavy with salt. A few trees grew about. They had tall, straight trunks, light brown in color with a tuft of short, squat, green leaves at their tops.

Before long, night settled above the party. It was clear and many stars shone brightly over the island; prosperity seemed to be in the air. The men and women were glad to be in a new place. As they ate and drank around a large fire they conversed about what they might find, the proper steps to take, and much more.

“You think there are no men, here? No dangers,” Wilheim the mage asked in an accusatory tone.

The codger was balding and what little gray hair remained laid loosely over his shoulders. He had a hard face; years of magical practice left it worn and creased, a perpetual scowl. He continued arguing with another.

“I never said that, old man,” Durro, captain of the soldiers, replied.

Hunting by Aaron Dennis

Mr. Gray has been hunting zombies for a long time. Hiding, scavenging, killing-this is surviving now. As Gray moves from town to city, and city to prairie, he leaves a few notes for others in his travels, but who is looking out for him?

In the year 2017 a worldwide calamity befalls the population. Poison clouds cause strange afflictions relegating major portions of the populace as a sort of walking dead. Among them Mr. Gray is not affected and decides to go off hunting. Hiding, scavenging, and killing his way across the States Gray keeps sane by writing in his journal. After food and other supplies run low he moves from town to town before coming across a farmhouse.

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Mr. Gray is asleep in a storage unit. Before giving in to exhaustion, he checked it for rats and roaches. He hates roaches. They have a symbiotic relationship with some kind of worm, like the worm is piloting some biological machine; freaky.

In this day, in this age, traveling is survival. Mr. Gray has been traveling for some time. He abandoned the last town soon as supplies ran out. Supplies always run out quick. It’s a tough decision to leave when zombies are dead and there is clean water. There was no more food, though, and Mr. Gray can’t farm or hunt, but not because he is incapable.

The soil in town looked good, but there were no seeds. Even if there were seeds, they are useless. Today’s seeds are genetically modified. They can’t be replanted for harvest, so the food supply is not sustainable. Hunting is futile, too, unless one hunts zombies. Zombies don’t qualify as food. They make people get sick and die. It’s always time to move.

Many hills line the area between town, and the storage units. It’s been cold lately, and Mr. Gray stumbled across a unit with blankets. The plan was to get some rest and then check each unit for food and other supplies. He has to keep clean or run the risk of illness.

With a quiet groan, he does a full-bodied stretch. He wakes fully, turns on his LED camping lantern, and immediately starts a stretch routine to loosen his tightness. The soft, blue light illuminates the tiny room. Once the stretches are over, he wraps up his blankets and stacks them neatly in the corner. There wasn’t anything useful in the storage unit other than blankets.

With the folding done, he turns to his black backpack. From it, he pulls out extra clothing. Because of the lowering temperature, he knows it is unwise to wear all of his clothes when going to sleep, especially if it’s getting colder. The body acclimates. Sleeping while wearing everything to keep warm keeps the body from warming up by its own accord after waking. It’s best to sleep a little cold and then don the remaining clothing when getting up.

Mr. Gray Pulls out three, additional pairs of long, black socks and puts them on his feet. He pulls out his black beanie with the eye holes. He has a pair of black, leather gloves, too. Instead of slipping them on, he slips a black, wool sweater on over his black, long sleeve tee, and leaves his protective gear lying next to him.

There are a few storage bins in there, the colored plastic ones. He opens one. It’s full of pots and pans. He pees in it and closes it then goes back to his gear, rubber backed rugs sliced and diced to contour his body.

There are a few small pieces for his thighs, calves, forearms, upper arms, and one that slides over his torso. He uses a piece of wetsuit as padding in his trousers. The rubber pieces are cinched with belts through slots he cut with his knife. Like a ritual, he straps on all his gear. Next, he takes out a can of dog food.

Bon apatite. He pulls the lid and scoops the food into his mouth with his fingers and licks them clean. Now, it’s time for the gloves. Gloves are annoying. Every time you put them on you gotta’ rub something out of your eyes.

After more stretches to loosen his knees—a good hunter keeps his body in good shape—he slides on the gloves. One can’t afford injury. Health supplies are hard to find and an injury, no matter how small, can give a zombie the leg up.

Eudora by Aaron Dennis

Are we not all taught who we are supposed to be? What if who we are conflicts with who we want to be? She was taught to be Eudora, but she must be something quite different.

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Things have a funny way of working out. The irony is that no matter what one does, how hard someone tries to become something, to make something of oneself, those forces at large have a way of putting things back the way they were, the way they were meant to be. Eudora was no exception.

It was a balmy day. The sun was setting. Eudora, with her abnormally large teeth, thick rimmed black glasses, pasty white skin, stringy, black hair pulled back tightly—save the bangs; they hung loosely to either side of her face—she was not the image of beauty. Her big, blue braces moved up and down as she spoke. Maybe it was the braces, or the big, fake teeth in the front, but she spoke like her tongue was too big for her mouth.

They sat on the hood of the old, gray Cadillac, Eudora and her friends. They weren’t her friends of course, but she didn’t understand the difference. They were Charlie’s friends. He was her younger brother. They were quite a few years apart.

“You should just go ask him, Eudora”, Patty said. She was a tall, strawberry blonde with a light tan. “He’s been giving you the eye all day.”

“I can’t do that. I never even said hello to him before. He’ll just laugh at me.”

Eudora’s response was more out of knowledge and certainty than sadness. Sadness held no real meaning for her.

“Well, whatever, it’s not like he’s got anyone anyway. Larry ain’t exactly prince charmin’, is he?” Joe sniped.

He was Patty’s boyfriend, but not in the traditional way of family values. This time it was the 70’s, but before it was the 70’s it was just a dark basement with nothing to do, but scratch at the walls. People in the 70’s were a concept Eudora was unable to grasp—Eudora isn’t from this time; she isn’t from anytime, really….

Charlie was coming home from work. He was trying to make enough money over the summer to apply at the local, community college come winter. His grandfather helped him get a job at the mill, and Charlie was learning all sorts of things; how to work the lathe, the planer; he smoothed boards like it was no one’s business, but these things didn’t interest him. He, like his sister, was born in one life, but was learning to become someone else.

College was his ticket. He’d turn from a sweet, country boy to a calculating businessman, or that was the goal anyway. Unlike his sister, he was dark and fair haired. Most people never guessed they were family, except they shared their grandfather’s features; slim nose, big eyes, blue, all three of them.

Charlie pulled up in his Ford pick-up alongside the Cadillac. Dust kicked up. Joe and Patty covered their eyes and patted themselves off. Not Eudora, maybe it was her glasses, maybe it was something else; she never made an effort to dust herself off either. She just looked at her brother. Her oversized pearly whites and blue braces showed as she grinned.

“Hello Charlie,” she spoke with that chunky tongue.

“Heya’, Dora,” he replied and smiled back. “I saw Larry leaving. Did you say hello?”

“No, Charlie, maybe I see him tomorrow.”

“Well,” he was pensive. “Maybe we should have him over for dinner tomorrow. You and Gramps can whip up something nice.”

Tall Tale TV Celebrates 300 Episodes

Hey! Spring is right around the corner…even though we’ve already sprung ahead, but whatever…am I right?

What’s great about Spring? Spring break? Spring cleaning? How about the simple idea that the weather is starting to get nice?

Whatever your reason for celebrating Spring, I’m celebrating the 300th episode of Tall Tale TV! My friend, Chris, has officially uploaded his 300th episode on his YouTube channel.

If you’re still defrosting from Winter, you might not have heard about Tall Tale TV. It’s a great channel, though. Chris, a talented voice actor, who performs readings of innumerable tall tales, has been growing his list of writers and fans for three years.

Tall Tale TV is a wonderful channel that not only showcases wonderful talent, but it also promotes up and coming writers, and it brings to fans across all genres little glimpses of novels, and sometimes, full short stories!

If you’re a writer, Tall Tale TV is the perfect place to find new fans. If you’re a reader, or you have a penchant for audiobooks, you’ll get to hear a piece of literature you may have never before heard.

Tall Tale TV has featured many of my excerpts, and many more of my excerpts will soon be promoted, so keep an ear out for those. Just make sure to give every episode a listen; you might find the next hidden gem!

You might also want to hire Chris to voice your next audiobook! I know I’ll be employing his services for Otherside. He’s already performed an excerpt of my novella, but I love the guy so much, I’ll be hiring him for the full audiobook version.

You can listen to his performance of Otherside here.

You can listen to his performance of Noodlin‘ here.

You can also to his performance of Necessary not Casual here.

Whatever genre you enjoy reading, or hearing, Tall Tale TV has something for you. Be sure to like and subscribe. I mean, c’mon, it’s free, and you can listen to 300 excerpts and some full short stories.

Support your fellow artists. Support your fellow Americans. Support anyone who spends their own time and effort helping other artists.

A Moment with Scott Kinkade

God School by Scott Kinkade

God School by Scott Kinkade

Scott and I connected on LinkedIn after a discussion about the professed death of LinkedIn groups. To that effect, I made an offer to anyone who would like to guest post on my blog, and Scott was the first to take me up on that offer. Since I told him to post about anything, he decided to let everyone know that God School will be free on Amazon for a limited time.

18-year-old Ev Bannen was just hoping to get admitted to college. He never expected to be recruited to a school for gods, where he’ll be spending his days building up his strength, learning to answer prayers and getting an education in religion alongside aspiring god of money Jaysin Marx, the lovely but troubled Maya Brünhart and anger-prone ginger Daryn Anders. But the organization of evil gods, Zero Grade, has plans to unleash hell on earth, and Ev and his friends soon become targets. What’s more, someone close to Ev is not who they claim to be, and their betrayal may doom mankind forever. Ev steps up to save the day, but does he even stand a chance in hell of defeating a legendary deity?

Second edition published June 2018. It fixes the errors in the original.

Download God School from Amazon

You may have noticed the snippet at the end of the blurb about fixing errors….

The truth is that every writer’s every project is prone to innumerable errors, and as I have written copiously myself about this very subject, I’m happy to reiterate; your spelling and grammar software can not replace a human editor. Here’s what Scott has to say on that same topic.

Imagine going to the Amazon page for your books and seeing reviews about how your work needs to be edited before release. How would it make you feel? Would it make you question your writing skills? Well, it certainly didn’t make me feel so good. But it did kick my butt into gear and set me on the path to being a great proofreader.

But let’s rewind a bit. More specifically, let’s go back to 2010 when I self-published my first novel, Mirai: A Promise to Tomorrow. I was so proud of that book. And you know what? It sucked. Nobody liked it. I don’t even like it.

However, it was a necessary learning experience. It taught me valuable lessons I would need for my next novel, The Game Called Revolution. That one ended up being much better received. I would go on to publish seven more novels… and on none of them would I use SpellCheck. I was so confident of my proofreading ability, I thought I didn’t need them. Well, you saw the above reviews. Obviously, my skill wasn’t up to snuff.

Then, last year, I left a stable job and couldn’t find a new one. I was burning through my savings at an alarming rate, and something needed to be done. It was around May 2018 that I found Caitlin Pyle’s online “Proofread Anywhere” course, and I realized I could become a proofreader and live the self-employed dream.

Caitlin’s course taught me the in’s and out’s of proofreading, and it came with numerous exercises to hone my skills with. Now I have real confidence in my abilities and am ready to put them to work for clients. I founded Proofread Excelsior LLC last year, primed to tackle the challenge of growing my own company.

But you may be asking yourself, “Why do I need a proofreader? I’ll just use SpellCheck.” Take a look at the following picture of my current WIP.

 

proof

I proofread that after I ran multiple spelling and grammar programs. It’s proof positive that you can’t rely on them. You need a trained human eye on your work.

Now, I’ve seen people make the argument that “I’m an indie author and so my work doesn’t need to be held to the same standard as mainstream books. That’s not what it’s about.” Let’s say your book is poorly edited but you publish it anyway. You’ll surely get fans that don’t care about the shoddy work. But your book won’t go on to become a classic. It won’t achieve the success it could have had. It will die in obscurity.

It’s all about respect. You need your writing to be as polished as possible so people take it seriously. And, really, you’ve got to be able to take pride in what you do.

I agree with Scott on the fact that all work needs to be properly polished before release, but I have also found that many people who call themselves “editors” can’t read or write their way out of a paper bag, so for all of you out there who want to know how to find a good editor, I have one piece of advice: Go through my editing and free resources tab.

I also want to stress that proofreading and editing are two different animals. Proofreading is the means by which another reader finds technical errors in a written work. Editing is the artful ability to transform a sequential account of events into a story worth reading.

Nevertheless, proofreading is paramount because your mind will see what it expects to see, and your software just won’t do the job right, so be sure to drop by proofreadexcelsior.com

Thanks, everyone for reading this guest post by Scott Kinkade. Don’t forget to check out his books on Amazon!

 

 

How to make money writing

money

I met an acquaintance for lunch. He works for a book review company, and we were speaking about writers. He went on to say that independent writers are just terrible.

I asked him why he held that opinion, and he enumerated his reasons; the story is sloppy, the plot meanders, the pacing has issues, the characters and dialogue feel contrived, and overall, they just don’t seem to understand how to write.

Playing devil’s advocate, I asked him what made mainstream writing superior, and he replied that mainstream writing doesn’t suffer from the same pitfalls.

I then asked if that meant that every book he reviewed by a mainstream writer was perfect.

He said no. There were several books by mainstream writers that he read that were quite bad.

I asked if they suffered from any of the same downfalls he had enumerated regarding independent writers, and he admitted that that was the case.

I pointed out that mainstream writers have editors, and before I finished, he interrupted, saying that that was a problem for independent writers. They don’t use editors. They just write a story and think it’s ready for publication.

I went on to finish my thought; mainstream editors must not be that great if mainstream books suffer from the same pitfalls as independent writers. He frowned and didn’t know what to say.

I then pointed out that independent writers do in fact hire editors to clean up their manuscripts, but they don’t know that the editors they’ve hired are crackpots. How can they know? Who is there to tell them?

He nodded, but added that there are plenty of competent editors out there who not only work for publishers, they also do freelance work.

Yes. I agreed. I told him the real problem isn’t independent writing, or writers. The real problem is the independent publishing system. It’s too easy, too accessible.

I can sit down and pound out one page of crap in 2 minutes. I can have it published to the whole world, even major book distributors, in 5 minutes.

He said that was indeed the problem. Someone needs to sit down with these independent writers and explain to them what they should do after they write a story and before they publish it, but that all that information was available.

Indeed it is, but no one is forcing these writers to access that information.

In the world of major publishing, it’s very difficult to have a story published. There are numerous checkpoints along the way.

Let’s assume a new writer has just completed their manuscript, and they want to achieve major publication. The first step is to query an agent. If the agent likes the query, they’ll want to see the manuscript. If they like the manuscript, they then want to know how large the writer’s fan base is. Which awards have they won? What other publications do they have? Is their story marketable to a wide enough audience for the publisher to make a profit?

Then, if everything looks good, the agent goes off to query publishers. When a publisher finds an interesting manuscript, they provide the writer a contract. The publisher then has its own checkpoints.

They design a cover. They pick the title. Their marketing department designs the blurb and marketing strategy. Editors clean up the manuscript for a broader audience. Every effort is made to provide that book with the highest possible chance for success.

Who is doing any of this for independent writers? Who teaches them how to write a proper query? Who is teaching them which agent is best? How do they win awards or build a fan base if they’ve never published before?

Who is teaching them how to find an editor? Who is teaching them which is editor is best? Who is teaching them how to design a cover, pick a title, or write a proper blurb? Who is paying for services rendered? Who is then selling their book?

I pointed out to my acquaintance that there’s nothing wrong with independent writers or their writing. They’re just working blindly, alone through an enigmatic system that isn’t designed to help them succeed. It’s only designed to allow them accessibility.

He agreed.

I added that the mainstream publishers have made it even more difficult for great writers to succeed, and that the ones who are succeeding aren’t doing so because of their superior writing; they’re succeeding because they have a better understanding of the publishing system.

There are also hundreds of independent writers who have done so well on their own that major publishing houses approach them in order to sell them a contract. He agreed again.

The truth is that there are innumerable, amazing writers out there. They are so creative and imaginative, and they have these phenomenal tales to tell, but they are just clueless when it comes to presenting those stories, and they are clueless on how to distribute those stories. They are also very, very impulsive; they get their great idea, they think they can pound it out in a month during NaNoWriMo, and then run off and publish it for the world to see.

No. No. No.

All of these writers need to slow down, like, way, way down.

These writers then think they need to join these contrived writer groups who promise to make their stories available to hundreds of thousands of readers.

Now, I’m not talking about peer editing groups, or groups of writers who work together to share their knowledge. I’m talking about those groups, which act like distributors; the groups that accept books. That’s really what they’re doing; they’re signing up new books, not new writers, and they promise to sell those books to consumers, but they don’t actually do that. They just try to engage those writers in joining blog tours, giveaways, and review exchanges, but none of those things are effective because there are no consumers there. No one is going to those groups looking for a new book to buy.

What a writer needs to do is slow down.

Write that story. Get it all down. Fill it with absolutely everything. Then, step back. Stay away from that story. Forget all about it. After months, go back and read it as a reader.

The writer will then notice redundancies, plot holes, pacing issues, and an overall sense of confusion because the story is no longer fresh in their mind. That’s the time for the rewrite.

Some chapters will be too long and boring. Some will be too short and feel rushed. The contrived dialogue must be rewritten to sound like organic conversation. Some passages will have to be restructured and organized. There can be found better and more clear and concise ways to provide information. All the extra fluff–the stuff that doesn’t add anything to the story–will have to be cut.

Once the rewrite is complete, that writer will then need to make that story available to a very small, niche audience. To do this, one simply asks for beta-readers. Beta-readers come in all shapes and sizes, though, and some of them will skim  over a 100,000 word book in a day or two, and their feedback cannot be productive.

Did you read Harry Potter in a day? Did you read it only once? You have to read a book slowly, numerous times to get all there is to get from it.

The good beta-readers will take their time to figure out what they like about a story. They take their time to figure what they didn’t like. They will explain why it was good or bad, and what they would like to see change.

It’s that writer’s duty to take all that constructive criticism and apply it if they believe it will enhance their book. However, enhancing that book doesn’t mean making it better in the eyes of the writer. It means making it a better experience for the reader, and that’s another problem.

No one is teaching this simple concept: Write for you. Publish for your audience.

The version of Harry Potter that you read and loved is not the version that Rowling wrote. It’s the version the editors cleaned. It’s the version the publisher approved.

Now, during the time it takes to secure beta-readers and receive feedback, the writer should be experimenting with different covers, titles, and blurbs. They should also be shopping for editors.

After the second rewrite is accomplished with the help received from beta-readers, the writer needs to hire an editor. A real editor will spend at least a few weeks carefully reading the book. Their job is to take that sequential account of events and transform it into a story that readers will enjoy experiencing.

While the editor is doing this, and hopefully communicating their thoughts with that writer, the writer should be talking about their story with an audience. Otherwise, who will be buying the book once it’s published?

Eventually, the writer will receive feedback from their editor. A good editor’s advice should be taken to heart, and their changes should be made, not for the writer’s sake, but for the readers’. Once those changes are employed, the writer needs again to step back, and forget all about their story. After a few months, they need to go back and read it again as a reader, but they also need to consider what kind of publishing is best for them.

If they want major publication, they need to consider all those concepts provided earlier; finding the right agent, proper querying, and perhaps even hiring a review agency, which reviews arcs, so they can prove their story will be appealing to a large public.

Most of these services will be expensive, and a lot of people don’t want to spend money, but an independent writer can’t even hope to compete against major publishing all on their own. The big houses have endless resources. Being an independent writer doesn’t mean doing everything alone; it just means being responsible for everything.

My acquaintance and I discussed all these concepts at length. We both agreed that if such a methodology was employed by all writers, it would no longer matter if a book was published by a major house or self published. Of course, the number of sales can vary greatly since the big houses include marketing and advertising departments. In the case of independently published writers, they will then need to spend more money to purchase book release services, but here’s the thing; major publication forces a writer to spend a ton of money anyway, more than you might imagine.

Let’s assume this writer does go the mainstream route. The contract is signed. The book is perfected and released. The big house offers a $2,000 advance. That’s an advance, a promise that the book will recoup that $2,000 within the first six months to a year of publication. If it doesn’t, that writer might lose their contract and their edited version of the book, title, cover, and blurb because the company owns all those rights.

Now, if the book is successful, at least $2,000 must be earned by the publisher before any royalties are paid to the writer. In order increase the chances of this occurring, the publisher will instruct the writer to purchase 5,000 copies of their own book. This automatically places that book on The New York Times Best Seller list, so everyone can say, “Hey, it’s a best seller, so you should buy it, too!”

5,000 copies of a book at cost is still very expensive, probably about $25,000. Then, that writer, who is under contract to do all this is, is instructed to parade around the country and sell their book in person, on their own dime. The company books the events, but the writer has to cover their own expenses, so a year of touring adds another $25,000 to that writer’s expenses.

Suddenly, that $2,000 advance doesn’t seem so great, and this is precisely why most writers have day jobs. Of course, if they survive their first year, they ‘re in a great spot; they can easily secure publication of any book they write after that first one, but it still won’t guarantee that the royalties will outweigh the cost of touring the second book.

It takes quite a few books and many, nerve-wracking years to achieve financial independence. That’s why you get writers like Ursula K. Leguin, who have been published by major houses for years, who go out and set up GoFundMe accounts, asking consumers to cover all these costs.

In the end, it doesn’t matter if a writer is independent or mainstream. There are millions of mainstream writers you’ve never heard of, who have day jobs. It is very difficult to become a wage-earning writer, and there should be no rush in trying to achieve that.

Another offer made by mainstream houses is a chance to option movie rights. The best selling writers’ books are always movies. More people read Harry Potter after the movie came out. What writer doesn’t want their book turned into a movie?

Movie options can be obtained by independent writers as well. It isn’t easy. It might cost a pretty penny, and a writer might have to hire a lawyer in order make certain they aren’t being cheated out of royalties from products like action figures, video games, or apparel.

This enigmatic process bypasses millions of writers. That’s why I’ve used my own experiences to outline a strategy that will lead every writer to success.

I don’t promise millions of dollars in revenue, but I do guarantee that any writer who takes their time and studies my strategy can make a profit from their writing. For just 99 cents, I offer you the following:

How to Become a Successful Writer Secrets the Mainstream Publishers Don't Want You to Know by Aaron Dennis

How to Become a Successful Writer Secrets the Mainstream Publishers Don’t Want You to Know by Aaron Dennis

This manual brings to your fingertips all the practical knowledge required to build your long term writing career. Any writer of any level will benefit from the material within this comprehensive guide. From the neophyte to the professional, anyone who reads this book will learn everything from formulating an idea for a story, to practicing the art of the short story, to writing proper fanfiction, and writing an original novel.

This book not only teaches how to write, but also how to market, edit, publish, and all with exercises and even free resources. From start to finish, the ideas presented are done so in an easy to understand and entertaining fashion. By the end of this manual, you will not only know how to write, edit, publish, and market your book, but you’ll know what kind of publishing is right for you.

Why don’t publishing companies want you to know these secrets? Publishers run an exclusive good ole’ boy club, and in doing so, they choose who they help to succeed, and who they help to fail, but when you learn these secrets, you’ll know that no writer needs a publisher in today’s internet age. Bypassing a publishing company not only allows you to maintain control and earn the bulk of your income, but it relegates the old, dinosaur, publishing companies to obscurity.

Buy How to Become a Successful Writer from Barnes and Noble

For just 99 cents, you will learn at least one thing that will help you to earn more money from your writing. You know 99 cents is worth making just a few more sales every month, but if you’re still not convinced, that’s okay. I provide everyone with numerous free resources. Just check out my Editing Services and Free Resources tab. You can enjoy numerous articles regarding all aspect of writing and publishing.

Thanks for reading this post. I wish you success throughout your writing journey.