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A short story I started a while ago and never finished… The pink balloon hadn’t popped despite it being nearly ten thousand feet off the ground. A scientific impossibility and yet, a magical reality. Terry reached out for the string, but a huff of wind shot it wobbling out of his grasp and his fingers…
Amy was a middle child. I specify this because it’s integral to what happens in this story. You see, Amy, like most middle children, had the habit of getting herself in unlikely situations, then hoping that some family member or random do-gooder would intervene and save her life. All princesses caught in towers or imprisoned…
I used to be able to write whatever, whenever. I’d write every day. It was freeing. Satisfying. Cathartic. And it still is—sometimes. But it takes a lot more work to get there now.
Please do forgive me,I’m a worm in space,caught amongst the stars,the void is my place.I do therefore say,with much sad regret,it was by mistake,your ship, I digest.
I’m excited to introduce a new idea, so let’s see how this goes! I want to tell a “Choose Your Own Adventure” story with you, my reader. Except in this version, it will be a “Choose Your Own Murderer” story. How it works: Every couple of weeks (or as often as I can manage), I will…
Greetings, fellow readers! Here’s a quick-fire list of the recent books I’ve read (in a range of genres), with recommendations and honourable mentions.
Mixology for the Meandering Magician My Fantasy Comedy novel, “The Reluctant Mentor”, is a satire about the heroes’ journey from the perspective of a failed mentor named Athragast. I’m currently querying agents for the project, but I wanted to share a taste (ha, get it? Because I’m sharing recipes?) of the story. Want to see…
I’m now on substack! Subscribe to me there to get the latest news, blogs, short stories, fantasy-inspired cocktail recipes and more. https://alexisveenendaalauthor.substack.com
She turned, the air rushing past her, the ground coming closer. Ever closer. Blackness, rushing up. Seconds. A heartbeat in her ears.
You’re a girl. Young. No more than five or six. You sit on the floor, legs tucked under you. Mom perches on the couch, a blanket on her lap because she’s always cold. She props the hardcover book in one hand and holds it aloft like a prize. The cover has a sheen to it;…