“That of the Moon” Short Story

So this has nothing to do with D.C. except in that I wrote it on the plane ride here. It is inspired by and dedicated to my good friend, Nick Koontz. Much love goes to him from up here, and I’ll be so glad to see him again in December. While I had said half-jokingly that I was going to write him a short story, it ended up being such a fun writing exercise so I’m glad I did it. Though I hope the piteous amount of sleep I got before the flight doesn’t affect the quality of the piece. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and feel free to leave a review!


The silver of his hair was that of the moon. Though the silver disk never dropped below the surface of the ocean, he’d long stared at it and admired it’s might. The ocean obeyed the moon, and so did he. There was an awesome power the moon possessed that moved the waves toward shore and churned the currents in the depths of the sea. Every night he glimpsed it, he reached out his hand to touch the hanging medallion, but it always eluded his fingertips.

Air stung harshly against his gills, even on the peaceful nights like these. His trips to the surface were few, far between, and only to witness the glory of the night sky. The sounds were different up here too. Instead of muffled noises of an underwater world, this side of the sea was stark and clear. Waves danced against each other with quiet splashes of delight, making him long to join them. Once, he’d even heard the tremendous crash of thunder on a stormy night. Though, admittedly, it had terrified him then, he reveled in the memory now.

The world above held little appeal for him. Water was his comfort; when it enveloped him, he felt at home. He put up with the stinging air, but he hated it. He admired the sounds, but no more than the familiar song he heard under the sea. No, the only reason he visited the sky at all was to see the glorious moon.

With his face upturned, he offered a short prayer. His hopes were not grand, but that didn’t matter. The moon would listen, and that alone was enough. Webbed fingers brushed his lips and raised the kiss in farewell to the sky, the waves, and his moon. With a last forced breath, he combed his hand back through his silver hair and dove again beneath the black.


Love you, Nick! Hope you liked it! Stay genuine!

The Wretched Redemption of Writing

Writing has incredible healing properties.

And it can tear you apart limb from limb.

At least my broken hearts can be put to paper, my tears turned to words. At least chaos can turn inspiration, dreams can spin a story. I am happy with being a writer. I love finding creativity everywhere I look as I walk through my day.

But there must always be a shadowed side to balance the good.

I can use my pain to provoke a plot, but very rarely do I allow myself relive the experience entirely. Change the names, create the scenes, sprinkle in the symbolism, add some drama, make it fiction. Sometimes, even though the scenarios have evolved so drastically from an original occurance, the events hit too close to home.

A fictional character struggling with cancer can feel like an IRL family member fighting to live in the hospital.

A fictional suicide can be reminiscent of an IRL friend who could have easily succumbed to the depression and been lost.

And – my greatest problem right now – a fictional sacrificial killing (that I’m supposed to be covering in the next chapter of my novel) only makes me think of my beautiful cat that was brutally murdered this weekend.

I love writing. It is my escape, my gift, my passion. But every time I think of the fictional scene, reality invades in a fury. I don’t much like to skip around in this process but the scene is simply impossible for me to write right now.

And any tragic event is difficult enough to write into a novel already. I cry every time I kill off a character. I mourn every time a relationship ends. And I struggle to write fatal illnesses, miscarriages, and depression.

“Write what you know,” they say.

But if everyone followed that advice, we’d have no fiction to read because writing what you know is painful. Every fiction story we hold dear would simply be a conglomeration of non-fiction events. Nothing would provide our escape from reality anymore. Reading things I relate to is hard enough. Writing close to what I know borders on unbearable. There is a fine line between writing the real and writing real life. Crossing that line can be hugely detrimental to the writer (and sometimes the reader, but that’s our evil master plan anyway).

So the larger challenges we face: how do we write a real story without putting reality on paper? And how do we heal ourselves by writing through the pain?