“Using language may be compared to riding a horse;
much of one’s success depends upon an understanding
of what it can and will do.”
- Richard Weaver, The Ethics of Rhetoric

My bass teacher, in an effort once to encourage me to learn how to read music, reminded me of my studies in English and creative writing.

“Imagine a writer without a true understanding of the rules of grammar of the language they write in; the difference between a musician who works, and a guy who maybe plays in a band but winds up paying to exercise his craft-- even if it’s just gas money to get to the gig-- is the ability to read music,” he said.

“What did I hit..?”

Pepper released the throttle, and the lawnmower cut off with a ka-thunk. She’d run over something, something big enough to nick the blade. There weren’t any rocks in this part of the yard, and she hoped that she hadn’t struck a rabbit. At the thought, her stomach lurched.

As the roar of the lawnmower engine faded to a ringing in her ears, a high-pitched squeal rattled the blades under the mower deck. Pepper squeezed her eyes shut, and shoved sweaty hair from her eyes. Jesus, it was a rabbit.

In a faraway place in space, the captain of a secret rebel ship received a message that all mankind would fall to the Evil Domain if he did not locate the Sacred Ring of Vorgon. The ring was last seen on Htrae, a once beautiful planet now reduced to a radioactive ruin after its greedy governments had waged terrible wars with armies of cloned cyborg super soldiers.
 
Captain Lance Goodman pushed his blonde hair off his forehead and rubbed his two-day growth of beard. It was going to be tough, but with his loyal crew, he thought he might just be able to pull it off. Lance knew about tough; he’d learned from years of fighting against the Domain.

Celeste's gown drifted across the steel plate cobblestones as she ran deeper into the courtyard looking for her one and only love. Her heart pounded and the excitement was felt throughout her body. For this was no ordinary love, it was forbidden.

She saw him leaning in the shadowy corner, under the hovering basket of a cherry tree. On ancient earth, where her family line traced back, they signified death and suddenly she feared he called her here to end to their love.

By the time Aiethalynne-Bethe reached the tavern, the sun had gone down. She sighed breathily and ran a hand through her fragrant, multicolored hair.

"We're here," piped a tiny voice.

Aiethalynne-Bethe glanced at the plum-sized purple fairy squid that had ridden on her shoulder during the long walk to the tavern. It had insisted that she come here tonight. She knew better than to second-guess Caellimar'ii. It was rarely wrong.

Carson’s dead. So is Briggs. It’s only me and Charlie left alive. I don’t know how much longer we can take it. The storms have been raging for days. We’re nearly buried in this cave. First, it was the sunset, clear, cool and red. Then the snow. Giant red crystals which came faster and faster. We made it here to this cave. Funny, but none of us remembered the cave when we first arrive here in this valley.

She had only vague memories of her mother--rhyming songs, tickles, a loving face. Her father and the townsfolk said her mother had died trying to bring her a baby brother. Fate had its ways.

Her father, an innkeeper, never remarried. A good man, he was proud of his daughter, and of his work. Over the years he’d painted scenes on the walls of the inn--travelers, idylls and animals--and she learned to make brushes and to mix pigments. She loved her father.

Q - First off, I have to ask - how did you come up with the idea for Nina?! It's such a wonderful concept, which immediately snagged my attention.

It started by reading about Vincent Van Gogh’s life. I’ve always been fascinated by him and his art. Some people believe that he was schizophrenic and I agree. But the more I read about him the more I wondered…or daydreamed, what if he wasn’t crazy? What if his paintings were talking to him?

“They’re just kids,” Donovan said to the Proctor. He spoke only after the door had shut behind them, ensuring that Marshall did not hear him.

“Do you want them to grow up or not?” the Proctor retorted.

Despite knowing that this day would eventually come for all of his students, it still hurt Donovan to know what could happen. To be a teacher is to know that one day your students will learn their lessons and leave.

When the spaceship landed, the President was notified immediately. At first he thought it was a joke, something cooked up by his Chief of Staff to make him look like a fool. The President was convinced that everyone was out to make him look like a fool—the media, the House and Senate, the opposing Party, even his own staff. Sometimes he even suspected the American people had elected him only so they could point and laugh at all his goofs. So he assumed the news of the spaceship must be some kind of prank.