Works in Progress

Ideas, musings, and short stories.

Willow “Will”— Halfling Fighter. She’s likes to hit things and sometimes play the lute. She has a pet sugar glider that rides in her pocket but sometimes likes to sit on the brim of Chuck’s hat. Neutral Good.
Luna “Lu”— Dark Elf. Cleric of Nyx. Chaotic Neutral.
Charlotte “Chuck”— Human sorceress. “I am the granddaughter of the witch you couldn’t burn.” “I’ve got some generational trauma and this seems like the right time and place to work some of that out.” Chaotic Good.

The night the moon fractured, it felt like the whole world had shattered. There was no warning, no calm before the storm. Just a sudden, bone-rattling crack heard through the night. The trees shook in the aftershock. Nothing was broken, except the moon. The cratered face now held a jagged scar, pained and gaping—the emptiness of the gash spilling magic into the atmosphere.

That was the night Luna was born. She erupted into the world the same night that the world changed forever. Her mother, Isadora, was a nymph of sorts, a night fae who praised the powers of the moon long before Luna was even a twinkle of a dream. She heard the crack in the throes of labor, painfully splitting herself in two to bring new life into the world of her own. She held her daughter in the light of the new-cracked moon, naming her Luna for the glow that haloed her head. Little did she know that the magic of the moon was now real, and a glimmer of that power had manifested itself deep in the heart of her silver-haired world.

A hundred miles away, a young girl no more than 2 was toddling down the hall of her parent’s cabin. The cracking of the moon had stirred her from slumber, so she decided to see if anyone else was awoken. As she crawled into her parents’ warm bed, she snuggled closer to her mother’s neck, smelling the sweet smells that only a daughter and a mother can share. Mama was awake and Charlotte watched as quiet tears rolled down her cheek.
“What’s wrong, mama? Did the noise scare you?”
“No, baby. Mama’s just happy…”
“Why?”
“Because your grandma was right…” she said through her smile. “She was right all along.”

The tavern was bustling, even though it was late in the night. The local bard sang songs of magics and faeries by the glowing mantle and the patrons raised their steins, singing along in slurs and sloshes. Behind the bar, Willow sat up tall, her older siblings having propped her bobbling body up with wine bottles and soft napkins to keep her from sliding onto the floor. Her eyes bounced joyfully along with the rhythm of the bard’s tune, watching her mother’s feet glide from table to table while her father stood by the tap, pouring rounds as they were called out and placing them upon trays with slabs of cheese and bread. The room was loud, but always in a joyful, comfortable way. They cracking of the moon rattled the windows, but the patrons inside did not bat an eye.
Until Will began to cry.

I am a storyteller. I honestly believe we all are. It’s part of our nature as human beings-- we like and sometimes even need to share our stories with the communities around us. Even the most reclusive of hermits have a story to tell-- even if its just about why they chose that specific rock to live beneath.

Some tell their stories in traditional ways-- oral histories, written memoirs, photo albums, and the like. Others dance, draw, and sign their stories into existence. Some shout their stories from the rooftops while others whisper them into the hushed corners of the internet to audience’s they’ll never meet. Nonetheless, we all tell our stories.

I originally wanted to be an author when I grew up. I loved the idea of creating epic fantasy novels to enchant and beguile readers-- to bring to life characters readers could see themselves within and find joy and solace experiencing. As I got older, I realized that my brain doesn’t really create on such a large scale. It’s not a bad thing, it just makes sweeping fictional narratives a bit tough. I’m no Pat Rothfuss and the only thing I really have in common with George RR. Martin is my inability to finish this project. So I leaned into histories-- telling stories that already existed on larger scales. This felt more doable-- I could still tell compelling stories but now I had the added bonus of telling stories alongside others (even if they never knew I existed). I could tell the stories of historical figures long lost to history-- or sometimes create revisionist histories where I could introduce other sides to better known stories. This was great-- with each moment of research, each book, video, lecture I devoured, I felt like I was working with a whole creative community of minds to tell these stories. It was exhilarating, empowering, and much more comfortable for me. I felt like I was doing a service, breathing life back into these long gone figures of history-- giving them space to tell their stories once more to a new audience.

But authorship is a tricky thing-- it is typically an entirely solo activity. Even in the way I was just describing, it was still me sitting alone at my desk doing the research, creating my own interpretations of each piece of research that I could find on my own, crafting a narrative that was filled with my own biases (conscious and subconscious)-- all in the name of attempting to do the “truth” of their lives some “justice.” I craved storytelling-- but I craved it as a communal act. I was driven by the need to tell stories with a team-- a cohort of fellow weavers working side-by-side on a large and intricate tapestry.

I couldn’t do this alone. I didn’t want to do this alone. The best stories are multi-faceted-- they have twists and turns that excite and baffle their audience. And when you’re writing alone inside your own corner of existence, it take a real dramatic genius to create a truly original and untelegraphed twist. Some authors have this, but most do not. I fit into that latter category.
As a means of escaping from the dusty halls of the archives, I found myself drawn back into group storytelling in a much different venue. And this is probably why you, dear reader, have been reading along this far. Because you, too, know the intoxicating draw of a crackling hearth in a busy tavern on the outskirts of a major city-- a place where bards sing for their room and board, where rogues hide in the shadows, and where barbarians swing their axes to add emphasis to their own storytelling.

I am a storyteller-- scratch that, I am a communal author. And I found this calling through the siren song of table-top roleplaying games