Author: The Haphazard Writer

The Bells of St. Ann

'God has forsaken us. There is nothing here but ruins and mad men. My father blamed the slaves. I know it is us; God has turned away from us in shame.' This is a really early piece from my first year of undergrad creative writing.

About my upcoming novel

I have been, and still am, like a dragon hoarding its gold when it comes to this work. I planned to post excerpts etc on my blog. But for a week now, I haven't been able to bring myself to do this. This is, I think, because of how precious this project is to me. … Continue reading About my upcoming novel →

From My Upcoming Novel, ‘The Hunter’s Boy’

The fortress had been erected among the ruins, an ugly wooden structure reinforced with cold iron to guard against the natives. From people like me, Arren thought as she neared the gates. She could have burnt it down to the ground from this distance, cold iron or not. It didn’t work long range. She had … Continue reading From My Upcoming Novel, ‘The Hunter’s Boy’ →

Lavinia

Sweet girl who, like a marble monument to chastity stoodhow is it that tears dare stain your cheeks?But you do not answer, my sweet.Did they hew your limbs just to seeif  marble too can bleed?Perhaps to be sure that after allyou were only one of us.We put you up an idol,and they tore you down, a … Continue reading Lavinia →

Desire, Power, and ‘Demonic’ Femininity in M. G Lewis’ The Monk and Charlotte Dacre’s Zofloya

Dacre's novel insists on the mutability of sex and gender, brandishing a demonic femininity in the face of the unequal distribution of power and gender binary.

Cleaning

Foam and bubbles, the smell of detergent clinical and sickening, not at all masked by the heavy scent of citrus and blossom, smothering a stronger stench: the stench of too much wine, of tears and blood and broken glass.   Scrub, scrub, rub it in like salt in a wound like the grit in a … Continue reading Cleaning →

The moon flickers like a cold candle flitting behind black trees black against the borrowed light darting between branches, dancing a strange tarantella, cold black steps dancing, like my thoughts dancing around you.

The Forsaken Ones: Prologue Continued

Nathaniel tapped the table irritably and checked his watch between intermittent sighs. The boss was always fashionably late to meetings. It gave the appearance of having something better to do. With new acquaintances he liked to make more of an entrance, but Nathaniel wasn’t some desperate warlock bartering for knowledge or riches or love. Nathaniel … Continue reading The Forsaken Ones: Prologue Continued →