Alexandra Ely | Updates

Two-Legged Octopus

Alexandra Ely — Fri, 21 Nov 2025 12:09:31 -0500

An unlikely hero, she didn't expect to rescue her.

This story captures the sparkle and wonder of a mermaid’s very first encounter with a human—an innocent, curious moment where two worlds brush together like waves meeting the shore.

Swim into the magic with me—tap the link to begin the tale.

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Floating Letters

Alexandra Ely — Fri, 21 Nov 2025 11:41:52 -0500

She was never meant to touch the world above, but the stories she finds in shipwrecks might change everything.

Dive into an enchanting tale of a mermaid who scavenges the deep for lost books. Stories are more precious than pearls. This short adventure is your first glimpse into a world that connects with my upcoming historical fantasy, so keep your eyes open for hidden Easter eggs as the lore beneath the waves begins to unfold.

Ready to explore the depths? Tap the link and start reading.

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The Mermaid Bride Podcast

Alexandra Ely — Tue, 21 Jan 2025 15:04:26 -0500

The Mermaid Bride, by Alexandra Ely, is an adventure fantasy story about a young newlywed couple, Neave and Aiden. Together, they face a family legacy that threatens their lives together. In an epic attempt to save her husband from the slimy grips of a greedy mermaid, Neave will have to overcome more than fear. She will have to have the courage to do the impossible.

Click the link to listen to the audio recording I made of the original short story that inspired the full-length novel I am currently writing.

Enjoy!

Image credit to The Mindful Mermaid

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Smokin' Hot Mama

Alexandra Ely — Tue, 21 Jan 2025 15:12:17 -0500

Have you burnt anything while cooking before? Check out my latest piece, Smokin' Hot Mama, on the 101 Words website.

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West Coast Christian Writers

Alexandra Ely — Mon, 20 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Chimera's Blood had the honor of being highlighted in the new release section of West Coast Christian Writers' newsletter.

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The Ink Mages

Alexandra Ely — Thu, 2 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

An interview with The Ink Mages is a fun and lively chat about writing Chimera's Blood.

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Words, Images, & Worlds

Alexandra Ely — Thu, 2 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Author interview with Jason DeHart at Words, Images, & Worlds.

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Insidiae Subitae by Matthew White

Alexandra Ely — Wed, 29 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Jack couldn’t help himself. He peered out the window of the Elutheria’s airlock at the ship looming in front of them. From the small view he was afforded by the window and the close proximity of their vessels, he could tell something was wrong. There were no lights, no evidence of propulsion, no sign of life across the entire vessel. In true pirate fashion, Captain Rivera had opted to investigate, thinking there could potentially be valuable loot left behind. Jack couldn’t help but hope the captain was right. They had been in space for too long without a prize. Food was almost gone, they were low on munitions and their ship was on their last power cells.

“What you think?” his friend, Kev, asked from beside him.

“Could be adrift with no power?” Jack suggested, furrowing his brow.

Behind the two men, Alex racked the slide of his plasma rifle. “Impossible.” He shouldered the rifle as Jack and Kev glanced in his direction. “If it had lost power, it would be drifting on inertia. This ship is stuck dead in space. Someone turned it off intentionally.”

The fourth member of their away team, Maddi, scoffed but said nothing. Jack exchanged the tiniest of smiles with Kev. Much as Alex had a tendency to spout wild conspiracy theories on the daily, this time he actually had a point. It was better not to tell Maddi that though. She had a few very good reasons to hate Alex and did not take kindly to people siding with him. Wisely, both Jack and Kev chose to say nothing.

“Enough chatter,” a new voice spoke. Captain Rivera stepped into the airlock, his long jacket flowing behind him like a cloak. His ice-blue eyes fixed on Alex, then on Maddi. “Focus.”

The deck pitched and bucked beneath their feet as the Elutheria came to a halt and her boarding tube extended. Jack stretched out a hand for the door panel, hesitated for the briefest of moments. At Captain Rivera’s nod, he opened the airlock.

“Push forward.”

At the captain’s order, Jack and Kev stepped into the boarding tube and towards the other ship’s airlock door. As expected, the door panel did not respond. Kev pulled out a small explosive and fixed it to the center of the airlock’s door. “Back!”

Jack obeyed at once, backing up down the boarding tube. He swallowed his nervousness as the explosive’s timer ticked away. He knew Kev’s explosives were suited to only pop the door open, rather than inflicting mass carnage and blowing the boarding tube up with all of them sucked into the vaccuum of space. If something went wrong.

He flinched at the loud pop, followed quickly by a loud clanging sound. The pieces of the door fell apart. Jack and Kev leveled their rifles and picked their way over the wreckage. No one jumped out of hidden wall panels or side corridors and opened fire. They both switched their scope lights on, bathing the airlock and the corridor beyond in bright, white light.

“Alex. Kev. Engine room. Jack. Maddi. With me, we’ll take the bridge.” Captain Rivera drew his pistol and pushed past the two of them. Maddi followed without hesitation. Jack brought up the rear, pointing his rifle down every adjacent pathway they walked past. Still nothing. Still no one. The ship smelled almost sterile. No faint scent of body odor, or food, or the distinct smell of the plasma that powered interstellar vessels. It was almost as if no one had ever been aboard. Not even the ghosts of memories could be found.

The bridge was no exception. No lights. No beeps from panels or chimes from alerts. The captain’s chair in the center of the bridge was as empty as the rest of the ship. There weren’t even bodies. Jack looked around, tapping buttons and consoles to no avail. Had there been a fight?

“Captain?” Maddi asked, her voice more tense and nervous than Jack had ever heard it.

Rivera rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Jack had always admired his ability to keep his emotions under the surface. Instead of answering Maddi, he pulled his communicator off his belt. “Kev. Status?”

Kev’s staticy voice answered at once. Every few words seemed to blur. The trio on the bridge had to focus hard to make out what he was saying. “Engine room is deserted like the rest of the ship.”

“Can you restore power?” Rivera asked. “If we can access the computer, we might be able to figure out what happened here.”

A moment’s silence, then Kev replied. “Maybe. From what I can tell, fuel tanks have been drained and the power cells have been removed. I might be able to tap into the emergency power.”

Maddi shifted uncomfortably and Jack had the sinking feeling she was suddenly regretting her abrupt dismissal of Alex’s theory. Someone had to have removed the power cells intentionally.

“Restore emergency power as best you can, then meet us at the bridge,” Rivera ordered and cut the transmission.

A tense silence settled on the bridge, punctuated by the occasional clap of a boot on the deck or a drawn in breath. Finally, something clicked to life. Lights came on and consoles lit up.

“Finally!” Jack exclaimed as he cut the scopelight on his rifle.

Rivera stood in the center of the bridge, seeming lost in thought. If he heard Jack, he gave no visible sign of it. Maddi fiddled with a control panel next to him. He turned his head, watching her as she attempted to gain entry to the ship’s main computer. Without access codes, Jack felt it was likely a futile endeavour but said nothing to her. Let her try, he thought. At best, they might gain knowledge and at worst, having something to do would keep her nerves in check. Jack clutched his rifle, reassuring himself that everything would be fine, an effort to keep his own nerves in check.

“A ship, alone in space. No crew. No power. Why?” Jack murmured, half to himself, half to Rivera.

As if the universe itself wanted to give him the answer his captain could not, the ship violently bucked beneath him. A wall across from him ruptured, lighting the bridge with sparks. He threw out an arm and managed to grab a bulkhead just in time to prevent himself from being thrown to the deck.

Rivera was already in motion, leaping into the captain’s chair and yelling into his communicator. “Elutheria! Report!”

“Naval vessel dropped out of light-speed right on top of us!” their Quartermaster, Nico, replied at once, his voice filled with panic. “They outgun us and we're taking damage!!”

“Hold position and return fire!” Rivera barked. Without waiting for a response, he cut the communication. “Let’s go!” He sprinted for the door, Maddi right on his heels. Rivera barreled past Kev and Alex just as they stepped onto the bridge. Kev stared blankly past him, then turned to Jack.

Jack pushed him back the way he’d come. “No questions! Just run!” They ran, heedless of each other, their only desire to get back to the airlock. They slammed into walls as the ship pitched and bucked. They passed corridors filled with debris and flame, the result of the Terran Interstellar Navy’s less than precise assault. Not that the navy needed to care. This had been a trap. Their crew had walked right into it. The Navy didn’t need this ship anymore.

They rounded a corner and saw the airlock in sight. Jack felt elation and triumph coursing through his veins, spurring him on. That elation turned to horror as a grinding screech suddenly reverberated through the ship and the Elutheria pulled away. Jack didn’t have time to scream. Nor did any of them have time to run. The sudden yank forward as all the oxygen in the corridor rushed towards the airlock pulled all three of them off their feet and hurtling towards space itself. Even if Jack had had time to scream, he couldn’t. The air had been pulled from his lungs to. There was no up. No down. He was simply in total freefall, launched towards a fate he had no control over.

As suddenly as the corridor had become a death trap, quiet and calm returned. Jack crashed into the deck, rolling into the emergency forcefield that had activated at the last possible second. As relieved as he was to not find himself floating aimlessly across a frozen void, his relief was mildly dampened by four bodies crashing on top of him in a disjointed tangle of limbs, grunts, groans and pained grimaces.

After extracting Alex’s elbow from his left knee and Maddi’s boot from his solar plexus, Jack clambered to his feet. Rivera had gotten up before him and was yelling into his communicator. “NICO! EXPLAIN YOURSELF!” Rivera’s voice was as close to sheer panic as Jack had ever heard it.

Nico’s voice was short and cold. “Apologies, Captain. Given our present circumstances, I feel a change of command is warranted.” Jack could almost hear the smirk in Nico’s voice. It made his blood boil. “You led us into this trap. You were so convinced this would be the easiest prize of our career, you failed to see the obvious. The men here all agreed...had I been captain from the beginning, we would not be in this situation. I wish you luck. You will need it.” Rivera hurled his communicator with a snarl.

With clenched fists, Jack glared out the open airlock. A sleek, powerful looking warship was in view, impossibly close and getting closer. Curiously, the ship wasn’t firing on anything anymore. The Elutheria was out of Jack’s view, but if battle was still joined, surely he would see the results of the Elutheria’s guns. Energy scatter against shields, or perhaps hull breaches if their comrades were lucky enough.

The sides of the warship were pristine and appeared untouched. Jack scowled. Former comrades, he reminded himself. Their former comrades must be away at lightspeed by now. The warship was now coming for them. Likely with a full battalion of soldiers aboard. There was no way the five of them could fight off such numbers.

“What do we do, Captain?” Maddi asked softly.

Rivera shook his head. His shoulders were drooped. His expression was sullen. “I’m not the captain.” He turned his back on the airlock. "There is no captain."

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Safe Haven by Joshua Hernandez

Alexandra Ely — Thu, 4 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

"Wait," Haven said, "does that mean we have to move?"

"Of course it does Haven, don't be so dense," Aspen replied harshly

"Do not speak to your sister that way Aspen." Archer's tone was fatherly and loving, but firm.

"Well everyone is saying it aren’t they? Autumn is dying and we don't have the money because the harvest failed this year.”

"Aspen!" Marigold exclaimed. “Please stop, you’re not helping.” Aspen huffed out a groan, slung his chair back from the dinner table and stomped upstairs.

Haven sat in awkward silence staring at her half eaten dinner. “Mom?”

Marigold wiped the water from her eyes and placed a warm hand upon Haven’s. “It’s okay baby girl, he’s just upset,” she said before shifting her countenance while glancing at her husband Archer.

Archer wiped the soft cloth napkin over his mouth before dropping it to his plate. “I’ll go talk to him.”

Marigold turned back to Haven, “let’s get you upstairs and ready for bed.” Haven felt the tension in her mothers forced smile. She knew things were hard this year so she pretended she didn’t notice.

“Aspen,” Archer said, knocking softly on his bedroom door, “got a minute?” Aspen rolled onto his back and sat up, throwing his legs off the side of the bed. “Sure.”

Archer carried himself well and maintained a commanding presence when entering any room, but this time was different. Aspen immediately noticed his slumped shoulders bearing up under some invisible weight. His countenance weary, his brow wrinkled, and his slow steps all betrayed the confidence he normally conveyed.

“Aspen,” he sighed out after sitting down on the bed. “I know you love your sister and there are a lot of things happening this year that make it difficult, but you have no right to treat her that way.” Archer’s rebuke was softened by his firm squeeze on Aspen’s shoulder.

“I know," he said, rubbing his leaking nose. “I’m sorry. I meant nothing by it. It just seems like life continues to get harder.”

Archer wrapped his son in a hug. “You’re what …. seventeen now?” Archer asked playfully. “The older we get the more difficult life becomes. Sometimes we do not like it, but we are called to face it with strength and conviction.” The smile he offered was filled with surety and joy calming Aspen’s anxious countenance. “Now, there is still a bit of light left and we both know how much Haven loves to explore the outdoors with that wild imagination. Why don’t you two head out for a bit while mom and I talk. It might make you feel better.”

“Archer,” Marigold walked in. “It's late.”

“My dear, it is only seven and there is plenty of sun left. Let them have a little fun.”

Haven tore through the back door followed by her listless brother. Marigold grabbed Aspen’s arm. “Be careful and take care of her.” Her eyes were full of deep affection for her children but also touched by sadness.

“Aspen!” Haven called from the backyard. “Let’s go, I wanna see that weird tree in the middle of the woods you told me about.”

Aspen tilted his head donning a smirk, “I must go, my very demanding sister awaits.” Then he cordially bowed and disappeared out back.

The yellow and gold tones emitting from the setting sun cast shadows all over as they passed the large mound of raked up leaves they piled together earlier in the day.

“Aspen,” do you think I’ll…” Haven stopped and swallowed hard.

“Of course you’ll be fine. You have to be, you’re turning sixteen next week.”

The cool evening caused the fallen leaves to become brittle and every step further into the woods produced a resounding crunch or crack.

“Haven, you know I didn’t mean it right?”

“What, you mean calling me dense.” Haven knew how much her brother loved her and this is why she forgave so easily. “I know. You just got upset. It’s okay, really.”

An autumn breeze picked up materializing their breath in the air. “Brr” Haven rubbed her arms vigorously.

“There it is, check it out.” Aspen gestured to a massive trunk with a dark crevice and huge contorted limbs that climbed into the sky.

“Whoa. This thing is freaky. Do you think anything lives in there?” Haven pointed to the shadowy chasm as she tip-toed closer for a better look. “It’s bigger than you.”

“Rawr!” Aspen billowed as he grabbed her shoulders trying to scare her.

“Aaaah!” Haven spasmed out of fear and fell backward. “You jerk!” she said, clamoring back to her feet, before wiping the dead leaves and twigs from her sweater. Haven shoved Aspen toward the tree. Suddenly, he disappeared into the blackened rift of the deformed trunk.

“Aspen, Aspen!” Haven bit her lip nervously. “Aspen, this is not funny!” But there was no response. A chill settled in her bones and the wind picked up. Muttering something about older brothers and the stupid games they played calmed her nerves. “Aspen!” she called one last time now only within inches of the trunk before a hand reached out, latched onto her arm, and pulled her in.

“Aspen!” Haven screamed before landing on a soft pillow-like pile of leaves. The air was foggy and twinkled with variegated electrified pulses. “Aspen!” She billowed, but was cut short by a hand clasped over her mouth.

“Shh.” He motioned a finger to his and gestured in the opposite direction. A singular large shadow rapidly approached before seemingly splitting into various abnormally tall silhouettes. Haven tried desperately to control her labored breathing. As he retracted his hand Aspen clenched his teeth and fists preparing for a fight as the group closed in around them. Snarls and growls carried upon the fog and dread produced a thundering in his chest. Then their visitors came into view.

“What… are you?” Haven asked careening for a better look. The once tall shadows broke into groups of three and four as one creature jumped down from the shoulders of another, and another, and another. They stood no more than two feet off the ground.

“We are King Iatross’ servants, the Naamen, my lady Autumn, there is no time. We must get you to the king.” A short pudgy creature with a large leaking nose and floppy ears said, before grabbing her hand and pulling her along.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Aspen protested as he moved in front of the group. “You’re not taking my sister anywhere. I don’t care who your king is.” Then he looked around and scratched his head. “Where are we exactly?” Though he could make out trees, streams, and mountainous terrain, it all appeared liquified as if they were in an oil painting covered in water.

“My lord and lady,” another creature said, bowing “you are in the otherlands and in terrible danger. Please forgive our intrusion but we must get you to King Iatross before Asthenes finds you.”

Just then a small brightly illuminated mushroom fell into the midst of their circle. “Run!” the creatures shrieked in unison, but it was too late. A cloud of spores exploded knocking them all to the ground. Yellow, orange, red, and pink leaves quivered about in the air.

Reeling from the pain, Haven clasped hands over her throbbing ears and curled up into a ball while Aspen did his best to shield her. Attempting to regain his senses, Aspen spun quickly surveying their surroundings, but in the aftermath of mushroom spores and fog saw only struggling shapes. The clanking of weapons and buzzing of flying creatures reverberated across the landscape. In an instant it was gone and deafening silence washed over them.

Haven was hunched over wincing as she clung to her stomach. Her ragged breathing slowed and her eyes closed. There were superficial cuts on her face and bruising on her arms.

“Autumn!” Aspen cried stooping over his sister. “What’s wrong, are you hurt?” One of the Naamen hobbled over to Aspen and placed a hand upon his back.

“My lord, there is not much time, we must get her to King Iatross.” Then he sighed, “Aspen, this is not your fault.”

“I don’t understand,” Aspen sobbed. “What is happening, why are we even here? She was fine just a moment ago. We need to get home.”

“That you do, but right now we must go, before they come back. Autumn is out of time.”

Aspen cradled her in his arms, climbed to his feet and started to follow his new friends toward a far off distant dwelling where a single beam of light radiated in the otherwise darkened land.

“Hurry, this way,” the Naamen called as they scurried through trees and brush. Aspen fought weariness and an overwhelming sense of despair with every step. Like his father Archer, he was determined, but sheer will wasn’t enough to keep him from dropping to his knees. “I can’t… go… any further.” He huffed out through laborious breathing. “I’m so… thirsty.”

“Aye, it is Asthenes’ way. Here, drink this.” The leader held open a small leather pouch to Aspen’s dry cracked lips for a drink. Cool satisfying water flowed over his parched tongue and seemed to invigorate him and his strength returned.

“How much further is it?” He gasped.

“Just over the hill.” Suddenly, a soft melodic tone fluttered through the air on a cool breeze.

“The music, it will keep Asthenes’ dark servants at bay,” another small creature said.

“That means we are close, praise King Iatross,” said another.

Soon after entering the golden dwelling Aspen was escorted before the King.

“Welcome my son.” Iatross said.

“Please, these…” Aspen gestured toward the Naamen, “whatever they are said you can help my sister. I think she is dying.”

King Iatross sat in contemplative silence as he maintained a steely gaze upon Aspen.

“Please! She is dying, they said you could help! Why won't you do anything?!”

Without a word, a small aura of luminescence encircled King Iatross. Brighter and brighter it got until Aspen had to close his eyes and turn away. Instantly, an explosion of light scattered in every direction and Aspen awoke startled in a chair next to an empty hospital bed. The flickering lights, humming of various machines, and beeps overwhelmed him with confusion. Then he heard it, a bell being rung just down the hall. Springing from the chair he flew through the doorway and into the hallway. There, near the nurses station, in a wheelchair lowering her arm sat his sister Haven Autumn Joy. Aspen wiped the water leaking from his eyes and embraced his sister.

“Mr. and Mrs. Joy, the surgery was successful. We were able to remove the tumor in its entirety.” The doctor breathed a sigh of heartfelt relief. “Any longer and she may not have made it.” Then he turned toward Aspen, “your sister sure is lucky to have a brother like you.” The bewilderment was tangible in the way Aspen titled his head and narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t understand.” He said.

“Aspen, you don’t remember.” His mother’s soft loving tone diffused his apprehension.

“Autumn passed out when you all were out exploring last night,” Archer filled in the blanks. “If you had not carried her home as quickly as you did…” then he teared up. “Let’s just say she was running out of time and you wasted none of it son.”

Two weeks later, Aspen sat around the fire pit at church holding a cup of warm apple cider. The orange flames danced and flickered in the evening breeze casting a myriad of shadows all around. Aspen thought deeply about his experience in the woods and what actually must have transpired. Perhaps his imagination got the best of him.

“Well,” Autumn said, tapping him on the back before sitting next to him. “You think we’ll ever see them again?”

“What do you mean?” Aspen glanced curiously at his sister. “Who?”

“The Naamen and King Iatross.”

Aspen smiled, “I’m counting on it.”

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Thirteenth Hour, Thirteen Tolls by Ian Braley

Alexandra Ely — Wed, 27 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I stuck my hand in my pocket, running my thumb across the coarse paper of the Letter. The most important Letter I had ever received.

I pulled it out of my pocket and stared at it. Was it possible to get this framed? It was already starting to show signs of wear. After all, I had read it at least hundreds of times in the past day.

I unfolded it and read it. Again.

-Headmaster Stephen Cunningham

-3958 West Magick Lane

Dear John Smyth,

I’m sure you’re very excited. This is fine. We like excited students. Please bring this excitement. We can always use more students.

You are formally accepted to the Magical University for Magical People. Please pack and arrive at the gates at 1400 sharp on Monday. Please come on the dot, lateness is, frankly, not tolerated.

My deepest condolences, Headmaster Cunningham.

I had received the letter a few days ago and instantly started packing. When my parents found out they seemed sad.

But who cares about that? I was formally magical! Formally special! I just assumed my parents were sad about me moving someplace else. The last sentence of the Letter still stumped me though. I hoped I would figure out what it meant later.

I arrived at the west gate at noon. It was still two hours until I was supposed to get there. I saw several students walk by, about half a dozen, the majority of which cast disgruntled or disgusted glances. Like I was some sort of normal person.

Of course, I wasn’t a normal person. I mean, I was like 5 days ago, but now, now I’m different. Now I’m special. These people would learn how much better I was than them, and, frankly, everyone.

______________________________________________________________

Two hours had passed. The Headmaster started out of the extremely tall building that was no more than a few hundred yards away. It took him 25 minutes to reach the gate, and 5 minutes to unlock the multitude of various locks. It was almost 2:00 PM.

And right on the dot, he arrived.

He checked his notebook, “You are John Smyth?” The Headmaster asked. He had black hair and dark skin, he was tall. Taller than me.

“Uh, yes, I am.”

“Interesting name.” He turned and gestured me forward past the gate, ”This is your tour. This will be the only tour you get. Do not forget what you hear.”

That’s strange. Usually they would tell you the rules then tell you again if you needed it, not tell you once then expect you to memorize it.

“Understood?” The Headmaster pushed.

“Oh, sorry. Yes, I understand.” I guess.

“Good,” he pointed at a tall building, the one he had come out of earlier, it looked a lot like Big Ben. Were they not afraid of copyright infringement? “That is the bell tower. Or clock tower, the terms are interchangeable. It is extremely important that you pay attention to it at all times.” He stopped and stared straight at me, ”And that brings us to rule one.”

I froze, uncomfortable with his intensity.

“Never ignore the clock tower.”

“Why?

“Rule two,” he continued, ignoring me.”When the bell tolls thirteen tolls, run. Stop to help no one, do not look inside the closets.”

This was just getting weirder. Was this guy delusional or something?

“Rule three, trust no one. Especially during Night.”

“Night?” I asked, noting the emphasis, ”What’s that?”

“When the bell tolls thirteen tolls, Night falls,” the Headmaster said. Not particularly helpful, was he? “Now, I must show you the various facilities.”

He was changing the subject, classic misdirection. I wanted to hear straight from him what the school was like, websites and direct observers have different opinions sometimes, so I decided against pointing it out.

The Headmaster pointed at a building that looked a lot like an average suburban house.

“That’s the morgue.”

“...Okay.” I responded, desperately hoping he was joking,”Uh.”

“It’s very important you know where it is.”

“Thanks? I guess.”

“You’re most welcome.”

So he didn’t get sarcasm either. Great. A morgue. If I hadn’t had the unlucky situation of being told that by a guy who seemed much too enthusiastic, I wouldn’t even be able to tell.

“So Headmaster, where am I staying?”

He pointed at the morgue,”In the Morgue.”

“What?”

He laughed, way too calmly for my liking, like he had practiced laughing like one practices another language, ”I am joking.” He unsheathed a sword I didn’t know he had and pointed it at a different building. It was about half as tall as the bell tower, and the side that faced me was full pane glass, “In there.”

“Are those apartments? It doesn’t seem like enough.”

“We have a high turnover rate. Now go ahead and unpack. Remember, always pay attention to the bell tower.”

He turned around and left without saying anything else, leaving me standing there. Like, sure, there’s an actual morgue here, high turnover rate, have fun! What kind of introduction was that?

I dragged myself over to the dorm-like building, and went up to the front desk. A woman was sitting there, poking at a laptop.

“Uh, hi. The headmaster told me to come in here.”

“Oh, Stephen? Did he show you the morgue?”

“Yeah?”

She laughed,”Rookies, always so gullible.”

I blinked and stood in silence. She handed me a key.

“Okay, thanks.” I walked up to the room, three stories up and went inside. There was a bed. A bed and a chair. That was all the furnishing. Technically livable, but not, like, the pinnacle of luxury.

The place was free, I suppose. At least they weren’t just flinging me onto the streets and expecting me to sink or swim.

I really needed to ask some of the other students why everything was so odd. The Headmaster was strange, I couldn’t tell if he was joking or if he was serious. If anything, his sense of humor was horrible. And what kind of clock tolled thirteen times?

That is not how clocks work.

Right as I began to get comfortable, something smashed through the window. Glass scattered everywhere. I jumped and turned to look.

It was the Headmaster. Why was he jumping through the window?

“Hi?”

“Your first class is in ten minutes. Come,” he jumped on the window sill and flipped himself over the side, landing on the ground, which was, by the way, three stories down, after backflipping twice.

“Dude. I can’t jump out windows” I yelled at him,”How strong are your bones?”

“It’s all technique. You’ll learn it. Maybe. Well, come on, we haven’t got all day.”

“What about my window?”

“The window-fixing team is already on it.”

“Okay, fine.” I ran out of my room and went down the stairs. I’m not some crazy stunt guy like Headmaster Cunningham.

He stood, tapping his foot where he had landed after jumping out the window,”Took your time.”

“I didn’t want to die, all right?”

“Well, sometimes we don’t get what we want.”

“So where’s my first class?

“It’s technically orientation. But we call it a class because of the important information.”

“So… where?”

“In the morgue. Actually this time.”

“You have an unhealthy fixation with morgues.”

He ignored my statement,”Right then, come on now. We haven’t got all day, and you already wasted a couple minutes when you took the dang stairs instead of the window.”

Windows, I wanted to tell him, are not a method of transport. Sadly, he was already off, and I pretty much had to run to keep up.

______________________________________________________________

I sat down on the single chair in the morgue, and braced myself. Considering how things had been going up to this point, this was going to be extremely odd and somewhat informative.

There were 2 other people in the room already. The Headmaster fired a grapple into the rafters and perched on a beam.

“Bro, you’re not Batman,” I looked up at him.

“That’s what we want you to think,” he responded.

I looked at the receptionist, who was here too, hoping for some semblance of sanity. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah? Better get used to it.”

That shouldn’t be possible.

Several other adults arrived in the room, most through the door. A few of them saluted. What was this, the military?

The Headmaster walked across the rafters to the middle of the room,”Order in the morgue!” he yelled, even though there was already order.

“Understood, colonel,” answered a guy in military camo and sunglasses and what looked like a full face mask. Did he think he was in the desert?

“Good.” He said,”Rookie!” he yelled.

“What?”

“None of what I am about to tell you will ever be told to you again. Ever.”

“Okay,” I responded slowly.

“Rule 4!” He shouted and dropped down from the rafters right in front of me,”You will either live or die here. Expect no help.”

“Die?”

“Oh, have I not told you yet?” Desert military guy laughed.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“When the bell tolls thirteen times, it means Night has fallen. It does not matter if it is the middle of day or not, it can happen at any hour,” he said intensely, arms behind his back,”During the Night, everyone except for those of this school will fall into slumber. They do not move, they do not speak, they are sleeping.”

“Why is that bad?”

“This does not mean you are safe,” he ignored my question,”Do not go outside, do not leave the artificial light. Do not look out the windows. Do not open your door. Do not let anyone inside your room, you can trust no one.”

“Why?”

“Because nothing is as it seems. It will disguise themselves as your friends. In this Night you are Alone. If you allow a denison of the Dark into your room…”

I leaned back, as he slowly got closer to me, then he continued.

“You are dead. You may wonder why we have a morgue. That’s where those who open their doors go. Those who look in the mirror. Those who allow the Night inside.”

“So…” I stammered,”Does any actual schooling happen here?”

“Yes, it does. Only at night, as the thirteenth hour is significantly less common during the dark. This is why you probably haven’t seen any other students, as the majority are asleep.”

I had seen some students, but they ignored me, or glared at me like I was in their way. This was probably the reason why.

“Your schedule is with Denise here.” he gestured at the receptionist, and she threw it at me. The Headmaster grabbed it out of the air and handed it to me. “Get to your classes, never sleep during the night, and do not be off guard, and the Night will not catch you.”

The tower pounded out a single note.

Everyone in the room froze and turned to stare at it. I followed suit.

Twice, and thrice, and four, and five. Each low bong, and everyone grew more stiff. Six, seven, eight, nine and ten.

Eleven.

This one rang longer and deeper than the rest.

“no.” someone whispered

twelve

And

thirteen.

It rang deeper than I’ve ever heard anything ring before. My legs felt like lead. What was happening?

Why was this happening now?

The Headmaster grabbed me and threw me out of the Morgue.

I turned to stare at him.

He shook my hand firmly.

”Good luck Mr. Smyth, I’ll see you in an hour.”

And then he was gone.

It was Night.

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Meet Angela R. Hughes: Where Myth, and Faith Collide

Alexandra Ely — Wed, 20 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

We met on social media in the modern world, half a nation apart, but we connected over the rolling hills of Ireland’s mysterious history. Angela Hughes is a Historical and Paranormal Fantasy author with a gift for blending ancient myth, history, and faith into her stories.

When I found out St. Patrick was one of her favorite historical figures and she is a plotter (a writer who outlines the plot before writing the book), I had to get to know her more. It’s not every day you find these things in common with someone. In this article, I am sharing with you Angela’s recent book, why Ireland called her to write its stories, and how her faith guides her to the end.

Her recent book, Shadows of the Forgotten Shore, is on its way to my mailbox. It will be a journey to remember!

Tell us a bit about yourself and your latest book.

I’m Angela R. Hughes, wife, mom to two amazing teenagers, avid baker, and adventure-seeker. When I’m not writing, you can usually find me experimenting in the kitchen, planning our next family outing, or exploring the Texas Hill Country with my husband and kids. We’re still fairly new to Waco, having recently moved from my home state of Oregon, but my heart will always be split between here, the misty forests of the Pacific Northwest, and the rugged beauty of Ireland, where I lived in my twenties. I’ve also spent time in England, Wales, and Northern Ireland, each place leaving its own indelible mark on my imagination.

I’m a Historical and Paranormal Fantasy author with a passion for blending myth, history, and faith into rich, character-driven tales. My debut trilogy, The Once & Future Chronicles, reimagines Arthurian legend in the aftermath of King Arthur’s death. It features a younger, battle-hardened Merlin and a mysterious traveler from the future with ties to the kingdom of Prydain.

This holiday season, I’ll be releasing The Lost Son of Orcades, Part 1, an origin story set in the same world, revealing the untold backstory of one of Arthur’s legendary heroes.

But my most recent release, Shadows of the Forgotten Shore, is perhaps my most personal novel to date. It’s a modern-day Irish ghost story filled with folklore, superstition, and the raw beauty of the Irish coast. The idea began with a simple premise: a young woman returns to her childhood home in Ireland after her mother’s death, only to realize grief may not be the only thing haunting her, but also a very real curse may be at work.

At first, I wasn’t sure where the story would go, or if it would even become a book. Then memories of my grandmother’s lakeside property came flooding back: cabins to explore, deer trails to follow, fishing in a muddy lake, and the upstairs bedroom that was pure magic by day but utterly terrifying at night. That childhood mix of wonder and fear became the foundation of the story. Combined with my years living in Ireland and my love for folklore, it evolved into a layered tale about the origins of fear, bitterness, unforgiveness, and family secrets, woven with romance, mystery, and the supernatural.

I’ve always admired the way M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs paired suspense with a heartfelt exploration of grief, loss of faith, and everything happening for a reason. I wanted Shadows of the Forgotten Shore to do the same, to draw readers in with chills and twists while leaving them with something deeper to carry away. Many of the details in the novel, a 70’s style mushroom mug, a stack of romance novels on the stair, and the eerie seaside view, come directly from my own life, making it not just a story for readers, but a legacy piece for my family.

What drew you to Celtic myths and legends? What is your favorite myth?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been captivated by the fantastic, and not just as “stories,” but as possibilities. Myths like Iliad & the Odyssey, Jason & the Argonauts and Beowulf are unique in that they’re rooted in history, carrying whispers of truth from a world our ancestors experienced firsthand. Some see them as charming old tales; I see them as evidence that earlier generations could see beyond the veil into realities we’ve chosen to ignore.

As a Christian, I can’t help but notice how often Scripture intersects with the supernatural: angels, demons, giants, and the miraculous. When you begin to compare those accounts with ancient myths from around the world, you start to see fascinating parallels: global flood stories, giants, demi-gods, and heroes. While not all of these align with biblical truth, they echo fragments of it, and I can’t resist exploring where history, myth, and truth collide.

That’s where my inner history nerd comes alive, digging into ancient civilizations, uncovering what they believed, and imagining how I can bring that into my story telling.

If I had to choose a favorite myth, it would be Arthurian legend. Many people think of it as medieval knights and castles, but its roots are far older and mythical, woven from the lives of real historical figures and the bards who told their stories long before the Middle Ages. The earliest accounts, found in works like The History of the Kings of Britain and later, The Mabinogion, speak of champions, warriors, faith, monsters and valor. I’m endlessly intrigued by that fine line between legend and truth, between a fantastical tale and an account of something that may have actually happened.

Those same questions drive my own writing: could this be real? What if it was? My novels may be shelved under “fantasy,” but I write them with the deep suspicion that the world still holds more magic than we’re willing to admit.

You said that St. Patrick is one of your heroes. Would you expand on that?

Absolutely. St. Patrick’s life and ministry are endlessly inspiring to me, not only as a writer but as a person of faith. He lived during one of my favorite periods of history, a time of upheaval when the Roman Empire had withdrawn from Britain, chaos reigned, and the so-called Dark Ages were taking root. It was a moment when it seemed civilization was crumbling, yet in the midst of it, something extraordinary was happening. Christianity was spreading with a fire that would preserve knowledge, culture, and hope for generations.

Patrick was at the center of that fire. His ministry in Ireland was marked by courage and supernatural power, surviving assassination attempts, walking unharmed from a burning hut, and even raising the king of Dublin’s children from the dead. He trained and inspired others who carried that same boldness into Europe, sparking a movement that quite literally changed history.

When I first learned about the real Patrick, (not just the mythologized figure draped in shamrocks, driving snakes from Ireland) he became a living example to me that faith can change the course of nations. His life was so inspiring, and would go on to encourage my imagination, spiritual depth, and vision of my writing. As would writers like C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, George MacDonald and Stephen Lawhead.In fact, it was during a trip to Northern Ireland to visit Patrick’s historical landmarks that my own writing journey truly began. After hiking to the Cloughmore Stone, (the very rock said to have inspired Lewis’s Stone Table in The Chronicles of Narnia) a friend turned to me, put an arm around my shoulders, and said, “It’s time for you to write your books.” I had never told him I wanted to be a writer. But in that moment, something clicked. I went home and began writing my first novel. Six years later, I’m working on my sixth book.

What does plotting mean to you as part of your creative process?

For me, plotting is like having a map before setting out on a journey. I like to know my destination, even if I don’t know exactly how I’ll get there. Most of the time, a story arrives in my mind fully formed from beginning to end. I’ll jot down a chapter-by-chapter outline to capture the key beats before they fade.

But once I start writing, my characters inevitably start meddling with my plans, and I love it. They make unexpected choices, reveal secrets I didn’t know they had, and force the story to take turns I hadn’t plotted. It’s like watching the plot breathe on its own.

In Shadows of the Forgotten Shore, for example, I knew where I wanted my characters to end up emotionally, but I had no idea exactly how the climax would unfold, or even what the final reveal would be for one of my most mysterious characters. I discovered those answers in real time, in the middle of the scene, with my heart pounding and my fingers flying across the keyboard.

So while I’m technically a plotter, I always leave space for discovery. My best moments as a writer happen when I’m as surprised as the reader, when the story shows me something I didn’t expect, but that makes perfect sense in hindsight. That’s when I know I’m on the right track.

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Oneiroi: A Short Story by Cameron Skocilic

Alexandra Ely — Wed, 13 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Arien blinked.

That wasn’t a particularly odd thing to do, if you’re a human being that is. Rather, it was what Arien saw after blinking that he found to be odd.

An empty hallway, lockers lining the walls and bland, colorless lights hanging above reflecting dimly on polished tiled flooring. Despite their harsh brightness, they seemed to cast shadows in odd places - somehow too bright and too dim at the same time.

But this place wasn’t strange. In fact, Arien knew exactly where he was. This was just one of many copy-pasted hallways found inside Gnósi Junior High; he recognized them from orientation a few days ago.

No, what struck Arien as strange wasn’t where he was.

It was how he got here.

Arien began retracing his steps in his mind, but was interrupted by a sound. His body turned rigid, almost matching the Principal’s tie during his welcoming speech. There was a low rumbling - no, that wasn’t quite it. It was almost . . . low humming, drifting down the sterile hallway to where he stood petrified.

Slowly and cautiously, Arien twisted around until he could face down whatever was humming.

At first nothing seemed out of place, and Arien scrunched his face. Was this some sort of prank, or the start of his bullying? If so, then it seemed his nightmares from the past two weeks were already coming—

There!

Arien’s eyes latched onto something moving in the corner between a break in the line of lockers. He squinted, trying to make out what was lurking in the shadows. The thing lurched out into the hallway, and Arien swallowed hard around the lump suddenly in his throat.

The humming thing wasn’t in the shadows. . . it was the shadow!

The roiling mass of darkness heaved itself onto the floor, long spindly fingers clawing at the pristine tile. Two membrane wings like those of a bat sprung out from the thing’s backArien took an involuntary step backward.

Arien caught sight of the thing's eyes - or rather, the empty sockets where its eyes should have been, and it was all over.

Arien fled.

His heart pounded in his chest. Arien dared not glance behind him, but that whooshing sound was unmistakable. The thing had taken flight. It was coming for him!

I can’t outrun it - I’ve gotta hide somewhere!

It was worth a shot.

Just before the rushing sound could catch him, Arien turned sharp.

His sneakers squeaked on the flat tile. He almost slipped and fell, but caught himself.

Risking a glance, he watched the massive shadow zip past him.

It worked!

Arien yanked on the nearest doorhandle, but it was locked tight. Frantic, he dashed to the opposite side, trying another. Also locked.

He could hear humming from down the hall. It was coming back this way. He was running out of time.

Arien rushed back across the hall and tried the third door. It flung open, sending him sprawling in a heap inside. Adrenaline pounded in his veins. Arien kicked the door closed. He lay there, panting as quietly as he could manage, straining his ears to hear the inevitable whoosh of bat-wings swooping in to get him.

“Ah, there you are Arien. So glad you decided to join us after all.”

Arien yelped, scrambling to his feet and finally taking in the room he’d fallen into. Two dozen students stared at him from their seats, while a man straightened his bowtie with a flat expression. His face looked young, yet his hair was entirely grey, sticking up at odd angles in the back, almost like it had wings of its own.

“I was concerned that you’d written off history class as beneath you. Now, if you’re done being dramatic, I’d ask you to take a seat with the rest of the class.”

Arien gawked at the man a moment. His calm yet stern demeanor served a striking contrast to the chase he’d just come from. The shadow, right!

“I-I’m sorry Mr.-” Arien peered at the teacher’s nametag, “-Mr. Ick-ah, Mr. Icee-”

“Eye-sell-us.” The teacher provided. “And I’d thank you to stop distracting my classroom and take your seat as asked.”

Arien glanced at the multitude of eyes all staring at him, his face beginning to grow warm.

“B-but sir, there was a. . .”

“This instant young man!”

Mr. Icelus placed his hands on his hips, tapping his foot on the tile floor. Arien shut his mouth and obeyed, moving to the back of the classroom.

“Not so fast.” Mr. Icelus rapped his fingers on an empty desk right in front of him. “A front-row seat. This way you won’t miss any more of today’s not-so-important lesson.”

His face grew several degrees hotter, but Arien made his way - stiff as a board - to the indicated seat.

“Better.” Mr. Icelus sniffed, then finally turned back to the oversized whiteboard. Uncapping a marker, he wrote one big word on the board, circling it for emphasis. “Now, returning to the topic at hand, who here knows what this is?”

Arien stared at the word, too embarrassed and confused by recent events to even guess what an Oneiroi was supposed to be.

“Nobody? Not surprising.” Icelus sniffed again. “Oneiroi is the Greek word for the three beings associated with the different faucets of dreams.”

Dreams? Arien shuddered in his seat, flashbacks of the past two weeks of nightmares returning to him all in a flood. Embarrassing moments, each one worse than the previous night’s, slowly getting more uncomfortable, more distressing. . . more frightening.

“Three Oneiroi for three aspects of dreams,” Mr. Icelus continued writing on the white board. Oddly on topic, Arien struggled to focus, shooting the door continued glances. Just waiting for that thing to peer through the door’s window at him.

“Morpheus was said to deliver messages from the gods to man, bestowing knowledge and wisdom. Likewise, Phantasos would contort dreams, making them surreal to force man to ponder their meaning. Finally, there is Phobetor, who forced man to face his fears through nightmares.”

Something nagged at the back of Arien’s brain. Distracted, Arien mentally revisited his day.

I went over to Carl’s place, I remember. We played that game on his console. Then, we scrolled memes. But, Carl showed me something, didn’t he? A. . . video?

A video tutorial about how to lucid dream on command. Right, he had almost forgotten! He had told Carl about his recurring nightmares and Carl in turn had shown him a way to possibly break the cycle.

A way to stay in control while dreaming.

Pieces clicked into place. The shadow monster lurking in the halls, the strange teacher with the only active class, the mystery of how Arien even got here in the first place. It all added up.

Arien was dreaming.

Testing his theory, Arien glanced about the room at his fellow classmates. He remembered something about how the mind struggled with faces in dreams. Sure enough, found as he searched the others faces, they all appeared blurry.

This was all just a dream, and if it hadn’t collapsed in on itself yet, then the ritual must have worked.

He was lucid dreaming.

He was in control.

Sighing, Arien slumps in his chair, relieved. This was perfect. It meant he could leave any time he wanted. Nothing in here could hurt him.

Arien jumped as Mr. Icelus slammed his hands down upon his desk, leaning in close to Arien..

“And why, since you seem far more at ease now Mr. Arien, would I consider Phobetor to be the most important of the three Oneiroi, hmm?”

“O-oh, I-uh, well, uhm. . .”

Arien’s mind raced to provide an answer, his face beginning to heat up again from the abrupt spotlight. But, then he remembered what he’d discovered.

“This is all a dream,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “None of it is real.”

Icelus cocked his head. “I beg your pardon, but I couldn’t hear you over the mumbling. Would you care to share with the entire class what you have to say?”

Arien did the unthinkable: he stood up before the classroom and spoke in a level, confident tone.

“This is all just a dream,” he declared. “None of it is real.”

And with that, he turned and headed for the classroom door. Before he could reach out and grab the handle, Icelus’ hand slammed against the door, holding it shut. Arien turned, ready to tell off the dream-teacher, but his words died on his lips. Icelus was still standing at the desk.

Yet his arm stretched across the room to hold the door shut.

“You’re partially right Arien,” Icelus mused. His eyes had changed colors, or rather they had lost all color; just two milky white orbs staring lidless at him, unblinking and unrelenting as his face drooped around them. “This is all just some dream, but whatever made you think that none of it was real?”

Arien cried out and slipped, hitting the tiled floor as Icelus began to approach. Each step his legs got longer, his other arm extending even as the first still held to the door. His face melted away, revealing an inky-black featureless face of pure darkness. Icelus had been the shadow monster this whole time!

“Why Arien? Why is Phobetor the most important Oneiroi? Why would I plague you with such revolting nightmares?”

“I-I. . .” Arien stammered, but the words kept choking up in his throat. He crawled backwards even as Icelus - Phobetor, whatever he was - advanced, looming larger with each second.

“You know the answer. You almost had it. Think Arien, why would I trap you in a nightmare like this?”

I know the answer? Arien thought hard, but the horrifying creature before him was really distracting. Phobetor, the bringer of nightmares - one of three beings said to influence dreams. What were the other two there for again? One made them strange, and the other gave knowledge.

Icelus knocked over several desks with his impossibly long leg, but rather than fall to the floor the students just puffed away, like mist on the morning wind.

There had to be a correlation here somewhere. One being gave information, the other made men think. Nightmares terrified people, forced them to face their fears. But, if it was all in a dream, then that meant. . .

Arien’s back hit a wall.

There was nowhere left to run.

Icelus loomed just inches away, his pupiless eyes trained on Arien. “Well?” The thing asked in a watery voice.

Arien took a breath. Here goes nothing. . .

“N-nothing inside of a dream can h-hurt you, right? So, m-my fears can’t hurt me either.”

The Oneiroi stared at Arien. Sweat dripped down his cheek.

“Attaboy.” The thing backed up.

Arien stared, numb as the creature began shrinking, slowly turning back into Mr. Icelus as it spoke.

“Phobetor forced man to face his deepest fears, manifesting the worst case scenario and presenting it for him to experience. But, in a dream, nothing can truly hurt you. It’s a safe space, where if you mess up you can try again - no lasting consequences.”

Icelus straightened his bowtie as the last bits of darkness vanished into him. He was once more just a man, who offered his hand to the fallen Arien with a kind smile.

“You understand, yes?”

Arien hesitated, but took the man’s offered hand. It was firm and warm to the touch.

“In here, I can face my greatest fears,” Arien mused as he was pulled onto his feet. “I can prepare for them, so they won’t take me by surprise in the real world. Is that it?”

Icelus smiled knowingly. “I knew you’d be an ace student, from the moment you stepped into my classroom. Now, why don’t you head home. You’ve got school in the morning!”

The bell rang, and with it, the entire school puffed away. Arien blinked, suddenly staring at his own bedroom ceiling.

He was awake.

Arien checked his phone. 6:14 AM - morning of the first day of Junior High. He laid back down, wondering. Was it all real, did I just dream it? He found it hard to even think through, it was all so vague and confusing.

Real or not, one thing stuck out to Arien after waking up.

He wasn’t so nervous about starting school today after all.

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Laura's Welcome

Alexandra Ely — Tue, 21 Jan 2025 00:00:00 +0000

We jostled and rattled in the car barreling down the dirt road leaving a tail of tan-red dust floating in the air like fog behind us. My guide tapped me diverting my attention from the passing Savannah to the road up ahead, the rendezvous point with my contact. On the horizon, getting closer by the second, was a woman standing in an old Land Rover, waving.

My guide idled the car long enough for me to collect my luggage before tearing off again. The woman in the Land Rover jumped down and stuck her hand out to me, “Laura.” She wasn’t much older than me wearing blue jeans and a use-to-be white T-shirt. Her blonde hair just about blended in with the sunshine it was so golden. The bounce in Laura’s step and welcoming smile made me instantly like her.

“Claudia,” I returned the handshake. It was plain this was a gal of adventure and from the paraphernalia I saw in the car, she was ready for one too.

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Thanksgiving, A Layer in History

Alexandra Ely — Sat, 9 Nov 2024 00:00:00 +0000

“All great and honorable actions are accompanied with great difficulties, and both must be enterprised and overcome with answerable courage.”

-William Bradford

Fall is in full swing, Thanksgiving is upon us, and it’s almost cold enough to unfold our sweaters, sip a hot pumpkin spice latte, and curl up by the fireside with a great book. For me, that book is Plymouth Plantation by William Bradford. If you haven’t read it yet, you can find a free audio version here.

Bravery and Faith

The whole book of Ephesians is inspiring, but chapter six is a favorite because it teaches us about the armor of God. His armor connects every Christian throughout history, which means that we wear the same armor as the Pilgrims did.

They left everything they knew to cross the Atlantic Ocean to worship God in peace. What bravery and faith they had!

To me, the courage and grit of the Pilgrims sheds a new light on what it means to wear God’s armor in difficult times. William Bradford, the governor of the Plymouth Colony, acknowledged that the Puritans were in a spiritual battle when living in Europe.

In his book Plymouth Settlement, he wrote that when Satan could not stop the truths of the gospel from spreading in England, he reverted to persecution. He sowed seeds of heresies, errors, and discord in the clergy. This corruption struck the Puritans, but they fought back.

Girded at the waist with truth, their breastplate of righteousness fastened, their shield of faith gripped, and their helmet of salvation on their heads, the Pilgrims won over a wild land that no other European settlement had tamed before them.

Worthy of Celebrating

Thanksgiving is the time we remember the Pilgrims and all they faced and fought. They strove for the very unity that Ephesians teaches. They fought a spiritual battle and conquered. We too rejoice in that victory of religious freedom and partake in the victory feast!

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Over My Shoulder

Alexandra Ely — Sun, 27 Oct 2024 00:00:00 +0000

“That’s it?” My main character says, looking over my shoulder. “I’m funny that way? That’s all I’m gonna say?”

I pause typing, thinking.

“It does feel a bit forced. Do you have a better idea?” I ask him.

“Of course I do.” He grins.

“I’m all ears.” My fingers rest on the keys ready to type as inspiration for the scene builds.

“Let’s add some tension. She just rejected me, but she still has feelings for me. But I don’t know that yet.”

“Oh, oh!” I bounce in my seat, giddy as the scene becomes visible in my mind.

“I was talking.”

“Shh. I’m writing,” I tell my character. He crosses his arms, annoyed at my interruption, but reads what I am writing over my shoulder. “You’re heart is broken. So, in a desperate attempt to reignite what you once had between each other you…”

“I pull her close to me, lean in…wait for it… she closes the distance and we kiss.”

My fingers type as fast as they can keep up. The female lead changes her mind, overcome with confusion, and pushes him away.

“Yeah, there’s the tension.”

“But what about that line you don’t like?”

“It doesn’t bother me so much now,” he shrugs.

“Oh really?” I arch a brow at him.

“Yeah, you know me best. I’m funny that way.” He winks at me.

I chuckle to myself and click the save button. I love it when my characters help me write.

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It Doesn't Have to be Lonely

Alexandra Ely — Fri, 18 Oct 2024 00:00:00 +0000

A friend once asked if it’s true that writing is a lonely job. I was brand new to novel writing, so at that point in my journey, yes, it was lonely. However, if I knew then what I know now, I would have said, “No. Writers need people.”

One Small Piece

The statement of “writing is a lonely job” is rather common, however, I believe it’s a myth. Someone might argue that it helps when actively writing to be in a quiet room alone with your thoughts. I can agree to that, except the fun creative brainstorming of a new story idea is only one-quarter of the novel writing process. The other three-quarters require people. Once I started letting people in on my writing journey my skills matured. Here is why writers need people and how you can make that happen.

Perspective

Unlike music or art, where you can hear a flat note or see a distorted perspective, writing mistakes are quiet, and many go undetected to the writer because you’re so close to the project. You have a whole world inside your mind, and you’re zoomed in one hundred percent. Everything is crystal clear to you, but that doesn’t mean you wrote it that way, especially in the first draft.

A Writing Buddy

If you’re new to writing or feel stuck, I encourage you to find someone who is willing to read your roughest of rough drafts. It’s gotta be a special person. He or she doesn’t have to be a writer, they just have to be able to help you zoom out and hear where you’ve gone flat or see where your perspective is distorted. With practice, you’ll able to catch more and more of those “show don’t tell” lines on your own, and polishing your writing will become as thrilling as that initial burst of creativity. But a fresh set of eyes to catch your mistakes is a "thing" in the industry.

Writing Groups

A writing group is a great way to accumulate writing buddies. There are many national groups with local chapters, such as Word Weavers International, the Association of Christian Writers, and much much more. Then, there are the groups that aren't affiliated with a larger organization. And if you can't find any of those, you could start one yourself at your local library or coffee shop. All this to say, writers need people -other writers and readers- whether that be a single buddy or a whole group.

Side note: A writing group doesn't have to be the same thing as a critique group. A writing group could encompass a lot more such as speakers and mini-workshops.

I love my writing buddies and my Word Weavers group and wholeheartedly believe that a journey worth enduring is best with like-minded people traveling with you.

Keep on writing.

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