My Writings
I have written both fiction and articles for a plentitude of publications. Below, you can find two short stories exclusive to this site.
​
The Magic Shopkeeper's Guide
(Available in full, press Read more)
The trick to running a successful magic shop is knowing your customers. Not everyone is looking for the same thing, but everyone is looking for something. The first rule is not to jump into any conclusions. Not every vampire is looking for sun lotion, nor do all fairies care about love potions (which are illegal in most countries, anyway). In fact, don't make assumptions based on – or about – anyone's species, at all. That doesn’t mean you can't tell what the customer desires. Imagine, for example, someone with battle axes and barbarian armour marching into your shop. They are not going to be looking for alicorn or for the self-sweeping broom. They may claim that they just happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to pop in for a quick look, but a sharp retailer will immediately notice that what they really want is for someone to convince them that a new axe is exactly what they are missing. An even sharper retailer would point out that, while they are at it, it would be foolish to pass up the opportunity to buy a new wheatstone for a limited 2-in-1 offer. Not all cases are this clear cut. Sometimes you might see a completely ordinary person wander in. Often, they are within the young adult age group, and quite possibly somewhat shy or baffled by the items in the magic shop. These are the "chosen one" types.​ Now, these kids aren’t looking for just any toy to play with. These are children destined to find a very specific item. Be it an enchanted harp, a magic wand, or a sword set in stone, something is waiting for these kids. It is your job as a shopkeeper to make sure they find their destiny. It’s a heavy responsibility. And that brings us to our next point. ​Consequences. You see, every once in a while someone gets a hold of something that’s more than they bargained for, in a very literal sense. It might be, say, a monkey paw that grants wishes, with a hilarious moral lesson attached to each wish (one might, for example, wish that everything they touched turned to gold, and find that it makes eating difficult).​ The customer might not find these moral dilemmas quite as funny as intended. They might even start to think that they have a right to demand a refund. That’s when you move shop. Now, as you know, each magic shop is equipped with a multi-dimensional time warp motor. The switch should be hidden beneath the counter. Press it once, and the shop moves to new market venues with less financial risk of being burned to the ground by an angry mob.​ And there you go. That should be all. Good luck, and may the gods of fortune smile upon you!
The Flies –
A Study in Macabre
(Available in full, press Read more)
Staring at the ceiling, I hear only the tick-tock-ticking of the clock, and that most abominable buzz, humming on the edges of my consciousness. A harmless sound, you would no doubt say, but to me it nonetheless feels like the very torment of hell. For this drilling noise has aimlessly wandered around my modest place of residence for hours on end, never once ceasing – except for one tick or perhaps a tock from the clock – before it has continued its effortless search. I no longer try to stand up and chase away the wretched creature. Instead, I have regressed to the form of a spectator, following the humming as it arrogantly invades every sanctum of my house. I can only listen. I have composed an intricately detailed diagnosis of my current state, for as I will tell you, I have had plenty of time. My body still has the sense of touch, that much is certain: I can sense with every limb, every inch of my skin. I have not lost any of my other senses, either. Instead, I can clearly feel the pulsing pain from the black spot – the damned spot, as lady MacBeth exclaimed! – the throbbing bite mark on my right arm. For my tormented mind, this source of illness corresponds with the descriptions of the mark of Cain; it is a sign of my own hybris, of my own ill judgment. Quietly, another high drone joins the duet which fills my hapless dwellings. The insects must delight in my helpless state, for they fearlessly sing their sonates of sickness, these pests that God once in his wisdom unleashed upon Egypt. In vain, they circle my house - in vain, for there is not a scrap of food to be found, no meal for these foul messengers from the ninth circle of the Underworld. It is their fault that I now lie on my own floor, unable to move, waiting for the evenfall and for the sunlight to fade. For here I was, mere hours earlier, tending to my dearest pet, the sole crown jewel of my scientific aspirations. As long as I can remember, I have had a fascination for all things living, especially the deadliest and most venomous of nature’s creations. This fascination, which has many a time bordered obsession, found no higher object for its research than the countless species of Aranae. For my scientific research, I have studied hundreds of different spiders, following their habits, extracting their venom, learning their mastery of silent death. It was one of my beloved research subjects – a member of the genus Phoneutria – that I had, carefully, mind you, taken from its cage, to admire its delicate movements, its detailed patterning. It was then that the plagued housefly, a pitiful prey for the mighty hunters that I studied, distracted me. I lashed out with my free hand. But for a moment, I forgot my respect for the emissary of death I was carrying. And in that moment, the majestic creature bit my hand; which is the cause for the black spot that now adorns my pale skin. I was fortunate that the spider was of no deadlier species, as then I would already be a corpse, after a short but agonizing struggle. For now, all I can do is wait. The effects of the poison should, if I have correctly calculated, exit my body soon. I must have fallen into a waking dream during these thoughts, for as I rise back to consciousness, it is already an early hour of dawn. I can recognize the hues of faint light, which are the kind one may witness in the moments before sunrise. I am surprised to find that the paralyzing effects are not yet gone: I am still unable to move or even turn my head. But there is a glimmer of hope. I can move my fingers, ever so slightly. I can not yet close my weary eyes, but I can move my gaze, focus on things, and perceive the room around me. There are more flies now. They have been awakened by the warmth of the early dawn. Some of them land close to me, cleansing their legs. The barely visible morning light that descends from the windows flickers from the insects that swarm the house. It is a choir singing of pestilence, and of a feast of carcasses, spoiled in the sun. How long has it been? Hours? Days? How long was I unconscious? They irritate me, these winged insects, the godless swarm drawing near my body. The sound of a thousand wings, gnawing my soul for all eternity, as they cover the limbs I am still unable to move. First, my legs. Then my arms. I can do nothing but witness their slow yet certain approach. The air is thick with these things and with the smell of sickness that they emit, like a veil of death they have brought upon this doomed house. There is no redemption, not unless the poison wears off soon. With the ascending sun my hope diminishes, as more and more of these foul creatures land on me. They rest on my lips, walk over my eyes (that I am unable to close, dried and strained in their mad stare). They suck the skin, taste the flesh with their rotten kisses. I realize now that they must have been wary at first, but finally they have grown hungry, too hungry to wait. There is still a chance - if only I were able to regain control of my body. With each moment, I feel a stronger response from my limbs. But the flies have become used to my motionless body. They can hardly wait for me to die. Perhaps they won’t. The sun rises behind their black cloud, descending upon me, while all I can do is lie still, awaiting, hoping.