I don't think it matters what one places in this box. Thus, I'll put in this writing sample (a section from an early draft of science-fiction fantasy story I penned four years ago). A writing sample should tell you more about me than any list of do's, don'ts, should like or shouldn't or deal breakers. Although, the implications of a list itself generally conveys more information than does the words you choose to put on that said list. In biblical studies, the genealogies imply volumes of information. However, what usually happens (when reads scripture) is that the eye skips over the list of names and never experiences what those names mean and goes directly to the narrative.


Brakoog could feel life energy pulsing in waves all around him – surging, swelling penetrating every atom of his body. He further stilled his mind and looked down into his core seeking the tender voice that spoke to him, held him since he was a child. The image of a dark skinned lissom female swam into his eye. Her familiar black hair flowed down past her waist in loose ringlets. She smelled of tall spring grass and sweet wild flowers. She murmured soft cooing tones in a matronly voice. As Brakoog mouthed the word ‘mother,’ her image vanished a wave of emptiness and sorrow rushed into his chest as his throat constricted. Brakoog rapidly shifted his awareness by reciting a rhythmic incantation his old teacher Anuoo taught him. He did not want to savor her memory this time. His calm returned as breathing slowed; the strong wave of emotion passed out of his body like a whisper in the wind. His altered state deepened into a trance as he dove down through the ground past the ancient roots beneath him; he felt the pulse beat of the planet as a new power woke within. A warrior in brazen plate and chain amour with a long wicked black sword holstered across his back spun into his vision. Familiarity shrouded his presence. “Where do I know you from,” Brakoog formed the thoughts wordlessly. The warrior began to turn toward him, a voice boomed out of the void in an alien melodic language. He gestured with his left hand to a gold leaved book in his right. His head was completely shrouded by a helm. Only his eyes beamed out slits illuminating the darkness. He spoke again or more he chanted a simple melody. The warrior lifted the helmet off his head, but he had no face.

It was only in this place that Brakoog felt at home. Outside the temple, he was a stranger in a familiar land. He would try to spend a little time here everyday that he wasn’t off world. He assumed Shamoo felt the same, because she came almost as often. Several times, while still and adolescent, he journeyed all the way to the top. It was always a mind altering experience to go several days without food and only drinking the hearty water caught in catch pools along the way. He wished he could do it again, now, but with the business there was never the time.

When Shamoo and he were little children they would come here and listen to tales told by the priests of the kings of Barinza under the memorial statues at the center of the Temple. This was in the days before the Ninutratic dynasty took away their equal rights to the throne. They also told them of the first exodus on chemical powered boats to distant parts of the great-sea whose waters no oar had ever dipped. When twelve generations ships fled the birth world in the wake of a cosmic cataclysm that threatened their very existence. Where three singularities passed through their star system and the mother sun and all her children disappeared forever, from normal reality. Then after story time, the high priest would say prayers of thanksgiving to the ancients and ceremoniously offer them a drink of the magical water that filtered down through moss and tree. Invigorated they and other children would stand the day away in different tree poses dreaming about the heroic warrior magician kings of old.



Feel free to ask me anything, I'm an open individual, I live a simple life like a Charles Bukowski poem (wink...wink)...or...better... yet...YOU...send...compose a short story or poem dripping with flaring verbs, telling adjectives, and round compound nouns...

How about a poetry reading
the Seattle Poetry Slam is always fun
or the Waltz Cafe at the Century Ballroom
or to a downtown ballroom dance (I can waltz, foxtrot, and fake the rest)
or meet at the Sunset Tavern on Industrial Goth night listen to amusing music and trip down memory lane...