Frozen Landscapes: My New Story

Hey everyone!

I’ve decided to work on a story on a separate blog, at The story is called “Frozen Landscapes,” (working title) and here’s what it will be about (no spoilers, I promise).

A century in the future, humanity has been forced to live underground because of the harsh climate on the surface. Phoenix, the son of a powerful official, goes upstairs regularly to give away his clothes to the needy poor, whose ancestors decided to stay behind. On one fateful visit, he discovers an alien girl who has been dormant for decades, unnoticed. She wakens and together they have to prove that humanity is worth saving.

That’s as far as I can go without giving anything away.I Have the feeling that it will be a really great story, and encourage you to give it a look.

And don’t worry! I will still be posting to mikkiaaron, just maybe not as often.

Please check out the story (see link as listed previously), and share and give feedback!

Ciao for now,



Book Review: The Witch Collector

15842190In the evening, I picked up a kindle, excited to read The Witch Collector Part One by Loretta Nyhan. My fingers flew by the screen and time passed, and eventually it was three in the morning. I finished the book first thing the next day.

The book drew me in from the first page, which set up the desire to learn more about the characters and their situation. Nyhan describes a witch’s funeral and mentions several of the story’s key players, making the reader ask questions like “Why?” and “How?” about the workings of the witch coven and the mysterious death. And this was just the prologue.

Before long, I was tied up in the story of teenage witch Breeda and her bizarre relocation to Chicago. An unexpected disappearance, the new coven she meets, and a strange family history give the story a set of characters and motives to keep your eyes glued to the words.

The only thing that disappoints me about the book is that I have to wait for Part Two to come out!

Ciao for now,


P.S. the Witch Collector Part Two comes out in May, so the disappointment isn’t going to last very long!

Valentine’s Braces: A Short Story


“What color are you getting?” Amy asked, drumming her fingers against the arm of the chair.

“Red. You?”

“Red?” Amy questioned, raising an eyebrow. “Why red?”

“Because,” Daryl answered, “Valentine’s Day is coming and red suits the occasion.”

“Yes, but you’ll have to have it way past Valentine’s Day.”

“That’s alright.”

“Alright?” Amy was puzzled. “I thought guys hated Valentine’s Day.”

Daryl shrugged, saying, “Only some of us, I guess.” Then, realizing how that sounded, he added, “It’s not that I love it or anything. I just don’t hate it.”

“If you don’t love it, then why are you getting red brackets?”

A woman in a light blue uniform called for Daryl.

“I gotta go, Amy,” he shrugged, a rue smirk on one half of his mouth. Amy rolled her eyes in response.

She knew for a fact now that he was planning to invite Felicity to the Valentine’s Day Party that Dan Coledike threw every year. Her fingers kept drumming against the arm of the chair. Felicity was an incredibly decent person who, for no apparent reason, was still single. Amy herself was planning on getting an invitation from Clark, a tall-dark-handsome type with a quick wit and the most amazing sense of humor that anyone’s ever had. His smile was so perfect that just by looking at him

Felicity is obviously who Daryl likes, even if he hasn’t come out and said it yet. It’s the way that he looked away from her whenever she came into the room, not like he was mad at her but like he didn’t want to be caught looking at her. Amy wondered if she did that whenever Clark walked into a room. But that would make sense, because Clark was easily the most attractive person she’d ever met. He had these eyes that were blue, not like a light blue or a gray blue, but a blue like the blue that the top of the sky is in the middle of the day. He had the most amazing eyes that put her in a trance every time he

Amy would have to talk Daryl into asking Felicity. She didn’t care how long it took, as long as he did what he really wanted to do in his heart.

Amy’s fingers drummed faster and harder than before.

Daryl thought about Kyle. Kyle was who Amy liked. It was really obvious that she did. Not sure what gave it away, but it was really obvious. Daryl hated Kyle. Daryl hated the way Kyle would laugh through his nose like he was a choking walrus. That stupid obnoxious laugh. The way he flirted with every girl he’s ever met, and then some. Whether or not he’s interested. He hated how he made Amy like him, if even Daryl himself couldn’t. Daryl couldn’t get her to bat an eyelash at the idea that they could be more than friends. Not that he’d tried so much. Clark tried. Clark tried every day. Clark wanted to ask her to Dan Coledike’s Valentine’s Day party. He might have had the guts to, but Daryl didn’t. Daryl couldn’t come close, not even after being her friend for a year. He felt like a wuss next to Clark. Clark planned on asking her. Why couldn’t he? What made him so cautious?

A woman called for Amy.

“What color are you getting?” Daryl asked Amy as she walked in and took the heavily padded seat next to him.

“Pink,” she said. “For Valentine’s Day.”

He gave her a genuine smile. “Copying my idea?”

She shrugged, making a face that said maybe all on its own. “Maybe… Hmm. Can I tell you something, Daryl?”


“Can you promise not to overreact?”she begged.


“Promise,” she ordered.

“I promise.”

“I like Clark.”

Daryl gasped. “Really? Not Kyle?”

“Kyle?” she demanded, then, in a more deliberate tone, “Kyle? Why would I like Kyle?”

“I thought you did, is all.”

“Okay, that works.” She smiled, then said, “Would I be correct to assume that you like Felicity?”

Daryl shook his head in a part-mocking, part-intensely-disagreeing way. “You would be very wrong to assume that.”

“Who do you like then?”

“I’ll tell you later, maybe.”

“Are you okay, Daryl?”

“Yeah, just tired.”

“If you say so.”

“Do you know what color you want, or would you like to see the chart?” someone in blue asked.

“Silver,” Daryl answered. “Because it’s cold out, you know?”


Oh, You Know: A Short Story

I’m sitting up against the wall, with my gluteus maximus pressed right up against it and my legs don’t touch the wall at all except for several feet above my rear end where my ankles are against it, which I guess aren’t really a part of my legs but I count the feet as an extension of the legs.

I just got this wonderful shade of Iridescent-Pomegranate-Maroon which I now spread all over my toenails with this dinky little black brush that’s absolutely coated in the stuff and is mostly useless anyway.

The guy who checked me out at the store was at least six feet, with this hair that sort of flipped around on his head like a black ocean and one of those faces you don’t want to stop looking at. Seventeen, at the oldest, probably sixteen. The only problem was he didn’t really bother to look at me very much the entire time he was checking me out, and I assume that he did it because I was buying some cheap nail polish just because it was such a pretty color. I’ve noticed that those kinds of girlish habits tend to turn a guy away pretty quickly.

At that point I really wished that I hadn’t snuck that little jar of nail polish into the groceries mom sent me out to get. All that was on the grocery list was a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, and a box of Marlboro cigarettes, which come in the very fancy red box, and the trés hot guy who checked me out willingly passed them over to me from behind the counter, without even questioning. They’re not for me, but who doesn’t smoke (other than me)?

When he scanned the nail polish, that’s when his eyebrow raised a little, and then he ever-so-gently laid it into the plastic grocery bag like something so dainty.

He ripped off the receipt with precision and handed it to me, with a pen, and his head looking directly down like the counter was the most interesting thing in the whole world.

He had freckles and rosy cheeks.

I signed the receipt with the best forgery of my mother’s signature I could muster and he gave me back the credit card, which was all red and shiny like the nail polish. I tucked it away and took my part of the carbonless paper, which was yellow like fluid elimination.

That bag that said Enrique’s neighborhood Grocery, filled with vegetables and things that needed to be refrigerated, was humiliating to carry. The moment I got home I dashed the groceries across the counter and ran into my room, where I put on my birthday suit. I double-checked to see if the door was locked, but it didn’t matter anyway, because mom snuck the nail polish right under the door like it was something I wanted. Half of my mind wanted to force her to take it back, but another part of the Pomegranate was so seductive that I took it and, with my heels propped up against the wall, began painting.

I’m finished with them now. They look really pretty in a way that only nail polish can make toenails, those ugly things on the most horrendous part of a body, look.

Turning Left: A Short Story

“You’re gonna like her,” Logan promised.

Logan was about twenty years old or so. He was handsome enough, a face with unusually large lips for a man arched over by a swish of black hair. When he smiled, every part of him seemed to turn into straight, white teeth.

“I don’t want to like her.” Ethan had a voice slightly lower than Logan’s, and a hit few notes darker. “I want to love her.”

“Hey, hey,” Logan interrupted. “We’ve been good friends for how many years now? What, ten? Since we were teenagers is good enough for me. I know you like I know my brother. You’re gonna like her. She was made for you.”

“Made for me?”

“Made for you.”

A heavy sigh escaped two thinly parted thin lips that belonged to Ethan Wallace.

“What if she doesn’t like me?”

“Who cares!” Logan’s voice resounded all around the station. He quickly piped down. “Listen. Listen to me. We’re like brothers.”

“You used that one already, Logan,” Ethan stated dryly. “And no matter how close we are, I’m not going to feel any better about meeting…”

“Fyona.” Logan didn’t want to hear Ethan mess up the pronunciation of the name again. It wasn’t Fiona, it was Fyona.

“Fyona. Her.” Ethan still wasn’t sounding confident.

“Come on, buddy.” Logan gave his old friend awkward kind of hug consisting of his own right arm and Ethan’s right shoulder. “You’re gonna love Fyona. She’s a real beauty, did I tell you that? Did I tell you about her eyes?”

“Yes, you told me about how beautiful she is, and her eyes, and whatever else you could tell me about her appearance.” Ethan turned suddenly to his friend in earnest, feeling a hand slide reluctantly from his shoulder.

“Look, buddy…”

“She’s no good.”

“Did I say that?”

“You implied it.”

“I didn’t imply it, Ethan.”

“It was the way you said ‘Look buddy’.” He said the words with no tone himself, but let the past speak for him.


“It was the way you wouldn’t tell me what her personality is like.”


“For like the past week.”



Ethan and Logan exhaled simultaneously.

“Ethan, your train is coming.”

“What if she doesn’t like me?”

“You said you were desperate, Ethan. You said it. Now I’ve gotten you a…something to fill your desperation…that…what did you say? Hole in your life?”

Ethan looked up to Logan, who was a few inches taller than him, with his lips pressed tightly together, and some sort of worry he didn’t quite understand himself in his eyes.

“Thanks, buddy.”

“Anytime for my brother.”

Ethan was never particularly fond of trains in any way. But getting on this one was doubly as hard as it should have been.

He sat in one of those seats that didn’t go along the wall of the train but instead faced the opposite direction the train was going. Across from him were two girls, maybe a year younger than he was, staring at him and giggling slightly. He crossed his arms across his chest and looked down at the floor. There was an engraving down there, a heart with four initials inside of it. He slid his foot over the heart and looked back up. The two girls were smiling in the corner of his eye, but all he saw was whooshing gray with occasional blasts of color from spray cans.

Subways, in his opinion, were even worse than trains.

The two girls stared at him intently. He didn’t feel their gazes go away, so he didn’t dare look back to them. Looking out the window, he saw a bit of dirty-blond hair and a blue sweatshirt. The other girl was invisible to him entirely.

The subway slowed to a stop. Doors opened. Two pairs of long legs straightened in front of him. Since the girls were no longer watching him, he watched them leave. The girl with the dirty-blond hair and the blue sweatshirt wasn’t much to look at. But her friend, who had short-cropped, dark hair, so black it was blue, naturally, was pretty. She had smoky gray eyes and walked like a model, naturally. She seemed so natural, so beautiful. She looked back to him, and something made of lead dropped into his stomach.

The next stop was the one Ethan got off at.

Something about this station was a little cleaner than the one he had been at with Logan. Maybe it was everything.

Ethan shrugged the hood of his jacket down to his shoulders. Logan had given him a comb, and he pulled it through his hair in an attempt to look somewhat better.

Waiting for him with an expectant lift in the tips of her toes was a girl near a cement column. She fit every physical description Logan had been giving him over the last week. She leaned into him like he could never walk fast enough, like he might turn and walk away before he ever saw her. She smiled pointedly at him, and, with some kind of dread and some kind of reluctance in his heart, he dutifully strolled in her direction.

“Hey!” she said in a voice like maple syrup. “You’re Ethan, right?”

“Yeah. And you’re Fyona?”

“Yes. You really look like an Ethan,” Fyona commented.

“I get that a lot.” He shrugged.

“So do you want to…”

“Go?” Ethan asked, suddenly, as if startled. “Oh yeah, sure.”

Fyona wasn’t very tall. She didn’t even come up to Ethan’s shoulder. Her hair was long and a dark shade of chestnut, which waved its way down to her middle back. She held her hand close to his, close enough that static electricity buzzed between the two of them.

“What do you do?” she asked, looking right to him.

“For a living?”


“Anything I can,” he replied dryly.

“Hmm,” she murmured. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“No,” he answered honestly, with a bit of awkwardness in his tone.



“Yes, good,” she repeated. “You have common sense.”

“You’re weird.”

Fear flashed across Ethan’s face before her answer came and drained the fear away.

“I know,” she smiled and looked up to him. “I get that a lot.”

“Are you…mocking me?”

“Maybe.” She stopped talking, and walking. “Where are we going?”

Ethan’s shoes scuttled to a stop. “I’m not sure.”

Fyona was wearing a green pea coat that looked new and sunglasses that, though large enough to swallow her eyebrows and the tops of her cheekbones, looked like an airplane pilot’s. She pinched the sleeve of the long-sleeved shirt she had on under the coat, which had skinny and even white and blue stripes, to her palms, using her fists. Leather boots that reached her knees, the same shade as her hair, seemed very natural on her.

“Well, I’m not particularly hungry,” Fyona began. “Maybe we could eat later and just walk around now.”

“Sounds okay,” he said, complying and nothing more.

The light of day was at the top of the staircase. The busy honking, stepping, and chatter of a city became clearer as the two climbed to the surface.

“You ever been downtown before?” Fyona asked.

“No,” Ethan answered. “Is that a bad thing?”

Fyona smiled and let out a half-hearted laugh. “I can show you around.”

“So would I be justified in asking you where we’re going, then?”

“That depends on whether you want to turn right or left here.”

To the left of the two of them lay a long strip of black stuff, upon which yellow taxis, red sports cars, and black executives rushed past. Turning left would mean having to wait for the traffic to stop, and then run across as the little white man in the light crossed his own street. Turning right would mean nothing more.


“Right.” She seemed to ponder his decision momentarily. “Okay, right it is.”

Now do you know where we’re going?”

Fyona’s walk wasn’t glamorous. It was borderline on clunky, and it would be if she didn’t have a spark in her toes as she stepped up and again as she stepped down. She also slid her hips from side to side in correspondence with her feet, giving her walk an edge of supermodel. But it suited her. It was natural.



“You’ll see.” She smiled and looked up to him. The blue of the sky, some scattered clouds, and the tips of the skyscrapers were reflected in her sunglasses, in lieu of eyes.

“Are you going to blindfold me?” he asked jokingly.

“No,” she answered. “But I don’t think I have to. You seem to have done that yourself.”

“Oh? And how so?”

“Well, you said you’ve never ben downtown before!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “Speaking of which, we have to turn left here.”

Cars whirred by in a flurry of colors.

Fyona reached out and grabbed Ethan’s wrist.

“On the count of three we run.”

“What?” Ethan screamed, unashamed. “Are you crazy!?”


“Wait, are you serious!?” Ethan shouted over the traffic. “Are we really going to run through traffic!?”



The couple dashed across the busy street. Horns blared. Tires screeched. A flash of a headlight, orange and red, sparked inside of Ethan’s eye. Time slowed down, and even the slapping of his own feet on tar made only infrequent, dull thuds inside his ears. The expressions of drivers as they stomped onto their brakes were all reflected in his own.

Then he felt Fyona’s hand. How long ago was it that she had twisted it around his wrist? Now it was in his palm. His palm to her palm. Time returned to its normal passage, yet somehow his panic was subsided.

He almost tripped over the curb.

“Was that so crazy?” A happy, out-of-breath Fyona asked.

“No, not at all,” Ethan replied.



Fyona smiled. She removed her sunglasses, adding another element entirely to her smile. Her eyes were like emeralds. No, they were like peridots. Peridot eyes.

“Man, just wait until I tell Logan about the crazy things I’ve already done with my new girlfriend.”

Fyona stopped going wherever she was headed, and moved her feet to the curb. Ethan followed her. Despite their difference in height, their lips were only inches apart.

“Have you ever had a girlfriend before?”

Her peridot eyes seemed round, wet, and innocent, even though the long and naturally black eyelashes surrounding them made it obvious that they were actually narrow and intelligent. Either way, the color reflected so many different lights that the emotion hidden within the eyes and of the person behind them was up for interpretation.

“Yes,” Ethan said, sounding more defensive than he intended.

“What was she like?”

A blush of embarrassment danced across his cheeks.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

“No, it’s okay.” He exhaled sharply, then continued. “She was named Rachel. She was tall, leggy, and blonde, you know that type. She didn’t really care about what you were up to unless it directly involved her.”

“I know that type,” Fyona commented with a sour tone.

“Then I forgot to call her on her birthday.”

That was a mistake,” Fyona admitted.

“No it wasn’t.”

Those eyes. It felt like they could see right through him. They didn’t need to, though, because he wasn’t going to hide anything from them.

Fyona turned her gaze down to her feet, then back up to Ethan.

“Do you…think I’m like her?”

“Not at all,” Ethan replied, meaning those words more than he’d ever meant anything in his life.

She put her hands in his. It felt so natural.

What Am I Passionate About?

There are many things in this world that I really, really like. But there is a great separation between liking and passion.

Passion, is, by definition, a strong and barely controllable emotion. So there are good passions, and bad passions. An emotion is not necessarily a good thing.

I don’t think there is anything in my life that I hate with a burning passion, except for boredom. Although, I have a very complicated relationship with boredom…but that’s a story for another time.

The things that I like include the following:


•Talking with my friends

•Fantasy stories (i.e. The Inheritance Cycle, Dragonriders of Pern, etc. etc.)



But are any of these things true passions? This is the question I’m asking myself today.

Music is a big part of my life. If you take music away, it will seem to me that I have little left. When I listen to, perform, or write music, I am typically swept with emotion. And sometimes I am, in fact, unable to control it. So I think music is a passion.

When I talk to my friends, I rarely get emotional. And when I do, it is completely under my control. So that is not a passion, even if it is one of my favorite things to do in the entire world.

Fantasy stories, too, are a huge part of my life, and I think I am comparatively passionate about them. But they are one thing I could live without (although I really hope I would never have to) and are therefore not a passion.

Writing is one of the best things in the universe. If I couldn’t write, I would die. So writing is unquestionably a passion of mine.

Drawing is the last thing on my list. I love to draw and I am emotionally attached to all the drawings I do, if they’re good. I believe that drawing is a passion.

There. I have discovered a little bit about myself today. It’s a good feeling.

Ciao for now,