thatwritingcorneroftheinter-blog

[thatwritingcorneroftheinter-blog]

A Study in Crossover

This story was originated from the following prompt:

Take your favorite TV show character of all time and put him or her into a different show that you enjoy. The character should be surprised to be in unfamiliar territory, but should interact with the other characters and, if possible, help them solve a problem. You can make up a scene or insert the character into an already existing scene from that show. It’s all up to you.

It was another foggy day in London and there was rain. Quite a lot of it.  

Sherlock was prostrated on the couch, staring at the multiple minimal cracks on the ceiling, wondering when he would have to alert Mrs. Hudson about its imminent crashing down. He came to the conclusion that he had at least 4 weeks, 3 and a half in the worst case scenario. If the upstairs neighbor didn’t decide to throw another one of those wine-tasting parties, maybe even 4 weeks and a half. Sherlock zoned out, considering what his life had become in the past days: staring out the window obsessively, scanning the street for possible clients and failing miserably at it.  

Outside his mind, the room was a mess. Through the entire morning, Sherlock searched his emergency cocaine stashes, revolving the fireplace, under the armchairs’ cushions, inside the old slippers by the window frame, underneath the fridge and even under the loose floorboard where he used to put the violin case.  

“John did find them, after all”, he thought. Rising up from the couch, Sherlock paced around the room, joining hands behind his back, his mind floating anywhere but his small flat in Baker Street. With the robe fluttering around his ankles, he considered a new search, this time for the handgun stuck inside the bed frame, by the bedroom. Surely, John would have taken away that boredom relief mechanism too, but one last small pursue wouldn’t hurt anyone but his own sense of self-government. To think that John and Mrs. Hudson have been conspiring against him on his back, planning malignantly to strip him away from his recreational activities – which John referred to as “snorting and shooting” – was outrageous. No clients, no opportunities to exercise his mental prowess, no cocaine and no blowing holes in the walls. Nonsense.  

John allowed him his nicotine patches, supported by Mrs. Hudson, who was never a fan of the pipe. However, the patches were long gone and leaving the flat to do anything that wasn’t nearly as exciting as a case was not on Sherlock’s plans. He walked around as much as he could, but the cold weather outside prevented him of sweating and feeling some of the physical exercise. Being as aggravated as he was, meditation wasn’t an option either.

Walking over the armchair close to the main window and jumping its backrest, Sherlock positioned himself once again against the window sill, arms crossed, as if defying the World to bring him something, anything. The game was not afoot, at least for now.

As if deciding to play his game, the World made noises downstairs. 

Walking across the living room and leaning against the door, Sherlock heard voices, one of them clearly Mrs. Hudson’s voice. The other one belonged to a man, probably young and absolutely American. Although his voice was clear, he couldn’t make out what the stranger was looking for. Mrs. Hudson didn’t welcome many guests through the years Sherlock has been her tenant, so this American man wasn’t her concern; he was obviously a client. “Just send him up already”, Sherlock muttered, hands around his ear on the door.

The man kept talking and Mrs. Hudson laughed. Sherlock sighed. Judging by the stranger’s steps climbing up the stairs, he was a lean man using heavy clothes, probably a rain jacket, considering the weather. Sherlock was confused by the lack of damp sounds, as if his overcoat wasn’t wet, which could be easily explained by a cab ride.  Nevermind a cab, he never saw one. Actually, he saw no one at all roaming the street, which was odd, given the fact that there was a man on his doormat right now.

There was a knock.

Sherlock straightened himself, much like a meerkat. Softly walking to the armchair, he rapidly sat down and lifted his legs over the padded footrest.  “Come in.”

The man that walked in was impossible.

“Hello, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

Never forgetting to pose, Sherlock placed his hands under his chin, fingers intertwined. “If you intend to surprise me calling me by my full name, you’ve failed. Please, have a seat”, Sherlock said, nodding towards the chair, in the middle of the room.

“I don’t have obscure intentions, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I need your help”, the man walked the room, his eyes floating around the place, never focusing on anything particularly, until he sat down. “I am Castiel and I’m an angel of the Lord.”

The silence became very palpable.

“I see.”, Sherlock finally broke the silent spell.

“You do?”

“Yes. And I am the Queen of England.”

“No, you are not, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” His face was as blank as the wall behind him. As a matter of fact, the wall had more personality than him, riddled with bullets as it was. The sprayed smiley face was a nice touch of modern décor.

“How did you get here?” Sherlock put his feet down, placing his elbows on both knees and scrutinizing the stranger. “You didn’t walk. You didn’t take a cab. You clearly don’t own a car. You keep calling by my full name even though you’ve never said yours.”

“I am Castiel. I’m an angel of the Lord. And I flew, or as humans tend to classify, I teleported.”

“Oh yes, surely. Now, if you excuse me, I rather die of boredom than engage in this little theatrical you’re trying to lure me into. Farewell.” Standing up, Sherlock walked to the kitchen, leaving the stranger frowning his strange forehead at his back.

“I don’t understand. The Winchesters told me you could help. Why should I leave?”

In the kitchen, the clinking of teacups started and Sherlock had already erased the stranger of his mind as a potential client. The boredom was returning, that hateful immortal enemy.

"Well, first, my time is much more precious than anything else you might want to offer me for it, and second", he said, stirring the tea and watching the vapor rise, "the tea will get cold. Have a nice day, Mr. Castiel, an Angel of the Lord."

Sherlock motioned his head towards the door, as to pointing the stranger his cue to leave.

"No? Fine then, stay. But let us skip this nonsense concerning angels and Lords and whatnots. Please, do get to the matters at hand."

"There are no matters in my hands." Castiel stared at his own hands, mesmerized and confused.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and cleared out his throat.

"What I cleary meant to say was for you to continue, sparing me of your nonsense."

Castiel blinked as if he was thinking deeply about it and spoke.

"God is missing. No one knows where He is and the Winchesters told me of a man that could find anything. Perhaps even God."

Sherlock was unmoved.

"I do understand this is merely a story in a book, but perhaps you could hear the clues and give me the answer as to where God is."  

"A story in a book?"

"Yes."

"… What is?"

"You are."

Sherlock sighed.

"Are you in use of any type of hallucinogenic, Mr. Castiel?"

"I don’t understand."

"Because you do sound quite mentally unstable to me."

"You, Sherlock Holmes, are a story inside a book. I came here to ask for your help to find God. That is all. And I am also not using drugs. Will you help me?"

"Surely."

Sherlock placed the teacup at the table in front of him, walking towards the fireplace and taking a fire stoker. 

Turning around and approaching Castiel, he knocked him in the head. The stranger passed out and fell face first on the floor.

Putting aside de fire stoker, Sherlock took his phone from his robe's pocket and started texting.

"There is a man in the flat who might know more about that book you've found.

Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.

- S "

[thatwritingcorneroftheinter-blog]

Running Over the Doctor

This story was originated from the following writing prompt:

Take your favorite TV show character of all time and put him or her into a different show that you enjoy. The character should be surprised to be in unfamiliar territory, but should interact with the other characters and, if possible, help them solve a problem. You can make up a scene or insert the character into an already existing scene from that show. It’s all up to you.

The Doctor ran across the street and almost died. Again.

"What the hell was that?!" Sam said, abruptly digging his foot on the breaks. As soon as the car stopped, he jumped out, followed by Dean, slamming the doors behind them.

"I don't know, but it can't be good, can it?" Dean kept on eyeing the stranger, in the middle of the street, unbelievably alive and well, but extremely confused.  

"We can never too be sure." Sam closed the trunk with a thud, shoving a trusted handgun on Dean's hands. "Come on, let's check it out."

The stranger was wearing a brown suit and a very bright red bowtie and seemed very interested on the road, circling around with some sort of pen.

"A-HA!" And with that, the man finally raised his head. "I knew it!" Taking notice on the double standing right by the roadside, he walked in a fast pace, completely ignoring the two handguns pointed at his chest.  

"Woah, buddy, you stay right there." Dean cocked his gun, changing the aim from the chest to the stranger's head. "Who are you and... Hey! HEY!"  

The stranger kept on walking towards them and pointed his backlit pen at the two guns. At the very tip of it there was a wubwub sound and the men heard a slight tic inside the guns' barrels.

"Oh, come on now, there is no need for all that fuss." The man smiled, putting away his weird illuminated pen inside one of his pockets. "You must be Sam and Dean, if I managed to drift the T.A.R.D.I.S. into the right time-gap-turn." The others looked at each other, silently. "I'm the Doctor!", said the man, putting his hand out.

Sam cleaned his throat and slipped the gun in the back of his jeans. "What Doctor?"

"Dude, what are you doing? You point that to the sick-o, you don't put it away!" Dean shook the gun in the Doctor's direction. Turning to the obviously lunatic man on the road, Dean raised his voice. "Look, I don't give a rat's ass about your doctorate, pal. Who are you and who sent you? And mostly, why are you not dead?"

"Really?! Oi, you", the Doctor lifted a finger at Sam. "You ruined the joke, you're supposed to say 'Doctor who?', so that I could approach and say 'Precisely'.” Turning to Dean, he softened his speech. "And you. I am not a sick-o. I'm the Doctor, the last of the Gallifreyans, the olden race of the Time Lords, searching the Universe seeking for those who are in need of help." He placed his finger over his mouth, thoughtfully. "Actually, I have been called a sick-o before. Maybe I am a little". He paused. "But that's not the point here. The point is..." The Doctor took a step forward. "I need your help."  

The trio head a light flap of wings.

"No, Dean, I don't know who he is. But he feels... Alien." Castiel spoke as soon as he landed, right by Dean's side as the human shuddered with the shock.

"God fucki... CAS! I told you, there's something called personal space and you HAVE to respect that!" Dean took a step sideways, lowering his gun. "What took you so long?"

Castiel walked forward, his eyes analyzing the man in front of him. "You are not a earthly creature, I have no recollection of you."

"Well, my winged-friend, that's because I'm not human. Just like you." The Doctor placed both hands on his beltline. "But I do love humanity. Just like you. And now that we are all properly introduced, let us go straight to business, shall we?" He pulled from his vest a worn-out book, yellowed by the passage of time. “As I was saying, I do need your help.”

[thatwritingcorneroftheinter-blog]

The Mistery of William Faraday

The characters in the following story - with the exception of Jonathan Caldwell, Elizabeth Caldwell and Dr. Willows - are original from  Nerdcast, a brazilian podcast about all the nerd things (and RPG), mainly from the episode 549 - Call of Cthulhu 1: The Mistery of William Faraday.

As I write this down, I cannot believe I have been lead to do so. It is a strange story and if those words have any capability of translating what that night in the Newcastle Asylum was, so be it.

This story starts at Thomas E. Faraday’s home, an immense old English mansion, located at the very heart of London’s aristocracy nest. 

It was 1936, and the horrors of the World War were not yet out of the good men’s mind. Still, we used to gather together at least once a year so that those memories could remain just memories instead of terrible cases of mental and body illness.

Every year, my husband and I would leave our home in Rye to meet with our comrades - or rather his comrades. Jonathan was one of the many men who fought the World War and by the time it was over, the trenches had given him good friends and horrifying stories to share with them. 

Those meetings were not always merry in the ways their memories used to lead, but Jonathan needed them, as much as I needed them to keep Jonathan sane. So, I accompanied my husband for as long as he could, given the state of his leg injury, one of the many wounds that the War had left behind; being cut in the thigh by a treacherous enemy who had slipped under the camp’s barriers, Jonathan was never again able to walk without his cane and the conditions of the injury would not get better with time. 

Eventually we were no longer allowed to travel away from home by Dr. Willows, which brought our friends to Rye two years in a row. However, third time was not a charm and Jonathan passed away, leaving me in a cold stone manor in the middle of nowhere, alone and unsupported. 

At that time, turning to my own family was not an option, for they had never been too keen about my marriage with Jonathan; in their eyes, Jonathan’s low quantities of material possessions were certain proof of my lack of self-respect. The only ones that could continue to support me were Jonathan’s friends. My friends.

So there we were, gathered once again - this time in London, at Faraday’s. 

Thomas Faraday was a man guided by Reason, with capital R. Professor at the University of Oxford, Faraday would proudly conduct me through corridors and corridors of British science history, discoursing about the novelties in America, with his basset Billy running around his feet. The proud owner of a small belly, Faraday was the absolute embodiment of a good living. I had been with him since Christmas; at the time, as if noticing my unwillingness to return to the country side, Thomas invited me to stay a few more weeks, at least until the meeting, to which I gladly agreed. 

Pleasant reading days and slow walks amongst the trees at the Regent’s Park helped to keep away from my mind the upcoming reunion, the first one without Jonathan. Of course, they were all present at the funeral and aided me into my first days of grief, and surely, they have suspended the next year’s meeting to allow me more time, but they were not without judgment. I had been a widowed woman for nearly two years now, an individual to be reckoned with, and not just Jonathan’s wife anymore. I had no idea if that would change anything between our little strange group, but I was about to discover.

James K. O'Flanagan was strangely the first one to arrive. As Irish as an Irish man can be, O’Flanagan was a man of his own convictions; one could never argue with him without the impression of being left deeply insulted. A former red-haired man, he was now the bearer of a completely gray head and a very thick mustache, laid upon thin and somewhat mordacious lips, which was not able to turn his fit figure any less elegant. As I have mentioned, O’Flanagan had no filter when it came to the Great Britain’s way of life, being a fierce critic and feeding the wildest fire within his guts against the British Empire. Yet, somehow, he had managed to find accordance while being in the same room as Thomas Faraday, the personal representation of a British Golden Era of old family riches. 

Upon O’Flanagan’s arrival, I could smell the Jameson emanating out of his pores. His first step into the Faraday’s mansion was followed by a nod to the butler, handing his wet hat and vest to a steward and sipping from a small liquor flask.

“Mrs. Caldwell! You have made it through this rain!”

O’Flanagan came to me with arms opened, as I did to him. Reaching for a reassuring hug, O’Flanagan kept me inside his arms for quite a while, before Faraday entered the room.

“I have been in London since Christmas, James, there was no need to worry”, I said, unable to retreat my smile towards the enthusiastic man. “Thomas has been a wonderful host, enduring bravely through all my complaints.”

“Quite the opposite, I would argue. You have been the most patient and condescending listener of all, Mrs. Caldwell”, Faraday replied, offering his hand towards the other. “Welcome, O’Flanagan. I take you had some trouble with the big city’s weather.”

“Ay, I had some trouble with the weather, but I would not go so far as calling a shite hole such as London a big city”, O’Flanagan retorted, shaking the offered hand.

“Boys, a little more civility would be desired, yes?”

As I tried to calm the nerves in the front hall, there was a new knock. The butler reached once again for the main hall door, welcoming a tall and slim figure, weathered to his soul. 

Stephen H. P. Venkmman’s round glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, revealing a small quirk when he pushed up the frame with his finger.

“The skies are falling, I say”, Venkmman stated while handing the soaked overcoat to the steward, barely eyeing the boy at all. “Never seen a day in London when I could see the next step in front of me, there is always water gushing from the sky.”

“Oh, but it’s the big city’s weather, Venkmman” taunted O’Flanagan, making room on the large colonial sofa in the main living room. Raising a glass that was already somehow filled with Scotch, the Irish man let out a scornful smile, and drinking slowly from the golden liquid, O’Flanagan lost himself at the bottom of the glass.

Faraday took no more than a few seconds staring at the man sitting on the couch. Crossing the room and heading to the hall, he patted the good doctor on the shoulder.

“Glad to see that you have decided to come, friend. I have not received any news concerning your whereabouts in the last months, so I assumed tha—“

“I have been engaged in my most recent research, Faraday, I do not have time to spare when it comes to science, as you well know. Being as far as Africa goes, I got… caught up with... uh... work.” Venkmman cleared his throat and paced away from the hall.  

Stephen Howard Phillips Venkmman was, above all, a scholar. Graduated and mastered by the University of Oxford in Practical Physics, Venkmman started his academic life teaching and demonstrating the Laws of Nature, to which his interests developed to a more obscure outlook on science and lead him towards studying and researching about Parapsychology and unnatural events. Throughout the last years, Venkmman had been the last one to arrive at our reunions, always apologizing for his delays and never explaining the reasons for such lateness, restraining his narratives to the natural beauties of the uncharted lands he went to in his unknown studies. 

Thomas would survey Venkmman’s works in secret, thinking that his own envy and childish quarrel were well hidden under his politeness and high breeding, but a mindful woman is always able to delve into a man’s ego and I can tell you, Faraday nourished some hatred against Venkmman. Theory versus Practice, Word versus Speech, Study versus Experience. I believed that confrontation to be more than natural in the Academy, given that they were both brilliant professors, however the intellectual strife shed through the Oxfordian walls, creating an endless sensation of unease between them.

Physically, Venkmman was a strange man. He had a long pale face, adorned by round golden glasses, with eyes mostly gazing away from the common focus. His lengthy body gave away the lack of commitment to a routine of physical exercises and his shoulders and back slightly arched forwards indicated nights of heavy reading. Overall, Venkmman was aeons away of being a horrifying creature to look at. The man was nothing more than peculiar.

After the guest and the host had traded subtle sparks, I approached O’Flanagan, circulating around the sofa and resting my weight against its backrest.

“What is your guess this time? The Luba tribe, the Mongo tribe, the Tigrayans, the Maghrebis?”, I questioned, nodding towards Venkmman, who was staring out the window, looking distracted by the flow of the rain. O’Flanagan sighed and drank the last of his whiskey.

“To be quite honest, I could not give any less fucks. The man is insane, dealing with savages, barbaric rituals and whatnot. It does not surprise me all the gibberish that comes out of his mouth.”

“Should you be judging the man? Were you not closing deals on armaments and fumes the last time we spoke?” I walked around O’Flanagan, sitting beside him. “You look insane to me, dealing with savages, contributing with barbaric rituals and whatnots. And the gibberish is called ‘science’, you should get used to it.”

“You amuse me, Mrs. Caldwell. You take me for a man that cares. For all I know, those African tribes could be putting my guns up their arses at this exact moment.” O’Flanagan turned to me with half a smile and took my hand on his calloused one, stroking it. “Your snarky comments have been dearly missed, Elizabeth.”

While we kept on with the amenities, there was one last knock on the door for the night. As we could all guess, it was Giácomo Di Monti, the last one of our small group of survivors. 

Giácomo was an young Italian stud: tall, strong, built as a marble beam, he was on the top of the most influential boxers at the time, with the unbelievable score of no losses over the five years he had been on the business. Giácomo met my deceased husband first, while taking care of the wounded and arranging transportation for the dead. As a church-raised man, Giácomo went to war with the sole purpose of helping those who needed, secured from the real conflict by the Catholic Church, which kept him alive while he tended for the dying ones. Nevertheless, Di Monti saw as much terrors as any other man, witnessing in firsthand the bloodbath and helping Jonathan stitch and sew living and dead bodies.

Giácomo has always been a scenic man, which explains the constant need of shouting and speaking loudly. Entering Faraday’s living room – or any other room, for that matter - the first thing in sight was his broad shoulders, highlighted by the light-colored suit. Born in Italy, the Italian in Giácomo was mainly concentrated on his facial features, giving him a well-defined bone structure and tanned skin. Besides being strikingly handsome, Giácomo Di Monti was a sweet oaf in the way of dealing with people, at least outside the box ring.

“Were you all waiting for me? I'm here now, we can start with the dancing and the celebrating!”

“Unfortunately, times are not auspicious to dancing and rejoicing, my big friend”, Faraday warned, placing briefly his hand on Di Monti’s back. “If you could all take a seat, I have with me news that will require the attention and the sympathy of the whole room.”

(Continues)

[thatwritingcorneroftheinter-blog]

An Arcade Full of Vampires

“It was already close to nine when we arrived at the arcade. And it was full of vampires.

I don't really know what you want me to say, that IS what I saw and that IS what happened. I don't know how many times you want me to repeat that.

Look, I know you still don't believe me and probably never will, but honestly, I don't even care anymore. I'm alive. That's all that matters to me and you can look into that mirrored glass all you want, sir, it won't change a single dot in my story. It’s not fake, just so you know.”

(inaudible question)

“Yeah, I can. Sure.

So, it was already close to nine when we arrived at the arcade. It's always a good time to get around the games, because the smaller kids are not there anymore and you know how kids can be loud. First it was just me, but then I met up with Johnny and Caleb inside, waiting to play Street Fighter. You know, the one with the kicks and such. The guys were standing behind these two creepy dudes, playing silently. I mean, come on, no one plays Street Fighter in total silence, unless you can't speak at all. Or you're dead.”

Anyway, Johnny and Caleb were just standing there, waiting for their turn, chatting the time away, when I got there and joined them. We talked a bit before they complained about the gothic duo, wearing nothing but black. I wasn't even sure if they were guys, to be honest. What I know is that they were as tall as you can be in a kids arcade without calling too much attention to yourself. Tall and skinny. I remember I could tell how skinny they were because of their boney hands. Clicking and smashing the buttons, white boney hands. Skeleton-ish hands. We stood there for almost 20 minutes, for sure. They weren't leaving, playing one round after the other, like there was nobody else waiting. I talked to Johnny, 'cause he's pretty burly and strong for a teenager, you know. I said ‘Hey, Johnny, come on.’ He didn't say anything back and just followed me. Caleb is a chicken, so he...”

(silence)

“Well, I guess Caleb was a chicken...”

(silence)

“I huh... I tapped on the left boney dude's shoulder and said ‘Hey, man, we're waiting here, can't you go play something else?’ I didn't get a good look at his face right then and there, but I bet he didn't even bat an eyelid. I tried to talk again and that was when things got fuck up. Sorry, officer. I mean, really bad.”

(silence)

“No, you know what? You cross that. Fuck up pretty much sums it up. I blinked, and one of those guys was right behind me and Johnny in a jiffy. No, no, I half blinked and he was already there. No joke. The guy put a hand on Johnny's neck and just tossed him away, I swear. All I could register was arms and legs flying around the room and falling right over the Crazy Ride. The one with the exploding cars, you know. Caleb screamed and that was it. The other dude jumped on Caleb, and smacked him on the face, just like you slap a bug flying around your ears, but this dude wasn't a normal dude. He was a vampire, I'm telling you. Caleb's neck twisted so much that I couldn’t see his face anymore, just the back of his head, as he fell face first into the ground. I mean, backwards... with his face on the ground. I remember the gross thud his face made when it hit the floor.

I was still pretty shocked, you know? I mean, Johnny was nowhere to be seen and Caleb was fucking dead just beside me. I... couldn't hold it in, so I.. peed my pants... Just a little, you know? The smell brought the attention back to me, I guess. The dudes turned their heads to each other and as soon as I saw, they were side by side again, like The Flash. I started to push my body towards the back wall, to get away and maybe up to leave, but my legs felt like cinder blocks.

I blinked and there was three of them. Then I blinked again and there was four of them. Each time there was one more, until I couldn't see the arcade machines anymore. I looked at Johnny on the ground, just by my feet. He had a fish kind of look, you know? I needed to leave, I knew that. Not because of the vampires. Because of Johnny. I had to get away from his sight, his dead fish sight, judging me, hating me, calling me.

That was when I heard a humming from one of the machines. I was almost touching the wall with my back when I saw a small corridor behind all the machines, where they left a space to plug them in with those giant cables.  

I crawled.  

I crawled so fast through those cables that I don't know how the fuck I'm not dead, fried like a corndog. God put those cables there, and God put the last machine right by the door, 'cause I'm sure I'd be vampire popsicle right now if it wasn't the case. So, after I crawled, I ran. I ran outside, as fast as I could, and all I could hear was the flapping of a thousand wings inside the arcade. Flapping, like weird leather sails. Meat sounds.

And the screams. I mean... Not... screams per se, you know. They were... screeches. Dying bird screeches. Guess they were really hungry.  

You know, I was thinking about one thing, officer.

They kind of saw me...

They saw me...”

(sound of chair scraping the floor)

“OFFICER. THEY SAW ME.”

(footsteps)

“NO. NO, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THEY.. THE-- THEY KNOW ME THEY KNOW MY FACE THEY'LL GET TO ME AND THEY'LL KILL ME DON'T YOU SEE?!”

(sound of door opening)

“YOU... WH--at... Why are you opening the door? Will you let me off? Oh man, Jesus, thank God. You know, I...”

(more footsteps, now from the hall outside)

“Who's that? Who are you?”

(footsteps approach the recorder)

“I know you...

Don't. Please, mister... I-I swear... I swear I won't tell anybody... Please...”

(end of recording)

[thatwritingcorneroftheinter-blog]

What is this?

Hi, I’m Nat.

I’m an amateur writer and I wanted to share the texts that I have already written with you, the Internet.

I don’t really know how this is going to work out, but here I am, out in the world, ready for you all to read my thoughts and words.

Have fun, poke around. I tend to right a lot of different themed things, so you’ll probably find your cup of tea pretty soon. Just look around, peruse a bit.

If you had a cool ideia and you don’t quite know how to develop it, send me a message and we can do it together!

Feel free to sugest me things and to colab with the stories that I post.

I’m waiting for you!