Even Monsters Have Mothers …

We’ve been witness to Grendel’s mother and her secrets. We’ve looked into the mind of Unferth. We’ve even gotten brief glimpses into Beowulf’s adolescence. But what about Grendel? He’s seemingly the heavyweight monster, aside from his mother and the dragon. Most people link his name with the epic poem before anything or anyone else. What did he think and feel before dying on the shores of his underwater homeland? Perhaps this might offer some insight … Beowulf: The Midgard Epic, come soon. Adventure awaits!

“What will my mother think of me, returning less and arm?
I thought I was invincible; that none could bring me harm!
The humans shook beneath my wrath; my razor claws ensnared
All men of every shape and size; some thirty if I dared!
My form can grow from small to large; my mouth can stretch around
Enormous beasts, ignoble birds, the wildest creatures found;
The fattest belly should I choose, and yet barehanded one
Has torn my precious mantle piece and seen my life undone!
This Beowulf, how strong his might, and yet I doubted him.
As all the other boasting fools, his light I planned to dim.
But dimmed instead my light, it seems, for blood has gushed and dropped
An issue so relentless; no, the bleeding hasn’t stopped!
I feel the flow of life within me ebb and slip away …
I fear my mother’s healing touch won’t let me live to slay.
The night provides an ample cloak to hide me ere I run.
The water’s edge approaches but I fear that I am done!
The vicious splash reminds me of the sound of my limb torn.
Oh, mother, I am coming; I grow cold; I am forlorn!
Around me beasts at my command appear a hungry league.
Oh, mother, I am tiresome; I am full of sad fatigue!
I fight my way below the deep; these horrors nip and gnaw.
Amazed, I am, by what they do; they trail me, open maw …
Ahead I see the secret cave; the doorway to our land;
A place I once felt welcomed; came and went, and with one hand
I claw and scrape myself unto the shore as breath depletes.
I hear the sounds, familiar, yet they fade in rapid suites.
I see her! Yes, she’s running as my moans depict my health.
About her glows her aura; magic swallowing my wealth.
Into her arms I crumble as my shape and form go limp.
A soothing whisper comforts, says ‘There, there, my little imp …
Oh, Grendel, who has done this? No, I know, so please don’t speak.
My child, I am still proud of you, no, you have not been weak.
A hex and curse upon them all; I’ll make their bodies singe!
No, Grendel, this is not your fault; know I will have revenge!’
A single tear escapes her eyes and drips upon my cheek.
The blood has flooded in my throat; is at its final peak.
Forever, now so final, not eternal, death come cover …
Encroaching is the darkness; as I die, I cry out, ‘mother’ … ”

James Matthew Byers resides in Wellington, Alabama with his wife, kids, a dog named after an elf, and two tortoises. He has been published in poetry journals and through Jacksonville State University in Jacksonville, AL, where he received his Master’s in 2010. His epic poem, Beowulf: The Midgard Epic, is coming soon from Stitched Smile Publications, LLC.

Find James Matthew Byers at:
Twitter: @Mattbyers40
Facebook: https://m.facebook.com/Mattbyers40/
Wordpress: http://jamesmatthewbyers.wordpress.com


Why I Chose an Indie Publishing Company

I’ve got a lot going these days when it comes to my writing, and my relationship with SSP. I was featured in “Unleashing the Voices Within” earlier this year. My own anthology, “Reaper,” will be releasing in the coming months. “Man Behind the Mask,” an 80’s slasher anthology written entirely by women and including my story, “Bloodbath,” comes out next month. In 2017, I have yet another anthology I’ll be published in, as well as a collaborative piece I’m working on with two fellow authors. And that’s not to mention my novel, which I’m continually working on. It’s a lot to keep me busy. It’s a lot to keep me excited. It’s a lot to keep me talking about.

The one question that keeps popping up when I talk about all these awesome writing projects, however, is “Are you making any money? How much? When? Will you make any money?” And when I inevitably answer, “No” or “Not yet,” the question that people don’t dare to speak, but is blatant on their faces is “Well, what are you getting out of it, then? Why have a publisher if you’re not getting paid?”

Well, here’s the thing. There’s this old adage that says “It takes money to make money.” And for the record, I don’t have much money. I don’t have the money to hire a professional editor, to buy a professional cover, to cover the cost of having someone market my work for me. I just don’t.

Most of us don’t.

I won’t even bother to go into the numerous issues that go into trying to get published traditionally, especially if you’re gunning for one of the Big Four. We all know what they are. We all know how marginally slim the chances are of us getting those contracts, and we all know the system–like most everything else–is rigged to a certain extent.

So what options are left?

Well, you can try and make a go of it yourself (which I have)–and if you want to succeed, you need the things I mentioned above. Professional editing, cover work, and marketing. All of which I can’t afford.

Or, you can look into a small indie publishing company. Now, yes, you do have to be careful. There are a lot of people out there looking to make a quick and easy buck, and that equals scams. But if you do your research, if you shop around, you can find ones that are worth your time.

Which is what I’ve done.

I have found a publishing company that puts me first. My work goes through a strict and severe editing process. At no cost to me. Professional covers are designed for my books. At no cost to me. And while I put a lot of time into marketing my own work, as well as the work of my fellow authors, my fellow authors reciprocate and market the hell out of mine. Since joining SSP, the number of my Twitter and Facebook followers has soared, as has the number of hits on my blog. People are starting to recognize my name. They’re getting to know me, and they’re getting to know my work.


No. So far I haven’t made any money off the anthologies I’ve been published in. I’ve received contributor’s copies. Many of the anthologies are donating proceeds to charity. There is no financial gain for me at this point. But there will be. Because people are getting to know me, and they’re getting to know my work.

So by the time I release “Reaper,” which is all my work, and of which I’ll earn a percentage of the proceeds, by the time I finish my novels and they’re ready for publication, I’ll have put the time and work into developing a reputation. Not only for myself, but for my publishing company. Readers will know when they buy a book by Briana Robertson they’re getting a good story, and they’ll also know when they buy a book by Stitched Smile Publications, they’re getting a quality piece of work.

That’s why I chose an indie publishing company. Because while money may be the eventual goal, it’s not the immediate goal. Because as an emerging, unknown author, it’s just as important to me–more important to me–to be a part of a family. To have a support system. To have people I can depend on, that I know have my back. That will give me honest criticism. That will help mold me into the best version of myself, as a person, AND an author.

If I worry about my writing, the money will follow.

In today’s world of self-publishing, with anybody and everybody calling themselves authors and writing books, it takes a village to make it. It takes a village to survive.

And I’ve found mine.


~~Briana Robertson, Author, Stitched Smile Publications ~~


Briana Robertson is an emerging speculative fiction author, working primarily within the genres of horror and fantasy. Her love of authors such as Stephen King, Shirley Jackson, Patrick Rothfuss, and J.K. Rowling has developed her own need to put pen to paper. Her short stories have been published in several anthologies, and broadcast on online podcasts. Her debut novel is in the works, set to release in 2017. She currently lives in the Midwest, with her husband, three daughters, and their Maine Coon, Bagheera. Be sure to visit her website, as well as follow her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, WordPress, and Pinterest.



Flash Fiction Saturday- Beowulf: The Midgard Horrors Part 2

imageA peasant woman, so to speak,
Appearing frail and old and weak
Became the measure to ensnare,
As Gandolina donned grey hair
And called forth children to her keep,
Alone, to make their parents weep.
The village where she came to dwell,
Enveloped in nightmarish hell,
Could not foresee the damage done
To every daughter; every son.

Her appetite’s voracious wont
Became the measure meant to haunt
The minds and dreams of all around
And did so ere she touched the ground.

Concealed within her quaint disguise
The world about had blinded eyes
And Gandolina had her fill,
Conducting magic at her will.
The witch could shape the wind and trees;
At other times, controlled the breeze.
She brought good fortune to the seas
Where creatures dwelt and brought disease.
Suspicion drew from in the well
Of nagging doubt and came to swell
Within the chest of one man’s heart.
His daughter’s body, torn apart
Had been discovered near his home.
He and his wife began to roam
The countryside in search of hope
Or measures that would help them cope
And bring back answers, but instead
They stumbled on their missing dead.
A pile of bones beneath some brush
Where Gandolina, in a rush,
Displaced them recently until
She came to finish up her kill.

Before the thane they brought their find,
But peasants’ lives were of no mind,
And at the gates of his great hall,
The words were echoed, left to fall
On warriors watching spear to spear.
The parents left, bereft of cheer
As down the corridor engaged
The ruler’s children, merry; stayed
Within the reach of safety’s net.
The troubles of the world’s regret
Unknown or touched upon by them
Until a fading beacon, dim,
And lo, the thane let down his guard.
He set his children to the yard
And measured with his wife in length
The channeled instinct of his strength.
Without adults to watch their play,
The thane had sent his men away
For he desired his woman’s touch,
And lusty passion was his crutch.

The aching parents who had gone;
The ones who found the fleshless bone
Belonging to their child in life
Embraced the daunting, endless strife.
And as they walked the road to where
A hollow house with naught to care
The laughter of three children rose
Beyond the woodland’s fearsome throes.
And though the father turned to leave,
The mother could not, for to grieve
Had been her only saving grace
From when her child had left her space.

The man, a blacksmith still by trade,
Created weapons, one displayed
About the open air as night
Enshrouded all and swallowed light.

The woman, more than just a cook
Or silent force, began to look
Disgruntled, for the lack of aid
Received from where the truth had weighed.
Invigorated by the sound
Of children playing all around
Convicted her to go and see.
Enticed by memory’s decree,
And fearful of the coming dark
Embraced the woodland’s brooding mark.
It was not long before the sky
Erupted in night’s lullaby
And every dreaded monster’s sound
The mother heard, for all around
The land went bump, an eerie crease
About the trees broke in a breeze,
And looking back, the blacksmith, gone,
Unseen, had left her all alone,
Unknown to her the horrors crept,
Devoured him, as now he slept
Eternally, and not a piece
Of skin or blood they left; release
Condemned their bodies to abide
By Gandolina’s wicked pride.

The giggles and the laughter stopped,
And in the darkness cruelly cropped,
The lopping beast bent over three,
A ripped and shredded child’s degree
Of tattered flesh as cowered two.
The woman, sword aloft, ran through,
As vicious jaws with dripping blood
Awaited joyfully the flood
Of battle’s sweeping, savored spark
Upon her in the lonesome dark …



Flash Fiction Saturday: He Came Home

We both knew he was going to sit up. Lord knows, we’d sat in my living room time and again, lights off, knees up to our chests, watching Michael Myers slice and dice the babysitters and their boyfriends. More times than I could count. So we knew. Of course we knew. Still, when he did rise, then slowly turn his head to stare at Jamie Lee Curtis, we both squealed.

“Get up, get up, get up!” I muttered the phrase under my breath with pressing urgency. As if she could hear me. As if it would make any difference. Even now, knowing what would happen, I almost believed if I said it enough times, the sequence of events might change.

“He’s coming, Laurie, oh my God, he’s coming! Get up. Get up. Move, dammit!” My best friend Rachel clapped her hands over her mouth; whether it was because she’d cursed–which she usually didn’t–or because she’d shouted–which might wake my parents, already asleep upstairs–I didn’t know. Either way, I giggled. She looked at me, let out a rush of breath, and smiled. The moment of levity eased the rising tension.

Still, when Michael slashed the butcher knife at Laurie, and she tumbled over the banister and down the stairs, we clutched each other’s arms, deliciously terrified.

We watched with bated breath until the last creepy moment, when Donald Pleasence peeked over the balcony to see nothing but an empty lawn. Michael Myers had defied death, fated to kill again and again. As the eerie theme played, and the credits rolled, I turned to Rachel.

“Have you tackled that algebra homework for Ms. Reed yet?”

“Are you kidding? You know me better than that, Bri. I’m a procrastinator. I’m not planning to start on that stuff ‘til Sunday night.”

I grinned. It was true. Rachel and I’d had the same schedule all through middle school, and she always put her homework off until the last minute. I was the opposite; I preferred to get my homework done and out of the way, free to enjoy the rest of my weekend without a figurative sword hanging over my head.

“You ready for bed?” I shook my head at Rachel’s question. It was nearly one in the morning, but it would probably be at least two before we went to sleep. Neither of us would ever come out and admit it, but we were both always a little on edge after watching one of the “Halloween” films. We’d seen them all, and we knew Michael Myers didn’t exist. Still, it took a little while for reality to set back in.

We were cuddled into opposite corners of the couch, discussing our plans for the upcoming eighth grade dance, when a ghostly figure drifted through the doorway. Rachel screamed. I jolted at the unexpected shriek, then followed her gaze across the room.

A tall figure stood there, draped in a white sheet, with thick, black-rimmed glasses on, and an old, white, slinky-like phone cord wrapped around its neck.


“Geez, Mr. Feicho! It doesn’t matter how many times you do that, it still always scares me to death!” Rachel was panting, a hand clutched to her chest.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. My dad had been pulling this stunt ever since Rachel had first come over. And she was right; no matter how many times he did it, she always screamed, convinced it was Michael Myers, come to life. Still, he usually waited until the morning, catching us just as we were waking up. It was a bit weird for him to come down this late at night; he and mom definitely weren’t night owls. I shrugged it off. I’d never be able to explain what went on in that man’s head.

“Hey Dad, what’s up?”

He didn’t answer, drawing the charade out. I smirked. It as so like him, never wanting to give the joke up, even after the punch line had been said.

We waited. So did he.

Finally, Rachel gave up. “Well, after that nice little scare, I need the bathroom. I’ll be right back. ‘Night, Mr. Feicho.” She was just walking past him when I caught the gleam flash in the glow of the TV’s blue screen.

Suddenly, the scene didn’t make sense. Rachel slid down the door frame, her throat slit wide, blood spurting in fountains from the gash. She didn’t scream. She couldn’t. But she gurgled as crimson bubbles popped from between her open lips. Her eyes widened in shocked terror.

“R-Rachel?” She looked across the room at me; her eyes went flat, and her head lolled. Turning, I took in the sheeted figure, a bloodstained knife in his hand. Now I screamed. The high-pitched shriek tore at my vocal cords, shredding them. I leapt from the couch, looking frantically for somewhere to run. There was nowhere to go.


Even if he heard me, it would be too late. He’d never get to me in time.

“Daddy, help me!”

Then a gloved hand, cloaked in white, gripped my throat, and the thick blade thrust into my gut. The shriek cut off. The knife ripped free, then stabbed again. A third time. And again. Finally, he let go, and I collapsed to the floor.

My vision darkened.

“Daddy. D-d-daddy.” The word was barely a whisper now, my breath coming in shallow pants. As I lay there, dying, in a pool of my own blood, I watched the man who was not my father flip the latch, turn the knob, and calmly walk out my front door.


My Halloween Addiction

Like most people, I have my weakness, the monkey on my back; an addiction that I can’t cure, even if I wanted to try. If there were HA meetings, I’d have to go weekly, if not daily. But I’m not in denial. I say my name with pride and hold my head high!

My name is Veronica Smith and I am an addict. I’m addicted to Halloween!

I refuse to hang my head in shame. So what if I don’t do Christmas lights or even want to put up a tree? If my husband wants cute and bright, he can climb his happy ass up on the roof and hook up all those lights without me. He likes the cute and fuzzy Christmasy things to put in the yard; but not me. Give me skeletons of all sizes and species and I get excited. Give me zombies, give me spooky! Every year I want to outdo my yard from the year before. Mostly it’s always the same with a few additions here and there, but this year I plan to do some major changes. The twelve life-sized wooden gravestones we made back in 2000, yes they are sixteen years old, are finally wearing out. We plan to keep a couple of the ones in the best condition and repaint them, giving them new faces and phrases. The little “Undead Pet Cemetery” I started two years ago won’t be so little any more. It’s expanding from mostly zombie animals to more skeleton animals as well. It’s an equal opportunity for deaders hangout in my graveyard! My Snow White and Prince Charming will be more active than just sitting in the chairs this year. It’s about time they earned their keep and I will have seven rather short, armed men to help keep them in line.

It will still be a couple of weeks until we set it all up, so here’s the link to last year’s yard to enjoy and compare once the new yard is set up. The viewing settings are set to public so anyone can see them.


There are a few favorites posted here but go to the link above to see the rest.


Here’s a picture I’m rather fond of (just did this in 2015 for the first time):  I’ve gotten another dog this year for Brian the Dog Walker to walk along with Oscar there.


See! That lazy Snow White and her Prince haven’t gotten their lazy asses off these chairs for a couple years. We’ll make them work it this year.


Overall, my entire yard is full, but again this was last year. Wait until you see what I do THIS year!


We do the whole spotlight thing so the yard can be seen perfect at night, and maybe make it a little more creepy . . .


I know I will never feel this way about another holiday. Halloween is better than a birthday. I wish it could be celebrated more often. Perhaps every time the moon is full ; I don’t know. I just know I need it more than once a year!

Getting to Know Grendel’s Mother …

Last week Beowulf took center stage. His youth will be explored again, but today’s post has two parts. The first deals with Grendel’s mother. As a lover of all things dark and fantastical, she has always appealed to me. As a child, I remember thinking, “Why doesn’t she have a name?” Perhaps you’ve wonder this as well? I mean, even men who had little to no part in the overall structure of Beowulf had a name. Perhaps it was a sexist ploy? Here, in the first of two poems, you’ll see it was indeed intentional on her part. Grendel’s mother had her reasons. The second poem connects to the first, and Unferth, the jealous warrior who Beowulf seemed to always best in his boastful speeches, gets some of the limelight. These mini projects will fill in gaps and add depth to certain characters who have remained mysterious for years. Prepare yourself for Beowulf: The Midgard Epic. Adventure awaits …

What’s In a Name

(The Seduction of Unferth)

“Cain’s descendants mated with the angels shunning grace.

Those of us remaining hide among you in this place.

Skin as stone and snake hide; hair like tentacles and scale;

Ruling from these caverns underneath where we prevail …

Magical and horrifying, sorcery and sword …

Weapons we have crafted will not harm me or my horde.

Hrunting I present you; it will grant the strength of ten.

Something in your eyes says you want more than mortal men.

Go ahead and take it; touch the blade and feel it burn.

Hrunting will possess you; it can sense the way you yearn.

Many splendid wonders in my kingdom I have made.

Over on the wall, some from my ancestors displayed.

Giants and the fallen angels course within my veins.

Mortals best be wary as I free their fear from chains …

None above on Midgard have the will to conquer me.

Yet the spirits whisper darker days that they can see.

Future set in motion can be altered if by chance.

I have seen this future; still I long for this romance.

Even evil beings know the treasures held in love.

Curse the ones who hate us; curses on God high above!

He condemned my fathers and my mother’s long ago,

Still they knew what love meant; still their hearts found room to grow.

Unferth, you shall wed me as you bed me in my home.

Grendel has departed up to your lands, set to roam.

Others, yes, my siblings, but you’ll never find them here.

Most are dead; forgotten; others hide bereft of cheer.

No one knows my name, for if a name becomes well known,

It can give the wielder power over flesh and bone.

Grindylin, I tell you, for to trust me is my aim.

Grindylin, dear Unferth, is my secret; is my name.

Only you and others, sisters, husband, and my brother

Ever will I share this; to the world, I’m Grendel’s mother …

Yes, I’m Grendel’s mother, Unferth; let me make that clear.

Soon the lands of Hrothgar’s keep will tremble, washed in fear.

I am darkness coming; I am nightshade; I am death.

Come to feast on mortals; come to taste a final breath!

Lay with me, my Unferth, lay while moonlight fills the skies …

Lay with my, my Unferth; drink the venom from my thighs …

Let yourself be welcomed by the love in my embrace,

Given all you’ve longed for in the pleasure of my space.

Heed a single warning, power in the name I grant …

Beowulf; beware him; now come nearer as I chant

Filling you with magic like no other witch can do.

Come and take me, Unferth; be the man I see in you!”

Grendel’s Mother

(Unferth’s Lament)

“I have lain with Grendel’s mother; she has been my income’s source;

Gave me pleasure like no other; gave me heartache and divorce.

Mortal men have known no measure; she, a serpent wolfskin drape.

Sultry, sensual; a treasure bound about me, noose to nape.

Claws as razors, cutting edge, demonic in her lusty suit;

Now I wallow in her flavor, tastes entice me to pollute.

When I gaze into my war-shield, me, not she, I realize

Is and was the only monster, waking from a dream’s demise.

Unferth, as this world may know me, magically sealed within.

I alone have brought this trauma; I alone have walked in sin.

Hrunting was the sword she gave me; Hrunting failed the warrior’s grip.

She designed it not to harm her, I had sent it on his trip.

Beowulf, the braggart boasting, how was I to know her fate?

He returned my sword while toasting; spoke of it as something great.

Yet it was not mine that ended life from Grendel’s mother’s chest.

No, it was Goliath’s blade that lopped her head and rend her breast.

Standing with my one reminder, Hrunting placed back in its sheath,

Heavy was my need to find her, hung about in sorrow’s wreath.

I had feared the seething waters teeming with destructive life.

Now I murdered someone’s daughter; in a sense I lost my wife.

Truth be told her venom soothed me; filled me with the strength of ten.

Now I felt the wind beneath me scale me down as other men.

Still beyond the deepest ocean, whale road’s open call to me

Cradled me with but one notion: I must brave the lonely sea

In the hopes that of her secrets, one might prove a flame to singe,

Pledging on the blade of Hrunting, Beowulf shall know revenge!”

James Matthew Byers resides in Wellington, Alabama with his wife, kids, a dog named after an elf, and two tortoises. He has been published in poetry journals and through Jacksonville State University in Jacksonville, AL, where he received his Master’s in 2010. His epic poem, Beowulf: The Midgard Epic, is coming soon from Stitched Smile Publications, LLC.

Find James Matthew Byers at:

Twitter: @Mattbyers40

Facebook: https://m.facebook.com/Mattbyers40/

WordPress: http://jamesmatthewbyers.wordpress.com

Grendel’s mother, Grindylin

Unferth holding Hrunting …

Beowulf: The Midgard Horrors

Getting ready for the release of Beowulf: The Midgard Epic has been a blast. In honor of its pending drop date, I’ve begun crafting this segment of flash fiction to tie in as a prequel. If you’re like me, Grendel and his mother have always been a point of fascination. This tale gives a backstory to the evil of Midgard. As you weather the whale-road from Geatland to Daneland, enjoy the ride and immerse yourself in an epic tale of horror …


So long ago and far away

Within a place where shadows sway

Evolved an evil out of spite;

Unholy creatures void of light.

An anthem of a mother’s plea

For triumph o’er humanity

Comprised of hate and venom spit.

Coitus in a frothing pit

Evoked a spell of Grindylin-

The witch whose body, wrecked with sin

Perpetuated as a myth

A son named Grendel, kin and kith.

His father, Grundel, creature found

Beneath the lakes of Daneland’s ground

Aroused her loins and called her his;

Together sharing wedded bliss

Begot a child monstrosity

To later breed atrocity.

But for a moment, family ties

Exemplified the trio’s rise

To power in the realms of filth

Provoking land with creatures’ tilth.

Nomadic beings cursed in pain

Descended from the sons of Cain;

The fallen angels lusty seed

Implanted by the mortal’s need

To procreate demonic brood.

The offspring eating men for food.

This Grindylin had siblings, three,

A brother, beastly as could be.

Two sisters, witches just as she-

They rounded out her family.

Unlike the others in the realm,

Unparalleled from stern to helm,

The fearsome four could be as snakes,

Behemoths there beneath the lakes.

Transforming fingers, hands or toes

Into a serpent’s hissing pose.

Indeed, their legs could become tails

Allowing them to slither; scales

Embellished every body part.

The four were envied from the start.

Amazed by all they had beheld,

The other monsters sulked and quelled

The jealous envy’s bated hook

And did so with each hungry look.

A massive beast in Ganther’s form

Displaced him from the beastly norm.

Aside from Grundel, none but he

Eclipsed the lands enormously.

His snakelike features, dragon bred,

A scaly torso; serpent head

And fangs the length of limbs of trees

Convened to bring death to its knees

For even spirits feared the wrath

If ever they stood in his path.

As well, the sisters held their own

Amid the monsters they had known

And yea, were versed in magic spell;

The sisters, spawns of darkest hell.

Amassing power from the veil

Of venom in a poisoned swell.

The first was Gandolina, vile.

The second, Gistolon, her smile

Revealed the manner of a beast.

The sisters both enjoyed to feast

Upon the flesh of mortal men.

Devouring blood and bone and skin,

Compared to other creatures, these

Converged upon the worst degrees,

Expressing nothing in their wake

Except the presence of a snake.

As Gandolina entered first

Into the world of demons, cursed,

Deranged, she had no sympathy,

And deep in her anatomy

Amassed a cruel and daunting heart,

The sum of evil in each part.

Beyond the other three, her reach

Extended deeper; seemed to breech

The underworld and out as well,

Commanding creatures straight from Hell.

Within the lands and far abroad,

She mocked and cursed the name of God

Embellished in the devil’s might.

A power hungry, spawned to fight.

As Gistolon and Ganther grew,

And Grindylin and Grundel, too,

All powerful each creature’s wrath,

Except for Gandolina’s path.

Much more than just of Cain’s descent,

a secret story; her lament

Enveloped and enraged her so,

And bade her strength to ebb and flow.

Convicted by the need to bleed,

Insatiable, her want to feed

Upon the flesh and bone of man

Propelled her forth, a seething plan.

Unto the realm of ancient kings,

Verbose and boastful, bragging things

The devil-woman had surmised.

Reducing size, she came disguised

Embarking on her own free will

Maliciously intent to kill …

Beowulf: The Midgard Misfit

Pronunciation guide: Geatland- (Yay- ut- Land)

What Being a YA Author Means To Me.

In my last post, I shared that I was coming back to the book world after my health issues. I am still dealing with them but for me writing books is an outlet and I really do enjoy being a YA Author. Back in 2010 when I first had the thought of writing my first book I didn’t know what I was doing. I thought to myself… what type of book would I want to read if I actually do this writing thing? Then it hit me… gargoyles of course! Why did I choose to write my first book about gargoyles? Because I sat there for a few days pondering what has and hasn’t been written about as much and,gargoyles were perfect! For me being a YA Author is inspiring young people to read more and play fewer video games and to encourage them that if they need to talk about anything that I am available to them to talk to about anything. True this is my first time being a part of an amazing horror company “Stitched Smile Publications” but it’s exciting to venture out in a new genre. My goal as an author is to inspire and motivate young people that anything is possible. Even being an author. And that is why being a YA Author is important to me.