Indie Fantasy/Sci-fi writer, artist, homesteader, caretaker, wife, Christian, dreamer, and schemer.
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Snippet #8

Snippet #8

The child sat timidly on the flagstone before the crackling fireplace, wringing his dirty little fingers before the amber flames. He closed his eyes, feeling the color returning to his cheeks, making the flesh beneath his spattering of golden freckles glow with a healthy, rosy hue. But his fingers still felt like ice, the skin bluish black beneath the ratty and filthy cotton gloves that had been a gift from his aunt before she cast him aside. He fought the image of her that rose in his mind, praying for the warmth to return to the frozen digits quickly. Life was cruel enough to him on the streets of London, to be crippled so would surely mean his death.


The Orphan and the Wisp

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