Literary Works

Night Stoker

It began with blood and death amid the streets of late- night Toronto. Vicki Nelson, formerly of Toronto’s homicide detail, now a private investigator, witnessed the first attack by the force of dark magic that would soon wreak its reign of terror on the unsuspecting city. And as death followed unspeakable death, Vicki became more and more deeply enmeshed in an investigation which would see her renewing her stormy relationship with her former police partner, Mike Celluci, even as she teamed up with writer Henry Fitzroy in a desperate attempt to track down the source of the seemingly unstoppable attacks. For Fitzroy, the illegitimate son of Henry VII, had knowledge of realms beyond the mortal acquired over the centuries during which he’d mastered his own insatiable need- the- life- from- death cravings of a vampire.

Henry Fitzroy had long since learned to survive without killing learned the skills needed to blend in with the human race. But unless he, Vicki, and Mike could find the key to conquering the magic- raised menace stalking the streets of Toronto, Fitzroy’s true identity might soon be exposed and his life might prove forfeit to the uncontrollable fears of humankind. And without Henry Fitzroy, mere mortals like Vicki and Mike would not long survive against the ancient force of chaos that had been loosed on their world…




My Hero





A knight and shinning armor
That’s what you are
Damsel in distress that’s me,
Longing for you from a far rescue me from the
Hands of uncertainly
And save me from the shadow of fallacy
Help me get out of this dark abyss
Come down from your horse,
My warrior, please!
I need you sword to slash the rope that binds me,
Release me from the dreadful chains vanity
Never let danger once again
Come my way,
And shield me from the clutches of dismay
Vanquish all the fears inside of me
I wish you could really come
To set me
Free.






The Spell



We started out as friends
We treated each other like siblings
Hanging out together never knowing,
Never expecting a soft brush
Of our lips can change everything,
You lean forward and whisper softly in my far
Breathing heavily,
Your lips oh so near
Saying honeyed words that turn me
Scarlet
Wiping sweat beads on my forehead,
Wrapping your arms
Around my waist
Drawing me closer
Then the bell rings,
The spell is
Broken.

The Alchemist

This essay is all about of the author of Alchemist that I wrote.

The ALCHEMIST picked up a book that someone in the caravan had bought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.

The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by him self that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the Narcissus.

But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.

He said that Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into the lake of salty tears.

“Why do you weep?” the goddesses asked.

“I weep for Narcissus,” the lake replied.

“Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus,” they said “for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand.”

“But… was Narcissus beautiful?” the lake asked.

“Who better than you know that?” the goddesses said in wonder. “After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself”

The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:
“I weep for Narcissus. But I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.”

“What a lovely story,” the alchemist thought.