El Borak is an historian by training, an IT Director by vocation, and a writer when the mood strikes him. He lives in rural Kansas with his wife of thirty years, where he works to fix the little things.
Over the years my tomato patch has produced respectable results. But one of the problems I consistently encountered was called Blossom End Rot. It happened first some ten years ago and grew
Everyone, it seems, has a magic bullet that’s going to end school shootings. It’s part of our culture. The left wants one simple law passed and the right another repealed. Everyone on Twitter is a policy expert, Facebook is filled
Cutter snuck a peek over at Bantamon, who looked very pleased with the lie, and wondered if he could kill him before being struck down by the palace guards.
(Continued from Part VII) “You recognize this mask,” he said. It was not a question, though Moragan nodded in answer anyway. “It is because of this mask that I have come to
(Continued from Part VI) Moragan looked up at the workshop’s doorway to see a customer she did not recognize. He was large man, barrel-chested and long-legged. He looked older than her 20
(Continued from Part V) Contrary to the confident assertions of ignorant men deep in their dregs, the skull plate is not the only place dragons are vulnerable. While the overlapping scales of
(Continued from Part IV) A shadow, like that of an enormous bat, crossed the knee high grass in front of him. Somehow Cutter knew it was Moira even before he looked up.
(Continued from Part III) In his fifty years, Cutter had never ventured this far into the slough. The reason behind that fact had nothing to do with fear, but with necessity. He
(Continued from Part II) “One day, after unsuccessfully calling my sons for dinner, I went to barn to look for them. What I found was a study in horror: Moira’s cage was
(Continued from Part I) Moragan saw the Red Brother appear at their shop door before Cutter did. She immediately knew him as a user of magic, not by the crimson robes or
Cutter felt the dragon wrap around his arm as he ripped it from its hiding place beneath an overhang of the muddy river bank. It didn’t have wings, of course; this one
They say that every generation rewrites history, but I don’t know if that’s true except inasmuch as every generation finds the favored presuppositions of prior generations lacking and substitutes its own in
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