The Silver Pen
Welcome to The Silver Pen, the heart of my writing world. Here, every shelf holds something different: Victorian romances, fairy-tale fables, gaslamp mysteries, reflections from the forests of Montana and Yellowstone, as well as environmental articles and quiet spiritual musings and occasional book reviews, and my thoughts on being an author.
Choose your path below, and stay as long as you like. There’s always another tale waiting on the next shelf.
You'll find:
The Teacake Gazette - tales of love, mystery, and magic
Truth & Tradition - historical and factual articles in the Victorian and Edwardian eras
Notes From the Tree Line - essays on belonging, nature, and slowing down
Pagan Wellness - spiritual and magical musings and earth-based wellness
Off the Shelf - book reviews and one-off articles or stories that don’t fit elsewhere
(See below for all of my posts.)
Each post is tagged with its world or theme, from fairies and flower lore to forest walks and tarot cards.
*if you don’t like more erotic stories, avoid the tag/category *spicy*
A Conversation with Annabelle Greystone
The halls creak when no one walks them, and some of the mirrors don’t reflect quite right. But it’s home—cold, drafty, and full of ghosts… of memory, if not of men.
The Willow's Lament
She knew these woods. She passed the ruins of what were once the slave quarters. Sadness lingered there, and Marian hated that this was her family’s legacy. She had spent the better part of her adult life trying to rectify it.
A Gaze Beyond the Veil
Charlotte stared, and her breath caught. She had never liked the way some photographers left the deceased with eyes wide, gazing eerily into the lens. And she knew Catherine would have wanted it to appear as if she were peacefully sleeping.
🐦⬛The Curse of the Crimson Tent
That night, as the townsfolk came from far and wide to see the show, Augie couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut. He could see it in his men’s shoulders, taut as rigging rope. But the show went on.
The Séance at Blackwood Manor
A long table stood before her. At its head sat an older woman with iron-gray hair swept into a flattering bun. Her high black collar and silver jewelry gave her the air of a stern queen awaiting her court.
The Mist at Greystone Hall
The candle on the table flickered violently, though no wind stirred. A sudden chill slid over her shoulders, and Tabitha looked past her—ears flattened, eyes wide.