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*
The Lady & the Lamplighter, part 1 (of 2)
But that was just it, Eugenie didn’t want to be a lady, not in the way society demanded. Oh, she liked the dresses and the parties, yes. But she wondered what it would be like to live as the other half lived. To know real purpose, real connection.
🐦⬛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.
Lady Mary Fontaine
Mary would rather be in the crowd of spectators listening to her father, and now her husband, rouse and move a crowd with passion and purpose. She groaned and let her head fall onto her arms, her hand cramping from the constant writing.
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.
A Promise of Spring
She dropped to her knees, the chill of the damp ground seeping into her skirts. The flowers had broken through despite the frost, their purple petals lifting toward the sky as if welcoming the sun’s hesitant return. A lump formed in her throat.