Cameron's profile

The smell of some places never washes out, Devrin thought as he walked through the docks. The warped docks underneath his feet bent slightly. The air hung damp and warm trapping the mixed smells of fish guts, piss, cheap ale and vomit around him. A few sailors eyed him as he passed; the two long knives and the axe strapped to his back were enough to keep them silent. He felt happy about it. He didn’t need them starting anything. Not until he found out the job Gallo had recommended him for. T...

The sun outside the warehouse made Devrin’s eyes squint. The aeromancer stood beside him dressed in a loose white robe. His eyes scanned the docks. A brown tide floated out underneath them, even the sewage didn’t know where to go in this heat. “So why is an aeromancer this far out from Alethion?” He asked. She looked at him and, for a second, Devrin thought he could see her fingers twitch. “Working,” she said in the same soft breezy voice. “Talking… tires me, so please save your questions. W...

The cold air whispered down the street as Mark shoved his hands into his Celtics jacket. The beer he had drank still cast shadows through his brain. He stomped his feet and tried to get feeling back into them. Tim hadn’t changed, always late. Mark searched the street for a sign of his motorcycle and started to pace. The empty buildings loomed around him, and he spat on the sidewalk. Off in the distance, a Harley growled. The motorcycle’s headlight painted the roadway in color. The granite bu...

Kip and I tossed rocks toward the highway as we sat in the dead stubble of the wheat field. While he released another missile at the passing trucks, I glanced at the solid brown line that stood above the field. “He’s getting pretty far on it,” I said. “It’s friggen weird, if you ask me,” Kip answered digging in his pocket for something. He brought out a small, black canister and twirled it in his fingers. “Yeah it is,” I answered. “What’s that?” “Oh just a roll of film I stole from the Robin...

The seasons measured in the desserts my mom puts on the table and the years follow the harvest. In fact, time doesn’t seem to touch the town at all. Until Mr. Robinson started to build his fence. Kip and I tossed rocks toward the highway as we sat in the dead stubble of the wheat field. While he released another missle at the passing trucks, I glanced at the solid brown line that stood above the field. “He’s getting pretty far on it,” I said. “It’s friggen weird, if you ask me,” Kip answered ...