Writers lie to themselves, and when I sat down to write in the bleak cold of a January night 2007, I should have known that my writing exercise from that evening would evolve into my second full-length novel. I had a year and a half left of school, and hadn’t the time to commit to such an undertaking. But much like I imagine having a child is, once the idea is born, it is now forever a part of your life.
Against all pragmatics, I finally approached my wife and explained my dilemma. She didn’t seem to think there was a problem; start the book. And so I did.
I wrote the outline that summer, as well as the first fifteen pages. However, it wasn’t until after I graduated in May 2008 that I fully committed to the project. The manuscript took two years to write, and easily another six months to edit. Although it is not my first novel, it is the first that I have completed, and the finest piece of work I have ever penned. Sitting at 220,000 words and 750 pages, it is a tale of raw power that demonstrates the darkness of the human soul. It is Temporaltorium.
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When the prison ship transporting him to his death is destroyed against the cliffs on an unknown land, the fugitive Rurik escapes the wraith-like creatures that had captured him. Finding safe haven in a derelict fortress, Rurik soon realizes that not only is he trapped on a distant island, but that there are dangers there worse than being recaptured; the island itself is phasing throughout time, and a monstrous shadow beast has been hunting him since he entered the fortress gates. As the fortress cycles between four periods of its existence, Rurik comes into contact with a motley crew of survivors from the other eras. Reluctantly, they find themselves working together to escape the island; or to find the cause of the temporal distortion and stop it before either the shadow beast kills them, or the island tears itself apart.
Wind… There’s always wind… cold… incessant… chilling… wind…
Rurik pulled his knees in, his back pressed against the eroded walls of a derelict fortress. Doing so didn’t help. Nothing helped on a night like this, not even the thickness of his leather breastplate. His leggings were soaked. His face was worn. His hair snapped in the gales like a shredded flag. He shivered involuntarily.
Before him came the crackling of a pitiful fire. It flickered sporadically, occasionally bringing Rurik out of the darkness. He sat there, his arms wrapped about his knees, the flames glinting off the iron shackles clamped about his wrists. The chain between them had been severed; the remnants dangled from both ends... read more >>
Before him came the crackling of a pitiful fire. It flickered sporadically, occasionally bringing Rurik out of the darkness. He sat there, his arms wrapped about his knees, the flames glinting off the iron shackles clamped about his wrists. The chain between them had been severed; the remnants dangled from both ends... read more >>
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