M. A. Mehan
Bio
"It simply isn't an adventure worth telling if there aren't any dragons." ~ J. R. R. Tolkien
storyteller // vampire // drink goblin // desert rat
Stories (56/0)
- Top Story - April 2024
Perfect Little PirateTop Story - April 2024
The rough, sodden rope bit into her fingers as she swung over the roiling water far below. Reaching out with the toe of her boot, she managed to catch hold of the rain-soaked railing of the ship- and promptly slipped. Throwing herself forward, she landed hard on the deck, slamming her elbows against the wood planks. The sharp yelp of pain quickly bubbled into a laugh, and she rolled onto her back, laughing up at the gray sky as a torrent of rain washed away the soot covering her skin.
By M. A. Mehan 6 days ago in Fiction
- Top Story - April 2024
DescentTop Story - April 2024
“60 seconds.” Aris tightened her grip on the overhead handhold. The troop transport shook like a leaf in a windstorm as it battled through the atmosphere. Dim lights flickered on and off as the ship’s systems were battered by pelting rain and narrowly dodged blasts from laser cannons on the surface of the planet.
By M. A. Mehan 17 days ago in Fiction
- Top Story - April 2024
The Forest of Lost KnowledgeTop Story - April 2024
Tomorrow marks eight hundred years since the great Celestine Library vanished. Einar rested his pen on blank pages. Some scribe he’d turned out to be. They were a week into their journey and not once had he written about their travels or findings. Not that there was much to report on that had not been recorded a thousand times over.
By M. A. Mehan 29 days ago in Fiction
- Top Story - March 2024
- Top Story - January 2024
Silver MorningsTop Story - January 2024
Wings formed a leathery tent above her head. The combined heat of three massive bodies had melted the snow and the seat of her britches was wet. Rowyn sighed and sullenly pushed her way out from her cove of dragon breath. The world was washed anew in white. The evergreens wore a fresh dress that drifted in fluffy mounds to the ground, rich as velvet and just as soft. The morning light could not pierce the retreating storm clouds, instead diffusing into a gentle silver; so gentle that no shadows could find purchase, slipping and scattering into the gray under the trees.
By M. A. Mehan 3 months ago in Fiction
