FORGOTTEN ECHOES
A 100,000-word science fiction novel
Status: Seeking representation (Updated: January 2025)
The Story
A wolf tore out Fenwick’s throat. His tribe mourned and laid him to rest. A month later, Fenwick opened his eyes.
The Shamans call it an Echo, immense power gifted by the Sky God. The Outsiders call it biotech that can change the future. For Fen, it’s tiny claws scratching away, threatening to tear him apart from inside.
Stories of a banished Shaman and visions from an ancient warrior hint at answers that could save him. Sharon Forell, a disgraced mycologist, risks everything to help him escape the scientists and military forces hunting him for the technology in his blood. Along the way, they gather unlikely allies: Dilovan, an infomancer running from the military for his father’s crimes; Seleenia, the lone survivor of genocide using her adversary’s tech to find her own answers; and Kicks, a hull rat trying to survive in a world that abandoned her.
The OmniMites will kill him. Scientists want to dissect him. His tribe wants him home. But Fen has seen what lies beyond the Reservation, and for the first time in his life, he’s not running from rejection—he’s running toward possibility.
Comparable Titles
For readers of THE EXPANSE series (James S.A. Corey) and the anthropological worldbuilding of C.J. Cherryh.
Current Status
Query letter complete. Researching literary agents for traditional publication. Updates will be posted as the journey progresses.
CURRENT PROJECTS
Book 2 – The Lavender Maid
In progress: 20,000 words
Leaving the Finger behind, Fenwick follows the clues to a new planet and new CILF species, remnants of an eons dead civilization still executing corrupt programming. Another lavender maid prepared for sacrifice, another yellow moon exposing the beast within, and one narrow window of opportunity before the cycle repeats.
Future Projects
Beyond the Forgotten Echoes series, I’m developing stories in multiple genres:
- Southern gothic exploring family secrets and folklore
- Urban fantasy blending police procedural with the supernatural
- Medieval fantasy following a rogue wizard
- Additional space opera projects
Updates on these projects will appear here as they develop.
Southern Gothic WIP (Untitled)
Sheriff John never had a problem in Sweetwater. Except for the occasional drunk & disorderly, nothing really called for the authority of his badge.
Then the mutilations began.
A heifer out by the big barn. Forest critters in the woods. A gutted FBI agent.
And in the center of it all was a little girl dressed in her Sunday best, unnerving with her blank gaze and slightly off-kilter movements.
Sweetwater was an old town, a hardworking Christian town, filled with good folk and tasty peach cobbler.
But Sweetwater had its own secrets, hidden in those dark corners where the eyes don’t rest on for too long.
And that little girl just ain’t natural.
SAMPLE SCENES
Read opening scenes from my current projects.
FORGOTTEN ECHOES – Opening Scene
Science Fiction | Space Opera
Fen Jaibach placed a hand on the back of his neck and closed his eyes. The fire before him crackled soothingly, its flames dancing energetically around the logs. Its heat pressed against his legs, almost singeing the hairs. His thoughts replayed the several tragedies that occurred during the day, and his closed eyes tightened with embarrassment. His palms pressed harder against the rough bark upon which he sat. Finally, he sighed with futility and allowed his muscles to relax.
The log beneath him shifted as new weight was added. Someone had chosen to join him. He tried not to open his eyes. He didn’t want to know who, didn’t want to talk. He just didn’t want.
“Could you be any more of a fuck-up?” It was Rin, of course.
Fen opened his eyes and stared into the flames, trying to ignore the hunter.
“Seriously, what possesses you to do what you do?”
“It was an accident!” The words blurted out. Now, there would be no controlling the anger.
“I’m thinkin’ your whole life’s an accident. You know, your father was an okay hunter. Not the best, but at least he could provide for the tribe. But you…”
“Yeah, I fucked up.”
“You stumble through the bushes and scare off all the prey. And now, we’re all stuck out here another day.”
Fen sighed heavily.
“And what I don’t get,” Rin continued, “is why you had to do anything at all. This is your first hunt. You should be observing right now, not getting in the fucking way.”
“All right. I get it.”
“Oh, no. You’re missin’ the whole picture, buddy-boy. Let me explain this to you. Your father died. Your mother is widowed. Now, don’t worry about her. She’ll be fine. She’s got a great body and plenty of other qualities. She’s got a lot of suitors to choose from. I might even put my bid in as well.”
“So, what? You expecting me to call you father, now? You’re, like, five years older than me.”
“You’re still not getting it. Your mother’s safe. No one wants you. I’ll tell you right now, if she chooses me, you’re on your own. You can just leave. Get the fuck out. We’ll be moving west with the game soon. You can go in any other direction. I don’t care.
Fen remained silent. His jaw clenched. His eyes raged while the fire they stared at slowly faded.
“You think on it.” Rin patted Fen’s leg roughly. “Right now, everyone else here,” his eyes looked over the flames to the rest of the party members quietly talking amongst themselves, “is ready to drive a spear into your back and feed you to the wolves.” Rin stood up. “In fact, if we woke up in the morning and found that you had magically disappeared, I think we would all be very grateful.” He turned and walked nonchalantly toward a couple of other hunters sitting at the edge of the camp and laughing.
Fen’s gaze never wavered from the flames. He realized that would be his only warning. If he ignored it, he would die tomorrow. His only option was to finish this hunt and get back home without drawing any more attention. Then, he could talk with his mother or the elders. Did everyone feel like Rin? Even his mother seemed to be growing tired of him lately. His finger idly wrapped around the long braid that rested against his shoulder. It was meant for spiritual protection, but didn’t seem to be working.
A sudden burst of laughter caught his attention, and his eyes shifted involuntarily to a group on his left. “Hey Fen, make sure to put out that fire when you’re done. The last thing we need is to be burned alive in our sleep.” The rest of the hunters laughed.
Fen leaned over his knees and rested his chin on folded arms. He felt hope seeping away, leaving him empty. A forlorn sadness began to fill him. The edge of his journey was upon him. A wall of darkness loomed ahead, and knew the Great Nothing lay beyond. Maybe the gods would have mercy and allow him to one day return to the plains. But he knew at the core of his being that he would pass into the Darkness very soon.
The Vision faded. The glowing embers rested before him. The others slept soundly. As the cold numbness of the Great Nothing left him, a last bit of hope stirred within, and he searched for it, digging deep with Spirit fingers, sifting through the ash for one last ember, looking for a hidden option that could place distance between him and the Great Nothing.
They wanted him dead, but why? Because he had no value. He took their resources and had nothing to offer in return. But what if he could give something? Would they accept him back? He thought about positions in the tribe. He couldn’t delegate, couldn’t make weapons. Rin was right. No, he refused to believe that. He refused to accept this fate. If there was just something…
He looked up, searching through the countless stars, and just like those stars, all his options were far out of reach. Food, though… The tribe could never have enough skilled hunters. All he had to do was bring something back. That can’t happen, of course. These hunters would never allow it. They would take credit for any meat he secured, making sure to regale the tribe with embellished stories of his ineptitude. Still, if he could make a kill without them knowing, if he could return on his own with the meat…
His thoughts churned, stoking that last ember of hope back to life. He looked around the camp. Not a soul stirred. The sounds of crickets and night creatures would mask his movements. Slowly, he pushed away from the log and began to step lightly toward the nearest tree line. His pace quickened with confidence as the first tree moved behind him. After the second, his feet lifted farther from the ground and he began a light jog. By the third, he was sprinting as best he could, weaving through the trees, grinning with the thrill of escape.
Then, he stopped and slowly turned back toward the camp, staring into the darkness. The grin left his face as his jaw dropped. His eyes widened with realization. “Mother fucker…” His mouth formed the words, but no sound was emitted. In his mind’s eye, his spear still leaned against the log. He had left the camp without procuring any weapon.
It was too late to go back. His overactive imagination was visualizing all the hunters awake and laughing at his stupidity. The final burning ember of hope dimmed and was extinguished. His head fell forward, and he breathed in deeply while looking at his bare feet. A small horn made from ivory hung from a leather strip around his neck. It had belonged to his father, and now, he reached for it, hoping it could guide him somehow. Even with it held firmly in his fist though, he could still feel the Great Nothing closing about him. He shivered, stared a moment longer towards the camp, and then, with what resolve he could muster, Fen began walking deeper into the forest.
The stars shone brightly through the cloudless sky and the sparse woods, giving him enough light to keep moving at a steady pace. From time to time, he would kick a rock or branch, more frustrated with himself than the random objects that he encountered. He wanted to be angry, but the depression subdued him. The knowledge of his own ineptitude forced his muscles to go lax. His sullen countenance burned upon his tear-streaked face. Without a tribe, he was crippled. Without any skill set, he was an invalid. And ultimately, he knew this was all his fault.
And he walked aimlessly through the woods. He kept going only because there was nothing else to do. His tribe… former tribe… had hunted these lands for generations. Fen couldn’t get lost, which only made matters worse. He could always find his way back. It felt as though they were continuously on the outskirts of his senses, like a phantom limb of which he was painfully aware. He wished he could sever that limb, detach it from his very soul. He wished that either it or he would simply cease to exist.
But to no avail. No gods were with him on this night, if they had ever been with him at all. There would be no granting of wishes, no magical escape from this lonely journey that was forced upon him by his own inadequacies.
And the night wore on, the moons slowly traveling across the sky, the stars shivering with laughter at his self-perpetuated misfortune. From time to time, birds conversed and crickets philosophized in an otherwise quiet forest. Fen hung his head and maintained his melancholy march, completely disinterested with the mockery of a life that tormented him so effectively.
To the south, the first sun began to rise, its red light crawling across the land. Birds stretched and fluttered before beginning their morning quest for nourishment. Fen laughed to himself. The whole purpose of life seemed to be survival. People struggled to maintain an existence that would inevitably be extinguished. There was no real point to any of this, and he was certain the gods found all of their impotent endeavors entertaining. He bit down on his lip as his existential theories pierced his heart, and his stomach growled.
Hunger was now stirring his listless soul. Despite his intellectual desire to be rid of this life and all of its cyclical meaningless, his body’s desire for food began to take over. He rationalized that a full belly might give him newfound insight, possibly allowing him to unravel these unsolved mysteries, and a sudden notion grew in the back of his mind. Perhaps that was his purpose, unraveling mysteries. It may not have physical benefits like food or shelter, but it was still a highly valuable commodity to have.
Fen thought this through until he realized his own arrogance, and pushed the notion away, believing it could do more harm than good.
His thoughts focused more on edible things. His mouth salivated. His teeth began chewing the air. It had only been one night, but in his imagination, Fen had been wandering for the past eternity. Finally, he looked up. His sullen countenance faded, and his vision sharpened. The rusty gears of his mind screeched in protest as they began to move. Any vegetation in this area needed to be cooked before ingestion, but he had never been good at starting fires. He could break off a tree branch and sharpen it. Actually, he really didn’t know how to do that either.
He suddenly felt light-headed, and desperation filled him. He had to do something quickly or the Great Nothing would be upon him sooner than expected. Of course, there was always the castle.
On his left, the structure loomed. He knew of it, the place where the magic-users dwelt. Everyone in the land had heard stories about the foreigners and their unearthly experimentations. They were friendly enough people when encountered outside, but all Jai-Nar knew to avoid their property.
Fen, veered to the left, heading directly for the edifice. They might have food.
The structure grew closer. His hunger simply grew. He was now officially famished, but he kept placing one foot before the other, through more of an involuntary action than any real purpose. His very spirit seemed to be reaching for the castle, or more accurately, for the food he believed to be inside. He could feel his heart behind his ribs beating with anticipation, or fear. His options were limited, he told himself. These people were kind, his stomach asserted, and the conversation carried on as the edifice grew closer.
He was nearing the last of the trees when a low growl shivered through his spine and paralyzed his feet. Fen held his breath and kept his body as still as he could. With only his eyes, he scanned the immediate vicinity. He listened with all his might. A roaring silence pressed down upon the woods, filling his lungs and suffocating him. A century drifted between each heartbeat. A sudden clarity augmented his senses, the kind only prey could truly understand, and he knew. As the world dissolved away, leaving only the hunter and the hunted, he knew.
The snap of a twig rang through the forest, a death knell reverberating from tree to tree. He turned slowly, catching the sickening scent of blood-matted fur. The wolf was wounded, but it was still more than a match for an inexperienced and unarmed boy. His feet were leadened and his legs rubbery. The creature before him stood half his height and nearly twice his girth. The fangs glistened in the dawning light. A crazed look peered out of its ancient eyes. It was dying. The blood loss and old age, along with some strange illness, would soon defeat the poor beast, and it seemed the final task with which the creature was charged would be escorting Fen into the Great Nothing.
He didn’t run. He didn’t plead. He lifted his head to the sky and closed his eyes. The sunlight gently bathed him. He saw his mother’s smile and smelled gremper stew. He heard a child’s laughter and felt the tall grass of the Northern Plains brushing softly against his cheek. He breathed deeply, savoring the smell, and his face relaxed. It’s for the best, he thought to himself.
The wolf lunged. Teeth clamped onto his neck and tore out his throat, leaving him with nothing but a silent scream. The smell of wet fur rested in his nostrils. The weight upon his chest knocked him backwards. The sound of birds suddenly taking flight rose and faded as blood pulsed from his neck and onto his chest. He reached for the ivory horn and clasped it firmly. He opened his eyes long enough to see the beast flailing about in its final death throes, and he smiled at the irony of it all. The darkness encroached his vision, erasing the forest at its edges. A silence unlike anything he had ever heard before settled almost unnaturally. The ground left him. The air relinquished his flesh, and the world was no more. All that remained was his mother’s smile.
THE LAVENDER MAID – Opening Scene
Science Fiction | Space Opera
Her eyes fell on a thousand more, all glaring intensely, profusely, disregarding the weight-shifting dance she did under their menace. The heated scorn of the grotesque figures surrounding her was palpable. The thin, lavender dress was the only protection. The creatures growled and snarled, inching closer to her, the circle shrinking with each shuffled foot. Thunder clapped overhead, and an involuntary whimper escaped her red lips. Above, black clouds rolled and swirled as though hundreds of ethereal snakes were eyeing the single morsel far below. Rain fell, huge drops landing concussively upon her blond hair, pummeling the cracked, dry ground and creating a layer of thick mud that covered her small, bare feet. The newly chilled air bit into her young, supple flesh, and her assailants edged closer, unhampered by the unnatural storm that engulfed the desert town.
Without warning, the wave of figures lurched forward, drowning her in their diseased bodies. Hands pawed at her limbs, claws raked her back. The dress was torn, exposing more of her shivering body. Her screams encouraged the mob. The creatures attacked voraciously, throwing her down and dragging her through the mud. She kicked wildly, but their vice-like grips squeezed the strength from her body, rendering her powerless to the onslaught.
They hauled her along, each swiping at her, howling with delight from the feeling of her blood, drops of liquid rubies dripping down their thick, curved nails and onto fingers covered in boils and pus. The air grew colder, dulling the pain and slowing the blood that poured from her lashings.
The sudden dip in temperature sent them to the next stage, and they lifted her high into the air, the white skin and purple fabric contrasting with the coal-dark creatures each time the lightning streaked through the sky. Amidst euphoric grunts, her body was hurled into the quarry, bouncing off the rocks, the cracking of her bones drowned out by the laughing thunder. Slowly, she lifted her head, neck muscles shaking with the effort. The darkened figures hopped and flailed on the cliff above, shredding their clothes and falling into a pile of naked flesh and animal lust.
She crawled to her knees. Grasping at the half-buried rocks, she pulled her broken body toward the far end of the quarry, away from the carnal activities. Beneath her, the ground rumbled, a shiver of evil anticipation building deep within the planet. Behind her, the abyss was forming, mud sinking into the unknown before bursting into the sky as the monster thrust its enormous head from the ground. It towered above, a thick cylindrical body writhing as it searched hungrily for its sacrifice.
The woman stilled, motionless in her fear, but the creature had other ways of sensing its meal. The head swayed a moment before orienting on the lacerated body. Its eyes rolled up in glee and its maw gaped open, exposing rows of sharp, rock-grinding teeth. For a moment, her body was free from the pummeling rain as the creature hovered above. Then, the head fell, and darkness consumed her.
Untitled – Opening Scene
Southern Gothic
“The Cantons would know.”
Sheriff John tucked his thumbs under his protruding belly and into his waistband while peering across the field. “Reckon they might,” he said distantly, “but I ain’t asking them. I’m here on your property. Stands to reason, I’d be wanting your opinion on this little to-do.”
Timothy nervously shifted his bulk, kicking up the dust under his feet. “Oh come on, Sheriff John,” the farmer pleaded. “You know me.”
The lawman nodded once. “Now in that, you’re speaking gospel. I’d say you spent more nights in my cell than in your own bed.”
Timothy lifted his straw hat and ran a sleeve across his damp forehead. “I know,” he conceded. “I can get a little too into my cups some nights, but farming’s hard work, Sheriff.”
“Public intoxication, public indecency, all-around public nuisance,” the law man droned as he rolled his head back toward the farmer.
Timothy shook his head, denying any accusations, his meaty fists dug deep into his pockets, stretching the sun-damaged jeans. “I may get a hankering for the firewater, but I go straight to that jailhouse and I lay my head down on that cot. You ain’t never had a problem with me. No sir. Besides, I ain’t nowhere near Rosie’s that night.” He kicked at a rock, stoically keeping to his story.
The sheriff turned to face the young man, overgrown boy really, with his hairless chin and naïve blue eyes. Timothy was Enoch’s kid, dropped out of school a good five years back to handle the day-to-days on the farm. Armed with nothing but a mediocre grasp of his letters and counting limited to fingers and toes, Timothy was a powerhouse in both body and stupidity.
But he was a respectful sort who never told lies, at least none he ever got away with.
“Rosie’s ain’t your only watering hole, son. Everyone knows about old man Miller and his distillery. And the heifer was out by the Big Barn, where you tend to go when you’re pickling your liver.”
“No sir.” Timothy remained adamant. “I ain’t been to the Big Barn in some time.”
The sheriff stepped closer. “Careful boy. Mama Cass done seen you hugging a jug of shine and marching off like a man on a mission.”
“Mama Cass needs to keep her nose to her own business.”
The sheriff’s hand came up and flew right across young Timothy’s sullen cheek. The sound cracked like green wood in a winter fire, leaving nothing but the drone of distant cicadas hanging between them. “Now, don’t you speak ill of Mama Cass, boy. It’s her kind heart that kept your liquor-addled brain on this side of the Veil more than once. You hear me?”
Timothy nodded while rubbing his bruised cheek. “Yes sir.”
Sheriff John hitched his pants as he walked away, turning his gaze back to the field. The corn stood too still in the windless afternoon, rows upon rows of silent sentrys in the sweltering heat. The soil between the stalks had cracked open in places, dry as church lips on Sunday morning. “The things done to that heifer. That ain’t something for any of God’s creatures. Son, you know how I feel about your drinking, but that’s not why I come round today. You need to tell me what you know.”
Timothy rocked a bit, shifting his weight from one tree trunk of a leg to the next, rubbing his eyes with pale, sausage-like fingers. Into his palms, he muttered, “Yes sir, I did go see old man Miller. He was fixing a new recipe and gave me a sample.” His hands fell to his legs, exposing a boyish face twisted in anguish. “But I swear I ain’t go out to the Big Barn. I took the hooch he gave me and skedaddled right back here.”
“Skedaddled, huh?”
“Sheriff, that weren’t no itty-bitty sample. He filled that jug up. Figured I’d better hightail it before he changed his mind.”
“Uh-huh. And you came right back here? No stopping at the junkyard? Chatting with the Dill brothers?”
The boy shook his head in consternation. “No sir. I weren’t about to share that hooch with nobody.” He lifted his chubby finger toward a dilapidated shack off to one side of the property. A murder of crows took flight from its sagging roof, their wings beating against the heavy air. “Spent the night right over yonder.”
“You drank that whole jug by yourself?”
Timothy’s barrel chest swelled with pride before he noticed a judgment in the sheriff’s eyes. Then, his shoulders slumped and he hung his head.
“Jesus boy,” the sheriff spat. “You’re killing yourself here.” He shook his head with an air of disgust and pity, then sighed with resignation. “Well, I need to handle this affair. Say hi to your pa for me.”
Timothy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s right inside. You can set a spell, can’t you sir?”
“Nah, gotta work on this case some before it gets cold. Tell you what. I’ll get the Mrs. to make some of her fried chicken, and I’ll come round again tomorrow.”
His eyes widened and his thick lips stretched into a childish grin. “You think she can make some of that sweet cornbread too?”
“You fixing to stay dry when I come ’round?”
The smile faded as his gaze drifted to his feet and he solemnly said, “Yes sir.”
The sheriff nodded once before turning his attention to his vehicle. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Eric D. Montgomery 