Nothing Burns Like The Cold.

As Much As I Love Historical Fiction, My Problem With Historical Fiction Is That You Always Know What's Going To Happen.

In A Room Sit Three Great Men, A King, A Priest, And A Rich Man With His Gold. Between Them Stands A Sellsword, A Little Man Of Common Birth And No Great Mind. Each Of The Great Ones Bids Him Slay The Other Two. ‘do It,’ Says The King, ‘for I Am Your Lawful Ruler.’ ‘do It,’ Says The Priest, ‘for I Command You In The Names Of The Gods.’ ‘do It,’ Says The Rich Man, ‘and All This Gold Shall Be Yours.’ So Tell Me—who Lives And Who Dies?

She Had Never Loved Him So Much As She Did In That Instant.

The Man Who Passes The Sentence Should Swing The Sword.

I Was Just A Kid Selling Monster Stories To The Kids In The Projects, Complete With A Dramatic Reading, Making The Werewolf Sounds. My Career Was Aborted Early On Because One Of My Main Customers Started To Have Nightmares And His Mother Came To My Mother And My Mother Shut Down My Whole Business.