Thursday, October 20, 2011


Website or Something Like That .

Stinky that it has to conform to teacher-things, but a helpful little space nonetheless. It makes me more organized, I think. But someday I want a real website, full of things from my writing tidbits. Maps and drawings and character descriptions--ah. Delightful.

Monday, September 5, 2011



"I’ve murdered. I’ve lied. I’ve loved.” His voice cracked. “What an illusion! What a tangled, fantastic illusion it all is!...”

From "The Door Tree", Chapter 15

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Vast and Uncharted Things


"The world is a cold and unusual place; there is no magic here."

Another little blip from the novel, this. More to come.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011



I've been dreaming of fantastic realms lately--places that have been in my head for years, seldom put into pictures. But pictures come, eventually, from these crystallized visions. This is the world in my head. A small part of it, at least, where stories take place and all sorts of characters, both great and terrible, live and masquerade through miniature dramas.


The Merchant is hard to put to pictures. He is easier to describe in words. There is nothing spectacular about him. He is as plain and grey as an overcast sky. I think I've finally gotten him close to as I see him. Pale, dour, and unimportantly handsome. Dry, spidery, and quick.

More to come.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011


Cain the Weary, sovereign of Balnora, has died. His throne has been seized by his brother, whose tyrannical regime threatens to gut the kingdom from its very bowels. The practicing of the Arts, the magick that sustains the land, is abolished in the name of the gods. The Southernlands, the long autonomous wilderness that sweeps the bottom half of the Balnorran map, faces conquest by the new northern regime. Balnora stands divided. Armies rise in the north as the southerners shrink back into their grisly woodlands.

In the midst of this grand upheaval, a new Count, clambering from the trenches of poverty, has ascended in the sector known as Polydeukes, the southernmost hold of the northern Balnorran kingdom. From magickal merchant to novice noble, Frank Augustus has wormed his way through the ranks, through the convenience of marriage, to the status of Count d'Polydeukes--but he has not done so alone. Frank has entered a drastic deal with the devils that lurk, unseen, below the known fabric of the world. In exchange for his soul, he is made rich and secure in a land that faces uncertain times.

The Door Tree is the first in a series of three novels conceived and written by K. Binning over a series of seven years. The Door Tree is perhaps the most viscerally moving of them all. Set in a world vaguely reminiscent of our own, The Door Tree is a story that attempts to chronicle the bleakness of a world the apocryphal gods have ignored, where demons from dimensions long forgotten crouch expectantly amongst the darkest corners of humanity.


From "The Door Tree", Chapter 8

He exited the estate from a back door and crossed the gardens in the moist, young night. Crickets leapt at his feet. His heart rose against his bones, invigorated. The night air was so fresh that it burned to breathe. He began to walk quicker, his pace rising, until he was cutting through the lawn at a sprint.
He passed through the darkness with such swiftness that his eyes began to water. He clambered down from the manor, leaped over the wall surrounding the grounds, and sped down the hill, his feet pounding into the dirt at a maddening pace. Air sprang at his face and clawed through his hair, illuminating his lungs and urging him onward. His coattails whipped behind him like wings, his stockings bunching at his ankles. If he spread his arms, he reckoned he would fly. His lightness allowed him to run easily, feather-like and scarecrow-like. The stiff partition of woods came suddenly, but his speed did not slow. The trees yawned and moved their branches aside as he ran.
He was expected; he was welcome here.
Frank could hear the door tree loudly now, muttering to itself. It was becoming impatient. He forced his legs onward, the tree’s voice splicing, imploding upon itself until multiple voices quarreled amongst each other, their gossiping moving in undulations, like some great, primordial wind.
When he came to the door tree’s clearing, the speaking stopped and all was silent. Each of its orifices glowed. The large chasm at the base of the trunk was open and visibly sordid with wine.
Frank did not come for wine this evening.
A growl ripped from the depths of his chest, mustering every ounce of effort left in his frail body. “DEMON!” he snarled. “Witch! Come out and show yourself, hag, for I’ve a mind to speak with ye!”
The ground rumbled beneath his feet. He stepped back, catching himself, his iron gaze unwavering. Breath whistled through his bared teeth.
“Come, you swamp-dwelling fiend! Show yourself, for I’ve inquiries to pry your little black heart! You dishonest wench!” He paused, his chest heaving so hard that his bones strained against the buttons of his silken vest. “What have you fucking done to me? You’ve taken my life into the roots of this tree. You’ve stolen my thoughts, my tongue, my blood! For the sake of the fucking gods, emerge!” His voice crackled off into silence. A sob tore from his lips. “What do you want of me?!”
The door tree’s lights flickered, and a low moan seethed through its trunk, its branches, its roots—for Frank could not tell from where the sound came. The tree had an atmosphere all its own, a lone needle between the thin sheets of dimension that drove its worming roots down and down into infinity. For only a moment more the lights remained, and then the windows crackled shut one at a time, until only the great, pregnant base of the tree was left. The tree shuddered, bark rippling, and closed, swallowing the light and wine into its endless, rotting entrails. When the bottommost portal opened again, all was dark except for the hag’s white eyes, peering from inside.
“What do you want, Frank Augustus?” the hag’s voice slithered from the void.
“I want answers, you fucking hag,” Frank shot boldly in reply. “What have you done to me?”
“You know that all too well,” the hag replied. “My tree and I—oh, the good, wise thing!—have provided you with a modest fortune. Are you not basking under the skies of luxury? Isn’t your stomach full and your pocket heavy?”
His nostrils flared. “How…dare…you,” he sputtered, pointing a finger accusingly at the brittle woman. “I am married and uncertain; I am an earl that does not belong. I know nothing of riches, of land. I do not love my wife. I am hungry; I cannot eat. The mere stench of food is maddening. I pace like a caged animal. I exist only to dash to this horrid welt of rotting wood every evening to collect wine.” He looked to the witch, tears beginning to well in his eyes. “Why must you continue to call me here? Why must that—that—thing screech so? It calls, it whispers. There is never a quiet moment. Even when I sleep—when I dream!—all I think of is the tree.” He grasped his clothes, pulling at the lacy cravat around his neck. “Do you see these clothes? I have never been so rich in my life. You imply that I ought to thank you—ought to be grateful! But what thanks should I have for the dominance of my soul?”
The hag chuckled; her clicking little laugh sent dry sobs through Frank’s chest.
“How did you manage to get my blood, to glean my soul?” he whispered forcefully, through clenched teeth. He choked down his sobs bravely. “The wound bleeds, it will not stop.” He swallowed. “I should have died long ago.”

Saturday, April 23, 2011

My Spider Plants and Beltane and Such

Two things.

First, I have two happy little spider plants living on my windowsill, thanks to Em. One's name is Abbot and the other is Louise. I wasn't sure they'd live, but they seem to be doing swell. They were in a baggy for over 24 hours--or at least until I was able to go out and forage for dirt. I hope they make lots of baby spider plants.


Second, I had a beautiful birthday party, complete with friends, tea, Indian food, book stores, and lots of practical gifts. My newest addition to my cupboard space is my new Breakfast at Tiffany's Mug, given by Holley. It's got this gorgeous yellow inside that makes coffee look the yummiest.


I haven't been able to blog as much as I would like; maybe this will change during the summer. And that's sad, because often I feel like my life is full of happy little magical moments that I wish so desperately to capture in writing and pictures.

I'm home this weekend for the Easter holiday. I tend to think of it as an early Beltane. It's colder here, up north four hours from college, but there are glimmers of spring here and there. I went rollerblading today and picked out the little plant sprigs amongst what's left of the snow. Mom and I went for a windy walk to gather aluminum cans, and to visit my sister where she works at a local dairy store. Between homework and curriculum writing, I'm having a nice time and enjoying the whole not-conforming-to-a-schedule thing.

Tomorrow I'm assigned to hide eggs. There's a big green one with five dollars inside that I'll take special care in hiding as difficultly as I can manage!

Friday, April 1, 2011

Early Mornings

I must keep myself in line. I'm slowly loosing touch with the lovely time of day that is dawn. I find myself slipping to sleep far past the chiming of my alarm, only to awake hours later when the sun has already risen. There is no magic to that kind of predictability!

Last year, waking before dawn was a vernacular practice. I'd meet with Emma almost every morning to run or walk about the town until the sun came up. Then we'd sit and drink coffee for a few hours and discuss writing projects and other wonderful things. And after that, I'd gleefully caper back to the apartment to find my lovely partner, still deep in the cavernous land of Nod, and slowly snuggle beside them until tired fingers lifted to brush at waking eyes.


I miss that.

I'm set on reviving these pre-dawn rituals. I have an arsenal of coffee and a stack of books to brave the cloudy, shrouded hours. Hopefully I can succeed. I have a goal to sneak outside and take pictures of the dark, chilly, slumbering world, as vast and uncharted as wilderness.