I am a teen author who has been writing stories
since I was eleven, but telling stories for as long
as I could remember.
I have written two books and I am working on publishing the first which is a contemporary middle-grade mystery.
Beside writing, I love chatting about books on
my youtube and and reading classical authors.
I live in sunny Florida with my hard-core Anglican family who sings Matins and Evensong together every day. a
CLICK THE IMAGE BELOW TO PRE-ORDER MY FIRST BOOK, MR. DICKSON'S WILL !!!
here is an example of my work!
A POT OF BURNING SPAGHETTI
Barbara blew stray bits of hair away from her face. “We are going to need more spaghetti Bert,” she told her dragon.
Bert looked at her with wide eyes. You see, Bert had never cooked before. Neither had Barbara, if she was being totally honest. And she was very honest if she did say so herself.
“I think there is more in the cupboard honey,” Mother’s head popped through the backdoor, her gardening gloves still on. “Are you quite sure you don’t need any help?”
Barbara rolled her eyes. “I said that Bert and I were going to make lunch all by ourselves. And we don’t need any help, do we Bert?” She struck her nose in the air. Mother smiled a knowing smile and disappeared from sight.
Bert crawled up on one of the kitchen stools that stood around the island. His dark green tail swished back and forth.
Barbara opened the door to the pantry, the shelves stood high above her head.
“Right. I need a stool.” She pursed her lips. She could feel Bert watching her. “You could help me, you know.”
Bert only sat and stared at her. She felt her tummy do a flip-flop. This was the first time that she had been allowed to cook in the kitchen without any help. Not that she needed help, she reminded herself.
She pulled a stepping stool over to the pantry. Even though she was taller now, her eyes were only just level with the first shelf
“A-ha!” Barbara's small hand shot out to grab the extra bag of spaghetti. It had big gold letters on the side explaining how to cook the noodles.
Barbara didn’t notice this. Because she didn’t know how to read. She had watched Mother make pasta plenty of times before. And Bert was there to help her.
“Bert, please get a pot from the cupboard.”
The dragon hopped down from his stool. His claws click-clacking against the floor tiles.
He was only a little dragon. But he had been Barbara’s friend since she was five years old, which was basically an eternity since she was now six.
“Thank you,” Barbara said as Bert gave her the pot. She placed it on the stove. “Now, I think we just need to pour in the pasta.” Barbara’s voice wavered. She didn’t want Bert to see her eyebrows furrowed with confusion so she turned away and pulled Mother’s recipe book to her.
She flipped through the book, Mother’s neat hand-writing sprawled out on each page. It didn’t matter though how neat Mother’s handwriting was because Barbara didn’t know the difference between a G and a D, but Bert was watching her so she stared very hard at a random page, trying with all her might to understand the words.
She had no idea that what she was staring at actually read ‘Pineapple upside down cake’.
“Okay,” the little girl said after a long moment, “we need to turn on the stove.” She stretched up on her tippy-toes, and twisted the knob.
The stove rattled loudly like it always did when it was heating up, shaking the pot.
“Now we just wait.” Barbara pursed her lips and folded her small hands over her apron, staring at the stove. She didn’t know how long she had to wait. And neither did Bert. They both stood in silence. The dragon kept glancing at her, his black eyes darting between her and the pot.
Finally the little dragon poked Barbara's arm, letting her know that he thought it was time to put the spaghetti in.
“I think it is time for the pasta Bert,” Barbara nodded, her short hair swishing in her face. “Can you please get the scissors?” She had learned when cooking with Mother that when opening a bag of pasta, it was best not to rip it open or else pasta would explode everywhere.
Bert handed the scissors to her.
After she poured the pasta in she waited, and waited, and… waited. She looked up to the ceiling, and she made sure that her apron was straight. She walked around the kitchen table, counting under her breath how many steps it was all the way around. Then she walked backwards to see if the number changed at all.
Bert only crawled up on the counter next to the stove and watched the pot.
“Are the noodles done yet Bert?” Barbara asked after what felt like a year. Bert shook his head. Barbara scrunched her face up. It didn’t take this long when she cooked with Mother. Perhaps she should go ask Mother. No, she was going to do this on her own!
Barbara thought for another moment. Perhaps she hadn’t turned up the heat enough. Yes, that was it. She cranked the knob and the fire flared up under the pot stronger than before.
Barbara sat down at the kitchen table and looked out the window at the birds. One caught her eye when he flew away from the rest. And Barbara turned away again. The little girl sniffed the air. It didn’t smell right. It made her nose tickle and her throat tighten up.
She glanced at the stove. Fire blazed from the spaghetti that poked out of the pot.
“Oh, no!” she jumped down from her chair. Bert started flapping his wings, trying to clear the air of smoke.
She rushed to the stove and yanked the knob to turn the heat off. But the flames only grew higher.
Barbara didn’t know what to do. She had to figure this out on her own, but her eyes grew hot with tears. The fire of noodles was only growing bigger and bigger. The air in the kitchen grew thicker with gray smoke.
“Bert! What should I do?” she yelped.
Bert jumped off the counter. He grabbed Barbara’s hand, pulling her to the door. He gestured wildly to her Mother, who was kneeling beside the flower beds.
Barbara looked at Bert with furrowed brows. “I can’t ask mother for help…” she said between coughs. She glanced back, burnt pieces of noodle were falling all around the pot.
The little dragon poked her with his claw. His eyes round, pleading with her.
“What do you mean?” Bert didn’t answer, he just kept nudging her over the threshold of the back door. “You don’t ever n-need help, though.” Barbera stuttered.
Bert nodded his head for sometimes even dragons need help with fire.
Barbara scrunched her face up tight. She took a big breath and coughed because smoke was the only thing that filled her nose. She nodded and ran out to Mother in the garden.
“Mother, Mother! I need help, there is a fire in the kitchen!” Barbara said in a rush.
“What?” Mother jumped up from her gardening and rushed into the kitchen.
The knot that felt like it had warped around Barbara’s whole chest now loosened, like it was cut by invisible scissors as Mother quickly put out the fire; Mother always knew how to solve Barbara’s problems when Barbara didn’t know.
Bert looked at her with wide eyes. You see, Bert had never cooked before. Neither had Barbara, if she was being totally honest. And she was very honest if she did say so herself.
“I think there is more in the cupboard honey,” Mother’s head popped through the backdoor, her gardening gloves still on. “Are you quite sure you don’t need any help?”
Barbara rolled her eyes. “I said that Bert and I were going to make lunch all by ourselves. And we don’t need any help, do we Bert?” She struck her nose in the air. Mother smiled a knowing smile and disappeared from sight.
Bert crawled up on one of the kitchen stools that stood around the island. His dark green tail swished back and forth.
Barbara opened the door to the pantry, the shelves stood high above her head.
“Right. I need a stool.” She pursed her lips. She could feel Bert watching her. “You could help me, you know.”
Bert only sat and stared at her. She felt her tummy do a flip-flop. This was the first time that she had been allowed to cook in the kitchen without any help. Not that she needed help, she reminded herself.
She pulled a stepping stool over to the pantry. Even though she was taller now, her eyes were only just level with the first shelf
“A-ha!” Barbara's small hand shot out to grab the extra bag of spaghetti. It had big gold letters on the side explaining how to cook the noodles.
Barbara didn’t notice this. Because she didn’t know how to read. She had watched Mother make pasta plenty of times before. And Bert was there to help her.
“Bert, please get a pot from the cupboard.”
The dragon hopped down from his stool. His claws click-clacking against the floor tiles.
He was only a little dragon. But he had been Barbara’s friend since she was five years old, which was basically an eternity since she was now six.
“Thank you,” Barbara said as Bert gave her the pot. She placed it on the stove. “Now, I think we just need to pour in the pasta.” Barbara’s voice wavered. She didn’t want Bert to see her eyebrows furrowed with confusion so she turned away and pulled Mother’s recipe book to her.
She flipped through the book, Mother’s neat hand-writing sprawled out on each page. It didn’t matter though how neat Mother’s handwriting was because Barbara didn’t know the difference between a G and a D, but Bert was watching her so she stared very hard at a random page, trying with all her might to understand the words.
She had no idea that what she was staring at actually read ‘Pineapple upside down cake’.
“Okay,” the little girl said after a long moment, “we need to turn on the stove.” She stretched up on her tippy-toes, and twisted the knob.
The stove rattled loudly like it always did when it was heating up, shaking the pot.
“Now we just wait.” Barbara pursed her lips and folded her small hands over her apron, staring at the stove. She didn’t know how long she had to wait. And neither did Bert. They both stood in silence. The dragon kept glancing at her, his black eyes darting between her and the pot.
Finally the little dragon poked Barbara's arm, letting her know that he thought it was time to put the spaghetti in.
“I think it is time for the pasta Bert,” Barbara nodded, her short hair swishing in her face. “Can you please get the scissors?” She had learned when cooking with Mother that when opening a bag of pasta, it was best not to rip it open or else pasta would explode everywhere.
Bert handed the scissors to her.
After she poured the pasta in she waited, and waited, and… waited. She looked up to the ceiling, and she made sure that her apron was straight. She walked around the kitchen table, counting under her breath how many steps it was all the way around. Then she walked backwards to see if the number changed at all.
Bert only crawled up on the counter next to the stove and watched the pot.
“Are the noodles done yet Bert?” Barbara asked after what felt like a year. Bert shook his head. Barbara scrunched her face up. It didn’t take this long when she cooked with Mother. Perhaps she should go ask Mother. No, she was going to do this on her own!
Barbara thought for another moment. Perhaps she hadn’t turned up the heat enough. Yes, that was it. She cranked the knob and the fire flared up under the pot stronger than before.
Barbara sat down at the kitchen table and looked out the window at the birds. One caught her eye when he flew away from the rest. And Barbara turned away again. The little girl sniffed the air. It didn’t smell right. It made her nose tickle and her throat tighten up.
She glanced at the stove. Fire blazed from the spaghetti that poked out of the pot.
“Oh, no!” she jumped down from her chair. Bert started flapping his wings, trying to clear the air of smoke.
She rushed to the stove and yanked the knob to turn the heat off. But the flames only grew higher.
Barbara didn’t know what to do. She had to figure this out on her own, but her eyes grew hot with tears. The fire of noodles was only growing bigger and bigger. The air in the kitchen grew thicker with gray smoke.
“Bert! What should I do?” she yelped.
Bert jumped off the counter. He grabbed Barbara’s hand, pulling her to the door. He gestured wildly to her Mother, who was kneeling beside the flower beds.
Barbara looked at Bert with furrowed brows. “I can’t ask mother for help…” she said between coughs. She glanced back, burnt pieces of noodle were falling all around the pot.
The little dragon poked her with his claw. His eyes round, pleading with her.
“What do you mean?” Bert didn’t answer, he just kept nudging her over the threshold of the back door. “You don’t ever n-need help, though.” Barbera stuttered.
Bert nodded his head for sometimes even dragons need help with fire.
Barbara scrunched her face up tight. She took a big breath and coughed because smoke was the only thing that filled her nose. She nodded and ran out to Mother in the garden.
“Mother, Mother! I need help, there is a fire in the kitchen!” Barbara said in a rush.
“What?” Mother jumped up from her gardening and rushed into the kitchen.
The knot that felt like it had warped around Barbara’s whole chest now loosened, like it was cut by invisible scissors as Mother quickly put out the fire; Mother always knew how to solve Barbara’s problems when Barbara didn’t know.