Lost is Out Now

I’m really excited to share that my new sci-fi adventure Lost is now available on Kindle.

You can find it here: https://amzn.eu/d/5anA8Y3

Set in the far reaches of space, Lost follows Captain Thomas and the crew of the Sonata, a ship that looks like an ordinary freighter but hides more than a few surprises. When a simple escort mission turns into a running battle with pirates, the crew discover a clue to one of the galaxy’s greatest mysteries — the disappearance of the legendary cruise ship Achelois.

As they chase fragments of the past across asteroid fields and forgotten systems, the crew are pulled into a web of secrets that will test their courage, loyalty and luck. What they find beneath the silence of space might change everything.

If you enjoy fast-paced sci-fi with tight-knit crews, mystery, humour and heart, you’ll feel right at home aboard the Sonata.

Lost is the start of a new series that blends space adventure with human stories about trust, survival and the cost of chasing what was never meant to be found. It’s full of sharp dialogue, cinematic action and the kind of found-family dynamic I love to write.

You can read it now on Kindle: https://amzn.eu/d/5anA8Y3

Ringu – The Original That Started It All

 I remember the first time I saw Ringu. It was for a class on horror cinema, and our teacher wanted us to experience it properly — on the big screen. We took a trip to a large theatre, the kind where the sound fills every corner and the darkness feels absolute. Sitting there among my classmates, I was transfixed. From the first static flicker of that cursed videotape to the chilling final scene, I was terrified — but completely captivated.

The premise is deceptively simple: a cursed videotape that kills anyone who watches it seven days later. Journalist Reiko Asakawa begins investigating after a string of mysterious deaths, only to discover that she herself has been cursed. With the help of her ex-husband Ryuji Takayama, she sets out to uncover the origins of the tape and the story of the girl behind it — Sadako Yamamura.

What struck me most, even on that first viewing, was how quiet the film is. Ringu doesn’t rely on jump scares or gore. Its power lies in restraint. Everything about it feels muted — the washed-out colours, the measured pacing, the way the camera lingers just a little too long on an empty hallway. The unease builds slowly, almost imperceptibly, until you realise you’ve been holding your breath.

I remember how the sound design amplified that dread. The low hum of static, the faint echoes of water, the eerie distortion of the cursed tape — all of it works together to create a sense of something malignant pressing in from just beyond the frame. Then, when the film reaches its climax, the volume surges and the atmosphere becomes suffocating. The horror takes on a new intensity, as if the film itself has been possessed by Sadako’s rage.

Watching Ringu in a cinema full of students was an unforgettable experience. There was a collective stillness in the room — nobody laughed, nobody moved. When the screen went black, there was a long silence before anyone dared to speak. It wasn’t just fear; it was awe.

The film has since become legendary, spawning countless remakes, including the American The Ring. But nothing compares to the original. There’s a raw, lingering sense of doom that no remake has ever captured. Ringu isn’t just about a cursed videotape — it’s about the unstoppable spread of fear itself, passed from person to person, screen to screen.

Paul Tremblay’s Horror Movie

 I’ve just finished Paul Tremblay’s Horror Movie and it’s one of those books that lingers. Not in the sense of jump scares or gore, but in the way it seeps into your head and quietly unsettles you long after you’ve put it down.

The premise is simple on the surface but slippery underneath: back in the late 1990s, a group of young filmmakers come together to make a low-budget horror movie. They’ve got ambition, energy, and a kind of reckless belief that they can make something unforgettable. And they do—but not for the reasons they intended. The film never truly gets released, only whispered about in underground circles, and what happened during production leaves scars that the cast and crew carry for decades.

The book picks up years later, when one of the surviving actors finds himself being interviewed, asked to revisit the past. From there, Tremblay shifts us back and forth—between the chaotic shoot days of the film, with all the tensions and strange occurrences piling up, and the present, where the survivors are left to reckon with what it all meant. I really enjoyed this alternating structure. At one point you’re caught up in the raw energy of these kids trying to make art, and the next you’re in the now, staring at the wreckage and wondering what broke these people.

What makes it so compelling is how ordinary it begins. It’s not about vampires or haunted houses. It’s about the process of making a film, with all its clashing egos, bad decisions, and flashes of brilliance. But slowly—so slowly—you start to notice the cracks. A scene goes too far. Someone begins to act strangely. And then the unease ratchets up another notch. Tremblay builds dread in the same way The Ring does (still one of my favourite horror films). It’s a slow burn, but it keeps climbing, tightening the screws, until there’s a moment of no return. A tipping point where fear transforms into something else. When the story shifts from being about people making a horror movie, to being about them living in one.

That’s the clever trick here: the monster isn’t just in the story they’re filming, it’s in the making of the story itself. And by the time you reach the conversion moment—the crossing of the line—you realise the book has been tightening around you the whole time.

I don’t want to give too much away, because this is definitely a book best experienced without spoilers. Part of the tension comes from not knowing exactly where it’s headed, only feeling the dread coil tighter with every chapter.

If you like horror that trusts you to be patient, that doesn’t rush its reveals but instead layers on unease until you’re practically vibrating with it, Horror Movie is absolutely worth your time. It’s not just about scares, it’s about memory, trauma, and the way stories consume the people who tell them.

Below the Surface is Out Now!

I’m thrilled to announce that my new novel, Below the Surface, is officially out!

When a series of disappearances rocks the orc communities of the city, Paladin Gideon Voss and magic-user Isolde Thorne are drawn into a mystery that leads far deeper than they ever imagined. What begins as a simple investigation soon exposes a network of illegal experiments, hidden facilities, and a corporate power willing to sacrifice anything for control.

From tense undercover missions to full-scale magical battles, Below the Surface pushes Gideon and his allies to their limits—and forces them to confront how far they’ll go in the name of justice.

📘 Available now on Amazon:

👉 https://amzn.eu/d/bg05CFF

If you enjoyed Ashes of the Damned, you’ll love the darker tone and deeper worldbuilding in this story. It’s a new chapter in the Paladin’s Vow saga, filled with danger, loyalty, and the price of truth.

Thank you all for your continued support—I can’t wait to hear what you think.

Behind the Scenes: Korruk

Korruk is an orc defined by strength, pride, and a sharp edge of humor. He grew up learning to stand his ground in a world that too often underestimated him, and he carries himself with the swagger of someone who refuses to be dismissed. Quick to challenge and slow to yield, he’s a force of nature in any room—loud, bold, and impossible to ignore.

His first encounter with the Arcane Operations Unit was anything but friendly, but out of that clash came a rare thing: respect. Since then, Korruk has proven himself not only in raw power but in loyalty, showing flashes of insight and courage that few expect on first meeting him.

For all his bravado, Korruk isn’t simply a fighter. He is a young orc wrestling with what it means to belong, carrying a restless energy that he has slowly begun to turn outward—away from defiance for its own sake, and toward something closer to purpose. Fierce, stubborn, and unafraid to speak his mind, Korruk is carving out a place on his own terms, and doing it with all the swagger the city has come to know him for.

The Power of the Last Stand

This post contains spoilers for Mob Psycho 100

Films, TV, books, games—it doesn’t matter the medium. The moment that always gets me is when the hero rallies for one final stand. Bruised, battered, and up against impossible odds, yet still defiant.

One that stuck with me recently was Reigen in Mob Psycho 100. I came to it late, after finishing One Punch Man and wanting something similar, but I’m glad I did. In the finale, Reigen pushes himself into the chaos—desperate to save Mob from himself and finally confess all the lies he’s told. Shoes off, jacket torn away, sprinting through falling buildings as the theme swells—you know it’s serious. It’s the kind of scene that hits you in the chest and makes you cheer.

These are the moments I love most: when everything hangs in the balance, when victory is uncertain, and when a happy ending feels far from guaranteed.

Pulling off an ending like that isn’t easy. You have to be invested in the character and their struggle—especially if they’re flawed and seeking redemption. The stakes need to be high: a friend’s life, the fate of the world, something worth fighting for. And the character can’t be invincible. The best last stands belong to the underdogs, the ones you’d never bet on.

Because when the invincible win, it feels inevitable. But when the vulnerable, the overlooked, or the broken find the strength to keep going—that’s when it feels earned. That’s when you lean forward, heart pounding, and whisper, come on, just one more step.

That’s why I chase these moments across every story I read, watch, or play. They remind me that courage isn’t about being the strongest—it’s about standing up anyway, even when the odds are impossible. And maybe that’s why these scenes resonate so deeply. They’re not just about heroes in impossible battles. They’re about us, and the times we keep going when everything says we shouldn’t.

Tucker and Dale vs Evil

Given that it’s the season to be spooky, I thought I’d finally talk about a film I only recently got around to watching—one that I should have seen a long time ago. Tucker and Dale vs Evil.

At first glance, you’d be forgiven for thinking this is just another backwoods horror flick. A group of college kids heads out to a cabin in the woods, ready for a weekend of drinking, swimming, and bad decisions. Along the way, they bump into a pair of scruffy-looking locals, Tucker and Dale, whose awkward attempts at friendliness are interpreted as menacing stares and sinister muttering. The setup is familiar, and horror veterans know exactly where this should be going: the kids will be hunted, the locals are evil, and the blood will flow.

But that’s the joke. The film takes those expectations, flips them upside down, and gleefully plays with them. Tucker and Dale aren’t killers—they’re just two best friends fixing up a run-down cabin with dreams of turning it into a fishing lodge. They’re well-meaning, a bit hapless, and completely bewildered when one by one, the college kids start dying around them in freak accidents. To the kids, it looks like a massacre. To Tucker and Dale, it looks like the strangest, bloodiest case of bad luck imaginable.

The misunderstandings pile higher as the bodies do. A simple rescue attempt becomes an apparent kidnapping. A chainsaw accident while fleeing bees turns into a terrifying chase. One teen literally dives into a wood chipper trying to attack Tucker, who then has to explain the situation to a horrified Dale while covered in gore. It’s slapstick comedy drenched in horror aesthetics, and it works far better than it has any right to.

The casting sells it completely. Alan Tudyk as Tucker is every bit as hilarious as you’d expect—his weary exasperation in the face of chaos had me in stitches. Tyler Labine, as Dale, is the heart of the film: shy, kind, and deeply insecure, yet impossible not to root for. Their chemistry together grounds the madness, and without it, the whole premise could have collapsed into parody.

That’s not to say the film doesn’t lean heavily on the very tropes it’s mocking. For all its clever subversions, it still relies on horror shorthand: the dumb but attractive college kids, the remote cabin, the escalating gore. There are moments where the satire softens and you’re just watching another horror cliché play out with a comedic twist. But in some ways, that’s the charm. It loves the genre enough to poke fun at it while still giving horror fans the blood and chaos they expect.

What struck me most is that beneath the carnage and comedy, there’s actually a gentle story about friendship and acceptance. Dale’s awkward romance with Allison (played by Katrina Bowden) feels surprisingly sweet, even amid all the dismemberment. Tucker and Dale’s friendship is the steady core: two good-hearted men just trying to live their lives, unfairly judged by appearances. It’s a reminder that “evil” isn’t always where we expect to find it, and that assumptions can be deadly in more ways than one.

It’s not perfect, but Tucker and Dale vs Evil is one of those rare horror comedies that genuinely earns its cult status. It made me laugh, wince, and occasionally look away from the screen. Most importantly, it reminded me that horror doesn’t always have to be about despair—it can also be about having a bloody good time.

So if you’re looking for something seasonal that doesn’t lean too hard into outright terror, this is well worth your time. Just don’t operate a chainsaw near bees. Trust me on that one.