R.C. McLeod
Bio
I am a YA-speculative fiction writer with a focus in sci-fi/fantasy. Writing has always been a passionate passtime for me, and has grown into my adult aspirations. For more about me, visit my personal site at www.rcmcleod.home.blog.
Stories (25)
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From the Eyes of a Princess
The starlight lingered among the whitecaps and waves, glittering like gems in the surf. Gulls called distantly and the roar of brackish water barely reached her as the waves slammed against the stone pillars of the harbor. Air hung thick with the scent of sea salt, though there was no lazy breeze wafting from the ocean. The night was moonless, dark and somehow more still than it should be. It was calm…uncanny.
By R.C. McLeod6 months ago in Fiction
In Waves
Eyes fixed on the shimmer of pale light over the surf. It sparkled, like stars pinned upon the crests so that sky and sea seemed as one. Waves glimmered against charcoal sand, speckled with fluorescent blue. This was her favorite season: the summertime, when the lunalgea settled into the reef and danced upon the mineral-rich sand. He had loved it, too…
By R.C. McLeod7 months ago in Fiction
At Eldermore Harbor
The western sunset glimmered like dancing stars of orange and gold across the shimmering surface of the harbor as the wind sailed softly across the surface. It was chilled, bringing with it the tang of salt and sand and seaweed as it tousled sandy locks. He brushed them from his face and inhaled deeply. He loved the sunsets here at Eldermore, when the sea breeze was calm and fair and the clouds were trimmed with golden light; it seemed peaceful: one could almost forget there wasn’t a war going on just mere miles away.
By R.C. McLeod7 months ago in Fiction
Torn. Content Warning.
Sunlight spills across patches of tall clover, gilding purple blossoms and the green of stems and leaves in a warm golden glow. It seeps through the tall Bermuda grass, glinting on morning dew and aphids suckling on the tips of bluegrass. Across the lawn, dragonfly wings flicker like candleflame as one takes flight from the overgrown weeds of what was once a flowerbed. June-bugs dance mid-flight across what, to them, has become a wild glen – an untamed meadow to call home.
By R.C. McLeod8 months ago in Fiction
