Category Archives: Fan Fiction

My New Book “nothing”

My new book “nothing” is available on Amazon as a full-colour paperback and Kindle ebook.

Took me over a year to write it, three months to edit by myself and two amazing editors and about 56 drafts or so later it is DONE.

I appreciate your support and hope you will read and like it.


Travelling from Childhood

Image (c) Ideas With Ink

Once there was a boy, who dreamed of traveling the world, seeing landmarks and landscapes. On the drive to school, he always annoyed his parents with never-ending stories about faraway seas and lands filled with sailors and camels. At the dinner table, he read passages from the World Heritage Website; he even made his own list with the things that he wanted to see, so he could check it off when he visited them. He searched for flight tickets and planned detailed itineraries. Soon enough just around his thirteenth birthday, his dream came true and the plane whisked his dad and him to Europe.

On his journey through Spain, Portugal, and Morocco the boy discovered three cities: Barcelona, the playground of architects; Porto, which was filled with dynamic urban colors, and lastly – Fes, where birth, life, and death in the form of three mountains danced in circles, holding hands. The four elements made the landscape: the air was scented with jasmine and cedar; the earth felt grainy and Mars-like; fires flickered on dark nights and treasured water sang in fountains.

It is here, on this forum of summer, learning from the works of Gaudi and Picasso the boy found himself lost in the architectural mazes, not facts, – beauty was seen in a bailaora’s flamenco dance, the wind of adventure caressed his face and the voices of medieval battles filled his ears. In the Sagrada Familia, the boy felt overwhelmed with the heaven-high rooms and a dozen turrets, which rose into the sky like the tower of Babel and Casa Battlo shone like a glorious beach with it azure colors and shell-like fixtures.

The boy and his dad traveled through the heart of the subcontinent, where Don Quixote had fought his battles, through the towns of Andalusia, past abandoned castles, green meadows with cows grazing. And it is in Porto, the city of dreams which were born from the union of sky and earth, the boy’s geographical mind and traveling soul connected giving him a new take on his dream of traveling.

For the first time the teen did not talk about facts but imagined cavaliers racing through the plains, and pilgrims walking through forests. The father, who drove, had his eyes on the endless road and the son, the careless passenger, stared at the open plain. The scenery was meditative and the conversation was winding on different topics as the road itself. They both enjoyed traveling through the countryside, but moreover the journey through their thoughts and memories of the past and hopes for the future.

Now the teen was not just an observer, but the mountain climber, who was reaching for the zenith, training as an astronaut to sail through the Milky Way and claim stars. Finally, he understood, that the destination does not give a meaning to the journey, but rather the journey gives purpose to the destination.

And so, moved by his experiences, he was sending goodbyes to childhood and opening a fresh chapter. The beauty in the world was appearing in front of him and connecting architecture, history, emotions and nature in one big story: the story of his emerging teenage life.

An Interview With Ideas With Ink


A little glimpse on how (and why) my first Book of Poetry and Flash Fiction TIME CAPSULE came to life and what writing meant and means to me. SHARE YOUR STORIES in the comments, if you wish:)


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Snap #4 nothing by nobody

Life is a wife and peace is her niece.

The Us-bus goes between a friend-ship and a relation-ship.

Immigrants to new hearts need to learn the language of love.

I wear genes in my blood cell.

Friendships can’t enter the hate-state.

You can’t drink fear when driving your life.

The internet is fast food for the mind.

Egos are cannibals and souls are vegans.

When finding love don’t park your bye-ke next to the fire hi-drant   

Love triangle exists between heart, mind, soul.

Amazon Giveaway

Win a copy of my book on Amazon #AmazonGiveaway of #timecapsule by #ideaswithink #canadianteenauthor #amazongiveaways #share #Review #comments

The First Book is Out

Kindle Edition of TIME CAPSULE available now on Amazon for USD 2.99. Please, download, read, share and review. Your support is much appreciated.

Ideas with Ink

I have compiled my first book TIME CAPSULE and it is published on Amazon. The three years of my teenage life, my thoughts, aspirations, troubles, worries and hopes went into this work. I have grown as a human and a writer. Please, share and comment. I value your feedback and support.

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The First Book is Out

I have compiled my first book TIME CAPSULE and it is published on Amazon. The three years of my teenage life, my thoughts, aspirations, troubles, worries and hopes went into this work. I have grown as a human and a writer. Please, share and comment. I value your feedback and support.

Henri’s Dream


If Steinbeck wrote Chapter 33 in “Cannery Row”


Henri drank a gallon of wine, stretched out on his mattress and skimmed a passage of Rimbaud “But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.” with an indecently decent accent. The rain: undressed and barefoot, slaughtered poppies. Girls came and went like the waves infiltrating the masculine, decrepit shoreline. Henri dozed off into unbridled consciousness and entered into a bizarre ritual of Alice.

He dreamed he was the captain and she: the figurehead. Cannery Row was devilish, and deadbeat, and dark. The ocean was depleted of vastness and loneliness. Alice flowered in sad songs. Solitude pecked at Henri and the oddest personnages sprung into his reconnaissance: his possessive mother, his glacial father, his aloof sister. He recalled never leaving Cannery Row till now. His sister lived in a blue house on the brink of San Francisco with her sickly daughter. She gifted him a forked compass during a long awaited reunion. Henri left abruptly with maritime madness and bitter nostalgia.

Further along, northern California was deciduous, and rocky, and bony. He never found his parents (his mother, wasted by tuberculosis lived beneath the cerulean house and his father, sold into battle and anonymous, slept under a cross; both fertilized daffodils). Fisherman were on the prowl for shadowy schools and a train full of spirits swept past the atheist meadows. Alice was asleep in a bed of foam and singing silently.

In each Oregon hamlet they moored and ate haddock and happiness. Alice came from this hopeful despair, from wedlock, mares, sluiced wheatfields and no men. Some nights she was brought to life and they waltzed, on others she was planar, and lunar, and solar, and angular. He read too much Rimbaud and too little of himself.

Henri remembered his daughter stolen by fortune and the road. He recalled his wife beguiled by fate and the noose. Malvina floated, sweet, white and flowery with golden hair and a compass. He never lifted her fearing she would crumble and that angsty rendez-vous overburdened him more fiercely than it had thirty years ago when he immortalized them in pastels and acrylic. Washington was too regal.

Hazily, they docked in a foggy, forgotten Vancouver and seduced a park in the interior. Three autumnal flowers seized Henri and then he esconsed this unreal surrealness. The roses were wilted on the sill. The sea howled like a lost child on the cool maternal coast.

The orphanage demanded retributions and he ate another plum and drank a gallon of wine. In a journal he scribbled “the world laughing, you are weeping; the world weeping, you are laughing; the world surviving; you are dreaming, to survive inside a dream” and went back to sanding his vessel and exalting the wooden girl.

The rats scampered back in their cages, the vessels were moored to the evening and the gopher met a butterfly in the gutter. Three hours, three months, three years: the boat was nothing but a bad dream.