Eric Ross: Blog

Some stories move slowly. The heat sits between the lines. You feel something shifting long before the characters admit it. The Clockmaker’s Rewind is that kind of story.

It starts with a key hidden in a ruined timepiece. The clockmaker who finds it lives alone, surrounded by clocks. When he turns the key, time rewinds—exactly, cleanly, silently. At first, he reclaims small things. Then his apprentice, Lira, discovers the secret. That’s when the loops begin to stretch. That’s when desire complicates everything. And that’s when the clocks start to slip.

What unfolds isn’t a time-travel story in the traditional sense. It’s a slow erosion. Of memory. Of restraint. Of what they thought they could keep repeating without consequence.

I wrote it in short chapters—quiet, compressed scenes meant to be read slowly. The pacing is deliberate. The sex (when it happens) is intimate, not performative. The story is less about what happens and more about what doesn’t reset. It's deliberately surreal and minimal at the same time.

I read it out loud while I was writing it. Over and over. I wanted a particular pacing so that the writing let it unfold, let the quiet work, let the tension spool.

If you like surrealism (think Peter Greenaway or David Mitchell), science fiction, and perhaps a little romance, then this may be for you.

I’ll be releasing the book as a serial—chapter by chapter. Slowly. As always, I look forward to reading your comments.

—Eric Ross

Once upon a time, in a village where the well water tasted faintly of gossip, there lived a girl named Cinderella who had no intention of being good.

She didn’t wait for a fairy godmother. She got a magical seamstress with a sharp tongue and scandalous taste in fabric. She didn’t dream of a prince. She showed up to his ball in a barely-there gown, made him beg, and blew his royal...mind... in front of the entire court.

The slippers were glass. The dress was magic. They danced. Then they didn’t. And no one dared look away.

And the stepsisters? Don’t worry—they got what they deserved.

Cinderella: A Smutty Little Tale is my playful, filthy remix of the classic fairytale. If you’ve ever wondered what would happen if the story loosened its corset and had a little fun, this one’s for you.

Eric

Yesterday, I shared Unframed: A Love Story in 36 Exposures—a 1,700-word short story about a photographer, a mysterious vintage Leica, and the woman who keeps appearing in photos he never took.

The story didn’t start small, as I explained in my blog posting yesterday. The first draft came in at over 4,000 words. The second ballooned to 6,500. It was only in the third pass—paring the story down to its essence—that I arrived at the tight, final version I published yesterday. That version focuses on the core idea: a camera that seems to reveal a possible future, and the choice the protagonist must make when confronted with what might be.

But after posting, a reader reached out with a suggestion: “I reckon you should also post the longest version and see which readers prefer.”

So here it is - Unframed: Extended Edition.

This extended draft gives more space to Alex’s unfolding journey—his search for Maya, their deepening connection, and the eerie mystery of the camera that keeps showing him glimpses of a life not yet lived. It’s a fuller arc, more emotional, and maybe a bit more haunting.

If you read the short version and found yourself wanting more—more moments, more backstory, perhaps more resolution—then I hope this longer cut resonates.

I’d love to hear what you think:
• Does the extended story add something the short version couldn’t?
• Or do you prefer the distilled clarity of the 1,700-word version?
• Did you feel more immersed, or more adrift?

Feel free to comment or message me directly. I always love hearing how these stories land.

Thanks for reading.

Eric

Some stories begin with a “what if.” For Unframed, it was this: What if a camera could show you the life you haven’t lived yet?

This isn’t a classic time-travel or do-over tale. There’s no return to the past, no chance to fix old mistakes. Instead, the Leica in Unframed is a mysterious observer that reveals fragments of a possible future, intimate moments with a woman Alex hasn’t yet met. A poet. A stranger. A life that could be.

At its core, the story is about choice. When we’re handed a vision of what might be, how do we respond? Do we chase the perfect image, or embrace the messy, uncertain present? For Alex, the question isn’t just about art or fate—it’s about love, identity, and the difference between capturing a moment and living it.

The writing process mirrored the story’s evolution. The first draft sprawled past 4,000 words, a moody exploration of character, mystery, and the pull of the unknown. The second ballooned to over 6,500 as I tried to chase every thread—Alex’s backstory, Maya’s secrets, the Leica’s eerie provenance. But ultimately, I realized the heart of the story wasn’t in its subplots. It was in the tension between the image and the moment. The prophecy and the present.

So I stripped it back. The final version is a lean 1,700 words, pared to its emotional and thematic core: a man, a camera, a woman, and a choice. No filler. Just the hush of a shutter and the whisper of life's choices, unframed.

I hope you enjoy.

Eric

A grief-numbed cowboy.
Two seductive outlaws.
One dangerous heist.

Five Days to Abilene is a slow-burn Western that takes place in a Texas bordello. It's about surrender, risk, and the thrill of being claimed.

Saddle up!

—Eric