Welcome to
​Border-Lands Publishing

Here, we are focused on crafting and delivering high-quality story 
in the written form. This is not about egos or agendas. Who has a good story
and original voice? We are developing the writers who are lancing the world
around ​them and building bridges of humanity.

Contact

Themes We Explore

If you would like to submit a piece of writing that engages with
​one of these themes for consideration in Here and There, contact us. 

Truth

Being Human

Who We Are

Featured Writers

Dylan Patrick

fiction and nonfiction writer and storyteller.

J . L . Gilman

short-story contributor

Novels In The Works

Who We Are
By Dylan Patrick

​This debut novel follows the life of prolific writer John  Daily, who was a once in a generation talent
that channeled his energy to write about the America he knew and about life as people know it to be.  
After war and wandering, working odd-jobs, covering news stories, and looking for himself, John Daily
became a voice for the ages, a writer committed to his craft.  In the darkness, every night, he worked.
 He churned out masterpieces of literature. However, a story of accomplishment and creation becomes one of
survival and desperation as John Daily confronts the question all who reach such dark waters must ask,
​ "Can I make my way back to the surface, back to the light?"

Not Everyone Is A Writer,
​But We Can Help

Our writers offer a bridge between writers, people, and organizations
in need of content creation. ​We give voice to your
​ideas and important thoughts. 

Websites

Ghostwriting

Research

 "It turns out, writing, whether it be stories or music, is what I do.  
I do not differentiate between them. They are tools. Each achieves
something unique, something specific."
-Dylan Patrick

Short Stories

A Line In The Sand
Dylan Patrick

       The line in the sand was bold and it was straight. Three men stood and stared at the line, it separated one from two. For each man, the line possessed a varying weight of consequence. The consequence of the line, of each individual decision, also bound them together. Even the wind seemed to recognize the gravity of the drawn ultimatum, stopping so it would not be altered or swept away.
 
       The One stood alone, hands clenched by his side. His face was crisped by heat and lashed by wind. The One clamped his eye-lids shut, shielding brown irises from the unobstructed sun. Shuttered vision deferred the tragedy un-spooling on the other side of the line.
 
       The Two stood side by side. The oldest of the pair fidgeted with his hands. His green, buttoned shirt was stained and greasy to touch. Despite the heat, it was buttoned to the collar- a habit formed in in the fields of Mississippi when he was a teenager. The youngest of the duo ground the stubble on his chin with grimy fingers. Neither man vocalized troubling thoughts festering in their minds- spoken words were not trusted. They did not look at each other. Avoidance.
​ 
       The One opened his eyes, relaxed his hands, and asked, “What's it going to be?”
​ 
​CONTINUE

Wendy Blue Eyes
J.L. Gilman

       Wendy woke up around 5 am. She gripped the side of her night-table and pulled herself out of bed and then walked downstairs. She needed to get the paper. She did not place a single garment upon her frail body. Her white hair was shoulder length, her blue eyes were brilliant, and her skin sagged.

       Down the stairs, out the door, and to where the morning’s paper lay on the concrete stoop she shuffled. She bent over, gravity pulling upon her skin, pulling and straining it towards the ground. She reached a curled, arthritic finger towards the bundle of local news. Her late husband had often growled, “It is more a newsletter than a newspaper. They can't even do a decent obituary.” But, regardless of what Old Henry had thought, he had gotten a lovely obituary.
     
       Wendy grasped the plastic rapped bundle, and righted her aged body to an upright position. Slowly. Standing as straight as she could, she took in the neighborhood. She stood as a matriarch should: back straight, head moving slowly from left to right scanning and observing, her lips smiling. She smiled without showing any teeth because, well that just isn’t how a queen should smile; it would be vulgar. One might think vulgarity an insane attribute to aspire towards while registering the fact that Wendy was in deed standing upon the stoop of her home, within the confines of a neighborhood occupied by families and children, naked- not that there is anything wrong with a naked body, but it would be shocking in the confined burbs.
​ 
CONTINUE