Novels
I am currently querying agents and seeking publishers for the following five novels. I can be reached at —> hello [at] byWilliamJMeyer [dot] com
Valkyrie
Most die never saying what they meant to. Never hearing what they should. Made mute by fear— and deaf by pride.
Deep beneath the impossible mountain Rúnhallr is a stone of power called valdrsten. To mine its wealth one must release a foul humor which drowns our loved ones, turning them into vengeful sea-draugr. 

Against this dire history a Valkyrie named Hildr recruits dying warriors for her own secret purpose.
Theatrical Mythology.
First Page:
An altar and an audience. No odeum. No stage. No skene. But worry not. No blood will be spilt, no gray humor will infect you. The altar will remain dry.
When anger calls, when fear beckons, listen for an untimely sneeze. It may remind you this tangle of violence is only a game of cat’s cradle. So, don’t forget these gossamer threads stretch between our hands. Yours and mine. And, these webbed worlds are thinly spun. This paper easily torn. So then, let the approaching warriors march— but not to drums, no, rather— to the beating of your heart, for you decide how shallow or deep their sounding timbre. You decide the pace of their exploit, how clammy their risk, how oppressive their foggy truths.
This novel grew out of my short play Waiting to Die in a Tent, A Few Thoughts on Valhalla, which I produced as an award-winning audio drama.
Visit my Audio section to learn more.
Fire on the Mound
In broken tongue I call to the dark—
Long ago in a hidden kingdom, Mtilan the Unborn King pledges his life to Legion, the fallen spirit from beyond the veil of time. Learning dark and forbidden magic, the new sorcerer gains both immortality and incredible power— but sacrifices his soul.
Over a millennium later, siblings Pekra and Lely reluctantly journey with their father’s killer across their island of peril. They seek the mythical cottonwood tree, the first child of their god Ura, hoping to defend its sacred life from both Mtilan and his itinerant Master.
But the brave siblings are children of the deer-folk known as the Gaewyn, a persecuted people. They voyage toward an uncertain fate unaware mainlanders have crashed on their island, bringing those who would enslave them a new, deadly technology— the gun.
Epic Fantasy.
First Page:
The first distant rays of the sun tentatively breached Hirambim’s crest, and Baalath Salathiel discovered to his relief that the valley was not teeming with the Unborn.
They had all been slain. Baalath navigated carefully between their rotting carcasses, scorning them beneath trembling lips. Their thin arms extended at peculiar angles, strained in torment. Their shallow eyes were fixed on the next world.
Still, he thought they watched him.
No one hindered him on his approach. No one greeted Baalath as he cautiously entered the keep. An empty throne room echoed his steps. He held out his aged hand before him, twisting it as though it belonged to some other. Baalath examined the pronounced veins carefully. He considered his failing strength.
“How did every object of my love come to fear me, in life and in death?”
I produced this novel as a 42-episode podcast with sound design and an original score. Visit my Audio section to learn more.
I Am Five Years Old And Dying 
Finish your story. And then maybe I’ll tell you mine.
As a growing anti-robot sect gains prominence on the international stage, their number one target for eradication flees every human on the planet, unraveling the mystery surrounding the illegal consortium that created it, and confronting the final fate of its biological parents— the man who designed its body— and the woman who designed its brain.
First-person Science Fiction.
First Page:
I am covered in insects.
Their tiny feet prick my skin.
They speak in whispers.
Thread whispers.
Needle whispers.
They excrete in my ears. Copulate on my skin.
They complete every nook. Fill every pore.
Ants. Bees. Wasps. Beetles. Weevils. Crickets. Grasshoppers. Dragonflies. Fleas. Termites. Lice.
Legs and wings and mouths and eyes and antennae.
(Palpitate)
Bites. Small bites. Many small bites.
Everything that begins to exist has a cause.
The insects devour my body.
My body. Is gone. Now. Now, I am nothing but insects.
But if I am gone— who thinks these thoughts?
(The city— below— it is night— and:)
“But, if this is a simulation, we are not in it.”
“Hm? Explain that, please.” (Switches)
[Title Withheld] 
The giant mutant-scorpion-squid-thing unfolded its many legs—
Someday, in the year 33,000... out in the wastes... the most sought-after skills belong to a mechanic... as Ze discovers when she is captured and returned to civilization to repair the three artificial sisters running the last human outpost on Earth.
Post-post Apocalyptical Planetary Romance.
First Page:
Ze skipped along. She hadn’t seen anyone for months. Her spurs were the only sound in that dry and wispy expanse, the Earth beneath her long dormant. The wind remained respectfully silent, though it did hazard to play at her ankles. Her robes fluttered across the drift of fine black sands, obscuring the occasional twinkle of pyrite.
If the place had a name, she did not know it.
She wore goggles. Old, and for welding. Her desert scarf protected her head and ears and neck and mouth and trailed behind her, licking the air like a long, giant tongue. The scarf was tawny and dirty. Her green and gold ball-cap squeezed the top of her head— a little tight— its front embroidered with an antlered beast of power.
Ze’s bed roll bounced lightly at the small of her back, its strap running up over her shoulder. Her other kit she kept hidden beneath her robes. Ze’s nose would have been the only part of her skin exposed to the heat of the expanse, but she protected that russet brown bridge with a tab of tape.
[Title Withheld] 
A man invents a personal cryosleep device to circumnavigate an increasingly tense political climate. Led through an exponentially baroque cyberpunk future by his only friend, a talking cat, every four years he checks in on the ambitious politician morphing a border control agency into a personal paramilitary religious cult. The last time he wakes up, the man discovers his daughter runs the agency at the new dictator’s right-hand.
Political Satire.