Flash Ficton: Some Humble Advice

That was the seventh cigarette in the last ten minutes. Yung counted. Something in him was humming, just watching Howard go through them. Yung worried somewhat—but he knew so many people that smoked, and, for some baffling reason, most of them seemed perfectly fine so far.

“Look,” Howard said, tapping away some ash, “I was just the same.”

“Yeah?” Yung asked, tilting his head. “You dealt with this too?” Continue reading


Stuff I Keep Hearing

I have bad days, sometimes. We all do. And, when I do, I try to—I don’t know—channel it toward something, at the very least. Turn sadness into anger, turn frustration into motion, somehow. It helps I walk a lot, it gives me an outlet (you really can outrun certain problems, believe it or not) but, ultimately, what makes me happy is making other people happy.

An inspiring speech, oddly, works wonders for the sake of my own morale. So, well, let’s go do such a thing, even if I’m distracted and riled up from a day that did not go as I planned. Continue reading

Microfiction: Wobbly

Along the rim, they walked, and Charles became worried about his stability. His feet were not working well, and not landing well, and not going in the exact way he would have wanted them to do so.

Sasha walked alongside him and did not seem to notice his little stutters of motion. She simply handed him another drink, something she brought with her, and he took a sip of it. It wasn’t alcohol; it tasted like water. Continue reading


Odd Stuff I’ve Said

I’m guessing some would recommend I don’t write about this, but, well, you all know I’m eccentric as it is—so, fuck it. Writers already have the stigma of being a weird bunch, but you’ve heard, likely, all the usual shenanigans—so, I’m doing you one better.

Not just researching murder methods, talking to people who they make up, or being totally willing to do dangerous/stupid things for the sake of a story: nah, I’ve got a set of much more unique quirks.

And it involves words and language. Continue reading


Poem: Takes Long

It takes long.

Longer than it seems,

To achieve those dreams.

Plant the seeds instead,

Of expecting the future. Continue reading


The Season…For Sneezing

Somehow, I always forget I have hay fever. I’m not sure how it slips my mind because it fucking sucks, but, recently I went outside and then sneezed—then sneezed again. And again. That was when I remembered. Ain’t allergy season fun? Continue reading


Microfiction: Evil D.J.

On the beat and the beer, they danced. Women and men, high on their own hormones and the feeling of youth, kept bouncing and singing.

The D.J. spun a new beat and then pulled the microphone toward him.

“Everyone put their hands up!” Continue reading


Push–Can I Automate That?

I like to automate. When I hit a problem with timing or effort, the question becomes: “Can I automate that? Can I make technology do that for me?” I am a transhumanist: it’s not odd I think that way, but what is funny is how often the answer is a resounding YES to those questions.

I guess the world is catching up to the proposed futures of the past. Smart plugs make my light turn on by my schedule. My scale records my weight for me. If I can make something give alerts or similar when events occur, then I am all for it.

Now, you might call me lazy. You might call me spoiled. You’re right on the first one, possibly right on the second. After all, I am a white male, cis-gendered, heterosexual living in America (also a little left-leaning, if you could not tell from that tongue twister), so I get access to some of the best stuff in the world—and I can get it delivered to my door.

And that’s spoiled.

That’s lazy. Continue reading


Flash Fiction: Fever

“Now honey, please don’t stay up late.” Margaret patted her son on the shoulder and gave him a little smile. “You need to take care of yourself, okay? That’s not a small fever, so don’t push it.”

“Okay, mom. I just want to finish up this round.” Billy clicked on the screen, making game cards move. The resulting graphics assured him that his latest move was a good one.

“Okay. I just want you to feel better.”

“Don’t worry—I will,” Billy said. Continue reading


Fuck That Little Voice

Imposter syndrome, fear of criticism, and creative blocks. Some more legitimate than others, but all real. I would know, I’ve had them. But, despite being a nervous, introverted, lessening-so-but-still-shy person, I’ve done a good enough job of being out there with my artistic work.

Those issues I listed come down to a little voice telling us we are failures, that we are about to get shanked by the world at large for our lack of talent. And, while I don’t know how to make myself able to tell a speech to a crowd, I have advice for how to slay this beast of a voice. Continue reading


Flash Fiction: Briny Deep

“Deep down there, in the deep, what did they find? What could make them sleep? On what do they feed, and what is seen by their endless eyes?”


“The tales they tell of what they have is not one for the foolish—only the dead.”

“No, please. This is going to hurt us. You are wrong.” Continue reading


Like Nothing Can Touch You

The last post that was not a piece of fiction from me was a tad on the depressing side, so, I figured I’d spin the mood around and deliver something happy while I sort out my shit.

Because, even if I talk like it is, complain, the world is not all darkness and fire—neither is it unicorns and the first bite of an apple on a summer evening as the sun goes down—but there are moments, even if they are fleeting, where one can raise their hands to the sky and say “this, this is the meaning of it all. Right here. Right now.” Continue reading


Microfiction: Pie

The human chest segmented into five slices within a perfectly carved circle does not kill someone if they do the proper magical procedures beforehand. This process requires two people with a great deal of skill and fortitude.

And who are utterly insane. Continue reading


Ten Pounds Of Terror

Had to leave town because of Hurricane Irma. Could not cook my own food in Chicago. Then, came back and discovered the loveliness of eggnog martinis and double espressos lattes.

But, turns out, coffee, all coffee, even just a little of the stuff, burns my stomach.

But, yeah, quitting it is difficult. So, that’s fun. Caffeine, you’re a cruel monster.

Then, after learning white wine is gross, and so are mimosas, and they give me cottonmouth, I caught what appeared to be the plague. A lot of Florida, and possibly more of the country, got this super nasty bug, and, for a little while, I did not feel like eating anything other than liquid.

So, I got good at protein shakes. Like, I made some mean drinks—if I may toot my own horn on my own blog.

But, after all that, after I came back to coffee after quitting and discovered I like cappuccinos more than even lattes: I had a horrible reality check.

I’d gained ten pounds. Continue reading


Flash Fiction: Riots

Officer Harriet walked into her house, covered in sweat and something not dust—but easier to call it that. More of such “dust” covered her chairs, her couch, and especially the little worn out bed she had off in her room. Continue reading