Horror Can Be Fun

High-minded aspirations and delusions of grandeur and self-importance related to art and culture and all aside, I like horror because I like horror. Yeah, I have done posts about how darkness challenges me, how I like to test my limits, but, there’s more to it—even if it is basal in nature.

Horror is fun.

Scaring people, making people shudder, it’s fun. Continue reading

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Flash Fiction: Secret Keeper

“I like him.”

Yun took a step back, and his heart hammered. “Oh, cool…”

Gale took a step forward, looking both concerned and afraid. “What’s…you’re not going to tell him, are you?”

Yun had something in his chest snap. “No… no… of course not.” Continue reading

Microfiction: Hope

Hope floated over her and wished that she could just tell her. Wished she could manifest and regale her with all the new things that would happen. All the beauty and joy.

But, there Karen was, for now, crying in a shopping center. Hiding in the changing room with no interest in putting on the swimsuit that she had taken from the racks. Trying to not make too much sound even as her heart broke at the seams and into so many pieces. Continue reading

Microfiction: Upgrade Myself

“Nah, dude, it’s wicked.”

“I don’t know, man. It sounds very sketch to me.”

“Dude, dude, I can see through clothing. I can listen to a conversation a hundred feet away from me. It’s wicked.”

“You keep using that old, old slang, dude.”

“It’s the right word for it. I am not myself—I am better than myself. I am so much more than a person—a human—could have been in any time before now. That is incredible, by itself, dude.”

“You keep saying that it makes you so special. Explain that shit to me.” Continue reading

Microfiction: Count The Cups

“I mean, play along. How many was that?”

Brian put the white ceramic mug to his lips and sucked down more of the cheap coffee. His sister watched him for a moment, then rolled her eyes.

“It’s four, right?” she asked.

Brian flicked out his finger. “Ding, ding.” Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Angel’s Field

Dreamlike, you know. Harold walked among those stalks of grass and moved them as they whipped at his skin. Dry and somehow sticky—and somehow coating his mind too in that dryness. He was mentally warm, uncomfortable. But he kept going.

Up in front of him, something white and fluttering was there. Something that was the size of a person, but glowing. Pale skin. Bare and nude except for a small patch of fabric across the midriff. Wrapped loosely with jewels.

He should have been embarrassed, or at least aroused—but he was simply drawn forward. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Cut And Stabbed

Knife into the chest.

“Oh…”

“What does it feel like?” she asked, stepping into the stab. Pushing into her husband harder and harder.

She grinned.

“How does what feel?” he asked, his eyes growing darker.

“Do you understand what you did to me?” she asked. Continue reading

A Lazy Workaholic

I refer to myself as a “workaholic” because of one annoying tendency I have: it’s hard for me to just have free time. Being my own boss taught me to force myself to work, and work, and work, and then some more. Even if I’m working on personal projects, and not for any of my clients—it changes little.

On the outside, this is not apparent. I have been called “pretty chill” by someone who has been around me for smaller periods of time. I give off an aura of being calm, sort-of bored, and reserved if they catch me at the right times. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Foolish Bravado

An uproar shook the social fabric when the young upstart had challenged the Flame Master to a duel—but that paled in comparison to the reaction when he had fixed the upstart with a haughty glare and nodded in acceptance.

And, by the rules of the Mage Academy, that was enough—that was all that it took.

They set it for twilight. Continue reading

Microfiction: New Villain

“Why must I be the evil one?”

The being of pure light looked at me. I had been converted first to human form. My armor was black, and my sword was on fire—and I hated it.

“Because someone needs to be,” the being said, then slowly formed into a person. Nose and ears and such coming in slowly. “I am sorry though—but that’s the way it’s got to be.”

“Why?” Continue reading

Microfiction: Children’s Book

The children asked for the story. They sat in a circle around the old man, who squinted at the massive pictures as if they were the smallest of symbols. His voice came out shaky—he’d been a smoker—and without much volume, but the children stared in rapt attention.

They did not need exactly to hear it. They all knew the story well enough. They could all recite it, really, if it came to such a thing. Continue reading