Of one thing they were certain: they were not driving themselves that night. On the table was more booze than a man could feasibly drink, more wine than a Grecian of the olden, way olden days, could ingest—and they drank it like water. An alcoholic would have a pain in his liver at the sight.
And they were having a blast. Continue reading
It gets worse,
Before better,
Unravels,
Before you can attempt,
To sow it back again. Continue reading
“We are not real living beings, you know,” Caffeine said, then jerked his head to the side, looking at the door to the room.
“Yeah—but it doesn’t much matter. It’s nice being as we are, at least,” Alcohol said, and sat down on his chair. He stared up at the other two and smiled goofily.
“It matters a little bit,” Nicotine said, parting back his ginger hair. “I, for one, like to be flesh.”
“Oh, well…so do I, but that does not mean that we are.” Caffeine’s words came out rushed and flowing—like he had rehearsed it, but not well, and was trying to get them out as fast as possible before he forgot.
Alcohol laughed. “I did not get that at all.” Continue reading
I am shaking while writing this. This may be too far, but, I almost feel like it’s my responsibility to talk about it. Art is supposed to build up people, or at least make them see something that might change them inside—and in the modern world, it is almost selfish to be a creator and not share my…issues.
So… yeah.
Told by many this is not a good idea: fuck it.
Oh God, fuck it.
I’m 22 and I’ve never had a girlfriend. Continue reading
“So, you’re not going to press the button?”
Jim shrugged. “Nope.”
Cathy pursed her lips. She opened her mouth to say something and then did not. She looked at the red button on the table. They’d woken up to it being there in their kitchen.
“But,” Cathy began, “I feel as though we are supposed to do something with it.”
Jim considered the button again, rubbing his chin. He reached out to touch it, finger by finger, then he pulled away. He too felt the odd presence of someone, or perhaps many people, frowning. Continue reading
I’ve gone over before that I HATE platitudes. This is for several reasons, including how they are not at all helpful, in the slightest, when I hear them. But, with that said, some of them are so egregious, some phrases and common sayings so irritating, that I felt the need to bitch about them on the internet.
“You can do it!”
Okay, so, being supportive is nice, and good, and all that is swell—but clichés are clichés. Statements and sentences that come straight out of a hokey anime, or child-friendly animated movie, infuriate me because I feel like I am getting a robot quoting a film.
“I’m sure you’ll find someone.” Continue reading
Ever since James tried to quit using the patch, he’s been having mood swings. I noticed, everyone notices—but we were too polite to point it out to him, and for that, we are probably not nice people. Despite us doing it to be nice, ostensibly.
But you can tell, you can really tell. He’ll walk into our classrooms, and he’ll look all, you know, happy and stuff—has on his yellow mask. Big cheery face with a smile and wide eyes and a sharp chin. But, then, and oh is it fast, he’ll see something else, some minor thing upsets him, and the red mask whips out of his pouch, my God. Continue reading
The teachers’ stoic moment shattered with but one word.
“Teenagers.”
Mrs. Jasmine, known for her blue spectacles, dropped her mug to the ground and stared at the door.
“No,” she whispered. Continue reading
I didn’t much enjoy the book Ready Player One. It was…fine…I guess. It did give me a fun idea.
I am going to treat myself like an avatar in a game and list off my usual items and traits.
And, yes, I am doing this because it’s a good way to combine self-deprecating humor and ego-stroking, how’d you guess?
Here we go. Continue reading
“It would be nice to take it all back, don’t you think?” she mused at the stone figure of a woman in a slip-on dress. “I mean—I didn’t quite mean for it to go so far.”
She swiveled her head toward a man with his face in a perpetual scream.
“And, you, I really did not mean for you to die. I was trying to be careful.” Continue reading
So, when writing became my job, I had to ask: “then what’s my hobby?” Well, though I am a big fan of Hearthstone and I obviously read a ton and watch many shows—when I have time to do so—if I had to pick something I consider a hobby, it would be cooking.
To not die of hunger, I must cook food anyway—or eat out at restaurants all the time, but, if that were only the case, I would not make it as complex as I do. If I was only doing it for the sake of not being a withered husk of hunger, I would not put the level of thought and effort into the foods I make. Continue reading
I can’t handle the smell.
“Would you please put that thing out?” I asked.
“Wish I could,” he responded, taking another puff of his cigarette. The noxious white fumes floated around in the room and had nowhere to go. I coughed, and my lungs burned.
“You can,” I said. I held out an overused ashtray. “You just stop.”
“That’s not how addiction works,” he said, and softly shook his head. “I figured with how much coffee you suck down you’d get that.” Continue reading
To tell you the truth, I never meant to be a horror writer. Everyone knew me as the sci-fi guy; that’s where I began. But, somewhere, along the way, this became the artistic avenue I connected to the most.
I say, whenever possible, “I am a horror writer.” Because I want that to stick. I want people to get what that means, even if I am not sure, myself, what I mean.
I’ve talked, at length, about my want for and to create dark stories. I do not fully understand my proclivity, but I know it has affected me. At some point, after I’d spent a good deal of time trying to come up with horror concepts, and studying other instances of it, it became clinical. Continue reading
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
Coolerbs Writes 