This one red,
And this one not,
One can see into—
The world we never knew, Continue reading
Tag Archives: Dark
Poem: Scary Clown
Microfiction: Mic Dropping
Amidst the violence, when the shady deals were just being struck, and the drugs hitting streams of blood at the rate of a brain burst, he plugged in his instrument and warmed up his other physical one. The microphone crackled against his breath, and he sang a few languid notes. Continue reading
Poem: Necessary Bio
Poem: Mind Mental Mildew
Poem: Poem, Poem
Poem: Control The World
Poem: Slurping
Poem: Dark Star
Poem: Creeper
Poem: Coming In–Coming There
Poem: Cannibal
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
Disturbing Me
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
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
