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Making Senses of the World

Yesterday I stopped by Pike’s Place Market while on my way to the Horrific Miscue crit group.

Pike's Place Market, Seattle [Read More]

“David Milner Is. . .” is now up at TALES TO TERRIFY

David Milner is a husband, father, blue collar worker. And he wants to be a good man.

“David Milner Is. . .” is now up at TALES TO TERRIFY. Have a listen, and enjoy.

Hear That? #19: Algernon & Laidlaw

Hi there! Welcome to another installment of HEAR THAT?, a review of fine audio fiction on the internet. I know there are any number of quality audio fiction podcasts out there, so if you happen across one that you think I might like then drop me a line and I’ll check it out. This time around we have two stories from two very different podcasts, not about heroes but about real people.

CAST OF WONDERS #66 brings us “The Egg Game” by [Read More]

Two Minute Tale #31

The crows called his name with dark intent: “Carl! Carl! Carl!”

He stuffed his right fist in his mouth to keep from laughing. Right fist, always the right fist for laughing. The left fist was for crying. Left, Right, Left, Right. Star Light, Star Bright. Left, Right. Tell me a story, the perfect story, the story of the world, you are the world, murder the world with a story. You can do it.

The ragged man squeezed his eyes shut and hid beneath the mind tree until wings murdered the sky and he was once again alone.

A story, give me a story, tell me a story of fire, and wings, and funny hope-on-a-soap, dope-a-dope-a-dope. Murder the world with a story, that’s what I want

A surprise. He could open his eyes without slicing off the lids, better than yesterday. Today’s sky was red, the red of pomegranate juice spilling down his chin, the red of blood. Poisoned shadows and bony memories clung to the base of the mind tree, pinning the twisted trunk to the ground so it couldn’t follow the ravening murder. Carl listened to the voices knit in the pattern of the withered branches above him. Murder the world, story murder the world, you can do it, now, want a world murder now.

His lips puckered at the memory of the taste of the tree’s yesterday fruit, bitter, not the tart sweet of blood, or pomegranates.

When he could stand, he did, and when he could lift his head he did that, too. He feared the horizon, feared finding himself even more. Carl took a step, and then another, and another, until the steps were running, and he was running, running away.

Running out of his own story before the voices found it forever.

Two Minute Tale #30

Someone once asked where I get my ideas.

I write in the shadows of THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS.

I HAVE NO MOUTH, AND I MUST SCREAM. Lucky for us all, I have a notebook and pencil, a keyboard, a razor. Sharing is caring.

I write about people we all know and are. A middle class [Read More]