Beware of the Apartment People (a poem)

The people in this apartment complex are so nice!

They smile, ask how I’m doing

I can tell they mean it by their bright eyes,

gentle body language, the way they speak of

this complex as a community.

But why does it seem so strange?

Behind these pearly-white smiles,

are they planning my demise?

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Descent of the Forest God

Here’s a short story that’s my attempt at a horror story, or weird fiction, at least. I’ve been reading about pagan mythology for a novel project lately, which inspired some parts of the story. Enjoy!

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The Faceless Woman (a poem)

The faceless woman chases me through vacant city streets –

lights on in every home, but no one’s there,

just us, running in dreadful silence

my heart beats so fast it feels as if it’ll burst

from my sunken chest, plop on black concrete +

continue to beat to the rhythm of the pulsing ground,

as a brilliant moon looms above, hangs over us,

shines blinding light on my ghostly skin –

I’m living in sin + if the woman catches me,

I’ll surely suffocate + gurgle black blood

from a wicked mouth –

No! my mouth is gone, covered by slimy skin,

+ I’m gone, in her cold grasp at last,

the world collapses inside of me +

I wake as a newborn in some

distant jungle landscape.

(Photo by Gabriel on Unsplash)

The Witch Queen (a poem)

The Witch Queen nurses you to health and assures you

she means no harm – the people fear her because she’s

ageless and has wandered these woods for centuries,

speaking with wild animals and traversing the dark

landscape, looking for lost travelers.

She tends to their wounds, offers medicine in her hut,

then devours them in sexual ecstasy like they’ve

never experienced before. They all leave feeling better –

the Witch Queen is your friend, not your enemy.

(Photo by Miriam Espacio on Unsplash)

Note: This poem was inspired by a character in Old Gods of Appalachia, a horror anthology podcast that I’m currently obsessed with.

The Monk in the City at Midnight

The monks say that without an absolute zeal for God, religion becomes just another opiate. This is referring to Marx’s famous statement, that religion is “the opiate of the people.” Who’s correct – Marx or the monks?

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Pandemic Nothingness (a poem)

There’s unreality in this isolation –

survivalists buy ammo, preparing for what?

In ancient times, this was an act of God –

a scourge caused by our sinfulness,

we’d bow at altars and beg for forgiveness.

Today, we fear nothingness.

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Carnival Games (a poem)

It’s 6:48 am and I am walking onto a bus
We are no longer able to be alone
The government has deemed we must stay together

This is my first day on the bus – I thought I would be on it longer
My start time is at 11:42 am

As I am ushered off the bus after twenty-five minutes
I am given directions on my phone and told to stay with the group
I must plan my escape, I must be alone

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Murder on the Moon (a poem)

There are no rules on the moon –

at least there weren’t until the murder.

A scientist’s blood drains down a shower sink;

let the detectives sort this out.

Spirits drove him to the brink.

Is that why he killed her?

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‘Graveyard Carnival’ is published!

I’ve had my second short story published by Bewildering Stories. This one was put on the website around Halloween, and it’s my goofy ode to Lovecraft and Poe.

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‘The Colour Out of Space’

I’m about halfway through a book of H.P. Lovecraft’s short stories, and I recently finished his popular “The Colour Out of Space.” What a strange and delightful story! 

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