creative writing
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Blood on the Wind
A tornado stumbles through the landA glass-eyed drunk with bloodstained handYet, why pretend it bears a faceWhen mercy holds no dwelling place? It does not think, it does not feelIt does not bargain, beg, or kneelIt tears through roof, root,… Continue reading
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Sticky Sweet
Of all the sins that stain the soulLust burns brightest, sticky-sweet & boldWhen Eve bit deep that ruby skinIt must’ve felt like lightning withinA bloom of stars behind her eyesA million moans dressed in disguise Perhaps the serpent wasn’t wrongJust… Continue reading
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Fragments, 4.4.25
In a house of cast-off souls, rust speaks in tongues of boneShelves groan under spines no longer burdened with memoryWhat wears no flesh but fetches the highest price?What whispers secrets in the currency of marrow? ** What runs forever yet… Continue reading
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Sweet Tooth
The rain came down like God had tripped over His own garden hose. Thunder rolled across the suburbs of Evershade in ominous belches, and Nick, the most underpaid cookie delivery driver this side of the apocalypse, squinted through his cracked… Continue reading
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The God Who Wakes the Worms
They say he comes barefoot, leaving footprints of moss in frost-bitten soil. Not summoned, not born but thawed from beneath the world when the first crocus dares to dream. His name is unpronounceable by clean mouths, but the crows call… Continue reading
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Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Your Eternal Screams
On the dead-end stretch of Hemlock Circle, the lawns were manicured, the dogs were quiet, and the mailboxes were all sealed with holy water and zip ties. Because of Harold. The mailman. He came every day at 3:33 PM, sharp… Continue reading
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The Epistle of Zarnak
It was found in the crawlspace behind Father Lorenzo’s confessional booth, bound in eel skin and smelling faintly of burnt copper. The Vatican had no record of it. No index matched its glyphs, and the pages whispered to one another… Continue reading
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The Night Unending, Part VI (Finale)
There was no staircase after the top, only absence. Octavius stood on the edge of the Tower of the Night King and stared into a sky that was not sky but memory congealed into black silk. The stars were watching… Continue reading
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The Dandelion Rite
Every spring, just as the dandelions began to blossom, the townsfolk of Gristlethatch performed The Planting. It was tradition, ancient and grim. No one quite remembered how it started—some said it was in the town charter, others blamed the bees—but… Continue reading
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The Night Unending, Part V
He saw it through a break in the storm, just as the fog finally broke its hold: a jagged silhouette against a sky the color of bruised fruit. The tower rose like a wound in the world, forged from obsidian… Continue reading
God Is In The Radio 