The Fisherman at Manussa

I found her smoking at her usual spot on the old bridge. The cold made the smoke escaping her lazily open mouth look thickly blue-gray and which dissipated into the same colored skies above. She must have knitted the hat for the occasion, judging from the loud colors that somewhat resembled the digits of the … Continue reading The Fisherman at Manussa →

My Love, Anathema to…

How we dismissed the danger, Of that foggy path we so bravely crossed, To fall in love. How boldly do we taunt fate, Our every desire we grossly inflate, Until want becomes need becomes repressed, Enthusiasm and respect depressed, Every word of kindness becomes a curse, Your gentlest touch only makes things worse - So … Continue reading My Love, Anathema to… →

Un città che da neun sentiero era segnato

There’s a reason why misanthropy is considered an aspect of a personality disorder. Pathological bitterness, reflexive ennui, inescapable empathy that only picked out everything loathsome and disgusting about people - no one should be born with these qualities, in this enormity. These were issues that literally ate away one’s insides like a cancer for your … Continue reading Un città che da neun sentiero era segnato →

Get Well Soon

August the Eleventh I once had a friend who was very kind, who embodied the very philosophy of philanthropy, and lived in a small manor by herself. I had met her as a child and somehow we seemed to have still remained close friends after so many years, despite not actually having the opportunity to … Continue reading Get Well Soon →

The Librarians of the Red Sun

Prompt: Lovecraftian Existential Horror, Short-form, 2017 Far to the west, there is a small city of stone and marble nestled between the mountains and the sea. Somewhat isolated from the rest of the continent by geography and time, that place is home to a peculiar tradition whose roots would appear to extend far back to … Continue reading The Librarians of the Red Sun →

The Blue Flower and the Mountain

“At the very edge of the very edge of the world is a village of peaceful farmers, who spend their lives growing their livelihoods from the dead soil. Just east of that village is a mountain of peculiar construction made entirely of jet-black stone. Upon the summit of that mountaintop is a blue flower. It … Continue reading The Blue Flower and the Mountain →

The Carrion Grove

Excerpt: "Stories from the End of the World", 2018 As you know, just west of the edge of the Furrows there lies a massive forest that stretches out to the far horizon. Even if you were able to to somehow climb to the very tallest peak of that eviscerating range of crags and look out … Continue reading The Carrion Grove →

Silent Poet

Prompt: Introductions for the Apocalypse, by friend, A- I am a silent poet. For the apocalypse does not concern me. The spread of Covid-19? Just wear a mask, shop online, stay unseen. Our economic collapse? Wealth is a construct, numbers on an app. Social Inequality? Am I not a model minority? I am a silent … Continue reading Silent Poet →