The Boneless: Published

I’m writing today to share some good news: one of my recent short stories has been published!

I wrote “The Boneless” for a horror journal called Coffin Bell, for their issue on myth and legend. I was really happy with the result so I’m glad more people will now get to read it.

Here is a link if you want to read my story: The Boneless.

Thank you, and Happy Halloween!

Some Assembly Required

The crib was one of those kit builds. Just twelve pieces total and all the hardware was included. Even so, John struggled with it. He was not terribly handy, at least not in the traditional sense. As he worked, sweat ran down his body, stinging the cuts and scrapes on his arms. Fatherhood was trying but rewarding. His son was his whole world now and it was all worth it.

When strangers met his boy, they always said he looked like his father. They even suggested he took after his personality, his mannerisms. John wanted it to be true, but he knew it wasn’t. The truth was the boy took after his mother. John winced as he nailed in a support. His side still hurt, but it was crucial that the crib was strong. Even with his lack of craftsmanship, he knew it needed to be made stronger.

John was not accustomed to caring for an infant, and he had never expected to do it alone. Still, he was proud of his work. He was proud of his boy. John completed the final modifications to the crib. He hoped the metal mesh would hold. It was supposed to be for chickens, but it was stronger than it looked. The full moon was coming, and he didn’t want to resort to barbed wire again.

A Spooky Ghost Song

The Haunting Of Hill House

Happy Halloween everyone!

I was watching The Haunting of Bly yesterday and reminiscing about how much I loved The Haunting of Hill House when I remembered something. I wrote a silly rap song about the series last year. This seems about as a good an opportunity as I’ll ever get to share it. I hope you enjoy!

Also, I wanted to thank my old co-workers for inspiring such a silly endeavor. Miss you guys!

The Haunting Of Hill House

Hat Boi Floatsin

When I drop the mic

you know it falls 9 feet!

Creepin in your room

to find you under your sheets.

Slinking down your hall

sending spiders crawlin,

Look under your bed

leaving all the children bawlin.

I see what you tryin to do

puttin my hat on your head.

When I finally bend down

you gonna wish you were dead!

Tap tap tap

hear the rap of my cane?

I’m right behind you now

filling your needle with pain!

So shoot up all you like,

to your family’s distain.

Even if you turn away,

I’ll be there inside your veins!


I see it if I close my eyes.

Some three years past and by,

A man I barely recognize

Left a small flame here to die.

I found it lit, but little more.

A candle waxing still.

But light enough to find the sore,

The hole it used to fill.

It isn’t mine and yet I know

Without it, I can’t see.

What would he say if he could speak?

Would he pass this fire to me?

This light was once a part of me, a lost and phantom limb.

This time I won’t just let it go. I can’t end up like him.

Writing Prompt: Not For You

I’m still working on the final article for my Upping Your Game: Fallout series (turns out it’s taking more research than expected) so let’s fill the void with another writing prompt. The basic idea for these going forward is that I’ll use one of the various online writing prompt generators to create a piece of flash fiction. I won’t spend more than an hour on it and it will have minimal editing (which is why the word count isn’t perfect). Let me know if these work for filler posts. I think they are more interesting than writing about not having things done as fast as I’d hoped to.

So without further adieu, here is the prompt: Write a 150 word story in the romance genre. It’s about a struggling musician and should include a pencil. Also use the sentence ‘Not for you.’ Bonus prompt: There is a great storm.


Not For you

Brian stared at the blank page before him. He needed new song for his set. Something that would really bring the crowd in. Something real.

Chewing on the end of his pencil, he thinks about her. Stephanie. 

His pencil found purchase in those memories.

When I am caught inside your gaze

I’d let my life fall in a blaze

Into your eyes that cut and pierce through me.

And though the world may find them cold

That fiery passion makes me bold

and you become the only thing I see.

“Is that too saccharine?” Brian thought to himself. “Not for you.” He chewed a bit harder on his pencil, suddenly lost in the heat of his most recent memories of her. The smell of sweat, those terrible motel sheets, her soft dark skin.

He was jolted from those pleasant thoughts by the chime of his cell phone.  He had received a text from his wife.

“Who is Stephanie?”

Writing Prompt: Fixing the Hole

I took this evening off to relax and try to figure out what my writing plans will be for the rest of the month. I didn’t get very far with that, so I decided to do some practice work then call it a night. So I went to one of those writing prompt generators.

I didn’t follow the prompt fully. I could have spend more time getting the length right or better matching the genre, but I chose to just go with my first idea and see where it took me. I wanted to capture the first draft of what was a spontaneous half hour of writing.

Here are the results:

Prompt: Write a 650 word story in the suspense genre. It’s about a soulless man and should include a wrench. Also use the sentence ‘It is required of you.’ Bonus prompt: There seems to be no one left on the planet.

Fixing the Hole

The gears turn.

Empty eyes stare at an ocean of stars. The Milky Way rises like a phantasm in the dark night sky. In centuries past, the old ones drove the stars away. They paled before the brilliance of progress.

Grease flows through copper channels.

After they finished killing God, they turned to the planet and then finally upon themselves. Turning from all that they were, they receded into a new violent ignorance. They no longer outshone the heavens. The fire faded. They froze to death.

Tension builds, wires pulling taut.

Glimmering in the starlight, the remnant looks down. Its arm isn’t responding. The outer plating had long ago corroded revealing the metal cored and plastic stoppers that imitated muscle. One of the stoppers has snapped, letting the corded metal loosen, leaving a hole in the intricate fibrous structure.

Elastics react to the shifting air pressure. The remnant sighs.

“I’m going to run out of these if this keeps happening.”

It turns away from the light and moves towards small a shed. This tiny building lies in the middle of a barren landscape, sheltered from the drifting snow by an outcrop of jagged stone. Entering the shack, the remnant is aware of the darkness, but has no need for further light. Its glassy optics find a drawer in the darkness and, with mismatched iron digits, it carefully pulls a small plastic stopper from what may be the last bit of cardboard in existence. It grabs a wrench and wanders back out into the glorious night.

Gyros spin, balancing a heap of rusted metal.

The remnant sits down on the ground and examines its arm. With its working hand it pulls the wires back together, placing the new stopper in place. Using the wrench it tightens the plastic and metal. Without feeling, it knows that it is regaining control of its functions. Without understanding, it knows satisfaction.

“You can’t stop now. It is required of you.”

The remnant turns back to the sky. It scrutinizes the stars. If there are more out there, it can not know. If another is staring at that same sky, it cannot say. If it had the capacity for loneliness, it would want to believe so. But it only knows the odds.

“If you stop now, no one will be left to see this.”

Cave Tetra

Scales of a ghost

tasting  sonic spaces.

It glides and feels,

hunting for the blind.

Feeding on light’s refraction,

cast of sediment. 


in a chamber of echoes.

Where are your eyes?

Tidal Locks

Fold just once to save some time —

perhaps to bridge this crack — 

between the spaces of the line,

my stage-light tesseract. 

Angles always arcing right,

light twisted up and bent.

Finding neither sound nor sight,

touch is all that’s meant. 

Rough and pitted from our part,

my orbit stays the same.

Gravity alone does not break hearts,

fusion is to blame.

But this could never be enough to keep our molten dance.

Beneath the iron of those stars, words never stood a chance.