Monday, February 15, 2016

"Retirement Home"

My first story based on actual, creepy-as-hell, events! Click here!

Retirement Home

Retirement is not what you think at all. “Oh, you're retired! It must be so nice to have all that free time!” is the usual reaction when people learn of our situation. I want to slap them in their ignorant mouth every time. Here's the deal; retirement isn't fun in the slightest. Sure, the first few months are fine. Catching up with hobbies, friends, family, and upkeep on the house. After that, though, you are constantly preoccupied with the unrelenting task of trying to fill the rest of your free time. It gets maddening. If it wasn't for my wife, Mitsu, I'd be in the loony bin after the first year. “Now now, Frank”, she'd whisper and take my wrinkled hand in hers, “No need to get so worked up.” She knew I wanted to smack the taste out of people's mouths that gave the smiling, polite reactions indicating that they couldn't possibly fathom to understand, yet. They will. One day.

I should be considering myself lucky. I have a loving wife of forty years, a house that's been paid off for the past twenty years, and a brand-spanking-new van that I bought outright as a retirement present to myself for various hardware store excursions. Even though I was no longer a foreman, I still found the need to fiddle here and there with various home improvements. After her own retirement from a large software company, Mitsu keeps tinkering with computers, gadgets, and other things that are just way too over my head to grasp. Old habits die hard. So do we, apparently.

It was in the third year of our retirement that the visits started happening. I guess someone heard my wish for a little excitement in our mundane day-to-day. The first knock at our door perplexed both of us. “Are you expecting someone?” Mitsu asked with a confounded expression. “Hell no”, I huffed, struggling out of my recliner to confront the interruption. I was ready to tell whoever it was to peddle their wares or  Jesus elsewhere, but when I opened the door, I was greeted with red hair and a smile from a small, almost waifish, young girl. “Yes?”, I half-barked. “Uh, hi! I don't know how to say this...”, she peered behind me where Mitsu was poking her head out of the kitchen. “My phone. I have a tracker that says it's here...”, seemingly losing her confidence, she peered down at a mobile phone displaying a map, then shoved the device in my face. “See? That's your house. You wouldn't happen to have my phone... would you?” I brushed her hand to the side, “Now, look here. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but the only phone that we have is bolted to the wall. Does that sound like your phone to you?!” “N-no,” she cowered, “I'm s-sorry.” She turned, tail tucked, and left. Mitsu couldn't control her laughter. “You're so mean!”, she teased as I closed the door. Later that night as we were watching crime show reruns, a commercial boomed, “Find your lost phone with the 'Where My Phone At?!' app!” Mitsu shot me a grinning, knowing look. I scoffed, smiled, and shook my head.

After that, the visits became a daily part of our lives. A barrage of different people, either alone, with friends, or even the police, all looking for a cell phone at our home that some tracking application pegged as the last location of their beloved device. Some were understanding, knowing that technology wasn't perfect and that it must be a glitch; others, not fooled by our “elderly couple cover”, were worked up into an angry froth and demanded that we return their stolen property. The local law enforcement soon caught on to the case of wrongful accusations and tried their best to quell the easily excitable masses. “Look, I get it” I told one officer, “People put too much reliability into technology, and when it fucks up, they don't want to admit their own damn stupidity. I just worry about the safety of my wife and my house. I don't need one of these dumb-asses getting drunk, riled up, and coming to my home with their redneck mob.” "I know where you're coming from, Mr. Simms", he nodded, "I assure you that if it should ever come to that, call me directly and I'll be over as soon as I can." It seemed to be about the only assistance that we could get from them. That, and the bullshit explanation as to why this was happening in the first place. Something about GPS, triangulation, wireless towers, and WiFi. In other words, things that Mitsu would have to explain to me repeatedly.

On a particularly cloudy day, we received our regular knock at the door. Ready to blow off yet another lost soul, wandering without purpose since the loss of their electronic life, I whipped the door open. “Where is she?!” was hurled violently at me from the mouth of a black leather clad biker type, “Where is my sister?!” I was taken aback by the sudden change of question. Phones, I could deal with. I had experience with those. Missing girls, not so much. “Where is she?! I know she was here!” he belted once again, holding up a tattered photograph of red hair and grinning teeth. The very same face that I had turned away weeks ago when this all began. “Look...” I tried to explain as I saw three police officers approach behind the large man, “I don't know what you're getting at, but there's no one here. Just my wife and me. No cell phones and definitely no girls.” He seemed confused by my answer, but pressed on, “I know she's here.” He motioned to the cops, “And they're gonna find her.”

The police officers presented us with a warrant and then escorted Mitsu and myself out to the front lawn. They explained to us that since this was a person and not a phone, they had to take this situation a little more seriously. Her last location, according to her phone and her mother's phone that she used to track it, was our house. She never made it home. We were the last people to see her alive. The situation with the tracking glitch was explained to her brother, but he still insisted on searching. “Feel free to do whatever you need to do”, I told the officers and the burly gentleman, “I'm sorry about your sister, so if it helps to search our home, please... We have nothing to hide and want to assist in any way that we can.” His face softened a bit as he came to the realization that a retiree and his little, elderly wife couldn't possibly have anything to do with the disappearance of his sister.  “I'm sorry”, he resigned, “I just don't know what else to do. This was my last resort.” “It's okay”, Mitsu took his hand gently, “You'll see her again. I promise!” That was all it took to drop the guy to his knees in a stream of blubbering tears. I smirked at the display of tenderness from my wife and the fact that this tiny Asian woman just took out a six-foot-plus giant.

An hour later, the police left our house a bit disorganized, but thankfully not destroyed. “I'm sorry, sir, but there doesn't seem to be anything here”, one of the cops informed the missing girl's brother, “I wish we could be of more assistance, but this seems to be the same tracking error.” After the police left, the biker thanked us and apologized again for the trouble. “Come in for tea”, Mitsu begged him, “Tell us about her.” He obliged as she served him a cup of hot herbs and honey at the dinning room table. They talked for a bit about the red haired girl. How she was the first one to come to our door looking for her phone. About how I scared her away. About how my wife ran back outside and asked her to join us inside for a cup of tea. He looked up and inquired, “What kind of tea... is this...?” “The same that I give all my guests! A special Japanese blend that I make myself!”, Mitsu beamed. “I... I don't...”, I watched in silence as he tried to stand up, but failed miserably and fell to the floor with a thunderous thud. Mitsu giggled and clapped gleefully.

Dragging the biker's unconscious body down the stairs to the basement was more daunting than I thought it would be. I was afraid that he would come to with every stair that his head hit. “How does a petite girl have such a beast of a brother?!”, Mitsu grunted. Upon landing at the bottom, I went over to the hand-built shelves lining the far left wall and clicked the flawlessly hidden switch that swung it open to reveal the walls of a small room lined with cinder blocks and thick metal links. I dragged the biker inside as Mitsu clanked a pair of wall shackles on him. She exited just in time to see him struggle against the grogginess in his head and the chains on his wrists. He turned his head to the right allowing his eyes to take in the full horror of  decomposing corpses all around him including that of his sister. “No! No!!!Why?! I'll kill you! I swear to god, I'll kill you!”, he screamed, shaking his restraints. “See?”, Mitsu smiled, “I promised you'd see her, again!” The screams became a string of vulgarities to which I responded with closing the shelves and latching it shut, returning the basement to silence once more. “You built that so well! I can't hear him at all!”, Mitsu exclaimed with sheer delight. I hugged her close and kissed her forehead. I don't know how I'd survive retirement without her.

Mitsu pushed away from my chest and shuffled over to her computer in the far corner. She turned off the wireless jamming device, turned the WiFi back on, and continued coding the latest patches for her “Where My Phone At?!” app.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

"Basic House" is a "Basic Laugh"

I'm not sure if this is to be taken seriously or if it's some sort of new hipster art. 

Hilarious. Admirable, but hilarious.

This photo-shoot doesn't really do it justice, either. 

Especially with this photo.

It forces people, like myself, to do awful things like this...

Look what you made me do.

Then there's the video which already makes it seem like a parody of itself.

So, what, are you supposed to seriously live in a superhero's cape that is perpetually blowing in the wind? Eat, defecate, and then roll around with it like the world's most disgusting tumbleweed? How would bringing a date home work? After dinner, you head to an alley, whip out your house, then romantically toss them in on your ground-bed? "Hey baby, why don't we ruffle these walls from the inside out? Watch out for that rolling turd."

What are your thoughts?

Thursday, September 10, 2015

Horror: An Endangered Species

What the ever-loving monkey-flung dung happened to classic, maniac slasher, frightening phantom, and utter mind-fuck horror?!  You know, the actual good and entertaining kind?  Horror these days has been twisted into such esoteric drivel in a mission to find something "fresh" and "new" that I don't even recognize it anymore.  Like a hideously botched facelift on an aging golden era that hardly resembles the origin from which it was born.  There was no need to "fix it".  It was fine.  It was reliable and recognizable.

"Horror" films, such as "Babadook", "It Follows", and "Honeymoon" have been getting a lot of buzz from members in the film industry and a few sheep-people that graze in their Hollywood bleached assholes, but when it comes to us, the real fans, we are let down and abandoned by an institution many of us called home.  These kinds of highly praised instalments of horror are so obtuse, obscure, convoluted, and shoved so far up its own ass that it loses sight of the fundamental goal: to scare the audience.

I want something actually tangible to be afraid of.  Something real.  I'm tired of this whole "she's running from the killer, but the killer is actually a representation of society's unobtainable standards of beauty and her own emotional conflict".  Bitch, if I wanted emotional conflict, I'd watch "Steel Magnolias".  I want HORROR!  Something that shouldn't require a bachelor's degree in film studies to decipher what the hell is really going on!

I want to turn off everything except my raw exposed nerves of fear, and I want the film to cut them out and play with them!  I want sheer, unbridled terror that latches on to my soul's very loins in a vice grip that won't let me sleep because of the things that go bump in the night.  I want to feel so violated and vulnerable that my only hope of survival depends on staying under the covers and praying for the light of day!  This is NOT too much to ask, but it quickly seems to be headed that way.

This doesn't even require gore!  You can have a great scary movie without a single drop of crimson in the entire thing!  As for the direct to DVD movies that amass in bargain bins, bless their hearts for trying.  Some actually do try to recapture the truest essence of a fright flick, but lack the funding for substantial actors, writers, and special effects.  They get an 'E' for effort, the poor things, but sometimes they leave me feeling even more so that this genre is seriously in danger of being wiped out.

This is why I have started to write my own stories.  I'm not ever saying that my talent is on par with some of the greats (and even not-so-greats), but that's the self-flagellating author in me that will always see room for improvement within my own creations.  I just want to try and fan the flame of fear out of concern of it being extinguished completely.

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Ellipsis: A Collection of Short Horror

Here it is; the big reveal!  A new short horror project that started on this site and will eventually evolve into a nifty little paperback anthology.  The theme and title of the collection will stem from the fact that all of the stories will end with an ellipsis, leaving the reader to the mercy of their own dark, riled up imagination, or to pause and give the reader a moment to soak the story in.  Sure, I could force you to see my exact vision for each of the tales, but I have found it far more terrifying when there was no spoon feeding and I had to fill in the blanks myself.  Also, what may be scary or creepy to one person may not have the same effect on another, yet we have all experienced our own form of hellish nightmares from scaring ourselves silly.  The human mind is a macabre and bizarre little creature that just loves to jump to the absolute worst scenario.

The collection is listed on the right side of this site in a drop-down box where you can choose a story.  As always, I would LOVE to hear feedback, good and not-so-good, from anyone and everyone!

Tuesday, July 14, 2015


 Darci violently erupted from her thrashing slumber.  She gasped as she took in the quickly fleeting images of horror that plagued her rest, the sound that wrenched her from its clutches, and the strange room that she was now in.  The most prevalent matter was the random musical notes emanating from behind the bolted window.  A queer tone that perplexed her with every jaunty vibration.  As the visions from the night terror slipped from her mind, the realization of where she was took its place.  She was sitting upright on her queen size mattress, glistening with the combination of soft moonlight and fresh perspiration that pooled in her cleavage.  She paused and took in the moment of rampant clarity.  Darci was in the bedroom of her new home.

 Although still foreign to her, she felt a warm rush of comfort after identifying the darkened boudoir.  The odd tune demanded her attention, again.  Her eyes darted to the window as if the sound was her own name being sung.  Wind chimes.  The very same large pipe wind chimes that she strung up two days ago after moving in to her new one-bedroom house.  She sighed, relieved to be free of both the forgotten nightmare and the ignorance of her own location.  She glanced at the clock which beamed at her with a hard blue, almost snide, “3:46am”.

 “Oh, you've gotta be fuckin' kidding me”, Darci hissed through a glaze of sticky night saliva.  She reached out to the time and clicked the alarm button.  It was set to go off forty-four minutes later.  She relinquished an audible breath, afoul with resignation, and turned the alarm off.  “I might as well get up”, she begrudgingly admitted to herself.  “I need a shower, anyway”, she tugged at the thin, soaked top that was clinging to her breasts, exposing her nipples with a transparent wetness.  The wind chimes seemed to agree with her as it belted out another rendition of its childlike made-up song.

 In one swift motion, Darci flung the floral print sheet off her damp body, swiveled her legs over the side of the bed, and hopped down to a chilled hardwood floor beneath.  Her bare feet momentarily protested the harsh cold and then adjusted accordingly to the temperature.  She considered turning on a light, but instead opted to avoid the pain associated with forcing her eyes to focus anew on a drastic change of contrast.  The chimes continued their score of the events.

 Darci shambled out of the dim bedroom through its open door and into the black hallway that led to the kitchen.  She used her limited memory of the terrain and her open palms to map the straightforward route.  The stove-light lit area on the other side was beckoning her encouragingly with the promise of fresh coffee.  She began to hurry her shuffle with delicious thoughts of the day's first mug of murky brew.  The twinkling tune in the background narrated every quickened step.  As she rounded the corner into the kitchen, she felt the force of a hundred hammers down on her littlest right toe, stubbing it against the beige drywall.  She immediately dropped to the floor and tightly clutched her whole foot in her hands.

 “AHHHH, gah, mother, faaahhh!  Shit shit shiiiiit!!!”, Darci wailed and rocked in place, controlling the pain with a sea of expletives.  From her bedroom, the chimes seemed to swell exponentially, almost mocking her, with deep clangs and high-pitched tings.  She clenched her jaw and relinquished what little power over the pain she thought she had.  As she moved her hand, she first made sure that the toe was still attached.  It was there, silently glaring at her for her betrayal.  She then made sure it wasn't seriously damaged by gently wiggling it around with her fingertip.  It didn't seem broken, but the immense amount of pain should have justified a pool of blood, or at the very least some sort of immediate bruising.  She was almost disappointed that there were no such visible signs of physical trauma.  Darci let a whimper escape as she stood up and continued towards the coffeepot.  She grabbed the carafe, stepped to the sink, placed the pot in the basin, and turned the cold water valve.  She stood motionless as the wind chimes belted their rhapsody over the sound of the running tap.

 Darci glanced up and stared out of the tiny window that overlooked her small backyard where she had planted three new saplings.  Even though technically morning, it was particularly dark and calm.  She took in her new view and reflected on the fact that she would never have to deal with another roommate ever again.  Stranger after stranger, taking advantage of her and her goodwill.  She was beyond ecstatic to finally live all by herself.  The wind chimes piped up again as if to say, “Hey!  Don't forget about me!”

 The song shook her from thought as her eyes focused on one of the saplings.  It was standing so still and vulnerable out in the inky openness.  She thought about building a little fence to surround each of the baby trees to barricade them from certain premature death at the hands of an overzealous yard worker.  Darci broke from the mental home improvement session and peered out into the night once more.  Time stopped as she had a horrible realization; the saplings were still.

  With a labored breath, she rushed her eyes around the scenery; the bushes, the full-grown trees, the bird bath water, the tacky rainbow-colored pinwheel.  They were all motionless.  No signs of disturbance from even the slightest of air currents.  The night was dead.  She felt a billiard ball form in the middle of her throat that would not vacate despite her valiant efforts.  Her heart was galloping laps around in her chest.  The water was overflowing from the coffee pot and noisily evacuating down the drain.  The wind chimes were having a ferocious musical tantrum against the bedroom window.  Darci slowly turned her head to face the opening of the hallway.  She parted her dry lips just enough to sharply inhale sufficient air to speak, but before she could utter a word, she heard the bedroom window shatter and the wind chimes abruptly halt.

  She instantly froze in a panicked state, unable to unbolt her quivering legs from the kitchen tile.  Terror and disbelief ravaged her mind, rendering it absent of logical actions and thought.  A clumsy thump hit the bedroom floor followed by the sickening sound of broken glass grinding under a heavy boot...

Friday, July 10, 2015

The Blood Shed Anthology

I recently submitted the short horror stories that I have been dabbling in lately to one of my favorite horror sites, The Blood Shed, in hopes of getting added to the anthology that they will publish soon.  This has been a dream of mine; not only to get published again, but to be a part of my favorite genre that has always been number one on my list since I was a twisted little single digit age!  Last night, I logged on to see that they picked one of them and posted it on their site!!!
I can hardly contain my excitement!  Have a look!!!

I still have a few more ideas bouncing around in my noggin.  Here's hoping to more stories, soon!  I may even collect them in my very own anthology!  ^_^

Thursday, June 11, 2015

MAR Comics Collection

Okay, now that I am writing again, I have gotten off my fat, lazy ass and updated the site after the whole Razzi incident where they lost all the pictures that I was hosting there, and then vanished off the face of the gawdamn planet.  Some unimportant blogs have been deleted, some had the blank space where a picture used to be removed, and then I re-hosted the MAR comics, hence this entry.
This is all of the issues that I have made to date.  Maybe I'll continue these some day.

When I first made them, they were at an accounting job where I got bored often, so I crudely drew them on the back of the Missing Account Reports, or M.A.R.  That's where the title originated, but then evolved to be the names of the three characters; Max, Art, and Rae.
(if you need to see them larger, right click and 'open image in new tab/window')

After these initial comics, I decided to drop the 's', start over at '01',
and move from pen & paper to a digital medium.

This is where it get really fun!  "MAR presents True Telemarketer Tales" was a sort of spin-off from MAR, and by far my favorite.  I made these while working at a call-center.  These were funnier because all of the comics were based off of real incidents and real names.

Sunday, June 7, 2015


    Another night alone, sitting in front of the computer with a mouse in one hand and a vodka on the rocks in the other, trying to kill time before complete exhaustion overtakes me, hopefully before the sunrise. I aimlessly click back and forth, page after page of news prattle, stupid people doing stupid things in stupid videos, social media sites to catch up with friends and family, playing free unskilled games in hopes of draining your wallet that I had no intention of ever purchasing, and the occasional bit of fantasy self-fulfillment porn. The most amusing thing that I find from all of this cyber-wandering is the constant bombardment of cheesy ads supposedly directed at me personally with my hometown shoehorned in the text that has been gathered from my IP address, a half-assed attempt to impress me into thinking, “Oh, golly! This MUST be legit! Let me just click on this and download what couldn't possibly be a trojan virus!” Idiots. I'm not new to the ways of the internet. I'm a goddamn pro at wasting as much of my adult time as possible with my little two buttoned friend!

    Later on into the night and into my fifth beverage, I notice one of these banner ads blinking with neon red letters at the top of a news site. I only noticed it because it had my name flashing as the first word. “James!” it read, “MILFs in your area want to meet you! One MILF is just 10 miles away!” I laughed heartily to myself, nearly spitting out some of my precious vodka. Who still uses that term these days? MILF? Just another example of how the advertisement industry is way out of touch with the world. I swallow my almost airborne mouthful and furrow my brow a bit. How did they know my name? I didn't think you could get a name from an IP address, just a location. Damn, these programming nerds are getting really good at their jobs these days! I click refresh for the latest news articles on the site.

    When the page fully loaded, I was knocked back in my chair, mouse flung from my hand, and a single ice cube fell onto the floor and slid behind me. I was assaulted by an extremely loud, shrill dinging sound from the computer speakers, as if a deranged slot machine was trying to murder me with my winnings. I gather myself and reach to turn the speakers off. I don't ever remember turning them up that loud. I hardly even needed the speakers when I browsed the web. I scanned the page for what could have possibly made that audio attack. “James! MILFs in your area want to meet you! One MILF is just 9 miles away!” That was the only ad on the page and the only possible source of annoyance. I thought it was weird that the same ad was showing since sites like these usually keep a plethora of them on cycle. I guess the MILF people paid extra to be more prominent. I shrugged it off and continued reading.

    I found an article on cyber attacks and hacking that have been happening lately. I thought that was amusing since I felt semi-invaded myself from the shrieking MILF banner. News seemed to be slowing down for the night, so I clicked on the title to read more, half out of interest, half out of boredom. The first thing to load was my friends at MILF Incorporated. “James! MILFs in your area want to meet you! One MILF is just 7 miles away!” Oh, you have got to be kidding me! Was this to be my fate for the remainder of the night? I was getting tired of MILF-vision. So tired in fact that I was thinking about striking that category from my more adult related browsing. Wait. Seven miles? Didn't that say ten the last time? Or was it nine? I know it wasn't seven. So, what, am I now in a MILF countdown? MILF live GPS updates? “Got MILF? You're about to!” Damn, these nerds are good!

    The article didn't load. The only thing on the page was the banner. It wasn't the first time this has happened. It's not like I have the most advanced ISP or connection, so there's bound to be some hiccups. I move the arrow to the refresh icon once again and click. No article, same ad, updated distance. “James! MILFs in your area want to meet you! One MILF is just 5 miles away!” That is one fit MILF to be able to run two miles in five seconds! I'm almost tempted to meet this Olympian MILF! Fifty-year-old woman with way too much plastic surgery, caked on makeup, huge muscular legs shooting out of a short leopard print skirt. I chuckled, amused at my own jokes. The article must either be down, not updated, or something technical that my limited education is not privy to. I click on my saved bookmark to go back to the main page of the news site. “James! MILFs in your area want to meet you! One MILF is just 4 miles away!” That was the only thing on the page. I wondered if the news site was another victim of the recent hacking hijinks and was taken down. Oh well, I was pretty much done with that website, anyway. I clicked on the bookmark to go to my personal e-mail.

    “James! MILFs in your area want to meet you! One MILF is just 3 miles away!” This isn't funny anymore. No e-mail, just MILF, and the bitch is getting closer. I was starting to get a bit freaked out. Two separate sites taken down and replaced with the MILF ad? I close the browser window and open it again in hopes of washing away the MILF. “James! MILFs in your area want to meet you! One MILF is just 2 miles away!” It seems that you just can't wash MILF out. I know I didn't download anything, so this couldn't possibly be a virus. Was I being hacked somehow? For what purpose? With all honesty, I am not that interesting of a person to go through all this trouble for. I have no money in my bank account, so good luck with that, pirate assholes! Wanna steal my identity? Have at it! I barely want it myself! I furrowed my brow and click refresh.

    “James! MILFs in your area want to meet you! One MILF is just 1 miles away!” It didn't even bother updating “miles” to the singular form. With a shaky hand, I reach for my glass and chug down that last of the watered-down vodka. Gross. Vodka flavored bottled water is not something that would sell well. I click the refresh button and wonder what the next update would say. My heart sank into my asshole and I felt like I was about to vomit up the entire contents of my stomach.

“James! A MILF is right outside your door!”

    No. That couldn't be... that couldn't be possible. Even if “they” know where I live, they couldn't possibly travel that fast. Then my mind started to wander to dark places. What does MILF even stand for? Murdering Insane Lunatic Fucker? Mutant Inbred Lashing Freak? Malicious Insidious Laughing Phantom? No, wait, that's a “P”. Oh my god, why even quibble with myself over inane details? There's someone at my door. At least that's what I am told. By an ad. On the internet. The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it seems. It just cannot be true. It can't! Even if there was someone at my door, there's three locks on it that would keep them out. There was no way they could get in. I was safe. I click refresh.

    A sound grabbed my attention before I could look at the screen as it loaded. The half melted ice cube that was behind me slid across the flood and hit my foot. I stared at it for what seemed like hours. I did not want to look at the screen for fear of it confirming my suspicions. If I don't look, it's not true. I'll just stay like this, in this position, for the remainder of the night. I'll wait it out. I'll wait for the sunrise to burn away all of the horrible things that come out at night. That's how it works right? I couldn't even fool myself. There's no way that I could sit here with my heart beating as hard as it was. I'd die of some kind of heart failure or aneurysm. I knew that I would have to buck up and see this through. I slowly raise my head to face the computer screen. I swallowed hard as my suspicions were accurate.

“James! A MILF is right behind you!”

    Terror gripped me like a pit-bull with a raw steak, thrashing my insides around. Tiny beads of sweat formed on my brow. A singular tear leaked slowly down my cheek. My bottom lip was quivering as if it was twenty below in the room. I froze in my chair, unable to breathe, unable to blink, unable to move. When everything was absolutely still, I heard it. Breathing. Not my own, but right behind me. I dared not look around. I knew that if I looked at it, I'd die, either by its hands or my own fright.

    All moisture had left my mouth. I tried to swallow, but could only muster up the motions with a dry, sharp sensation, like drinking sand. I had no idea what to do. Jump out of my chair in hopes of running away? No. It came here miles away in mere minutes. There was no escaping it. Fight back? With what? I scanned the desk, but couldn't find anything worthy of a weapon strong enough to fight off what I imagined to be eight feet of pure horror. What will happen if I click the ad? Could that have been the answer this whole time? “You had the power to go home all along, Dorothy!” I gather up every bit of strength I could, slowly move the mouse in hopes of not disturbing “The MILF”, and hover the cursor on the ad. I clicked. Nothing. I clicked three times. Still nothing. The ad was just a static picture, not a link at all.

    I move the mouse over the refresh icon. A ferocious battle between my curiosity and my sheer primal terror began. I could still hear it breathing. Should I refresh? What would happen? Would this be the very last thing that I ever do? It's already behind me. Is it waiting for the final click as a confirmation to attack? I lick my dehydrated lips and close my eyes. Curiosity had won.

I click refresh...

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

"Charlie and the Forest Oysters"

     Charlie was a simple man who liked to collect.  Living deep in the forest, in a rickety old shack that he built himself from the remnants left behind by the tall wooden inhabitants, there wasn't much else to do besides collect.  His favorite thing to collect was pearls from the forest oysters.

     He would skulk through the woods and train his ears on the sounds that the forest oysters would make.  They usually weren't hard to find since they were often very loud and huddled in groups.  When Charlie would pounce out from the foliage, they would scatter as fast as they could.  More times than not, there was at least one that wasn't as fast as the others.  With an old rusted hammer in hand, he would chase it down and try to corner the slow forest oyster.  Once he was close enough, Charlie would swing as hard as he could to crack its top shell open.  When the forest oyster stopped moving, he would turn it over to collect its treasures.  Usually, he'd have to force it open so wide that it would break the hinge and lay flat.

     The first thing Charlie would do is cut out the wet, slimy meat in the middle to eat later.  It was the best food the forest had to offer.  He heard that you could eat it raw, and sometimes he did right on the spot since it was better fresh, but he liked to cook it over an open fire the best.  After collecting the meat, he would then proceed to remove all the pearls.  Sometimes, if he was lucky, he'd come across a brilliantly shiny one or even one that was the color of the sun!  They were so pretty to look at that it would take his mind off of the hardships of living alone in the woods.

     When Charlie was finished hunting, he would return to his home with the spoils of the day.  He would add the forest oyster meat to one of the many jars where he kept it preserved for later consumption.  Then, he would walk over to a small, grimy antique bathtub, the kind with the clawed feet, and toss in the pearls that he collected to the thousands of white gems he had already gathered over the years.

     Sometimes, after a hunt, Charlie would grab a few pearls from the collection and head over to a wall where he had hung up a dirty, cracked mirror.  He would smile as wide as he could, cracking his chapped white lips and exposing his red puffy gums.  He would take the pearls, one by one, and shove them into the irritated, squishy tissue, decorating the milky smooth whites with small streaks of crimson.  Once he was finished, he would smile once again and admire his new look while thinking, “Now, I'm as beautiful as the forest oysters!”

     Charlie was a simple man who liked to collect...

Wednesday, July 30, 2014


     Danny curled his knees up on the king sized, underneath the down filled cotton, propped up by a memory foam, as a fluorescent illuminated brightly a copy of another Stephen King.  He was halfway through when he glanced at the glaringly crimson "twelve oh-one" scolding him from across the room.  He still wasn't tired, despite another full day of working on the two-storied fixer-upper he recently invested in.

     It was barely a remnant of the house that was, with its rusty memories and dusty tales of residents past.  As it was, a corpse-shell of a once living establishment, the neighborhood kids spun many whimsical urban legends about its shadowy fixtures, faded pigments, and cracked structures.  The fact that none of them were rooted in any sort of reality or truth didn't stop them from spreading like a pox on small town boredom.  The only thing special about the place was that it wasn't special at all.  Just a greatly neglected house on an ordinary street in a dull suburb with children that don't have anything better to do than to spread vile, incorrect rumors.

     Danny hoped to alleviate some of the false myths about his acquired home with fresh coats of acrylic, shiny copper, and new panes clear enough to help brighten the whole of the house.  It was now after midnight and he had to rely on the artificial light until he either finally shut his eyes or until morning arrived; whichever came first, to which Danny placed wages on the latter.  He took his gaze off of the judgmental digital alarm and scanned the page for where his eyes abandoned.


     The sound interrupted Danny's optical word hunt.  His mind raced to match the proper scenario to the sound, which took him little effort since it was clearly unmistakable; another pane of glass that was propped up by the downstairs front door had tipped over and shattered.  "Shit", he muttered, "There goes another one."  As he chose to ignore the situation and go back to his book rather than deal and clean, another sound followed the first.  It was footsteps running across the hardwood toward the stairs.  Danny closed his book, placed it in his lap, and remained motionless as he focused his eyes to the ajar darkness of the bedroom door.  He remained motionless as he used his entire body to tune in to every decibel of disturbance in the house.  The footsteps did not stop at the stairs; they chose instead to climb them with heavy thumps accompanied by indistinct whispering and giggling.  Unblinking, he faced the sliver of black, the void where the commotion was originating.  "Hey!", Danny shouted, his voice startling himself with the sheer absent-minded volume, to which the footsteps and voices responded with an abrupt halt.  He waited for what seemed like hours of still silence before the sounds started up again, right where they left off.  "I said, 'HEY!'", Danny kept stern to the volume this time.  The black void greeted his outburst with giggles, almost pleased with the annoyance of the bedroom dweller.  He furrowed his smooth brow into one with endless canyons of anger and discontent.  The door slowly started to move, announcing its opening with an unlubricated creak of the hinges.

     Danny didn't budge.  The door continued on a steady path.  He blinked.  The door stopped at a perfect forty-five degree angle, almost mocking him in its own wooden way.  Everything was still.  He was reminded of a saying that fit this situation: it was so quiet you could hear a mouse fart.  Danny hated mice, so he promptly broke the muted tension with a nostril inhale and then his voice, "I thought I told you to..."  The blood hit the ceiling with a sharp splat first, as it always did, followed by the dropping of a body with a heavy thud at the foot of the bed.  The body, one of a young girl in a yellow dress splotched with dried maroon, got up and stared at Danny with hollow dark where her eyes once rested; her lifeless, alabaster cheeks bunched up then stretched out as she opened her mouth, tearing the flesh at the corners, and shrieked directly at him as opaque obsidian oozed out of her jaws and sockets.  Danny leaned into the scream and braced himself as the dead rot breath permeated his every being.  Watery-eyed, he held back the vomit in order to instead finish and spew out, "...GO TO BED!!!"  The child huffed, screamed once more, shattering the light bulb in the process, and stormed out, slamming the door behind her without even batting an undead eyelash.

     Danny sighed, leaned over the side of the bed, reached in a plain cardboard box, and pulled out another high-efficient bulb.  He twirled it into its new home as it thanked him with super-bright white.  He looked up, out of human nature. The blood stain was gone, again.  The smell of decay was quickly dissipating.  The stomps of a cranky dead girl were fading into the night.  He turned back to the clock; "twelve oh-nine" was its response.  "Every night", he grumbled, "Every damn night."  He picked up his book and continued reading until sunrise.

     The weeks passed by, the repairs healed the house, the light bulb body count increased, and the sleepless nights were taking their toll on Danny.  When he thought that he just couldn't handle the repairs or the nights anymore, he was finally finished.  Exhausted, he hung up the sign on the post planted in the fresh, revitalized lawn: "FOR RENT, 3bed/3bath, $1000/month, (non-refundable security deposit required) Call or E-Mail!"  Danny looked at the sign with a beam of pride, "Might as well make a little something for all my hard work!"

     He hopped into the driver's side of his truck, pulled down the sun visor, and removed a tattered image of a grinning, chubby-cheeked moppet in a yellow dress.  He smiled, turned the picture over, and read his own faded handwriting:

"Annabelle.  My First..."

Friday, June 27, 2014

Bound (Jump the Gun)

Bound (Jump the Gun)  06-26-2014

I have a tendency, a compulsion, a knack
To live the worst before it falls
Easily tempted off my track
Morose ridden, it lies and stalls

It's already happened
It's already near
It's already been penned
It's already here

I struggle with the fiction
before it becomes fact
I cringe at the diction
and, again, overreact

I bound forward distraught
I just jumped the gun
It never fired a shot
I haven't yet begun

Tuesday, April 1, 2014


Icarus 04-01-2014

Falling and flying
at the same time
breathing passing clouds
soaking in the sublime

Touching airplane bottoms
As passengers gawk
The birds try to converse
But I don't speak "squawk"

After a fantastic trip
The ground grows near
I can see my house from here!

As I approach my landing
I see the one I adore
He says "I love you", again
and I'm soaring once more

Saturday, March 8, 2014


I want to tell you a tale.  A tale of a little six year old boy named Brandon.  Brandon wasn't like most boys.  He didn't care for He-Man, G.I. Joe, Transformers, or other "typical" 80's young boy's toy and cartoon fare.  He didn't care for violence, wrestling, or other "macho" boy activities.  He didn't even care to hang around other boys!  Did this make him strange?  Maybe, but he never even thought about things like "Am I normal?", "Do I fit in?", or "I shouldn't be liking this; I should be liking that."  He was too occupied with his busy little days of just simply enjoying things that he enjoyed just for the sheer fact that he enjoyed them!  One day in class, there was an art project for Mother's Day.  The project consisted of taking a black and white photo of yourself, putting it in a clear plastic heart, and gluing a bow on the front.  Seemed simple and sweet enough.  The bow was also offered in two pastel choices; baby blue and pretty pink!  Simple, right?!  As the other members of Brandon's class finished their mothers' gifts, they all took to a single file line to get the ribbon put on since they were too young to handle a hot-glue gun.  Brandon knew exactly which one he wanted from the start; pink!  He thought it was WAY more 'rad' than blue and also thought his mother would enjoy it more as well!  He noticed as the other children were picking out their bows, they were falling into a pattern; boys chose blue, girls chose pink.  He thought to himself for a very brief moment, "Should I be getting blue because I'm a boy?!", but he quickly shooed it away like a pesky fly.  As he approached the teacher, she asked, "What color would you like, Brandon?  You want the blue one?" to which he replied with an enthusiastic, "Nope!  I want the pink one!"  The teacher paused for a moment as other children overheard his answer.  Various random snickering was heard, but he payed it no mind.  Even the teacher gave a coy grin, "Pink?  Are you sure?"  Brandon just stood his ground and remained resilient in his choice, "Yep!  Pink!  Mama will like that better!"  "Oh!", the teacher sighed in relief, "Okay.  Pink... for your mama...", and she hot-glued the blushing bow to the plastic frame.
Brandon took his present back from the teacher and gave a huge beaming grin knowing that when he gave this to his mother, she'd be tickled... well.... PINK!  ^_^

That heart, although a bit faded, is still residing on Mama's fridge.
A boy chose pink.  In this day and age, if this happens, people automatically jump the gun and assume he MUST be gay.  Yes, I am a grown gay male, now, but that is not why six year old Brandon chose pink nor did it have any basis on the person he was to become.  He didn't know what "gay" was let alone what sex even was!  He was six!  He just liked it better than blue!  It seemed more interesting!  He was also thinking of his mother since ultimately this item would be hers after all.  This decision was the purest form of an innocent, selfless, and loving gesture.  There was no hidden meaning behind it.  He didn't want to BE a girl.  He didn't know about the preestablished, sexist guidelines to being a boy.  He was just being himself; he was just being a child.  I long for the day when people don't try to find the hidden meaning behind things like this.  I say, if you like pink, like pink!  Like blue!  Like lavender!  Like maroon!  Don't worry about what others might think about your choices!
This is your life, and if you wanna live it pink, I say, "Rad!"