Long time no post.

There were some short stories I shopped around but that never found a publisher, and I can’t say I am surprised, since they were all most definitely creepy and designed to make you feel bad. So, I have published them myself on Kindle.

Boxcutter Strong CoffeeDouble

“Strong Coffee” will be free to download until October 21, “Boxcutter” October 23-27, and “Double” from October 31 to November 4, 2016.

Strong Coffee –  On Halloween in 1923, a once skeptical professor is forced to seek out a medium to resolve a haunting in her New York townhouse. (4,100 words, murder, supernatural)

Boxcutter –  There are monsters out in the desert. Nathaniel finds work in the city, killing them before they’re born, but came from the desert too. (3,300 words, dystopian horror, serial murder, monsters)

Double –  After an accident in a test run of a new cloning scanner, a lab assistant ends up living with her clone. A short story about self-love and self-harm. (5,600 words, a reflective story about having sex with your clone; no happy ending)

Monster Gallery

note: horror genre

 

1. She swallows mosquitoes by the handfuls, to hear them suffocate in the dried-up hollow of her trailing stomach.

2. She skins the golden tresses off the bone, scrapes the leather clean, drops the flesh into a pot for soup. The empty sockets of her earliest guests keep watch as the house breathes, heavy around her.

3. He smells his old flesh, and trusts the man behind his eyes, and so turns three times around the cracked spruce that whines like a hungry pup. He sheds fur as the world deadens to his senses, and his naked feet sink into needling snow.

4. They climb over each other, in the crushing weight and heat, an inferno inside a sack of meat, pushing against dying skin. Soon they will swarm.

5. History is a maw spewing bile and horror, crawling with soothing words.

Hungry Boys

note: horror genre, mature themes

There are always hungry boys for the hungry girls.

This one is called Silver, named after a horse in a book from the 70s. He has grey eyes and burned-blonde hair and his skin tastes like sunscreen and sweat.

It gets so hot in Melbourne I can almost feel my skin melting. It wouldn’t, though. That’s not true about us. We feel the heat, that’s all. Ice loves corpses. The sun, not so much.

So many things they don’t tell you, the ones who make you and the ones who make up stories about you. Like that years begin to spill like seconds. That they’ll never catch you — they’ll barely even try.

I once woke up with a possum pulling on the tendons of my ankle. I wear a reinforced boot on that foot now. The flesh doesn’t heal. It just isn’t there anymore.

Silver says he wants to die, but really he wants to pretend he’s about to die, that he won’t have to go back to his parents’ house, see the fresh burns on his father’s flesh or hear what his mother has to say about his grades. He wants to think that he won’t grow up bored and ordinary like everyone else. I can let him think that, and in return he makes me feel full, at least for a few hours.

I’m not going to kill him. He’ll find a job and move out and get a door he can shut to keep the world out, and he won’t need me anymore. It doesn’t matter. There will be others.

There always are, their eyes flicking across the pub floor or the dusty road side, looking for me.