Red Face (Part One)

RedFaceI couldn’t tell where it was coming from—all I saw was red. You know how if you ever see a deer in the woods, they stop dead in their tracks when their eyes meet yours? That’s exactly what happened. She mumbled something. The red on her face dripped and dripped as she slid from view, but I kept walking.

Those eyes fell into the sea of tired faces going through the motions of the everyday. Like the blood that stained her porcelain skin, there was now something in my mind which I couldn’t let go of. And somehow I knew I wouldn’t be getting much sleep.

Continue reading “Red Face (Part One)”

Horror is Not a Genre (Genres Don’t Exist)

3567592024_6db6ecc392_bWe need to talk for a moment about “horror.” It’s not a genre.

“What?” you say. “Not a genre? Well, how does that explain the HORROR section at the movie shop, and the HORROR section at my local bookstore? Why is there a HORROR category when I shop online for my media?”

Valid points. The truth is, horror, along with just about every genre of media, is being used in ways which works against the stories they’re being packaged as. That’s why I’ll invite you to look at “genres” for what they really are: elements of a story.

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Door: a Flash Fiction Nightmare

Faces_Sketch“Nobody goes down there,” said Toby, taking a sip of whisky and pausing for a drag.

“Nobody?” I said, “Are you sure?”

“Well, I know some have, but they probably weren’t too happy about it.”

A breeze fled past the alley, and there was a crinkling sound when I shut my eyes. I need water, I thought. Water and a woman.

“You know,” said Toby, “I saw a gal,” I leaned back, because I knew this was gonna’ be a story. Not small talk, real this time.

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Cornflakes: a Poem

Cornflakes-TitleThe following poem can be found in “A Man Upstairs,” now available in paperback and ebook on Amazon.

So I look over to the guy and say, “HEY! How about them cornflakes?”
He gives me this look as if I just stole his wallet before stabbing his wife and decapitating the family dog:
A very specific expression they trained me to point out in the US Navy.
You learn a lot when you’re over there.
“What?” he says. “Cornflakes?”
Then he steps away from the bar and begins to fiddle his arms around in his pockets.
“What’s wrong?” I say, and walk over to comfort him.
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