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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Short Story: The End of Yesterday

51a9ixs6lol-_sl250_This story is available in the Darkest of Dreams anthology along with 13 other mind-bending horror stories.

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He’d crouch down on the floor near the street-view window. He’d run the situation through his mind, over and over. He’d press the barrel to the roof of his mouth, count to three, and then it’d be over. He wouldn’t have to rot in the empty shell growing around him.

But there was more before that.

Aaron was asleep, only to be roused by the click of a deadbolt, and the creak of the front door opening. She was home, and there would be a hefty price for that. It trickled through his mind then, that something was… Incorrect. Off. There was the clack of delicate shoes, the bed clothes ruffling down the hall, and nothing more. He was snatched from sleep, irrationally petrified. Sweat dripped down from his brow, the tell-tale burning of a rash starting to form, but he didn’t dare wipe it off.

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A Man Upstairs: Thoughts on Poetry

Thumbnail__0001_ManUpstairs_fullcoverI have a grave secret—one that has bothered me for several months now.

I’m not a poet… Not the last time I checked, anyway.

So why on God’s green earth did I publish a full book of poetry?

The short version of this story, is that I was frustrated at the time. I was looking up different spoken word artists, and stumbled upon the work of Steven Jesse Bernstein. Prior to that, I loved the work of Tom Waits and Ken Nordine, who both experimented with music and poetry in their own ways. Their work gave me a taste for punchy storytelling, but Bernstein’s work was the tipping point. I was feeling dry on writing standard prose, so I took this as an opportunity to experiment.

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