Pausing as the first radials of sunlight struck its translucent skin. Its progression down through the boulder field had been slow and careful, stopping occasionally to sniff the remains of others lik...
Pounds his gloved fist against the door, counts to sixty. The latch string hasn’t been pulled in, and despite the circumstance,
Red veins in his cheeks that suggested a lifetime of heavy drinking. Can I help you? the man asked. He straightened himself up, blinking hard through the migraine. It took
Sitting position, tucking his head between his knees. Sensed the instability of the world long before he opened his eyes, like its axis had been cut loose to teeter. His first deep breath felt like so...
Stepped forward into the red darkness, squinting at the corners in the kitchen and the living room, straining to detect the slightest pin drop of sound—a noisy breath or a clamorous heart that pounded...
Their density and depth, like they bore some great burden beyond the intake of the present.
There’s a stunning quality to the light as it moves toward evening—polarized and golden—that I can only describe as loss. Robert Frost’s gold that cannot stay.
There’s something ugly underneath. No dream without the nightmare.
Thought. He
Town, and the mule skinner knows that something is wrong. Two miles south stands Bartholomew Packer’s mine, the Godsend, a twenty-stamp mill that should be filling this box canyon with the
Two things will stop them—Christmas and tragedy. He dismounts his albino steed, the horse’s pinked nostrils flaring, dirty mane matted with ice. The single-rig saddle is snow-crusted as well, its leat...
Under the name Jack Kilborn. It’s called Afraid, and I think it’s one of the best pieces of horror fiction to come out in recent memory. HW: Work
Understand. Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know! Who stretched a measuring line across it? On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone—while the morning stars sang together a...
Warm, the sky above a deep and cloudless cobalt. The man checked the pockets of his slacks, and then of his single-breasted coat. No wallet. No money clip. No ID. No keys. No phone. Just a small Swiss...
Was a brilliant ache in his optic nerve, and a steady, painless throbbing at the base of his skull—the distant thunder of an approaching migraine. He rolled onto his side and pushed up into a sitting...
We get so set in our ways, so entrenched in those grooves, we stop seeing our loved ones for who they are. But tonight, right now, I see you again, like the first time we met, when the sound of your v...
We numb our minds to sleep on all manner of screens and HD entertainment, the meaning of life, of our existence and purpose, becomes lost.
Wonder, Is this what God feels? The rush that comes from having literally spoken a world into existence? And yes, this world already existed, but I connected us to it.
¿Estás perdiendo la cabeza?-Dímelo túNo puedo-¿Por qué?Porque yo soy tú
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