I just launched a new serial story on my Patreon page. For those of you who don’t know already, some of my stories are either exclusive to Patreon or early access for Patreon Subscribers.
My new serial, titled Strange Reflections, departs a bit from science fiction and delves into a world of horror and mystery.
A short blurb:
A reoccurring nightmare, a library full of occult books, and a strange underground passage, for Amanda it’s only the beginning.
Car stalls.
Stillness in the early morning.
No sun yet.
Fog and cloud mingle with the full moon like tendrils grasping for possession.
I wait.
Engine turns over.
On the road again.
The moon devoured.
A sky bound feeding frenzy.
Deep darkness.
Car stalls.
5 miles to go
I wait.
Engine turns over.
On the road again.
The moon escapes the maw.
It makes a dash for freedom.
The tendrils lose their grip.
Moon slides behind a mountain.
I am jealous.
No reprieve for me.
Car stalls.
2 miles to go
I wait.
Engine turns over.
On the road again.
The sun paints the sky with its morning yawn.
Color at war with the vast armies of the night.
A reliable cycle.
A predictable outcome.
Car Stalls.
A half mile to go.
I wait.
Engine turns over.
On the road again.
The sun douses me with its first light.
I am radiant.
I am blinded.
I am almost there.
50 feet to go.
Car stalls.
Pangs of the heart come as the days shorten with a kind of softening bitterness.
What will this end bring?
What will any end bring?
Something new?
For me?
I suspect more of the same.
Wheels upon wheels of an endless autumn, not one step further.
Where is my spring? Has she been lost in the depths of the winter?
A wandering widow who never again finds home?
I lay in the browning grass.
I feel the crunch of leaves in my palms.
I squeeze to feel the assemblage of their wreckage.
Bittersweet memories.
Sleepless nights.
I open my palm.
I am the fragments of leaves scattered on the backs of the wintering winds.
Naked.
There are moments in our lives when we feel the fire of rage.
All is in a fog, all is unclear, all is distorted. Yet in the center of that rage, we believe that there is clarity, that we know what the right course of action is.
We confirm our truth.
We allow our preconceptions to build on perception and solidify. It becomes tangible. To us, there is a kind of beauty in that anger. We lust for it.
Like a flower, it seems to have bloomed from some place righteous, some place justified. And those who will be the victims of our rage will receive their just reward.
Yet after, what does it make? How was it of benefit? Did the flame burn truth into the brow of our enemy?
Most often, anger burns the one who wields it, like one who lit a match and held it too long. Scorched fingers.
Patience douses the fire with water.
Sit in the center of the flame and watch it. Let it burn but do not feed it.
Sit in the center and whisper the sacred syllable, Hung.
Watch it transform.
Watch you transform.
Give it space.
Rest in Mind.
Down the hall and to the left
Then back round again
The door stands before the dark corridor
I look
There is light there
But Vision is blurry
Legs are tied
Will is waning
No time now
How many more doors to nowhere?
Was this the last dead end?
Only one way to know
Time is Running Out
You waited too long.
Too damn long.
Clocks shatter and broken glass shimmers.
Autumn has ended and the barren winter has given birth,
To decay and putrid fragrances.
Your grave lay ready,
It smiles at you.
It is an excavation of earth and stone,
An expedition into entropy.
Patience you said,
The right moment.
Excuses.
Lay down.
Let me pour the earth over you,
So that you can taste it.
To taste the sweet nectar is to be undone
The fire is burning now, the path begun
Spin your web and secure your place
But know, nothing is secure after that first taste
