Rafters (Flash Fiction)

Previously published in November of 2016 with The Violet Hour Press.

Maxine never looked up. They were hiding in the rafters.

In the mornings, she would find reels of rotten, grey skin on the stone floor near the edge of her bed. They watched her while she slept. She would wake up in the middle of the night and find fingers twisted in her hair. Their nails felt like knives, taking large swatches of her hair with them as they ran and giggled. Sometimes, she would find a discarded ring finger on her pillow, nail black and infected.

She never opened her eyes when she woke up in the night. Her nightmares told her what they looked like. Their eyes dark pinpricks and knotted hair tangled around impossibly long fingers. The nightmares showed her what they were. She didn’t need to look. Continue reading “Rafters (Flash Fiction)”

Realistic Endings

I don’t like nice endings, not in my fiction anyways. I hate the whole ‘hero gets the girl despite all odds’ and ‘good guys always win’. Well, I hate it when it’s a constant. What I look for in a story: a good, solid, and entirely realistic ending.

If there’s a war and my main hero is throwing himself headlong into the fight, he better get scarred and he better lose a buddy or six along the way. He better be emotionally traumatized for life. On the flip side, if my hero ‘dies’ he better not come back (thank you action movies for ruining every dramatic moment ever).

When I read a story, watch a movie, or write a story, I want my ending to make sense and be as real as possible. Deal with the devil? Of course there’s going to be some nasty consequences and buddy boy who made the contract won’t feel nice about it afterwards. My horror stories don’t end with a pretty rescue. They may not always end in death (though they most often do), but there’s something left afterwards.

Clearly, this isn’t for everyone. I don’t expect it to be. But it’s what I like and what I prefer. Here’s why:

Continue reading “Realistic Endings”

Don’t Forget to Recharge

First off: Special Announcement! My sci-fi short, “Glitch”, has been accepted for publication! It should be out sometime in June, so more information as it comes.

Haha, so this comes from to you because of one thing: I recently went on vacation and saw the ocean for the very first time. I’ve never been before and was presented with the opportunity, so I took it. And damn guys, it was great.

Which leads us quite nicely into today’s topic. I’ve noticed that I constantly forget to let myself recharge. Both physically and mentally. I’m constantly pushing myself to get more things done and stressing myself out. Let me tell you right now, this isn’t a good way to live. One should always make time to recharge, especially as a creative writer.

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Becoming Me: Know Before You Read

We is scared of Them. Sometimes, We turns into Them. We toss the turning ones from the nest, throw them out as they grow cold. They will destroy us. So We are terrified. We are always scared of something.
And sometimes, when We is sleeping, I think of Me and I am not scared. 

Becoming Me is a flash fiction piece that needs to be read to be understood. It is a literary tale that examines collectivism and individualism while being entirely surreal. Read for free here.

Alternative Story Telling

First thing I want to do here is clarify what I mean by alternative storytelling in this context. For today’s discussion, I mean medium that is not writing. Examples: film, video games, photography. I’ll be doing a post about alternative storytelling in fiction at a later date.

Now that we have that cleared up, allow me to rant.

I recently became obsessed with a visual novel on my PlayStation Vita. Novel in question? Here’s the trailer.  The basic story of the game: you play as a young woman named Cardia. She has a poison in her veins that makes it absolutely impossible for her to touch anything else or she’ll melt them. Even her clothing needs to be doused in a special chemical to prevent them from melting. While she’s about to be kidnapped by the government, a thief named Lupin steals her away. And so begins her adventure to cure the poison in her veins and find her father. Also, romance. There are five different romance options in the game, each of them exploring an entirely different alternative future for these characters. If you play all five (and trust me, I did), you’ll end up linking all of the potential futures and discovering some really interesting tidbits about the world.
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February Writing Challenge Week 3

This week was mostly catch-up and I’ll be starting off next week with more of it. Despite that, I felt a lot better creatively and was able to flesh out some ideas I’ve had spinning in my head for a while now. The dates they were written on are liars, I often wrote two or more short stories in a day and then skipped a few here and there, but it makes more sense for me to keep track of them in this manner.

I’ve only written one straight up flash fiction, which is rather disappointing for me personally, but hopefully that’ll change. The editing binge I’ll be on after this challenge might kill me a little, but it’ll also be a great creative recharge after this whole endeavour.

Onwards to the next week!

Continue reading “February Writing Challenge Week 3”

February Writing Challenge Week 2

This week was not as productive as I hoped it was going to be. Honestly, I was rather disappointed with myself. Despite that, I got some material to work with and I’ve got some stories down. The point of this is to write, and I’ve been writing. So that, in itself, is a success.

Even though I didn’t do the best that I wanted to do when it came to writing my own stories, I was able to get a ton of critting done on Scrib (probably my favourite writing community of all time) and revise one of my older shorts. I’m hoping to binge submit a couple of my stockpiled stories by the end of this month.

Oh! And one of my little flash fiction pieces ‘came out’. Becoming Me is a piece I personally fell in love with. It’s a literary flash fiction piece, my little odd ball baby, and I love it. Anyways! Results for my challenge this week:

Continue reading “February Writing Challenge Week 2”

How Fickle Love Is (Flash Fiction)

She was made of circuitry and metal sheets. Each smooth plane of skin marred by the gentle swell and bubble of a weld. Oil glistened between each joint, her arms folded around my neck and she pressed silicone lips against mine. If I ignored the exposed wires on her fingertips sending shocks up my spine, I could pretend she was real. The coolness of her metal skin, coloured like flesh with strips of long-lasting paint, was something I could also ignore.

I wanted to name her, something soft and gentle. Something that would drip from my tongue and trickle down her chest. But I didn’t. She told me she was made to service me, not love me. Her hands dragged electricity down my chest, to the waistband of my pants.

I was looking for love. She wasn’t. I don’t think she understood what love was.

Delilah sounded soft enough for her. It matched her delicate intricacy. Her panels of chipped metal flesh overlapped like petals. As flecks of paint peeled, I could see the thousands of colours she had been painted before to match the desires of some John.

But I owned her now. She didn’t need to worry about a thousand paint jobs or unsanitary homes and hands.

“I think I love you.” I whispered against her perfectly dimpled chin. I eased my breath down her neck, felt the rough edges on my tongue.

She laughed, clutched my hair in her fingers and arched her back.

It happened every night, my half admission and her frail refusal. A metallic tinge to my tongue as I wished for more than physical pleasure. But she was a mess of circuits and wires painted like a perfect doll and I was a mass of flesh and blood with thousands of imperfections. I could spend years whispering my love into her molded ear and she would never hear my words.

It just wasn’t meant to be. My wants didn’t matter; my physical needs was the only things she understood. And every night I would hide away my emotions, wrap my arms around her cold, misunderstanding waist, and kiss fake lips with the hope she would understand my frantic passion.

She never did, her back arching in pleasure as my palms traced the welds along her hips and the inside of her thighs. Delilah, a flower sprayed pale pink and speckled with silver underneath all the layers. I traced each inch of her, felt her repeat my motions with her sparking fingertips.

I could pleasure myself with her all I wanted, but it would never be what I needed until she responded to her name and let me love her. I had never been this intimate yet so far away.

She curled against me, cheek against my chest. Her skin cooled my sweat. I brushed a lock of hair back behind a perfectly rounded ear. My delicate flower, one that would rust in the rain and never breathe.

Funny, how fickle love could be.