Saturday, December 5, 2015


We must be almost quiet or they will know. They can never be certain, big noisy things. It is very important: they must never know.

Hearing only echoes, seeing nothing but brief reflections, they wonder. They doubt. They question.

The milk was there, he knew, only minutes ago. Then, there it sat, spoiled in the cabinet,

An extra shadow flirted across the bathroom mirror before she blinked. In the obscuring steam, she shrugged, yet her heart quickened.

We are the whispered scream in silent rooms. We are the hot breath imagined on your neck. We are the doubt that breaks your peaceful dreaming.


So I've added a tip jar to the blog, in the form a Patreon Campaign. 

If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this (this is one of my only sources of income now).


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