Devin Dabney
Bio
I'm a creative based in the Pacific Northwest. I love writing, making music, drawing, cooking, and basically anything creative! I also love collaborating, so please feel free to reach out to me.
Stories (8/0)
The Eidolon
Harlow was a place that I’d never visited, and for good reason. It was smack-dab in the middle of Sandhairn County: a no-man’s land, a region that would only show up on the map if you were charting Klan activity. No Black person in their right mind would drive there, and certainly not alone.
By Devin Dabney9 months ago in Horror
Sable Street
A neon glow floats above the city of Ekhaara at night, like a phosphorous halo pleading absolution for the citizens below. This town is a den for many a thing—some good, some not so good, but most with no alignment whatsoever. Its buildings exhale indifference, and its streets churn out life how machines churn out smoke and oil.
By Devin Dabney10 months ago in Horror
Bereavement Leave
Today started out relatively okay. I hadn’t seen it once. Not yet. The smell of rain lingered in the air, a forgotten specter amongst thick heat waves. Sweat condensed on my brow, and I compulsively wiped it with my headband as I continued walking to Maxine’s. Her mother’s two-story house was only a few blocks away now, but it swayed like a distant mirage, simmering with the rising temperatures. I had walked from my house to get there, and at this point, I was regretting my decision.
By Devin Dabney10 months ago in Horror
It Has No Name
A long time ago in a faraway land, there lived a family in the woods just outside of town. There was the father Jack, the mother Roselyn, and their two children Tobias and Carella. Together they lived in a cabin the father built by the town lake, where they would fish and log and set animal traps in the woods. The father was a master hunter, and the mother was a master gardener, so they ate very well, and their land was rich with lustrous grass & beautiful flowers. But their most prized accomplishment was their animals, including their 7 shining steeds, which were known throughout the town for their beauty and intelligence.
By Devin Dabney10 months ago in Horror
The Few Who Shine
He is a skeleton fashioned from filth and sorrow, a collection of forgotten memories and discarded fabrics. His hair is a weak red, like a dying stoplight. As Tom walks by, it feels more like the red-haired man is the one moving, floating by like a body in the White River, bobbing in a current of urban life.
By Devin Dabney10 months ago in Horror
Ocean Spray Vibes
There is a delicate balance between nostalgia and wanderlust that, if struck correctly, creates a lucid strain of peace inside of me. This is how I learned meditation is not an act, but a feeling—one that, like all feelings, can be elicited, refined…curated, like a mixtape. And being the music-lover I am, this analogy makes perfect sense to me; from a young age, I’ve associated specific songs with specific feelings, foods, or even friends.
By Devin Dabneyabout a year ago in Beat
A Phoenix from the Quarantine
I believe we attract what we seek, which is why the feigned struggle for white America to find Black excellence deeply annoys me. It’s a slovenly stance—one I see often as a Black climber. Outdoor companies bemoan not knowing of any Black adventure enthusiasts in the way I imagine news outlets scramble to highlight Black business owners, or how galleries might wring their hands searching for Black artists. ‘We just don’t know where to look,’ they cry to the heavens, scanning homogenized spaces with whiteness blinders on. ‘It’s just so hard to find Black people that (insert literally anything interesting here).’ And sadly, the truth is at one point, I also believed that lie—even as a Black artist myself; racism taught me my otherness, but whiteness taught me exceptionalism. Whiteness claims intelligence & creativity as unique to itself, and that not only was my existence an anomaly but that I would certainly never find more Black people like me.
By Devin Dabneyabout a year ago in Motivation
Shadow Work
It was bound in sinewy strings and thin, translucent fabric. The cover was a worn black leather — cold to the touch, but otherwise plain and unremarkable. No name, and no postage…just a small black notebook, so small that I may have walked over it a few times before spotting it that day. It rested upon the doormat, like a guest patiently awaiting entry.
By Devin Dabneyabout a year ago in Horror
