Evan Jackson
Bio
Neurodivergent creative who's recently come out from under his rock. I'm growing back the confidence of my youth through sharing my creative works. <3
Stories (12/0)
Blood and Bourbon
My grandfather used to say that hate is the flower grown from a seed planted in hostile ground. Earth is beautiful, but it’s full of rat holes. And a rat hole is where I found myself when I landed here. That old man’s words played over and over in my head every single shift I worked at Salacious. Humans are fucking gross! Some of them. That place was a magnet for those specific types. A hole in the wall establishment where the seedy and the mischievous like to hang out. That’s why I started working there. For the mischievous aspect, not the lack of decorum. Thought I’d come across some useful information. All I found were a bunch of low-level guys just trying to make enough money to party. That and an array of human kinks that turned my stomach. There was some quality blood now and then. One of the few things that made working there worth it. Patrick was the other reason. My job at Salacious was a way for me to keep my ear to the ground. Information comes freely to those who know how to listen. I needed a clean break from the persona I’d built at the club. So, I texted Rick and told him I quit. All that was six months ago, going on seven.
By Evan Jackson2 years ago in Fiction
Blood & Bourbon
Hunger pulled me into the woods outside my ship. To passersby, it looks like a modern smart home on private property. The facade of my earth-human features was deteriorating from a lack of blood. I was going to have to feed before work tonight. Human blood is rare where I come from. We only get it when a poacher like me travels to one of their settlements in some distant galaxy and brings it back. Many poachers leave, but they don’t always return. Human world’s are seductive. Mixed with alcohol; human blood is an aphrodisiac for my kind. Coincidentally, it has the same effect on its source… go figure. Hunting to maintain my appearance is something I’ve grown accustomed to since settling here. A sweaty jogger headed up the path. Blares electronic dance music from his headphones, covering the sound of my footfalls. I race ahead of him by a few yards, to stand against a tree, spotlighted by the moon. I step out into his path as he approaches. Using my tank top to wipe sweat that isn’t there from my brow. Revealing my stomach and a healthy bulge in my sweats. His jogging slows to a walk as he greets me. Like a moth to my flame.
By Evan Jackson2 years ago in Filthy
Message on a Platform
As a new writer on Vocal, I’ve been trying out different things. My preferred writing style is fiction, stream of consciousness and poetry. I grew up wanting to be a singer/songwriter. I still do, but music isn’t my focus currently. Writing is. I used to write SO much. A few jobs I had where I sat at a desk; my notebook would be open just out of view, and I’d be writing. One job in particular, (I was in college for music at the time) I had a computer at my desk. This was in the age of MySpace. That blog was filled with stories that I’d written while at work. Never was there any type of outline or preconceived plot. I would just sit there and observe people walking in and out of the building. The custodians cleaning and such. Sounds from the building or on the street. Conversations and other interactions that I had; My imagination would create characters and a motivation and all of it would form itself into a story. I wrote so many stories on that blog... I want to recover them.
By Evan Jackson2 years ago in Motivation
Introducing Black Sands Entertainment
Lately I’ve been seeing Black Sands Entertainment appear in my IG feed. I was first introduced to them about a year ago via a YouTube suggestion. My first impression was-'dope!' I was so excited to see Black stories being told from this perspective. It was something I would have watched religiously as a kid. It’s influence on my childhood would’ve made a huge impact on my development. Even now as an adult its impact is monumental. Seeing this kind of representation in business, media, art, anime, comic books, and apps, is groundbreaking on so many levels. It’s truly inspiring to see a dream come together. Watching people create communities around their niche and garner support in a major way gives me hope.
By Evan Jackson2 years ago in Geeks
Introverted Stream of Consciousness
This is why I Stay Home... Sober me is a bit of a prude. Sitting at the bar… actively engaging with the live music via the tapping of my foot… the scent of man enters my olfactory senses. My subconscious hunts for an odor that it craves. Dank masculine pheromones that turn my eyes white as they roll to the back of my skull… running my tongue across my upper teeth, I’m half expecting fangs to rip through my gums. Tonight feels like the perfect night to meet someone. Naïvety is prevalent in my romantic endeavors… Being introverted halts me from making eyes around the room. I want him to come to me. I want my energy to resonate like gravity and draw him into my sphere. Sandalwood stirs the air around me as people get up and down from their seats. A mysterious stranger seated in red seems to be looking in my direction… I don’t dare look at him for fear of being wrong. There is live music after all. This is why I don’t go out…my lack of regular physical contact feels like an involuntary halo of desperation. My wants and my needs bargain with each other to allow my ego just a taste of someone…An unfamiliar musk to satiate my Eros spirit. My tongue lashes out playfully licking my lips out of sexual hunger. Desire to sink my teeth into flesh and let my pleasure paint the air in moans becomes more permissible with each drink. Self control in these situations is the foundation of my pride. Right now all I want to do is rip that away. The scent of man is in my nose and it’s exactly what I crave god dammit… There is no resolution for me. Each sip of bourbon flavored citrus lowers my inhibitions. Allowing me to become more seduced. The possibilities surrounding me force my brain into a think tank. The path to my physical desires is more simple than I’m making it out to be and I know it. Why do I play this game with myself? To see if who I want wants me? Probably… The complexity of my basic desires is being reduced to wanting to make out. I need the safety of home. Away from strangers and possibility. The probability of a regrettable decision in this atmosphere is high. If I weren’t drinking it would be drastically lowered but then what would happen to my anxiety? Fuck…! What is it about the atmosphere of a bar that makes you hope someone will approach you… in the way you fantasized without consequence? Fuck cravings… fuck, cravings…
By Evan Jackson2 years ago in Filthy
Haunted Lover
His wife died here... in the house they shared with their family for three and a half decades. Doctors diagnosed Elizabeth or Lizzy, as her husband called her, with cancer. It went into remission after year one and the beginning of year three is when it came back with a vengeance. She'd gone through all kinds of chemotherapy treatments and other holistic medicine to help her fight as hard as she could. Martin woke up one Sunday morning to find his wife had transitioned. Despite all their efforts, it wasn’t enough to keep her here and healthy. The once vibrant woman, full of laughter and sarcasm, devoid of her spirit, was an image that seared itself to her husband’s memory. Nightly terror seized his nerves, waking him up in a cold sweat. Lizzy started appearing around the house. Her lifeless body with empty eyes pleading with Martin in the kitchen, garden, or on the stairs. He loved his wife, but he didn’t want to remember her like this.
By Evan Jackson2 years ago in Fiction
The Kiss
There was an ache inside of me. . . I was touch starved, and I didn’t want to admit it. There were apps and places you could go for that sort of thing, but I wasn’t looking for sex and I felt weird about paying someone to touch me. A need to connect with other people makes me realize I have no deep connections. I’ve had few real friends over my lifetime and we have cut the ties that bind us. Some strings I cut myself and some I watched being cut by others after I handed them the scissors. What I have left are the severed ends of red strings that were once attached to my heart. These other attachments that I have. . . I’ve followed their trails for decades and still have yet to discover what they’re connected to. Maybe I’m incapable of being loved, or perhaps people see something inside me that turns them off. Whatever the reason, I fuck all of my relationships up and I’m over here so lonely, I’m feeling on myself. That’s when ‘he’ ran across my mind. I’ll call him Mister. Mister and I haven’t seen each other in over a decade and I can’t remember the time before this that he came across my mind. Things between us always seemed unresolved. . . my mind settles on him for a few moments and then I swipe left on all the subsequent memories, trying to ruin a delicate moment. No sooner than I’d moved on in thought, did he appear on my phone? . . I changed his name in my contacts to “NO!!!” my warning meant nothing to whomever was answering my phone; using my voice talking all smooth and sexy and grinning across my face. I get on my damn nerves. . . Thirty minutes later, I’m running around my house. Cleaning up and hopping in the shower because Mister is coming over! Singing to the music I put on to set the mood adds to being excited that Mister is coming over. I also want to break down and cry. Hopefully, he hugs me when I see him. I can’t wait to feel his embrace and smell his smell.
By Evan Jackson3 years ago in Fiction
