James Butterbaugh
Bio
Stories (2/0)
The Captain Beneath the Waves
You can hardly see the sunlight down here. Up above, distant rays danced across the rippling surface of the ocean like polar lights. It's quiet, this place, always quiet. The long silence is only broken by the cracking groan of the ship shifting in its grave. Her name was Aurora. A twin-screw steamer, all 296 feet of her has been encrusted in a skin of algae and coral. Her belly is full of sharks, huge lingcod and snappers. Schools of herring swarm around her deck, some dashing in out of windows and cracks in the hull. In this way it seems to me she is, perhaps, more alive in this death below than she had ever been above the surface of the sea.
By James Butterbaugh2 years ago in Humans
No Last Call
At the table beside me, a large anthropomorphic cauliflower sipped thoughtfully at what looked to be two fingers of middle-shelf scotch, staring blankly across the tavern with oddly human eyes. His hands looked like the late-night rough sketches of an art school student drawn through an absinth haze. Crude fingers tapped impatiently on the dark oak table. Waiting, worrying maybe.
By James Butterbaugh3 years ago in Horror