Writing weird, dreamy, horror adjacent stories, with a terrible sense of humor since '86, y'all.
Thank you for being a friend
The marigold entered, a sprout, uninvited to the bog, but it came with excellent manners and perfect grace. Rob had felt a tremor on its arrival, a delicate shift in the air through his home. And though the shift was a matter of moments and degrees, he wore it like a brand-Rob, it turned out, was not a fan of change. He had never known that about himself. He had never needed to. The bog was the same, ever was, ever had been, as was intended. He didn't really know why, he just had a sense that the earth was kept appropriately beneath his feet by virtue of same, steady and still, never asking for more or settling for less.
Don't worry, baby
Chloe allowed Rachel the smallest possible measure of real estate in her mind. She flattened, folded, curved Rachel into unspeakable shapes, unforgivable formations, a constant punishment for being not quite, very nearly so, but never close enough to cross the divide.
Sarah still watched the horizon, but as an act of dedication, now. She had maintained her dwindling supply of hope over 11 years, doling it out in increasingly small measures, fingers crossed that it would last her until Charlie came on home to her. She lasted longer than anyone expected her to, but on the 4,016th morning, Sarah desperately searched for the faintest scent, the memory of "Maybe, someday", and found only a festering certainty of despair. She had always believed on some small, involuntary level that she would intuit it when Charlie died. She'd feel it like the abrupt loss of a limb and she would somehow be less herself.
Dream 1 Oscar once read that we all dream in black and white. If you asked, and I have, the name of the book, he couldn’t tell you with anything resembling certainty or accuracy. Something something dreams and stuff, the science of understanding your brain’s hot nonsense, you know, a real academic tome. He had even less recollection of the author. He was relatively certain it was written by some guy, unless you asked him on a weekend, when he became very nearly positive it was the handiwork of that one lady. You know the one. And I, no reasonable human beings accurate description of a modern skeptic, stood arms crossed, on the precipice of Oscar’s unfounded faith, his absolute confidence in a half-remembered book, about to rip it open, but not apart.
The Wine Cellar
If I hadn't worn the white dress; if he hadn't spilled the merlot. I'll never quite understand which was contingent upon the other, but there was cause and effect there, I'm certain of that. I knew better than to wear white; if he hadn't spilled something on me, I certainly would have before the end of the evening, so maybe it was a relief, some of the pressure removed, to have the crimson stain spreading across my torso be his handiwork instead of the inevitable result of my own unfathomable clumsiness. Let's call it that.