Vulture Writer
Bio
Stories (5/0)
Incomprehensible Nothingness
We don't speak of it. We build entire belief systems to wall out any realistic and sane discussion of it. How can both certainty and ignorance be equally soul-crushing? Simultaneous confidence and fear about the knowledge of the state of the existential fate of the human race, the knowledge of the insanity of the very words and concept. Fear that my words won't survive my death. Fear that my death is closer at hand than even I expected, and the anxiety of needing to but not wanting to find out. Inspired by daily struggles of maintaining a household and a sane and stable front and home for my kids. Fear that, if I do find out, I won't have the strength, courage, the desire to fight for my life, or would even have the need to.
By Vulture Writer2 years ago in Horror
Look at Me Now
As soon as he hit the wall, his body went limp, it slid down the wall, his skin and clothes the only things attempting to hold him up. The tearing and scraping sounds harmonized together, a staccato slither, could be heard across the darkened playground. His body finally came to rest on its knees. His cheek was caught on the spackled and dimpled brick, canting his head at a queer angle, his face at the end of the wide bloody trail down the wall in a close-eyed sneer.
By Vulture Writer3 years ago in Horror
Dark Corner Closet
Shadows crawled across the walls, the safety of the streetlight mingling with the trees to cast warnings on the floor of what will come to get Johnny in the middle of the night. The claws and teeth of unknown beasts and monsters cast through the window crept along the floor, faded before they slid to the middle of the room. The only other source of light was the narrow sliver cast by the open bedroom door. Johnny tried to focus on the light, his rebellious eyes drawn back, past the scratching claws of the beasts and monsters, into the dark corner of the room.
By Vulture Writer3 years ago in Horror
Rabid Deconstruction
Every time I wake up, somebody dies. But it’s never me. Never me. The last time, this morning — I call the thirty or so instances ‘mornings,’ but my sleep has been anything but regular. The man told me to go. So I went. I didn’t want to. Why did I want to stay?
By Vulture Writer3 years ago in Horror