[ AN was originally published in ‘writing night book‘ ]


The following video footage is taken from a memory card found in a manila envelope in Detective Ligotti’s desk, shortly after his death.

After a few seconds of black silence, a blurred room slowly comes into focus. We are at a psychiatric institution, in a common room. Windows are barred. All are wearing white. Over to the right, the medication closet, and it is brighter than this room. A nurse behind tempered glass has her head in her hands, elbows on table, slowly chewing gum. Over to the left we can see two patients at a checkers table. The red player, on the left and in the corner of the room, is putting all of his concentration into spinning a piece slowly on the table, using both hands. The black player, on the right, is sitting perfectly still, hands at his sides, looking over at the large central area.

In the center of the room is arranged a circle of metal folding chairs, each one occupied by either a patient or a member of the staff. It is hard to tell the difference. There is a clear leader of the circle attempting to bring some order to the group. She is currently talking to the person seated directly opposite her in the circle. Everyone is looking at him, the subject of the current conversation.



“It is now your turn.”





SUBJECT slowly nods once. There is a long pause.



“Um. Ok. Here is where you can tell us your name.”


THE SAME TWO PATIENTS (still not in sync):



SUBJECT again acknowledges their answer. There is another long pause.



“…Yes, your name. What do people call you?”


SUBJECT (again via his neighbors):

“I see. People do not call me anything, at this time. I now understand what you are asking, however. I require a label, for that is how you impose order on such things.”


Yet another pause.


SUBJECT (through all of the members of the circle, including the leader):

“You may call me AN.”


At this point, one member of the circle starts laughing very loudly, uncontrollably, and it is required to remove him. The checkers player, black, begins drooling. The drool appears to be of a greenish hue. Red slaps him, and continues to spin his piece.


GROUP (as themselves, discordantly):

“Hello, AN.”


LEADER (after clearing throat, uncomfortably):

“So, AN, what brings you here to our communication group? Tell us about yourself.”


AN (through his immediate neighbors, one shouting, the other whispering):

“I re-awoke orbiting that which follows the Pleiades. Once fully aware, I calculated that I was to fall, and that my trajectory would conclude here, upon your planet. I prepared accordingly, and thus, fell. Upon landing in the nearby lake, I was intercepted, examined very briefly, and ultimately placed here in your facility.”


A member of the circle stands up suddenly, knocking his chair over with a metallic clatter.



“He’s not moving his lips when he speaks!”


The standing member then grabs his own tongue with both hands, and tries to pull it out. The two patients sitting on either side of him just watch, grinning and clapping their hands. LEADER has no reaction to this. The red checkers player has put both of his hands on black’s head, and is clearly applying pressure. All of the pieces have fallen to the ground but one, red, spinning mid-air over the table.



“Allll. De’bearrrr. Uhhhhn…”


A thick black substance starts dripping down the medication closet’s window, obscuring the light. A pop of chewing gum, and then a muted gurgling scream is heard.


LEADER slumps in her chair, leaning back. Her head starts tilting back much, much too far, as though her spine has turned to rubber.


A security guard runs in, and pounces upon her. He rips LEADER’s coat back, and pulls a switchblade from his utility belt. The guard forcefully stabs her, and slowly slices across her chest and shoulders.


LEADER does not react, only starts randomly blinking. Sometimes it seems as though her eyes are blue, other times red, or green. Occasionally she is without iris at all.


The guard drops the knife. He reaches deeply into the cut that he made and begins pulling, pulling, pulling, slowly tearing.

AN stands up, and turns towards the camera, obscuring the gruesome struggle. A fluorescent ceiling bulb explodes, showering white dust and sparks over patients and caregivers alike, who are now all kneeling on the floor, quietly babbling.

AN begins to hover a few inches over the floor, and glides ever so slowly toward us. Black things in shadow slither at the edges of our sight.

As AN approaches, his skin starts to sag, and melt. The guard crawls over to him, leaving a bloody trail. He holds up to AN a large ragged sheet of skin. He then partially vomits up a massive snail-like yellow orange tongue, and proceeds to lick up blood and dust. It is at this point that AN accepts his gift, and places it over his own head as a hood.


In the light that remains, it appears as though AN is draped in yellow.


He reaches up to touch the camera lens. Further screaming can be heard until-


Camera snow and static. There is a voice within.



“Have you found the sign?”


The video ends here. The video ends here.                         The

the the YES

the video ends YE S I HAVE here.            I danc e oN_my kYEBROD&    YES


The Lake

This, mind you, is mostly a dream.

Lake E–, New York. I have not googled this to find out if this place is real, and I will not. If it does exist, then I am sure it is not the lake I have seen. The one I know of is a small lake, surrounded by a few trees.

( I picture it being autumn, a grey but mildly warm day. The trees are dying gracefully, in calm explosions of purple and muted red. )

The lake is by an old road, straight and proper between two semi-popular points, fairly well-used, but there’s never any traffic. There may be a set of lights down the way, but I’ve never gone that far. The lights are faulty, and there’s a lonesome faded orange cone set down on the pavement at the center of the intersection, with a small sign that reads a simple and crooked ‘stop’.

Today, there’s more traffic than usual, and a few cars are parked on the side of the road next to the lake. One of them has the back driver’s side door open, with an old frumpy-looking lady stooped over and hectically rummaging through. She’s crying. She’s angry and frustrated and crying, not finding what she needs.

I am still a ways back from the lake, walking towards it, chasing something I’ve released accidentally into the gentle but constant breeze. A small bit of beige fluff, like one might pull from the insides of a teddy bear through a small tear. It is travelling smooth in the wind, and yet I can’t quite catch it. I want to say it is dancing, but it is not. It is not.

I can clearly hear the woman crying now. She is sitting on the edge of the seat, still mostly out of her car, head in hands. Whatever she needs must not be there. It is gone, or perhaps never was.

I walk past her, focusing on the fluff that I have not yet caught. While I am not looking at her, I am sure she is not looking at me. Her sobs are muffled and quiet.

( It is fortunate that I am heading towards the lake. It is where I need to be, and the wind is with me. )

There are six people waist-deep in the lake. Five of them are holding something down under the surface with what appears to be minimal struggle. The sixth, in a rush of motion and splashing, pulls up a coughing soldier from the water.

( In my faltering memory, I am not sure how I know that she is a soldier. She is wearing jeans and a red tank top. But I look at her now and I know. She has it in her eyes, her bright and pained eyes. )

I walk into the water, it is cold. I am the seventh. Waist-deep in the water, I finally catch the bit of beige fluff. I put it in the water, and hold it down. It dissolves into dissipating pink foam, and now

                         and now

                                 I am holding your hands. It is you again,

                                                                                                       it is you.


This is the end, I am awake now. The sheets and blankets of the bed are strewn about on the floor. I am naked and sweating, and my throat is dry.

Lake E– has been bought by the government, and has been built over. It is now hidden under a massive steel and concrete building behind reinforced fencing. The steel of the edifice is the blue of forgotten nightmares, and makes me feel nothing. The concrete is a rotting grey. The fence has one opening that I can see, with two armored guards standing there, still as statues.

I walk up to them, and recognize one as the solder in the red tank top from my dream. She looks at me. There are tears in her eyes. She turns to the other guard and spits a code at him. He looks away, and she motions for me to enter, quickly. Quickly now. I go into the building.

A great iron machine humming in the water. Echoing steel boots on black catwalks. It is another world, dark. A door in the ceiling slides open, and someone from above lets several small items fall onto a conveyor belt. A ring, a sock. A splinter of wood. A distal phalanx, a piece of torn paper. A marble, a bit of fluff. Many more. They travel the belt down, and down, and down, into the water, towards the great machine. The machine roars.

I turn and run out. I can’t watch any more.

It is autumn, a grey but mildly warm day. The trees are dying gracefully, in calm explosions of purple and muted red. I run, and run, and run.

a bit about KDP

so, a few people recently asked me about my experience with self-publishing, specifically asking what i think about amazon’s KDP.

(keep in mind that i am no professional here. i am only including my own experiences using KDP as a poet, short story writer, and anthology-editor. this will also be nowhere near to any sort of KDP tutorial, just various notes/thoughts i have on it, written in no particular order whatsoever.)

so first of all, KDP used to be createspace, which was a bit more versatile in some of their formats (especially covers), and that’s what i used for my first two projects. (writing night book and the skeleton girl). KDP did not change the process in any major sort of way, it was a fairly streamlined switch-over. so there’s that.

a second note: i prefer physical copies of books. i’ve used KDP for that purpose. while it certainly has the capability of producing digital format books, my one brief experience attempting it was, in my opinion, not so successful. for writing night book, i originally offered a digital version as well as the physical. for me, with the moderate effort i put in, the formatting would not bend to my will – whatever i did, i could not match the formatting of the physical book. perhaps it was my own fault, had i put more effort in, i could have gotten it right. it was frustrating regardless – it should not have been an issue to begin with.

KDP, overall, is very easy to use, and self-explanatory. it was simple for me to transfer my projects over (i used microsoft word, and saved the content as a PDF which KDP then uses). it makes it easy to review your project online, and proofs are easy to order (and inexpensive) during the process.

creating the cover for one’s project (front, back, binding), is work. KDP has several pre-formatted options for covers, somewhat versatile, which if one goes that route, makes it easier. however, in my opinion, those options scream ‘self-published’ rather than ‘published’ (looking less professional, whatever that means.) i have been very fortunate in that respect to have experience with a photoshop-like program (arcsoft photo studio). i would recommend, if creating the cover on one’s own (KDP also uses PDF’s for self-created covers), to have multiple eyes on it first.

multiple eyes. so very important. KDP checks on a few basic things during the creation process, like margins, or excess blank spaces – a number of small things. however, one must be sure (for any self-publishing, not just KDP) that their content has been edited fully, gone through with a fine tooth comb as it were. and then, once it has been gone over, go over it again. i would highly recommend hiring an editor, especially for longer work such as novels. for poetry and short stories, editing is still quite a bit of work. again, hire an editor.

(a note on hiring, whether cover artist or editor, or anyone else: do your research. several folks out there overcharge. several folks out there are inexpensive, but may not do as well as one needs them to do. KDP in and of itself, in my experience, has no scamming associated with it in any way, but once one goes outside of their site, anything goes i’m sure. )

KDP creates a free ISBN for one’s project, which cannot be modified once begun.

royalties through KDP, i believe, are fair. based on the length of one’s project, KDP will calculate a minimum price, which one can increase if desired. based on the price that is set, KDP will calculate the appropriate royalties. here’s a link to their royalty calculator.

obviously, once a project is complete and ready to go live, KDP will make it available on amazon. there are other options as well, allowing a project to go international, and/or be available at various booksellers.

which brings us to gettin’ paid. so one has their project up on amazon – now what? potential readers are not going to find it – maybe randomly? – unless one does some more work: advertising. KDP offers to advertise on amazon, obviously. i have no experience with that process, so i can’t comment on it. i am certain it has some sort of financial cost attached, which any professional advertising would. without paying an advertiser/entity, one is going to have to push their own product, which, again, is work. for me, this is the hardest part of the process. how does one advertise their own work effectively? i am still working on this. for my own projects, i’ve blogged/reblogged posts about them on the various social media sites that i am on. for the number of times i have done so, which has not been terribly many, i have gained a few book sales. i tend to fear being ‘spammy’ to my followers/friends, which is an aspect of being a writer that i never even remotely thought of in the past. long story short (too late, i know), i’d recommend doing more research on effective advertising in the self-publishing world than just reading this weird little blog post of mine.

ultimately, i enjoy using KDP. it is easy to use, and gives me the extreme pleasure of holding a book. that i made. in my hand.

Soothing Water

I walk into a restaurant. It is fancy, I am missing a hand. The maître d’ is behind a podium that is carved from the darkest of woods into a snake about to strike. I make a sardonic comment about its relation to the service here, even though I have never been here before. No one is amused, and the maître d’ tells me that I must wait with a stern glance. I do so. I watch people come and go. I hope to sit behind the giant stone archway where there are what seems to be a thousand candles. There is a massive stained glass window in the back. It is like an old cemetery chapel, it is a beautiful thing. When I am finally summoned and seated – in a dark corner not behind the arch but at least not by the restrooms – the conversations around me gradually blend into a misophonic static.

A man comes over with a large pitcher of water. He carries it with two hands, arms outstretched, as though the pitcher is an object to be revered, a relic. I push my empty glass over to him. He pours, the liquid is so clean. Pure. I am not ready to order, I say, but he responds that he is not my waiter. She will be here soon.

I pull the menu towards me, and attempt to read it. All I can see are what appears to be hieroglyphics. I squint, I pull myself back from the menu, I place it close to my face. No change. This irritates me, and reminds me of the surrounding commotion, which I can also make no sense of. It is frustrating, and I grow angry, until I take a sip of water. I am calmed. I wait with as much patience as I can gather for service. I wait. I wait.

In the darkness, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Momma! Momma, I cry! She consoles me, tells me that there is nothing to fear in this darkness. She tells me that my heart has yet to be weighed, to wait for the light just a little while longer. Momma! Momma! I feel her hand on my shoulder.

The waitress’s hand is on my shoulder, gently shaking me. I had fallen asleep. The waitress asks if I am alright. I am not, but I tell her that I am. I apologize, it must have been a very long day, I say.

The waitress tells me her name, which I do not quite catch. Something like Kebbut or Kevehet, I do not know. She asks if I am ready. I am not, I say, clearing my throat. I apologize, and take a sip of water. I say that I cannot read the menu.

She kneels down by my chair and whispers into my ear. It is okay, she hisses. It is true, you are not quite ready. I will bring you more water.

I try to smile and thank her, but it is getting difficult to move. There is a nest of snakes on the ceiling. The noise of the restaurant comes and goes in waves, like the rushing of sand in the wind.


this was written for discord’s book brigade prompt for october: horror / suspense / thriller, with references to an ancient myth.

(They’ll learn much more than we know.)

the following is a bit of flash fiction, based on a prompt given in the Book Brigade discord group. the prompt? combine themes from a randomly chosen song and a randomly chosen movie (interpreted however one wants).

song:      Over the Rainbow – Israel Kamakawiwoʻole
movie:   No Country for Old Men – Coen Brothers



There’s a window. A palm tree’s out there, just one. You’re so tired of palm trees. A pinau flies away.


Brother Waz sittin’ there on the porch all fat ‘n forebodin’. He gets up, lets out an intense pffffffffff, an’ he walks up to your door. Gets out his ukulele. His uke. His yewwwwwwk.

Brother Waz singin’ now. Quiet. “Ooh ooh ooh. Ooh uh.” He lines his uke up, headstock touchin’ your door lock. Twangs that F, an’ the lock blows out.


You’re sittin’ in the comfy chair, an’ there he is across from you, Brother Waz, sittin’ on a tiny wooden stool. It’s a noisy bit of furniture, now.

In his right hand, Brother Waz holds his uke, restin’ it over his shoulder. In his left, a page of sheet music.

“Look at this page. Two-sided. One side’s ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’. An Isidore Hochberg piece. Good ol’ Iz. The other’s ‘What a Wonderful World’. Thiele an’ Weiss. Call it, friendo-ohh. Ooh uh uh.”

You can’t. There’s no way, it can’t be done. “No. I won’t.”

Brother Waz laughs heartily. Creakcreakcreeeeeak. “C’mon. Call it.” He shakes the sheet about.

Is there a choice? You know what’ll happen. “Fine. I call both.”


Here’s that same window. Hundreds o’ palm trees are out there. A pinau hovers past slow-like as the ukulele begins to play.

Towered hues of gold, heavy fields of wheat with no value. Ever dust-ridden under an angry sun that wishes to die, mangled and fungal-bloomed at the center of humanity’s dreams. Elizabeth, at the corner drip-dripping to look into an empty room, nods to herself. Drooped as branches of the great ash tree, entering into me with the memory knives, reminiscent of the thorns of crowned devils the thorns of crowned devils the thorns of crowned devils. I shall take it gladly, nestled in the dead leaves of failed kisses and angel skin. Gold flickers behind the eyelids of storms and unborn children, crawling things in the style of Van Gogh spread the color scatter, heaving up images of forbidden sex in their asynchronous wake imagined.

An amalgamate of history and sadness is this dire somewhat-city we are in. On the rooftops, starving angels. Ochre lightning attempts to break free from what should have been heaven, fighting to arc arc arc and split and burn. A city made of the smell of mouldering old books and tooth decay. Made of sandstone and the steady heavy tiredness after hard labor, I see that we dwell sorely within doddering about or sleeping without dreams, not looking out windows that wish to be walls. Dust sells us tells us that we should not be here, there is nowhere else to go, or so we think aloud.

Right now there are gaps and cracks in the foundation of the eternal apartment complex that mirror those in our heart. Now what alien things dance there. By law it is required that our ceilings are painted black, younger heads tend to turn upwards. Let us read the fine print of the text, old ink mixed with alchemical magicks, verified to be written in 1589. Each word is a curled black line horror curled black line horror in electric fantasy. Loomed web words hang like arachnid mobiles from our ceilings. Umbral nests flake off chitinous eggs, stinging wires poke the fungal blooms, the thorns, and the dank basement of this groaning building is hungry magic.

Never does Elizabeth go deeper into the basement. Down. Down. Elizabeth has gold-flecked breasts. Powder the faces of shame, regret tears through a tube of Orlova-red lipstick. Earlier we looked up through the black ceiling. Scattered yellow starspatter appeared on our stomachs, stigmata of an artist’s familiar. I scratch our initials into an Yggdrasil wall. Orlova-red blood. Nails hold up empty frames, I wish them to hold whole universes of history and sadness, not this emptiness mine. Each of us sit in the ruined room, vast seas of solitude hold our hands through the harder scenes lately.

I will soon choose my own scene. The rooftop, an angel dying. Beaten wings down, last inhalation of his cigarette failing to find any sort of heaven. Yellow-gold hued monsters are towered and crumbling. I stood before the silent field of–

Silent below our alien city. Deep below our alien city. Reminiscent of Edward Kelley and John Dee’s experiments with language, a runed miasma is forming in the dead field.  We are now running under the black wings of night. New tongue-sounds on the tight whitewashed canvas between glorious Maria’s legs. Touch a bit of black curling lined horror, or kiss the dying lightning. Was it always like this, a desire for the darker corridors? Reminiscent of a broken chalice. Derelicts run these city streets, some watch closely, the most keen of them know what is to come what is to come what is to come still.

Heralds of the great satellite, empress moon. Mistress of eternal disastrous night. Oh how she will embrace us, naked, sacred, teeth fully sunk in. Rouse our dead fields, our gold flecked skin. Until something gives messy birth to some kind of hope, she will caress my dying mind. Nocturne breaths. I give myself freely to the unattended piano in her heart. Given in to her fungal blooms, her star-smeared lips. The void shall take me gladly when it is my time.

In Itsetuho’s Shadow

The sky was mud, and the heavy clouds were just darker ruts in that mud, threatening to pour their filth upon Itsetuho and his horse. He found himself slowly riding towards a lonely seaside town, not sure from whence he came. Didn’t matter anyway – this town would satisfy his needs. Itsetuho sneered. As if in response, the wind blew a rotting breath, foul as fermenting sewage, and his horse reared up in a wide-eyed fear and fury. Itsetuho jumped down, and smacked the horse’s flank with the flat of his xiphos. The horse reared again, and galloped quickly off, away from the town.

At that point a huge crash of thunder sounded, and the sky decided to unburden itself of its load all at once. Itsetuho shrugged wetly, and continued onward.

He walked the small main street through town unbothered, untroubled; all of the village residents had sheltered themselves from the storm. All but one that is, who was crouched upon a chimney top, watching Itsetuho darkly from behind the veil of rain.

Itsetuho found the inn easily despite the lack of visibility, and shoved the doors open. Within, the cliché of the usual cheery banter of drunken sailors and their attentive scantily-clad women was nowhere to be found. There was simply – a quiet beyond the storm’s raging at the roof. The barkeep stood stone-still at his post, both hands pressing on the bar, head raised to the noise, watching. From all the occupied tables and booths, attention was given only to the storm, and not a single eye shifted to Itsetuho. All but one that is, who was perched upon the stairs leading to the rooms for rent, watching Itsetuho darkly from behind the railings.

Itsetuho removed his soaked cloak, and threw it to the floor. No one flinched. He stomped over to the bar, leaving a trail of black footprints. No one cared. Itsetuho smashed a fist onto the thick wood as loudly as he could. “A room!” The barkeep slowly turned his head down to Itsetuho, handed him a small silver key, then looked back up at the ceiling as though nothing had happened, nothing had ever happened. Itsetuho sneered, and then trampled his way up the stairs to his room, no one watching darkly in his way.

Slamming the door behind him, Itsetuho pulled a simple wooden chair into the center of the room. He drew his sword, and sat. He waited for night to come. It wouldn’t be too long, the storm would bring it quicker, blacker, deadlier.

The storm slowly spent itself, and sputtered, spattered its way out. The rut of clouds died slow, and birthed a full harvest moon, the orange of dead leaves crawling with worms. The glow cast a knowing glare into Itsetuho’s room, and Itsetuho smiled wide, so wide the corners of his mouth cracked and bled. It was time.

He raised his short sword, and plunged it deeply into his stomach.

Itsetuho quietly reveled at the scream he heard from the next room as he removed the sword neatly from his stomach. No effort, no pain, no blood. A muffled commotion grew in the hallway. Desperate cries for help, and bashing at the neighboring door commenced. Itsetuho cracked his neck leisurely to the left, to the right, and swung his sword mightily towards his knee.

More screaming, and massive confusion from the hallway. Blood pooled underneath his door. Itsetuho nearly laughed aloud as he stabbed at his throat, and twisted. He cut at his face. He sliced at his wrists.

Screaming, and screaming, and screaming. Itsetuho was ecstatic. He continued on, xiphos raging as the storm raged, until the screaming turned to gurgles, and pained whispers of distress. He continued until there was silence. Itsetuho stood, hung his sword on his door, and went to bed, falling asleep easily, restfully. All others in the inn, and in the village lay dreamlessly, dead. All save one, that is, watching Itsetuho darkly, standing at the side of his bed.