The Dreamer_The Chicken House_Celebrating Brendan_A Heart of Flesh
Catalog Guide:
The Dreamer
Chewed fingernails sit in a pile next to his keyboard. Daniel slowly gnaws down on the corner edge of his pinky. A napkin spotted with blood is crumpled up on his lap awaiting its next dab. He sits there chomping on what’s left of the pinky nail until he eventually strikes blood. Only then, does he remove the ends of his finger from his mouth and wrap it in the napkin.Daniel sits at the counter most evenings and unsuccessfully treads the stormy waters of anxiety that fill his head. The bottoms of his feet are tingling from swinging erratically back and forth under the bar stool. His hunch is s...
The Chicken House
THE CHICKEN HOUSEAn abandoned building draws kids to it, like a moths to a flame. And sometimes, they get burned.Allister looked down at what he had written, and sighed. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to write about his own childhood, even under the guise of fiction. He had thought that it wowww.onedoor.cculd be a good idea — they say to write what you know, but what did he know, really? He only knew what he knew. There were the stories from the others, but what had happened, exactly? His father, a police officer always said there was your idea of what happened, the other person’s idea of what happened,...
Celebrating Brendan
I’ve always hated it, I always will and there’s nothing anyone’s going to be able to do about that.And by the way, consider that I know how this story ends and that’s still the line I’ve chosen to lead off with. So if you’re looking for redemption or some kind of Scrooge-tastic epiphany, off you pop. I’m going to conclude a few pages hence as unredeemed as ever and unapologetically so.It’s not because I had a terrible childhood, or because a parent left the rest of the family on Christmas Eve, or that a faulty set of Christmas tree lights set my house ablaze one year. Nothing that dramatic. I’...
A Heart of Flesh
~Content Warning: violence, allusion to suicide, demonic possession~I’m surrounded by light. Where am I? How did I get here? I was falling…. A voice. A single voice. Different. Grief-stricken. Four words. “What are you doing?”Then silence. “What?” I call. There’s no echo; it’s as though the light extends forever in all directions. “What are you doing?”What am I doing? What have I done? My life… why?“I don’t know,” I choke out in answer. What am I doing? “Why do you hate yourself?” A door inside me I’d struggled to keep closed swings open and I see it clearly for the first time. I despise mysel...