It is darker than the noise in my head, and I feel like my skeleton's made of choked-on bones. Also, the great Morpheus Tales has just released Morpheus Tales: The Best Weird Fiction #4, and I'm proud to report that it contains my story Some Things Aren't Anything alongside the various productions of fine auctorial company, including--best of all--my buddy and fellow wordsmith John F.D. Taff, represented here by his excellent tale Sharp Edges.
This is the second time Taff and I have appeared together (the first being in Box of Delights), and luckily I KNOW it won't be the last, as we're collaborating with superior beings J. Daniel Stone and Joe Schwartz on a novella collection, about which, more when poetry and incantations stop stepping on my prose.
Morpheus Tales: The Best Weird Fiction #4 is now available for Kindle on Amazon . . . and I have heard it whispered that it will soon incarnate in the bodies of dead trees, with colorful covers above and below like an envelope of burial dirt in a . . . O whatever I have no idea where to go next with this sentence. It sucks. Started off with a vague intimation of visionary exploration and then just crapped out, it got awkward, I lost interest. I think, therefore I don't know a damn thing. My Doom Disorder kicking in?
Furthermore:
Baptism of the living
Is a crude imitation
Of that true baptism
Which rightfully belongs
To the dead.
Anyone can get sprinkled
With a little water
Easily wiped away.
But the fresh cadaver--
Her commitment
To her new faith
Is inexorable.
No test, however harsh,
Could ever break her will.
Every corpse is a Saint.
See what I mean?
This is the second time Taff and I have appeared together (the first being in Box of Delights), and luckily I KNOW it won't be the last, as we're collaborating with superior beings J. Daniel Stone and Joe Schwartz on a novella collection, about which, more when poetry and incantations stop stepping on my prose.
Morpheus Tales: The Best Weird Fiction #4 is now available for Kindle on Amazon . . . and I have heard it whispered that it will soon incarnate in the bodies of dead trees, with colorful covers above and below like an envelope of burial dirt in a . . . O whatever I have no idea where to go next with this sentence. It sucks. Started off with a vague intimation of visionary exploration and then just crapped out, it got awkward, I lost interest. I think, therefore I don't know a damn thing. My Doom Disorder kicking in?
Furthermore:
Baptism of the living
Is a crude imitation
Of that true baptism
Which rightfully belongs
To the dead.
Anyone can get sprinkled
With a little water
Easily wiped away.
But the fresh cadaver--
Her commitment
To her new faith
Is inexorable.
No test, however harsh,
Could ever break her will.
Every corpse is a Saint.
See what I mean?
