Category Archives: Horror

Back from the Dead, Kinda

Howdy howdy hi, folks. As you may have noticed (or maybe not, since can a thing be defined by its absence,) I ain’t posted in a while. There’s a variety of reasons for that, none of them particularly good, but at the very least, that’s not to say I haven’t been writing! In fact, since July, I’ve had three pieces accepted, and two of them are currently up (I’m terrible at self-promotion, so I didn’t say anything about the first one even though it came out almost a month ago. But the other one just came out today.) The first is a poem about keeping the world from ending and the second is a piece of flash fiction about waking up naked and alone in an attic.


Flower War, at Rise Up Review

The Attic, at Constant Readers


Pogo, Pt. 3

Rosa frowned. The thought had slithered into her mind suddenly and unwanted, a shadow skulking out of the darkness. It weighed on her like a demon perched on her chest, a recurring nightmare.

It’d been popping up more and more of late.

She shook her head, as if the thought were something she could physically dislodge. Forget the “surprise.” Think about something positive. “Anyway. Hey, babe! Didn’t you have a follow-up interview today? How’d that go?”

Steve’s grin grew wider, but there was no joy in it. That was a bad sign, something he did when he knew he was about to disappoint her but was trying to be nonchalant about it in hopes of allaying her concerns and fears.

Or avoiding a lecture.

Here it comes. “Oh, I don’t think I’m going to get it. But it’s okay, y’know? There will be other–”

“I didn’t go.”

Her brains couldn’t process the words in any meaningful way. They were just noise. And then suddenly, painfully they snapped into focus. “You what?”

Steve flinched. The grin slipped away from bravado and back into sheepishness. He wouldn’t hold her eyes, suddenly a shamed little puppy. “I didn’t go. So, like, I thought about it, and I decided, y’know, that isn’t the right environment for me. Like, too corporate. I wouldn’t be happy there. So I’m going to keep looking.”

Silence hung heavy in the air between them. Rosa was the first to break it. “We need money,” she said. Her voice was flat. It wasn’t angry, it wasn’t an accusation. It was a simple statement of fact.

Steve recoiled like he’d been slapped. He became a kicked dog.

I don’t want to date a dog.

Pogo, Pt. 2

The creature’s tongue slithered out of its mouth and lazily dragged across its eyes, first one, then the other. Rosa wrinkled up her nose. Her mouth drew back in a look of distaste. She looked over her shoulder at Steve, was going to continue voicing her displeasure, but he gave her the Look. Watery eyed and wounded, like a kid who’d just been yelled at by his mother. “You don’t like him,” Steve said. It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t wrong.

The smile came instantly, effortlessly. Twenty-six years she’d been smiling like that, always the first to try and defuse tension, even when she wasn’t the one in the wrong. “Babe, I like him! I’m just… You know me. I’m more of a dog girl.” Her words sounded hollow to her, insincere. She imagined they sounded insincere to Steve, too. He had to be able to hear it, didn’t he? How could he not?

He smiled. “I know. And we’ll get a dog some day! I just this would be neat, y’know?” The smile looked genuine. All of his smiles always did. And why shouldn’t it be? He’d gotten his way. All he had to do was look a little sad, a little heartbroken, and he’d gotten his way, just like every time before.

They needed to break up. She needed to break up with him.

Pogo, Pt. 1

Well, that sure was something akin to an unannounced vacation. Anyway, I’m back! Let’s have a horror story about herpetology, shall we?

It was an unnatural thing. Limbs ending in spindly fingers and toes tipped with claws. A body like leather studded with thorns. It’s mouth as wide as it’s head, like an open abyss you could fall into and then be no more. And the eyes. Beady and soulless and somehow guileless, but they tracked you as you moved. The thing wasn’t stupid; it simply thought in a way too alien to fathom.

“Jesus Christ,” Rosa said. “Why the Hell did you buy this thing?”

Steve grinned, his teeth a bright in shining white in the warm light of their bedroom. “Isn’t he the best? I’m going to call him Pogo!”

“Babe, why did you buy a big-ass lizard?”

Steve’s grin softened into a shy smile. With his messy brown hair and his hazel eyes, he looked younger than his years. Not that either of them were very old, but sometimes Steve still seemed like a boy. “I don’t know. I thought he looked cool. My older brother used to have a leopard gecko when we were kids. This kind of reminded me of David.” The quiet smile on Steve’s face turned into a smirk. “Except Pogo’s way cooler, obviously. That leopard gecko just had spots; Pogo’s got spikes.”

Cazador, Pt. 10

Iohan’s lips pulled back in a grin that turned into a snarl, his eyes ablaze with joy and malice in equal measure. Yes. Fear me. Fear me!

The beast stumbled backward, its limbs flailing behind it in a decidedly human attempt to catch itself. But that only meant that its serpent-like arms could do nothing to stop Iohan as he strode forward and swung his sword at the creature’s neck, severing its head from its body and sending a fountain of the thing’s black blood geysering into the low-hanging branches.

Iohan stood over his fallen foe’s body, his shoulders heaving with every panting breath. Sweat dripped from every inch of exposed skin. His pupils were dilated. His body tingled with the joy of the hunt. He wanted the killing to continue, his ears straining to hear his next prey, his nose sniffing the air for his next victim’s scent. He was a cazador. He lived for the kill.

“Iohan,” he heard. A voice. Human. Jimeno’s. It was a whimper, the sad sound of a dying animal. It brought him back to reality. “Iohan, please, help me. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my legs, Iohan.”

Iohan said nothing to comfort Jimeno. He let the voice guide him instead.

The boy was laying against a tree looking for all the world like a discarded doll. One leg lay folded underneath him at an unnatural angle. The other stuck straight out from his body. He lay motionless, his arms limp at his side. Blood ran from his mouth and nose.

“Iohan, I can’t move. I don’t feel anything.”

“Quiet, Jimeno. Let me look at you.” Iohan poked at the boy’s legs, lifted one of his arms and let it fall. “Your back is broken. Your spine is severed. And I think you have a broken rib that has punctured your lung.”

Jimeno’s eyes were wide, glassy. Shock. “Iohan, what will we do? How will we get out of here?”

Iohan said nothing. “Jimeno,” he said softly. “You’re going to die.”


“There’s nothing I can do for you. It will take too long to get you to a cirujano. Even if I could get you to a village, it would be too late.”

“Iohan! Cazador! Please, you have to help me!”

Iohan shook his head. “The only help I can give you now is a quick death.”

“No, no, no–”

“The hunt continues, novice. You will not be forgotten.”

Jimeno protested. He screamed. He wept. And then he never uttered another sound.

Iohan stood from where he knelt by Jimeno’s body and wiped the his sword on the boy’s shirt. You would have understood, he thought. Had you had the time to see the things I have seen, you would have understood. But it was a moot point. The boy hadn’t, and now he never would. But it didn’t matter. The beast he’d slain had been neither Maria nor Pol, he was sure of it. And so the hunt continued. There was work to be done. Deep, steady breaths. Hunt. Work. Kill.

Iohan walked deeper into the woods, where the beasts dwelt.

The end! Something short on Wednesday, and something new on Monday!

Cazador, Pt. 9

Jimeno might have been more clever than Bartolome, but Bartolome was the greater warrior. Had the dead boy been the one the beast charged, he would have had the wherewithal to raise his weapon and strike the creature. Whether he was frightened, too slow, or lost in his head as he tried to remember what to do, the boy stood motionless as the beast slapped at him with its paw. The blow was effortless, but it launched the boy through the air. He didn’t even scream. All he could do was grunt as the air was forced out of his lungs, as his ribs splintered, as he smashed into a stout oak. The beast leaned forward and roared its triumph at the boy before moving in for the kill.

And then Iohan drove his sword into the creature’s side and its cry of victory turned into a howl of pain. It’s not Pol, he thought. Not Maria, either. Neither of them would have been that careless.

The creature tried to stagger away, but Iohan twisted his blade and planted his feet. He and the beast pulled and struggled against each other, their steps turning into a macabre waltz over the corpse of the fallen novices. At last, the creature seemed to remember that it was the stronger of the two by far, and it began swiping at Iohan with its blood-soaked paws.

The cazador dodged the beast’s blows effortlessly. Time seemed to slow down as the beast struggled in vain to slay its aggressor, but Iohan’s defenses were perfect. One didn’t survive as a cazador if on were anything less than perfect. Iohan pressed the offensive, using the gaps in the creature’s defense to pull his sword free and slash at the monstrosity in earnest. Blood the deep color of a clot poured from the creature’s wounds. The stench of death and disease filled the air. Just as Iohan was certain that victory was within his grasp, he saw something he’d never seen before.

Fear. There was fear in the beast’s eyes.

Cazador, Pt. 8

Iohan leapt into the air and caught the beast in its arms with his blade. The metal sunk deep into the creature’s flesh, the weight of Iohan’s body turning the sword into a chef’s knife shaving away chunks of meat. The creature let loose an inhuman howl that echoed through the trees, that set the birds and animals of the forest crying out in fear and skittering away from the melee.

“Jimeno, grab it! Grab it and pull it from the trees!” Iohan didn’t check to see if the boy was following his orders. He was too focused on struggling with the beast, on maintaining his grip on his weapon, on planning his next move. If we don’t slay it here, it will escape. We can’t possibly follow it through the trees. If we don’t injure it beyond healing, it will take us again, this time out of spite. They’re not so stupid that they don’t crave revenge.

If this is Maria or Pol, they won’t rest until they get our blood.

“Jimeno!” Iohan shouted, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. If Maria or Pol had transformed, it would be very bad. If this beast was one of them and he didn’t slay it, that would be even worse.

Before Iohan could shout again, Jimeno’s hands joined his own where they were wrapped around the creature’s sinuous arms. Together they pulled, and the beast fell from the branches above like a cat falling off a roof, hissing and spitting.

Jimeno screamed.

The beast landed on the ground with a thud, but faster than a human could ever hope to, it righted itself. It’s entire body was covered in coarse black fur. It’s four limbs were each as long as its body, and as it shuffled in place studying Iohan and Jimeno, it moved like some kind of unspeakable spider. And it was indeed studying them. Its eyes, white and cloudy against its dark fur, spoke of incredible malice. It looked at the cazador and the novice with unbridled hatred. It was not merely angry at having its meal interrupted and being wounded in the process. It was planning how to make its aggressors suffer for their sins.

Its mouth opened in a snarl, white teeth stained red from Bartolome’s blood, and with a roar it charged at Jimeno.

Perfect. Perfect.

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