Okay, it's update time. I finally dusted off my fiction folder and added 2000 words to Anhedonius and started some new stuff. I'll upload the finished story but I'm waiting to hear back from The Horror Tree, Pseudopod, and of course creepypasta to find out if any of them are going to accept it. Because it's a beastly novella at this point, over 10k words, I'm not sure if that's gonna happen.

If it does, you can read it there, and if not, I'll toss it up here for free.

My short count for Kindle compilation #2 is at about seven stories now, so when we hit twelve, I'll put it up on amazon if anyone wants to purchase it.

Happy New Year and thanks for your support, everyone!



Well, I returned to the traditional roots of the first Necropotence creepypasta to write this one. I'm conflicted on whether to cut the intro and make it more accessible as an independent story that you wouldn't have to read the first three entries to enjoy, but I personally think the introduction with the back history and his successor writing it as a "scrying snapshot" is kind of neat, but it could be considered lame, lazy, or cheesy. I would appreciate feedback on the dog reference at the end, and I'm not sure the necromancer in this story that wouldn't betray his actions or motivations is behaving correctly for the way I set him up. Maybe he needs to be less preachy, more violent, more "supernatural," maybe the effects and his methods for actually practicing the art come off as cliche or too "fictitious" or "not horror enough," and maybe this story isn't creepy at all. I don't know. Some input on those who enjoy this series and are familiar with it would be very welcome so I can build this and finish it before creepypasta's submission period re-opens.


Maybe I'll toss another "intensive purposes" in there like last time and have it go over a bunch of people's heads. Feeding the comment trolls is actually more fun than discussing the plot in any way whatsoever. I had fun working on this and I'm trying to get enough content to release something offical on Kindle before the year is over. Things have changed quite a bit as far as my style and my patience for reading other stories every day. I've refined what is acceptable and garbage delete button fodder when I edit and peruse my own stuff, and more stories have hit the recycle bin lately. More often than not, they are standalones, and I know I need to finish Anhedonius and connect the Liquid Blue storyline with this one for "Necromaster" to truly make sense. I don't want to tie a ton of ribbons on everything and wrap all the connections up with a pretty bow on top, but rather leave some parts of it open-ended, with a story that spans across a few hundred years instead of just "hey i found power i wrote a diary about it i'm gonna try to get more and here are two more diary stories that are just as passive as the first Necropotence. k thx bye!"

So there will be a different character every time, always experiencing facets of it in different phases, with huge open ended gaps between each entry. The actual 40k word Liquid Blue novel manuscript is in my "Frankenstein" folder at the moment, since I'm scrapping it and starting from the beginning instead of waiting 25 chapters before I even introduce the Necro-part of it. It hurts so good to delete entire chapters and dissect that thing, but a clean slate with a brand new version is really the right answer here. Maybe someday I'll bring myself to hit the delete button on that old monstrous fossil and retire it for good, but for now I at least need it as a reference point.

At any rate, I'm rambling at a detail far beyond what anyone cares to know about it and I know you just wanna read the damn story, so thanks for that, and I'll try to upload my new content more frequently as I get it done.

Hope your summer is starting off well, and I appreciate any readership or support (and negative feedback/criticism IS support, so keep that coming, by all means, my skin is thick I promise).




(The intro to the Liquid Blue saga and how it all comes about. Rewriting pretty much all of it. Instead of wasting my time messing with the formatting, here's the Google docs link. Enjoy.)



Big short incoming

So yeah, I'm still around and working on some fiction. I have a new short that's at 7,000 words and it's about halfway done. It's going to be the first entry in a new short story compilation that I'm looking to upload on Amazon in a few months.

I'll go ahead and post the intro here, it's the first story of my Liquid Blue universe reconstruction and how that whole scpheel takes off. I'll be writing 5-6 more shorts that all connect to it, with another 6-7 stories being standalone tales in the new compilation.

I've been working so much in the past year and I'm going back to school so the writing is going slow, but it's definitely quality material and I'm excited to share it with you!

As always, I hope the holidays find you warm and safe, and thanks for reading.



Violent Harvest

Hello. I'm not sure why you're in what used to be my house, or why you've decided to wander around long enough to find this, but I have something to confess to you, even if you're the only person who ever hears it.

By the time you finish listening to my memoirs on this tired old radio recorder, I will be dead, rotting under the roots of the terrible things that I have created, and you will hate me more than you have ever hated anything in your entire life. You will hate me so thoroughly that you will dig up my corpse and hack at it with a garden shovel until there's nothing left of my face but shreds of skin and lip.

Death is too good for me. I'm sorry.

Joel Pierce farmed a few miles down the road from me, and when he saw what was growing on my plot, he felt inclined to grab the sledgehammer from my tool shed. He pounded carcass after carcass until there was nothing but fleshy red goo, sinking in to the mud of my fields.

They grew back. He's still dead.

This place is wrong, and it should not exist, but it does. I've made it this way.

You will hate me because I am responsible for everything that's happened to this town, to its people, and to the very spirit of the land itself. In this one hundred mile stretch of nothing but green fields and the summer breeze of the midwest, you will find that I have corrupted and raped mother nature beyond anything that you can possibly comprehend.

Let there be some record of the small amount of goodness that was left within me. I tried to stop halfway through, when the full moon was at its pinnacle and my crops were reaching heavenward for the rays of the sun. I knew I had sown something terrible in the land, but I didn't have the resolve to chop them down.

I let them grow because they were beautiful. That's why the townspeople tried to set my farm ablaze. My perspective of beauty.

Take some measure of advice and try to learn from this. It started with the things that even you might find yourself vulnerable to. Greed. Opportunity. Lack of accountability. They have all contributed equally to those rows of botanic evil.

When my wife passed away three years ago, I felt that I owed the world nothing. I would sit on my plow in the middle of the field, screaming at the sky, mocking the betrayal of my once normal life. No one was around to stop me. My crops withered in the heat of the sun, and I ate once a week. I saw no point in working the fields any longer. Feeding the masses was pointless to me.

Sometimes, it was God's fault. I got worse and worse, until my Saturday night consisted of ripping pages out of the King James version in the middle of five hundred dead corn husks, yelling obscenities at the almighty creator, wiping my ass with scraps of the old testament. Old Joel knew it before anyone else, but he wasn't the only one. The whole lot of them were gossip mongers, through and through.

I'm not apologizing for the faces wrapped in the husks. This town got what was coming to it, and Old Joel was probably due for a heart attack in the next couple years or so, anyway. I did what I set out to do, but the thing I'm sorry for goes beyond a bitter farmer's vendetta against his neighbors. It's sinking in to the earth right now, in this very moment, you see.

I'm not sure what to call it. Wrongness? Death in the ground? A scar on Mother Earth?

It doesn't fucking matter. I destroyed this town's spirit and the people in it, and I used their bodies to do the thing that I've done best since my old man showed me how to till a three foot garden plot when I was three years old. I took over more and more of his work. I know how things grow, what they need, and what they don't need.

I ripped a hole in the goodness of this place and the three hundred years of slow, rural tradition that it was built upon. All the memories, families, and loss have culminated in one field outside my front porch, you see. It wasn't the rot, or the fact that five hundred and seven of these local hicks didn't get a proper burial at that hideous fucking cemetery behind that hideous fucking church over by the river.

It was treachery.

They thought I was full of the goodness that so permeated every little facet of their pretty little lives. I betrayed them, and it messed something up here. Nothing this terrible has ever hit this place. It's very simple, I suppose, and maybe it's completely impossible to wrap your damn head around it at the same time.

Joel knew, you see. He knew when he looked out his upstairs bedroom window at four in the morning during spring tornado season and saw me screaming at the broken, lightning riddled sky, blaspheming the Maker and destroying whatever family heirloom or antique that was left still intact in my house that I could find. The reverend started showing up to my place a couple weeks after that. To "talk."

What he really wanted was for me to gain my god damn sanity back, and that way all his pretty little daughters and sons in his congregation would have sweet corn and fresh parsnips for the summer evangelical picnic. He didn't give one flying fuck about whether or not I was right with Jesus. That's why he was second.

I've mocked something bad and provoked some kind of attack in the soil. It was small, but now too much time has passed, and there are state police and other fellows in fancy suits looking around the ghost town that used to have a pretty good meat-and-three and the best Mormon thrift store for four counties.

This recording is almost over, and I must admit that I feel a small measure of peace, having confessed that I am responsible for the five hundred and seven things that may or may not be growing behind you and this house.

These people needed this, regardless of what you decide to do with them. Know that with certainty. You may be able to stall the omen of death that surrounds this place by setting the field ablaze, but know that they will grow back, and with greater purpose than before. I told you that I can grow anything, and life is persistent. Even seeds that are sown in treachery will grow.

If you burn them, you should run as far away as possible, because I must confess that they remember. There was one late afternoon at dusk when the sun had barely a sliver over the west water tower before my farm was shrouded in twilight. I felt guilt, and I was quickened by the horror of my betrayal. I soaked the fields in gasoline and prayed that the stalks would become ashes and nothing more. They remained that way for one season, but each passing Spring is more dangerous than the last.

I hear the rubbing of plant stalks and the shrieking of dead spirits. I hear their names of their loved ones outside my windows. They recite them by memory, like a list of casualties, because they were once good and perfect, and their families meant more to them than their own lives. They remember, and they protect each other.

Should you flee this place and continue to let them march across the earth in a violent harvest when the husks have yielded to the fruit of black flesh and the blood is dried and caked under the sun, then you have my gratitude. They have repaid me with death, and if you manage to observe them from afar, you may see me. I will surely be number five hundred and eight before the sun sets this eve, but we need to return to my apology. What am I really for?


I've watched them for a long time. This is what happens to you. You can run soon, I promise. Just listen for one more minute.

You see, the only person I'm really sorry for is you. I'm sorry that you've set foot in this place of wrongness, because now it's with you. I don't care where you run, or hide, or attempt to fight. They can feel the others who have been touched by whatever I've destroyed here. Soon, even I will feel you, and no matter how many seasons it takes, I will find you.

You shouldn't have come here. We remember.


"Install" Accepted in to Twit Publishing's PULP! Winter/Spring Edition

I'm getting paid to get this story in to this Pulp Fiction horror anthology. Great stuff. I never knew that Install would become the cult favorite of the VH readerbase, but this story has really gripped the publishers folks. Thanks for sticking with me through the nitty gritty. This is my only my second official short story sell.

The future is wide open, and we're going to break in with a ferocity of creativity. Stay along for the rider, dear readers. I'm so glad you're here.

From here on out, we're in the fast lane, and there's no turning back.

Onward, to new depraved depths of the mind. Surely there, we will find a good ending for Necromaster, hm?


War of the Dead

(I have italics and other small edits to make to this, but this is basically a sequel short.)

The power does it to everyone. It corrupts us all, or at least those of us who embrace it.

Although we dive right in to be swept away by the black waters of necromancy, it's not easy for us to stay afloat. Our humanity is the coastline, the palm trees, the dry land itself. You put your humanity side by side with the fact that you're a wizard of hell, coastline next to infinite expanse of ocean, and you decide being a wizard is more fun. It appeals to you. You can't get away from it, so you dive in and swim out in to the ocean to get a bigger taste. To feel it all over your body, instead of just staring at it and dipping your toes in.

The first time you swim in the ocean of the dead, the waters are electric to your soul. They shock you, show you things that you can't possibly understand but eventually DO come to understand. One day, it just so happens that you might decide you're tired of swimming, so you try to turn around, but the coast is gone. You don't swim back. You keep being swept out. To the sharks and an unknown abyss below you. The only place you can go is down, and that leads to a place that no man has been before.

That is my family's struggle, and they have devised a society and a code over the years. If I have the right person, then the man in front of me has trampled our ideals in to the ground. Our traditions, our laws, our fellowship. In truth, we necromancers are afraid not of the dead, but of each other. We know that one of us might become too potent somewhere down the line because we stumble across the right demon with the right power, or because we sacrifice a particularly powerful spirit to the underworld. We know that one day, one of us might rise up and try to assert a kingdom of the dead on earth.

The Chomhairle believe this is the man who poses that precise threat. They sent me to find him after we found his diary. When my father learned that his own brother had deserted the coven and handed over a bloodstone to a random child due to a disagreement, he put a death sentence on this man's head. We couldn't begin to search for him until he left his bloodstone behind. A trace of his power that we could latch on to, that we could follow.

The man shuffles past me to the urinal with a mumble of "excuse me," and he shies away from looking me in the eye. He seems tired and drained. This is a good start. It could be him.