I leaned against one of the pieces and accidentally knocked off its canvas covering, revealing a luxurious full-body mirror with ornate mahogany carvings around the edges. I instantly became transfixed by my reflection, unable to tear myself away. An eerie grin began to creep across my reflected face when, suddenly, Mrs. Waverly dashed across the room with surprising speed and threw the canvas like a cast net. For a brief moment, a visage of hopeless terror flashed across my face in the mirror.
Tag Archives: short-story
Blog: “The Mirror in the Basement of Waverly Manor”
I’ve been working on my new story, “The Mirror in the Basement of Waverly Manor,” for almost a year now because my life lately has been fundamentally unstable in the best possible way. Emily and I ended our lease last August and left Atlanta to travel across 9 European countries in 13 weeks, seeking gloryContinue reading “Blog: “The Mirror in the Basement of Waverly Manor””
Blog: “The Onion Boy”
I must have been twelve or thirteen when I first got a cell phone, and little did I know it would usher a brave new world of kaleidoscopic modern horrors into my life. No, I’m not talking about the nearly all-consuming screen addiction I’ve developed, as my phone has become more like an appendage rather than an appliance. That’s a topic for another day. Today, I’m talking about spooky chain text messages. You know, texts you’d get from a friend like, “Send this to ten friends or get visited tonight by the ghost of a precocious and murderous little girl!1!!1!!!!”
Short Story: “The Onion Boy”
The Onion Boy does not sleep, for night is the time he furtively toils, collecting and consuming dreams. His appetite is never satisfied. He moves on to the next sleeping victim with the prior still weighing freshly in his stomach — for he is sure they will be digested in time for his next meal.
CAPTCHA
4,900 words, ~20-minute read time. The accompanying blog post is linked here. Bright red text flashed on the screen: “Fatal Error: Your password and/or CAPTCHA is incorrect.“ I gritted my teeth. My neck muscles tensed. An unhelpful pop-up appeared with this definition: “CAPTCHA stands for ‘Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and HumansContinue reading “CAPTCHA”
The Lonely Wolf
The first scant glimmers of the full moon seeped through the cloud coverage, and Max started to feel the transformation begin its infernal machinations inside him. He took a deep breath and stood, ready to change, when he heard a beautiful, lilting voice beckon from behind him.
Wrung Out
She is just starting to fill up her inanely large insulated tumbler, which reads “Cla$$y, Sa$$y, and a Bit Smart A$$y” in vulgar, cursive script and has a little Minion with a smug grin under it. The cooler filter isn’t changed regularly, so I’ll be subjected to Sherri’s babbling for at least another minute while her cup is filled drip by drip with PFA-laden tap water.
The Beast of Banalore
Everything felt alien to me as I gripped the railing on the swaying deck of the USS Dashiell. I fought waves of nausea and tried to concentrate on the chatter of the crewmembers filling the salty ocean air. Several weeks ago, I departed from Charleston, South Carolina, my home, which now only existed in the pristine confines of my memory. I was entering a new world, the unfamiliar island nation of Banalore, with a single objective: to find and document The Beast.
Millerwiller 