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Frank handed the letter with the strange markings to the captain once they got back to the camp. He tucked it into a folder without comment, then shooed him away, as he waited to the collect the next letter from the next soldier. Frank moved off slowly, wondering about what he had seen. He could
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Harry was eating in silence that evening while the others chatted idly about the things they had seen that day while delivering letters. No one had believed Frank when he told the story about the woman eating his letter, until Fred piped in that he had seen it too. Peter and Jack had gone somewhere
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They went out in pairs the next day. One was the driver, the other was the carrier. The letters were hand written, tri-folded then sealed shut with wax. They looked like something from a by-gone time. Peter went with Jack, hopping into the sidecar of the motorcycle before Jack sped off down the dirt road
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The Messengers is a piece of fiction set in the world of Never Going Home, the flagship TTRPG of Wet Ink Games about eldrich horrors in the trenches of the first World War. I have the honor of being the fiction writer for the game line and the forthcoming campaign books allowed me to write
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What if is a wasteland that sucks the hope from your bones An empty wilderness absent from any map you can draw A forest of shadow and doubt that leaves you in perpetual wondering Always second guessing if that turn was the right turn Or if it will lead you towards the very thing you’re
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I will remember you with love I will refrain from guessing your intent I will hold onto how you brought me joy And how you inspired me to dig deep To trim off the rotting roots. I will remember how you asked me Simple questions that contain enormous answers. I will discontinue ending the sentences
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I dug a plant out of the yard and put it in the garden Thinking to save it from the mower. I’m not sure the transplant will take. I might have yanked off too many roots Or maybe it just doesn’t like the garden dirt as well As the dirt that was in the front
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I garden. I would not say I’m an avid gardener. I’m more of a lazy one. You know, the kind. Plant a few bulbs and see what happens. Let things go to seed and see what pops up in the spring. Let the weeks grow so I can see what kind of flowers they have.
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This poem was written for the 2023 Poetry of the Sacred contest, organized by Center for Interfaith Relations. Peace is not summer rain Or winter’s quiet frost, Nor is it the world resting free of struggle As the leaves sail downward in the autumn breeze. Peace is not the end of warfare. It is not
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Below, where the water will crush And the barnacle will feast Where the light will not reach, Stretched out across a mile of sand Entombed in dark water swirling With strange fins and tubes Lies, in pieces, scattered, A great monument to hubris. That men should dare to brave the sea Its lilting tides, its
The Quick and the Dead
Short stories. Creative experiments. Ideas that might not pan out.
The Quick and the Dead 