

I honestly pine for wet rot. I admit it. At this point, we’re so far past decay.
Since I got heart surgery a month ago, I can hear my heart beating all the time. Apparently it’s normal.
“And it’s a place you have to be careful about, a place you don’t want to hang around too long, because it’s a funny sort of place, like I said, with a funny sort of way of making you forget just where you came from, and how you might go back. You might even start…
A voyage through four incidents of predation. The mysterious, the hunted, the inhuman, the trapped.
A fragmented tale of a teenager tormented by receiving a cursed image in their DMs.
A “mutilated detective story” by David C. Porter set in the exurban hinterlands, NTTN follows two investigators as they listlessly attempt to solve a rash of brutal crimes, using an ominous closed-circuit television station as their North Star.
Grief as a conduit for passage beyond the veil, always returning us to life.
Two collections of poetry on grief.
An envelope opened, photos scattered on the table—all that remains of a prior life.
The poetic conjuring of a backwoods haruspex guiding us into the charged experience of encounters with hanging animal corpses, forbidding landmarks, and crumbling ruins deep in the forest.
A notebook left on a bedroom floor, mechanically pinched up and deposited in a numbered plastic baggie by a uniformed man.
[Man]will know his fault by the sun which stands in fiery witness and the wind which breathes its judgement in the final silence of the world.