My Greatest Fear

Branches snap beneath my feet as I run as hard as my body will let me, away from the very thing I fear most.

The black sky above me feels as though it’s crushing me, allowing very little light to show me the way. Like it, too, has teamed up with my greatest fear, and hopes to destroy me all the same.

Aside from the snapping branches, my racing heart is the only other sound I hear. Like it’s going to beat its way out of my chest, and explode like fresh bombs around me, as if they’re being dropped from the black sky above. Like the very thing that proves I’m still alive could just as simply end my life.

Winding past gnarled trees and over knotted roots, balance becomes something I no longer have, and something I desperately crave. With no light, my sight becomes useless, like sunglasses at night.

The black sky is taking out my senses.

Chilling me to the bone is this cold winter night. I cannot feel, or even comprehend, whether my body is working or not, like it should. And since there is no balance, I nearly know if up and down are where they’re supposed to be.

The ground slaps my face then, as if it, too, is against me. The dead leaves cover everything there is, as if trying to smother any sign of life. They cover me, too, as if they’re still trying to complete that task.

My limbs don’t listen to me as I try to get up. They lay, unmoving, as I will them to even twitch. I only receive stillness from them.

In the dead of this cold winter night, my racing heart begins to slow to a dull beat. It is now that I truly realize one small thing, as my greatest fear creeps up on me, taking my last breath:

I am doomed.






Forever fearing,



Crystalline Ice

Crystalline ice, falling from the sky. Most think it’s pretty – beautiful, even. They don’t know the truth behind the angelically white snow. The horror that exists behind the immortal beauty, and the war that ensues between opposing worlds.

Black sky, frostbite breeze, and that crystalline ice that’s falling from the sky.

Gunshots echoing even louder in the cold. Coming from a chilled and smoking rifle barrel, aimed directly at a scared little girl, who’s crying so much that her blood red tears freeze to her cheeks. Her loved ones, fallen dead all around her in the snow, seek to sink into themselves in true death.

The night’s deadliest creature, the man thinks from behind the chilled barrel, his wild eyes locked on the scared little girl. As innocent as they may seem, they all have to die.

The immortal child cries, pleads, BEGS. But the vampire hunter only tightens his grip on the rifle, and pulls the trigger.

Echoing gunshots, frostbite breeze, and that crystalline ice that falls from the sky.

Most think it’s pretty – beautiful, even. They don’t know the truth behind the angelically white snow. The horror that exists behind the immortal beauty, and the war that ensues between opposing worlds.






Ello, ello, ello.

Just another vampire piece.

Forever baring my fangs,


So Be It

I walk this highway, with no real destination in mind. It’s all about the journey, they say. So be it.

Hitchhikers die all the time, my best friend screamed at me before I left; even now, I swear I can hear her voice on the wind.

She always worries so much. That’s why I like her, I guess. She worries enough so that I don’t have to. I mean, I probably should, but…. I don’t know. Living carefree feels blissful sometimes; I couldn’t imagine worrying about things to ruin that feeling.

Cars and trucks whip last me, also seeming to have no destination in mind. Back and forth, they never stop coming and going. Where from and where to, it doesn’t matter.

Like everybody says, it’s all about the journey. So be it.

A beat up black pickup passes me, its right turn signal on as it pulls off on the shoulder. The passenger side window rolls down, inviting me. Inside the truck, behind the wheel, sits a man with kind eyes. He asks me if I need a lift, and the chilling breeze around me screams the voice of my best friend, reminding me hitchhikers die all the time.

Her voice fades as I lift myself into the cab of the beat up black pickup, closing the door behind me.

This man is friendly; during the ride to the next city, we talk. He’s a decent conversationalist, never letting the conversation lull. It’s almost nice.

The grey day turns to night, and the truck rides on.

Until it pulls off the highway, at a rest stop.

He cuts the engine, locks the doors.


He leans over.

Touches me.




Still doesn’t.



Can’t breathe.


He dumps my body in a dirty ditch between where I’d been and where I was going, and drives off into the night without looking back.

Like everybody says, it’s all about the journey. So be it.







Last Thursday, I was inspired by the theatre group I go to. And so here is a dedication to the ever-taking Highway Of Tears.

Thumb out with a gun in my bag,


Ode to Music

You’ve always been there.

Even when I had no clue what to think,

What to feel,

Or what to do,

You were always ready to lend a shoulder to lean on.

To cry on.

You always held your warm arms wide,

So I could collapse into them

In times of stress and fear,

Fatigue and confusion,

Need and want.

Whenever I was stuck,

Or lost,

Or completely off the beaten path of life,

You were there

To redirect me

And make sure I was safe

And didn’t do anything 

I would regret later

When the stress made me void.

You’re like the friend I never had,


You were there for me.

Whenever I needed you,

You were there for me.


From the deepest pits of my heart,

And with every breath I breathe,


I thank you dearly,

And I am more than grateful

To have you in my life.

Thank you

For sticking with me 

Through all of life’s troubles

And random other bullshit

That happened to happen.

Thank you

For being there for me

When I felt like I had

Absolutely nothing.


Thank you.






Ello there. I see you’ve made it to the end of this post…. Brave, you are. I appreciate that.

But, turning back to this piece; 11pm, have to be up at, like, 4am, but I chose to write an ode to music because sleep is rude and doesn’t seem to want to sit and talk… also, I’ve learned writing is a great way to occupy yourself when you can’t sleep. Which translates to: I’ve been getting a lot of writing done.

But yeah, music has always been there for me. And honestly, I don’t think I’d survive much without music to guide me. There’s been many situations in my life, where I didn’t know where to turn, who to talk to or see to help – and I’ve just put on the headphones and cranked the volume, and music is one of the best friends I’ve come to know.

So, thank you so much, music. Without you, I don’t even know where I’d be.

Forever cranking the volume ’til the windows shake,



I am the hunter, and the hunted.

And it’s really starting to get on my nerves.

The general public does this thing, where they assume that lycanthropes “like” being gunned down and killed, like it’s our weekend hobby that we can’t get enough of. We “like” being captured alive, and taunted like we’re worthless little pets. Studied for “science“, because our kind is some sort of sick scientific breakthrough that humans must discover in order to carry on.

I’ve lost comrades that way. I’ve watched my pack brothers fall, killed in cold blood, and humans walk away like they’ve done the greatest thing on earth known to mankind. While I howl at the moon, mourning my lost brother, they dissect him inside of a locked and secured compound and take a peek inside of him, looking for what makes him tick.

And there’s nothing I can do.

Fighting back isn’t an option – they have guns and numbers. They have weapons of all sick sorts, that easily puts my strength and claws to shame.

And I’m just me.

But I promise. One day. I will avenge the fallen, and I will not hesitate to kill the whole human race if I have to.

Until the next full moon.






Until the next full moon,


Vinyl Record

That vinyl record takes me back,

Back to when times were simpler,

Stress was non-existent,

And worries were gone.

They don’t make that kind of music anymore,

Do they?

Where’s the soul?

Where’s the heart?

Where’s the real music that isn’t in it only for a profit?

If only we could turn back the clock,

And tap our toes

To the good ol’ rock and roll,

Perhaps the world could be

A happier place.

A safer place.

A place where true bliss really exists.


When I put the needle down,

That vinyl record takes me back.

Back to when times were simpler.

Stress was non-existent.

And worries were gone.






Ello, ello, ello!

I was listening to music, and I guess I just miss the old stuff; music nowadays doesn’t have the same ring to it.

Stuck in the past,


Stargazing – 75 Word Short Story

Lying on my back, I watch the silver stars, dancing high up in the sky, as if they’ve got their own ballroom music playing someplace that I can’t see.

The grass beneath me feels like silk, as if I’m laying on the softest bed ever made, and it’s just for me.

The warm summer breeze around me hugs me gently, like a big blanket, intent on making me feel welcome and loved, where I belong.






Ello, ello, ello!

Another 75 word short story…. Literally, when in doubt, always turn to these things! With only a few words, it allows the potential for so much creativity. I will never get tired of these, and thick certainly will not be the last one I write.

If you like these weird things I write, I’m so happy that it’s okay. I’m not writing to please people, to impress people, or to be something I’m not: I write to express my emotions, my thoughts, and who I am as a living and breathing creature in this wild and chaotic world.

Thank you so much for the read; honestly means the world to me.

Naturally high on life,


Certain Death – 75 Word Short Story

Silver moon, turning all below it deadly; nothing is safe this time of night.

The terrified girl ran, her heart hammering out of her chest. Fear flowed through her blood like it was part of her, like no matter how far she ran, she’d never get away from it.

Panicked, she froze at the edge of the riverbank, it rushing below her. Certain death.

A deep chuckle came from behind her. “You give up, sweetheart?”






Ello! Here’s boredom. When in doubt, 75 word short story.

Forever in doubt,


Dear Home

Dear Home:

War is a scary thing. It takes souls and drops bodies, faster than a grown man can fall to his knees in the mud and cry for it all to be over.

I didn’t think it would be like this: guns firing, bombs dropping, men screaming. Nobody sleeps in the trenches, as much as sleep tries to make them; everybody’s got one eye open. Paranoia seems to be as rough to get rid of as the common cold. As revolting as it is, we hug our rifles to feel safe, then shiver and shove the barrel to the side when we realize we’re hugging Death.

War shows you what blood is supposed to look like, not that anybody asked. Bullets and bombs take the insides out, and sometimes puts the outsides in. I’ve learned I don’t like how warm blood feels when you’re trying to stop a wound from leaking. It’s almost like the warmer it is, the quicker Death comes to collect.

There’s never leave out here. And when there is, it means you’re going to die. Maybe that’s what we all want: not death, exactly, not the pain, but peace. A stop to all of this chaos and bloodshed. We fight in a pointless war, lose so many souls, and where do we end up? We don’t advance in anything except a body count. And heartache. Heartache always comes with it.

As hard as it is, and terrifying as it seems, we can’t stop. We want to, but it’s like that’s not an option; like the only way out of this sick and twisted war is to fight to the death – doesn’t matter who’s death, either.

I’ll make it home soon, I promise. Just think of me happy, and I’ll always be there.


Your son from war






Ello! Remembrance Day is coming soon, and that made me think: what was it like, fighting so young in a war that nobody wanted to be a part of? A million miles from home, what would it be like? So, this piece became a thing.

I can’t imagine what it would have been like, and sometimes I wish we didn’t have to lose so many wonderful souls to be where we are…. But I can’t turn back time, as much as I wish I could.

Eternally fighting a never-ending war,


My Soul

My soul was sold to the devil some many years ago.

He took it, like he took everything: proudly, dangerously, selfishly.

Not sure what he would want with a thing as damaged as that.

But hey, I don’t judge.

I didn’t need it anyways; it would only slow me down.

Years passed.

Heartache hit me, not that I cared.

I’d lost some friends along the way, or at least that’s what they wanted me to think they were.

Liars and cheats,

Toxic little beasts.

But without a soul, their backstabbing hurt me less, like it was only a poke.

Their poisonous words melted down to nothing, and vanished out of sight and out of mind.

Their relentless taunting and teasing was like a pesky breeze, and all I needed to do was close the window.

I was getting used to surviving without the pain.

Being alive without living in fear.

Breathing without the paranoia.

Until that one night.

Black as black could ever be, with not a star to be seen in that hollow sky.

Up the road he walked.

With only that deadly and desperate look in his eyes.

Right to my front door.

Three clear knocks: of course it’s three. It’s always three.

I open the door.

He places a cold and broken thing in my hands.

“I’m giving this back; I need a favour.”






Ello! Haven’t been writing in a while, and here’s finally a piece!

And about this piece…. It’s certainly interesting. I was up late recently, couldn’t sleep, so I was writing. (Naturally.) The next morning, I read over what I had written, and I had absolutely no recollection of even writing this piece…. So, yes! Certainly an interesting piece, this is.

With that being said, feel free to give your thoughts on this, and if you’d like to suggest for future pieces, I’d like to hear all of it!

Drifting through consciousness,