Archive for cosmic


Posted in Original Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 23, 2016 by smuckyproductions


A new poem for you ghouls, continuing on our cosmic theme, and recalling the lost loneliness of Saturdays past. 



Bodies wade down streets
Manic solar systems
In orbit with themselves,
Their sun
Scouring elsewhere

I forget
That an eon ago
I too orbited
But my sun went dark
And I am no longer
A planet

Short Story: DREAM-BLADE

Posted in Original Writing, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 18, 2016 by smuckyproductions

A piece of flash fiction that introduces an entity I mentioned in a few short stories. Intended as a player in the Red Door mythos. More on that soon…



Above the blue sphere it could feel all. The dark pulse of sound and thought shred through it, washing over its invisible parts, the touch of strangers. It shuddered and began to whirl.


The blue sphere dimmed. It sensed infinite voices sigh in unison. Their thoughts muddled, confused with other things, and melted altogether. It trembled its blades and prepared. Yet, nothing rose from the sphere. There was no word for resistance in its vocabulary. It spun faster.


As always, some thoughts congealed and screamed. It had lost those minds. They would either wake and deem it a nightmare or self-destruct. The sleeping ones were its prize. It sensed their thoughts twitching, lifting, and responding. Their blue sphere turned grey. Humming with hunger, it quickened its vibrations and began to harvest.

The grey shape of their world faded, turned black, and then burst forth with a multitude of awful colors, spraying through the frequency, screaming with forms that deliquesced when the vibrations found them. Shapes emptied and thoughts became monsters as its frequency surrounded the sphere. Calling. Consuming. Whirring at a speed that destroyed.


Mvh ghhhbbtyyyyyyg.

The last of the colors died out, and it was finished.

Some time later, perhaps in seconds or in eons, the blue sphere awoke. It would acknowledge its emptiness, but without thought, it could not despair. As the abandoned vessels wandered and wondered they would at times turn to the sky, the infinite blackness, where they could still hear the whirring of the dream-blade retreating in space.


Posted in Original Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 14, 2015 by smuckyproductions

The end of a semester, the end of a year – we feel time’s march in our skulls. Here, a hymn to that nebulous dread. 



A relentless marching clock.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
The hour of madness not far off.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Terror in the march.
Slip down at doze
Up sharp urgent dawn
The hour nearing
Do you hear it ringing?
It deafens and dooms
Eternity looms.
Terror in the march.
Tock tock tock tock.
Right, left. Endless clock.
Rest not sore mind;
Blood’s flow pulse on
Breath to breath
Hour to hour
Til heart grows sour
Til eye goes red
And the warning call crows –
No one knows where the dead hour goes.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Terror in the clock.