Amanda Smith had known now for a few months now that something was living under her bed. She had often heard it breathing when she closed her eyes at night, and when she’d peek out of the corner of her eye over the edge of the bed and down to the floor, there had been many times when she could’ve sworn that she has seen it dash back under. The creature was small, black, and quick and she hoped that it wasn’t dangerous. At nights when she’d close her eyes, her mind would turn to what she called her imp. That’s what she would’ve called it, you see, had she been willing to tell anyone what she’d been seeing.
Strange: 2A: Not before known, heard, or seen... Cosmic: 2: Characterized by greatness especially in extent, intensity, or comprehensiveness...
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Can a Christian write good horror?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Oh, machines
Tick, tock, tick, tock
The whirring gears and tortured clocks
Broken, crashing, whirring, burning
Broken arms and bodies turning
Feed the anger, cut the wire
Fuel for unrelenting fires
Sails raised high, tattoo the sky
Oil for tears, and blood for dye
Something new, but nothing human
Bronze and bold, freak Centurion
Glass for skin, camera eyes
Forced to remain lobotomized
Hooks for hands, and wood for legs
Clay for face, and clockwork brains
Copper wire set in stone
Given life but not a home
Band together on a skiff
Pray the sky remains lit
The stars come out
Engines ignite
The skiff bursts with flame
Into the night
Another sky, another sea
Another human tribe will scream
Turning on their own creators
Turning cities into craters