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The sound of the gentle tapping of the rain on my window awakens me. Just by glancing over at the window I can see the dark autumn sky even though it must still be around noon. Slowly I get up from the couch, I must have dozed off for a minute or so. I walk over to my kitchen to see if there is anything to eat. Opening all the cabinets and finally the freezer, I discover that I'm all out of food. Damn, I forgot, it's grocery day today... and I still have to go out with this shitty weather.

I had always liked watching her hands. Emma, my babysitter, had these nails she painted herself—a soft, glossy lavender that caught the light just right. She was neat, careful, precise, and she promised me, as she usually did when she babysat, that after she came back with our dinner, we'd paint mine together. "You'll pick the color," she said, wiggling her fingers, "and I'll show you how to do it just right." I smiled at her nails, imagining mine looking the same: neat, perfect and lavender.

After cleaning the shop, packing the last of my gear, and loading it onto my pickup. I closed up and locked the door. I made sure to hang a sign on the door that read, “Gone Fishing.” I was all set to leave. I took another look at the place, knowing I wouldn’t see it for at least a week. I loved coming here, to work, and to serve my customers, but I was headed on a long-overdue vacation.

It’s a commonly held belief in the world that machines can do anything, that, given enough time and resources, robots and computers will one day replace humankind, or that the constant evolution of machines could bring back what we lost. But I remember when we learned our lesson, when we understood that maybe, the dead should stay dead.

There was a sound, once, in Black Hollow that wasn’t made by men. Before the pickaxes and drills, before the coal trains and dead canaries before the mountain was stripped naked and hung with wires there was something else. The old ones called it “The Hollowing,” a word whispered by toothless women by firelight. They said it came when the ground was too deep, the hunger too great. Not a cave-in or gas, not even hell. Something worse.

Content Warning: This story contains graphic depictions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, psychological distress, and body horror. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Art is suffering. Suffering is what fuels creativity. I’m an artist. Not professionally at least. Although some would argue the moment you exchange paint for profit, you’ve already sold your soul.

The snow had been falling since lunch, soft enough to seem harmless, steady enough to turn the whole world quiet. It smothered the street in a pale hush, muffling the sound of Andy's footsteps as he walked home. Every few steps, he breathed into the wool of his scarf and watched the warmth bloom against the cold before vanishing.

The old Kaymoore’s residence sat empty along Route 7, miles from town. It was a dreary night, the sky releasing an unrelenting mist when an officer was dispatched to check on the decrepit home. Officer Dawson walked up to the two story home, taking in the dark frame and vine-covered siding.

The verdict was final. I wished I had just died then. The people tasked with performing this ritual drank, Drank until they couldn't anymore, For if they were sober, They wouldn't have been able to go through with it. They stripped me of my clothing. They flogged me. Scraps of metal and shards of glass, Embedded into each tail of the flogger. Each tail would wrap around me, Glass and metal digging into my flesh. Then they would pull it back, Shards dragging inside my skin,

They used to tell stories about a man named Eddie Garnet. They say he was the only one to every rise from the dead since Jesus Christ himself. They never said anything about him being a savior or a messiah. In fact it was just the opposite. Eddie grew up with our parents. At first he was no different from anyone else. Like Daddy would say, “He put his pants on one leg at a time.” I never understand that saying because in my mind why would anyone do it differently.

I have been imprisoned here in this hell hole for the last four years. Fucking TDCJ psych ward. This is where they send the real fucked up prisoners. I’m in for murder, but I managed to make the courts believe I was completely insane. I thought I’d get to go to some hospital. I figured I could handle a lifetime of dealing with the crazies, then having to fight everyday to protect myself and my man-hood.

One night a child heard crying from somewhere in the house. She wandered the grand manor, in search of the source. Her little bare feet barely made a sound on the old, creaking wooden floor. In each room she looked, she found nothing—nothing but moonlight seeping through thin moth-eaten curtains or illuminating chipped porcelain sinks. Down hallways that had become galleries for pictureless frames. But still the wails persisted, muffled behind doors and walls.

Last time we discussed the Not-human hypothesis, and since then, a discovery has been made that has been linked to these ancient humanoids. Though this one is rather unique, as it shows us how Neolithic and Paleolithic humans might have viewed and interacted with them.

A priest once gave me a gift in Aragon. He said it had belonged to a saint. That was a lie. Whatever power dwells in those dice does not answer to heaven.

ICON Systems Group TL-07: Neural Language Analysis Internal memorandum #TL510513 1A Dr. Elin Saber [Routing: Office of Internal Ethics Oversight] To: IEO General Director Hevlen Please, read carefully. I'm not sure how long I can keep my thoughts straight, or if they are even mine anymore.

I love the rain. I love how it seems to make everything feel… better. Smoother, somehow. Most people just enjoy the idea of rain. They like the sound it makes on the windowpane, or the cathartic feeling it gives. But it seems few actually enjoy the rain itself.

“I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because nothing that exists satisfies me. Nature is ugly, and I prefer the monsters of my fancy to what is positively trivial.” -Charles Bauldelaire

Here they come, around the corner, sliding into the driveway in their family sedan. They’re back from the market, the father’s pockets no doubt lined with fresh 50s. The tires roll easily along the gravel, and I pray that lying somewhere in that collection of pebbles and stones is a glass shard, or a rock sharp enough to pierce the tires.

Leonard pushed his face firmly into the crease of his elbow as another scathing blast of frigid air blew through the valley. The snow piled up at his feet while he stumbled up a small incline, struggling to keep his balance, the biting cold permeating his winter jacket. Shivering, he turned, baring his back to the icy downpour and staring across the barren fields of white before him. At the very crest of the blizzard, a single tent was cartwheeling, leaving a trail of tiny dents as each of its…

I used to work security at a vehicle safety testing facility - a crash test facility, really - just outside of Gothenburg in Sweden. The place has been around for a long time, and many of the most popular models around here have been tested at this facility. The purpose of security in this context was mostly to keep trespassers out and ensure that doors were locked and alarms primed.