The Problem With Most Genre

A Sense Of Wrongness, Of Fraught Unease, As If Long Nails Scraped The Surface Of The Moon, Raising The Hackles Of The Soul.

A Sickly Little Smile Grew And Died On His Mouth Like A Fungus.

My Job Is Not To Try To Give Readers What They Want But To Try To Make Readers Want What I Give.

In The Deepest Places, Where Physical Norms Collapse Under The Crushing Water, Bodies Still Fall Softly Through The Dark, Days After Their Vessels Have Capsized. They Decay On Their Long Journey Down. Nothing Will Hit The Black Sand At The Bottom Of The World But Algae-covered Bones.

I Don't Like Allegory.