The Watcher
You can find this story in Phylum Press Issue 003! The Watcher was inspired by a painting by Caila Warren entitled The Watcher of the Field. This story appears in the Steeltown Dreaming cycle.
6 Oct 2025 16:31
You can find this story in Phylum Press Issue 003! The Watcher was inspired by a painting by Caila Warren entitled The Watcher of the Field. This story appears in the Steeltown Dreaming cycle.
12 Jun 2025 20:12
This poem was published in Hamilton Arts & Letters last year. I wrote it after a landlord in Stoney Creek shot and killed two of his tenants, to the absolute joy of some very sick people on social media.
11 Jun 2025 21:28
They said if we wait here we’ll go to another place where the 90s never stopped and the towers never fell, where Facebook never happened and streaming is something water does. They said if we wait here we can leave this place forever. We can run in muddy fields that aren’t there anymore and play ball in empty courts where McDonalds is now. Computers live in the family room and phones are bricks with long antennas. We can hide in our rooms. We can make things with paper and yarn. A tablet is a flat clay slab you learned about in school. We don’t know where our friends are. We can't text them. Can't Facetime. We have to go looking for them, knock on their doors, ring their landlines. Maybe we'll catch The Sopranos Sunday night. They said if we wait here we can start fresh, can live a new day in houses we can afford with jobs paying wages we can save. We can go to Blockbuster. When we’re feeling fun we can scrounge the dirty basements of sketchy video stores. We can be naïve. We can say something dumb and regret it later. We can do something kind and no one will ever see it. They said if we wait here we’ll be happy again. We could be at the end of history. Democracy wins. All that's left is the stars. If we wait here. The sun is setting. Buses have come and gone. A single drop of rain beats the pavement. The trees are still. Birds silent. Billboards. Digital ads nonstop. Raindrop. We’re waiting here.
8 Jun 2025 22:20
A little taste of Volume 2! Isn't that artwork creepy? Listen now.
8 Jun 2025 22:08
You'll notice a few differences between the recording script and the recorded show itself. For one thing, in the script there are three episodes: Vineta, Houston, Skin, respectively. This works really nicely against the show's acronym name. However during recording, episode one was broken up into two. So there are four in total.
8 Jun 2025 21:51
If you’re curious to see what an audio drama script looks like, how it compares to the final recorded product, you’ll want to check this out. This script does not have my annotations, which I’m currently working on for future paid edition of the script. This edition is absolutely free to download. It includes a transcript of the RED ODYSSEY trailer, as well as two promos for Volume 1.5: VHS.
8 Jun 2025 16:02
This little tale never found a proper home. I wrote it sometime in 2015 after seeing an oil canvas of lavender fields. From that image, this story sprang to life on its own. A writer never knows where a story will take them.
8 Jun 2025 16:02
This story originally appeared in Underground Writers Issue 18: Black Hole. I had this piece lying around from years ago when I had typed it up on a whim. When Underground Writers sent out a call for submissions based on the theme of Black Holes, I knew the story had found a home. Fortunately, Underground Writers thought so as well and included it in their May 2017 issue. Sadly, they folded not too long ago, but their issues are still available for online reading.
8 Jun 2025 16:02
When the signal came, the world’s wise men and women fell silent. When the signal came, NASA’s observers covered their mouths in awe. When the signal came, every nation stood still, and waited.
8 Jun 2025 16:02
Chester hated rattlesnakes. Gave him the shivers whenever he ran ’cross one. No sir, rattlesnakes and Chester ain’t never did get along. One time up in Virginia, the old man woke up to one of them things about ten foot long slitherin' across his chest, least that’s how big he said it was. Each time he spun the yarn it got bigger and bigger till it was a hundred feet with two sets of fangs longer than a cavalryman’s sword. Well, by God, if he didn’t get up faster than a greased egg leaping off a frying pan and emptied his barrel till there was nothing but a splatter of snake guts all over the floorboards. Nothing crossed Chester and lived to tell the tale.