New episode of WOUND: Thirst live

Hi there. I just wanted to post that the new episode for my post-apocalyptic, vampire, horror series, WOUND: Thirst, is available on Tapas and Webnovel today! This is the first time we’re getting Paul’s point of view and, well, he’s seems to have gone through some changes.

WOUND: Thirst is the first series in my WOUND story. It follows a group of people thrown together after the “bomb drop” as they try to survive. Many people close to the drop zone were transformed into vampire-like zombies who hunt down humans for food or to transform them. Much about why they came to be and why the “bomb” dropped in the first place is still unknown.

Start reading WOUND: Thirst on Tapas

Start reading WOUND: Thirst on Webnovel

Poem: “Flies”

Sometimes I retire pieces that I don’t want to fuss with anymore. This poem received a couple of rejections last year and upon re-reading it, I decided not to revise. It’s not a matter of it being good enough, but more a matter of accurately representing what I tried to say at a particular time.

Without the buzzing, all I hear is oblivion.
Even the flies have left us,
evolving into specks in the past,
unable to digest the poison.
We have become less than death.

Old corpses are of no use.

Most of the shelters were shams,
metal drums buried in the ground,
lined with words like “Safe” and “Secure.”
They were endorsed by the top people in the West.
They were on sale at the local home improvement store.

They are the most expensive coffins in the world.

The old shelters, the ones built into high schools,
they were solid, years of paranoia layered in paint.
Those of us lucky enough to find them emerged
scavengers of those other, newer shelters:
The prepared, the pragmatic, the pestilence.

The sham shelters were remarkably easy to break open.

Becky and I came across one last week.
The flies had been there once,
and a few things that had been predators,
and a few things that had been children.

Becky never misses a beat.

Once in awhile I see the shadow of a bird.
Wide and dark, it circles over an empty landscape,
terrifying and terrified to land.
To land means death.

I watch the shadow skim the dirt as Becky pops open another can.

“Shit,” she says, “This was a tough one.”
There is a scream and a gunshot.
Ah, someone bought the upgrade.
There is a dragging, a shuffling, a grunting behind me.
There will be nothing left for you, circling bird.

There is not enough food to go around.

 


If you liked the poem, or any of my ramblings, you can support me, commitment-free, on Ko-fi.