Thriller and Horror writer

Tag: Horror

B.R. Black is bowing out for now

Have you ever read anything that just made you want to propel yourself to the blank page and write a story?

Sure. I’ve had stories and essays inspire me to create and I’m often jotting down snippets of dialog or imagery in my Notes app, never to be seen again.

But have you ever read anything that made you want to stop writing?

Sure again. Sometimes you read something so good that you think there’s no point in doing anything else. It’s just not worth it. Reading The Auctioneer by Joan Samson made me feel that way.

But, but what about a story that is making you consider not writing in a particular genre anymore?

Yes. This week, in fact. And I’m pretty shaken up about it.

I started listening to Stephen King’s “A Good Marriage.” A novella from his Full Dark, No Stars collection because I had some busywork to do and it was relatively short. The narrator, Jessica Hecht, was good, though it took me a moment to get into the voice, but I was intrigued.

Look, before I go one, I’m GenX, I cut my teeth in King when I was a teenager. It’s not that I’m sensitive to horror. Or at least I wasn’t.

I ended up having to stop listening with about 30 minutes to go due to family obligations. The story bothered me in the same way that the over abundance of violent media as been bothering me of late. But I walked away knowing I’d come back and finish eventually.

I came back to the story last night to finish and there’s one reveal at the end, a description of a horrific act that broke me (iykyk) and I just couldn’t think anymore.

You could argue that it wasn’t necessary, that the character exploration that King is so fucking brilliant at was enough, was more than enough. You could argue that, but it’s not my story, and there’s no denying the visceral effect that addition had on me as a reader. That’s a success.

I’ve written before about how I am drawn to horror because of the absolute despair that it evokes. I thought that’s what I wanted. But not this.

I can’t do this anymore.

I lie in bed last night wondering what I wanted to do with this “horror/thiller” name, what was I trying to create here.

I thought that I wanted to switch to focusing on ghost stories or more ethereal threats. But I’m not sure I have the spine for even that anymore.

You can toss it up to current events. Which? All of them. Blame the constant flow of violence from all media streams. Blame the fact that even as we say “think of the children,” we as a community do not, in fact, give a fuck about the children or anyone else.

We are the hosts of evil in the world. That’s what King has been writing about all along, you know.

The monsters are us.

Who is “us?” All of us. (I may probably delete this section because it seems a bit preachy and I’m not entirely sure what point I’m trying to make. I’m a bit lost. I thought I knew myself.)

Essentially, something hurt my psyche and I don’t want to partake in this genre for a while. I’m not making a moral judgement, but a personal choice.

I’m not finding this cathartic as I once did. The escapism feels more like an escape room and I can’t leave. It’s not that the genre is bad, not at all. It’s just that in this season of my life, it’s not for me.

I am fully aware of the mountain of privilege I possess that allows me not to be a victim of the world’s actual horrors.

I’m putting this pen name in cold storage for now. Perhaps I can find a way to bring it back, but only if there’s something I really want to say. Swamp Stories is suspended and the Patreon will go dark.

To those of you who supported me in any way, thank you. Take care of yourselves.

I’ll still be creating and writing. I’ll just be over there, by the window, where there is a bit more light.

2025-01-06
Flies

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 a while 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.

2024-11-16
The Fall

The strike was clean and smooth, but only later was she grateful. At first, she believed her last vision would be of her own horrific face reflected back at her. She roared at the cruelty of the act. Her vision continued, even as the sight tumbled before her. Her anger turned toward horror at the realization that after the severing, she persisted.

She’d felt the serpents stiffen when the boy struck, and she knew that her monstrous reign was at an end. No more would she feel the soft licks at her cheeks, hear the susurration of their calls, her constant companions these long years now silent, unmoving. More like her victims than herself.

The burnt blue sky spun around and as her head found its center of gravity. Her vision righted itself, giving her a clear view of her shoulders and breasts, still shivering at the shock. Black ichor flowed from her open neck, and she marveled at the shimmering indigo that seemed to glow from within. Whether being born from gods or ravaged by them, she mourned that this luminous wonder had been hidden deep within her. The world had only been allowed her ugliness, and as her vision passed over her belly, she hoped her vengeance would not be forgotten.

The boy screamed in the background, long and drawn out as if spreading itself across millennia. Her head continued to fall in between drops of time, a slow wave as if Poseidon himself had halted the moon. As she passed before her swollen belly, she saw the flutter of the god’s gifts inside her, a hoof pushing against the underside of her skin. Something else poked and thrusted from behind her navel. She felt her head roll back, shifting her vision to the blackened azure of Zeus’ sky.

She only caught a glimpse of the golden blade that released her children from their womb turned tomb. The soft touch of feathers, not unlike her serpents’ kiss, brushed her cheek, before flying off toward the stars. Her head rolled still and the boy’s drawn out scream finally came to an end.

At the last, she saw him clearly, without the cataract of death obscuring her sight. He was beautiful, with dark hair against fair skin, the aura of triumph glowing from within. Sweat beaded on his arms as he held the mirror shield high. His sword arm hung low, too heavy for someone so young. Her mortal soul fell instantly in love just as her serpents curled toward her scalp, impotent and cold.

The moment collapsed as she hit the marble floor. Light and sound returned to their normal pitch and all the world sprang to life as she consumed her final vision. Torches burst aflame and the walls seemed to dance in the reflected light. Had the world always been so lovely, she wondered near the end? Had she?

The boy approached slowly, and she marveled at a face untouched by her curse. Medusa shuddered in the memories of her body as he reached into the thatch of serpents and lifted her head. He looked into her eyes as lovers do, eager and unafraid.

2024-10-26
quiet

You ever in a place where it’s so quiet you hear something you ought not to.

That’s me now, sitting outside my store, just trying to have a cigarette before we open. It’s mid-January and there’s a nice thick blanket of snow on the ground. I had to shovel my way to the door and I’m pretty mad about that. We pay Donny to do it and Donny’s probably still asleep. He never remembers that we open at 6. He wishes we opened at 10. When he shows up, I’m going to put all the snow back and make him shovel it again.

The only reason I mention the snow is because it makes the world quiet. Cold, for sure, but there’s a fuzziness to the air, like it’s all made of cotton. Cotton in your head, cotton in your ears, but it don’t make all things quiet. It makes some things louder. Things you ought not to hear.

I take a last drag of my cigarette out and try to not hear it. I think I have time to put away the milk order before I open up, but then again, I can always open late. Even our customers sometimes run on Donny time.

I hear it again and it’s not a sound that my brain wants to wrap itself around. I could describe it, but then I would have to say I hear it and letting anyone know that I am near this sound is the last thing I want to do. Hearing that means taking responsibility and I would rather just pinch out the last of my cigarette and head inside.

It feels close, but sound carries in the winter. Should I look around the corner? No way.

I’m not even going to lift my head up in a sign that I’m awake. Going to walk into this store like a zombie and bar the door shut behind me. Don’t care if Donny decides to show. Donny can stay outside with the snow and the shovel and that sound.

I trip in my rush to get inside and knock over the shovel, which I don’t care about now, I don’t care about anything but shutting the door on that sound. But the shovel’s handle wedged itself in between the door and the jamb and of course I can’t get the door shut because getting the door shut would mean getting back to my life before that sound and there’s no hope of that now. But if I can just push the bottom of the shovel away with my boot then maybe.

Yes. Got it. Yes. Thank god! Slam.

The only thing I can hear now is my heartbeat and the hum of the cooler. Those are things I need to hear. Those are the only things I need to hear.

The front of the store’s got tall plate glass windows. I peek out from the back room but can’t see anything out front. There’s enough light on in the store to make seeing into the early morning impossible. I wish this door between the workroom and the store had a lock. Wish it had a knob. Wish it had a damn gun.

I think I can head into the cooler, then further into the freezer and then into the far back room that none of us really knew was there until last week when Wendy found it. There was nothing in it then and that made it creepier.

The cooler door is pretty big, but unlockable, for obvious reasons. Here we keep the milk and the soda and various refrigerated foods we sell. There’s a walkway between the stock for sale and the stock for stocking. The door makes a deep thump when it closes behind me. I look back and then I look out between a couple of half-gallons of 2%. I can see through the store into the parking lot. The sun is starting to rise, and I figure I have about 15 minutes before I have to open. When Donny shows up late, he usually beats on the front door until I open it, but he’s not there now. I wouldn’t mind seeing his stupid face right now. Dammit Donny.

The hum is louder here. The unit vents are outside and cool the fresh air. It’s not terrible in here, particularly since it’s cold outside. I like to hang out here in the summer. But this morning, I have to keep going.

The freezer is smaller in length than the cooler and has fewer items. We keep the ice cream here and the frozen entrees lonely people buy on occasion. That happens less now that the pizza place opened up. I peek out of here too, but can only see the bread aisle and half of the cashier counter. I can’t hear any knocking.

I can’t hear anything right now.

The humming has stopped. The humming should never stop. The humming means frozen things stay frozen. I remember hearing the freezer door close behind me. Didn’t I?

Even my heartbeat is muffled now.

Suddenly the humming starts again and I wonder if there’s a cycle it goes through and I just haven’t been here when it happens. Either way, I think about that noise and I think I’m gonna head one step farther in. I’m gonna sit in that back room and calm the heck down. Wendy hides her vodka in there now and that’s just what I need.

You would think a room that hidden would be musty, but it’s the ventilation, understand. The ventilation is good here. The door sticks a little, but I can get it open. I’m pretty strong.

The ventilation, that’s why I heard the noise, the one I wanted to ignore, the one I came here to hide from. What made it, well, it’s in here and I’m in here with it. And it’s a nightmare hunched over something slumped on two stacked milk crates.

It’s not looking for Wendy’s vodka. It’s feeding and feeding real good.

Dammit Donny, the one day you’re early.

2024-10-19