The Ones Who Dreamed To Change Their World

They shone in the moonlight, scattered all directions on the sand. Glistening with the borrowed shine of distant stars.  Some came in their slippers. The majority forged their way through the howling dark in socks or the bare feet they rose with. Abandoning their beds in the quiet dead of after-midnight, the hordes of somnambulists shuffled through the drifts of New Mexican desert sand, painted black dark. From every compass point, the masses shared one destination. 

Who Are The Children?

“Hello, my class is taking a field-trip and I’m selling magazine subs—” I slammed the door in his tiny, stupid face. He might have been eight-years-old, and my reaction might have been cruel, but the kid’s gotta learn the world is a harsh place sometime in his life. Why not now?

The Man Who Stalks The Space Between The Graves

My house is haunted but there is a logical explanation. This is not one of those stories where a tragic death happened inside. No one has ever died here. Still, tragedy surrounds the place; the two windows upstairs at the back gaze sadly out every day. No, this is not a story about a house built on an Indian burial ground. There is no one interred beneath the foundation…only in the yard. Rows and rows of tombstones stretch out past my back door to the tree line beyond. My haunted house stands in a cemetery. The cemetery to which I am now the caretaker. My great-grandfather Heinrick built this house 117 years ago. At the time, there wasn’t a cemetery within fifty miles. When this county was young, the thought of paying someone else to bury your dead as they died was an uncommon luxury. Most took care of their Read More …