Fowl Moon

Mrs. Fullerman jolted awake. “Henry,” she gasped, furiously jostling her sleeping husband. Her gnarled fingers curled like talons into his shoulder. “Henry!”             He grunted, rolling back just enough to glare at her out of the corner of his eye. “What is it, Winnie?”             “I heard something! There’s something outside! In the chicken coop!”...

Of Prometheus

The deepest hours of night pale in comparison to the abyssal depths of the artistic mind--a place where things unsafe and unmeant to be lurk waiting to be given life, shades of the horrors of Man that fortunately find little more than glimpses of life as a sparks extinguished as rapidly as they ignite. And...