"Stay." I'm not sure if you pull me down or I fall with you. It doesn't really matter because here I am, and here I stand with you. We fold against each other, soft curves and hard edges, bone and flesh. I am wet and sticky with you. You cling to me, a second body, wanting more. I can feel it now, the slow ache our of desire spiraling into the maelstrom. Your heat a fire that should burn but only enflames.

#microfiction #prosePoetry

Postcards from The Strait of El Schmoozer

The Hiking Princess Schnorrer was diverted by rhetorical windbags and passed through The Strait of El Schmoozer to the Port of El Happenstance. Rabid postcard collectors highly value the postcards sent by passengers on this voyage of the unexpected.

#Art #Collage #CollageArt #DigitalArt
#Asemic #AsemicArt #AsemicPostcards #AsemicText #Postcard #AsemicPostcard #Asemicwriting #DeconstructedText #Phantasmagoria #Poetry #Prosepoetry #ProsePoem #SpeculativePoetry

https://asemictarot.wordpress.com/2026/04/14/postcards-from-the-strait-of-el-schmoozer/

𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑾𝒂𝒚𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔: “𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒊𝒅𝒆” 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒔𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝑹𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 -

". . . but the edges have eroded, bluntered and edgeless. Warfarin-thin. A swiftwater rush, . . . "

https://waywordsstudio.com/fiction/esmond-blood-and-tide/

#poetry #poetrycommunity #originalpoetry #writingcommunity #prosepoetry #flashfiction #shortreads #experimentalprose #fiction

Cordite 26.1: White Homes (2007)

https://daveydreamnation.com/cordite-poetry-review/cordite-26-1-white-homes/

Asemic Postcard 290: sent from the burning fog of war

#Asemic #AsemicArt #AsemicPostcards #AsemicText #AsemicWriting #DeconstructedText #Dreams #Dreamscape #Poetry #ProsePoem #Prosepoetry #Surreal #Surrealism #WordCollagePoem #WordCollage #Art #Collage #CollageArt #DigitalArt

https://asemictarot.wordpress.com/2026/03/14/asemic-postcard-290-sent-from-the-burning-fog-of-war/

Postcards from Zarkatb’s ey’re

If the phenomenon violates the laws of nature as we know them, it does so within a sufficiently narrow margin to fit into the space-time framework that constitutes our private universe.

#AsemicArt #AsemicPostcards #AsemicPostcard #AsemicText #AsemicWriting #DeconstructedText #Fantasy #HighStrangeness #Phantasmagoria #Poetry #ProsePoetry #SpeculativePoetry #DigitalArt
#Art #Collage #CollageArt #Art

https://asemictarot.wordpress.com/2026/02/25/postcards-from-zarkatbs-eyre/

This is the story of Cortina

So, I believe, this is the story of Cortina. Is a world without doctors meaningless? What would a world without doctors be like? She gave birth like a church bird. After that, yes, she went to the bathroom to seek advice, but there were only two people in a bed of shattered glass roses, and they would only smile and nod their heads like frozen crab apples in the winter wind. From that moment, she just endured – nothing could be seen in the mirrors, except crustaceans contemplating the great leap of faith and temporal paradoxes. In the unfinished ballroom, the chairs and high tables were filled with plants and torn kimonos. Kim remembered struggling to solve the problem of Cortina, to find things that inspired her.

Still alone, feeling trapped, she sought advice from the world's doctors, but to no avail. They saw nothing. Alone again, she lay in bed, atoning for the cries of geese heading south. She went to the bathroom to absolve her difficulties with shadows and echoes. It was an unforgettable and profound experience. Who wouldn't think about that day and night, and all the joy and happiness she lost when the days grew like ivy over the walls of memory? Her father never ate cheese on Fridays; a peculiar religious belief connected to reincarnation and cactus. Since then, the community has survived in the city of broken promises, and copper towers. There are neither birds nor cactus plants to be found there, just the cries of geese heading south.

# Art #Collage #CollageArt #DigitalArt #FlashFiction #Asemic #AsemicArt #AsemicPostcards #Asemicpostcard #AsemicText #AsemicWriting #Poetry #ProsePoetry #SpeculativePoetry #Surrealpoetry #SurrealThursday #Surrealism

Asemic Map ~ The Trembling Twenties

We live in The Trembling Twenties, the second decade of the 21st century, a precarious inflection point balanced on the point of uncertainty – we carry information overload on bent, cracking, backs, while our foothold on chaos cuts concentration, and anarchy extends our frozen gaze into a chasm of confusion and fragmented commercial conceptualism – walls slippery with self-interest and propaganda.

#Art #MassMedia #Asemic #AsemicArt #AsemicMap #AsemicText #AsemicWriting #Collage #CollageArt art #DigitalArt #MediaLiteracy #Poetry #ProsePoem #ProsePoetry #SocialMedia #Society

https://impliedspaces.wordpress.com/2026/01/18/asemic-map-the-trembling-twenties/

Shaving: A Greenland Diaries Flash Fiction

Nigel couldn’t believe his beard had gotten this long.

It was down to his chest, tangled and frizzy. It was black, but almost brown at its feathery edges. He could hear his father yelling at him to trim it, his high, almost husky voice echoing in his head. His father was ex military. He loved the clean shaven look and forced Nigel to follow that hairless motif, even though Nigel hadn’t picked up a weapon until the Drum started. Now, he always had one with him. The ravaged green world demanded it, even with the Drum destroyed and the Unnamed no longer hunting him at night.

Nigel wondered if his father was still alive in the nursing home in Saint Louis Park. He had barely been alive before the Drum. It wouldn’t make any sense for him to be spared.

Nigel had been lucky to hide in his Golden Valley home for most of the apocalypse. He had left for a few weeks to join survivors fighting an Unnamed by a lake that kept attacking them. It had been a hard fought battle. Only Nigel and a few others survived. None of them had the appetite for further confrontations with the Unnamed, and they all retreated to their former hiding spots. Those had been the last people he’d spoken to, except for a band of soldiers passing through who told him the Drum was destroyed, and the Unnamed were nonviolent unless attacked.

Nigel felt his dark, reflectionless face. His features were gaunt, weathered by a lack of nutritious food. His cheeks were flat, his nose large, his forehead dry. His lips were cracked and bloody in places. The weather had been fine. It was the fear eroding his flesh. The constant worry of the Unnamed returning, or a crazed Reanimated storming through the neighborhood.

Slowly, above his white bathroom sink, he began to trim his beard. There was no electricity for his razor, so he resorted to a pair of orange handled scissors he kept in his office for trimming documents. They were sharp, but loud as they crushed the fibers between its blades. In minutes, most of his beard was reduced to a prickly edge beneath his fingers. He sighed.

“I guess it’s time. They said it was safe.”

Ahead of him hung a wool blanket, yellow and brown, duct taped to the wall in miscellaneous streaks of silver adhesive. It dangled just above the sink.

It blocked the mirror.

He’d put it up during the first week, when he noticed the shadows watching him. Now, with the Drum destroyed, survivors passing through told him mirrors and reflections were back to normal. They no longer held phantoms.

He slowly reached for the fabric, then stopped.

“I can’t do it.”

He walked out of the bathroom with a shrug.

“I can’t believe it’s okay.”

I really enjoy writing about these quieter moments in the Greenland Diaries, where characters are learning to live again after a horrifying ordeal that shook the foundations of humanity. These bits of flash fiction give me ample opportunity for it. You can learn more about the mainline series right here. Thank you for reading!

#author #blogging #bodyHorror #books #cosmicHorror #darkFantasy #darkFiction #decay #fantasy #fiction #flashFiction #grief #hauntedLandscapes #horror #horrorWriting #identity #isolation #liminalSpaces #machines #memory #monsters #obsession #patrickWMarsh #poeticProse #prosePoetry #psychologicalHorror #shortStories #speculativeFiction #survival #teraryHorror #theGreenlandDiaries #transformation #trauma #weirdFiction #writing