My writing, informed by an interest in a variety of emerging technologies and mediums, often pushes the boundaries of traditional written narratives while remaining cohesive and accessible. Prior to publishing my first novel, I fronted numerous bands and held a career in visual art.

My stories have been featured in numerous books, magazines, and podcasts. As of 2021, I’ve published one novel and one short story collection. I’m a Tucson, Arizona-based author of science fiction and horror. 'But you know I'll be out of town the next few days.' And I know you don't care.Tell us about yourself and how many books you have written. 'Okay,' you fuck up, 'nothing new.' Just the same bastard you were yesterday. 'To be honest I might just stay in one of the vacant rooms.' He swallows hard to prepare for a full sentence. He's high, and the ghosts are seizing on this weakened state, banging on his mind's peripheral windowpanes. That level of focus takes too much effort. Right away he remembers-she won't be here tomorrow night. Tomorrow.' It all rolls out fast, sloppy, disjointed. Didn't get very good sleep.sleep last night. He pushes his chair back and reaches to turn the radio fully off, but hits the volume dial and static ether rushes back over the room. They rise like roots under his fingertips. 'Yeah.' He drags the dull ends of his chewed up nails across the desk, embracing the uneven texture, the wooden veins. Then, throatily, 'Let's go to Paseka's tonight.' The thin feathery lines above them narrow into a squint. 'You are so spacey,' her eyes say, green wildfires scanning him over. She leans in, laughing now, and he forces himself to stare at the details. She smirks, the pen inching in, and he envisions black ink being sucked down her throat, encasing her skull, twisting from her eyes like blind snakes. He studies her face, but can't really see it. He realizes the radio's lost reception, fumbles with the volume dial.

His desk radio rolls in soft grey waves, a purring, frothing alien water. Jericho stares at her lips, at the ballpoint pen digging into the corner of her mouth. Drifting through the breaking waves of bliss and saying something he can't hear. Had it already been thirty minutes? Just as time had begun to dissipate, the open door is like a violent injection of black ink in water. The walls sink below his weightless body, his blood warms, thoughts fall into a languid mist-and in walks Maggie. Half an hour until he leaves Blue Coral Inn. He sloshes a gulp of water around his bitter mouth, stares at the glass.

There's every reason not to put the tablets in his mouth, not to take it one step further and chew them. Jericho pushes two tablets across his desk.īack and forth.

Caligatha by Matt Spire