A golden sadness hangs from the throats of sparrows. They sing in counterbalance to chase out the dawn, but as the sun rises the shadows just grow darker.
Evelyn wakes knowing she is being watched. The weight of her eyelids sends the flash of a memory to her stirring mind. Swallow this and you will feel better, and she had swallowed the pill like a little girl following mother's orders to float toward the siren's call of a simple sweet melody. She is … Continue reading The Art of Drowning – 1.9 – by Ash N Finn
Caswell reached over Kylie’s shoulder, tapped the mouse, dragged the playback bar backwards under the video. He let it play for a few seconds and tapped it again. “There. That frame. Clean it up. Get it out to the two closest coastal territorials. If nothing drops, expand. North and south, not inland.” “He came in … Continue reading The Art of Drowning – a nail biting episode 8 – by Phil Huston
Faded and feathered know the solemn dancer. They fold with it and scold with it, and heaven knows they grow old with it. The land crawlers ticker-tape their warnings in a million parades, the biters growl and howl out uncertainty of tribe, and better than most the shallow breathers know how it plays out in … Continue reading The Art of Drowning – 1.7 – by Jac Forsyth
All in my head. All in my head. All in my head. All in my hay-ay-head. She rocks back and forth on her haunches, knuckles bone white from gripping her ankles. The storm rages and batters the inside of her skull with a thousand burning drumsticks. Don’t cry, my child. Your mother is dancing around … Continue reading The Art of Drowning -a creepy episode 6- by Ash N Finn
Caswell set his guitar on the sofa beside him, picked up the vibrating phone. “Cas –” “You sent a women’s world ginger looker with a sassed-up mouth up the elevator this time, Caswell. I have whining from six directions.” “She came on her own.” “She knows your name well enough. Special Investigations lets you pick … Continue reading The Art of Drowning – 1. 5 – By Phil Huston
They say that drowning feels like falling asleep. But child, the sweet nicotine of breath runs first in, last out. And I can tell you now that drowning doesn't feel like falling asleep any more than being born does. Drink the ink, be the stink. I watched you washed ashore, your mind shattered and scattered in … Continue reading The Art of Drowning – 1.4 – by Jac Forsyth