Rift

By Paul Melniczek

Greg stared at Marc’s deadly serious face. He peered into the dark eyes of emerald sea-ice trying to discern the clouded thoughts that lay buried within. Marc wore a painted countenance of stony indifference, the ex-marine unreadable.

“Bastard,” said Greg.

“Will you two stop it? Geez!” Pete Wilson towered above the mahogany, octagon-shaped table, his fists curled into tight balls as he watched the men stare each other down. “This is absolutely insane.”

The room was silent as the two adversaries sat in cushioned, high-backed chairs, the tension palpable in the cozy room which served as Greg’s den, replete with bar, billiard table, wide-screen television, and shag-rug carpeting, like a tacky seventies bachelor pad.

“I don’t believe this. I’m getting another drink.” Pete walked away, tapping a draught from the beer meister.

Greg could take no more, and he slammed his hand down on the table. “You win! I’m out.”

A mirthless grin creased Marc’s tan face. He held up his palm for Greg to see as Pete returned, chugging from a frosted mug. Pete broke into a low chuckle at the misery pasted onto Greg’s clean-shaven face, clapping him on the back with a meaty hand. “Suckered you again, my friend.”

In Marc’s hand was a pair of deuces and sixes.

Greg grabbed his hair and tugged at both sides. “You bluffed me again, you son -”

“Don’t say it. Gambling is a bad enough vice, and now you want to curse me as well?” Marc spread his lean arms out like a bear, and slowly pulled the poker chips toward his sizable pile in a slow, deliberate motion, savoring every second, smacking his lips together.

“With a face like that, you should have been a lawyer, you know that? Bet you lie to your own priest,” Greg said disgustedly.

“What a sore loser,” answered Marc. “Do you hear this, Pete? In one fell swoop he assassinates my character and my good looks. What’s next? Is he going to kick my dog?”

Pete and Marc both laughed as Greg lumbered over to the bar, his smaller, stocky frame turned away from them. “If it was here I would,” he said, shaking his head, the wispy blond hair falling neatly back into place.

“I’m kind enough to invite you idiots over, and all I get is an empty wallet and cheap insults. Clowns.”

Pete doubled over, laughing ferociously. Marc waved his hands in the air, pretending to play a violin. Pete followed his lead and started an old country song about broken hearts and lost dreams.

“Spare me.” Greg picked up the remote from the Formica-topped bar, flicking through the channels, stopping as a red blip passed across the screen. “Hey, check this out.”

“What is it, the sympathy channel?” answered Pete, joining Marc’s ghostly serenade by prancing about in an exaggerated waltz.

“That’s funny, remember who lost last month? You were crying the blues about your high payment on that gas-guzzling SUV you just bought, looking for mercy from both of us.”

“That was then, this is now, we don’t live in the past, do we, Marc?”

Marc nodded his shaved head, setting down his imaginary violin and making a sweeping bow. Pete looked at the screen, still grinning. His smile faded as he read the warning that scrolled across the picture. “Wow, that looks like one nasty storm coming.”

“We’re right in the middle, too.” Greg pointed with his index finger. Sue and Lisa better stay off the roads until it passes.”

“Why don’t you call them, maybe they don’t know how bad it’s supposed to get.” Marc sat down on a recliner, looking up at the single window in the room. Fat raindrops splattered against the square glass panel, and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. The noise was like a freight train approaching at a furious pace, and they looked nervously at each other.

“Look,” said Pete, rising up from his seat. “I’ve never such intensity.” Greg had changed the channel to the local forecast, and their town was directly in the center projection of the storm’s path, the radar image at the maximum level.

“I’ll get out the oil lamps, wouldn’t be surprised if we lost the electricity. Let’s just hope we don’t get hit with a tornado.”

All humor in the room faded as they stared at the window. Greg opened the closet, grabbing a flashlight and supplies.

“It’s almost on us.” Pete tapped the bar with restive fingers, biting his lip. The storm raged outside, streaks blaring through the window like a macabre strobe light. The fluorescent bulbs overhead went out for a brief moment, then flickered back on. The wrath of the storm was mounting, the thunderclaps echoing into the room like cannon fire.

“Holy -” Marc jumped up, as a bolt struck nearby.

“No swearing here, remember?” yelled Greg sarcastically, lighting the wick on a tall oil lamp. “You’re not afraid of a little rain, now are -” His sentence was cut off as a tremendous explosion ripped through the house, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Pete fell headlong into the bar, knocking his head against the top, while Marc tumbled over the recliner. The entire structure shook as the earth vibrated with staggering force, the liquor bottles behind the bar collapsing to the carpet, two paintings careening from the walls. The quake lasted for several seconds as the terrified men groped blindly in the dark as the lights went out.

The wind was knocked out of Greg as he landed hard on his ribs, feeling a sharp stab of pain on his left side from the impact. A high-pitched tone resonated from outside, thin and piercing, similar to a whistle, but much louder, wavering through the air and increasing to an ear-splitting crescendo before reaching unbearable levels.

Then everything stopped. The noise was gone, the shaking finished. Scarcely daring to breathe, Greg crawled forward on hands and knees, dazed and shaking. “You guys all right?”

Marc whispered from several feet away. “I think so. What happened? An earthquake?”

“Maybe.” Greg searched for his flashlight in the pitch-black room. “Sounds like the storm is gone, at least. I hate to see the damage upstairs. Hey Pete?”

His friend failed to answer, and he called again.

“Pete, you all right?” Concern filled his quivering voice at the lack of response. “Marc, are you near him?”

“Don’t know. Can’t see a thing down here.”

“Strange, there’s not even a glimmer of light from outside. Man, that had to be a direct strike.” Greg rested his hand on a rubber-tipped object, finding the flashlight.

“Maybe there’s a volcano in your backyard, and it erupted,” said Marc. “That was worse than artillery - believe me, I’ve been there, and I don’t need to revisit that hell.”

“I’ll take your word on that one. Got the flashlight.” Greg turned the switch, the pale beam illuminating the wood panels of the den. “Where’s Pete?” He scanned the room, spotting his friend scant inches from where he stood, motionless on the floor.

“Marc, I think he’s knocked out.”

The other man followed the glare and approached. “Shine it on his head.”

The beam revealed an ugly bruise on Pete’s forehead, and Greg gasped.

“Looks pretty bad,” said Marc.

“You know first aid. What do you need?” Greg felt his heart pounding, fearing the worst for his friend.

“Towel, water, get your cell phone, too, if the lines are out. He has a concussion, I’m sure. At least it wasn’t on his temple.” Marc examined Pete’s injury, feeling his pulse and checking his breathing. “I’ll try to bring him out - if it’s real bad, he might slip into a coma.”

Greg nodded, finding the oil lamp at the fringe of the light. Some of the liquid had spilled onto the carpet, but the container was over half full. The matches were next to the lamp, and he quickly lit the lantern, handing it to Marc.

“I’ll call an ambulance. Be right back.”

He hurried to the steps, glancing back at Marc crouched over the immobile figure of Pete.

It looked like a scene from an old black-and-white horror movie.

Standing in the wreckage of the kitchen with trembling hands, Greg could not wipe away the pathetic image of Pete, lying helplessly below in the den, under Marc’s watchful eyesc. Please, let him be all right, he thought.

The phone lines were dead of course. He knew the truth before he even picked up the bone-white receiver. Greg felt like he was wading through the set of a disaster movie. Broken glass and silverware were strewn everywhere. The kitchen table was overturned; the refrigerator door hung wide open, nearly all the food had spilled onto the tiled floor.

He almost cried - his stomach churning like an angry sea.

Grabbing a pair of hand towels, he raced into the living room where he remembered seeing his cell phone. The furniture was shifted, now sitting in the center. The three lamps were completely shattered, and he saw a series of cracks in the wall. The mantel above the fireplace had loosened from its mountings, and now hung lop-sided over the hearth. Passing the beam across the floor, he found the phone next to an overturned stool. Greg dialed the emergency number with shaking hands, but no dial tone registered.

“Come on!” he yelled, frantically pressing the power button, but there was no service. Not even a message to indicate the system status.

He wondered if a direct lightning strike was the cause of the malfunction somehow, but it made no sense. He knew one thing - Pete needed medical assistance, and quickly. They lived in a suburban district, with friendly neighbors on both sides. That was his next option, and he went to the front door, which appeared to be intact. Greg yanked the handle, snapping his hand back in surprise.

The doorknob was ice-cold.

He stared down at his palm in confusion. Had lightning done this too? It was amazing, that a storm could be so extreme in nature as to cause such changes. He crinkled up part of his shirt to turn the handle, feeling the frigidness beneath even that protection. Greg jumped onto the front porch and stopped.

Not a single light was visible anywhere.

A sluggish mist surged in front of the house and behind the swirling vapors was only a cold, empty blackness; deep and forbidding.

Taking cautious steps forward, his eyes stared in disbelief. The surrounding atmosphere was alien - soundless and lightless. Greg reached the end of the porch and felt a prickling sensation crawling across his skin, stinging him like the bite of a thousand tiny insects. Not painful in itself, but terribly irritating. He put one foot down on the top step, and tumbled forward as he missed the concrete.

Greg found himself falling, and flailed blindly with both arms to brace himself. His chest pounded onto the soft turf as he tripped off the porch. A small hole in the mist broke open like a window into a dream - beyond the house was a fathomless void, empty of substance and proportion. Greg’s arms grasped onto nothingness as an abyss appeared beneath his chin, only a thin patch of ground preventing his fall into oblivion.

Terrified beyond thought or words he lay there, bruised and frozen, staring at a depth so vast it defied the imagination. It loomed dreadfully before him, an ocean of achromatic space, and Greg was unable to determine whether his vision comprehended merely yards or infinity itself. The revelation crushed down upon his intellect, threatening to stifle his very reasoning, and preconceptions of reality and fantasy. Motionless, choking on fractured gulps of air, he hovered between madness and sanity, his mind desperately searching for a thread of memory to return him from the brink of lunacy.

Time was meaningless, but he managed to find a speck of rationalization that screamed for survival, and he clawed his way backwards onto the porch, the flashlight wedged between his palms in a taloned death-grip.

Every part of his body tingled with an unpleasant sensation, and he looked at his hands, where patches of marrow-colored crystal were forming. He suddenly felt incredibly cold, and staggered back through the front door, collapsing onto the familiar carpet of his home.

But where was his home?

Greg’s throat constricted in parched fear, swallowing involuntarily. He chafed his hands together, and the strange coating vanished in a few moments, dissipating into the air like steam rising from a warming asphalt street. He noticed that a dull glow filled the house, without a visible source. The eerie light illuminated the walls, and a shadow appeared on the far wall, originating from within the kitchen.

Greg was overcome by pure, unrelenting horror. Something lurked in the kitchen - something incomprehensible, deadly.

Alien.

There was no justification for his terror, but he was convinced of the danger, as a hidden sense wailed against his instinct. Whimpering like a child, he crawled behind the sofa, hands shaking and teeth chattering, flicking off the flashlight.

Go away, please. Go away.

The seconds were tortuous, but shortly the glow dissipated, and was quenched. He actually passed out for a while, opening his eyes and staring at blackness. He was not wakened from a horrible nightmare, and that terrible verdict squeezed his heart like a fiery tong. Darkness surrounded him, and he felt around for the flashlight, remembering the unseen presence from the kitchen. He seemed to be alone, and he cautiously made his way through the opposite chamber, a small office that led into the dining room.

Both rooms were scenes of wreckage; all the furnishings were strewn about in broken upheaval. In all this time, there was no noise. He passed through the dining area, stopping before the kitchen. There was no other way to the den - the stairs were in the kitchen. And in the den were his friends. If he didn’t see them soon, he would be lost. Greg needed the companionship of Marc and Pete. And Pete needed help, but there was none to be found.

The cellar door was open, and he pointed the beam downstairs, fearing to go on, afraid to wait. The den was quiet. It was as if Greg were the only living being in the universe. Holding onto the railing, he descended with uncertain footsteps. His mind shrieked in warning, but onwards he continued, not daring to breathe. He was only a few feet from the bottom, and he paused.

“Marc?”

No answer.

“Pete?”

His voice was a harsh whisper, the words grating forth, penetrating the ominous silence. Greg reached the floor, shining the flashlight through the den.

“Marc? Please answer me.”

He walked across the room, avoiding the broken glass reflected in the light, and headed for the bar. Pete was lying in front of the bar when Greg left, but now he was gone. Whipping the flashlight around, Greg felt ready to scream. Here! Pete was right here! Had Marc moved him? Scanning every part of the den now, Greg jumped in fright as the light revealed a huddled figure in the far corner, beneath the stairs.

It was Marc.

Greg hurried over to his friend, nearly falling as he reached him.

“Marc! Where did you move Pete? Marc?”

The beam focused on Marc’s face.

His stare was vacant and glazed, seemingly oblivious to Greg’s presence, and his mouth hung open, chest rising rapidly as he inhaled ragged bursts of air. Greg knelt down, examining the dilated pupils of Marc’s eyes.

Touching Marc’s cheek, he recoiled his hand in surprise - the skin felt like frost. Tears of anguish rolled down Greg’s face at his friend’s plight. Grabbing a throw-blanket from the couch, he draped it over Marc’s body, rubbing him vigorously. He continued for several minutes, until Marc’s eyes blinked, and his breathing steadied. Shuddering several times, he possessed the look of a feverish man, quivering uncontrollably.

“You’ll be okay,” said Greg. “Hang in there, buddy.”

Satisfied that his friend was coming around, he went over to the small refrigerator, now on its side, and brought out a bottle of water. He poured the liquid into Marc’s throat until the reflex muscles took over, and he drank deeply.

“Are you all right? Here, drink some more.”

Marc appeared to be regaining his senses, his eyes darting about wildly. “It’s okay, calm down. Where did you move Pete?”

At Greg’s words, he began shaking his head, mumbling incoherently.

“Snap out of it, Marc, it’s me. Greg. What happened?”

Marc put his hands on Greg’s shirt, his grip tight enough to tear the fabric. “He’s gone!”

“What?”

“Some-something took him, horrible -”

Greg’s blood flowed with ice.

“Marc, what took him?” He dreaded to know the answer, but the look in Marc’s eyes told him everything.

“A nightmare. Monster.”

Every concept of Greg’s reality was shattered, as he realized that an incredible phenomenon had occurred. The truth twisted like an invisible serpent around his throat, suffocating him with harsh facts - they were no longer in their familiar neighborhood. Maybe not even in their own world.

“Tell me exactly what you saw. Maybe he regained consciousness, and walked away.” He tried to reassure his friend, unable to stop trembling himself.

“No, the room grew colder, and a shadow came down the stairs.” Marc pointed at the steps, and they both looked uneasily in the direction. “It wasn’t a man, or an animal. It was indescribable.”

Greg realized there was no use in denial - he wouldn’t be waking up to find his cozy blankets wrapped around him, or his precious Sue and her lemony smile greeting him in the morning.

“I know. I didn’t really see it, more like I felt it, when I was coming back. In the kitchen, a shadow. But you saw it.” A twinge of pain rippled across Greg’s knotted chest, his stomach churning in revulsion.

“The thing had no definable shape, or curves. It was geometric, shifting somehow, without fixed proportions. This sounds insane, but Greg, it’s from another planet, or something, I don’t know.”

Marc bowed his head, the terror deeply etched into his mind. Greg waited for him to recover, and couldn’t stop glancing at the steps.

“It glowed, lighting up the room. And came right at Pete.”

Greg felt chills crawling down his spine, his shirt soaked in sticky, cold sweat.

“When it touched him, Pete’s skin changed color, he looked like a block of ice. I could see through him.”

Stunned by Marc’s words, Greg became dizzy, sitting down on the floor. It was too unbelievable. “And then what happened,” he croaked. “To Pete.”

“The thing left with Pete attached somehow to its body. Back upstairs. We’ve got to get out of here, Greg. Before it comes back!” He hissed the words out, making an attempt to stand.

“Marc. There’s no where to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was outside, but we’ve moved away from our world. I don’t understand how, but it had to be the storm. Past the house -”

Marc’s eyes raged with horror. “What? Greg, tell me.”

“Nothing. Emptiness, as if we’re drifting along in the middle of a great void. Either our world is destroyed, or we’ve been taken away. It’s horrible, but I think we entered into some doorway, a rift between worlds.”

The next words crawled out from his mouth in tortured syllables, and he had never felt so helpless in his life.

“I think we’re in another dimension.”

The bedroom was gloomy, with smoky beeswax candles sitting on top of the dresser and television set. The upstairs showed signs of the quake, but had fared better than below. Taking food from Greg’s pantry and kitchen, the men decided to remain far away from the den, where the thing had already once entered, leaving with Pete.

The bedroom was fitted with only two small windows, and both were now nailed shut. Tiny cracks between the boards served as peepholes, but there was nothing to be seen, except for the swirling mist and empty blackness outside. A trunk filled with clothes blocked the doorway, and they sat in whispered conversation, trying to rationalize a hope that everything could be reversed, that it was inconceivable to think they would stay trapped in this other dimension.

“Why would the creature take Pete with it?” Marc sat with hands folded, his eyes staring at the makeshift panels of their protective barriers.

“I don’t know. And I’m not sure we can prevent it from doing the same thing to us, I’m afraid. You can throw away all the laws of physics and rationality here, we have no clue to what will happen next.”

“I’m frightened, Greg. At least on the battlefield, you know what to expect. You can look across the range, see the enemy, taste their hatred - know them for what they are. But this? My worst nightmare doesn’t compare with what happened to us. Especially to Pete.”

They both grew quiet, wondering as to the fate of their friend, lost in the forsaken void, taken by a being which defied comprehension.

“Maybe the rift is still open, and we can pass through it again.” Greg failed to take comfort in his own words of hope, but Marc snapped his head up, nodding with approval.

“Yeah, you might be right. When a doorway forms between dimensions, the power has to be incredible. Too much from just an ordinary storm, or there would be a precedent for these things.”

Greg stood up. “There are a lot of strange stories about unexplained disappearances; ships and planes vanishing. It has happened, and we’re living proof. But no one has ever returned to tell.”

“Maybe we’ll be the first, Greg. Your house disappeared. I never heard of that before. And it still occupies the same space - maybe that’s it! A ship or plane is moving, but we’re in a fixed location. That doorway might be somewhere outside, or even in the house. We’ve got to look. It’s our only choice.”

Greg recognized the truth in Marc’s words. “You’re right, and we better find it soon, because if the door is still open, I want to go through before it shuts forever.”

They scoured every corner of the house, searching for anything unusual that could indicate the location of a disturbance in the fabric of air. They were unsure even if the doorway existed, yet no other option lay before them-the alternative was unthinkable. Haunted by the fear of confronting the creature again, the two men cringed at every imagined noise or movement. They started in the lower reaches first, reluctant to enter the den once more. No part of the house was overlooked, but all they found were dark and silent rooms.

Greg led Marc to the attic door, placing a weary hand on the knob. “This is it, my friend. If we don’t find the rift up here, I would say that we’re pretty much out of luck.”

Marc’s face was clouded as he leaned against the wall. “I keep thinking of Pete, and where he is.”

“I know,” answered Greg. “Why would that thing take him anyway?”

“I don’t know,” replied Marc. “Curiosity, maybe? We are as strange to that creature as it is to us. I wonder about the workings of its mind and intelligence. We might appear in a totally different sense - we’re strangers from another plane, our minds can’t even conceive this possibility, and might even be incapable of interpreting the visual scope of this dimension.”

Greg passed into the entryway, illuminating the attic steps with the flashlight. The stairs were littered with numerous boxes, the contents tossed about from the quake. They descended carefully, pushing aside the scattered clothes and books which covered the steps.

The floorboards groaned beneath Greg’s booted feet, and his hopes dropped as their search revealed nothing remarkable. They walked to the far end of the attic, opening the single closet and finding it empty.

“Nothing, there is no damn hole!” Greg kicked the door in frustration. “We’re trapped here, it’s no use.”

Marc flopped into a swivel desk chair, head staring at the ceiling. He was about to say something when he noticed a glare coming from the top of the stairs. Every hair on his body stood on end as the room temperature dropped sharply. Greg felt the change also, and he followed Marc’s frightened gaze. He quickly turned off the flashlight, his chest tightening with fear. No words were spoken as Marc retreated into the far corner next to Greg.

Greg’s mind raced, striving to remember anything in the attic that would serve as some type of weapon against the being, but nothing came to memory. He grabbed Marc’s shoulder, moving him away from the wall. Greg unfastened the window latch, and his friend nodded in recognition.

The window slid open, the noise alarmingly loud in the tense room, the back half of the attic radiating in a dull glow. A small catwalk ran beneath the ledge, and Greg stepped outside in the darkness, turning on his flashlight again. Marc followed a few seconds later, closing the window behind him. They were perched above a black void, the bottom of the house invisible in the murkiness.

“Now what?” Marc backed away from the window, watching the room grow brighter as the creature approached.

“Up on the roof,” whispered Greg. “Grab the spouting and pull yourself up.” He was already clinging to the gutter, hoping fervently that it would hold his weight. The metal girders buckled under the stress, but he managed to hoist himself onto the tile-covered roof, offering a hand to his friend.

Marc latched onto Greg’s arm, gritting his teeth as he felt the odd prickling sensation crawling across his skin, exactly as Greg had described earlier. The spouting bent downwards under the added pressure, and Marc kicked his feet against the wall in panic. Greg tugged onto Marc’s shirt, dragging him up to the roof. Breathing a sigh of relief, Marc raised himself higher, sampling the lurid atmosphere surrounding the house.

“Greg! Look!” He stared in surprise at a disturbance along the left side of the building. They trudged along the rooftop, staring in amazement at a shimmering section of light, encompassing an area of only a few square feet. It emitted a dazzling spectrum of churning colors - purple, violet, and various hues of a dozen other shades.

“The rift!” Greg was ecstatic as they drew nearer. “It has to be the doorway.”

As they reached the edge of the house, they were almost blinded by the laser-like rays pouring forth from the anomaly. Greg looked grim as he measured their position. The opening was several yards in front of them and below where they stood.

“How do we go through?” Marc waved his hands in the air, as if to grab onto something substantial.

“We jump.”

The prospect was daunting.

“In mid-air? Just like that?” Marc stared at the void underneath the rift. “And what if we miss?”

“If we miss,” said Greg, “then we’ll see a lot more of this dimension than we ever dreamed possible. There doesn’t seem to be any surface like we’re familiar with.”

“We could drift forever in that nothingness.” Marc shuddered.

“Have to do it soon, the lights getting brighter. It’s starting to close.” Greg pointed ahead, where the rift was slowly shrinking, the pulsing beams increasing in severity.

“Greg! What in the name -” Marc pointed behind them, where another light had appeared.

A billowing curtain of pale illumination slowly approached. It looked like a flag or banner, flapping softly without wind to move it, coming purposefully towards them.

“Another creature! We’ve got to take our chances with the rift.” Greg poised himself like a long-jumper, hands splayed at his sides to brace himself for the leap. Peering over his shoulder, he was startled as a new glowing covered part of the roof, directly over the attic window.

The thing was following them.

“Good luck, Marc.” He shook his friend’s hand, and bounded forward into the air, never looking back.

He glided into space like a high-diver, going headfirst into the narrowing rift. Anticipating being burned or electrified, he was surprised by the oddest sensation, as if he were being sucked into mud.

His ears rang with a rending squeal and he lost all perception of direction or consciousness for a time.

***

Darkness and pain.

Every fiber of his body ached, and Greg felt bruised and weary. He opened his eyes but saw nothing. He was blind for a span of several seconds as his pupils adjusted to the new light. Staring skyward he recognized familiar shades of colors forming again. A soft groan reached his ears as he arched his neck, seeing the crumpled form of Marc lying next to him. They had made it, passing through the rift in enough time to leave the other dimension.

He pushed himself off the ground with battered arms, his eyesight becoming clearer, and he looked around.

“Greg, we made it. We made it!”

Marc’s voice shook with excitement, reaching out to his friend with a shaking hand. Greg looked down at Marc, overwhelmed with emotions himself, trying to find the right words, but finding none. What could he possibly tell him, he thought, standing as he craned his head upwards at the purple sky above.

Words alone would not suffice. There was no way to describe the vision before him - the vast, spiraling vortex of blackness, stretching beyond the range of comprehension into the glaring-orange distance, the colorless fabric of haze they were impossibly resting on, the jagged streaks of ethereal lines criss-crossing the alien landscape, some of them even passing through their bodies. No, there was nothing suitable to express the awe that crushed down on Greg as he looked at his strange surroundings.

Marc would have to see for himself before believing in the fantastic elements of this new dimension.

Paul Melniczek

Paul Melniczek is a small business owner and a college graduate, with a degree in business management. He also teaches a part time class at a local college, is married with two children. In year 2000 he began writing, and since then has had over seventy stories published or accepted for publication in a wide variety of markets, including print anthologies, print magazines, e-zines, and e-anthologies. Some of these include sales to Fangoria, Black Rose, Cold Storage, and many others.

He is also a musician, playing classical piano and electric guitar. In his free time he enjoys the outdoors, weightlifting, golf, and tennis. Living in the country lends much inspiration to his writing, and he is currently working on another short story collection, a fantasy novel, and a children’s book.

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