So: I’m sorry. For those who have kept quiet about these things, I hope this gives you some closure. For those who choose to stick around, thank you, and I’ll make sure to earn it. Again, I’m sorry.
“We are the rustle of a blue coat, the clatter of a heavy mirror-sheen barrel finding its line of fire. We are thunder. The sweet redemption of its rhythm at a braced shoulder.”
“If you’re up for a tale of self-discovery, healing with the help of found family, and battling cosmic horrors with reality-warping powers, you can find The Way to Kandge-Brad at the other end of this link right here.”
“Marked by the forbidden age… quite a literary sentiment. Does it not have a storyteller’s flair about it? Two professors, aging and grown arrogant in their habits as the aging do, stumbling on to something truly forsaken?”
“A world of its own deserves a calendar of its own, don’t you think? Well, deserved or not, this is the one I devised for Canno!”
“I want this story to hurt you.”
“Aside from the all-new words, I’ve altered most of the details I kept, so even if you read one of these three when I first posted it, I promise you it’ll be fresher than ever”
“I mean creative work that seeks to fill its audience with visceral, abject, unrelenting terror. That’s my horror.”
Hinrich smells of the road: faint wood and oil-traces laced by sweat and a certain something I’ll name manhood. He’s warm, and close.
“Then,” I press against him, “I want you to look. And I want you to see.”
“My friends–former friends after reading this, I hope–have sometimes joked that I sound like a supervillain.”