prøtotypê

A lanky young man with claws for hands. At one point he was me.

But I still see him.

I thought he was gone. I stopped. “No more cutting,” I said. Why is he still here?

M

The butcher in Whitby? Is he bringing it back? I don’t understand. He’s dead, that’s not possible.

“One more morsel.”

For a single Gil?

Morsengyl? I don’t understand. The yearly census. The ships taken overseas. The harm they did…

💀👻😈👹🖤

And the gang’s all here…

Nomad

I am at my best when I can stay in one place. But that’s not entirely true. I don’t know what my best is. I know what I do, though. This is the second time in the last week that I’ve sat in my closed car with music blaring. The rain and lightning have been scaring the ßhî5 out of me.

Fear. Blood. Flesh
Everything. Constant.

It’s raining. Again.

Donnie Maddens, Sept. 2021

5

T

t

An imposing tall figure with some kind of metallic headwear. A long blade clutched in his hand, dragging along the ground. Is it looking at me? Is it human? Is it alive?