This is typically a short story blog, but occasionally I’ll deviate from that format to share something fantastic. Like this book, for example.

In the Palace of Ordeal and Death is a brand new release by a Canadian author, set in my native British Columbia.

Description from Amazon:

“Terror and ruin await those who trespass upon the palatial repository of Alizarin Soranus, self-appointed Emperor of Ordeal and Death, and the Novelties of Sorrow. For two very different groups of explorers the verbosity will become horrifically succinct.
In the wake of Soranus’ mysterious disappearance, the estate sales team of Lander and Rhoe are retained to list his extravagant collection of macabre and historical artefacts. Consequently their research rouses a dormant malevolence, hidden in the depths of the eccentric structure, one hungry for fear and pain.
When a team of paranormal investigators arrives unexpectedly, the malignance intensifies and culminates in the murderous…

Copyright © 2019. Diana Garcia. All Rights Reserved.

She is transfixed,

searching the fens

of a bleak oblivion.

He is just there,

then shimmers

away, teasing.

A paralyzing poison

infuses veins

and pollutes her ennui.

Transported,

She floats like seaweed in

an obsidian ocean

of insouciance

Immersed in some Lovecraftian netherworld:

Cthulhu’s glorious many arms and legs,

a welcome straight jacket,

embed

beguilingly,

deeply,

into her

every orifice.

The glutton

devours,

smacks,

licks,

on her anguish.

Shafts throb,

RADIANT.

Bloody claws comb away

tears,

hair,

and sad skin.

She moans,

in ecstasy for more of this amorous vice;

Longing to drown in tasty fluids and slime-slickery wet forgetfulness.

Mmmmmm, a delicious

foul opioid.

This beloved cosmic entity lovingly,

curious,

entices feelers to voraciously suck

desolate, delectable pain.

Entwined, it is an osculation

into perdition.

Like a sculptor

he reverently

reanimates,

remolds,

regenerates

her.

She succumbs.

She, now, his succubus.

***This…

Every day is a little harder.
Every day is a little easier.
Every day is a little reminder.
Every day is a little forget.

And the ache is there.
In heart
Head.
Lungs.
Elbows.
Toes.
Hair

And the ache is there.
In bed.
Car.
Basement.
Kitchen.
Living room.
Family room.

It is there.
In minutes.
Moments.
Seconds.
Breaths.
Heartbeats.
Hours.
Days.
Weeks.
Months.

But they say,
“The pain won’t last forever.”
“The ache will lessen.”
“The ache will one day cease to be.”

And they say,
“Start dating again.”
“Keep your heart open to love.”
“Let me give your name and number to this great guy I know.”

But you’re afraid.
To say yes.
To give love another chance.
To open your heart to that final hurt again.

For the ache is there.
It is always there.
Every day, it is there.

Until one day
You meet him.
Not your…

The spot has grown larger. At least I think it has. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on my eyes. I just don’t know anymore.

It’s been nearly three weeks since I first noticed the spot. I was lying in bed before lights out, glaring at the ceiling as I have done every night since I arrived here.

My first thought was that the brownish-yellow spot looked like a water stain from a leaky roof but of course that’s impossible in this place. Day after day, night after night the strange blotch on the ceiling has mesmerized me, commanding my attention day and night, even after the lights are out. I sense its presence even in pitch darkness; it emits some sort…

The smoke gray tabby lived alone. Any place that offered her shelter was home.

Underneath porch stairs.

Inside cardboard boxes.

Inside broken down and abandoned houses.

But when she slept, she dreamed of having a real home. 

A place that was warm in the winter and comfortably cool in the summer.

A place where food and water was readily available. She wouldn’t have to hunt for either or fight for them. They would be there, sitting there, waiting for her.

A place with soft beds and soft perches.

A place of gentle hands and kind voices. No one would grab her by her scruff and toss her. No one would throw things at her. No one would yell profanities at her.

It would be more than a home. It would be a haven of safety.

It was her favorite dream.

***

The smoke gray tabby skulked down the sidewalk. She…

Copyright © 2018 Diana Garcia. All Rights Reserved.

An Anthropomorphic Short Story.

Chico Barbosa sat high on the pine tree looking down at the houses. He was mentally trying to communicate with his humans, Mama and Papa Barbosa.

The white landscape blanketed the golf course and surrounding rooftops so that it confused him. Everything looked the same. It was blinding in the morning light. Last night he had admitted to himself that he was lost. He was hoping Moms and Pops would walk down one of these streets calling his name so that he could fly down and land on Pop’s shoulder or Mom’s head, his favorite perches.

The wind blew like shards of glass, bending trees, and whistled through the branches. Then, the early morning fog had disoriented him even more so he remained perched in the relative security of the thick pine tree. The cold snap the night…

I became intrigued by Barbara Ruick (1930-74) from an eye-catching bit turn she performs in Robert Altman’s California Split. She plays a lady bartender in a cowgirl outfit in the climactic poker scene. Ruick only has a couple of lines, but something about it was arresting to me. She seems much more confident and present than an ordinary extra, and Altman seems to give her slightly more attention and screentime than would be typical (though Altman is often generous in this way to minor characters, allowing them their moments to shine). But it turns out there are NUMEROUS reasons for her prominent presence in the scene.

The first is, sadly, she died during the shoot. She left work early one night, citing a splitting headache and upset stomach. Someone went to check on her the next day when she didn’t return to the set and found her dead. Brain…

My daughter was clearly upset when she arrived home from school. Crystal tossed her pink, sparkly book bag into the corner and gave it a kick.

“Bad day, honey?” I asked.

She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she ducked her chin and pouted as only a twelve-year-old can.

I waited. Finally she looked at me.

“Is it true?” she demanded.

“Is what true, sweetie?”

“That we’re going to Hell?”

“What? Where on Earth did you get that idea?”

Crystal mumbled something unintelligible.

“Pardon me?”

“Becky Bullock! I hate her so much!” she ranted. “Just because her father’s a minister she acts like she’s God and treats everyone else like dirt!”

“Now, I hardly believe God would treat anyone like dirt, honey. Come here and talk to me.” I sat on the sofa, shoving aside a pile of towels I had been folding…

Remember these dates, and grab a free download to pass those chilly winter nights.

The Feeder: FREE until Dec 18

Phobia: FREE Dec 16-20

A Feast Not So Fancy: FREE Dec 17-21

Dysfictional 2: Shreds of Sanity: FREE Dec 17-21

Dysfictional 3: Down the Psycho Path: FREE Dec 20-24

Goin’ Extinct TooBy WPaD: FREE Dec 28-Jan 1

Author’s Note: Diana at Mythos of the Mirror has a new prompt: Meet The Muse! The rules are simple. Post a conversation with your muse on your blog and then leave a link to your post in the comment section of Diana’s post here. There is no word limit. Just keep it family friendly and have fun!

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Isellta walks over to the bartender and asks for a hot toddy. He pauses. “What exactly is a hot toddy?” 

The bartender guffaws and said—–

“What are you doing?” my muse asked me.

“I’m writing. Go away.”

He stepped over to my side and peered at my computer screen through his wire-rimmed glasses. “You’re on Discord.” He made it sound like I was on the fast boat to Hell.

“Yeah? So? I’m writing.”

The bartender guffaws and—–

He narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re roleplaying with your characters.”

“Still counts as…