Seriously, after our first real winter in probably a decade, the start of spring has rolled around. Though the sixty degree days are about to give way to a stretch of high-thirties, such is the natural world in New England.
Submission Count Update!
We’re 18.3% of the way through 2026 (and 34% of the way through this shit show of a presidency for those keeping tabs of that particular garbage fire) and, while I can’t tell if I’m amazed this much time has gone by or disgruntled that it’s only been two months when it feels like an entire year already, I can highlight that I’m keeping up with my goal of sending out 77 short story submissions this year (and likely amassing 77 rejections).
As of today, I’ve sent out 18 of which I’ve gotten 10 responses, all Rs at this point. But the goal is just to get them out, because they can’t be acceptances if they don’t get in the slush pile to begin with. Regardless, 18 of 77 equals out to 23.4% of the way there! So I’ve got a head start on the year - that’s fun.
Reading, Watching, Playing
A triumph occurred during the second month of the year of our universe 2026: I finished, for the first time, the entire series of the US version of The Office. What started in November and continued through the holidays and into the new year has finally wrapped up. I get the hype. Even being nearly two decades late to the party (just in time to clean up after everyone else’s good time) I get it. Was it perfect? Nah. But it was a solid 8 out of 10 and I'm very glad my movie-preferring-commitaphobe-ass took the plunge on nine (NINE) seasons of over twenty (OVER TWENTY) episodes each…
Between finishing The Office, the Olympics, and the coming tide of March Madness (for my fellow collegiate sports fans), there weren’t as many movies watched during this short month nor did as much reading get done. The second month of the year saw one (yes only one) novel, Not Your Final Girl by Mikayla Randolph (more thoughts on this one here: Not Your Final Girl ), and the novelette, Squid Teeth penned by Sarah Langan. The later, published last year, is a beautifully disturbing read that definitely belongs on the…
… HWA Final Ballot for the Stoker Awards
Yup! The premier list in horror and otherwise dark writing and media has been released. You can find the full list here: Stoker Awards Final Ballot
Squid Teeth was nominated under the Long Fiction category and it’s well worth a read. Both Stomata and Autogas Ferryman, both nominated under the Short Fiction category and written by L.E. Daniels and Champ Wongsatayanont respectively, are both phenomenal pieces as well.
Fiction First
Well, technically it’s last since this is the end of the newsletter but in our collective hearts we know it’s always first. A little treat - for those that want something to read and like the macabre. Below, is my unpublished flash fiction piece Purpose. A short horror tale following Death as she attempts to poison a party full of people, Purpose has been through a few revisions but hasn’t gotten in front of an editor - this one’s just for you (so all spelling/grammar errors are my own). CW: death, suicide
Until next time - stay safe, be weird. - BT
Purpose
By Benjamin Thomas
Death arrives at a party she’s not invited to and passes by the doorman unseen and unknown. She smiles from beneath a black veil and lifts a glass from the cocktail table. No one notices it disappear once her fingers—nails painted a violent red, the same color as the drink—touch the thin, glass stem, and if someone does, they chalk it up to liquor, drugs, or giddiness.
And why would they not? The world hasn’t ended as so many thought it would. Outside this towering monolith of glass in the middle of a savage concrete jungle, existence continues. Ungrateful blobs of flesh and bone not grasping how closely they had come to returning to the dirt which they plough and disregard.
Death smiles and sips her drink, relishing in the knowledge of what she is about to do. This will be yet another attempt at restarting the game with rules that haven’t been crossed-out and rewritten only to be disregarded entirely. Fresh off the results of her last attempt: over 3.4 million souls captured directly, while others found their way to her eventually, the lingering effects and complications of the disease refusing to let them go.
Behind her, a quiet, feathery voice says, “Is it really worth drinking if you can’t feel the alcohol?”
Death turns, bewildered, and takes in the woman before her. She’s wearing a maroon dress that shimmers as it hangs from one shoulder, wrapping her body from chest to feet like her figure is an elegant gift. Death doesn’t recognize this woman, but the glimmer in her green eyes is intoxicating.
“It’s about the taste,” Death says. A person turns, perplexed at a sound they think they hear. Death ignores their curiosity and asks the woman who she is, her presence intriguing.
The woman smiles and saunters towards the balcony where several people stand with drinks and cigarettes in hand. Several take drags on joints rolled with the weed that smells like tangy, wet moss. The air is chilled. Below them, the metropolis bustles with life and lights.
Death observes the woman move past a couple pressed against the railing, lips and tongues entwined, and smiles at her invisibility to those still breathing. “You’re stuck in Limbo,” she observes. “Odd though, to still be on the mortal side of things. Didn’t like waiting by the river?”
The woman shakes her head and Death asks her what happened.
“Botched suicide. So now my body’s in some hospital in the city while I wander around waiting for someone to tell me which side of the karmic scale my life added weight to.”
“Modern medicine,” Death says.
“It’s interesting having a foot in both worlds yet not existing in either. It’s kinda like the afternoon hours at a boring job, your mind running through a million other things you could be doing but can’t because your ass belongs in that chair staring at a glowing rectangle that’s slowly causing you to go blind.”
Death leans against the railing, her robes curling around her like fog. “The inability to realize how fleeting time is happens to be one of humanity’s biggest failings.”
“Believe me, I know,” the woman says, her voice laced with sarcasm.
Death watches the people inside, dancing and laughing. Drinking and flirting. Men and women sneaking upstairs alongside people they didn’t arrive with. “They think they’re entitled to this world of theirs, inside these see-through walls.”
The woman looks to the streets below. Steam rises from vents while homeless vets sleep on cardboard mattresses. “Tell me about it. As if the wealth gap will save them from pestilence.”
“Will be such a shame when they realize they’re on the wrong side of the divide.”
“You’re here to start something,” the woman says. “You are, aren’t you? Whatever it is let me do it.” Death looks at her, confused and intrigued by the absurdity. The woman leans closer. “Please?”
“Not allowed.”
“Technically, I’m not allowed to kill myself either yet here we are.”
“That is a gross oversimplification and a false equivalency. It’s my job to do.”
The woman’s eyes flicker like distant stars, their glimmer slowly fading, lost in a dampness threatening to spill into tears. “I spent my life wanting to do something, but everything I did was wrong. After so many failed attempts, all I could think of was to remove myself from the decision. And now I’m wandering aimlessly, forced to exist in space I can’t take up.”
Slowly, Death nods with understanding. “There is no good that comes from a lack of purpose.”
“Exactly!”
The couple pawing at one another pauses. They look around in confusion. With nothing there that they can see, they head inside, leaving Death and the woman alone on the balcony.
Death peers out across the city and thinks of all the people that will die that night. Those that will linger, and ones that might survive because even the worst of the endings sees something rising from the ashes.
She pulls a small vial from inside her robe. Inside is powder that looks like the finest cocaine.
“Over the food,” Death says, “and into the drinks.”
The woman wipes her eyes, enthusiastically nodding. Her words of thanks barely squeak out as she takes the vial, throws her arms around Death, and heads inside. There’s a purpose to her gait, one that hadn’t been there before. Death wonders what that purpose would have accomplished in the world should it have always been there.
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