Devil’s House: For You To Listen To.

Well I guess I’ve strayed into multimedia.

My friend and housemate Scott Key helped me out by throwing a little voice acting onto Devil’s House. I’m pretty damn pleased with the product, and this may be the mode of distribution from here on out.

The first two chapters are currently being hosted on SoundCloud. I encourage you to give a listen. They aren’t yet available for download- but they will be at a later date.

Please listen! Enjoy!



Goals and Plans: 2013/2014 Season

I was going to do this whole formal mission statement detailing what I wanted to do with the next year of my life.

And to tell the truth, I got bored.

So I am going to write a bit about the projects I’ve been posting, make a few empty promises, and possibly conclude with a limerick.


The first project has a special place in my heart.

What God

I started writing “What God” in my junior year of high school. Its my testament to the fact that if you keep trying to write an idea, sooner or later it will work. Its been through 6 different iterations, From Novel to Novel to TV to Movie back to TV then to This. And I am kind of in love with “This”.

But because I’ve spent so long working on this I know Michael’s whole story. I know what he did in college, how he became a PI, and I know what breaks him. But for some odd reason I started his story near the end. Its currently 15k words, all of which will be available in ebook format when I finish posting them here.


The other two projects were spawned from the same idea. A good friend of mine once had an idea: If there was steampunk, where everything was powered by a fantastical Victorian vision of the future, why shouldn’t there be Hexpunk- a world powered by Edwardian superstition. An industry of love potions lighted by will-o-the-wisps.

Devil’s House

Both were written around the same time- and are a great example of how one idea can create many different stories. “Devil’s House” is my bedtime story. Its too long to be a short story and too short to be novella. Its in between worlds- much like its own subject matter. In this I wanted to write something where the language was its own impetus for movement, where the words carried the story and not the other way around. I am hoping to one day develop this into an animated short- but in the meantime I’m having a hell of a time writing it.


Last is the Beast. 


In my sophomore year of College I finally came to terms with the possibility of pursuing writing (Which I had been doing since 4th grade), as a career. Not one for taking future employment lightly, I decided that I was going to write every single day from then on out. This was the first project I started. For its breadth- it could very well be the last one I ever finish, when I’m 92 and blind.

One of the first things I wrote on this project was the last entry. I know where it ends, and I know where the four soldiers go. All thats left is what will probably be at least 120k words in between. While I look forward to finishing it, I know it will  a decade before I do.

Devil’s House, Excerpt 2

This is the second excerpt from “Devil’s House”, a Novella that will take you to hell and back. Excerpt One Found Here

Hell Is Other Waiting Rooms

I woke up in a warm room to the soft oompah of New Orlean’s Swing. I opened my eyes to look up at a managerial spackle cieling. I was in a waiting room on a rough nap carpet. I groaned and got to my feet. There were no doors. The walls had recreations of dutch skyscapes and impressionist lilies. There were a few low tables scattered around with pamphlets laid out on them.

I walked over and picked one up, “So You’re In Hell… What Now?”

I wasn’t really that surprised. I knew this day would come. I knew what I signed up for and I was ready for it so I settled down in a chair and started to find out what the rest of my damnation would look like. So I cracked open the paper when I heard a voice

“That doesn’t apply to you, actually” I hadn’t noticed when She arrived or what door through which she’d suddenly appeared- I waited for her to continue. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but-”

“I’m Dead?” It seemed like the likely explanation.

“Well… no” And apparently it wasn’t

“But I’m in Hell”


“But I’m not dead”


And now for the more difficult question: “So why am I in Hell?”

“Well” She started, “You’re an idiot.” You can say one thing about Hell: Its brutally honest.

“Was it because I stole from Satan?” I mean, it did seem like a good idea at the time.

She nodded, looking at me like I tried to push a door that said pull.

Something nagged at me, “So I’m not dead, but I am in Hell?”


“Why?” Because, you know, it seemed like a simple enough question

She sighed and turned her hand at an invisible door knob, opening a Matisse that stretched into a door. I felt a little like a drunk kitten in a gothic wonderland, innocent enough to just accept the impossible but not coherent enough to create a simile. I gathered myself, nabbed a pamphlet, and jogged to catch up.

“So,” Caught in the forbidding vortex of awkward silence, “Whats your name?”

“Lily” She didn’t even look over at me, and kept walking. The hallway was lined with doors whose glass windows were the transparent backs of canvasses. Each room was labeled 666. I chuckled, earning a straightforward glare from Lily. This was a long hallway.

“So whats in all these rooms? More people like me?”


“Dead people?”

“Yes” She had such eloquence

At long last an old elevator door came to view at the hallway’s end. She pressed the button and we waited. Again in silence. So I Asked: “You aren’t going to ask me my name?”

“No I am not”

“Do you already know it?”

“Nope” This was going wonderfully.

“You don’t even care.”


So I stood there and wondered why it was taking so long for the elevator to arrive. “Well… I’m Scratch.” I didn’t bother sticking out my hand

She grunted, a second later the elevator dinged and we stepped inside to badly played bluegrass. We both grimmaced.

“Why is the music-”

“Its Hell,” She snapped.

So after 15 minutes of, well, Hell, the elevator dinged again and she pulled aside the accordian doors and stepped through. I followed. The lobby beyond was massive and more hell-like than my quaintly beuarucratic waiting room. The marble and granite was a deep maroon with jet lines running through it. Decorative stalactites hung from the domed ceiling. All around us bussled the diverse and disheveled dead, led around by men and women in crisp suits. The Charons of Grand Central Styx.

At the far end of the lobby, flanked by large staircases leading down, is a foreboding set of double doors with a sign that read simple, “1”. Signs on the stairs said, in a too too cheery manner, “Levels 2-?”.

“Keep up!” I hadn’t realized I had stopped and had nearly forgotten Lily was standing there, I jogged again to keep up.

“Where” I paused for a moment before continuing. Some questions in the world you really don’t need the answers to, but even still you want them.

“Choose whichever level you want”


“Look, you were in a room, I brought you down here, you don’t have an assignment so you go where you want, I don’t care.” She scowled a little and turned heel and walked away.

I called after her, “What do I do?”

“That’s not my problem”

With that she was lost in the crowd. Then I did what any flesh-and-blood man with a pulse in Hell would do. I strode out into the first layer of hell and hoped to God I could find a bar.