#patrick-w-marsh — Public Fediverse posts

Read my Poem “A Junkyard Father” Published on Altered Reality Magazine

Hello again! I recently had a trifecta of luck at Altered Reality with some poems, and this is my second one that was picked up for publication by them.

This week the poem is a little different than my previous one. No haunted forest or paradoxical monsters.

Instead, I choose to focus on an image that has haunted me ever since I watched it. The toy scene in Bladerunner (director’s cut of course) in Sebastian’s attic has stuck with me ever since I watched it back in 2004. I often wonder what would those cybernetic creations do if Sebastian never returned.

Who would take care of them?

In “A Junkyard Father” I follow this same idea and principle. A scientist has created sentient toys in some robotic future, and he is confronted with the concept of mortality. When he dies and leaves this world, they’ll be nobody to take care of them. The toys will outlive him, and still require maintenance. He’ll die when they could potentially live for centuries.

How will they cope? Who will be there?

You can read “A Junkyard Father” right here.

As always, you should check out the whole of Altered Reality. They publish great stuff from a variety of voices.

Thank you for reading my work, and have a nice Wednesday!

Malaise and Pushups

Mostly, I love mornings. Unless I have to go to work. This happens to be the majority of mornings. Despite me writing all the time like some frenzied badger with spectacles and a cardigan, I don’t make a living at it, or at least enough to make it my fulltime gig. In the future I keep telling myself. Anyways, waking myself up in the morning is hard. Don’t get me wrong, I like my 9 – 5 job. It pays the bills, keeps me alive, provides a little for my family, etc. At my wedding my coworkers were more enjoyable than the majority of my family. That doesn’t stop the existential dread I feel in the morning. One life. What am I doing? How I hate being another nameless cog in the hyper capitalist machine.

I get up early, close to 5 am before getting ready for work. Apparently, and I’ve become more health conscious as I’ve gotten older, but men’s cortisol is highest in the morning. So yeah, all the anxiety, stress, ideas, memories, thoughts, it all hits me like a ton of bricks in the morning.

I can’t speak for all men in this phenomenon of course. Not trying to whatsoever. However, there is plenty of scientific evidence that men’s cortisol levels are highest in the morning. I know for myself currently it is true. I don’t meditate or really attempt that sort of stuff. I guess this could be some variation of it. After I use the bathroom I sort of just lay on the couch and close my eyes. No music. No audiobook. I just give myself about 20 minutes to let my mind be sort of crazy. Paranoia, worry, anxiety, rumination, and intrusive thoughts get their time. I’m always stocked up in those categories. I sort of focus on all the anger and anxiety. I sometimes go past the 20, and sometimes I go less.

After I journey down this dark hole of reflection and wistfulness, I usually workout. I go for about 30 minutes. I do three exercises of free weights, with five sets of each. It is usually a mix of upper body, lower body, and core work. After this I brush my teeth and make myself presentable for the workday. I kiss my wife goodbye, go wake up my kids if I have them that day, and then head to work or to drop them off. Sometimes I have to take my dog back to my exes as well. He’s part of our divorce agreement. Getting twin 10 year old boys, and a dog ready and into my car at 7:00 am is not an easy process. It tends to be stressful.

There have been plenty of times where I skip working out because I’ve ventured too far into the abyss. Where the malaise and existential wormhole has shackled me and I find myself to be unmovable until it is time to wake up my sons. So my weird meditation has drawbacks. Overall, I’ve found if I give myself just some time to worry about things, to really let my anxieties breath in the day, it is much easier to operate. I’m giving the devil its due for about twenty minutes, and that is it. This technique sort of shackles these spots in place for the day. Not saying they don’t reappear. I’ve found at night when I’m tired my ability to control them is weakened.

Weekends are obviously a little bit different. I still tend to wake up before my wife and kids are up, since my schedule is designed for early morning activity. I usually spend my mornings working out if my schedule is thrown off, or I skipped day during the week. I work on blog posts, submissions, edits, and other smaller bits of writing. If I complete all those I’ll play a video game like Tears of the Kingdom, or something else.

As one does.

Read my Poems Published by Horrific Scribblings

Pretty straightforward blog post today. I was fortunate enough for Horrific Scribblings an excellent literary magazine to accept and publish three of my poems recently in one of their issues.

All three poems followed the same theme of horrific cultural folklore. The collection was titled: “Stones, Bridges, and Blades: Three Poems of Legend and Lore.”

You can read all three of them right here

Like I said above, there are three poems in all.

One poem is about Medusa, and the POV of the statues in her acropolis of terror. I love that I’ve been wanting an excuse to use the word ‘acropolis’ and I made a poem for the occasion.

The second poem is about a troll who cannot stand any sound. I’ve wanted to use a pickling mechanic in my creature design, and this poem has it. Very disturbing.

The third poem is what attracted this lit magazine to my voice initially, and its about the relationship between a warrior and his haunted sword. How a hunger for violence can spread to inanimate objects, and be mutually beneficial.

Besides my poetry, you really should just read this lit magazine in general. They have amazing content, and if you like horror or write it, this is a must of a destination. I’ve highly enjoyed what I’ve digested from Horrific Scribblings. Very honored that they took a chance on my voice.

You can find the main page right here

Thank you for the support everyone!

Goals are Roots to a Forest

I’m not a huge fan of questions like this, which is why I decided to answer this specific daily writing prompt. A question like this oversimplifies the complexities of life and all its many forces that are thrown at you. I just don’t agree with reducing down a yes or no when it comes to your goals. As if you were simply flipping on a light switch when it reflects making decisions and how they correlate to your goals.

That’s not how dreams and goals actually function in our fragile reality.

We have a bit of a dream/goal issue in our society. We sort of look at them as single-lane highway firing off into some yellow rock wasteland. You can only go in one direction. The hustle. The grind. All those bits of vernacular from the social media monster of a zeitgeist. They’re all masks over shadows. With goals and dreams, if you get off this road of destiny, I feel shame and guilt for sometimes being limited as a freaking human being.

Wants, needs, desires, rest, self-care, there is this certain cloud of shame that surrounds you if you’re not relentlessly pursuing your goals.

I understand passion. Drive. All those buzzwords. I have passion in spades. My god, I’ve gone back and forth on traditional publishing, and self-publishing so many times. Sometimes between decades. I’ve been trying to figure out which direction to go. My overarching goal is the same though as I execute this fluid state. I want to get my voice out there. I want to be seen. I want to tell stories about monsters, and their complexities in various mediums.

These are all different branches, forests, and pathways from the same root.

And that is okay. Your dreams, or for the sake of this question, your goals, don’t have to flow in one direction. We are not a one lane highway. Goals can spread out, find different homes, and adapt to what is echoing in your personal life. Because yes, I would say I’m living my dream by pursuing writing and my monster fascination, but also I want a personal life, and that requires me to be human, and have human needs. I have a wife. Children. A family. Friends. Connections to people in my life. Their needs and mine do not require me to say no, they just require me to be human.

So basically what I’m saying is that you can’t make things this simplistic when it comes to your goals, because goals populate reality in ways you can’t even imagine, exactly how one root can start a forest.

Also, you cannot predict how your goals will unfold, and that’s all the fun.

Bonus Free Book for March

Exactly as the post title says, I have a free bonus book for this weekend. It is my favorite novel (alas not my most popular) Beware the Ills, which is FREE today and tomorrow on the Kindle. I have been sharing this novel in chunks the last year, which you can read right here, but if you’re dying to finish it, just get the book. Dark fantasy, steampunk, weird POV, giant sword fights, cannibal monster guy, pet sasquatch, etc.

For the last 30 years he has been the sole protector of the legendary Diamond Town. Every hour it snows, howls, and storms. Every week, wave after wave of invaders crawl through the woods scouring for a bit of fame and glory on this lost island — and he cuts them all down with indiscriminate slashes of his sword. No one has survived being the Guardian as long as him, and the shadows are seething with vengeance in the forests and mountains. A vengeful cannibal from a lost invasion, ancient beasts stalking about the mountains waiting to attack, and a fresh new batch of invaders with a beautiful berserker and emotionless captain are just a few of the festering plagues on this cursed island. There will be no respite. There will be no end to the war and strife. The winters are growing longer, the cold harsher, and the enemies bolder. Take a walk in the footsteps of the Diamond Town’s Guardian and his world, through his own blood-weary eyes. Count your footsteps and mind the silence, it’s time to hunt, and to fill the graveyard again.

Hit it here to get Beware the Ills for FREE on the Kindle Today and Tomorrow

March Free Book Giveaway

It is a purely Greenland Diaries theme book giveaway for this March. Today and tomorrow (March 14th and 15th), the first three books in my apocalyptic horror series are free on the Kindle. These books are part of a relaunch of the series with new edits, revisions, and polishings. It is the perfect time to get invested in this collection. Plus, I will have a new Greenland Diaries book coming out this summer entitled the Unnamed. It is a giant collection of short stories separate from the main narrative, but sharing the same universe. More details forthcoming. Until then, enjoy the free books below.

“It began with a drum. Then the monsters came. I’ve been hiding ever since.” The following collections of journals were recovered from a caravan outside of Duluth, Minnesota. The exact date of recovery is not known nor is the origin of the speaker. The Bureau for the Restoration of History (BFRH) would like help in identifying the man who kept these records. This unedited record of events is still considered the most accurate history of the apocalypse that occurred on April 15th, 2011.

Click HERE to get the Greenland Diaries: Days 1 – 100 for FREE on the Kindle

The following collections of journals were recovered from a caravan outside of Duluth, Minnesota. The exact date of recovery is not known nor is the origin of the speaker. The Bureau for the Restoration of History (BFRH) would like help in identifying the man who kept these records. This unedited record of events is still considered the most accurate history of the apocalypse that occurred on April 15th, 2011.All errors have been left intact in the effort to preserve historical authenticity. If you have any information about these diaries, please contact your closest bureau to speak to a representative.

Click HERE to get the Greenland Diaries: Days 101 – 140 for FREE on the Kindle

“They come for me at night. I will not outrun them. We can’t fight them every drum. They need to stop. They need to get away from me. I can’t keep fighting what I don’t see. When will it stop? There are faceless monsters in the night. There are faceless monsters in the day. People sewn together from dead parts like old clothes. I don’t understand it. Someone please help me.”

Click HERE to get the Greenland Diaries: Days 141 – 200 for FREE on the Kindle

I talk about karma, monsters, and using superstitions as plot devices in my response to this daily writing prompt. Hit the link below for the whole post:

#writing #blogging #wordpress #dailywritingprompt #horror #fiction #literaryhorror #books #patrickwmarsh #karma #superstitious #blogginglife

https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2026/03/11/between-karma-and-monsters/

Between Karma and Monsters

This is a great question, and it was the most intriguing for me out of all the Daily Writing Prompts for the week. For someone like me, who writes literary horror and often uses monsters as objects of karma or divine justice in certain situations, I think about superstition often. I write in superstition a lot as well, in my settings and plot devices. I rely a lot on fear of the unknown as an object in my writing. Monsters are a great metaphor for this fear.

We are all trying to avoid hardship, and if we can find a somewhat unexplainable pattern or ritual that our certain and specific patterns of behavior might help and suspend pain or trauma, we’re going to seize them. Ironically, in these areas of avoidance, well sometimes that is where monsters themselves fester. Sometimes creating patterns to be safe cause the unresolved pain to outgrow the avoidance. That is another blog post and monster.

Monsters can also be personifications of superstition. Some were born directly from them from various cultures and their mythologies. I have always found this lore intriguing. That being said, I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily superstitious, but I do believe in some perhaps related forces. The chief one being karma.

I for certain believe in karma. Whether it is something I have observed, or been judged upon, the universe has a way of remembering things and spinning them back at you. In my own life, for all the stupid and selfish mistakes I have made (and there have been plenty), if I ever refuse to take ownership over them, well, life, the universe, existence, and karma has done a more than adequate job of pointing out my misdeeds. Sometimes I feel like the mole in Whack-A-Mole, and karma has been the mallet whacking me whenever I emerge.

I’m hardly alone in that metaphor. I don’t challenge karma or the threads of justice that layer through the unseen world. Everything catches up with you. I suppose that is my biggest superstition. Granted, I don’t like breaking mirrors. It feels so unnatural.

One thing about karma that I think is interesting, is that time itself functions as karma. It makes negative or toxic behavior fester which causes bad outcomes to multiply. At least that’s my belief. Also, I think one thing I like to explore as a writer of monsters is that superstitions are given life, identity, and meaning, without any consent. This is easy to replicate with monsters in storytelling. Also, I don’t like walking under ladders.

Maybe I am superstitious.

Spaces and Gaps (Plus Expedition 33)

I really wanted to have something cool and edgy to share about this writing prompt, but unfortunately mine is pretty mundane. I have self-published quite a few books. Over a dozen of them now. This was a process I learned myself back in 2013. What a different world back then. Amazon didn’t have KDP but CreateSpace. I feel like I could stare at a lake and feed ducks with this observation about time passing.

I have always formatted them in Microsoft word, and because of how the file exports to Amazon’s platform, you need to keep an eye on your spaces and gaps or the whole document will be thrown-off. Recently, I remembered that I could use a setting in Microsoft Word to symbolize all the spaces and gaps throughout the document (ctrl+shift+8) and yeah, that made my writing life significantly easier.

I think it is really easy, especially now that I’m older, to get stuck in habits and structures without challenging yourself. I didn’t necessarily need this setting or formatting tool. Not having it wouldn’t have prevented me from writing. Only oblivion would stop me from writing and releasing books. Learning this has helped editing immensely. Pursuing help or learning, whether it is through knowledge or community, seems to be a fickle spot for me. I know I’m hardly alone in that perspective. In this era of consumerism and vigorous individuality, I almost feel guilty for learning new things, as if I should have known them before I needed to.

The pressure I feel to always eat protein, save money, workout, get steps, read books, and not be on social media (but somehow be on social media to hear these things) rattles my brain. Learning something new isn’t necessarily an adventure with this pressure, but a requirement. Sort of takes the magic out of the whole experience.

I know as I get older and get even more established roots in art, family, and life, it is important to pay attention to what is invented and released. This actually happened with a game recently. I do try and stay up on my media and whatnot, because as a storyteller, you want to see what is being done and released. Plus, I love a good story.

Anyways, Expedition 33 came out, and it was suggested to my wife. She got it for our PS5, and wow, what a game. It has thoroughly changed my life in a way only art could. I absolutely loved it. I’m still playing through it. My wife already beat it once. I’m so happy I tried something new. Expedition 33 is a turn based RPG, and I hadn’t played on of those in at least 15 years. So it is like I’m learning something new, but trying something old?

Literary Horror

What do I actually write?

I get this question a lot in my personal life, at conventions, and even when I ship out books at the post office. I have always struggled to answer it because I carried a certain amount of shame around it. That shame came from multiple places. Some of it came from people in my life degrading the things I write about, dismissing them in favor of other genres that better matched their own interests, like nonfiction.

Another source of that negativity is the stigma attached to writing horror. Occasionally, people assume you are dark, weird, disturbed, or antisocial because you write horror. Again, another subverted stereotype for people to be comfortable with their own insecurities. I am relatively simplistic as a man. I like football, working out, hunting, fishing, and gaming. I have a wife, kids, a dog, a minivan, and a favorite brand of paper towel. If you sat down to have a beer with me, you would have no clue about what I write, unless I mentioned it specifically.

I have found it difficult to start conversations saying that I write about faceless monsters reanimating corpses to metaphorically portray a generational abandonment wound.

With my monsters, I have attempted to abandon them countless times in my writing career. I have wanted to be someone else because of the reasons I listed above, and also because many people I respect and admire have nudged me toward giving them up. They have never directly said those words to me, but their actions and opinions often pointed in that direction. I understand they were trying to share what worked for them or how they defined success, but I cannot do it.

I write literary horror.

I did not know that was a genre until I researched it, and I was surprised to find such a clear distinction. However, it is exactly what I write. It is not pulpy, slasher, or even traditionally scary. It is horror, but my voice relies more on literary technique than specific plot mechanics or motifs. Much of my work lives in magical realism, slipstream, and poetic spaces. Monsters are the foundation of my stories.

I use them in multiple ways. They are mirrors for human behavior. Metaphors for sociological issues. Conduits for processing my own personal traumas. Some of the reasons I write this way are clear to me, and others I am still discovering. That is part of the beauty of taking this adventure as a writer. I am learning new things about myself and my style as I continue. I feel very lucky and privileged to be doing it. Literary horror is a specific genre, but using monsters not for shock or spectacle, but to communicate human emotions and lived experiences, is the only way I know how to write.

So the purpose of this random blog post about what I write is simple. I have never really said this out loud or clearly named it before. Maybe that means I am a little more confident in who I am and what I am doing. I have finally accepted this role for myself. Whatever the case, I just wanted to talk about it, so that is what I did on my blog.

Wrote a blog post where I actually define what I write. Doesn't sound too challenging until you actually try it. About time after about 13 years doing this. Better late than never.

#writing #books #craft #literaryhorror #horror #literary #amwriting #fictionwriting #monsters #patrickwmarsh

https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2026/02/25/what-do-i-actually-write/

Talking

The Drum did not stop its violence.

Other Unnamed had ceased their attacks on humans unless provoked. This one did not. It continued to kill and hunt them in daylight and moonlight. It preferred the shadows. It was the regular type of Unnamed, a towering black cloud with golden bones and spikes. Its hood was empty of any face or detail. Its back was prickled with points. Its claws were bludgeons and blades. It had survived the countless battles between humans and Reanimated, right up until the Drum’s destruction.

Then, when that song went dead in the abyss that was its mind, the Unnamed could not help but feel regret. It had not properly reanimated anyone. It had tried, over and over again with various victims during the Drum. Still, nobody could be its mouthpiece. A year of strife, rancor, and bloodshed had passed in the booming of the Drum, but the Unnamed still had not gotten what it wanted. There was no communication for it besides violent intention. Now, with the universal motivation of the Drum gone, this Unnamed was an outlier.

It was only a matter of time before humans or Reanimated killed it.

Still, the Unnamed had to try.

The monster lurked in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Minneapolis. The city had been mostly silent during the Drum, but since its destruction more survivors had trickled into the carved out buildings encrusted with green. The Unnamed waited for them in the shadows of debris. Sometimes they were armed and fired into its body as it lunged from the gloom, stabbing and swinging wildly, searching for the killing strike that would shatter its victims. Occasionally, in the confusion of gunfire, bullets struck its ribs or appendages, tearing away some of the dark energy coursing through its abomination veins.

It did not matter.

The Unnamed could still sink into the plants to heal, with or without the Drum. The natural world still favored its kind, and they would always have this relationship.

No human could ever understand.

The Unnamed knew it could not continue to kill, dissect, and rearrange humans for much longer. Other Unnamed who had pursued their old desires and dreams were hunted down by squads of humans and Reanimated. With good reason. The monster could understand why. There had been enough killing. Humans would never be able to completely trust them, even with the Drum gone.

If they knew why they were killed, would they ever understand?

Humans could not comprehend how easy they had it compared to the Unnamed. They could speak. They could communicate. They could talk among themselves in countless languages and sounds. The Unnamed could not do any of this. Some versions could, like the Puppeteer and some of the Gravity, but overall they were voiceless in a world that required speech.

That was where the Reanimated were meant to fill the gaps. They were supposed to be mouthpieces, instruments, and puppets for the Unnamed to communicate with the world. Instead, they became lost, their own entities, and rebelled against their creators. The Unnamed did not know they would have to kill to speak. That was not their original design, and their father, if he were around, might have instructed them differently.

Sadly, he was nowhere to be found.

More flash fiction from my book series the Greenland Diaries. This is from the POV of the lead monster in this story, the Unnamed. You can learn more about the book series right here. There are also other flash fiction pieces I’ve published on here you can read. Thank you for reading my work.

A Streetlight Requiem

It had lived in them for years.

It was in their dreams, fantasies, and nightmares. It followed them during the day, night, and everywhere else. It watched from rooftops, sewers, roads, and alleys. When it truly learned about them, long before the Drum woke, the world was different. There was less technology, fewer people, and less complexity. Their society was splintered by conflict and economic instability. Sometimes, the Puppeteer wished it could have studied different eras and times, but it did not possess that level of individuality when the Drum existed. It simply listened to the voices in the dark. It had no direction other than them.

The monster was sent out before the Drum had fully awakened. Something in the currents of shadow and reality stirred it. A disturbance from another time and place. The humans who survived, and who later learned of the future’s interference in their world, understood that the Unnamed were present before the Drum played its demon song. They did not know exactly when the Unnamed began to monitor them, but by their understanding of time it would have been around the nineteen fifties. It was through that familiar stretch of americana that the Puppeteer learned about their culture. Those images imprinted themselves into its phantom arms and through the various wires linked to the plants that would overtake the world when the Drum arrived.

The Puppeteer’s role in the apocalypse was to be the flame to the moths.

It was the dream weaver, the illusion maker, the painter of the old world the Unnamed had so violently destroyed. The Puppeteer knew that humans would eventually learn to avoid the monsters once they recognized their patterns. It needed to draw them back out into shadows and blades. So it forged the images. Cars, people, laughter, music, planes, entire cities gleaming with phantom energy became its nightly tapestry.

Out of all the spectral stories it told through its long arms, gray body, and hidden wires threaded through the unchecked bloom of vine and flower, it loved the streetlights the most. There was something about their glow. Their amber sheen bled through time and memory. That luminescence seemed unchanged no matter what else shifted or collapsed. The Puppeteer spent countless days and nights hidden in the apocalyptic underbrush and in plain sight. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years passed after its activation. Yet the streetlights were always the same.

Until now.

The Drum was gone. It vanished silently one evening after turquoise thunder lit the northern sky. The moment it disappeared, the Puppeteer felt no urge to create illusions or lure humans and Reanimated to their grisly fate at the edge of its family’s claws. It was free, a sensation entirely new to it. At first, the Puppeteer did not know what to do with the excess of time.

It wandered the city, walking between houses and treetops. Though faceless, the Puppeteer was more humanoid than most of the other Unnamed. It had gray, leathery skin, broad shoulders, and long, gangly arms. Its height and face were what made it truly monstrous. The Puppeteer stood nearly thirty feet tall, and its face lacked any real features except for a black hole that seemed to fold inward if stared at for too long. It once hid constantly, camouflaging itself day and night among rubble using mirages and spells. Its massive body was flexible enough to twist into impossible positions, allowing it to vanish into the ruined landscape.

Hiding was no longer necessary.

Now it roamed freely through rubble and green growth in the open daylight. Occasionally, human survivors fled at the sight of it, or fired their weapons in panic. More often than not, nothing interacted with the Puppeteer at all.

At night, the monster found itself unable to do anything but feel nostalgic.

It would settle somewhere in the wasteland, blending into the darkness as its skin adapted to its surroundings, like a cuttlefish drifting across a deepwater reef. From there, it would connect the green threads beneath its wrists into the surrounding vegetation. Long, wormlike strands crept outward, weaving through soil, asphalt, and ruin. Once they reached their chosen points, they ignited the darkness with illusions of the old world.

The Puppeteer was focused on only one image now.

Streetlights.

Dozens of them lining empty roads. The Drum no longer demanded lures for the living. Those days ended beneath the teal lightning that destroyed it. These visions were not meant to hunt. They were made purely for entertainment. The Puppeteer did not care if humans were drawn to them, though most survivors no longer trusted the glow of streetlights. It only wanted to see the old world again, the warmth and simplicity of amber rings stretching across quiet streets.

There was something calm and beautiful about them. The monster did not know why.

It only knew that it needed to see them.

If you haven’t encountered a Puppeteer from the mainline series of the Greenland Diaries, you might be a little confused. You can read about that right here. The Puppeteer is responsible for the various illusions and mirages that appear once the Drum takes hold in this apocalyptic environment. They’re sort of like the angler fish of this wasteland. Thank you for reading my flash fiction from this series.

The Leaning Gun

Doris was surprised she missed it.

The Drum was over.

The monsters were still lurking about, but they were mostly calm unless you fired a bullet in their direction. It was difficult to resist this urge after nearly a year of killing, fighting, and maiming. Even at Doris’s age, she still helped other survivors battle the Unnamed in the streets. She had lost countless friends in the process, but she was still happy she participated.

When the Drum started, she was retired, widowed, and somewhat abandoned by society in her small home in Robbinsdale, Minnesota. The monsters scared her at first. She hid in a crawl space beneath her steps. However, after watching so many people fight and die in the streets, between houses, and underneath beds, she could not hide her seventy year old self anymore. She found an assault rifle and learned how to use it. She became effective, quick, and stealthy, hiding in the layers of wreckage and greenery.

As quickly as Doris had begun to unleash bullets into the wandering shadows and fight for her home against the plants and illusions, the Drum was destroyed. The Unnamed were no longer tearing apart her home night after night, frustration and vendetta powering their golden claws. The conflict that had ravaged the world and carved it into a verdant ghost of its former self was over. There was still violence and monsters, but it lacked the same edge. They were no longer being hunted to the demonic percussion.

Peace had become surreal, off putting, and seemingly unattainable after such sustained rage.

Doris had found it surprisingly easy to fight the monsters.

She had always been quiet, especially in her older age. Nobody around the neighborhood really acknowledged her existence. She took walks along the streets alone, delicately minding the uneven bumps in gravel and asphalt. She never imagined she would be sneaking, bending, and hiding behind rubble while fighting otherworldly monsters. She did it anyway, and now it was time to stop.

Some survivors were forming ragtag bands to hunt down the Unnamed spread throughout the neighborhood and city. After a few engagements, most were killed. Refugees from the north, where the Drum had been destroyed, said the Unnamed would defend themselves. In doing so, they appeared more violent than before, if that was possible.

That afternoon, in the alleyway behind her home, Doris felt a violent pull toward her newfound but retired abilities. The corridor of abandoned houses was a green, debris laden tunnel of flowers, ivy, and partially crumbled walls. A few cats and dogs scrambled among empty cars and homes, looking for food and shelter. The winds were heavy, billowing the overgrown trees into long, bubbly shadows.

Doris stood beside her old vegetable garden at the end of her backyard. Some cherry tomatoes had come back. She picked them slowly with her veiny fingers, placing them into an old ice cream bucket. Doris was pale, her long gray hair tied into a ponytail with a black hair tie. She wore a white gardening apron embroidered with flowers. Behind her stood a silver tool shed that she had pruned free of plants and their extensions multiple times throughout the apocalypse. Leaning against it was her assault rifle. She did not know the exact name or brand of the weapon, but she knew what bullets it took.

A long, aching grind groaned from down the alleyway. It was the sound of golden bone being dragged along rock, grass, and every surface beneath its spiked edge. Doris’s green eyes fell on the black metal skeleton of the gun because of what was moving toward her.

It was the Red Unnamed.

A towering crimson cloud of points, claws, and ribs, adorned in a moving ruby storm that fluctuated between afternoon sunlight and shadow. It stood higher than some of the nearby homes, especially those whose roofs had collapsed beneath excessive foliage. Doris followed it with her eyes as it passed quietly, without interest, its obscene golden claw leaving a sediment wake behind it.

Doris’s gun would do nothing against this Unnamed. She had watched them shrug off bazooka blasts. It took dozens of survivors to kill just one.

“Don’t know what to do with yourself? I hear that,” Doris said, stepping into the alleyway behind it. “Me too. Though it is sort of nice we are both in the same position.”

The Red Unnamed stopped.

Doris laughed nervously.

“Uh oh,” she said. “You do understand me, don’t you?”

More flash fiction from the Greenland Diaries. You can learn more about the series right here. Thank you for reading my work. Writing about a character like Doris is something the post-apocalyptic setting offers me, and I might not have found her without it. One of the reasons I love writing fiction and monsters. The characters that reflect off that mirror.

#apocalyptic #author #blogging #books #bookseries #fantasy #fiction #flashfiction #horror #monsters #novels #patrickWMarsh #reading #shortstory #theGreenlandDiaries #writing

January Book Giveaway

For the month of January, I’ll be giving away the first three books in my popular, post apocalyptic horror series the Greenland Diaries. Perfect time to jump into it. The have fantastic monsters, a raw found journal voice, and tons of suspense. FREE on the Kindle today through Monday. Links and descriptions below:

“It began with a drum. Then the monsters came. I’ve been hiding ever since.” The following collections of journals were recovered from a caravan outside of Duluth, Minnesota. The exact date of recovery is not known nor is the origin of the speaker. The Bureau for the Restoration of History (BFRH) would like help in identifying the man who kept these records. This unedited record of events is still considered the most accurate history of the apocalypse that occurred on April 15th, 2011.

Click here to get the Greenland Diaries: Days 1 – 100 for Free

The following collections of journals were recovered from a caravan outside of Duluth, Minnesota. The exact date of recovery is not known nor is the origin of the speaker. The Bureau for the Restoration of History (BFRH) would like help in identifying the man who kept these records. This unedited record of events is still considered the most accurate history of the apocalypse that occurred on April 15th, 2011.All errors have been left intact in the effort to preserve historical authenticity. If you have any information about these diaries, please contact your closest bureau to speak to a representative.

Click here to get the Greenland Diaries: Days 101 – 140 for Free

“They come for me at night. I will not outrun them. We can’t fight them every drum. They need to stop. They need to get away from me. I can’t keep fighting what I don’t see. When will it stop? There are faceless monsters in the night. There are faceless monsters in the day. People sewn together from dead parts like old clothes. I don’t understand it. Someone please help me.”

Click here to get the Greenland Diaries: Days 141 – 200 for free

#apocalyptic #author #blogging #bookgiveaway #books #fantasy #fiction #freebook #freeebook #freefantasybook #freehorrorbook #freekindlebook #freeonkindle #freereadWriting #horror #journals #kindlefreebie #monsters #novels #patrickWMarsh #reading #theGreenlandDiaries #writing

The Warehouse Window

For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.

I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.

That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.

I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamed

in fourth grade.

#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

January Update 1/14/2026

• First update of 2026! Wow, hard to believe we’re already in this year. I can’t believe it. The last year went by so quickly with everything. Happy to be approaching some big events coming up. More details forthcoming.
• Had a good last week with two literary magazines accepting some of my work. Both acceptances in a 24 hour period. Really made me feel good. It feels weird to talk about these successes. I wasn’t really raised in an environment where you celebrated these things without some sort of guilt or takedown being on the backside of it. Hard to market success when you have this emotional baggage. I’m working on it.
• For every acceptance it seems like there are about 10 or 15 rejections. If you could see my submission tracker the amount of red is like an 80’s slasher flick. I constantly get rejections in my email. I suffer about them all the time, so celebrating the positivity feels like sort of a must.
• For years I have mainly used WordPress for my sharing of information and content, despite other places being more keen and prevalent. This is partially my innate shyness, but also what I write. Literary horror isn’t something you just talk about in a post or picture, but something you pull people into. Curiosity is your marketing, and the flash and giggle of social media doesn’t necessarily match up with it always. I sort of lure you in with less, so marketing has been a struggle for me. As I shift into traditional publishing more, I know I’ll have to continue to enhance my content and message. I’ll be sharing things more across all platforms.
• Beware the Ills and the Greenland Diaries continue to get shared on here in pieces every Monday and Friday. They have posts built for the next eight months so plenty of time to invest in the story and read it leisurely.
• I’m not sure what I’ll be doing for events this year. 13 Gears doesn’t sound like it is going to happen, and some of these other events are simply too expensive to justify. Twin Cities Con is a yes. The rest is sort of up in the air. Don’t know the details quite yet. Might be just smaller events like breweries, and potentially a new con.
• I’m thoroughly addicted to Cliar Obscur: Expedition 33. We’ve been playing it like crazy. What an incredible game. Reminds me so much of Legend of Dragoon. I’ve loved everything about it. I highly recommend it.
• Almost done with Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood. Our anime list is out of control. The backlog is huge. I’m not sure when we’ll get through it, but Mob Psycho is next.
• Self-published projects coming up include a Greenland Diaries Omnibus of short fiction, with new material. For sure that one will be produced at some point this year, probably in Fall 2026 for Halloween.
• Alrighty, well, that is my sort of January Update. I have a lot going on this month. I’ll share those links to my new publications when they’re out and live. Thank you everyone for the continued support. Stay healthy! Stay safe!

#author #authorUpdate #behindTheScenes #blogging #books #creativeProcess #fantasy #fiction #horror #monsters #patrickWMarsh #reading #theGreenlandDiaries #workInProgress #writerSLife #writing #writingGoals #writingJourney #writingLife #writingProgress #writingUpdate

Shaving: A Greenland Diaries Flash Fiction

Nigel couldn’t believe his beard had gotten this long.

It was down to his chest, tangled and frizzy. It was black, but almost brown at its feathery edges. He could hear his father yelling at him to trim it, his high, almost husky voice echoing in his head. His father was ex military. He loved the clean shaven look and forced Nigel to follow that hairless motif, even though Nigel hadn’t picked up a weapon until the Drum started. Now, he always had one with him. The ravaged green world demanded it, even with the Drum destroyed and the Unnamed no longer hunting him at night.

Nigel wondered if his father was still alive in the nursing home in Saint Louis Park. He had barely been alive before the Drum. It wouldn’t make any sense for him to be spared.

Nigel had been lucky to hide in his Golden Valley home for most of the apocalypse. He had left for a few weeks to join survivors fighting an Unnamed by a lake that kept attacking them. It had been a hard fought battle. Only Nigel and a few others survived. None of them had the appetite for further confrontations with the Unnamed, and they all retreated to their former hiding spots. Those had been the last people he’d spoken to, except for a band of soldiers passing through who told him the Drum was destroyed, and the Unnamed were nonviolent unless attacked.

Nigel felt his dark, reflectionless face. His features were gaunt, weathered by a lack of nutritious food. His cheeks were flat, his nose large, his forehead dry. His lips were cracked and bloody in places. The weather had been fine. It was the fear eroding his flesh. The constant worry of the Unnamed returning, or a crazed Reanimated storming through the neighborhood.

Slowly, above his white bathroom sink, he began to trim his beard. There was no electricity for his razor, so he resorted to a pair of orange handled scissors he kept in his office for trimming documents. They were sharp, but loud as they crushed the fibers between its blades. In minutes, most of his beard was reduced to a prickly edge beneath his fingers. He sighed.

“I guess it’s time. They said it was safe.”

Ahead of him hung a wool blanket, yellow and brown, duct taped to the wall in miscellaneous streaks of silver adhesive. It dangled just above the sink.

It blocked the mirror.

He’d put it up during the first week, when he noticed the shadows watching him. Now, with the Drum destroyed, survivors passing through told him mirrors and reflections were back to normal. They no longer held phantoms.

He slowly reached for the fabric, then stopped.

“I can’t do it.”

He walked out of the bathroom with a shrug.

“I can’t believe it’s okay.”

I really enjoy writing about these quieter moments in the Greenland Diaries, where characters are learning to live again after a horrifying ordeal that shook the foundations of humanity. These bits of flash fiction give me ample opportunity for it. You can learn more about the mainline series right here. Thank you for reading!

#author #blogging #bodyHorror #books #cosmicHorror #darkFantasy #darkFiction #decay #fantasy #fiction #flashFiction #grief #hauntedLandscapes #horror #horrorWriting #identity #isolation #liminalSpaces #machines #memory #monsters #obsession #patrickWMarsh #poeticProse #prosePoetry #psychologicalHorror #shortStories #speculativeFiction #survival #teraryHorror #theGreenlandDiaries #transformation #trauma #weirdFiction #writing

I Can’t Leave: A Greenland Diaries Flash Fiction

Rob had memorized the pattern of abandoned cars in the parking lot outside the building. A red van, a blue truck, a few white sedans, silent and sun faded, lay scattered across the velvet sheet of greenery in the basin around the office tower he’d been hiding in. He’d been fixing a boiler in the basement when the Drum began. Most of the building was empty that first night. Everyone had already left for the day. Only a handful were torn apart beneath the Unnamed’s obscene claws.

And then the office was empty.

Except for Rob.

He had always imagined himself different at the end of the world. At six foot five, all elbows and height, with an unkempt beard dropping to his chest and a perpetually worn Minnesota Twins cap, he’d figured he’d look the part. He had thought of himself as stereotypically male, chew, flannels, and a quiet, lumbering confidence. But when the monsters arrived and stalked the hallways, he learned quickly how fragile that image was. Back on his grandfather’s farm, he and his friends in their local anti government militia had joked that if the world ever collapsed, they’d be ready.

But once the Unnamed descended and began mutilating and resurrecting their victims, the only thing Rob grew adept at was hiding.

For someone so tall and broad, sneaking through the office should have been impossible, yet he’d shaped himself to its shadows. He learned to bend beneath desks, wedge between bookshelves, flatten against cubicles. Even when the Reanimated drifted through, he found ways to slip past them, though other survivors told him not to fear them. Those survivors were nothing like him. They weren’t afraid of the shadows. They fought them day and night. He’d heard their skirmishes echoing through the Drum. Even now, with it finally over, the night outside carried only wind, insects, and the soft groan of the building settling.

How were they so brave?

A few survivors had passed through recently and told him he could go home, or even find work with the Reestablishment. But he couldn’t force himself to leave the gray block of the office. Every time he packed his few supplies, slung the rifle he’d taken off a dead soldier, and started toward home, he barely made it a few blocks. A shadow, a rattle of debris, a shift in the wind, anything could spook him, and he’d sprint back to the familiar corners of the office floor.

Day or night didn’t matter.

He just couldn’t leave.

Thank you for reading my flash fiction from the Greenland Diaries. In this story, I wanted to show a character you might expect to be strong because of how they postured their identity, but when the apocalypse appeared they realized it was all an image without integrity. They weren’t actually built for the conflict they thought they were seeking. Monsters are an excellent mirror.

#author #blogging #bodyHorror #books #cosmicHorror #darkFantasy #darkFiction #decay #fantasy #fiction #flashFiction #grief #hauntedLandscapes #horror #horrorWriting #identity #isolation #liminalSpaces #literaryHorror #machines #memory #monsters #obsession #patrickWMarsh #poeticProse #prosePoetry #psychologicalHorror #shortStories #speculativeFiction #survival #theGreenlandDiaries #transformation #trauma #weirdFiction #writing

Christmas Eve Writing Update 12/24/25

• Hey everyone, just wanted to get on here and share a little update about what I’ve been doing with my writing. I hope everyone has had a good holiday season. Thank you all for your continued support. These are all the things I’m working on in some capacity or another. Ugh. This is an exhausting journey.
• My next self-publish project will be something new and different for me. It will be a collection of nonfiction poetry called: The Owl Wraith. It will include 25 poems detailing my battles with depression, historical trauma, and how that translates to my relationship with my sons. The Owl Wraith will walk that line between nonfiction and literary horror. I’m excited to see what people’s reactions will be to it. This book will include many difficult pieces of subject manner, but we’ll take the journey together. I’ll be releasing the book March 20th, 2026.
• I did an interview on a podcast called Total Conundrum. It was really fun and they have an awesome program. You can find it right here.
• I wrote a nonfiction poem called “You Are the King, and I am Your Star” on here. It is a poem about an inscription I found in the basement of the house my father grew up in. He had to sell it when I went through a bad batch of depression with an ex. I carried some guilt with me about it. You can read the poem here. I will eventually take it down since it will be part of the Owl Wraith. This poem is an example of what you can expect in the poetry collection.
• In terms of literary horror releases, I will be pivoting to release more flash fiction from the world of the Greenland Diaries on here at least a few times a month. I’ve written a whole collection of stories that takes place after the Drum is destroyed. Eventually, I’ll publish this as a collection as well. I will always be writing this series and building it up. Much more is planned outside the original narrative. You’re investment in my series will pay off for years.
• Gears are still fully turning on submitting to literary magazines and looking for traditional publishes for other projects. Stay tuned. I might share some breadcrumbs from each of those endeavors. Really cool stories are lurking in the background.
• I wrote another nonfiction poem called “I Can’t Change the Sunlight” that you can read. It will be part of my Owl Wraith collection. It is about me accepting my traumatic past, and my depression, and acknowledging the existence of triggers. You can read it here.
• I will say writing about these nonfiction subjects takes a lot out of me. I try to pretend that it isn’t difficult, but I can only do so much of it. This collection I’m release is a bit of a last hurrah with it. We’ll see what happens.
• Some of the media I’ve been digesting recently is pretty varied. Been watching a ton of anime. Dr. Stone, Tokyo Ghoul, Dandadan, the Summer Hikaru Died to name a few. All were really good. Tokyo Ghoul gave me some problems with pacing because its characters outpaced the narrative, but it was still decent. Dr. Stone is probably my favorite of all of them. The Summer Hikaru Died resonates most with my style as a storyteller. Truly creepy and wonderful.
• Okay everyone, I just want to say stay safe this holiday season. I hope for the best for you and your loved ones. I appreciate you all. Take care of yourselves!

#author #authorUpdate #behindTheScenes #blogging #books #creativeProcess #fantasy #fiction #horror #monsters #patrickWMarsh #reading #theGreenlandDiaries #workInProgress #writerSLife #writing #writingGoals #writingJourney #writingLife #writingProgress #writingUpdate

Listen to my Interview on Total Conundrum Podcast

Recently, I did an interview for the podcast Total Conundrum. I talked about a variety of things with my writing, monsters, and the connections life built between them all.

Big thank you to Total Conundrum for hosting me and creating a nice list of insightful questions for me to answer. That always helps me with this sort of thing.

You can listen to that interview right here

Interviews and talking about my writing have always been challenges for me. I think I’ve done my best, but I always want to improve and give the audience and readership some insights they might not find elsewhere. I will be doing more of these in the future.

I highly recommend checking out Total Conundrum overall and exploring their content. They’re a great podcast who many local ties to the Twin Cities. I met them at Crypticon this last year and we instantly hit it off. I love making these connections and supporting other creators. They’re great people.

Anyways, thank you for listening/reading.

Again, you can check out that interview right here.

#author #blogging #books #fantasy #fiction #horror #interview #monsters #patrickWMarsh #podcast #podcastInterview #podcasts #reading #theGreenlandDiaries #writing

Free Book Weekend

We’re back to Leave the Name in the free kindle book rotation. This is an excellent short story collection. It contains bits and pieces from my other universes, along with some unique narratives like Factory 9, which I will turn into a full length novel at some point. Science fiction, fantasy, horror, it is all here for your enjoyment. Free today, tomorrow, and Monday.

A collection of short stories from a variety of worlds.

During the Greenland Diaries, in the shadow of an apocalypse, a survivor awakens with no identity or hope. He only knows that the monsters worship him, and want to keep him safe. Off the coast of Key Largo, a group of survivors stumbles through survival in the wake of the drum. The scared live and the ambitious die. So is the reality of the drum.

On the Cursed Island, a new assassin appears on the blood-soaked shore. Their goal, to infiltrate the Diamond Town and battle the freshly appointed Guardian, who despite the weight of the sword, can still remember her name. For now.

In the dark cloud of Hidden Oaks Park; a woman’s dead husband stirs to life, a grocery store devours a young man, and a playground appears and disappears overnight. It all flows according to the monster living in its otherworldly center.

Two brothers hide in an abandoned robotics factory after radiation and monsters have ravaged their world. They find an unlikely ally, and search for a bit of hope beneath the nuclear snow and forgotten sun.

Click here to get Leave the Name for FREE on Kindle

#apocalyptic #author #blogging #bookgiveaway #books #fantasy #fiction #freebook #freeebook #freefantasybook #freekindlebook #freeonkindle #freereadWriting #horror #journals #kindlefreebie #monsters #novels #patrickWMarsh #reading #theGreenlandDiaries #writing

“You are the King, and I am your Star”

It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.

It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.

The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.

We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.

I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the poverty

I can at least remember what it said.

#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

Free Book Weekend

Back to the Greenland Diaries: Days 1 – 100 as my free book promotion for this weekend. Again, this is my big enchilada. The main event when it comes to my self-published books. There are five more books in the series. Short stories as well. I even publish flash fiction from the Greenland Diaries for free on this blog. So yeah, I nurture this story and universe. The first book is FREE today, tomorrow, and Monday on the Kindle. Get it now.

“It began with a drum. Then the monsters came. I’ve been hiding ever since.” The following collections of journals were recovered from a caravan outside of Duluth, Minnesota. The exact date of recovery is not known nor is the origin of the speaker. The Bureau for the Restoration of History (BFRH) would like help in identifying the man who kept these records. This unedited record of events is still considered the most accurate history of the apocalypse that occurred on April 15th, 2011.

Hit it HERE to get the Greenland Diaries: Days 1 – 100 for FREE on the Kindle

#apocalyptic #author #blogging #bookgiveaway #books #fantasy #fiction #freebook #freeebook #freefantasybook #freekindlebook #freeonkindle #freereadWriting #horror #journals #kindlefreebie #monsters #novels #patrickWMarsh #reading #theGreenlandDiaries #writing

I Can’t Change the Sunlight

First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.

Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.

Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.

This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be there

as long as I am.

#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

Free Book Weekend

Back at the top of my free book promotion rotation. Next up is my favorite book I’ve written (sadly not my most popular, that spot is reserved for the Greenland Diaries) the dark fantasy epic Beware the Ills. It is FREE today and tomorrow on the Kindle. Description below:

For the last 30 years he has been the sole protector of the legendary Diamond Town. Every hour it snows, howls, and storms. Every week, wave after wave of invaders crawl through the woods scouring for a bit of fame and glory on this lost island — and he cuts them all down with indiscriminate slashes of his sword. No one has survived being the Guardian as long as him, and the shadows are seething with vengeance in the forests and mountains. A vengeful cannibal from a lost invasion, ancient beasts stalking about the mountains waiting to attack, and a fresh new batch of invaders with a beautiful berserker and emotionless captain are just a few of the festering plagues on this cursed island. There will be no respite. There will be no end to the war and strife. The winters are growing longer, the cold harsher, and the enemies bolder. Take a walk in the footsteps of the Diamond Town’s Guardian and his world, through his own blood-weary eyes. Count your footsteps and mind the silence, it’s time to hunt, and to fill the graveyard again.

Click here to get Beware the Ills FREE today and tomorrow on the Kindle

#author #blogging #bookgiveaway #books #darkFantasy #fantasy #fiction #freebook #freeebook #freefantasybook #freekindlebook #freeonkindle #freereads #horror #kindlefreebie #monsters #novels #patrickWMarsh #reading #writing

The Cast Iron Star

My father’s hoarding heart
is bending bricks in his garage
creasing the foundation, turning
his house downward,
closer to the pit
he clawed out from.

At first, just artifacts
bits of his past lives
recovered from dead family.
Immortalized in tins, boxes,
bins, stacks, and piles in his office,
study, backroom, and garages.

My mother would whisper
that he’d always be this way
perpetually holding, gathering, keeping
things for the future, or to anchor the past
a ship adrift in trauma and loss,
without a compass or map.

I stare at that cast-iron bathtub,
the 600 pound invertebrate
bulging out of this house’s spine.
Another shadow added to his grief silhouette
a mixed-media of material requiems
to his past and present.

I know that when he dies
it’ll still be here.
I don’t have the strength to move it.
How could I pluck his favorite constellation
of its most beloved star?
For him,

it’ll always lead home.

#ampoetry #amwriting #books #family #hoarding #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetry #reading #writing

Free Book Weekend

Alrighty, just to round out the trifecta of Greenland Diaries books being used in my free book promos, the third book in the series – The Greenland Diaries: Days 141 – 200 – is FREE today and tomorrow on the Kindle. Description below:

“It began with a drum. Then the monsters came. I’ve been hiding ever since.”

The following collections of journals were recovered from a caravan outside of Duluth, Minnesota. The exact date of recovery is not known nor is the origin of the speaker. The Bureau for the Restoration of History (BFRH) would like help in identifying the man who kept these records. This unedited record of events is still considered the most accurate history of the apocalypse that occurred on April 15th, 2011.

“They come for me at night. I will not outrun them. We can’t fight them every drum. They need to stop. They need to get away from me. I can’t keep fighting what I don’t see. When will it stop? There are faceless monsters in the night. There are faceless monsters in the day. People sewn together from dead parts like old clothes. I don’t understand it. Someone please help me.”

Click HERE to get the Greenland Diaries: Days 141 – 200 for FREE on the Kindle Today and Tomorrow

#apocalyptic #apocalypticHorror #blogging #books #creepyFiction #endOfTheWorld #fiction #horror #horrorApocalypse #horrorBlog #horrorFans #horrorStory #horrorWriter #journals #macabre #monsters #novels #patrickWMarsh #postApocalyptic #reading #scaryReads #theGreenlandDiaries #writing

Free Book Weekend

Today and tomorrow my short story collection Monsters, Monsters, Everywhere is FREE on the Kindle. This has horror, science fiction, and fantasy. The stories are freshly polished and edited. At the end of the book I even talk about what madness inhabited me while I composed these tales. GET IT NOW. Description below:

An ancient werewolf laments his annual, blood-soaked pilgrimage. A doll comes to life only when your fear gives it motivation. Empty spaces are a feeding ground for an ancient monster. A mother dragon will fight through anything for her stolen future. After a random tragedy at the hands of a flying nightmare, a sky pirate visits a haunted grave. A demon followed across a continent, pauses for a very human vanity. Robots in an apocalyptic hellscape need a purpose, even if there is no one to witness it. Mysterious gravestones and highways twist the ordinary into hells for a pair of friends and family. A young woman laments her true, mystical identity in the waves of a stormy sea.

Click HERE to get Monsters, Monsters, Everywhere for FREE today and tomorrow on the Kindle

#apocalyptic #author #blogging #bookgiveaway #books #fantasy #fiction #freebook #freeebook #freefantasybook #freekindlebook #freeonkindle #horror #journals #kindlefreebie #monsters #novels #patrickWMarsh #reading #theGreenlandDiaries #writing

Adults

None of them knew what they were waiting for. 

They were sitting next to a navy blue Toyota Tundra, which had been thrown on its side by the golden claw of a Red Unnamed on the first night of the Drum. Since then, the plants had wrapped and covered it in a thick skin of vines and flowers. They were in an abandoned Target parking lot, which was spiked with other wrecked vehicles in various forms of destruction and decay. They’d used the store as their hiding place throughout the Drum. There were seven kids; five girls and two boys. They’d survived together since the Drum started and ended, dodging the shadows between the aisles and debris. 

Now, the Drum was destroyed. A dozen survivors travelling through the neighborhood had informed them just last week. The world had turned from terrifying to surreal with this news.  

“What do we need to do?” Levi said, sitting on a large rock used for landscaping outside the store. It was scored and dented with marks from stray bullets. The afternoon was sunny, warm, and full of cawing seagulls poking around the pavement. They had not lost this scavenger tendency during the apocalypse. Levi was seven, with long sandy blond hair and a round face. She was wearing a pink sweater with a unicorn on it. 

“What do you mean?” Lloyd said. He was sitting nearby, opening a can of green beans with a bright red swiss army knife. He was ten years old, with black braids that had become tangled, a narrow dark face, and broad shoulders. He wore some body armor that was too big for him. A rifle leaned on his shoulder. He still didn’t trust the Unnamed, even though the Drum was gone. 

He might always have a weapon with him after what he had witnessed the last twelve months. 

“The Drum is done, so what do we do now?” Levi asked again. She stood up and kicked a few pebbles with a white sneaker. They clattered away. The rest of the kids were checking the neighborhood for the Unnamed. Only a few had come through the area, drifting like spiked storms that were earthbound and broken. A few of the kids, including Lloyd, had wanted to fight them, but they were still scared. Other survivors had told them not to engage them. The Drum being gone made them less violent, but there was still the potential for malice. 

“We just keep going, I think. I mean, I don’t know if the world will ever be back to normal or if we’ll be back in school, or what’ll happen. None of those adults stopped to help us or do anything when they came through, so yeah, I don’t know,” he said. 

He grabbed a spoon out of a nearby backpack and began to shovel the food into his mouth.

“I’m tired of this canned food,” he sighed. “Maybe they’ll reopen McDonalds.”

Levi kicked a few more rocks, then sat down again. The air smelled of rock and vegetation. She sneezed and shrugged.

“I just want to be a kid again.”

This is flash fiction from my book series and universe the Greenland Diaries. You can learn all about it right here. This is a great story, with a truly unforgettable monster that evolves and changes. It is beyond unique. You can read a bunch of the Greenland Diaries right here as well. Thank you for reading my work.

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