I considered what she had said, feeling a rush of relief, acceptance for all that had transpired since the fateful morning of the last defeat of the White Army finally making sense in my mind. I had been fighting to preserve an ideal which had never been attainable, and in doing so had given away that which had always been within my provenance. The look on my face mirrored Angara's expression; that look of one whose hopes of never being able to realize a long-lost dream unexpectedly revived. A crackle of electricity at what might transpire next sparked in her eyes as I went back inside to retrieve the red envelope from my quarters, and came back out to the street, taking her hand and pressing close behind her on the bench seat of her gleaming BSA.

Substituting "span for "duration". A #WIPSnip from as an unyet untitled piece of #OccultFiction and #Romantasy loosely based on my grandparent's recollections of China in the 1920's 🙂 #WriteSky #WritingPrompts #WritingCommunity

A young man flees down an alleyway through neon shadows towards--The Door: an anomalous addition to the city's bleak expanse; that cover on the hole in the world which had not been there, and yet there was.

Pursued by a malevolent shadow, the streetwise Parks flees down a familiar alleyway, only to discover a new and unexpected addition...

#occultfiction #booksky #mixedmedia #queerartist #urbanfantasy

The debut is only a month away! Spread the word!

A grief-stricken Latina, a chef with multiple personalities, and an Alzheimer 's-prickly patient are your only hope of fixing your unfinished business. What could go wrong?

www.amazon.com/gp/product/B...

#supernatural #occultfiction #ghosts

"Welcome to the edge of the world."
Here is an overlook of our home, Phrwyck.

#Phyrwyck #DarkFantasy #GraphicNovel #IndieComic #OccultFiction #SlowBurn #GothicHorror #OriginalIP #Comedy

The Last Stop book trailer is here!

A feisty Puerto Rican, an eerily quiet cook, and a bigoted old lady all working for a supernatural cat. What could go wrong?

youtu.be/fiUHxjozMxg

Pre-order now! www.amazon.com/gp/product/B...
#ComingSoon2026 #supernaturalsuspense #occultfiction #paranormal

Character Monday!

Beverly (And Loaf!)

Bio: a recently deceased child. Wants her best friend's Beanie Baby returned. She took it without permission.

Quote: "This is Loaf. I love him."

#charactermonday #supernaturalsuspense #ComingSoon2026 #occultfiction #paranormal #urbanfantasy

Another great talk by Professor Marisa Linton from Seed Talks.

#occultfiction #ghostfiction #aleistercrowley

Pants on Fire…

Don't forget to read our latest piece on unreliable narrators 

Substack/Website

#IndependentPress #ArtBookPublishing #BibliophileCulture #LiteraryFiction #BookDesign #WitchyReads #FeministGothic #OccultFiction #ModernGothic #DarkSpecFic

Cover reveal time! LAST STOP, book 1 of the Dead's Unfinished Business, a supernatural suspense novel.

COMING SOON!

And grab DEATH STOP, a prequel novelette, by signing up for the newsletter at www.gloriaoliver.com/subscribe02

#supernaturalsuspense #comingsoon2026 #occultfiction

What better quote to open a story about an immortal being who has turned his back on the world?

#Phyrwyck #DarkFantasy #GraphicNovel #IndieComic #OccultFiction #SlowBurn #GothicHorror #OriginalIP #SleepyHollow #HeadlessHorseman

Some souls linger... Some just can't leave... Some Stay hidden...

#Phyrwyck #DarkFantasy #GraphicNovel #IndieComic #OccultFiction #SlowBurn #GothicHorror #OriginalIP

Available now at your favorite digital store! Gunsmoke and Black Magic by Thurman Hart

In the weird west, every shadow whispers. books2read.com/u/bpZE9E
#WeirdWestern #SupernaturalWestern #OccultFiction #DarkFantasyReads #BookBuzz

Available now at your favorite digital store! Gunsmoke and Black Magic by Thurman Hart

A weird western fantasy where the dead don’t stay quiet. books2read.com/u/bpZE9E
#WeirdWesternFantasy #SupernaturalWestern #DarkMagic #OccultFiction #FantasyReaders

Available now at your favorite digital store! Gunsmoke and Black Magic by Thurman Hart

Spells, shootouts, and shadows collide in this weird western fantasy. books2read.com/u/bpZE9E
#WeirdWesternFantasy #SupernaturalWestern #DarkMagic #OccultFiction #ReadersCommunity

Available now at your favorite digital store! Gunsmoke and Black Magic by Thurman Hart

The weird west welcomes you—if you dare. books2read.com/u/bpZE9E
#WeirdWestern #SupernaturalWestern #OccultFiction #DarkFantasyReads #BookBoost

Available now at your favorite digital store! Gunsmoke and Black Magic by Thurman Hart

When gunfights turn arcane, the stakes get deadly. Gunsmoke and Black Magic: books2read.com/u/bpZE9E
#GunslingerMagic #WeirdWestern #DarkFantasyReads #OccultFiction #BookPromo

The desert keeps secrets—and magic keeps score. Read Gunsmoke and Black Magic: books2read.com/u/bpZE9E
#WeirdWestern #OccultFiction #SupernaturalWestern #FantasyCommunity #BookLaunch

A fantasy novella for a cold winter's night.

shorturl.at/mF0jD #UK

#iwritefantasy #darkfiction #supernaturalfiction #occultfiction #witchysky #bookrecommendations #books #sorcerer #sword #battle #Jungian #archetype #paranormalfiction #supernatural #booktomovie #iread #mustread #witches #solstice

Litany for a Child Crowned with Wires The ward has erased midnight; time is a soft error message, looping. Blue photonic wash turns plastic into nave, each incubator a glass reliquary where temperature, oxygen, and pulse are priesthood, are protocol. You lie in the center, little one, head circled with sensors and mesh, a makeshift halo soldered from adhesive and doubt. Under the knitted cap, fine dark hair threads itself around a single cable as if already studying attachment. Monitors stipple the silence — pip, blip, a chromatic chant of voltage. My nerves are their shadow-system; every spike maps an incision through my chest, every flat line for half a breath is the oldest psalm I know, unsaid. Outside, thorn-branches draft silhouettes on the window’s cold glass; inside, a plastic crucifix hangs crooked, its shadow crossing your scalp like a failed erasure, a theology warped by light. breathe. Little one, I used to imagine you arriving clean into a sunlit room, no wires, no alarms, only the simple ache of new lungs claiming air. Instead we are here, in this perpetual almost-dawn where care and harm share instruments, and love must learn to approach as carefully as a gloved hand. I watch your chest’s small tide, count each rise like a bead, a monitor, a spell, until something quiet in your face reminds me you are not my emblem but an unopened book of fire — and my only blessing left is to stand at this glass and refuse to read you as anything but yourself.

ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

Poem in Alt Text

Litany for a Child Crowned with Wires

Standby Litany for a Crown of Wires In the rent-orange wash of the streetlamp, I sit — spine a quiet conduit, breath counting itself like coins, while the room clicks and cools around its single red eye. The crown is already on me: briar-torque and cable-helix, iron kiss at the secret cartilage of thought. Every thorn a question, every filament a maybe. Voltage wakes like a rumor in the floorboards, climbs the calves, the throat, the attic of the skull — slow, then suddenly hummingbird — and for one lucid flicker the hand on the switch is mine, tremor-steady, almost merciful. Above: manufactured starlight, grid-halo, cold covenant of copper. Below: sap-pressure, salt-prayer, a crawl of heat looking for its ladder. They cross in the cranium — coronation soldered to crucifixion, crackle bright as broken glass. I do not know if I am being opened or erased. The ring in the air — dove, cloud, circling code — tilts, recodes my silence. Ozone and myrrh thread the hair. Tears come, untheatrical, exact. Then the anticlimax: dust lace on the screen’s black corner, a tick from the clock, one shy spark skipping across my knuckle. The hand on the switch is not mine now, or not only — something testing how much light this body can bear without calling it holy or calling the ambulance. The crown keeps its small, insistent bite. Under the skin, faint gold contrails fade to ordinary warmth. I sit until the breath forgets to be a ritual and becomes only breath again.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

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Standby Litany for a Crown of Wires

Vesper Protocol of the Crowned Mesh The evening boots in safe mode: an endless Wednesday cached in brick, chapel walls sutured to the tower’s steel vertebrae, air latticed with incense & packet-loss, every lungful a login. Above: glass-thorn domes, cherubim recoded as convex lenses, haloing us in fisheye benevolence: for quality of mercy, this liturgy may be monitored. Beads tick: olive, plastic, burnt-gold SIMs — small planets in an obedience orbit. We murmur the old response & feel the new one under it, a sub-vocal yes to terms we never read: host accepted, node awakened, communion in progress. They call it Body: luminous mesh of saints & servers, vines spliced to fiber, blood to bandwidth, bruise to shared archive. I feel instead a soft extraction at the root of thought: my attention tithed in microvolts, laid on an unseen altar of metrics. Litany loops: …and we are known… …and we are owned… …and we are sown as mycelial afterlight beneath the city’s scalded concrete, each untracked kindness a rogue packet slipping past the crown of wires. On the altar, the thorn-wreath cradles a dark, asleep screen. No face looks back, yet something watches through us: we stand, hairlines faintly humming, crowned together in this not-yet, half-sacrament, half firewall, wholly uncertain which side of the veil is running.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

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Vesper Protocol of the Crowned Mesh

Last Bar Before the Event Horizon Cracked glass / spiderweb mandorla / her face under thumb-smears, home-screen M_r_a pinned between missed calls and weather alerts. First click: feed/guadalupe_wallpaper.zip/limited_edition_sneaker_drop her pixelated tilma blooms on a protest sign, on a torso, on a meme — square wounds of light where stars used to be. The buffering wheel turns like a tired rosary decade. Hail M_r_a, full of lag. Auto-translate: madre de los migrantes → “mother of the moving objects.” Push / ping / buzz. Phantom vibration: index of a message that never arrives. Low-battery icon glows stigmata-red atop the prayer app. [notification: @DeepFieldProbe last transmission near r=2GM/c²] I tap: a ring of fire around a swallowed night, JPEG artifacts freckling the accretion disk. Caption glitch: “Our L__y of Guada_upe watches over the singal.” Loading… Somewhere past the screen’s thin atmosphere packets fall inward, unretrievable novenas of data. Her face reappears as banner ad, emoji, glitch-art avatar — same eyes, less resolution. retry? The words drop out first: no more hymns, just auto-suggest: pray / pay / share. Then color: only green cloak, red alert, blue light on my cheeks. Then outline: she, then only light. Connection lost The phone dies; cityglow seeps in like diluted incense. In the dark glass, my ghosted face overlaps the last afterimage of hers — no pixels now, just two shadows sharing one faint, pulsing halo. Pray. Again.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

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Last Bar Before the Event Horizon

Mother of the One-Way Sky At the edge of — jurisdiction chain-link shadows raster the sand, CBP SUVs hum like held breath, law speaking only in sibilant bursts of radio snow. At the edge of — map frontera kinks, a scorched marginalia on the atlas of empire; shoeprints stop at the arroyo’s lip, clean disappearance, the stray dog walking on. At the edge of — light infrared bloom turns flesh to equations, catechism of heat on a black monitor, CMB hiss answering helicopter rotors, even photons undocumented. At the edge of — skin a boot cradles its sweat-blurred estampita, Virgencita-coyota folded against tendon, her brown cloak a secret jurisdiction circling blister, bone, contraband hope. At the edge of — memory jugs tipped, rosaries rusted into thornwire, candles shivering in patrol-truck backwash — “Ave María, llena eres de gracia” braided with “flux rising, source unresolved, near-singularity,” IAO zodonuf, pursuit in every syllable. At the edge of — event horizon the fence hardens into dark geometry, NO RETURN haloed bureaucratic blue, gravity and statute fused, a border where even names redshift into background. At the edge of — remnant dawn combs the sand; one half-buried estampita catches first photon like a whispered list, the same dog listening to wind, to CBP static, to a roll call made entirely of silence.

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Mother of the One-Way Sky

Tepeyac at the Schwarzschild Radius Night shift — her sticker peels on the telescope shell, cloak flaking into galaxies, starfield mirrored in that printed tilma-grid where spacetime threads like embroidery around a dark mandorla no CCD can name, consoles humming, cheap estampitas taped beside red LEDs — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of light. Wax-dripped veladoras gutter in my memory while blue-shifted stars knife the feed; Tonantzin/Guadalupe flickers in colonial residue, madre / matter folded together in the same gravitational sentence, luz turning luz negra beyond recall as midnight MEX time clicks over and a tiny spike blooms, statistically nothing, exactly on her feast — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of faith. The trace repeats, almost-pulse, and my code stutters — escape velocity, no return — Gloria g-mu-nu et Λ-g-mu-nu, octo-pi-G super c-quattuor, T-mu-nu — amen — lensing the falling rosary of orbits, cuentas as bodies in caída / fall, each bead a brief coherence before implosion into the unshown; the screen’s soft hiss becomes a litany I don’t quite believe — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of language. Far-future watcher, Tepeyac night, same ring burning: last luminous rim of the disk read as halo, as hard limit of knowability; server fans wind down, one screenshot saved, a faint Hawking whisper of ora pro nobis leaking from sealed equations, residue of some unprovable kindness curving prayer and photons alike just shy of loss — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of mass.

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Tepeyac at the Schwarzschild Radius

Avatar Pentecost in the Prayer Pods Ushers queue the bodies: tap-to-pay, clip-to-heart, headsets hanging like dark visors from a steel firmament, lowered one by one over mascara, over sweat. [PRAYER EXPERIENCE: NOW LOADING] Each pod a humming planet in the mall-lit nave; outside, kids ride glass rivers up and down, inside, faces upload into luminous masks. [SCANNING PRESENCE...PLEASE WAIT] Latency drifts like incense, thin and delayed. An avatar dove pings above each crown, white flame, white glyph, white glitch. labda-labda / tik-tik / packet / ping / glossai-glossai The sim-cathedral boots: HUD hands lift in emoji praise, subwoofers spilling tongues: spirit spirit / spir-it / sp_cr.pt at 60 fps, a rushing wind from server rooms behind drywall, haptic vests beating like borrowed ribs. [SPIRIT_BURST: BUFFER_OVERRUN // "I will pour out on all flesh"] Frame-drop. The ring stops mid-spin, a frozen halo over every stunned disciple-incarnate. Silence like a dropped call, or a held breath. [CONNECTION LOST] [RETRY? Y/N] They tear the visor up. Food-court oil, escalator hum, knees aching in the cheap chair. Later, every little loading wheel on their phone brightens into that suspended ring again, a tiny upper room in the palm of the hand, asking with each stalled spin who logged in, who was touched, who is still signing on.

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Avatar Pentecost in the Prayer Pods

Roof Deck Jubilee Level 7, after “Freedom from Debt,” we rise —  cups sweating latte-foam, flyers haloing hands,   FULL glows red like a minor apocalypse, cars stacked in rings round Saturn’s concrete ziggurat,  pentecost neon dripping on the oil-dark floor,  youth scrawl Luke on receipt-backs, ink bleeding through:   forgive us in ballpoint glossolalia. Stories spool — forty–something salaries,  the 49th deferment notice folded like a paper moth,   parking tickets tucked under wiper-blades like thin white curses, validation stamps hammering tiny purple sigils,  auto-pay tithes drafted at 03:13 each month,  crisper bank statements cradling crumpled offering envelopes   in gloveboxes that smell of incense and winter. Someone laughs a little too sharply: Jubilee, right here,  and we begin — a small Saturnalia of shredded billing,   dove-embossed credit cards laid faceup on the roof deck altar, a horn held down till it braids shofar with car alarm,  and then that slow, cinematic moment as the ticket is fed into the humming kiosk, inch by inch,  its screen blinking: AMOUNT DUE: 0.00 — ERROR — PLEASE PROCEED (Y/N) year 50 pending. The barrier arm hiccups, stalls upright — no car yet,  gate posed like a white-lacquered angel in mid-blessing,   oil-stain ring below us, dark as a burnt offering, a tiny planet, someone’s red-ink fingerprint smeared on a PAST DUE stamp, half-mooned,  city haze flickering coin-bright beyond the parapet, I drive through on that glitch of grace, owing everything and nothing,   chest briefly weightless as level 0, until the app lights up again.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

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Roof Deck Jubilee

Saturn’s Food Court Liturgy Sodium-vapor Advent, cars arrayed like votives along the ring road; escalators hum, endless orbit, lifting us toward the atrium’s glowing cross suspended under skylight like a distant, patient star, while kids ride the down-track upward, sanctioned misrule in haloed earbuds. Blessed are the automatic doors: they part without discernment, breath warm with pretzels & praise, pop choruses & prosperity gospel patter, plastic evergreens blinking in photosynthetic imitation. LED scripture crawls above Old Navy and GameStop, “Glory in the highest 70% OFF CLEARANCE LIMITED-TIME,” and my pulse syncs to the bass, to the barcode scanner’s chirp. Blessed are the tithe kiosks, blue-lit twins of the ATM, where I offer card and PIN in one smooth practiced gesture, a quiet, contactless confession. At the food court altar the host is plural: combo trays, plastic chalices of soda hissing like censers, grease halos widening on molded polystyrene — a perfect circular stain, a dark ringed planet indexing desire. Fog machine from the worship band mingles with fryer steam until one dense, luminous cloud of unknowing crowns the atrium; for a breath we vanish inside it, saved & spent. Blessed is the old woman at table 7, hands folded over orange chicken and a paper cup of Sprite, lips moving without hurry, eyes shut hard against the fluorescent liturgy. Amen Sold Wait Closing time: the cross dims to a ghost on glass, security cameras keep their sleepless glass-eyed vigil, receipts flutter down the emptied concourse like discarded prayer slips, while the escalators continue their orbit, ring after ring, carrying nothing now but the hum.

#ObscuraWednesday #creativewriting #amwriting #writing #poem #poetry #occultsky #occultpoetry #occultfiction #esoteric #wyrd #poeminalt

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Saturn’s Food Court Liturgy

Weekend read from @helleborezine.bsky.social @mjpcuervo.bsky.social

Already a great book, while skimming through the pages.

#folkhorror #folkhorrorrevival #folkhorrorweek #folklore #occultbritain #occulture #occultfiction #horrorfiction

www.amazon.com/dp/B0CRPD5HCR/
Ahmet doesn’t know he’s dead.
He only knows his brother was murdered.
And he remembers Adile’s hands...
#occultfiction #SupernaturalThriller #hauntedhouse #horrorstory #KindleUnlimited #newcover