To Make a Long Story Continuous…

Behold the curmudgeonly calamity of adulting!

Salutations, my beautiful, feral beasts.

Hello again. It is I, your moldy toilet bowl gremlin of the deep. The harvester of nightmares, the plunger of septic terrors, I have returned to the virtual arena to plot my revenge against ladybugs and rabid squirrels.

I was born just past midnight under a new moon as an Aries, and I blame all three for my love of darkness and depravity. –HS on CanvasRebel

Again, I apologize for my absence. It’s been a chaotic year, filled with cranky weather, stomach bugs, snotpocalypses, hospital visits, and the curmudgeonly calamity of adulting. Not to complain, just to explain. I don’t ever mean to retreat into the void, and though I try to affect an intriguing and mysterious aura, I fully realize my aura is more withering, grumpy snail than epic, dark lord.

Imagination and insecurity go hand in hand. A mind that spins stories can also spin out of control. –HS on CanvasRebel

The kids and I are doing well. They are pillaging the fridge, raiding the cabinets, and inhaling cheese at an astonishing rate. This month, my daughter turned ten. TEN. SHE HAS BEEN ALIVE FOR A FULL DECADE. After, we spent Mother’s Day at a trampoline park, because nothing screams parenting like an enclosed, windowless room sticky with sweat and phlegm.

I also chaperoned my son’s field trip to a seaport and earned some elementary school cred for my Minecraft knowledge, not to brag, but BRAG (STEVE’S LAVA CHICKEN). Also, my son thinks Godzilla is a girl, because girls kick butt, and I was so proud my eyes leaked. His support of feminine rage possibly comes from my daughter’s constant threats to brutally torture anyone who hurts him (the genes are strong in this one). But we’re super chill, really. Chill, and easygoing. No high-strung shield-maidens over here…

My stories are about losing yourself, then finding yourself again. About messing up terribly, and who stands by your side when you do. About beautiful imperfection and ugly truth. –HS on CanvasRebel

Unfortunately, in sadder news, my grandfather passed away last month, on the day before my birthday. It was a luxury to have him as long as I did, and for my children to know their great-grandfather so well that they mourned him. Even though he lived for nearly a century, his death felt abrupt. 95 years weren’t enough. 1000 years wouldn’t be, either. There was still food frozen in his freezer, which I’ve been thawing and eating since the day he died. It’s like he’s still cooking for me.

He had an incandescent love of life—and of dirty jokes lol. I don’t have words strong enough to convey the beautiful echo he left on this world. Because of him, I’ll always remember to buy the good cheese and the best wine. I dreamed about him a few nights ago—a very vivid dream—and at the end of the dream, he turned to me, looked me right in the eye, and winked with a smile, which was very in character, whether it was in my mind or something more. So cheers to him, and may you all find a bit of his playful mischief and infectious joy.

Success is about repurposing failure, about persevering when life gets hard and turning weaknesses into strengths. –HS on CanvasRebel

My grandmother has been in and out of the hospital over the last couple months. She broke her hip, had a successful surgery, but her heart is declining. However, she has an intensely fierce, ironclad resilience and perseverance. If anyone wonders where my protective ferocity comes from, it’s from her. She turned 90 this month, and we were able to celebrate in the hospital. Her mood is great, and she remains in good spirits despite everything. The hospital staff told her she might never walk again, that she might only have two weeks to live, and she hold-my-beered her way to taking steps. If she’s going, she’s going out in a blaze of glory, and I am in awe of her determination.

[My grandmother] isn’t angry or ashamed that she’s fading. She’s happy she’s here. Happy to exist, to have existed, to have been allowed to walk this world. She sees the wonder in life, no matter the pain. Sees the wonder in me, no matter my shame. There’s a lightness to her now, as if letting go has given her wings. In one of my upcoming WIPs, arriving in the next 1–100 years, I wrote this line: “We can only take forward what we can carry. Let go of everything else.” My grandmother embodies this, and I strive to also let go in such a beautiful way. –HS on CanvasRebel

News

I was lucky enough to be interviewed a second time by CanvasRebel! The interview is available here.

In order to cope with this so-called “real world” and the perils of adulting, I need to defibrillate my mind, to shock it awake with gruesome possibilities and macabre thrills. –HS on CanvasRebel

Blood Horn, my serial novella about a demonic unicorn who just needs a hug and a bucket of chocolate, continues over on SubStack. It’s FREEEEEEEE.

I’ve also got some ambiguous “things” cooking in my skull cauldron that might happen within the next millennium, so keep your eyes peeled for more emotional mutilation.

My goal as a writer is to make you throw my book across the room. –HS on CanvasRebel

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Poetry

Here are some poems—or “brain sobs” might be more accurate—that I wrote recently-ish. Enjoy. Or suffer. Or both.

​​UNSUNG

He drowns on air.
They’re back again.
The crunched-up men
with giant spoons.
Behind them, in bags,
are more bodies to plant.
Their bones will blossom
into flowers and trees,
skeletal and powerful,
death’s grove complete.

Metal clangs against rock.
They swear.
Foreign swears.
He hasn’t heard their language before,
but he recognizes their tears.
Eyes glassy as forgotten seas.
Lips clamped like iron cuffs.
They wear uniforms,
muddy and bloody,
ragged and torn.
He wore a uniform once.
A different fabric,
different color,
different symbol,
different storm.

“Stop,” he says.
They don’t hear him,
don’t listen.
He is nothing now,
an icy breeze,
a trickle of starlight,
clothed in wisps and whispers,
in memories and myth drops.
“Stop,” he says again.
Again, they don’t.
“Stop, stop, stop, stop.”

Holes grow,
the dirt tortured.
Bodies tip into yawning pits.
Meaty thuds.
Pulpy thumps.
Bramble crowns.
Nests of thorns.
Red seeps into soil,
death’s silent song.

With hard, brittle faces,
they bury the bones,
stick unmarked stones
atop newborn lumps.
Tears water rows of potted flesh,
seeds that will sprout
boughs of cypress and yew,
that will unfurl
petals of lilies and orchids blue.

The men leave,
but he can’t,
hasn’t for years.
He was the first one planted here.

JANUS

Your mouth bubbles
with boiled curses.

Acid wrath sizzles
on your lips,
soaks your teeth.

Hatred fouls the air,
a glare of disgust
in your milky eyes.

You fry my guilt
on an open skillet,
greased with
buttered shame.

My words drip.
Yours erupt.

Truth’s vampiric bite
poisons blood,
sours shrieks.

Leave while you can.
You don’t.

Lies stitch me,
thread me with faults,
a puppet on fifty strings.

Letters mince me
into gory sweetmeat,
sticky as syrup,
cruel as true love.

Spires stab me
while I decay a vulture
in a stone-wet dungeon,
nibbling your carrion,
a scapegoat for your Janus darts.

You hack us,
flay us,
into strips of salted flesh,
till we are only
bones in a cage
and rusty chains,
the rage
and pain
you left me.

IF / THEN

If you hadn’t
plunged your taloned fist
through my lemon-cake ribs…

If you hadn’t
snapped my candyfloss bones
and reaped my balloon-animal lungs…

If you hadn’t
plucked my onion heart
from its fanged cage
with your bleeding tongue…

If you hadn’t
split my stained-glass skull
and charred my balsamic mind
over a rasping cherry flame…

If you hadn’t
feasted on my gunmetal thoughts
beneath a bullet tiara,
clothed in the wet warmth
of another’s wine-drugged pulse…

Then
I
would
have
let
you
stay.

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Recent Reads

Fuel for your beautiful brains!

• Born of Blood and Sin by Rose J. Fairchild

• Animal by Lisa Taddeo

• Night’s Edge by Liz Kerin

• I Hope This Finds You Well by Natalie Sue

• You I Lie With by Meghan Davis

• After Words by Nina Mitchell

• Linghun by Ai Jiang

• Adèle by Leïla Slimani

• Worst Case Scenario by T.J. Newman

• Briefly Very Beautiful by Roz Dineen

• Fable for the End of the World by Ava Reid

• We All Rot Eventually by Mia Ballard

• Letter Slot by Owen King

• The Blanks by Grady Hendrix

• Several People Are Typing by Calvin Kasulke

• The Thrashers by Julie Soto

• The Scattered Bones by Nicole Scarano

• Shy Girl by Mia Ballard

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Podcasts/Channels to Stalk

The Writing Community Chat Show, Story of a Storyteller, The Tiny Bookcase, Boomers on Books, The Shadow’s Project, Steve Talks Books, What The Book, Human Chapters, Words & Pictures, Talk Wordy to Me

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Aggressive Love

As my grandfather would say, “to make a long story continuous,” thank you all so much for sticking with me through the chaos. And, like I said above, I never mean to complain. I’m massively grateful for all of you and for everyone in my life. So here’s to making withering, grumpy snail auras sexy. Thanks for reading this unsolicited brain vomit, and may the aged pecorino romano cheese be with you.

Lots of love & chaos,

Halo

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