From The Omniatrium

A blog for my fiction work.

Words, an equation of ideas meant to communicate the abstract. Hours researching the theorem. Nights spent healing wounds from failure. After months of trials, documenting the most minutiae errors, and hair-pulling anger they found the correct order. Glory came up short, seeing the unformed gems not a unified whole of symmetrical preeminence. The wizard leafs through notes, searching for an answer the spell’s failure. Their stomach growls, a sigh past between their lips.


Alien the stranger is visceral

Thereby unrequited it's vicious

In the dark its revelry is vivacious

Horribly virulent

Yet there lies innocuous virtue

Herein desire is viscid


When the full moon peaks, I… I cease to be man—yes, that—and revert to the lowest primal state. The transformation is detrimental to mankind's claim of supremacy. Where is God when that thing killing whatever innocent creature, trying to satiate their eternal hunger? Perhaps God is cruelly watching the cursed thing He created out of punishment or simply apart of the grand design? I do not know. I know I call upon His name when throes of pain assaults me. No man should know the anguish turning into the unholy. You shall read it, dear reader.


John Serling is a 6'6 gentle giant, who in his twenty-something years of living has a rap sheet longer than the hours he worked a tax-paying job. Yet, through all the tears he cried over the unforgiving hand of betrayal, he remains the same trustworthy individual he's been since long as anyone can remember. However, on this particular night of June 10th, 2022. On this particular street, a man's limit will be strained by the weight of one's dark nature. Can this affable gowk withstand his own self? He'll only find out on Adams Street.

#shortstory #workinprogress

Leaving the Jaguar's Stadium, two older women get into the car. They've been going to games since Jacksonville Bulls, early 90s. Having not missed one since. As they one is driving through the downtown track of Jacksonville, FL. A grizzling, but still brunette spoke up.

“I'm starting to think these Khans grift us,” she said.


The night is quiet except for the sounds of a water fountain and footsteps. A giant man steps under a streetlight revealing a scar that cuts from his forehead, curves and slices through the right eye, kissing his lower lip. He wears a crusty long-sleeve dark shirt, boots, and pants. Draped across a thick neck, touching his rotund stomach, is a woolen scarf. Slowly, his cold eyes scan over the red and white house. He stares down two daggers carved into an oak-wood door. He snarls at the sight of it. The giant stops, smacks lips. He takes in a strong inhale and exhale. There is no mistake now.