Thank you for listening.
More music on the way.

🎧 Links:
[Spotify]
[Apple Music]
[Amazon Music]

For the first time in a couple of years, Catalyst Comics Studio stepped back out into the world, live and in person, for Free Comic Book Day.

We had the opportunity to be part of Comic World’s celebration, and my daughter and I showed up ready. We brought comics, coloring pages for the kids, and Catalyst Comics bracelets to share with anyone who stopped by.

***Quick note. If you’re local, you might still be able to swing by Comic World and find some of those bracelets and coloring pages still hanging around. No promises, but it’s worth a look.

More than anything, the day was about people.

We met new faces, started new conversations, and built new connections. What stood out most was how many people we talked to who had their own desire to step into the comic book world. Writers, artists, dreamers, trying to figure out where to start.

That part never gets old.

Some of you might remember that I used to host a show called Beards and Comics, where I took a deep dive into indie comic creation. What it takes, how to start, and how to keep going when things get tough. Back then, my perspective on the comic industry was very different.

Truthfully, it’s shifted a lot.

As of 2026, my outlook on comics and my place in it has evolved in ways I didn’t expect when I first started. I’ve shared bits and pieces of that journey here and there, and at some point, I will probably sit down and unpack it fully.

But not today.

Today is simpler.

Catalyst Comics Studio is here. We’re active. We’re building.

But we’re moving differently now.

Instead of constantly pushing to stay in front of everyone, we’re being more intentional and more focused. There is a long game in mind. A future purpose guiding what we do and how we do it.

Right now, the priority is allowing the stories we’ve already created to fully become what they’re meant to be.

No rushing. No noise for the sake of noise.

Just steady, purposeful growth.

This shift does not mean we are disappearing. If anything, it is opening up new kinds of opportunities.

We have officially been invited to host a panel at Epic Mighty Con on September 19th in Wendell, North Carolina.

If you are anywhere near the area, come out to the con and stick around for the panel.

I have some creative freedom with what the panel will be, which is exciting. Over the next little while, I will be developing exactly what that looks like. The goal is to bring real value to anyone interested in comics, whether you are just starting out or already in the trenches.

And this is just the beginning.

I am actively looking for more opportunities like this. Panels, conversations, and spaces where we can talk about the comic book world at large, indie publishing, writing, and the creative process as a whole.

Because at the end of the day, this is not just about making comics.

It is about building something that lasts and helping others do the same.

And honestly?

It still feels right.

As always,

Do better. Be better.

Subscribe now

He stared at his gloved hands, watching the faint teal light ripple across the fabric like liquid glass. The material drank in the glow and released it in soft gradients that traced every seam, every subtle bend of his fingers. The suit felt heavier than it should have, the pressure of it reminding him that there was still something holding him together, even as everything else had come apart. The silence around him was not empty. It pressed in from every direction, thick and patient, swallowing even the memory of sound.

He tilted his hands slowly, mesmerized by the way the distant star fractured along the curve of his knuckles. Its light stretched thin, diffused into a pale shimmer that clung to the edges of his gloves. When he turned slightly, his body interrupted the glow, and a shadow spilled outward, impossibly long, pouring into the endless black. The darkness did not feel passive. It seemed to lean toward him, curious, as though it had been waiting.

For a moment, wonder loosened the tight knot in his chest. The universe looked vast enough to contain meaning again, vast enough to make loss feel small. But the illusion dissolved quickly. Everything had collapsed. That was what brought him here, suspended in the quiet aftermath of a life that had been taken from him without warning, without mercy. His home, the warm clutter of familiar rooms, the woman whose laughter had once filled the spaces between his thoughts, the family whose presence had grounded him. All of it erased in a blink so abrupt that the mind refused to accept the finality.

It was not a decision that led him here. It was theft. The kind that leaves the door open behind it so the emptiness can wander freely.

He tried to summon panic, some sharp instinct that would ignite the blood and force his body into motion. This was the moment when a man should fight, should claw for breath, should rage against the quiet vacuum that threatened to claim him. Instead, there was only a dull awareness, like touching something through layers of cloth. Even fear felt distant, softened at the edges.

He wondered if the suit’s oxygen mixture was muting him, slowing his thoughts into something manageable. But he knew the truth before the idea had fully formed. The numbness had begun long before he entered the ship. It had started the moment the world he loved had folded in on itself, leaving him standing in the echo of what once was.

When they asked him to travel beyond the borders of their solar system, to investigate the strange disturbances rippling through neighboring stars, he accepted without hesitation. There had been no spark of adventure, no childlike thrill at the promise of the unknown. Instead, something inside him exhaled for the first time in months. Relief. A quiet permission to leave behind the rooms filled with memories that would never change again.

His heart tightened now as he thought of that distant planet, its colors, its gravity, the scent of rain striking sun-warmed stone. He pictured the faces he would never see again, frozen in the fragile perfection of memory. Grief did not strike him like lightning. It seeped through him slowly, saturating everything until even the idea of feeling whole seemed abstract.

Traveling through the wormhole had not been like anything the simulations suggested. It felt less like movement and more like surrender. He had compared it, in a detached corner of his mind, to skydiving without a parachute. Not the rush, not the exhilaration, but the long stretch of falling after the realization that nothing would stop the descent. Time lost shape. The ship trembled around him as though reality itself objected to being bent.

Metal groaned with a sound he felt more than heard, vibrations traveling through the hull and into his bones. The structure that had carried him across impossible distance began to unravel piece by piece, panels peeling back like petals torn loose by invisible hands. Warning lights flared and died in uneven pulses, staining the cockpit in brief flashes of color that felt strangely ceremonial.

He expected terror then. Expected the primal surge that demands survival at any cost. Instead, an unfamiliar calm settled over him, steady and inevitable. Acceptance did not arrive as a conscious decision. It grew quietly, filling the spaces where resistance once lived.

The star’s light intensified as the ship’s shielding fractured, its warmth bleeding through the suit in subtle increments. It was not heat as he remembered it. There was no breeze, no shifting air, no comforting scent carried on rising currents. Just a steady touch of energy that reminded him he still existed within a universe capable of contact.

The hull tore open with silent violence. One moment he was enclosed in engineered safety, the next he felt the pull, firm and undeniable. Something larger than gravity claimed him, drawing him away from the wreckage with slow authority. The ship did not explode. It simply came apart, surrendering its pieces to the dark.

As the last fragments drifted beyond reach, the enormity of the emptiness revealed itself fully. No up. No down. Only distance layered upon distance, depth without boundary. The star burned quietly in the vastness, indifferent yet impossibly beautiful.

Then there was nothing between him and infinity.

Then, he was alone.

Episode Title

Tilt: It’s Good To Be King (Part I)

Episode Description

In a dark Boston alley, a man begs for his life.

Tilt, an elite operative of the powerful Council of Elders, is searching for information about a growing threat—someone known only as Paradigm.

His partner Taylen, watches with amusement as the interrogation turns brutal.

But far across the city, another player is already moving.

A man named Ben Fallow stands on a rooftop overlooking the harbor, preparing to challenge the most powerful organization on Earth.

Tonight, the first pieces move.

And the king has finally noticed the board.

In This Episode

• A brutal interrogation reveals whispers of a rising enemy
• The mysterious Paradigm begins to emerge
• The power structure of the Council of Elders comes into view
• Ben Fallow prepares to challenge the system
• A war begins quietly in the shadows of Boston

Characters Introduced

Patrick Eitilt (Tilt)
A high-ranking figure within the Council of Elders. Calculated, composed, and absolutely ruthless when necessary.

Taylen
Tilt’s partner. Charismatic, observant, and armed with a golden Desert Eagle and a dangerous sense of humor.

Jimmy
An unfortunate informant caught between powerful forces.

Ben Fallow
A man with destructive abilities and a personal score to settle with the Council.

Cindy Caran
An ally trying to keep Ben from making a fatal mistake.

Organizations & Concepts

The Council of Elders
A global power structure operating behind the scenes of governments, science, and enhanced human development.

Hyper-Evo Sympathizers
A growing movement of people who believe the Council has gone too far in controlling enhanced individuals.

Paradigm
A mysterious figure recruiting people and targeting Council operations across the city.

Setting

Boston, Massachusetts.

From narrow back-alley interrogations to the highest office in the city skyline, unseen powers are already moving into position.

Credits

Written By: Aaron Dowen
Produced By: Catalyst Comics Studio

Follow Catalyst Comics

More episodes, comic projects, and story worlds are coming soon.

Stay connected for future chapters of Tilt: It’s Good To Be King.

Listener Question

Is Paradigm a revolutionary…

or a terrorist?

And when power is absolute…

who gets to challenge the king?

Hashtags

#AudioDrama
#PodcastFiction
#IndieComics
#SuperheroStory
#ComicUniverse
#VillainStory
#WorldBuilding
#IndieCreators
#CatalystComics
#SciFiPodcast

The following is based loosely on The Chronicles of Narnia, created by C.S. Lewis. An adaptation by Aaron Dowen.

He gazed out into the vastness and called aloud, though he was not at all prepared for the answer he received. For there, rushing toward him at a most alarming speed, came a creature both man and horse. He knew at once that it was a centaur. His aunt, God rest her soul, had spoken of such beings before, and her descriptions of their eyes and hair had always sounded too wonderful to be believed. Now he saw that she had spoken plainly and truly.

He stood so astonished by the sight that it did not occur to him, at first, that he might soon be trampled beneath the creature’s hooves.

At last, panic seized him, and he flung himself sideways into the treeline from which he had emerged only moments earlier. The centaur, for his part, was equally eager to avoid disaster and reared back in a most horse-like fashion. When the excitement had settled and Alfie had caught his breath, the soft rustling of leaves drew his attention.

“I beg your pardon. I was only stretching my legs,” said a voice that was rough, yet not unkind. “My name is Edamus. Come out now, if you please, and show yourself friendly.”

Alfie had no great desire to leave his hiding place, though he knew well enough that it scarcely hid him at all. He rose to his feet, brushed the dirt from his trousers, and stepped out into the open. Edamus stood far taller than he did, though that was not saying much, for Alfie had always been the smallest in his class. Even so, beside his ten-year-old frame, the centaur seemed enormous.

“H-hello,” Alfie said.

Edamus regarded him closely, one eyebrow lifting in curiosity.

“I hope you will forgive my bluntness,” he said, “but what sort of creature are you?”

Alfie bristled at this and very nearly said so, but he had been taught better manners.

“I am a boy…a human boy," he replied, trying to sound braver than he felt.

Edamus gave a sharp gasp, which Alfie soon realized was rather more like a neigh.

“A son of Adam?” the centaur asked, glancing about as though the trees themselves might be listening.

Alfie frowned, for his father’s name was Thomas, but understanding soon dawned.

“Oh. You mean in the Bible sense,” Alfie said. “Then yes, I suppose I am.”

Edamus scraped a hoof against the ground, then bowed low.

“Oh, you needn’t—” Alfie began.

“Climb onto my back at once,” Edamus said urgently. “We must be gone.”

“Why?” Alfie asked, shrinking back.

“The Dark Rider watches many roads,” Edamus replied, lowering his voice.

“Who is that?” Alfie asked, which did not help matters at all.

“There is no time to explain here,” Edamus said. And before Alfie could protest further, the centaur lifted him swiftly and set him upon his back.

“I want to go home,” Alfie cried. “I need to get back to the shed.”

But Edamus was already running, faster than Alfie had ever imagined anything could run. The wind rushed past his ears and tugged at his clothes. He thought of the autumn fairs and the fastest rides he had known, and found they were nothing at all compared to this. Soon, delight overcame fear, and he spread his arms wide.

“Hurrah!” he shouted.

“This is no moment for celebration,” Edamus said between breaths.

Alfie thought he had a remarkable talent for spoiling joy.

“Are we running away,” Alfie asked, “or running toward something?”

“Both,” said Edamus. “We flee the Dark Rider and make for the Free Lands. You do not yet understand what it means that you are here.”

Alfie pondered this. His thoughts turned to Auntie Elle and the stories she used to tell, stories he had long dismissed as pleasant nonsense. Now the trees and hills rushing past looked very much like the world she had described.

“Is this Narnia?” he asked at last.

“So you have heard of it,” Edamus said.

“Is this the land the White Witch ruled?” Alfie asked.

At once, Edamus halted, and Alfie was thrown forward before being caught firmly by the centaur’s hands.

“We do not speak that name,” Edamus said gravely.

“I am sorry,” Alfie said. “I did not know.”

“That was a dark age,” Edamus replied, setting him down. “We have let it pass.”

“I am still terribly confused,” Alfie admitted.

“And understanding will come,” Edamus said, turning him gently forward.

Alfie leaned back against the centaur’s hands, and there before him stood a great golden lion.

No picture, no story, no visit to any zoo had prepared him for such a sight. His fear lasted only a heartbeat, and then he felt something far stronger. Joy, deep and certain, filled him.

“Welcome to Narnia, son of Adam,” said Aslan. “Come quickly. There is much to be done.”

END

In this episode, I cover:

• Where A Knight, A Cowboy, A Spy, and A Mercenary stands right now.

• Why some of my Substack stories (Parallelium and The Body) disappeared — hint: they’re getting leveled up into the upcoming book.

• How music has been stealing a lot of my time lately (in the best way).

• What to expect from future updates, both in writing and beyond.

This is a behind-the-scenes series where I’ll keep you posted on the journey, the struggles, and the wins. If you’ve been curious about what’s going on with my projects, this is your inside track.

👉 Drop a comment to let me know: would you rather see more frequent shorter updates, or occasional longer ones with deeper dives?

Thanks for listening, and I’m excited to bring you along on this next phase of the creative ride.

Follow the inevitable campaign here.

Watch the video, leave a comment, or whatever it is people say on videos.

There was something not quite right about the window. It was, for all intents and purposes, doing its job. A separation between inside and outside with a visible line of sight through the glass. It didn't even seem to be tinted, and reflected the colors well, yet none of that seemed off. No, the actual content being viewed from the other side was just - wrong. While looking through this window, particularly, the outside seemed to be nighttime, with dark trees slinking off into the depths of the darkness.

This is where the problem was. It was midday, an exceptionally bright day at that, and the sun was piercing through the other windows in the house. In fact, at the end of the hall where this room was located, a beam of light shone in, illuminating the burgundy paisley-patterned carpet. Still, somehow, outside of this window, it was dark. The other problem was that this was a seaside villa, and the window should have been overlooking the vast and beautiful expanse of bright blue-green ocean, with sunlight dancing from the waves far below.

Emily wasn't sure what to make of this window, and her immediate thought was that it must be a painting. She reached for the handle and slung the window wide open. She squished her eyes closed as the sunlight burst into the room. As she slowly regained her vision, she looked out to see...exactly what she should see.

She shook her head and closed the window, as it latched, it returned to the view of a dark forest. Only now, something even more peculiar caught Emily’s attention, it was herself. Her reflection in that mirror seemed off. Her skin seemed darker, with thick black bags under her eyes as if she had been in a fight, and she was clutching her arm like it had been injured. She opened her lips to talk, but fear shot through her body. She realized she was also grabbing her own arm. It wasn’t just an image of her; it was reflecting something ominous.

This window…what was wrong with this window?

She flung it open again, preemptively covering her eyes to shield them from the brightness. However, this time, as she opened her eyes, she still saw the same dark forest. She cursed under her breath, realizing her arm really was hurting now. In fact, everything seemed to be sore on her. She let out a whimper as the realization sank in that all over her body she was aching.

She pushed the window shut again and saw her reflection standing in the room. She looked normal, and the room looked like it should. Then, the smile on her face grew larger, much too large for a human face. She laughed wildly, with no sound escaping her mouth - no, it was her reflection that laughed. Emily’s eyes widened and she slowly stumbled backwards, her head in a fog. She realized the wall that contained the window was not attached to any kind of room.

All around her was nothing but a dark forest, with a random wall and window leaning against a massive, decaying oak tree. She watched as the reflection waved slowly, turned around and walked away. Emily lunged at the window, fighting through the pain in her body, and ripped the window open. All she saw on the other side was more decaying trees, and in the distance, something glowing a soft hue of orange. She cried, but the sound of something large muffled her sobs as it stomped through the trees, headed right in her direction.

The End?

Into comics? Check these out:

This is always an interesting topic to think about, and a difficult one to talk about. I think many in the creative world struggle with balance as much as we struggle with mental space. I realized that the type of creative that I am, whether for better or for worse, means that I spend a bit of time in my head. I don't mean just talking to myself; I mean actual legitimate time, as if I'm taking building blocks and building a skyscraper of a story or an anatomical creation of a character. My intention here is not to sound boastful, but it's to show you the chaotic nature that a lot of creators have to balance.

Some flaws come with this kind of creativity as well, which reflect on relationships, work, and even parenting. I've been told many times throughout the years that I'm good with words, and that might sound like bragging to some people. When it comes to relationships, with the deeper discussions or any kind of disagreement, it can appear as if I am saying something just because it sounds good, or it sounds like it's the right thing to say at the moment. Realizing that it can be perceived that way is important for any creator to consider when they're having a conversation that matters with another person.

Creators are often persuasive, even if it's unintentional, which means we also are a bit hard-headed. Learning how to shut that off in the moments that it needs to be is also important, and the easiest way around that is to step up your listening skills. I found one thing I have to do as a creative person is to force meditate. No, this has nothing to do with Star Wars, though I would be a big fan of that as well, but it has more to do with shutting up. It's important to take those moments where you can stop your brain long enough to just ride the silence. It's extremely difficult, if I'm being honest, and there are still times that I struggle with it. What I've found is that having a healthy prayer life has helped me discover a better meditation, and it gives me a different focal point with a desire to hear rather than to think.

Now let's talk about time management. This is so difficult, and everyone that I know struggles with it. Even if you're not trying to be a creative person, balancing time between work, family, obligations, and housekeeping can be daunting. The irony of it all is that if any of those elements crumbles, even a little bit, suddenly you just don't feel like creating. To be transparent, there was a long time at the end of last year, and sometimes before that, when I wasn't feeling creative. A huge element was battling financially, which made it feel like I was wasting time. What I learned in those times is that if the mood ever struck, or a thought ever occurred to be creative, do it in that moment. You might slip back into the non-creative feeling real soon.

Creativity should never trump real-life or authentic experiences. The greatest possible gift we can have on this planet is a life that is pleasing to God while helping others as we raise our families. You can take any elements out you would like, but my point remains: never neglect your family so that you can be creative. I'm blessed to have a wonderfully supportive woman who loves me and finds my creativity attractive. I wish that each of you had a person who does the same for you. Within that, there's an understanding that sometimes I might daze out, and I might get caught up in working on any kind of particular project. But I also make sure she knows she is more important than those things that I'm working on and that I am thankful to have her blessing to do any of them.

I can't end this without talking about finances. For anyone who's in the creative field, like comic books, you understand as a writer that you're also the bank. Typically, you will have to pay out of pocket for every element of the creation that you would like to share with the world. Often, we will take that and put it on a crowdfunding page, and then we hope and pray that we will recover some of that cost. No one that I know is rich enough to tell every story they want to tell. It has taken me a long time, but I am trying harder and harder to be a good steward of creativity and finance. It's hard in a commodified world to not just dish out every story we want to tell, to charge up credit cards, and just pay for all of it to get it out there. I'm finally beginning to realize that not everything has to be done right now. It’s a hard pill to swallow as a creator because we get so excited about every new idea. What if we were able to focus enough to take a step back and look at the medium we are telling a story in, analyze what's working and what's not working, then determine if we should hold on to the project for a while or if we should go ahead and put it out?

Unfortunately, the Renaissance is dead, and arts and creativity are not valued at the same level that they used to be. The market has changed to the point that it is creatively accessible to all, but unfortunately, that also means that it cheapens the craft. With that lower bar being set, it also means that it's harder to find a fan base, and people are more critical and more skeptical now than ever before. This is all the more reason to hold on to our ideas until the timing is really right, rather than throwing them out there and hoping for the best.

I hope that there's some encouragement to be found in this discussion. I believe that creativity is important and that it is an outlet that many need. If you are a consumer of creativity, I thank you, know that you are valued, and you are loved by anyone whose creativity you consume. If you are a creator, thank you, and you are valued. We are created to be creative.

As always,

Do better. Be better.

🍽️ Episode Summary – “Faith in the Wild”

In this episode of Church Potluck, hosts Aaron Dowen (Catalyst Comics) and Tyr Jackson (Sovereign Comics) sit down for a raw, real conversation about navigating personal faith in the indie comic scene, without making "Christian comics." They tackle the tension between belief and branding, the pitfalls of performative religion, and how their reconstructed faith quietly shapes the stories they tell. It’s not a sermon, it’s a side dish of truth, vulnerability, and creative fire. Grab a plate.

🎙️ Topics We Cover

• Why so many creatives deconstruct faith but rarely talk about rebuilding it

• The "Christian media" stigma and how it impacts indie storytelling

• Balancing personal beliefs with mainstream appeal

• Grace, redemption, and faith-driven themes in stories (without being preachy)

• What “faith influencing creativity” actually looks like behind the scenes

• Whether creatives of faith owe their audience anything spiritually

• How values shape who they collaborate with, and who they don’t

• Honest talk about navigating platform-building, ego, and purpose

👥 Meet Your Hosts

Aaron Dowen

Founder of Catalyst Comics Studio
Writer, artist, voiceover artist, and creative mentor
🌐 aarondowen.com
📸 @catalystcomicsstudio
📬 aarondowen.substack.com
FINAL HEIST ONE-SHOT
AKCSM VOLUME ONE

Tyr Jackson

Founder of Sovereign Comics
Worldbuilder, storyteller, and advocate for diverse narratives
🌐 sovereigncomics.com
📸 @sovereigncomics
📬tyrstavern.substack.com
STARS CAMPAIGN

📢 Join the Conversation

Loved the episode? Tag us, share your favorite quotes, or let us know what topics you want us to bring to the table next time (should there be a next time).

#ChurchPotluckPodcast #FaithAndCreativity #ComicsAndCulture #CatalystComics #SovereignComics

✨ Episode Summary

Welcome to Church Potluck, where faith, storytelling, and creativity all get a seat at the table. In this episode, Aaron and Tyr dive into how faith influences our creativity.

🔑 Topics We Cover:

• The intersection of faith and creativity in comics

• Vetting collaborators through both business values and spiritual alignment

• How fans become a support system—and even inspiration

• Why emotional storytelling matters more than ever

• Creating stories that help readers feel seen, connected, and lifted

👥 Meet Your Hosts

Aaron Dowen

Founder of Catalyst Comics Studio
Writer, artist, voiceover artist, and creative mentor
🌐 aarondowen.com
📸 @catalystcomicsstudio
📬 aarondowen.substack.com
AKCSM VOLUME ONE

Tyr Jackson

Founder of Sovereign Comics
Worldbuilder, storyteller, and advocate for diverse narratives
🌐 sovereigncomics.com
📸 @sovereigncomics
📬tyrstavern.substack.com
STARS CAMPAIGN

📢 Join the Conversation

Loved the episode? Tag us, share your favorite quotes, or let us know what topics you want us to bring to the table next time (should there be a next time).

#ChurchPotluckPodcast #FaithAndCreativity #ComicsAndCulture #CatalystComics #SovereignComics

She yelled down at her boys arguing over the one swing left in the tiny playground. It was such a childlike thing to fuss over, but she knew if their voices got too loud it would draw attention where it wasn't needed. Roger was a regular-looking, nicely kept boy. Her other son, Matthew, was...different. The doctors still weren't quite sure what happened, but it was clear that he did not come into the world the way that most children had. Matthew had a roundish, bulbous head with large, dark eyes. His skin was greyish-blue; at first glance, most people thought he was wearing an alien suit. He did look like an alien, she thought. Yet, she loved him all the same. He also was sweet and would do anything for his family, which she never really needed. Often, if he did get himself involved in a situation, it just ended up worse than if he had left it alone. Still, here they were, trying their best to keep a low-profile life.

She felt paranoid constantly and thought back to the days when she tried to keep his appearance concealed. It never really worked. Everywhere they went, people looked at them strangely. Kids would snicker and make comments under their breath. Matthew knew this, and he simply did not care. He would play with anyone who was willing to play with him and would talk to anyone who made the attempt to chat with him. Honestly, she feared things would be much worse. Yet, here they were at a park like any other normal family. Kids fussed here, Roger and Matthew were no different than any other siblings. They had finally settled on who would be able to use the swing, it was Matthew. As he kicked his feet, rocking back and forth to climb higher and higher, Roger cheered him on. Then, everything changed.

A series of things happened in that next moment, all within the span of just a few seconds. A bright light punched into the ground right at the entrance to the park. Dirt and grass blew in all directions. Sarah dove toward her children. Roger moved into a ducking position, and Matthew floated in mid-air, right where he had launched himself out of the swing.

“Matthew!” Sarah screamed as she did her best to cover Roger’s body with her own.

“Doctor Sarah Donegal, you are under arrest by the United States Space Force Enforcement Division. Please put your hands behind your head and do not move,” a booming voice said.

The light faded, revealing two heavily armored men standing in the small crater. They moved toward the family, raising their weapons and aiming them at Matthew.

“Get away from us!” Sarah screamed as she pulled Roger closer.

“You illegally removed Subject Alpha from containment and have been a fugitive for years. You will return the government's property and be held accountable for your actions,” one of the men said.

“You can’t have him!” Sarah yelled as she looked up at Matthew.

He was looking down at her, with tears streaming down his face. He knew this day would come, no matter how much his mother tried to push it off. They tried to stay hidden as best as they could, but here they are, tracked and tagged.

“M-mom? What do we do?” Matthew asked while his voice quivered.

“Don’t let them take you,” Sarah said as she looked up at him.

The two men moved closer, and as they did, Matthew put his hands out. He was still floating, about 10 feet above the ground, and the men eyed each other back and forth. Matthew's skin began to glow brightly as he stared at the guards.

“That is enough, come down and let’s do this peacefully,” the shorter man said.

“I’ve had enough of this peace,” Matthew said as his expression turned to one of anger.

The guards screamed as their weapons twisted in their hands, pulling away from them and turning the barrel back into their own faces.

“Matthew, what are you doing?” Sarah said as she covered her mouth in shock.

“No---more---running,” Matthew said as his eyes narrowed.

BANG!

The End?

Subscribe now

I remember back when I was promoting Welcome to Everville - a story in which a monster wreaks havoc on a little town and attacks the kids at a local high school- that I was doing a lot of podcasts and shows. I was asked about my thoughts on the horror genre and if I'd always been a fan of it, what my favorite horror movies were, etc.

I always found it to be a difficult conversation to have, because, if I'm being honest, I'm not really even a fan of horror. In fact, I kept trying to pitch that book as dark fantasy with an understanding that there were horror elements to it. This introduction is a way for me to open up the subject of: Why do I write in the darker genres?

It's a genre that never captivated me like it does for so many others. Of course, it could be because I've seen films that I just don't care anything about and I'm not saying as a whole that I think it's a trash genre. People find their enjoyment in all kinds of things. I've always leaned in more towards the fantasy and sci-fi side of everything. Now, the older I've gotten the more I've realized life's difficulties, and how sometimes life can be pretty dark. As a creator balancing what you're feeling with what you're creating is a really challenging task. Some do it well and some really just do not. For me, I feel like leaning into any sort of dark genre or dark story is almost an outlet to flush the dark thoughts and feelings out. It's important to me that I process those thoughts and feelings in a healthy manner. The way that I found to do that is through writing, which is also the way that I process all kinds of other thoughts and feelings.

I used to write a lot of songs, which were often reflective of feelings or emotions. In the same way the comic book scripts that I've created and the short stories that I write are all reflective of a variety of feelings. Now I find them to be a little bit different depending on the world that they're set in, but I've also realized I have an inclination toward playfulness and mindfulness when I write flash fiction. In fact, what you'll find a lot on my substack are stories that are somewhere within the sci-fi and fantasy genres but that have horror elements to them.

I'm also a big proponent of comedic storytelling and, while I don't write that super often, it is probably most prominently seen in my comic book series Tilt. I created that character and funneled in a lot of my humor and dry comedy, a staple of my personality ever since I was a little kid. However, if you were to read that story you would also see that while there is light-heartedness and humor, the story that's being told is not a pleasant one and there is a lot of darkness that Patrick has to battle against both outwardly and inwardly.

People tend to wonder if I'm a naturally dark person. While some of my humor may be dark I would suppose for the most part I'm really not. If you've ever seen me on interviews or heard me on podcasts, you'll know I am a rather playfully natured person and I also tend to be pretty straightforward about my thoughts and feelings on any given topic.

This reflects back on writing, whether it's in a dark tone or a comedy. I feel that these two work well hand-in-hand. I think about so many situations in my life where things get dark and I just can't help but find the awkwardness humorous.

I understand that storytelling is extremely subjective, and everyone has their own likes and dislikes, just as I do. You'll often hear me tell people to give a story their own voice because, at the end of the day, I think that's where the largest amount of impact can be had. I find so often that people try to write for the masses and they rob their story of their own voice in an attempt to be commercially viable.

The stories that I connect to best are explorative of human nature; which can be sometimes hilarious, sometimes straight-laced, and sometimes pretty dark. This is the joy of creativity; no matter what you're feeling you can put it on paper and release it as a story. I found within flash fiction that I can take a few moments to write out a fun little escape from reality and give it any spin that I will find to be the most exciting.

While I often might slip into a fusion of comedy and darkness I also know some of my purpose is to shine a light. This is the difficult tightrope for a Christian creator to balance. I look to some of my favorite creators, like Ted Dekker, and find that you can write a well-adapted, well-told, heartfelt story with a massive amount of dark tone that still shines a light and gives people a moment of reprieve in this chaotic world.

This is part of what gave rise to the new Tiny Daggers section on my Substack. I wanted to write something a little more playful while still having the storytelling elements that I enjoy so much. It's within that headspace that I thought it would be fun, challenging, and funny to write what I'm calling parent horror. These little stories encapsulate moments that so many parents will be able to identify with while being told in a narrative way.

Finally, you'll find it on my website and across certain pages on social media where I have the tag "let the monster create". That comes from a thought that I've had for a very long time is that we live our lives in a battle between the light and the dark and that somewhere in between those there are these beautiful and often monstrous moments of creativity. Something to think about, at least.

As always,

Do better. Be better.

The door was closed, and as I put my hand on the handle, I felt afraid of what I might find. I slowly turned the handle until the latch gave way with a deafening click. I didn't even have to push the door inwards, instead it beckoned itself open. I could feel the sweat drip from my neck, down into my shirt. I told myself to keep my eyes open and not close them out of fear. As the door opened, there it was, all over the floor; an endless sea of red, and blue, and green, and yellow, and so many other colors. Every single Lego in my kid's room had been dumped onto the floor in what I can only describe as a parent's version of the floor is lava.

It was the middle of the night, nearly pitch black, and I was only here to check on my child's temperature. He had been battling a fever for hours, but it finally started its descent just in time for them to go to bed. My wife laid the child down in their bed with no major issues, as if she were some kind of dodging ninja. I envied her little feet, able to dash around without any major problems. I looked down at my own feet, covered in thin grey socks, one with a hole from some other chaotic matter that I would never remember. I took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

The pain was unreal, the heel of my foot barely touched the edge of a red 4-slot rectangle Lego. I bit the bottom of my lip and screamed words in my head that I would never dare say out loud. I grasped my thigh and squeezed it in an attempt to redirect my thoughts away from the new bullet wound I was granted in this war. There were no medics here, and I cursed the night-time cold medicine I had taken for my own fever. Everything looked like it was in a dark tunnel, all swirling around the dull blue emanating from Thor’s hammer that was playfully implanted into the wall as a nightlight.

I took another step and felt the tear in my sock open even further as a yellow 8-slot square shot between my big toe and its joint. I threw my arm up to my face and bit down on the fleece fabric to muffle my scream. I fell to my knees, each landing on a slew of other bricks, poking into me at all kinds of angles. I threw my hands into the air and decreed to the Lord, “What have I done?!” in silent terror. God didn’t respond, but I thought for a moment I could hear His chuckling.

I was shell-shocked and ready to collapse into a ball right there on the floor. Time seemed to slow down, and I felt like I would get sick. Treat me like another Lego piece, something to build off of, for I am done. I had to push those thoughts aside because my son needed me. I crawled through the rubble of tiny pieces, face-to-face with the detached heads and torsos of these fallen yellow people. I felt like I was swimming, or making Lego angels. I made it to the shore -the flat side of a race car bed that I thought made more sense to be against the back wall- what a fool I had been.

I grabbed the side of the bed and pulled myself up, looking down at my comrade. He was just lying there, peacefully sleeping through this time of war. I ran my hand over his bangs, pushing them out of his face as he snored softly. I pulled the forehead temperature monitor out of its holster, the pocket of my pajamas. I held it to his forehead and pulled the trigger. My eyes widened as it beeped far too loudly. Luckily, the patient remained still.

98.8, acceptable. I nearly shouted the word “finally.” It had been too long since we had seen that kind of temperature, and here it was. I nodded my head in contentment, looked at my son for a moment, and turned to leave the room. As I turned, my shin hit the edge of the tire on the bed, and I grasped the edge of the car's spoiler as I silently screamed out in pain. I raised my leg and furiously rubbed it as I tried to get myself together. I started my hobble through the path I had cleared and made it to the door. I forced myself down the hall, holding myself up with my hand on the wall. I made it to the bedroom, so close to the bed that would bring me healing comfort.

As I stepped into the room, my wife looked up at me from her side of the bed. “Wh---what happened to you?” she asked.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging on the doorway of our closet. I was drenched in sweat, one pant leg pulled up from where I had been rubbing my leg, my left sock was nearly dismantled, and doing nothing to hold my foot in, and I had Legos stuck to various parts of my chest and torso.

“War is---” I started, but stopped as my wife lifted her finger, pointing behind me.

I turned slowly, my breath quickening. There he stood, my son. He was rubbing his eyes in exhaustion and yawning with his mouth fully agape. He looked up at me…

“Dad, were you playing with my Legos?” he asked.

THE END.

Subscribe now

Music by Denis Pavlov from Pixabay

He could hear everything but dared not open his eyes. The surrounding sounds of crunching, metal grinding against itself were too much for him to take. It was unsettling, and he wasn't sure what he would even see. The room had been nearly pitch black the last time his eyes were open, but now? He assumed it would somehow be more visible, and he didn't want to see it.

Slowly, he lifted an eyelid and gave himself a moment for his vision to adjust. He prayed silently that the audio was a result of his mind playing tricks on him. He kept lying to himself, desperately trying to hold on to a reality that existed before all of this. Yet, there it was, maybe fifty feet away on the other side of the warehouse floor. Some strange metallic humanoid, but with a much too large and blocky head, and a much too large body. It was munching.

He had never seen anything like this, and it nearly caused him to vomit. He hadn't spoken to anyone else in the room with him; not that anyone else had spoken to him either. Still, here was this person, who was there just moments ago, now being slowly snacked on by this...machine. They weren't even screaming, and it took a while before he could see the needle still sticking out of the man's neck. Some kind of poison, or paralysis injection, he assumed. The machine had made it past the person's kneecaps now, and the sound was becoming more and more unnerving. He attempted to quietly move his arms, pulling on the chains that had him pinned to the wall.

No one stayed here by choice; they were each stuck in this pit of despair. He felt angry, mostly a result of feeling weak and stupid. None of that gave him enough strength to destroy his bindings. He started to fearfully imagine it was him slowly getting eaten by this ridiculous robot. For whatever strange reason, it almost caused him to laugh. The absurdity of it was too much. He laughed himself into a fit of rage, and with tears streaming down his face, he glared at the robot and said.

“You have poor taste,” and then he laughed harder.

The robot was…not amused. In fact, the robot didn’t even seem to hear him. It was too busy with its job. It would be dumb to call it a meal because the robot didn’t need to eat. Despite the sounds and manner in which the artificial lifeform disposed of its prisoners, it was really just that, disposal. It was not a meal, no, it was control. The population of this planet had grown far to great, and life expectancy kept rising. The Mother, the designer of such a robot as this, had assessed the entire situation and came up with one solid solution…population control.

The robot continued to its task until the mission was done. It stood tall on its back legs, a mechanical breathing sound escaping as is rose. It turned toward the wall of prisoners, a light flickering in the area that would typically hold a mouth.

“Voting will now commence on the next sacrifice. You will have one minute to cast your vote. Should you decide to abstain from voting, you will enter the top of the list in a random order. Thank you for your cooperation. The future of humanity is in good hands…the hands of Mother,” the voice said in a deep, glitchy tone.

Subscribe now

He didn't reply and immediately she thought: they've got him and now they're coming for me. She took off down the corridor and launched herself through the double-doors and out onto the sidewalk. She covered her eyes as the sunlight bore into her retinas. She tried to focus as the water fell from her eyelids, deciding to turn left and take off.

Elizabeth had not expected her vacation to end up like this. She had been trying to relax and unwind after a chaotic year of loss. Her job was gone, her mother had passed, and her fiance unexpectedly dumped her two weeks before their ceremony. She was down in the dumps for too long, and it wasn't until she met the mysterious man-in-black that she realized she could get herself out of this.

He was dashing, tall, and mysterious. He had a love for adventure and chaos, and she was smitten. It wasn't a love attraction, it was an admiration for his countenance. He had kept showing up around the same places she frequented, and eventually, they had their first conversation. He explained that he was in the mining industry, but he was dressed way nicer than anyone she had ever met who worked underground.

So naive, and now it could cost her her life.

She peeled down the closest alleyway and ran as hard as she could toward the fence at the end. Without a doubt, they were behind her, but she couldn't let them catch her.

Mining, she thought...how stupid could I be?

He had been gaming the cryptocurrency system, and it was bringing in an absurd amount of money; more than he could have ever expected. Once the system flagged him a task force was unleashed, and the hunt was on.

She had no idea why he asked her to go to New York with him, but she was excited to get away. Now, she couldn't wait to get back home. Would they ever stop chasing her? She had no idea, but she knew she needed to get away.

Blood streaked down her arm, and she hadn't noticed until she launched herself up on the fence, climbing intently to the top. She breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't topped with razor-wire as she flung her body over to the other side. She could hear angry shouts and screams in the distance.

She knew more about the world now, more about who ran things. She never wanted to know, and wished she was still oblivious. Still, this man-in-black dragged her into the chaos of government coverups, and she hated him for it. With all this talk about artificial intelligence, robots taking over, and the dismantling of man, she never thought that they were already putting in the work.

It wasn't a man that attacked them earlier, but he sure looked like a man. That was only two hours after they had been taken from the restaurant they were having dinner in. One of those things grabbed her arm and pulled her up, and it wasn’t until she went to speak her mind that she noticed the soft glow in the eyes of her attacker.

Robots, she thought, freaking robots are trying to catch me.

END OF PART I

I realize that, as a writer, I sometimes feel the urge to vent through my writing, thinking it will help me feel better about certain circumstances. But honestly, it doesn't always do much good, even once everything is laid out. Lately, I’ve been feeling something else that’s been pushing against that tendency—encouragement.

I have so much to be thankful for, and I've seen blessings pour into my life and my family’s life time and time again. I often think about the Apostle Paul saying he’s speaking in human terms because of the weakness of our flesh. I relate to that—disappointment, stress, and worry can overwhelm us, trying to rob us of the good things happening in our lives. I think most of us want to be encouraging to others, but sometimes we get distracted.

With that in mind, I’d like to share some thoughts.

I find a lot of encouragement in this scripture, and I hope it will be encouraging for you too. First, just like with gardening, there are seasons for growth. I often think of life in terms of seasons, and this verse is a big reason why. Sometimes we try to force things to happen before they're ready, before we’re ready. Then, when things don’t work out the way we expect, we look for reasons to blame. But what if it’s just not the right season yet? Those blessings you’re waiting for—they might be just around the corner, in the next season. I know patience is hard, especially in a hustle culture where everyone’s pushing to “get it done now.” My message here is to keep cultivating the ground, keep working, and hang on for the harvest season.

Another thought I get from this passage is that when you’re planted in the right place, you will succeed. I think many of us try to fit into spaces we weren’t meant for, whether it's where we’re planted or how we’re growing. It doesn’t always go according to our plans, and we scramble to force things back to what we think they should be.

So, where are your guiding lines? This can be a tough question to answer, and it can lead to a lot of different conversations, depending on who you're talking to. Some might read this scripture and think it's a sermon they don’t want to hear. For me, I find value in scripture and guidance in my relationship with Yeshua. Sometimes I need my lines corrected, my thoughts refocused—and He’s faithful to do that. Sometimes He uses people in my life to nudge me, and I see the beauty in that.

What is your aim? Are you chasing success for vanity’s sake, or do you have a deeper goal that benefits others? Maybe it's that misplaced focus or vanity that keeps getting in the way of the success you’re trying to achieve.

Here’s my encouragement to you: take a moment to examine yourself, your guiding lines, and your view of success. What does success mean to you, and what might be holding you back from reaching it? If you feel comfortable, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments section.

Thank you for sticking with me.

As always,

Do Better. Be Better.

The whole family had been cursed since the day Isabella threw that stupid penny into the wishing well. No one could have imagined that it would turn into a chaotic nightmare of ghouls and death. Three years...that's how long had passed since the first attack. As soon as the coin hit the water at the bottom of the, obviously deep, well, Gerard knew something was wrong. Nothing should hit water and sound like a sub-bass dropping. No, something was off. 

Everyone took off running when the water erupted in a massive column from the old cement structure, bursting through the half-way covered top. The slab that covered the well shot high into the air, and everyone lost sight of it when it cleared the treetops. Jimmy had been nearly crushed as it landed with an explosive THUD about two feet in front of him. Isabella's mom, Cindy, screamed as everyone ran. They didn't know where they were going, just back toward the edge of the treeline.

Read more

I have been hard at work on a variety of writing endeavors and cleaning up some life chaos. I decided for today's return to tease a bit of the upcoming Aryfaell (you may know it as A Bards Tale.

First off, check out the cover (designed by yours truly)

Now for a tease of the introduction:

Read more