by Jim Stitzel | Apr 6, 2016 | Stories
He is a tiny man. Under four feet tiny. Balding pate. Small eyes. Round, tortoiseshell glasses. Tattered brown suit. Nothing to look at, certainly, not that anyone is looking. He glides through the crowd, clearing a path without word or gesture. People move aside for...
by Jim Stitzel | Feb 17, 2016 | Stories
There were things we worshiped before the new gods. Things of the dirt. Things of the dark. Things that moved and swarmed and crawled in the spaces beneath our feet. We feared them, even as they ignored us. To them, we were the worms. And less than worms. We were the...
by Jim Stitzel | Feb 10, 2016 | Stories
Night clings to the forest like a shroud. The darkness is nearly absolute, the silhouettes of the trees only just a hair’s-breadth deeper black. The sounds of life are everywhere, however. The chirps of insects and the calls of nocturnal predators. The sounds of...
by Jim Stitzel | Oct 30, 2015 | Stories
I can tell the Wellbutrin is doing its job. This is the third individual item I’ve written in as many days, which I think may very well be more than I’ve written in the last year. I also have story ideas spilling out my ears, which is also something that...
by Jim Stitzel | Sep 1, 2015 | Stories
“Ain’t natural, Karl.” “‘Course not.” “Fog’s ‘sposed to burn up in sunlight, not pile up against the edge of a man’s property like it’s beatin’ on a wall.” “Ever’body knows that,...
