Dime Novels From Oblivion

   (image from https://www.instagram.com/ozotheclown/) The little house sat, cloaked in the shadow of London’s leviathan towers. It was just another neighborhood at the outskirts of the fortress of wealth where the residents lived under the heel of the lords and merchants who lived as their rulers and used their blood to spin the gears of their machines. Death and pestilence were the neighbors of everyone who lived on this damp foggy street. The house sat along the Thames close enough to be constantly immersed in the vile water’s stench of feces and sulfur. The two-story house was a like brick box adorned by a broken window that was covered with torn frilly drapes. They were on the second floor in a tiny brick cell with no window. The little space was furnished a child’s bed standing on a floral pattern throw rug. It had once been Henry’s bedroom. He had turned eight just twenty-one weeks ago, but somewhere along the line, it became apparent he wasn't going make it the thir

Right now there are countless people who don't realize that at some point in their lives a series of events were set in motion that will lead up to them killing someone they may have not even met yet, or maybe the other way around. "There is nothing more dangerous than a group of well intentioned people." -Unknown "Sometimes it's not just paranoia. Sometimes they really are to get you." -Samuel Landsman Auschwitz Survivor "The successes of today lay the foundation for the follies of tomorrow."  "Man fears the oblivion of obscurity far more, than the release of death." "We look over our shoulders and into our future." " There is no guarantee that the missiles haven't just left their silos and the bombers and subs haven't just received their orders. Some of us will be informed by the wailing of a siren, but many of us will never know what happened. There will only be the flash." "There are pe

" It's stressful enough to think about the consequences of life decisions. I don't know if I could handle thinking about how I'm fucking up eternity. " John wasn't sure how long it had been since he died. Nothing ever changed on the seemingly infinite plane of nothingness. He hadn't aged, he and everyone else there looked exactly the same as the first day he arrived. The force of time had no meaning in the vast emptiness. He was moving slowly up in a line where he could see no end and no beginning. He held what looked like a massive deli ticket that had the number 8,456,435,434 printed on it.  The line contained people from all walks of life who had died in a variety of different ways. Geography often played a rather large role in this. Of course, there were people who had simply made it to a ripe old age and had gently drifted off into death, but there seemed to be fewer and fewer of those arriving. Far more often John was meeting victims of war,

The stench of death clung to the hot summer air, hanging over the city in a suffocating layer. The blazing sun was the only thing in the vast empty sky. It scorched the cobblestone streets and turned the tight urban corridors into an oven. There was a wall that ran through the city. It’s top was wrapped in barbwire and it was kept under the watch of rifle sites. The wall was a quarantine measure meant to isolate Warsaw's Jewish population. It was part of a process to physically excise them like a gangrenous limb.  The residents on the wrong side of the wall were branded with yellow stars. Hunger and fear were their constant companions and death cast it’s long shadow over the remains of the war torn city. What were formerly homes had become stifling cells in an overcrowded urban prison. Crammed into one apartment four stories up where multiple families spanning many generations loosely connected by a few elderly members. These times of extreme deprivation had forced them to

They were hunkered down in the bombed out shell of a factory on the outskirts of the city’s industrial sector. The building was a charred and twisted steel and brick skeleton. The glowing light of the pale moon poured in through where the roof used to be, and holes smashed into the brick walls by shell fire allowed the wind to tear through the hollow building. Erich, Peter, and Anton were part of a recon unit sent out to wait for the supply drop. There wasn’t enough fuel to keep the trucks idling, and they couldn’t risk having them all smashed by enemy artillery. They bundled the wire frames of their emaciated bodies in the heavy gray winter coats of the Wehrmacht. They hid their faces behind tightly tied scarves from the biting w ind that would every so often rip across the field in a flesh tearing howl and suddenly die down, only to whip back up again as if it was mocking the frozen troopers.  They slung their rifles over their shoulders, stuffed their wool glove-covered hands into