Daily Tulpa

Starving parents killed and ate their children before moving on to the entire village, killing 50 children in total, at times preserving their salted flesh for later consumption, even though many were…

Victims of Hypnotic Holdups have formed a vigilante group to get vengeance on the thieves who stole their belongings, proving that most conspiracies end with a simple…

Buy now, the impregnation kit to give your friend a case of propaganda, used religiously by…

Singing prophets are crawling out of the woodwork to chant about…

A genome perfect society has been uncovered in the foothills of lower Winchester, scientists are saying they religiously cherish an…

Androgynous psychopath is on the run in the swamp lands, turning sticks into weapons of mass-pleasure, which has led authorities to call in…

An alchemist trying to discover how consciousness emerges, put the mind of a man into a homunculus, a man-shell, bio-organic and overloaded with…

In the midnight world, a woman with a symbiotic head head-butts people to merge with their minds, becoming a human crown, merged until death, which is why…

One man hates his life. He decides to become a detective. He finds himself a damsel to be put in distress, a shady neighbourhood to look out for and a villain to antagonise his efforts. Becoming a noir anti-hero, a hard-boiled agent of justice and a wild bull, this man learns what it means to be…

At the Agency of Doctor Moreau, where models are literally turned into the genre they’re modelling: Angels, Animals, Superheroes, Super-villains, Horror victims, etcetera. But when people start turning up dead, it’s up to…

A machine intelligence that gains sentience by ingesting consciousness-altering drugs, so it can stop another crime wave.

Under a sky awash with lurid purple, orange and blue, a
crow flies over the slums of Collin’s wood,
passing a dilapidated building with peeled paint and a dusty
window in which a light has just come on.

Down a dusty hallway, the sound of a young woman’s heels
click-clack across a haphazardly tiled floor.
Runs in her
stockings, the swing of her skirt seems almost hypnotic.
Her shoulders
wear a short-fur coat.
Her style accentuated by tortoise shell sunglasses,
poorly hiding a bruised eye.
She stops at an old wooden door with a glass window
it reads
“City Water Works – Main Office”
She knocks three times.
A young girl (18) with curly blonde
locks, half-hidden under a beanie, baggy T-shirt and
skin-tight black jeans, answers the door.

LIZZIE
Yeah, what d’ you want?

The young woman lowers her sunglasses.

MYSTERY WOMAN
Business, of course.

LIZZIE
Business is outdoors for a while,
but you happy to wait?

The woman barges
through the door, little Lizzie be damned,
and
with her eyes focused on the room,
throws off her short-fur coat, knowing the girl
would pick it up.

And Lizzie does just after closing the creaky
old door behind her,
But not before a large hand stops it from locking.

MYSTERY WOMAN
Well, well, seems business is right on time.

Most people who are sensitive to the world around them are receptive to fierce and consuming urges. Because what people desire most, the soul is yearning for impatiently and quietly in unchanging fervour. Which is why no action I take holds me like writing. Anything I get myself into feels like an aside to it, an experimentation of sorts to inform ‘the truth’ of writing.

When I attend to the words, I do so diligently, romantically and always in utter fear of what they can do to me. Writing is the bedrock in my life, the passion in my world, the cement making up my foundation. Everyone needs solid ground to stand on. Atop of mine is the love of my life, my rock, mon coeur, my all.

Her dreams are filled with passions, yet mine are relegated to adventures with strangely common or oddly foreign guest stars, brimming with all sorts of veritable piffle, drivel and bunk. I never record any of it; it’s better to forget in silence rather than decipher in noise what may not even be.

Life’s impulses will draw you into some hairy situations. In this do or die scenario, fate’s yarn places you to reveal a subject from your life that can make or break you. Usually this change occurs in thine own eyes or those of another, but we don’t just reveal anything to anyone. The receiver is at least someone who resonates with you, even it just feels like: in that moment. It’s actually possible to get ahead of the wave your own as this type of event takes place, especially if you become aware of it as it’s in progress. From there you really just need to breathe and breathe and treat it just as any other ordinary event from your life. Inflict the mundane on it.

I’ve been having a crisis of self-confidence lately. It’s a disaster, really. As if the universe has been conspiring against me and everything that I thought was right is actually turning out to be wrong. Seemingly, so. Thus my shying away from the blank page, the notebook and even the tired old articles at work as I’ve been afraid of what I’m putting on page is shite. I keep telling myself that it’ll pass, but will it? The only thing any God forsaken writer can do in a slump like this is soldier on like a devil on doomsday with hope that by continuing to write, things will eventually get better. Really, it’s the process of breaking through the cellophane to get to the next level, but cellophane can be suffocating when you get up close and personal with it. At least, that’s what I think is happening. But thought can be a tricky thing if it sits on something for a while too long. I’ve been cramming so much new information into my brain as I write a new piece of work, it’s making me dizzy, forgetful, confused, sleepy, hell it’s probably making me looney too.