Short stories, flash fiction, and creative essays. Follow for my latest horror and scifi pieces, as well as updates on my novel series and comic projects.
A couple of years ago, I posted about forcing myself to write on my phone. Part of the goal was to capture those thoughts that pop to mind throughout the other day. I also wanted to make use of the downtime that pops up sporadically throughout the day (15 minutes here, 10 minutes). Why? Because keeping that torch of creativity lit during busy work-weeks while juggling family obligations and errands is no easy feat.
I have creative friends who set aside an hour each day to write. I know others who are weekend warriors. For myself, I write whenever I can fit it in. Sometimes it’s on weeknights. When I’m lucky, I carve out some time in the morning or during lunch at the office.
But I found something, friends. I plunked down an easy $10 on a bluetooth keyboard I found in the wild at our local Aldi (of all places). It’s foldable and is about the same size as my smartphone.
Monday, 10:04 AM Bob rearranged the foil candy wrappers into a neat stack on his desk for the second time. On his computer monitor, an AI chatbot wrote an email response that Bob would copy and paste into a draft saved in his inbox. When the script finished, Bob quickly scanned the text for any glaring errors, then pasted it into an email draft with the subject line: Please upload this to CMS. When Bob clicked send, the email fired off halfway around the world to an ever-expanding part-time office in the Philippines.
After confirming that the email was sent, Bob pulled out his smartphone and scrolled social media. A sweating man with a bulging vein ranted about a kids movie at the top of his feed. Beneath that, Bob’s aunt posted an awkward photo of her standing in front of a mirror at the gym. This was followed by an inflammatory article about the potential risks tortilla chips pose for dental health. Bob opened his camera, switched to selfie mode, and rooted around in his mouth with an unwashed index finger. His yellow, coffee-stained teeth looked the same as they did six months ago, and his gums also appeared unchanged since he last rubbed a grimy finger over them.
Satisfied, Bob opened the drawer on his office desk and rummaged through a sea of empty chip bags. His hand returned empty. Looking to the left, then the right, Bob stood up from his worn office chair. The smell of ass sweat wafted from the seat, and Bob carefully slid his legs out in order to air out. On the TV across the room, a ticker tape ran below the newsfeed that read: Both candidates call for cooler political rhetoric and national unity.
Bob stretched his arms over his head, gave his bulbous-eyed, blonde colleague with the gopher teeth a nod, and then followed the sewer brown carpet toward the front of the office. Most of the cubes stood empty, faded memories of coworkers whose jobs had been shipped overseas. A crinkled agenda lingered here. A pink motivational post-it note still stood firmly there.
“I want a donut,” Bob announced to no one in particular.
It’s nearing the end of August. Work has been a roller coaster ride of new clients, a shifting marketing landscape, and economic turbulence. The world around me has rapidly changed in the last 7 months, and at every turn, small minds with despotic dreams subjugate the rest of us to their angry, bigoted outlook.
National Guard patrol Washington DC, with the looming threat of Chicago next. My home city. The city of my parents and grandparents, and the refuge of their immigrant forebearers.
A few days ago, my wife and I had the chance to see the new Superman (2025) film. For those of you who know me well, comic books are in my blood. To say I’m deeply enmeshed in the genre, from penning reviews and recording podcasts for The Batman Universe to my current stint as reviewer of the Defenders of the Earth over at Chronicle Chamber, is appropriate.
Comics have been with me for as long as I could read. They saw me through good times, and they carried me through the rough moments. Characters like Batman, Spider-Man, The Phantom, and Superman inspired me to keep going. When I needed someone in my corner, they were there for me, helping me find my way through turbulent teen years into adulthood.
This is all to say that, as a fan, I have an emotional connection to many of these characters, and in moments when I’m down and out, I still look to them as fables and signals to step up and be my best.
I am a big believer that across America, the majority of us hold the same ideals. I believe that we envision America as a country where everyone, regardless of ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation, or social standing, deserves the best opportunity to pursue a fulfilling and rewarding life. With every fiber of my being, I believe that there are more of us who welcome those who are different and want nothing more than to learn and grow from an exchange of ideas.
Because this is the foundation of what makes the United States of America beautiful. It’s the backbone behind an engine for self-determination and building a better tomorrow.
Soon, 700 Marines will have the opportunity to show the residents of Los Angeles, their fellow Americans, and people across the world which vision of the country they hold in their hearts. Will they side with the dream of a nation where people from all walks of life can live, work, and grow together, or will they submit to the demands of a wealthy, thin-skinned authoritarian?
May heart and community prevail over hate and fear-mongering.
When I was a little guy, I was both mischievous and an ardent rule-follower. That sounds like an oxymoron, but there’s truth in it. I enjoyed bending or breaking rules when I found a way to circumvent them. I’d stay up late on a school night reading or playing video games, then steal back some lost sleep with micro naps in class. When Star Wars: Episode III — The Revenge of the Sith premiered in 2005, I cut class with a few friends, and we spent the afternoon at the movie theater. This was far from the only time I flaked on important opportunities in lieu of fun, and as I grew, I found creative ways to skirt the “way things are supposed to be” for mischief.
At the same time, I was strict about which principles or rules I followed. Because storytelling was so important to me at a young age, I was a devout believer that there was an order to art and creativity, that there were laws that weren’t supposed to be broken. Vampires were warded off by garlic and avoided sunlight for fear of death. Silver bullets were the main method of dealing with werewolves. That sort of thing.
It sounds silly to think of myself as a child who was comfortable with skirting social expectations and norms but consumed books, movies, and comics with such rigidity. But this is also something that’s so very human. It’s a dichotomy we all carry with us in one way or another.
Eventually, I dropped the rigidity when it came to art and creativity. It came about in the most unexpected way. I watched a vampire flick called Innocent Blood, wherein an empathetic “good” vampire had to slay nefarious mobster vampires who were turning New York City into their playground. She did so with a gun, and the “bad” vampires were killed by destroying their brains. As much as it was fun, my brain couldn’t process rules normally reserved for ghouls or the living dead being applied to vampires here—two distinctly different monster types.
We live in strange, frightening times. Many of our most vulnerable populations are at risk simply because they ask for the right to exist. Assistance programs, resources, and educational assets like museums, libraries, and cultural centers are on the chopping block. What many of us consider “civilization” is teetering over the edge, plunging us into a warped reality that’s being advertised to us as “greatness.”
We write our representatives. We help each other out. We rebel in small ways, including where we decide to vote with our dollars. In the indie publishing/writing community, many readers and fellow creatives have decided to stand their ground and choose NOT to shop at Amazon. I consider myself among them.
This seemingly simple protest vote has been effective, it would seem, especially when it comes at a time when tariffs are applied and revised inconsistently. As I write this, Amazon has been declining since early February, and it’s lower than it’s ever been year-to-date.
As more readers hold strong, choosing to shop directly from businesses instead of a marketplace platform, having an ebook on Kindle becomes more challenging.
Luckily, a reader of mine turned me onto a platform called Itch.io. It’s geared toward younger readers, gamers, and niche communities, but it’s also home to a thriving ebook author community.
I’ve since added my novel, MACHINE: A Cybernetic Fairytale, to the platform. Because I make more with each purchase on Itch.io, I’ve also lowered the price on this platform. What was $8.99 on Amazon is now a cool, easy-breezy $4.99 on Itch.io. It’s never been a better time to check out the first in a new series of mine.
If you are unable to purchase my ebook and still want to show your support, considering sharing the link. For those who have read it, any and all reviews and feedback are welcome. Even if you hate it.
“Feet-all-Al-Coal-Hall-Sin-Drum,” Alan sounded out. “That’s what my mom and dad said you have.” He jabbed his finger into the cool spring air to emphasize the point, just in case his furrowed brows and trembling lips failed to convey anger.
“What does that EVEN MEAN?” Markie fired back. His voice was raspy. He smelled like stale cereal. The tangled fluff of red hair atop his head was lopsided and bunched up to one side, and his freckles were gross. And Markie swore. The fear of God hadn’t touched him the way it had the others, hadn’t stirred in him the wrathful revelation, rendering him free to utter syllables no one else dare speak. One time, in front of the teacher, he even blurted out, “Shit!”
“It means you’re a jerk. That’s what it means!”
It was true. Markie was a jerk. He was the meanest jerk on the playground, and he’d bully kids on a whim. Everybody used to shy away from him at recess, so he’d have to conscript his “friends,” demanding to join their games in lieu of school-wide humiliation. And he wasn’t afraid of hitting to get his way. This was why the boys were afraid of him; it was why the girls hid from Markie.
Oh, the girls, Alan mused. Just entertaining the thought of ladies filled his mind with daydreams teeming with wet kisses and bony fingers wrapped tightly around his midsection. He imagined soft chins gently nuzzling a single hair taped to his smooth chest. It didn’t matter from which girl or for how long or if she had milk or peanut butter breath. Alan just wanted kisses. He wanted to be the lip-smeared hero from all of his videogames, defying all odds and manner of foes to collect puckered smooches from the fairer sex.
“You want to take that to your grave?” Markie loomed over the would-be hero like a ruby-freckled goliath, his broad shoulders rippling with visible muscles under that Van Halen T-shirt. His Neanderthal forehead creased as he drilled his right fist into his left palm. The resulting sound reminded Alan of a handsaw chewing through lumber. Slowly. Painfully.
When a tree is sawn in half in a forest, and nobody is around…
“I’m a meat-eater, chicken shit, and you’re the meat,” the barbarian growled. An inhuman growl. The kind of throaty growl that reminded Alan of the second boss in that Sega Genesis game he unwrapped last Christmas – Joe & Mac. It’s true; Markie lacked the flailing vines and the leafy mouth of the gargantuan, man-eating plant, but their bellows were nearly identical – ominous and pitched in the wrathful, revelatory octaves of Hell.
It took Alan and his brother, Greg, three tries before they cleared the second level, three tries before they discovered the perfect combination of stone boulders and boomerangs that would pummel that prehistoric flora back into the dirt. And when they finally mashed their fingers to victory, mugs of eggnog, the Christmas elixir of 16-bit champions, never tasted so sweet.
But even sweeter were the kisses. The spoils of war. The prizes of valor. With each boss slain, a voluptuous cavewoman would jog onto the screen, seeking out the hero who dealt the most damage. She’d kiss this loincloth-wearing champion – long and hard – for half a second. His life meter at the top of the screen refilled, he’d raise his arms in victory, standing next to his untouched brother, whose head bowed in shame. For only one could unlock the sensation of puffy-lip smooches. Only one could boast the lecherous treasures of courageous conquests at the caveman bar.
And each time he shamed his brother, Alan would watch in awe. His gleeful voyeurism lapped up the adventures of his digital Casanova, scribbling mental notes. There must have been damsels everywhere, inexplicably thrust into wanton captivity.
It was the year I was promoted from a specialist to an account manager with the digital marketing agency I work for, meaning more responsibility as well as more freedom to assess clients’ needs and come up with a plan of action.
2024 was also the year where, creatively, I had to reassess where I put my time and efforts. I had to learn to say no and walk away from certain tasks if I wanted to say yes or carve out more writing time for myself, as well as time to spend with family, friends, and, most importantly, my wife.
It was also the year where I finally released MACHINE: A Cybernetic Fairytale, a book I had been writing and talking about off and on for several years now. After much trial and error querying publishers and agents, I decided to release it independently. MACHINE: A Cybernetic Fairytale is digitally available for purchase on Amazon Kindle or Gumroad. It’s also part of Kindle Unlimited, so you can read it for free (and leave a rating/review).
Scott Waldyn Writes 