by Vincent St. Claire
Twilight. The sounds of the city were hushed this far out in the suburbs. Moth wrinkled his nose at the ambiance of prosperity that bleached the rot of disgust coursing through the blotted pastels of the neighborhood still shrouded in the muted darkness. He stood by...
by Vincent St. Claire
Julian Andrade married and divorced a stripper faster than hell could rip a teenaged sinner out of the clutches of heaven with a bottle of MadDog 20/20 and porno magazine. For a while after she left, he missed the sex and the companionship. But even before she left,...
by Vincent St. Claire
Morrigan shifted on the couch. “After your accident, you ended up here in Mosswood Manor, yes, but within the Grey Estate. It’s a space …” “The what?” “It’s a space between,” she held her hands out in front of her like she was holding an invisible box. “Between what?”...
by Vincent St. Claire
The newspapers heralded Jonathan Victor Gilman as “the successor to Pickman” (found in the Boston Globe) and the “artistic titan of the 21st century” (so said the Providence Journal). Some even ventured to place him upon a pedestal higher than the esteemed Bosch,...
