My god! Does he use a computer? Those were brilliant, didn't look like paint. IF they were I'm astonished.

Those are all computer generated stills. Each one of the images is created from 3D generated artwork. He could literally generate a still from any angle.

Wow. That's incredibly cool. How long does each one usually take him?

He spent about two weeks on and off for the one he did for me. Some of those can take several hours alone just to render since he doesn't have the huge computer power your Pixars and Dreamworks have.

He should make fan movie posters. Or make really cool concept art ideas and send them to studios (if he knows about something coming up in a film being made).

Yeah, he is working to get into the movie business. He is taking a few classes to polish up what he knows. Hopefully, one day everyone will see his stuff.

Episode 23 of The Dark Verse can now be listened to and downloaded! It is titled The Skulker.

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Episode 24 of The Dark Verse has been released! It is titled The Coming Of The Unexpected.

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Hey Sharkchild- you ever gonna reply to my email & private message?

Episode 25, Character Feast, is out!

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Excerpt:

There were many sitting around the table in the dining room at Neverlaster’s Inn. All together, there was the blind man, the ruler, the temptress, the demon, the thief, the philosopher, the jester, the card man, the hunter, the seer, the warlord, the ghost, and the masked mute. They were all dressed at their finest and they all came with their deepest imaginings.

The temperature in the inn, which was perfectly stagnant, cradled a humidity that left a thick contingency of air. The breath of it was harsh and a slight perspiration was common among the gathering. A cryptic, black chandelier hung low over the table with dozens of wax-dripping candles. Affixed to the outer walls was a handful more of candles in their dark, antique holders. The lights’ entire opaque glow reflected upon the red of the room—the wallpaper and the carpet—creating a visual hum of red haze. The ceiling was unique; it was pure black ornamented in gold foliage that danced like flames in very unusual patterns. And to blend with all of those things visual, creaking rejoiced throughout the crevices of the place, whether under foot, touch, or some other means.

This was a meeting of the faces of iniquity. They had joined together to discuss the fate of evil, its direction and its movement, on a hallowed eve, at the strangest of locations, and bound within the dreariest of physical manifestations. Very rarely did these meetings occur, but even more rare were the amount of those who attended. It was truly a unique occasion.

Episode 26, The Something Beyond Silence, is out! This is the completing episode of a full year's worth of The Dark Verse, and there is much more to come!

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Excerpt:

The sound of a heartbeat is distinct. It is a ticking of time—a lifeline encroaching upon an end. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast, this ever-sustaining frequency pulsates towards the boundaries of the unknown. It represents knowledge—whether of reality or sleep it does not matter—but when it stops, the mystery begins. That mystery, which hinges on the brink of death, depicts the apex of existence. What I was, what I am, and what I will be are all erased by the ceasing of this simple cadence. But even now as I breathe, that mystery reveals itself from time to time. It suffocates the noises that surround me and blocks out the impacts and interactions of the world. It takes the beat of a heart, the sound of silence itself, and steals it away. And when silence is gone, something else has replaced it.

The warm crackling of the fire was enough to keep me content for a long while on the most still and cold of winter evenings. I had my wife in my arms and my two girls snuggled at my feet. My thoughts danced with the harpy-like flames while their sounds caressed my imagination. No one spoke, and no one wanted to. The tongues of light satisfied every gaze, licking upon the air with infinite delight and heat.

As I stared at the fire over time, my senses began to numb. Surrounding interferences drifted away from my attention, and even the sound of the flames themselves began to slowly evaporate from my ears. I looked at my wife and then at my two children—they were all in the same stupor. Eventually, that which was real became very surreal and faded into the sights of my thoughts.

Episode 27, The Clock's Many Hands, is out! A new year begins for The Dark Verse.

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Excerpt:

My hands were always true. I relied on their dexterity for manipulation, their sturdiness for strength, and their gentleness for care. With hands, I led myself forward through the galaxies of all things. Just as an insect’s wings are its salvation from danger and guide to survival, my hands were the guardians and practitioners of my life. They were simple tools, but they held the capacity for feats far greater than that what was seemingly possible.

I used to stare at my hands, as delicate and worn as they were, and wonder about the future’s brethren. Every line—every wrinkle—depicted a trail and experience that cut deeply into the meat on my bones. Ravines, ridges, hills, bruises, scratches—they formed the map of my past. For such a medieval being, I was burdened with a horrible novelty of self-reflection. Garnering understanding should never have been an attribute of my very trivial existence, let alone the curse of my accompanying emotional flaws. There was always a certain nostalgia that lingered with me, though I did nothing differently than I always had.

Mechanical clocks were my occupation and gears were my expertise, although I did not work on them so much as I lived within them. I was very small—small enough to slide through cracks—but I thought nothing of it; it was all I ever knew. When my energy was with me, I would clean and align. When I grew wearisome, I would rest and think. Of my kind, I found none other than the rare glimpses I caught of myself upon the freshly cleaned glass covering the elderly faces and bodies of ageless clocks. The sight of myself was not pleasing and it took several days for the wearing affect it had on me to fade. I was content with being the hidden repairman of time: the plain, tangible, ticking relic kind of time.

Check out the newest episode of The Dark Verse, Episode 28, Playgrounds Never Wondered About!

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Excerpt:

I awoke in a strange place—a land of repulsive architecture and grim colors. All I had with me were the clothes on my back and my cracked, fragmented mind.

When I first opened my eyes, they rested upon a structure similar to that of a monument. The building towered above me with enormous pillars and high ceilings. Very detailed intricacies laced the surfaces of each wall, including sculptures of desperate creatures reaching outward, deep carvings of symbols and characters, and varying textures of stone ranging from smooth patches to jagged arrangements. Leading away from this building’s large entrance was a great descension of stairs. The stairs fanned out as they progressed lower and ended at a small plaza. In the middle of this plaza, a dull, gray-colored flag fell straight and motionless upon a pole erected in a ring of ashes surrounded by burnt coals.

Spreading out towards the horizon, away from the monument-like building, were other smaller structures with the same artistic augmentations, but without pillars. In between these other buildings were several paved roads. The roads spanned until I could see them no more in the distances. Blanketing over the landscape was a bland sky that held a consistent murky green throughout its expanse. There was no wind or movement, or sounds for that matter.

These things were the trivial items of the scene, but not all that there was to see.

My Halloween Greeting 2008 is live! Listen for your chance to win a $20 or less DVD of your choice from Amazon.com. The odds are very good for you to win, trust me.

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Episode 29 of The Dark Verse, The Fragmented, is now available for your listening enjoyment!

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Excerpt:

Pieces here, pieces there—it was one sick, twisted mess. I had never before seen such an awful and visually tormenting way to die. It looked like some almighty hand of gargantuan size had grabbed the poor man along with the ground, the chair he was sitting on, and the desk he was sitting at, and mixed it all together in a contraption of Picasso-death. Nothing was as it should have been, and yet, the pieces of it all actually formed a cohesive thing: the chair protruded from the man’s lower torso; desk drawers were rammed through the man’s abs and chest; hands, arms, legs, and feet were flattened like scrapbook material and hastened to several floorboards that were fanned out like the feathers of a peacock from the man’s back; and the remnants of the desk were everywhere in between. The man’s head was equally as appalling. There was no trace of his face, and that, most unsettlingly, was because it had been completely removed from his skull. There were no fluids, muscle, tissue, blood, brain, or any other matter that should have been there on or in that head; there was only bone, only skull.

I lost the contents of my stomach when I first saw the poor soul. I did not know the man—I was absolutely relieved that I did not know the man—but that did not in any way lessen the perpetual rot beginning to erode within my mind, haunting each image and thought with the residue of coagulated perversion. Looking away was easy, but what remained could never be erased.

Episode 30 of The Dark Verse is a new installment of The Changing Feyth series! You may want to re-listen to the first two parts before checking out this one.

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Excerpt:

My greatest ally and most infernal enemy is time. It can change history and efface memories. It can create life and it can take it away. And to the immortal, time is the ultimate instrument of both plague—the uncanny curse of centuries of wisdom and knowledge and experience and pain—and revision—the gift of the possibility of perfection, relative, of course, to the individual who controls its direction. There are many rewards and follies of time, but it is these two that, existing as nemeses to each other, destroy any hope of blamelessness. Though I may strive for redemption, my guilt of acts past will always rest beside my heart. Each and every decision, whether selfless or selfish, shall hang above my head in a halo of eternal flames.

If I had lungs to scream beyond limitation, I would beg for the forgiveness of ages passed. If I had hands to number the devils of my years, I would sacrifice them to the lives I took and fiendishly displaced. My suffering can only end in death, but I cannot allow it to comfort me—I am undeserving; and if it came now, it would only be failure. I can only find redemption at the end of one path, and that is with the extinction of my race.

I will be victorious. I will finish what I have set out to accomplish. And though the odds of success have been unforgiving, I have marched forward effortlessly. There is something with me, something that has always been with me, and it is fighting for me, making my triumphs as easy as cleaning the blade-end of my whip. Perhaps this companion was that which changed me, or perhaps it has seen my mission and longed for nothing less than the very same outcome. And, perhaps I am its catalyst. If I am, I will be loyal unto the very end.

Episode 31 of The Dark Verse, Mantis, Malevolent, is ready for your listening ears!

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Excerpt:

I vividly remember those things I did on the day of the coming of the Purpose Giver. I was chopping wood in the back of my cabin, preparing ahead of time for the oncoming winter. My arms felt strong as they led the ax through the wood with single strokes. Perspiration beneath my thick clothing created pockets of moisture that irritated me but could not hinder me. And, all the while, thoughts of companionship led me through the heartache of miserable solitude.

When suppertime came around, I had chopped more than enough wood, so I stopped gladly, despite the grand rhythm of my toils.

I created a fire in the fireplace and, once its flames became worthy of heat, I began stripping out of my many layers. Winter had not yet come, but the bite of the cold had.

Preparations for supper were effortless and I quickly had a pot of stew cooking above the fire. Aromas of beef, carrots, and onions permeated the warm air of my cabin, teasing my hunger with unavoidable allure.

After I had devoured my food and grown content within my dwelling, I pulled a book from my small collection and started drifting into the words there contained. The Secret Apparatus by Arel Terriblar spoke to me with eons of restless, inhabitable imagery; I found myself crawling within the words rather than reading them.

Listen to Episode 32 of The Dark Verse, Pathway For The Dead, now!

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Excerpt:

There was a path that led to all places, but it grew weak. As a canyon of only slight width, spreading through the horizons of the universe, it fought to exist between the gargantuan pressures of surrounding landscapes. These landscapes, formed of all things malice and chaos, fought to bring about the end of division, while the canyon, the path—the journey of organized direction and linear decision—was the last component of perpetuality for the furnace of ongoing creation.

Through this path, the dead marched, uncountable, unending. Spirits imprisoned and appearances unrecognizable, these soldiers of the afterlife trekked to the reaches of all there was to know. Like mechanics, the dead acted as the gears to which things continued. They never slowed or stopped; they never spoke or resisted. It was they who carried the energies of life and connected all existence.

One moment the path was as it should have been, and the next, it was gone. The brutish landscapes pushed their way to victory, collapsing the canyon that had bred since the beginning of time. There were no more dead to be seen; there was no balance left to divide. All of the dead had been crushed, vanquished—all blended together.

And when this occurred, I came to life.

Close out 2008 and start 2009 with the new episode from The Dark Verse entitled The Road Show!

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Excerpt:

“Step right up. Come see what ya’ve been waiting for—things ya could never dream of!”

The man who spoke these words with such easy excitement was a haggard looking, traveling salesman. His brown, greasy hair was parted to the right and his pants sagged with a loosely fitted belt. His name was Mick Driggler, but the people in my town called him Mr. Wonder—not for his talented speaking or illustrious products, but because of the very mysterious entertainment value he had been endowed with. He traveled with and sold unusual merchandise—things never seen or heard of—but the generous length of his temporary stay in my town was rather strangely due to a token of theatrics.

Once a day, Mr. Wonder would halt his business ventures, set up a curtain in front of his truck and trailer, and enact a marionette show of grand humor and applaud-worthy satisfaction. For this show, people gathered over and over again, never growing bored of the odd man’s amusing endeavors. People loved it so much so that they gave money to the man, giving him the incentive he needed to remain.

It was three weeks after Mr. Wonder arrived before I became uncontrollably curious about him and his enterprise.

are there any monkeys in this story??

No, but something equally as mischievous.

34: The Song Of Dusty Hearts
 

The Song Of Dusty Hearts, Episode 34 of The Dark Verse, is ready to delight the dark longings of your ears.

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Excerpt:

When I was young, my grandfather often brought me to the burial grounds of the nethpa, and every time he led me over some barren hill, or down some hidden trail, or through some thick forest, he would share with me how I might find such a rare and extraordinary place.

“The resting grounds of the nethpa can be found all around—the middle of a prairie, the center of a deep cavern, the dunes of an unending desert—but most never know they are there,” he would tell me. “The site must be undisturbed. By first glance there should be nothing unusually noticed; but, after giving it a second look, and knowing what you are looking for, those of the cunning eye would be able to discern the speckled dust.” At this time, my grandfather would stick his hand deep into the soil, dirt, or whatever rested beneath him, grab some, and hold it up so I could see. While my curious eyes burned into the contents, he would slightly shuffle some free. He then continued speaking. “And there, almost as clear as white chalk against the pit of a blackboard, the ashes of the nethpa can be seen.”

There was only one rule my grandfather had while visiting the nethpa: no singing. “Never sing to the ashes,” he always said. “The nethpa have hollow hearts and the sound of music fills and enlivens them; it reminds them of their deaths and allows them to act against them. They are not of the violent kind, but they, like any, would choose life over death.”

Give a listen to Episode 35, A Megacosm's Secret Initiation Of Members.

NOTE: I completed putting together The Dark Verse's Volume I hardcover book (first 26 stories of The Dark Verse edited and revised) and it is now in the printer's hands. This grand book will most likely be available in April. It will have 5.5"x8.5" dimensions; be covered with black imitation leather; be stamped with silver foil on the cover, back, and spine; be dusted with black on all three sides of the pages; and it will include all original artwork by John F. Stifter (QuantumCathedral.com) for the cover, endsheets, and each of the 26 stories. It's going to be good!

Listen to it or download it at TheDarkVerse.com

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Excerpt:

“Have you ever looked over the edge of the world?” asked the young girl sitting beside me on the train. At the time, we were passing by mountains strewn with large boulders, but my attention was on the features of the girl. Her hair was dark and her skin was light. Unusual rainbows graced her eyes, causing them to look like crystal prisms. When the train first departed, someone I assumed to be her mother had left her in the seat adjacent to mine; the train was rather full.

“No, I haven’t,” I responded. “I actually didn’t know that the world had an edge.” I did not confront the girl on the logic of her question because I was quite intrigued to learn more. “Have you?” I asked.

“Once,” she said, “but I can’t anymore.” She continued to look at me, head turned to the side, although she said nothing more. Her gaze was very stiff.

Episode 36: Confronting The Formless
 

Get Episode 36, Confronting The Formless!

The Dark Verse Volume I hardcover book is getting closer and closer to publication. I will be receiving a press proof of the book to approve within the next couple weeks. This is the last step! The Dark Verse is entering into the world of books!

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Excerpt:

The infinite regions within divisibility were my home. I existed in the distances of space—space void of finite ends. In these unfathomable places there was only emptiness; it was all that I had ever known. No matter where I traveled, I could find nothing different—for something boundless could not be filled, and something that could not be filled could not be whole. Almost all things inhabited the emptiness. My residence itself was tucked away in the spaces between mass. Anything corporeal had form and anything that had form could not be whole—no matter how big, no matter how small. Universes themselves resided within the gaps between pieces of atoms.

Space was everywhere there was substance and so greatness was with the powers of the ethereal—the soul, the principalities, good, evil. Their designs were unbreakable because they were not restricted to any form; shells of uncertain growth and uncontrollable molecules did not inhibit them. These unhindered entities were the Formless. The elements of the Formless could be anywhere—around me, in me, between me. They had what I did not have, and I hated that. The Formless and their orchestras of undivided existence were my enemies.

Episode 37: The Deviations
 

Listen to Episode 37, The Deviations!

I received the press proof for The Dark Verse Volume I hardcover book and it is incredible! There are a couple more changes to make and then we are going to print with the volume.

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Excerpt:

The dreams I had while I slept in the unsanctified darkness of the Slanterhorn Estate mansion’s attic were never pleasant. As I stared up into the ancient rafters, letting my body and mind be overcome by sleep’s oblivion, I sensed that the world of twisted things somehow pressed more mercilessly on such sites—places tucked so far away that light had lost its memory of them. If only a needle of day could have penetrated the dense capsule of my home, my heart would have been at ease.

There were no luxuries for me in the attic. There was a stiff, wooden stool, a wooden cabinet of clothes, a small table, a very uncomfortable bed, and two lanterns that were consistently replenished with oil. The rest of the attic was empty; nothing but darkness lived there. Not even the lanterns’ light could reach its far off distances.

My arrangement of items always remained by the iron door in the floor and I was not able to move them had I even wanted to. Each and every piece of furniture was bolted securely into the floorboards. The lanterns as well were bolted down—one upon the cabinet and one upon the table. Without being able to transport light, I never even dared to explore the full extent of the eerie loft.

I often made requests to have my quarters moved elsewhere in the Slanterhorn Estate, but Miss Donna always gave me a variation of these words: “It’s just not right for a boy of your stature to mix with the likes of our lords and ladies. Even Stickles sleeps with me out in the shed. You must simply accept your place.” But I could not accept my place, and I hated the attic.

Episode 38: The Taking Of Hallowed Creation
 

Download Episode 38, The Taking Of Hallowed Creation!

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Excerpt:

The precious silver hovered over the menacingly heated embers. Its surfaces glimmered and sparkled with the reflection of flickering ash. Every curve and groove of this magnificent creation completed in shape to form the perfect fork—the Serpent’s Fork. A long slender handle fell downward, widening at the bottom into a wonder of embossed swirls. The head opened into four piercing tines, each with a precision of cut and detail to match the horn of a unicorn.

While the Serpent’s Fork suspended above the blazing embers, the heat began to influence the metal. The trueness of the Fork’s substance waned as it slowly unfolded with expansion. The head of the Fork bent forward and then the tines sagged to the sides—two tines to the left and two to the right. As they drooped downward they curled—the innermost tines twisting tremendously while the outer two only slightly.

Just as the molten Fork reached this moment of design, a gust of icy wind surged across it and the ledge that the burning embers laid upon, high within an almighty canyon.

“Splendid,” the Articraft said, before walking up to the circle of cooled ashes and grasping the Serpent’s Fork from the air. His voice lingered in the canyon’s hold. The Articraft’s hair was wild and gray, but his years were still youthful. He wore a dark blue vest, leather pants, and boots. The shadows in his eyes were deep, as were his longings for the unattainable.

out of curiosity - does the website get a lot of hits?

Sorry for the late response. My website actually doesn't get that many hits. Most of the activity for the podcast comes from iTunes or other RSS feed websites. Since I began the podcast, I have had over 85,000 downloads--only a small percentage of those downloads have come from my actual site.

Episode 39: Stumbling Upon Preterition
 

Download Episode 39, Stumbling Upon Preterition!

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Excerpt:

There are dismissed places—not forgotten or invisible—but ignored without refrain. The devils of these domains are so vibrant that beings of any awareness trick their minds to see right through them, or around them—anything to succeed with avoidance. Nightmares are detrimental, but to gaze into these aces of sinister rule is to gaze at life tangled in the shards of splintering dread.

Odd might be the first word used to describe the terrains of such places. Different, bizarre, fantastical—these words work fine as well. But the topographies are only a warning—an alert to the unfortunate as to what comes if lingering turns to loitering. The Princes of Unnamed Horror are not for eyes to see, ears to hear, or mouths to taste. They are the overlooked, the repulsive, the shameful, and the blemishes of the most wicked existences. If only the act of their dismissal had the power to make them disappear. But such hope matters not—I stumbled upon them.

Episode 40: The Changing Feyth (Part 4)
 

Download the final installment of The Changing Feyth series with Episode 40, The Changing Feyth (Part 4)!

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Excerpt:

A body fell from the opening above me. It fell so fast there was no way to tell if it was living or dead. It crashed upon the stone floor, bones cracking and flesh splitting. And then another fell. And another. And another. And another until thirteen bodies had splattered across the floor in front of me—children, women, and men.

The carcasses then slid together, connecting at their heads: a sick star of mutilation. It rose. The bodies dangled like raggedy ornaments, every limb swaying without provocation as if some invisible thing were playing with it. Then the limbs all at once began to swing, lashing upon each other in an unsynchronized display. One by one the limbs stuck together; they melded and warped with their neighbors—clothing, flesh, bone, and all—creating a thick tarp of malformed carnage. Once this floating blanket was completed, it started to spin. As it spun, it stretched its hanging mass until all sagging elements elevated and flattened; blood danced from the strained, splintering wounds.

The unnerving conglomeration of flesh became a disc and rotated perpendicular to the floor; it spiraled its contents, sending them back and forth, back and forth, instantaneously between this place and another, exchanging elements, bridging worlds. Blackness opened; color digressed. Then color reemerged, more vivid, more plaguing, reaching out with stories of untold damnation and unconquerable agony. Sinister visions flashed before me and explosions filled with screaming resounded behind the portal of spinning bodies.

Episode 41: Symptoms Of The Astral
 

Download Episode 41, Symptoms Of The Astral!

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Check out the upcoming book on Amazon. I am going to have the book available on my own site as well by the time I release it; the copies I sell myself will be signed.
*The release date will most likely change by a week or two.

Excerpt:

“Just get inside!” my mom yelled.

“But please, let me—” I tried to explain.

“No! I don’t want to hear about it. Just go to your room. I’ll let you know when you can come out.”

I climbed out of the minivan and went into the house. My body trembled with a mixture of rage and adrenaline. I went to my room and closed the door.

It had been another day at school gone irrevocably bad.

I was sick, but that did not stop me from getting into trouble. Having sickle cell disease actually made things worse. As if a magnet, I attracted the most fiendish people—the bullies, the cheaters, the socially elite. My sickness was a beacon to the devoid of morals, and I did not like to concede to their ploys. It was that trait that proliferated my folly. Being weak and different in appearance was one thing, but the impulse for people to use me was more twisted than the disease itself. I had resolved to never give in without at least a half-hearted fight with my feeble arms. It was those same, very feeble arms that put me on the school’s list of irredeemable troublemakers.

I sat at my bedroom desk with my face between my hands, staring coldly into the tattered wood. When the sun set, I did not even turn on the lights. I stayed in the darkness, festering in thoughts of hatred and disgust.

What was wrong with me? I thought. I was imperfect physically, but I did not understand how that encouraged, or predestined, my daily demise. There was no justice; there was never a verdict to explain how I was so punishable. My wayward health was the splinter of my life, but it was not the source of the pain; the source of the pain was the unending rejection.

Episode 42: Thirteen Door Roulette
 

Download Episode 42, Thirteen Door Roulette!

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Check out the upcoming book on Amazon.

Excerpt:

I was handed a small, round cage; I curled two of my fingers around the s-hook fastened to its apex. The cage had a minute door fixed with a comparably insignificant latch. It did not—by sound and feel—seem to have anything within its grasp, although nothing could be seen within the tightly placed metal panels that formed the entrapment. These surfaces caught and reflected the inconsistent light of the corridor I stood in—which consisted of flickering bulbs overhead, pleading idly for the repair of the troubled circuits supplying them. At the end of the corridor before me, a mirror stood as the wall, reflecting back the entirety of the scene.

A woman stood behind me. Her hair was auburn and her skin was upon an age of older days. A strong musk emanated from her presence, encapsulating all of my senses. Even my eyes teared as the scent entered my nostrils. A green shawl draped across her shoulders over a pale blue dress.

In front of me stood a middle-aged man in tight jeans and a leather jacket. His nerves had the better of him; he twitched his arms and legs in anticipatory dread while his head swung from left to right, the long black hair on his head following in delayed pursuit. Slight mumblings left his lips periodically; whether prayers or words brought about by an encroaching insanity, there was no distinguishing.

Both the woman, the Elder, and the man, the Manic, had also been given cages identical to my own. At our sides, the cages were motionless, but in our reflections, the cages jolted back and forth.

Along the sides of our triptych ensemble, ten doors pressed. Each door was labeled with a Roman numeral; the first was given an “I” and the last an “X.” These labels were coated in thick, greasy oil. Their slick surfaces were magnets for the light and so were illumined vividly for all to see.

Episode 43: The Hunt
 

Download Episode 43, The Hunt!

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Check out the upcoming book on Amazon.

The Dark Verse, Volume I: From the Passages of Revenants is NOW AVAILABLE at my own e-commerce shop for pre-order!

www.SHARKCHILDSREMAINS.com

Each copy is $25.00.
Each copy is signed by me.
FREE Shipping.
NO Sales Tax.
All major credit cards and PayPal accepted.

The first 50 people to use the coupon code "verse" when checking out will save $2.00.
And if you want to buy two or more books, use the coupon code "darkdouble" to save $5.00.

If you act now and use both codes, you could get two books for only $43.00!

I don't want you to buy my book from somewhere else; I want you to buy my book from me! So I'll always try to give the best price and deals.

Excerpt:

An army of ghastly forms waited listlessly at the gates of life. Each entity was unrestrained and raw—knowledge had yet to enter, conform, and orchestrate a platform of thought and personality for its cloudy mind. Step by step, they were pushed forward towards the slim opening in the gates. One by one they popped through the cavity, falling into the oblivion of consciousness that awaited them.

My father told me I had to be exceptionally fast and focused to catch an Alpha Spirit.

“You only have one try,” he told me. “If you don’t make it, then to hell you go to stay forever.”

I was confident I would succeed.

Hiding under the debris of multi-spectral galaxies, I waited at the crossroads of the physical and spiritual domains. I looked on as the Alpha Spirits showered down upon the Earth to seed the bodies of the living. I was seeking the perfect host—a spirit of exceptional promise. Once I had it in my sights, I would look nowhere else—not until the spirit had embraced me as its master and dragged me with it into life.

Shortly enough later, I scouted it, careening differently towards the Earth than the others amongst it; it stood out. I liked that. Without hesitation, I propelled my writhing haze towards it.

Episode 44: Names: Apherdane
 

Download Episode 44, Names: Apherdane!

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Or from the Zune Marketplace

Order The Dark Verse, Volume I: From the Passages of Revenants NOW at my own e-commerce shop at:

www.SHARKCHILDSREMAINS.com

Each copy is $25.00.
Each copy is signed by me.
FREE Shipping.
NO Sales Tax.
All major credit cards and PayPal accepted.

Excerpt:

On the dull road called Mayberry Lane, I stood at the turn of the evening. I had just flicked a cigarette at a passing vehicle, watching as its cinder flashed into the night. In front of me stood the Cursory—a name given to a house because no one ever gave the place a second glance. It was tucked a short ways off the road, but far enough away so that even the bluntest detail of its presence went unobserved; it was the home of my love.

As I began my walk to the house’s secluded porch, a succession of pricks began jabbing the back-ends of my eyes. In patterns of circles, the pricks drilled, pushing forth into my retinas. The burrowing continued once inside my eyes; when in the middle, the digging descended and came out through the bottom. There, the apparitions poured invisibly out into the open; it felt as if they were flowing forth like worms through a meat grinder, but there was nothing to see—no evidence of any such happening. The sensation then ceased.

I had just turned twenty years old.

The Dark Verse, Volume I Promo
 

Check out this Promo Ad I just put on YouTube for my book! John Stifter made it with CGI and some other goodies. I created the music.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W4SbUICOPRU

Episode 45: Names: Chillanthon
 

Download Episode 45, Names: Chillanthon!

Get it at TheDarkVerse.com

On iTunes

Or from the Zune Marketplace

Order The Dark Verse, Volume I: From the Passages of Revenants NOW at my own e-commerce shop at:

www.SHARKCHILDSREMAINS.com

Each copy is $25.00.
Each copy is signed by me.
FREE Shipping.
NO Sales Tax.
All major credit cards and PayPal accepted.

Excerpt:

The chillanthon was waiting for me outside of my house, calling to me with its unsettling voice, tearing through my heart with its restlessness. I could hear its arms whip across its torso as they swiveled back and forth from shoulder sockets detested with freakish pivotal ability. It stood in the middle of the street, shrouded in an ink-drawn fog that swirled around the neighborhood as a cursed drape.

As it called my name, my family looked to me from beneath the dining room table with eyes that spoke of fear so deep that pus muddled their unblinking outlines. They could not speak, and might not have ever again. They did not understand what was occurring; I did. I had been thrust despairingly into an abominable fate. There was nothing left for me but to embrace the terror, pain, and incredible sadness quelling the last remnants of my life.

I took my wife’s face between my hands, followed by my children’s, drawing them close to me one by one. To each of them I left the grace of my departing love—all of the embers of goodness remaining within me to give. I left no words unspoken—no virtue unkindled. With a kiss, I sealed each of their spirits with my own, and then I walked out of my house to encounter the nightmare stalking my existence.

Episode 46: The Ilks Of Devotion
 

Download Episode 46: The Ilks Of Devotion

Get it at TheDarkVerse.com

On iTunes

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Excerpt:

Grand castles full of cities and heavy, luscious woods lined the horizon. Their mixtures of grays and greens flooded my sight with thick promise. It was Alvershiven’s Den; the long journey was finally over.

“Are you going to do it?” Ten-Men asked while he bent down on one knee beside me on the hill overlooking the magnificent scene. His pale yellow shoulders stood taller than my head.

“Yes,” I said, “this is what we have come for; I must.”

“Rest their souls.”

“Seize me, Ten-Men.” The star-child giant stood and positioned himself behind me. He wedged his knees heavily into the ground and then grabbed me by my arms, fastening me to the earth as surely as flesh bound by an iron stake. “Do not let go until I have returned and spoken the words of rekindling.”

And with that, I cast my eyes to the sun, capturing its rays and connecting them to my soul.

“Hivenitar,” I spoke.

A flagrant burst of light expounded from the sun and leapt through space and time into my being, filling me to the brim with astral, cosmic transmogrifying energy. It burned through my insides and masked my shape and form immaculately, holding my physical presence within Ten-Men’s grip as a glowing shell while my true essence was released. I then shot across the valley before Alvershiven’s Den like an arrow at the speed of light.

Episode 47: Nigh Outlasting The Fear Of Death
 

Download Episode 47: Nigh Outlasting The Fear Of Death

TheDarkVerse.com

iTunes

Excerpt:

Tears from the heavens bore death like cannonballs ignited under the misery of hate. Like meteors sentenced to the fate of the world, these burning embers fell—fist-sized, amorphic masses of light ripping through plane. They poured through the hull and people alike with effortless elegance, spewing portions of things into a cataclysmic collage of mingling elements.

These vessels of execution uttered strange calls as they voyaged between the lives of those who would live no longer. Their unidentifiable forms billowed chime-like twinkles of melody mixed with discord. It was the baroque sound of demise.

Before long, I was falling from the sky, still buckled to my chair—a part of the grotesque spread of disastrous art. Pieces of plane were scattered about me as well as other hapless souls—whether alive or dead, I could not tell. I was falling from twelve thousand feet above the ground with nothing on me but the business attire I was traveling in. I flailed my arms to control myself, to rework the destiny of my situation, but the final page had already been turned. Death, I knew, awaited me, and with that realization, came a wash of terror equal to the scribbles of Alpher Myle’s picturesque unraveling in My Grave Departure.

Episode 48: Severing The Lost
 

Download Episode 48: Severing The Lost

TheDarkVerse.com

iTunes

Excerpt:

I once had a best friend; I liked to call her Dime. The name came to me when I found a dime in my pocket during a time of need. She was always there for me; she was the “dime” in my pocket. Our relationship was brilliant. We shared secrets, experiences, and adventures. Dime was one of those friends that childhood memories revolved around.

It was not until our sophomore year in college that we were ever separated for more than two weeks since we met each other in preschool. Dime had been accepted into a study abroad program. I applied for the same program, but was not accepted. She refused to go without me, but I convinced her that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Hesitantly, she decided to go, and so Dime vanished from my life for a year to live in a faraway land.

—

I remember vividly the day we were reunited.

After a year of only letters, I was bursting with anticipation while I waited for her at the airport by her arrival gate. And when her plane landed, person after person walked by me, but none were Dime. Soon the crowd had dispersed and I was left waiting at an empty gate. I checked with the nearby desk and they confirmed Dime’s occupancy on the flight. For a moment, I was rather confused. Then I asked if I could be accompanied inside the plane to see if she was still there. A flight attendant was contacted and she came out to greet me.

“Hi there,” the flight attendant welcomed me with a smile. “Follow me. It must be your friend that’s still on the plane. We’ve tried talking with her, but she won’t say anything. Hopefully, you can help us. We need to clear the plane as soon as possible.”