Tag Archive | flash fiction
August 30, 2026  

Some Mothman Flash Fiction

I can’t remember the last time I dipped my taloned-toes in the flash fiction waters. Which is why it’s high time I get to it. Unfamiliar with flash fiction? (and no, it’s not me writing as I run around the house dressed like the Flash). It’s basically a short, rabbit punch of a story that can be as little as 100 words, or even less. There’s a great article on flash fiction here.

I’m starting off with a piece that is directly related to my book, Shadow of the Mothman, that I’ve titled BOXES. It takes place just as the calamitous collapse of the Silver Bridge is unfolding. I hope you like it.

Boxes wrapped in a holiday explosion of colors bob on the surface of the roiling water. They float amongst the sinking cars and wailing, desperate people. An icy gist of wind at Hank’s back nearly knocks him into the freezing river. His wife snatches his collar.

“Run!”

Hank should be sprinting for the end of the bridge that isn’t swaying like a drunk and groaning like a wounded, metal behemoth.

A man gripping a boy breaks the surface of the Ohio. Hank wonders why he pushes the unconscious boy away.

Until the chunk of concrete and steel drives the man under.

“He ain’t coming back,” Hank says. A whisper of steam coils from his parted lips.

“Jesus, he ain’t coming back.”

I think I’m going to have some fun writing more flash fiction pieces with other crytpids, as well as UFOs/aliens, ghosts, and maybe some Jessica Backman further adventures. Stay tuned!

December 2, 2013  

New Story – Confessional

It’s been a couple of years since I explored the wonder and mysteries of Catholicism in my book, Evil Eternal, albeit it in a very overly dramatic fashion. I decided to dip my toe back in the holy water with a new short story, Confessional, available exclusively at Pen of the Damned.

Growing up an altar boy and singer in the church choir, the one aspect of my faith as a good Irish Catholic that frightened me was the act of confession. I was always worried that the priest would see  me in a different, negative light once he knew I lied to a teacher and took the Lord’s name in vain (thanks to my grandfather for that one – he used ‘goddammit’ with positive flair). The act of confession doesn’t get easier as you get older.

Priests are, after all, only human. Could you look the other way if someone you were close to confessed to abusing a child, or cheating on their spouse with numerous partners, or robbing a liquor store, or even worse, murder? We ask for forgiveness, release our burden, perform our acts of contrition. But just as energy can never be destroyed, perhaps so the weight of sin. Confession is an act of transference, so though you may leave the church with a lighter heart, what happens to the priest?

Confessional

These are the things nagging at my brain as I wrote Confessional. If you’re curious as to what goes on within its confines, I suggest you bow your head and step inside….

Once you’ve cleansed your sins, post a comment here on or on Twitter using #HunterConfesses and you’re eligible to win a signed copy of Evil Eternal. I’ll announce winners next week.

Most of all, what do you think of confession? What are your experiences?

August 1, 2013  

Damned Words

Because I’ve been working on a huge project and beset with other issues, I was, unfortunately, not able to be with my fellow damned on this one. Hell, they didn’t need me anyway. Check it out…

March 11, 2012  

Dinner with Ghost Hunters

It’s been a while since I posted an original story here on the old blog and chain. This one is for my sister and brother-in-law, right down to the Cowboys jersey. This is a little flash fiction piece I call “Dinner With Ghost Hunters”. Hope you enjoy it. Please comment away!

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It had long been a rule of Tom’s not to go to dinner parties hosted by people he either didn’t know or didn’t like. He gripped the steering wheel a little too hard on the ride to the Gundersons, angry at Carolyn for ignoring one of his cardinal rules.

As they pulled into the driveway, he said, “Okay, call me when you’re done and I’ll pick you up.”

Carolyn playfully slapped his arm, ignoring his discomfort. “At least you’ll get a free meal out of it.”

“Yeah, at what cost?”

Tom was so busy fuming about the night ahead that he didn’t notice the parked van until he walked smack into the rear double doors.

“What the?”

Carolyn was already at the front door, pinwheeling one hand to urge him forward. He joined her side, a tad woozy and holding his nose. Carolyn paid him no mind.

Missy Gunderson answered the door wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey and denim shorts. Hank Gunderson came up behind her smiling in his blue Giants jersey.

“Hey guys, come on in!,” Missy said. “We were hoping you could stay after dinner and watch the game. Hank just got one of those huge plasma TVs and is dying to show it off to someone.”

Casual dress? Plasma TV? Football?

Maybe I’ve been wrong about all of this, Tom thought.

After a round of introductions, Hank led them to the dining room for cocktails. As they walked past the living room, Tom noticed three men and one woman sitting in front of a folding table loaded with small monitors and computers. The quartet never looked their way.

“Don’t mind them,” Hank said to Tom. “They’ve been here for a week and we barely even notice them anymore.”

“Who are they?” Tom asked. Carolyn shot him a cautionary look. Don’t pry her eyes pleaded.

Missy laughed and said, “You’re not gonna believe this, but they’re from that TV show, Ghost Trackers. Hank thinks this house is haunted, so one night after watching the show he sent them an email and, well, here they are. I was dead set against it but they paid us some money, so Tom gets his TV and I get my new laptop.”

“And most importantly, I get some answers,” Hank added.

“Sounds exciting,” Carolyn said.

Missy leaned towards Tom and Carolyn and said, “Trust me, it’s pretty boring stuff. They do a lot of walking around and looking at monitors. I don’t know how they stay awake.”

Hank walked in carrying a tray of margaritas and they settled into the dining room. And true to Hank’s word, they soon forgot about the Ghost Trackers team in the next room. Tom quietly admitted to himself that he actually liked the Gundersons.

Two pleasant hours and one delicious steak dinner later, Tom was startled by the sound of high pitched beeping coming from the living room. That was followed by the shuffling of feet and excited conversation.

“What’s going on?” Tom said.

Hank peered into the living room, his arm frozen in place, drink halfway to his lips. “I have no idea.”

One of the team members rushed into the dining room and turned off the lights. “Get a camera in here!” he shouted.

The rest of the team followed, one holding a little handheld device that whined nervously, another with something that looked like a radar gun and two with large cameras propped on their shoulders.

“It’s right over there,” the woman shouted, pointing towards the area behind Tom.

“Flash!” someone shouted and a camera flash went off, momentarily blinding everyone.

“What’s over here?” Tom asked. He was promptly shushed by the woman.

“Do you see that mist, just over his head?” one of the cameramen whispered.

Tom jerked his head around but only saw darkness.

“Temperature’s dropping. Down five degrees, seven, ten degrees.”

“EMF is spiking at five. It’s right here, I can feel it.”

“Whoa, did you see that blue light? It just went behind him!”

Tom grabbed Carolyn’s hand and knocked over his chair as he jumped to his feet.

“We’re outta here,” Tom shouted. Again, he was shushed.

“It’s following him. Quick, keep a camera on him.”

Tom and Carolyn made their way through the darkened house while the Gundresona sat in mute shock. He slammed the front door on the cameraman that was hot on his heels, leaving the madness behind them.

“And that’s why I have rules,” he said to Carolyn, and promptly smashed face-first, again, into the front of the Ghost Trackers van.