Against Nihilism

Something New


New release!

"A collection of terrifyingly beautiful prose poetry and flash fiction that takes the reader on a journey of the mind and soul, Beyond Oblivion forces us to ask ourselves- - is this really all there is, and if so, what does that mean? It is the stirring movement of one mind in the liminal realms between science and spirituality, between feelings, visions, parapsychology and atheism that finds some common ground within all of them that hints at the spiritual/physical workings of life, the universe, and art."

8.5 x 8.5
84 pages

Get it now! (click here)

A Thought

"The pursuit of art is a uniquely human phenomenon. Sure, cats, elephants and apes can be taught to paint, but the passion for art, for music, for stories that transcend and redefine what we think of as art, is ours and ours alone. It is our purpose, our reason for being, the meaning of human life."


Audio Prompt #11

Audio Writing Prompt 11 by EarlSWynn



Weirdyear fiction, the internet's only daily short and flash fiction experimental / weird / literary / surrealist / absurdist / irrealist themed magazine is looking for new submissions! Send in your best, your worst, your tired and hungry stories and let us have a look at them. Turnaround time right now is less than three days, so you’ll know that quick whether you’re in or not! Send it all in and show us what you’ve got! Check us out, tell your friends, and get those stories in!



The Boulevard of Broken Dreams

The Boulevard of Broken Dreams is choked with the dead, the rotting corpses that shuffle through shattered shards of rainbow with no purpose, cold to the touch. So many, they shift and scuff as one, fuel for the machine, food for the leeches, the corpulent dictators of life and art who wire reality with the framework of their silicon webs. Architects of the matrix of normalcy and expectation scuttle high above, never touching the ground, never touching the masses, but always keeping the dead from dying, from knowing peace. Like vampires, they weave their electronic nests, feeding off the dead, always feeding.

The dead never see the shine of their broken rainbows, never hear the scintillating chorus of their light. Their eyes are sunken and hollow, riddled with time, with stimulants and nagging fatigue. They cannot see what lays beyond the Boulevard, never look up to let their eyes catch rays of the warming sun or feel the gentle rain that patters on the faces of those who try.

I will not be one of the dead.


Audio Prompt #10

Audio Writing Prompt 10 by EarlSWynn


New Take on Shallot




Imperial Death Again

In Sacramento
Is the color of highway
Through blurry wetness
On broken wipers
Everything moves like slow chrome
Powerful surges
Arteries of a dying empire
Red lights going out
White lights coming in
Carting out the death
Carting in the hopeful life
Mere buckets of water
In a sinking ship.

Audio Prompt #9

Audio Writing Prompt 9 by EarlSWynn

Visit Grainfield




Improv Splice

Life is full of holes.
We take the film frames of all that we know and splice them together to create our world view, our personality, our code for holding ourselves, for reacting and dealing with the daily business of life, but still there are gaps. It is in these gaps that we look to our parents, that we splice frames of their lives onto our own.

And so, bit by bit, we become a reflection of their own improvisations, a reflection of a reflection of a reflection.


Never Doubt Yourself

Audio Prompt #8

Audio Writing Prompt 8 by EarlSWynn


The Machine

“BUY.” The man urges as he shoves you onto the conveyor belt. “Purchase. Consume.” A machine built of flesh and programming grips your skull, nods your head. The man makes a curt gesture. “Next.” He spits, and suddenly you are whisked away. In the darkness, you hear the echo of his voice: “BUY. Purchase. Consume.”

The sound lingers in your mind as the belt tows you forward. Machinery bends and shapes you, poses you and stretches the corners of your mouth into a smile. Pictures scroll past, men built of shining muscle and women cut from narrow plastic. “Want me.” They whisper. “Be like me,” and the machinery bends you into all of their poses.

Eyeless faces rise out of the darkness and frown at you as you pass, mouths only opening to criticize the way you fail to approach the perfection of the shapes around you. They whisper and gossip, trade barely audible giggles about the way your skin, your hair, your eyes and the curves of your flesh come together. For every critique, a red number blares at you, registering each comment in a steady score of burning, negative numbers. “Bend this way!” They shriek, then gossip again as you comply. “Bend that way!”

“You are worthless.” A voice thunders above them all. “You need the machine. Without it you are nothing.” A large plastic hose capped with a grubby nipple descends, thrusts toward your face.

“Suck.” The voice orders. “Suck.”

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