The Writings of Brian C. Alexander

Two officers sit in an office. One is sitting at a desk with a cup of coffee and the other stands, leaning against the blinds on windows and wall to the left side of the office door. It day is early and the rest of the precinct is quiet. The sun peaks in through the window as the seated cop looks back over his shoulder and begins conversing. "One hell of a cold morning." "You got that right." "Any word back from Jack?" "Nah. He's been dodging me all week. Guess I'm gonna have to work this weekend anyway." "Boohoo. You broken up about it?" "Not really. Didn't have plans anyways." "What, you and the old lady didn't plan a few days out of town?" "Naw. She ain't much of the traveling type." "I gotcha. Well, I just feel bad for all that paperwork you're gonna tackle." "Please, I'll be lucky if I get through twenty-five percent of it....

I am lost. Placid. I look out at you now from the flat surface of an ordinary mirror. I see myself and that is all. My reflection looks back, but it isn’t there. This thing. This place. It has me deep inside. And I can’t get out. I know my wife is back in the bedroom. At least. The thing I believe to be my wife. Asleep. Just a particle in this blank essence. Something has been calling out to me. Something near. It tells me that things were always like this. I had a life on the outside. Before I went into the machine. before I was trapped in my dream. A dream. An essence. Stuck in my own head and sleeping. Oh. Sleeping ever so soundly. But I know the doctor is dead. I know he is gone and I’m trapped in my mind. Alone. At any moment I can trigger a jump. One second I’m at work. The next I’m being run down by lions in Africa. Or maybe losing my breath upon the precipice of some vast intergalactic monolith. And the only light I have to look to is that of a great star’s light peaking o...

Dear Luther, The dreams have come again, and in all my suffering I take up my quill to write you once more; as to the visions which have grown ever more vivid and the impression they instill, echoing throughout the deepest depths of my soul. This dream was of a cathedral, stranded and dismantled in a state of an archaic unrest, and stranded upon a island of black stone in a sea which extended past the distance of the unending horizon. I was but a speck at the bottom of the bowels of the world and the entirety of everything around me left no feeling of security, and no sense of ease. The wind was mighty as I stood just atop the sea’s surface. I was on a plank of non-existing ground, walking on water and standing idol to the waves which shattered beneath me. I saw the wind brush the rain in an intense blasting barrage of cyclones. Still, I could feel nothing. It was as if only my eyes were of an use; My eyes, and legs I could not make out, propelling me forward and through the g...

As I came to open my eyes upon the fleshy-orange interior of the planet-sized meteorite which lingered mere miles above Taros’ surface, I looked onward to see two hands, constructed from the same mass of a blobby-substance like scolding muscle, two hands reached outward from the right and left sections of the spherical chamber; branching out to hold an orb of light which floated between them, defiant of all gravity. This bizarre ship, which had warped upon the surface of my planet mere minutes ago, was a cradle to a small star contained within the living tissue of this massive space-rock. I could stroll around the interior vessel and even feel the power that the star between the branched hands which, in a menacing sense, had fingers that came to the point of claw-like ends that curled around the floating light. It was almost as if the ship was alive; its inner-glow and pulsing-rich interior gave off a sense of awareness that I no doubt was felt by the onlookers of Taros. Those out...

On a blank stretch of brick wall, at some point between where Greenwich Village meets Gramercy and East Village, you can sometimes find cemented steps leading up to two large black doors. On a golden ornament-label to the right of these doors you will find the title by which this establishment goes by. That title being ‘The B. Rorret Museum of Historical Antiquities’.  Behind those doors there exists an anomaly of a most horrific nature. There, closed in and tucked away from the world, lies eldritch horrors from the old world, the cosmic ethos and the mythical past. These are the tales that make up the legend of The B. Rorret Museum, or as most unfortunate-souls call it, ‘The Terror Museum’. Founded on February 16th, 1506 by Junior-Duke Balthazar DeEmulous Le’ Atticus Rorret of Centre, France, the Rorret Museum served as an establishment of bizarre and monstrous wonder. Originally only being accessible by members of high society, as the museum, itself, moved through the cen...

The spears fly as I race through the dust and the bloody mist. Hundreds of screaming soldiers all around me remind me of the battle I may never return home from. It’s armageddon as I fire my hand cannon blindly into the crowds of armored warriors all around me. I keep pushing forward, grasping every second and remembering it with a breath that could be my last. All the motion makes me feel weightless as I stride forward, anxious and paranoid that any moment an enemy blade will slice through my flesh.  I see blurs of red and brown surround me as my vision begins to shatter. The clanging of swords and the calls of dying men are the music of this battlefield and I stand, blood furiously forcing it’s way through every vein. My heart is beating so fast I can barely feel it, and my armor is so scathed I don’t even believe it could protect me anymore. I’ve come across a ditch of some sort. I can’t stand any longer and if I faint now I’ll be trampled. If only i could make it to that d...