a short storyI kind of forgot to post this here until now, but there’s a new short story for the month available over at my Payhip! This one is a bit different, as it’s part of an ongoing short series, and they won’t be coming out consecutively, but if you’re interested, it’s out and I rather like it!

Alessa Perkins just wants to get some gas and keep on going towards her destination, but when she stops at this seemingly abandoned gas station in the desert, she soon finds herself stuck with an 11 year old girl who calls herself Courage and tells her how she’s waiting for her father to come home, while defending their gas station from The Flickers. What seems like a kid playing games quickly turns into a nightmare as Alessa realizes she’s stumbled into something she cannot run, or hide, from. The Flickers are real. And they are coming…

So there it is, and it’s part 1 of 5 parts, so yeah, it’s a scifi horror with a cool 11 year old heroine and her hatchet, killing monsters! What more do you want? Anyway, if you buy it, I’d be really appreciative and you’d be funding/supporting future projects, so yeah! Thanks! You can buy it here!

Buy My Book!                Support Me Via Patreon!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!


All Her Dog Teeth

a story about time and teeth(1)It’s March, which means it’s new short story time! This time, you can read a scifi love story featuring a truly horrifying monster.

“ALL HER DOG TEETH” takes place in 3074, and the only lasting structure for miles is a lighthouse, manned by a 37 year old Merideth Mooney. She’s been manning it since she was 17 years old, and was told to wait here in case anyone came back on the boats…but nobody ever came back. So, since then she’s lived a very quiet life, cleaning up the empty ships that returned. Then, one morning, a boat does come back, and in it is a young black woman named Hazel Bloom, who tells Merideth that they’ve met before, and she’s here to help her.

I’m pretty proud of this one, and I think it’s MUCH better than February’s story, so there’s that too. Anyway, thanks for the support and I hope you enjoy this months story!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, the satirical online newspaper of “Nowhere, US”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip.

Wanna donate to me directly? You can do that via PayPal! Wanna support me ongoing month to month and get content early? You can do that via Patreon! Thanks for whatever you can spare, I really appreciate it!


It’s Okay Because It’s Not Me

Lately, I’ve taken to watching Forensic Files at night, because nothing says “sweet dreams” like watching asshole neighbor Carl get dismembered and shove into 18 different shopping bags, right? This isn’t a new thing for me, either, as I’ve always been a fan of violent media, be it horror movies, thrillers, action flicks, or gruesome television like Hannibal. Part of this is because my taste can range between high brow intellectual art and hahaha farty fart jokes from the butts. In fact, I generally only have a problem with media when something is BAD, not if something is low brow, because even low brow can be enjoyable if it’s done correctly.

So, with that in mind, I’ve also been watching a lot of horror movies this summer. I realized tonight that there’s another reason I enjoy these things…it’s because they aren’t happening to ME. Let’s face it, my life is a very obvious mess as I’ve stated time and time again to you good folks here. I am not happy, I am not in control of anything that seems to happen to me, and at this point, even the smallest annoyance can make me enraged for hours, forcing me to mutter under my breath about that woman in Walmart who just wouldn’t move her 14 screaming demonic children out of the way of me purchasing my goddamn cupcakes at 2 am. But…despite all of that, despite being held up at my cupcake purchase and a dozen other problems in my day to day life, I can safely say that I am NOT being dragged from my car to an empty, moonlit field and beaten to death in the head by somebodies homemade ash tray their kid made them for Christmas that’s now become their murder weapon. Yep. Life may be terrible, but at least I’m not getting brutally murdered. That’s a step in the right direction.

I’m not unable to feel for others. God knows enough of my life is about trying to help other people. I’m always there on Facebook chat and on IRC chatrooms in case someone I am friends with needs an ear to listen or advice on something. I have always made myself available to those who might need me. I feel for other people too much, is actually my biggest problem I think, so don’t think I’m watching these shows without feeling bad these people are dying, but I AM watching these shows with the thought “thank god that isn’t me” running through my head, because it puts how bad my life really is in perspective, which I desperately need, because having to deal with how bullshit my life is on a day to day basis gets really fucking overwhelming and hard. In fact, this isn’t a new thing, the German actually have a word for this, and it’s called schadenfreude. So yes, this is a legitimate emotion, and it’s one I desperately feed on right now simply because it keeps me from feeling like I have the absolute worst shit luck imaginable, which I NEED. In fact, here’s a blurb I found interesting and applicable to me:

A New York Times article in 2002 cited a number of scientific studies of schadenfreude, which it defined as, “delighting in others’ misfortune”. Many such studies are based on social comparison theory, the idea that when people around us have bad luck, we look better to ourselves. Other researchers have found that people with low self-esteem are more likely to feel schadenfreude than are people who have high self-esteem

So, with all of that in mind, with the fact that we look better to ourselves by seeing others fail and that it’s more people with low self esteem who are likely to feel this than others (both of which are absolutely me to a tee), I think it’s fair enough to say at this point that I’m not wrong in feeling this way. It helps me cope with my life, and how bad it is, especially right now.

So go forth, watch those horror movies, revel in peoples gruesome, chainsaw related deaths, and feel better about yourself because it. isn’t. YOU.


And So I Make The Bed

So little control. So little control over anything and everything. Feeling like everything is always spiraling wildly out of control; things that I cannot handle or fix or better. I can’t control life, and so I make the bed. I make the bed every single morning when my girlfriend and I get up, because it allows me some level of control over an otherwise uncontrollable universe. Some level of control over a rather uncontrollable life. The universe is wild. The universe refuses to be tamed. Our lives are completely untamed and ultimately out of our hands, and so I make the bed. I make the bed because it’s the only way I know how to fight back against the confusion. Against the frustration. Against the everything. When all is chaos, to have just a tiny bit of order…it’s nice.

And so I make the bed.

Severe depression, severe anxiety, autism, lesbianism. All things that I cannot control. All things that were just forced upon me, that I must deal with. I deal with these things the best way that I know how, but in the end, it wasn’t my choice to have these issues. I didn’t choose to be gay. I didn’t choose to be autistic or depressed. I choose to make the bed. Why? Because I can. Do you know what it feels like? I know you know what it feels like to be scared, perhaps even terrified, but to feel that every single waking second of every single waking day, simply because everything is so out of control? Not even complete control. Just any control. Control over the simplest things, like mindsets you were forced to grow up on and have come to try and reject or who you fall in love with despite everyone telling you that it’s wrong to love that way. That’s me, every single day. That is me. Terrified. I walk around in a a state of constant, overwhelming horror.

And so I make the bed.

I make the bed because the bed is a safe spot. It’s somewhere I can go, sit, be and not worry. It’s warm. It’s inviting. It’s somewhere I sleep that I know I won’t get hurt in, physically or emotionally. It’s separated from all the vitriol and disillusion and insipidness I come into contact with daily from those around me; those I know, those I don’t, doesn’t matter. The world is an awfully scary place, full of awfully scary people who say awfully scary things. I can’t control peoples hate. Peoples anger. Peoples fear. I couldn’t control the way that my mother would scream at me, the way my family ignored me, the way my friends abandoned me. But I CAN control how clean my bed is. I can make the bed, stand back and admire my job well done, and think, “Well, at least I’ve got this.”

In a world fraught with uncertainty, there’s at least one thing I am certain of. I can make the bed.

And so I make the bed.