New main page and ebook project

The new site main-page ‘Writer’s Compendium’ features a compact compilation of obscure and colorful English words, organized alphabetically, with sentence examples for the benefit of writer’s interested in broadening their diction. Contents will be intermittently updated as time permits.

The project will be expanded and released later this year as a 5 x 8 ebook (EPUB/PDF), titled, ‘The Compendium: A Rare Word Dictionary.’

Recommendations of words for inclusion (either in the main-page or future book) are welcome and if I should choose to include your recommendation, I’ll be sure to credit you (unless you wish otherwise) in the text.


The Last Messiah & The Eaters Of The Sun: Chapter Three

Previous chapter

Wisent saw his father at the edge of an ancient quarry. Slanting spears of sanguine sun, choked to a gathering darkness. He knew the image wasn’t possible, but passion compelled a disregard. His father had left when Wisent was a babe. He’d been raised by his mother and the man who’d adopted her in a little house by the woods, miles and miles from the isolated lot he now mined. He couldn’t remember the name of the town of his birth. He’d seen a picture of his father but never met him. Whenever Wisent had asked about the man, his mother, with a lying smile, had changed the subject. He knew the image wasn’t possible. Yet here his father stood.

“Is that really you?” Wisent called out, voice garbled by emotion, taking a few steps forward through the slithering brush as the sky went red and thunder rumbled along the dusky horizon.

The man that looked like his father neither moved nor spoke, but stood, bent awkwardly, like a melting rod, with his back to caller, looking down to the vast concavity. Depth opaque to darkness.

Somewhere, far off, an infant cried.

Wisent had read a philosophical manuscript when he was young which argued that biographical continuity was a delusion. Yet there his father stood.


Wisent walked up to the man as the distant cries of the infant grew louder, placed a hand tentatively upon the old man’s shoulder and gently turned him about.

He had no face, only antlers.

Next chapter

On fiction circulars for 2021 and new projects

Unfortunately there won’t be a fiction circular published today, nor will there be until I finish my present writing projects, which include my novella ‘Kryos’ (17 chapters of which have been published and newly re-edited), that will be debuting this year as an ebook from my store, and a new book on space development, entitled ‘Auratura obscurus.’ I’m also working on several musical compositions, one of which, a piano-driven waltz titled ‘Rehdon,’ will be released shortly. Due to my present workload, I can no longer spare the time to read multiple short-stories every day of the week, write up summaries for each read, then promote them on social media with the regularity previously exhibited. However, circulars will resume, once I find more free time to spare.

I wish you all the best in the new year.

Fiction Circular 12/26/20

A weekly dispatch of creative writing from around the web by Kaiter Enless.

From It’s about a girl and that’s it, really: 3 Years Ago (part 1) by Carlotta Howes.

“I was born like that. People believe that birth marks mean something, they’re meant to tell you about your past life but I don’t agree”

From Mystery Magazine: The Skinny Girl by Michael Guillebeau.

“she would bawl like a dying calf whenever Ray Bolger would sing, ‘If I Only Had a Brain.'”

From The Short Place: The Clay Angel by ScarletWitch912.

“She sighed, her breath turning into icy blue sparkles whisked away by the icy wind, the tears freezing at the corners of her eyes.”

Fiction Circular 12/19/20

A weekly dispatch of creative writing from around the web by Kaiter Enless.

From Ceres Eithne: Alongside Fear. A woman, failing to find comfort in therapy and medication, grapples with her increasingly disturbing psychological malaise.

“She had a nightmare last night: a horrifying one that carried small bits of the occurrences she had buried deep down in her heart…”

From Danika’s Memory Box: Dinner. A series of sentimental letters weave a patchwork tale of one man’s dark ruminations.

“I’ve heard rumors that she still loves me. Rumors, rumors, rumors… I don’t know what is true anymore. If she loved me, if she truly loved me then why would she do this? I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t…”

From Elizabeth Fiction Writing: The Man On The Train. A unlikely meeting on a train prompts a woman to recall her musical childhood.

 “The memory faded as soon as we were out of the tunnel and I could once again see everything around me. I shook my head as if it would help me clear my thoughts. Surely, the man on the train couldn’t be the same person?”

From Fiction Is Food: Elysium by Gary Jefferies. Two travelers brave a wild land in which a monstrous beast is said to lurk.

“I can see a sorcerers haze where the tracks end. I think it’s Elder Magic, maybe a portal.”

From Fictive Dream: A Meeting in Fitzrovia by Mike Fox. An aspiring writer seeks the advice of a talented poet in a crowded pub.

“The craftsmanship of his generation could speak of an artist’s sensibility, a fact recognised by a number of authors, who took the trouble to write and thank him when the first pristine copies of a book arrived to reward their long hours of effort.”

From Kyro Books: The Carnival by K. T. Rose. A homeless musician’s fortunes change when he encounters a mysterious masked man.

“But what is joy? So dead and coy Just ask this man Who’s still a boy”

From Richard R. Becker: Might As Well Jump. A taciturn boy’s bicycle ride takes a unexpected turn, presaging a series of dire events.

“‘Liam, come quick!’ she hollered. ‘The President’s been shot.'”

From The Inkwell: North Pole by Matthew Donnellon. A humorous Christmas fantasy, reminiscent of the 1964 claymation made-for-TV movie Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

“The air in the makeshift snow cave was only slightly warmer than the air outside. Luckily, our Elvish DNA kept us from freezing but just barely.”

Update on fiction and poetry submission guidelines

To further distinguish our site from other literary ventures, Logos will no longer be accepting works of prose and verse that have been previously published, whether online, in print, or both, and, from now on, will only accept original, unpublished manuscripts of prose and verse. Excerpts from a novella, novel or poetry collection slated to be published, however, may still be accepted.

Fiction Circular 7/4/20

A weekly dissemination of fiction writing from around the web.

From Candy’s Monsters: What’s Inside by Candy Korman.

Men always lied about their height the way women always lied about their weight.

~C. Korman, What’s Inside

From Delicious Tacos: The Rage.

Knees go bad and you turn into keyboard Paul Kersey…

~D.T., The Rage

From Flora Fiction: Death Witch by Leon Clifford.

The captured fool looked down and had two realizations almost immediately. One, the bone he could see jutting out of his leg should, in fact, be on the inside of his ankle, and two, it was probably the source of excruciating pain emanating from the lower half of his person.

~L. Clifford, Death Witch

From Literally Stories: Tylen Brackus by Tom Sheehan.

October clouds were raggy and less than unique, filled with promise of the ominous sort, darker than usual, inertia buried in them, as if they were hanging there for a definite purpose.

~T. Sheehan, Tylen Brackus

From Richard Becker: The Sweeper.

“Looks nice,” June hesitated. “Quiet, maybe.”

“Let’s hope not too quiet,” Medford said, thinking of his film again.

~R. Becker, The Sweeper

From Terror House Magazine: The Silent Man by Alfred Kinning.

He didn’t use an alarm clock; he’d woken up at this time every day of his life.

~A. Kinning, The Silent Man

From The Inkwell: Paint Me by Matthew Donnellon.

He would draw out different pictures for her to find when she got home that when put together would reveal the location of her date.

~M. Donnellon, Paint Me

From The Literary Yard: The Empty Azurite by B.A. Varghese.

His thoughts were on more pressing matters. For one, his glass was empty.

~B.A. Varghese

Compiled by Kaiter Enless

Fiction Circular 6/27/20

A weekly dissemination of fiction writing from around the web.

From Candy’s Monsters: Grandma’s Ghost (2019) by Candy Corman. A intentionally not-so-spooky tale of a encounter with an apparition.

“Did you ever talk to someone you thought might be a ghost?”

From Fictive Dream: Maximum Thrill Level by Kate Gehan. A rhythmic, repetitious tale of one woman’s struggle with emotional instability during a rollercoaster ride.

“He’d mow the lawn while she and her daughter were at the amusement park because she didn’t have the energy to fight the city’s warnings and for some reason he still cared. Xeriscape it! Pave it over! She didn’t care!”

From Harsh: End by David Sprehe. A man and a dog venture through a shifting wasteland, dotted with sound-eating bats, tingle worms and walls of flesh.

“Bats are taken down. Absorbed into antennas.”

From Literary Heist: Who Killed Publishing by Dan Klefstad. A short story about sharks, remoras and the depredations of the publishing industry. Mr. Klefstad’s second novel, Fiona’s Guardians is set for release this year sometime in October from Burton Mayers and is now available for pre-order in the US and UK.

“The remora hitches a ride and gets fresh air in its gills. It pays for that ride by eating smaller parasites off the host, as well as loose flakes of skin – all of which slow down a shark when he’s hunting. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship.”

From Literally Stories: Face of the Mountain by Tom Sheehan. A son discerns visages in a mountain range. Written with fever-dream style, that fluidly bounds from one hazy scene to the next.

“Figures leaped at him, not the mathematical kind, at each twist and turn in a trail he had carved into the face of the mountain…”

From Misery Tourism: The Fertilizer Man by William H. Duryea. A curious, highly original tale of revolt and regret. Best of the week.

“He had been told that ice storms create landscapes of extraordinary beauty, that it was as if the trees were glass or crystalline and the earth had become a freshly polished parquet floor. He suspected that those who said this thought that beauty was a preservative.”

From New Pop Lit: The Mysterious Case of the Sticky Drawer by Nick Gallup (who one enthusiastic reader described as a latter-day Dashiell Hammett). A pulpish whodunnit.

“Somebody knew there was enough cash In that drawer to tempt even a spoiled upper middle-class kid.”

From Odd Fiction: A Vacancy in Staffordshire. A group of paranormal researchers confront a sharply-dressed man in a forest near a strange hotel. Lending greatly to the stories allure, is the author’s ability to consistently provide ‘the what’ without revealing very much of ‘the why.’

“He knew local news would be the only resource desperate enough to report on a black-eyed kid sighting. But apparently, his interests weren’t as niche as he once believed.”

From Rejection Letters: A Rejection Letter To Hawaiian Pizza by Zach Murphy. An irate writer explains how Hawaiian pizza killed his grandmother. A humorous flash work.

As I began to hesitatingly scatter a few pieces of pineapple onto a cheese pizza, I thought to myself: Is this what it has come to? Is this where it all ends?

From Richard R. Becker: The Stranger. After the loss of his wife, a Sioux Falls restaurant owner is held hostage by a gunman. Whilst the ending is thoroughly unsatisfying (as it finishes completely without explanation), the author notes the story will likely be continued. I, for one, certainly hope for another installment.

“When Bill laid Rosie to rest a week later, he buried his love for the diner along with her.”

From Sanity in the Diamond Age: The Mechanism (an excerpt from ‘Reality,’ a novel) by Neovictorian. A paranormal researcher contemplates his dissatisfaction with monism.

The ‘power of positive thinking’ was known long before Dr. Peale’s excellent book, was commented on by authors from Classical Greece to Victorian Britain. If there is only matter, then thinking is merely the firing of neurons and the allocation of electrochemical energy.

From The Blue Nib: The Grief Tourist by John Higgins. A melancholic tale of a vacuous stripper’s perpetual disinterest in her equally vacuous suitors. Written with Higgins’ characteristic emotional deftness.

“To me, they’re no different, all of them, and thinking that I could be attracted to them because of their easy, confident mannerisms is like saying a shop clerk could fall in love with a customer because they make effortless small talk at the till.”

A Fair Amount of Ghosts

by Zach Murphy

He plays the trumpet brilliantly on the corner of Grand and Victoria. He doesn’t look like he’s from this era. He’s impeccably dressed, from his crisply fitting suit to his smooth fedora hat. There aren’t many folks that can pull that off. He’s cooler than the freezer aisle on a sweltering summer day. He performs the type of yearning melodies that give you the goosebumps. I’ve never seen anyone put any money into his basket.  

There’s a formidable stone house that sits atop Fairmount Hill. It’s been for sale for as long as I can remember. The crooked post sinks deeper into the soil with each passing year. It isn’t a place to live in. It’s a place to dwell in. There’s a dusty rocking chair on the front porch. It’s always rocking. Always rocking. I’m not sure if the chair is occupied by an old soul or if it’s just the wind. Maybe it’s both. I guess the wind is an old soul. 

This town is full of posters for Missing Cats. There’s one for a sweet, fluffy Maine Coon named “Bear.” He’s been gone for a while now. I’ve searched through every alleyway, under every porch, and inside of every bush for him. Sometimes I think I see him out of the corner of my eye. But then he’s not there. The rain has pretty much washed away the tattered posters. If he ever turns up, I worry that the posters will be missing. 

I met the love of my life in Irvine Park, near the gloriously spouting water fountain, beneath the serene umbrella of oak trees. We spent a small piece of eternity there together. We talked about whether or not the world was coming to an end soon, and if all of our memories will be diminished along with it. After we said our goodbyes and she walked off into the distance, I never saw her again. So I left my heart in Irvine Park.

Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Ghost City Review, Emerge Literary Journal, Ellipsis Zine, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Lotus-eater, Crêpe & Penn, WINK, Levitate, Drunk Monkeys, Door Is A Jar, and Yellow Medicine Review. He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota. His film review website is Fade to Zach.

Fides Quae Creditur: Chapter One

The sun beat down the crumbling, moss-covered stone against which the two men leaned, looking off into a great recess. They stared idly from the outskirts of the docile, decaying hamlet of Kraevn at the misted distance of the declining wilds, and as they did, a chill wind swept in from the south, jostling their tattered, patchy clothes and carrying with it a fulsome insectal drone, which swallowed up the village’s juvenescent melody, as if appetent of joy’s consumption.

“What’s beyond The Spine?” The young man inquired, gesturing to the great stone bulwark which jutted from the horizon like a monstrous, antediluvian carcass.

“Ain’t nothing there.” The old man declared firmly, his raspy voice half-lost to the zephyr’s rising hum.

“There must be something.”

“How’d you know? You aint never been beyond The Spine. No one has. Ain’t nothing there.”

“No such thing as nothing.”

“How’s that?”

“Nothing is something we don’t have other words for.”

The old man turned and spat and looked towards his younger companion with sympathy and disapproval mingling in the frosted gray of his fading eyes.

“Fool notions rattling round that head a’yours, Harrow.”

“Maybe. But consider this: You can’t make a fool of a plant.”

The old man shook his hoary head and shambled haggard back to town. Harrow remained; gazing out across the skyline’s sanguine sprawl. His gestures pregnant with rising ambition.

Rain began to fall and somewhere the deathrattle of an animal sounded as dead thickets thrummed into the chasm beyond the low stone fence; as smokestack clouds roiled and cracked above the scene of slow calamity. The abyssal castanets tore the man from his obdurate perch and sent him trudging back toward the bluff-born borough’s paltry warmth.

To Harrow, the ether’s fomentations were as a malediction.

A black mark upon his soul.

The Dauntless Rook OST (Demo Ver.)

The Dauntless Rook

Oeric Adair

Legerdemain (Drake’s Theme; Piano Arr.)


The Ironworks (Sibranth I)

Master Of The Ironworks (Sibranth II)

Suzerainty (Avarr’s Theme)

The Lord Paramount’s Court

Judgment of Iron (Sibranth III)

Legerdemain (Drake’s Theme; Chamber Arr.)

All tracks composed by Kaiter Enless.

Suzerainty (Avarr’s Theme – Remastered Arr.)

Composed by Kaiter Enless.

All music published to the site may be downloaded by our patrons from our music archive.