I’m not a murderer, and I’m not even a killer, I simply exaggerate self-protection.

Quicker and quicker danced the dust. The moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place.

“How in hell is anybody supposed to help you if you won’t ask?” Because asking is dangerous, I could tell her. Because to ask is to hope that someone answers, and it hurts so bad when nobody does.

You made a haunted house out of your own flesh and bones.

An anthology of short stories by Black authors redefining the horror genre.

A dark fiction anthology by indigenous writers.

I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe.

How many generations of women had delayed their greatness only to have time extinguish it completely? How many women had run out of time while the men didn’t know what to do with theirs? And what a mean trick to call such things holy or selfless. How evil to praise women for giving up each and every dream.

Another book in the “weird girl fiction” space

When something bad is actually happening, it's easy to underreact, because a part of you is wired to assume it isn't real. When you stop underreacting, the horror is unique because it is, unfortunately, endless.

Depraved, disturbing, deranged, & delightful.