zachbissett

Fiction: “Under the Wormwood”

In Uncategorized on 05/16/2015 at 01:31

zachbissett:

I’ve been toying with ideas on how to use photographs and original illustrations to tell stories. Over at Contra World I’ve been collecting images for character and setting inspiration, and I recently put together a rough outline of my idea. Nothing special, and no original artwork yet, but here you go: http://contraworld.tumblr.com/post/119061879003/under-the-worm-wood-ino-struggled-the-last-leg

Originally posted on stahr magazine:

Here is another clip from the fantasy novel/short story collection-hybrid I plan to be finished with by summer’s end despite mounting evidence that I will also be looking for a new apartment and moving to Napa midway through. The associated stress is, in part, why I have chosen to share this piece.

I am also just shy of my 100th follower; how exciting!

This is a brief scene that will serve as the collection’s prologue. It needs a bit of refining but this is more or less how the first six pages of the book will look.

“Under the Wormwood”
Ino struggled the last leg of the hill, wheezing through thick swarms of wormwood, shrugging off her sullen mounts with a gasp. Mago and Ajori shouldered their packs, knotted the old silver stag to one of the bonelike branches, and clambered onto the rocky outcrop overlooking the valley. Mago tried…

View original 1,421 more words

Poem: Reverse Vampire

In poetry on 08/27/2014 at 16:34

“REVERSE VAMPIRE”
We’ve gone through the looking glass
wholly.
You only catch up on time
sleeping.

Red wax on white cupboards,
silverfish in the sink,
is this how you imagined living?
They hand out anti–s like it’s nothing.

Change the sheets,
the memory’s overpowering.
Set out traps,
maybe we’ll catch something.

Vice girl,
drunk as a poet on payday
left a candle burning
in the other room.
Means nothing to you.

POEM: Quentyn’s Quest

In poetry, Uncategorized on 07/18/2014 at 17:29

“QUENTYN’S QUEST”
Your body is a time machine
that works at
real speed.

The music under the floor
has risen
through holes in my feet.

I can feel my heartbeat everywhere.

Promise me your coming out for real.
I can’t keep talking in circles
to pages
about these
things that I feel.

I never thought I needed attention.
I never wanted a friend.
But really, man,
I’m dying without you
slowly,
regardless,
I mean, seriously,
either way.

What’s the diagnoses?
Is it possible to deteriorate
from an acute case
of loneliness?

Somebody evict these thoughts from my body,
put them in a jar
that I’ll drink when I’m happy.
Stress is a killer.
I wouldn’t say silent.
Most often aggressive.

Maybe I’ve just been sitting down way too long.