THE NIGHTLY CHILL
By Steve Arviso
Grand Ghoulish, Part 14.
FIGHT THE DAWN!
As the sunlit sanity of the waking world burns the night to ash,
embrace the unbound madness of your wildest dreams,
laugh into the endless abyss of your darkest fantasies,
and rage against the coming dawn.
The Nightly Chill is the unstable experience of the mind and madness of Steve Arviso (@AmoralCrackpot). Mon-Fri. Ish.
- WHERE STARS COLLIDE
- GRAND GHOULISH, PART 14 (CONCLUSION)
- TRACK OF THE NIGHT
Tonight, GRAND GHOULISH concludes.
Fourteen parts, more than seven thousand words, written and published nightly-ish over the past several weeks. I’m also pretty sure that it’s the longest single bit of fiction I’ve released to date. Definitely the longest in years. Definitely-definitely the happiest I’ve been with my writing in a long time. And with the increasing number of eyes checking out The Nightly Chill, I’m feeling a bit accomplished right now.
And now, for something completely different.
WHERE STARS COLLIDE
DA DIRTY BIRD HALLOWEEN COMEDY SHOW!
If you’re in the Southern California area later this month, be sure to check out DA DIRTY BIRD HALLOWEEN COMEDY SHOW, hosted by comedians David Mendez and Dakota Freeman at The Bird Dive Bar in Fullerton!
Thursday, October 24th. Doors open at 8:00 PM.
For more information, follow Dave and Dakota on Instagram.
GRAND GHOULISH, PART 14 (CONCLUSION)
A titillating tale of twisted romance by Steve Arviso.
There are precisely two types of people in this world. The first are those eclectic few showcasing their gaudy wealth in a secret art gallery located beneath the surface of the sort of affluent California “community” where everyone is as artificial as the grass, trees, and even the lightly-scented air. (For fear of being assimilated, the name of this particular town escapes me at the moment.) Meanwhile, the other sort are the art. And as Harold stared at a clock hung between a pair of terrified teenagers frozen in freshly-carved ice sculptures, he took solace in the fact that while his most embarrassing memories were currently being projected on the wall behind him, at least the portly couple with matching bear-hands in front of him couldn’t tell he was crying.
“Hey!” a familiar lilt called, scrambling the feed.
The portly couple turned ever so slightly to their left to find a pink bob cut in a silk sundress and adorable shoes approaching them, started to whisper something about superficiality and the tasteless fashion sense to not wear a bra in public, then smiled and gushed in unison. “Sophia!”
“I see the two of you are enjoying Harold’s work,” the pink bob cut smiled.
“Our grandson absolutely loves it,” gushed the portly man with an impressive mustache.
The man’s portly, clean-shaved husband nodded in agreement. “Sophia, you’re looking so daring these days!”
“I wasn’t going to keep it,” Sophia said with a tease of her hair, fingers gliding across faint, thick lines in her scalp. “But it kinda grew on me.”
“I’m not sure yet,” a tinny voice said.
Sophia and the portly couple turned to a pair of speakers connected to an old laptop somehow wired to the brain in a jar beside them. The brain bubbled in its solution. The projector flickered vague images, flashing frames of bodies in pieces and blurred faces lost among bits of pixels and noise. And a woman’s voice repeated the same six words, again and again, from the speakers. “So, what does that make me?”
“What is that awful thing?” the portly mustache asked.
“One of Oliver’s little toys.”
Clean-shaved husband pawed at his ears. “Bit gratuitous, isn’t it?”
Sophia nodded, Mmhm. “Don’t let Oliver hear you say that.”
“He’s a magnificent surgeon–” the woman crackled from the speaker.
“I’m sorry,” Sophia said, turning to the couple. “But I better get Oliver over here to fix this.”
“–you can only roll back the clock so far.”
The portly coupled said their goodbyes, and Sophia watched them waddle off, paw-in-paw.
“Do they bother you?” the woman asked.
Sophia turned back to Harold, and Harold bubbled in his jar. She began to speak, thought better of it, and then disappeared into the crowd.
Read all of GRAND GHOULISH now!
TRACK OF THE NIGHT
They’re Coming to Take Me Away (1966) by Napoleon XIV.
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YOU ARE NOT ALONE
THE NIGHTLY CHILL