Dyre Writes

Hello! I am a sad monster what writes uncomfortable stories about terminally disturbed people (and not people). These come in a few flavors with fantasy, romance and cyberpunk being the big ones.

Horror is prevalent in everything I write, so be prepared for that.

I have a plethora of published fiction, all horror, available in ebook here, here or here if you wanna buy disturbed tales that are more than a little gay. You can also throw money at me here, if you're into that (feed me coffees).

I use this place to share bits and bobs of whatever I’m currently writing(which as of now is a horror romance novel, a vampire detective series, a witch fixer series, a different horror romance novel, a long list of horror shorts, a horror fantasy series, an urban fantasy/cyberpunk trilogy, a fairytale horror novel, a vampire horror novel, a children's horror story and a bunch of things it would best no one asked about), as well as cover images, character sketches, the occasional audiobook test and a free podcast what is live now.

(I also run @sipofsnips and @writeblr-live so if those break, you can yell at me)

So if you’re into the dark, weird and more than likely gay, or enjoy characters going through traumatizing events over and over again, you might like what you find here.

//This place be full of adult things, enter at your own risk//

You can find links to all the stuff, what I just mentioned, below.

A legitimate coward.

That's not something you see very often and he has to live with that through the rest of the story. It's brilliant and I want to see how it's handled on the page, you know?

I love the actors in this, I think they're all incredible and the shots are just...ahh. I hope the author loves this movie because it is beautiful all the way through.

And fucking terrifying.

I am allergic to cat urine. I've known this since I was a teenager, mostly from volunteering at an animal shelter. It makes my skin burn in a manner most horrifying, I will scream in agony and it will leave a mark as if it had actually burned me.

I am also allergic to cat saliva...but only if it gets under my skin. This I learned when I brought home Mr. Nefarious as a tiny kitten seventeen years ago and learned my little monster likes to fucking bite and he is not playing ever. He wants blood. Cat saliva in my blood means agony, burning, itching, stabbing agony.

This is all to say that Spook has learned scratches hurt extra if he licks his paw before we play and has been very careful not to do that. He also tries not to bite too hard. He's such a good little kitty.

Mr. Nefarious scratches my arm and then fucking licks it, not to groom or heal or anything no...no...he wants to slobber on me so I feel pain. He has licked the wound and then rubbed his face into it just to make sure the spit gets in there.

I love him.

Which the forest found fascinating.

None ever fainted at so little a peek of him before and the one in the wooden house—something he also found fascinating for how long it took to erect and how the man fawned over it—seemed too sturdy to fall so readily.

Which made him wonder, what else would you do readily...?

Invaders tended to scream when he showed himself, sometimes it took but a shake of the canopy, or a whisper of his voice. But this one, this one had seen and heard all of it...more even, through the years he’d been in the clearing. In his woods. The forest heard him rationalizing all of it away as weather or wildlife, never delving deeper to find a source. Never bothering to question why there were a path up the hill with nothing at the end of it. Too distracted by his cabin, his garden, his solitude.

The forest hadn't minded, accustomed to solitude himself, having been alone since worship of him fell out of favor. It was true he'd grown ravenous and cruel for a time, snatching up any who dared approach without offerings, without reverence...but not in years. And the man there now, well, he came with reverence unbidden. All his whispered apologies and gratitude for every tree felled to build his home, to heat it, had not gone unnoticed. He had compassion for the wood, the land, seemed to adore the hill for what it was with no desire to poison it into something else.

Spring brought evermore interest in the man, for the rot. How he raged over it, tore it from his garden and made promises to clear it from the woods.

Difficult not to find the man fascinating and, well, so long asleep he would admit himself hungry for more than berries and game. Blood sated no matter its source but those who once sought his altar brought more than sacrifice. They brought their warmth, their skin, their moaning bliss and perhaps he wondered what the man in the cabin would bring him. How his ecstasy would sing...would taste.

A wonder urging him to lure the man closer.

Beg him step into deeper brush, braving brambles and twists of cruel roots to find the home of the face he fainted for...by getting the man back into his own. Or, rather, further into it as he was flopped there at the entrance in such an awkward fashion and what better way to stoke the flames of curiosity than to put him to bed.

Granted, the forest was much too large to manage such a task. So he called on smaller things, furred beasts more suited to it, if many were void of the hands which would make it easier.

The stag, doe and faun did do their best to answer the forest’s call as he sang sweetly echoed through the leaves. A song luring a few squirrels and a hare and even a family of otters from the river skirting the hill’s base. All heeded, all obeyed, dragging the heavy human back into its weird cave of sickly-sweet smelling wood and something terribly delicious cooking in a pot.

Joking aside he hesitated on further cutting, of delving deeper into the forest. 

Instead he spent the day putting away supplies, pulling more rot from his garden and chopping wood already piled beside his cabin to heat home and water. Water needed for the long shower he took, escaping into the wet warmth and doing his best not to think of an anniversary he hadn't considered one until his mother mentioned it. One that continued to dominate thoughts as he fed the stove, set a pot of water and broth on it and chopped vegetables.

But it fell to a flutter at the sight of cubed meat he knew the young man working at the butcher shop cut for him alone. "He's too young," he told other thoughts pulsing hot and hungry, if they were a salve, something to tuck away and chase when he was cold and alone under the sheets.

Thoughts succeeding to push out memories he left the stew to...stew...with a smile plastered on his lips and headed outside to catch a sunset no city apartment could ever give him. One painting even the clouds in brilliant orange and burning pink, framed so beautifully by the canopy of his clearing.

My clearing...in my woods, he mused. Being the only one out there beyond fairly docile wildlife he hardly saw but antlers and tail of it didn't seem too presumptuous a statement.

However, in the cool air of a hardly thawed Spring, his fire pit working to make the shadows of a blanketing night sharper, he learned better. Ogden had watched the woods plenty since his cabin was built, all the whispers of the local carpenters he'd hired made it impossible not to, but that night he really saw it.

More worrying...it saw him.

Fires burned through the thick trunks, all their shadows making them dance and swirl and for a breath Ogden considered fireflies, while whimsy insisted on will o' the wisps...but there were too few for either. Two alone. Bright and round and moving only as much as to follow him as he swayed in their gaze.

Yes, gaze. How could it not be for what they were, had to be.

The forest was watching him and as he realized it those eyes slid higher in the dark, taller, with deeper shadows clutching branches and trunks far too close to the canopy. Immense, its shape suggested, wide and towering as it shivered all the woods around it, scattering birds and shaking freshly bloomed flowers to grass and brush.

Watching still. Ever watching.

But it did not move towards him, did not leave the woods.

Ogden fled.

Quick to slam the lid onto his fire pit he kept eyes on those impossible ones in the woods until he backed into his door. Slapping at it to open and hide inside, he didn't close it. Safe in the warmth and comfort of his cabin walls he didn't close the door.

He watched, as the woods watched.

Without blinking, afraid in some capacity that whatever terrible and exciting thing he was experiencing would end if he did, he tested it with tilts of his head.

Angling to the right, eyes locked tight, he fought panicked laughter as the fires tilted with, scraping more leaves from neighboring trees and filling the clearing with a soft yet roaring whoosh.

To the left, slow, steady...and it mirrored him.

A step, tentative and terrified, but a step out the door and he gasped as something stepped out of the woods. Though not entirely.

It wouldn't give him that, yet.

It offered a hoof of thick tangled roots leading to a leg near as wide as the trunk beside it and dappled in puffy green catkins. A hand followed, big enough to wrap the trunk of the ash it gripped, fingers gnarled bark of the same reddish brown as its hoof.

But it was the face that did it for Ogden.

He could rationalize the eyes as fireflies growing fatter in those old woods, the rest as tricks of the shadows and what with his cabin's lights and the moon all that lit the clearing this would have worked. All of it the distinct color of oak and not at all matching the ash or hawthorne visible from his clearing wouldn't have mattered one bit. He could have made the lie work.

If he could rationalize the face.

Which he could not.

Especially for how well its fiery eyes lit it.

So soft those fires, more golden than orange and they brightened as whatever it was peeked from the dark, creating glowing outlines of antlers threatening to overtake the branches above them.

Flat, the face, from where he stood frozen in his doorway it appeared flat. If grooved as any bark, even swirled on cheeks and chin as the light pulsed brighter still. Where a nose would be expected, on a man anyway, sat more bark. Thicker and angled in a sharp plate up and out to spread into those impossible antlers. The fiery eyes hugged that plate, from pits of black they burned there, pulsing somehow knowing as it watched him.

He has yet to actually meet the tree...but he is on his way into the woods to do so. Which is something, I suppose. Feels a little fast but it always does with first drafts. My brain is excited to get to the point and ends up lingering on descriptions instead.

In this case it's okay if it's a little fast as the point is big sexy tree times, but I do like some story in there before that happens. Character development maybe. A little worry on if he'll survive the encounter or become a wet red splotch in the grass what'll act as fertilizer for the woods.

But I have to share because I am confused...and curious if anyone knows what the hell this is. Like is there a word for it...?

Samuel L Jackson in one of his calmest, most sincere roles and it... it bombed? How? He is killing this character. The compassion on display, the attention to detail in everything he does.

How tired and pensive to big puppy dog eyes.

He's understated and beautiful and the story is neat and slowly unfolding and he's the whole film.

It's all him and it is lovely.

Mysteries/detective films usually lose me as I overanalyze and they follow the classics too closely but the ones focusing on a character more than the mystery?

Those are my darlings. Give me a character study, give me a sad old man with a past about to be dragged around all over his content new life and I am rapt.

>.>

Go watch Cleaner.