Adam Frazier

Vines slacken and re-knot. Leaves fold into new lines, find new edges. The four-legged shape rises, lengthens, and resolves into something upright: two legs, two arms, a head tilting at a familiar, considering angle.

The shape comes free of the wall for the first time — slender, four-legged, feline, its whole body a woven lattice of vine and leaf and small budding flower...

Below it, the ruins spread out like the bones of something long dead — and Goldies move among them in black spacesuits, small as insects against the scale of it all.

It has a head, but no face—no eyes, no ears, no nose or mouth—just flesh. Smooth, slick, pallid. Its skin is stretched tight over a tall, slender frame.

To celebrate the Halloween season, I’m digging through the vaults and resurrecting some of my old flash fiction—stories many of you have either never read or may have long forgotten since they were first published 15 years ago. As long as Kurt Larson could remember, he had been fascinated by shaving. As a kid, he had owned one of those “My First Shaving Kits” and would lather up his face with shaving cream while his father shaved in the sink. He would mimic the man’s meticulous movements with t...

To celebrate the Halloween season, I’m digging through the vaults and resurrecting some of my old flash fiction—stories most of you have either never read or may have long forgotten since they were first published 15 years ago.

A wild animal attacks six grad students on a weekend hike in the woods. One by one, they become infected with an unknown virus that turns them into bloodthirsty creatures.

A comic adaption of my short story, "The Hair," as featured in Strange Kids Club Magazine #7.

"As long as Kurt Larson could remember, he had been fascinated by shaving. As a kid, he had owned one of those “My First Shaving Kits” and would lather up his face with shaving cream while his father shaved in the sink."

"There are a lot of misconceptions about my line of work. I'm a gravedigger, plain and simple - I ain't no caretaker or mortician or some son of a bitch who sells you the burial plot. I'm the swingin' dick that's putting you down, tucking you in for the long sleep."

"I’m writing this here letter because I've got a mighty big favor to ask of you. Consider it my dying wish if you like. You're the only one I can trust to take care of my wife when I'm gone. And believe you me, I'm just about gone."

Lost Creek, Texas. October 31st, 1978. Ghosts, goblins, witches – creatures of the night come in all shapes and sizes. Tonight, they've descended on the usually sleepy town of Lost Creek, Texas, where Halloween and all of the holiday's strangest traditions are taken very seriously.

“I’ve still got miles to go.” That’s what the old man would say as he rocked a steady beat in his mahogany rocking chair. My next-door neighbor was Cecil Waller, a friendly old codger who welcomed any company he could get – even if it were a nosy kid with dirty knees and missing teeth.