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  • The Cornfield Song

    An early Harrow encounter, five years after the Bridge Event.

    Khyren carved out a circular patrol area within an earthen field of corn.

    In the center of the circle he knelt.

    He sent a prayer to the First Flower—

    a melodic, drawn-out tone that rose and fell like breath.

    He unsheathed a knife, broke up the soil, and pressed his long green fingers into the loosened earth.

    Soon he reached into a large pocket sewn into the inside of his cloak—really a fold of his own plantlike body—and withdrew a small seed.

    He held it between two fingers, touched it to the ground, and sang a second melody, sending the tone upward with both hands.

    He buried the seed gently.

    Then he stood above it and dropped the cloak.

    Beneath the fabric was a ribbon-like torso, pale and fibrous, swaying softly as he dug his long toes into the dirt.

    He continued to sing, the melody vibrating through the field in waves.

    Interaction with humans was always a problem, and Khyren didn’t expect anything less as he watched a fleet of large vehicles roll up beside the field and park near a farmhouse.

    The human owner had already made his feelings clear.

    “The Harrow are NOT standing in my field,” he had said.

    “I don’t care if they’re a beacon of horrible things nearby.

    I honor the dead by raising my crops and cattle in the fields they last laid in—

    and I don’t need a reminder of those horrible several days standing in my god-damn field.”

    The old man pocketed his phone and stared across the corn at the tall, thin creature swaying among the stalks.

    Khyren, whose eyes hid beneath upturned petals, felt for the man.

    He sensed the sorrow.

    The anger.

    The weight of something unspoken.

    It prompted a healing song, soft at first, meant to rise—a gentle offering.

    After several bars the old man snapped:

    “I don’t need your fuck’n song, outsider!

    I don’t want whatever this is—from you of all creatures!

    I just want to be left alone!”

    Khyren froze.

    Stopping a song mid-melody was unheard of for the Harrow.

    To break the continuity was to invite a curse—an old truth whispered through roots and vines.

    But this old, frail, furious man stood there, unaware of the danger, unaware of how close he was to a creature whose relationship with death was both peaceful and violent.

    One wrong step could turn a prayer into a burial rite.

    The man seemed to know enough to keep his distance.

    He paced the boundary of his field, voice shaking.

    “I know you understand me,” he said.

    “I’m aware of why you’re here.

    I know my share of the blame.

    But listen here—

    I paid for my sins.

    I did my time.

    You and your friends reminding me of that day five years ago is cruel.

    I don’t want to remember them anymore—”

    The wind stilled.

    Khyren stood quiet, petals trembling, unsure whether the man was asking for mercy…

    or begging for the past to stay buried.

    Would you like more Harrow stories like this?

    Comment, reblog, or send a message — your feedback tells me what parts of Teraphobia to explore next.

  • [ARCHIVIST DOSSIER // PERSONAL ENTRY] —Before the Collapse, there was Max Co.

    Authored by Arthur Boxford – Archivist

    He was everywhere — a brand mascot, political spokesman, soda icon, and holiday special host. Sometimes all at once. His face sold everything from cola to unity. His smile never changed. And when the signals went dark, Max kept broadcasting.

    The Advertising Division preserves the promotional fallout of that forgotten campaign era: t-shirts, mugs, and poster prints pulled from corrupted broadcast reels and scorched vending units.

    These are not relics issued to agents. They are the leftovers of a civilization that thought branding would save it.

    MAX SAYS: “YOUR FUTURE LOOKS REFRESHING.”
    He was only off by a few decades.


    RELIC DROP // THE ADVERTISING DIVISION

    The Archive opens — briefly.
    A limited cache of Max Co. artifacts, unearthed from the static.
    No warranty. No refunds. Just Max.

    Claim your relic. Wear the myth.
    🛒 http://matthewrstitt.com/max-corporate

    The gods don’t wait. Neither does Max.

  • [ARCHIVIST DOSSIER // PERSONAL ENTRY – MAX UNIT SIGNAL]

    CLASSIFIED – INTERNAL TRANSMISSION ONLY

    The Archivist

    STATUS: UNCONFIRMED RESPONSE

    The signal has been deployed. The broadcast is live.

    Units have been dispatched across fractured sectors—flyers, glyphs, slogans, vessels. Each one a carrier of the old brand, a relic of influence coded with hope.

    No replies. Not yet.

    This is the quiet between pulses. A dangerous place. A place where doubt leaks in.

    I remind myself:

    Not all transmissions receive a reply on the first ping.

    Some signals travel farther. Through ruins. Through time.

    The response will come.

    Until then, I remain at the terminal. Watching. Holding the line.

    — Archivist

  • Erik becomes Erik Ashford

    A cough echoed through a dust-choked grocery store.

    A second cough awakened a Harrow— A human-shaped shell of a living being, its soul long since stolen.

    The monster groaned, lifted its head and moved forward. A thin, frayed rope bit into its neck where flesh had rotted away to muscle. It stopped and blinked, cancerous pale eyes settled on a row of glass doors.

    Behind those doors, where cold food used to live. Erik Ashford lay wasted, motionless within the rotten remains of long perished eggs, meat and milk. He lay on the ground. His face buried in dirt, asleep.

    “Father..”

    A voice echoed through Erik’s inebriated dreams. It broke up Erik’s liquor drenched dreams and he trembled.

    The voice called again. Erik opened his eyes. A rainbow of light bled from a jagged wound in the ceiling, through the doors and warmed the side of his face. Dust flew out and upward as he exhaled.

    Chains jangled outside the door. Erik slid from under the ragged rack of dried milk and sat up. His head wobbled as the liquor sloshed around his veins.

    Outside the grime-covered sheets of glass stood the shadow of a Harrow, Erik knew as Gary, but Gary wasn’t talking— he never said a word.

    “Gary! Are you saying my name?” Erik shouted.

    “I was sleeping Gary, you freak.”

    Erik slid back. He caught an edge of the shelf with his hand. The metal shelf screeched. Solid jugs of milk fell and the whole shelf crashed onto the doors, shattering them.

    Without the glass to obscure, Erik looked at Gary as the creature pulsed with rage. It pulled upon the rope. The rope struggled to hold it from moving forward.

    “Gary?!”

    “Dad!”

    As if the liquor was thrown from his veins, he whipped around and stared into the darkness.

    A shadow figure, of a child, stood in a partially lit corner.

    Erik crept forward. The figure did not move.

    A crash within the room, where Gary was, made him jump.

    “I am not a joke-around kinda guy.” Anger crept in. Erik walked forward.

    “You once were,” an intelligent reply knocked Erik back and into the same shelf.

    Gary growled. The rope strained and the linoleum ticked under slow, unconscious steps of the monster’s boots.

    “You were never an alcoholic when mom and I were alive. You’re in bad shape dad. I couldn’t imagine how far you slipped.”

    Erik massaged his back.

    “How far I slipped? I slipped! I lost my family. To my god-damn neighbors. My friends!” Erik stood, incensed like never before.

    He stepped into the darkness.

    “I don’t know what you’re planning or what this all is…”

    Erik tossed a chair.

    “I’m not some…”

    He pushed over a stack of boxes. Metal pans crashed.

    Gary pulled on the rope. The rope began to tear through rotten muscle.

    “…Push around guy. I will end this now.”

    Erik shoved a shopping cart toward the shadow. He watched as the cart struck where the shadow was.

    The cart burst. Its contents boxes, spray paint, burst on impact. Spray covered the walls…but the shadow didn’t move—

    It didn’t say anything either.

    Erik approached but before he could do anything further a crash forced him to turn and look.

    He knew immediately what the problem was— the human-like Harrow named Gary was missing.

    ——-/———//—/——-/

    Explore more from the fractured world of Erik Ashford — including art, relics, and stories — at MatthewRStitt.com

  • The Trial of Dr. Gabriel Loren Cross

    “Does the jury have a verdict?”

    The judge sat elevated above the courtroom, his expression flat as he spoke to the jury foreman.

    The foreman, a tall, vampiric, pale-faced man rose. He opened an envelope, removed a folded sheet and cleared his throat.

    “We the jury,” he began, “find the defendant guilty of count one, attempted augmentation of a living organism.”

    “And count two?” The judge prompted.

    The foreman hesitated. He stared straight ahead, avoiding the judge’s gaze. The courtroom quieted as the pale man looked down.

    “We the jury, find the defendant not guilty of second-degree murder of a child.”

    The courtroom gasp. The judge sat back. Lips pressed tight.

    Chatter began to spread from small to a larger murmur. The audience within the small courtroom began to then talk amongst themselves.

    The judge stood abruptly. The room fell silent.

    “Please, refrain from expression of emotion. This is a courtroom, not a coffee shop.”

    “Foreman of the jury, please read the remaining…”

    A wooden chair flung backwards, crashing into the wood-lined half wall behind him.

    “I object to this ridiculous clown show!” The voice came from the defendant, his face red, his tone venomous. “I am a respected member of the community. This is unjust… all of this is untrue.”

    “I do not accept this verdict.”

    The judged glared at the defendant.

    “Dr. Cross, you have been held in contempt once and warned multiple times. This is the last time you interrupt the court proceedings. Bailiff restrain the Defendant.”

    The judge banged the gavel. “Please escort the jury from the courtroom. Take him into custody now.”

    The jury was carefully guided through an exit.

    Cross, a diminutive figure in a large courtroom, glared at the bailiff. The approaching bailiff hesitated. Dr. Cross, despite his small stature, commanded every space without trying. Entering his space felt like a magic barrier.

    The only one with a stronger aura was the judge who pushed the bailiff forward.

    The officer attempted to restrain him but— was struck from behind. The bailiff stumbled sideways and released Cross.

    A tall, middle-aged man with a scarred face shoved the bailiff out of the way and attacked Cross.

    Court officers rushed into the room, grabbed and restrained the man. They pulled the two men from each other.

    “You deserve to die for what you did to my family!” Says the man. He spits. The officers throws the man to the ground.

    Cross wipes blood from his mouth. An officer restrains him. The attacker is restrained under several other officers.

    “This trial is postponed temporarily,” said the judge as he stood.

    “ Counsel— chambers now!”

    ————————/

    Explore the Relic Drops, browse the Artifact Vault, or decode new poetry in When the Clock Forgot, a haunting collection of verse shaped by time, silence, and return. Every piece is part of the Archive. Every visitor is part of the story.

    Ready to dive in? Visit MatthewRStitt.com and begin your transmission.

  • Creating a new beginning from pieces

    An intern, dressed in a light blue hospital uniform, pushed open the door to the executive break room.
    “Dr. Stein!” he shouted, “something has gone terribly wrong.”

    Dr. David Stein, sitting in a overstuffed chair, tossed a cup of stale coffee into the sink of the break room. The intern waited then turned and ran out of the room.

    Dr. Stein followed the intern at a slow, bearable pace.  The intern passed the administration offices quickly . He then turned left into another hall.  Dr. Stein, out of breath, stumbled into the other hall and gasp as he noticed a tall man lying within the doorway of a patient’s room.  The man was wearing nothing and blood covered his chest and hands.  The room door stood partially open preventing Dr. Stein from identifying the man.  The intern stood in front of the man kicking at the injured man’s feet.  It almost seemed like the intern was playing with his feet.
    “What happened,” Dr. Stein asked, his heart rate increasing painfully.
    “I don’t know, the patient was acting fine but then began to get sick. He fell to the floor between the doors then began to seize.”

    Dr. Stein noticed that a trail of blood led from the room door and disappeared into the hallway.
    “Were you putting him in the room?” Asked Dr. Stein suspiciously.

    The intern began to smile then sat a large hand on the hallway wall. His hand was larger then normal. His fingernails were yellowish and long.
    Dr. Stein felt everything about this intern was wrong. His large hands, wide smile and overly muscular features spoke of a soldier not a medical intern. There were rumors of a Defense Department project downstairs.
    The intern stood quietly thinking, his smile quickly fading. He seemed to be searching for an answer. A shiver of fear wiggled up Dr. Stein’s spine as he became more confident that the intern was a patient from downstairs. The experimental ward was locked down. How could’ve this man escaped.
    “Thank you for letting me know about this. I’ll take care of the rest,” Dr. Stein said quickly trying to diffuse a situation that hadn’t quite started yet.

    “Why don’t you go lay down? You look unwell,” Dr. Stein added then realized that what he said was a mistake.
    “Why do you want me to lay down?” Said the intern.

    A snarl appeared and grew upward like a thick red infection. Dr. Stein then noticed the intern’s large teeth under the thick lips.
    “I just figured you were in shock and could use a rest.”
    “No,” the intern shot back, “you just want me to fall asleep so you can experiment on me.”
    The snarl fell from his face. The intern held his lips together tightly and his face began to redden. Dr. Stein noticed the interns large hands began to clench. They looked like large meaty hammers under his wrists.
    “I don’t,” said the intern.

    “You’re not going to try anything on me,” the young intern hit his chest firmly with his hammer-sized right fist.
    “Are you a patient?” Dr. Stein asked, his voice shaking slightly.
    “No, I am a doctor,” the young intern began to approach Dr. Stein.

    Dr. Stein took a boxers stance. He was a champion boxer at Kingsboro High School a few miles away. Of course, this was nearly 30 years ago. The intern stepped forward but Dr. Stein stepped back, not wanting to fight.
    “What are you doing?” The intern said pointing at the man within the door, “Aren’t you going to help this patient?”
    “I need to know how you escaped from Ward 26,” Ruiz asked as he backed away a few more steps.

    He was hoping to lead the intern into the main hallway, which was busier then this one.  The hope would be that soemone would help him.

    “I didn’t escape,” shouted the intern.

    His face continued to redden and his large red lips practically disappeared. Large yellow rotten teeth bared like a dog about to attack.

    “You are going to hurt yourself,” Dr. Stein warned. Attempting to dissuade the intern from attacking.

    “I am going to hurt myself?” The intern exploded. He stopped approaching and stood angrily shouting.

    “You experiment on us.”
    “You hurt us.”
    “I’m going to worry about hurting myself.” The intern rushed Dr. Stein, leaving little time for Dr. Stein to land a punch.

    Dr. Stein fell into a gurney sitting against the hallway wall. With his left leg and arm twisted within the legs of the gurney he was helpless to defend himself. The intern approached with a murderous look that could frighten even the heartless. Dr. Stein tried desperately to free himself as the intern bent over him and raised a meaty fist to bring down upon him. From somewhere near, Dr. Stein could hear footsteps sprinting toward him then a grunt and a crash.

    A large attendant had tackled the intern and they were wrestling upon the floor. Dr. Stein freed himself and quickly stood. He wanted to help the attendant who was having a terrible time restraining the intern.

    “Get out of here!” shouted the attendant after he landed a crushing blow to the interns face.

    “I can help you,” shouted Dr. Stein.

    “No, get out of the hospital. Go…” the attendant said as he finally seemed to have the upper hand. He had managed to work the intern into his belly and held the young mans arms under his own. The attendant stepped upon the interns back like a mountaineer at the peak of a mountain.

    “Go, damnit,” the attendant demanded.

    Dr. Stein turned and began toward a hallway. An awful crack and groan made his stomach wretch and he wanted to turn back but didn’t.

    The hallways were numerous and hard to maneuver. He walked quickly and began toward the Directors office. The office sat on the far southern corner of the large compound. As he walked farther away from the incident near the operating rooms he began to slow his pace. The halls were quiet and orderly. The thick room doors closed and locked. There looked to be no epidemic problem or a reason for him to hurry.Doctor Adams rounded a corner and then made a right down the administrative hallway. The Directors office sat on the right side. He passed the Research and Development Offices on the left. He glanced inside the rooms as he passed. Norman Oswald sat behind his desk and looked up as Doctor Adams passed. He waved and Doctor Adams returned a wave. Within the next room a couple doctors sat on small chairs facing away from him. A large desk sat in front of them. They seemed to be waiting for Doctor Rebekah San Marino who was not sitting at her desk. The last Research and Development office was empty except for a few chairs tossed in the middle of the room. The next set of offices was Finance. The Finance department had four rooms. In the first room on the right of the hallway sat Kerry Peterson, behind his desk and talking on the phone. He seemed strangely animated arguing into the receiver. The remaining rooms up to the director’s office were empty. Doctor Adams approached the director’s door. The director was a balding fifty-year old man, small in stature by appearance only. Doctor Adams knocked on the glass pane of the office door. He watched as the director waved him in with a flick of his small wrist. Doctor Adams opened the door and immediately caught the potent scent of cigars, many cigars. He approached the large desk that sat in the center of the room and sat down. ”No, no no…” said the director as he spoke to someone on the floor. “Everything is under control. You don’t need to send any help.”He listened for a few minutes smiling as he did. ”Please sir, you know I’ll let you know if I need help.” He listened again as he nervously wiggled a yellow wooden pencil on his desk. ”I’m sorry sir but I have a visitor and have to let you go,” he said.He listened, continued to smile, and then hung up the phone. ”Hold on,” the director states as he stands and walks to the large window in the back of the room. Below the window is a bookshelf crammed with binders dated in black ink. The director scans the book and finds a binder with the date May 5, 2008. He pulls the binder from the shelf and walks back to his desk. ”What can I do for you Mister Adams?” He said as he sat carefully down into his chair. ”Uhm…” Doctor Adams began struggling to organize his thoughts. ”There was an incident down the hall near the examination room,” Doctor Adams began. ”So I’ve heard,” said the director to Doctor Adams surprise. The directors smile fell and was replaced by concern. ”I was almost killed,” Doctor Adams, continued, “a patient pretending to be an intern approached me with an emergency and then tried to kill me. He said he we were hurting him.” The director stood from his chair and paced back and forth behind his desk. The concern in his face seemed to weigh him down greatly. ”I did tell you there was a risk with this job, didn’t I,” the director said as he continued to pace. ”You did tell me,” Doctor Adams acknowledged, “but I want to know if there is a bigger problem.” ”A bigger problem?” The Director asked as he stopped pacing and looked at Doctor Adams. ”The guard that saved my life told me to leave the hospital,” Doctor Adams said.
    “He did? Well you probably misunderstood him,” the director said quickly.
    “No I understood him quite clearly. I also understood the noise of bones breaking as I began down the hall.”
    “What!” The director shouted as he placed his hands on his desk.
    “Damnit.” The director immediately picked up the phone and began to dial a number. “You can do what you want Doctor Adams. Leave, stay, run away, I don’t care. Just get out of my office I have important phone calls to make,” the director stopped dialing and waited for Doctor Adams to stand.
    Doctor Adams then turned and walked out of the office.
    Zombie Epic Part 2
    Doctor Adams stepped from the director’s office. The director waited until the office door was shut securely before he began speaking into the phone. Actually, from the looks of it, the director was screaming into the phone. As Doctor Adams stood outside the door he watched the director shouting into the phone. Doctor Adams began to feel helplessness, or was it fear? Did he fear what he had been doing the past few months? Was it torture?”
    “No,” he replied to himself.
    “This is important research. How else are were going to survive in this world without the gene implantation research he was trying to do?” Doctor Adams turned from the director’s door and began down the administration hallway. He passed Kerry Peterson’s room again and instinctively looked inside. The large man stood just inside his door staring at the opposite wall. Doctor Adams opened the office door.
    “Is there something wrong Kerry,” Doctor Adams asked. Kerry Peterson had become a family friend several years ago. Kerry was actually the man that helped get him this job.
    “Derrick,” Kerry began pleasantly using Doctor Adams first name, “I saw you heading to the directors office. What’s going on?”
    “I was assaulted by a patient about an hour ago. A guard told me to run from the building. I was trying to figure out what was going on.” Kerry’s face went pale.
    “A patient attacked you?” Kerry asked.
    “Yea, it was pretty frightful. I thought he was going to kill me till the guard took him out. Then get this the guard broke the patients back.”
    “My god,” Kerry said as he walked toward his desk. Doctor Adams followed.
    “Do you have any idea what is going on around here?” Doctor Adams asked. Kerry said nothing and sat down behind his desk.
    “I have an idea but nothing concrete. I can only pull bits and pieces of information from the financial coming and goings,” he finally said slowly.
    “So what’s up?” Doctor Adams asked.
    “The companies losing money hand over foot. We have spent over half a billion dollars in bad investments over a two year period,” said Kerry.
    “What is this have to do with patients pretending to be doctors?”
    “The company is getting lax because they are cutting cost.”“That’s a good reason but I don’t believe that’s everything,” Doctor Adams said.“What are you going to do?” Said Kerry.“Well I’m not an investigator or Nancy Drew or anything but if this involves my lively hood I have to do something.”“It may be that I will have to find another job.”“Uhm…” Kerry paused then continued, “you can’t leave the company.”“What are you talking about,” asked Doctor Adams.“You are contractually obligated to this company until you are released by the company,” Kerry said carefully. He looked a little apprehensive.“Contractually obligated!” Doctor Adams spat as his stood from he chair and began to walk around the room.“Is this a joke,” he asked not really expecting an answer.“No, its common practice for the company.”“Really, where is this paragraph in the contract?”“Under the signature, small type, of course.”“Yea, of course,” Doctor Adams said while he continued to pace.“How could you of gotten me into this crap?” Doctor Adams shouted, his temper pushed over the edge.“I’m sorry,” Kerry said just before he stood quickly and stumbled backward toward the window in the back of his office.A several loud crashes erupted from outside the office door and Doctor Adams looked. Metal gurneys began to pile up just outside the door. They came from the left side of the office and were tossed or pushed into the pile. After five or six gurneys sat in the hallway a large male nurse named Hoyt leapt over the pile followed by several others. There were six people total; Doctor Ruiz and Doctor Stein made their way over the pile dressed in the standard white coat. Three nurses followed them; Nurses Smith, Alexander and an Asian woman Doctor Adams did not know. They pointed toward the left of the hallway, some of them crying. The large nurse Hoyt seemed to take charge and shouted orders. ”We need to make this higher,” he said as he pushed to pile upward.
    Doctor Adams walked to the office door and attempted to open it but Hoyt stopped him. He held up one of his large hands then made crude hand turning motions attempting to convince Doctor Adams to lock the office door. Doctor Adams locked the door and stepped back. The women screamed as something began to approach. The scream shot through the office like the glass door was not even there. They walked backward till they disappeared from sight. Doctor Stein began to follow them when Hoyt stopped him. The then stood behind the pile of gurneys and waited for whatever was coming to hit them. Doctor Adams watched from inside the room as the men braced themselves.Suddenly, a large naked man burst from the left side of the doorway and smashed into the gurneys. It reminded Doctor Adams of an attempted 1-yard dive at a football game. The doctors shoved the gurneys up and into the naked man stopping his dive mid-air. The naked man fell backward onto the gurneys. His back broke over a gurney that lay on its side. Hoyt rushed forward over the gurneys and shoved a thin glass rod through the bottom of the man’s jaw and into his brain. It was disgusting but apparently necessary.Blood splattered over the glass office door. The naked man lies in front of it. Doctor Adams turned to look at Kerry and found him crumpled and upon his knees in a corner.“What the hell was that,” Doctor Adams said loudly but Kerry was not listening.Doctor Adams pounded on the office doors till Hoyt shoved the body out of the doorway. Doctor Adams quickly unlocked the door and opened it.“What the hell is going on?” Said a booming voice from down the hall. The director stood, all four-foot nine of him, outside his office with his hands on his hips.
    Zombie Epic Part 3
    “Director,” said Hoyt, his large frame towering over the small director. “I think you owe us an explanation.”“About what,” said the director looking up at the male nurse confidently.“About your experiments.”“I don’t know what your talking about. I have no experiments. Everything that’s going on is known by all of these staff members.” The director pointed to everyone that stood behind Hoyt. “I’m sorry if you are out of the loop.”Hoyt laughed. A hearty chuckle that he bottled up quickly so as to make a pointed statement.
    “I am so in the loop Director. I know everything. I know you have commissioned a select few to do behavior research and gene therapy. I know you have a grant from the Defense Department to do this.”“Is this true, Director?” Doctor Adams asked.“No,” he said defiantly.“Is it true that the company has been running in the red for the past two years due to bad investments?” Doctor Adams asked and the others gasp.“No,” the director said again.“Why don’t you stop lying to us,” said Kerry from within his office door. “I’ve seen the documents. I’ve got the proof.”The group, all eight staff persons, glared at the director but he said nothing, turned, and disappeared back into his office.“Can you believe that man?” Said Nurse Smith, a petite woman in her mid forties.“He has been nothing but bad news since he got here,” said Doctor Stein as he ran his thin hands threw the small bit of hair he had left on his head.“Kerry, are you alright,” Doctor Adams asked as he approached.“I’m fine, just a little shaken,” Kerry said his hands trembling.“Did you know anything about these experiments?” Doctor Adams asked. Hoyt, Doctor Stein and Nurse Smith approached.Kerry fumbled for words as he scanned the area around him. Blood covered the floor and the glass wall around the door. The body of the naked man laid awkward, face first on the floor.“I knew something was going on,” he admitted.“The defense contract came through my office several months ago. The director searched my office a couple days later when I had left for work. He found the paperwork and took it.”“How’d you find out he took it,” said Nurse Smith.“Rebekah told me,” Kerry said looking toward her office.“Speaking of Rebekah and the Research and Development office,” Doctor Adams began, “why haven’t they come out of their rooms?”“We should go find out,” said Hoyt and he began down the hall. Doctor Adams, Doctor Stein and Nurse Smith followed. Doctor Ruiz, Nurse Alexander and the Asian woman stayed behind talking amongst themselves. Kerry Anderson stood within the doorway of his office. He could not force upon himself the courage to step outside of it.They approached the first door, Doctor Rebekah San Marino, and stopped. They looked inside to see two doctors sitting in chairs in from of Doctor San Marino’s desk. Doctor Adams then noticed, which he failed to notice before, that the two were slouched forward slightly, their heads down.“I think their dead,” he said as he quickly opened the door. “Go check the other offices,” Doctor Adams shouted.
    The others began to search the other Research and Development offices and Doctor Adams began to approach the two doctors in Doctor San Marino’s office. He immediately noticed the smell of gunpowder. Good-sized dark red stains ran down the back of the doctors white coats. Doctor Adams searched the office for a visible reason for the murders. The books were in order on the shelves. Perfectly kept and dusted. None of the many drawers that Doctor San Marino had set into the walls of her office were closed. There was no sign anyone was looking for something. Doctor Adams passed the men and walked around the large desk in the office. He noticed that Doctor San Marino’s chair had fallen over and several documents were scattered over the floor. The bottom left drawer of her desk was open and emptied. Something fluttered in the corner of the room. Doctor Adams walked slowly to the far corner of the room and bent down. Printed on company letterhead was an e-mail.
    The e-mail stated that the sender was Col. Eric Price from the Department of Defense and that the ‘Changing World’ program would start May 5, 2008, which was three months from today. It stated several directives:
    “This project is to be held under the utmost secrecy. No one is to know anything,” the directive began. “If you are suspected of knowing something deny it. If you suspect someone knows something…I won’t tell you what to do but this is of the utmost importance.”
    “This research,” began the second directive, “will be perform thoroughly and will be reported to me on a weekly basis.”
    The third and last directive was typed and red, the letter size was large and the type was bold.
    “Under no circumstance is any patient involved in this research to be released, ever!”
    It returned to 12-sized text, with black and un-bold text. “The patients will become permanent residents of this facility.”
    “Who is Col. Eric Prince?” Doctor Adams asked himself.
    “Who are these doctors that are performing these procedures and why haven’t I had a clue this was happening?”
    “What is happening?” Doctor Adams asked as movement from behind made him jump. He turned around quickly and one of the men sitting in the office chairs was falling backward. With a loud thump he landed on the floor, a freakish sigh escaped from his open mouth.
    “Alright, I’m outta here,” he thought quickly as he began toward the door. As he passed the fallen man he instinctively looked down. The man was definitely dead. His was skin pale or more of a chalk white. His chin was bruised where the blood had pooled from the downward position of his face. His arms were stiff. Still in positioned as if he was still sitting in the chair.
    He suddenly thought, “How long have these men been here?” That was a curious question because just yesterday everything at The Company seemed to be going fine. Doctor Adams recalled walking through the administration hall once or twice to speak to Kerry Anderson.“Did he look into this room?” He thought hard.

    ————————————

    11/1

    It was early evening, the sun had not yet set.  Erik Sears sat drinking a can of beer.  He sat in the driver’s seat of his late-father’s red 1969 Ford Mustang.  The door was dented and the bumper hung to the frame with home-made piece of steel and bolts but it was still Erik’s.  His intention was to bust into the gate at the south entrance and do some real damage to the zombies inside the city before they tore him to pieces.  At least, he good do some good before he died.

  • Pilot School

    FLIGHT SCHOOL?

    Napoleon had a small airport. Inside a small group of Kimerian giraffes practice to fly ancient planes.

    Log 05-16: Napoleon, Large Northeast territory.

    I let myself into the airport hanger. I closed the metal door. Inside, the room expanded. The ceiling towering over me. Thin beams tracing lines that married seams of sheet aluminum together.

    To my right a pair of ancient propellered war planes and to my surprise a wooden plane inspired by the Wright brothers.

    I walked forward and toward the center of the hanger. I passed the first plane, a bi-tiered, beautifully restored gem. As I walked past I chuckled as I found a large metal pipe in the pilot seat. A scarf tied around its metallic neck.

    They still fly.
    Prints from this Field Journal entry — and others — available at: matthewrstitt.com

    I passed the bi-plane and walked to the wood-framed, aluminum-clad office space. The door was open so I walked in. Inside was a small hallway and three rooms.

    The Kimerian, I was meeting, sat in the room to the right at the end of the hall. The tall creature met me at the door. His hand outstretched, his long, thin neck towering over my six-foot stature.

    “My people call me Kelune,” he said his voice deep and loud. “I am a Greybeard and an elder.”

    Kelune lead me to a chair, built for a human as he sat upon a tall stool. He asked me to sit but I was unsure if I would be comfortable talking from farther below him.

    The difference in height didn’t seem to bother him as he looked down upon me.

    “I’ll stand,” I said and noticed a smile creep up the elongated nose.

    “I apologize for the height difference,” he said with a chuckle. It’s something I tend to forget. I apologize if the offer to sit felt rude.”

    “It’s fine,” I said and I took a step back so I didn’t have to look up so far.

    “You work for The Network,” he asked.

    “A field reporter.”

    “Wonderful, anything to soften the rough reputation of the Kimerians.”

    He lowered his long neck. Met my eyes with a slight head tilt.

    “So you pilot old planes,” I said abruptly. “Is it a way to escape the world?”

    “Oh yes,” said Kelune. He grinned.

    “We don’t have these on Kimeria… they are magnificent machines…but….”

    “Flying is not about escape,” he said softly. “It is about remembering that the world was always larger than we could walk.”

    He followed me out to the hanger. He shook my hand and walked toward the Wright plane, without another look.

    Napoleon’s airport still breathes. Its ghosts still fly.


    They still fly.
    Prints from this Field Journal entry — and others — available at: matthewrstitt.com
    They still fly.
    Prints from this Field Journal entry — and others — available at: matthewrstitt.com
    They still fly.
    Prints from this Field Journal entry — and others — available at: matthewrstitt.com
  • Are Kimerians more human than we think?

    What I discovered in Elmyra might change everything…

    Log 05-10: Elmyra, Territory of the Reds

    Elmira, where the boundaries between human and Kimerian blur, survival isn’t just about adapting — it’s about integrating. That’s the inspiration behind the Working the Line collection. Each shirt, mug, and print captures a snapshot of life along the Unknown Highway, where the ordinary and the uncanny converge.

    Found an office in the center of town. A weird spine hanging above the door. Some fear but I was determined to record the goings on inside.

    Snuck into the door and found a place to observe.

    A queue of Kimerian waited oblivious of my presence.

    The practitioner, non-human, with a fishlike head stepped into view. She wore a large Top hat and a purple dress with white frills

    Fish-person

    Her patient, a long necked bi-pedal giraffe lay down upon the drop table. The fish-woman then proceeded to apply a treatment.

    I couldn’t differentiate a human from the Kimerian, if they were side-by-side-skill wise.

    Log 05-12: Elmira, Territory of the Reds

    I drove through Elmira. Parked and slid into the chiropractic office. Behind a pair of drop tables were tall, bird-like Kimerians

    One, closest to me was tall, feathers white. The other grey.

    The patient at the first table was a large bull moose. Its bone rack large and spread out from the bulbous nose. The head sat awkwardly on human shoulders.

    Ostrich and Moose

    The other patient on table two was white with black striped zebra lying on her side.

    Ostrich and Zebra

    Despite the prevailing assumption that Kimerians are wholly alien, the observed chiropractic practice reveals a surprising alignment in technique and care, blurring the perceived gap between human and Kimerian. While their forms may differ dramatically, the methods and mannerisms displayed suggest that the divide may be more superficial than substantial. Are the distinctions between us and them only skin deep?

  • Shadow – When the Clock Forgot

    The shadow of time stood upon a broken wooden deck jutting outward into a dark ocean of water.

    It stood alone.

    The tail of its black coat blowing and tethered like a tail.

    A wide- brimmed hat tilted low, shielding a ghost-pale face from a brine-infused wind.

    It stands.

    Moves — almost human — breathing salty air.

    listening

    as if the water speaks.

    Its hat tips, levitates. Rain dances on it’s black leather brim.

    A gale erupts.

    Waves lap at themselves.

    And from the thin figure’s shrouded frame, a pale hand emerges —

    places the hat upon a sea of dark hair.

    Time living in a world that never falters…

    never bends…

    never asks…

    The shadow disappears as the walls of water break over rocks beside the deck.

    Its head raised, engulfed in the mist.

    The skies clear and the shadows gone.

    Has he gone over the edge?

    … or was he ever there?

    Portal doorway graphic
    Thanks for Reading — Check this out before you go

    Enter the Fractured Archive — Art, Apparel & Myth by Matthew R. Stitt

    Step into a surreal network of poetry, relics, and digital art. At MatthewRStitt.com, the lines between myth and memory blur — discover limited-edition t-shirts, original prints, and fragments of a broken world waiting to be decoded.

    Explore the Relic Drops, browse the Artifact Vault, or decode new poetry in When the Clock Forgot, a haunting collection of verse shaped by time, silence, and return. Every piece is part of the Archive. Every visitor is part of the story.

    Ready to dive in? Visit MatthewRStitt.com and begin your transmission.

  • Changed Pages- “When the Clock Forgot”

    Every time my life changes,

    without warning, without pause.

    I turn to the worn pages of my book

    and try to make sense of it —

    a line here, a thought there,

    something that might rhyme with grief.

    Change stirs my chest,

    not like music —

    more like static,

    a skipped heartbeat.

    So I lean away,

    afraid of falling,

    of failing —

    and slip into that old darkness,

    the one no one else sees.

    But even there,

    just as I’m sure I’m gone,

    someone always finds me.

    A hand.

    A voice.

    A reason to step forward.

    And I begin to understand:

    the time I thought I lost to change

    was brief.

    The real time —

    the true time —

    was the love

    that came because of it.