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We lived on the upper ledges of the Garden's humid grotto, which occasionally flooded with salted water that, on receding, left milky calcifications on the glittering mineral floor. My mother slept beside me on plush furs, from which a softly comforting muskiness rose. To what animal they belonged and how we came to have them, I do not know. I remember, however, that when I closed my eyes against the darkness, I could hear a gently beating heart coming from somewhere underneath that coarse outer fur and fluffy undercoat. An unexplained warmth also seemed to rise from it. As a child, I would lift the skins from the rock floor and look beneath it, but I saw nothing there except for the sparkle of mica and veins of clear quartz.

I grew quickly, more rapidly than human babies. And perhaps because of this, my mother was frequently absent. My smitten father would wait for her return with a quiet, anguished intensity, but she often purposely eluded him, as she did with anyone who attempted to arrest or curtail her movements. She flickered in and out of tangibility and sometimes, she would leave the faintest odor of sulfur in her wake, which, I would later learn, was the stench of hell. Much later, when her beauty withered, she admitted that she had enjoyed multiple lovers there, and it was always as hot there as she preferred it to be. She, who had been forged of fire liked to return to hell to feel its heat. Sad that her internal spark remained cruelly lit even as her physical form faded and burnt out.

New horror/sci-fi work:

"Scholars will disagree with my story. They will tell you that Lilith came after Moses. She was an object of degradation, alternately called a wind demon, a predatory bird, a barren Babylonian prostitute capable only of ruining men, not creating them. In the heretical Alphabet of Ben-Sira, written in the 800s, they retrospectively allege that Lilith was chased by the angels Senoy, Sansenoy, and Semangelof and condemned to make all her demon infants ill because she refused to return to Adam. But I will tell you this is not true because I was her son.

Lilith, whose hair was red and long, whose beauty was unparalleled (Eve, made from bone, paled in comparison to my radiant mother, whom God had made from fire) captivated the serpent, who had not yet been condemned to creep and who could also be tempted. I was born not long after, not covered in scales but in flesh. The only evidence that my father was not human were my anomalous teeth and my poikilothermy."

THE PROJECT now appears in Steve Finbow's fantastic new lit journal, RED PETER.

A preview:
"The descending effluvia, inhaled by children, made them ill, and she watched them die individually, by the thousands. She herself was forced, by soundless Isaac, to stand at the bedsides of children she did not know—children, she thought, who belonged to a time long before her own, who writhed at the smell of their mothers' cabbage, who vomited at the odor of the gruel cooked for their benefit."
http://redpetersdf.blogspot.com/2008/10/project-savannah-schroll-guz.html

"Starbucks was approached first. 'You have the potential to make more money than you have ever seen before,' were the first words from the official's mouth during his initial phone call. Several top drawer meetings ensued, during which CEOs and high-ranking government representatives, a decorated military general among them, discussed the possibilities. The last conference commenced at 1:00 p.m. on a balmy Seattle afternoon. It lasted exactly two hours. A rolling humidor holding the chairman's finest cigars, foreign contraband among them, was brought in at 1:45 p.m. A smaller cart, containing a variety of brandies, was wheeled in shortly thereafter. Hands shook at 2:45 and departure was taken by the federal representatives at 3 p.m. It was done."

"December 15, 2012" currently appears at Word Riot. Check it out here.

"Already, I can see that, whenever Harold moves, some of his soul escapes, like an accidental exhalation, like breath on powder. Understand, the spirit parts with the body when it begins earnest decay. And because it is comprised primarily of energy and not—as many people believe—disembodied intellect, it often prevents its own chance to achieve eternal splendor, the fiery magnificence everyone would strive for, were it known and fully understood. Nothing is more profoundly beautiful than plasma. It is the fourth state of matter, the stuff of interstellar gases and stars."

He walked backwards for some distance, thumb extended, feeling the whoosh of cars moving past him. Blowing his clothes around and momentarily flattening his curls against his skull before instantly picking them up again, the air currents the cars created made him feel vulnerable, manhandled, exposed. He scanned the faces of the drivers, making sure none of them were recognizable. As people passed, eyes darted to him and then refocused on the road. It was strange, no doubt, to see a hitchhiker on this route, but probably not out of the question. He did not consider his appearance, the red mulch dust that clung to his lower pant legs, his frazzled hair, or the tuft of pink insulation stuck under his jacket collar. There was blood on the cuff of his sleeve, the very sleeve beneath the thumb he was using to request a ride.

Finally, a woman in a green Volkswagen pulled over. He opened the door and looked expectantly at her, "I…"

"Get in," she said.

He did. "Thank You," he replied with enthusiasm, turning forward in the seat and closing the door. "I didn't think…"

"I don't want to talk. Understand?"

"Okay." David was silent for a moment. "You're headed into the city though, correct?"

She didn't answer.

"I'd like to get off near the Capitol?"

She nodded, her jaw muscles clenched.

He noticed that, around her neck, there was a stainless steel ball chain, which looked like it might hold dog tags. This seemed reasonable, since her hair was cut crew-style, and there was something inherently military in her demeanor: she was rigid in her seat, her look sharply concentrated. He regarded her side-long, turning his head at only a slight angle, so as not to attract her attention. Furtively, he followed the line of the neck chain. Around her breastbone, he could see a thin leather purse. In the purse was the outward bulge of what looked like a fluted ammunition cylinder. Behind that was the glint of the exposed hammer spur. The leather purse was actually a tiny holster. He turned his head forward, sat back, and remained quiet.