DESCENT INTO LIGHT: Mike Allen’s Home Page

Actually, it’s too bad there isn’t a quick, snappy word akin to “killer” that conveys the concept of a fate worse that death. I’ve just finished a new draft of “The Quiltmaker,” the sequel to “The Button Bin.” It was originally a lumbering 18,000 words.

Mythic Delirium is now closed to submissions. We’ll reopen again Aug. 1. Those of you who sent in poems before the deadline … you’ll hear from me before the month is out.

When I saw that T.J. McIntyre decided to resurrect his zine Southern Fried Weirdness as a Kindle anthology with all proceeds to go to tornado relief, I realized I might have something that would fit in with that project right well. And as it turns

The cruellest month is over! So I wound up posting fourteen free poems total in honor of National Poetry Month — and mini-posts about the making of most of them — for no greater reason than the thought that it might be a fun thing

Just a reminder that today is the final day to submit poems to be considered for Issue 25.

This poem, the thirteenth and final piece in my impromptu National Poetry Month series, is practically a fanfic — an unofficial coda of sorts to Laird Barron’s kickass horror novella “Procession of the Black Sloth,” directly inspired by that story’s final moments. It’s a fun

The Thirteenth Hell   Her voice in my ear said, look, look. Though I squeezed my eyelids shut, hid my face in my hands, I could still see it. I pressed my fingernails in, hooked my thumbs and pulled, like so many here before. And

“The Strip Search” was a piece specifically written for stage performance; the fact that it went on to appear in Strange Horizons and win a Rhysling Award was a nice unexpected bonus. I’m going to cheat today. I’ve already described the origin of this poem

The Strip Search   The Gate said “Abandon All Hope.” I thought I’d tossed all my hope away, but when I stepped through the Gate, it still pinged. One of the guards slithered out of its seat, snarling as it drew forth a wand. C’mere,

About six years ago my buddy Charlie Saplak and I collaborated on a short story that re-imagines the Greek myth of Sisyphus, condemned to push a boulder uphill in Hell until it grows too heavy and rolls over top of him — after which he