HeyJaredInto the Dark
Here we explore doubt, fear, and the weirdness. I'm a fiction writer who likes to dabble in just enough realism and anecdotal teaching to make sure you never really get your balance.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 4
- Latest publication
- Sep 18, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 15, 2026
Latest issues
The downward spiral (opens the original)
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In 1995, I was an eleven year old boy in the country. We lived in a nice story-and-a-half on a few acres out in what used to be God’s country, but over time it slowly turned into Walmart’s. My parents started their lives out there because my father had a love of horses and dogs. So as a young boy, that’s mostly what my life entailed. Running in the woods and fields, climbing trees, helping push manure. I grew up without a few things. One thing we didn’t have was cable TV. In these times it seems
Andy Warhol's Art Sucks. (opens the original)
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Warhol. What do you think when you hear that name? Art? Style and culture of the 70’s and 80’s? A legendary hairstyle and glasses combo?Personally, it’s soup cans. Yeah, for me, it’s goddamn soup cans. <im
Adhd is real (opens the original)
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I graduated high school. I went to college(failed out). I was a world champion musician and athlete, I was a competing boxer for eight years. I’ve run a few half marathons and a litany of 5k races. I went to college again, successfully the second time, even though I only acquired a nursing diploma. I own my own home, I have fathered two amazing children with my second wife. I wrote and self published my own book about music instruction. I’m sure there are other successes in progress.This is a ti
Last Harvest. (opens the original)
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I’ve strayed from my fiction exercises lately. I have to remember not to do so. A complaining, topical writer who only finds the surface of trivial things is not something I intend to devolve into. One of my favorite writers suggests I go darker. This is a return to fictional form. Read on. Reader discretion is advised. “Wait until they stop moving, then fire.” He rasped the words out. The first sounds from a throat parched by dehydration and time. “The head?” I replied with the same strain, the
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