K.H.A. Wassing
Bio
Kyle Wassing (He/Him) is an aspiring author who lives in Minnesota with his wife (Jess), dog (Midge) & cat (Loretta). When not writing dark & ominous horror short stories, he & his wife enjoy recording their comedy podcast Audio Hotdish.
Stories (9)
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The Dragon Lost to the World
Ashes rained down from the red soaked sky. The Alpha star setting in the North while the Minor star rose in the South, both barely visible through the hazy pollution of Kronsphere. Trees still smoldering, crackle with new life, remnants of the fourth Great Burn.
By K.H.A. Wassing3 years ago in Fiction
The Smith
Sweat sprayed from the young man’s well-muscled ebony shoulders with each hammer blow, mirroring the sparks cascading from the singing steel he grasped tightly with his forge tongs. Penub wiped his brow, leaving a trail of soot in the wake of his hand. He blinked away the sting of perspiration from his eyes as he placed the steel back into the forge. Once the metal was restored to a white-hot glow, that could even be seen on a bright sunny day like this one, Penub resumed his hammering. The steel obeyed each hammer stroke and soon Penub lost himself in the repetitiveness of his work. When he could get in these grooves, he would become unflappable, and time often slipped away from Penub. Last time this happened an entire day was lost to him as he hammered out fourteen horseshoes, twelve swords and a year’s stock of carpenter’s nails before he snapped out of it. That time the entire day was lost to him. If someone had stopped by the forge to talk with him, he wouldn’t have known or at very least had no recollection of them doing so.
By K.H.A. Wassing3 years ago in Fiction
The Witch’s Cabin
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Lightning fractured the inky black sky, illuminating Veronica Lancaster’s destination for a mere moment. The dingy old cabin in northern Minnesota, or “bum-fuck nowhere” as her father referred to it, stood moss covered between two oak trees. Rain soaked; the cabin appeared to be weeping with loneliness. That was until Veronica saw the candle in the window.
By K.H.A. Wassing4 years ago in Fiction
The Triangle
Wind rushed past Kieran Weir’s ears with a deafening roar. Her hair billowed up past her face, reaching towards the grey swirling mass that hovered over two hundred yards above her. The floating object looked like a Frisbee spinning on the axis of a black ball baring. With a whirring noise barely audible over the wind, the object sprouted a pulsating light just before it rocketed from view, heading toward the distant horizon. It was that exact moment in which Kieran realized she must be falling. Kieran had started to panic but she felt paralyzingly groggy and the confusion of how she ended up in this predicament slammed into her as if foreshadowing the fast-approaching ground below. She flailed her arms in a striking impression of a blue jay. Unfortunately, the only thing her poor attempts at flying achieved was spinning her in time to catch a glimpse of the boulevard in her front yard as it rushed up to meet her. And that’s when she woke up.
By K.H.A. Wassing4 years ago in Fiction
Kronsphere
There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley. But with spreading rumors follows spreading radicalistic behavior and soon the town of Carriton Valley was flooded with factions of witch hunters. These Dragons were not the leathery, winged beasts of legends rather the title the more ruthless factions in Carriton called themselves.
By K.H.A. Wassing4 years ago in Fiction
The Run of Charles Emerson
The time is 4:58 am. The farce that is Charles Emerson’s alarm isn’t set to go off for another one minute and thirty-nine seconds. It was almost twenty years ago when he last heard the screeching of this alarm clock. Okay actually it has been exactly seventeen years, two months and twenty-eight days since Charles needed the thing to wake up. Accurate statistics are important to Charles Emerson no matter how trivial they may seem to others.
By K.H.A. Wassing4 years ago in Fiction
The Stranger on the Stool
Just one drink I think as I find myself pushing open the door to Overtime, the bar on the corner of West Seventh and St. Clair Ave. The patrons, already hiding in their drinks, turn to see me join their numbers. One man, plump and red faced, looks to have been over served already. Old yellow stains ran down the front of his once white V-neck undershirt, he sways on his stool, almost to the point of tipping off. I slip onto an open leather clad stool at the opposite end of the long skinny bar from the drunk man. I have just enough time to admire the shined finish on the cracked and well-worn mahogany slab when the bartender throws down a cocktail napkin.
By K.H.A. Wassing4 years ago in Fiction
