R. B. Booth
Bio
Just a small-town dude from Southern California making videos and telling stories the way I like to read them.
Stories (17)
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When Woe Comes
There came out from beneath the Wandering Mountains a knight errant wearing worn-shod armor and an old beautiful sword. The rings of his mail were tarnished and haggard; his breastplate—once sterling—cracked from contest with one greater than he; the belt about him had lost its buckle and so he fastened it with a knot.
By R. B. Boothabout a month ago in Fiction
Smile. Runner-Up in Everything Looks Better From Far Away Challenge.
It’s nuts, isn’t it? How you can just know about someone? Never seen them before. Don’t know their name. Yet in a glance, you know the whole of them. Like everything about them was already written, and you read the book in a summer’s breath.
By R. B. Booth6 months ago in Fiction
What Do You Think of This. Top Story - June 2025.
The rivers ran backwards the day the queen vanished. Her King had long since ridden off into the mountains among the high places on a holy quest to find a dragon—for only the noble creatures could heal the festering rot that plagued their son. Spring dawned and blossomed but neither king nor child returned. Then, on the first strange day of summer, the sun lingered too high, and the earth shivered.
By R. B. Booth7 months ago in Fiction
Clear Water: The Kid. Content Warning.
WARNING: This chapter contains intense and potentially disturbing material, including: Depictions of graphic violence and animal abuse. Themes of substance addiction and domestic neglect Explicit language and slurs, including homophobic epithets Sexual content and exploitation Psychological trauma and references to potential self-harm Implied involvement in a violent crime and underage sexual content
By R. B. Booth8 months ago in Chapters
Clear Water: The Town. Top Story - May 2025.
The Town Clear Water was one of those old, drive-through towns tucked away in the mountains of Southern California—a wrong turn at a small fork left travelers alone in a long, curious, and abandoned country hours from gas, with no cell towers. A once upon a time place in a mountain-land dressed in old, quiet wood where shadows walked and roots whispered. There’d been a revival once. Big tents, fiery preaching. The damned were made new, but the hour came and went as fast as the Gold Rush. Like the eldest things, it was forgotten to the world. And so it was lost amidst one of the thousand pocket valleys of Cahuilla’s slumbering mountain. The place was now entirely unworthy of note. So when Mrs. Cortez and Father Henderson were found the day after Hallow’s Eve in his parish—mangled, dismembered, and arranged in what appeared to be some grisly, primeval rite—a sudden, fear slithered into the heart of those quiet mountain folk.
By R. B. Booth8 months ago in Horror
Ghost People
The forest favors my kind. This has always been so, for we were born here—we are its children. The Tahtanah (Redwoods) have watched over us since before we were a people, when there was only our Lady. Long before the elders had names or the moons sang our song, when our Great Light had yet to find her dawn, it was then that the might of these great woods called to us. It nestled us away in its forgotten places among the mountains’ father and its great stones, the ones that stand even to this day. There we stayed. We were safe and forgotten as the world was swallowed in fire and storm in the Time Before. It was then that the Great Water brought Our Lady to this land. From those shores she sojourned with the wind, trotting the wilds’ expanse until her feet led her here. The Sun had set on her people. There was not left but sorrow and shadow in what came to follow. She was their last, but she would not be their end. She is to us Mëshuni (Mother), for once the last of her people, but now she has borne a people—my people, the people of Elhuuntah (that is, the People of Wolfskin).
By R. B. Booth12 months ago in Fiction
The Sundering. Top Story - November 2024.
The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. It was the final whisper of doom, the ghost of a portent unseen, for in those days the art of reading such things had been long lost to men. Something long chained had been loosed; woeful calamity befell the realms of men, one upon the other. These estranged and wayward misfortunes had hitherto not been fathomed as one singular ruin. And so, when the sun shone bright and brilliant, many thought it the first day of summer and not the end of the world.
By R. B. Boothabout a year ago in Fiction
Great Old Ones
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. We’d read the words a thousand times. Did the mad Arab trust us to obey? His abhorrent mind should never have set forth inking into eternity those ancient primal rites of preternatural origin. The arcane was simply a foretaste of oblivion—had he known what cosmic terror stirred? Or was he simply its first acolyte, and this Necronomicon his holy homage to a primal horror of immeasurable and undefinable magnitude?
By R. B. Boothabout a year ago in Horror
Atonement
“There is only one rule: don’t open the door,” said the old priest. His voice pulled me from the strangest of slumbers. The room was cold and sterile. There were hundreds of us, each standing in one of the innumerable lines, entirely without clothes, dressed only in shame.
By R. B. Boothabout a year ago in Horror
