Alone

By Lazarus Finch

This book is a collection of my earlier works, all of which are graphic, raw, intense, and unapologetic.

A mixed bag of short stories disguised as poetry, you'll read the last page wondering how many years of therapy you'll need to scrub this book from your mind.

I can continue describing what you're in for should you bri

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dark Horse Books
• Release date: May 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088033616

Lazarus Finch

*Under construction*

Book preview

Contents

murder crows revision

ALONE

By Lazarus Finch

Copyright 2022

License Notes: All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Author’s Note: this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Preface

The Origin of Sin: Lucifer's Beginning

Solitude

Solitude: Pt. Two

Winter and Death: Sisters in Arms

The Phoenix

Drawn to the Flame: The Moth

Cupid's Poisoned Pierce

Marionette de la Mort

One Man's Curse

A Child's Cry Heard in the Night's Sky

The Wishing Well

Hawthorne Street’s Reign of Crimson

An Eternity Chained to Malice

Terror Night

The Dirge of Death

Angel's Kiss

The Child of Dolor Oaks

Perazielle's Curse

Perazielle's Curse: Pt. Two

The Devil's Son

Gravedigger

In Discord with Somber Notes of Yesteryear

The Timbre of the Wind Chimes

Time

Victorian Love

The Wolf and the Siren

Deathly Love

The Cellar

Rain Taps

Restless Conscience

Damned

Delirium

Preface

Originally, this book was published sans preface, thus, it gave no insight as to how it was conceived. Admittedly, I’m not enamored to penning anything outside of fiction. I prefer to keep certain aspects of the person behind the writer a mystery; open to your interpretation, and nothing more.

That having been acknowledged, I’m keenly aware that books require some fat around the middle to give reader’s something to hold on to, other than what’s awaiting them within the dust jacket; those fragile, yet, possibly powerful and inspiring cream-colored pages that have moved nations to war, men and women to graves, lovers to wed, and hearts to break.

I finished my second anthology of poems (Fantasies and Nightmares) and decided I had to make a detour before continuing with my next project. I had to revise my first book, if only to give me peace of mind that I had given reader’s their monies worth.

I’ll share the condensed story of this book’s origin, which was initially titled Various Poems under the umbrella of a now defunct publishing house (which was a scam operation milking overzealous indie authors in search of commercial fame). But I was fortunate to have sniffed out their fishy Ponzi scheme in time to elude the anal rape a couple of other aspiring authors had to endure.

I keep in contact with a couple of those writers, and from what they’ve shared, I dodged quite a prick—they weren’t so lucky. I’m sure a few of ‘em still can’t sit right.

This world is full of parasites, and seemingly at every turn there’s someone lookin’ for a host, or handing out a brochure promising prosperity and the American dream. But it’s truly a nightmare disguised as a fantasy, what these cons are tryin’ to sell you. These leeches want to drain you of every penny and iota of love that you might have towards anything, let alone writing.

This book nearly became a nightmare, and that’s excluding the fictitious contents of sinister designs lurking within the book itself. Like I’ve always stated: the true horrors are within us, we only want to deflect the blame onto these phantasms we project. It makes life palatable—perhaps desirable?—if we draw up all of the evils we inflict on each other on this invisible monster.

But back to this book’s conceptualization. Let me start by saying fuck you to the woman I dated in the fall of 2011: fuck you, you miserable cunt. There, I said it. This special asshole seemingly went out of her mind trying to rattle me, deconstruct me, and shape me into the man of her dreams. And while being chained to this bitch’s leg—like prisoners shackled to each other’s ankles on a highway cleaning, sweeping the roads on a sweltering August afternoon—I was anxious to escape from the imprisonment that was sharing an apartment with her, let alone a mere few inches on the couch.

The verbal abuse she spewed like venom from her split-tongue; would’ve made a snake envious of its toxicity, I honestly contemplated driving a knife through her throat as she slept. If this had been a far less technologically sound era in our lives, say the 1800’s or so, there’s no doubt I would’ve tortured her for as long as humanly possible until I grew tired of the charade, and would’ve set her ablaze just to hear her pained cries for mercy.

I’ve dated some terrible women—I do live in Brooklyn, N.Y., seemingly a treasure trove of mentally and emotionally defective women—but this piece of human trash (with her constant verbal abuse) put me in a position where I felt the darkness within me was slowly rising towards the light.

I do my best to restrain the beast within.

This book was born in those moments I left the apartment and sought serenity in the nearby park, which, believe it or not, often times would begin raining minutes after I had sat down.

This book is the culmination of a journey my own friends—and that cunt from 2011—doubted I should begin, because God forbid I tried to earn a dollar doin’ something I love.

So far, I’ll say I’ve sold more than I had hoped, just not enough to leave these assholes behind.

The weeds of life are teeming with these types of snakes slithering along the soil, looking for a plump heel to sink their venomous fangs into to sustain their thirst for life. Now I step on their heads without remorse. Friend or foe, they’re