Tag Archives: writing


Laura and Sigmund are so in love and everything’s just great; long walks, hiking, dinners in the evening air. They often expressed the sentiment to one another that they were the luckiest people in the world.  On a fairly standard evening they decided to try a new bar in their area.  Upon arriving they found that it was far louder, darker, and crowded than they could have possibly imagined.  Laura screams to Sigmund that she needs to use the restroom and gestures for him to stay put.  She comes back from the restroom and embraces Sigmund, they make out while leaning on the bar; blissfully neglectful of the scowls they are receiving from those surrounding them.  More drinking and revelry in the dark fade into a an impressionist haze of evening.

Sigmund wakes the next morning to find that the girl he came home with wasn’t Laura at all, and in fact bared very little resemblance to his purported soul mate.  Laura stands in the doorway to their bedroom crying and asks why he has done this to them.  The other girl wakes up and asks who Laura is and why is is she standing in she and Sigmund’s bedroom.  Sigmund asks the same thing and tells the Laura he was sleeping beside to call the police.  The crying Laura in the door asks what’s going on, but Laura of the bed simply gropes Sigmund and tells her she needs to leave.  Laura screams that she has no place else to go, but Sigmund simply says, “How?” and then she notices  three wolves pacing the living room that was once hers.  Without any notice the wolves smash through the bedroom wall and consume Sigmund and Laura of the bed.  Laura of tears runs out the front door only to find a monolithic traffic barrel in her front yard that reaches infinitely into the sky.

Sigmund’s car pulls up in the driveway and he gets out and frantically tells her that he’s been searching for her all night and he’s been so worried.  The back of his car is pulsating with cats, making her doubt that he is who he says he is.  He tells her that they’re in someone else’s yard and they need to go home.


Ways to go


Are these star-crossed lovers organ thieves or grinders.  Robbers of banks or people. Escaping some destiny laid before one of them who only finds shelter from his or her fate in the arms of the other.  A road trip, an odyssey of Ulyssiad proportions.  Lost in a forest, in a cabin, near a lake, on a mountain or burial mound as it may happen to be.  A cave, an abyss or maybe just a cat, a date, a follower of sorts through rain-slicked nightscapes, down alleys and sewers alike to escape the unknown who may or may not be herding them to some destination of malcontent on the edge of a pier with no escape other than the cold dark sea.  More to the one for the other to understand; the decision of course is which would be which and why.  Scars in one cerebral in the other. Scars to the cerebral as the cerebral tends to madness and scars, generally anyway, seek quietude.  A quest of sorts or not, perhaps some meandering, but that probably won’t be the case as some fantastic has already been introduced.  So fantastic quest into a perilous nightscape with one to the other, eventually better, or not, maybe dead, eventually, but with illumination.

Free E-Book!



For the next 5 days my first book “Crossing” will be available for free on Kindle. It’s a short noirish fever dream filled with love, death, and violations of reality taking place in Baltimore, MD.

Any reviews or feedback would be awesome. I hope you enjoy!


Crossing: New Book!


Baltimore Maryland’s hospitality industry generates over 5 billion dollars in annual revenue; about the same as the city’s drug trade. Aggressive gentrification has transformed the landscape into an ever changing kaleidoscope of narcotics and death that outsources those valuable commodities throughout the eastern seaboard, but that’s not what this story is about. This story is about a girl named Jane and a girl named Kelly and how I successfully failed to murder either of them; it also happens to take place in Baltimore.

This is my new book!  It available for free on Kndle for the next five days at: http://www.amazon.com/Crossing-ebook/dp/B00D3M6DBM/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1370003284&sr=1-1&keywords=crossing+christopher+wilt

Paperback versions for 3.99 at https://www.createspace.com/4196348



I would describe this as surreal noir.  It is mechanical in nature and operates like a paradoxical clock, but it’s also entertaining and I hope at least occasionally amusing


As of late there is only design.  Which is okay; I enjoy design and invention, but it is concerning because shifting to that style of thinking makes it hard to do much else, such as say writing the last two pages of a book.  However, writing this has helped me remember something I meant to do, but lost in a tidal wave of furniture construction mechanics.  There were similar difficulties during the recent rekindling of my sound/instrument/machine interests, which fortunately, unfortunately, sadly, or excellently were shelved in favor of more immediately attainable goals.  As utterly uninteresting as all of this may be, it exposes on some level (or at least vents it for me) some of the technicalities necessary to switch from medium to medium without feeling a sense of something lost.

I suppose a metaphor would be children.  My mind has several children, maybe 4 or so, each of them might have some pets or something that they take care of and maintain.  The children’s names are Art, Craft, Logic and Invention.  They each have their pets, which they sustain with leftovers from what I feed them (not a spectacular existence I’m building here, but there is a point).  Most of the time the children interact and learn form one another in a complimentary fashion, but every once and a while one of them will do something rather unexpected and will draw my full attention, which by the way is also their nourishment. I would surmise that my current state of mind might be attributable to Craft taking some of Invention and Art’s toys and using them to crank out the torrent of furniture construction mechanics mentioned earlier.  Not quite as tricky as Invention or esoteric as Art, Craft tends to be on the more pragmatic side and tends to spend a lot of time trying to figure out Logic, who occasionally helps Craft, but not always in the way Craft would prefer.  Anyway, this  all got a bit ridiculous, but basically I locked Art and Invention out in a blizzard and forgot about them for a few days, which means they’re a bit cold and hungry; so there’s the feeling of guilt, loss, etc…

Developing the lame metaphor above did help, but if something that insubstantial got things moving again, I would assume Art and Invention have been on the verge of starvation for some time.



She had to get up pretty early in the morning every morning.  Each morning an exercise in survival of the mundane and the mundane needed to be exercised until she was tired again.  Everything needed to be straight and even because without ratio what evidence was there that her life thus far had been equitable.  Her children were on track; all their parts moving as they should, a pair of perfectly syllogistic representations of their parentage.  Pretty early in the morning indeed if she was to keep pace with rambunctious boilermakers of children.  A pox upon disarray in their home of aluminum and white.  A pox upon clutter and asymmetry as ratio may be obscured by his peccant organizational tendencies.  Put him to paces of penancial landscaping for the duration of the season to teach him the wages of obtusely abject household organizational habits.  Plus he uses all the toilet paper and sits the new roll on top of the spindled empty cardboard husk out of some slothful spite designed to send her into a state of perpetual nervous breakdown.

An indulgence here or an indulgence there didn’t really do any harm. The florescent light rack she had installed in the garage for some barely explained art/modeling project was no longer enough.  He would figure it out and then make her take it down.  William or Ana would fall into it and be covered in carcinogenic phosphorescent death.  It wasn’t so much a matter of pride than a matter of sense that was not to be had.  The constancy of her ratioed face couldn’t last forever and he would see the way she looked at the new children, not unlike the way she looked at the old lost child, but he hadn’t seen that so was unblissfully unaware of her abysmal thoughts in the faces of her genetic yield.  More oblivion was the only means of escape and she had ways of finding it anywhere anymore.  Gaze gone dead, she looked ahead and saw the rising sun, the days they pass and more ahead until her day is done.

Sasha sits at a table in Burger King while her two children argue about whose turn it is to get in the ball pit.



There was once a glass coffin in the center of a lost woods, although how a woods can get lost is a strange question.  Once a day the coffin would sing and all the animals would come to listen.  One day a boy and girl were walking along the edge of the woods and heard the singing, which somehow calmed the animals down enough so that they did not attack, assuming of course that there were some bears and alligators amongst the animals listening to the coffin.  The girl was immediately enamored with the singing and asked the boy to open the lid to the coffin so she could see what was producing the sound.  As soon as the boy opened the lid the animals pushed him inside and the girl saw that it was not a coffin, but the entrance to a deep hole.  She grabbed the boy’s hand, but he was too heavy and slipped away.

Sasha wasn’t sure what the moral of her story was, but liked that the animals pushed the little boy in the hole.  She assumed the little girl battled off the animals and escaped, although questioned if she would bother to come back because the woods was lost, so was probably prone to wandering about trying to find its way somewhere, making it doubly difficult to find again, apart from the singing of course, which was probably some yet to be classified giant ground mole with a taste for little boys.  The right thing to do would be to get the police, but upon finding the woods missing, they would assume the little girl had eaten the little boy and imagined the woods and singing coffin so was obviously insane and fit for a strait jacket, which she would wear well because she was an exceptionally pretty little girl.