Mind on Fire Books

Let me be honest: the wild doesn’t scare me because of some fanged beast lurking in the shadows. What really unsettles me is the slow, silent way nature can reclaim us. Over time, the world around us can change us in ways we never expected. In this era of climate anxiety and environmental upheaval, I find the horror of Folklore and Flesh at its most powerful in what I call ecological dread. It’s that creeping fear that the natural world, in all its vast and indifferent power, will force us to transform—body and soul—just to survive.

That’s the ultimate cosmic lesson, isn’t it? Realizing that our bodies are, at the end of the day, just soil—ready to be broken down, grown over, or remade by a Mother Nature who doesn’t care about our plans.

Folklore’s Warnings: Swamps, Forests, and Cursed Lands

Long before we worried about pollution or toxic waste, people told stories about places where the earth itself was dangerous:

• The Miasma and the Rotting Flesh: I’ve always been fascinated by old beliefs about swamps and marshes. People thought invisible, poisonous fumes could seep into your body, making you sick and slowly dissolving you from the inside out. The real horror? Realizing your flesh just doesn’t belong in that environment. Nature will change you until you do.
• The Wood’s Absorption: Then there are those haunting European myths about people turning into trees—merging with bark, being overgrown by moss. It’s not an attack from outside, but a gentle, relentless pressure to become part of the landscape. It’s beautiful, but also terrifying: losing yourself as you become something else entirely.
• The Curse of the Land: I’m drawn to stories where the land itself punishes people for past wrongs—whether it’s through disease, strange mutations, or wild, unnatural growth. The ground remembers and sometimes, it demands justice by changing us.

Modern Blight: Mutation and Synthesis

These days, our fears have shifted. It’s not angry spirits we worry about, but chemicals, pollution, and the unpredictable forces of evolution:

• Annihilation and Unknowable Synthesis: If you’ve seen “Annihilation,” you know what I mean. The “Shimmer” is a place where biology and physics go haywire. People’s bodies merge with plants, crystals, and who knows what else. It’s the old myth of the woods updated for a world where science is as mysterious as magic.
• The Toxic Runoff Monster: I can’t help but think of stories where pollution creates monsters—mutations born from our own waste. The horror isn’t just the creature itself. It’s the realization that we did this to ourselves.
• Climate-Forced Evolution: Some of the most unsettling stories imagine nature forcing us to adapt. Growing gills, developing new organs, or changing in painful, uncontrollable ways. It’s the wild setting the rules, and we have no choice but to follow.

My Own Stories: Bringing Folklore and Ecological Horror Together

These themes aren’t just academic for me—they’re the heart of my own writing. I’ve tried to capture that sense of nature’s power and indifference in stories that blend folklore, memory, and transformation.

“The Day the Rain Tore Us Apart”

This story is close to my heart. Here, rain isn’t just weather—it’s a force that changes everything. As relentless storms batter a small community, people find their memories slipping away, relationships dissolving, and even their bodies softening. They reshape under the rain’s touch. The real terror isn’t the flood itself, but the way nature quietly erases what makes us who we are, leaving only fragments behind.

“The Whispering Bone Orchard”

In this tale, the land is alive with memory and intent. An ancient orchard, haunted by the bones of those who came before, begins to reclaim the living. Roots twist around ankles, whispers rise from the soil, and the characters are slowly transformed—body and soul—by the orchard’s will. It’s my take on the old myth of cursed ground but with a modern twist. Environmental collapse and ancestral trauma are tangled together.

Here are a few draft images of the creatures/people featured in this collection:

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Why I Write These Stories

At the core, what really scares me isn’t the idea of nature dying—it’s the idea of nature living, and demanding that we change to survive. Folklore and Flesh remind me that our bodies are never truly separate from the world around us. We’re soil, memory, and transformation—always at the mercy of the wild.

If you’re drawn to stories that blend folklore, environmental dread, and psychological transformation, I hope you’ll check out “The Day the Rain Tore Us Apart” and “The Whispering Bone Orchard.” I’d love to hear what you think or talk more about the ideas behind these tales.

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