POETRY BY CHRIS McAULEY
Chris McAuley is a New York Times best-selling and award-winning writer, known for co-creating the StokerVerse franchise with Dacre Stoker, a continuation of Bram Stoker’s legacy spanning graphic novels, books, audio dramas, games, and television. He is also the co-creator of Dark Legacies, a sci-fi franchise with Claudia Christian of Babylon 5. Chris has contributed to iconic franchises like Doctor Who, Star Trek, and Battlestar Galactica. His Three Musketeers vs. Cthulhu RPG earned an ENNIE nomination and became a comic series.
Chris co-owns X-G3 Productions and is an executive producer of the award-winning film The Stranded Warrior. His work has been recognized at film festivals worldwide, including wins at Virgin Spring Cinefest and Sweden Film Awards.
HAUNTED HOMES OF THE LIVING
The walls hum with secrets.
A house filled with echoes,
the ghosts of laughter,
of slammed doors and whispered fights.
The bed remembers your weight.
The mirror holds your reflection
long after you’ve gone.
No spirits roam these halls—
only the restless memories
of the living,
unwilling to let go.
You turn the key,
but the past is already inside,
waiting.
BOURBON AND BLOOD
You were made of hard lines
and sharper edges,
knuckles bruised like old stories,
a laugh that could shake
the dust from a man’s soul.
We fought the world side by side,
or maybe just fought the world separately,
but always met in the middle,
shared a drink,
shared a silence,
shared the weight of me being so young
and both of us not knowing when to stop swinging.
Now I see you in the corner of my eye,
a flicker, a whisper,
and I wonder—
are you laughing at me, old friend?
Watching me settle into softer things,
tea instead of bourbon,
words instead of fists?
If you are,
I hope you're raising a glass,
your wife beside you,
both of you saying,
“Yeah, he turned out all right.”
PLASTIC COFFINS
We bury the dead in plastic now,
wrapped and sealed,
boxed and shipped,
never touching the earth.
But the plastic outlives them.
Outlives us all.
On distant shores,
the tide washes up bones
not of men,
but of things we made,
things that will not rot,
things that will not fade.
A new kind of ghost.
It waits beneath the waves,
in the landfills,
in the air.
A curse of our own making,
clinging to the world
long after we are gone.
The dead are gone.
The plastic remains.