The Authors

Mitch Miller

Horror, Sci-Fi

Bt. hearst

Erotica, Dark Romance

Mitch Miller

Queer horror author with a taste for the digital, the retro, the convoluted, and the cosmic.

UPCOMING RELEASES

Summer 2026

Books

MOONGLOW

A trans man goes on a date with an online stranger.

AVAILABLE NOW

CHERRY KICKS RED MEAT

An astronaut crash-lands on a scarred Earth.

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3,000 TONGUES

A farmer finds a dead goat on ancestral land.

FALL 2026

SOMETHING PAST THE EDGE

A time-traveler returns with more than just a broken heart.

WINTER 2026

Other Projects

A multimedia unfiction project that looks to uncover the prevailing mystery surrounding the cataclysm solely known as The Event of '83.

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• More From Mitch Miller

MOONGLOW

Tired of hooking up with married "straight" men at bars, Russ gives online dating a try. This is how he meets Jacob: a handsome older man with a nice voice, great taste in vacation destinations, and a handful of shared interests.Jacob is also a little bit odd, not caring about the dead bug in his drink and all, but he's at least not as odd as the locals in his hometown of Saddle Rock, Massachusetts.Maybe it's small town living, or maybe it's something to do with what's glistening underneath the surface, just offshore.MOONGLOW is a queer, horror story set along the haunting edges of the Eastern Seaboard.

Digital ebook - June 18th, 2025 - ISBN: 9798231986781

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• KOBO

CHERRY KICKS RED MEAT

A baton to the skull was Tom's welcome home gift after crash-landing into the Pacific Ocean. It was well deserved after daring to ask for water on that scorching, California boulevard.But trigger-happy law enforcement, windshield-cracking heat, and an unassuming man with serial killer glasses and a taste for Vinyl records were the least of Commander Thomas H. Caval's worries.The wailing was knocking on the cabin door, and he hadn't heard from Bill in days.CHERRY KICKS RED MEAT is an apocalyptic horror story for fans of THE HAPPENING and NBC's HANNIBAL, and features a trans man protagonist alongside a majority queer cast.

Digital ebook - July 19th, 2025 - ISBN: 9798230143079

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PROJECT SINGULARITY

A multimedia, unfiction webseries.

Expedition Truth Podcast

A crowdsourcing conduit for obscure knowledge and an archive of things once thought inexplicable. The Captain helms the ship, charting an ever-changing course in search of the truth, all informed by the stories of callers and voluntary reports from the crew.

• YouTube

Monitored Activity

Two security guards must survive the night when the shopping mall they work at appears to have a mind of its own...and one hell of an empty stomach.

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There are a few things in the works:• Expedition Truth - more episodes on more platforms• Early Worm - a text-based video game• [redacted] - an interactive online museum• Canyon Flock - a found footage film (Pre-production)

Project Singularity has been a solo project for the past five years. In summer 2024 I began to learn how to use programs like DaVinci Resolve, Blender, and Twine. I picked up coding for the first time since 2009, and have poured countless hours into watching online tutorials and painstakingly trying to recreate settings before I start making my own.This is truly the passion project to end all passion projects. In a time where generative AI runs rampant, I unkindly offer my middle finger and put pedal to the metal just to prove that I can. There's a special kind of beauty to the late nights and the near giving ups and the grief of rejection from opportunities that could have been life changing (looking at you, TFC grant program). This is one of those cases where it truly is less about the destination, and all about the journey. Because I'm alive, and I get to do all of it.If you'd like to support Project Singularity, you can do so by just talking about it. If you're online, play along. Have fun with it.

Bt. Hearst

Queer author of dark romance and erotica who is partial to robots, monsters, and the taboo.

UPCOMING RELEASES

June 2026

Books

BOY NEXT DOOR

A college freshman's and a widower's summer fling in the 1980s.

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Heat Meter: 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

PROFANE SACRAMENT

A young textile heir is lured by a beguiling baronet with a sinister secret.

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Heat Meter: 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

BRUISED PAIR

A vampire and a mad scientist come to a mutually beneficial agreement.

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BOY NEXT DOOR

It's the summer following Mike's first year of college, and he's back in his small town of Dillon, Montana. After a failed attempt at working as a pizza delivery boy, he resigns himself to taking odd jobs that pay him under the table and pay him well, the locals more than happy to open up their wallets. One said local is Mr. Bill Kade: single father, pillar of the community, and Mike's former boss.Every other Sunday, Bill hires Mike to mow his lawn, water his garden, and, most importantly, clean out his gutters.BOY NEXT DOOR is a gay erotic short that brings "cheesy 80s porno recorded directly from the TV" in word form.

Digital ebook - March 24th, 2025 - ISBN: 9798230360476

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PROFANE SACRAMENT

Following the untimely death of his father, Henry Beckwith unwittingly inherits the family business at his mother’s behest. Forced to serve and mingle with the London elite, Henry enters a cold and loveless marriage of convenience in order to uphold the Beckwith family’s newfound societal status.One day he receives an invitation. Sir Thomas Hadleigh, a young and mysterious baronet whose reputation for the dark and the unusual precedes him, requests Henry’s services for an upcoming party. Curious and desperate for time away from the office, Henry accepts the offer.What unravels within the accursed walls of Bewcastle Hall is a courtship fueled by forbidden desires, unholy rituals held by a secret society for the queer and the outcasts, and the promise that pleasure and self-fulfillment need not only be found in darkness.PROFANE SACRAMENT is a 22,000 word gay, Gothic horror erotica set in an alternate Victorian England.

Digital ebook - September 6th, 2023 - ASIN: B0CHLLKVYX

AVAILABLE NOW

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BRUISED PAIR

Desperate to put an end to centuries' worth of boredom, Laurian seeks out a book that should not exist—one with no title, no author, and rumors of unimaginable power. When a mortal scientist named Wilfred intercepts the book, the two of them come to a terse agreement: a willing test subject in exchange for shared results.Striking fear into a vampyre's heart is no easy task, but Wilfred knows of other ways to get a man's blood pumping—whether he be alive or undead.BRUISED PAIR is a queer, erotic short with a human/vampire relationship.

Cover design and internal art by Crimson-Chains, creator of Star Crossed.

Digital ebook - May 23rd, 2025

AVAILABLE NOW

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Books

Horror

EROTICA

About

• Mitch Miller

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The Fan, as nobody calls it, is located midway to the second floor, with Security sandwiched between the never-occupied conference rooms and the only way in or out. It’s an awkward space shaped like a partially open hand fan—if the fan had a stick randomly protruding out of its side that only hosted ominously dark rooms.A water cooler that neither cools nor heats the water from its jug stands where the rivet pin of said metaphorical fan would be.I spit my discolored glob of gum into the half-full trash bin next to it.The gray carpet looks darker. It also feels damp in a way that suggests having been recently cleaned, but the space smells of mildew and last night’s cigarettes.I knock on the security office door.I’m fifteen minutes late, which is ten over the acceptable tardiness cutoff by casual corporate standards, and only five over Prime Plaza’s “potential for termination” line.I swear I’m trying to get my shit together, but forty hours a week in a soundproof box will make anyone do anything to steal as many minutes outside of it as they can get away with. I’m sure you understand where I’m coming from.I knock again. “Craig. You’re good to go.”I open the door to a whole lot of nobody.I’ve been at this job a while now. Four thousand two-hundred hours, give or take a sick day. A grain of sand in the retirement bucket, sure, but four thousand hours spent in a place that can double as a sensory deprivation chamber leaves imprints indistinguishable from prey animal instinct.The smell of mildew stops at the door, overwhelmed by the scent of plasticky new tech.“Yo. The hell are you, man?”There’s no backpack, no cellular phone cord, no gutted multi-color pen, and most obvious of all, no Craig. The lights in the diamond-shaped office are off, which is normal when the widest of three walls is made of Plexi and faces the atrium, allowing for the mall’s beige-and-neon illumination to radiate in. What isn’t normal is that all of the monitors are in sleep mode.I wiggle the mouse, rapidly clicking the left button until a small, bright green penguin waddles from the left side of the screen toward the right, leaving behind a trail of pixels. I walk away from the desk to look out the massive window, and wait until the camera installed in the top left corner of the atrium’s intersection comes back online with a red dot.The reflection is faint and warped following the Plexi’s curvature, but I’ve seen the logo for Krasner Technologies enough times that a close-up of the beveled edge would give it away. The logo vanishes, and the office is filled with its usual green glow.All systems are go for launch, and Prime Plaza’s faithful shoppers may continue to use and abuse their credit cards in peace knowing that if any funny business goes down, we’ve got it all on camera.“What’s on the schedule for today, Armada? Spoons, algebra review? Eddie’s skin mags? We’re due for the next issue.”Armada the Armadillo doesn’t answer.Its beady eyes are off-kilter; whatever taxidermist gave it a second life fucked the poor animal up more than the alleged truck that did it in. Half the thing is missing and no one knows who the hell parked it in the office, but a former security guard gave it her shirt the day before her resignation.I pinch a corner of my shirt and use it to polish Armada’s badge.“Eddie’s skin mags it is.”No other staff members or mall employees are quite as adept at breaking rules like Security personnel. We know all camera locations—both approved and not—their fields of view, timing, and loops. The Plexi wall is one-sided, letting me play voyeur to the world from right above the atrium.The door to the office is at the room’s axis. The right wall is all monitors. The far wall is a pervert’s delight. And the left wall is half full of lockers, a vent, and Armada’s pedestal.Rules prohibit personal items in the inter-level floor for reasons that make zero fucking sense to me and every other sad sack working here, but there are still lockers.They’re not assigned to us and we’re therefore not allowed to use them, but no one aside from Security and a single janitor makes the long trek up here to verify the sanctity of unaccounted-for storage space.While none of the five lockers are labeled, an unspoken gentleman’s agreement stands.The one closest to the door belongs to Miss Janice, the third shift janitor. Hidden behind a pile of crusty rags are her gallons of bleach, the kind Management won’t approve in favor of the standard mandated stuff that, I quote, don’t work shit on shit. She keeps spare clothes and meds on the top shelf—with the threat to chop the fingers off any motherfucker who dares touch her hydrocodone—and a photo of her and her wife pinned to the back.I keep a photo of my boyfriend, Kevin, pinned on the inside of the locker door to show off how much of a better partner I am, the depth of my devotion clear in the way I’ve struck out the other four band members’ faces with a sharpie. No offense to Nick, A.J., Howie, and Brian.The second locker is haphazardly split between regulars. My Walkman is jammed up against Carol’s CD case, Craig’s Game Boy is on top of Eddie’s many issues of the Scientific American, backpacks and laptop bags are crammed in with a spare pair of non-OSHA-compliant shoes sticking out between them; you get the gist. This is where I stash my personal effects for the day.The third and fourth lockers? That’s where we keep the communal stuff. Spare AA and AAA batteries, stationery, puzzle books, computer chargers, bulk boxes of chips, gum, and jerky. And further back, hidden behind a spiral notebook: condoms, lube packets, and a frequented tin of mints that hasn’t been occupied by mints for longer than I’ve worked here.I don’t know who keeps supplying the office with fresh joints, but in my heart of hearts, they are the employee of the decade.Pulling the beat-up Sketchers out of the way, I lift the flap to Eddie’s bag and blindly rummage through it until my fingers touch glossy paper. “Fingers crossed the November issue is a little more to our taste.” Armada, understandably, still doesn’t answer.Mindful not to jostle the bag too much—the laptop computer he carries in it no doubt costs more than my currently nonexistent life savings—I extract the magazine with no evidence of tampering left in my wake.The issue is from 1985 but it gets no complaint from me. The model on the cover—her big blonde hair held back by an exercise headband, wearing a gray shirt drenched in fake sweat and shorts that might as well be panties ready to choke the hell out of her crotch—is tied to a white folding chair, gagged by a red bandana.“What a freak.” And I don’t mean it in a disparaging way.I like Eddie the most out of all of my superiors, but only because he keeps his nose out of my business.To wrap up my starting routine and kick off my afternoon, I grab a new pack of sunflower seeds out of the locker.Acquired treasures tossed onto the desk, I open the drawer to check whether Craig left any incident reports for me to digitize. The tray is empty save for one pink sheet.0900 hours—A bald man in a striped black and gray shirt tried breaking into a white Honda Civic in the West parking lot. Multiple shoppers yelled at him to stop. When approached, the man kept trying to jab a crowbar into the side of the door. Police were called and the man refused to stop even after their arrival on the scene. The man started speaking “in tongues.” He was removed from the premises at 1200 hours. Before returning to my post, multiple shoppers and mall employees also started speaking in tongues.Craig always gets the interesting ones.All I ever deal with is the occasional Teenager’s First Shoplifting Experience, and I often turn a blind eye to first time offenders. No one’s gonna notice a drop in sales because of one Snickers bar. And frankly it’s not worth the trouble to strap up, take the elevator back down, push through the food court’s convergence point, and cross miles of squeaky tiles for a kid who will be long gone by the time I get there. Not for $5.15 an hour.I should bug Eddie for a raise. Maine’s looking to bump it up on the yearly starting summer of 2003, so there’s a slight chance he might consider it when our end-of-year reviews roll around.Incident report propped up against The Phantom Menace novelty cup that moonlights as a pen holder, I type in the local computer’s password.I see it when dragging the pop-up window to the corner of my screen.There’s a commotion on monitor B6, the one whose lower left corner touches the upper right of the main computer screen. A group of people are huddled at the top of the escalator, their frantic to-and-fro movements turning the Discover Zone sign on the opposite side of the second floor landing into radiant flashes of white in the security camera’s grayscale.If the scene is meant to be one of those artsy dance routines that keep showing up on the news, it’s the strangest one I’ve seen yet. It’s also the most dangerous.Before I can grab my walkie and radio anyone closer to the mob than I am to go break it up, I see Eddie lurking barely within frame.He’s in uniform, leaning against the fake brick wall that separates the kid’s play area and the new bar and grill called Bar & Grill. He’s not wearing his trademark glasses and it’s a Clark Kent sort of situation where, had it not been for the uniform, I wouldn’t have recognized him. In fact, he’s far away and pixelated enough that I don’t know how I recognize him—but I do.My boss watches a group of people “dance” at the top of one of Prime Plaza’s busiest escalators, as shoppers struggle to climb down the perpetually rising steps without trampling those standing behind them, and does nothing.The traffic jam doesn’t keep people from trying to get on. Two teenage boys run up the crowded down-going escalator, shoving bodies out of the way as if the building were on fire and the only exit was somehow located on the second floor.Someone teeters over the edge and I lunge for the walkie, my thumb managing to miss the button whose location I know better than my own nose.“What the fuck are you doing?” The walkie’s small yellow light flickers intermittently. “Shit.”One of the boys slows near the top, trying to jump over to the up-going escalator. Someone in the mob shoves him back and the second boy catches him, both getting right back to their frenzied attempts.“Eddie, Christ. For the love of fuck, do something!” I still get no response. I shake the walkie, click open the back cover, roll the batteries, change the frequency to an open channel, and press the button again. “We have an urgent situation at the food court. I need anyone in the immediate area to drop what they’re doing and get over there stat.”A high-pitched whine pops through the walkie’s speaker, loud and sharp enough for me to jerk it away from my face. By the time it stops, the button doesn’t light up at all.I see none of my team on any of the neighboring cameras.On the monitor, people have stopped taking the escalator down. The boys still climb, still try to jump over. The mob is still writhing, and Eddie is still only watching.I’ve had this nightmare before: one where I’m in the shoes of a woman trapped under an escalator’s revolving platform.The scene plays out like hitting fast-forward on a tape I’ve watched a million times over. Vividly comedic, detailed and luscious only in my mind’s eye.I stop trying the walkie because it feels like the remote control of a VCR.The boy tries one more time but a long, muscular arm shoots out of the writhing mob. Rather than pushed back, the boy is pushed downward.He plummets into the two-foot gap between the escalators, his spine connecting with the corner of a gyro stand before crashing onto a vacated table with a finality so abrupt my own breathing stops.Newer VCRs have a slow-motion function if you hit fast-forward while paused. Stupid fucking thing to add when DVDs are taking over video. DVDs are expensive, though. Probably just a fad. Lasers wear out, right? They can’t outlive magnetic tape and good ol’ fashioned spools, right? Discs don’t have flaps that can—Snap.“No.”The food court erupts into chaos.Eddie is now by the escalator with a standard-issue Security whistle between his lips. There’s no audio, but his chest rises and falls. The mob responds the second time he blows it, and even then not all of them at once. Not a single person looks at him. They drop their arms and stop moving, stepping away from the buffet of gore at their feet.There’s a woman—or what’s left of a woman—crumpled near the seam where steps flatten and feed into the escalator’s mechanisms beneath the landing platform. Fabric and hair and chains jump and rattle as the motor continues to run, incapable of differentiating between human and common detritus, grinding her up like it would a burger wrapper.I don’t make it to the garbage can in time.

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None of the works presented by S&S are the product of AI generation. We are firmly against its use in any part of the book process - from writing, to editing, to cover design. We believe in art done by humans for humans.