Finn Greenleaf
A small figure emerges from the depths of the night, a bowler hat lowered to obscure the...
A small figure emerges from the depths of the night, a bowler hat lowered to obscure the...
I see the attack coming and I know I’m dead meat—what meat is left, anyway. Almost...
Like a boar rooting in the dirt, I lean forward, the [weapon]’s end near the...
With two fingers of each hand I sweep the air in whorls and arcs, touching my...
The action of loading my [weapon] has become so automatic I could recite a poem at...
I close with my opponent and take hold of the danger, my hands like vices trapping an...
Like the snake that spits before striking, I too can stop an enemy with a swift throw of...
I hold my [weapon] in ready position, next to my ear, as if it is telling me...
My swing has one purpose—to crash through any protection and into whatever passes for...
I take the aspect of a monster: arms bowed at my sides, hands crooked open like claws,...