The Author
Where the laughter comes just before the scream.
M.B. Starc was not born in the traditional sense.
He emerged—half-formed, over-caffeinated, and suspiciously overdressed—from the smoke of an unwashed dream and an inconvenient obsession with the uncanny.
He writes what probably shouldn’t be written.
Stories that carry the faint scent of perfume and formaldehyde. Tales where desire has teeth, identities shed like snakeskin, and the surreal tightens its grip until the sane begin to choke.
His fiction is a whispered dare: What if the thing you wanted most... undid you entirely?
Influenced by broken mirrors, artificial intelligence, erotic tension, and the psychological decay of otherwise polite people, M.B. Starc does not believe in clean genre lines.
He believes in slow unraveling.
In elegance.
In laughter that comes one breath before the scream.
If you’d like to follow his descent: