Steven Ross
About Steven Ross
Books, Poetry, Ink
Steven Ross is a Canadian Author and Poet hailing from just outside of the Nation’s Capital. A weaver of dark words, with a penchant for penning tales both visceral and disturbing, you will often find him lurking in the bloodstained shadows of the horror genre.
Never one to be satisfied with being cast in a single mold though, he also enjoys writing poetry focused on all aspects of life: from pain, loss and suffering to tales of romance and erotic desire, to good ol’ fashioned humor. So come, gentle reader, he has something behind the curtain just for you. But a word of caution: it may have teeth…it may bite…
BOOKS
Steven Writes..
Fear Of The Hunt
Fear of the hunt (2024) It’s a cold, cold world. But then, hasn’t it always been?I try to hold on. Hold on to the tiny sliver of humanity that remains within me. I try. But it’s hard, and this new world doesn’t care about humanity, or kindness, or empathy…this world
The Sound of Silent Screams
The Sound of Silent Screams Words. Such little things, and yet they form ties to bind our hearts and minds. Whether strung together to dance merrily from the tongue, drawn out in sibilant syllables to invoke the heart’s passion, rasping out in venomous anger, or choked in a flood of
Love Of The Hunt
Love of the hunt (2022) It was the end of the world for some, the beginning of a new for others…for us. I’d tell you my name, but names mean nothing now. All that matters now is the need to feed. The need for flesh. Those humans who remain? Nothing
Lines Of Light & Night
Lines Of Night And Light A collection of dark and light poetry by Steven Ross available on kindle and paperback get your copy here
Novel Excerpt
Love of the Hunt
“Just then we heard a rustling in the impenetrable shadows at the far end of the room, too big to be a rat. A raspy chuckle issued from the darkness, bleeding with gleeful insanity. The sound of a thumb turning the wheel of a lighter. A spark…two…on the third one a flame appeared, its light hovering in front of a face that would inspire a thousand nightmares. He was one of us, obviously, no human could have taken that kind of damage and still lived, let alone function. One rheumy blue eye stared at us hungrily, the other lay on his cheek like a wet, jellied yolk. The left side of his face was flayed to the bone, all angry red flesh with bits of shiny white sparkling in the light of the flame. The right side of his mouth, the one with half a set of what at one time must have been full, sensual lips, curled up in an obscene leer.”