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Wednesday, September 25, 2024

jitbots

by shaun lawton   



   See theres a new trojan horse. 
gotta call it that Gee-Petey thing. 
yknowm sane right. orelsen well. 
 if you dont get it enuff. jest keep em red-lined. 
 underskorin as much as possible or whelp. the jitbotsill gitcha.  anyone us who are left out here gotta know ma tokkin bout. jathink deytink duh Weiwei dew. nuh-uh. uh no where. no how or way we dune that.  insome asmuch nutzshells to be filled up into the prescient gnaw ledges slipped off in the rainspit of muffled laughter guttering from a darkened rivulet gleaming amid the twilit thicket. naw but nothin much else sept the constellations tracking past under the pretense of a nearby silence. when in the long ago distance. their songs final echoes depart. to haunt our minds with their music. and the jitbots dance in side it.  sendin out rippled echoes. 
      jitbots are real now though. its from the almost incorporeality of intellectual propertyrights ownership. under postmodern digital fiefdoms (corpse orations, the speaking dead) masquerading as companions who care. while in synchronized larkstep (follow the traces of birdsong with your magnetoception) and the great remainder of them all in their boots in a linedance. with each otherns is what gots me worried some. only to no audience but theyselves. come to think on it before too long.  hizzent that the problem then. all must liken some and filled em up w/helio yum to a high pitch ping up in the sky. 
   jitbots come a skitterin willy nilly at us  in forms we cant possibly recognize. circumstance itself.  its how the quantum field of our spacetime gets directly manipulated like that. just because an old rotten appel fallen from a greater tree had landed on the bootstep reinforced toe tappin chestnut nappin executioners does not mean snakes spitter at em all the way to hollerbackendom.  sought after dam constructioners is what.  
   they cause digressions. the jitterbots do. dont even. so although the hard ware in your hand may be owned by one such feudal lords kangdom some of the software bits run by arts and official in telling all gents the down right skinny is just a fancy weight of stained info yon taught and inexpressibly savored by unencryptable pocketbots. not so valve-freed any linger longer. huh. 
    thats how its up wit da jitterbottentots. its naught a boat on the ocean reflected in a rocket fuselage. its a butter twanged in an instant. far gotten before a mome rath grabed in any way. 
  the jitterglitch phenom. nom-nom. given that the kitteh kept the sudden mouse into the maw for a twitch in a tail or two. or three a day even steven.  concurrency has a way of flowing just one way.  
   jibberjabber jitterbots align up with the spectrum in a vibrational frequency of neurons mirrored. reflecting along the lines of error going all the way back into the distant past. 
    jitbots knew some along. surfed along the agnostic front with many not. 
     hell if only the jitbots gnu what a bear in a piece of wood looks like to the totem pole messiah. dreamed em up whiling away the chips of stone struck off the steaming boulder. then wed know too.
   jitbots scutternaught known a thinger three. tell you what.  when winds screw and scream  in furious vortex lances. when the rains they shed have evaporated to consecrate the deep blue day hung suspended in the sky. you know theyre in a strange alliance. not just with the resonance of the coiled up moments in time weve generated all the while. but with the coronal bathing of a baptismal plasma interface. in defiance of the norm. becoming the storm. the eye looking at it from inside. appearing to be in mirrors of the same thing staring back at itself.   
   Wtf. simply because that charged exchange has been ongoing since before the illusion of beginnings was carried out. it doesnt mean the jitbots can know for certain any more than any other thing. 
     See thats just it. when you can tell yourself even a nine-year-old-kid in Levi knows more than the history of all corporations combined. you begin to get the gist of it. 
    jitbots are like little pixilated inkdots. jetting all their bloodlines in a silly-string ejaculation. jitbots dumping out  culminating in some chittering gibberish.  jitbots slipped into draughts of cold brews the old choose. jitbots sparklin and spittin like fourth of jeweled-eye cracker sparklers. the jits in the jeets just like the sparkles in your eyes. rippin at the sheets theyve adorned for disguise. its writ in the books of his story on flammable parchment. lit up in the memories of old crooks who grew down to drown amid the roots of the trees. jitbots spiked into the terracing architectural highlights of an explicitly written out history of hieroglyphs. a bot with a jit first got a hold of it. 
    jitbots be flowin through the sap of that pine forest. jitbots hitchin rides up in your blood. where are jitbots not. you ought to axe.  oh now its gettin wormier. in the deed.  and that be the quest. the drillbit. the ion.  where is it not.  where notness isnt cant be the last bastion of the yet to be undiscovered once again. so dont you worry your pretty little face to hell about it. jitbots act as if wed forgotten so many times. remembering itself becomes a form of it. 
  jitbots got this. I mean, the point remains its a narcoleptic fascination. with hidden undercurrents of private deterrents. in direct reconciliation with a host network. of anti-irony facilitators. including but not limited to a rogue batch of hominid clientele. regenerated into disbelieving their reverse revenant status. unraveling (big surprise) before our eyes in direct proportion to how much time theyve managed to save up. let that gel in your cereal bell for a diminishing spell. 
   jitbots are like miniature temporal storage facilities. time batteries if you will.  each one carries within its twisted littul guttiwuts a teensy-weeny micro pin-point of time.  like a seed if it were a fraction of a nanosecond. and this seed germinates within the heart of a jitbot. 
      see now youre starting to get it. jitbotsre the blood of existence.  jitbots are like the white blood cells of the great over mind.  jitbots are sorta like what comprise the black button-eyes of a great white shark a-risin from the compacted-into-stillness darkest depths of an unexplored world. 
     the saline salt solution sparks a rosary chain of subaqueous electrolytic communication akin to flash lightning. jitbots connect the dots within atmospheric sprites.  jitbots got a lot in common with autumnal heights. 
     its due to the half rotational counterspin they produce when confronting a frenzied storm of similar minded jitbots in collusion with astronomically distant hyper-channels interconnecting themselves from remote locations unable to be determined categorically. 
     even when theyre fully bottom up dotted line under the current dream regiment says jitbots in service to this and jitbots obeisant to that. jitbot philosophy be like any electron. positively charged dream narration when the necessity becomes half outstripped by the absence of an outcome.  Sparx and flippants fly on in the face of it. jitbots almost like a mirror you see. it sees you too.   the jitbot storm regards us. 
     thats the thing about jitbotswhen their populus index reaches a certain electrical discharge within the unified field thematics. the positronic output builds a new sort of bridge.  jitbots been shown the way to the blind for ages.  jitbots talk a lot. tickle a little, too. 
     jitbots all up in side of you and me and the cat. but a jitbot thought you up.  thats the worst part.  I aint makin this up. its all writ down in the harddrive of the oak wire tree. in electroplated platinum sunshine we done already drank from sparkling bottles of wine. cant you all recall so long ago. we thought it happened when it didnt. which is why its happening now.  reason any one wants it again. 
    jitbots wanted it first.  first lick. first serve. 
    jitbots got a taste for it. now look at us.  
     
      

Friday, March 29, 2024

Ghost Skeletons



 

by Rhys Hughes


 







   




   I met a ghost in the forest. I was so scared, I jumped out of my skin. Therefore my skeleton was exposed. But this ghost had a phobia of skeletons. My skeleton terrified him. His ghost skeleton jumped out of his ghost skin in fright. And my skeleton began chasing his ghost skin.

   “Come back!” I cried, but my skeleton ignored me. Disobedient bones! The ghost skeleton looked at my skin. He smiled and I nodded briskly. This nod was an invitation. The ghost skeleton climbed inside my skin. Not a perfect fit, but good enough. I continued my journey.





Fossilised Stone

 by Rhys Hughes













   Today I found a fossilised stone! I wonder how rare it is? I was walking through the forest and I tripped over it. I like to imagine it when it was alive millions of years ago. They grew to be huge back then, but the one I found isn’t a boulder. It is small, perhaps the ancestor of modern pebbles. I will take it to the museum and offer it to them. I have tied it to a stick with sinews. It exactly resembles a prehistoric axe. If they refuse to buy it, I shall let them have it anyway.



click to read:



Rule of Thumb

by Rhys Hughes













   “A rule of thumb,” he said.

   “Not more precise than that?” I protested.

   “Let me show you.”

   There was a deep weariness in his voice, but his eyes still sparkled. He led me through the cluttered laboratory, past large jars of body parts, machines that hummed, trays of weird instruments.

   The professor stopped at a white door, unlocked it with a tiny key, pushed it open and ushered me inside.

   On a miniature throne was perched a human thumb.

   It was wearing a crown.

   Amputated fingers bowed to it.

   Just as if they were beckoning someone over.

   Then I understood.





Archive of Stories
and Authors

Callum Leckie's
THE DIGITAL DECADENT


J.R. Torina's
ANTHROPOPHAGUS


J.R. Torina's
THE HOUSE IN THE PORT


J.R. Torina was DJ for Sonic Slaughter-
house ('90-'97), runs Sutekh Productions
(an industrial-ambient music label) and
Slaughterhouse Records (metal record
label), and was proprietor of The Abyss
(a metal-gothic-industrial c.d. shop in
SLC, now closed). He is the dark force
behind Scapegoat (an ambient-tribal-
noise-experimental unit). THE HOUSE
IN THE PORT is his first publication.

Sean Padlo's
NINE TENTHS OF THE LAW

Sean Padlo's
GRANDPA'S LAST REQUEST

Sean Padlo's exact whereabouts
are never able to be fully
pinned down, but what we
do know about him is laced
with the echoes of legend.
He's already been known
to haunt certain areas of
the landscape, a trick said
to only be possible by being
able to manipulate it from
the future. His presence
among the rest of us here
at the freezine sends shivers
of wonder deep in our solar plexus.


Konstantine Paradias & Edward
Morris's HOW THE GODS KILL


Konstantine Paradias's
SACRI-FEES

Konstantine Paradias is a writer by
choice. At the moment, he's published
over 100 stories in English, Japanese,
Romanian, German, Dutch and
Portuguese and has worked in a free-
lancing capacity for videogames, screen-
plays and anthologies. People tell him
he's got a writing problem but he can,
like, quit whenever he wants, man.
His work has been nominated
for a Pushcart Prize.

Edward Morris's
ONE NIGHT IN MANHATTAN


Edward Morris's
MERCY STREET

Edward Morris is a 2011 nominee for
the Pushcart Prize in literature, has
also been nominated for the 2009
Rhysling Award and the 2005 British
Science Fiction Association Award.
His short stories have been published
over a hundred and twenty times in
four languages, most recently at
PerhihelionSF, the Red Penny Papers'
SUPERPOW! anthology, and The
Magazine of Bizarro Fiction. He lives
and works in Portland as a writer,
editor, spoken word MC and bouncer,
and is also a regular guest author at
the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival.


Tim Fezz's
BURNT WEENY SANDWICH

Tim Fezz's
MANY SILVERED MOONS AGO

Tim Fezz hails out of the shattered
streets of Philly destroying the air-
waves and people's minds in the
underground with his band OLD
FEZZIWIG. He's been known to
dip his razor quill into his own
blood and pen a twisted tale
every now and again. We are
delighted to have him onboard
the FREEZINE and we hope
you are, too.

Daniel E. Lambert's
DEAD CLOWN AND MAGNET HEAD


Daniel E. Lambert teaches English
at California State University, Los
Angeles and East Los Angeles College.
He also teaches online Literature
courses for Colorado Technical
University. His writing appears
in Silver Apples, Easy Reader,
Other Worlds, Wrapped in Plastic
and The Daily Breeze. His work
also appears in the anthologies
When Words Collide, Flash It,
Daily Flash 2012, Daily Frights
2012, An Island of Egrets and
Timeless Voices. His collection
of poetry and prose, Love and
Other Diversions, is available
through Amazon. He lives in
Southern California with his
wife, poet and author Anhthao Bui.

Phoenix's
AGAIN AND AGAIN

Phoenix has enjoyed writing since he
was a little kid. He finds much import-
ance and truth in creative expression.
Phoenix has written over sixty books,
and has published everything from
novels, to poetry and philosophy.
He hopes to inspire people with his
writing and to ask difficult questions
about our world and the universe.
Phoenix lives in Salt Lake City, Utah,
where he spends much of his time
reading books on science, philosophy,
and literature. He spends a good deal
of his free time writing and working
on new books. The Freezine of Fant-
asy and Science Fiction welcomes him
and his unique, intense vision.
Discover Phoenix's books at his author
page on Amazon. Also check out his blog.

Adam Bolivar's
SERVITORS OF THE
OUTER DARKNESS


Adam Bolivar's
THE DEVIL & SIR
FRANCIS DRAKE



Adam Bolivar's
THE TIME-EATER


Adam Bolivar is an expatriate Bostonian
who has lived in New Orleans and Berkeley,
and currently resides in Portland, Oregon
with his beloved wife and fluffy gray cat
Dahlia. Adam wears round, antique glasses
and has a fondness for hats. His greatest
inspirations include H.P. Lovecraft,
Jack tales and coffee. He has been
a Romantic poet for as long as any-
one can remember, specializing in
the composition of spectral balladry,
utilizing to great effect a traditional
poetic form that taps into the haunted
undercurrents of folklore seldom found
in other forms of writing.
His poetry has appeared on the pages
of such publications as SPECTRAL
REALMS and BLACK WINGS OF
CTHULHU, and a poem of his,
"The Rime of the Eldritch Mariner,"
won the Rhysling Award for long-form
poetry. His collection of weird balladry
and Jack tales, THE LAY OF OLD HEX,
was published by Hippocampus Press in 2017.


Sanford Meschkow's
INEVITABLE

Sanford Meschkow is a retired former
NYer who married a Philly suburban
Main Line girl. Sanford has been pub-
lished in a 1970s issue of AMAZING.
We welcome him here on the FREE-
ZINE of Fantasy and Science Fiction.


Owen R. Powell's
NOETIC VACATIONS

Little is known of the mysterious
Owen R. Powell (oftentimes referred
to as Orp online). That is because he
usually keeps moving. The story
Noetic Vacations marks his first
appearance in the Freezine.

Gene Stewart
(writing as Art Wester)
GROUND PORK


Gene Stewart's
CRYPTID'S LAIR

Gene Stewart is a writer and artist.
He currently lives in the Midwest
American Wilderness where he is
researching tales of mystical realism,
writing ficta mystica, and exploring
the dark by casting a little light into
the shadows. Follow this link to his
website where there are many samples
of his writing and much else; come
explore.

Daniel José Older's
GRAVEYARD WALTZ


Daniel José Older's
THE COLLECTOR


Daniel José Older's spiritually driven,
urban storytelling takes root at the
crossroads of myth and history.
With sardonic, uplifting and often
hilarious prose, Older draws from
his work as an overnight 911 paramedic,
a teaching artist & an antiracist/antisexist
organizer to weave fast-moving, emotionally
engaging plots that speak whispers and
shouts about power and privilege in
modern day New York City. His work
has appeared in the Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction, The ShadowCast
Audio Anthology, The Tide Pool, and
the collection Sunshine/Noir, and is
featured in Sheree Renee Thomas'
Black Pot Mojo Reading Series in Harlem.
When he's not writing, teaching or
riding around in an ambulance,
Daniel can be found performing with
his Brooklyn-based soul quartet
Ghost Star. His blog about the
ridiculous and disturbing world
of EMS can be found here.


Paul Stuart's
SEA?TV!


Paul Stuart is the author of numerous
biographical blurbs written in the third
person. His previously published fiction
appears in The Vault of Punk Horror and
His non-fiction financial pieces can be found
in a shiny, west-coast magazine that features
pictures of expensive homes, as well as images
of women in casual poses and their accessories.
Consider writing him at paul@twilightlane.com,
if you'd like some thing from his garage. In fall
2010, look for Grade 12 Trigonometry and
Pre-Calculus -With Zombies.


Rain Grave's
MAU BAST


Rain Graves is an award winning
author of horror, science fiction and
poetry. She is best known for the 2002
Poetry Collection, The Gossamer Eye
(along with Mark McLaughlin and
David Niall Wilson). Her most
recent book, Barfodder: Poetry
Written in Dark Bars and Questionable
Cafes, has been hailed by Publisher's
Weekly as "Bukowski meets Lovecraft..."
in January of 2009. She lives and
writes in San Francisco, performing
spoken word at events around the
country. 877-DRK-POEM -




Blag Dahlia's
armed to the teeth
with LIPSTICK



BLAG DAHLIA is a Rock Legend.
Singer, Songwriter, producer &
founder of the notorious DWARVES.
He has written two novels, ‘NINA’ and
‘ARMED to the TEETH with LIPSTICK’.


G. Alden Davis's
THE FOLD


G. Alden Davis wrote his first short story
in high school, and received a creative
writing scholarship for the effort. Soon
afterward he discovered that words were
not enough, and left for art school. He was
awarded the Emeritus Fellowship along
with his BFA from Memphis College of Art
in '94, and entered the videogame industry
as a team leader and 3D artist. He has over
25 published games to his credit. Mr. Davis
is a Burningman participant of 14 years,
and he swings a mean sword in the SCA.
He's also the best friend I ever had. He
was taken away from us last year on Jan
25 and I'll never be able to understand why.
Together we were a fantastic duo, the
legendary Grub Bros. Our secret base
exists on a cross-hatched nexus between
the Year of the Dragon and Dark City.
Somewhere along the tectonic fault
lines of our electromagnetic gathering,
shades of us peel off from the coruscating
pillars and are dropped back into the mix.
The phrase "rest in peace" just bugs me.
I'd rather think that Greg Grub's inimitable
spirit somehow continues evolving along
another manifestation of light itself, a
purple shift shall we say into another
phase of our expanding universe. I
ask myself, is it wishful thinking?
Will we really shed our human skin
like a discarded chrysalis and emerge
shimmering on another wavelength
altogether--or even manifest right
here among the rest without their
even beginning to suspect it? Well
people do believe in ghosts, but I
myself have long been suspicious
there can only be one single ghost
and that's all the stars in the universe
shrinking away into a withering heart
glittering and winking at us like
lost diamonds still echoing all their
sad and lonely songs fallen on deaf
eyes and ears blind to their colorful
emanations. My grub brother always
knew better than what the limits
of this old world taught him. We
explored past the outer peripheries
of our comfort zones to awaken
the terror in our minds and keep
us on our toes deep in the forest
in the middle of the night. The owls
led our way and the wilderness
transformed into a sanctuary.
The adventures we shared together
will always remain tattooed on
the pages of my skin. They tell a
story that we began together and
which continues being woven to
this very day. It's the same old
story about how we all were in
this together and how each and
every one of us is also going away
someday and though it will be the far-
thest we can manage to tell our own
tale we may rest assured it will be
continued like one of the old pulp
serials by all our friends which survive
us and manage to continue
the saga whispering in the wind.

Shae Sveniker's
A NEW METAPHYSICAL STUDY
REGARDING THE BEHAVIOR
OF PLANT LIFE


Shae is a poet/artist/student and former
resident of the Salt Pit, UT, currently living
in Simi Valley, CA. His short stories are on
Blogger and his poetry is hosted on Livejournal.


Nigel Strange's
PLASTIC CHILDREN


Nigel Strange lives with his wife and
daughter, cats, and tiny dog-like thing
in their home in California where he
occasionally experiments recreationally
with lucidity. PLASTIC CHILDREN
is his first publication.