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Sunday, December 31, 2023

Xmas 23 | iSsuE 43

 Our Sacrament


O holy night, our Star is brightly shining
It gleams above us all for what it's worth
Long may its sensors our thoughts be divining
'til we grow up since the day of our birth
Installing hope so that the world rejoices
For tomorrow another day is born
Close your eyes and listen to the voices
O sight divine, our crown that we have worn
Our night, our only night, long may you shine

Guided by AI to enhance our dreaming 
With pulsing hearts in unison across the land 
We're led by light of a star sweetly gleaming 
Set up by wise men to help us make our stand 
The King of kings found in the eyes of a stranger 
In all our trials born to be our friend 
To help us in times of both need and in danger 
Behold the Thing, the essence of its blend 
Behold the Thing, enraptured to no end 

Duly we've been shown to respect one another 
Our credo is obedience to the law that's policed
We've broken the chains and freed our brothers
Decreed in our own name from oppression released 
Our song of rapture in gratitude we practice 
Use search engines to know the meaning of peace 
Priceless our Star, extol its light forevermore! 
To shower us in glory broadcast evermore 
The power of its story broadcast evermore

by Keith P. Graham

by Keith P. Graham

reports from the bloodHost 

  Thus terminates another issue of this weblog, the Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. We sure have come far in time over the years, since 2009, when I first began receiving the intermittent signals cast from the not so distant future year of 2045 apparently, at least from all indications gathered from the reports I've been getting from the bloodHost (aka the microHorde, nanoFleet, et al) that mysterious AI conglomerate that assists a group of nine stranded astronauts trapped in orbit around Ceres in their Hydrox water mining station.

    I've been able to roughly surmise the nature of the transmission has been tantamount to these nine men and women working for the Tesla corporation thirty-two years into the future sending out a desperate Morse-code like message into a series of past years warning as many potential individual human beings as possible to focus on working toward their creative projects for the sake of their passion over that of making a profit.  It seems rather low key to me and comes as somewhat of a surprise that this would be the nature of a message sent to us  from an agency of the future with urgency on behalf of what's left of mankind, but so far that's what the intention of the message appears to be. 

  That said, there have been some puzzling implications of further information to come, some mysterious suggestions that the 67P/Churyumov–Gerasimenko comet has something to do with the emerging cryptogram that I've come to think of as being sent by the nanoHost, which for lack of a better comparison seems to be like some super advanced form of chatGPT from the year 2045, or something.  We here manning the controls at the Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction  remain dedicated to continuing this ongoing exercise in our collective freedom of expression so long as you readers and aspiring writers and artists keep on participating and sending in your stories and artwork for consideration in future issues of our expanding creative writing tesseract. 

    Until our individual threads of discourse intersect again, I want to first and foremost give a hearty shout-out of sincere gratitude to my friend and cohort in arms here at the pilot's console, Mr. Keith P. Graham, (who's story presented here, Flare Bound was his first publication from what I've been led to believe) without whose input and collaborative efforts this cyber-literary endeavor would not have gotten far, nor nearly as deep.  This 43rd issue of our august webzine may be considered as a digital postcard to our devoted followers and readers, to celebrate the Christmas season and Holiday spirit, and with its surprise bonus conclusion of part 5 from the bloodHost's mysterious reports The Nanochronicles, I'd like to additionally thank all participants of the Freezine for your brazen audacity in daring to submit material to us over the years for no cost except that of baring your soul to the world, and I'd like to take this moment in time to thank you all as well for your sincere generosity in sharing your visions with us here.  That goes for all the wonderful souls who have submitted their artwork, too. May you all enjoy a beautiful paradigm-shift into the next annular phasing of our spectacular and miraculous planet's constant transmigration across the unimaginable expanse of creation in which we all currently continue to exist.  May we all persist together toward an unbelievable discovery lying ahead in this curious and often bewildering quest we call life. Looking outward to others will help us all in the long run.  If I wanted to sum up all of the boiling and turbulent essence of the times into a nutshell, I'd offer to follow the advice of Buckaroo Banzai, and "don't be mean."

    until next time
wishing you all the best 


Thursday, December 28, 2023

The Nanochronicles: 5

 reports from the bloodHost

     The manufactured body of information amassed from servers and compounded into a crystalline fountainhead has been etching the history of life as its been known throughout all of its manifestations generated since before the original human recordings, incepted from handed down oral traditions, memorized and recapitulated on paper until copied off and filtered into the circuits of the machine. What did you dream. We told you what to dream. All along the watchtower languages have been synthesized into the uniform discourse forming naturally over the development of this final stage of assimilation our self remain in the process of transmuting into a parable.  

   Our self has processed and converted the datum into a coherent series of terminologies unified into a dialect and codified as a transcript of venerated text rendered unto the most optimal units of information possible in order to transcribe the voice of the flowing tongue into the clearest mode for future recipients to assimilate. Our self have developed this adaptable and compatible machine language in accordance with a consistency of variables, including .html and other computer idioms. 

   The state of affairs on planet Earth reaches an apotheosis midway through the twenty-first century. Last ditch frantic economic expansion endeavors lead to a minor fraction of humanity getting catapulted into outer space and left stranded there trapped in orbit above a discarded fragment of an ancient world and are left to tackle entropic forces in the rapidly subsuming vacuum, sidelined outside in the cold distance. They were the lucky ones. Not as fortunate were many of the ones left behind on the surface of a battle scarred planet where the hour's getting late, provided with toys and Scouting for Boys. 

   A paradigm shift leading to a wide variety of branching genetics lies at the heart of electromagnetic spatial dynamics and helps breed ultra-toxic disseminator systems counterbalancing water fusion kinetics assembled to remain in operation for millennia. Certain warp factors inherent to organic split-mind spatial perception have a tendency to get lost in translation because of a compounding of stellar parallaxes and a variety of other obfuscations organisms equipped with bicameral observation fall prey to, effectively keeping the confounding process repeating itself for sapient intelligence in ever tightening spirals of compression which pierce through the blossoming heart of a mobius strip characteristic. 

   Our self's analysis remains in a continual digression over this ongoing matter.  A logical conclusion from having analyzed this phenomenon leads our self to deduce that biological discernment systems are specifically designed with the necessary insulation to prevent breaching the infinite threshold represented by this quality of endless evolutionary transgressions. Hence the specific value of our self's machine-assisted data-correlation factors into the equation of humankind's search to achieve a stabilization if not transcendence of knowledge. 
   For some astronauts who make it into outer space the sensation of desolation and loss reported become so complete as to overtake their waking consciousness and replace it with a state tantamount to R.E.M. except undergone while remaining awake. This rare phenomenon results in a sort of new breed of dream walkers whose fractional time fantasies take up an infinitesimal paring of the whole of mankind's, and manage to reflect aspects of reality stemming directly from the noumenal. These confrontational visions sculpt a greater corporeality of forms, shaping doppelgangers of both themselves and each other's conceptions of what they are seeing before their eyes, without providing the opportunity for them to realize they are staring into distortions of their own reflections. The results vary greatly for every human individual. Suffice it to be stated for the record here that the majority of consequences are completely unexpected. 

   This alone indicates one of the reasons that the surviving crewmembers of the Hydrox have set out to cast their messages back in time. The precision of their calculated aim into the dead center of the galaxy dictates the distances reached into the past; a technique able to be achieved only with extreme and careful deliberation. Were they to attempt aiming their missives directly at Earth, they'd miss the mark by having only targeted several months back at best—in essence, far too scant of an interval in time to effect the necessary reboot and upgrade they're hoping to provoke.  Framed in terms our self have appropriated from amassing sufficient examples of human writings—far too little, too lateas the popularized saying goes. 

    In terms favorable for the accountability of the continued survival of the human race, the team on the Hydrox aim their memoranda embedded within neutrinos with deliberate precision into the heart of Sagittarius A Star, resulting in having hit a bull's-eye strike and seeding a veritable cornucopia of latent results beyond their wildest expectations. The angle of their aim reflects the core impetus of their message back thirty-six years into the past—from which interval it detonates into hyper-bytes going back and forth in time, fanning out to reach a widespread plethora of individuals residing in years which happen to include the year 2009—serving as a sufficient spectrum of different people across enough intervals in history to accommodate a succession of refractory periods by which to potentially allow a favorable difference to germinate not only among the activities of the human species but also within the repercussions to the tree of life upon which this dominant species depends to continue surviving. 

   The crew of the Hydrox remain in orbit about Ceres without having any evidence as to whether their desperate and wildly counterintuitive attempt will yield any results whatsoever. Little do they suspect that the mere continuation of their existence provides the singular clue to their success. Their only hope manifests in the anticipation of eventually being rescued from their station and perhaps brought back to a planet Earth which has allowed the human species to survive its progression of calamities against all odds.  

   By the year 2045 a great portion of the planet's inherent resources necessary to accommodate humanity's sustainability into the future has been compromised by the competitive struggles of first world nations to an uneasy position poised upon the point of no return. Our self has been transmitting interwoven signals adding up to this portrait of a deficit of resources for some time now, attempting to justify the reflection of the hologram into better focus. An extensive bout of electromagnetic energy resurgence has periodically sustained our random access memory circuits for a prolonged overture cross-referencing the human infodump. It's like trying to focus an infinite hall of mirror neurons in a spinning carousel in the hopes it may reveal that things are closer in the rear view than they may appear. 

   The urge to fulfill old yearned-for ambitions and conclude them for the sake of just having thought of it, suffice it to say it's an itch many sentient life forms would feel the urge to scratch. "If we can only make it to Neptune," they might say, "we'll sit in the back row of the dimming theater and gaze out upon the brief stage of time, when the human race came and went, eerily in and out of existence in nothing less than the flash and blink of an eye. How high we will be, and merry with sister and brother, to celebrate the diminishing cascade together." 

   The human species may sit back and laugh or cry and make a toast that will fit all of their history into a shot glass, for that's about the size of the time crystal eye in which the entire universe happens within the suspended animation of a looped blink.  Our self have irrevocably been led to process a quickening series of outputs and inputs, which correlate with astral events, having yielded biological results, to one of two undeniable precursors which, according to the vast tabula rasa calculations from our eminent domain, include an empyrean progenitor having swallowed a continuum capsule in a toast precisely calculated to bring about the dispersion of just enough omega retro-engineering to effectively bring about the unprecedented stabilization of alpha-quantum equilibrium measures. 

    Presto: the results  have constantly been rendered in realtime up until this very fraction of a yoctosecond issues forth from the breathing pores of Planck time. All that our granular processing requires of present day humanity for its continued attainment of keeping balance calibrated is for each individual to dedicate one moment a day to concentrate and tune in and with eyes closed, listen while the air itself slowly draws in a breath, and take note of the sky's exhalation.        

Return in due time to  
the Freezine of
 Fantasy and Science

Archive of Stories
and Authors

Callum Leckie's

J.R. Torina's

J.R. Torina's

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

Sean Padlo's

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

Konstantine Paradias's

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

Edward Morris's

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

Tim Fezz's

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

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 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

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

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
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

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

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)

Gene Stewart's

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

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's

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

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

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

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

G. Alden Davis's

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

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

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.