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Friday, January 15, 2010


By Vincent Daemon

What is “magick”? Is it superstition? Naivete? Lunacy? Laziness?

Does one want to believe that there truly is an unknown? Things that are always there, but we just can not see. Does it make an isolated or “quirky” human mind and psyche feel more at ease to think, and yes, believe that there is something greater than ourselves? That perhaps we can save ourselves the time, aggravation, or Christ forbid, any form of internal and external effort in order to sate our Id-most desires, in the most immediate and instantaneously destructive ways, here and now?

I’ll gladly pay my soul Tuesday for some pussy today...or money, fame, power, or any face-full of unnecessary diamond studded, narcissistic shit. Is magick a way toward higher, unearthly metaphysical knowledge, laced with all the quasiromantic, Faustian tapestries?

Perhaps it is no more than an easy way out. Ultimately, pure vision as though through the innocent child’s eyes of wonder and greatness, a tragically misguided waste of time, drawing negative to negative. Bad karma juju. Spiritual death.

Sex magick : wanton copulation for a “goal”.

Chaos magick : a reason to act out spiritually and preternaturally in the most irresponsible manner for the most irresponsible of causes–-usually vengeance.

Drug magick : a rationalization for getting high, for a “goal” of course, and as with the two previously mentioned magicks, almost always of a dubious intent.

These goals, it seems, primarily consist of self-centered, delusional tomfoolery. A “spiritually enlightened” reason to indulge in all the splendid wonders of earthly vice. Realistically, the hullabaloo and intensity of ritual does add to the experience of earthly pleasures, and also to an obligatory feeling of egotistical accomplishment, for all that effort of “pleasure”.

“Well, I felt great at the time, but now I want something in return.” Where exactly does it end? Does it end?

In my experience, it appears not. How long has it been since I thought these thoughts anyway? Years. Fucking years.

Yet these sudden intrusive thoughts harken immediately back to that strange physical/mental/emotional/spiritual disquiet. Thought-induced invocations; accidental. I know this to be true. There are no coincidences in this existence--or any other. Just looping, endless corridors of crossed stars and peaking valleys and missing puzzle pieces.

Even as I write this, a cat two stories down below my kitchen window yowls my name. Upon hearing the little beast, I peek my head out the window and see him down there, lonely little scrapper cat. There was an immediate dead stare contact of eyes and souls. In a wave of trans-species, empathic reactive communication, I feel his pain, his loneliness. He's hungry and tired and misses the place that once felt like home. I can tell he is a newly abandoned house cat. Too well fed, affectionately groomed, and attention-starved not to be. Each one of his increasingly pathetic whines tears even more so into my gut, only serving to further the oppressive ambience occurring within my own mind and soul. Another defecation in my inner sanctum.

Still, though, that particular intrusive thought invades. It presents itself almost as the eternal Shakespearian question : “To Be Or Not To Be?” This guilt simmers in the black liquid morass of self effacement, eating its own tail like that cunting snake Oroboro, stuck in its self imposed cycle of heatstroke, seared in the blistering light of complete personal debasement.

This thought yet I a monster to have it, to hold it, and ruminate long and deathly serious about it? Am I a monster, to be as embracing as I am terrified, of these “old friends”? Call them demons, ghosts, shadows, the Other, and They...coming and going as they have always pleased.

This life so far has been wretched. Every honest attempt at love, art, family, work, stability: crushed under their iron rule of defeatism, insecurity, debasement and degradation. A stubborn self-will and increasingly bad judgement calls, self actualization as well as self destruction, thwarted always by my own impractical hands.

Those things I speak so ill of, I want them, too. One can only travel the same course that leads to hope, that leads to expectation, that invariably leads to the inevitability of disappointment for so long.

These “friends” that so incessantly haunt the most shadowy recesses of my mind make haughty claims and promises without uttering so much as a squeak. The promises are delivered through the unlocked and unbarred wide open doors of irrationality that will never close. The doors themselves have long ago melted away, disintegrated under the boiling acid keys that opened them. What the hell is 25 by 25, anyway?

Nevertheless, they come and go of their own rotten will. Really, it is quite easy to invoke them into mind. They practically do it themselves, when awareness and conditions are fertile and unsullied. However, invocation into our material plane of matter and molecules is another cause celebre altogether.

What I have learned, is that elaborate ritual involving sex and drugs and daggers and chalices and costuming, that whole hocus-pocus aspect, is all for show. Shits ‘n’ giggles. The Aleister Crowley Fantasy Land Escapism Happy Hour.

No, it only takes concentration. Deep, cathartic, near catatonic concentration. They can be thought here if one's body/mind/soul can work together and synchronize themselves into that one, concentrated energy. And if one can do that, well...

Unfortunately, I can. They beg me to right now, at this late (early?) hour, and the paradigm here is so much more than moral. Seriously, though, how can one toil for years upon endless wasted years, and be not noticed, still have to kill themselves and suffer (be it for demons, bosses, or lovers), like those brain dead automatons addicted to schedules and battered dreams--and loveless marriages and cold, soulless lives. So empty.

It has indeed been a hateful, remorseless, chaffed-handed, icy cold, sunburnt life.

The way it is being explained to me at present seems quite simple. They tell me a deal can be made and I won’t have to suffer any longer. My wife will suffer. As will my unborn child. It’s all the deal makers want. Nothing more, nothing less.

My skin grows cold and my stomach more sour still, but my body is too exhausted to act upon the nausea once more. Still, they dance in their shadows from the corners of my eyes, but I don’t look at them. Instead I am looking at her. She sleeps so deep, so peaceful, as I am sure the little girl inside her womb is, as well. She is so proud to be carrying, so flush with that radiance of newly discovered motherhood. There is just the sweetest little smile on her face, as she dreams the dream of the expectant mother.

That’s all they want, a simple exchange. Hell, they tell me she won’t have any physical repercussions, but mental...emotional...spiritual? She’ll be plum loco. I wonder though, about her. When the house and cars and jewelry and cash begin to settle into place, and the guilt-ridden mind, too proud and cowardly to check out in one fell swoop (or so dumbly numb that it expects the pain and doesn’t know any better), succumbs to the inevitable implosion of “fun”--chemicals, liquor, orgies, and more bad behavior--what then? When it all comes crashing in on crimson fetal waves, would she still be a basket case? Or would her already manipulative and questionable natural tendencies forget about the poor baby girl minutes after she was gone?

I hate these thoughts. They make me sick, a ceaseless, queasy feeling of conflict and guilt. Like I am indeed a goddamned monster. But the never ending struggle over every little thing has got to come to a bloody head and just end already. It has gone on for far too long. It is time now, I believe, to make a decision, and reclaim the night.

I am sorry, love, but you’ll be okay, eventually. As a matter of fact, you won’t even know. You will think it was your own body rebelling against you, as it does so often anyway. But I know you, and you will stop caring, perhaps forget the little unwanted bitch once the cash comes rolling in, the material goods that obsess your mind like the loveless fucking that initiated this nightmare to begin with. You are lucky enough to be that kind of cold. I am not.

I can only do what is right.

The deal has been struck, and the shadows have fallen silent again.

And it just feels right.

~ ~ ~

Stay tuned Monday, January 18
for the continued adventures
of Xu, the demon slayer
in David Agranoff's
Wuxia-pan horror/fantasy
serialized in daily installments
weekdays, only on the
Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction

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Archive of Stories
and Authors

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 fear 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.

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff is the author of the
following books: Ring of Fire (Eraserhead
Press, 2018), Flesh Trade (co-written
w/Edward Morris; published by Create-
Space, 2017), Punk Rock Ghost Story
(Deadite Press, 2016), Amazing Punk
Stories (Eraserhead Press, 2016),
Boot Boys of the Wolf Reich (Eraserhead
Press, 2014), Hunting the Moon Tribe
(Eraserhead Press, 2011), The Vegan
Revolution...with Zombies (Eraserhead
Press, 2010), and Screams from a Dying
World (Afterbirth Books, 2009).
David is a hardcore vegan and tireless
environmentalist. His contributions to
the punk horror scene and the planet in
general have already established him
as a bright new writer and activist to
watch out for. The Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction welcomes him and
his defiant vision open-heartedly.

David is a busy man, usually at work
on several different novels or projects
at once. He is sure to leave his mark on
a world teetering over the edge of
ecological imbalance.

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.

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking currently
resides in the high desert of Phoenix,
Arizona where he enjoys campy horror
movies within the comfort of an Insane
Asylum. Search for his science fiction
stories at The Intestinal Fortitude in
the Flesheater's World section.
The Memory Sector is his first
appearance in the Freezine 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,
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 -

Icy Sedgwick's

Icy Sedgwick is part writer and part
trainee supervillain. She lives in the UK
but dreams of the Old West. Her current
works include a ghost story about a Cavalier
and a Western tale of retribution. Find her
ebooks, free weekly fiction and other
shenanigans at Icy’s Cabinet of Curiosities.

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.

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.

K.B. Updike, Jr's

K.B. Updike, Jr. is a young virgin
Virginia writer. KB's life work,
published 100% for free:
(We are not certain if K.B. Updike, Jr.
has lost his Virginian virginity yet.)