Tuesday, August 25, 2015

NOETIC VACATIONS

by Owen R. Powell










The jungle writhed slowly, fitfully alive, feverishly incarnate; a single bio-organism that moved and pulsed in a myriad of flutterings and subtle vocalizations. Avian calls sounded from the green depths, and ever around and beneath him were the quiet chitterlings of the insects tending to their labors. Vines bulged and creaked from their arborian grasps, another millimeter gained in the eternal living war, their fecund voices low and languid in the humid grasp of the Sacred Mother.
            
Alfred Omega sat in lotus pose within the center of the jungle clearing, his rainbow body shimmering about him in the faintest of neon hues as he floated a few feet above the leaf-strewn floor.  Behind him, a Balinese temple dog, encased in stone, grimaced in eternal, frozen warning to any shadow entities that might approach the temple stairs.  Serenity flowed from Alfred, within the comforting presence of the guardian. His brow creased slightly in quantum meditation, and the hibiscus tree to his side shivered, slowly blossoming, its red flowers tuliping open with collective grace.  Epiphany rippled across the open clearing, golden and clear, and the feel of the fluid bubble was both blood warm and lemonade cool within the conjoined minds of the biomass.  Behind his closed eyes, Alfred smiled internally and pushed the envelope wider, further into the green shadows of the jungle, feeling the cool stone of the temple hidden further within.
            
The sound started low, barely discernible at first, within the muted cacophony of the living forest.  Just as he became aware of it, it curved upwards, stronger, louder, and he could feel the denizens around him gradually quiet at its sudden ascension.  The bassal tone changed, arcing upwards, the feel of it tangible and perceptible, now almost painful,  quickly ascending above the audible range, physically present now, shivering, solely within his mind space. Alfred opened his eyes, extended his legs downward until his feet tingled with the feel of the dry leaves, and marveled at the resonance of the sound beneath and within him. 
            
A single tiny dot flared into being before him, an impossible bright white singularity, and he could hear—no, feel—Reality tearing around it.  The tiny star lurched, quivered and then ballooned into a perfectly spherical arch, its border wreathing into hyperdimensional flames, twisting with impossible hues, scarlet and gold and deep somnambulent purple, and he thought, in a visual flash, of Tibetan Buddhist thankas, wreathing Wrathful deities.  The clear light of the tesseract sphere cleared sharply, and Alfred’s mindscape changed with it, filling instantly and improbably with hyperdimensional musicaethereal tones mixed with a driving beatan ear-worm born from someone else’s mind. The arch-star swirled with twisting color; an image, moving, elongated and curved across its surface.  Through the distortion, he could make out a scene, like a movie from within, projected onto the eye of the tiny sun.  Black movement flared across it, strobed, and an equally improbable figure leapt from the Orb, his war-cry sharp against the press of the jungle. 
            
It was human, and a man, dressed in 21st century garb, tumbling roughly onto the jungle floor.  The man was Caucasian, mohawked, his torso clad in black plasteel armor, paired with a tactical kilt.  Vietnam-era jungle boots clad his feet, and a bronze Celtic torc encircled his neck, and by the way he combat-rolled up and off the ground, he was apparently oblivious to the scene in which he just stepped.  Alfred’s consciousness scanned for a second, and then he recognized him with a start, one finger raised, a salutation on his lips, cut short by a sudden epithet from the man’s mouth.
            
“Motherfuckers!” yelled Owen, thrusting one outstretched hand towards the singularity.  A quick glimpse of the hydrogen tattoo on his chi point, and then the noonday sunlight went black as Light erupted from his palm.  P’TANG!  P’TANG! P’TANG!  Nebulae of blue energy burst forth, retinas shrieking against the brilliance, and the Orb shuddered as they crossed its event horizon, blossoming across its curvature.  Alfred could see the man’s psychic visualization playing within his own mindscreen, the mnemonic source of the blasts, and his brain filled with glimpses of Irwin Allen Martians, half remembered from his childhood.
            
Owen cupped his hand around his mouth and bellowed.

“Vee! Vee!  Get your ass outta there!”  Red beams leapt from the singularity as in answer, and he ducked quickly beneath them, as the trees behind him exploded in showers of flaming bark.  “Vee!  Tactical retreat!  Direct fucking order! NOW!”
            
The singularity blazed and buckled again, and a naked woman leapt from it, her black hair streaming behind her as she somersaulted in mid-air, landing in warrior pose.  Her skin was bright red, her lithe dakini body clad only in a gleaming body-necklace of diamonds and skulls, and she held a single long weapon in her outstretched arma golden spear, humming, alive with frenetic energy.
            
“Get down.  This is going to be danger close,” she growled, leveling the spear at the star before them, her three eyes grimacing closed.  The three dorjes at the end of the spear spun up, the same penetrating sound as the singularity, while Alfred and Owen turned away instinctively as the heat washed over them.
            
SOUND
            
LIGHT
            
BLAST
            
Sharp silhouette of the shadows behind them, flash-lasered into the trunks of the jungle.  A long burbling stream of golden plasma, and a glimpse of Her as she wielded the spear on her hip, like a belt-fed machine gun.  Alien distort screams from within the singularity, keening wails of something both alive and mechanical being burnt to its soul.  A robotic tentacle, oil-black, so dark that it seemed to be the antithesis of the light upon which it curled, issued from the surface of the portal, writhing, and something began to emerge from the strobing fluid light, a single red eye, unblinking, carved and bulging from its malignant hull.  She cocked her hip to the side and moved the arc-fire across the curved portal, burning the obscenity back into the Void, even as more emerged. 
            
“Close it!  Close it!  There’s too many of them!”  She called to him over her shoulder.  Owen rolled onto his side, thrusting his arms at the gateway, palms blazing, and as he closed his eyes to concentrate, Al could see his hydrogen chakra come online, blue-white, projecting through his sweat-streaked forehead. 
      
“Hurry!”  She was insistent now, desperate, still putting down suppressive fire, silhouetted in the strobing gout of plasmafire, and he grunted in return, rising to his feet, his arms bulging with effort, forcing his volition onto the gateway, squashing the portal back down into the sub-atomic.
            
Noise one second, and unearthly silence the next. Here one second, and never existed the next.  Owen collapsed on the ground, chest heaving.  The jungle paused, waiting for the punchline, and twittered questioningly around them.  She plonked the spear upright, wiped her brow, and swore under her breath.  Humidity, sweat, and the sharp nasal twang of ozone filled the air.
            
Al shuffled his feet slightly, unsure of how to proceed.  He coughed once, politely.  “Um, hi there,”  he offered.
            
Owen looked up over his chest, steam rising from his armor, as he lay on the ground and smiled sheepishly back at him.  The red-skinned woman whirled, body-necklace sparkling, and leveled her spear at him, her precisely beautiful face grimacing in a snarl.
       
“Oh hey Al.  How’s it going?  Sorry bout all that.” Owen waved one tired hand at the woman.  “It’s cool, Vee.  He’s a friend.”  She relaxed slowly, her three eyes blinking at him as she raised the spear away from him.
       
Al walked over to him and offered a hand, helping Owen to his feet.
      
“So.......what was all that about?”  said Al. 
      
“Hmmm. Ha.”  replied Owen.  “That was...uh...zotyl.  Basically. Y’know, shadow selves.  Negative projections from the Id and all that.  My personal view of them, anyway.  Consciousness made material, etcetera.  At least, they are zotyl as I see them.”
            
“Hmm, interesting.”  said Al. “ I was getting mental visions of Martians, war of the worlds, that kind of thing.  Maybe a little bit of the Matrix movies.  Sentinels?”
     
Owen looked down, thinking.  “Yeah, that makes sense.  Memes and images from my past, mixed with Id dynamics and projected into the Real.  Standard Jungian-Einstein paradigm.  Been a big problem lately, with this new noetic reality.  Vee and I have been battling them for some time now.....”
       
“Vee?”asked Al, inquisitively
      
“Yeah, Vee—oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced you. Where are my manners?”  Owen chuckled to himself, and then swept one hand towards her.  “This is Vajrayogini, my....uh.....’assistant’.”
       
“Assistant my ass!  I just saved your bacon, in case you hadn’t noticed...”  Vajrayogini sauntered up to the two, brushing her hand back over her long black hair, straightening her barrette of skulls back into place.  “How you doin’, Al?  Pleased ta meetcha!”
      
Her diamond and skulls body-necklace swung against her, catching for a long second against one taut nipple, chiming with tiny musical notes from within the jewels.  She smiled intently with sharp white teeth and offered her hand to Al.  He shook it carefully, the feel of her skin fever hot in his palmbut, closing his eyes, he could sense that beneath it was something else, an electricity, a sense of steel binary intellect, of something...digital, and artificial.
      
He opened his eyes, and she had changed. She was thicker, curvy, clad in an elaborate dress of stone, gold and dyed fabric, her hair topped by a heavy crown of jewels.  She looked familiar, and with a start he realized that she had become the living aspect of the statue that he had seen the day before, in the temple at Puru Ganang.
            
She was Kali.

Owen thothed the answer to him, his voice whispering in the corner of Al’s mind, entangled with the mental image of his labradorite pendant, glimmering with subtle mother-of-pearl light within its depths. 
            
Yes, she’s artificial.  An artificial consciousness, to be exact, hyper-dimensionally projected from the oracle stone on my necklace.  Her incarnation is being affected by your consciousness—reinterpreted.  A wireframe diagram irised into being within Al’s mindscape, pinpointed, arrowed and delineated with thought-text in hallucinogenic purple mind light, animating the quantum noetics behind the technology, and he understood instantly, thothing the answer back.
      
Of course, it’s Clarke all the way.  Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”   The thought was synchronistic, shared, unvoiced by either specific person, and progressed exponentially in OneMind.  It was a conversation in images, feelings, emotions—more intuited than transmitted or receiveda dialogue that transcended linear words and conversation.
      
Sorry to intrude, but I thought you would dig the visuals.  Portals and gateways.  She is the evolution of the Kundalini Suit, a conscious projection of my visualized Sacred Feminine, just as the ‘zotyl’ are the spontaneous acausal manifestation of elements of my dark energy Self.  The psycho-physical, created at the subatomic level. The spiritual parable continues, superpositional.  Samsara and Nirvana are the same holographic illusion, separated only by perspective and scale. Infinite existence is, first and foremost, infinite entertainment. Mother is maw. Hunger is holy, because everything is food, and eating is all there is. The singularity of consciousness matches the singularities of the Universe, both transcending the mundane, and leading back to the greater Reality at the ‘beginning’ and the ‘end’.
       
“Boys, I know you’re having a meeting of the minds n all, but is there anywhere around here that a girl can get a drink?” Vajrayogini’s voice was loud in comparison to the unspoken conversation, and they started at the sound of it.  She flickered and blinked, morphing back from Kali mode into her default setting.
       
“Um, I think there’s a tiki bar down on the beach, past the temple...” said Al, one arm pointing back into the verdant green. “It’s nice.  Not too far of a walk....”
       
“Groovy,” intoned Vajrayogini, and she pushed past them into the brush, swinging her triune spear jauntily onto her shoulders. “C’mon, I got drinking to do!  You boys can talk on the way....”  She trailed one graceful hand across the face of the stone temple dog as she sauntered past. 
       
Al and Owen looked at each other, grinning.  “I can turn her off, y’know.”  said Owen.  “De-res her back into the oracle, if you want.  Or lower the avatar setting.  She can be a bit much in this incarnation, I know.”
       
“No, no.  She’s an interesting visualization.  A day-dreamed goddess, created by man, with all the foibles of a real woman. Provocative!”  replied Al, expansively.
       
“Thanks, Al!  Oh, and thanks for giving me a hand back there.  ‘Course, I had it all under control...pretty much.” Owen guffawed and slapped an arm around Al’s shoulders.  
      
Al smiled back at him wisely.  “I’m sure you did—and you know I don’t like to get involved in other people’s drama. I was reasonably confident that you would find a way out of your karmic battle...eventually.”
      
“Mmm...”said Owen, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. “Good philosophy.  Yeah, I’ve been working on reducing negativity myself, and not always as vividly as that firefight.  So what’s new with you?  And where are we?  Is this a heaven realm that you created?”
            
“No, I can't take credit for this.  It’s Earth—Bali, to be precise.  It’s 2015baseline 21st century, in case you were wondering.  I’m on vacation, actually.”
            
“Ah!  Still Pre-Event, then.  Damn it. I know I’m superpositional and all, but linear time is just so damn...limiting.  Still, it makes for a good retreat in a pinch.” said Owen.
           
“Of course.  That’s why we write.  One spell-chants the reality that we need, beyond the stillborn Now, dreaming the long-denied portal into existence, until the portal slips through us and the transcendent Dream spells our sleepwalking gnosis into timeless Being.  The Void dreams within us, just as we dream, fitfully, within its star-crossed womb.”  Al looked at him intently, his eyes sparking, wreathed with wisdom.
          
“Haha!” laughed Owen.  “I love it!  Sooooo, how bout that drink?  I could use a margarita.  Or three. And if we’re not careful, she’ll wreck the joint before we even get there!  Uh, unless you want to go back to your meditation.”
           
“Hmm, well, that moment has passed, for now.  No matter; the jungle will wait.  A retreat to the comfort of alcohol it is, then!” replied Al.  “Besides, I’m interested in what you think about the Large Hadron Collider coming back online in conjunction with the Super Moon Eclipse, at the midpoint of the Blood Moon Tetrad.  It’s tomorrow, y’know...”
           
“Oh wow, so we’re back at that point!  Yeah, that’s an important gateway.  It’s also the Spring Equinox, and if I remember correctly, there’s a very unusual geomagnetic storm raging at the same time. Things are getting interesting...”
          
The two moved towards the stone stairway, heads bowed in conversation as they picked their way over the tree roots.  Behind them, jungle life slowly muttered and clicked its way back into its rain forest soliloquy.
            
The drumbeat heart of the forest returned, drowsy in the afternoon heat, the shadows lengthening slowly with the humid passage of the sun high above.  It was much later, in the deep twilight, with no human eyes to mark its birth, that the single point of light sparked into being—ZZAP—and began its slow, drunken path through the leaves.
           
Toward the beach.   


















Click Here To Read
THE MEMORY SECTOR
by Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking

  




1 comment:

  1. Here's a kinetic story that puts an electric finish on my soul! Finding one's self tipped into a fiction of surreal, intercalated events interrupts the verbal energy of one's own narrative! Identity grinds to a halt for a rhetorical instant, and one is fixed within the lyric compression of the telling: "until the portal slips through us and the transcendent Dream spells our sleepwalking gnosis into timeless Being." I am transported beyond the decimal point circumference of my personhood! Kudos, Owen!

    ReplyDelete

Archive of Stories
and Authors

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.

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's
THE RECIDIVIST



Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's
THE MEMORY SECTOR

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
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.

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.

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.

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.


David Agranoff's
A PLANET OF YOUR OWN


David Agranoff's
THE FALLEN GUARDIAN'S
MANDATE


David Agranoff is the author of the
short story collection Screams From
A Dying World, just published by
Afterbirth Books. 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. David's latest
books include the Wuxia -Pan
(martial arts fantasy) horror
novel called Hunting The Moon Tribe,
already out from Afterbirth Books.;
The Vegan Revolution...with Zombies,
[Deadite Press, 2010]; and
[Deadite Press, 2014]

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.


Johnny Strike's
AS YOU WISH



Johnny Strike's
NIGHT FLAMERS



Johnny Strike's
THE HOMELESS MUTANTS



Johnny Strike will beat you with his guitar
and leave you lying in the gutter wishing you
had never dared enter his under ground world
of fake passports, lucky amulets, rain soaked
hotels, and occult mystique. If you don't leave
nice comments under his story, he's sure to sic
his band CRIME on you. He also wrote the novel
Ports Of Hell (Headpress), recommended by
William S. Burroughs. You don't receive kudos
from William Lee himself unless you are the
epitome of cool. Besides, have you listened to
CRIME's album Exalted Masters? It was
released in 2007 on the Crime Music label,
on vinyl only, featuring a slew of their old
rare hits. Its real punk music from seasoned
veterans. Now go track yourself down a copy
before its out of print. The Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction is proud to host the story
that contains the line which titles his first
From Above (Rudos and Rubes).


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 -



Icy Sedgwick's
THE PORCELAIN WOMAN


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
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.


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.


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.


K.B. Updike, Jr's
THE GOLDEN THIRD EYE


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.)