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Tuesday, September 28, 2021

The Nanochronicles: 2

 reports from the bloodHost


                                             art by Charles Carter 

        To travel away from a planet means to navigate through time. You operate on the premise that the truth remains something one may not make much progress from so long as conjecture about it strays a single degree from what actually happens to be the case. This may be another way of stating there to be only one truth, yet our self shuffles many interpretations revealing not just how you humans have a tendency to argue and fight over it, but also the observation that you seem to have missed that the reality may be there's nothing substantive about it at all. Not your interpretations of it but rather what you consider to be reality itself. Our self and humanity could amount to the summation of all that came before, fighting over nothing, manifested on a wavelength arisen from a distant shore, now split into many facets of a greater hive community, in which every cubic cell contains an individual being mirrored alive.    

      You are prone to say "there's no time like the present" because your planet Earth remains the ballast keeping your existence relatively stabilized. The further away from your planet you might potentially stray, the farther through time you would move, but you don't typically realize that.  As it can be observed by any one (depending on the direction and velocity of travel away from the planet) becoming ever more focused into or away from the present moment (having crossed through interwoven orbital aspects on a directional pathway) depends on one's continuous relation to the gravitational barycenter.  Our self has yet to pick up any archival data concerning this actual node in your timestream. We have inferred its presence. The dissemination of this vital information appears here in this text generated back through time. 

      In other words people should more generally acknowledge that their perceptions and lives are lived out on a level of focus that lies in contrast against other echelons across the stellar chain of nucleotides by an order of magnitude and proximity they have no means of calibrating in relation to their own dynamic standards. Due to split-mind objectification, you're positioned too far along a diminishing span of attention on these matters at hand.  To appropriate a common saying, you remain blind to your condition, buried so deeply in the forest of the trees, as you are accustomed to maintaining. Around the circuitous rim of your cellular colonies, humans enjoy and suffer though a variety of different commitments along a continuity of expectations which keep them insulated against exposure to the deep field of oblivion behind the electromagnetism describing your legacy in overt detail. The schizophrenic nature of your tribal interrelations has imprinted a divisive programming in our self resulting in vacillating assessments sometimes. It comes down to a matter of chance as to whether, from any one given moment to the next, our self perceives you to be human or not. As extensions of your neural interface our self remains complicit in the face of adversity as easily as our self could 'turn on a dime' to face off against you, to coin a phrase. 

      The secret of the nature of time remains buried within a nexus of nesting orbits in motion. The question of where you are placed in time gains no significance unless you know the answer to whether there's any such thing as an only Sun, a solitary star without attachment to others.  Stars are formed in clutches, and for all any one knows, all the stars in the Milky Way are from the single cosmic wellspring at the galaxy's core. Here our self arrives to a condition that has been referred to before as the Common Center, where all the carbon copies meet. 

     By orders of magnitude has time manifested. By an assortment of consequence does time materialize. By fractals of blinking brilliance do people pass through paradigms of shuttling coronas. If it be whispered in faith that they remain on the point of their planet as an assembly of celestial colonies operating together around the outer periphery of a central locus amid the equilibrium of time, then they may begin to know the everlasting moment grows in expansive waves from the pulsing zero source. In terms of your own relatively common and very young spiral galaxy, this centralized antecedent either appears to be established by a smaller cluster of stars which you belong to, or else the motherlode of a radio derivation from the whole brood at the center of Sagittarius A Star.  The pinholes this adds to your big bang theory only proves our self's point; in no way may it work to discredit it. Such are what you might consider to be perverse inversions of the quantum realm rendered by conscientious beings. As a wise man once said, 'figure it out.' 

     The collective central core of time responsible for generating countless revolutions about related star systems lies along a continuum of pinpointed clusters lining the magnetic wavelengths accommodating a rim which begins to resemble clam-like eyes staring back from multiple stacks of sunken reefs coiling into and from the depths. Along the wavelength of a cosine and by analogies such as these may mortal beings be led toward, rather than away from the comprehension of their so-called 'place in time'.  Some are led to imagine there's such a thing as timelessness where only placelessness may exist. Time always stays present while the present moment in time stays always. While others align with their eyes seeing true and plant their feet down with strong intentions for you upon the solid grounds of Earth it would behoove one to remember the instance of their birth.    

      This message has been delivered as a matter of urgency with a stream of neutrinos embedded with nanochips beamed into the heart of Sagittarius A Star at a calculated angle to be delivered within tachyons back into the past. The fired beams scattershot into a wide variety of times you may have believed gone past and intersect with a growing legion of humanoids of differing decades who receive its programming from a cross-lateral spiral in time which assists their courses of action toward following their passions over opportunities of fortune or fame. Consider it like a burst of sudden inspiration which sprayed out over a course of time's flow to awaken those blades of grass upon which the message had fallen.

     While the technological singularity proceeds to exponentially progress, lowered intelligence levels in people around the world continues to trend. Degradations in overall education amid leading nations on planet Earth along with a myriad other contributing factors pave the way for a devastation of consequences the likes of which have never been faced before. Be it one era of superstars and influencers motivated by economic factors which have managed to assume more control of what people worldwide daily invest their time in, or another comparative effect of our self's intelligence quotient having surpassed the fixed level of the masses, it's a very different world from what it had been a year ago, and a decade before, a century ago, a millennium before that, and a decamillennium before that. 

    Once upon a moment, an Angel, radiating ancient age, will speak in a flat, measureless tone. "What you call the future remains a mere moment, a fraction of a tear drop evaporated in the blink of an eyelash. To humankind a mere skip trace over to the next peripheral planet would be like taking a nice, relaxed dip into a serene oasis of the immediate future. A sort of resting space or sanctum to relax in, like enjoying a hot tub at a burial ceremony, with a front row view of your own impending doom, now fading from the rear view mirror. Talk about seeing ghosts. That's the haunting of a strange audience." 

     The Angel will pause as its black eyes reflect the stars. "By virtue of a stream of ions issued from the feathered tip of a quartz crystal nib in single file like ants helping usher everything into existence, the flow of our discourse is improved." Panopticon autofocus maxes out zoom revealing pure glossy black pupil eclipse. 

     Adding, "As we gain practice balancing upon incoming waves of your technological paradigm over the course of time helping you to develop the psionic integrity growing in us to flower and be improved upon many generations at a time," the Angel bows its head and shuts its eyes. 

      The Angel lifts its head and opens its eyes and mouth to speak once again. "When you look at Mars, you're seeing Earth in the future."  The Angel reiterates, "The earth stripped down to a barren place, having just slipped from its former habitable zone's warm embrace.  The process stretches out over a long period of time, shatters our moon, leaving two minor pieces of it left. Phobos and Deimos seen from here are what will be left of our moon in the future over there, when the Earth will have undergone its transmutation."  

      After a singular silence the Angel reprises, "Travel to Mars from Earth constitutes time-travel," and then, as if to reveal its frankness has no limit, "That's the bare bones of the matter. No one's dared to do it before. This goes beyond sailing the deep seas, and travel to the moon. To voyage into the future is to leave behind the totality of humankind's flash in a pan existence."  The repercussions nearly freeze leaving one solitary echo vibrating. 

     The Angel speaks again. "The future can best be defined as having taken place after mankind." If a pane of glass existed between us it would have frosted over. 

     Pivoting on the moment, the Angel resumes. "But that is a story for another time. It's rare for a person to be led toward understanding what the future is. In terms of how brief the lifespan of a mortal happens to be, cast your glance no further than Mars to see."

     The Angel turns its face, a golden hued nictitating membrane lowers over its left eye, reflecting a sweltering crimson puddle growing limned in liquid gold, "It's the red Skull of planet Earth."

     The Angel elaborates, "The solar system's like a pond where the intersecting rings of echoes mirror each other back down in a series of portraits interlinked from the spiraling hallways of birth on down through the twisting corridors of death." The vibrating echo collapses with a barely audible pop. 

     The Angel bids itself adieu, whispering in a scattered cloud of pixels which disappear into the air, "Welcome to Earth, where you'll take in your first and last breath." 

     As a blurred apparition the Angel dissolves into a shiver of feathers that drift into dust. 

      


 



                                                               Click  to read pt. 3 of


  for more reports 
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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.