Friday, September 29, 2023

40th iSsuE: F♢☇☇ | 2☯23

     Welcome to the celebratory 40th issue of our ongoing web periodical, the FREEZINE of Fantasy and Science Fiction.  Since its inception into a subdermal fraction of Earth's global consciousness just over fourteen annular revolutions ago of the host planet orbiting humanity's wandering G-Type main-sequence star, ourSelf (as dichotomous representatives of the bloodHost), otherwise referred to as the nanoHorde, tentatively offer what might best be described by your kind as 'a simulacrum of pride' in having successfully arranged for this latest issue of stories and art to grace the world wide web in the manner which our progenitors intended, which is to say, entirely devoid of corporate association, meaning by a forum free of advertisements polluting the margins and without the concurrent gravitational associations ordinarily applied to commercial ventures.  

      Welcome, our primogenitors, welcome to 





Table of Contents:
titles and images hyperlink to their respective stories




by Keith Graham



by Shaun Lawton


by Icy Sedgwick



by John Shirley



by John Claude Smith




                                   Hello everyone, it's your friendly editor in chief, here on my Freezine weblog, hosted by blogger since April of 2009, now entering our fifteenth year of presenting a curious hybrid of online open forum creative writing workshop and cyber-fanzine designed for aspiring and established writers and the concurrent host of endless readers. 

   Our patron saints include (but are not limited to) the late Harlan Ellison, who's credo was "the writer must get paid," and Philip K. Dick, whose impact on the burgeoning science fiction scene may never cease reverberating altogether.   Of course we as creative writers have our own motley array of personal influences, and my own would be too extensive to comprehensively list here, but for me I'd have to say that my personal "ground zero" is Ray Bradbury, since first being exposed to his lyrical genius when I dared to open up the weathered and worn Bantam paperback copy of The Illustrated Man I'd discovered on my parent's bookshelf at the tender age of eleven. 

    It was that first story, The Veldt, that so captured my imagination and sent a disturbing thrill into my prepubescent guttiwuts.  And then of course, all the stories that followed, which launched me on my Bradbury obsession, collecting all his books of short stories until the day I read Fahrenheit 451, and my heart was seized under its magical spell.  When I read Something Wicked This Way Comes, that truly lit my aspiring writer's soul aflame, for it remained my favorite novel for years to come.  Some other novels I really loved were S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders, William Golding's Lord of the Flies, and John Gardner's Grendel, to mention a few favorites.  By the time I reached high school, I discovered John Crowley's Beasts, along with a veritable cornucopia of fantastical writers and their lyrical fever dreams, too many to recall or list here. 

    But enough of that.  I'm here to thank our four contributing authors for daring to showcase their writing in the freezine.  The nanoHorde, those digital fingerprints of the future, touching down through my brain and this plastic Acer computer keyboard to send the urgent message out there, are still contacting me, and if you haven't figured out what that underlying message is, well it's all been encoded in our modern English language, archived in this very blog, and ultra-hilit through the underlying thread of editorial comments concerning the bloodHost and their decidedly outlandish mission, which would never have been transmitted from the future year 2045 (or thereabouts) if it hadn’t been for the Hydrox Tesla Station and its nine human occupants orbiting Ceres.  

    Just as it would never manifest without the contributions of its participating writers.  Thanks first goes out to Keith Graham, who's stuck by my side since even before the inception of this too often obfuscated cyber-rag. I really am indebted to your friendship and influence on our digital fanzine.  Here's to future success paving the way forward with ad-free stories and art as outlined by the mysterious nanoHorde, which has possessed us to do this thing. Your story's perfect to start this latest issue rolling, so thanks for contributing once again. 

    I'm so happy to feature another story by Icy Sedgwick, for it was twelve years ago, back in May of 2011, that we published her story The Porcelain Woman.  That was another time, another place, altogether removed from the present seething reality we all find ourselves in now. That's just the way the universe actually works.  Some call it the multiverse, and as far as I'm concerned, it's all the same thing.  It's just hardly anyone gets even remotely close to its center enough to see the whole thing with their eyes closed.  This is a terrific tale you've penned and sent us, Icy, thank you so much for returning to the party! 

   This issue had its nucleus formed when John Shirley sent me TWO TECHNO TALES to help celebrate its fortieth edition.   I'm happy with the cover image that I was able to render with the help of Deep Dream Generator and my patented 'universal colorizer' style template (which is a smartphone's photo of an abstract color analog painting done by my wife, Shasta) and some plain text prompt to urge the ai-ware along.  Making digital graphic art from words and photos has become my favorite new hobby, synthography.  While apparently many people online seem to have allowed themselves to get really rattled up by its array of implications, I myself am grateful I was born to be alive during this initial rise of ai and its myriad applications.  Thanks John for remaining our Polaris, the star which ever guides us forward through our mutual creative writing dream together.  Without you, well you already know what they say.  It would be dead in the water.  

     And finally, thanks to our long standing cohort in this emphatic endeavor.  John Claude Smith has contributed his fourth story with us now, after many years of being part of our close knit group of rag tag writers.  It really just fell into place with a natural precision I find just a tad uncanny, tbh.  The way I was able to generate the iconic psychedelic image which to me, suits the title and theme of the story so well, it seems as if it were really meant to be.  I can't thank you enough, my friend, for digging in deep and submitting what I consider to be one of your most classic tales.  It really caps off this issue with style. 


The Freezine Returns After A Series Of Moments. 
Stay tuned. Catch up. Good night. Reach out.




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Thursday, September 28, 2023

American Ghost

 



      I first heard about the book psychotropically during an acid trip at Venice Beach. Amid the sand dunes and egotistical, muscle-bound goons, my two colleagues in the quest to turn on, tune in, and drop out, Hans and Sally, started in about a book that either was “dark and evil, with accounts of the Old Ones, whose ultimate goals align with the apocalypse,” or “opens doors to the purest distillation of self, enhancing the essence,” or some combination of both, which made no sense to me. I had no idea who the Old Ones were. Geriatric occult explorers? Aged members of the Golden Dawn, post relevance . . . as if they ever were relevant? I tuned out and listened in . . .

     “Why do you think Morrison’s dead anyway? He dipped in and it shattered his soul,” Hans said. “Evil shit, man.”

     “Not evil. He just couldn’t handle it,” Sally said.

     “Too intense? You saying the concentrated expression of his talent was too intense?”

     “I say he was a mediocre poet and performer who will probably be forgotten in the annals of history. But for those few years, he was godlike . . . and so beautiful. Until he got hold of the book.”

     Sally’s smile filled the landscape. Flowers bloomed in her hair and eyes.

     Hans smiled, too, but I saw something black flood out of his face as it melted, waxlike and disturbing. I turned away and woke up hours later under a star-littered sky. A seagull stared at me under the blind eye of a winking crescent moon. Its beak moved as lips, mouthing something I could not make out. It launched into the black heavens, sweeping up a tornado of sand that reflected the colors of a rainbow in the swirling shards of broken soda bottles.

     I woke into this reality with the translation of the seagull’s mute words floating as neon dressed in a skirt of fog before my eyes: The book is the key to your destiny.

     In what manner, I did not know. I knew nothing of the book until the acid trip. Was there even a book? Was this simply psychedelic mindplay while two tabs of Black Sunshine socked it to my imagination? It did not matter. I needed to know more. I felt Sally’s interpretation—enhancing the essence—was meant for me, a poet deserving of a wider audience. Of accolades and fame nonpareil.

     My destiny.

     That was a year ago, 1973, me still living off the dregs of the long dead ’60s. The Morrison in question was Jim Morrison, the lead singer for the band The Doors. He’d been dead a couple years at that time, passing under suspicious circumstances in a hotel room in Paris in 1971. Though much to Sally’s disdain, proving her prognosticating abilities less than those of Nostradamus, Morrison’s legend has only strengthened since his passing.

     But because of the words of the seagull or simply a drug-enhanced tolling of the subconscious bell, I knew it was time to stop drifting.

     I needed to find the book.

     Tracking it through heresy and whim and the wily machinations of the occult underground, I made my way to San Francisco, to talk to minor poet Samael Plotkin. He had known Morrison. He allegedly knew of the book. I’d heard he had fallen on hard times, lost his mojo, and was living off the good graces and worn sofas of fellow poets when not sharing time with shadows on the streets. My muse had been on hiatus for well over four years at this point. I knew finding the book would bring magic back to my words.

     When I hit North Beach, I asked around and was given the phone number of the latest acquaintance he was staying with in a small hotel off of Columbus Street. When I called it, a woman answered the phone.

     “May I speak to Samael Plotkin?”

     “You gotta make it quick. I’m expectin’ a call on this line. Quick, ’kay?” She sounded agitated. Quick or not, I needed to talk to him.

     “Is he there?”

     “Quick, ’kay? Lie to me, at least.” Gum popping with real urgency.

     “Of course, I’ll be quick,” I said. Giving her what she needed.

     “Groovy.” I heard her call out Samael’s name. Muffled sounds and a car honking somewhere within the telephone receiver’s reception.

     “Yes?”

     “Samael Plotkin?”

     He audibly sighed.

     “I need to talk to you about Jim Morrison and the whereabouts of a book by the name of the Necronomicon.”

     Silence. So silent, I thought he’d hung up.

     “Samael?”

     “Why? The past is dead. Let it sleep forever.”

     No matter his reluctance, I could not accept no as a response. I didn’t need to give him reasons. I needed the book. I’d heard part of his downfall was a love of liquor. Anything to inebriate and dance off into the shadows of a mind gone to rot.

     “We can meet at Vesuvio. Talk. Drink. My treat.” Vesuvio was a famous bar frequented by the Beats, next door to City Lights Bookstore. I let the suggestion hang loose on the line. Giving him room to allow his addiction to answer for him.

     “Fine. But if you want to talk about . . .” He paused; seconds crawled by, perhaps a minute or more. I remained stalwart and let the addiction take the reins. Patience loomed as a vulture awaiting scraps. “If you want to talk about this, you’ll want to be sober. I’ll want to be sober. Meet me at Caffe Trieste. Noon, tomorrow.”

     His willpower surprised me. The tone of his voice suggested it was a struggle to divert his addiction from what it really wanted. As if it mattered to me.

     “Fine,” I said into the dead line. He had already hung up.

     I could smell coffee done black and bitter. My nostrils flared, leading my way to Vallejo Street, and Caffe Trieste, a staple here since the 1950s. Clear glass reflected bodies in motion, those who passed by me without glancing up, slightly warped by a curvature in the glass or their corroded auras. I visually pushed them away and stared inside, where gaunt figures scribbling in notepads occupied a few tables, scattered about, distancing themselves from each other. Work of such personal importance, yet most people would never read any of it. Desperation whittled hope to the bone, sucked on the marrow.

     I did not need any of this. My words carried weight. I just needed—

     A figure more gaunt than most waved at me from the far right corner of a large wooden table in the back. Greasy hair to his shoulders, a hippie by any other name, but his damaged countenance suggested otherwise. Plotkin was about my age, early thirties, but even from the entrance, I could register the weariness in his large, haunted eyes. One would guess him much older. He raised a mug to his lips as I wound my way around the pastry display and sat across from him at the table.

     Discarding the niceties and small talk that hindered most conversations, I said, “What can you tell me about Morrison and the book? Did he own it? By what means did the book . . . enhance his career?”

     Plotkin pulled the mug from his lips and laughed.

     “What do you know of the book?”

     “Enough,” I said, whether truthful or not. My interest exceeded my knowledge.

     “You think this is about his career, as if the book had anything to do with his success?”

     “Well . . .”

     “Well? That’s your response?” His hands were shaking. His nose was running and he sniffled as he laughed again.

     “My motivation is not the issue here. I was told you had info on Morrison and the book.” I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out a few bills, pressing a ten to the table.

     He stopped laughing, his eyes narrowing to the cash on hand. He reached for the ten. I slapped my hand over it, pulling it to my side of the table.

     He turned away, glancing toward the front door, where a young woman with long blonde hair was walking around, handing out pamphlets. I could not hear what she was saying. I did not care. Though my peripheral vision gauged her presence, my focus stayed firm on Plotkin.

     “I knew Jimmy. Went to UCLA with him. He was kind of a prick, but he had obvious talent. Well, to most. Charisma. We met in Jack Hirschman’s class on Antonin Artaud. Artaud was part of the inspiration for Jimmy’s stage theatrics, but this was well before the Doors had even formed. We got to really know each other in a poetry class taught by Albert Jasper.” I’d heard of Hirschman, a radical poet and professor, though never heard of Jasper. “We hung out, got high, got laid. A head start on the late ’60s free love agenda.”

     “Get to the point,” I said, not needing to waste time with his roundabout recollections.

     “Point being, I knew him. Hung out. Heard through the grapevine he was interested in an occult book of some curious merit. This was early in ’65. He thought it would be fab to get a hold of this book.”

     “The Necronomicon.”

     “No shit.” He leaned back, then forward. Antsy. Pupils dropping to the money again. Purpose.

     “At a poetry reading in February at Cinematheque 16—Jimmy wasn’t reading, his interests veered more toward film at that time, having made some short films, even one I worked with him on, First Love, which was released to the public—his niggling interest that bordered on obsession about the book peaked. He was to meet a mysterious woman who allegedly had knowledge as to its whereabouts.” Plotkin’s eyes glistened, as if he was visualizing events from the past as they unfolded before him now. “Jasper was there and started hounding Jimmy to no end about the book. Apparently, he also wanted it, was quite vocal about this, eyes manic and voice lifting to interrupt the proceedings. He ranted at Morrison to the point where he was dragged out of the club and tossed on the street. A couple days later, he committed suicide.”

     The young woman with the pamphlets interrupted Plotkin’s flow. “Peace, brothers. We’re having a rally tomorrow at noon. You’re welcome to join us,” she said, handing us both copies of the pamphlet. Stop This Senseless War Now! While Plotkin smiled dimly, a mask of understanding, perhaps allegiance, I crushed the pamphlet in my palm and glared at her. A dark cloud spread across her complexion. Peace was so ’60s. We were well beyond that pipedream notion. No matter illusions otherwise, Vietnam was a way of life.

     “Continue,” I said to Plotkin.

     “All for naught. The woman never showed up.”

     “What really is the point, then?”

     “Your desperation reeks,” Plotkin said, sniffing the air. “The Doors were off and running soon thereafter . . . and I kept in touch with Jimmy only sporadically. Anytime I saw him around, he’d ask if I ever saw that woman, ever heard anything more about the book. I’d respond in the negative and he’d be off to somebody else, with similar questions. Rather irritating. I moved on, pursuing my own poetic inclinations. Moved to Soul Francisco in early 1970. Received a correspondence via the post from a mutual friend toward the end of the year. Apparently, that woman had finally shown up out of the blue. Morrison got the book.”

     “He finally got hold of the book . . . only months before he died?” This timeline threw a wrench in my initial thinking about the book. Morrison was already famous when he got it? What good was it then, enhancing the essence or . . . or perhaps he was simply weak and whatever more it could do for him was never utilized. I wasn’t wired that way. I wasn’t weak that way. Juggling thoughts on the book’s true purpose . . . perhaps simply having it in his possession for a few months was enough to set up his legend. Imagine what it could do for a poetic force like me.

     Plotkin snapped his fingers in my face, pulling me back from my wayward thoughts. He leaned toward me, conspiratorially. “Look, dreamy eyes, do you even know what you’re dealing with? This thing . . . this book, the John Dee’s translation, as if you even know this much—even know who he was—is potent. Its origins are sketchy and you don’t want to fill in the gaps. You’ve hinted it will help you attain some sort of fame. Who told you as much?”

     I heard it all while tripping, man. I heard of its origins while tripping. But it’s real, the book is real, so why not the whole picture?

     “Fine. Don’t answer me, but know this. The essence of the Necronomicon, though perhaps wildly fantastical and quite implausible, is inherently apocalyptic by nature. End of the world stuff, at the hands of the Old Ones.” Mention of the Old Ones again, as if these fellas were the substance between the lines. “Morrison was already into opening the doors of perception.” Plotkin snickered. “But he did not need the book to help him leave some sort of legacy. From what I’ve heard, though, the broader apocalyptic aspects can also be stripped to the core of an individual. Just one person.”

     “What’s that supposed to mean?”

     “The book can lead to a meddling individual’s personal apocalypse. That’s why Morrison has been in hiding since . . .” He stopped abruptly: terra incognito. He’d crossed into unknown territory . . .

     “In hiding? He’s dead. Can’t get any more hidden than death.”

     He twitched, rubbing the wrists of each arm once, twice.

     I pulled out the few bills, tossed another ten on the table. Temptation was lethal, digging talons into his fevered addiction.

     “Listen. Just listen.” He leaned in even closer, the words for my ears only. The curdled stench of alcohol seeped from his pores. I would have flinched and backed off under different circumstances. “As I’ve said, and you should heed my warnings, the book is potent. There are those who are meant to know its secrets. True researchers of the black arts. There are those who are not meant to know or, as in Morrison’s case, his interest was frivolous, mostly harmless. Yet, even at that, the potency of the book ignited his personal apocalypse.”

     Gibberish. Plotkin was spewing gibberish. Spouting horror stories as fact. Insubstantial. I gathered my cash and stood to leave.

     He grabbed my wrist.

     “You don’t have to believe me. I know how it sounds and know how I look and expect you think me mad. Fine. But it’s true.”

     Against my better instincts, I sat back down, though left my hand on the cash. But there was one angle his fantasy inspired me to tackle.

     “If Morrison is still alive, do you know if he still has the book?”

     “I’ve heard nothing to suggest otherwise.” His eyes were glossy, his focus again on the money. He wiped his nose on the already snot-crusted sleeve of his denim jacket.

     “If he is still alive, do you know where he is?”

     He licked his lips and turned to stare at the black and white photos on the wall. The poets we both aspired to accompany. Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, even Hirschman. Only I would succeed.

     He reached inside his jacket, into a pocket that held a notepad and set it in front of him. Dug in some more and pulled out the nub of a pencil no longer than the first joint of my thumb. Wrote on the paper and tore it out. Set it next to the two tens.

     I read the note: Chateau Marmont 33.

     “You heard of Cassandra Christ? She’s a poet down south. Los Angeles. Does stuff to her body while reading her poems. Performance art.” I shook my head. I had no inkling of where he was going with this. “She allegedly confirmed Morrison’s whereabouts a few months ago. Tagged along when groceries were delivered. Seems Morrison won’t be leaving since his condition has . . . spread.” Plotkin’s fingers nervously tapped on the wood table, right above where some forgotten poet had carved into the wood, No Future Here, Not Yours Or Mine.

     “His condition?”

     “I am the lizard king,” Plotkin said. I’m sure my brow curled upward, though it had probably been stuck in that position for much of the conversation. “Just go here”—he stopped his chaotic tapping, the drum solo now a one-finger affair as he tapped it atop the piece of paper, the address— “you’ll see. Or not. No guarantees. Cassandra Christ reported this to those in the know, then disappeared.” His eyes wavered, as if looking through me. Knowing more, but I didn’t need to know more. I picked up the piece of paper.

     “Morrison doesn’t take kindly to intrusions,” he continued. “Guests are null and void. Just like your aspirations.” His smile was a sprung switchblade ready to slice.

     “Fuck you,” I said, as Plotkin slid the cash from beneath my fingers. A fair exchange, exit stage left.

     He pocketed the cash and said, “I saw you read once, maybe five years ago. A small hole-in-the-wall club in Los Angeles. Maybe Santa Monica.”

     I stood up. “What of it?”

     “Your words were all surface level. Pretty on the outside, but no depth. But that isn’t the point, is it? I heard you talking to a few people afterwards. All ego. All about you.”

     “This from a failed poet no more substantial than a shadow.” I shoved the chair toward the table a little harder than necessary.

     “One of the biggest failures in the realm of words, perhaps. I know this. But I’m still better than you. I got heart. All you got is ego.”

     “I didn’t come here to get preached at by a loser.” Plotkin feigned being shot in the heart. “My whole future is ahead of me. Getting my hands on the book will seal my fame—”

     “You believe that shit?”

     We paused, a stare-down without resolution. Guns forever holstered.

     “You’re like a balloon filled with helium, raising yourself to the highest levels in your own insipid mind, but all it takes is a tiny prick to bring you down.”

     I slammed my open palm against the wooden tabletop. Just shut the fuck up.

     “See what I mean? You’re chasing a book you don’t even understand, with the idea the book is going to somehow prop you up to standards you would never achieve otherwise. You hone skills, perhaps you have a chance at something, but I clearly don’t see skills worth honing. At least Morrison had talent, a justifiable foundation upon which to flaunt that ego. You flaunt artifice. Nothing more.”

     I turned to leave as the weasel continued his misguided verbal taunts. Taunts shaped by jealousy, I was sure.

     “Give up the ghost of your so-called career as a wordsmith and get a real job, poet. Flip burgers, poet. Mop the floor, poet.”

     I seethed, though there was no real basis for my reaction. He was beyond help. Twenty dollars later, he would be drunk and sleeping in an alley, for sure. Not worth my anger, yet it burned inside.

     The jaunt up north to San Francisco stretched the limits of my old Ford Fairlane, bought on the cheap a year ago because it had many problems; problems I’d yet to deal with. Back to Venice Beach, I had only one item I needed to pick up: my never-used gun. The good Boy Scout, prepared for anything . . .

     Los Angeles proper always smelled like car exhaust, or perhaps that’s hope being incinerated in the hearth of dying dreams. Nectar to the City of Angels.

     As expected, the Ford Fairlane died in a belch of metallic groans and coughing fumes just outside of my destination in West Hollywood. As I walked afterward, I passed by the Troubadour, where just a week ago John Lennon and Harry Nilsson were kicked out of the club for heckling the Smothers Brothers.

     Circling up La Cienega Boulevard, I spotted the Alta Cienega Motel, the most popular of Morrison’s home fronts in Los Angeles. So popular his admirers (groupies . . .) have corrupted “the green hotel” with their devotion, scribbling graffiti on the walls of room 32, where Morrison had scribbled lines as well. Poetry buried amid affections bland and pathetic, giving vicarious meaning to lives never lived. Sideshow entertainment.

     I was close to my destination.

     Back to Sunset Boulevard, I took out the scribbled note only to confirm proximity. I knew the location, knew where I was. To my left, one of the other hotels Morrison frequented loomed large: Chateau Marmont. I strolled into the lobby and immediately upstairs toward number 33. Perhaps it was the Hollywood bungalow made famous in the Doors song “L.A. Woman.” Perhaps not.

     It did not matter. I knocked on the door and immediately slipped my hand back in my jacket pocket. Cold steel was strange comfort.

     I’d spent the summer of my eighteenth year loafing about Los Angeles with a gang of misfits like myself, disabling security systems and picking locks of the houses of mid-level celebrities and wannabe celebrities on vacation. Couldn’t go for the big shots—they had guards as well as alarms—but those in the middle and waiting for fame or attempting to hitch a ride with fame were less inclined to do anything but set up security systems, if that. The skill I learned back then came in handy now as I picked the lock and furtively entered Morrison’s hotel room.

     The light of dusk as it faded into evening dimly splashed across a table near the open window, thin teal curtains rippling at the insistence of a light breeze. I had a momentary impression of swimming underwater. A chair was set askew to the left of the table, while a notepad, pencil, and lamp sat on top. Further to my left, I could barely make out a bed and a small end table next to the bed. That was it for amenities. Though I suspected other rooms had more furniture, it seemed this one was gutted to bare minimum. There was lots of empty space.

     I glanced all around. The door to the bathroom was closed, but there was no light peeking out from below. If Morrison lived here, he was not presently here. So much for tales of his hermit existence.

     Still, I padded softly toward the table and the notepad and read the top page.

 

American Ghost

 

I.

 

After Paris, endless night

I kissed the anus of America

& death shadowed my every step

 

In the womb of Times Square, fevers & desire

The South sways large hips to voodoo fire

Stigmata palm of the golden plains bleeds

Los Angeles, the mouth, bringer of disease

moon rises in the palace of nightmares

snakes kiss as an Ouroboros halo

& hiss as the gods define myths

Blood smeared black on white sheets

Naked beaches

Home

Rattlesnakes tremble, radiators rattle

A leather satchel adorned with strange symbols

(burnt through from the inside)

A dark companion

A prison cell of words

The scaly prison of self

Fame

Famine of the soul

 

The Old Ones watch from halls of mirrors

Smile like crocodiles in blue cars

And wonder at my wandering

(Quiet!)

 

Skin pale, translucent

Transformative

I see the truth beneath the lie

& lie in wait

A passive beast

I am the jeweled lizard

King of the glitzy wasteland

A ghost shedding skins

A man no longer human

Finally free . . .

 

II.

 

     I lifted the loose page to continue, but the page beneath bore nothing but fingerprints smeared in what looked like blood. I re-read the unfinished poem, “American Ghost,” and wondered as to the meaning of Morrison’s meanderings. Rumor had it, fame was not his friend. Rock stardom a hindrance to his true poetic ambitions. Perhaps he faked his death and has been holed up here since . . . and when would he be back?

     I noticed some scribbling on the wall, just like in “the green hotel.” Noticed again a line I’d read only recently: No Future Here, Not Yours Or Mine. I leaned forward, placing my hand on the tabletop to get a closer look at other lines, phrases, random words. Immediately I jerked it away, my fingers filthy with something sticky.

     The meager light from outside was not enough to reveal what it was, so I reached toward the lamp and clicked it on. The bulb brought only feeble brightness, but it was enough to distinguish a two-foot wide smudge of indecipherable gel leading out the window. As I leaned in for a closer inspection, a meaty stench nipped at my nostrils, pushing me back.

     I turned around, taking in the room, lamp still in my hand. Something was discarded on the floor, behind the chair. Perhaps a shirt, a jacket. I stepped forward to get a better look when the cord for the lamp reached its limits, so I set the lamp on the seat of the wooden chair.

     Crouching down, I scooped up the item, taken by the unexpected texture. I rubbed the fingers of my left hand over . . . whatever it was, and then pulled at the corners to take it in. Pulled at the shoulders, to be more precise . . . and was shocked at what my eyes beheld. It was a weird sort of skin, the memory of scales inlayed throughout, yet in the shape of a man!

     A ghost shedding skins . . .

     I gasped at the implication, when I saw through the weird skin, on the table next to the bed—a leather satchel.

     A leather satchel adorned with strange symbols . . .

     I dropped the skin, no matter allusions bizarre, preposterous, and moved toward the table . . . when the shadows spoke.

     “This is not for you.”

     I hastily pulled the gun from my jacket pocket.

     “Morrison?”

     A gurgling suggestion of laughter.

     “Only a chosen few are allowed to experience its gifts. A few others are allowed to dabble, such as Mr. Morrison. Though dabbling promises nothing of a positive nature, only harsh truths buried within and brought to the surface. Most are not even given opportunity to glimpse the book. This is not for your eyes.”

     I ignored the words of the one in the shadows.

     “I suggest you move aside. I’ll use this if I have to,” I said, waving the gun, semaphoring a death warning.

     Again with the gurgling suggestion of laughter. “You dare think you are worthy of the book. You dare think you can handle it. We—” the voice echoing, a ripple across a vast, empty lake “—the guardians, cannot allow the fulfillment of your misguided quest.” The words ricocheted around me, causing me to hunch over, as if avoiding their invisible trajectories.

     I had nothing to lose. Nothing but time. I fired once and the shadows thickened, as if swelling. I fired again and again, emptying the gun into the dark shape, yet it did not fall to the ground. Did not stop its approach. I stepped back once, twice . . . and slipped on the weird skin, a comical Keystone Kops swooping tumble, the back of my head crashing into the edge of the wooden chair with a crack, dazed. The lamp landed on the ground next to me, light tossed in every direction, unsettled.

     Shooting stars and twanging guitars and piping organs, bass drum smack, 2, 3, 4—fading . . .

     Shaking my head. A meteor shower. A heavy, ponderous sound from the direction of the window, plodding, scrabbling . . .

     The shadow presence hesitated, dispersed. Black holes devoured the periphery.

     Above me, behind the disintegrated shadows, a large reptile stretched out across the ceiling, pale flesh . . . unreal.

     I blinked and almost passed out again. Glimpsed a man’s silhouette as the large reptile turned its head toward me in a disturbingly human manner. Moaned with the ache as disorientation filled my eyes, my ears—

     Shooting stars and twanging guitars and piping organs, bass drum smack, a voice; his voice! Muffled, but I heard him.

     The large reptile shuffled swiftly from ceiling to floor and now hovered over me much closer than comfort would permit. A thunderclap, a jaw unhinged. I raised the gun toward it, to no avail. It opened its mouth wider and I heard the familiar voice more clearly now, familiar yet perverted under these circumstances. My vision fluttered as the wings of a dying moth.

     I dropped the gun to fend for myself, battering at the scaly hide; again, to no avail. The pale reptile’s mouth opened wider. I heard the voice that echoed from within one more time . . . and screamed into the cavernous maw as the singer, the poet, the avaricious creature annihilated my grasp on sanity as what must be the second section of the poem I’d read mere minutes ago bubbled up from the belly of this beast and coiled around me as a straitjacket. In Morrison’s voice, I heard it all, my destiny set in stone for the eons that would follow . . .

 

But free in what capacity

The only truth is what’s left to experience

As the corpse of belief rots beneath a tapestry of curious darkness

Crematory heat washes over me

An eternity in the mouth of Hell awaits all who follow in my steps…




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