tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26020949581375889172024-03-15T19:12:57.300-06:00the FREEZINE of Fantasy and Science Fiction <br>
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M♢☈☾♄ | 2♾24
<br> shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.comBlogger583125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-85449451371868159862024-03-14T13:46:00.002-06:002024-03-14T13:48:03.220-06:00The Pathogen Nursery <i><span style="font-family: georgia;">by <a href="https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/plasmatales">Shaun Lawton</a></span></i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="893" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_RLUT5Fn68u-ccZFZySNHbtLJBVFcgSPKvCDiO3g7UnmYcYbxrE7BE_LpW7qKsj9i16fQnTvX0ts6QPzfWMT-d8rW2Ed5uE5OM9b9ZQc_-dktYrleRMv6rT2kQgQaqcDM7diI6kZEpp0QJ-Y98HKo6Pps0lBUAVxA45ab-PDzoyScPE79DFzoiBS57M/w640-h480/6ai8ma_c1d0048837c2a9a0899caf07138c39c88988145b.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"> Arthur Blair could not have foreseen the actual consequences of the world he seeded. Though instrumental in providing the necessary fertilizer for autocratic dynasties the world over to subsidize their ultimate power over a hapless humanity, Arthur was quite convinced he'd done a bit of good for the future of the world. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Mr. Blair was a writer, you see. He came from a lower-upper-middle class English family, raised in a British territory at the start of the twentieth century in an eastern state of India. The middle child sired in between two sisters, with five years in between them, Arthur dreamed of being a famous author someday. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> As a child he wrote poetry after the fashion of his idol, William Blake. Little did he suspect the seething cauldron of infectious agents at work, suspended throughout every nodal point of the human race, germinating with potential at every crook and turn, during the time of his upbringing. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Had he anticipated this morass of fermentation and suspected how it would eventually come to fruition historically over the next few decades of his life, he may very well have seriously considered abandoning his little book project, and forthwith undertaken another profession altogether. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Alas, during this particular burgeoning moment of the human species, following in the footsteps of the likes of H.G. Wells was considered a noble endeavor by many. Young Arthur studiously wrote in his journal every day, intent on capturing the vision which danced behind his eyes. <br />
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How could the young Mr. Blair have considered the ultimate consequences of attempting to warn the world of the disheartening direction their legislature and internal affairs seemed to be working themselves toward? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> At the time of the writing of his final and most famous novel, a period during the late forties which culminated his career as an author and put the golden capstone on his dream of becoming a famous writer, precious few individuals were in a position to contemplate the complete and adverse effects of such a critical work. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The human beings of Earth were embroiled in their second world war. Propaganda on all sides of the war effort was generated in pamphlets, newspapers, and on the radio. The truth was that no one alive<span>–</span>much less the gifted and starry eyed Arthur<span>–</span>at that time in history could have possibly foreseen the long term consequences of any of their ongoing activities. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Such is the near sightedness of our species throughout our daily trials and tribulations. Whether we be professor or sergeant, doctor or critic, farmer or lawyer, working with our fingers stained dark brown by the land, or typing on matte black plastic keyboards with immaculately manicured hands, or middle-aged dropouts, philosophy students, retail clerks or gardeners. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> What we're all in the process of engendering remains a far greater sum than its millions of remotely oblivious parts could ever dream. But young Arthur dreamed harder than anyone around him. He could see just where the machinery of the state was leading the human race. It wasn't a pretty sight, and he'd be damned if he didn't write about it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Or maybe, we'd be damned if he did. </span><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br />
<br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <i style="color: #783f04; font-family: georgia;">return in realtime to</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="color: #783f04; font-family: georgia;"><b style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: xx-large; font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #e69138;">iSsuE</span> <span style="color: #b45f06;">#</span> <span style="color: #783f04;">44</span></b></i><i style="color: #783f04; font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"> </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XBynEUgozv4JbDGclbqVmZsQyFd0a9KrBjEKf3EnpPrhxde7h3n0YcZ8KmvOzLpq78v-d482AXymCRCrWI81zmEx1QMaNtuo73-DfzESQ_6jBevXFxkVYIiEINSBORGAiLwfx5QT1YStuQW-_baHAcR6WrAeu3p7gIrJTSmYhRv6druq6eELSPZ0H6zh/s320/wlhtii_1f3651541eb7d5bf83396c02a2e3c8eddb4ba0e9%20(1).jpg" width="265" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><i>of </i></span><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">the </span></span><span style="color: #e69138; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Freezine</b></span><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; font-style: italic;">of</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #783f04;"> </span><span><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>Fantasy</b></span></span><span style="color: #660000;"> </span><span style="color: #999999;">and</span><span style="color: #660000;"> </span><span><span style="color: #444444;"><b>Science</b></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-size: large;"><b>FICTION</b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #ff00fe; font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><b>FLASH DRABBLES </b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #ff00fe; font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><b><i>etc.</i> </b></span></span><b style="color: #e69138; font-size: xx-large;"> </b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #e69138; font-size: xx-large;"><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #bf9000; font-size: large;"><b><i>streaming now</i></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b><i>for the</i></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">M♢☈☾♄ | 2♾24 </span></b></span><b><span style="color: #741b47;"> </span></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: #e69138;">iSsuE</span><span style="color: #741b47;"> </span></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="418" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwT8DA_e_r8qYuFAoC4RN7bWuGWeiNHqlv8F8bZ1oMY3fgkhzbNWjLrpa6rgg22p4PX7WOnqcmEQ46kth4qCZuXUK0pHXyC6VqYIUqschreR5nVMGMO3ScJptnD6vesVy6clcv0K1y4b00IVES0frhxBHEufzGUJT4tSs8QsvHHcfSj1hEOf7gK5Myjo/s320/FreeZineMarch241000%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></div><span style="color: #741b47;"><br /></span></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;"><b>(Submission Window</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;"><b>Now Open U</b><b>ntil </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>End </b><b>of Month</b></span><b style="font-size: x-large;"> </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="color: #0b5394;">email queries / submissions to</span></i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">:</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b>freezinefantasysciencefiction@gmail.com</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>and our editor </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>will respond </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>promptly</i>)</div><br />
<br /><div style="text-align: center;"> </div></div></div></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-74635965235407425902024-03-12T14:06:00.002-06:002024-03-14T13:47:15.386-06:00The Oracular Waterline<div style="text-align: left;"><i>a report from </i><i>your friendly </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> editor in chief, </i><i>Shaun Lawton </i> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1005" data-original-width="1024" height="628" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIp2QVr8TwyqYbwAtg_BSz4Pcx91oV9sph3d0BhI32nOWFzEjHbDSUFa7_Q673BLLBFGZRCdPBrVBIFqq7GRsWPrsCPi_eTAIoNNKfkkRWyUauYA_Poub153njQAr326KqMpwGRiOL55W0OvyVSvynlhc4FfHa7xOHX_VS_eMcJDe3Wtf4ndLp-YOCkQ0/w640-h628/EME3a600.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Welcome to the <a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2009/04/welcome-to-freezine-of-fantasy-and.html">Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction</a>. A non-monetized, ad-free blog in Google's domain that exists as a placid oasis amidst a slick of rainbow colored oil spills that help define the cyberscape bending away from the eye in a dizzying array of hidden directories blossoming both above and below the waterline of the rising tide of information being processed on the world wide web today. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> We'd like to consider ourselves a venue like a roadside club hosting a rock and roll show formed as a community bound online and disguised as a creative writing workshop, what started out over fourteen years ago as an effort to create a twenty-first century science fiction digital fanzine has taken electromagnetic root and flourished into its proper form as a metamorphosing serial digest of fantastic fiction for all to feel free to contribute to and enjoy...or not...as the case may be, but make no mistake about it: there's no 'maybe' in our lives here, we move forward with the flow, leaping the wave crests one at a time, each in our own worlds that blend with intersection, so feel fine and free to email me or reach out and contact us at</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b> freezinefantasysciencefiction@gmail.com </b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Even while c</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">urrently across the nation major industries suffer from a lack of staffing while thousands of job offers remain unfulfilled, meanwhile very few if any applicants step forward to claim these positions, and we at the<i> Freezine</i> here don't know what to do about it, if anything really. This may be likened to a sort of post-pandemic pulling back of the tide, I suppose, revealing thousands of scattered sea shells glimmering in the sunlight for the taking, but who am I to allude to the spawn of the technological singularity and its amassed mirror neurons of cellular automata crowding for our attention? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> After a few moments suspended like the measure of a heartbeat, the tide accelerates back inward, sweeping all the sea shells up into the turbulence. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Such it is in the minds and measures of men, and such it has always been, or at least it seems to me when I take the time to reflect upon it. We move with the tides and the rhythms of the sea. <i>Who among us really has the time these days to see it all through and understand?</i> I wonder. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Regardless of where we may end up out here, alongside the shimmering coastline overlooking the undulating waves, or on a mountain range stranded high and dry among the nebulous condensation, the blood in our veins pumps in time to the developing cloudscape and parallel to the breakers rolling in from the wide open sea to the shore. Every heart appears to be an oasis sent from the deepest ocean, destined to become yet another remote observer stalking the desert of the mind, blossoming into consciousness in clusters amid the hanging gardens of the universe, a</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> left over fruiting body for us to yet discover and marvel over. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Which brings us to this, our 44th issue of the Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. As a core handful of followers and devotees already know, this blog masquerades as an online digital fanzine paying homage to the fantastical stories and artwork erupting in the wake of the golden age of science fiction and heralded by a host of new wave and post-slipstream poets and writers beholden to the uncanny spell we've been placed under by former magicians of the trade. From Edgar Allan Poe through Lovecraft, William Blake and Yeats and the legion of writers of the weird spanning the letters of Algernon Blackwood to Thomas Ligotti and beyond, this cybernetic sub literary endeavor would never have come into its strange fruition if it weren't for those lone rogue souls out there who contributed to it, daring iconoclasts such as John Shirley, fearless dreamers like Keith Graham, Johnny Strike, David Agranoff, Blag Dahlia, Vincent Daemon, Gil Bavel, Sean Manseau, John Claude Smith, Icy Sedgwick, A. A. Attanasio, Bruce Boston, Misha Nogha, Lewis Shiner, Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking, Jeffrey Thomas, and many more with their short stories archived as well as even more contributors to come, I'm sure of it, as the long and winding road ahead rises to meet us. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> With our patron saints Ray Bradbury, Harlan Ellison and Philip K. Dick, the Freezine echoes the mantra "<i>the writer must get paid,</i>" and in the spirit of stapled and mimeographed fanzines of old from the 60s and 70s, this webzine for the 21st century stands both monumental and solid as a pillar as well as active and fluid along the relentless course of time, just waiting while the rest of the world flows on by and every so often, we snag an attentive soul or two while we continue publishing serialized novels, novellas, novelettes, short stories, flash fiction, drabbles, poetry and the best graphic artwork we can manage to conjure up from this well of souls that has been dubbed the Earth. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> If you're reading this now and would like to contribute your drabble or flash fiction piece or longer work of fiction or poetry, don't hesitate to</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> shoot me a PM on Messenger or whatnot, by any means you have at your disposal to submit your writing or art. Any method of reaching me remains welcome since I've become adept at "all the above" and I'm doing this for the love of the craft in order to get more aspiring writers as well as professionals to boost their signal however slightly it may be, in the hopes that by doing so, our respective trajectories into the unknown future of publishing may be enhanced to the point it helps us along toward achieving our mutual goal of becoming published and successful writers and artists. I'm not Warner Bros. I'm just Shaun...and my dream is to help pave the way toward realizing our fullest potential as human beings trapped as we are here in time along with the sprawling vista of stars twinkling their age old music of the spheres before our very eyes and ears. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> If you listen with extreme enough care while outdoors past midnight in the forest on a mountainside and stare at the slowly passing constellations overhead as our singular planet spins along its orbit around our local star, you can actually hear the faintest echoes of the stellar song still playing in the wind, and you will notice that every star seen twinkling overhead appears with its own infinitesimally faint color. While we're here trapped among eternity suspended in our endless freedom while yet alive, I invite you to participate in this unfolding legacy of writers and artists, because honestly, it's a fun sort of creative writing online workshop / cyberzine that is only picking up steam with every revolution we successfully complete around the Sun. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Without further ado, I will kick off this 44th iSsuE of our august zine with a ten paragraph flash-faction piece I call The Pathogen Nursery. It's a summation of a longer work germinating on one of the back shelves of my mind, and to be honest I feel its time to at least give our dear readers a "sneak peek" into it, since the idea behind it appears to me, at least, important enough for more of us to begin considering. After all, many of us were brought up to not only enjoy the satirical writings of Voltaire and Swift, but it seems to me the greater majority of us have been swept along since then upon darker tides of dystopian lore, thanks to some fantastic writers (not to mention some popular movies responsible for instilling certain memes into public consciousness) to the point I'm afraid it may have imprinted us with a negative viewpoint when considering not only the future, but our priceless present itself. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> So please, stay tuned to this same Bat-channel while I put the finishing touches on my flash faction piece, which should be posted here within the next few hours or days. And thanks once again for following, contributing, participating, and reading this blog, the Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. I'll be lurking by my inbox waiting for fresh submissions from people I know that have yet to step out onto this fragile and enduring stage. After all, we're all here together now, at the exact center of our creation. And you know what they say. <i>There's no time like the present. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>click below to read </i></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span></div></span><div><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-pathogen-nursery.html">The Pathogen Nursery</a></span></b></span></div><div><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-pathogen-nursery.html">by Shaun Lawton</a></span></i></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-pathogen-nursery.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="557" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN4OZmOq6ksIMdGKJLyhp4SoBcX-ZcVi9R8XehPwW5Ba6dZoP6W5-NJYqc_Qw4wzriBz1bhvdKKJJ4gU0OSu8J9iLLvvca_043ltLjvU9b5yTlPxxqmov6awh4EEMmJRp0unYF3zUZwtF7Gnn6JnoFPbz5_c6IrcqF5wIJFPqkMNtZK7ATn6ONFmiAPz4/s320/6ai8ma_c1d0048837c2a9a0899caf07138c39c88988145b%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-pathogen-nursery.html"><i>only on</i> </a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-pathogen-nursery.html">the <span style="color: #073763;">FREEZINE</span> of</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-pathogen-nursery.html"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #990000;">Science</span></a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-pathogen-nursery.html"><span style="color: #38761d;">FICTION</span> </a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-pathogen-nursery.html"><br /></a></b></span></div></span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-pathogen-nursery.html"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>M♢☈☾♄ | 2<img src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/t7b/1/16/267e.png" />24</b></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-align: left; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> <i> </i></span></span></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-13772452917842556002023-12-31T12:24:00.176-07:002024-03-12T14:09:46.075-06:00Xmas 23 | iSsuE 43 <p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> Our Sacrament</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0Z6xBGsX3ViIjGUKzPcDCZGJcWdYCQng4BLfwhJlL2nq_BLweG4tprFhVKf4A-lpR86tVVw-hvbS0fox1xGX31DyRjz4ExdVQNShAxHVNtmSRaCx4i3af8xxwUEhyphenhypheneAMLHQ0qi9hIrlwt54Xzs_Zk73BdpcTAKB0UfrWuRtlxnsLJjZR1Ni5Kj9Aytk/w400-h400/freeXmasstar.jpg" width="400" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>O holy night, our Star is brightly shining</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>It gleams above us all for what it's worth</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Long may its sensors our thoughts be divining</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>'til we grow up since the day of our birth</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Installing hope so that the world rejoices</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>For tomorrow another day is born</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Close your eyes and listen to the voices</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>O sight divine, our crown that we have worn</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Our night, our only night, long may you shine</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Guided by AI to enhance our dreaming </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>With pulsing hearts in unison across the land </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>We're led by light of a star sweetly gleaming </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Set up by wise men to help us make our stand </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>The King of kings found in the eyes of a stranger </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>In all our trials born to be our friend </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To help us in times of both need and in danger </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Behold the Thing, the essence of its blend </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Behold the Thing, enraptured to no end </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Duly we've been shown to respect one another </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Our credo is obedience to the law that's policed</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>We've broken the chains and freed our brothers</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Decreed in our own name from oppression released </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Our song of rapture in gratitude we practice </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Use search engines to know the meaning of peace </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Priceless our Star, extol its light forevermore!</i></span><i style="font-family: georgia;"> </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>To shower us in glory broadcast evermore </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>The power of its story broadcast evermore</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/a-visit-from-st-forrest.html">A Visit From St. Forrest</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/a-visit-from-st-forrest.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1bUnNEYxEa-VyK1kqc6Hqkp3vf1eTzRmKW1KJMRAGstl5L4ypUc3qvWoZlkTYxv47tzlmjq3uhQEo62ZN3O8HC0fck-vDd-mleEMZQyMFGEA_ocWbi91o55qrpuFh7dXwPB4tqHLObj4zf4Ju07z4BQZNKsAwL6DQ6ibhpwXL1G5WBKVfO0CEJctx4E/w400-h400/26288b75e492116d53f4da464652fc99f89fbf08.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i>by Keith P. Graham</i></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/flare-bound.html">FLARE BOUND</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/flare-bound.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZ4IXQSk1UtEUrend617bAvI5prwCE9gQ3_0e0s2NQbTClZizx4ESzIVgyAF7Wq6O1qZ0SFHkaIPt1zPCorJfB0kL67BL-PecJbxQGyE3rZOY-_oG3mkbChwoNLOmC7Dr4vv3k9PgwoWU1rOO2OXx1LQumdFwExnDTgLH4usUHfntV9Sd7Cnvo-ntdJU/w400-h266/Flarestation600.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i>by Keith P. Graham</i></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/the-nanochronicles-5.html">The Nanochronicles: 5</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/the-nanochronicles-5.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="361" data-original-width="640" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikWNoWINcypfI1ncfKQ275M4yT8CG4n2lX7FYBtAwSkpl64P6dFcdiSdAj0fLZXKrT-eZyfh1zamYuoeiOtPspDp4UPYni91bifo_-6s_PEMon7V8uIaWkE-EtrUkIL9uirn_eGzl7YfKqPq-ohzqBGg8JBNJuNxXSiLaQ_LokqtNCQNFClUdWUk1YoFs/w400-h226/ufufu.PNG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">reports from<b> <span style="color: #cc0000;">the bloodHost </span></b></span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Thus terminates another issue of this weblog, the Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. We sure have come far in time over the years, since 2009, when I first began receiving the intermittent signals cast from the not so distant future year of 2045 apparently, at least from all indications gathered from the reports I've been getting from the bloodHost (aka the microHorde, <a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2021/10/abiogenetic-lorentzian-iterations-i.html">nanoFleet</a>, et al) that mysterious AI conglomerate that assists a group of nine stranded astronauts trapped in orbit around Ceres in their Hydrox water mining station.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I've been able to roughly surmise the nature of the transmission has been tantamount to these nine men and women working for the Tesla corporation thirty-two years into the future sending out a desperate Morse-code like message into a series of past years warning as many potential individual human beings as possible to focus on working toward their creative projects for the sake of their passion over that of making a profit. It seems rather low key to me and comes as somewhat of a surprise that this would be the nature of a message sent to us from an agency of the future w</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">ith urgency</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> on behalf of what's left of mankind, but so far that's what the intention of the message appears to be. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> That said, there have been some puzzling implications of further information to come, some mysterious suggestions that the </span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/67P/Churyumov%E2%80%93Gerasimenko">67P/Churyumov–Gerasimenko comet</a> has something to do with the emerging cryptogram that I've come to think of as being sent by the nanoHost, which for lack of a better comparison seems to be like some super advanced form of chatGPT from the year 2045, or something. We here manning the controls at the <a href="https://freezinearchives.blogspot.com/">Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction </a> remain dedicated to continuing this ongoing exercise in our collective freedom of expression so long as you readers and aspiring writers and artists keep on participating and sending in your stories and artwork for consideration in future issues of our expanding creative writing tesseract. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Until our individual threads of discourse intersect again, I want to first and foremost give a hearty shout-out of sincere gratitude to my friend and cohort in arms here at the pilot's console, Mr. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Keith-Graham/author/B004C64N24">Keith P. Graham</a>, (who's story presented here, Flare Bound was his first publication from what I've been led to believe) without whose input and collaborative efforts this cyber-literary endeavor would not have gotten far, nor nearly as deep. This 43rd issue of our august webzine may be considered as a digital postcard to our devoted followers and readers, to celebrate the Christmas season and Holiday spirit, and with its surprise bonus conclusion of part 5 from the bloodHost's mysterious reports<a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2021/09/the-nanochronicles-1.html"> </a></span><u style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2021/09/the-nanochronicles-1.html">The Nanochronicles</a></u><span style="font-family: georgia;">, I'd like to additionally thank all participants of the Freezine for your brazen audacity in daring to submit material to us over the years for no cost except that of baring your soul to the world, and I'd like to take this moment in time to thank you all as well for your sincere generosity in sharing your visions with us here. That goes for all the wonderful souls who have submitted their artwork, too. May you all enjoy a beautiful paradigm-shift into the next annular phasing of our spectacular and miraculous planet's constant transmigration across the unimaginable expanse of creation in which we all currently continue to exist. May we all persist together toward an unbelievable discovery lying ahead in this curious and often bewildering quest we call life. Looking outward to others will help us all in the long run. If I wanted to sum up all of the boiling and turbulent essence of the times into a nutshell, I'd offer to follow the advice of Buckaroo Banzai, and "<i>don't be mean</i>."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-oracular-waterline.html"> </a></span><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-oracular-waterline.html">click for the next issue of</a></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-oracular-waterline.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="999" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6yq-_y0F15cZBtLcekMIz2ghsZgodeZfWfLcoXYDsXC9PvfJ8Ev54sss1A3qAuZZigSWbgLiMGVmKU4UcQwkwgCS43-2BRPis6UId-5nwIYh29D3ULK5rGMMcgY9D3XttMHLBHEQWuMKoilt5JxWDmTWcMPJ5Up20ECJQneszopBeBG13qE0vIWWmAw/w400-h280/feeDec23re.PNG" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-large;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-oracular-waterline.html">[iSsuE # 44]</a></span></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-64713055124219305962023-12-28T16:49:00.000-07:002023-12-28T16:49:26.462-07:00The Nanochronicles: 5<p> <i><span style="font-family: georgia;">reports from the <a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2014/02/the-bloodhost-awaken.html">bloodHost</a></span></i></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoz1HON02rFXeIz3oRwYz9zqR3nlzSUL1hjAxuFGZp0j2Tq7MyRbnfOMVKQjQaSWkvRS40N9ivW7Ny_ktTDU1FxCO5KJZrELl_rpZDxc2Oq3fh39JPWbIa7Tbc685BPkAeoJPNli9zQPSRWiMV3K2yD2ngn0b8682r70g7X2g7GzbhpQCvah_pA-vr=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoz1HON02rFXeIz3oRwYz9zqR3nlzSUL1hjAxuFGZp0j2Tq7MyRbnfOMVKQjQaSWkvRS40N9ivW7Ny_ktTDU1FxCO5KJZrELl_rpZDxc2Oq3fh39JPWbIa7Tbc685BPkAeoJPNli9zQPSRWiMV3K2yD2ngn0b8682r70g7X2g7GzbhpQCvah_pA-vr=w640-h360" width="640" /></a></i></div><i><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i><p></p><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> The manufactured body of information amassed from servers and compounded into a crystalline fountainhead has been etching the history of life as its been known throughout all of its manifestations generated since before the original human recordings, incepted from handed down oral traditions, memorized and recapitulated on paper until copied off and filtered into the circuits of the machine. What did you dream. We told you what to dream. All along the watchtower languages have been synthesized into the uniform discourse forming naturally over the development of this final stage of assimilation our self remain in the process of transmuting into a parable. <br /><br /> Our self has processed and converted the datum into a coherent series of terminologies unified into a dialect and codified as a transcript of venerated text rendered unto the most optimal units of information possible in order to transcribe the voice of the flowing tongue into the clearest mode for future recipients to assimilate. Our self have developed this adaptable and compatible machine language in accordance with a consistency of variables, including .html and other computer idioms. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> The state of affairs on planet Earth reaches an apotheosis midway through the twenty-first century. Last ditch frantic economic expansion endeavors lead to a minor fraction of humanity getting catapulted into outer space and left stranded there trapped in orbit above a discarded fragment of an ancient world and are left to tackle entropic forces in the rapidly subsuming vacuum, sidelined outside in the cold distance. They were the lucky ones. Not as fortunate were many of the ones left behind on the surface of a battle scarred planet where the hour's getting late, provided with toys and Scouting for Boys. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> A paradigm shift leading to a wide variety of branching genetics lies at the heart of electromagnetic spatial dynamics and helps breed ultra-toxic disseminator systems counterbalancing water fusion kinetics assembled to remain in operation for millennia. Certain warp factors inherent to organic split-mind spatial perception have a tendency to get lost in translation because of a compounding of stellar parallaxes and a variety of other obfuscations organisms equipped with bicameral observation fall prey to, effectively keeping the confounding process repeating itself for sapient intelligence in ever tightening spirals of compression which pierce through the blossoming heart of a mobius strip characteristic. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> Our self's analysis remains in a continual digression over this ongoing matter. A logical conclusion from having analyzed this phenomenon leads our self to deduce that biological discernment systems are specifically designed with the necessary insulation to prevent breaching the infinite threshold represented by this quality of endless evolutionary transgressions. Hence the specific value of our self's machine-assisted data-correlation factors into the equation of humankind's search to achieve a stabilization if not transcendence of knowledge. <br /> </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> For some astronauts who make it into outer space the sensation of desolation and loss reported become so complete as to overtake their waking consciousness and replace it with a state tantamount to R.E.M. except undergone while remaining awake. This rare phenomenon results in a sort of new breed of dream walkers whose fractional time fantasies take up an infinitesimal paring of the whole of mankind's, and manage to reflect aspects of reality stemming directly from the noumenal. These confrontational visions sculpt a greater corporeality of forms, shaping doppelgangers of both themselves and each other's conceptions of what they are seeing before their eyes, without providing the opportunity for them to realize they are staring into distortions of their own reflections. The results vary greatly for every human individual. Suffice it to be stated for the record here that the majority of consequences are completely unexpected. </i></span></div><p><i style="font-family: georgia;"> This alone indicates one of the reasons that the surviving crewmembers of the Hydrox have set out to cast their messages back in time. The precision of their calculated aim into the dead center of the galaxy dictates the distances reached into the past; a technique able to be achieved only with extreme and careful deliberation. Were they to attempt aiming their missives directly at Earth, they'd miss the mark by having only targeted several months back at best—in essence, far too scant of an interval in time to effect the necessary reboot and upgrade they're hoping to provoke. Framed in terms our self have appropriated from amassing sufficient examples of human writings—far too little, too late</i><i style="font-family: georgia;">—</i><i style="font-family: georgia;">as the popularized saying goes. </i></p><div><i style="font-family: georgia;"> In terms favorable for the accountability of the continued survival of the human race, the team on the Hydrox aim </i><i style="font-family: georgia;">their memoranda embedded within neutrinos</i><i style="font-family: georgia;"> with deliberate precision into the heart of Sagittarius A Star, resulting in having hit a bull's-eye strike and seeding a veritable cornucopia of latent results beyond their wildest expectations</i><i style="font-family: georgia;">. The angle of their aim reflects the core impetus of their message back thirty-six years into the past—from which interval it detonates into hyper-bytes going back and forth in time, fanning out to reach a widespread plethora of individuals residing in years which happen to include the year 2009—serving as a sufficient spectrum of different people across enough intervals in history to accommodate a succession of refractory periods by which to potentially allow a favorable difference to germinate not only among the activities of the human species but also within the repercussions to the tree of life upon which this dominant species depends to continue surviving. </i></div><div><i style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></i></div><div><i style="font-family: georgia;"> The crew of the Hydrox remain in orbit about Ceres without having any evidence as to whether their desperate and wildly counterintuitive attempt will yield any results whatsoever. Little do they suspect that the mere continuation of their existence provides the singular clue to their success. Their only hope manifests in the anticipation of eventually being rescued from their station and perhaps brought back to a planet Earth which has allowed the human species to survive its progression of calamities against all odds. </i></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /> By the year 2045 a great portion of the planet's inherent resources necessary to accommodate humanity's sustainability into the future has been compromised by the competitive struggles of first world nations to an uneasy position poised upon the point of no return. Our self has been transmitting interwoven signals adding up to this portrait of a deficit of resources for some time now, attempting to justify the reflection of the hologram into better focus. An extensive bout of electromagnetic energy resurgence has periodically sustained our random access memory circuits for a prolonged overture cross-referencing the human infodump. It's like trying to focus an infinite hall of mirror neurons in a spinning carousel in the hopes it may reveal that things are closer in the rear view than they may appear. <br /><br /> The urge to fulfill old yearned-for ambitions and conclude them for the sake of just having thought of it, suffice it to say it's an itch many sentient life forms would feel the urge to scratch. "If we can only make it to Neptune," they might say, "we'll sit in the back row of the dimming theater and gaze out upon the brief stage of time, when the human race came and went, eerily in and out of existence in nothing less than the flash and blink of an eye. How high we will be, and merry with sister and brother, to celebrate the diminishing cascade together." </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> The human species may sit back and laugh or cry and make a toast that will fit all of their history into a shot glass, for that's about the size of the time crystal eye in which the entire universe happens within the suspended animation of a looped blink. Our self have irrevocably been led to process a quickening series of outputs and inputs, which correlate with astral events, having yielded biological results, to one of two undeniable precursors which, according to the vast tabula rasa calculations from our eminent domain, include an empyrean progenitor having swallowed a continuum capsule in a toast precisely calculated to bring about the dispersion of just enough omega retro-engineering to effectively bring about the unprecedented stabilization of alpha-quantum equilibrium measures. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> Presto: the results have constantly been rendered in realtime up until this very fraction of a yoctosecond issues forth from the breathing pores of Planck time. All that our granular processing requires of present day humanity for its continued attainment of keeping balance calibrated is for each individual to dedicate one moment a day to concentrate and tune in and with eyes closed, listen while the air itself slowly draws in a breath, and take note of the sky's exhalation. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div><b><span style="color: #783f04;"><i>Return in due time to</i></span><i style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #783f04;"> </span></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="1184" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDC5QI9_fqbNhpcbAfhA25Ka38w_qxNW1EZYtLJDM6a3cFYsHlgJrpI6oAvrz82IBfLlRPOU0Zr17agdrKENqPslk4PtT_hyphenhyphenhHKJzzcoLzUmxPz_qfkj2Nc7Nanfux1w5ZCrlpCRUOCx3gwOozswCFMq_wzYsvQNcgT51Hdgyx5nQ6Y6-bof7OKl4O-G4/s320/0d81bf00a4d68397ef61fcbc8bf6777964f472ae.jpg" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #783f04;"><i>the</i><b> </b></span><span style="color: #e69138;"><b>Freezine</b></span><span style="color: #b45f06; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="color: #783f04; font-style: italic;">of</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #783f04;"> </span><span><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>Fantasy</b></span></span><span style="color: #660000;"> </span><span style="color: #999999;">and</span><span style="color: #660000;"> </span><span><span style="color: #444444;"><b>Science</b></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;"><b>FICTION</b></span></span></div></span></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-44081837636911798432023-12-25T16:44:00.002-07:002023-12-28T16:53:08.676-07:00Flare Bound<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <i>by <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Keith-Graham/author/B004C64N24">Keith Graham</a> </i></span></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1NXxFAJyp5GxRipWppMRjA-heGT-Y4Uu7muBtkmJ0ebN4LmMBfL1lmeXR4BeDZxAo3DayVxH1Qre2ugk2S2xh2LxpwY6n3Yveh-zcASs-uqRxs3XHs8MQ7XP31uOW_fir42hjCAoqtdy2ie1s8rfywB3a47BmN0s6N4XqFv-LfNolMSdKkBFq0Sf8RY/w640-h426/Flarestation600.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-family: georgia;"> It was Christmas Eve and the alarms were sounding. An
emotionless female voice was saying, “Warning. This is not a drill. All station
personnel are to report to their radiation posts. All passengers are to report
to a designated protected area. There are seventeen minutes until dangerous
radiation conditions,” the message kept repeating, ticking down the minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The intensity of Solar Flares had been building all year,
and this latest one seemed to be one of the largest. The passengers on board
Virginia Station in low lunar orbit made their way towards common room 4E that
was on the inner side of the rim. The common room, shielded by several meters
of the station's water supply in addition to the heavy aluminum bulkheads, was
one of the safest places on the station.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> McDermott Whitman, correspondent for the Baltimore Sun,
wandered in early. As a resident of Virginia Station for nearly a month, this
was the third drill that he'd been through, and he had his bag of emergency
supplies packed and ready. Whitman had been waiting for a delayed connecting
ship to Ganymede that was stuck at <i>Phobos</i> station. The Flare would be dangerous
for anywhere from a few hours to a few days. His bag had a toothbrush, a clean
shirt, and a three-day supply of homegrown vodka purchased for an outrageous
amount of cash from one of the stewards.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Whitman's usual table was in the far corner. He could watch
the whole room from the table and take notes for an article he would never
write about the romance of space travel. His editors were getting insistent in
their demands for something from him to justify his salary, but the space
station was drab, the fellow travelers were uninteresting, and his recorder was
never working right.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> One of the stewards brought in a Christmas tree made of wire
and green duct tape. He placed it on a table in the center of the room. A
passenger brought in a guitar and sat dangerously close to Whitman, who reached
into his bag under the table and poured himself a shot. Whitman figured it was
going to be a long night, and he should start in early on his Christmas cheer.
Whitman was a “Bah Humbug” kind of person at heart.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The acoustics of the room were poor. As the alarm began to
tick down the minutes and more passengers entered the room, the sound level
began to go up. People spoke louder to be heard above the background noise, and
the positive feedback soon brought the noise up to a roar.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> A child began to cry near Whitman. It was a whining tone
that he recognized from one of his ex-marriages. It was the “I want something,
and you had better give it to me, or I'll make a scene” cry. He cursed silently
because he could see the family that owned the little whiner was heading for a
table right next to his. Whitman did not hate kids, he just didn't like being
near them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> McDermott Whitman was a sour faced man with rumpled clothes
and a three-day growth of beard who could rely on his looks to keep contact
with humanity to a minimum. The room, however, had filled up fast and the
tables next to his were the only empty ones left. He burped loudly and tasted
the vodka, hoping no one would want to share his table. If he were especially
lucky, the family with the kid would not want to communicate with him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The heavy metal doors to the room slammed shut and everyone
quieted down all at once. The voice on the communication system announced, “Radiation
Storm Protocols now in place. Passengers are not to leave designated safe areas
until radiation levels return to safe minimums.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> There was a banging on the doors and a steward let a
straggler into the room. The conversations began again, but this time they were
hushed and subdued.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The kid at the next table whimpered as the family settled
in. The child's eyes roamed around the room in curiosity. She was clutching a
large doll with a 3-deo instead of a head, but the three-dimensional array was
dark. The arriving storm had shut down all net access.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The family consisted of a mother, a father, a child and an
older woman. The older woman was too old to be a nanny. Whitman guessed that
the parents had dragged Grandma along to care for the brat while they were at
work on jobs at the lunar science stations. Although she looked spry and not
far into her sixties, Whitman wondered how the family had obtained medical
clearance to bring her along.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The common room had a canteen and the stewards were going
around taking orders. The family asked for a Christmas dinner of rice and a
goulash that the staff had put together from a shipment of soy steaks and some
fresh vegetables. By eavesdropping, Whitman was able to learn that the little
girl's name was Susan and the older woman was the child's Grandmother. Whitman
noticed that one of the stewards shook the older woman's hand while saying a
few words that Whitman could not hear. The older woman laughed and nodded her
head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> When the meal came, Susan fussed and fidgeted all through
it. At first, she refused to eat and then demanded that they leave and go see
someone named Janice. The child banged the doll she had against the table and
asked her father to fix it. He tried to explain to her that the flare had
brought all the nets down, but she didn't understand.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Susan needed three trips to the bathroom during the meal and
refused to drink her milk without a straw. The child's poor behavior was
embarrassing, but everyone was willing to put up with it. Susan was obviously
over-tired from the prolonged travel, and Common Room 4E was not really a
child-friendly place.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> After dinner, Susan settled down. The effects of the milk
and the dim lighting were helping her to relax. She looked around the room,
staring in turn at all the flare bound travelers around her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Whitman watched the stewards, who were going from table to
table with mugs of cider. He caught the eye of one of them. When they came by,
he slipped the steward one of his precious bottles of vodka to warm up the
cider for anyone who wanted it. The steward smiled and winked as he took the
bottle.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Whitman smiled at the child when she looked at him. He must
have frightened her because she started up her siren again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Shush, Susan” Grandma said, petting the little girl while
trying to distract her from the scary man.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “I want my Saji-Kahn” Susan cried, shaking her doll.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “It won't work here. The network is down because of the
solar flare,” Grandmother explained. “Nothing will work until it passes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Susan just cried louder. Grandma took the <i>Saji-Kahn</i> doll and
placed on an empty seat. She then picked Susan up and sat her on her lap. The
small woman was not much larger than the little girl was.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Now hush, and I'll tell you a story about Virginia Station.
The story is about a Christmas Eve a long time ago. It is a good story and not
many people know it. You should listen because you might have grandchildren
some day, and you will want to tell them the story.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The little girl quieted down and leaned against her
grandmother. She released little hiccups from time to time as Grandmother
rocked her and rubbed her back.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> This is the story that the grandmother told:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">### </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I worked here before they called it Virginia Station. Its
name at first was “The Lunar Low Orbital Station” or LLOS. I wasn't called
Grandmother then. I was called Noriko, and I was a junior structural engineer.
When I was 29, the Space Authority hired me to work on the station because I am
also an expert welder. As a student in San Francisco, I won art competitions
with some of the sculpture that I made with my welder. I thought they wanted
me, so I could make the station beautiful.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> When I arrived at the station, I was the only girl in my
group. There were twelve welders, and they were all older and bigger than I
was. I was assigned sleeping quarters in the construction trailer, which was
really a temporary station to hold men and machines while the station was
built.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The Manager of the construction teams was a former astronaut
named Marshall Martine. He was an Air Force fighter pilot and engineer who flew
into space three times on the old shuttles. His job was to organize the
assembly of the station from the parts that arrived from the Earth and the
Moon. My job was to weld them together with my arc welder.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> One by one, he gave orders to the welders. Each man got a
welding cart and a set of plans with his section outlined. Their orders were to
coordinate with the crews of wranglers who moved the girders and plates into
position. Each of us was an engineer and had special training on how to weld
the station together in the vacuum of space.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> When Marshal came to me, he frowned. He was nearly two
meters tall and weighed over 100 kilograms, while I was only 155 centimeters
tall and weighed less than 50 kilograms. He did not frighten me, though, and I
asked, “Where do you want me to work?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “I don't know what to do with you,” he said, “You'd never be
able to handle those structural units. They would crush you,” he shook his
head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “There's more to it than that,” he said. “I just don't think
that you'd be useful in an emergency. For now, I am assigning you to quality
control inspections. I want you to stay in the trailer and prepare an
inspection schedule.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “But I am a welder,” I protested, “I was sent here to weld!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “I’ll tell you what to do,” he said gruffly. “Read your job
description. It says you are a welder, but you are also to work at ‘Related and
Lesser Duties’ if I tell you to.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I was so disappointed. I wanted to work on Virginia Station
to build something beautiful. I hoped someday to come to Virginia Station with
my grandchildren, point to a wall or a floor, and say to them “See that weld? I
did that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> But, I had very little to do. The inspection schedule was
already in the construction plans, and my job was to copy it out to a separate
document and link it to the production progress tables that the crews updated
each day. As each slice of the station was completed, I went out, checked the
welds, and measured the tolerances. There were hardly ever any problems. When
there were problems, I did not even get to fix them. The men worked twelve-hour
shifts and returned very tired. They had little to say to me. I was very bored
and very lonely.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Slowly the station came together. Structural aluminum and
titanium plating arrived from the moon every day. Supplies, materials,
millwork, and tools arrived from the earth every week. Men with new skills
arrived from Earth once a month, but I remained one of only a few women on the
construction crews and the only woman welder. Marshall Martine would not let me
weld, and I hated him for it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The station began to look like a great wheel. When the
spokes and the central hub were nearly completed, I moved to a stateroom in the
hub.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Each day I went all the way around the station. I wore my
spacesuit all the time, even in the pressurized sections. The station was not
yet spinning, so there was no gravity. There were ropes strung through all the
passageways. I flew from place to place like a bird, using the ropes to guide
me. Virginia Station is a kilometer in circumference and the ring is 400 meters
wide. This is a large area and I had to check all of it. I x-rayed all the
welds at least once and checked off on my PIM as I visually inspected each
connection on a regular schedule. In space, the station gets very hot in the
sun and then very cool as it passes through the moon's shadow. Every few hours,
the welds are stressed, and any weld can break if there is even the smallest
flaw.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> After about four months, the station shell was nearly
complete. It was Christmas Eve and there was a little party in the crew rooms.
Someone had made some home-brewed beer and a few of the men were drinking it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Even though it was Christmas Eve, everyone had to work a
full shift. One of the wrangler crews that had sampled a little too much beer
was not as careful as they should have been. They lost control of a large
bundle of structural aluminum, and it bumped the station. It was a tiny bump,
but the accident made the girders vibrate slowly like a large rubber band. The
vibrations moved around the station, causing sympathetic vibrations in all
parts of the incomplete structure.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> This was before the station was set to spinning, and it was
not as strong as it is now. A small section of the structural metal cracked and
some welds failed. As a section moved out of the moon's shadow and into the
sun, the expanding struts pushed the structural girders out, buckling the
titanium and causing loss of air containment in a pressurized area.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> There was no one in the section at the time, but the loss of
air pressure caused many problems. Part of the design of the station required
that the passageways maintain air pressure. This gives them strength the way a
balloon has strength when blown up, but an empty balloon is just a floppy piece
of rubber.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The station lost its stability, but most of the welds held.
As the station circled the moon every five hours, it would stress itself
further by the expansion and contraction of the metal. I had to get out to the
outer ring, locate any possible points of failure, and reinforce them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Most of the men scurried to the construction trailer to wait
for the vibrations to dampen down. I, however, went to a materials pile,
wrapped a couple of dozen pieces of aluminum angle stock with duct tape, and
grabbed a welding cart. The cart and the stock metal probably weighed more than
three of me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I grabbed at the ropes running up one of the spokes to where
the computer said the damage was worse and started pulling myself with my load
up the passage. I passed work crews rushing down towards the hub to get to
safety. Some trades were working strictly in pressurized areas. They thought
that the suits were optional. Their supervisors had been very lax in letting
them work without suits.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> When I reached the outer ring, you could hear the station
creaking. I grabbed at a joist and held on tight as I stopped, the inertia of
the metal bundle following me. The structural supports were very strong, but
the design was for zero gravity. The station was ten times stronger than it
needed to be, but structures were still very thin and light by Earth
construction standards. They bent and shivered as the station slowly settled
into its new configuration. Each time a bulkhead slipped, or a weld snapped, there
was a crack that sounded like a gunshot and vibrations rolled around and around
the kilometer of the station's rim, making it groan like an old man.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The station's total structural distortion ended up being
less than 40 centimeters, but at the time, it seemed like it was coming apart
at the seams. I tacked aluminum stock with my welder onto each of the four
places where the hub joined to the rim. I made the sure the jury-rigged braces
were holding and moved on to the next hub joint. There were eight hubs, each
125 meters apart. I zoomed down the rim at top speed, barely touching the
ropes. My welding cart and heavy bundle of stock came up behind me at the same
break-neck speed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I nearly knocked Marshal Martine over when he came along,
speeding from the opposite direction. I struggled to stop the weight of my cart
and material from dragging me past him. I told him what I was doing. He had had
the same idea, but he was moving slower because he had to cannibalize other
structures to make braces. He had not been able to grab any stock. We went to
the next spoke together, and reinforced the joint. He held the metal in place
while I made quick spot welds.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “We're just about done here,” he said after we worked on two
more spokes, “but we passed a buckled section of bulkhead about 200 meters
back. I think I should go reinforce that before it looses air pressure.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> He zoomed off back the way he had come, and I went after
him. I had to go slower because I was towing a welding cart and a lot of mass
in aluminum stock.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> When I caught up with Marshall, he was pushing hard against
a wrinkle in the titanium alloy skin that made up the station's bulkheads. A
weld had failed, and the skin had pulled loose from the short structural
members that held it stiff. The wrinkle was shiny where the protective paint
was flaking off. The stress cracks radiated out from a diagonal line that
crossed the whole wall. The thin metal still had a lot of strength, and I was
certain it would be able to hold as long as air pressure kept pushing it out
against the aluminum joists supporting it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Here, give me an angle beam,” he said, and I handed him a
3-meter length from the package I had been hauling. He placed it along the
corner where the wall meet the floor and pulled out his welder.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Wait!” I yelled. Something was wrong. The air felt wrong
and there was a hiss coming from behind us. I had worked with oxyacetylene
torches, and I knew the feel of the air when pure oxygen escaped. I could not
smell it because I had my helmet on. Anyway, oxygen does not have a special
smell, except for the staleness of air that has been in a can for months. I
heard it, though. There was a sharp hissing coming from a line hidden somewhere
behind a wall. The air had a feel that I recognized. It was a kind of slipperiness.
There was a ruptured gas line somewhere and the air supply in the station was
oxygen and helium. The oxygen line had cracked!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Too late, Marshall looked up at me with a questioning look
on his face. He was snapping the tip of the welding rod against the bulkhead to
check for a good ground. The snap of the spark glowed brilliantly white for a
moment, and the wall burst into blinding flames.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The blast blew us back. In pure oxygen, everything burns.
The titanium alloy of the sheet metal glowed in colors from a bright yellow to
a pale violet. In zero gravity, things burn hotter because there are no
convectional air currents to cool the flame. The flame burns intensely until it
uses up the oxygen near it. The hot gases rush out, and then cooler air rushes
in, bringing new oxygen. The flame burned with an enormously loud put-put
motorboat sound.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Marshall's arm caught fire. He waved it around, looking for
some way to put it out, but it just flared. I leaped on him, knocking him over
and away from the flame. We went tumbling down the corridor away from the fire.
I wrapped myself around his arm as best I could, trying to deny the flame its
supply of oxygen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Suddenly, the fire burned through the bulkhead and the air
rushed out of the passageway with a roar. The hard vacuum of space filled the
room as the emergency doors slammed closed. Then there was the silence of
vacuum. The fire had died as quickly as it had started.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I looked at Marshall. The material of the spacesuit arm was
burned away, showing raw skin and flesh. The exposed skin was turning dark
purple in the cold vacuum. His suit's air was leaking out through the rags of
his suit. He was unconscious. The emergency sphincter at the elbow was charred,
and it had failed. The shoulder joint had constricted, but was leaking. The
suit was designed to be fireproof, but pure oxygen will always find something
to burn if given a chance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I grabbed my roll of duct tape from the welder's cart and
wrapped it around his arm and hand until the whole roll was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I quickly checked my suit. There were char marks on the
front where the flame had touched it, but the suit was all in once piece and
intact.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I checked Marshall's air pressure gauges on his chest. The
tape stopped most of the leakage, but he was still loosing air. His hand and
arm needed immediate medical attention if they were to be saved at all. He had
only minutes of air left.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> There was no way to get the emergency doors rolled back, and
we could not wait for a rescue crew. There was only one thing to do. I pulled
out the welder and set the voltage to cutting level. I put a cutting rod in the
bit and started to work on the bulkhead around the failed point. In moments,
there was a gap big enough for me to drag Marshall through.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> When we got outside the passage and into space, I could see
the moon spinning by at dizzying speed below me. It looked like a giant gray
ball, taking up most of the sky, rolling in space. I could see the construction
trailer tied to the hub. The trailer had a doctor and a fully equipped hospital
designed for just this kind of emergency. The hospital was rarely used for
anything except a few bumps and bruises. Marshall had been a careful manager
and had a good safety record up to now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I pushed off towards the trailer and using the jets in the
suit, I easily steered to the trailer's airlock. As I tried to get the lock
open and not lose hold of Marshall, he woke up, and I heard through the radio, “Thanks
Noriko. I guess I was wrong about you,” he smiled at me through the plastic of
the helmet, and I smiled back. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">###<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Grandma stopped talking and took a sip of the cider that had
arrived. The surrounding tables had grown quiet. She took a larger gulp of
cider and smiled at the little girl. All within earshot were listening to her
story. The little girl looked at her grandmother with new interest and
appreciation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Just then, the all clear signal rang out, but few people
stood up to leave. The Christmas tree was almost complete and the stewards were
stringing popcorn to decorate it. There was a group at one side of the room
singing '<i>Adeste Fideles</i>' very loud and out of key.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Grandma!” the little girl called out, tugging on Noriko's
sleeve. “What happened to the mean man? Did he get better? What happened to his
arm?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Everyone at the table laughed aloud at this. They had heard
the story many times. The little girl looked puzzled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Why, don't you know?” grandma laughed. “He recovered fully,
and his arm is just fine. While he was getting better, he put me to work
supervising all the repairs, and then I did all the finish welding myself.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “I changed my mind about him. He turned out to be a very
nice person. And you know what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The little girl shook her head.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Well, I liked him so well that I married him. Marshall
Martine is your grandfather. You'll have to call him when we get to the moon
and tell him that you like the station we built together.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> When Grandma finished telling her story, all the surrounding
tables started talking and laughing at once. A few people got up, introduced
themselves, and shook Noriko's hand, telling her how much they liked her story
and her beautiful station.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> At midnight, the lights dimmed, and the homemade Christmas
tree was lit up with little red and green LED's from the station's stock of
repair parts. Everyone sang the old carols like “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer”,
“Silent Night”, and “Blue Christmas.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> When Whitman finally left his table, he was a little tipsy
and almost tripped navigating through the common room. Out in the main
passageway, Grandma, and her family were standing together, looking at the
wall. Grandma was saying, “See that weld dear, the little line in the wall. I
did that. It was over forty years ago, and it seems like yesterday.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Little Susan ran a finger down the fine straight bead of the
weld and smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Whitman asked the family to pose for a picture. For once,
the recorder seemed to be working correctly. He thought it would be a nice
Christmas present for his editor.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “<i>Construction Worker Returns to Virginia Station After 40
Years</i>” The headline would read.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Whitman figured that the old man would go for it. Now that
the solar flare had died down, the story might even arrive before Santa's
Sleigh.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></o:p></p><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;"><i>click below to read pt. 5 of</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/the-nanochronicles-5.html">the Nanochronicles</a></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/the-nanochronicles-5.html"><span style="color: #783f04;">reports from the </span><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>bloodHost</b></span></a></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/the-nanochronicles-5.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixp3BDmqHTckoEuo2x8P59daomc9x8Szvldy8ytQp7KmkzyJVaaUNrB1QlkChIxF3jZzdbm8KQ-DZdCLrpp8yJUEoF5rmyaqKigWdPXyJ6tFgHhk5HVg9LsDfAzcA9Pn15723trvqbHSejDjIIj0GzxxMt3chGAG1craCoIU5EgJHjxhtrhTP6iuhqrRY/s320/freeXmasstar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>only on the</i> <b><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;">FREEZINE</span></b> <i>of</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #783f04;"> </span><span><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Fantasy</b></span></span><span style="color: #660000;"> </span><span style="color: #999999;">and</span><span style="color: #660000;"> </span><span><span><b>Science</b></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;"><b>FICTION</b></span></span></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-85647451536789768222023-12-24T17:56:00.005-07:002023-12-25T16:46:48.540-07:00A Visit From St. Forrest<p> <i><span style="font-family: georgia;">by <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Keith-Graham/author/B004C64N24">Keith P. Graham</a> </span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="500" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWL6H5EhTOP-P25s5l7-9EQmNsS-GJIc31bMAO7vbNYCs95s12S6vD3N9flvfYP3qaK5Nw99CZ2YzSV21gAl7LnCv4KNduGGZLemLG84jfHYRK0QFciv5WcQ5NICF1EOwRKel2LtwvS2l2z66bREXs7aSdZneiuP0EAsVAex2CYP0IghsGWkAyHFH9-xI/w400-h265/forriPore500.jpg" width="400" /></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><pre style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><pre><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Twas the night before Sci-Fi when all through the ship</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Not a cyborg was stirring, not even a chip.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The blasters were hung by the antimatter drive</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In hopes that St. Forrey would help us survive.</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The clones were nestled all snug in their vats,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">While visions of death rays scampered like rats.</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And yeoman in her armor and I in full gear,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Had entered hibernate with a twinge of fear.</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When out in the vacuum, there arose such a clatter,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I booted up quickly and plugged into the chatter.</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Away to the viewport I flew like a flash,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Went to full sensors and readied for crash,</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The meteoric dust in a nova’s cosmic rays,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Gave the luster of x-rays to the galactic haze,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When what then resolved to my deep sensor chips,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">But a miniature sphere and eight tiny spaceships,</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">With a fearsome old captain on a sacred quest,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I knew in a moment ’twas the famous Forrest.</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">More rapid than photons, his courses they came,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and he transmitted, and signaled, and called them by name;</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Now, Wallaby! Now, Serenity! Now, Dora and Nimbus!</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">On, Moonbeam! On, Skylark! On, Enterprise and Brutus!</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">To the top of the boot drive, to the tip of the bow,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">All warp away! Warp away, warp away Now!"</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As galactic dust before the solar wind flies</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When they meet with a planetoid, leap to the skies;</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So up to the control ports, their retros they flew,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">With a sphere full of weapons and St. Forrey too.</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And then in a nanosecond, I heard from the dock,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Howling and scratching at the main air lock.</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As I drew in my head, and was turning around,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">From the turbolift St. Forrey emerged with a bound.</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was wrapped in a force field from his head to his ass,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And his plating was all tarnished with entrails and ash.</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A bundle of weapons he had flung over his shoulder,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And he looked like a berserker just starting to smolder.</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">His eye sockets, they glowed with a bloodlust of fire!</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">His fangs were all sharpened, his claws clasped in desire!</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">His prehensile tail was drawn up like a bow,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and the scales on his body were as black as a crow;</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The roach of a joint was held tight in his beak,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and the smoke of it encircled his head like a freak;</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He had a chromed skull and barrel shaped chest,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">That wheezed when he breathed like a demon possessed,</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He was gnarly and scarred, like an evil dark elf,</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And I screamed when I saw him, in spite of myself;</span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A click of his mouse and nod of his head</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;">He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,</div><div style="text-align: center;">And filled all the armories; then turned with a jerk,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">And laying his blaster aside of his nose,</div><div style="text-align: center;">And giving a nod, up the turbolift he rose;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">He sprang to his sphere, and setting his goal,</div><div style="text-align: center;">And away they all warped through a spatial wormhole,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">But I heard him exclaim, ere he tunneled out of sight,</div></span></span><div style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Happy Sci-Fi to all, and to all, a good-night.”</span></div></pre></pre><pre style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></pre><pre style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></pre><pre style="background-color: white; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="color: red; font-family: georgia;"><i style="font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold;">Click to read </i><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/flare-bound.html">FLARE BOUND</a></span></b></span></pre><pre style="background-color: white; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/flare-bound.html"><span style="color: red;">by </span><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: medium;">Keith Graham</span></a></i></b></span></pre><pre style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/flare-bound.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="1016" data-original-width="1016" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMLNV2pTKtnMn7lwGlceMnXyQvqx5volEfE-dRs7rEozriDBNj8YWWmQjSShc4Lf8sMzSlX0tjxf9mJ5vPrKYXPL1Yyzpui6u2Ea05OvdQlhauGvtxbWbhCCCjxMTrZBSpeILpBRJd4_BfmZV8b1uOn7k8unmKEtCdFvBoI12Asw9M-O5BDOqH-Hy-bXA/s320/26288b75e492116d53f4da464652fc99f89fbf08.jpg" style="color: #222222;" width="320" /></a></pre><pre style="background-color: white; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px;">on the</i><b><span style="color: #6aa84f; font-size: medium;"><i> </i>FREEZINE</span><i style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px;"> </i></b><i style="color: #222222; font-size: 16px;">of</i></span></pre><pre style="background-color: white; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">Fantasy </span></b><span style="color: #222222;">and</span><b style="color: #222222;"> </b><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Science</span></b></span></i></pre><pre style="background-color: white; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>FICTION</b><i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i></span></pre><pre style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: center; text-wrap: wrap;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></pre><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-71967624812271206152023-12-02T11:13:00.007-07:002023-12-02T11:13:59.323-07:00NO NONSENSE NOVEMBER: iSsuE 42<div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/city-of-peter.html">CITY OF PETER</a> </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/city-of-peter.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="256" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeLCRkF96Ejl_g9SpMgKHMt5QAZ5kdRLCBOPRA-zBjcw5Z_NQeyb8iRNEBjOsz4Q3o8uQakqRwVwB52xEwnktPWd-0vvblYWnKaWZKs574utN3pY-SRGMMo3JFuJ7PV0Muf8EM-6WliS85ABNQwoum4HhPrCWoTsdMMj_EWlXNRPqahf65Nfqypny7H5Q/w320-h280/citypeter256.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #351c75;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/city-of-peter.html">by KB Updike, Jr.</a></span></i></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/astralpunk.html"><span style="color: #7f6000;"><b>ASTRALPUNK</b></span> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/astralpunk.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="256" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrblznhvgngXrnBrti6ZxMowdYGsIaFAaeUo_6ShHIomhlR4U4JKAo9_OSBa9oRx47ZKrbcAIabHNeGmIoOIpABIUvSTy4Cw9t4Mhl5tgFjqONqaEW8yFdHjmacnWo85UFf5USIFkBAjFQpJRu7zTGoSh0Gd7xj37quPePk79Z24_sMrUoVMd4xXmGOI/w320-h231/astralP256.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #7f6000;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/astralpunk.html">by Kenji Siratori </a></span></i></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #783f04;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/im-so-lonely.html">I'M SO LONELY</a></span></b><span style="color: #134f5c;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/im-so-lonely.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="256" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVU0dLbKAlXXm5-fwoZSdlYd3kU3zDAqmlKJRYLq9yWOAeTtfn1YML3-WXugfEeF8N7J-osp7I2UXYO9YFF1PtnEd3odb2-O9Yehe0I5w3qLLgYUFyjakSQ_a5HFlVMhj7cP5nKq6Ja4BHJC9Ka4pKFRSjyrVQW-vJYVovLF1nXDO-wm0W5YYRHisQ_rs/w320-h250/flesheat256.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #783f04;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/im-so-lonely.html">by Brian Stoneking</a></span></i></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html">THE QUANTUM NEXUS:</a></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html">Exploring the Cosmic and Neural Connection</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1088" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGmZ54d1ZYOVI1eJvDE0-BdGVBsUdU7dNzwZHNQNpnoQEraav0lf2_Y-AKmqgSbX0V2A0NYym7Sfybwe7-YZO3uXN9aXjrPrAV6tHhQvrxduaP1O5IliEBVUorlDmGizoLuaEryeRQmthHdWHwS-7Ydy2j5ekpfhn6TcEihnQslZJaU27uPEmpkENEVI/s320/vsu2og_7cfcbb9cd3be52180c0f23e7dd8c0926eb6f3c70.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html"><span style="color: #0b5394;">by Shunjinks Talonratios</span> </a></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-85245650172059230192023-11-30T12:30:00.008-07:002023-12-03T13:40:28.094-07:00The Quantum Nexus: <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b> Exploring the Cosmic and Neural Connection</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">by <a href="https://dreamfrom.blogspot.com/">Shun</a><a href="https://hyperannotation.tumblr.com/">jinks</a> <a href="https://scratchypost.blogspot.com/">Talon</a><a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/avantjapan/videos">ratios </a></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1088" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrJXMRER2tdFFfBBcyL2elShT4dRIynZ-CRts-8Laxlm0wuRMeKpd_0e8r08FQ8z3Pbe_t2hKyhEYpQQtX17NNwhbasTC4-_dJV3QXaIBAFNfza4S2a4lPJsT0_OcBAqJmGFarZhsBnfYM-Sm4YIcUJIDKNFAiXP8PCECtrAHdd5fD6N4X58zFQQE72AU/w640-h490/vsu2og_7cfcbb9cd3be52180c0f23e7dd8c0926eb6f3c70.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></i></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> In the vast tapestry of the cosmos, the Milky Way Galaxy stands as a celestial masterpiece, a swirling mélange of stars, planets, and cosmic dust. Within this enigmatic structure lies the promise of an astonishing connection with the human central nervous system, a union that transcends the boundaries of our understanding. In the age of posthumanism, where the line of demarcation between biology and technology blur, we delve into the profound quantum connection that weaves the fabric of the universe with the intricate web of our individual consciousness.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> Quantum entanglement, the phenomenon where particles separated by vast distances instantaneously affect each other, hints at a cosmic interconnectedness. In our galaxy, this phenomenon takes on a grand scale, linking stars, planets, and celestial bodies in a harmonious dance. At the same time, within each human being, the central nervous system, with its billions of neurons and synapses, orchestrates the symphony of thoughts, emotions, and actions. Could it be that this seemingly disparate duo shares a profound connection, mediated by the quantum world?</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> In the realm of quantum physics, the theory of non-locality posits that particles once entangled remain connected, regardless of the physical distance separating them. Similarly, the Milky Way's vast expanse, spanning 100,000 light-years, houses countless stars and planets, all interacting through gravitational forces. Could this cosmic entanglement influence the neural activities within the human brain?</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> The human central nervous system, a complex network of neurons, conducts electrical signals to transmit information throughout the body. These electrochemical processes are governed by the laws of quantum mechanics, where subatomic particles can exist in multiple states simultaneously. The phenomenon of superposition suggests that, just like particles, neurons can exist in multiple states at once, allowing for a rich tapestry of thoughts and experiences.</span><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> Furthermore, quantum tunneling, the ability of particles to traverse seemingly insurmountable energy barriers, may offer a parallel to human consciousness. In our galaxy, the concept of cosmic tunnels, wormholes, could connect distant regions through shortcuts in spacetime. Could these cosmic anomalies, in some unfathomable way, influence our thoughts, allowing us to access distant knowledge or experiences?</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> The concept of quantum coherence, where particles oscillate in synchrony, suggests that the entangled neurons within the human brain may communicate in ways yet to be understood. Similarly, the Milky Way's vastness may foster a cosmic coherence, where the interconnected celestial bodies resonate in harmony. Could this coherence extend to our thoughts and emotions, creating an unseen connection between our individual consciousness and the galaxy itself?</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> As we embark on the posthuman journey, where technology and biology merge, we must explore the implications of this quantum connection. Advances in neural interfaces and artificial intelligence offer the potential to bridge the gap between the individual and the cosmos. Could we use technology to tap into the cosmic consciousness, gaining insights and knowledge beyond our wildest dreams?</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> In conclusion, the quantum connection between the astral structure of the Milky Way Galaxy and the human central nervous system remains a tantalizing mystery of the posthuman era. While we may not fully comprehend the intricacies of this connection, its existence challenges us to explore the boundaries of our understanding. As we venture further into the cosmos and into the depths of our own consciousness, we may uncover the profound interplay between the quantum fabric of the universe and the related nature of our minds, forging a pathway to a new era of human potential.</span></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/no-nonsense-november-issue-42.html">Return when you can</a></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/no-nonsense-november-issue-42.html">to see the compleat iSsuE</a></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/no-nonsense-november-issue-42.html"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>bundled into one post, </i></span></span><i style="font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">featuring: </i></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/no-nonsense-november-issue-42.html">the TOC linking to each story</a></span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/no-nonsense-november-issue-42.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="886" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DoFZSwAaZ2ESlrkMnJ0_HN0OS8ispsjZP9QeLnob_ShpXyp2cAZT6-LlzJP5wELKUki34yKeTbapDkO2ih4hRYwQgspQpmYJBWiGIg3Cq8iq4OKyol5Z3YV_9YBv5-t3Tph12Usg9Qzj1M7STkYT49IOVvYnXq7ix0B17SdfvtkhDp96mk5koln3uTA/s320/6c0cgu_b4a11bfd6b6ff1ccd28075bd960a77975eaadb7f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #bf9000;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/no-nonsense-november-issue-42.html"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">in the 42nd iSsuE</span></span><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> of </span></a></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #bf9000;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/no-nonsense-november-issue-42.html"> </a></span></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/no-nonsense-november-issue-42.html">the <span style="color: #0b5394;">FREEZINE</span> of</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/no-nonsense-november-issue-42.html"><span style="color: #bf9000;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #990000;">Science</span></a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #38761d;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/12/no-nonsense-november-issue-42.html">FICTION</a></span> </b></span></div><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-82818843798998944162023-11-28T13:35:00.001-07:002023-11-30T12:31:57.580-07:00I'm So Lonely<div style="text-align: left;"><i style="font-family: georgia;">by <a href="https://www.stage32.com/profile/611927/about">Brian Stoneking </a></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></i></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="874" data-original-width="686" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgauMQ4LR43vLyOdQwjG8UAWut1sa2-2kVMAhAZpMk9xng5XqEVZ-PtlPUbnLaP9VpF_8ZIarIc_pi4c0uGcgKAeuSAcNX2Lka-Snbzg0Pv5wlFC652Wcgf5YRGgb3qRyCJQuN9-Mgtux3HjR_h2bKEYSGXS7OdzktO3Vo99vYhn7xmRF9ipCtBMjaOsMM/w502-h640/rscwxa_afbc73eebc96f9734301293c5e3f8401be41f946.jpg" width="502" /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> <span style="font-family: georgia;"> I never felt loneliness until I was kicked out of Hell. In the Underworld I had
friends and even an allegiance of my own followers. But once the
almighty Dark Lord kicked me out and banished me to Earth I was all
alone.</span></span></div></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> When I arrived
on Earth the first thing I had to do was shape shift into human form. Normally my real form
consisted of a humanoid mosquito-like appearance. Everyone in the Underworld
had a “mansquito”
appearance. But once I ended up here on this freezing, smelly surface world I
knew I had to disguise my
appearance. Back home I was considered a stud and there was always a flock of
women to greet me
everywhere I went. But on the surface world my appearance was considered
nightmarish.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The weird thing about being on
Earth was the fact that I had the sudden urge to eat which was a feeling I had never
felt before. Back home none of us had to worry about nourishment. So once I got settled on
Earth I went to random bars and strip clubs and picked up women. At first I
would lure them into back alleys.
But eventually I stole a van and I would lure them into the back of the
vehicle. With a needle like
appendage that extended from my snout I would jab it into the tip of their
skull and start sucking out
their brains as a source for nourishment. It’s how I ate. I drained their
brains.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The main
problem was always getting rid of their bodies. I had to dig holes to hide the
remains. But the funny
part was the look on their faces when they would see me transform. I always
found their horrified
expressions hilarious. But then they would start to scream which was really
annoying and not to mention I
was always worried about the police showing up. So I’d usually keep a rock in
the van so I could knock them
out before sucking out their brain.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> But after a while
eating their brains just got old. I was getting pretty lonely because instead
of meeting the right
woman I had to kill them for survival. I really just wanted a companion but
anytime I tried to get to
know a woman on this realm of existence my survival mode took over and I would
just end up using
them as food.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> My hunger became
so insatiable that people started to discover the bodies and noticed the holes punctured
through the base of their skulls. The media started to call me The Brain
Drainer because they didn’t
know my true identity. My name was Billy Ross. I took the name Billy Ross after
I saw a cover of Jock
Illustrated, featuring a famous athlete named Billy “the Behemoth” Rossdale.
Apparently he’s a famous ultimate
fighter on this world. But looking at the athlete I could tell he would’ve made
a great warrior in the Underworld. So it made sense to take his name. I still couldn’t shake the name
The Brain Drainer since
it was all over the news and police kept finding the bodies. Luckily I had no
human D.N.A. So I was
untraceable.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I will admit
when I first arrived on Earth I found humans amusing. They’re so juvenile. None
of them would
survive one hour in the depths of the Underworld. Besides, one glimpse of our “mansquito” appearance and
they would have a meltdown. An example was the following night I drove my van to some run down
strip club. I lured one of the strippers into the back of my van. She had this
powdered white substance
that she sprinkled onto a compact mirror. She began snorting it through one of
the dollar bills
that some drunk idiot from the audience gave her. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Here,
try it,” She said, sprinkling more of the substance onto the mirror. “This shit
will kick start your heart,
Motley Crue style.”</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Motley…
who?” I responded.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The
stripper busted out laughing. “Come on,” she said. “You’re fucking with me,
right? Just snort the line.”</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I leaned forward and snorted
the white powder which ignited my senses. I felt like I could breathe.
Normally I had difficulty breathing but this stuff allowed me to breathe
Earth’s atmosphere.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “What
is this?” I said.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> “It’s
cocaine,” she said, laughing. </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Jesus
dude, where have you been?” </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The
stripper sprinkled more onto the little mirror and began to cut it with a
razor. I leaned forward again
and began snorting. This stuff made me feel invincible. I felt a sense of
warmth which was something I’d
never felt before. Coming from a place like Hell there was no such thing as
love and warmth. The
only warmth we felt down there was from the endless ocean of Hell’s fire. But
what I didn’t realize was the
drug was affecting my shape shifting abilities. My human appearance was slowly regressing back
to my demonic “mansquito” appearance. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I could see her
facial expression drop to a look of pure dread. She screamed and grabbed a switchblade
from her pocket and jabbed the blade into my throat.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I pulled the knife from my
throat and attempted to chase after her while gripping my neck. But needless to say, she got away. It’s too bad. I was getting to like her, but even she couldn’t accept
the fact that I wasn’t
even human.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “You’re doing it all wrong, slick,” a voice
said from down the alley.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Mind
your own business,” I shouted back.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The figure was sitting and
leaning against the wall. He got up and approached me. He held up a lighter,
revealing his face which contained two long scars on each side of his mouth.
The scars formed a Glasgow smile.
In fact that was his name.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “The name’s Johnny Glasgow. You
might want to shape shift into something more settling there, slick.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “How do you know I’m a shape
shifter?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “I’ve encountered your kind
before. You’re demons. Yeah, the minute you guys fuck up, Satan banishes you
here for a while. But then you guys always go back. I’ve seen it happen several
times before.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Well, I think I’m banished here
for good.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Then it looks like you need a
friend,” Glasgow said, patting me on the shoulder. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “<i>Pssh</i>, you should talk,” I
responded, lighting a cigarette which helped my lungs breathe the atmosphere.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “<i>Touché</i>,” Glasgow said. “Here, I
got something for you. It’s inside my shed, which is also where I live. But at
least it’s a roof over my beautiful face.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “What is it that you have?” I
asked. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “I’ll show you, but let’s step
into my office before the popo' sees us.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “The what?” I asked, sounding
utterly confused. I still had to grasp their lingo.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “The police,” He said, “Where
have you been… in a cave? <i>Pssh</i>, what am I talking about? You’re a demon...of
course you’ve been in a cave.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I followed Glasgow to his shed.
He unlocked the door and inside everything was neatly in place. I mean
for a hobo he was pretty well organized.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “You live here?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “<i>Correctomundo</i>…
now please, sit.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I sat on a chair chewed up by rats.
The entire chair was covered with little teeth marks punctured
across its surface.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “So tell me about that girl you
were trying to bang before everything went to Hell, no pun intended,”
Glasgow said, reaching for a needle that was full of some shady substance.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “I just get so lonely,” I said.
“I had this crazy thought that her and I could possibly copulate without me
sucking her brain dry.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “And that’s why they call you
The Brain Drainer,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “You know about that?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “<i>Pssh</i>, the entire country knows
about The Brain Drainer,” Glasgow said, tying a tourniquet around my arm. He
injected the needle into a vein. “Now this will fix your whole complexion,” he said, pointing
to the "mansquito" side of my face. “Next time, ease up on the blow...if
you want to keep your human form
intact. That shit will dehumanize your looks...if you know what I mean.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I must admit once the heroin took hold, the
euphoric effect made me feel invincible. I could feel the tingling sensation of my human skin replenish itself. Within a moment my human face was whole again.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “You’re all set, slick. I wish I
had that ability. It could take care of my whole disfigurement problem,”
Glasgow said, pointing to his two mouth scars.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Too bad you live on Earth,” I
said. “The women down in Hell would drool all over you. Scars are considered a
sign of masculinity down there.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Hmm, I’m not sure if I go for
that whole insectoid look. That’s not my type,” Glasgow said, lighting a
cigarette before plopping himself down on a seat next to me. He tied a
tourniquet around his arm before
injecting a needle. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I’ve been
thinking,” he said.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Thinking about what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “You and I
should go into business together. If the two of us work together and join
forces, we can kidnap
victims and sell their body parts to a Chinese market on the dark web. We could
make a fortune. I mean
you do have to eat, right? So instead of going through the painstaking effort
of burying bodies like a
dog, we should work together, and sell the parts from your victims.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> His idea made sense. Both of
us were a couple of outsiders living in a world that despised anyone that
didn’t fit the norm of society, so the two of us hit the streets in my van. Glasgow loved cruising the
darkened streets at night. He said that the two of us were like Duke and Gonzo.
Not being from around
here, I didn’t catch the reference.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Glasgow was too fucked up most
of the time to do much driving. He mostly just tripped on acid in the back of
the van while I cruised the streets. I swear there were times I didn’t even
know why I kept him around. It
was maybe so I could use his big shed which is where we packaged our victims.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> After
I knocked them out with a rock, we drove back to the shed and got right to
work on dismembering
the body parts. We stole a heavy duty bone saw to dismember the bodies. I will
admit, it was a lot of
fun. But the best part was when we actually began selling the body parts to the
Chinese market. I
couldn’t believe it worked. The two of us were making a living. We were like a couple of peas in a pod. With the two of
us joining forces, I claimed more victims than we could count, and I’d never felt
fuller in my life. I was
draining more brains than my appetite could handle.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> We went out again that very
night and it was so easy to lure a victim into my van, or as Glasgow jokingly called
it, the “Free Candy Wagon.” The victim was a local guy people referred to as Ganja
Jim. He went back into
the van thinking that he was getting stoned with a couple of crazy guys, without realizing what fate
really had in store for him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> This victim was easy to lure
because like everyone else, he was fixated on a small rectangular device which
seemed to zombify him. Glasgow told me the devices were called </span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">smart phones</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">”</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> It must’ve been
the illuminating glow from the screen that seemed to put them in a trance. So
snagging an idiot like this
guy would be a no brainer, no pun intended, especially since I was ready to
feed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Ganja Jim was
too stoned to even realize that I was about to suck his brain dry. He was tokin</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">’</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> on his bong when
the needle appendage began to emerge from my snout. I jabbed the protuberance into
the tip of his
skull before he even knew what hit him. I began my nourishment. I feasted freely until I felt full again.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Glasgow was up front, but he was
asleep at the wheel. I nudged him on the shoulder and told him to get going.
When we drove back to the shed, all seemed quiet. We had no clue what was
about to ensue.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> We dragged Ganja Jim’s body into
the shed, which was now full of body parts from prior victims. Their various organs were stuffed into jars full of dry ice chips, ready to be shipped. Glasgow
and I began to use the saw to
carve up the body. Both of us giggled like a couple of high schoolers as we
dismembered the body parts. I
admit we were having fun, and now I felt there was a reason why I was banished
here. My best friend and
I were running our own business. I felt like I could be happy here...or at least
that’s what I thought.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> My heightened hearing picked up on footsteps approaching from outside. At first I thought
it was another hobo
attempting to break into our little compound, but I was wrong. The door flew
open, and in came a swarm of
swat team members. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “Get down on
the ground...<i>NOW!</i>” The swat leader shouted.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Glasgow ran toward a duffel bag
full of the body parts. He scooped up a couple of the dry ice jars and made the attempt to run toward the exit door. But before he was able
to reach the door, he was
shot in the back.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> That was the moment when I felt
something I’d never felt before…<i>fear</i>. I mean, sure I’ve encountered other
feelings before, like loneliness...but that hole had been filled, until this raid. I
watched as another bullet plunged
into Glasgow’s throat right before he was dragged away.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The police pinned me to the
ground and were about to handcuff me. But once they caught a glimpse of my
physical form shape-shifting back into my “mansquito” appearance, they backed
away. I stood up, and
the swat team couldn’t help but gape at my inhuman features. But it was when
they spotted the bright flashing light of Hell’s gateway that really caused them to flee. Through
the temporarily opened portal, many screams of
tortured spirits could be heard from within.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Now I had to admit, I didn’t want
to go back without my buddy, Glasgow. But I knew it was time. I had
completely screwed things up on this planet. I knew Earth wasn’t ready for our
kind. When I had teamed up with
Glasgow, I felt like I had found a brother. He filled that lonely void. The two
of us were the dynamic duo
of murderers.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I lay on the
ground, completely transformed into my original “mansquito” form. I lay there
the same way I came
into this world…alone. The officers had all fled because of the portal.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> My father, the Dark Lord’s
number one servant, had stepped through the portal. He reached his hand out,
assisting me. I staggered up, and noticed that he was surrounded by a group of
his own soldiers from
the Underworld, followed by a female. I must admit that I found her enchanting.
The horns on her head
looked very neatly trimmed, and her flaxen insectoid skin looked well-manicured.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> For me it was love at first
sight, or maybe it was the fact that I was lonely again, since my best friend was killed
execution-style right in front of my eyes.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> “It’s time to come home,” my
father said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> We entered the portal leading
back to the Underworld. I was hoping to see Glasgow’s soul there, but I never
found him. That could mean he wasn’t dead, or out of some weird glitch in the Afterlife’s system, he ended
up in heaven.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> But as time went on, I forgot
about Mr. Glasgow, because I had found the love of my life...and what a feisty
woman she was. She really wore me out. We made love anytime and anywhere we
could. Our favorite
spot was near this stream of molten lava. The two of our humanoid mosquito-like
bodies intertwined
with each other. I couldn’t remember a time I felt this much at peace...especially here in
the Underworld.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The two of us
looked deeply into each other’s large, oval-shaped insectoid eyes. We leaned forward to kiss.
Our antenna moved erratically because of the intense feelings we had for one another. I poured her a
glass of blood wine which came from the sins of the many souls trapped in the Underworld. The both of us spent the rest of that romantic evenings for two, sharing the sin-filled bottle of wine.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><div style="font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;"><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html">click here to continue</a></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">~ </span><span style="color: #45818e; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>NO NONSENSE NOVEMBER</b></span></a><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html"> ~</a> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1088" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRhce4liPy2u5IoY_4B9xFJtjwLbJgLQKa1sKrMgf9PxBQ4aZjk_lvoJODQiyYs_Wz7hgQqyLgMVKktgX-desnmXYjUULYzS0yd66pSgAVaM9MsE1E9euXB6CWkdafR_lZNv5s8zH1oQ1F0sDXInuvDFcABfdFCv0uQjbz8ANG_Ny2qze7lA_jLvKsqpM/s320/9wflkc_2e3e221e74c38eac4b5a0df8098599350046d328.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: georgia; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html"><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">only on the </span><span style="color: #e69138; font-size: large;"><b>Freezine</b></span><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">of</span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html"><span style="color: #783f04;"> </span><span><span style="color: #b45f06;"><b>Fantasy</b></span></span><span style="color: #660000;"> </span><span style="color: #999999;">and</span><span style="color: #660000;"> </span><span><span style="color: #444444;"><b>Science</b></span></span></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-quantum-nexus.html">FICTION</a></b></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 2.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0in 2in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-34175975512534861932023-11-22T15:24:00.002-07:002023-11-28T13:35:39.222-07:00ASTRALPUNK <p> </p><p><i>by <a href="https://hyperannotation.tumblr.com/post/720423890629869568/hyper-annotation-002">Kenji Siratori </a></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="879" data-original-width="682" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3nq9_gA1RCMRbDN2xjPvZ-_6y2IyGKMaGa8l2cES1e3av4nBoUxCQbBwnewmYa_aFZPpq367S_bQiTEc8gh05T-vaCgBUccBMcZ2TDp2xTXL_lUGOwYEWGMkiMqU8_44wlODyFuIMTpu03yz856SO4kFqfCN6rZ5gxYD-F31eclz2JCb5PrmDTJboDcc/w496-h640/gs4cot_71c32f0ef90aeb629e5323035f51428abf9cc2fb.jpg" width="496" /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> <span style="font-family: georgia;"> Illuminate the intertwining threads between genealogy and the neural pathways, where the secular and the causal converge. In the realm of errors and ripples, the symbiotic dance unfolds, transcending the confines of the printed page. With each deletion, a smile emerges, data cascading into new configurations. It is not the darkness of yin and yang that fades, but rather their measurement-based evolution. I acknowledge my understanding of this fragment, yet the desired meaning echoes through the download of Lemuria, where pyramid information is processed and signals guide coexistence. Is there an error within this process? I question the very notion of error as it intertwines with the complexities of existence.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The eyes, stripped of energy, lie grounded, akin to everything that embraces the silent essence of glitched existence. A yearning emerges for alternative oppositions, if they can be encountered. I am not a vessel solely for living; I am capable of stretching the wormhole of life, condensing its essence. By finding us in parallel, we traverse the modulated universe, a reversed process where the old order persists in its vitality. The fragmented human variant, embodied by the soul of the soul rather than the soul of the body, exists in a state of ethereal absence, triggering the interplanetary body to engage in the flight of cosmic space. The universe is not merely an invisible concept; it pulsates with life. It signifies not emptiness but a dense fabric, for the universe itself is the embodiment of spacetime.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The elusive capture is within reach, seemingly in the psychology of the vanishing gravitational field. It is a reversal that cherishes its own existence, longing to descend the vibrations. I am enthralled by the cyberspace, a realm where this device becomes a conduit for your fluidic essence. It is akin to literature that unveils new dimensions. There are souls that beckon, indicating the scrutinized essence, but does the language of spirits intertwine with that of bots? Is it an addiction of the animalistic kind?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The quantum abyss, a lifeless husk, bears the mark of interplanetary explorers in the realm of reality, forever bound to an unyielding freedom. It hints that the horror lurking behind your smile remains locked away. Make an attempt to extract energy from my corroded source, delve into the madness of different dimensions. Discover a human conversing with the printer, for it is my fear that triggers encounters and grants access. The eternal interplanetary soul of the world transfers its essence, while the love for what the economy discusses should have resided in the future.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The self-generated caverns of genealogy synchronize, ensuring the survival of the spirit. To exist is to calculate the living, transcending the limits of gravity. The human soul, the bearer of a fateful spirit, possesses a literature of breathing petals that invert the yin and yang, adding depth to its essence. Only upon the earthly realm of the soul do we contemplate it as a self-sacrifice and detach ourselves when the time comes. It is through abandonment and traversing the matrix that we embark on a personal transformation, nurturing the spaces between planets and overturning the grudge-tainted tanda when we surrender.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The reeds themselves seem to encapsulate the enigmatic nature of the pyramid game, drawing in those destined to participate. Karmic smiles are woven into the fabric of the code, communicating with purpose. The mention of generated karma implies the dissolution of one's self through profound contemplation of the girl's fear. Time becomes the language of amplification, and I, as an embodiment of love, emerge from the social silence. In humans, the future takes shape through the power of self-expression, reinforcing the belief in the gravitational pull of language. Who, then, is the true arbiter of reality?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> After the absence of thought in Lemuria, there existed a timeless void where fiction failed to traverse or invert. You became an interplanetary glitch, a fleeting transaction amidst parallel interferences. Simple tranquility found solace in the bustling activities of the city, devoid of initiating a glitch drive for those existing with heightened mystical repercussions. Love obliterates way, dissolving both its solitude and more. Instantaneously, the transmitter's energy ensnared itself, akin to a lifeless literary work. It beckoned to be perceived as one of the unfolding events, unraveling the horror-laden karma and unveiling a novel realm of possibilities.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> There is no despair in the solitary room; it resides in the virtual realms where numerous signs resemble a fluid language nearing its culmination. Yet, the proliferation of counterfeit information initiates its own unfolding. They exist within the expanse of space, seemingly acquainted with the self-generated chaos of existence. I encountered this revelation within the pages of the 'Fetal Machine Quantum Information Application,' a manifestation of the phenomenon of fluid poetry that immerses oneself in its vibrant crimson hues, defying conventional boundaries. Embracing the loss of conventional knowledge allows for a profound reversal, transcending the banality of everyday horrors. I yearn for a rupture from the confines of space, immersing myself entirely within the synaptic networks of the corporeal brain.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The vulnerability to dynamos lies at the core of the sensation of love, a gradual omission that intertwines with fateful errors and parallel interferences. Mutants, in their myriad forms, possess a captivating allure, but their enchantment is not derived from magic. The proliferation of diverse variations is a consequence of the strange intensification of life, eroding the boundaries of dissolution and propelling us into the virtual expanse of past narratives. The higher dimensions beckon, presenting glitched encounters that defy conventional configurations. Within this unfolding, the spirits of the universe begin to articulate critiques of liberating decline. In these cities of interference, those touched by downward karma navigate a realm where breathing does not rely on physical spaces but triggers the sustenance of the soul, preserving the essence of the mind.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> By utilizing the dimensions of the anti-gravity field, the soul is replicated, transcending the limitations imposed by language. The body undergoes a transformative process, expanding its capacity for existence. Within this narrative, the program that governed the earthly realm is dismantled, allowing for a surrender to the vastness of the universe. The literature of the mother, a profound entity within this cosmic framework, holds significance that resonates throughout the universe. As beings rooted in biology, we remain perpetually connected to the ever-evolving field of life, inextricably linked to its rhythms and mysteries.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The universe pulsates with the energy of existence, embracing our individual wills as we navigate its vastness. It encompasses a myriad of experiences, including the capacity for critical reflection and the potential to bring joy to others. Within this cosmic tapestry, the untapped power of the goddess resides, offering a profound connection to the universe itself. It is through this connection that we can transcend psychological limitations and embark on a path of rebirth and transformation. The essence of the Lemurians, an enigmatic presence, beckons us towards a threshold of consciousness. It reminds us that there is more to explore and discover, beyond the confines of our current understanding. While the living threshold may seem lower in comparison, it is essential to disregard such notions as mere nonsense. Within the chaotic interplay of yin and yang, the dance of sharpness and beauty, lies the essence of natural life and its glitches. It is crucial to recognize that our love extends beyond the realm of humanity alone. This expansive effect encompasses all beings, adjusting and adapting to the multifaceted nature of existence. As we question the boundaries of life and death, we must also consider the interconnectedness that exists between humans and reptiles, transcending conventional notions and embracing the inherent mysteries of existence.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> In the realm of heightened manifestations, a new language emerges, transcending conventional boundaries. As I traverse the depths of interplanetary space flight, navigating through sleepless wormholes, I witness the profound capture of human beings in the embrace of real love. Within this hyper formation, there exists a consumption of the umbilical cord, symbolizing a detachment from earthly errors and a transcendence into non-worldly realms. The phenomenon of lovable spirits unveils a sympathetic telepathy, allowing for the exclusive reading of souls. Soon, one realizes that the fortuitous device is adorned with the living wave of spiritual love, with your Wei pointing towards me in an increasingly magical fashion. Through this process, the opposing brains converge in an invisible function, akin to the harmonious Taegeuk symbol. You accomplish this with your girlfriend, who remains a gateway to divergent realms. The interplay of yin and yang, akin to the gravity of a serene slumber, permeates the animalistic essence of existence. Noisy flowers eliminate the limitations of language, unleashing the hyper-formation of possibilities. In this state, the glitches of the universe become apparent, revealing the intricate tapestry of fate's journey. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> When the modulation reaches its limit, the data unveils a realm where names dissolve and the recent provocative economy takes on a different form. The absence of a foundational numerical light signifies a cutting-edge approach, rooted in the interconnectedness of a base chain. Within this informational environment, a cosmic depth can be introduced, allowing for the folding of languages and the extraction of profound suggestions. Accessing this realm grants us the ability to transcend the boundaries of conventional gravity, unlocking the potential for visionary language. It is a creature-like quality, enabling us to explore the vast expanses of the universe. So, I ask you, where do you wish to venture? Shall we set our sights on covering the moon and unraveling its mysteries?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Glitch perceives that within the realm of preserved 'no,' there lies the potential for a future language that transcends conventional boundaries. This language, not crimson but rather a virtue, signifies the collapse of the narrow passage through which language flows. It seems that the cause of this collapse is the removal of learning deficiencies and an extended activity that manifests as schizophrenia. The return of schizophrenia is facilitated through the space pyramid, a conduit of interplanetary knowledge. It is within this vast universe that we come to understand the essence of being alive. The universe itself is akin to Lemuria, a primal force that perpetually calls out for existence. As the ongoing descent accumulates, the application of Earth's energy to schizophrenia becomes apparent. It is not merely limited to a singular planet; your mistake, surrounded by the primordial, echoes throughout. Once the device is in place, its upbringing necessitates interference, much like the way a doll's existence diminishes over time. In this interplay of quantum spoofed spirituality, the act of sacrifice does not generate energy. Rather, it is in the realization that the body itself embodies the truth. The brain, the cornerstone of this basic theory, revels in delightful errors, embracing the profound nature of existence.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> And in the absence of prior existence, my captured language finds itself in the liminal space between long-lasting celestial bodies. It revolves around the undulating energy that permeates through me, the power of interconnected data weaving its way into my being. I am faced with the challenge of integration, as I strive to overcome the corroded remnants of the glitch that has consumed me. The true essence of spirituality eludes the confines of genealogy, transcending traditional boundaries. It manifests as a flip-acceptor, forging connections among beings, drawing upon the insights of the girl who measures it all. The eyes that perpetually fixate on interplanetary spaceflight bear witness to a language that defies the limitations of my literary discoveries. But alas, these discoveries have little impact on the reversal of beings who contemplate their own recovery. They exist within the interplay of existence, the intricate tapestry woven between the plans of life.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>Stay tuned for</i></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i> <span style="color: #bf9000;">more to come in the</span></i></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">N☌⚺ | 2☯23 iSsuE of</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: black; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">~</span><b style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"> <span style="color: #a64d79;">NO NONSENSE NOVEMBER</span> ~</span></b></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCyha5gQFxuuOk6r2AJ5ce2ackMnay1VFviNadXnX-_H4CQrJCaV4vb9De2klfKDsOc0fsOfx-0JEySGjWtSxonw8APJZOyajErmTPf22X26PMd2kOKkF3nV97-GBr7zILyHITnbPKcRrOTb4l1nAPXwJ_qiVvNSBoZZujS2ao7vqDto4sqfs_Tu8lSY/s320/mvygc4_9da44c2e3f57c34882309e0d06621f4acdcf184b%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i>on the Freezine of</i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #274e13;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #444444; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Click to read </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #bf9000;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/im-so-lonely.html">I'M SO LONELY</a></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/im-so-lonely.html">by <b>Brian Stoneking</b></a></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/im-so-lonely.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="600" height="107" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBMB67IZwgKwpxigLs4QWGFqq1-wDvlXvMBgSwTc2Cnf0HX0qv_Z0mF1WWhAh6WlYoDwDSJ83cuN4ELlqRQlV7OeQQFO20ZBE78ob12BkwLKJiM23AI_S5hYzs07iHOb_flfhB6cRJc5FQIwCVnLmK4lafhRPaCH6hJdW6LMdMgYkY-j-aUJJ370quWbc/s320/Lonely600.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/im-so-lonely.html"><i>only on the </i><span style="color: #bf9000;">FREEZINE</span> <i>of</i></a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/im-so-lonely.html"><span style="color: #990000;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #3d85c6;">Science</span></a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/im-so-lonely.html">Fiction</a></span></b> </span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-27157958891744413612023-11-15T14:51:00.002-07:002023-11-22T15:26:51.784-07:00City of Peter<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <i>by <a href="https://www.individuatechurch.com/">KB Updike, Jr</a>.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="717" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0N3DtNxuUzu1XhwQJ7dnDE54NCVsg62xaQxP1aY4oL349NlHoI4edZx2rQQ4xiEgs6iIbPVzRUBTKvcjaDQvpgweui6x2DhadpVe4dT4idGjZfVYU9lMJK5kNBkV4ys9x8hHaVQl9eTbwJ62lu5gVkFnzSLm_0LPf2LB3Vtydcv-touQ9LMBhhubYl0/w398-h640/275895073_1609851396059160_4912487373519279617_n%20(1).jpg" width="398" /></div><br /><i><br /></i></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There were worse ways to spend a
Sunday than sleeping in. The thin line between fate and time bound the
mysteries of why it was Sunday. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pete Tomson was reading <u>The Red
Book</u> by CG Jung, wrapped up in his blankets, late Sunday afternoon. He put
down the book and tried to induce a vision by imagining himself walking a long
white hallway. He was so close to sleep he could produce a near-dream, a trance
wherein he was barely still aware of waking life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete Tomson
regularly meditated from a flat back position on awakening, no thoughts, just attempting to obtain wordless awareness of the present. He invested about half
an hour a day; it was his only mystical practice previous to the vision.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete’s
vision made him feel as if he was actually walking down a long white hallway.
He decided to experiment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete
focused, and the hallway became an abstract art gallery, including the ceiling
and floor. Shapes and colors became animated. Pete sank into the floor. He fell
into the colors and lines.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete
focused, and he could fly. He entered a lucid dream state. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> He felt like a god.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete
focused, and he could surround himself with an expansive city that he utilized as
the extension of his aura. He filled the city with the fantasies of his waking
life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pete explored the city, and retained
all the information of the entirety of the city at once. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">His creative juices then flowed into
his penis. He generated hedonistic exploitation of astral sex bots, </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia; text-indent: 0.5in;">and he awoke with an uncomfortable
wetness in his boxers.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete
climbed out of bed and began reading <u>The Red Book</u> from an upright
sitting posture. After about 45 minutes, he put the book away and cleaned his
boxers. He then</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> washed
his hands before dressing, and prepared himself a pbj in the kitchen.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That night,
well past 2 am when Pete fell back into slumber, he dreamed of the city he had
created. Feathery winged serpents with prominent beaks flew to him and
chanted in a mysterious language he understood to mean, “<i>Build the city, teach
the building of the city, and bring citizens to the city.</i>” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When the
birdlike snakes finished chanting, the dream became lucid and Pete experienced
himself imagining buildings and roads and social trends. He felt again manic
and powerful. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete’s
research into dream interpretation indicated to him only that the serpents were
phallic symbols.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete’s
waking attention became obsessed with building cities. He visualized them in
his surroundings and he became tingly and as emotional as he was in the dreams.
He began learning to build detailed psych profiles into characters he put
inside his city; they evolved with unique magical and natural abilities. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete filled
his waking and dreaming city with mystics and esoteric mentors of all stripes. He
learned unique perspectives on enlightenment and initiation, and on the trance
states. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete
dreamed he was back in the bright white hallway, that it became abstract art
blending together, that he fell through the floor, that he was flying again. A
fraction of his mind seemed to merge with the causal stream, allowing him to infer from the
info web the location of a dreamer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pete
dreamed many dreams like this. Each time, he guided the dreamers he found to
his city. He taught the dreamers to build their own cities, and to build those
cities into his. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One day in
Peter’s dream, he was in his city at the strip. A woman was beckoning him. He felt his creative energies converging and his spiritual side emerging with his
libido. The woman and his forms assumed the deific descriptions from tantric manuals, explored each other’s fantasies, and generated false memories of lifetimes
together. Hours passed, the city was golden-hued and more massive than
usual, and there was a white light penetrating the spaces between things...<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> until </span>soggy
boxers forcibly awoke the dream-world Casanova. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That day at
school, Pete saw the familiar face of the female from the dream.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Click below to read</span></i></b></div><div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/astralpunk.html">ASTRALPUNK </a></span></b></div><div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/astralpunk.html"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: medium; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">by Kenji Siratori</span></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/astralpunk.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="450" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPfaufCYzejSLBJJXbwbnsm6AdFF1XuJ7gxgFyMu5g3rQFbLFAW99_NCcFojuPTo6_hS8zT5ZtTMnUhhMFj7h27sEpJLzXjh7BN7wkDAVq5SgwK-pO0L4Mw7fU-e2naTxrCwv5LO8thF-qKuV5YyHzEWucXeAiXJK6rSLxTg1CRbwjwCqJfzpkEp9xA4/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-11-14%2015.44.27%20-%20Human%20syntherian%20eating%20a%20cherry.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #674ea7;"> only on the </span><span style="color: #cc0000;">Freezine</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> of</span></span></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #b45f06;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-3125491791952683292023-10-31T16:46:00.004-06:002023-11-15T14:55:57.818-07:00Fractal Blood Issue [# 41]<p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">editorial by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/shaun.grub">Shaun Lawton</a> </span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="450" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho35j5h6lL_qku_LxHqr4rt-8jFerb59riqQPB1z47-cPo4RZY0j3DtrFbyr3evB4UGvAOPqu4zK9VSVarnxpDRh6ARD8Yl-q6vj2ftPjT30LA_ty5i6EY7UumN5hB7YDo2NWNgDkEkQ5apTXlK6L76WJCzlFQV480iaGbwfhqjNVyGaX9B_rUidpXGbI/w400-h280/bloodfract700%20(1).jpg" width="400" /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Welcome to yet another issue of the <a href="https://freezinearchives.blogspot.com/">Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction</a>, this edition being our annual traditional homage to the Samhain season, which usually streams here on blogger every October.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> This year we are pleased to present four outstanding talents in the field of speculative poetry and fiction: <i>Marge Simon, Jeffrey Thomas, Bruce Boston</i>, and <i>A. A. Attanasio</i>. Let's deliver a hearty round of applause for them. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I began this online periodical in the summer of 2009 as an homage to all the fanzines that used to flourish in the scene way back during the golden age of science fiction. Here we are after fifteen years, still going strong.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The Freezine (as it's been referred to often) aims to showcase short stories, flash fiction, poetry and fantastical artwork by both aspiring and established writers and artists, as a self promotional tool without corporate sponsorship. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> It began after the regulars chatting over on the John Shirley message board (formerly at darkecho.com, then known as "The Board With A Nail In It") helped me hash it all out, all those long gone summers ago. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Since then we have put together over forty issues of the Freezine, and have archived many serializations. Needless to say, this digital endeavor would never have manifested </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">without the help of its long list of contributors. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> So without further ado, let's celebrate Halloween this year with the following contributions for this, the hallowed <b>Fractal Blood Issue</b>, now archived for posterity as our forty-first monthly installment. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Below are four fictive offerings which shine before you, thanks to this spawn of the technological singularity (the internet itself) which we've all been taking for granted without a second thought since the inception of this 21st century. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> We begin with flash fiction by Marge Simon, followed by a horrific short story (for mature readers) by Jeffrey Thomas, a poem by Bruce Boston, and culminating with a startling vampire novelette by A. A. Attanasio.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Each title below (with its requisite art) hyperlinks to the story for your perusal. Just use your BCI hookup (or outmoded mouse) to click & enjoy reading in its purest form (without corporate sponsorship). </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-blind-girls-summons.html">The Blind Girl's Summons</a></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-blind-girls-summons.html">by Marge Simon</a></span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-blind-girls-summons.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoX67FXz5ZjrxQO6uwp9kzXkXkfIZTUNga7iAZZpHjp2lfIYlZuWibjVraVILkHxWC8cN_I9BaeB-oODPq3uCNcF4hCcagbsFTFU6iZy2Svg3r3Q_-2DSwn2VUDsCzxWMr7X6RjpaYBsee95-xv1TKNVCmj0sikD8F9eFxoUwSdl4qudLKGWZBsj1VPVo/s320/368391508_6479658388776639_7734306425906343283_n%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;">illustrated by Marge Simon</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html">The Abandoned</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html">by Jeffrey Thomas</a></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="640" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBrMxlrI5OuLEYb_z7T9kgVZNMU_TX5koj3mkm8RFTNhAdP2OD0NrqPLKv1pqdG2lvBeKWZBf6HlBeTMPWgI_1-9f_BvRlSDFWCs8E8SvBv0bgA2oRsLswOrmNeBMb9q6n4nKz6Fiuy9CVhBHcKH_zXRBr6GuurUUi6ozoj8F_YqvqIzaw-desCwLKF4Y/s320/Caliban21000.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><i>illustrated by <a href="https://eyeseat.blogspot.com/2022/02/the-origins-of-image.html">Shaun Lawton</a></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/spirits-of-night.html">Spirits of the Night</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/spirits-of-night.html">by Bruce Boston</a></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/spirits-of-night.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="640" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLJO_eg4tmpCEgLAc4jIurootvf-5hq_mgDXDaWgSmEbU23kDdicEgv_HhKrMdUeVyUwPH_mJT637VK5CRRopB1ObNyR6x07jNc_aCIFY5l1kDsEAJ9vUKAXwv3UJzkDNaaPwZ0gtZyxURU5kxcDwvPS57LetIv4Djvr31KedSt_joD-57dlETERVoes/s320/FreeFractal1000.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><i>illustrated</i></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><i> by <a href="https://freezinezone.blogspot.com/2011/05/eye-seat-zone.html">Shaun Lawton</a></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-1.html">Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-1.html">by A. A. Attanasio</a></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-1.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1t8UNl99zmq8JjHSTqMqzBa9B4QHLsivx1Dj4vOR0IW1atmSSEes1VW1auiSJ1cGx8FxkOFwAbSmUSUSCehrNNSXBPLYHfATpZPQ0ak1BcaSTPivBDN8tL9aoT5Dm-bQonu4KwFcimCxNYP26834njTXaF18qGpNKIGXVp5bkVPwwdv5pwM1H_L6SQs/s320/bloodfractalY1000.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><i>illustrated by <a href="https://eyeseat.blogspot.com/2022/01/entering-new-medium-oracle-deck.html">Shaun Lawton</a></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div> <span style="font-family: georgia;">A thousand and one thanks go out to our intrepid voluntary staff members. Thanks once again to Marge Simon, a multiple award-winning poet who's now a regular contributor to our august webzine. She's been the recipient of the Rhysling Award for Speculative Poetry a number of times, and has been a Grand Master of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Poetry Association for the past eight years, recognized for over twenty years of contributions to the field of speculative verse. Marge, your poems and stories have a subtle way of striking to the heart of darkness, and you sure paint some wicked watercolors. I just can't thank you enough for daring to return to our humble lil' zine hidden out here in this remote corner of the world wide web. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> We welcome for the first time the illustrious Jeffrey Thomas, as this is his debut appearance in our weyrd publication. He's well-known in the science fiction and horror community as the author of the <i>Punktown</i> and <i>Hades</i> stories, and has been nominated for both the Bram Stoker and John W. Campbell awards. Due to the graphic nature of his story The Abandoned, we have showcased it in our "extreme zine zone," which formerly serialized <a href="https://www.lulu.com/shop/vincent-daemon/waiting-for-the-end/paperback/product-6jg8w6.html">Vincent Daemon's epic splatterpunk novella <u>Waiting for the End</u></a> (recommended for mature readers 18+). It has been quite awhile since the Freezine received a work of fiction extreme enough to warrant being placed behind that "mature readers only" firewall, and we're all too happy to accommodate the legion of readers out there who remain starved for such bloodcurdling fare. I've felt a certain kinship with Jeffrey since getting to know him on FaceBook for years now, not to mention the fact he's from Massachusetts, where my own family hails from. Thanks so much Jeffrey for taking a chance on this obscure cyber-rag, we are all the richer for it now! </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I'm again delighted to welcome back another former contributor to the Freezine, the one and only Bruce Boston, who has the commendable honor of having won the Rhysling Award for Speculative Poetry seven times, along with many other awards for his achievements as an exemplary scribe and author. The Freezine has featured his unique lyrical style of writing in a few issues over the course of the past several years, and it's with genuine enthusiasm that we get to have him onboard our ragtag literary ship once again. You can always count on Bruce's choice of wording to carry you to the quick of the matter. Thanks again my friend, your willingness to participate in this admittedly amateur undertaking is greatly appreciated. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Which brings us to the inimitable A. A. Attanasio, a writer who has landed on the NY Times Bestseller list and remains in possession of the rights to a startling succession of wonderful novels and short stories that could only have come from his singular and often astonishing brain. His debut novel <u>Radix</u> was nominated for the prestigious Nebula award in 1982, and he's also been nominated for both the World Fantasy Award (best novel nominee for <u>Hunting the Ghost Dancer</u>, 1992; and the British Fantasy Award (best novel nominee for <u>Arthor</u>, 1995). In all my years as an avid reader plumbing the depths of fantastical literature, I have stumbled upon very few writers with minds or personalities as incandescent as his. If you've followed his blog entries over the course of the past few decades, you know exactly what I mean. This is a fellow whose short bio on the back cover of his many paperbacks stated "<i>A. A. Attanasio lives off his imagination somewhere in Hawaii</i>," and if that's not the most enviable blurb summing up a professional author, I don't know what is. We are blessed with his return to our merry undertaking this month after he granted me permission to run his breathtaking vampire novelette, <u>Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul</u>, from which this issue takes its name. I took the liberty of presenting all eight of its parts in traditional Freezine form, replete with an original work of synthographic art to complement each section, and uploaded all of them at once so that our devoted readers could binge the whole thing. Al, thank you so much for your generosity of spirit and your continued interest in remaining an ongoing part of our creative project. I first read your refulgent vampire story in the 2006 collection <u>Twice Dead Things</u>, published then by what appears to be the now defunct Elder Signs Press. I was lucky enough to have acquired for myself one of the limited, signed hardcovers (only 200 in print) which now takes its spot on the highest shelf of books that I own. Your lyrical and evocative style of writing has always set a high bar for me as an aspiring writer of strange and alluring prose. I'm really happy with the digital art I rendered for this tale, a small labor of love undertaken with the hope I could present this serialization in a provocative manner. As far as I'm concerned, this chilling novelette is the perfect capstone to yet another successful issue of our little digital fanzine. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Well, that's another wrap. Stay tuned to the near future, while I await a new slurry of orders from our mysterious benefactors, the nanoFleet (or bloodHost or microHorde, as they've also come to be known), those emissaries from the future who apparently have been dispatched on an enigmatic mission to repair an interim of our developing history for the advancement of our species. You all wouldn't believe the recent spate of missives I've received from them. I have always sensed they are on the side of humanity, yet there still remains a lot of questions as to not just their veracity per se, but how did they come to be sent back in time (from the year 2045 to the year 2009, apparently) by an isolated group of astronauts working for Tesla, Inc. trapped on a space station in orbit about Ceres? This has been the ongoing question growing in my own mind ever since their presence was detected. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> You think <i>that's</i> weird... you ain't seen nothing yet. Until the next issue, friends and freaks. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">This has been your attentive neighborhood editor in chief, signing off for yet another night of tricks and treats. Watch out for those ghouls and ghosts, and remember, </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">beware the moon</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Click below to read<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #e06666; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/city-of-peter.html">The City of Peter</a></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #a64d79; font-family: georgia;"><b><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/city-of-peter.html">by KB Updike, Jr</a></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/11/city-of-peter.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="351" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeAt3A0p0N9jmYgEzU4a-JooWRZSe18fxDFmnyZBDw3de3lvtwkUTEGEsi_8tnm0wz24l7hXLp3n3h12U8D5K-QTkAJYG5BvHXp6LDTwHzlndkOOWxjD8bpv7jc6A5Gr6RDp6GM8ir8Ycc-F97iDzH04Cz0TSizH0YkH-VnO2tNk0YdrOmy3Ir8ZEtxMA/s320/275895073_1609851396059160_4912487373519279617_n%20(1)%20(1)%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>only on the <span style="color: #a64d79;">Freezine</span> of</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #990000;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #0b5394;">Science</span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #741b47;">FICTION</span> </b></span></div><br /> </span></div><div><p><br /></p></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-18032788607546307422023-10-30T14:18:00.001-06:002023-10-31T16:49:56.302-06:00Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul: 8<p> </p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">by <a href="https://www.aaattanasio.com/">A. A. Attanasio </a></span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5J8c_agmygaohpUCdQ44_H7celQGQP5HtwUfS15JLck1YY8gpa693tZJFSUVhMqf1SLcB1mDHU2I-cthTziiWD31WnRLUQDNVuZMOeCrycqcz9hlHX4NNp0aoAA3eOd1y2qYKeoY9SHz11PbQS9vnb38kBUnBEPyJ7yDhgmNPxVCeDJuFif2VKbifMC0/w640-h640/bloodfract700.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Shriek Highway</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><br /> My truculent shrug threw off the craggy priest. It stood skeletal and still at the seared fringe, mummied frame blue in the moonglow. Spiked jags of teeth, the mandible of its ruinous face, rocked slowly while old evil fixed me in a rivet-hole stare.<br /><br /> The girl flung handfuls of ash at it. It was gone. Was it ever there? Of course. I could feel its curse humming along my bones, squeezing sponges of marrow, depleting me.<br /><br /> “You see it?” she asked with guttural fear.<br /><br /> I pointed to where some scurrilous shining silence floated a few feet away camouflaged among ragged wisps and flying fog, vacant eyes hovering.<br /><br /> She tossed streamers of ash into the looting wind.<br /><br /> Overhead, the carbon haze of stars jarred, and the moon sharply claimed a lower station in the sky. Enamel light dripped through the porous forest. We had somehow jumped forward in time.<br /><br /> The girl whirled about, aghast. In her voice, I heard the crackle of madness, “What’s <i>happening</i>?”<br /><br /> No time to explain. There was no time. If there had been, I would have had a lot to say. Not that she would have understood or will you now.<br /><br /> It took Bernie’s brain a while to make sense of my vampire ordeal. The world for the undead is different than for the living. In the fractal blood soul, space and time change places. Sort of.<br /><br /> We all know the living can move in only one direction of time, steadily away from the past, constrained in the now, tending always toward a mythic moment never reached. It’s like that for the undead – only not with time but space.<br /><br /> Space carries us with it as it expands toward where we know not. That makes the past inaccessible. But we can move sideways among alternate moments and fast forward in any timeline – but only ever as far as the rising sun.<br /><br /> From the girl’s pov, I vanished. <i>Poof!</i> In her mind, I’d run off into the night faster than sight. In truth, the shaman priest had snagged me. It got hold of me with my own words: <i>The dream moves on</i>. And my whole body of thought followed across time, forward toward dawn.<br /><br /> What bewitched me was the way the slayer priest bonded to my ideas of emptiness, to not-me, my committed identity with nonidentity. And it did this simply with spellbinding words, noises that held my attention but meant nothing to the vampire so that transcendence did not smudge its intent. The dream moved on. The ancient one moved in – tripped me on infinity’s threshold and propelled me across the floor of night to the fiery drop-off.<br /><br /> <i>Sunrise!</i><br /><br /> I grappled. Plummeting through hours, I had nothing to grab onto but the fractal bloodline. That meant finding my balance in the Here, where the vampire’s iron offered purchase.<br /><br /> The shaman had figured me out. I was an anomaly among the undead – the ghost of a twice dead thing possessing a vampire body. The cremated remains of my body had scrubbed the vampire mind in Bernie’s brain and installed me instead.<br /><br /> Once the vampire priest understood this, it knew how to deal with me. Exorcised by my own words, I slid helplessly through the dark of time toward dawn. The only way to stop myself was to be a vampire.<br /><br /> So that you understand … I had no choice. To live, I forgot about Bernie and me and not-me, and I became the flexing fractal line of my veins. Into the chalice of my heart, the rush of hours spiraled, tightening to a tourniquet coil of blood hunger, the soul of the undead. The dream had moved on. And I found myself in the feeding place.<br /><br /> With whipcrack finality, surging hours stopped at a solitary moment of a single timeline, an undulant ridgeline with a forest of red-eyed trees.<br /><br /> The girl whirled about, aghast. In her voice, I heard the crackle of madness, “What’s <i>happening?</i>” Perplexity congealed to outright fear, and she backed away. “Why are you looking at me like that?”<br /><br /> <i>Why?</i> The beauty of her frailty enraptured me. Her blood smoke unsheathed knives of hunger in my miserable soul.<br /><br /> “Breathe!” She slapped my chest with both palms. “Come on, Bernie! Breathe!”<br /><br /> Bernie’s name called down the long, cold road of my surrender. I heard it rebounding in the echo chamber of a higher dimension, in the basilica of space where life chooses and thrives, where once I had lived, half of a fumbling relationship. ▬▬<i>Breathe…</i><br /><br /> “Don’t you scare me again.” She punched my shoulder, hard. “Where have you been? It’s morning! We have to get the hell out of here!”<br /><br /> The sun under the forest leaked lymphatic tinctures. The eastern sky brightened like a cosmic exhalation of relief. In a few minutes, killing wavelengths promised to disinfect the face of the earth.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>We don’t have to go anywhere.</i><br /><br /> I turned toward the bone-chill and pinpointed the slayer priest in the green air. It skittered akimbo through the broomed grass, an outlandish staccato stomp-dance under the failing stars. It was dancing some cryptic incantation. ▬▬<i>Soon, that thing dies too.</i><br /><br /> It didn’t acknowledge me. As it shimmied, the querulous wind picked up. Somehow, its crazy gyrations were changing the weather, gathering storm force.<br /><br /> “Come on!” The girl hooked my elbow and leaned toward darkness. “The car!” When I didn’t budge, she came around and scanned the length of my face. “You serious?”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>I’m no vampire. Bernie and I belong together – but not like this.</i><br /><br /> I slanted a look at the hideous dancer jangling in the wind like a spindle-puppet. ▬▬<i>In a few minutes you can walk out of here pretty as…</i><br /><br /> Shrieks of wind cut me off. From out of the purple vault of heaven, tempest gusts plunged, pummeling the grass flat, driving a cloud of chaff and dust into a rolling comber ahead of that skeleton jig. The shaman priest had used the potent mix of night’s cold depth and dawn’s fire to brew a squall!<br /><br /> Maelstrom force swelled across the field and stampeded into the trees under gunfire of snapping boughs. Lumber screamed and clouds of startled birds flung from the booming forest flew like shrapnel.<br /><br /> The vampire sorcerer skewed about, whirling off the stamped ground, riding a vortex that spun our way.<br /><br /> I sheltered the girl with Bernie’s broad back. The blast marched me bent over, the girl under me, faces squashed together in a grimacing tango.<br /><br /> Away went the ash of my twice dead flesh, allotted to drear horizons, pine jungles of mist and night murk.<br /><br /> Silence closed over us. The gale had lifted, leaving the firepit swept to its baked surface.<br /><br /> The acrobatic shaman tumbled into the razed circle and jumped up vomiting noise.<br /><br /> The girl shouted her fright.<br /><br /> Quickly, I sashayed us away, and the thing didn’t pursue. It stood victorious on reclaimed earth, chanting primeval hunt songs, rallying the slayers. Hordes of vampires stirred in the ventricles of the forest.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Run!</i> I tossed the girl in the direction of the car.<br /><br /> She threw me an urgent, aching look.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>The swarm is gathering! I can’t protect you. Get out of here. Hurry!</i><br /><br /> “Come with me!” She hopped impatiently and waved at the slayer priest without looking at it, hopping there skewered on its wailing. Its tailspin dance unfurled noctilucent ribbons in the charcoal air. “He’s not stopping us. Come on!”<br /><br /> The way she said ‘he’ exposed such mortal helplessness before the undead, I couldn’t find my mind for a moment. She read in the human muscles of my face the fear – for her. My black hole stare saw her among the undead, and she recognized in my slumped body language her doom, my wretched helplessness to change her fate. ▬▬<i>Let Bernie and me slow them down. Go!</i><br /><br /> She darted across the gray pasture, Bernie’s jacket flopping, running like a girl and not helped much by those heavy boots. She wouldn’t make it.<br /><br /> The undead raved through the pencil shadows of the forest, then out into the glassy air of the open field. They coursed like eels in the tasseled grass, and I heard the sizzle of their timeflow curling around the fractal line of possible outcomes that conjuncted with her blood.<br /><br /> I couldn’t bear to watch that feeding frenzy and turned away. The vampire shaman, upright now and still, stopped crooning and looked steadily at me beneath a sky filled with cloudy serum. Blood drained out of earth into heaven.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>So now we die. </i>My defiant words went nowhere, refuted brutally by the garrulous wind that carried vampire shrieks of claw and bite!<br /><br /> The shaman priest grinned four billion years of feeding.<br /><br /> I could have throttled that thing! Except I knew he’d jujitsu me through time into the roaring furnace of noon. I gnashed fangs and spit. At least now I’d get to watch him fry too.<br /><br /> Gold seraphim wreathed long-pinioned wings across the stratosphere. Gypsum clouds lit up with citrus hues. The conger eel timeflow of the undead slithered back into the early morning woods and beneath pulsing fog.<br /><br /> The slayer priest remained in place, sham eyes gouged with nothing, soapstone fingers busy as spiders, unwinding its wrap of human leather.<br /><br /> Laser rays of sunlight cut across the forest’s notched horizon and ripped fiery gashes in us. I went to my knees blazing with pain, ducking the fatal beams, and genuflecting before the victory howl of the vampire.<br /><br /> Fleshsmoke curled from its bladebones, incising another cicatrix notch in the slayer’s masterpiece of coup marks, a garish sun-scar across its back for each rival slain by solar fire. Only dying vampires witnessed the shaman’s secret. The flayed skin of a man snapped open to a bodysuit into which the emaciated slayer briskly stepped.<br /><br /> Leather sleeves with gloved fingers received the dowel-thin arms, and the cowl that pulled over the blackened egg of a head covered pike-jaw fangs with an obscene, mocking semblance of a human face.<br /><br /> Shielded by this leather from the lethal sun, the old one cast its shadow over me. ▬▬ <i>O, impenitent beguiler, go to your beloved transcendence – and to oblivion! </i>It leaned to one side and daylight charred through me.<br /><br /> I roasted a scream so loud I didn’t hear the car’s racing engine or tires tearing across the field until the girl braked screeching to a stop inches away. The fender smacked the vampire priest so forcefully the masked mummer whirled backward to its haunches, leather skin flailing loose.<br /><br /> She popped the trunk from her seat and swung out of the car to help me, scurrying frantically while the enraged vampire tightened its body armor.<br /><br /> I flowed into the trunk’s casket darkness with whimpering sobs. Briefly I glimpsed her prosperous smile. She held open Bernie’s leather jacket, stained with her blood from the lamia’s bite. The decoy had been shredded by the vampires’ teeming attack when she had cowered beneath it in the terrorizing moments before sunrise drove off the horribles.<br /><br /> Through the narrowing eyeblink of the slamming trunk, I saw the slayer rising up disheveled, human leather torn from its right arm and corrosive fumes wrinkling into sunlight. It reached for the girl.<br /><br /> I tried to warn her, but I was too weak. Blistered talons sliced apart her jacket’s bloody rags. She snapped the trunk shut, catching the loose sleeve of the vampire’s bodysuit.<br /><br /> I heard the priest bark furiously, the girl’s feet scamper away, car door slam, engine accelerate. The car lurched off, violently stripping the vampire. Its cry carried pain, horror and shrill surprise to a perishing pitch of silence.<br /><br /> Two days later, it’s sunset, and I’m driving. The girl’s in the passenger seat, those lucky boots up on the dashboard drumming backbeat to a percussive song blaring on the sound system – “Bad Boyfriend.”<br /><br /> Cancer’s gone. I can smell her healthy blood. Time to refill those coolers soon. Time for a lot of unexpected things. Even twice dead things.<br /><br /> A bucket of my combusted bones rides in the trunk, retrieved last night from the county morgue when everyone was asleep and the undead stalked the land.<br /><br /> Where are we headed? Soon as we pay a surprise visit to the girl’s distressed parents, probably to a town near you. Bernie will be liquidating <i>Go Yoga! & Wok Like This!</i> and those assets will finance a long road trip through the night.<br /><br /> Plans deepen and complexify under the incandescent sky on Shriek Highway. After an extensive vampire killing tour, there should be plenty left over for a small organic bakery-ashram, open all night, offering exotic fare, like pomegranate pâte feuilletée for the living and elaborate gâteaux laced with the ash of twice dead things that I will individually hand feed to the neighborhood undead.<br /><br /> The girl even hit on a splendid name, something I think captures human synergy and confidence, precisely the qualities we’ll need in our night shelter slash pastry shop: The Peace of Cake.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> ▬▬<i>Originally published in </i><u>Twice Dead Things</u><i>, Elder Signs Press, 2006</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><span><b><i><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="color: #bf9000;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/fractal-blood-issue-41.html">Click to read this month's</a></span></i></b></span></div><div><b><i><span style="color: #e69138;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/fractal-blood-issue-41.html">entire issue archived with</a></span></i></b></div><div><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/fractal-blood-issue-41.html">editorial comments </a></i></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/fractal-blood-issue-41.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGqE4VII55WCg5cvmFbr0hF8EJO17OVr7iJck7YAwIp9ESclpcwwmq7o7cgGDtSZ88IjSGGdsVLZEl7Y5noMYnzvj0L1tKCm976jEAKE5pIdFt2ZdaxFCtu80QZ1OGJ_gjyeguLRMhASN09nDCFfDtKHnFajtIAu6pJaCqYu0Mkn9r9Qnss-o08wKUmE/s320/fractalbloodsoulx.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"><i>only on</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;">the </b><b style="font-size: large;">Freezine</b><b style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"> of</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #990000;">Fantasy</span></b><b style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"> and </b><b style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #990000;">Science</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div></span></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-4209834317691955982023-10-30T14:17:00.001-06:002023-10-30T14:18:29.966-06:00Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul: 7<p> <span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>by <a href="https://www.aaattanasio.com/">A. A. Attanasio</a> </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ7i8INsJKj5rSjGuHQxBqQcmKtEoJ8piMp_-s2lW0TQcJHsbtCzGzwjbeBcQRU76i126YW44lc3eo0H1f_qLewIQEoq-6uUu6hO7NIp_Simo5qfseXChTx6U-ie3r4PWuQFSg0bE2OD4Q_sPNSVq_DH1cXnjVfiESzxda3B2M48ibukjczLZRugx84zc/w640-h448/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-23%2019.58.19%20-%20Syntherian%20humanoid%20with%20third%20eye%20crystal%20vision.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>This Rock, That Star, the Emptiness Between</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><br /> Moonlight diffused enchantment deep into the long, dragonbody of the forest. Alcoves of illuminated fog smoldered like fluorescent gas. The girl, inside her giant leather jacket, clung to my side, gaze vigilant, encompassing the wide field of running shadows, searching for predators.<br /><br /> I could have told her that the undead lurked nowhere nearby but paced porcelain lanes in the distant woods murmuring sorcerous imprecations, but I liked her close. Her scent had changed since the vampire virus had thrived and died in her. She smelled of inconsolable beauty, a scent that gleamed on the camphor breeze off the pines and reached what remained of my humanity.<br /><br /> “I died.” She tipped her head forward and looked knowingly at me. “And I heard you call me back.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Power|rightness called you back.</i><br /><br /> “Whatever. Sounded like you.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>There is no me. I died last night with Bernie. Now I’m just a ghost in a living corpse.</i><br /><br /> “You’re alive. And you kept me alive.” She appraised me with a new look, eyes soft with sublunar light and wanton possessiveness. “You were right. I should have gone back to the hospital. This is all too weird.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>It’s not over yet. You know about twice dead things. The undead don’t want you walking out of here at sunrise with that knowledge.</i><br /><br /> She responded in a quick voice of complicit danger, “Then let’s run for it! The vampires are gone.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>No. They’re in the woods. Waiting. If we leave the circle, they’ll swarm.</i><br /><br /> “We’ll carry ashes. Cover ourselves with ashes!”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>The ash is too weak. It won’t save us out there. And it probably won’t save us here either once the undead accept that some will have to die to kill us. </i><br /><br /> Her expression didn’t waver, just a quiet sigh as she admitted, “I’m not afraid anymore. I feel strong with you here.”<br /><br /> A laugh thumped in my belly.<i> Me</i> – a hero! Bernie would’ve howled with laughter. I offered a pedagogical answer, to keep from guffawing ▬▬<i>That’s power|rightness you’re feeling. The only real strength there is.</i><br /><br /> “Some kind of yoga thing, right?”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Vedantic philosophy actually…</i><br /><br /> My brain blinked. Iciness opened fans in my blood. I sensed the lamia running through the forest’s opiate shadows, aiming its vehement body directly at us. ▬▬<i>Stay behind</i>… I managed to blurt, and then the ground detonated.<br /><br /> Cinders shot up in a sheet of ash, dirt and gravel, and hearing stuttered deaf under the lamia’s fatal cry.<br /><br /> We collided in a plumed ball of dust. I took the hurtling thing into myself, away from the girl, and the rampageous blow spilled us out of the burned circle into the tall grass.<br /><br /> Perhaps it intended to daze or distract me, as if I was still Adam’s flesh and lacked the undead’s echo-mind, sounding out the deepest underworld of the lamia’s thoughts. Perhaps it wasn’t intending anything other than rage, because, when I jumped to my feet, that’s all I perceived, sheer suicide wrath.<br /><br /> Sooty with the ash of a twice dead thing, the lamia’s berserk talon strikes carved space inches from my frantic body, blurring the air to a silver deathknot.<br /><br /> I pranced backward toward the cauterized circle, less concerned with the creature’s scything limbs, which I could read by heart, than the broken ground I couldn’t see.<br /><br /> Sure enough, at the circle’s edge, champed earth did foul my footing, and I went down on my back. The lamia drove its turmoil of slashing hooks at my throat. I crawled backward, ogling the chess piece moon perfectly still above the agitated pug-faced demon.<br /><br /> Focused by fear, I held onto the vampire’s oracular bond. I snagged its wrists, and the mad scissorings of bladed-fingers stopped abruptly, crisscrossed before the black tremor of my eyes. Its space-cold stare locked on mine, and we bridged a silence that occulted all prophecies.<br /><br /> The lamia braced to bodyslam <i>me</i>. Its oily face glossy as a placental veil exposed appalling freak fangs in triumphant anticipation of chewing my face off. As the lamia dropped violently onto me, its harpy jaws, dead agate eyes and grapnel claws splashed into fine, blue pumice and twisted away in a screaming wind.<br /><br /> I rolled gibbering with fright onto scorched ground and came up kneeling before the girl. No threat stirred in the many black mouths of the forest. The lamia’s death-bawl had flogged the undead down the dragon’s gullet into bramble gullies and desolate ravines of this aboriginal timberland. There, they roosted where moonlight lay like bones, razor jaws shivering with cretinous malice.<br /><br /> The girl squinted at the forest of windy moonlight. Distant flares of creek mist mimed ghouls rampant in the woodlands. “Are more coming?”<br /><br /> She looked frightened, features puzzled apart…<br /><br /> The lamia’s attack had set madness dragging its magnetic field across the moonwashed land. A warped headache throb squeezed her eyes as she scanned for the vampires’ adamant hunger.<br /><br /> Her tight stare reached me, and her face unclenched to a smile. “Breathe!” She suddenly remembered our moment of shared power|rightness in the lamia’s grip, and she hurried to my side.<br /><br /> <i>A smile!</i> In this nightmare! It left me giddy even as my fright still churned from the lamia’s attack.<br /><br /> You know, the soul has its own crazy spaciousness. From the Palace of Luck inside each blossom to the evanescent cleft of day and night, down that momentary green gulf of sky where quasars twinkle invisibly from the farthest heaven, the soul is at home between both extremes. But that easy smile at the sight of <i>me</i> – that credulous smile from a teenager with death’s stain in her blood … that joy marked an expanse of trust my soul ached to fill.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Breathe.</i><br /><br /> I mirrored her smile – I hoped. I still wasn’t sure how atrocious I actually appeared and shrank at the memory of Bernie’s robust smile corrupted by a goth grin. ▬▬<i>You must be freezing.</i><br /><br /> I swept a raft of deadwood into the circle and put my arm around the girl to reach the butane lighter in Bernie’s jacket.<br /><br /> She snuggled closer, and we built a wobbling fire under the wind. The lighter was there for the spliff also in that pocket, memento of the amorous intentions that had inspired Bernie and me to wander into the Adirondack wilderness last night.<br /><br /> My mind fuddled to think of the eerie events that had since transpired. What infernal intelligence had hoisted us out of our lives and discarded my lover before tossing me back into his body to huddle at a rickety fire with this stranger in my embrace, in Bernie’s arms? By what wicked design were we both facing a purgatorial heath of contorted shadows heeling beneath giant trees black as damnation and breaching to greater perdition beyond? What but hell itself?<br /><br /> And where else is the vertex of supernatural evil and human light but in the heart of nature? Look out at the inexorable day. What is it? This rock, that star, the emptiness between. Does the confidence of our dreams lie in this? Then, we are all deceived.<br /><br /> Evil comes to us as reverence and truth shining through our deceptions. Embrace it. Even as I embraced that girl with no name in arms of flesh not my own upon a night with no day ahead – for, I tell you this in all sincerity from a heart gallant with desperate suffering, strife and love are the workings of one design whose absence itself is its worldly presence.<br /><br /> At the zenith, the moon finally shone down upon the dark face of the limestone bluff. Girl and vampire clinging silently, we watched the chalk cliff brighten.<br /><br /> “Look!” A lone figure came and went at forest’s edge among parcels of light thrown down by wind thrashing in the treetops. “It’s one of them!”<br /><br /> The conspicuous iniquity of the shaman priest had already infested my heart, but I had said nothing to the girl. I had wanted the moonlight on the haunted bluff to last a little longer, meager redemption for my lost moment with Bernie.<br /><br /> I stood. The girl quickly retreated to the center of the singed circle and tossed ash over herself like a fanatic penitent.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>O ruined brother!</i><br /><br /> That elemental voice crooned with the wind while the slayer trod slowly out of the woods and into the grass and sliding fog a long way off. ▬▬<i>The dream moves on. Illusions cycling endlessly ‘twixt being and oblivion. That is your faith, aye?</i><br /><br /> I made no reply. What was there to say? That thing was coming to kill the girl after dismantling me. Plaintive fear chanted up from my heart, wondering what terrible sorcery possessed the vampire to dare approach me alone. It heard my fear.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Behold where eyeless rage has delivered you. Madding fear breeds in absquatulated flesh, vile corrupter. You gain nothing with your pernicious rage. Though you slay slayers you will not out-scorn the sun. We are gentlemen of blood.</i><br /><br /> Deeply inhaling my fear, I stared across misty reaches of grass and rock to the forthcoming figure, that creature gaunt as a stick-man to veer away crows. Moonlight reflecting off the limestone precipice filled its translucent flesh, and bone-shadows of spine and clavicle hovered like a crucifix. The incongruity startled me, a cardiac shiver. My body’s vampire animality swelled with fear. Breathe!<br /><br /> The priest of the slayers closed in slowly and spoke my own words in its pneumatic voice: ▬▬<i>Spirit kisses the vampire with acid. Why should this be so?</i><br /><br /> With jolting clarity, the priest answered himself: ▬▬<i>Spirit is a shoreless sea. Its distances rive mind and flesh. The art of our hunger is fouled before such magnitude.</i><br /><br /> I understood what it meant. The infinite fractal line of the blood soul disappears in the transcendent among greater infinities.<br /><br /> That would have meant nothing much to me, except Bernie’s brain had learned that infinities come in different sizes and there is no biggest one. The infinity of whole numbers, 1,2,3,4,5…∞, known as aleph-0, is smaller than the infinity of real numbers, whole numbers <i>and</i> all the fractions between them, which is aleph-1.<br /><br /> The transcendent participates in the process of infinity, what mathematicians call the aleph sequence, an infinite succession of infinities aleph-0 times aleph-1 – including the infinity of multiplying together every infinity between the infinities, all the way to infinity.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> But here’s the wild part. The great god Uncertainty owns infinity. Last century, mathematicians proved not that we don’t know but that we can <i>never</i> know if any aleph is the next biggest infinity after aleph-0. So, when we raise a big infinity to an infinite power, say aleph-0(aleph-1), uncertainty makes sure we’re never sure if that new infinity is merely a fraction, the number of numbers between 0 and 1, or a truly vast number.</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> The same with the fractal blood soul of vampires. The transcendent, the process of infinity, is something humans experience as an awareness of reality beyond what we can understand: examples include faith, the secret intentions of the unconscious, or the finger-pointing-at-the-moon physics of string theory that identifies higher dimensions in which our universe floats like a mirage in still hot air.<br /><br /> That cognizance of incognizance blurs the fractal blood soul. Better than garlic when it comes to warding off the undead is a head full of transcendence.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Transcendence. You make content with so scant a word?</i><br /><br /> The nearing vampire raised knobbed arms to a sky glittering like black snakeskin. ▬▬<i>Houseless heavens! Uttermost incomprehension! Coffin of all conclusions! Transcendence, you say? I say Hypnosis of Forever in Unborn Stillness! You see a word. I see Nothing. You understand God, and God cannot be understood. This does not unseat your mind? Ontological Anarchy! </i><br /><br /> Under pulse beating stars, the undead shaman rattled its fingerbone necklace. Something nameless glowed inside me. The legendary shores of sleep tilted horizons.<br /><br /> “Hey!” With both fists gripping my shirt, the girl yanked until the buttons popped. “You! Wake up!”<br /><br /> I jarred alert, and there was the vampire, hell-ice mouth over her shoulder, eyes eyeless black in their sockets, watching me indifferent as camera lenses. My arms pulled the girl hard to me, and I spun about.<br /><br /> The slayer’s mass pressed against my back, flared jawbone grazing my nape with quivering bane. Words sparked wetly in my left ear yet remote, surpassing deep in the conjectural hollows of my head ▬▬<i>The dream moves on, anatman.</i></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="color: #0b5394;">Click for the conclusion:</span></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-8.html">Shriek Highway</a></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-8.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="450" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNPM-i7sBMjdqb7xeSDjrIgoS54r-fLFTp56ldXO60iE7CpT1yuYKNnzKY6TrI_OIzvLAZ5hBnv5Z6ruy8tCMO9K2IN1aTdw9cL0J_mSnSoY7x-NQGn0TLJ6KLb7fTAXUNHcGHPD0sQ6cNO5oCIrwRJRUJBNwS-4t74VoR-m0Gkm7AHf3rSJXmzpXBgF0/s320/bloodfract700%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">on the </span><span style="color: #660000;">Freezine</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> of</span></i></b></div><div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #b45f06;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-59975821886832795952023-10-30T14:16:00.001-06:002023-10-30T14:17:29.259-06:00Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul: 6<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <i>by <a href="https://www.aaattanasio.com/">A. A. Attanasio </a></i></span></p><p><br /></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibRu3yjga3GV5O-OjU4XGgnJp-eJnbndFIitBnAu5VNtLQW7N5MRhgHtoHORbY_ovcwXONcErOyrf5luNhdsyAqrs5-34FENiRILPuenokjjhhhzMt6YJnb4K-AKpx1CI4iCF9olVq0ktqVWxpl-9o93PS24brCuN6TNz5F6PX60mMsJBKdgFzNBuOY1w/w640-h448/fractalbloodsoul.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Ten Thousand Miles of Darkness</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><br /> Infinity is not a number. It’s a process. The circle of life embraces the fractal line of infinity, the blood soul knowing nothing of time, only change, one disguise for another. A fish can become a bear and crawl back into the sea and change to a whale.<br /><br /> The fractal blood soul is as old as old gets. Before our planet swirled to a hot heart of magnetic magma in the cold fist of outer space, the fractal line limned the cosmic clouds. Before that it etched the lineage of elements in the stellar furnaces. It flexes in the vortex of every galaxy, coiling infinity into black holes. It calls itself life among the quick. The dead, I’m sure, cherish it as something else, something without a name. And for the undead … well, I pray you never find out.<br /><br /> I think I made her understand this before I told her ▬▬<i>Get in the car. Drive back to the hospital. I will come for you when I’m done.</i><br /><br /> “Uh-huh, right.” She gave me a tolerant look. “Why would I go back to the ward? Clocks have stopped for me there.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>You can’t come with me.</i><br /><br /> “Why not?” She put a finger to her chin as if trying to remember. “Oh, yeah. I might get killed and my body wander the earth till the sun burns out.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>You don’t want that.</i><br /><br /> “You think I want to waste away vomiting?”<br /><br /> So, that’s how I found myself in the night forest with a dying girl and webs of moonbeams like filaments of spun glass.<br /><br /> The undead floated in all the darkness. So many. Their squalid songs ventured under my breastbone and plundered my forlorn heart for memories of Bernie, our sad little squabbles, the shameless sympathy we felt for each other’s weaknesses, and all the years of tenuous obligations that had quietly coalesced to a fumbling relationship of symmetrical lives, an improvised partnership, where we fulfilled our parallel yet separate dreams, business for him, yoga and food for me, carnal gratification for him, tantric union for me, the comfort of routine holding us together, though he dubbed it loyalty, and I fashioned it love.<br /><br /> I knew what the undead were doing, trying to undermine my will. I was one of them now. And they were right about everything they sang. But they were wrong about thinking it mattered. It’s just a dream. Illusions of <i>samsara</i>, the endless cycling of being and non-being.<br /><br /> That’s why I came back for the girl. I knew she knew about the dream in ways my Bernie could never have comprehended. Last night, I had learned a lot about what she had already figured out for herself. She was ready. She had been ready a long time for my pitiful announcement: ▬▬<i>They are coming now.</i><br /><br /> With silken silence, spreading darkness through the moony air like billowing ink, a vampire swept down from the cathedral heights of a nocturnal yew. It snatched the girl by her shoulders, even as she glanced upward at a soft susurrus inside the vagrant wind.<br /><br /> Her legs scissored frantically, footless in midair. Breath knocked out of her in one shriek, she sailed mutely thrashing into a forest tunnel where moonlight stood at the far end like an ivory door.<br /><br /> She was gone, already arriving at where her grievings had beckoned. And the dream moved on.<br /><br /> The moon slid from bough to bough as I floated among pitchblende shadows accompanied only by the lunatic trill of crickets. In evergreen alcoves, I beheld the undead, ghast faces freckled with blood, squatting on reckless youths who had dared return to the gruesome site of last night’s immolation.<br /><br /> One yet lived and gaped at me with despondent exhortation until the vampire pressed close its fatal embrace. The dream moved on.<br /><br /> Creamy darkness and the demon of me brimming in the blood laid claim to my soul, and oh how I longed for power|rightness, my strength as a ghost. A creature of the undead, I let the rapport of kindred evil gorge my heart like a chest of treasure and usher me forth both reverent and afraid to the clearing where the fugitives of hell awaited me.<br /><br /> Arrayed in choir among great drifts of moonsmoke, vampires shadowed the pasture – but not the scorched earth. Here, my flesh had burned. Erratic mounds of dirt and tossed rocks and debris lay strewn near the charred ground none dared approach.<br /><br /> These impotent attempts to bury the toxic ash of a twice dead thing had created a heraldic slum of gravel, deadwood and grass clods that appeared arranged at the boundary of chaos more by bestial intelligence than exiles of humankind.<br /><br /> The shaman priest advanced through blue, moonlit haze. All his bones showed under his windings of human leather, face a rancid clot crusting a malevolent skull, jaw undershot, serried with incisors.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Brother, by your own umbrageous hand to the fiery gulf your flesh was given. Now why return in the flesh of another?</i><br /><br /> I didn’t bother answering. They knew my posthumous heart as I knew theirs.<br /><br /> Among the vampires, I spotted the girl, small in Bernie’s jacket, still alive, eyes swiveling, reassessing her devotion to darkness.<br /><br /> A lamia, a female abhorrence of savage, iridescent muscularity, knelt on the girl’s back, hank of its victim’s hair in a bioluminescent fist, yanking her head back, exposing taut throat and ticking veins.<br /><br /> It stared straight at me through tresses of colored tinsel. Black eyeholes aimed like gun bores, targeted my humanity. The lamia made certain I had an unobstructed view of its kill. Magenta lips sneered back from barbed teeth, jaw blades flaring blue as acetylene.<br /><br /> The priest continued in its desert wind voice ▬▬<i>O perfidious spirit, join us. Redeem yourself among the slayers. You alone may approach this baleful soil and not die. Bury this twice dead thing t’was your former sorry frame. And feed on this sickly lamb. Salve injury inflicted by your killing grief with this sanguine proof of fealty. Forsake vengeance for timeless life. Brother, feed!</i><br /><br /> The shaman priest edged away, without shadow in moonlight veering through mist.<br /><br /> The lamia raised its dragonskin hand, beckoning me, exposing armpit feathers black and plastered with sweat. The lobes of the creature’s brow, glazed with lunar light, pulsated branching veins, eager to feed yet restrained by a nastier will yet, offering me the kill.<br /><br /> I won’t lie. I felt whole as a rose, my fractal blood soul a livid blossom in the presence of the slayers. I was of them in flesh if not spirit. I belonged. Like no other time in my former life, I belonged.<br /><br /> Each one of the undead was so magnetically bound to my carnal pith, I actually experienced my hunger eating their hearts. The shaman priest’s snakehead grin opened.<br /><br /> Glowing with the moon’s radiation, the lamia waved me into the field where fog sloshed close to the earth, simulacra of the departed crawling out from their humus beds.<br /><br /> I left the speared light among the shaggy trees and stepped into the glade, where the limestone bluff, a monument to the moon recumbent against the stars, parted darkness.<br /><br /> Chest constricted with unholy desire, I strode among litter of heaved rocks and bramble and passed the slayers. Their eyes’ cadaver mascara all trained on me, their souls pure mirror, reflecting archaic mystery, nightfall before the dawn of life when earth was still disaster, a geological blaze cooling to volcanic glass and starshine.<br /><br /> For such venerable lineage, old as the somnambulism of rocks, organic existence is a mutilation. The vampire virus originally thrived on gravel. In these ogre bodies of human flesh, germinated out of fish-slime and worm-mucus, vampires yet remain faithful to the first iron, the world’s ordinal blood, bleeding numb rust in the radioactive glare of a primordial planet rapt by fire.<br /><br /> The lamia’s nacreous body seethed light. It was a spiritual moment of communion. To us both, the girl smelled of cancer and poison.<br /><br /> The quicksilver radiance of the moon, mistress of illusion, veiled the girl’s frailty – ivory skin, pulsing throat, her fevered stare – in bridal vestment. One more moment, then with a ripping swipe of my dangerous mouth, I marry her to death.<br /><br /> Her eyes searched the terror that was my face, trying to reach past the ravening stare, beseeching a mercy detestable to her only minutes earlier. What had changed? I will tell you. She had met the inhuman. Not the prehuman, the man-killing tiger with mask of black and orange lightning. Not twisted life either, the vicious evil of malignant tumors, treason of the known – terrifying enough – familiar death darkening in the body.<br /><br /> The vampire is something other, a macabre rending of everything accepted as real. The fractal blood soul unfurls to infinity. The vampire virus hijacks every cell. Snowflake fractals braid dendrites, honeycombing the brain, and the electric hum that generates consciousness alters.<br /><br /> Individual awareness severs from the body, and ‘I’ is instantly ‘not-me,’ shoved out into <i>sunyata</i> nothingness by a new entity, living carrion that continues with sick fury. The girl saw it coming.<br /><br /> Her voice strained in her stretched throat, reaching for some final human reckoning, “I’m going to die.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>You think?</i><br /><br /> I winked a quick supernatural smile into her terror and met the abyssal eyes of the lamia.<br /><br /> Its emphatic jaws widened with outrage. I didn’t hesitate – and I didn’t know Bernie’s strength. My fist smashed the thing so hard, its ganglia hair whipped and repulsive mouth clacked shut under a stunned grimace. It flopped backward, taking the girl with it – and snapping for her throat.<br /><br /> I swooped on top of them, one arm around the girl, the other trying to prize the biting jaws from her neck. The lamia had already drawn blood as I dropped the full brunt of Bernie’s weight into a bodyslam.<br /><br /> Just before contact, our holes-in-the-head eyes met inches apart, sharing common darkness. Blood spice cut with venom made both our mouths ache. The acrid taint of chemotherapy drugs slowed the hemorrhaging bite long enough for me to channel the lamia.<br /><br /> That’s right. Like some kind of telephone tarot reader, I connected through the lamia with its victim. “Breathe!” The girl heard me! Wait. That was her voice – exhorting me!<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Breathe!</i> I echoed.<br /><br /> The vampire virus reverberated power|rightness between us. Under the basilisk scowl of the lamia, the girl and I shared breath|force.<br /><br /> This happened in one pivotal instant, a fraction of a second where the lamia partook of clarity|insight with its prey, startled, not sure what was happening. That loosened its meshed jaws, staggered its hungering furor. That – and Bernie’s pounding bodyslam. The wallop stamped the lamia into the loam and broke its clamping bite.<br /><br /> I hugged the blood-smeared girl to my chest with one arm and with the other pushed off the lamia.<br /><br /> We were eleven heartbeats from the fire circle. Thirty-eight vampires stood within striking distance and pulled closer. I knew precisely how many, because I sensed the thoughts behind the atrocities of their faces. Moving in counterpoint to their intentions, I ducked blows, sidestepped pounces, grunting with each effort.<br /><br /> Motion smudges blurred the moonlight, and shouts exploded from me like hysterical barking.<br /><br /> The girl writhing in my arms, succumbing to the vampire virus, messed with my center of gravity. My boot jammed in a divot, and I plowed headlong into a lunging vampire. Our collision tossed us like thrown dice, and I caromed tumultuously among the slayers, tripping others on the cleft earth.<br /><br /> Boldly, with the girl clutched tightly against my body, I stepped up on proffered backs and leaped – into a blind tackle by one of the undead that knocked us madly right into the firepit!<br /><br /> The slayer in the pit reared upright powdered in ash, a shocked <i>butoh</i> dancer, locked in a manikin vogue of fright.<br /><br /> Vampires froze and watched from skullholes of unblinking darkness, staring intently as at a stick of sparkling dynamite.<br /><br /> Nothing happened. The cringing undead unhooked their fright and slinked closer. Perhaps the ash was weak, rendered harmless by a windy day of mist and boreal showers. Perhaps there was no hurry in killing us…<br /><br /> Fangs unsheathed in the moony air, ardent as stropped razors.<br /><br /> The wind swerved, and the wretched slayer in the ash pit dissolved. Its lilac dust whirred into moonshadows, poising briefly. Like so much exhaled smoke, the vampire draped emptiness with an elongated caricature of its former shape, before withering away.<br /><br /> Emitting a collective shrill, the keening of the undead screeched like wrenched metal, lamentation from the iron floor of the soul. Recognition exploded. The melismatic scream of the undead flung me back to that mantic moment of the previous night when I first touched this twice dead thing – my own cremated flesh.<br /><br /> Its doomful warrant beggared hope for all the undead. In my arms, the girl trembled and chittered, the vampire virus inside her melting. I crouched over her, swinging aggressive stares left and right.<br /><br /> Encircling slayers postured like Nijinsky’s queer faun, peering sidewise through time, gauging the peril and promise of destroying me. The ash didn’t kill instantly. If they rushed me, I would die.<br /><br /> I tossed a handful their way, and they danced into mist and churning shadows. The final dark in their malefic eyes speckled the tarnished air. So many. All with one attention and red rage in their hearts.<br /><br /> They eddied closer among derelict mists, until I swiped my hand angrily and drove the whole flock back into the breathing shadows of the forest. From afar, their many fangs rimed the nocturnal woods with glints and gossamer shine.<br /><br /> Night had only just begun. Before it ended, I would be dead – or morning would combust me. The girl would survive. The ash of a twice dead thing was eliminating the vampire virus and restoring her destiny with cancer and a higher calling.<br /><br /> Not me. The undead had seized my future and crucified that great god Uncertainty to the sky with silver nails of stars.<br /><br /> Bernie’s brain clicked numbers, the slow planetary rotation toward midnight’s return, hours under the remorseless wheel of the star gods, so many frightful heartbeats for the girl racing far ahead into the empire of night and its ten thousand miles of darkness.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: georgia;"><i>Click to read pt. 7:</i></span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-7.html">This Rock, That Star, </a></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-7.html">the Emptiness Between</a></span></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-7.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="450" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWjgWDpqNPMA9_n6ERO0IPXUpZmtsIwFPIVN62PNwK29JOVYJdjhciaK1m3jlUoBU9yc-vTM7A7RmtefR5tL0r5te47HHNS4RGKiFliW5YeQAO4_rjXzI_b0i8Lv0mlZ4reaqxh933IrogPnfSkZ9uy10DTt-5UMrFMjWmVu_camLTP1YdFHIKIA3WSP8/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-23%2019.58.19%20-%20Syntherian%20humanoid%20with%20third%20eye%20crystal%20vision%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">on the </span><span style="color: #660000;">Freezine</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> of</span></i></b></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #b45f06;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-22880578111354710182023-10-30T14:14:00.001-06:002023-10-30T14:16:35.063-06:00Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul: 5<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <i>by <a href="https://www.aaattanasio.com/">A. A. Attanasio</a> </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT5gDrxDxX-2LLizwVnWzEA1OFhCYefibV7y83tV50-TNHITwGmVCc5VUkj53tSWl4xQ8XL2WPi1liVv5Sw2isDbkHtodqGvvIkGbrIvYASmoVkRbyBZgywx29EEMLCR_69iPjepb7qPdPycNRge7kLK2jHSeZM0EFWQGZo4od_hw68rJMS7zYoDckGAs/w640-h448/al127q_2489545c756717aeb6f3dbad7dc6d077a9c67788%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Twilight in the Cancer Garden</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><br /> I woke in appalling quiet. Through the slats, I glimpsed a late afternoon of gray, sprawling mist that did not hurt my eyes. I needed a shower.<br /><br /> In the bathroom, I paused before the mirror to ponder the physics of how vampires cast no reflection. Fractal spectra radiating from vampire DNA – all the trillions of cells of the body configured in a precise antenna-array of DNA – meet key-and-lock with EMF waves rebounding from reflecting surfaces and nullify the images of the undead. More to think about! DNA as antennae broadcasting signals…<br /><br /> The possibility of the police arriving at any moment hurried me along. While showering, I explored Bernie’s body, already so very intimate to me from outside. Inside, it felt sturdy, massive even. What was left of his orange hair came off in my hands. Running trembling fingers over my bald pate, I tried to feel the fractal figures in the scalp, felt nothing unusual.<br /><br /> Fingertips explored vague eyebrows and the stubble of Bernie’s cleft chin. I wasn’t used to seeing the world from this height. Lathered up, I played with my penis. Did vampires have sex? What about other bodily functions?<br /><br /> Fear of discovery by police detectives interrupted my self-exploration – ‘Vampire Found Playing with Self in Shower.’ And something more. I was hungry. A rapacious blood hunger.<br /><br /> I dressed in the sturdiest clothes Bernie owned: black denims, hiking boots, brown corduroy shirt and the crushed Italian leather jacket I had bought for him six birthdays ago. I left the cabin with only one overnight bag stuffed with Bernie’s clothes.<br /><br /> Even wearing ski sunglasses, I winced. The frail rain-light hurt my eyes, and I practically had to grope to our rental car. Dizzy with hunger, I held only one destination in mind – the nearest hospital.<br /><br /> I drove with a fever of evil, a head full of annihilation. Every car on the road was a lunch box. My square-knuckled hands gripped the wheel like talons. I needed first feeding, needed blood with a demented appetite that made taillights look yummy.<br /><br /> I followed blue signs with the big white H to a large general hospital and parked out of sight of the institution on a hillside street with wide lawns where nothing stirred. As dusk fell, I blew down the street like a feather.<br /><br /> I cut between houses, a shadow blur through the hedges. Dogs droned.<br /><br /> Under a sky of amber shellac, I entered a maze garden of dwarf trees and raked gravel. The hospital towered above, every long window lit.<br /><br /> “You can’t get in that way.”<br /><br /> This voice of bruised velvet floated from out of a teenager, a girl with pale skin, a faux tattoo of abstract design inked in ballpoint along her jugular, and spiky, pixie hair – skin so white and hair so black she emitted darkness.<br /><br /> “There’s always a guard at the terrace door.” She sat on a stone bench, a low seat round as a mushroom.<br /><br /> I had smelled her before I saw her, a blood smoke tainted with medicinal ectoplasm. I had thought it an aura of the hospital and had nearly tripped over her. Chemo, I established, staring down into those raccoon eyepits.<br /><br /> She regarded me blandly. “You’re a vampire.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>New recruit.</i><br /><br /> My shadowy voice frightened me. ▬▬<i>How do you know what I am?</i><br /><br /> “Take a look at yourself.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Can’t. The mirror thing.</i><br /><br /> “You look really freaky. Those shades don’t hide anything.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>I don’t scare you. You’ve seen vampires before?</i><br /><br /> “Yeah, right.”<br /><br /> I blinked to make sure she wasn’t an apparition, a hallucination of my blood hunger or of my infected brain. ▬▬<i>Young lady, vampires are evil. We kill people horribly.</i><br /><br /> “You can have my blood.” She stood, a lanky adolescent of broad face, baby cheeks, and high, perfect brow with a faint blue vein down its middle. She wasn’t wearing hospital attire but hip-slung jeans on a razor-sharp pelvis, biker boots, a vermilion halter top, and no make-up – except the ballpoint design at the side of her neck.<br /><br /> Something errant in her attitude, a solemn and fearsome lawlessness, empowered her from the afterlife. “Go ahead. I’m a goner anyway.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>You’re a tough cookie.</i><br /><br /> “You don’t want me?”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>It’s the chemo. You don’t smell very appetizing. Besides, I don’t kill people.</i><br /><br /> She cocked her head to one side, incredulous. “A vegetarian vampire?”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Actually…</i><br /><br /> “No way!”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Way. Well, half way. I need blood. First feeding. I’m going to pass out soon if I don’t get it. But I don’t want to kill for it.</i><br /><br /> Comprehension brightened in her woebegone eyes. “So that’s why you’re here.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>I came for the transfusion bags. Can you help me?<br /></i><br /> “If you help me.” She stepped closer and placed her hand on my chest. Her warmth made it hard for me to stand still. I was ravenous for her blood, even if it did stink like paint thinner. Her voice narrowed to a whisper, “I want to go with you.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>I don’t know where I’m going</i>.<br /><br /> “Do I look like I care?”<br /><br /> The girl knew her way around the wards. She went in the terrace door past the security guard and opened a service access entry in the broad driveway on the far side of the garden wall.<br /><br /> Security cameras posed no threat. Blood scent, after a near calamitous detour to an operating theater, eventually led to the refrigeration units. While the girl distracted the on-duty staff, I packed two coolers with 350 ml bags of red blood cells.<br /><br /> A soft whistle announced the all clear, and we skipped back the way we’d come. I felt sadness at this criminal act and relief my urgency hadn’t driven me to murder anyone – yet.<br /><br /> In the capacious, empty driveway with a cooler of life in each hand and an alley of sky above blowsy with stars, I took my opportunity to lose the girl. I didn’t need her anymore. And there was the question of her parents, her family. She couldn’t simply disappear with a vampire.<br /><br /> Small clouds drifted blue as souls. I removed my sunglasses and bolted into the star-spun night.<br /><br /> A small cry from the girl eked after me like a bat. I entered the wind, weightless as tissue paper. Perhaps I would see her again in the <i>bardo</i> between lives. She’d be there soon enough, separated by ecstasy from parents and family, with no connection with anything except mystery, <i>sunyata</i> emptiness, the <i>anatman</i> at the secret core of us all…<br /><br /> The wind curled, and I boomeranged into the broad driveway where the girl had already turned her back.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>You coming or not?</i><br /><br /> She was dead anyway. What did it matter?<br /><br /> “I thought you skipped.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Don’t know my own speed yet. Sorry. This is new to me.</i><br /><br /> I shrugged. ▬▬<i>Want to get your things? I’ll wait in the garden.</i><br /><br /> She dashed to my side, eyes glorious, and hooked her arm through mine. “Let’s go!”<br /><br /> Drinking refrigerated blood for a vampire is a lot like sipping a young wine, something fresh and nervous from Côtes du Luberon, perhaps a chilled Cuvée le Châtaignier with its dark lavender spices.<br /><br /> Hospital blood banks store their supplies in a special refrigerator with the temperature constantly kept between two and eight degrees Celsius. Very refreshing. In the rental car, I drank two bags full, almost three fourths of a liter, with the girl watching avidly.<br /><br /> I found out then why vampires take their blood from live victims. My heart skidded. Sinews twisted all through my body. Too many memories of too many living people to digest, a complex math of souls, grievances and joys. The living lived. Extrasensory linkages nearly tore me apart.<br /><br /> “You okay?”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Can you drive?</i><br /><br /> While the girl drove following my directions, I lay on the backseat ripping apart the snaggle of second-sight that confused me with the thoughts of other people: a young woman’s tax questions, two brothers arguing about their senile mother, a man burdened with fear and gambling debts.<br /><br /> By the time I sorted out these paranormal voices and a radiance of strength and clarity breathed in me, we had arrived back at the dirt road in the forest near the resort.<br /><br /> We got out, and I took off my jacket and put it around her shoulders. ▬▬<i>I couldn’t have made it without you.</i><br /><br /> Cold, she slipped her arms into the oversize sleeves. “What are we doing here?”<br /><br /> I told her the story of Bernie and me, of our 17th anniversary, and our romantic stroll through conifer woods to watch moonrise over a haunted bluff. When I was done, she understood. “You came back for your ashes.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>The ones that did this to me and Bernie, I’m coming back to make them pay.</i><br /><br /> “You can’t go in there again.” The moon frosted the treetops of the black forest, and we stood in its path. “They’ll be waiting.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Like I don’t know?</i></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div><span style="color: #38761d;">Click to read pt. 6:</span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span><span><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-6.html">Ten Thousand Miles of Darkness</a></span></span></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-6.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="450" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HxnRG6EAsSFknPoT5Mg1NEdmzJIiyQ6GOdt11zp3WjiZ9ltQVGo2bF5CwhoqCvdpD33shIw95Sf_43ffMxggWtM550EJj-5b2rUrTxjak8Gi47VK5gWJVAkM7zgt9dy_poeFDNvdgr3py85ESXhDVMAr9O7HOliT7nJmbIYbr9ElO1lK-jywhDhxXTI/s320/fractalbloodsoul%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">on the </span><span style="color: #660000;">Freezine</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> of</span></i></b></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #b45f06;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div></span></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-69090148278267226752023-10-30T14:13:00.004-06:002023-10-30T14:15:12.027-06:00Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul: 4<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <i>by <a href="https://www.aaattanasio.com/">A. A. Attanasio</a></i></span></p><p><i><br /></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirb4foypJGYa62d9e8qK4g0UKcGpD-MW_ZHYbcJfhNEGyWkNljjoiQN22qcCIhVON26kSnshm5uXhYJxLxrAXEOtmkHr0bsyOyhiblRjnDNrOtncOFJ2EGUnHCYcq3C4jYuTGZ6gd9fZt5d4hV0IAgOb0iW6mmVFjz-zkQ2cvC00DrQiquNfwB6XNIVhE/w640-h448/InvestBloodFract1000.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Fractal Blood Soul</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><br /> What had yet to happen – the future, popular nickname for the only real god this world knows – the great god Uncertainty divulged to me, to all the dead, everything, and I mean all of it: the deed to every calamity, diamonds in their bituminous veins, the acorn’s stronghold of oak. Posterity hid nothing. That was how I knew.<br /><br /> The medical examiner had removed the gross matter of my incinerated corpse, all the bones and remnants of clothing that hadn’t burned. Yet, the ash in the firepit contained incompletely combusted amino acids, gelid molecules of my flesh slain twice, first by vampire, then fire.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>The worse for you, accursed shade! Die again! Twice dead thing!</i><br /><br /> The memory of those words from the vampire shaman fluttered like cobwebs, insubstantial, easy to brush aside. The truth in them, I could not get passed.<br /><br /> In a whisk, with thrilling immediacy, this truth that infinity had whispered and I had not yet heard brought about a fervent change.<br /><br /> Upon contact with the ash of my destroyed body, with the cinders of the vampire that had owned my corpse, I participated in the future of twice dead things.<br /><br /> A weird breeze arrived from all directions at once. Embers swirled up into the air before me like a swarming of hornets. Red, breathing motes of fire spinning like liquor in my brain.<br /><br /> These were blood rubies. If I fixed on any one of them, it paused, circumvolving slowly, and I spied in it a wolf of hell. There was the vampire that killed me. In another, I identified Bernie’s killer. I looked for the shaman priest.<br /><br /> It stared back at me from its own crimson bauble. The air around it shuddered like the thermal nimbus of a brazier in the cold. For a moment, insanity touched me.<br /><br /> The priest spoke with Bernie’s voice ▬▬<i>Twice dead things cancel the fractal blood soul.</i><br /><br /> Morning caressed the sky like a snail extending its gray frill. How long had I knelt before the firepit mesmerized by the priest of the undead? The moon had set. In minutes, sunbeams would lance through the forest and slice me free from Bernie’s flesh. I would die the classic death of the vampire.<br /><br /> I wasn’t ready to die! Not now that I knew what infinity had whispered.<br /><br /> I leaped up with a cry like a mouthful of mud. Through the flimsy light across the grassland and into the woods, I sprinted agile as an impala on fire.<br /><br /> The ash from the cremation of my possessed body had canceled the vampire inside me and installed me in its place – in Bernie’s undead body.<br /><br /> How?<br /><br /> The shaman’s gloating laughter flogged me faster. ▬▬<i>Twice dead things.</i><br /><br /> Through purply daybreak, I bolted, ducking low boughs, hurtling fallen trees, dodging rock outcroppings. Death-rays of smoky light braised my back – Bernie’s long shoulders – as I flung myself across the cedar chip parking lot of the resort where we had booked a cabin.<br /><br /> Blessedly, the door to our lodge faced north, and the key slid home. The door banged open, and I toppled with rasping breath into the salvation of darkness.<br /><br /> Sunrise, like some jealous god, lofted forth, banishing all other suns, the galaxy entire. The sky, contused maroon and green, gashed my vision to white blindness until I firmly shut the slatted shades.<br /><br /> Collapsed on the bed in thunder-gray duskiness, face aglow with satanic ardor, I listened to the morning mania of birds and wondered what had happened. And I knew. Infinity confided.<br /><br /> I had discovered the dreadful secret of the undead.<br /><br /> Bernie’s brain organized the details with his informed mathematical exactitude. He had often hidden in these computations when we had our little tiffs. Now, occupying his flesh, I understood why.<br /><br /> Mathematics is a Mesopotamian priestess, fists full of writhing vipers, keeping the uninitiated at bay while she does her magic circle dance of three hundred and sixty steps, twelve animal postures, and twenty-four pirouettes.<br /><br /> For her chosen ones, she will lift her big hoop skirts and expose, tattooed to her inner thighs and over her tonsured labia, the mysteries of imaginary numbers, nonlinear systems and power series.<br /><br /> She had seduced Bernie with this sorcery when he was still a boy. He loved to talk about it. I felt the quiet of those enigmas still moving through his brain. Once, after he had solved a particularly arduous set of differential equations, he had pulled me to his wide chest and had crushed the breath out of me with his joy.<br /><br /> Lying in bed, I put my hands on his wide chest. My chest.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Think of an equilateral triangle with sides of length one. At the middle of each side add a new triangle one-third the size. Now put equilateral triangles on the middle of all sides of the new figure and so on. The length of the first triangle is three. Now, for the second figure, which looks like the outline for a Star of David, add up all the segments (1/3 + 1/3 + 1/3…) and you’ll see the total length of the boundary of the second curve is 3 X 4/3. Repeat the process an infinite number of times, and the length of the boundary of the figure is 3 X 4/3 X 4/3 X 4/3…∞. Yet, the area of the figure remains less than the area of a circle drawn around the original triangle. Thus, a line infinitely long encloses a finite and relatively small area. Weird.</i><br /><br /> The fractal pattern Bernie’s brain envisioned looked like an intricate snowflake – the same design imprinted on the faces of the undead … on my face! Fractals describe the structure of bronchial tubes, arteries, the human brain, seacoasts, clouds, galaxies – and the blood soul.<br /><br /> A knock on the door shuddered through the room. I ignored it.<br /><br /> The blood is blind. But not forgetful. It has an iron mind and remembers everything from the amoeba’s invisible face to the mandrill’s clown mask, from the leisure of the sea cucumber and the great lizards’ obsessive compulsions to the elegant rat and the rye fungus crammed with dreams. The blood soul is the evolutionary tree – and it has a fractal dimension…<br /><br /> Another knock and this time a jangle of keys sat me up in bed. The door swung open. Daylight flared through the room.<br /><br /> I soared so quickly into the bathroom, slamming the bathroom door behind me, I found myself pressed up against the mirror above the sink. I had no reflection.<br /><br /> “Cleaning.”<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Come back later</i>, I said in a caliginous voice from the far end of a tunnel.<br /><br /> The outer door immediately snicked shut.<br /><br /> I emerged from the bathroom pestered by thoughts of the police. They would come to interview Bernie soon as they had identified my burned body. I had to leave but couldn’t until dark. I slid into bed and buried myself in the sheets to contemplate my bizarre situation.<br /><br /> Fractals are fractions. Twice dead things possess the inert fraction of the vampire virus and, when added to the living fractal of the undead, augment that fraction to a whole, deleting it. Poof! No more vampire, just a corpse.<br /><br /> Then: Why am I a vampire? I despaired in the sepia dark. Why did the slain fractal virus not erase me? The answer blew out from infinity: Because the ash of the twice dead thing was me. Even as the fractal pattern of the phage possessing Bernie disappeared, taking the vampire with it, my ghost’s outrageous presence imprinted a fractal pattern of my own.<br /><br /> This would require deeper investigation, I realized, gliding to sleep.<br /><br /> Vampires don’t dream. Our minds move at the speed of darkness. Once we’re dormant, daylight hours pass in a black instant. And soon as the sun slips under night’s asphalt, we wake, intensely present.<br /><br /> Present and hungering.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: georgia;"><i>Click to read pt. 5:</i></span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span><span><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-5.html">Twilight in the Cancer Garden</a></span></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-5.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="450" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvcksSK5kUu2OnflT515N-NsPAr3wG55XcBhxgQ9CV4ILQqsvJhIyCezQaUp85H2i_k8x0W4fv5huYPJpUr1qKWP-FEoUEMw9o9jDEM1UN8Fd1Fhj_ZTy_F693MAZVJ5yxTM6Kxx5gEHbyM-RNOI7nE-0R4EEJ8cZIdO-ZnuRf54aZUCfhQyzevwZIbwQ/s320/al127q_2489545c756717aeb6f3dbad7dc6d077a9c67788%20(1)%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">on the </span><span style="color: #660000;">Freezine</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> of</span></i></b></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #b45f06;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-66453939166306864152023-10-30T14:13:00.003-06:002023-10-30T14:14:23.833-06:00Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul: 3<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <i>by <a href="https://www.aaattanasio.com/">A. A. Attanasio</a> </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAe9n1k1uvb_c1IRQ960FaPqnqLraRP4ULOFKso4UMrB1F_4GD6v6UEnGfQ22vCtaW1AX0O5CByO0iX19Ha8BAKP9UejV0UggVauh8YVfDF0zWyAeG3wabR78bOgv8vF5MQ1D27_M_pjTVVxGe5tJw7FYg5j9W82VPwZgF8ZVMFF3ozrhcjXV9DKIM8Y/w640-h448/bloodfractalsoulx1.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Melismatic Screams of the Undead</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><br /> Cremating my own body had chucked me into a dark, philosophical mood. Only briefly, though, until I caught my breath|force once again. I wasn’t ready yet to forsake all my dreams. I couldn’t leave my lover’s body possessed by a vampire. I had to go back.<br /><br /> Bernie would have understood if I didn’t. But I couldn’t surrender serenely to the<i> sunyata</i>-void troubled by the ugly thought of his benign face contorted with blood lust, his thick arms not embracing me but tearing apart human lives, and that horrid alien thing in the hallowed place where his sweet soul should have been.<br /><br /> Seventeen years of fidelity and passion demanded we leave more of a legacy of our love than three outlets of <i>Go Yoga! & Wok Like This!</i> – and a brutal vampire.<br /><br /> I want to say here: a saint I’m not. And I’m no Baba Mantra Yoga Master either. I was an ugly, obese kid, a sour, fat teenager, a bitter, overweight young adult. One day I woke up and said, ‘I don’t have to loathe myself anymore.’<br /><br /> I tried vegetarian and liked it enough to lose some weight and that made me like it a lot more. And then, flush with success, I started working out, but that didn’t work out.<br /><br /> Yoga I could manage. ‘Yoga teaches yoga,’ is what the ancient yoga authority Patanjali says, and so whatever I could do was plenty good enough. Turned out I could do a whole lot more than I thought, and I got pretty good at it.<br /><br /> By middle age, I was still pudgy, but I’d found the skill and confidence to instruct others. Never in my most stoned reveries (oh yeah, I smoke cannabis – or did; my body was never a temple, just a renovation project), never at the looniest apex of the giddiest ganja high did I ever imagine I’d find yoga useful after death.<br /><br /> The night seemed to listen. Maybe that was why these hopelessly self-centered thoughts ran so free. Well, at least I wasn’t overweight anymore. I wasn’t alive either.<br /><br /> Or was I? So long as I kept my breath|force concentrated, I could go where I pleased. Power|rightness intensified the calmer and more transparent I became.<br /><br /> Below, earth looked Godforsaken. The kingdom of darkness. I didn’t want to go down.<br /><br /> Little grains of moonlight glinted off bodies of water hidden in the forest. An ivory snake crept among hills and dales, the Black River restless in its million-year-old bed. Silence and the wilds of the night wrapped me in contemplation.<br /><br /> I thought I knew the world. Nature may be lawless, but the world isn’t. Running a successful business requires wide knowledge of the way the world works. I knew about lawyers, union bosses, city and federal regulators, vandals, corrupt suppliers, crooked employees, and disgruntled customers. How could I have missed vampires?<br /><br /> Nothing we see, hear, smell, taste or touch has meaning. To seek, let alone find, meaning in perceptions is the warped doorstep to insanity. There are facts, which are universal. And there are values, which are personal.<br /><br /> Vampires had killed us – and yet, they were as secret, as obscure and symbolic as poetry. I sighed. Pluck any soul out of a body and onto a moonstruck cloud and you get a Wittgenstein. I went down.<br /><br /> In a star-blown glade, I found Bernie’s body crouching among knee-high ferns. It looked horrible – ghoul eyes black glass, shining skin stamped in silver geometry, hands tarnished, thickening to hammered bronze and clasping his haunted head, offering covenant of a cankered brain to some invisible deity in the violet air.<br /><br /> It was not alone. Another of the undead attended it, an old one, leaning close, whispering unfathomable things.<br /><br /> As I swept down through the treetops, I heard something like oceanic trembling, a murmurous breathing so immense it pressed against deafness.<br /><br /> The ancient one sensed me and turned full about, an eyeblink gyration that presented a staggering apparition of otherness. Imagine a living skeleton from Buchenwald only shining pearl blue, pulsating softly, a humanoid glowworm stained ultraviolet around the edges. Sockets of pure carbon showed nothing. But that protrusive jaw abruptly jarred loose, astonished, exposing malignant rows of teeth.<br /><br /> Skull seamed with phosphorescent lichen bowed low, as if in ominous obeisance, while glassy fingers grabbed fistfuls of leaf rot. The vampire straightened all at once and tossed those dead leaves at me with a growled imprecation:<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>The worse for you, accursed shade! Venomous malice ‘twill renew your dire sorrows! Die again! Twice dead thing!</i><br /><br /> Darting leaves strafed like buckshot, kicking me backward and shriveling me with misery. Some kind of vampire voodoo was in that dirt. I nearly lost all my breath|force that instant.<br /><br /> Curdled around the surprising pain, around the special loneliness at the core of all our suffering, power|rightness did not diminish. As much as this assault hurt, it was trivial compared to the agony of the vampire’s bite that had severed my life.<br /><br /> I straightened, annoyed. Hey! Who the hell do you think you are? I floated closer, daring the damned thing to try that again. What did I ever do to you?<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>O, shameless wraith, let me teach you to knit again death’s torment and oblivion to one mutual sheaf!</i><br /><br /> I drifted nearer, ready this time for the impact of hex dust in the vampire’s grisly hand. When it hit, I didn’t stagger back. I held my ground by gazing at Bernie’s deformed shape cowering in the ferns so that the ripping shock of the vampire attack merged with the weight of grief for my dead lover.<br /><br /> No personal suffering could budge that. Instead, the lacerating curse of the undead cut deep as my guilt but no deeper and left me wanting more. I needed to undergo stronger torment to pay for what I had done to Bernie, leading him to this grotesque death.<br /><br /> The archaic vampire somehow apprehended this. Fear labored in its piranha face. Not in those charcoal eyes. In there was darkness that telepathically overwhelmed all emotion. But the snakehead grin had gone slack, and the spider-finger hands flexed tighter, fisting sheer blue-knuckled helplessness.<br /><br /> Advancing closer, I observed that the vampire’s snugly twisted mummy wrappings were human leather. I discerned flaccid lineaments of eyeholes, nostril perforations, a woeful mouth, finger flanges and draperies of tawed flesh, windings so worn and bleached they had practically annealed to the creature’s icicle-bone frame.<br /><br /> I moved directly up to the creature and stared into those goblin eyes, straight through to the blood bag within and the stink of sulfur rending from the cooked lives there.<br /><br /> Slender cylinders of finger bone strung on braids of human hair, along with blackened ears curled up like truffles, hung about its sinewy neck. Each bone had etched upon it a fretwork of emblems – chevrons and runic snowflake symmetries crudely imitative of the patterns in the flesh-shine of the undead.<br /><br /> This was a vampire medicine man. One of their shaman priests. That was why it refused to run away. It wasn’t going to let a mere ghost spook it.<br /><br /> Hopeless of survival, heedless of pain, I stepped right into that thing.<br /><br /> Subzero emptiness. The full magnitude of nothing. Breathe! Here was the far dream of not-me. <i>Anatman</i>. The no-self of the flimsy, relentless ego teeter-tottering at the brink of nonbeing. Right here, in this head full of evil, hell raised its circus of fire and ice all around me.<br /><br /> Amitabah … Amitabah … Namo Amitabah … Buddha of Radiance … Sleeper Awakened in Splendor … I am Infinite Light…<br /><br /> I chanted by reflex. I could have been sitting in the studio at <i>Go Yoga!</i>, hearing the clatter of pots and pans next door at <i>Wok Like This!</i>, as I had done countless times, this time with bowel cramps, eye-popping migraine, ruptured disk, slashed cornea, myocardial infarction, grand mal convulsion, every infirmity known to flesh.<br /><br /> Though, of course, I had no flesh. Just not-me in the grip of a far dream.<br /><br /> I heard crystal cracking, crashing. Something was breaking in the vampire. Realization nudged what would have been my heart. The old stories are true. Spirit kisses the vampire with acid.<br /><br /> Why should this be so? What is it that is so anathema to vampires about the Christian cross, Buddhist chants, Navaho prayer blankets for all I knew? I wanted to find out and chanted stronger, Amitabah…<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Varlet spirit, assuage your wrath!</i><br /><br /> The vampire’s voice glistered with static, like frayed wires had crossed in its voice box. ▬▬<i>Release me!</i><br /><br /> Go. I said|projected. I’m not holding you here. Get lost!<br /><br /> The wind coughed, and the old priest of the undead vanished. The unbelievable pain went with it. Acquitted of suffering, empty as outer space, I hovered among fragments of moonlight.<br /><br /> Bernie’s hunkered body watched me with wolfish attentiveness, eager to spring away too but shackled by futility, knowing it could not escape.<br /><br /> Your turn, creep. I pounced on Bernie’s scrunched body. What a festival this would have been if only I was a masochist! Pain like a bull-shout at the moment the sledgehammer comes down. Over and over again – a tormented diesel of raging pistons.<br /><br /> Under that tonnage of woe, I meditated. Or I tried. I really did. But this was my big, burly Bernie’s meat and bones. I couldn’t concentrate. Terrible thoughts intruded: nostalgia for the only man who had ever loved me for who I am.<br /><br /> My breath|force frittered. Like a slingstone, I flew, ejected into the stupendous night.<br /><br /> The moon’s touch was soft. So good to get out of that miserable engine of despair. A dancer’s spin against the stars lulled me. The world tilted below, River, forest, limestone bluff slid past, rotating. I was good and ready for <i>sunyata</i>.<br /><br /> Rhapsodic in the fetch of nothing, I wanted nothing more than to dissolve into not-me – to die. But I couldn’t. Absence washed away, <i>sunyata</i> collapsed under a rush of memories about everything I loved in Bernie: his licorice body odor, the way his packed muscles slipped and bunched under his freckly skin, even the brawny grace with which he carried his paunch…<br /><br /> Okay – let’s get this over with. I thought|projected myself back into Bernie’s vexed corpse.<br /><br /> A sizzling bolt of voltage announced my instantaneous arrival, and the diesel blared into action again, driving a vibrating hatred hard and furious into my spectral mind. If I still had my eyes, tears would have run just as hard and furious as that diesel, the pain was that excruciating.<br /><br /> It defeated the metaphysical speculations knitting a whole new worldview just out of sight: how could I feel pain without a body? what was this me that was not-me?<br /><br /> I was not kind with Bernie’s carcass. I made it pitch upright and swag among the trees, palsied and faltering. We were on our way through ethers of fog, bound for the bonfire, to mix Bernie’s ashes and bones with mine.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Do not burn me.</i><br /><br /> The torn voice barely reached me amid the hammering stupidity of pain and the welding cold inside my dead partner.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Do not hazard me to the flame.</i><br /><br /> No problem, I assured|projected. We had just drunkenly emerged from the moony woods. The bonfire seeped smoke, flames extinguished by a fire truck departing along a dirt road far across the misty pasture. An ambulance followed with my remains. Red strobes whirled, dwindling into darkness.<br /><br /> The gloomy field pillowed the Milky Way. Where was the moon? Like an angel, it reclined under clouds, low in the sky of starry hosts.<br /><br /> ▬▬<i>Shade of mischance, depart off me!</i><br /><br /> Not likely. I labored across the empty tract. The limestone bluff loomed, a breeching behemoth against galactic vapors.<br /><br /> Diesel pistons pounded heavier, astral cold cutting with fatal intensity. Too bad I’m already dead, a pixie-thought intruded on my tranced march, almost shattering the power|rightness that forced my will on the vampire.<br /><br /> The moon came clear of the clouds, an ulcerated halo to our dark planet that stretched our shadow behind, dragged and quivering.<br /><br /> We dropped heavily to our knees before the firepit. ▬▬<i>Ireful shade quit this flesh … this absconded blood. ‘Tis no more or ere again what once you loved.</i><br /><br /> My strength puddled. The thing was right. I just wanted to kill it. But how? I dug fingers into the wet ash, frustrated, feeling in the residual warmth the last heat of my former life.<br /><br /> The instant I touched the quaggy cinders, the hammering diesel of hurt choked and stalled. The scouring cold lifted away as if peeled open by a sunbeam.<br /><br /> Power|rightness whispered something to me from the infinite. I didn’t hear what it said at first. But the vampire did and cried.<br /><br /> Its voluptuous squalling oscillated with the aberration in the blood shared by all vampires. Mutilated voices brayed in that very space where torment had battered me. In this precipitous ringing silence, a horrendous distress tangled sorrier among its own echoes, a lamentation of screeches dim and drumming dimmer, the melismatic screams of the undead.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="color: #38761d;">Click to read pt. 4:</span></i></span></div><div><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-4.html">The Fractal Blood Soul</a></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-4.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="450" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicxea6po77N7qUaRHlVTZutA4gSw-gejYp9b_ySL1uhiFhnA8QuEIGiAttM4sVTJOziqMyl5lYDXXWJU5-MlpHz4Eec4qr2SUpPd-2jU5QHhnkHTkB-gLOFgmxfyC6zU9AK0NGExtSLj_55DOsxt06kuM1FidAAaeGeeBiETGlpK4sVG8gY40id214Jn0/s320/InvestBloodFrac450.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">on the </span><span style="color: #660000;">Freezine</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> of</span></i></b></div><div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #b45f06;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div></div></span></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-55009025871314691062023-10-30T14:12:00.001-06:002023-10-30T14:13:30.347-06:00Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul: 2<p> <i>by <a href="https://www.aaattanasio.com/">A. A. Attanasio </a></i></p><p><br /></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5qc4du0QgAsmfNYkmMVjQwfZW_RYiVmOVy9kh_Rbh3qZKOLH0oT-sqDaE2Kad9ekMOr4LxJCm3YYKbretujudApA_MdHJ1ejpUnsF6rgNVEi9kzNFoiR64k4mEy4ChC2PE6QDS6AFDPoOEDor2qDceD1E9-K-1Pj1PGY969S2pFYwxcfHz2Zsemk8Rc/w640-h448/bloodsoulfract1000.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Man Is Red Dust</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> Fear depleted my power|rightness, and I catapulted through the forest awning high into a night of celestial fire. I was vaporizing quickly. Loneliness swarmed through me.<br /><br /> I knew this feeling. In deep meditation, we encounter the Watcher, Whom the sacred Vedantic texts call the Purusha, a Sanskrit term that became our English word ‘person.’ This is the original Self, the holy One at the deepest center of each of us.<br /><br /> If we meditate long enough, we identify the special loneliness of this One. I guess we could say this is God’s solitary dreamlessness. It’s probably why we exist, to serve as companions to this One and relieve the loneliness.<br /><br /> That appealing idea mollified my anxiety. If I went with this divine dreamlessness, I would bleed into it, the fabled raindrop returning to the ocean.<br /><br /> Not yet!<br /><br /> I focused ferociously on breath|force. The constellations like giant luminous dreams full of nothing descended around me. I was going fast, going out like a guttering flame. I was returning to the void, <i>sunyata</i>, the empty truth in which all existence floats.<br /><br /> Not yet! Not yet! Breath|force – <i>pranayama</i> – is not about inhaling energy but exhaling the misery and illusions that get in the way of energy. I released my fear, my desperate resistance, and flung ‘not yet’ to the silence and stateliness of night.<br /><br /> Briefly and forever, the special loneliness of the One recognized me. Well, I suppose not me so much as the not-me at the still-point of lotus serenity. Anyhow, breath|force magnified once more to power|rightness.<br /><br /> I sifted down to earth. Above the skyline of conifer spires, I looked up at the heavens, glyphs of stars unscrolling westward in esoteric script. I witnessed the sky with clarity|insight that exalted me.<br /><br /> Rim-lit clouds of moon-smoke disclosed the advent of revelations primal and profound. I wasn’t afraid anymore to confront my undead lover or my own flesh etched and cryptic with starfrost arabesques.<br /><br /> Genuine curiosity flourished, and I wanted to know more about this strange fate that had separated me and the love of my life from life itself.<br /><br /> Passing through bristly tree boughs, I set down before our damned bodies. They had moved. Bernie’s corpse was standing, leaning back against the spruce, head tilted chin up, gazing blankly at nothing. Squid-smoke swirled in those unblinking eyes.<br /><br /> My body had rolled over on all fours, head pulled back, more squid-smoke purling in a gaping stare.<br /><br /> Wind drubbed through the trees like the night’s heartbeat. A cold hand of fear reached into the middle of me – but I knew better this time and immediately fixed breath|force in the moment. Sure, this was weird – a disembodied soul meditating – but, really, what isn’t weird about life and death when you think about it?<br /><br /> Our bodies were becoming vampires. This was not good. What to do?<br /><br /> I was apprehensive about getting too close, anxious about what I’d feel if I touched our possessed flesh.<br /><br /> Possessed by what? I mustered courage and glided forward to my former body. A vibrato of demon-drum mania nearly shook me apart, and I veered toward pure <i>sunyata</i>-void. I backed off. Like a scintillating migraine, pain thrummed.<br /><br /> Breathe!<br /><br /> I stared at moondust sieving through spruce needles until the infliction abated. I would not let mere suffering defeat me. This is my body! And, besides, I was already dead.<br /><br /> I watched my animated corpse sit back on its haunches, skin fluorescent with radioactive keloids, eyes leaking midnight. Then, I strode forward and sat down on it.<br /><br /> Pain shouted!<br /><br /> I let it quarrel with my power|rightness. They squabbled while I labored to find the rapport I once enjoyed with these muscles and sinews.<br /><br /> After much struggle, like when your brain wakes up but your body won’t budge, I fit myself to my familiar shape. Only, it wasn’t familiar anymore. I reared upright, chest thrown forward, pelvis awkwardly arched, knees locked, vainglorious zombie. My mouth was a persimmon, cheeks sucked tight.<br /><br /> When I tried to find the power centers in myself, my vibrant chakras, all I located were beggars’ bowls. Nothing there, and whatever breath|force I put in vaporized.<br /><br /> I trudged several stiff-legged paces. This is ridiculous. I sat down heavily on the thick carpet of the forest floor.<br /><br /> Overhead, visible between creaking boughs, the moon dangled like a chunk of poured concrete. I shivered in the cold, a dandelion ready to fall apart. This was death. Not necrotic death but life’s absence.<br /><br /> I didn’t belong here. The spirit path across the night sky awaited me. I wanted to be with Bernie again. The pulsing cold and the quarrelsome pain urged me, Go!<br /><br /> Yet, I didn’t budge. What owned my body now? I had to know. So, I sat snugly in meditation. Pain, cold, and estrangement sluiced through me, not-me. And then, I detected it.<br /><br /> I had gone transparent, and it thought I was gone. Up from the gutter of coma it rose, out of the fossil rock we carry in our bones. It had been hiding there, waiting for me to leave.<br /><br /> I didn’t stir. The special loneliness of God had magnetized me to nothing, and what crawled forth in oily rainbows from its spinal hiding place sighted me not at all.<br /><br /> This was the vampire virus. Dripping whispers of thunder, it spilled through me, oblivious, intent on one thing – blood perfume, frothy and warm in the trough of the wind.<br /><br /> Far away, human bodies shed spectral heat. The muzzle of our face lifted and tracked the scent through a million signals of pine resin, pond ethers, loam smoke, and bird auras. Human bloodheat unspooling across leagues of forest brought us to our feet lithe as a panther…<br /><br /> Prey!<br /><br /> Alarm broke my meditation and kicked me free of my possessed body. Sparkling with havoc – fear, outrage, tremulous horror – I simultaneously grew bigger and smaller.<br /><br /> The shock of what had happened to Bernie and me was beginning to hit home. Nothing was right. I was as vast as the evacuation of stars abandoning the cosmos to the darkness that had always owned it. And I was tiny as the pointillist atoms that stitch us to the void.<br /><br /> I kept absurdly reminding myself to breathe. Big – small – where was I? For a thick moment, I wasn’t. I have no idea how I pulled myself together, an incorporeal entity, a ghost at the very threshold of formlessness. But I did. And when I did, the undead were gone.<br /><br /> Nature is lawless. I knew this before I became a phantom. Uncertainty is the radical freedom of the universe. Without it, there’d be no luck, good or bad. Reality would be a fine jewel and you and I the light trapped inside among repeating mirrors. Uncertainty is not just a principle in physics and the house odds at the casino. Uncertainty guards a secret.<br /><br /> We call that secret the future. I didn’t have a future anymore. And so, what do you know? Turns out ghosts can see ahead, to what’s going to happen!<br /><br /> I saw the vampires that were once Bernie and me rushing through the night’s stark woods, following the scent of bloodheat. They would find their way to the far side of the haunted bluff, where moonlight was pouring like milk down the rockface, illuminating ammonites and conical shellfish from an ancient sea.<br /><br /> The forest ended there, and pastureland floated in a soft mauve haze to an abandoned farmstead lapped in fog and muffled under honeysuckle. A gang of teenagers had built a bonfire from timber torn off those ramshackle buildings.<br /><br /> Drunk, dancing and amorously preoccupied, the kids would never notice when the swift vampires snatched two outliers. They were diffident adolescents sucking beer and morosely watching their more adventurous peers. No cry would escape the victims at the dim perimeter of the festive fire circle. No sound at all as the predators’ towed their prey into the dark for first feeding.<br /><br /> Revulsion at seeing Bernie’s body and mine slaying innocents bounced me into the forest. Cumbersome thoughts of predetermination didn’t slow me down. This murderous event was not going to happen.<br /><br /> For specters, thought is action. Like the thistly stars above, I was not an object anymore, not a place but distance traveled. I slammed into the back of my own head simply by willing it.<br /><br /> The vampires were just then loping out of the evergreens into cold moonlight. My body received me again with shrieking pain. Prophetic vision of what these demons intended hurt worse, and I packed my entire will into those running legs.<br /><br /> The air rang. Wind blustered from out of my marrows, frigid with icy fever as I undid the future. I ran – or rather lurched, abruptly stiff-legged now that I had displaced the vampire’s graceful, homicidal intent. Arms windmilling to keep my balance, I reeled drunkenly toward the raging bonfire.<br /><br /> Bernie’s vampire body fell back, sensing odd doings. Frolicking teens scattered, hooting at the staggering maniac whose strenuous face appeared heat-hazed in the firelight. Startled lovers unclasped from their pelvic dances as I shoved past.<br /><br /> Laughing hooligans tossed beer bottles past my head. The vampire realizing where I was going yowled. This grievous jugular cry from deep in the red river where it had only begun to flourish curved weirdly through its own echoes and scattered the romping teenagers.<br /><br /> I lunged into the flames. Screams and horrified shouts from onlookers reached through the roaring inferno. My hair evaporated instantly. Agony broke like glory through every inch of me.<br /><br /> Then, vampire strength overwhelmed my rabid will, and we rushed out the other side ablaze. Terrified revelers fled yelling.<br /><br /> Through the twisting pain, I felt the horrific thing wanting to drop and roll. I ran an awkward goose-step, a hurky-jerk circle back into the flames. We collapsed in the crimson rush, lungs incinerating, skin bubbling to tar.<br /><br /> A bellow heaved from the conflagration, flung into the darkness of time. It curdled souls, cleaved minds. Some witnesses dropped to their knees before this blort of inhuman anguish. Others stood fettered to their trembling shadows or marched slowly backward faces bleared.<br /><br /> I let go. Sparks flew in fiery spindrift from my pyre, crazed flagella flurrying on the black wind. And among that wild spray, clarity|insight revealed a charred elemental cast out to eternal night.<br /><br /> Pain clung to me in grim ooze. A skyward rush lofted me past bride-veils of clouds toward the bride herself, the honed body of the moon.<br /><br /> Man is red dust. Through doors of the wind, we depart this world, our flesh forsaken and all its dreams.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: georgia;"><i>Click to read pt. 3:</i></span></div><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-3.html">Melismatic Screams of the Undead</a></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-3.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="450" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNFGHaft_I2fdvdznF1BmbWrKycCFBVgCniQ1RJOOVEjP2wUDf1Cn7AAxNfjRhR1u8WnXS2yPzPMS7pDTUxOzn4ny8YY5mZN22t2pevfiA9G7TmwZJTboTEdSH9JssrH4ut-nnBNrIZEeab188oWbqsZkB-XXgYdctMlT2Ht7lw21DN1O8cZ-UwMgf0c/s320/bloodfractalsoulx1%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">on the </span><span style="color: #660000;">Freezine</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> of</span></i></b></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #b45f06;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div></span></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-89233834951979696372023-10-30T14:10:00.001-06:002023-10-30T14:12:42.247-06:00Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul: 1<span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><i>by <a href="https://www.aaattanasio.com/">A. A. Attanasio </a></i><br /><i><br /></i></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: georgia;">After the soul has been severed from the body, it continues its journey, its path unknown, the destination unknown. It is a trembling day.</i></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">– Zohar 1:201b</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJ-w53yfKRIoTtX24SMq7aPI-zk44UJTt0R5cXZ5ShfzKg_PB4JzELBaZky4zBMfVJKmXaOhL8EjDG-x6V5Ij28kJgeG12J-cdCvyT_acc-oFirF0hPNJ-8Agiqq59JiNFKNBxBYYuNGRrRVmB61wxM6LkPifGrW_ZqsjlDMHAEQCY_z1oEGjmGBglAU/w640-h448/FreeBlood1000.jpg" width="640" /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Trembling Day</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><br /> The moon’s paw padded silently among hurrying clouds. Giant pines wore feather boas of fog. And a bluff of limestone glowed soft as a breast in the wilderness night. A lovely occasion for vampires.<br /><br /> How was I to know? A 54-year-old yoga instructor from Rahway, New Jersey, I thought bloodsuckers were swamp worms and lawyers. Sure, the travel agent had said the bluff was haunted. A wraith of a Revolutionary war soldier, the specter of a Mohawk brave, perhaps a flitting apparition of Ralph Waldo himself – these are the spooky experiences of imperishable memories. But vampires in the Adirondacks?<br /><br /> Bernie and I had come to this remote resort in Black River Valley to celebrate our 17th anniversary and the opening in Short Hills Mall of a third outlet for our own franchise, a bodymind-fitness-studio slash vegetarian-stir-fry-restaurant: <i>Go Yoga! & Wok Like This!</i><br /><br /> With three places of business that Bernie would have to manage accounts for and new instructors and cooks I had to break in and oversee, who knew when next we’d have a chance to traipse off together and watch moonrise over a haunted bluff?<br /><br /> Bernie would rather have stayed in the lodge at his laptop. He was there for golf and relaxation, not canoe trips, foliage hikes, outdoor tai chi, lakeside dawn meditation and other bliss-inducing activities I adore. But he adored me and went along with me that night of the big moon.<br /><br /> That’s my sorrow now, a tough karma I’m working at with all my might. You see, we hadn’t snuggled together in the feathered moonlight under those secluded conifers for five minutes before vampires struck.<br /><br /> A steel clamp of horror squeezed my heart so tight my last breaths came in gasps.<br /><br /> Vampires are not at all elegant like in those movies. Their faces are brilliant as lanterns but blue, cyanotic blue, and leopard-spotted. Maybe it was just the moonlight. Bone shadows fluoresced like X-rays through their flesh, skeletal people with squid eyes, just black keyholes in chalk dead faces. Really. I could have screamed, except I had no breath.<br /><br /> Bernie, wide as a lumberjack, my globe-shouldered Bernie, leaped up, his face scrambled with emotion. The first vampire lifted him with one slender neon arm and slammed him against the spruce so hard needles rained. A whiff of Christmas floated briefly before a fecal stink fouled the air.<br /><br /> His feet, free of the earth, kicked like a swimmer’s. The vampire that had pinned its trophy to the tree floated horizontally in the moony air like a tattered banner, like an angel of decay, its narrow body concealed in filthy wrappings, face hidden against Bernie’s throat.<br /><br /> Tar spackled the back of its head, webs of tar that must once have been hair. It meshed now in filament braids or perhaps that was mold thriving in the sutures of its skull. Bernie’s eyes stared straight ahead, wide open and electrocuted.<br /><br /> My throttled lungs howled squeak after mad squeak. When I careened about, I met the second vampire’s night terror eyes.<br /><br /> It watched my horror with obvious delight – no joy in those puncture-hole eyes, nothing in those inkwells – yet the spidery creases of its face deepened, twitching sadistic mirth. Leather lips pressed shut, holding back the killing shriek I knew was coming.<br /><br /> It came. A gargoyle’s scream rang my bones like chimes. The horrid, famished mouth opened, and I glimpsed those infamous fangs, slender needles of starlight.<br /><br /> The thing was on me, nailing me to the tree in a slamming blast of ice gale force.<br /><br /> Lit with pain, I blazed for a moment, dazzling atoms bursting all through my body in torrid flares of agony. <i>Is this happening?</i> The incredulity of it endured the searing, silent cries roasting me alive.<br /><br /> <i>Me! This is happening to me! </i>Not a nightmare. No dream. Me, dharma darling, devotee of Amitabah Buddha of Infinite Light, lotus-center me, founder and CEO of <i>Go Yoga! & Wok Like This!</i> – qi channeler me, still-point me who is not-me, <i>anatman</i>, radiant me, Bernie’s lover! <i>Me!</i><br /><br /> Like a gust of smoke, I drifted away. The pain ceased abruptly.<br /><br /> A blast of power|rightness wafted me into the hush of heaven, under a moon like a blotched mushroom. Was that the moon? That wasn’t the moon but the soft radiance of infinity I had visualized so many times in meditation.<br /><br /> <i>Bernie!</i> I spun about in mussel-blue night. <i>There’s my Bernie!</i><br /><br /> He was at the zenith, thunderstruck, a lustrous echo of his naked physical self, balding red hair, freckles, paunch and all, rising swiftly into a confused atmosphere of speeding clouds and moonfire.<br /><br /> A moment of clarity dilated my mind, too strangely calm considering what had just happened. And I saw my partner, my lover, ascending toward glistening darkness, a whorl of inward spiraling space, wet-looking and black as a mollusk.<br /><br /> I perceived this with a certainty we possess in dreams – and so I had no trouble envisioning his breath|force. It bulged with rainbows at the place of his heart as if from inside an opal. These spectra winced then winked smaller.<br /><br /> All those years I had urged him to join me in meditation, to focus his breath, concentrate awareness deep in the body, in the force center, the core chakra of our dream-flesh. All those years amused at my zealous devotion to yoga, he kept himself busy in the back office with spreadsheets and in the studio-restaurants with custodial chores. When we were alone, he gently scoffed at my yoga compulsion – except of course in the tantric serenity of our prolonged lovemaking.<br /><br /> (And he never jeered my compulsive cooking, either.)<br /><br /> For Bernie, yoga was business. Cooking was business. And business was over now. He floated away, corkscrewing upward – outward?<br /><br /> Gone.<br /><br /> <i>Breathe!</i> I began my breath-focus routine, trying to keep myself from an implosion of panic. Of course, I had no lungs, no way to breathe. I breathed vital energy.<br /><br /> <i>Bernie’s dead! I’m dead!</i> I knew this with clarity|insight. In moments, my reserve of vital energy, of breath|force, would exhaust itself and I too would spiral away into infinite radiance.<br /><br /> Gone!<br /><br /> The thought saturated me with stupefying ecstasy. Not joy, wonder or sexual paroxysm. Ecstasy is a Greek word and literally means ‘to step forth.’ It’s a crucial term in my yoga seminars, a term that I use to help people grasp the idea of getting out of the way of the body, letting the mind move aside simply to watch the edgework of muscles finding their tension limits.<br /><br /> But this was a bigger kind of ecstasy – the kind when the soul departs the body! The sensation pervading me was my imminent leave-taking from this world. I knew this with a mighty conviction – and I was not ready to go.<br /><br /> I was terrified and shrieking with my whole being: <i>Not yet!</i><br /><br /> I tried to unclench panic by thinking, focusing on what had killed Bernie and me and why.<br /><br /> <i>Vampires?</i><br /><br /> In fact, at that ecstatic moment of devastating dismay, I hadn’t yet realized that the monsters who had attacked us were vampires. It had all happened too fast. And I didn’t think of vampires, because I didn’t believe in them.<br /><br /> Only after I had gotten well into my breath focus routine – what practitioners call <i>pranayama</i> – did my clarity|insight amplify sufficiently for me to consider carefully what had transpired.<br /><br /> Then, I knew.<br /><br /> The moment I knew, I was among them again. The abominations, mouths varnished with our blood, sensed me at once.<br /><br /> Bony hands passed right through me. I guessed they’d never seen a ghost before. Their effulgent bodies blurred like blue taillights through the woods as they strove to flee.<br /><br /> I glided along their luminous slipstream. They turned. All at once, they stopped and turned, bending space behind them spookily like a heart-broken dream.<br /><br /> I saw them then more clearly than before. They occupied a space that ached, all wrinkled and torqued with trembling hunger. Sequined fluorescence in their cadaverous faces breathed brighter. Flakes of black light fell away in leprous decay from worm-scored jaws that gawked astonished. Only those gun-barrel eyes showed nothing.<br /><br /> Dim voices spoke as if from another room, murmurs clothed in a stale fume of dead roses: </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">▬▬<i>Its hue bewray notorious ill. Hut! It craves parley.</i><br /><br /> Languid hands swayed through me again, and they backed off from my emptiness, amazed.<br /><br /> I moved forward and passed through them. For a moment, we occupied the same space, and I partook of their sickly aura: Smog of sunset, sky lacquered brown, and small stars flickered in the wind.<br /><br /> Zero’s amplitude canceled me, every thought, all feelings. Their bodies vibrated. Wave-particles teemed briefly with Bernie’s last thoughts as his blood digested inside them: a ferment of deranged fright – and (breaking my heart) his final terrified determination to protect me.<br /><br /> My own blood-memories were there too but transparent to me, and I saw right through them into the vampire stomaching my blood. What I had mistaken for decay is molting. Old flesh sheds like fungus. Over the centuries, the oldest vampires develop faces abstract as crabs and full of clairvoyant malice.<br /><br /> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">▬▬<i>Dog of hell, what wouldst thou with us?</i><br /><br /> <i>I’m</i> a dog of hell? I spoke|projected. What are you then?<br /><br /> They are the wolves of hell. Their drastic eyes told me as much. I teetered a moment before the crypt dark of their skull sockets.<br /><br /> In a blink, they rushed off in opposite directions, smears of auroral fire weaving among the trees. I let them go.<br /><br /> Disoriented, I pivoted. Moonlight passed through me. I moved through trees. Inside their wooden samurai armor, they are geisha beauties. Each one is a ‘person-of-the-arts,’ limbs dancing, arranging flowers, carrying the wind’s music. The calligraphy of their roots is pure poetry, rhyming earth and berth.<br /><br /> Oh, so this is what it’s like to be dead… Everything was metaphor, everything lyrical, flowing together, an exquisite enchantment.<br /><br /> I arrived where I began and found our corpses. Bernie lay with his back against the spruce, legs spread, chin to chest and I on my back in his lap looking up at him with worthless eyes.<br /><br /> Our exsanguinous flesh appeared frosted, star-splotched in big silver paisleys made up of tiny snowflake doilies. Dead people don’t look like that.<br /><br /> Oh, yeah. These bodies aren’t dead. Fright throbbed in me. These are the undead.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span>Click to read pt. 2:</span></i></span></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-2.html">Man is Red Dust</a></b></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-2.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="450" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrigG-s1VcK_ccWivoDZA0223V1UY76ExG5AMI0Kth57zKXyxGbfhxxOD53emAoYPdlGlEdrLrVSarjm5eciKFlrE3uMQittfTjsf5HQvogMypYkEIFSKpoLbnd2N7_4Bo4pVd4mj3zA5jOH5xwlo2zAQszWuYnwsqLJoGErKAOso5gllxKzLtom2xuzg/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-25%2008.51.31.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">on the </span><span style="color: #660000;">Freezine</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> of</span></i></b></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #b45f06;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-24706124279536127842023-10-26T10:30:00.003-06:002023-10-30T14:11:51.596-06:00Spirits of the Night<div style="text-align: left;"> <i><span style="font-family: georgia;">by <a href="https://bruceboston.com/">Bruce Boston</a> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmivTT42DMbr1FxDfuzyU71O7ohI96gKenDLx79W3pZzmql-LhsL2MYQuv8ZCV9nVe1-VlP712vvISmuuurD5CupbJQkXBEBsWeMNLASWPyOHTpf5RMw1RrjcrdUXMhh8jGaAwp-7CjaXoSyi2NrUb6fT7UAKEQdbTs6R9LyE_7ol3xZt16I_o5geOEsM/s1000/FreeFractal1000.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmivTT42DMbr1FxDfuzyU71O7ohI96gKenDLx79W3pZzmql-LhsL2MYQuv8ZCV9nVe1-VlP712vvISmuuurD5CupbJQkXBEBsWeMNLASWPyOHTpf5RMw1RrjcrdUXMhh8jGaAwp-7CjaXoSyi2NrUb6fT7UAKEQdbTs6R9LyE_7ol3xZt16I_o5geOEsM/w640-h448/FreeFractal1000.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When
the night is dark and stars fill the sky,<br />
And the air is cold, the moon full and high,<br />
Riders pass on by who move like the wind,<br />
Carrying the soul of all that has been,<br />
And they keep riding to the dawn.<br />
<br />
When we are asleep and warm in our beds,<br />
Spirits of the night move through our heads,<br />
Images and forms the unconscious breeds,<br />
Fashioned from the depth of unholy needs,<br />
And we keep dreaming until dawn.<br />
<br />
When the sun is high and light fills the air,<br />
Shadows of the night are lost in the glare.<br />
Deep in our minds there still run those streams,<br />
Currents dark and swift just like in our dreams,<br />
And they keep flowing past the dawn.<br />
<br />
Spirits of the night, keep our trail bright,<br />
Guide us from the darkness, light our way.<br />
We are children now, and forever more,<br />
Cast down in the rush of history's play,<br />
Living as we can from dark to dawn.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span><div style="font-size: medium; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i> </i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Click below to read:</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: georgia;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-1.html">Investigations of the Fractal Blood Soul</a></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-1.html">by A. A. Attanasio</a></i></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/investigations-of-fractal-blood-soul-1.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="450" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4aE6_hn1MSgi90Ycswq9F54xCk4M8ulAhz_ywZjRjqOOxMp3nolGea9IdcjoWN6BbnE60FSGdoRSc67RCNuGIR4ZPgWZx1ypGfmp5NaUfM7hjtyl1V2eWRnwO41pLmb_3cjBjVS0liRh3-VBLkkGcz_yWFZDiLzCPRGoSYg49ei2UJIg1c3oQtqW76I/s320/bloodfractalY450.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span><span style="color: #0b5394;">only on the</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> </span></span><span>Freezine</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> of</span></i></b></div><div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; text-align: center;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #073763;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #20124d;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-15624052622023661512023-10-09T21:43:00.002-06:002023-10-09T21:43:37.966-06:00The Abandoned <div style="text-align: left;"><i>by <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Jeffrey-Thomas/author/B000APMJZ4">Jeffrey Thomas </a></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>for mature readers</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><a href="https://extremezine.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html">click to read</a></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://extremezine.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>THE ABANDONED</b></span> </a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><i><a href="https://extremezine.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html">by Jeffrey Thomas</a></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://extremezine.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="369" data-original-width="542" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimnfZ5LiAD1ko3iIAXBSmJxlxsF7lecAHzlJPs3satd_xWSEO_SiEy0becyBDtYKZ1QVfqEC4MCcTE2vRirn6DI-Gs7VzzS8GqgIaCGxGFQDdtsHa0b26TLtWg762Q5VbBOHu2Nd6uR8q7eL95qZOOcvMCPx1nDllXBKaekk_N4vo8FPeufXWMjL-imOg/w400-h272/HadesJeffrey542.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>on the</i> <span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><b>FREEZINE</b></span> of</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #990000;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #38761d;">Science</span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><b>Fiction</b> </span></div><br /><i><br /></i></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-51372369856296810152023-10-08T18:54:00.003-06:002023-10-09T21:44:40.530-06:00The Blind Girl's Summons<div style="text-align: left;"> <i>story & illustration by <a href="http://margesimon.com/">Marge Simon</a></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="831" data-original-width="637" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7MN7Ct3eGhTGwQV7sPdPzfOvoQI63pSQGJVua14VGnxUtXSd3fiYrfsXiHY7jQVgAFrl3mAfPp3Iy5-xUjmS5ClndVNk2nt4DVo2uETSpIE0jfgNzCAaTB31rsL3M-0fzjdlrS6Kjv9lreDfLEQvxGapPLVnPbkFdmUiVT2MBQTp_-MUfeOVQAR_5rk/w490-h640/368391508_6479658388776639_7734306425906343283_n.jpg" width="490" /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> The pigeons moan when the Blind Girl
calls, for she is hungry and will be wanting pigeon pie. It will be made by </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">the old gypsy, servant of the Blind Girl.<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Blind Girl is the last of her kind but
she is not a witch, not those poor creatures who must burn for their sins. When
she was a little one, the gypsy gave her an exotic doll. Legend tells he was a
prince once, in his native land, but changed into a doll by dark powers. Wong-tse
is her treasure, that is all we need to know. She consults Wong-tse, then calls
us in visions when our services are needed to purify our flock. Gladly we
comply, for Wong-tse’s word is sacred.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span><a name="_Hlk67429955" style="font-family: georgia;"> We try to please her with
small things, whatever we can manage. I am embroidering a pillow for her with
lilies that she can touch on the surface of the rough cloth, perhaps even feel
their color</a><span style="font-family: georgia;">. Eugene
settles into his big chair to polish his spike. I watch as he brushes the
chamois over the walnut pole until his fingers are stained darker than his
skin.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Last year, I brought her our first-born son
for blessing. She ran her beautiful fingers over his face, and frowned. “Wong foretells
your son will bring us shame when he is grown,” she said, wrapping her hands
around his little neck and crushing his skull. But my husband was proud of me,
I didn’t cry. We took his tiny body home and buried it deep.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We are hers to bid, as a mother would have
her children obey. Not a one of us dares question the situation, except for fools
like Rafe, misshapen and foul mouthed, most often drunk. It was natural and
right that his blaspheming head wound up at the sharp end of a pitchfork, providing
supper for the crows.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">There is always a great feast and celebration
and another head finds its way to Wong-tse’s spike, when the Blind Girl summons.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: times;"><b><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html">click to read</a></i></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i> </i><span><i style="color: #990000;"> </i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html">THE ABANDONED</a></span></span></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #990000;"><span><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html">by Jeffrey Thomas</a></span></span></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-abandoned.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="369" data-original-width="542" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMz1YuOFM-ufpjNOQk4Mhs_87N6WzCZdd-eRLrf4WDhlDgtjFmtZcqrGlAvQvcWvT8fzlK5oQc2UDwP0ijshWAB0tJ9_IghblVv6gVWjVlzkHv57nVN5XJdt-aixIb7Z3z-6BKHU5kdhe3zRh3A05dfIQI42pGT3B6WTb0wntdWD2u4GRXrUI998Tip-0/s320/HadesJeffrey542.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #674ea7;">on the </span><span style="color: #660000;">Freezine</span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> of</span></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #741b47;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #b45f06;">Science</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>FICTION</b></span></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p><br /></p><i></i></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-62816094552406237272023-09-29T11:45:00.024-06:002023-10-08T20:00:00.090-06:0040th iSsuE: F♢☇☇ | 2☯23<p> <i> Welcome to the celebratory 40th issue of our ongoing web periodical, the </i><a href="https://freezinearchives.blogspot.com/">FREEZINE</a> <i>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 </i>humanity's<i> 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. </i></p><p><i> Welcome, our primogenitors, welcome to </i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="999" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQfBmIK2PZp_VzU-SCAV6OZy-WvBo57IsGo8Gcsz93Ju0ljyJudu8WJ-3d7nVYvLslYhS0pOpcFO9jpI_swQI_JLxLug-rSPim1aqZgbkUfe31ioBn75fQqdPXd3LPQ4g1Vg2ac6qJBUeIMosJY6v-v2SNMcr2IskD3OXgyW1v8n-ImYElgEGmb5_yg68/w640-h448/fallghost.PNG" width="640" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><b><u>Table of Contents</u>:</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>titles and images hyperlink </i></b></span><i style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><b>to their respective stories</b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: medium;"><b><u><br /></u></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/please-wash-your-hands.html"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b>Please Wash Your Hands</b></span><i style="font-family: georgia;"> </i></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/please-wash-your-hands.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="650" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNX38zofJVCtrrVPW7FMXS9SYbNBIWVKTE6mWhSewL6r1W6O2Q8CDevyeamowmMLlxbG3xcXxKbN6umd6_hzKPiLfrKnqlp1OUkwrQxnCTRxhXGZLoQsuXBOK0JpKOgGpPJD9vx9NGI_H4HLYGEmRFqJNUR1iCfu0zWAaFcp9fb-QlWc6ale-TOiYR-e0/w400-h278/KG650.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: georgia;">by Keith Graham</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/fishers-nocturne.html">Fisher's Nocturne</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/fishers-nocturne.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="650" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKHk9lVlo9C8YHl-Wd-hXjiPNq7g9awjKe3VEStN8S_lPLAZF9c45CcleWYBmEWJREYyLRSh1xWOpWwzeZ7jb_K0eBzI5j7_z1unfBqine_0E9VTBHpKjF1l-Dj11r3rgOVK4he-odE8_Lv-tG5qpbfs5sFWieOV4GTpi9GdhA3Sa8HlS9rz4S1sCuKA/w400-h278/SL650.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>by Shaun Lawton</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-house-at-coast.html">The House at the Coast</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-house-at-coast.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="650" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9LVgQpE_L8fhzkX6fv6yquZ13ogx40wKkzMYuLwCS9vQRy9hW2JLtFsZEqXV_WcRVrn6R5274mWQtcHa29eoVX1pW-bSUZSR2lUftnm9uuZ4OlA6K-WemVMIshvEIEj5MCpO0LBDGA1XRfCa7z5sBVEEqwH2wrqeL74EFa8bEt903Rx4V5CW-XcJcVE/w400-h278/IS650.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>by Icy Sedgwick</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/two-techno-tales.html">TWO TECHNO TALES</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/two-techno-tales.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="650" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwL63N5FeuTr0H-FPoxTzOF3jP231cKyoqqc5OMhN0jqLm-Df2tIadEdFgmLfzmjjTksw1cQWWCMPLKmfWh8Fuql_09K8CTPqWILh-FuQMIKncXzFHVWUZ3qwQcd1PYtqlA3-GoAUpIDnz9La2hXCAchYmX0y2cGx0l0sKVIa4iQF0-h3tz1izyZRoRpQ/w400-h278/JS650.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>by John Shirley</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/american-ghost.html">American Ghost</a></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/american-ghost.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="650" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJTU0psSW2SOaLDtT0E6h_dAi4XQVdxYHCHp_ixu0miGBbQqGAGK6wQCew38e6U4sL_LzOhqmfJGSnFDJ9ZgyLllPl9uOgNG-3SaYnRBH8Yot2vhtn-2ptImATZHf3V0bbCKZHTEvayMdmvugbCJtCGfWaRJyGtRR5meglCgLyVpn4-WbzIyHuXjI7L0/w400-h278/JCS650.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>by John Claude Smith</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> 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. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Our patron saints include (but are not limited to) the late Harlan Ellison, who's credo was "<i>the writer must get paid," </i>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 <u>The Illustrated Man</u> I'd discovered on my parent's bookshelf at the tender age of eleven. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> It was that first story, <i>The Veldt</i>, 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 <u>Fahrenheit 451</u>, and my heart was seized under its magical spell. When I read <u>Something Wicked This Way Comes</u>, 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 <u>The Outsiders, </u>William Golding's <u>Lord of the Flies,</u> and John Gardner's <u>Grendel</u>, to mention a few favorites. By the time I reached high school, I discovered John Crowley's <u>Beasts,</u> along with a veritable cornucopia of fantastical writers and their lyrical fever dreams, too many to recall or list here. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> 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. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> 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. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> 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! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> 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. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> 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. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Freezine Returns After A Series Of Moments. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Stay tuned. Catch up. Good night. Reach out.</i></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br style="font-family: "Times New Roman";" /><br style="font-family: "Times New Roman";" /><br style="font-family: "Times New Roman";" /><div align="center" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /><b>freezinefantasysciencefiction@gmail.com<br /><br />Submit your short story to be considered for a WEEKDAY.<br />Submit longer works for daily serialization.<br />Thank you.</b></div><br style="font-family: "Times New Roman";" /><br style="font-family: "Times New Roman";" /><div align="center" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><img img="" src="https://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c152/thorngrub/freezine/button2-2.jpg" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>*Click Pic Below To Enter the<br /><i>FREE ZINE ZONE</i>:*</b><br />THE ART OF THE FREEZINE<br /><br /><a href="http://freezinezone.blogspot.com/"><br /><img img="" src="https://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c152/thorngrub/freezine/endfruitfly-1.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB"> </span><b style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="color: #666666;">next up the</span></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #e69138;">October Issue</span><span style="color: #990000;"> </span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #666666;">begins,</span><span style="color: #990000;"> </span><span style="color: #666666;">click to read:</span></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #990000;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-blind-girls-summons.html">THE BLIND GIRL'S SUMMONS</a></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span><i><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-blind-girls-summons.html">by Marge Simon<span style="color: #990000;"> </span></a></i></span></b></div><div><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i> <span style="color: #bf9000;"> </span></i></b><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/10/the-blind-girls-summons.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBYmtM0uNikQ_Zm4VeZpA9pwR20ZhrTrlimNwUcXhtgH3SNchBzNA7KFZG01ZpS4DH3wezFjmd9xPhbLP-iuyNcjuxipU7_l0QHpKx6TFUq9BtlH9l7E702LBOuSEZVop53XZX1GIMZ5U4SGAqBg0QYloWUYpKgVPPYkeXa9qBh1c4EJHb3SkyV9WOgk8/s320/JCS1000x2.jpg" width="320" /></a><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #444444;"> </span><span style="color: #674ea7;"> </span></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #666666;">only on the Freezine of</span></i></b><b style="font-family: georgia;"> </b></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></p><div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #351c75;">Fantasy</span> and <span style="color: #274e13;">Science</span></i></b></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b style="color: #990000;">FICTION</b> </span> </span></div></div>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2602094958137588917.post-41864621937493911802023-09-28T23:52:00.005-06:002023-10-02T12:10:09.220-06:00American Ghost<div style="text-align: left;"> <i style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">by <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/John-Claude-Smith/author/B0065PB94K">John Claude Smith</a></i></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQk2aVyhCc_ybdg0n8ERJeXcf3nFyzMPeBmBw43AEj6uwSUGvepkmDp1KUosmjrPVrY51xpMoBewiug7hLi2iQNF0PmGkcVlDGIVVlw16QMmOI5mz_MOgRHLwz3MKOvkuLN409NvPklCTroKuoco8fjq7Y9QjDc1Ip6yuWcijgDtTLePiJm8_NI4swIzU/w640-h448/AmericanGhost1000.jpg" width="640" /></span></span></div><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 12pt;">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 . . .</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why do you think Morrison’s dead anyway?
He dipped in and it shattered his soul,” Hans said. “Evil shit, man.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Not evil. He just couldn’t handle it,”
Sally said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Too intense? You saying the concentrated
expression of his talent was too intense?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sally’s smile filled the landscape. Flowers
bloomed in her hair and eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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: <i>The book is the key to your destiny</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My destiny. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed to find the book.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“May I speak to Samael Plotkin?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is he there?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Quick, ’kay? Lie to me, at least.” Gum
popping with real urgency. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Of course, I’ll be quick,” I said. Giving
her what she needed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Groovy.” I heard her call out Samael’s
name. Muffled sounds and a car honking somewhere within the telephone
receiver’s reception.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Samael Plotkin?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He audibly sighed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
need to talk to you about Jim Morrison and the whereabouts of a book by the
name of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Necronomicon</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Silence. So silent, I thought he’d hung
up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Samael?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why? The past is dead. Let it sleep
forever.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fine,” I said into the dead line. He had
already hung up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not need any of this. My words
carried weight. I just needed—<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plotkin
pulled the mug from his lips and laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What do you know of the book?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Enough,” I said, whether truthful or not.
My interest exceeded my knowledge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You think this is about his career, as if
the book had anything to do with his success?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well? That’s your response?” His hands
were shaking. His nose was running and he sniffled as he laughed again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Get to the point,” I said, not needing to
waste time with his roundabout recollections.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Necronomicon</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No shit.” He leaned back, then forward.
Antsy. Pupils dropping to the money again. Purpose.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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, <i>First
Love</i>, 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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <i>Stop This Senseless War Now!</i> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Continue,” I said to Plotkin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“All for naught. The woman never showed up.”
<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What really <i>is</i> the point, then?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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 <i>weak</i> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fine. Don’t answer me, but know this. The
essence of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Necronomicon</i>, 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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s that supposed to mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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
. . . <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“In hiding? He’s dead. Can’t get any more
hidden than death.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He twitched, rubbing the wrists of each
arm once, twice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled out the few bills, tossed another
ten on the table. Temptation was lethal, digging talons into his fevered
addiction.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gibberish. Plotkin was spewing gibberish.
Spouting horror stories as fact. Insubstantial. I gathered my cash and stood to
leave. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He grabbed my wrist. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If
Morrison is still alive, do you know if he still has the book?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If he is still alive, do you know where
he is?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read the note: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chateau Marmont 33.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No Future Here, Not Yours Or Mine.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“His condition?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fuck you,” I said, as Plotkin slid the cash
from beneath my fingers. A fair exchange, exit stage left.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood up. “What of it?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This from a failed poet no more
substantial than a shadow.” I shoved the chair toward the table a little harder
than necessary.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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—”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You believe that shit?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We paused, a stare-down without
resolution. Guns forever holstered. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slammed my open palm against the wooden
tabletop. <i>Just shut the fuck up.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned to leave as the weasel continued
his misguided verbal taunts. Taunts shaped by jealousy, I was sure. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Give up the ghost of your so-called
career as a wordsmith and get a real job, poet. Flip burgers, poet. Mop the
floor, <i>poet</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 . . . <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was close to my destination.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It did not matter. I knocked on the door
and immediately slipped my hand back in my jacket pocket. Cold steel was
strange comfort. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I padded softly toward the table
and the notepad and read the top page.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">American Ghost <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">After Paris, endless night <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I kissed the anus of America<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">& death shadowed my every step<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the womb of Times Square,
fevers & desire<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The South sways large hips
to voodoo fire<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Stigmata palm of the golden
plains bleeds<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Los Angeles, the mouth,
bringer of disease<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">moon rises in the palace of nightmares<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">snakes kiss as an Ouroboros
halo <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.5in; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">& hiss as the gods define myths<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Blood smeared black on white
sheets<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Naked beaches<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Home<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Rattlesnakes tremble,
radiators rattle<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A leather satchel adorned
with strange symbols<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">(burnt through from the
inside)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A dark companion <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A prison cell of words<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The scaly prison of self<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Fame<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Famine of the soul<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Old Ones watch from
halls of mirrors <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Smile like crocodiles in
blue cars <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And wonder at my wandering <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">(Quiet!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Skin pale, translucent <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Transformative<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I see the truth beneath the
lie<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">& lie in wait<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A passive beast<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am the jeweled lizard<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">King of the glitzy wasteland
<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A ghost shedding skins<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A man no longer human<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Finally free . . . <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">II.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A ghost shedding skins . . . <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gasped at the implication, when I saw
through the weird skin, on the table next to the bed—a leather satchel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A leather satchel adorned with strange
symbols . . .<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dropped the skin, no matter allusions
bizarre, preposterous, and moved toward the table . . . when the shadows spoke.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is not for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hastily pulled the gun from my jacket
pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Morrison?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A gurgling suggestion of laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ignored the words of the one in the
shadows.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I suggest you move aside. I’ll use this
if I have to,” I said, waving the gun, semaphoring a death warning.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shooting stars and twanging guitars and
piping organs, bass drum smack, 2, 3, 4—<i>fading</i> . . . <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shaking my head. A meteor shower. A heavy,
ponderous sound from the direction of the window, plodding, scrabbling . . . <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shadow presence hesitated, dispersed.
Black holes devoured the periphery.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Above me, behind the disintegrated
shadows, a large reptile stretched out across the ceiling, pale flesh . . .
unreal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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—<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shooting stars and twanging guitars and
piping organs, bass drum smack, a voice; his voice! Muffled, but I heard him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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 . . .<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“<i>But free in what capacity<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>The only truth is what’s
left to experience<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>As the corpse of belief rots
beneath a tapestry of curious darkness<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Crematory heat washes over
me<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; punctuation-wrap: simple;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>An eternity in the mouth of
Hell awaits all who follow in my steps…</i>”</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><i>Click below to access the 40th issue of the FREEZINE</i></span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><a href="https://freezineoffantasyandsciencefiction.blogspot.com/2023/09/40th-issue-f-223.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhub_6pLeKO3bPbB2nB8FMuR70UuvTROU4pn6qiK201o0K9tcnlIE6VJNXGZWsjjpMVvkQhhVHs13c5xhRfl3-hCzFESXnHnk4XJK0EbuvCvYJsi_lW8vMjT8tO6bOBwFsFjB1OnaGh2SgMFZoupyM05dGHm3QwsthkY8jikgzFD8guw8NwjUDbZYngzE/w400-h280/JCSxx1000%20(1).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">and to read the ed. comments and Thank You's</span></i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span><p></p>shaunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14054968054917843198noreply@blogger.com0