CONQUEROR WOMB: LustyTales of Shub-Niggurath

Coming soon from Martian Migraine Press, CONQUEROR WOMB: Lusty Tales of Shub-Niggurth; this wonderful anthology includes my tale, “That Hideous Thing” (yes, my title is a nod to another writer; how many can guess who?).

Pick up a copy!

The TOC for this anthology is…

Praise & Abundance! - introduction by editors Justine Geoffrey & Scott R Jones
This Human Form – Lyndsey Holder
That Hideous Thing – Ran Cartwright
Unsatisfied – Brian M. Sammons
Mater Annelida – Victoria Dalpe
The Potboiler Sigil – Luke R. J. Maynard
All This For the Greater Glory of the 7th and 329th Children of the Black Goat of the Woods – Molly Tanzer
Babymama – Kenton Hall
Our Child – Annabeth Leong
Boy – Don Webb
Pieces (2) for Double String Quartet – Copper Sloane Levy
The Whisperer in the Vagina – Shon Richards
Obsidian Capre Aegagrus – Christopher Slatsky
Dirtymag – Jonas Moth
With Honey Dripping – Christine Morgan
In the Down Deep Down – Jacqueline Sweet
The Scarlet Scripture – Ambrosius Grimes
Within Your Unholy Pit of Shoggoths – Wilum H. Pugmire
Blossom – Rose Banks
The Conqueror Womb: Parsing Shub-Niggurath (essay) – Scott R Jones

GRETCHEN'S WOOD

Coming soon, GRETCHEN’S WOOD, 2nd edition. Here a little taste; an excerpt from my story “Summoning Tsathoggua.”

…….The brush, weeds, and vines had been cleared from the obelisk. Winded from the work, Nancy’s body glistened with perspiration. Her long hair was wet and matted with sweat and soil. She leaned back against the obelisk, head upturned, eyes closed, arms splayed out from her sides. Seemingly entranced, she muttered an unintelligible chant as she rolled her head side to side.
……. “Ia. Ia. N'ggah-kthn-y'hhu,” she chanted softly. She paused, cackled, and then continued, “Ia. G'llh-ya, Tsathoggua. Y'kn'nh, Tsathoggua.”
…….Nancy called out to her god. He answered. Tsathoggua’s slumbering thoughts tore into her mind, and sliced through her thoughts. The mind of the toad god reached into the smallest cell of Nancy’s body, and probed her. Uncounted needle-like prickling sensations raced through her, sending her into convulsions. In uncontrollable fits she flopped against the stone obelisk like a fish out of water, her body racked by escalating simultaneous sensations of pain and pleasure. Then just as suddenly as the toad god had slammed into Nancy’s thoughts and body, he was gone. All that remained was a single word that Tsathoggua had left in her mind.
…….S-a-c-r-i-f-i-c-e.
…….She cackled, sighed, and then slowly opened her eyes and stared at the darkening sky. “A sacrifice...,” she whispered, and started to laugh haltingly in a soft voice of madness. “A sacrifice!” Her mad laughter echoed through the woods as she slid down the face of the obelisk to the ground. Rolling over on her back, she stared up at the sky. The stars were beginning to come out.

* * *

…….Dusk gave way to night. The moon rode high in the black sky. The surface of Beaver Creek glistened in its light. Sounds of night echoed through the woods, including the strange songs of toads and frogs. A frog on the creek bank suddenly hopped into the water as something made its way through the woods. Then another frog hopped into the water. More and more frogs and toads, singing their songs, hopped into the water. They were on the move through the brush and creek, all moving in the same direction.
…….Don paid them no heed. “Nancy! Nancy!” he was shouting. “Where are you?” He paused and listened for a reply. There was none. Only the singsong of frogs and toads; more than usual, he noted. “I know you’re here! Nancy!”
…….He continued through the woods. All about him was a rustling of underbrush. He paused, glanced around, and then up at the night sky. He sighed as he rested his hands on his hips. “Well Nance, guess you’re gonna have to find out the hard way,” he voiced his thoughts. He shook his head and continued on. “Nancy! Come on, dammit!”

* * *

…….Thousands of tiny eyes watched Nancy from the dark. She sat passively on the south bank of Beaver Creek’s west fork just below the little hamlet of Williamsport. She had left the clearing and the obelisk. Tsathoggua whispering to her thoughts had taxed her. She needed rest to restore her energy, her vitality. She needed to collect her thoughts and plot a course of action.
…….So, she had left the clearing and disappeared into the night. Now she sat cross legged, her eyes closed, her hands resting in her lap. She was smudged in sweat and dirt. Moonlight glistened on her skin. Her hair was stringy and matted. She had left her shredded blouse behind in the clearing and now sat naked from the waist up.
…….The water of the creek trickling by. Water, the life blood of her god. The sound of the gently rolling water was soothing, comforting. She felt an awkward kinship, a bond with the water. The water was her connection to Tsathoggua.
…….Her thoughts turned to the whispered words of her god. He had said that a sacrifice was needed. She grinned at the thought. “Yes a sacrifice. Don Chambers.” She chuckled softly. “Why not?” She knew he wouldn’t go gladly. But it didn’t matter. He needn’t know, not until it was much too late. Not until the end.
…….In the dark the tiny eyes watching Nancy blinked. In pairs they disengaged themselves from the shadows and hopped into the silver light of the setting moon. They came from the woods, from the underbrush, from the waters of the creek. They gathered around Nancy, keening their songs to her. She opened her eyes.
…….The moonlight danced across her exposed skin and sparkled in her eyes. She appeared ghost like and gray in the moonlight. A multitude of gray toads and frogs gathered about her in servitude. They were offering themselves to her for guidance just as she had offered herself in servitude to her god.
…….By the thousands they came, hopping around Nancy, into her lap, onto her folded legs, onto her shoulders. She smiled at them and cackled madly in the dark. Her blood ran hot, surging through her. These toads and frogs - this was a sign, she knew, a sign of acceptance. Her god saw that all things were good. She would lead this multitude to meet her god, and their god, when the time was right.

DARKTOWNE

Of the collections I’ve written, my industrial horror stories entitled DARKTOWNE available from H Harksen Productions is among my favorites. This is a collection of stories about vampires, zombies, blood whores, ghosts, witches, mutants, demons, living slime, and a few characters that may seem vaguely, if not strangely, familiar who populate a ruined and dying town descending into madness.

The TOC is…

Prelude: The Afternoon of a Faun

Night Demons
Baden Street Blues
Blood Whores
Kaba
The River Rats
The Toad-Witch
The Witchfinder
Noah's Ark
Like a Thief in the Night

Postlude: The March Hare

Check it out at Lulu!

Here’s an excerpt from “The River Rats” -

…….The shantytown waterfront was thick with sucking mud. Bloated bodies floated past in the river; some bumped the shoreline, some snagged in debris. The scent was horrible. But those living in the shantytown had long grown accustomed to it. One was the Hatter. Another was Alice Antipathy. They had an infrequent association. Were on terms. Tenuous at best. As far as Alice was concerned.
…….They passed time together on occasion. Like this gray morning on the shantytown waterfront, playing cards. Hearts. Over tea. Three stacked truck tires and a small sheet of plywood afforded a table. They faced one another, fronted two teacups, a tea kettle, and a deck of cards. The Hatter’s coat tails rested in the mud.
…….Alice sipped her tea and drew a card. “Where you been keeping yourself?” she said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
…….“Here and there,” the Hatter replied with a wink; she wasn’t looking. “Been busy.”
…….“Well, that tells me a lot,” she said, and discarded. “Forever a man of mystery.”
…….The Hatter chuckled and drew a card. “Ha!” he exclaimed, delighted. Laid out three aces. “I love mysteries,” he added as he discarded. “And adventures too!”
…….Alice paused, and looked up. He was being evasive and she knew it. She scowled at the Hatter. “You know, Oleander, I really don’t like you all that much.”
…….“But I like you.”
…….“I can’t begin to understand why.”
…….He pulled a book from a jacket pocket and handed it to her. The book was old, the cover tattered, the binding barely holding it together. “This is why,” he said with a grin.
…….She took the book and stared at the cover. An artist’s rendition of a young girl. “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” she read the cover. She shook her head and handed it back. “You are quite mad,” she said, and played a card.
…….“So they say,” the Hatter said with a chuckle.
…….“I could use a glass of wine,” she said softly.
…….“There isn’t any,” the Hatter replied with a smile.
…….“Tell me, Oleander, I’ve heard some strange tales…,” Alice began.
…….The Hatter interrupted her, pulled his pocket watch, shook it, held to his ear, and grunted. “Hmph,” he said. “Six o’clock. I’m going to be late.” He quickly rose from the makeshift table.
…….“Late for what?”
…….“A very important date, my dear,” he said with a grin. “A very important date.”
…….And he was gone. Alice shook her head, sighed, and threw her teacup into the polluted river. The dead bodies took no notice.

* * *

…….It was a message from an old friend. A college buddy from a couple of years back. Rabbit Chuck hadn’t heard from her in ages. About a year and a half he guessed. Lost contact after the crazies took over. She was a real looker, a real sweet eye-popping bitch. And a real target for the crazies, scavengers, street thugs, vamps, and any other garbage out there looking for a real honest to goodness hot babe to stretch and slam at their leisure. Rabbit Chuck had guessed that she had gotten out while she still could. Before the city really went to shit. Before the slime came out of the grass and infected most of the people in Darktowne.
…….But apparently she hadn’t. She was holed up somewhere over by the Oak Hill Cemetery. How the Hell she had tracked Rabbit Chuck down was a mystery for the gods. She had sent word for him to come and get her. Come alone, she’d said in her message. No red flag to Rabbit Chuck. Come alone, he mused. Still no red flag. So Rabbit Chuck went.
…….The gray sky was turning dark. Evening was fading, night crawling in. Wasn’t a good time to be crossing the city, no matter how close Oak Hill Cemetery. Sure, it was close, just a few blocks to the east. But still far enough away from the shantytown that it would be dark by the time they started back. With a looker babe in tow, no doubt half the crazies in this shit hole of a city would be on their tail with tail on their minds.
…….“Shit,” Rabbit Chuck muttered as he climbed over the wall and followed it through the shadows of the cemetery.
…….He had come in off High Street. She would be waiting at the mausoleum closest to the wall along the street. So said the message. The message was wrong. She wasn’t there. No sign of her. Only shadows and dark. The night had come fast. Then a sound. Soft laughter. Rabbit Chuck turned and found the man standing there. He had crept up unheard and unseen. Some kinda freak? Rabbit Chuck wondered. Then he realized. The coat and hat and walking stick. This was that loonie…
…….“How far are you willing to go?” the Hatter suddenly said with a wide grin. Rabbit Chuck had no time to respond. “Ah, doesn’t matter,” the Hatter added.
…….The Hatter reached up and touched Rabbit Chuck on the forehead. His body suddenly went heavy. He couldn’t move and couldn’t speak. A sudden terror gripped him.
…….“Come, this way,” the Hatter said.
…….At the Hatter’s command, Rabbit Chuck was able to move, his steps rigid, slow, mechanical. Going where the Hatter said to go. They moved to the side of the mausoleum where a fresh grave had been dug. Alongside the grave was a wooden beveled coffin, the lid lying in the grass beside it. There was a tombstone with a cloth draped over it.
…….“Rabbits live in holes,” the Hatter cackled, a wide grin. “So should you.” He pulled away the cloth that covered the tombstone. Inscribed were –

RABBIT CHUCK
10/6

…….Rabbit Chuck’s eyes went wide. The only movement he could make himself. A tap of wood, the Hatter’s walking stick on the coffin.
…….“In you go,” he laughed.
…….Rabbit Chuck obeyed the command. He climbed into the coffin and laid back. The Hatter placed the lid atop the coffin and levitated the box into the grave. Then came the dirt.
…….The Hatter started back to the shantytown. Walking stick tucked under an arm, he was joyfully whistling a song – Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat. The sound receded. There was silence in Oak Hill Cemetery.
…….And a new grave.

DREAMS & NIGHTMARES

A print edition of my horror collection, DREAMS & NIGHTMARES, will be coming soon. This one will be somewhat different in content than the previous electronic version.

For a bit of a sample, here's a brief excerpt of one of the stories, "Thunder's Eyes," a story based on a Blackfoot Indian legend...

* * *

…….Sam Denton had seen it all.
…….A Nevada State Cop going on twenty three years, Denton had seen his fair share of murders, robberies, rapes, auto accidents, domestic squabbles, road rage, drunk naked prostitutes offering services as he slapped the cuffs on them and introduced them to Miss Miranda.
…….Of course, this being Nevada, there was the lighter side as well, chasing down conspiracy theorists and UFO hunters that had the habit of sneaking a little too close to Area 51. The claim was always the same. Always. The government had flying saucers there. And alien bodies. Dead ones. Saw it on TV. That kind of thing. Just a bunch of nuts.
……. “Yeah, My Favorite Martian,” Denton always muttered. Always. “Now you just turn right around and go back the way you came,” he’d warn them off with a nod. If they got too pushy with their theories of black suits and helicopters, there was always Miss Miranda and a night in lockup. Most listened to reason and went away.
…….So, yeah, Sam Denton had seen it all.
…….But not this. This was something new. Relatively new. And different. Not your run of the mill killing, assault, road rage, or flying saucers. This was different. Victims left along lonely stretches of Nevada highways, their eyes missing, and muttering the word Thunder before winking out to nobody’s home. Catatonic. And a nearby large patch of ground that was charred like it had been struck by lightning. Always the same. Five cases so far that Denton was aware of. Mostly losers. People the world really wouldn’t miss if they fell off the planet or into the Grand Canyon.
…….Now there was a sixth. A known drug dealer that peddled smack. Found on a long lonely stretch of SR 93 up between Ely and Wells. Always the same. Eyes missing, muttering Thunder before going catatonic, the charred patch of ground. Mister Dealer just sat there quietly, hands in his lap, not a care in the world.
……. “Funny,” Denton mused, “it’s almost as if they’re staring. If they had eyes, of course.”
……. He sighed, shook his head, at a loss on how to proceed with an investigation short of filing a brief report. Yeah, this was different. Somebody’s got an eyeball fetish.
…….A siren echoed across the shrub land. Denton turned, looked down the long stretch of highway. Lights flashed red and blue; an ambulance was coming to take Mister Dealer away.

* * *

NOTE: The above photo is the working cover photo and not finalized.

ANTHOLOGIES

I’ve seen a few anthologies fly by the board in FB, some mentioned as upcoming, some already filled and set for release in the near future. A few of these looked interesting if not grounds for an interesting and entertaining write. The problem is…either I missed a call somewhere sometime , or they were by invitation only and I didn’t get an invite. That can be disenchanting.

TALL TALES WITH SHORT COCKS VOLUME 3

My fantasy satire short story “The Church of the Holy Shaggaho” (as in “shag-a-ho,” but I don’t think I really needed to explain that) appears in the Rooster Republic Press anthology TALL TALES WITH SHORT COCKS VOLUME 3. Release date is 26 February 2013, so grab it up folks!

Selections from…THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANNALS OF SLAGHEEPIAN HISTORY

My fantasy satire collection, Selections from…THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANNALS OF SLAGHEEPIAN HISTORY, follows the misadventures of a variety of slimy undesirable nitwits and ne’er-do-wells. The collection is now available in pocket paperback format from Lulu.com.

TOC is…

Varnie Proposes Marriage
Rasta Booglely-Doo and the Old Seer of Frogtown
The STRANGE UP & DOWN World of FLAVOR & CHARMing COLORs
Sheisgrooby!
The Terrible Tragedy of One Colorful Character
The Church of the Holy Shaggaho
Tale of the Trojan Sphynx
Time Warped
Billy Space Codger & the December Frog
Spaced Out in East Mudbucket
Sex, Drugs, & Siren’s Songs
Froggenstein’s Monster
Brain Transplant
Time & Time Again
Blue Moons over Widdlydink
The Other Slimy Cesspool of a Frog Shit Village
The Mesmerizing Sound of Lethargic Radiation

Back cover blurb -

Dudes and dudettes, ya’ll come along; plenty of misadventures for all. There’s Lil’ Skippy Shitler enacting a war on anyone over two feet tall. There’s the king stoner himself, Timidly Blurry, brought back from the dead to promote one last rok concert. Just can’t leave out her portliness, Bulldozer Bertha Bustanut, as she makes an unscheduled stop in the village of East Mudbucket much to the horror of the East Mudbucketeans. Yeah, these and many many more! Far out and groovy baybee! Don’t forget to make a stop of your own at the Church of the Holy Shaggaho ‘specially so if you’re a foxy lookin’ babe-o-licious!

Brief excerpt from “Blue Moons Over Widdlydink” (a top ten finisher for Editors & Preditors Reader's poll for 2011) -

1
Bobos on the Watch

…….Quoddie Quodlibet looked up at the night sky. It was black as black could be up there. Blacker than a hairy Huht’s ass. Couldn’t be anything else. There’d been rumors about some fool loony things called stars. Points of light, the conspirators had said. Big points of light. HUGE kind of big. But only loonies and crazies and brain baked druggies believed in them anymore. Hell, by the flamin’ feet of former Frogtown fasting followers of the Filosophical Frogorum, those learned gentle jokers of a bygone age and the bygone village of Frogtown had once proclaimed: It is a black sky and forever shall be a black sky. Ain’t no froggin stars, dammit! And they were right. No frogging stars.
…….And Quoddie knew they were right.
…….Still, secretly, Quoddie kinda wished they were real. Secretly ‘cause you gotta watch what you wish for and say in these long last dark days of Slagheep. Some people don’t like you wishing and hoping for things, much less thinking and/or saying what you think. Yeah, thinkin’s a bad thing. Mostly outlaws resorted to such primitive unsavory practices like thinking and wishing and hoping. Caused you to say things you shouldn’t.
…….Saying and wishing and hoping and nonsense like that had caused the Bobo’s to spring up. They were (and are) a group of authoritarians in service to The Big Throbbing Head bent on stomping out the last vestiges of thinking and hoping and wishing…and when they hear of such despicable acts, they’re right there on your tail with the metaphorical soap and water bucket to wash your brain out. Eyeah, metaphorical, ‘cause what they really do is unspeakable in these long last dwindling days. They figure they ain’t got nothing to loose.
…….Pookipsee Pisswater, known as Pookie Pissie to his friends, and PeePee (PP) to one other (yeah, that would be Quoddie Quodlibet that called him PeePee) was one of those dastardly free thinking, free wishing, free hoping, free saying, free wheeling, free dealing, toking-on-a-number outlaws that the Bobos were after. Pisswater was a dastardly hard ass hardened criminal of the first order who had the audacity to think freely, and what’s more, to speak those rather fried, confused, and muddle thoughts. Bad dude, he was, eyeah, real bad BAD dude. And the Bobos were keeping a watch on the ole brain fried stoner.
…….Through some miraculous miracle unbeknownst to science, superstition, and sorcery, and even with his brain fried to the rather dark and crunchy side of a BBQ, PeePee had some vague inkling that the Bobos were keeping an eye on him. So, the brain fried stoner took to hiding in a joint that was commonly known as the Forbidden Palace through all the alleys, highways, byways, and backyards of Widdlydink. In the olden days people called it a library. It was a big one. Four stories high. But now was mostly in ruin; moldy, crumbling illegal items called books and magazines lay everywhere under dust inchidees thick.
…….But down in the basement, in a small corner room with a few side rooms for space, contraband, Huht Rinds stash, and other dastardly items of the illicit variety, was the Hep-Pad (as PeePee called it) where the brain fried stoner and his far out freaky stoner friends lived in way cool drug induced hallucinogenic secluded illusion. No one knew that the stoner and his far out freaky stoner friends were hanging out there. Hell, no one much gave a fuzzy frog’s ass where they lived or what they did. And when the stoner started talking about stars, just about every genuine pink blooded Widdlydinkan gave the brain fried druggie a wide berth. Except Quoddie.
…….Quoddie was enthusiastically deliriously brain screwed about the fool ass bullshit stories the brain fried stoner told her. Like a kid in a Widdlydinkan candy store, she would sit and sit and sit and sit and listen to the stupid stories of long dead people and events – King Huht-Uncommon and his pyramid (whatever a pyramid was; the stoner never explained that); Cap’n Henri Huhtson sailing up some long vanished river; Cap’n Brane Phart traveling the Spaceways; the long ago day that ex-President of the galaxy, Bulldozer Bertha Bustanut, came calling to Slagheep (before she became president due to a most unfortunate accident); and the wild stories of the long dead King Stoner himself, Timidly Blurry. Such a mythical figure, this Timidly Blurry.
…….But stories about the stars in the sky thrilled Quoddie the most. Far out groovy, PeePee would say. And he always had a faraway look in his eyes when he did. Said the stars were real. Said…theyz a twinklin’, a far out light show, kinda like they used to do at a Freaky Froggy and the Hepfrog Frogettes concert. Far out man. Cooooool.Groovy baybee! Whatever that meant. Quoddie didn’t know what it meant. PeePee liked to talk like that. All funny-like. Needed a dictionary to figure him out. But dictionaries were (and are) illegal. Had to explain himself on many occasion.
…….But there were no stars in the Widdlydinkan skies this night. And the blue moons hadn’t risen yet. Now they were something to see. All big and fuzzy and blue. There were six of those pretty blue fuzzy things. Soon they’d be bopping across the sky. And it was time for Quoddie to be bopping back to Widdlydink.
…….She traipsed through the high grass and came upon a path that led through the woods. There were weird dark scary things in those woods that made your skin crawl or your scales (if so inclined to have them) quiver. The dark was everywhere. Strange things hung out in trees. Eyes watched and leered. Funny faces made funny faces. Quoddie got a rush from the nasty feelings of being watched. The path suddenly opened into a small clearing that was softly aglow under the blue light of a newly risen blue moon.
…….There were two glows in the night shy, the soft sickly yellow glow of Widdlydink, and the wispy blue light of the risen blue moon. With the blue moon hanging in the sky like a great fuzzy frog’s ass, it was time to hang out with the stoner. Quoddie smiled, remembering the last words the stoner had said to her – "When the first blue moon is a quarter of the way above the horizon, baybee," PeePee had told Quoddie, "you just come on back to ole PeePee daddy. But watch out for the bobos!”

AT THE HOTEL MONTICELLO

My horror noir collection, AT THE HOTEL MONTICELLO, is now available in pocket paperback format from Lulu.com.

TOC is…

At the Hotel Monticello
Something Like Mephistopheles
The Beasts of Harrow Point
Share and Share Alike
The Shade
Of Alexandra, Possessed
The Masquerade Ball
Night of the Blood Red Moon
The Dead, Death, and Decay

The back cover blurb reads…

The Hotel Monticello, a little joint at one of many crossroads in time and space. Not many hang out there, but those that do, they’re an odd lot. There’s the old woman who plays a sad crying violin; a time traveling gangster blues pianist and his blues singing whore; a gay couple fresh out of the big house; a mysterious woman who never removes the Venetian Masquerade mask that she wears; a writer being chased across time and space by her own creations; a two-bit hood come to make a buck at the expense of a well known politician; and a small assortment of other down on their luck characters. Then there are the demons that appear from time to time to entertain themselves at the expense of the hotel clientele.

*************************************

Here is an excerpt from my story “The Masquerade Ball” -

…….Baltimore.
…….That’s where Victoria Devon had called home.
…….Poe literature and visits to Poe’s grave had taken hold of Victoria at an early age. Guilty by Poe association, if only in literature, were Collins, James, Radcliffe, Blackwood, Bierce, and others.
…….Victoria had become an avid reader.
…….The term Gothic had quickly entered her vocabulary, and before long, the term Goth in its contemporary sense and lifestyle.
…….Black clothing and black roses became the order of the day.
…….On the date of Poe’s birth, January 19th, she would wait at his grave hoping to meet the mysterious night visitor with three red roses and a bottle of cognac, but never saw him.
…….Alone, in the cold, she would toast the horror master with her own glass of cognac, leave her own three roses, and hurry away to the nearest Goth nightclub.
…….On one such cold and icy January night, she stood at the Godefrey Carriage Gate of the Westminister Burying Ground and made her toast. Then turned and started to walk away.
…….A figure stood on the side walk near the south end of the wall that surrounded the burying ground. A tall woman. Long dark hair framing her face and rolling across her shoulders.
…….A strange woman…
…….Shrouded in shadow.
…….Odd that she appeared to be wearing an ankle length strapped gown with nothing covering her shoulders on this cold January night.
…….Her face seemed to be disfigured and long thin horns sprouted from her forehead.
…….Victoria caught her breath and stared.
…….Something passed between them and then the strange woman turned and walked away.
……. “Wait!” Victoria called out.
…….The woman didn’t.
…….Victoria hurried after her to the corner of Baltimore and Greene, paused, looked in vain for the strange woman. The woman was gone.
…….Across the street in University Square Park walked a misty ghost-like figure in a long gown.
…….The strange woman.
…….Victoria ran after her, but again the woman was gone.
…….Shadows cut across her path, the trees; a light post on the nearest corner. Victoria stopped, sighed, and stared. Disappointed.
…….Then, a soft touch on her shoulder.
…….Victoria turned.
…….The woman was there. Smiling. Staring into Victoria’s eyes.
…….There was a reason for her disfigurement; she wasn’t disfigured at all. She wore a Venetian masquerade mask. Golden with a beak nose, and the horn tips fading to black. The horns exposed her forehead in a V-shape, and the mask road down her cheeks to points.
…….Flowers were attached to the mask above her right ear, real flowers with an overwhelming scent that made Victoria swoon euphoric.
…….The gown she wore was indeed a shoulder strapped affair, her shoulders bare, skin cool to the touch, the gown gossamer with a wave on a slight breeze.
…….Victoria was captivated.
…….There was an aura of mystery about this strange woman, something of the old world, Europe.
…….She closed her eyes, breathed in the scent of the flowers as the strange woman rested a hand on Victoria’s shoulder, and gently stroked her cheek.
……. “Who are…?” Victoria began to say, her eyes still closed.
…….The woman gently touched her lips to Victoria’s lips. Held them there. A brief moment.
…….Victoria’s body rippled.
……. “Be still,” the woman finally said. Voice soft, musical. “I will come to you again.”
…….The touch was gone.
…….The woman’s hot breath on Victoria’s face was gone.
…….The mesmerizing scent of the flowers was gone.
…….Victoria stood, eyes still closed, and held her breath. Wondered. Thought a ragged jigsaw of wanton lust and curiosity.
…….Finally eyelids fluttered and Victoria peered about.
…….The strange woman was gone.
…….It was cold.
…….January.
…….Poe’s birthday.
…….The mysterious night visitor to Poe’s grave hadn’t shown up again this year.
…….It looked like the visitations had ended.

NOTE: The artwork below captivated me and was the inspiration for this story, artist unknown.

LAST NIGHT

Coming soon, edited by Dorothy Davies; includes my story - “Children of the Light.”

WRITING PROJECTS

Okay peoples, as noted in a couple of previous messages, I have now closed shop on writing horror/science fiction/fantasy for the foreseeable future, perhaps permanent (not certain on that as of yet). Currently, I’m working on my 1970s road novel (still) and a few Noir stories. All published under a pen name (not Tangiers). I will say that the Noir stories are violent, and a few may have very VERY brief elements of the supernatural, but those elements are not integral to the plot. And that’s all I’ll say.

The page here will remain devoted (for the most part) to my interests in science fiction, fantasy, and horror with a slight deviation from time to time.

Nothing about the material I’m currently working on as noted in the first paragraph will be mentioned in this blog (mainly due to the content and byline) except for brief highly vague notes mostly to say that they are progressing. There’ll be no titles, no plots, no examples or excerpts, etc etc etc.

88:88

Lately I’ve taken to downloading and watching short films...mostly horror and science fiction. Most are student films, a lot of the horror dealing with escaped killers. Keeps the budget down, I suppose. Then there’s “88:88,” a blend of horror and science fiction with a very familiar theme.

Shackles and chains and locks and ratchet straps and reinforcing the door locks to the bedroom and using brackets to bolt the bed to the floor... At first I thought this lady had unpleasant special plans for her boyfriend, a film of violent revenge. But that wasn’t it at all. The chains and locks and ratchet straps are meant for her. Then an outdoor shot...a full moon. Okay, she’s a werewolf, chaining herself to the bed. No, that’s not it either...check it out. An exceptionally well done film.

EXPEDITION TO EARTH

I just wrapped up Clarke’s EXPEDITION TO EARTH last night (12 Jan 2013). Now going back to Asimov’s Black Widowers with BANQUETS OF THE BLACK WIDOWERS.

Yes, I had just mentioned my start at a reread of Sagan’s BROCA’S BRAIN. I tend to have two or three books going at the same time.

THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY

On another website, a question was posed, asking what was our favorite STAR TREK film with the original cast members. My choice was quick and easy. THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. I think Christopher Plummer as the Shakespeare quoting General Chang made that movie. Of course, that’s not to take away from the original cast members, I grew up watching the original show, and it’s still my favorite off all the STAR TREK series.

Here’s a clip in which General Chang meets his end, quoting Shakespeare to the last...

BROCA'S BRAIN

My next re-read is Sagan’s BROCA’S BRAIN. I haven’t read this since October of 1980 (yes, I keep a list of books I read and when I read them, incomplete though it may be). As best as I can remember, it was entertaining.

The title invokes another book I read, something to actually do with the human brain. Paperback it was, late 70s. I have no surviving record or memory of the book title or its author, just a memory that it was exceptionally well done for a lengthy pop-science book for the layman to understand. It is one book I’d love to read again, but I don’t think that desire shall ever come to pass.

CAGW

For a slight change of pace…

On Facebook I post climate change/global warming (whatever you wish to call it) articles from time to time for three principle reasons:

1. Having worked with climate scientists on a number of occasions, I have a vested interest on how climate change affects cultures, living and dead, and what the existant environment was for any given culture/civilization, living and dead.

2. I tend to post the “skeptical” side of the climate change argument; due to past research and experience, I tend to agree with the premise set forth by this side (of course, not all archaeologists agree with this sentiment which is to be expected; that’s how science is supposed to work).

3. There maybe those who have an interest in the debate due to its high political profile, but have formed no opinion either way. These articles may inspire them to take a closer look at both sides of the argument (yes, BOTH sides; again, that’s how science is supposed to work) with an open mind to make informed decisions on the subject.

A brief tangential commentary.

Twice above I made the statement “that’s how science is supposed to work.” Normally, that is true. Scientists have different ideas, different schools of thought, formulating different hypothesis that require data gathering and testing for validation through the scientific method. However, it’s increasingly apparently that proponents of CAGW don’t see it that way.

In the last few decades proponents of CAGW have taken it upon themselves to denigrate, ridicule, condemn, belittle, and/or dismiss out of hand everything dissenting skeptics say or publish. Further, dissenting climatologists risk suppression of their work, rejection of grant funding, rejection of paper and/or periodical/journal publications, and more.

Some CAGW alarmists call us “non-scientists” and some say that our skepticism doesn’t fit the mold of scientific methodology and inquiry (a point that had arisen some time ago in a discussion I had with two colleagues that I’ve worked with, one a paleoclimatologist [same as Mann] and the other a geophysicist; the point elicited laughter from both of them).

CAGW alarmist ridicule of dissenting skeptics is often accompanied by such terminology as “denier,” invoking the Holocaust or “heretic,” invoking the Inquisition. Some say we are diseased and need treatment; others say we have committed crimes against humanity and should be tried, jailed, and even executed.

Perhaps I should be offended by such accusations and proclamations, of having my integrity as a professional archaeologist (albeit, retired) called into question for having a dissenting opinion, but I’m not. If anything, I’m amused that CAGW alarmists have stooped to the level of witch hunts to silence dissent. They’ve only succeeded in making fools of themselves. People who use such tactics to silence dissent and utilize ridiculous terms such as “heretic” and/or “denier” deserve to be ignored. These people do not merit a response of any kind.

REJECTED

Sometimes you write a story and you know it’s not your best. You can accept a rejection in such cases (if you should be so bold as to submit it to someone), and go on to revise or rewrite.

Sometimes you write a story and you know it’s pretty damned good. Yet, the story (or stories as the case may be) is rejected. That can be extremely disappointing to the point of devastation.

CASEBOOK OF THE BLACK WIDOWERS

Current reading material is Asimov’s CASEBOOK OF THE BLACK WIDOWERS. I’m also on the verge of finishing up Pronzini & Malzberg’s BUG-EYED MONSTERS. Once that’s finished, I’m picking up a re-read, Frank Edward’s STRANGER THAN SCIENCE, something I haven’t read or even thought about since the 1960s. The Edwards books (along with the Edgar Cayce and John Macklin books) were a fun read back in the day. Might eventually have to do some re-reading of the Macklin books too.

BOOKS & BOOKS & BOOKS

Okay, playing catch up here…finished the 2nd Callahan’s collection, ie, TIME TRAVELLERS STRICTLY CASH. Also finished a re-read of Zukav’s THE DANCING WU LI MASTERS about quantum physics. It has been decades since I read it. Nice to get acquainted with it again.

Currently, I’ve two that I’m currently reading. One a re-read, Clarke’s REACH FOR TOMORROW, again, decades since I read it last. The other is the anthology BUG-EYED MONSTERS edited by Barry Malzberg and Bill Pronzini.

THE SHE-CREATURE

For me, this film stands the test of time. Yeah, a bit cheeky these days, but still way cool fun.

THAT HIDEOUS THING and Other Updates

A few updates here…

1. Geoff Davies has agreed to do the cover art for my four volumes of repackaged Lovecraftian stories (example in photo). Many thanks Geoff!

2. The four volumes of my Lovecraftian stories are -

Gretchen’s Wood (2nd edition)
That Hideous Thing
The Coming of Winter, Story Arcs Volume 1
The Dia Tessaron, Story Arcs Volume 2

When these four volumes are released over the coming year or so, they will comprise my complete Lovecraftian canon…maybe. I do have a final Lovecraftian project that I may return to some time in the future. Otherwise, I’m done with this subgenre. It's long past time I moved on.

3. Repackaging my Lovecraft material has impacted my DREAM & NIGHTMARES horror/science fiction/fantasy collection. The Lovecraftian material that had originally appeared in D & N has been removed (to be included in THAT HIDEOUS THING) and replaced with other non-Lovecraftian material. Specifically -

Removed

That Hideous Thing
The Bayou
Scotch Hill
Dark Hollow
JP and the Nightgaunt
Turnabout Is Fair Prey
The Science and Philosophy of Azathoth
The Last Singularity
Voices

Replacements

Midnight Carnival
An Eye for an Eye
Feast of the Dead
Children of the light
The Ole ‘33

NOTE: This pertains only to the print version, not the e-version which will remain the same. The new print version will be released sometime early next year.

4. As noted before, I’ve left horror and science fiction behind for a (long) while with two new projects. Here I’m staying for the foreseeable future.

5. And another rejection. I'm getting good at it. Disappointing? Yeah.