Archive for the ‘fiction’ Category

The Maddening Mountains

July 10, 2014

[Ed. Note: This post is a short story I wrote a few months ago. Combines my passion for the Pacific Northwest with my interest in the mythic and Lovecraftian. Submitted it a couple of places without luck, and decided it would appropriately find a home here. Hope you enjoy. If you do, re-posts, Facebook shares and re-Tweets are quite welcome.]

The Maddening Mountains

There is a way it rains in the Pacific Northwest reminding you life has always been here. It was here – skyscraper trees standing with grace against the everlasting tide – before you were ever born. It will be here when you’re gone. That rain is also a quiet voice. It is the voice of the mountains.

I once heard that voice.

Those mountains. It never made sense. How could they just “be”? And yet they clearly were. I watched them before I heard them. They sat majestic and proud evening after evening, the setting sun highlighting every intricate valley and showy snow-capped peak, only to become sullen and for days, sometimes weeks, be obscured in dense cloud. Even in these times there would be glimmers – a lone peak briefly revealing itself, reminder of ageless Olympian presence.

Like old women all huddled together, they started with idle chatter, and appeared as hunched over crones in certain lights. Then came the secrets, the vast knowing. I could never dream such vaulted comprehension was possible, before. The mountains told their stories. And they were long, for mountains are ancients. They told tales in the life-giving rain that dripped off their backs, bubbling and winding wildly down to the sea.

The mountains continued their soft sounds, words indistinguishable from a wind blowing across the strait. They told of the shore, a place where they spoke to the sea. And what conversations they had! In its solemn, sullen and soul-destroying ire, the sea thought I was descended of maritime folk and wouldn’t even whisper in my ear. But the mountains had hinted.

There were times, when water was low and waves few, where mountain and sea merely murmured, barely audible, their quiet exchange the sound of a few raindrops. At other times, sea roared and raged, crashing and splashing into the side of mountain. I wanted to know what the sea was trying to say in these times, yet the mountains would not tell me.

Those maddening mountains, how little they cared. They’d revealed a few things in passing, when wind, water and waves were just right. I wondered; what ageless secrets of the earth did they still contain? What unfettered reserves of life did they harbor?

Though their voice could sometimes so deeply soothe, it also reminded of difference. How young, silly and innocent I felt. The mountains once said that to them I sounded and acted as a hummingbird, or even a mayfly, would to me. They would be gregarious and do their best to make me feel an equal. Still I was often deeply humbled.

The mountains once talked to me a lot. They spoke the words of the Salish, the Bella Coola, the Comox, the Nootka and the Tlingit. And, for a time, I understood them all. I felt their strength and eternal presence. They were always fickle, however, coquettish in spite of imposing vastness. Such is the odd, playful way of mountains.

And then the mountains grew quieter. They almost stopped their cautious dialogue with me altogether and wouldn’t tell me why. I asked, and they hinted it was something they’d been told.

I asked and asked (a lifetime passed) – who was it that caused them to fall silent? Who told them to stop speaking?

In the end, only one name was uttered. He was the walker upon the winds, they said.

Who was this wind-walker, I asked and asked (and another lifetime passed).

Ithaqua,” the mountains said.

In this utterance I became a babbling and to all appearances incoherent fool in the company of fellow men. I was trapped, and inside such a feeble husk as the mind. The mountains couldn’t know the last word they spoke would bring me irreversible madness.

I knew thereafter of others, though their names were never spoken. Some dwelled there with the mountains across the strait. But the mountains wouldn’t speak of them, for the others were older and greater still.

Nonetheless, I know they are there. I know to whom the mountains, deaf even to the ferocious and fearsome voice of the sea, listen. The one whose name was uttered speaks in whispers. But, I suspect, the others do more than whisper. Their words break the world. It is from them, I believe, that the mountains came.

The mountains say no more. And I’ve heard enough. I know of Borea, and the moons whose names are said (nay, whispered) in hushed hatred.

Those maddening mountains are now silent. And so am I. But it is good to remember how they spoke.

Breathing’s for the Meek?

July 3, 2014

Lovely satirical poem in Kurt Vonnegut Jr.’s The Sirens of Titan:

Break every link with air and mist,
Seal every open vent;
Make throat as tight as miser’s fist,
Keep life within you pent.
Breathe out, breathe in, no more, no more,
For breathing’s for the meek;
And when in deathly space we soar,
Be careful not to speak.
If you with grief or joy are rapt,
Just signal with a tear;
To soul and heart withing you trapped
Add speech and atmosphere.
Every man’s an island as in
lifeless space we roam.
Yes, every man’s an island:
island fortress, island home.

From Kurt Vonnegut Jr., The Sirens of Titan (New York: Delta, 1971), 152-53.

Madness and…Um…Civilization?

October 26, 2013

Really clever and incisive review of the new DSM-V, the manual of psychiatric disorders that serves as a kind of bizarre taxonomy of the human condition. Herein the author treats the text as a novel, with startlingly effective results. Highly recommended reading.

From The New Inquiry.

False Front Fiction No.1: “The Orgonocrats”

September 23, 2013

This is a new idea for a series of posts. What follows is a collection of ephemera — bits and pieces of fiction projects I have started, but never managed to finish. It’s in keeping with the subtitle of this blog (“fragments”) and an attempt to exorcise some creative demons and clear the mechanism for future forays. Hope you enjoy this first offering…

This incomplete fragment of fiction (hence the “false front”) was written a few years ago and intended as the beginning of a chapter of a sci-fi novel tentatively titled “The Orgonocrats”. It was inspired by research I was doing on Wilhelm Reich, the pioneering psychiatrist who proposed the idea of “orgone energy” — a kind of life energy permeating the universe and crucial in his understanding of sexuality and health. I’ve argued in a chapter of a book I recently co-edited that he is a kind of vitalist.

The premise behind “The Orgonocrats” was pretty straightforward, if quirky. Set in the fairly near (cyberpunk-esque) future, it envisions a society heavily influenced by eugenics, genetic engineering, designer babies, and all that jazz. Sexuality for the sake of reproduction has become somewhat passe — “normal” sex is thus a kind of taboo. This is made even more problematic because STDs and the like have mutated and spread in deadly proportions. At the same time, scientists have discovered that “orgone energy” is real; that it can be harvested and distilled. And in a world of alienation and isolation it has become a very desirable substance — both as drug, and (as I was going to reveal as the novel developed) as source of almost limitless “cosmic” energy with all sorts of potential applications. It is thus the “currency” in this new society — like oil is in ours — and there are attempts to control and dominate its production and distribution. That’s where the title — “The Orgonocrats” — comes in. The reference to “unbusted” clouds is a nod to Reich’s development of a device called a “cloudbuster” (which you can still go and see) that he thought could harness orgone energy to control the weather. I was going to use this idea, and the notion also hinted at in this piece that orgone has a key spiritual component, prominently in the novel. Without further ado, here’s a fragment of chapter one — “Hell’s Altar Boy”:

1. Hell’s Altar Boy

The stars, obscured by clouds – unbusted – for years. But that didn’t prevent the search for light. The girls were glowing, ringed with the rapture. Those Sisters of the Cosmic Embrace were cute, boy. All dressed (if that’s what you could call it) in slick sheer silver sass and high black bitch boots. Two of them were standing in front of a small marquee some clever, pseudo-literate wag had arranged to read: “Cum commune with the cosmos…”. But Mako didn’t have the “sense”, and rubbing wasn’t on his mind.

The Church of the Cosmic Embrace was tucked in a dark alley, indistinguishable from the rest of the rotting relics of the age of guns, germs and steel. No shiny glass and synth-ceramic bizboy arcologies around these parts. Just lots of forgotten middle tech, crumbling red brick and human detritus…And the sisters.

One of them moved into the alley to intercept Mako; A tall girl, no more than nineteen, but looking like she’d been to hell and back with a smile on her face – maybe she had. Her long, full, firm thighs were exposed and pale, framed by short shiny hot pants and high-heeled boots, laced about fifty times all the way up over her knees. Above a wide clear plastic belt was a stretch of creamy bare midriff, soft but tight, and a half-hearted silver sequin halter, barely covering the bottom of her big, round breasts. They spilled out of the top too, creamy quarts of fulsome flesh. Her hair was high and elaborate, like a blond bird of paradise, little twisty tendrils dangling alluringly at her temples. She completed the look with dark red-black lipstick, fake lashes and too much azure eye shadow.

“You looked charged up,” she said, smiling widely and reaching for his arm.

“Got places to go,” Mako replied, stopping at her touch but still half-turned to head down the alley, away from the sisterly temptress and her curvaceous cadre.

“Can take you wherever you want,” she beamed up at him, leading his eyes with her obscenely long silver painted nails. They slid sharply down from his temple to the collar of his weathered leather jacket. “And bring you back, too.”

“Sorry,” he turned to go, gently brushing her claws away from his face.

“What are you afraid of?” The girl asked, taking a different, more challenging tangent. This caught the attention of her companion, a shorter redhead with heavenly hips and hypnotic green eyes.

“Nothing” Mako replied. “I’m in the same business as you, just have better guarantees.” He reached into his jean pocket for something.

The girl panicked a little and stepped back, her thick-lash-framed eyes widening apprehensively. A professional, Mako knew she sensed a deal going bad. But not in the way she thought…

His hand came out with a small chrome vial, about twice the size of his index finger, with a bright, sharp digital readout along its side.

Just as the big blonde was about to shriek with fear, her petite redheaded friend came up behind her and touched her lightly on the shoulder, briefly startling her but also calming her.

“This is Mako,” the redhead said. “He’s a loan shark.”

Mako looked down at the vial in his hand, and reflected on how accurate that description was. “Lone” indeed.

Suddenly the sultry seller became a potential customer, as Mako uttered the simplest of pitches: “You want some?” He was deadpan, as if he didn’t care whether she bought from him or not. Someone always eventually, and eagerly, did.

“What is it?” the girl asked. Looking somewhat innocently from Mako back to her friend. Like a deer caught in headlights, this one. He looked over at the redhead and shook his head in disbelief.

“If you don’t know, you probably don’t want any.” The redhead intoned, trying to wake her luscious blonde friend from a stupor. Mako could already see she was hypnotically drawn to the vial in his hand. This was the part that always amazed him.

“You girls give it away in the ‘spirit’ of the church, or whatever they’re calling it these days. This is Holy Water to you, sugar.” He was being too cute – this poor creature was like a pretty pet. But the redhead might be more feral.

“Listen, Mako, we don’t need your theology lesson tonight, hun.” “Why don’t you keep rolling…” As if on queue, he thought.

“Right…Like I said, got places to be.” True enough. He turned to go.

“Is that pure o-gone?” The blonde asked, her mascara-laden eyes wide with amazement.

Mako spun back around with a devilish grin slowly spreading across his face. “Sure is.” He said…

A Novel

January 21, 2013

I would like to point my readers’ attention to a blog — The Art of Life — featuring a wonderful serialized novel. You can find the first chapter, “Start with gratitude”, here. Set in a place that will probably be familiar to readers of this blog, it’s a fast-paced and sharply written mystery/thriller full of intrigue, murder, ghosts, environmentalism and art. In addition to being a brilliant writer and a totally amazing human, the author also happens to be my mother.

And yes, she’s looking for a publisher…

Financial Fictions?

June 23, 2012

Very interesting editorial in Bookforum about the appearance of money and class in contemporary fiction. Fascinating — a “wealth” of lit crit. and critique. Best line?:

“There might, however, be a decent conceptual fiction to be written under the title A History of My Student Loans.”

Makes me think I could write a novel after all!

By way of Arts & Letters Daily.

Notes Towards a Short Story Inspired by Lovecraft

May 6, 2012

Malevolent forms.

The dark ichor of shapeless shadows.

Fiendish pulsating polyps.

Mean beasts with myriad eyes and twisted, horn-like fangs. Hellspawn that befouled the earth before time itself.

Giddy with forbidden knowledge, of names too horrible to speak aloud, of dark designs and glyphs recalling rites of monstrous immoral bestial doom and the shapes of things best not know by men.

Venomous and dripping, possessed with a menacing hunger, these forms were carried by their mind-mad masters across the stars, from galaxies still unknown, to the caves beneath the still bubbling seas of eons past. And there they grew…

Beings of incomprehensible size and shape, unburdened by the known laws of life, the mere sight of which would surely guarantee instant and irreversible gibbering madness — insanity without cure.

Black Book of the Skull. Greek; only known surviving copy at Dwayne University in Amoston, Kansas. Latin; incomplete. English copy by Crowley published by Starry Wisdom press in the 1920s.

Black Tome of Alsophocus. Written by wizard Alsophocus of Erongill. Latin extant? Miskatonic.

Book of Iod. Discusses Iod, the Shining Hunter, Vervados, and a being, Zuchequon. Gnostic influence?

L’Histoire des Planetes. Tome written in 1792 by Laurent de Longnez. May be a translation of a 17th century work, Die Geschichte des Planeten by Eberhard Ketzer. Describes the cacophonous “music of the spheres”.

Necrolatry. “Worship of the Dead”. Book written by Ivor Gorstadt, published in 1702 in Leipzig. Extant copy at Miskatonic?

Glances could kill. Love was outlawed.

January 17, 2012

This, I feel, is the best of the six word stories from my now defunct blog. It’s also my response to the short story challenge presented by Aggie on Sithy Things. Hope it’s not too verbose…


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