Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Fortean, Ghosts, Hauntings, Holographic Universe, Humor, Mystic, Ultraterrestrials, Urban Legends, Weird, Young Adult

Buddhist Tarot Deck

Much last night.

Sitting with John T in Aunt J’s house, looking at a painting of barren, stark trees on a desolate landscape. What seems to be blood or even pink fluid is dripping from the branches of the trees.

Above, a weird display of diamonds is set into the wall, looking like a pentagram, almost.Flashing stobe-effect of blinking red and white lights. The thing radiates evil.

[I went to sleep last night reading “Undying Love” by Ben Harrison.]

John says, “Wait, watch, something is going to happen soon.”

Something does. We make the weird collection of precious stones is somehow sentient. One pops from the wall, rolls away. maybe it will begin to float in the air or something, I don’t know.This all seems vaguely threatening to me.

[Like this house, which is empty and cavernous and dull, but pregnant with shadows of grief hiding in every corner. Round a corner, and Hell yawns wide open lie a great desolate pit threatening to swallow you.]

The night before:

We were at a book party in an upstairs room. It was like a drunken book fair, with Auntie J and Uncle B, and lots, and lots of books on the occult. I was stumbling around psuedo-drunk, telling people,

“You don’t see with your eyes. YOU SEE WITH YOUR MIND.”

You know, the “you create your own reality jazz.”

The lights were strobing off and on. After the party, I have to go back up there and reclaim my stash of books. Some of them are hardcovers with gold leaf designs and scroll work on the front that looks mystical, faintly Egyptian. Auntie is wrapped in a strange costume that looks like bandages, seems to be in another world singing to herself. No wonder.

I spent the party goose-stepping around the room, being drunkenly entertaining and obnoxious. A fellow the next day informs me of my straight-legged walk. The fellow is tall, looks like a scruffy street person.

[Everyone was tired. The party had been dragged out to the point where, continuing with it was an absurdity. Time became a slipshod thing. We were like those actors in “American Graffiti” who were kept busily filming through a marathon session of takes until they were deliriously on the point of exhaustion, My ex-wife once had a dream in which, in Hell, there is no sleep.]

I remember I saw a pack of Buddhist fortune-telling cards sitting on a shelf. Buddhist tarot cards?

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Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Humor, Weird, Young Adult

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The basement floor was filthy, littered in dog shit and other detritus.

She had been working here approximately… Six. Miserable. Days.

A dog babysitter. She had, in her short tenure, learned to hate canines.

Her pooch sniffed at an old, ripped-up blanket. Truthfully, with all the filthy dishes spilling rotten dog food, dead insects, roaches…the place was one health inspector away from being shut down.

The plump little woman with the bad haircut brought a dog down the stairs. Same damn dog as last night, a mangy cur that hated the sight of her own pooch. The two were suddenly straining at the end of their leashes, growling ferociously, jaws dripping streamers of saliva.

“I’ve NEVER seen her like this before,” said the little woman, straining herself against the plstic leash, trying to keep the animals from ripping each other to pieces.

Bullshit, she thought. This happened yesterday and the day before.

As two dogs faced each other down over a filthy basement floor, she thought, Somewhere in this is a metaphor for the existential horror of existence.

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Books, Famous Serial Killers, Hardboiled, Murder, Short Stories, Weird, Young Adult

The Death of Jesse James

The outlaw sat down in his easy chair, took off his gloves, cast them aside on the end table, while the Ford brothers made themselves comfortable in high-backed chairs flanking his own.

He had taken off his guns as a courtesy, a sign of respect maybe; or maybe they just felt heavy, burdensome today. He was dressed to the nines. This was home.

“Good of you boys to come. We need to lay down some plans about the future of our mutual enterprise.”

Young Mr. Ford laughed, said, “Well Jesse, we figure you as the leader of our gang. So, whatever you say is law. Fine by us. Right brother?”

His brother nodded his head, took off his hat. Jesse reasoned he should have done that when he first came inside, but the men he rode with were often uncouth, and he tolerated it.

“Oh my, I need to help the little lady around here. Look at all this dust. And that confounded picture is lopsided.”

His words seemed rehearsed, somehow. It was as if they had been through all of this before. Jesse stood on a chair, his back turned to young Mr. Ford and his brother.

Unbeknownst to him, both men had already made a deal with the sheriff to do Jesse in. They wished to claim the bounty–dead or alive–that was hanging over his head.

Jesse was now vulnerable, standing on a chair with his back turned. Robert Ford fired, hitting Jesse in the back of his head, the bullet exiting through his right eye. He fell from the chair in a torrent of blood. The two men ran from the room.

They made their way out the door, pushing past Jesse’s wife roughly. She flew into the parlor, cradling the body of her husband–but even she could see that it was too late.

She ran back out on the porch, calling after the fleeing figures in the distance.

“Come back here Robert Ford! You have done this thing–”

But what else could she say?

She went back into the bloody parlor, cradled the body of her husband, then looked to see what he still clutched in his hand. It was a picture he had pulled down when he was shot. Apparently he had been straightening it when they killed him. She examined the portrait.

It was of a funeral procession.

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Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Short Stories, Weird

The Blinding White

She was white like cookie dough, dressed in a bra and panties. Bigger than me, but then most everyone is.

A pulchritudinous beauty. But, I didn’t like that face.

Apparently, somewhere down here, amidst the sterile confines of this subbasement complex, the Right Reverend and this cheap floozy have disappeared. I am watching them on closed-circuit, monitoring their every move.

Lust. The Seven Deadly Sins. He should definitely know better.

Like the preacher in the old silent film “Hell’s Hinges,” he’s headed for disaster.

Later, I go downstairs, interrupt whatever has been going on while my eyes were NOT fixed on the video monitor.

She stands resplendent before me. Yet, I cannot digest her.

Large white thighs, powerful mama hips, cellulite-riddled. Pale, with an unappetizing face, as I said before. An ironical look of surprise masking, what? Malevolent intent? I don’t think so.

The arms are long, the breasts curve downward to cone-like protrusions. Not toned, but marshmallow soft, in an old-fashioned pinup models sense.

Later, I am escorting both of them up the claustrophobic staircase, which is painted bright white and seems to narrow as you approach the miniature door at the top. We’ll have to bend very low to get through there.

A man sits dressed like a medieval peasant. I make he is the overseer or something. Curiously, I ask him, “Didn’t you finally outlaw torture?”

He affirms this for me.

But, I know they still practice it. (I haven’t seen any evidence of it yet, but I KNOW.)

I can hear the tears drop silently, the screams disappear–

Into the blinding white walls.

The blinding white…

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Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Hardboiled, Humor, Short Stories, Weird, Young Adult

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She walked down the lonely stretch of road, past yawning fields littered with beer bottles, soda cans, cast-off fast food wrappers and dirty magazines.

On one side, the shopping complex/cinema was still showing ET. It’s been playing there for six months. She went and saw it with her little brother.

Eight times. Eight times, to watch the kids ride past the moon on bicycles. Eight times, and not a dry eye in the house as ET and Eliot embraced for the last time, to say goodbye.

“Be good,” she laughed to herself. Home was calling her back like some sentient monster hellbent on devouring the last vestiges of her self hood.

She kicked something at her feet. Bending over, she retrieved a dusty, mud-encrusted shopping circular. On the cover, smiling Stepford Wives exhibited Midwestern pulchritude with vacant, hypnotized gazes. Further in, posed elementary tots basked in the glory of their inflatable backyard pools, or rode plastic tricycles around Christmas- time displays. Dressed like little elves.

She threw the thing back in the weeds. Texas was big and brutal and hot, and dull, by God. And for some reason, the empty space and the rolling sky frightened her.

It conspired to crush her. She didn’t want to go back to the apartment and face her step dad, Jerry.

Up ahead, she saw someone standing at the side of the road. She approached slowly, debating on whether or not to cross the street to avoid an encounter. But the visual strangeness of the character compelled her to investigate.

It seemed to be a young boy. But the rolling curve beneath his shirt seemed to indicate he was actually a she.

The boy/chick spied her out of the corner of his/her eye. The image of him, standing like a lone image from a dream in the shifting sunlight, fascinated her.

Approaching slowly, she realized two things.

His tits were little more than a stuffed bra. Albeit, one that was decoratively designed, with play dough nipples, little tufts of hair glued here and there, and a thick, peach paint or makeup to approximate flesh tones.

(He held up his shirt with two hands, like an actress in a dirty movie.)

He bent over. At his feet, a pornographic magazine, covered in a thick smear of dirt and grime, lay curled, its brittle edges blackened. Had someone tried to burn it before it blew away, traveling on the wind like a grotesque leaf, void of beauty and artistry?

“I’m…” she started to say her name. The second thing she realized, when he opened his mouth, then put his hand over it just as quickly, was that he was mute.

She threw back her head, laughed.

Considered the strangeness, the irony of the day.

After what seemed an eternal moment, she walked home.

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Books, Short Stories, Young Adult

William Tell

You’ve all heard the famous “William Tell Overture,” correct? Rossini’s classic theme has been used countless times in television and movies, most famously as the theme to the original “Lone Ranger” TV series.

It’s a little strange, then, that so few today know the actual story of William Tell. To enlighten those among us who have never heard the tale, here it is.

Switzerland was a proud country, full of hearty and hale men. One such man, an archer named William Tell, came from his hoem in the mountains with his little son. He presented himself in the village of Altorf.

Now, it was at this time that Switzerland, though she be proud, was under the occupation of neighboring Austria, who sent a petty tyrant named Gessler to rule over the Swiss. Gessler lorded it over the people royally, taking for himself every privilege and generally making the people suffer until they despised the very mention of his name.

But, of course, owing to the power of the occupying army, they could do nothing to thwart or defy him.

Gessler, seeing that the people, no matter how they were cajoled, would always hate him, decided to add insult to injury. In the city of Altorf, he erected a tall pole, and placed his hat upon it, thus commanding that the citizenry bow before his hat, as if they were bowing before the royal crown of the emperor. The people grumbled, but they were not foolish enough to defy the decree, and so bow they did.

But not William Tell.

He marched past the pole with his little son, completely oblivious to the command to stop and pay obeisance before Gessler’s hat.

Certain spies lurking in the marketplace saw this act of defiance, and quickly went to inform Gessler, who was nearby. Gessler was waiting for just such an act of defiance.

In his outrage, he devised a plan. Quickly hurrying to the marketplace, he confronted the errant Tell.

“What you have done is a grave offense, and punishable by death!” stormed the tyrant. “However, they tell me you are a good shot. I might find a use for a man such as you. Come, I have a little test for you.”

And with that, Gessler had his men lead Tell’s little son a hundred paces away, and then, turning to him, proclaimed, “You shall shoot an apple off of your son’s head!”

And so the guards placed an apple on the young boy’s head. William Tell took two arrows from his quiver, placed one in his belt, and took careful aim. The surrounding crowd held their breath.

“Hold perfectly still!” he yelled to his son.

He then fired!

The apple split in two atop the boys head! The crowd gasped, and then let out a cheer. William Tell had just succeeded in becoming a legend.

“You must not be very confident in your abilities,” snorted the bemused Gessler. “After all, you took out two arrows. Why, might I ask, did you place that second arrow in your belt.”

William Tell puffed out his chest,a nd said with the pride and confidence of a great hero, “The second one was for you, in case the first shot missed, you tyrant!”

Outraged, Gessler ordered his men to seize William Tell, but the crowd surged forward defiantly. In the resulting confusion, Tell took the second arrow from his belt and placed it in his bow. He then shot Gessler through the heart, killing him instantly.

He ran forward, grabbed his son, and both managed to escape, making it to the river and commandeering a boat, to take them across the water to their mountain fastness.

(Source: The Junior Classics Volume 2: Myths and Legends.)

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Books, Cults, Experimental, Famous Serial Killers, Hardboiled, Monsters, Murder, Mystic, Urban Legends, Vampires, Weird

From “The Men Who Loved the Dead” (Unfinished)

“Erich Fromm divided classes of men into the necrophiliac personality and the life-loving, seeing in the necrophiliac personality the roots of war, fascism, psychopathy and destruction. The necrophiliac personality is rigid, doctrinaire, fascistic; unyielding, exemplifying the sort of architects of oblivion that dreamed up Auschwitz, wherein Mr. Fromm was interred as an inmate.

The necrophiliac personality is depersonalized from his living cohorts, is focused on the ritualism of death and funerals, goes goose-steeping off into a future where women could very well be replaced by androids. The character of Patrick Batemen, from the novel (and subsequent film) of Brett Ellis’s American Psycho, might exemplify this personality, to whom physical perfection, material objects, appearances, surface, surface, surface…is the ONLY thing that matters. Emotion is frozen in an infantile murk; there is only an aching void to fill, like an empty stomach that can never be satisfied.

I must confess to perhaps being a necrophiliac personality.
***

I have little idea of how to finish this little pamphlet. (Perhaps a writer should not admit that.)

Should I close with a short cultural survey of necrophiliac themes? These are endemic in gothic rock music, such as Alice Cooper, Bauhaus, The Misfits, and in the sordid and generic vampire sagas pumped out by Hollywood year after year, to massive financial returns. Why is it that we wish to romance the dead? To preserve Elvis and Marilyn in the formaldehyde jars of our conscious minds, until it is impossible to separate their paltry, commercialized pop-culture images from the moldering earth in which they lie?

I am a necrophiliac personality, perhaps; so perhaps that is why I am drawing a blank.

To make love tot he dead, to possess the object of accursed fantasy, to transgress and cross that barrier between worlds, is perhaps to engage in a holy communion with another species, to know a purity of intent unknown to mortal bones. The thing itself, the fantastical image, becomes a sacred vessel into which the love and hope of a new tomorrow can be poured. To dance and dwell, forevermore, with the object of our most heated, forbidden desire.

To know this object as OURS, and ours alone. To touch the power of the necromantic spirit, to commune with THEM, a race hideously removed, yet hideously US, whose waxen, stiffened features become a crepitating time-vessel of the past moldering into the present.

This poetry of the grave CANNOT stop; nor, perhaps, can it be plumed for grave psychological nuggets. Does a “necrophiliac personality” truly exist in any objective sense?

The vampire bends to kiss the living, to make the Living as Food. In our current pop cultural references, the vampire is a sexy, sexualized being of eternal youth and vitality,a Brad Pitt or a character from Twilight.

In olden times when death was a closer companion to the living, the vampire was portrayed as a repellent leech who, slipping in the form of mist from his unhallowed grave, roamed village and countryside battening on the living.

Often, the dead relatives were the targeted victims. One story has a man, upon awakening, confronting the foul, stinking revenant of his father, who demands plaintively that he be given ‘something to eat.'”
–From “The Men Who Loved the Dead”

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