Books, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Short Stories, short-short, Uncategorized, Weird

Hellion in a Girls’ Academy

She must have been a real, true-life monster.

I only encountered her in a a music class, and I was rather preoccupied, as it were, with trying to figure out page after page of scribbled, nonsensensical lines.

“This does not, M’am, look like anything I’ve ever seen related to the study or reading of music. These calculations are positively arcane–”

Perhaps we were composing by the Fibinacci number sequence. I had dreamed of just such a device, and had even experimented with it to a degree; but not successfully, not to my satisfaction.

(I should note that it occasionally happens that women appear, materialize in front of me, unclothed. I once answered the door to my apartment and found a policewoman and an enormous black girl–who had apparently been running around completely naked. She was completely naked then, with massive birthing hips and heavy, pendulous breasts, sporting enormous coffee-colored nipples. The policewoman seemed confused at the situation herself, and neither of them could explain why they thougth I might have something to do with the affair. The officer politely left; I politely closed the door.)

The girl in front of me stood up, also unclothed. Several people in adjacent desks tried to cover her with what seemed to be styrofoam padding, but it was a useless gesture. The vaunted obscenity she now exhibited was shocking and can only be described in luridly poetical terms.

(…by someone with delicate sensibilities.)

Imagine a dishwater-grey crevice, surrounded by rolling, dimpled hills of brown. Each seperate hill could be the puckered, red face of a bemused clown–perhaps a diptych painting or even a dusty flea-market oddity, painted by some cast-off artist long forgotten. Each clown has a twisted, obscene face, wrinkled and pale and suffuse with the carnality of delight, the emotional oppression of the jester.

Betwixt tthese naughty naves, a puckered flower of pink flesh, a moist, fetid mouth with a gaping grin, sending forth execrable odors, like the winking eye of a sulfurous demon called forth from the lower regions of smoke and tar. (Rotten egg smell of the lavatory.)

I could have none of it. I, myself, was wearing only pajama bottoms and a filthy beadspread, swaft around my shoulders like the cloak of some Venetian bravo. I felt my anger rise at the situation.

But it wasn’t simply the wanton hussy and her mad, lunatic vulgarity that had aroused the beast in me. No. it was the frumpy, dull woman teacher, with dirty, dusty creases in her wrinkled, flabby face wrinkles and weathered, stained like a wax effigy melting with amusement. Her face, her waxen lips were down turned with pious gaiety; her eyes held the bemused sadism of one who enjoys confounding the hopes and dreams of someone like myself.

I got up, yelling in righteous exclamation, was promptly escorted out.


King Rat

Originally posted on Passages:

Satchel the Rat King was chasing his own tail. Matter of fact, all of his fat, hairy brothers and sisters were falling all ove rthemselves to greet us as we penetrated the opening of the haunted subway tunnels.

“You could get killed down here,” I thought to myself. I was dressed very nicely for all that.

Clint had accomapnied us, demonstrated the propensity or Mad Rats to chase eachother’s tails. “Look, when we see this,” he opened a door as a trio of fat, loathesome rats were indeed, demonstrating that they could be fascinated, obsessed with their own disgusting, worm-like tails. “Around and around and around she goes, where she stops NO ONE KNOWS.”

It’s a metaphor for the cycle of birth and death, I said to myself. A rat chasing its tail, a snake eating its own tail. Ourobourous–I wonder: is the Rat King is the rodent equivalent?


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Books, Experimental, Fiction, Mystic, Short Stories, short-short, surreal, Weird, Young Adult

79 Words and Perfect Fear

Daffy Duck launched a tunnel to the sky –Babel, Babylon, “Intolerance…”

(Legend of 1916)

He gets going through space and time, straight into the Mouth of God–

He is then sent back down through his dimensional tunnel, where he gets caught in the claustrophobic hold of it. God sends down a Dyson Ball of solid mud to strangulate Daffy, whose face strobes for the viewer in a cryptic, dough-boy series of macabre flashes, looking like a tortured clay animation puppet.

Fiction, Short Stories, short-short, Young Adult

The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allen Poe (Adapted by Tom Baker)

Fortunato I had learned to live with, even when he was at his worst–but when he insulted me in public, I vowed that he would never have the ability to do so again.

It was during the heighth of the carnival, when all the city was in a state of celebration, that I decided when and how I would go about getting my revenge. I would do it so as to not get caught–that would bo the only way my revenge would really be complete. Also, as I made him suffer, he would go to his end knowing it was me that did him in.

I was walking through the streets, wearing my cloak and a black domino mask. Fortunato was wearing a jester’s outfit: a tinkling little hat with bells and a striped costume.

Now, you must understand that, up until that time, I had given Fortunato no reason to suspect me–I had smiled in his presence, and had always been kind and gracious to him when we were together. Deep inside though, I was forever plotting his doom.

Knowing his one weakness, then, it is little surprise that I was finally able to take advantage of it, and make it part of my plans.

Fortuanto fancied himself an expert when it cam to fine wines. Most Italians are frauds when it comes to these things, trying merely to fool British or French experts. Fortunato was just like all the others: he knew nothing about art or the finer things in life, but acted just as if he did. But, when it came to wine, he really did know what he was talking about.

So this is why, when I ran into him one night during the wild carnival season, I said to him, “Ah Fortunato, you are looking so well! And, it must be luck that has brought us together. You see, I’ve just bought a few bottles of something that is supposed ot be Amontillado–but I’m not sure.”

At this, Fiortunato, a little man that, as I said, was dressed in the costume of a jester, sputtered and spat and bugged out his eyes like a toad. He said, “Amontilaldo? During the carnival season? Impossible!”

I was almost to the point of starting to laugh in his face, but instead I told him, “Well, as I’ve said, I have some doubts about it. I thought of goign and finding Luchesi. He is not as good at testing these things as you, of course, but, I knew that you would be busy, and–”

He spat, “Luchesi? He cannot tell Amontillado from sherry! Come! To your cellars! I will try this for myself, and tell you if it really is Amontillado after all!”

I smiled, trying to appear as if I was really putting him out by asking him ot come to my cellars and taste my wine, as if it were all really MY idea.

“Come then! The servants, I know, will be out.”

They were. I had instructed them not to leave my chateau during the carnival, knowing that they would all leave and go the carnival anyway.

We entered the old dark mansion, and I lead him through the empty, echoing darkness to a doorway in a back coridoor. Grabbing a light, I threw open the door to the cellar, revealing a winding staircase going down, down, down into the black.

“Enter,” I said, thrusting out my hand. He did so, swaying a little as he was quite drunk still. I followed him down, closing the door behind us.

We went down, down into the dark catacombs below, the crypts wherein generations of Montresors had been buried. We passed piles of old bones, and it was very dar, and damp and cold, In the corners, we could hear scurrying rats.

I had the torch in my hand, and I could see hat Fortunato was drunk and ill. It was far to mouoldy and damp down here for him, and he was coughing and hackin like a man with a serious illness.

“Come, my friend,” I said, “Let us go back. You have a terrible cough, and it is far too mouldy and damp down here for you!”

He grew angry when I suggested this, and spat (between coughs),”No! It is nothing. Just a little cough. Bah! I will not die of a cough! Come! Amontillado! Let us go!”

And so we went down, deeper and deeper into the catacombs. We began to discuss various things, and he asked me what the Montressor family arms were.

“Oh, it is a snake, with a boot crushing the snake’s head. That is the family crest!”

He must have liked that, for he smiled while considering it. Then, he made a curious sign, and I surprised him by understanding it.

“Ah, you are a Freemason! I am one, too!”

When I said this, he grew a little suspicious.

“You? A brother Mason? Impossible!”

But I assured him it was true.

“We Montresors are an old and dignified line,” I reminded him. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Deeper and deeper we went, into the winding darkness, past the heaped piles of old bones–those poor unfortunates who had been imprisoned and buried down here, so long ago.

Finally, we came to a dark recess in the stonework. I shined the torch in there, saying, “It is in there! The cask of amontillado! Perhaps you should go in and investigate for yourself!”

And the drunken fool, so eager to taste the wine, went in, somewhat cautiously though, the little bells on his hat jangling as he walked upon the uneven stones of the floor.

“Yes, yes…well, where is the wine?” he suddenly asked, confused.

I leapt forward, and with a speed few could probably have ever guessed I possessed, clasped a heavy chain around him, fixing him to the wall, where he turned about in shock, in the deep darkness.

“Eh? What is this? Some sort of game?” he blustered, fear coming into his voice.

“No!” I said, “No game!”

And that is when I produced the trowell, and went to a pile of old bricks in the corner. That is where I hid the cement.

I slowly, oh so slowly, began to lay the bricks, forst one, then another, then another, across the face of the recess in the wall. All the time, Fortunato is chained and cannot move, watching as, slowly, he is bricked in, into the darkness…

He kept up a steady, senseless rambling, but I just ignored him.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the wall that would seal his doom began to take shape.

Finally, after a few hours toil, I had but one brick to lay. I shined my lantern in the opening. Therein sat Fortunato, sad and confused, bound in chains. Suddenly, realizing I was looking in at him, he said, “Come! Enough of this joke! Let us return to the carnival. We will have quite a laugh about this when we are gathered together at the carnival! Yes, quickly, undo these chains, and we will both hasten at once back to the carnival!”

And then he was quiet. And then, after a long moment…

“For the love of GOD, Montressor!” he wailed, in a voice quite unlike any I had ever heard come from him before.

“Yes,” I anssered him, “For the love of God!”

And I placed the last brick in the wall, sealing him up in darkness and certain death. Then I rode away, into the night.

That was fifty years ago, and, tot he best of my knowledge, he is down there to this day.

Rest in peace.

Books, Fiction, Humor, Short Stories, short-short, Young Adult

Three Little Pigs

Once, there were three pigs, and they all lived their little piggy lives in a great, stinking hovel, hidden in the middle of a dense forest.

One day, the eldest pig said, “I am fed o the teeth with living, day in and day out, in this stinking hovel, an d never seeing any new sights, or having any new adventures. I declare, I am going into the city, where I will be able to live ina manner fitting a pig of my undeniable breeding and stature!”

And with that, he slowly began to make the preparations to depart. His younger brothers, aghast at his plan, implored him to stay, saying “Oh! Do not leave us, do not leave us! For, surely, you’ll never come back to us, as danger is sure to befall you in the city, and there are many rogues and cutthroats just waiting for a tender young morsel such as yourself to come along, so they can devour him!”

But the eldest pig would have none of it. He put on his best little piggy-suit, grabbed his valise, and, waving a hoof goodbye, trotted down the road toward the city and his fate.

Well, his brothers were sobbing and squealing, sorry to see him go, and certain no good would come of it, and, most especially the youngest brother, who said to himself, “He can go anywhere he likes, but I’ll not leave my safe, comfortable, quiet little hovel, with its blanket of flies and its sweet-smelling manure mound.”

And, so saying to himself, he lay down on his piggy knuckles, and fell to musing.

Well, the eldest brother, omce he actually entered the gates of the city, was a little afraid, but he soon contented himself that he was dressed in fancy finery, and thus looked the part of a gentleman. (Or, rather, gentlepig?) He trotted along, trying to put the best, most confident face he could on his visit, but was soon very tired and hungry.

In time, a strange man came up to him in the streets, and said, “Oh, brother pig! I see that you have come a long way, and are most tired and hungry! Come, I am a kind man, known for my kindness to strangers, and I will give you something to eat in my shop, and then let you lie down for awhile!”

And at that, the pig was delighted, saying to himself, “My! This fellow is most hospitable! I certainly am glad I decided to leave the boring old hovel in the forest to journey to the city, even though I do miss the blanket of flies and the sweet-smelling manure mound a little.”

And so the pig followed the man around the corner to the door of his little shop, and the man said, “Here, here is an apple! Better put this in your mouth, eh!”

And then the man produced a silver platter, and said, “Here, here is a place you can lie down! You must be very tired after your long journey, and require lots of rest!”

And the pig said, “My, it doesn’t look very comfortable!” But, he put the apple in his mouth, and lay down upon the platter, as he was instructed, and then asked, “Is this what you had planned for me?”

And the strange man said, “Not quite! For it is very drafty in here, and I wouldn’t want you to catch cold. Here! It is ever so much warmer in here!”

And with that, the strange man threw open the door to a great stone oven, and before the pig cpuld even squeal a squeal of surprise, the man thrust him inside, where he was roasted and broiled and then served up, chop by chop, to the strange man’s customers.

Well, back home in the hovel, the other brothers waited and waited, and waited some more, but seeing that the eldest brother was never going to return, they soon forgot all about him, pigs not having such a long memory, after all.

Soon, the middle brother began to feel, just as his eldest brother had, that he was somehow missing out in life, and that his purposes would be better served if he went out from the forest, to seek his fame and fortune.

“I will not make the mistake that our elder brother has, though, and journey to the city. Instead, I will keep to the countryside, where people are simple and friendly, and there is little to fear!”

And so, getting on his best little piggy suit, he grabbed his valise, and, telling his youngest brother goodbye, went about his way.

The youngest pig, who had seen all of this before, rested his piggy snout on his little piggy trotters, and said to himself, “Hm. My eldest brother has gone to the city, and never returned. Now my other brother has left to wander the countryside. I am certain he will never return, either! I will just stay here in my familiar old hovel, with my blanket of flies and my sweet-smelling manure pile, and I will be nice and safe.”

And so he did.

His brother, meanwhile, wandered the roads and the pleasant country lanes until he came upon a farm. The farmer was a great, burly, bearded chap who exclaimed to him, “Come, Brother Pig! You must be hungry and tired after such a long journey! Come, and I will feed you, and give you a sweet-smelling manure pile upon which to recline!”

And so the pig said to himself, ” Oh, I was right in leaving the old hovel, for the people of the countryside are generous and kind! Why, this man barely knows me,a nd already he is offering to fatten me up!”

And so the pig went with the farmer to the pig sty, and there he found blankets of delicious flies and sweet-smelling manure aplenty, and a trough with delectable leavings floating in a thick, soupy muck. So he put his snout down in the trough and began to feed.

The farmer said, “There, there, Mr. Pig! You just eat to your heart’s content, and I will go and fetch a special present with which to welcome you to our humble home. Why, you’re such a handsome fellow, I’d like to have you for dinner!”

At the prospect of being invited inside for dinner (for this is what he thought the old farmer meant) , the young pig raised his dripping snout and squealed with delight. Then, curiously, he saw that the farmer was concealing something behind his back.

“Say, friend,” asked the curious pig, “what is that you’re hiding behind your back?”

And, as if in answer, the farmer produced a huge wooden club, and brought it down with terrible force right between the poor porker’s piggy eyes.

His brains flew out of his piggy ears, and he died in a moment.

The farmer did indeed have the pig for dinner then–as the main course!

Well, the youngest pig waited,a nd waited, and, seeing that his brothers were never going to return, contented himself by remembering how very wise he had been to simply sty where it was nice and familiar, and not to go off and try to see and do things a pig should not, logically, try to see and do.

“Hm. My eldest brother went to the city, and has not returned. He is surely dead, but I have remained safe, right here. Then my other brother left to wander the countryside, and has not returned. He is, also surely dead. But I am still safe and sound, enjoying the clouds of flies and the warm, sweet manure pile here in my little hovel in the forest.”

And so he slowly forgot his brothers and their sorry fate.

It was nto long after that the last surviving pig was awakened by a strange sound, like a horn blowing in the distance.

Not knowing what that sound was, and thinking it was some sort of animal he had never before seen, he poked his piggy snout out the door and looked around.

He was pierced between the eyes by an arrow. Around him, dogs danced, as two hunters came riding up–

“Hark! It seems it is a good day to hunt wild pig! This one is good and fat, and will make a tender morsel for our feast!”

And so all the pigs died, no matter where they did, or didn’t go.

All of which is to say, one should never fear death, for it is inevitable, by and by.

automatism, Books, Experimental, Fortean, Holographic Universe, Mystic, New Age, Spiritism, Weird, Young Adult

Mind Power (Excerpt 2)

Believe in the awesome abilities you can call forth, for, in toto, everything is YOU, a reflection of you. The cosmos is like a vast cloth, and you weave the cloth of your dreams as you go.

Spin a garment fit for a king, or a shroud. This is entirely up to you, and is your doing. The golden threads of your personal loom will spin you a garment Seven Leagues Deep –alternately, you may become lost in the myriad folds of your wn cloth, unable to break free from the suffocating blanket of your expectations, doubt, and desires.

Take a moment to assess what I am saying–this universe is the springboard of your wants and desires, the veritable crystalline pool or looking-glass wherein is reflected the clay image of ourselves molded in the perfect echo chamber of our MIND.

The Mind is a Mirror, or a Labyrinth, a Cradle, or a Holding Cell

Truly, the mind is all of the things listed above. A collection of warring atoms is at bottom of all of our physical, tangible existence. Everything, from that which has ascended to the loftiest pinnacle, to the lowest, basest thing, has struggled to attain mastery over itself, over those predators and competitors who would thwart the right of this self-contained conscious monad to exist and even thrive–to manufacture symbiotes, to extend itself outward into the perpetual worlds of space and time.

Thwarted, an individual can either succumb–and be devoured. Or, alternately, adapt, evolve, and SURVIVE.

This can only be achieved by the ensouled monad manufacturing for itself EGO IDENTITY. A sense of place, purpose, values, esteem…a SELF. EGO.

But the mind begins to manufacture duality out of fear–saying to itself, I MAY NOT SURVIVE. The ensouled monad is thus busily reflecting the inner fears that manifest as outward objective reality–for nothing exists but that it has first been created and acknowledged from the storehouse of the mind–a reflection of our small doubts, wants, fears, failures, and egoistical beliefs, born from the cradle where the baby is rocked, a baby who could very well be named THE NEED TO BE.

The Need to Be

Eventually, ensouled consciousness becomes the prisoner of itself–paired to the frequency field of its own fears, putting up the impenetrable walls and barriers that keep man searching for himself in an ever-shifting continuum of false passages, dead ends, cul-de-sacs, blind spots, and doors that open into NOTHING.

We are the sender and receiver of our own special visions. We are the mind that manufactures the man–and we are also the man (non-generative use).

We are what we see, and what is seen. We are both the sender and the receiver, the message, the messenger, and the words imparted. And the word became FLESH.

Art, Books, Fiction, Short Stories, Young Adult

The Pit and the Pendulum by Edgar Allen Poe (Retold by Tom Baker)

The stark white lips of the judges moved, speaking hideous things. However, I couldn’t hear what they were saying, nor could I see their dark, hooded faces; only their lips I could see.

Upon the table in front of them, seven golden candles provided light. At first, I thought this comforting, but, soon, the evil sentence was laid down, and I swooned, and darkness and insensibility descended upon me like a cloud.

I awoke as I was being carried forth by powerful hands. What was happening to me? I felt myself fall back to insensibility again, and, when I awoke once more, I was in a dark and troubling place.

I came to, and, my eyes quickly adjusting, I reached out with one hand and found a pitcher of water and loaf of bread beside me. These I took greedily, as I was parched and famished. I then turned my attention to my dark cell.

I got up slowly and went to the wall, carefully placing my hand upon its uneven surface. The heavy masonry was pitted and cracked in several places, and I suddenly realized how I could ascertain the dimensions of my cell. I tore a fragment of cloth from the garment they had forced me to wear, and stuffed it in a chink. Then, marking that as a place to begin and end, I slowly, carefully, went around the wall, feeling the uneven surface with my hands as I went, counting out the paces.

(You may think this ridiculous, but, really, for some reason, it seemed of the uptmost importance to me.)
Finally, I came back around to the filthy bit of rag. Aw, fifty paces! And, calculating from that I came to the conclusion that I was in a prison cell that was some fifty feet wide. Elated at this, I soon resolved to cross the slimy, disgusting floor, and began to do so when, for some reason, I became entangled in the ripped portions of the garment I wore.

I fell flat on my face, and would have broken my nose I suppose, had a mysterious discovery not prevented me from doing so. For, though my miserable, aching body lie prone on the floor, my chin, nose, and forehead were suspended over…nothing. Apparently, I had stopped just short of falling into a sort of stone pit–just by sheer luck!

In a moment, I had secured a loose piece of stone, and thrown it down the pit, hearing it go down, down, trying, as best I could, to sort of sound out how deep the pit might have been. It was a short interval before I heard it crash below. Then, I heard a curious scuttling sound.

So, this was the fate the cruel monks of the Inquisition had in store for me, eh? I rolled over on my back, breathing in and out heavily in the stifling air, and soon found myself unconscious. When I awoke, the same pitcher and loaf were beside me, and I took them greedily again, being much famished and dying of thirst. I then realized they must have been drugged, for I grew drowsy.

When I again came back to hellish consciousness, I found my situation horribly changed. I was bound, head and foot, to a wooden rack, a huge sort of bandage wrapped all around me and secured to the frame. Only my left arm, up to the elbow, was free. I soon realized there was a pot of meat beside me which I could just barely reach and get to my mouth with my left hand. But now there was no pitcher.

I smiled at this through cracked lips. The meat was very spicy, and so I realized part of my new torture was to be fed spicy food, but given no water to slake my thirst.
I then heard the scuttling.
Rats–thousands of them! They must have come up from the circular pit! They were scurrying all about, and I was horrified and repulsed to see their beady eyes shining in the near darkness. I say near darkness because now there was a weird, glowing light that provided illumination to the scene! And how terrible a scene it was!

The images of devils and demons, obscure tortures, and hellish retribution–the fantasies of the deranged monks of the Inquisition, were painted on the ghastly walls, as high as the ceiling (which was, I should estimate, some forty feet), giving testimony to the deraged beliefs of the sadistic men who had formed these horrible dungeons of terror and pain. I was at first chagrined to see that I had grossly underestimated the size of my prison, and wracked my brain as to how this could have been possible. Also, I saw now that far from being a prison of stone masonry, my death cell was, indeed, formed of what seemed to be iron plates. Curious, I thought. But I did not ponder it long.

Looking above, I saw what I took to be an imge of Father Time, holding his scythe. However, in place of the traditional scythe was what appeared to be a long, sleek pendulum, like one would find in a great clock. I could not at first believe it, but, as I adjusted my eyes to the weird sight, I realized that the pendulum held by Father Time was no mere painting upon the wall, but a real and actual pendulum, swinging to and fro, and seemingly coming closer to me, closer and closer, slowly, oh so slowly…

I saw that the curved end of the thing was as thin and sharp as a razor. Slowly, oh so slowly it swept to and fro, coming down…down…down…

…Soon, it would be on top of me, and then, with one fell swing or swoop, would slice me in half, leaving me dying in a torrent of blood, in an agonizing and hideous death few men could ever imagine!

Down it came, closer and closer. I struggled against the great bandage that wrapped me in solid as a mummified body–to no avail! Closer swept the pendulum, closer and closer!

I felt my mind begin to crack. I blacked out.

When I came to, the thing was even nearer to me! The terrible rats that crawled up from the pit were crawling all over me, waiting greedily for my death, biting and scratching me with their little rodent snouts. It was then that an idea came to me.

I struggled to reach the very spicy meat that the cruel judges had left, stretching out in agony with my one arm. Finally, I got a handful of the stuff, what was left of it, and I began to rub it across the great bandage.

This greatly excited the hungry rats, who began to gnaw at the bandage as the hellish pendulum swung ever more near.
The pendulum was now so near that I could hear it swish across my chest. The rats began to nibble at my bonds, and finally, I felt them come loose! I struggled and strained, and, with a terrible wrenching, and with the razor-sharp blade of the pendulum just inches from my chest (it had actually swept a few of the rats away with one stroke), I managed to break free of my bonds and roll out of the way just in time!

A moment later, and I would have been cut in two by the pendulum, and suffered a cruel, painful death.

My suffering was not over though! No, for the demonic faces on the wall began to glow a fiery red, and the heat in the chamber became unbearable. It was as if I had died and gone to Hell! The eyes of the painted demons and skulls began to glow, and I realized there must be some sort of great, terrible furnace hidden within the walls.

But, as if this were not enough, those walls soon began to slide inward, closer and closer, meaning to push me into the pit, to fall to my death. I retreated from the walls and the terrible heat, my hands going up before my face. I turned in panic, stumbled, fell–

My face was inches above the pit. I looked down into the darkness, which I could now see more clearly due to the terrible flame of the demonic eyes in the paintings. I could not believe what I saw down there!

Oh those cruel judges! How could they? The walls grew closer and closer, the heat grew more and more intense–

It was then that I heard a shouting and commotion from somewhere above me. Oh! Merciful God, the walls began to slide back, the searing heat cooled, and I understood from the mingled voices that the army had entered Toledo. They had captured the Inquisition! I was saved! I was saved!