|
Dark Windows Archives Index
|
Subscribe
|
|
| << August23, 2007 - Dark Windows #1 |
September15, 2007 - Dark Windows #3 >> |
|
DARK WINDOWS #2 - Sep. 1, 2007 ===== ===== ===> INTRO Why Text? After many years of building websites and databases, I just don't feel the urge to throw codes all over the place. I want this to be readable. Just the facts, just the words. No complexity. I got a Sony eBook Reader last month, and I like how it handles text with no line breaks. Sure, it also does PDFs and other things, but if text is good enough for the Gutenberg Project, it's okay here. Maybe I'll make some PDFs along the way ... but I'm not looking for extra complexity. Insert other excuses here. What's in a name? These days, all creative people are supposed to make recognizable "brands" out of their names, and market market, sell sell sell. It's sad, disturbing, and not even slightly Zen. Over the years, I have settled on a few naming conventions. My poetry all has the byline "s.c.virtes" (lower case), my stories and longer works are from "Scott Virtes," and I have an alter ego for hard horror works, but don't really like hard horror anymore, so I can ignore him. Recently, I've been writing articles that are like the "Odd Clips" on steroids, and my identity for those is "Scott Vee," which comes from years of trying to explain how to say my last name (which rhymes with "curtis"), and finally dodging it altogether. But how many times can we split ourselves into pieces before there is nothing left? Do I need a persona for fantasy, and one for sci-fi, and one for things that are only half fantasy, and one for any story that mentions horses? I can see splitting off horror, because it can upset people. But I think variety is the spice of life, and without variety we've got nothing but reruns and life drones on with no surprises. I've been told that I do too many different things. They can't all be packaged, marketed, explained. Does that mean that if I get an idea that doesn't fit in a box, I must swallow it and pretend it never happened? I don't think that's an honest kind of life. Of the various approaches I find that I am basically a poet, wide open to impressions of the world, and not compatible with rules and restraints. So be it. Onwards ... ===> POEM Her Wrath --- you still can't fool Mother Nature you can build all the dams you want, She'll send you to your room and send the rain, the floods. you can fly in your metal traps, She laughs with lightning and bathes in the obscuring fog. you can build a fancy mountain hideout, but the living hills awaken, yawn their fire and shrug you off. She does not fool around, She is larger than we will ever be, yet we poke Her in the eye & wonder why life is so full of tragedy. ::: written 6/97, unpublished ===> ODD CLIPS: "Wakefield - Robin Hood's Well: Robin Hood's Well is reputed to be the starting place of a padfoot called in the neighbourhood 'Boggard of Longar Hede.' It haunted a three-lane-end after leaving the well. One poor fellow said he saw it walk beside him for a quarter of a mile up the lane, and that very night his aunt died. It was the size of a calf, with horned head, with long shaggy hair, and eyes like saucers; fastened to one of its hind legs was a chain, and usually a cry heard following it as of a pack of hounds." [1] "The market price of skeletons runs from ?10 to ?100. The difference has little to do with the condition of the subject when alive. In the cheap skeleton only the framework is preserved. Cheap second hand ones can often be had as low as ?3 or ?4. The expensive ones have the nervous and circulatory systems preserved. Some of the French skeletons are novels of ingenuity in this direction, each nerve or muscle being fitted with an attachment connecting it with a spiral spring or wire." [2] 1. R.C.Hope, "Holy Wells: their Legends and Superstitions" in "The Antiquary", vol XXIV (July-Dec, 1891). p.28 2. "Market price of skeletons"; Box Elder News (Utah), 4/7/1904, p.7 ===> STORY The Affix by Scott Virtes --- The unarmed, redsuited duo stepped through the crowd, looking for a man named Struct. They found him juggling five bright globes in a small park near the town square. Casting an air through his display brought them his angered attention, and a hiss from his few observers. They asked him for his name and he didn't give it. They asked him for his pin and he claimed not to have one. They found this quite hard to believe. They formed a fog next to him and whirled corrugated blades around in it, and he screamed. Struct jumped up and down, digging his hands into his chest, tearing out huge masses of blood and feathers. They cursed him to cease, so he pulled himself together, gathered his globes, and walked away to find a new crowd. They turned away, for he was only a projection of the one they sought, and his sourcelines told them all they needed to know. They went to the appropriate home and were unimpressed at its affluence. "Another illusion," grumbled the heavier man. "No. This Struct is an architect, a designer. he can afford everything you see." The affixer rapped on the door. A servant responded and was captured. The redsuits pushed him inside as they entered the abode of Struct, for they had been charged with an affixation which they had to carry out. The Lorword had sent them this task, and they were sworn to it by their very existence. When nobody responded to the servant's dissipation, they prolonged his screams until a man appeared, eager to be of assistance. "Could I build something for you sirs?" asked the man. "Don't Con me, Struct," they replied, sternly. They bounded across the room to grab the man by the neck. One of them formed an airblade and stared evilly along its lustside, while the other commented on how Struct choked so nicely. Struct said nothing, until they withdrew their Certificate. When told that there was to be an affixation, Struct screamed, then laughed. A moment later, he vanished. His voice filled the room. "I'm not in right now, but if you'd care to leave a message, please do so at the sound of the Doberman." "Damned holos," mumbled the affixer named Maim, as the dog grabbed his ankle. Split, his comrade, picked up the offensive canine and pulled back on its arms. It decided not to struggle, wisely. Its big eyes simply waited for freedom. "Enough!" bellowed Struct from three stories above them, where he had been reading horror stories in the gallery. "What sort of affix will I bear?" "D - E - ," said Split, throwing the dog onto the sofa. It bounced to its feet and scurried away. "Complete reversal, huh? Wonderful. I'll be right down," called Struct. He then wandered off into another plane and lived out the rest of his life. Seconds later, he was grey, bent, and cancer-ridden. He then stood before his doomtellers. They would manipulate his name, and transform him into something else. They asked him for any last requests as the being named Struct, and he had none. "A cigarette?" he joked. "No, too archaic." With the usual boredom, they affixed him, and the explosion blasted the walls of the place to the far side of the garden. There was nothing left of the foolish affixers, but Destruct stood there and burned some craters to test his new abilities. A twisted smile grew upon his youthful face. The Lorword read of this in the morning Paper and laughed into his tea. === END === ::: written 7/29/85, published in Eotu ezine (7/00) ===> DARKVISION: (captured dreams) Back To School (dream, 1/20/86) I got there early, shuffled everything back up to my room. The banana husk was still up in the shelf corner where I had left it, and the rest quickly became familiar. The stereo came first, a quick wiring and organizing to help take my mind off the rest of the unpacking. I slapped on something strange from Moraz and began the long task of shoving everything more or less where it belonged. I dug out the fitted sheets, snapped them on where they wanted to be, then covered them up with the furry spotted quilt that was my trademark. I took a survey of my rigged details: the fun cap label was still on the ceiling, the dollar bits were still beered onto the walls and door, everything was just cozy. I sat for a long while staring out the window, down into the mostly darkness, where a few lit windows attested to other early arrivals. The hospital glowed a cubic welcome on the horizon, and there were custodian lights on in the library. The world was crisp and clear through the chilled, unmoving air, and little scrapes of frost were beginning to form in the window corners. Then Eric came in with all of his stuff and broke the mood. "What are you doing here?" He asked, incredulously. "You quit, remember? This is my room now." And he scooped clothes and garbage onto the floor until it was just right. I said nothing. My ticket off the Island had left, and would not return on call. I guess I'd just have to stay. Garbage wasn't so bad after all. And at least, since I wasn't really there, I wouldn't have to go to any classes. ===> MY NEWS: New sales: "At Ripley's" (poem: ode to the Ripley's Museum) accepted for Helix #6. "swirling eyes" (poem) accepted at Not One of Us (Jan 08) "what the spirits taught us" (poem) accepted at Tales of the Talisman (Jun 08) And some quick links ... For your MP3 player: A live poetry reading I did on July 1, 2007. http://tales.scvs.com/mp3/070701-poetry%20reading-96k.mp3 About 13 minutes long, file size 9 megs. My story "Harrod Runs his Mouth" is now in Burst magazine: http://www.terra-media.us/burst/Summer2007.html Flash fiction, under a page; the zine is targeted at cell phone users. Sundown Lounge http://www.larrywinfield.com/sundownlounge.htm A quirky podcast of music, poetry, weird science news. A few of my poems have been included in the shows. Enjoy. ===> POEM Apartment 607 --- my broken toys of sound can never drown out the nightmare mother downstairs and her screaming kids running in circles, hands up, yelling "Mine!" "No, mine!" And the father outside firing his gun into the sunset sky for some damn holiday he cannot name, and I, for a moment's peace, stare at frets feel the endless road of my broken toys of sound. ::: written 6/97, unpublished ===> STORY BITES: "It was a belief very strongly and generally held by the ancients ... that, by absorbing the personalities of a certain number of his fellow-creatures, an individual may gain a complete ascendancy over those orders of spiritual beings which control the elemental forces of our universe." [1] "Oh, I can find plenty of men, when the fancy takes me to be made miserable." [2] "We are standing on the brink of a strange world, Raymond, if what you say is true. I suppose the knife is absolutely necessary?" [3] 1. M.R. James - "Lost Hearts" (story) 2. Honor? de Balzac - "The Mysterious Mansion" (story) 3. Arthur Machen - "The Great God Pan" (story) ===> POEM The Last Artist --- I see a world lashing out the least originality, Shying from the untried with numb shotgun fingers, Lashing out always correctlng paving over the transgressors with glowing weak arrogant grins, then finding that there are no more artists: No poets no writers no painters no players, no homes, no tomorrow, Only bare walls crying for love but now these feelings must run from the police. No release for those on lonely pedestals -- I see a world lashing out at itself. ::: written 7/87, unpublished ===> CREDITS Oops! "Broken beginnings" in issue #1 was originally published in "Peripheral Visions" chapbook (Assume Nothing Press, 2007) About the author: Scott Virtes has had over 400 stories & poems published since 1986. Look for them in Analog, Space & Time, Ideomancer, Dreams & Nightmares, Cafe Irreal, Planet, and more ... My Home page: http://tales.scvs.com?inw=dkw Notice: Odd Clips and Dark Moments all come from original sources in the public domain, or are brief clips in the spirit of fair use (a.k.a. free advertising for the source). All other sections of this newsletter are copyright Scott Virtes. All rights reserved. Please don't grab chunks of my work and post them all over the place. If you ask permission, you'll find that I'm pretty easygoing. ;-) ===== this issue: 2,100 words cumulative: 4,170 words |
|
| << August23, 2007 - Dark Windows #1 |
September15, 2007 - Dark Windows #3 >> |
|
Dark Windows Archives Index
|
Subscribe
|
|
|
Archives powered by Zinester's Mailing List Service
Details on Dark Windows |
Browse for more newsletters at Zinester's Ezine Directory
Managed by Zinester's Mailing List Management |