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DARK WINDOWS #3 - Sep. 15, 2007 ===== ===== ===> INTRO We got a new Tempurpedic bed, and it's funny the effect that changing your bed can have. So far, I sleep more deeply but wake up stiff and exhausted. The main benefit is having very long and strange dreams. One dream this morning was an ideological interrogation by unscrupulous feds, which went on for what seemed hours -- the key moment was when they strapped me in a chair and blasted demonic-sounded chants at me through a boombox to see if I was under the influence of magical entities, to which I said, "Is that satellite radio or an old 8-track tape?" After that, there was one about remodeling a whole bunch of rooms in our house, only to find out a week later than they never actually existed, the doors leading to them were gone and they never would have fit inside our house anyway -- this one left me with a very vivid image of a small desk and chair that you could only get to by walking over the bathtub, and the real sense of having just wasted two hours of my life. There isn't always going to be a long introduction, just a personal note of some size or other. Onwards ... ===> POEM NERVES --- Hand asleep by choice a pinched nerve NUMB Release feel nerves awaken they run out to vote The elections end soon comes to an answer "okay." Back to normal, but I wonder what if one day they all vote against me? :: written 4/28/88, unpublished ===> ODD CLIPS: "When I come upon the unconventional repeating, in times and places far apart, I feel -- even though I have no absolute standards to judge by -- that I am outside the field of ordinary liars." [1] "In another island, which lies just off the city of Vannes, there was a large pond full of fish. This was turned into blood to the depth of a yard or more. Day after day vast packs of dogs and flocks of birds assembled there to drink the blood, returning home at nightfall completely satiated." [2] "In some countries they run out of the doors in time of tempest, blessing themselves with a cheese, whereupon was a cross made with a rope's end upon Ascension Day." [3] --- 1. Charles Fort, "Wild Talents", chapter 5 2. Gregory of Tours, "The History of the Franks", translated by Lewis Thorpe (Penguin Classics, 1974); section XIII.25. 3. Reginald Scot, "Discovery of Witchcraft" (1584); as quoted in "Brand's Popular Antiquities of Great Britain: Faiths and Folklores: A Dictionary, in Two Volumes" by W. Carew Hazlitt (London: Reeves & Turner, 1905) ===> STORY Homeward Found --- On the 18th of May the sun went down and the house became an endless loop. J headed for the door in his usual hurry. He grabbed a green apple, took a bite, fumbled for the skeleton keys, patted himself down -- all his pocket stuff was there. He threw the deadbolt and pulled the door open. His watch said 7:30. His night was already ruined. He went through the door and found himself back in his bedroom. His empty evening mug of coffee was right where he had left it. But he wasn’t outside. He expected to step outside, probably complain about the stiff breeze blowing in off the sandy wastes. Instead he was back in his room, his dull room with magazines piled high, his room with the piles of laundry (all flavors), his room which severely needed a woman’s touch or a merciful sledgehammer. And there was no door behind him. His hands had been holding a doorknob, now they were holding each other. He left the bedroom (again), and stepped out into the hall. The hallway was curved, when it should have been straight. The dusty photos on the walls followed this curve. He reached out and touched one of the cold glass frames. The surface rippled. The ripples raced across the glass and ended at its edge. J scratched his head. He picked up his briefcase and went out into the living room. From there, all he had to do is open the door, step out, complain about the sandy breeze, get in his car and spin off to work. He could see the car through the window, though the view was heavily obstructed by the hedges which had grown wildly out of control just outside. The angles were wrong, anyway. Too soft. They flowed together. This wasn’t the usual depressing cubicle of a home that he had come to know and live. "Nightshift is messing with my head," he swore, then he stepped outside. Back into his bedroom. The mug was still there on the dresser. A cool stream flowed out of it, down the front of the cheap fakewood storage unit, onto a carpet which was coarser and thicker than he recalled. He headed out into the hallway, with a sense of panic building off in the lonely distance of his soul. The hall was nearly circular now. The photos no longer showed half-forgotten family members. They now showed totally-forgotten landscapes – places he had once visited. Long ago. In his childhood. But his childhood memories had been destroyed; replaced by the vast tomes of technical knowledge he needed to read to keep up with his job. Every year he had felt his childhood slipping further away, but he recognized the places in the photos right away. The lighthouse in Bar Harbor, the Mexican Restaurant in North Platte, the plaque at the top of Pikes Peak, the general store in Santa Ysabel, others. He broke out in a sweat. His arms started to itch. He scratched at the thick hairs idly. Then he dashed toward the front door and ended up in his bedroom again. The rocky stream was still there, cascading cool waters over the shirt-lined river bed where he had once slept. The carpet was the comforting crunch of matted pine needles as only Mother Nature could weave them. He knelt down and grabbed a handful of the warm fragrant earth. This, also, was a distant memory returning. Childhood again. No, even further back. Greater than himself, more than he could name, less than he could grasp. He let the soft needles fall between his fingers and return to their natural place. He arms were heavily haired. He put his hands to his face, it was well-haired and he could feel heavy bones pushing up from beneath the skin. As he bounded to the bathroom, there was a soothing push of air drifting down the circular hallway, rustling the stately shrubs which had decided to come inside. The bathroom door faded as he reached for it; though he clearly noticed that the doorknob was just below eye level. His arms seemed to grow as he reached for the fading remains of his life. That golden doorknob. His lump-of-coal life. Behind and just above the treetops, the sun came out from behind the cloud of the pale ceiling and warmed his heart. The bathroom was a lily pond with ducks frolicking and frogs calling. A dangling vine brushed against him as he soaked up the rays of remembrance. He batted it away at first. He scratched his head. Then his armpits. Then he grabbed the vine, and its gnarled texture was like the finest wine in his grasp. It was time to go for a swing. --- END :: written 3/24/99, published in Cafe Irreal #2 (web, 8/99) Trivia: May 18 is my birthday. The magazine Cafe Irreal had an interesting take on unreality, so I wanted to see if I could write in that vein. And, I always wondered (along with Matt Groening, apparently) why anyone named "Jay" would bother with the "ay" part. ===> DARKVISION: (captured dreams) face factory --- I had no trouble parking my boat. My friends all brought theirs. We took over Ridge 30 and overflowed into 29. I jumped to the pier and let the mooring boy do the rest. But none of my friends got off their boats. I waited for hours, until morning, when all the boats were gone, including mine. In a state of great displeasure, I set out across town to find the one guy I did know. After a short while, I came to his address, but there was a huge looming factory there instead of a home. Then I recalled that he lived and worked there, and even the factory name seemed familiar. Crimson Faces, Inc. I sought entry. The foreman was seated at a strangely garbled control panel, half machine, half gadget, breathing in places and covered with faces. I asked for Guy, and the foreman said he'd try to page him, but no guarantees. He cranked the phone for a moment, then took a carton of milk out of his coat pocket and poured it into a wet place at the top of the panel. "Hell, it gets me a dial tone," he joked. His phone wasn't plugged into anything, so he quickly gave up. He picked up this open-ended TV from the ground and tried to get a bearing on my friend, but succeeded only in giving himself a nasty shock. "Look," he said, finally. "Here's where he sleeps. I suggest you wait here." He took a handful of white-red sand from one of the bins over the door, and sprinkled it over the yellow sand that filled the coffin. He trailed a sand-pattern on the floor and pronounced the place fit to be visited. There was no decor, everything was pipes and bits of faces. Guy never did show up. The foreman came back later to say that he had been absorbed by the input manifestor, and that I had been sent by God to replace him. He congratulated me on my fine work building that LILCO plant on the Island (which I didn't do), then he said that there were no longer any doors in the place, so I might as well get comfortable. My sandcolor was light brown, and I could start sorting the facebin first thing in the morning. :: dream from old journal - 3/19/86 :: published on my Unfuture blog, May 2007 Trivia: my roommate in college (SUNY Stony Brook) was actually named Guy, and he did wander off to who-knows-where. ===> MY NEWS: New sales: "surgery for dummies" (poem) coming in Black Ice Horror #4 (4/08) I sold 3 flash fiction pieces to an untitled calendar/anthology project that's trying to find 365 stories under 365 words. Other items: My short short story "Quake Man" is available as a 30-cent download here: http://www.swimmingkangaroo.com/wading.html For fun, here is my gallery of photos on Panoramio. Most of them are automatically mapped on Google Earth. I got the production files for my book, "Blank Spaces and Other Dangers" from the previous publisher, and hope to have it back up on Lulu.com soon. I think we finally agreed on the winners for the 2007 poetry contest over at sfpoetry.com -- you'd be surprised how hard it is to pick winners and make sure everything is handled fairly. ===> POEM empty troubled place --- there the troubled land the emptiness that time forgot devoid of choices and dreams there the people walking in stony circles crying for the sun they align, they set like eagles there the light of forever and the dark of the moment whirling clash of centuries words are falling like rain on desert faces the touch is perfect the expression hard to read someone had an idea & built a forest someone drew circles in the sun someone took the time to watch the ants do their thing someone said "What have we done?" yesterday came back with all its problems this time they voted to kneel down in the dirt devoid of choices and dreams there the recovering land sprouts struggle in every crack green fingers reach for glory. :: written 4/21/96, published in Afterlife 9 (chapbook, 2006) Chapbook available here: http://tales.scvs.com/bk_afterlife9.php ===> STORY BITES: "In spite of its innocent color, it is an evil-looking plant." [1] "No man can maintain his composure when he discovers himself to be an object of aversion and terror." [2] "You talk boldly for one whose brains I might instantly scatter to the four winds of heaven." [3] --- 1. "Lost in a Pyramid, or The Mummy's Curse" (story), by Louisa May Alcott 2. "A Dead Finger" (story), by Sabine Baring-Gould 3. Blackbeard speaking. From "Blackbeard; Or, The Pirate Of The Roanoke," By B. Barker (F. Gleason, Boston, 1847) ===> POEM If Only --- Sometimes traces of doors flash at the corners of our eyes & vanish with the turning of our head; Usually hints of other lives crossing our own, opportunities for travel between distance and time; Sideways pieces of memories on racks in rows of spectral closets to be taken out at will and worn like flea-market clothing; If only we knew how. :: written 5/8/88, Published in Senior Citizen Reporter v15#12 (12/89) ===> CREDITS 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 Story Bites 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 (c)2007 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: 2,177 words cumulative: 6,347 words |
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