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| << December17, 2007 - Dark Windows #8 - Dec. 15, 2007 |
January17, 2008 - DARK WINDOWS #10 - Jan 15, 2008 >> |
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DARK WINDOWS #9 - Jan 1, 2008 ===== ===== ===================> INTRO Printed books are in for a rough ride. My Dad came out to visit with his wife, and we went to a Barnes & Noble to unwind ... she grabbed some magazines and some tea and skimmed them with no intention of buying them; my Dad looked around and said he could get the ones he wanted at the library; I looked around and (since I'm mostly looking for classics and original historical sources) commented that the few books I found of interest were all public domain items I could find as free downloads. How odd is that? Don't get me wrong. I love books, and prefer paper copies. And of course I think all creators should have a certain lifespan to try and make money from their work. But I have run out of space; the shelves are full, mostly two layers deep. I must declutter. We must have donated 10 or 15 cartons of books to the library, and given away dozens as gifts, or for no reason at all. But there is still TOO MUCH STUFF around the house. I find myself collecting ebooks, from Google Books or Gutenberg project, archive.org or wherever. I must have about 1,000 of them now, and a Sony Reader that can read some types of files -- on one SD chip I have all the major Greek epics, all the founding fathers of horror, all the Oz books and Sherlock Holmes, a heap of Edgar Rice Burroughs, and dozens of 17th and 18th century world travels. If I'm not in the mood for one book I can click a few things and another book magically appears. It's not perfect, but it sure does save space ... at least digital clutter is invisible! = scott ===================> POEM The Network, Act 1 --- patterns on the ground ground shifting with lights lights from the air air of the night night weaves the Network the Network unique night casts the backdrop for the city street --- 1983, accepted by Midnight Wine (folded), published in Starsong #7 (3/89) ===================> ODD CLIPS: (clips from old "factual" sources) In some parts of Hungary impalement was as usual as in Turkey; a stake was made to pass all along the spine of the unhappy man by giving it a rotary motion, and the poor victim usually survived 24 hours. He was allowed to smoke and drink raki. [1] The wonderful Baratier, at the age of four, spoke and read Latin, French, and German; was an excellent Greek scholar at six; and when ten years of age, translated the Scriptures from the Hebrew; at nineteen he died of exhaustion. [2] The well-known porcupine family, that were exhibited in London and elsewhere, is a remarkable example of hereditary transmission of organic peculiarities. They were all covered with dark-colored horny excrescences, which they shed annually in the autumn or winter. Their names were Lambert. Two brother, John and Richard, grandsons of the original porcupine men, were shown in Germany. -- One of these unsightly individuals, who was exhibited some time ago in Bond-street, stated that he was descended from the fourth generation of a savage found in the woods of America. [3] 1. Unknown Hungary, by Victor Tissot (Bentley, London, 1881), vol. II, p.19 2. Curiosities of Medical Experience (2nd ed.), by J. G. Millingen (Bentley, London, 1839), p.17 3. same, p.18 ===================> STORY WAILING WELL by Scott Virtes --- Under a low-hanging, frostbitten sun, the DeepEarth Drilling team struck gold. Not the kind of gold that can be pounded into fine jewelry or circuit board terminals. In this part of Siberia, the only gold the people cared about was fresh drinking water. The drill had crunched its way through layers of rock, and then hit a pocket of no resistance, 240 feet down. With excited shouts, the foreman flailed his arms, gesturing to bring it up, bring it up. The drill operator cussed and cranked back the controls. But when the drill bit came free from the ground, there was no seepage, not even a drop of sparkling water from the exposed bit. Ironically, there was only the trickle of water they were forced to use to cool the tip as it chewed through the rock beneath their feet, and this was muddy, oily waste. Instead of water, there was a scream. A wailing sound, coming up from the earth. Yuri Ikanjovich, the foreman, approached the well cautiously. It sounded like a whole ward of screaming babies; or a drunken graduation party being boiled alive; or the whistling of a whole store full of tea kettles. There just were no words for it. The sound rose and fell in waves. It sounded like it was miles away, or just below his feet. Piotr Jankis scrambled down from the controls of the drilling rig and hurried to see what the problem was. Within moments, he was covering his ears. Piotr called out, "Sounds like we hit a subway or something!" Yuri snorted. "Sure, they always build subways in wasteland in middle of nothing places." "Come on, boss. I'm trying to make joke here." "I'm not in the mood for jokes. We came here to find water. If you want to get paid, you will start praying for water." "I'm sure it's just some kind of gas pocket. Once the pressure equalizes, it will shut up and let us get back to work." But it showed no signs of letting up. And there was no sign of disturbance around it. Half a meter from the screaming pit, there were some clumps of grass, and they did not show any signs of motion. Yuri reached out, slowly, to put his hand over the dark opening. "I don't feel anything. No rushing gasses." But then he did feel something. It was a cold, life-sucking sensation in his hand. It was all too familiar, and brought terrible memories back to the surface. He remembered a snake bite, back when he was a reckless kid. He remembered the cold feeling as the venom spread from his hand, up his arm, swelling and cracking the flesh as it went. Yet he could not take his hand away from the pit. Finally, Piotr shoved him out of the way. He stumbled, tried to keep his balance, then crunched down to one knee on the permafrost. Piotr held up his hands as if warding away the wailing. "My mother told a story like this once. Some guys were drilling for oil down by Baku. Their shaft started to scream. They were certain that they had accidentally punctured one of the chambers of Hell. But before they could throw a metal plate over it, they had the life sucked out of them. They say the team was found a week later, mummified." Yuri said that was ridiculous, that it was just a folk tale used to frighten gullible children. But he did not sound certain. The well cried out to them like a clan of naked women roasted over an open fire. Yuri pulled his parka up over his head. "I can't take much more of this!" Piotr backed away from the hole. "Trouble is, we don't even have a metal plate to cover this thing up." They were found a few days later by a hunting party from a nearby town. They were shriveled, tortured and frozen. There was no hole. Just two dead men and a drilling rig in the middle of the tundra. Georg Hundryk spoke for the whole party. "This is not good place for drilling. My mother used to tell me this story ..." --- = written 7/25/04, unpublished (never really felt complete) ===================> DARKVISION: (captured dreams) Hill Street Dream, part 1 of 2 --- I was reading about some bacteria (or algae) that grew on stamps. In fact it only grew on a certain stamp from the Netherlands, and escaped detection by mimicking a not-terribly-rare printing error. I had a few copies laying around the house, so I sprayed Lysol on them, but nothing happened. "This is stupid," I determined, and laid down. There was a knock on the door. The clock said 4:060, just to be annoying. Who the hell? Right. It was Dad, flown all the way out from NY. Surprise. "Well, come on in then ..." "No, no. That's okay." He handed me a loaf of bread (Roman Meal) and warned me very emphatically about an impending earthquake. "You should come back east before it hits." "No, no. That's okay," I said. "Nobody knows what they're talking about." So he left. I hoped he was using frequent flyer points, but he never in fact goes anywhere. I walked around confused, and stood on the corner of Palm and Washington for a while, but the world didn't end. On the way home, I passed through someone else's dream, which was always annoying. First there was an oink, then a moo; all the sounds of a farm getting ready for sunrise. Then there was a farm, and a lopsided barn, and I slipped into the barn to see what all the noise was about. A pig was reading the early edition, snorting something about "politics as usual", while the huge smelly head of a cow looked over its shoulder impatiently. The farm girl came in with a fat crunchy bag labeled FOOD, and started throwing the stuff around. One look at her dry lips told me that she was Ramona, that girl Dylan sung about back in '64. She bumped into my shadow, and gasped, "Bob?" "Um, not exactly," I said. She ran screaming out of the barn leaving a trail of oats. She ran out into the street, and there I was, walking up the hill. "Still no earthquake," I was thinking, looking up at the fading stars. I don't remember who I thought I was talking to. --- CONTINUED in next issue --- ===================> MY NEWS: Just trying to wrap up the year ... I queried on all submissions I hadn't received a response to. I have some new audio poems over at the Sundown Lounge: http://www.larrywinfield.com/sundownlounge.htm CPU (Podcast #112) Live reading 7/1/07 (#113) Smiling sands (#115) The hole (#116) Myths wearing thin (in #117) Here's a better link to my custom postage stamps over on Zazzle.com: http://www.zazzle.com/scottzazz/find/pt-172 For reference, the book covers I designed for SamsDot Publishing since September are: Hungur 3 Sometimes While Dreaming, by Marcie Lynn Tentchoff Potter's Field 2 Pretty, by Philip S. Meckley The Phantom World, by Gary Crawford The Ghost People, by James Steimle The Green Women, by Laura J. Underwood My own chapbook ("Jane Doe Discovered") should be coming soon. "At Ripley's" (poem) (an ode to the Ripley's Museum, of all things) is now online at Helix SF: http://helixsf.com/poetry/Q2_virtes_atripleys.htm "Unusual Vampire Lore" (article) now in Hungur magazine, was nominated for a James B. Baker award. I have a haiku in the Dec 2007 issue of The Shantytown Anomaly. Oddly, I was asked to write a 30-second Christmas skit to be filmed for a church in the Midwest; I got the thing ready & delivered, but filming was cancelled due to a major ice storm and power outage. Ho ho ho, huh. ===================> POEM Whether Alone --- Once upon a time I stood in a place alone reaching for myself rippling the water and shapes moving around reflecting answers with shapes moving around rippling the water and reaching for myself alone in a place I stood once upon a time. --- = 10/86, published in Cat Machine (11/95) ===================> STORY BITES: (clips from old fictional sources) Something dropped on the floor, lay outstretched for a moment, to recover itself, and then began, with the motions of a maggot, to run along the floor. [1] I could see no hand, no body behind this finger, nothing whatever except a finger that had little token of warm life in it, no coloration as though blood circulated in it; and this finger was in active motion creeping along the carpet towards a wardrobe that stood against the wall by the fireplace. I sprang off the bed and pursued it. [2] When I died they buried me in a cheap coffin, dirt cheap, and gave me a nasty grave, cheap, and a service rattled away cheap, and no monument. [3] 1-3. "The Dead Finger" by Sabine Baring-Gould ===================> POEM The Network, Act 2 --- crying streets streets of fear fear of love love you here love in the Network feels like infection moving ahead but devoid of direction. --- 12/86, published in New Word #3 (1987) ===================> 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)2008 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: 2,096 words cumulative: 18,859 words |
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January17, 2008 - DARK WINDOWS #10 - Jan 15, 2008 >> |
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