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| << April18, 2008 - Dark Windows #16 - Apr 15, 2008 |
May16, 2008 - Dark Windows #18 - May 15, 2008 >> |
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DARK WINDOWS #17 - May 1, 2008 ===== ===== ===================> INTRO I was going to do the usual rambling on an odd topic here, but there is some news that's big enough to promote to this spot. I just won a James B. Baker Award for nonfiction for an article of mine ("Unusual Vampire Lore" in Hungur magazine). This is one of the bigger small press awards out there, so it's fun for me. The irony is that after getting no recognition of any kind for the 450+ stories and poems I've had published (okay - one Pushcart nomination) ... after only about 10 articles, there it is. For more info, try this link: http://samsdotpublishing.com/expressions/mayexpressions.htm (Down near the bottom of the page.) Also, I have agreed to edit two anthologies for Samsdot Publishing. I am co-editor of "INFRADEAD: Tales of Human Extinction" and chief editor of "The Book of Tentacles." Both are now OPEN to submissions. Links: http://samsdotpublishing.com/infradead.htm and http://samsdotpublishing.com/tentacles.htm = scott ===================> POEM Insomnia, Act IV --- Now in the darkness dance passing hints of daylight senses, soft sounds ticking like raindrops upon my desk; the web of nerves upon my retina cast around me in gravelly uncertainty eyes open against darkness veils splitting to reveal a void which must be filled by demands spilling from within; reaching out to set a stage and draw the curtains on some hidden marvel of self or chaos. Yet in the daytime, no matter how long I close my eyes, the spaces do not fill unless I fall suddenly asleep and the scenery grows at the cost of opening a gap in time; strange how I can attune my body over several weeks to selectively effectively erase blocks of time, how I am laid prone in submission, wracked before the harshest critic, myself, headache pangs now challenge my will to remain awake, and I shall fight no longer. --- = 7/87, unpublished. ===================> ODD CLIPS: (clips from old "factual" sources) Cockle-Water. -- The water in which cockles have been boiled is supposed by the Cantonese to possess certain medicinal properties, and is applied to the bodies of persons suffering from cutaneous diseases, and particularly those recovering from small-pox. Cockles are also regarded as lucky food, and are in great demand at the celebration of the New Year festivities. [1] Chinese fishermen sometimes place small wooden or leaden images of the Buddha of Longevity, or some other popular deity, in mussels, which are returned to the water, and allowed to remain there until the figures are coated with mother-of-pearl. The shells are then sold as great natural curiosities. [2] The Chinese suspend old fishing-nets from the ceilings of houses, and spread them over sick persons to ward off evil spirits; they also attach them to the sails of junks with the view of warding off baleful influences. [3] 1,2,3. The Angler's Note-book and Naturalist's Record (Satchell, London), Jan 31, 1880 issue; quoting Gray's _China_ (London, 1878) ===================> STORY Worros (Part 2 of 2) ---- [continued from #16] The demon's crouch became a trifle more menacing. She scraped her talons shrilly upon the cement. "It is not terrible. It is the beginning of Paradise!" Worros, wearily, seeped into a lower posture and tried a new approach. It had never been good at dealing with other beings, and this lady/thing was more than it could handle. "How do you know all this?" it asked, directly. The lady unfurled her wings and stretched toward the sky. Trees seemed to gather darkly around them as she danced a quick circle around Worros. The moon-purity of the flawless sky did not seem to depress her. "I can FEEL it!" she cried, reveling in some unknowable sensation, shining with charms and lures which should have crushed him. "I do not feel anything," Worros said flatly, and tried to be on its way. This time, the girl followed alongside it. She was still trying to soothe his suspicions. "I am a nightmare too, you know. My name is Mirilura. I don't know who first conjured me, but the people I come to are quite ill. They want to be corrupted, drained, thrilled to the point of death. I could have torn you to shreds if I wanted to." There was a group of lights up ahead at the side of the road. Red lights at the rear, white in front ... a car. Something about it excited the woman. She pranced and flapped toward the vehicle, then looked it over and bid Worros follow. It toyed with the idea of seeping into a drain, but knew there would be no safety from her angered talons. The car had run off the road and struck a tree. The tree radiated a very pleasant sense of agony, to counterpoint Mirilura's sickening glee. She had her face pressed against a side window, and urged him to take a look. "The man is dead, he was dead before he ever hit the tree. He fell asleep at the wheel, and now he's fading." Worros extended an eyestalk to peer into the passenger compartment. There was a human inside, slumped bloodily against the steering wheel, his face limp and cracked. As Worros watched, pieces of the man were cracking off, falling like autumn leaves and vanishing darkly in the air. Soon, the man's face was a mere network of lines where the pieces had been. Mirilura opened the car door, and something whuffed out screaming into the trees. "So people are fading," Worros observed. "Wait. Sssh. Listen carefully." And it did. Between the pieces of wind that brushed chillingly against its hide, Worros heard the sounds of pandemonium, distant but building to a frenzy, yet it seemed that the frenzy could never be reached, that the sound it was hearing would rise up to infinity and swallow the stars. The sound was coming from no particular direction, from everywhere. All the eternal victims of summons were becoming free, all the summoners were falling into servitude. So, the world was changing. It was an event which Worros approved of, in a way, but he had no desire to meet any of the other nightmares. Mirilura sensed its feelings. She hunched close to it and ran a hand across its bubbly flesh. "Worros, don't be afraid. You're not ugly, and if you were, so what? We are all ugly in some way, so why compare things? We don't make judgements ... maybe that's why we've been set free." Worros shrugged, a sort of sad ripple which shook his body. "But I like to be alone." The car headlights faded to amber, then lower. Clouds swirled in slowly to command the sky. Mirilura kissed Worros gently, wondering if it could even feel her touch through its thick skin, then realizing it was probably more sensitive than she was. What sort of battered child had first conjured Worros? she wondered, but she did not want to know. Those days of conjuring were gone forever. "Please join us, Worros. I want you to be there." Worros had felt her indeed. Deeply. "I will join you then," it replied. "I will need much ... adjusting." It rose into a taller, thinner form and created a hand to hold. They turned toward the chaos of eternity. --- END ===================> NOW AVAILABLE: The Unlikely Times ... http://unlikelytimes.blogspot.com A journal of odd news. Recent entries include "Lost & Found Extreme", tales of pet lions on the loose, plagues of spiders, rogue trees, Garfield without Garfield, even ... imaginary cars. This is not an advertisement, just another project of mine I thought you might enjoy. ===================> DARKVISION: (captured dreams) Grass Highway ::: I was in the wagon, and they were in the Wagoneer. We chased upon the highway, headed west without purpose. They were doing 70, which was not how Hart usually drove. I zipped around them to make note of this, but then there was a traffic jam. It was the kind of thing that quickly slowed to a halt and showed no sign of improvement. Everyone was parked, out enjoying the warm day. Frisbees were cast on the shoulder between hordes of complete strangers, but we were in a hurry. We headed forward on foot to see the cause, locking up both cars and telling no jokes. It took hours to get to the front, and once there it was hard to believe. A black man handed me a shovel and told us all to get to work. The road ended, and there was just a wild field from that point on; a gnarled and lively tangle of grasses and bushes and clumps of mounded earth. The road ran under it all. Dozens of shovels were flashing at the boundary, tearing out clods and clumps and tossing them over shoulders into pickup trucks. Under the several feet of debris, there was asphalt and white dotted lines of perfect paint. We set to work, knowing we'd never be done. Mom would never get to the flea market that she was complaining about. Nor the old man to California, nor me to the convention in Chicago. The sun showed no sign of setting. --- (captured 1/21/86) ===================> MY NEWS: The new issue of Illumen magazine just came out, with a poem of mine ("the final word"), an article of mine ("Remember the Ancient Mariner") and a cover design by me. And a lot of good stuff from fellow muses. ;-) New book cover designs for Samsdot: - Scifaikuest, May 2008 - Cover of Darkness, May 2008 ===================> POEM Sign Language --- In case of emergency, break glass unsling hose throw valve call for help, Or cover in blanket roll Until flames have departed, Or check pressure pull pin point nozzle squeeze aim, Or pull mask firmly toward y place over nose and mouth (the bag will not inflate) Or or or or In case of illiteracy, Don't. --- = 9/87, unpublished ===================> STORY BITES: (clips from old fictional sources) Medlow looked at the dying girl and sighed, but then -- scientist to the marrow -- he took out his watch. [1] This man had eaten a 4-oz. plug of the strongest tobacco in the world. His death -- probable in any case -- was certain if he were left to himself. Should I use, on his behalf, what medical knowledge I possessed? [2] Around the circle of the roof, in close and curving rows, the grisly trophies hung; dim blots of greater darkness in the shadow, but starting out, in patches where the white light fell, into hideous caricature of humanity, with huge blank orbits where were one time eyes, and shark- mouths grinning to the moon in ghastly travesty of laughter. Among them heads not yet too stale to load the air with fulsome carrion smell; with others, dry and hollow, fantastically nodding to the breeze that frisked where once the brains had worked. [3] 1. story: "A Bornean Revenge", in Alexander Montgomery, Five-Skull Island And Other Tales of the Malay Archipelago 2. story: "A Tight Place", from the same collection 3. story: "Her Father's Head: A Bornean Nightmare", from the same collection ===================> POEM Wall Games --- Consciousness I feel now Realizing I am upon this wall Yearning for release but Incapable of motion; Now I see people in lines Gathering before me. For a dime they each can buy One dart to throw at me, Raking my flesh with sharp scorn. Many of their faces I know Or love. I cannot Recall what I did to deserve the Eternity of their merry laughter. --- =7/87, published in Midnight Zoo v3 #5 (1993) ===================> ABOUT THE AUTHOR Scott Virtes has had over 400 stories & poems (& articles) 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 by 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: 1,930 words cumulative: 35,350 words |
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| << April18, 2008 - Dark Windows #16 - Apr 15, 2008 |
May16, 2008 - Dark Windows #18 - May 15, 2008 >> |
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