30 July 2020

Lazarus Tower

One of eleven surviving short stories/novellas I wrote in a roughly five-year period (2004-2008).

In comparison to the last three stories, "Lazarus Tower" is a downright competent story. It's still bogged down in purple prose, but at least it isn't overwhelmed by sexism/antisexuality. It's essentially Poe-Lite (or Poe-Lite-Lite), making it ... digestable.

"Lazarus Tower" was written at the tail-end of my prose writing period, making it one of my final prose works. Paradoxically, it's the only one existing in fragmentary form; the ending is missing.

Original spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, omissions, and alterations have been preserved for your reading pleasure. Where the original text is missing, a descriptive summary has been substituted.

* * *

"I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE; HE WHO BELIEVES IN ME, THOUGH HE DIE, YET SHALL HE LIVE, AND WHOEVER LIVES AND BELIEVES IN ME SHALL NEVER DIE."

It was those words, from the eleventh chapter of the Gospel of John, that I had had engraved into the surface of the silver plaque, which I had placed above the door frame which led to the staircase that climbed stretched the length of the tower to the sole chamber above; I had thought that whenever we climbed those steps to the apex of the tower, we departed the living death that was existance on Earth, brought to true life when we reached the top, and could step out onto the balcony, brought closer to heaven. Despite the rich colour and the resistance to the actions of time's progressions, I had declined to fashion the plaque from gold; Gold had always seemed to me a boastful metal and colour, full of pride for self, lacking in soul what it did not lack in its power to allure the eye. Silver, however, was far more a mute substance, a humble metal; while its colour attracted, it held not the gaudy intense awfulness terror of its rival, and its sheen clouded in time, obscured by tarnish, while the pride of gold keep it from accepting the slightest morsel of humility and submitting itself to the forces of change. I made the plaque in honour of her, to commemorate the complesion of the building's construction; she was like silver to me, beautiful, yet humble, willinging to trade her outer beauty for the lines and wrinkles of age when the time eventually came without a fuss, avoiding the lusts of vanity and pride, refusing to consider any attempts to obscure her changing features as she came steadily closer to old age. Those words inscribed upon the plaque were in honour of my Lord, who had blessed me with the love and company of my darling Suzanne.

For the first eight years following the complesion of our home and the wedding that followed I kept that plaque shined, keeping the sheen like that of newly molded metal, in remembrance of my gift. After the event in the tower, however, I contined the upkeep no longer; as the years passed, the silver lost its brillance, and grew the dismal flat grey of ashes.

I shun the tower and its uppermost solitary chamber, as do I the entrance that comes before. At the best of my ability, I avoid areas that take me to close proximity to the door and that accursed plaque. I sleep no longer in our original marriage bed, which now remains many decades cold from emtiness, and have taken residence within a former guest room at the far end of the mansion, opposite the door that stays locked, that leads up a sole flight of stairs to a sole room which in turn only opens out onto a balcony, from which the tops of the buildings nearest to us can be seen. I spend many a night awake; when I do rest, it is in unease, with many an unpleasant dream attached.

As of this moment, after a period of several lengthy years, the door to the tower stands unlocked, and open to me. I sit now within the comfort of a large leather-upholstered chair, trembling in fear, my eyes fixed upon the doorway which opens out into the cooridor [?]t which's end stands the open door. Before it is too late for me, I will tell you the whole story, from the beginning. Everything is clear to me, every memory vivid in my mind's eye. I will recall all with complete accuracy. This is not the insane ram-blings of a man driven to madness by guilt and shame; this is the truth.

I was born Steven Edward Queene to Edward Sameul Queene and Melissa Johanna Queene, a rich English couple which owned a series of textile factories, in the city of London, April fourth, 1861. Cursed with ill health at a young age due to the fiflthy air of the city, I was sent away to live with my uncle Richard Milton Queene, in the United States of America, Maine. Unlike my parents, who forever remained frigid toward me, Uncle Richard was a kind, loving soul, who lavished me with gifts and affection through-out my younger years, spoiling me rotten in the process. I remained in America for the remaining majority of my life; I communicated scantily with either my mother or father through letters, and I made only two return visits to London, both in the wake of their deaths.

I met the young poor Suzanne MacAdams in the summer of 1884, at the age of twenty-three. Around my home had been a large section of forest, a thick nigh-on impenetrable growth of trees, the only traverable ground a featureless path worn into the earth. As a pastime, I fregquently enjoyed walks in the woods, making my way steadily on the path, observing the unspoiled nature about me. It was on one such walk that I came upon a still form, lying tangled in the foliage. At first, I had not a clue as to what I was seeing; I krept close to it, making soft steps as I neared, until I was close enough to know what I was looking gazin upon.

It was a young woman, at an age in no way significantly different from my own, beaten and bloodied, her clothes torn and much of her body exposed to me; she had been abused violently, visciously raped, then [?]left for dead by the animals which had committed the horrid crime. She was still alive, a fact I knew from looking upon the rising and falling motion of her chest.

With great care, I took her up in my arms, and make the journey back to my home. As I forced my way inside, the weight of the girl in my arms, I called out to the servants for assistance. They came, and ushered her to a warm bed, retrieving at my request towers and water to clean her wounds; I sent away immediatly for a doctor. In time the medical man arrived, and examined her; he found fractured ribs; internal bleeding, and a concussion amongst her injuries, and informed my that though the damage done was severe, it needed not the attention services of a hospital; after that all she truly needed the most was considerible rest; after setting her broken damaged bones, he departed.

Needless to say, I was present at her bedside when she first regained consciousness. We explained to each other the circumstances which led her to this bed, before she returned to the land of the unconscious She grew stronger as the days, weeks, and months passed by. We became fast friends; holding conversations together between us. When the time came arrived when she had recovered fully from her ordeal, she proceeded to leave, to return to homeless-ness, to prostitution. I refused her exit; I had fallen in deep love with her.

As she had with me.

She stayed there. She kept her room. I bought her clothes, suitable for her and her generous nature; as well as aquisitions which suited her fancy. Uncle Richard oppossed her prolonged stay, however, as she had been a prostitute and my uncle had been slow to forgiveness. He came to accept her prescence in time, however, and learned to love her as an additional member to the family.

We stayed together, Under Uncle Richard's roof, for four years; we had not come to know each other intimately yet, as I was saving myself for marriage, and she had come to reproach the caresses of others.

In May of 1888, I made a proposal of marriage to her. She accepted. the May of the following year, we got married. Our daughter, Lauren Emily Queene, was born to us nine months later. The years On her first birth-day, construction began on our new dream home; the foundation was layed in the city.

I personally designed the house. Using knowledge I had obtained about engineerin construction, I drew the sche-matics for the building. The tower was meant for my wife, for Suzanne. Her own small paradise, a place where she could look out, and gaze upon the whole wide world stretching beyond. It was for her. Only for her.

It all went wrong few short years later, when she began having an affair with Chester Arnold Keaton.

I do not understand how, why, it occurred. I cannot explain it. She became withdrawn, no longer confiding with in me. She began to send time away from home for hours at a time. She claimed to only be going on walks, to escape the atmosphere of the mansion. A resonable explanation, if not for the unrealistic amount of time yet I could sense something amiss.

I began to suspect the existence of the affair when in contact with the Keatons, as I witnessed the looks of un-easiness that they exchanged. The existence of this affair was confirmed when I spied them together, on the bed within a guest room, her atop her under the sheets, grasping and squeezing her body. They failed to spot me. I stole away to another area of the mansion, well away from their act of adultery. I wept then, shfting cries of anguish and morose melancholy, able only to thank God that Lauren was away at school, unable to ever witness the abom-ination that was proceeding under the roof of his very own home.

I never revealed my knowledge to her, though I began to suspect that, within her, she had come to know that I knew of the affair. I grew morose, and no longer spoke to her. I was angered, yes, but more than anything truly saddened. Our marriage was over, figuratively if not literally. Yet I continued to love her. To the last second together, I continued to love her.

It came to a climax on October seventeenth, 18[?]3 1900.

Ever since the complesion of the house, I had never took a step into the tower without her permission, as the tower had been for her, only her. Yet with my happiness gone, I disregarded wthis unofficial rule, seeking comfort in nostalgia. I came to that door, and, taking one, sorrowful [?]glance up at the tarnishing silver plaque above, I turned the knob counter-clockwise, and pulled the door open. I stepped past the threshold, clos-ing the door behind me, proceeding up the staircase at a leisurely pace, my left hand upon the varnished ebony banister. I soon came to the door which would lead into the tower's single chamber. I twisted the knob, swung open the door, taking a step within.

There, standing in the centre of the opulent room, were they! Keaton and Suzanne!

I had passively detested their horrid affair, and had avoided violent confrontation up to that point. Yet here they were together in this room, in the tower, the physical manifestation of all the love I had ever and would ever have for Suzanne. It was a travesty. It was a blasphemy! It was a desecration, a violation, of this shrine I had designed in the name of my love for her, to have them, him, together here to fornicate! This freakshow would end, now!

I dived forward, taking a heavy oak chair into my hands, bringing it up over my shoulders. As Keaton started, turning to me, I brought the solid wood down upon his cranium.

Suzanne had begun to regain her consciousness as I completed tying the bonding of Keaton's bloodied corpse to the same chair I had slain him with. Her eyes fluttered open, and muffled cries attempted to escape her gagged mouth as she became aware of her own bonds keeping her secured to her own solid oak chair.

I turned my gaze to her, sorrow clearly etched upon my features. "I've known, Suzanne. I've known for some time now. You shouldn't have come up here. Not with him."

A series of muffled outcries were uttered as she began to rock forward in the seat of her chair. I stepped away from the limp form of my dead rival, a crossed the room to the twin glass doors that opened up on the exterior balcony beyond. I twisted the knobs and pulled the doors toward me, opening them, causing a brisk gust of wind to be drawn inward; I quickly pulled both occupied chairs to the open doors, positioning them at the [?] threshold, affording my Suzanne a sight of the beautiful, brillant sunset.

"I love you Suzanne," I uttered, placing a final kiss upon her forehead. "And I always will."

Her groans and writhings ceased. Within her eyes I saw a grim understanding. As well as an form of pleading in her eyes, not for her life expression I could not read.

I departed, taking not one look back, and closed the door behind me. I locked it, shambled down the echoing steps, then stepped out once again. I closed the door, pushed the key into the keyhole, and turned it, a resonating click hit my ears. I would never see that door open again until a number of decades later. decades passed.

I had told Lauren that her mother had left, and that I did not know where to.

For reasons I cannot define, the buzzards never gathered at the top of the tower to devour the rotting flesh which they surely should have had easy access to inside.

Six Decades have passed, and I am now an old many of ninety-five. Lauren is sixty-six years old, married to a Joseph Andrew Arquette, and has had two children: Edward Solomon Arquette — twenty-six, David Emil Arquette — twenty-four. Edward in turn has a daughter: Maria Lauren Arquette, who is twelve, and possesses an unfortunate taste for that ungainly "Rock & Roll" pseudo-music. I have one daughter, two grandsons, and one great-grandaughter.

I continue to live in this decaying mansion, despite Lauren's misgivings, cared for by servants as if I were but an infant. I am a feeble ancient creature, mere dry parchment on a brittle frame, slowly decaying. Only my mind is still alert, still alive. I am aware that the lock unlatched itself, without a human hand's touch.

She comes forward now. She is not how I imagined her. As a putrid, bloated corpse with green skin, blisters, and writhing maggots spilling from empty sockets. As an animate skeleton, clad only in decayed rags. She looks much as I do. An emaciated frame, brittle bone covered over with mummified flesh, relatively intact dress discoloured and fragile from age and rot, her hair dry as straw and devoid of its former sheen.

Her eyes, round glassy orbs, which I expected to be filled with loathing and rage, possess instead sadness, regret ... and love.

A grasp the left armchair with my arthritic talons, uttering a large gulp of panic. "I-is your lover with you, Suzanne?"

[Suzanne informs Steven that she has come back alone. She then explains to him that on the day he confronted her and Keaton in the tower, she hadn't brought Keaton there for a tryst, rather to break off their affair and rekindle her romance with Steven. She then tells him she harbours no resentment towards him for killing her. Steven then dies. Later, Steven & Suzanne's bodies are discovered later by family members, curled up together on the floor. The end.]

29 July 2020

George Lowell's Last Stand

One of eleven surviving short stories/novellas I wrote in a roughly five-year period (2004-2008).

The sequel to "The Crone-Maiden", it's just as pretentious and antisexual. To add injury to insult, there's a heaping shovelful of sexism on top of it. I never identified as an incel, and didn't even know the term at the time, but this story has all the tell-tale signs of underlying resentment towards beautiful women.

Original spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, omissions, and alterations have been preserved for your reading pleasure.

* * *

This is it. Tonight will be the seventh night. She will come, she will knock, she will ultimately force her way within to get at me. Tho-ugh I am severely weak, I will resist her power; I will make my last stand.

Her name is, or, perhaps I should say, was, Maria Cortez-Rodrieqez, a woman who is, and was, a woman of low moral fibre, a flirtatious brat of a female with vile thirsts and vile partners. Men desired her body, and she willingly gaze her body to them, allowing them perimission to perform any obscene sexual act upon her which they wished to utilise. Her darkness, her amorality, or perhaps immorality, her utter disdain for the male sex and chastity both, attracted the unearthly entity which came and took her soul as its own.

At some point in the recent past, something crossed over from a location unreachable to us to our world, from beyond our very universe,. At some point it found Ms. Cortez-Rodrigez, returning from her night shift at Escher Pysychiatric Haspital, and entered her physical form itself, possessing it, and obtaining complete control. It found, more or less, a willing host in this physically attractive Latino woman, whose dark thoughts were apparently not at odds with its own. Whatever its initial goal upon reachingEarth was, I believe that agenda concern has possibly been already taken care of.

For unknown reasons, she began to attempts to seduce me.

Ever since I had lived within this apartment complex I have known her, since she is my neighbour; however, I am of physical traits substandard, below her taste rin regards to masculine physical charms, and she had never before expressed an interest in me. Yet now she had begun to flirt with me, to speak in of risque subjects in seductive tones, put light touches upon me, and flaunt her body suggestively to me in revealing items of clothing. Regardless of her advances, I denied her. She had had no power over me. She would not have any power over me.

If I had not gratified myself, alone within the privacy of my ch-ambers with her in my thoughts.

I am but a mortal, sinful man, imperfect and always short of true glory. I had vainly resisted physical fornication with her, but I had not seen mental sexual congress and immoral or detestable. Yet as I climaxed that first time, in my mind's eye I saw her elegant features twist into a grotesque [?]alistic sneer of triumph, and I knew she had won; I was hers, I had lost, and I collapsed in sudden weakness. The next night commenced with the first of the physical seintercoarse; she forced her way into my room, undressed, and I willingly caressed her smooth, shiny curves as she drained more of my life from me.

The sessions of sex continued with each night. And know it is the seventh. I will die if she is penetrated once more. So, with my last vestiages of strength, I have retrieved the shotgun and shells from my bedroom closet, and now wait here at the end of the hall, opposite the main door, the barrel levelled. I now hear a loud rap upon the wood, a husky address, then more raps upon the door.

Suddenly, the door is forced in, and a sexy Latino woman bounds in, pulling open her nuse's uniform to exposed round, voluptous breasts.

I pull back the trigger, and her head disappears in a red mist.

The End

27 July 2020

The Crone-Maiden

One of eleven surviving short stories/novellas I wrote in a roughly five-year period (2004-2008).

This is a prime example of the junk I was producing at the time. I had recently discovered Lovecraft and immediately took to emulating his style. Or trying to emulate; I was a sixth-rate hack, plain and simple, using my small vocabulary of big words to prop up subpar writing. The sex-negativity is also strong with this one; another distasteful quality of my writing which I've thankfully overcome. Plus a bonus demerit for "hauntingly sensual pseudo-Teutonic"; this prose is so purple it's bruised. 😬

Original spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, omissions, and alterations have been preserved for your reading pleasure.

* * *

There are many universes parallel to our own. Each of these universes is very much like ours, but each one differs in ways either subtle or profound. In a myriad of realities exists worlds counterpart to our Earth, orbiting a sun or suns, often populated with humans (or human subspecies). On a number of planes, including that of our world, sci-ence holds sway; and the forces of magic are oppressed, kept in states of ineptitude and relative impotence. On others, though, the reverse is true.

The quantum universe the Crone-Maiden calls home is one such world.

Born originally from the same progenitor universe ours ultimately ties its origins to, this alternate Earth possesses the exact principals which govern our continuum; yet history there is widely divergent from our own, and the languages and cultures known to us have no counter-parts there. It is a technologically degraded society, dominated by feudalism, and the rise in atheism and rationalism has turned many of the spiritually hungry toward nature worship and self-denial.

You may now ask how I know of the existance of this universe, and the details of. Let it be said that there are many special projects sanctioned by the United States Government, the existance of which remains intentionally undisclosed to the general public. The project I was assigned to dealt with experiments involving wormholes and the manipulation of the fabric of spacetime. In on particular experiment, there was a horrific accident, killing many scientists, and depositing me into a rip in spacetime.

In the blink of an eye, travelling faster than the speed of light without truly travelling faster than the speed of light, I took an extradimensional trip sideways through time.

I landed in a fiflthy bog pond located with a dark bower on the far side of the world. The journey had left me disoriented and nauseous, and the birth into this world had been turbulent; thus, I slipped into semi consciousness. I pitifully flailed my arms about as liquid slip over my fingertips, and water entered my lungs. Just as my vision was obscured, I glimpsed a hazey white mirage located within the treeline beyond the pool's shore. I sank forever, and the murrky brown-green around me went red, then black, as I felt a nearly indiscernible touch on my hand.

Somehow

Somehow,  I had not died. When I awoke, I found myself dry before a popping and snapping camp fire, laying amongst the trees, yards from the pond I had landed in. And I was not alone. Before me, on the opposite side of the orange blaze, stood a woman. I started, and scrambled back-ward a number of inches.

She stood there unmoving, her gaze upon me. She was a tall, young woman with an appearance of twenty-six years of age. She possessed striking Scandainavian features: long, straight blonde hair encircling a face with high cheekbones and flowing down over slender shoulders, while piercing eyes of ice stood under near invisible eyebrows and over a straight Nordic nose, which in turn was stationed above a pair of full pink lips; her skin, which possessed a glow originating not from the flames, was pale, a soft peach which gave brillance to the white volumous robe she wore over her body.

Her facial features lacked expression, yet her eyes stabbed with a ra-venous hunger. With a swift, effortless move she unfastened her obscuring robe, drawing it open and exposing me completely to me her naked body.

I gasped. Naturally, I would have turned away, pled to her to redress. Yet at that moment I was entranced, frozen, and suddenly aroused.

She was voluptous, all firm curves. Her body was flawless, her taut breasts and buttocks shaped and proportioned perfectly — neither too large nor too small. Her entire body below the neck was lacking altogether in body hair. Her radiant skin had a exotic shine to it, as if having been anointed with oils. Her robe hung loose and hanging from her arms, in a single lithe movement she glided toward me, lowering herself to the grass.

Lay with me, she drawled in a husky, seductive voice. The voice had not issued from her lips to my ears, but from her mind to mine.

She removed my clothes as swiftly as she had her own, and thrust her body against mine; my erect organ penetrated her smooth, shaven, tight, orifice. She uttered a moan of ecstasy, a true moan, not one of tele-pathic origin. I ran my hands over her smooth, hairless body, fondling her firm bosom and posterior. We melted together, and she brought her robe up and over us, hiding our sex from the outside world. I cannot say how long we coupled. When we climaxed, she withdrew from me, a smile on her perfect lips.

We have shared each other. You are mine.

With those words suddenly came an influx of images, thoughts, memories. As I grew aware onf the gravity presented within these uploaded items of data, a horrendous dread seized me.

This is what I quickly learned to be the truth of this hauntingly sensual pseudo-Teutonic. Hundreds of years into the past of this universe separate from mine, this girl had once been human, an innocent daughter to a pair of kindly peasants until she had been seduced by a darkly hand-some man from outside her home village, a reputed sorceror who dabled in the black arts. He awoke in her heart lust, and stole from her her chas-tity and virginity; feuled by evil, she willingly devoted herself to her immortal lover and his diabolical practices, sacrificing her own parents upon a stone altar in his honour. They stayed in the village of her birth; in time, they came to be feared, and reproachable , their house avoided by all.

As the years went by, the townspeoples' hatred for the two demon-worshippers grew in potency. Though they had engaged in the most profane acts of inter-course, they had been unable to spawn any progeny. In order to fulfill their desire to pass  their knowledge on to a younger generation (as well as for the ritual sacrifices they observed on a monthly basis) sthey had begun to steal into the homes of parents, and kidnap their little ones. Finally, after finallu retrieving evidence that directly connected the two magicians with the missing children, a murderous mob organised, and came in a wave to their cottage weilding farming tools and flaming torches.

They forced their way into the dwelling, overturning tables cluttered with obscene objects and shelves stacked with tomes covered in obscure characters and frightful covers. They beat down the two lovers, then dragged them out in the open and into an animal cage. The riot forced open the basement door, where they found children, and the remains of children, huddled together in piles upon the stone floor covered in filth. The two criminals were given not any trial, but were instead led out into the forest depths by wagon, where their cage was ultimately unloaded. The carriage departed, and they were left to die within under the dark canopy of trees.

The sorceror eventually died, from hunger and thirst; what became of the girl, I could not positively identify from the content I had absorbed, but I do know that in the wake of her husband's death, an unquenchable hatred arose with her, as did an undying addiction for vengeance. She embraced completely the powers of the dark side, was transformed, and in doing so lost any humanity that had remained in her after her slaying of her own parents. She became a living corpse, forever immortal and youthful, yet bound to the forest wherein her partner had met his end; if ever she were to cross beyond the trees of the woods, she would immediatly age and die. She was unable to return to the village, unable to exact her revenge.

In time, she escaped the cage that had been her prison, and continued to develop her black magic. She knew she could not go to them, but, how-ever, they could come to her. A plan began to form.

She began a daily pattern in where she would build a large fire at the mouth of a cave she had located and begun to dwell within, the idea to attract any passersby within the forest in search of passible shelter. A year had passed since her lover's demise when she encountered her first wayward traveller, a homely young male amateur cartographer. She beck-oned to him telepathically, inviting him into the foul depths of the cave which smelled of rodecaying flesh and mould, where she seduced and lay with him, enslaving him forever.

This procedure would commence anytime she encountered a man capable of intercourse. For years since her transformation, she would on occassion encounter vagabonds, exiles, disgraced and dejected theives, Sodomites, adulterers, murrderers, etc. Weakening their minds with her abilities and seducing them with promises of pleasure or power, she would have sex with them, and hold them for many dawys, until their essence was spent and they became living corpses as she was; their minds would remain active, but they would have no control over their own bodies, which were commanded only by her to do one thing: bring living men to her, to increase the numbers of her minions and take her revenge against the members of the living.

Tales of the living dead girl and her cadaverous servants, as relayed from escapees who had managed to avoid the fate of those undead forest-dwellers, begun to circulate amongst the villages and towns nearest to the forest. They came to know this undead and undying witch as the Crone-Maiden, as she was as ancient as she was youthful.

I returned to reality as a sigh of satisfaction, a true vocalised one, escaped her lips. She rose to her feet, pulling her robe back into place and tying it shut, hiding her body once again within the sexless robe. I lay there, frozen and naked, breathing heavily from the sex and the terror that came with my newfound information.

"You — you used me!" I stuttered, excstatic. "Took advantage —"

I merely released your inhibitions and gave you what you would have wanted, she thought. Your essence is spent for now, but in time you will be replenished, and we will experience each other once more.

And that is when my mind snapped. In a fraction of a second, I went from sane to frightened to completely and incurably insane. My throat tore as a frightful amnimal howl escaped, and I was up and off before the pleased smile of my tormentor could vanish. All I could think of was my likely fate, and knew death was my only escape. I ran headlong back to the stagnant swamp pool, diving into the water and algae, fighting downward to the bottom, in hopes of drowning myself; as the liguid, I felt the slender but strong arms of the Crone-Maiden encircle me, attempting to haul me up and back to dry land.

Suddenly, I was elsewhere. I was still wet, but layed out upon a plat-form of titanium steel, not floundereing in filthy water. I was semi-conscious and full of nausea, yet I could make out dark shadows, damaged machinery, and smouldering corpses. Above and around me stood the forms of scientists in white loaboratory coats; all wore, as near as I could tell, fearful and concerned expressions upon their faces.

"Sturrmer!" one obscurre visage uttered, his or her voice distorting as I slipped out of the conscious world. "What happened? Where did you..."

The voice faded. Just as darkness overcame me, I turned over on my side; as I did so, a brittle, grey skeleton, clad in a white robe, came apart over me and scattered around the platform in pieces.

It would seem that the rip in spacetime that we had created had remained open after the initial incident, and had not sealded shut after I had passed through into the alternate reality. When I had raced back into the pond in search of death, I had stumbled into the rip which had originally brought me there, and returned to my familar world. It would seem that as the Crone-Maiden had caught me, she as well had gone through to the portal. As she was bound by magic to the forest, when she left her entire universe for mine, she aged rapidly and was nothing more than bones when we arrived. The author-ities never did learn about the nature of the female skeleton, or where I had gone; the rip had never closed, so the goverment cancelled the project, and had the base closed down and put under heavy guard.

As for myself, I never did recover. I am as mad now as I was mad then. For you see, although the Crone-Maiden's physical form had ceased to function, she was not dead! My initial ramblings upon regaining consciousness after my return led me to my comitmittal to an insane asylum. I was put in straight jacket and padded cell to in order to protect me from myself, yet nothing could protect my dreams from her visitations! My first night there, I was visited by the Crone-Maiden within my troubled nightmares, where she slept with me again, and has been doing ever since; she is as beautiful as she was in life, and as pleasurable.

But now she tells me that she tires of incorpereal existence and incorporeal lovemaking! She desires to dwell within the natural world again, to have intercourse with live flesh!

Now, at this moment, I hear the sound of the door of the padded cell unlockeing; and watch as it swings inward. In steps a woman in a white nurse's uniform. She closes the door, locks it, and turns to me. She is visibly dissimiliar from the Crone-Maiden I remember, a Latino with long black hair, brown eyes, and an olive complexion; yet she is tall, and as alluring.

"I just want to say," she uttered, as she began to unbutton her dress. "I never planned to absorb you into the ranks of my living dead slaves. You are not of the stock that killed my husband and dis-graced me, thus you were never subject to my venegence. You were meant to be my new bridegroom, and I was to place within you eternal life. You and I would have ruled the forests together, and took of the flesh of the living together. Now that cannot be. But I can still give you solice, some comfort to make the rest of your life in imprisonment somewhat easier. Do not worry, my love, I will visit you often, and give you vast pleasure until the day you die."

She pulled open her uniform, exposing a smooth, shiny voluptous body of firm curves and hairless features. She left the white clothing drop to the padded floor.

I scream now, as she comes to me, forcing my pants down, my mind shattering further, thankfully, into animal nonsenttience.

The End

18 July 2020

Stargate Reimagined: Part II (Rough Draft/Fragment)

I completed my first draft of Stargate Reimagined: Part I in July 2016. Almost a year later, I began writing Part II, but quickly pushed it aside due to all the stuff I had on my plate at the time. Almost three years later, I'm finally ready to get back to work on the script.

What follows is the incomplete rough draft I wrote in 2017. It consists of a recap of Part I, the opening titles, and a single scene introducing Samantha Carter. I'll be taking the story down a different direction from the one I initially envisioned, so most of this won't carry over into the first draft.

* * *

FADE IN

On the Haru Guard SIHATHOR standing within the pyramid on the planet Abdju, a pendant bearing the Eye of Atum held up to the iridescent black stargate rising before him. Behind him, crumpled upon the floor, is CAPTAIN JACK O'NEAL of the United States Air Force.

As the pendant glows in Sihathor’s hand, the nine panels on the stargate bearing the symbols for Earth light up. Within a second the entire stargate powers up, unleashing a geyser blast of glowing quicksilver to form a bridge back to Terra.

As Sihathor stands there, basking in the silver light of the rippling puddle, O’Neal picks himself up and staggers over to an energy rifle lying upon the floor. Picking it up, he takes aim, wavers on unsteady knees, then fires. The plasma bolt blasts right through the bomb’s arming mechanism, disabling it automatically. Spinning around, Sihathor finds O’Neal standing there with the rifle in hand. Growling, he takes a running leap for the captain.

INT. LADY OF SLAUGHTER/FAIZAH’S CHAMBERS -- TWILIGHT

Aboard the starship perched atop the pyramid, FAIZAH, first prime of the war goddess Sekhmet, strides forward, dark folds of her brown robe unfurling behind her like the wings of a fallen angel as she approaches SHA’URE, a young Abdjuan woman. Battered but alert, Sha’ure scurries backward, fishing around inside her robes until she gets her hands on a pistol. As she pulls it out, Faizah lunges, seizing the girl’s wrist in her right hand, knocking her aim off as she pulls the trigger. Activating the punishment jewel worn over her palm, the demigoddess begins to rearrange the atoms in Sha’ure’s forearm.

SHA’URE: NGHAAAAAAH!!!

Faizah releases Sha’ure’s arm before the jewel can work any serious damage, taking a step back as the Nagadan girl cradles her wrist in agony, evaluating the helpless creature. Faizah brings her hand up again, reactivating the punishment jewel -- not to realign the molecules of Sha’ure’s body this time, but to pulverize it into the floor with a force blast.

DANIEL: No!

Collecting himself, Egyptologist DANIEL JACKSON rushes headlong for Faizah, but the demigoddess is quick to redirect her blast, knocking him back as he comes within reach of her.

FAIZAH: (frowns) I am no longer amused.

Leaving Sha’ure where she lies, Faizah moves over to Daniel. Crouching over him, she seizes the crown of his head in her right hand, engaging the dark jewel within the centre of her palm to deliver him a most grisly finale.

INT. PYRAMID/STARGATE CHAMBER -- TWILIGHT

O’Neal seizes Sihathor in a bear hug as he comes to him. Wheeling him around, the captain then headbutts him, breaking the Haru Guard’s nose and knocking his head back. Using fists, knees, and elbows, O’Neal turns the tables against Faizah’s first. Locking his leg around Sihathor’s, he brings the Haru Guard crashing down.

Pinning Sihathor in place, O’Neal then brings his heavy, armoured boot down on his throat, crushing it, bringing this conflict to a close.

INT. LADY OF SLAUGHTER/FAIZAH’S CHAMBERS -- TWILIGHT

Faizah and Daniel are locked together, her hand upon his head, the energies of her punishment jewel wreaking havoc upon his nervous system, paralysing him in place. Daniel’s very face begins to ripple, the molecules swelling and contracting. Within seconds, Daniel will be dead.

Sha’ure then comes to Daniel’s aid. Attacking Faizah, she elbows the larger woman in the back. Distracted, Faizah’s concentration breaks and the punishment jewel goes dim. Turning on her heel, she backhands Sha’ure across the face, sending her sprawling and quickly ending her role in this fight. With the matter-displacing energies of the punishment jewel no longer working upon him, however, Daniel’s been bought the opportunity he needs. Lunging at Faizah, Daniel sends his hand forth, plunging it deep into her abdominal pouch. Pulling out a white worm -- Faizah's prim’ta -- Daniel tosses the alien creature clear across the room.

FAIZAH: NGHAAAAAAH!!!

All thoughts of anything else forgotten, Faizah’s rushes over to the prim’ta, intent on preserving its health. Daniel and Sha’ure are quick to use this opportunity to escape.

INT. PYRAMID/ANTECHAMBER -- TWILIGHT

O’Neal steps into the antechamber, dragging the dead form of Sihathor behind him. Bringing it around, he deposits it directly beneath the inactive ring transporter.

O’NEAL: Give my regards to the Pussy Queen, asshole.

The captain presses down on the colourless crystal adorning his left gauntlet, activating the ring transporter.

INT. LADY OF SLAUGHTER/BRIDGE -- TWILIGHT

Having returned to the bridge, Daniel and Sha’ure head on over to the ring transporter. Climbing atop the platform, they then hear the mindless raging of Faizah in the distance. Entering the chamber, face red and contorted with rage, the demigoddess charges them.

The ring transporter activates at that very moment. White light shining up from the platform under their feet, the five iridescent black rings of the ring transporter rise up to surround the pair, cutting Faizah off from them. With a flash of silver light, they are teleported away, Sihathor’s severed head taking their place upon the platform.

Faizah ROARS.

INT. PYRAMID/ANTECHAMBER -- TWILIGHT

The ring transporter disengages. Daniel and Sha’ure find themselves back down inside the pyramid. O’Neal is there waiting for them, face hard, the pendant clasped in his hand. Sha’ure recoils when she spots the decapitated body lying at their feet.

INT. PYRAMID/STARGATE CHAMBER -- EVENING

O’Neal, Daniel, and Sha’ure enter the stargate chamber. The stargate has returned to its dormant state, the connection to Earth severed. Raising the pendant up before the gate, the captain closes his eyes, his brow furrowing as he concentrates. In moments the Eye of Atum glows anew and the stargate reopens.

O’NEAL: (hands pendant to Daniel) It’s a key to the stargate. It can open the door to Earth. It can probably open other doors, too.

Taking Sha’ure by the arm, Daniel takes a step forward toward the gate. She stops him from stepping through, though, when she hears a GROAN. Leaving the gate, they walk over to MASTER SERGEANT ADAM KAWALSKY. Picking Kawalsky’s limp form up between them, Daniel and Sha’ure head for the stargate. They only stop when they notice O’Neal isn’t joining them. Indeed, he has turned his attentions to the bomb. A makeshift dead man’s switch has been jury-rigged into the weapon.

DANIEL: (dumbfounded) I thought we agreed to dismantle the gate on the other side.

O’NEAL: And you will. That’s your job now.

Taking hold of the switch, O’Neal engages it.

O’NEAL: (cont’d) I’m gonna stay here, make sure this goes off.

Daniel is ready to protest, but the captain silences him with a steely gaze.

O’NEAL: (face softens) I’ll be seeing you around, Dr. Jackson.

Resigned to the captain’s decision, Daniel exchanges solemn glances with Sha’ure. Together, Kawalsky held between them, they step through the stargate, leaving the pyramid and the whole of Abdju behind for all time. O’Neal watches the lovers vanish through the portal, his gaze lingering there for several moments.

As the ring transporter activates, O’Neal turns his attention to the antechamber. The ten rings pile up over the floor, white light shining down through them. Silver light passes down through the rings, then the transporter deactivates, leaving Faizah and seven Haru Guards standing there, all attired in their armour, armed with energy rifles.

Capt. Jack O’Neal releases the switch and the world goes white.

INT. CREEK MOUNTAIN/LEVEL 28/EMBARKATION ROOM -- DAY

Daniel, Sha’ure, and Kawalsky are spewed from the gate into the dark abyss of the embarkation room in the Creek Mountain military installation. Hitting the ramp, they take a roll, tumbling end-over-end until they come to a stop near the base.

After tending to Sha’ure as her first bout of gate sickness takes hold, after checking Kawalsky to make certain the sergeant suffered no further injuries transiting through the stargate, Daniel turns to look upon the glowing doorway which links Earth with Abdju. There then is a sudden burst of intense white light and that link is violently severed, casting them in pitch darkness.

CROSSFADE TO & PAN ACROSS

The details of an inactive stargate.

TITLE: STARGATE II

ZOOM OUT

To reveal this stargate is installed within a dark, frozen chamber of extraterrestrial design.

FADE TO

A shot of the moon hanging ghostly in the clear blue sky.

ZOOM OUT & PAN DOWN

To a panoramic shot of an archaeological excavation site centred around a partially unearthed Egyptian-style temple situated in a desert landscape of large dunes.

SUPERIMPOSE: "THE RUB' AL KHALI, FOUR MONTHS LATER"

INT. TEMPLE/ANTECHAMBER -- DAY

The antechamber, without doors or windows, sealed since construction, is dark. That darkness, undisturbed for eight millennia, is quickly dispersed as shaped charges in the north wall go off, blowing the wall in and admitting dim light from the other side.

As loose stones and debris are cleared out of the way, FIVE INDIVIDUALS enter the antechamber, all attired in the Airman Battle Uniform of the USAF. Leading this outfit, heavy-duty flashlight in hand, is CAPTAIN SAMANTHA CARTER, commanding officer of this operation. Though blonde, blue-eyed, and very beautiful, Carter is no stereotypical Hollywood ditz. Everything about the captain's manner -- her relaxed but disciplined stance, her keen, attentive gaze -- indicates she is quite the intelligent, resourceful woman.

The south wall of the chamber, unlike the surrounding walls of bare, unadorned stone, is decorated with a beautiful, intricate mosaic of precious gemstones. This mosaic, circular in pattern, surrounds a round depression set three-fourths of the way down the length the wall, at about chest height.

CARTER: Lieutenant.

LIEUTENANT ROBERT ROTHMAN, Carter's archaeological consultant, motions for an airman to come over. The airman steps up to Rothman, a small, latched case in his hands. Opening the lid, Rothman reveals what appears to be an oversized, jewel-encrusted gold doorknob nestled inside. Taking the "doorknob", the lieutenant turns and gingerly approaches the decorated wall. Bringing the knob forth, he slides it into the depression; its jewels come alive with varicoloured light.

CARTER: Careful.

Rothman takes a folded print-out from his left breast pocket. Unfolding it, following the archaic Arabic instructions, he begins cautiously turning the knob. Counter-clockwise; clockwise; clockwise; counter-clockwise. Once he has finished entering the combination, the mosaic lights up, glowing along with the knob. Pulling the knob free from the depression, the lieutenant steps back as the wall slides up into the ceiling.

INT. TEMPLE/BURIAL CHAMBER -- DAY

Carter and her men enter the burial chamber. The chamber is circular, devoid of decoration, empty save for the stone sarcophagus at its heart. Approaching the sarcophagus, the Americans find a coffin inside. Decorated with gems and hieroglyphs, arms crossed over its chest, it brings to mind the gorgeous coffins used by the pharaohs. Unlike the pharaonic coffins, however, its been carved from dark gray naqahdah, its non-humanoid face bearing a long, curved snout and long, flat-topped ears.

CARTER: (rests hand on coffin) Magnificent….

18 April 2020

Inner Beauty

One of eleven surviving short stories/novellas I wrote in a roughly five-year period (2004-2008).

This is one of my better short stories of the time, to the point, without most of the pseudo-Lovecraftian purple prose which defined my writing at the time. The wording's still cumbersome, the narrative saturated in the antisexuality and misogyny I was harbouring at the time.

Original spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, omissions, and alterations have been preserved for your reading pleasure.

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With the removal of the last of the stubble, he discarded the razor, letting it splash and sink through the scummy, tepid water to the bottom of the porcelain sink. He picked up his guaranteed method of protection, like more than a yammaka fashioned from aluminum foil, and placed it over his freshly shaven scalp; over this he placed a wig of brown hair, maneuvering it into position, making certain it coveringed the silver metal and appeared as nothing other than true human hair. Making certain everything was perfect in the mirror, he reached out a flipped a switch, casting the small bathroom into darkness. He stepped out of the bathroom; pulling from his pocket as he did so a small blue cell phone; he flipped it open, dialled the desired cell phone number, then brought it up to his ear. After three short rings, there was a click as someone picked up.

"Astarte?" he inquired.

"Yeah, speaking," the feminine voice replied.

"A heard from a friend about the services you provide."

"Really?" the voice took on a seductive quality.

"I could use a friend tonight."

"Give me your name and adress, sweet putz," she cooed.

He gave it.

"Be there in a while crocodile," she uttered. The line then went dead.

He smiled, then closed the phone and returned it to his pocket. He entered his living room, and took a seat upon his sofa and waited. Twenty minutes passed, and a ring issued from the doorbell. He pushed himself up and off the sofa, walked to the door, and opened it. There, standing at the threshold, was an alluring Goth woman; her piercing blue eyes contrasted with her eye shadow, pale skin, and dyed-black hair, clad in a black tank top, leather wristbands, black leather miniskirt and thigh-high leather boots. A penagram and inverted crucifix hung from her neck.

She stepped inside, giving a wink and a smile as she chewed blue bubble gum. "Where and how you want it?"

"In the bathroom," he uttered, butterflies crawling about the interior of his stomach. "I like taking girls from behind, but I like to watch their faces in the mirror" as I do it."

"Sure, hon," she winked again. She walked into the bathroom, activating the light as she did so.

She pulled down her miniskirt, revealing a tantalising firm posterior clad in a jet black thong; she positioned herself over the sink and spread her legs.

"Take me hard," she moaned, a sigh escaping her lips. "Hard and slow."

He smiled, teeth revealing themselves. He reached into the waistband of his pants behind him, and pulled out a gleaming chrome .44 Magnum, loaded and ready to fire. As Astarte waited for penetration, black-lidded eyes closed, he took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. The weapon recoiled in his hand, and the loud resonating bang pained his ears. Her torso disintegrated in a fountain of blood and innards, few of the tissues actually human. Along with drops of crimson, fluid the colour of lilacs splashed the walls, light, and mirror. As the slain woman collapsed, inhuman tentacles spilled out, twitching slightly before going still.

He wiped a string of extraterrestrial tissue off from his forehead, smiling at having rid the world of a deadly alien creature world of the alien parasite.

The End

16 January 2020

Bartman vs. The Destroyer (Original Version)

This past October, I shared "Bartman vs. The Destroyer", a transcript of a short story I wrote for my fifth grade class back in 1997. I decided I would be remiss if I didn't then share scans of the actual physical copy, as they came complete with crude, partially coloured illustrations.

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Even with illustrations providing context, the story remains nonsensical if you haven't read the Bartman comics I wrote in 1996-1998 or know about Bubblehead, the anthropomorphic bubble character I created in '97. I can only imagine what the teacher made of it after I handed it in to her.