Secret whisperer from the silent forests of the soul, you have not been forgotten. Memory lives on where once was life, and legacy grows despite the harrowing of time.
The torch shall be passed.
November 16, 2014
From “The Marlowe Toaster Note of November 2013” by Melida N. Wrisley
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, story |Leave a Comment
November 15, 2014
From “The Poems of Chadwick Thaddeus Harris” by Edward Dhakai Schustrich
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, poetry, politics, story |Leave a Comment
Chadwick Thaddeus Harris, known as Tad to his friends but often called Chad or Chaddeus in discourse after two quasi-pseudonyms he used in his early writing, wrote his first poems as an undergraduate at the University of Northern Mississippi and immediately attracted media attention and stiff criticism. After all 1,000 issues of the local student newspaper were stolen to prevent the publication of a Harris poem in 2002, his case was taken up by the national news media and became an intense focal point of discussion. So much so, in fact, that it all but completely overshadowed the poems themselves.
Harris tended to use the common vernacular of unrhymed, unmetered, and often prosaic poetry common to many poets in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, but his subject matter tended toward right-wing causes. Poems against immigration, against affirmative action, and in favor of the controversial military strikes of the Clinton and Bush II eras were just some of Harris’s most-cited works. The fact that he used the poetic vernacular of his contemporaries to espouse cause that those selfsame contemporaries, by and large, found incredibly distasteful, classist, and even racist, seemed to be the source of particular vitriol.
The poems have been claimed by many to have little value as poetry when compared with their value as screed, but the perfect storm of media attention generated by his first few publications established Harris as a cause celebre often held up by right and left alike as a symbol. It’s clear in retrospect how uncomfortable this made Harris, being held up as a paragon on one hand and a boogeyman on the other. In the few interviews he granted, he is consistent in denying any larger political focus to his work, holding that he wrote solely for himself and that readers were seeing what they wanted to say.
Authorities in Hopewell continue to treat his death as a suicide, but have steadfastly refused to release any further details. Harris’s blog, the only public space in which he had any significant presence, contains a final entry that many have seen as serving as a suicide note of sorts, though it is dated more than two months prior to the discovery of his body:
“The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that I am seeing the end of a great age of peace and plenty for my country, to be followed by an age of eclipse, division, and sorrow. What would, I wonder, a Roman have done if they could have known the anarchy that would follow the death of Alexander Severus? As much as I pray I am wrong, I also pray that I will never live to see myself proven right.”
November 14, 2014
From “The Technicult’s Screed” by Cindi Sutcliffe Luchetti
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: American football, fiction, humor, Southern Michigan University, sports, story |Leave a Comment
Statement from The Church of the Anti-Machine technicult on their disruption of the Southern Michigan University Fighting Grizzlies – University of Northern Mississippi Fighting Abolitionists in the second quarter of the GesteCo Bowl football game in Westchester Repeating Arms stadium as broadcast on NBS Television:
MACHINES and INVENTION only DISTANCE humankind from the EARTH and TRUE SPIRITUALITY
It was DECREED by the FOUNDER of the Church of the Anti-Machine that the DEVIL’S DAY has already come
That day was JANUARY 1, 1800, the day our FOUNDER saw the DEVIL and his LEGIONS at work
Through the miracle of ASTRAL PROJECTION TIME TRAVEL our FOUNDER saw the EVIL of the past from 2002
How MACHINES and INVENTION have done the DEVIL’S WORK since JANUARY 1, 1800
RISE UP against the EVILS of MACHINES and INVENTION and SHUN anything created after DEVIL’S DAY
THAT IS WHY we stopped your FOOT-BALL GAME from being SEEN
TELEVISION, FOOT-BALL, and THE INTER-NET are all DEVIL’S WORK from after DEVIL’S DAY
We bore our FLINTLOCKS and TORCHES against them for your SALVATION
Take up your own and JOIN US
Signed,
Henri Nucci Chatham
Primate, The Church of the Anti-Machine
November 13, 2014
From “The Orcish Memory Hall” by Denny C. Franke
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fantasy, fiction, orc, orcs, story |Leave a Comment
The mamihamur of Padihamurah Tuul in Westingbrooke conducted weekly classes in the Memory Hall there, sharing his learned opinion on the interpretation of the Hamurabash with orcs and a few human and dwarf converts after the weekly Memory Service.
Sheniqua Washington leaned in the doorway, listening silently. She could understand Orcish thanks to her stepfather, and Mamihamur Rulih spoke slowly and clearly for the benefit of those who were still learning or who primarily spoke other dialects.
“I have purchased a rifle and a kevlar vest in order to protect my home and my family,” said one orc. “Does that satisfy the requirements of the Hamurahash?
“Let us consider that question carefully,” said Rulih. “The Hamurabash sayeth thus: every man and unmarried woman must be prepared to defend themselves and their community at a moment’s notice, and must therefore have their axe and shield nearby. Which is the most important part of that statement: the defense of self and community, or the bearing of axe and shield?”
“I am not sure,” said the petitioner. “My uncle says that I have betrayed the Hamurabash as rifles and kevlar were unknown in Hamur’s time.”
“Let me ask you this, then,” said the padihamurah. “If Hamur lived today, and he wished to assault an encampment of heretics, religious proselytizers peddling the concept of an afterlife to the weak and the poor, what tools would he use? Keep in mind that the heretics, knowing no Hamurabash, would bear firearms and body armor.”
“Hamur would turn the heretics’ weapons against them, as he would use them in the furtherance of order and the memory of his forebears,” said the petitioner. “I mentioned this to my uncle, though, and he claims that it would be more in keeping with the Hamurabash for Hamur to use axe and shield; he would still surely prevail without sullying himself with the weapons of the infidels, and if we were to follow his example, our memory would be purer for our choice of weapons.”
“Think of it this way,” laughed Rulih. “We honor Hamur through the act of defending and committing memorable deeds. It is preferable to use axe and shield, surely, but sometimes this is not possible. I would therefore keep your rifle and kevlar next to your axe and shield, bearing one to obey the spirit of the Hamurabash and the other its letter. For even if the enemy are armed with rifles, if they close to axe range, you will be at an advantage for having followed the Hamurabash.”
The assembled people in the Memory Hall murmured in approval of Rulih’s logic, and the petitioner seemed satisfied.
He didn’t seem like a dangerous radical to Sheniqua, that was for sure.
November 11, 2014
From “Elbemund Falls to Earth” by Marcia Portman-Gehwagen
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, Freikorps, Germany, jazz, neon, Reichswehr, Spartakists, story, Weimar Republic |Leave a Comment
Weber, carried only by the wind, alighted on the steeple of the Königkirche, still the highest point in the Free and Hanseatic City of Elbemund.
Dusk was coming, but it was still possible to see clearly what was going on in the streets below. The Red Spartakists had erected barricades out of trolley-cars and whatever else they could find for blocks surrounding the Königkirche and were firing from positions behind them and in many of the old row-houses along the Kaiserstraße. Men of the Freikorps apposed them, many still wearing their old uniforms from the front, though Weber saw veterans and sailors in uniform among the Spartakists as well, fighting with red armbands and the weapons they’d borne into four years of slaughter. The cracks of rifles and pistols were broken up by the staccato coughs of Spandaus or the new machine-pistols.
Men of the Reichswehr could be made out by their stahlhelms painted with bright republican colors. They wore gas masks and manned heavy artillery batteries which they fired in support of the Freikorps, and assault brigades moved with precision to ourflank the Spartakists. But in places the Freikorps were attacking the Reichswehr; Weber saw at least one artillery battery cleared out by a man with a machine pistol and turned back on its previous owners. Künstler had been right; the Freikorps were only siding with the Republic out of convenience, and they clearly saw the heavy weaponry as a great prize that could be used once the Red Spartakists were cast down. They probably had starry-eyed notions of driving onto Berlin and shelling President Ebert out of his office and installing His Majesty Wilhelm in the smoking crater that resulted.
Air raid sirens rang over it all, a pall of noise to go with the smoke, and in the distance the neon and thumping jazz of Rotlicht could still be perceived. Weber, slumped against a gargoyle, wept bitterly at the sights, the sounds, and the scents from below. He had to get out of Elbemund, to go further than he had before, to hide and remove himself from the violent conflagration working its way across the city.
He had only begun to toy with the idea when a far-off buzzing attracted his attention. Noisy specks were incoming on the horizon; after a moment, Weber saw that it was a formation of Fokker D.VII fighter planes. They bore the bright-colored cockades of the Entente, but from newsreels and posters Weber recognized that the pilots wore German gear. The formation broke apart as he watched; a group made a strafing run on Spartakist positions and several went down in flames, riddled with heavy machine gun bullets from the Reds or the Freikorps.
The remainder zeroed in on the Königkirche. Weber had been spotted, and he barely had time to move before the gargoyle on which he’d been leaning was shattered by incendiary bullets.
November 10, 2014
From “The Silt River Cover Up” by Liv Rister
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, massacre, story, western |Leave a Comment
“Well, this is a fine situation you’ve gotten us both into, isn’t it?” Milton said, his doughy face brimming with contempt. Beesen was tempted to smash the butt of his rifle into the ex-major’s jaw to try and roll out some of the lumps, but necessity stayed his hand.
“You hear me up there?” the calvaryman with stripes shouted again. “This is the 5th United States Cavalry ordering you to surrender the fugitive Isaac J. Milton. We won’t ask again!”
“That you, Ed Campbell?” cried Milton. “Quit your negotiating and shoot this son-of-a-bitch already!”
“You shut the hell up, sir,” the man–Campbell, apparently–cried. “Do you think we’re here to take you back to the stockade, Milton? Go before a judge and a jury of your peers and all that bullshit?”
Milton seemed suddenly aghast. “What?” he snapped.
“I’m gonna be square with you, on account of that’s the decent thing to do when a man’s about to die,” Campbell continued. “Me and then men here, we think that what you did was just fine. Saved us the trouble of clearing the territory of savages. Lots of people in town do too. But here’s the thing, Milton: those ornery boys back east, with their newspapers and their bleeding hearts, they got wind of what you did. It’s an embarrassment to the brass now.”
“Who gives a flying shit about the brass?” Milton cried, a hint of desperation in his voice.
“We do, when we’ve been promised a month’s pay a man to make sure that ‘the Butcher of Silt River’ eats a .45-70 breakfast.”
Milton had gone quite pale. “What are your terms, then?” Beesen shouted.
“You give us Milton, we let you go,” Campbell said. “With the promise that if you breathe so much a word of what happened here you’ll get the same vittles as Milton. Unless you’d rather wait for the Dog Soldiers, of course. They’ll kill you both, and they’ll do it like a slow roast, honey glazed.”
November 9, 2014
From “Iron Point Light Is Calling” by Smitty Poyner
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, horror, lighthouse, Michigan, mystery, story |Leave a Comment
“It’s not cheating,” I said to myself. “I came out here for digital detox, and I’m doing that. I just need a video camera, that’s all.”
More towers of rocks had appeared overnight on the beach, but the high winds had scoured away any footprints in the loose sand and they would have been lost in all the prints I’d left knocking them down in any event. The gate was still locked, and I couldn’t see any tire tracks.
A little video was all I needed to prove my suspicion that some local good ‘ole boys were having some cheaper-than-basic-cable fun with me.
Setting up my laptop just right and getting the recording settings for its built-in webcam took some time, and I found myself moving in a haze of wandering focus. I could have used my cell phone, I suppose, but that would have required improvising a stand and scaring up an extension cord. When I looked up at the kitchen clock, I’d spent longer on the thing than I had thought. But it would be worth it for my peace of mind, to finally know that the “mystery” of the stacked rocks that Oscar had warned me not to concern myself with.
The webcam ran perfectly, and I’d set it to change to a special low-light mode at dusk. Satisfied, I turned back to the kitchen to gab a snack. Instead, I instinctively backed against the opposite wall in a panic.
Drawers had been emptied, cupboards ransacked, and the resulting detritus piled throughout the kitchen. Piled just like the rocks, as much as different shape and texture would allow. Deeply engrossed in my digital cheating, I hadn’t heard a thing.
November 8, 2014
From “The Bathroominated Ones” by Tabitha Morino
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: bathroom design, fiction, story, the modern bathroom |Leave a Comment
“You was warned, tosser.” The foremost of the men donned a pair of brass knuckles, and Weissmüller could see that they were embossed with the Radiant and All-Devouring Commode–the secret symbol of the Bathroominati.
“But…but all I wanted to do was design a place of comfort and serenity where people might void their bowels in peace!” the fixturemaker protested.
“And all we want to do is knock a little sense into your blinkin’ block for it,” the thug said. “It ain’t square with the Code of the Bathroominati, see? We as a species ain’t never gonna evolve out of the need for fixtures if you make using ’em too posh, berk. They’s got to be the way they is.”
“I’m…I’m sorry!”
“Oy, and sorrier still once we’ve cut your posh fixtures up and forced ’em down yer gullet. Tossers can’t be thinking they can defy the Great Bathroominated Ones without a sound beating from the Radiant and All-Devouring Commode, now can they?”
November 7, 2014
From “The Stranger Post-Mortem of Candon Verbridge” by Trent Hadsage
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: crime, crime scene, fiction, horror, movies, newspapers, reporters, story |Leave a Comment
“I was thinking Chinese for dinner tonight. Wife says I need to lay off, but then she eats just as much as I do when I bring it home.”
“Are you even listening to yourselves?” I said. “Talking about moo goo gai pan when a man is dead and murdered in his own home?”
The officer shrugged. “It’s no worse than one of his movies. You ever see any of them?”
“Yes,” I said, my insides heaving at the splatters of blood and the outline on the floor which depicted the unrecognizable heap in which director Candon Verbridge had been found. “I wasn’t a fan. Too gory.”
“Too gory?” the officer said. “That was the best thing about them. Best splatterpunk director to come out of America during the last fifty years.”
“And you don’t find it at all odd that he was, himself, splattered and cored?” I asked. A police officer with a fondness for splattercore seemed a much better preparation for the scene of a violent homicide than a lifetime of reviewing films.
“Huh. I suppose it is,” said the officer. “Maybe it was a copycat. Some nutty fan. The scene looks a lot like The Scattered Stains, doesn’t it?”
It didn’t just look like that nauseatingly, horrifyingly gory movie, I thought. It was nigh identical, at least from what I could remember seeing through my fingers at the screening. I was about to say something in reply, to confirm the officer’s theory, when a thought struck me:
The Scattered Stains had been about an incorporeal entity that had murdered anyone who refused it.
Excerpts From Nonexistent Books 