Fiction: "LIghts Out!" by Devin J. Meaney

Lights Out!

Fiction by Devin J. Meaney

Jack stared out into the liveliness of the street with disdain. As all the kids walked by in their colorful spooky costumes he couldn’t help his hateful writhing. It was true that if it wasn’t for those kids he wouldn’t be here—as he didn’t “come to life” until he attained his “true” face. But oh—how the knife hurt as his crooked smile and triangular eyes were cut and widened, the hacking and slashing of the plastic orange blade plummeting deeper and deeper with every twist and turn of their wretched little wrists. The kids laughed with festive glee as they carved him into existence for another year, and although Jack’s screams were silent he could hear his own bellows ringing within the confines of his freshly birthed mind right from the start.

Oh, how he wanted them to pay for his suffering. Just like his true face and the sentient existence he learned to hate, if it wasn’t for those kids he wouldn’t have a hot seething flame burning within him.

Jack wondered aimlessly.

What the hell kind of name is Jack anyway?

They gave him the same name every year and placed him on their front porch as a decoration, and as more and more children came to collect the offerings of the night he continued to get lost in his own little world. He couldn’t move and he couldn’t speak. He was nothing more than just a festive ornament, his mind and his thoughts meaning nothing to the oblivious tricksters and treaters of Halloween. He wanted his torment to end, but as the night progressed the chaotic whirlwind that swirled within his fleshy orange cranium continued to seethe and boil as the dim light inside of him flickered on, orange shadows dancing in the blackness that consumed the front porch and all that surrounded it.

For hours his plague pushed forth, and just as he was reaching the peak of insanity, his personal hell nearing completion, he saw three older youths approaching the porch. He knew what was coming next. His mind teetered into a frenzy.

Do it. End it quick, you little wretches…

They picked Jack up from the front porch, and with a symphony of dark cackles they smashed him into the ground. Three good well placed kicks ended him, his vibrant orange guts spilling out into the street. He would be left to rot until he was cleaned from the pavement, and just as his mind flickered back into the direction of non-existence, his hatred exploded into his thoughts just before they were snuffed out for another year.

…Lights out!

But on an endless cycle, he would return the very next year. Year after year his curse continued, and just like the spirit of Halloween, Jack’s seething soul would never truly die—nor would it ever truly “live” again…

A tribute to M Teresa Clayton

Known for her evocative poetry, imaginative fiction, and insightful reviews, Teresa Clayton was long an inspirational member of the literary community. In addition to her contributions to Asphyxium Zine since 2015, Clayton penned a collection of hauntingly beautiful written works including Judith, Mystic Verses, The Umbral Garden, Storyteller, and My Name Is Metaphor. Tragically, she recently lost her battle with brain cancer, leaving behind a legacy of creativity and passion. In honor of her memory, a selection of Clayton's poignant poems from her Facebook groups have been posted at the webzine, shared with permission a few months ago. These verses, others at the webzine and those in her Facebook communities invite you to explore her unique perspective on life, love, and loss. For those who wish to offer condolences, Clayton's profile remains a place of remembrance and reflection. Clayton’s 2015 and 2016 interviews for Asphyxium provide more insight into her artistic journey and literary influences. As you take a moment to immerse yourself, explore the intricate, vivid imagery woven through her poetry, and connect with a truly remarkable writer.

M Teresa Clayton: https://www.facebook.com/The.Mystress.Clayton

M Teresa Clayton Official: https://www.facebook.com/groups/M.Teresa.Clayton.Official
M Teresa Clayton Official: https://www.facebook.com/groups/749177879163371
M. Teresa Clayton's Collaboration Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/159584241176098
Mystic Verses: https://www.facebook.com/mysticverses.thebook
A Mindful Death: https://www.facebook.com/M.Teresa.Clayton

Interview from 2015: https://aeafanzine.blogspot.com/2015/10/poet-interview-m-teresa-clayton.html
Interview from 2016: https://aeafanzine.blogspot.com/2016/02/author-interview-m-teresa-clayton.html
Poems written by Clayton: https://aeafanzine.blogspot.com/search/label/POEMS
Fiction written by Clayton https://aeafanzine.blogspot.com/search/label/FICTION

Fiction: "Some Days" by Devin J. Meaney

Some Days
Fiction by Devin J. Meaney

Some days the weight of the world is absolutely crushing. I wake up, try to put my feet on the floor, and then I hobble downstairs for a smoothie and some toast. Some days are good, some days are ok, but others I fall into the abyss, sunlight destroyed; the rain from above not literal but visibly there. Some days I walk within a blackened haze, the lights flickering and weak and the sound of my own voice within my head as deafening as the silence that often surrounds me. Some days are good, some days are ok, but some days could definitely be better.

Then I open a new box of Nicorette and pour myself a coffee and realize I’m just a bi-polar man with multiple addictions. At that point the deafening silence is reduced to clarity, I put on my shoes to go for a walk; then I make the move from black to grey—I step into the light—and I thank the world for Nicorette and coffee.

Thank you, Nicorette and coffee,

Sincerely—a bi-polar man multiple addictions.

Flash Fiction: "Don’t Look!" by Devin J. Meaney

Don’t Look!

Flash fiction by Devin J. Meaney

(Based on sleep paralysis)

I was laying in bed and my limbs and neck were as frozen as the icicles hanging from the gutter by my front porch. I wanted to close my eyes, but they too were entirely stuck; fixed upon the shadows, so distant, yet so close.

I was surrounded by darkness and blackened smoke, Cheshire cat grins Lurking; dancing across my walls. Their glinting eyes like hellfire gems—pure chaos. At one point I did manage to close my eyes, but that only brought the evil grins closer still. Then came the crying from under my bed, like wailing pushing forth a dance of the damned. My eyes were open yet again. I sighed to myself amidst the blackness.

“Don’t look!”

The crying continued, like a baby in pain. I knew it was not a baby though—it just wanted me to look. I sighed to myself amidst the blackness yet again.

“Don’t look!”

Then, in a rush, I was dragged from my bed by mighty invisible hands. I may as well have been a corpse, and as I was dragged to my floor I murmured and stuttered in agony. The sorrow filled cries did not cease, but I could not bring myself to look beneath the bed.

As I thought my end was near I burst forward to alertness. I was awake now—and I made haste to turn on my reading lamp. The crying had stopped, but the message in my mind was all the same.

“Don’t look!”

Fiction: "When Children Feed" by Devin J. Meaney

When Children Feed

By: Devin J. Meaney

The nameless thing writhed with malignant intent as its many appendages caressed my shivering and distressed body. Its numerous eyes glistened in the low lighting of my bedroom as its many teeth gnashed in its many mouths, each one as gaping and cavernous as the abyss. The stench of necrosis permeated the air bringing forth a gagging sensation like no other…rancid like week old flesh left out in the sun.

My thoughts began to swirl. What the hell is this abomination? How did it get in here? What does it plan to do?...but my rapid mental pacing did not garner an answer, nor did I have the ability to speak. Each second felt like an hour as I counted the saliva drips oozing from its mouths, and all I could do was gasp as its tentacles licked at my torso like a kitten lapping up fresh milk.

Just as I thought it couldn’t get worse, the thing started to pulsate. The sound of its heartbeat quickened in pace, slowly but steadily rising as it eventually climaxed reminding me of a cross between tribal drums and machine gun fire, each beat ringing out like a blast of audible vomit spew. I could only muster up the internal strength to mumble three words. “Mother of God”.

Then, with blazing quickness, its tentacles wrapped me in a hug of death, tugging this way and that way as if multiple boa constrictors were competing for the same boar. I struggled to breathe as my body was being crushed to oblivion, and just as I was lapsing out of consciousness…the thing spoke.

“Feed…my…children.”

Its voice was purely serpentine, and it was emitted not from its mouths, but seemingly from the atmosphere within my bedroom as a whole. The thing released its grasp on me slightly and I breathed in deep…half choking on large gulps of pungent air. The tentacles were no longer tugging at me and they were now holding me in place…leaving me to dangle in the air like a codfish on the end of a fisherman’s jig line. With some struggle I managed to question the monstrosity. “What do you mean?”…but it only repeated its first utterance.

“Feed…my…children.”

I swayed in an almost catatonic stupor as the thing pulsed. Its heartbeat started to diminish in quickness, and by now its tentacles were not writhing…they were rigid and frozen in place for some ungodly reason that was at this point unknown to me. After a moment, the thing started to squirm again and what happened next I will remember forever, the pure horror etched grotesquely within my mind. The tribal sounding lub dub lub dub lub dub continued at a steady pace, and as I swayed, its many mouths started to veer into each other, slowly becoming a grisly and contorted mass of one. Its teeth retracted and re-grew all in one spot, giving the appearance of a fang-toothed void that could surely only be the maw of a spawn from the depths of hell. Then, in a bellowing rage, it spoke in a guttural tone louder and more maniacal than before.

“FEED…MY…CHILDREN!”

From its mouth came what seemed to be a massive tongue, covered in what I could only guess were egg sacs. Each sac, about the size of a grapefruit, vibrated and hummed along to the beat of the creature’s heart... “dancing” almost rhythmically as if they were performers on some sort of freakish and outlandish stage. The thing’s eyes rolled back into its head, mottled and milky white like demonic orbs of the damned…then came the needle.

Growing from the back of its throat a “needle” like no other I have seen before penetrated the blackness within the monster’s jaws. Like a bone siphon, it stretched forward, its tip like an elongated syringe birthed from the infernal regions…sharp as a comic’s wit and more menacing than bull sharks in a blood frenzy. I let out a whimper and prayed for my saving grace…but no God nor angels came to my aid.

The needle grew closer and closer to my neck and I could only plead and moan as the tentacles held me in place, each moment bringing forth pure terror as the sweat beaded from my body and my hair stood on end…my own heart almost racing out of my chest. I closed my eyes and waited for a slow death, but just as the needle was about to penetrate my jugular…daylight.

I sat up in my bed, consumed with panic and alarm unrivaled at any other point in my life. I looked around for the creature, but there was nothing but clear blue sky outside my window…and my cat casually grooming himself as he relaxed on my bedspread, low purring coming from him at extended intervals. The sweat that covered my body was soaking through to my mattress and my heart was still thumping as if I had been running a marathon in my sleep…but calmness soon washed over me as I figured it had all been nothing more than a dream, a ghastly one which I hoped to never live through again.

Shaking my head, I put my feet to the floor so I could get up and start my day. My phone had multiple missed messages and it seemed as if I had been called in to work early…but due to the extreme terror I had just lived through that was the least of my worries. All I wanted was a hot black coffee and a cigarette as long as a pencil…but first, I had to wash up. The odor of sweat in my bedroom could be likened to a locker room or the aroma of an unwashed ne'er do well who hadn’t showered in weeks.

I soon went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and gave myself a quick “hooker’s bath”, washing the important parts of my body as I still contemplated what the hell brought on my night terror. My dreams were usually peaceful and such nightmares were an uncommon thing for me…but again, I was just happy that it was over.

As I was leaving the bathroom, something caught my eye in the mirror. At first I thought I was seeing things, but on closer inspection I realized there was a small puncture hole in my neck. As I realized the severity of this horrid truth, a serpentine voice could be heard pulsing through the atmosphere.

“…Thank you!”

And at that moment…I realized I may never sleep again.

END

Reposted with permission from the author

Fiction: "The Silence Of The Donairs" by Devin J. Meaney

The Silence Of The Donairs

By: Devin J. Meaney

Inspired by: L Lorne Tompkins

The aromatic wafting of herbs and spices permeated the air within Silencio’s Pizzeria, a “mom and pop” shop located in North Sydney, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. The fragrance of pizza, garlic fingers, chicken wings, burgers, and the famously known Cape Breton donair was prominent in the shop’s dining room as dozens of patrons heartily ingested the delicious offerings brought forth by Bill Silencio and his highly adored recipes that kept many an islander happy and well fed.

It was coming to the end of a busy Saturday night and Bill was working in the kitchen preparing an order of the “special” donair that was Silencio’s main menu staple. One of his most valued customers, known only to Bill as Clarice, was waiting patiently at the counter for her much anticipated blast of flavour and freshness. She had just gotten off work, and she was as famished as a plant worker after a large shipment of shrimp…a feeling known to many blue collar men and women in North Sydney and surrounding areas.

When the order was finished, Bill brought the donair to the counter in a cardboard box and happily greeted Clarice with a smile.

“Why hello Clarice…nice to see you again. A long day at work, eh?”

Clarice just nodded and made some casual banter. Just before vacating the shop, she looked to Bill and shot him a beaming toothy grin.

“I’d like to know what you put in this stuff. The men at the station go screaming mad for it. And the sauce is absolutely to die for!”

Bill chuckled and waved a final goodbye, but he was soon back to work in the kitchen. The shop would be closing in under an hour and he had a few more orders to complete before Saturday night came to an end. After three more orders of garlic fingers, two dozen chicken wings, and a meat lover’s pizza, Bill flipped the sign on his door from open to closed. After about twenty minutes, the last patrons of the night exited the building, and he was once again all alone in the dimly lit pizzeria. He quickly did a final cleanup of the kitchen, washed the last remaining dirty dishes, and sweeped and mopped the floors. Just after finishing up in the kitchen, he went down into the basement to check on his “food supplies”...the well kept secret that Bill Silencio aimed to take to the grave. After close inspection, he deemed Sunday’s supply fit for sale…and the sound proofing of the walls and basement ceiling made damn sure that nobody heard the screams.

The shackles that were strung up in the basement hung as a symbol of a wealth of nefarious deeds, and the faint whimpering coming from the back corner was but a mere tip of the iceberg when it came to the truth about Silencio’s. Rita MacNeil could be heard (or “not heard” due to the sound proofing) pulsing through Bill’s speakers as he started his ghastly work, and the mumbles of Steve Murphy were present in the background…but Bill was not paying attention to the T.V. He was preparing a donair spit for the coming day…and the whimpering from the back corner would not last through the night.

Just before going back upstairs, Bill yelled as if he was about to start singing a song.

“It puts the sauce upon its skin or else it gets the spit again.”

But the spit was inevitable. The whimpers were destined to go as silent as the donairs Bill served, and the patrons of his shop would be none the wiser about the grisly truth surrounding the delicious and spicy delicacy. The secret ingredients would remain a mystery and Silencio’s would prosper for many years to come.

Clarice was right. The sauce truly was to die for...

Reposted with permission from the author

Fiction: "Red Devils in Darkness" by Devin J. Meaney

Red Devils in Darkness

By: Devin J. Meaney

The dive should have only taken twenty minutes but after about forty five it was clear that a quick ascent would not be feasible. The depths were illuminated by only the light of our cameras and what was looming above could only be described as a frenzied haze of red flashes and ink swells...like clouds of liquid smoke cascading downward into a blackened abyss.

I floated in silence, each moment reminding me of an eon in purgatory. I still had about an hour in my scuba tank and so did my partner Madeline, but at this point that was the least of my concerns. The flashes of vibrant red that were penetrating the darkness were getting forever closer...and growing in numbers at an alarming rate. My thoughts began to race.

Man, we need to get the hell out of here!

I motioned to Madeline to point her camera’s light to the sea floor in hopes that no jumbos would notice us. She quickly pointed the lens downward and did her best to cover the light with her left hand. I did the same. The light was still visible, but was now less of a beacon and more of a dim glow. But this brought yet another problem: The darkness was now even darker, and our surroundings became but a mere silhouette of dark green, black, and deafening silence. I began to gather my thoughts to think of a solution.

A humboldt flashes like that when it is feeling aggressive. If we ascend to the surface now they will eat us alive. But if we stay here, we will run out of air. What the hell are we going to do? Shit, we really got ourselves in a God damned pickle. Hell...

Not able to think of a way to fix our problem I continued to float in despair. It seemed as if we were destined to be lunch meat for an army of red devils and the future was looking as bleak as it was ever going to be. That’s when I saw Madeline freeze and go as rigid as a razorblade.

From a watery hell came a tentacle...and then another...and then another. Razor tipped whips began to embrace Madeline, and strangely enough it was done gently. But this would not fool us. If we made a single wrong movement we would be torn to shreds and they would find our mutilated carcasses adrift, or on a beach slowly decomposing in the sun. At first it was just Madeline, but then the jumbos started to inspect me too.

They did not come from above...they came from below. Any plans of an escape had been foiled, and it looked as if our shivering flesh would soon be fodder for a monster’s beak…but we did not give up hope. We just kept as still as possible in the gentle current as the tentacles continued to probe us. Madeline slowly put her hand to her head in the form of a gun and made a bang! motion with her fingertips. She was usually quite fearless but I could tell she was shaking like a leaf caught in autumn’s wind.

More jumbos came from the depths and soon we were surrounded by at least ten of the beasts. Their whips, like tendrils of the damned, began to swish and flick like worms caught on a hook...and within a brief moment I could sense that the humboldt’s hostility had been heightened. Just as we thought things couldn’t get any worse the squid from above seemed to notice us and they too began to make the descent to check out the dim glow of our diving cameras. Feelings of intense peril began to seep into my heart...

Fuck...

Seconds seemed like hours as packs of ravenous cephalopods swarmed us, their grotesque appendages darting ominously closer...and closer...and closer. In a fraction of a second, one of the vile creatures grabbed me and started to shake me like a paint can at the hardware store. Through a bleary fog I could see Madeline being pulled in various directions, her limbs soon contorting like a scene from The Exorcist.

Just as I was about to accept my grisly fate, with rapid-fire quickness the squid that were holding us captive blasted downward. The squid from above followed in unison, and in less than half a minute Madeline and I were once again floating alone in the swells. My heart rate slowly decreased as I realized that we, at least for a moment, were out of harm’s way. My thoughts were a confused daze.

What the hell just happened?

My only guess was that a school of fish passed by and the squid were lured away with promises of a hearty feast, a feast that did not include wet suits and the cold steel of our scuba tanks. I motioned to Madeline to stay still for another moment, but we soon made our way to the surface, and after a short swim we made it back to “La Barracuda”...the small fishing boat we hired to take us on our not-so-pleasant sea faring adventure.

When I made my way on board the boat, I quickly took my mask off and choked in the pungent salt air and yelled to Madeline with delight.

“Holy fucking hell I never want to do that again!”

She just smiled as tears rolled down her cheeks. We were scared to death, but it appeared that the sea did not consume us...at least this time. Even though we planned to keep to the land for a while, we would make the journey downward into the abyss again. Sunken ships and salt water would forever be in our blood, but we hoped to only find ink in story books.

If the sea would allow us the privilege...oh God, we could only hope.

END

Reposted with permission from the author

Fictoin: "Lagartija" by Devin J. Meaney

Lagartija

By: Devin J. Meaney

It was a glacial January morning and Jack Lagartija was sipping on his first espresso of the day. The buzzing of the heat lamps that were placed all through the studio was almost inaudible...but their warmth attempted to permeate Jack's bones.

God damn! Jack thought to himself as he clasped his icy hands together, rubbing one against the other vigorously. I have lived in this wretched city for seven years now, and this winter stuff never gets any easier!

Jack hated the cold. Every winter, he would always wish he was sitting on a hot rock under a blistering sun, or maybe in a sauna at one of the fitness centers downtown he was known to frequent. He basked in the hotness of the nearest heat lamp for about thirty seconds, but he knew it would soon be time to start his work day.

Jack had three minutes before the cameras would start rolling. He reported the news at the crack of dawn every day, but the last few minutes before he would be on screen always seemed a bit hectic to him. He downed his espresso, and with one last coat of 'beautifying' makeup, he was now ready to let the earth know what has or has not been happening in the last twenty four hours. The countdown to air time was just about to begin, and Jack quickly adorned his brimming sickly-sweet smile that was well known throughout Metropolis.

Lights. Camera. Action!

''Good morning, and thank you for choosing Metropolis News. Today, the city braces for a blizzard, and as far as snow goes, it seems as if there will be no end in sight until late Thursday. High winds and traffic congestion can be anticipated, as the looming storm is expected to pummel the city, breaking last year’s record snowfall by a considerable margin.''

Jack licked his lips, preparing to continue his spiel. This had been his routine for the better part of a decade, but it never did cease being a chore. Monotony seemed to be an ever present aspect of Jack's life, but he managed to push forward with an increasing loathing for his profession.

The show must go on. Within an hour I will be out of this place!

''Emergency crews will be on stand-by to assist anyone caught out in the weather. Both the police and the fire department are urging folks to stay indoors, as icy roads and downed power lines may limit available transport. Medical professionals will be working overtime at Metropolis General, as serious injury and ailment may become a factor within the next two days.''

The daily news continued for a few moments as Jack droned on with false ardor. He finished up his weather report, longing in silence for the work week to end. He really wished that he was stationed somewhere else. Maybe down south where he could put his feet up, relax, and indulge in a stiff martini when his day came to a close. A place where heatwaves were rampant and the intrusion of snow was a foreign concept.

Jack licked his lips once again, and the glimmer of his forked tongue evaded notice on screen. The slightest hints of scales were beginning to emerge on his face, and his makeup was slowly starting to run down his cheek. The majority of the citizens of Metropolis failed to notice, though. Most of them were too dull to fathom the reality surrounding Jack Lagartija. Only those firmly planted within the higher echelons of society were privy to the complete truth behind his gleaming smile. Only a select few had the capacity to stop him.

''In other news, recent UFO sightings have been dismissed by NASA as weather balloons, leaving some locals disheartened. Mayor Martin Reptil has addressed claims of visiting extraterrestrials as pulp-grade fiction, sparking chaos amongst true believers. Conspiracy theorist Zachary K. Candor insists there will soon be an alien invasion, but the majority of Metropolis has concluded that he should trade in his degree for a tinfoil hat. Still, there are some who wish to believe little green men have come upon the city, and are now disguised as high profile figures and politicians. They expect malevolence.''

Jack froze as he read the text on the prompter. He tried to maintain his composure as the veracity of this report sunk into his brain.

No! I assumed they were all too dumb to figure out the truth. There may only be a handful of them, but that is still too many!

Jack's eyes glared vacantly at the camera. He never expected even a single person to unveil his plot. He loosened his collar, his hands starting to tremble as he pondered his current situation. Jack's temples were pulsing and he now had a headache that could be likened to a train wreck within his cranium. He needed to urinate badly, as his cloaca was responding poorly to the recent news. The veritas of his mission needed to remain confidential. The public needed to be kept in the dark.

After many thousands of years of evolution, his species had now made it to earth in a hunt for clean water, air, and other resources. They had destroyed their previous planet from centuries of neglect, and now they planned to claim this terra as their own. Jack refused to be thwarted by the lowly scum that called themselves humans. After seven years of preparation, they had come too close to fail now. Nothing would stop Jack and the others from achieving their one goal. Their plan called for the eradication of the human sub-species. There were not enough resources for both to thrive. This was survival of the fittest.

Keep it together Jack. Damn it, keep it together!

Jack was nervous now, but the broadcast needed to continue.

''Nearing the border, migrant detention centers have been springing up rapidly in what is assumed to be an attempt to quell illegals from gaining access to the country. Government officials have been silent on the topic, but some surmise that a shadow corporation known only as MONITOR is responsible for their construction. Thousands of asylum seekers have been detained. Once again, Zachary K. Candor has been present with his theories, but as always, most refute his claims as nothing more than vibrant fantasy.''

Jesus, they are even trying to steal the food right out of my mouth!

''Up next, sports columnist Jade Iguane interviews hockey legend Don Matthews about his recent signing to the Metropolis Rhinos. Please hold for a brief commercial break.'' As a slew of commercials began to roll, Jack decided that now was the time to give Martin Reptil a call. Something needed to be done about Candor. He was getting too close for comfort, and without the intervention of MONITOR, Jack feared that he may just be the wrench in the gears that would halt production at the migrant facilities. Within minutes, Martin was on the phone, and Jack could tell by the tone of his voice that something was afoot.

''Martin, we need to put a muzzle on that conspiracy loon Candor. He is going to ruin everything!''

Jack waited for a response, and after a few brief seconds, Martin replied.

''I know Jack, but don't worry about it. It has been taken care of. He won’t be a threat much longer. MONITOR has already been notified. Very soon it will be as if he never existed. Our time is coming, Jack. But I need to go! I have business to take care of.''

Martin hung up the phone. After an ample sigh and a trip to the lavatory, Jack retreated back to the news room. Jade was now in the middle of interviewing Matthews, so he decided it was time to have something to eat. He pulled his lunch box out from under his desk, removing its contents delicately. Jack took a whopping bite out of his 'mystery meat' sandwich, quietly contemplating Candor and his prying ways. Jack was still worried, but the hurried chat with Martin calmed him down immensely.

Outside, the weather was reaching whiteout conditions, and Jack was unsure if he would be able to leave the studio when his broadcast was over. Braving the squalls was probably not an option. This was no big deal, though. He had spent many a night hunkered down at the studio. He would just confiscate one of the heat lamps to keep his office nice and sultry.

After a few more minutes, Jade finished up her interview, and it was now time for Jack to continue his reports.

''And that's all for now! Back to you, Jack!''

''Thanks, Jade. Great interview! This week, students of Rising Star High will be raising funds for their renowned hockey team, The Rising Stars! In their gymnasium on Friday, there will be games, treats, and the chance to win three V.I.P. seats at the Rhinos game Sunday night. Tickets for this contest are five dollars each or twenty dollars a book. The hype is on, and Rising Star high is hoping for a great turnout! Let’s all hope we can dig our cars out by then, because right now, it's a rager out there!''

Jack smiled at the camera, the majority of his viewers looking on in blissful ignorance.

''And speaking of contests, The Story Forge Writers Collective is now accepting short story submissions for their upcoming anthology. Writers everywhere are flocking to the Wilfred Oram Centennial Library to get their works read. Only stories ranked within the top tier will be printed, but thousands are hopeful that their tales will be chosen. The Story Forge Writers Collective produces the best fiction and non-fiction in all of the land, and this is expected to be the competition of the year!''

Jack chuckled internally.

Good. Good! This will keep their minds off Zachary and MONITOR for a bit!

He pushed on with his reports, the minutes passing at a sluggardly pace.

Jack was elated that the citizens of Metropolis had something to occupy their witless minds. Like dogs chasing their tails, the locals would continue to busy themselves with insipid endeavours, the bulk of the masses ignorant to the encroaching invasion and the soon-to-be reptilian uprising.

The conspiracy theorists were still out there, though. MONITOR would need to continue stifling their painfully inquisitive probes. Their numbers were minimal, but even a single person speaking against MONITOR was one too many. They needed to be removed from the limelight. Their silence was essential to the fate of the new world, and Jack would do his best to make sure they were quickly nullified. Jack continued to beam with pseudo enthusiasm, his brilles glistening in the mild glow of the camera.

''Moloch Avenue and Calotes Drive are now closed due to the weather. Only local traffic will be permitted to enter, as city workers are struggling to remove snow from the area. A few trees have also been uprooted, making travel increasingly laborious. Metropolis- wait. Hold on, we are now receiving a breaking report.''

Jack's thoughts began to swirl. What the hell could this be?

He braced for the worst, as anything was possible within the city of Metropolis.

''It is with our deepest sympathies that we announce this breaking coverage. Zachary K. Candor has just been found dead in his upscale loft on Stratagem Street. Police are now investigating, but foul play is not believed to be a factor. His newest journal The Reptile Agenda was just about to hit the press, but sadly, fans and admirers of his work will now have to look elsewhere for their conspiracy needs. Funeral arrangements will be announced at a later date.''

Yes. Yes! That beautiful creature Martin has done it again!

Jack's heart made a jump, almost bursting from his chest with spastic delight. Martin had come through with flying colors, Zachary now 'magically' erased from view of the public eye. With Candor gone, there was now nobody to front any rebellion against MONITOR. The contest for The Story Forge Writers Collective would also aid in the cover up, and with Rising Star High having a contest of their own, Jack knew that there was now nothing stopping him and his associates.

Jack thought with mild ecstasy. Nothing can stop us now. This terra will be ours within the month!

Although Jack now felt like it was time to party, he was still on screen and needed to remain calm. He pushed on for a few more moments, knowing soon it would be time to read his final report. Within ten minutes he would be sipping a martini in his office with his true face turned to the warming glow of one of the heat lamps. Within the grand scheme of things, very soon the streets of Metropolis would flow red with human blood...and Jack was now riddled with extreme anticipation.

We're in the home stretch now, Jack!

Jack's beaming sickly-sweet smile now radiated with genuine contentedness.

''To finish off for the morning, we now bring you a heart warming tale. Just under an hour ago, a kitten lovingly named 'Mittens' by her owners had managed to climb a tree, getting herself stuck on the highest branch. Her owners feared that she was lost to the storm, but the bravery of the Metropolis Fire Department knows no bounds. Fire chief Susan Lucertola and her colleagues rushed to Mittens' aid, and after a few attempts, she was brought safely back to the warmth of her home on Chuckwalla Street. This story is one of dozens we have received today, proving once and for all that the city of Metropolis is in good hands. My name is Jack Lagartija, and thank YOU for choosing Metropolis News.''

The credits began to roll, and Jack took no time rushing from his desk. He waved a goodbye to Jade and the other people working at the station, grabbed the nearest heat lamp, and quickly made off to his office on the third floor. He could not wait to take his makeup off and shoot a few martinis. The blizzard was still raging outside, but everything was set in motion. The mother ship was so close now...

Note: This story was the winner of the CBRL (Cape Breton Regional Libraries) summer short story contest for 2020.

Reposted with permission from the author

Fiction: "Devin Stoddard: Vampire Hunter" by Devin J. Meaney

Devin Stoddard: Vampire Hunter

By: Devin J. Meaney

Devin Stoddard held a stake firm in his battered and manly hands as he stalked his pale yet menacing prey. The garlic necklace hanging from his neck brought forth a pungent stench…and the crucifix in his back pocket gleamed slightly in the moonlight as he made his way through the graveyard.

His familiar, Charlie, followed quickly yet quietly behind him…eager to kill…yet wary of the fanged ones that may or may not creep silently from their forsaken tombs. This was their third hunt just this week, and they had already bagged nine fanged ones…but this hunt was different. They were on the trail of an elder vampire by the name of Jinne…and rumor told that he had an entire brood under his twisted thumb, one big enough to turn all of Cape Breton into nothing more than a mere feeding ground.

The graveyard was silent, but Charlie inevitably broke the quiet with an utterance.

“Master…when will I get to kill again?”

Devin put his fingers to his lips motioning for Charlie to muzzle himself.

“Quiet you. You will be able to have fun soon. Right now we need to locate Jinne’s tomb. If we cause a disturbance before then it will awaken all the other filth. We need to corner Jinne alone…with him gone, the others will perish within days.”

Charlie simply nodded and continued to tail Devin. He was loyal to his master, and he knew that if he was successful in the hunt he would be handsomely rewarded. The flesh of the deceased would be his hearty meal…with a side of as much lettuce as his dark soul desired. Lettuce was Charlie’s favorite.

The duo made their way to the midpoint of the graveyard and it seemed as if no vamps were in sight. Devin was expecting the surrounding woods and marshes to be teeming with undesirables, but it seemed as if they were alone in the cemetery. Aside from the chirping of crickets the quiet continued…but again, Charlie felt the need to speak.

“Master…why is this Jinne so dangerous? We have caught many fanged ones and they were always easy prey. Why is this one different?”

Knowing they were alone, Devin turned to reply.

“Jinne is thousands of years old. Rumor states that he has ten times the power of an ordinary vamp, and his horns extend toward the heavens like spears of ancient bone. His fingers are clawed like a spawn from the deepest darkest depths…and just the shrill of his voice is enough to leave you breathless.”

Charlie shivered.

“He sounds delightful.”

Devin chuckled quietly.

“Yes…the delightful-est.”

The moon was still high in the sky and the drone of the crickets seemed unending. The duo continued to stalk between the gravestones, and the moments passed at a sluggardly pace…each second as still as a photo and as prolonged as a Cape Breton winter’s chill. It seemed as if they were getting nowhere with the hunt…that’s when they heard the music.

Like a cacophony of malignant sirens, the music pulsed feverishly. It started out as a low hum, but as Devin and Charlie quickened their pace, it grew louder and more maniacal the more the pair delved into darkness. Each step forward brought a heightened tone to audible madness…but they continued on. This was seemingly the playlist of a monster.

Just as the music appeared to be reaching a grotesque climax, they saw what seemed to be an open tomb. As moonlight cascaded upon it, it looked as if light was emanating from the ground. A strange sight to see, and even stranger still was the fear in Devin and Charlie’s hearts. They both knew this was no regular fanged one. They knew then and there that this was the abomination they lusted for. This is when Devin spoke.

“Prepare your holy water, Charlie. I will need backup if this monstrosity wakes up. We need to be quiet. We need to put a stake through its heart quickly and efficiently. If Jinne wakes up, the others won’t be long making their way here…so we need to kill the master promptly. We don’t need a mess in this cemetery now do we?”

Charlie just nodded and readied his Super Soaker. He was prepared to do battle (and maybe even die) for his master. The meat of the decomposed was waiting at the finish line, the lettuce would be abundant after victory’s embrace…and another notch in the belt of Charlie the Gnome would be cut with pride.

Devin and Charlie moved forward, and within seconds they saw a sight that left them almost paralyzed. A music box laid beside Jinne’s tomb, its music now more abysmal than ever. The light they glimpsed previously they now knew was coming from an old oak coffin, which was open…showing the ghastly innards to the moon with nefariousness.

Laying in the coffin was a beast like no other…his skin as pale as powdered cocaine and his hair as elegant as an eagle’s flight. His claws were as long as opal daggers…and his horns, like fangs of vicious serpents enlarged to behemoth proportions sat upon his withered head like venomous pillars far beyond basic human comprehension. The light seemed to be coming from the vampire himself.

Devin nodded and Charlie whispered back in anticipation.

“…Let’s do this!”

Devin crept forward with his stake in hand, his other hand clutching the crucifix. Charlie stood at the edge of the tomb prepared to blast the master vampire back to hell with his liquid holiness. Devin inched closer and closer, and just as he was raising his hand to impale the creature…Jinne’s eyes opened, their milky white appearance as revolting as curdled bile.

Devin came down with his stake, but in a fraction of a second his stake and crucifix were intercepted by Jinne. They went flying through the air…ending up somewhere unseen and out of reach. Charlie tried to pump his soaker, but that too soon went the way of Devin’s arsenal. It seemed as if the pair had been stifled. Then…the vampire laughed.

“Who dares disrupt my slumber? Are you the delivery men? Did you bring me the falafel I ordered?...And what’s with the stake? Are we in medieval Europe? I think not!”

Devin just gasped in confusion.

“Uh…whut?”

Jinne laughed again.

“So…you’re not the delivery men? I ordered falafel two hours ago and it still hasn’t arrived. They better get here soon otherwise I’m not paying full price. Falafel is best served fresh…and they better not forget my Pepsi!”

Devin just stuttered in awe.

“…A v-v-v-vampire that eats falafel?”

Jinne chortled.

“Whoa. Whoa. I’m not actually a vampire, ok? That’s just an act I put on to get popular with the gothic babes. What…so you were trying to KILL me?”

Devin once again writhed in confusion.

“But…but…the music…the light…the coffin…the stories?”

Jinne raised his hand in dismissal.

“I play in a black metal band. The music is from my upcoming EP. I sleep in a coffin for publicity and the stories I put out myself to ramp up album sales. As for the light, I grew up by the tar ponds…ok? Don’t worry about it!”

Devin panicked.

“If the vampires aren’t real…then who the hell have I been killing all week?”

Jinne crossed his arms in disappointment.

“Uh…goth kids. You’ve been killing goth kids…arsehole.”

* With that, Devin and Charlie realized that their quest was nothing but fantasy. The vampire takeover was as fake as Jinne’s claws, horns, and contact lenses, and Cape Breton was not actually in any peril at all. There would be no flesh of the dead for Charlie to feast upon, and the notch in his belt would remain un-cut.

No more would Devin and Charlie push forward on their delusional rampage…and after the LSD wore off, they would go to jail for multiple homicides. Never again would Devin and Charlie “bag” another “fanged one”, and never again would Cape Breton feel the wrath of the vampire slayers. Due to the publicity of the graveyard spree, Jinne’s band would sign a record deal and go on to release a whopping 66 copies of their EP worldwide…and as for Jinne, well…he’s currently dripping in gothic babes!

THE END

Reposted with permission from the author

Fiction: "Heaven Is A Dive Bar In Tucson" by Judge Santiago Burdon

Heaven Is A Dive Bar In Tucson

Fiction by Judge Santiago Burdon

Heaven is A Dive Bar in Tucson, prose by Judge Burdon at www.spillwords.com

Heaven is a dive bar in Tucson.

It’s just past the Old Pac’em Inn Steakhouse on Drachman. A place where nobody knows your name. There’s the Neon scent of spent memories.

An ancient jukebox from the fifties, scratches out top 40 tunes from the 70’s on warped 45’s, there are no labels to know which song you select.

Bar stools of exhausted foam padding with the ass impression of the last person that sat there. There’s the one beer sign, with a flickering neon light, resonating a low humming sound refusing to die. It advertises a beer the bar doesn’t serve with an outdated slogan: ‘If you’ve got the time, we’ve got the beer.

The red vinyl booths are arranged in a horseshoe shape around rustic tables. Matchbooks and bar coasters are jammed under the legs of tables trying to level them out.

A single bulb dangles from an electric cord with a plastic cover made to look like stained glass above a pool table that once had a green felt top. It’s now stained from spilled beer and cocktails, with burns from cigarettes left too long in between shots. The pool cues are made from crooked trees without tips so there’s no need to chalk up. The bathrooms don’t have doors, there are no mirrors, they were broken years ago. Paper towels and toilet paper have never been available. One of the two urinals is covered in plastic, with an “Out of Order” sign, but it gets pissed in any way. I can’t remember there ever being a toilet seat, but there’s a condom machine, that on occasion dispenses a condom. The entire floor is made up of twelve-by-twelve inch mismatched and different colored tiles, where drunks and defeated fighters have fallen, as well as the occasional glass. It hasn’t been mopped since the Kennedy Administration and sometimes your feet stick. The only item on the menu are little Tombstone pizzas and packaged peanuts. The bartender always says they’re out of pizza. There’s only one beer on tap, it’s the same brand that has been served for years. The walls are adorned with photos of everyone whose shadow has graced the doorway, mine is there somewhere, I’ve never checked to see, I was probably drunk at the time.

God lives on the premises in a room near the front door. You’re greeted with a smile, it’s actually his blessing and he’s always willing to give you a tour. I’d invite you to come on by for a beer or two. Maybe get branded with a likeness of God, you’re then eligible to discounted drinks for life. Unfortunately, Heaven is closed, I’m sorry to say. It had a good run. Maybe you know of a dive bar in another city? If so, tell me about it.

Fiction: "Cultivating the Double-Sight" by Agdistis Noctem Aeternus

Cultivating the Double-Sight

Fiction by Agdistis Noctem Aeternus

An inner Self, a flame of divine-demoniac consciousness, resides within every being. It is wise beyond measure: it knows us better than we do. It is powerful: it can guide us to transform the world.

Some esoteric traditions call this innermost essence the Holy Guardian Angel, the godself, the daemon, the genius, the inner light, or the ori. Whatever its name, it is an individual, unique part of our own soul, which grants us originality, authenticity, direction, wisdom, and Will.

This Essence spurs us onward toward deepening self-development. It is sometimes beautiful, and sometimes awful, but it is always truthful. It is all our strengths, and all our flaws. If we embrace it, we rise. If we deny it and scorn its beauty and power, then we fall.

* * *

This Essence’s power stretches far beyond the daylight of our conscious awareness, yet it is fundamentally a part of us. However, it does not always feel like part of us, especially when we are beginning our spiritual work in this incarnation. The Essence’s majesty and power are difficult to fully grasp, especially when we approach it from a rationalist perspective.

We may begin the work of knowing this Essence by approaching it as a separate being – a spirit with whom we feel a soul-deep kinship. Indeed, this case of mistaken identity is one of the origins of monotheism: our innermost soul is the center of our own world, in which we live and move and have our being. It is that which creates, sustains, and arguably destroys us in the end. And it is “jealous”: we must put no one and nothing else before our heart, lest we betray ourselves.

Imagining this spiritual Essence as a separate being is a decent way of approaching our own majesty, at first. (Any contact with our innermost soul is better than none.) But we will never fully embrace our own beauty and power, unless we understand that that which we adore is that which we are: tat tvam asi.

* * *

It is difficult enough to comprehend our soul’s full beauty. But it can be crushingly difficult to perceive the God Within, when we are fully immersed in ordinary consciousness.

Unless we steel ourselves with deliberate spiritual focus, the rhythms of day-to-day life tend to dull our spiritual senses and disconnect us from our deepest self. Despite what some say, this is not a new development in humanity's history. A quick look through the great mystic texts of the world sees “householder concerns” – like holding down a job, paying the rent, sustaining a relationship, raising a family, and even cooking and cleaning – consistently described as tasks that can separate us from our spiritual life.

When we encounter our Angel’s majesty, some of us lose our taste for ordinary things, and we run into the arms of the Beatific Vision. The result is a profound psychospiritual imbalance: this bird needs both wings to fly. We become unmoored from consensus reality, with dangerous results for ourselves and the people around us.

Thankfully, ordinary life does not have to separate ourselves from our Nature. In fact, it can even strengthen us in our understanding of and connection with our innermost power, moving us into a profoundly balanced and spiritually integrated state.

Many traditions describe how to cultivate such a state, where our practical beings and spiritual imaginations are synchronized with each other. An example of these techniques is what the sages of Tibet refer to as Tantra.

In the West, we tend to imagine Tantra as sacred sex – and it's true that there are sacred sexual practices described in traditional tantras. However, Tantra, at its core, is the re-imagining of mundane things as spiritual things.

Although we don’t think of it as Tantra, many of us already use these techniques of self-reimagination and intense spiritual embodiment. We congregate in spaces, times, and ways where our ordinary lives – and those of others – become extraordinary, vivid, and real. These may be ritual chambers, nightclubs, dance floors, stages, orgies, dungeons, and bedrooms.

Hopefully, we avoid descending into solipsism when we enter this flow-state, even when we do not consciously know the details of these spiritual technologies. Instead, we instinctively understand everyone and everything around us as brimming with supernatural power and cosmic significance. Often, the people around us return the favor, and perceive us as extraordinary in turn.

Care, wisdom, and the context of a greater community can help us hold our ordinary selves in tension with the sublime. This state of tension can be dangerous, but can also serve as fuel for deep personal transformation and evolution. When we are in this non-dual state, we exist in a state of paradox and contradiction, and all things become possible for us.

Excerpted and adapted from chapter 1 of The Deathforms (Sub Rosa Books, 2021), by Agdistis Noctem Aeternus. All rights reserved. For queries, please contact subrosabooks@protonmail.com.

Fiction: "A Killing Blow" by C. F. Green

A Killing Blow

Fiction by C. F. Green

My hands clasp tightly around the still sheathed blade at my hip...the leather wrap which covers the hilt now worn and tattered from many battles. The steel beneath is cold to the touch as it sneaks out from beneath the leather. My family’s sword spans back many generations, forged from the fires of my forefathers, hammered with care on the anvils of their private blacksmiths and carefully crafted with quality. Still as sharp as the day it was forged, this legendary weapon has led my family and my self through many epic battles. Today it shall do the same.

As I analyze my foe to pin-point the key strategic weak points, I focus in on a piece of armour under his left arm, along his breast, which appears weakened, dented, and fragile. A key spot to target as I am sure my sword will pierce his armour creating a fatal blow. I inspect his stance, calculate the weight of his heavy armour, and anticipate his moves in my mind. When you engage in one on one combat it is wise to have a plan.

The ground under our feet is fairly level, but my opponent has a slight up-hill advantage, coupled with his height his reach will far outstretch my own. I will need to get in close quickly, shorten the gap, and make my move to finish him. My armour is more agile, my movement far less restricted, but this also leaves me unguarded and vulnerable as any strike I receive will likely be fatal.

The moment approaches. His leg moves forward as the steel of his blade sneaks slightly from the sheath. I stand still and focused...calculating my next move. Should I run in and meet him in the middle, or should I wait here and let him tire himself out slightly while covering the distance. Should I let out a taunt? A vicious rage filled scream to fill him with self doubt? These strategies can make or break you, but are vital to the victory you want to achieve.

As his foot leaves the ground his sword emerges from his waist, and he rushes in violently screaming as he begins to advance on my position. I take a deep breath, and the cold December air engulfs my lungs and refreshes my mind. My eyes close as I take a second of quiet meditation. I hear his heavy boots clash and crunch upon the frozen ground. My eyes open, my body tenses, and my sword valiantly erupts from its sheath...the beautiful steel shines in the morning light.

I prepare my stance, I lock in on my target...his great sword above his head ready for a crushing downward strike. I calculate my timing perfectly, dodging downwards to the left thrusting my sword upwards under his arm. The blade slices through as if his armour was butter, deep through his chest...and exits his throat.

A killing blow.

Fiction: "In and Out of Rehab" by Jeremy Void

In and Out of Rehab

Jeremy Void

I was to go to a rehab center in Houston, TX, the following day. This was my last night to do it up.

Me and Lacey met up with Andrew and Caitlyn in Harvard Square; Travis was there too. They all knew the score; they knew that tomorrow I’d be gone.

We hit the bottle hard, in the Pit, in the alleyways, going back and forth from the packy to the street corner so we could constantly replenish our stock of booze.

The star-speckled night sky was static. The crowd was bustling—from shoppers, to drunks, to winos, to bums. Men in business suits going home to their families after a long day of work, or to their mistresses to let out some steam. Hipsters with their friends having a blast and going from one store to the next. Hippies with their long dreads trying to sell some bud. Gangsters trying to sell some dope. Junkies trying to score. Hobos trying to make some change. Hookers trying to turn a trick.

Andrew would do this thing where he’d run at some random person so fast they’d flinch and right before he’d crash into them he’d stop there and start dancing. It was pretty hilarious. Lacey was around my shoulder. Caitlyn was glued to Andrew. Travis was in the middle, and he wanted to score some pot. We moved from Harvard Square to Central Square, all the way down Mass Ave. and back, harassing folks, shouting, being weird and mean, but funny.

This was our city and tomorrow I was going to leave….

When we arrived back at Harvard Square, after causing the slightest of mischief in Central Square, Andrew and Caitlyn were gone. Travis was still with us. I called Andrew and he told me where he was. Travis, Lacey, and I followed his directions but when we got there he was nowhere to be seen. So I tried again. Where are you? He told me and the three of us went there and he was gone again. What the fuck is going on? I was starting to become rather aggravated. He knew it meant a lot to me to be with my girlfriend and my best friend tonight. This was my fuckin night, and he fuckin ditched me. Tomorrow he could do what he wanted—after I was gone———but tonight, this was my fuckin night.

He led us all over the place; it was like a wild goose chase. Everywhere we’d go was exactly where he wasn’t.

I was so frikken pissed.

Finally I saw him coming up the street. I ran to him as fast as I could and shouted: What the fuck!

Huh! he said.

What the fuck! And then I went to slug him in the face but I stumbled and he moved and my fist split open on the side of the building. Fuck!

He looked at me fierce and I saw him and Caitlyn and Travis—since he was Travis’s ride home—all take off around the corner.

Now it was just me and Lacey. I looked at her and she was beaming because it was just the two of us now and now I could give her my undivided attention.

We walked along until we got to the park. We sat on the fountain and talked and laughed and drank whiskey from the two-liter coke bottle. Before long, I forgot about Andrew; he was dead to me.

Some guy a little older than us wandered into the park.

As he passed the fountain, I said: Hey!

He came over to us and he had weed. So we smoked with him. I was pretty sure he wanted to have a threesome with us. It became quite apparent when he asked to kiss me and I said sure and then he gave me some pot to take home and Lacey and I left and he didn’t seem too happy about that. But whatever, this was my night.

We smoked and drank all the way till 7AM and my flight was at 8 and I got on the plane and immediately ordered myself a drink.

This was it: my last bout of freedom.

I ordered another drink. And then another. But the guy who was there to take me to the program said I shouldn’t have any more. So I stopped.

I don’t remember much of what Houston looked like as he drove me to the program; I don’t remember much of the program either because they subdued me with Ativan the whole time I was there—for alcohol withdrawals and anxiety.

I left a week later because they said I was trying to take advantage of some girl in a vulnerable state. She was having a bad day and I read her some of my poetry—that was it, I swear. Nothing else happened between us—although maybe it could have if they hadn’t kicked me out so quickly.

The morning before I left, I took an Ativan. The guy got me and took me to the airport and first thing on the plane I started drinking again and I don’t remember much of the flight.

Or much of getting home.

Or much of meeting up with Lacey.

Next thing I’m waking up beside the fountain where I kissed the guy a week earlier.

Fiction: "Veil of Forgetfulness" by M Teresa Clayton

Veil of Forgetfulness

By M Teresa Clayton

'Twas a war fought hard and we were weary from such a long fight. Many had fallen, begging to be released from the intensity of their pain. With the smoke of villages and bodies burning, day had seemed an endless wretched night, and those of us who were barely able to whisper the words prayed for a cleansing rain.

But, no rain would fall upon this blood-soaked ground where the ending had begun. The crimson flow cut ribbons o’er the emerald fields and fell into the distant brooks and streams. Yea, there had been a battle fought upon this blessed ground but no prisoners were taken and no war would be won. All that could be seen, for miles and miles, was broken bodies; all one could hear were their dying sighs barely audible beneath a cacophony of screams.

I closed my eyes and tried to recall a day when the winds blew in from the salty sea. I remembered running up the hills and looking down upon the beauty of the dale. I drew upon what was left of my memory to grant me solace until death came to set me free. I prayed for the sweet sound of her wings to come and place me safely beneath the veil. I lay motionless for most of the tri la’ and then lost the count of days as my pain subsided and what remained was the company of my own doom...

(When I was a wee boy, I heard that one would feel her vibrations gaining strength as she approached the surface of the land above, Sheelah Na was her name and she would open up her labyrinth and upon one's death, would call you back into her womb. )

I would welcome her this hour for the comfort of that magnificent grave, but she was not the one who appeared to me here as I lay upon the blood-soaked ground. Nay, the grace that would appear and my soul would save, came to me through the parting clouds with a thunderous sound; the flapping of the wings of the great white horse caused a mighty wind to blow and upon its back rode a white-haired Queen, accompanied by one I recognized from stories told long ago. Her hair was black as night and as she moved beneath the horse's graceful feather, no foot stepped to the fore and nothing supported her weight. I could hear their delicate voices unite in song together and divide the heavens. There before my unbelieving eyes, I watched as they pass’d through Morrigan’s gate followed by Brigit’s legions -the Eponian’s ride.

The bodies of the deceased were carefully gathered up and mounted to the skies, the Eponian riders carried them homeward to the Emerald Isle that lay just on the other side… The white-haired lady dismounted her mighty steed and came upon each of those who were left wounded and waiting for death. “I am not here to judge those who fought the battle and lost, nor will I reward those who fight these battles and succeed.”

I now understood the goddess before me by her divine name. "Rhiannon" I spoke with my failing mortal breath.

“Aye, 'tis I who comes to you and to you I will plead - the conquered and the conquerors - no man is immortal, all men will bleed. No war is ever won, no battle ever fought... but once war has begun ‘tis only suffering that is wrought. All are your brothers here and not one of your brethren here sees you as their foe. There is no reason here to kill or maim. Greed separates the living from their insatiable ego and though it appears there is change it all remains the same.”

The dark-haired lady approached; she stood calm and still and made this appeal. “I shall open the Veil of Forgetfulness and bring you Truth. My name is Sirona - ‘tis I who subdues the injured; commanding wounds to heal."

“I shall return you to a time long ago in your youth and you will teach men to lay down their weapons of war; there is no need for an army. There is no need for accounting or keeping one's score if all men choose to live in peace and harmony."

I felt the moment grow longer as I was given eternity to make my choice. I did not know if I could deliver the message and teach the elders of their own deception, where would I find the authority to give me such a voice? Who would stand with me if I were met with the people's rejection?

As if she could see into me and read my mind she answered without hesitation, "Look for me you shall always find the grace of truth and illumination, but if the people of your land refuse the opening of the Veil then all will live and die at the warrior’s hand. If your words are confused and the message fail, I will send the Eponians to come for you and bring you safely home behind these gates, forget not that once you have come to know what is true you will be taunted by the fates. They will eventually silence the one who threatens to expose their neglectfulness, but you will not be touched by the chafe. We will close the Veil of Forgetfulness to all and no mortal man will ever be safe."

My choice was made; she knew how this would reach its conclusion. I agreed to return to those times of yester and yore and I would try to end their confusion and give them a truth they could not ignore. Surely, men would see that nothing of this earth belongs to any one man; though the veil is closed upon our birth it can be opened if one chooses to be born again.

I went back to that time when I was young and told them the story of the battle lost; I told them of the songs that were sung when they gathered the ransom for which this war had cost. I tried to open their eyes to see all the beauty that lies in truth's believing and I became lost in that place where love and truth dies, and prepared for the coming of my leaving.

I looked to the heavens beyond the cloud and again the flapping of wings was ominous and loud. There, appearing before me as if it were yesterday was the goddess Rhiannon and Sirona saying "So mote it be." - inviting me to come beyond the veil and stay.

I took one more of my mortal glances and watched as the Veil disappeared from the minds of those below. As the Veil of Forgetfulness closed, all the chances to divine understanding and the truths they will never know.

Fiction: "Asgard’s Trash" by Ben Fitts

Asgard’s Trash

by Ben Fitts

“I can’t believe they would build a church here,” said Haraldr. “I understand that Olaf is ordering churches to be built, but on the former site of an important hof? That’s just poor taste.” Eiríkr thought about that as they watched the king’s men work in the distance. They hauled lumber and stone, hammered boards into the walls, and extended the framework of the structure ever upwards. The church was already taller than any building that Eiríkr had ever seen, and they hadn’t even gotten to working on the roof yet.

“I think it’s symbolic,” said Eiríkr. “They tore down the hof so they could build the church on its foundations. It represents the old gods becoming replaced with the new one.” “The new one?” asked Haraldr.

“The Christians only have one god,” said Eiríkr. “It’s kinda their whole thing.”

Haraldr laughed so loudly that his blonde beard shook and several of the men in the distance looked up before returning to their work.

“They believe only one god built the entire world?” he asked between chuckles. “Now that’s just silly. This is really what they want to replace the old ways with?”

“Well, do you really believe that Thor disguised himself as a bride to steal his hammer back from the king of the giants?” asked Eiríkr.

“No, not really. Or at least not so much anymore,” admitted Haraldr. “But it’s not about whether or not I actually believe our stories. It’s about having to give up our heritage and our culture just because some Englishman managed to convince the king’s gullible father that his own was superior.”

Eiríkr shrugged.

“Stories are just stories,” he said. “Telling them is a wonderful way to amuse ourselves, but believing them is for children.”

“So what are you saying?” asked Haraldr.

“That I don’t really care what this foolish king wants Norway to believe in, because none of it really matters,” said Eiríkr. “None of it’s real.”

Eiríkr was about to say more, but his words were cut off as a deafening whooshing noise thundered above them. Both men looked up to see a big object streak across the sky and towards the forest behind them. It moved too quickly for either of them to discern any details other than a trail of pale yellow light left in its wake.

They lowered their gazes once the object was out of view and met each other’s eyes. There was no need for words at the moment. The look they shared conveyed all there was to say. As one, they looked up at the king’s men building the church in the distance. The men continued to work as if nothing strange had happened, showing no sign of the object that had passed overhead. Suddenly, there was a need for words.

“They didn’t notice that thing in the sky, did they?” asked Eiríkr.

“No, I don’t think they did,” agreed Haraldr.

“I can’t help but wonder how that’s possible,” said Eiríkr.

Haraldr chewed on his lower lip and idly ran a hand through his big blonde beard. Then he smiled.

“Because, unlike those men building that church, we are the true sons of Norway,” said Haraldr. Now it was Eiríkr’s turn to scratch his beard in thought.

“I don’t get what you mean,” he said.

“Eiríkr, can’t you see?” said Haraldr. “We just witnessed Thor’s chariot flying through the sky! We were doubting the truth of our own beliefs as the Christians take over our homeland, and then Thor showed himself to us.” Eiríkr frowned.

“I didn’t see any goats,” argued Eiríkr. “Thor’s chariot is supposed to be pulled by goats.”

“The chariot was moving too fast for either of us to make out any details, and you know it.”

“Alright, fine,” said Eiríkr. “We just witnessed Thor’s chariot fly over our heads. What now?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Haraldr. “We follow it.”

Haraldr spun on the heels of his boots and took off towards the forest behind them. He vanished into the dense foliage a moment later. Eiríkr stood there alone and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He cast glances back and forth between the clearing where the king’s men worked and the woods his friend had entered. Eiríkr cursed under his breath, then ran towards the forest.

It took less time to catch up with Haraldr than he thought he would. Haraldr was standing in place about a quarter of a mile into the forest. Before him was a clearing that looked like it had just been more forest that morning. Freshly splintered trees lay strewn at haphazard angles and Eiríkr spotted what remained of several crushed birds. However, none of that was what drew the two men’s attention.

Sitting in the center of the wreckage was a massive disc made of a dull, matte metal that Eiríkr couldn’t identify. The disc was easily the size of a jarl’s home, a big bump protruded from its center. Eiríkr took in the sight, then walked up to Haraldr.

“I still don’t see any goats,” said Eiríkr.

“Alright, so it’s not Thor’s chariot,” admitted Haraldr. “But it must be somehow from the gods. How else do you explain this?” Eiríkr ran his eyes over the giant metal disc.

“It looks like scrap metal,” he said. “If it’s from the gods, then it must be Asgard’s trash.”

As soon as Eiríkr finished speaking, the bump in Asgard’s trash began to slide open. Tendrils of smoke poured out from the growing opening and almost obscured the strange little creature that emerged. Haraldr and Eiríkr watched in dumb disbelief as the creature climbed out of the metal disc and waddled towards them.

The creature was about three feet tall and had entirely hairless gray skin, a disproportionately large bulbous head, and massive black eyes with no irises. It opened its mouth as it approached, revealing rows of tiny, needle-like teeth, and spoke. The creature was clearly forming words, but its language was unfamiliar.

“What’s it saying?” asked Haraldr.

“How the Helheim would I know?” said Eiríkr.

The gray creature ceased speaking and withdrew a small black rectangle of a material Eiríkr could not discern. The creature wore no clothes, so Eiríkr was left to guess where it had taken it from. The creature examined the rectangle, frowned, and reached towards its back with the rectangle. The black rectangle vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared.

“My apologies,” said the creature in the Norse language. “I thought I had landed in England, and so I was speaking their tongue.”

“You thought this was England?” declared Haraldr. “I’m not sure where you’re from, but this is Norway!”

“Haraldr, I think we have bigger issues at the moment,” said Eiríkr under his breath. Haraldr seemed to agree with him, and quieted down.

“Once again, my apologies,” said the creature. “I’ve never been here before, and it’s a long way from my home.”

“Where exactly is your home?” asked Eiríkr. “Are you from Asgard?”

“Asgard?” said the creature. “I do not know this word.”

“So it’s probably safe to assume that you’re not from there,” said Eiríkr.

“Yes, it’s probably safe to assume that,” agreed the creature. “May I ask about something?

“Sure,” said Eiríkr.

“When I flew overhead, I saw you two gentlemen staring at the construction of a building,” said the creature. “You seemed rather unhappy about this construction, and I was wondering why.” “They’re building a Christian church on the site of a former hof,” interjected Haraldr. “A hof my friend and I both worshipped at since we were children.” Eiríkr found it interesting that Haraldr neglected to mention that they had all but stopped visiting the hof since reaching adulthood, but he decided against pointing that out.

“I fail to understand what you are trying to communicate,” said the creature flatly.

“Some people from an island far away are imposing their own religious beliefs on us, and working to destroy our own people’s religious beliefs in the process,” explained Eiríkr. “My friend is very upset about this.”

“You mean to say that people from another culture far away are coming to impose their belief system on you?” asked the creature. “That’s just awful.”

“Exactly!” said Haraldr. “See, you understand.”

“That’s just awful,” repeated the creature. “That’s what we were going to do.”

“Come again?” said Eiríkr.

“We’re here to spread the belief of Zardhu Of The Seven Tentacles, the supreme being of the galaxy,” said the creature. “And while we were at it, we were probably going to colonize the shit out of this place and strip it for what natural resources we could. Zardhu would want it that way.”

“I’m starting to like you a lot less,” said Eiríkr.

“But the problem is, we can’t do any of that if you’re already doing it to each other,” said the creature.

“You can’t?” asked Haraldr.

“Do you have any clue how difficult it would be for us to spread the way of Zardhu among your masses if we have to compete with you pushing your own beliefs on each other?” said the creature. “And, if you’re pushing religion on each other, then I’m guessing your kind has a habit of looting each other's precious minerals and other valuable resources?”

“We’ve been known to do that,” admitted Eiríkr, whose father Óláfr had been a notorious Viking raider with a fondness for hanging severed heads off the prow of his longship. The sight of his father returning home accompanied by the bloated, bloodless heads of dozens of dead men had been enough to dissuade Eiríkr from the martial profession at a very young age.

“See, my point exactly,” said the creature. “How can we efficiently loot this world if you’re constantly looting each other. That seems like a real headache.”

“I’m having trouble sympathizing with you,” said Haraldr.

“We had this same issue when we last visited you, a little shy of one-thousand of your years ago,” said the creature. “You were busy colonizing and pushing your various religions on each other, which left no room for us to do that. We were hoping that your species would’ve evolved enough to no longer be doing that by now, but I guess we overestimated you.”

“But that’s exactly what you want to do to us,” pointed out Eiríkr.

“Yes, but we have the right to,” said the creature. “Zardhu is on our side.”

The creature stretched its stubby gray limbs and took in the forest around it. “It is rather cold in this place,” it said. “What did you call it?”

“Norway,” said Haraldr.

“Yes, Norway. Thank you,” said the creature. “Anyway, it is very chilly in this Norway place.”

The creature bent down and scooped a handful of snow in its big, four-fingered hand. It brought the snow up to its bulbous eyes.

“And I don’t care for this frozen water all over the ground,” it said. “We don’t have it where I’m from, and it makes my feet feel like they’re about to fall off.”

The creature dropped the handful of snow onto the ground and waddled back towards the giant metal disc from whence it had emerged.

“One of us will be back again for the third time in about another thousand of your years,” the creature called over its back. “If it’s me again, I’m going to choose somewhere much warmer to land. Maybe somewhere with lots of sand. I’ve always liked places with sand.”

The black rectangle reappeared in the creature’s hand. Eiríkr was still unable to tell how it had gotten there. The creature tapped the front on the rectangle with one overly long finger and the giant metal disc began to hum. The creature climbed onto the disc and into the opening it had come out of. It turned around to look at the two men.

“We’ll be back to see if you’ve improved this awful behavior,” said the creature. “And if you still haven’t, then we’ll leave and come back until you have. But eventually, you’ll be ready to be ruled by Zardhu Of The Seven Tentacles.”

The top of the metal disc closed itself over the creature, obscuring it entirely. The disc hummed with increased volume and began to float off the snowy forest floor. The disc arched itself towards the sky. A moment later, it took off and was out of sight.

Haraldr and Eiríkr looked at each other but didn’t say anything. At that moment, neither of them had anything to say.

THE END