The Deacon Digs the Fire

Francis Marbury had been the Deacon of Downton for 45 years. 

In that time he had overseen the births, marriages, and deaths of the entire village. 

He knew the village inside and out. He spent his days listening to the problems of the citizenry and his nights praying for guidance from The Lord above to pass along to them. When he slept, he slept in a chair. 

Deacon Marbury did not believe in ghosts, and he did not believe in the dark forces that pulsed through the ground around Downton Abbey. The void, the black, the elder monsters that slumbered restlessly in the bog, in the stars, chained to the space between by the ancient Druids of long past millennia. 

He did not believe in that, and he did not believe in ghosts. He'd had many one sided conversations with The Lord and he believed that if there were souls of the lost trapped in this plane, that there would be some indication, some sign. 

He say in his leather chair, by his leaded window, the rain pouring down. He supped and sipped his tea. He could make out some sort of activity on the moor. Lights in the distance. Fires on the horizon? It was probably that traveling circus the cult of Ys. He set his tea cup down and scratched at his cheek. 

What were they on about again? He couldn't recall. At his age it was hard to make room for new things in his cluttered brain. They were some sort of creative group? There had had been a lot of activity in the bog. He assumed it was them. 

Yes. The deacon didn't do well with novelty. He did not believe in monsters. He had no conception of the scary space squid. Druids were a rotten lot. There was no such thing as ghosts. 

As he gaze out the window at the hazy dots of light on the horizon, fire in the mist, the ghost of Penelope drifted through the wall and approached him. She was always doing things like that. 

Antics in the Bone Hospital

A Trip to Downton 

Yesterday I made a trip to Downton by Derry, because I wanted to buy some electric shoes. After a two hour coachride I entered the wooden gates leading up to the the high street. Along the gravel paths there were ladies in blankets and men with eyepatches selling exotic birds. The city smelled of mince pies and fish heads. I can only assume that it was delivery day at the docks on the other side of town. The spire of the church stood out on the horizon, as it was the tallest construction within the city walls. Circled ornately by clumps of flowers and prickley bushes, the church was the second oldest building in County Derry. The oldest being the guarderobe, although that particular claim had been the subject of debate for many years because, pursuant to the classic view, guarderobes are parts of a seperate building, and not actually "buildings" themselves. However, the head of the historical society was partial to the guarderobe, having been built by his great-grandfater Phinneus as a gift to his great grandmother Mildred Porridge. In recent years the County had become divided along the lines of the Historical Society and the Toilette Nihilists, a clandestine group engaged in the study of mysticism and hermetics, who staunchly supported the idea that, in fact, NO building in the county could be considered the oldest, as they were all simply mental constructs.

Standard compound by the shore, promoting injustice, farting out intolerance.

And once again more ham.

Six and a Half Minutes left in the First Half

White horses by ten a complete cross + against the native men in the white plains of giant spot light blank craze I could it if make the wheels go round? The lead is seven now phenomeona like the incomes spiraling off like a rocket with the rockets that go off the bank told me to ugly sweater we werent suppsed to knnow the ephemera br istling breistling walked throught the fences by the park to fuck up to do much old docks now things come from where who the bridge the barge men the prefrence

Death Comes Hunting for Rodney Crawbaby

English weather has a cold steely spine that runs up the middle of each gust of wind. An invisible bamboo shoot of icy strength that snaps sharply and breaks off on your face and your hands. Blowing off the moor, the sooty peaty air covered a man like ice on a lake. Ice that was frozen. Frozen solid. Solid as a rock. 

Rodney Crawbaby had seen it all. He had seen Afghanistan, charging the hills with her majesty's service; India, where he had survived the adventure of the ruby ring; China, where he had solved the mystery of the emperor's facade... Most recently, he had returned from Japan, and the case of the lotus blossom shogunate. 

It was a good life, that of an imperial detective. He lived hard and he learned much and he answered to no one, save of course his dear Queen Victoria. And most recently her son Edward of course. King Edward. That would take some getting used to...

Rodney Crawbaby looked out the window of the third floor room he had rented off the high street. The large figure of Downton Abbey loomed in the distance. Ominous and omnipresent. Squatting over the village. Monstrous. Like its master. 

Rodney had first heard the whispers of prophecy in Tibet, and then again in the islands that speckle the sea, far to the south. 

Someone or something was building a gate. The elder would be drawn to it, the circle broken, the world thrown into a state of calamity. Rodney Crawbaby had read the ancient texts on the islands of the Azores; Had seen the glyphs on the walls of the brocade pyramids of the new world. He knew that a past existed, an age now shrouded in darkness, where mankind was subservient to much larger forces, and lived in the shadow of giants. 

Rodney looked up at the grey featureless sky, imagining the miasma swirl that must have oppressed the men of the earth so many years ago. 

Now, he had learned that someone was working to relight the ancient fire of obscene knowledge and call the leviathan back from the stars. He had also heard there were opposing forces at work. A counter movement dedicated to the primacy of man. 

Rodney Crawbaby came to Downton Abbey for answers, and to kick a little ass. And to solve mysteries. 

But he didn't have any more questions. And he was cool with a little mystery...

The siren song of the Crawbaby rang out, and it echoed across the rooftops, mingling with the monster's breath

The head was a planet and the scary space squid existed between.

Snow. My job is boring.

Spectral Archeology: the return of the Abbey.

The dowager countess closed the door behind her and exhaled. 

She had dismissed the butler earlier. She needed to be alone now, to recoup her strength. Something about Walli Wud exhausted her. Perhaps the stark black and white contrast, masked by the soft feathering of the points he made...

Regardless, she felt as if she had appeased him, put him off the scent for now. 

She crossed the darkened room, and sank into her puffy chair. Shadows played along the wall (in the cave, with the bone...) and the only light in the room came from the picture window, casting 8 rectangles of light on the floor, each growing in size as the spread across the boards. (It was a dark and stormy night. Outside the monster painted)

The dowager countess sighed. She looked at her tiny wrinkly hands. The gold rings clicky clacked as she moved her little Vienna sausage fingers. 

Things were going according to plan. With the help of the Arabs, the makeshift temple would soon be complete. England's history with the dark monsters of other was inchoate compared to the rich history of mystery of the east. Stonehenge was barely a construction compared to the mosques and palaces of the orient. True temples for the elder gods to call home. Here, you stack up a pile of rocks and throw on some mushrooms and a few fairies come to dance. If you are lucky. 

The pyramids of Egypt, the Gardens of Babylon. The guardian statue that held the mouth of the sea for millennia, THOSE were worthy structures. She glanced at the desk seeing the plans for the sporting court and the pig run. 

Well, with the Arabs help, soon Downton Abbey would take its proper place as a gateway to beyond. 

In the shadows, out of sight, the ghost of Penelope looked on the dowager countess and was concerned

Courtroom Drama Part Three: The Majestic Interlude staring at the supernova.

Ladies and gentlemen. You're going to hear a lot more things today. A lot of things that are going to befuddle  you, possibly disinterring long buried emotions and dreams, hazily reflected in shadow on a cave wall by a fire with a bone. A lot of things that we all wish we were able to put behind us. Leave behind in the past, violent artifacts of a tortured past; mankind's dark secrets.  But the past is not through with us. 

<the barrister pauses, lifts his arms up from his sides and wiggles his fingers. "Spoooooooky" he whispers>

The fact is that we all thought we moved beyond this. In this exciting new age of Internet and cloud, and being anonymously racist, tools for communication to bring us closer to each other, we can still be shocked, as we are shocked now, by what occurred on the evening of November 9th.  

You're going to hear a lot of things from the district attorney, Mr. Fact over there, about what was done to Ms. Understanding in that screed on the web, lifted from the scrap bin of a twilight zone episode from so many years ago. And your going to hear a lot from the assistant DA Mr. Roundhole, about what was done with that ham handed attempt at irony, allegedly by my client, God. 

At this point Mr. Fence waves his hand towards the defendant who is sitting in the box. God is a quiet and taciturn lump of a man, restrained by his own insecurities. His hair has retreated upward and dark circles under his eyes betray his lack of interest in washing up first thing in the morning. Your god clears his throat and then swallows whatever came up so as not to be too much trouble.  

You see ladies and gentlemen, my client, God, is innocent of these crimes. He stands here, accused of nothing, but STILL he laments his half formed attempt at sub creation.  innocent. It all seemed so much truer when it was conceived in the night, in that slow light of insight and gently farting in the bed. So many things come out!

The defendant yawns and the reek of donuts fills the room.

Basically, something about advancement and technology and blaming the radio and frozen food technology for man's troubles. His fall, if you will. 

A horse fell in the street yesterday and everyone went on Twitter to say that horses don't belong in cities, that it's cruel, and that this dead horse was something lost that would never be regained.

But the horse wasn't dead and the only ones who fell was US. Just like the bible. 

You see ladies and gentlemen, my client mr. God is innocent. There is a story there somewhere. Probably, the judge should have said more funny things. Witty interjections and ohnohedidnts. Lessons for the children. Anyway folks, Mr. God is ... The Electro Man. 

No one is paying attention because of a kitty gif.  Some woman on Bravo tweets that this is a nice purse. It is your move on words with friends. Help Eve beat this level of candy crush. Do you know this simple trick to save $$$$ on your mortgage? Student loans!  Penis. Kansas City 14, Miami 7. Woman says she was hung up like a fish. Debt ceiling. Dads. Obamacare. People are dying every day. All the time. Right now. Cancer. Scary space squid. Electro Man. 

Verdicts Resonance

Oh I guess I will have to put someting in to take ups spaces so we can see in side the dearth 

machinge. There was a thick sopping sweat smell billowing from the judges robes as he walked across the room. Air lurid in sweat mosquitoes and donkey step. The lawyer exhausted breathing heavily the exhaust of last stands making him hallow light like being a solid bird bone. The gallery exhausted the novelty of the proceedings had worn off but they would not under any circumstances would they give up their seats. Bathroom breaks were taken in shifts. Those who went alone just had to hold it. And it was hours snacks and meals ago until the most twinkling lights. The judge emerged with a tidy solemnity.

This court finds guilty: the hallow ring of progress.

The future is tearing at the cerebellum of the youth: a courtroom drama part 1, starring Vance Bunkmeyer and Cecily Bloodbloom.

Ladies and gentlemen. You're going to hear a lot of things today. A lot of things that are going to upset you. A lot of things that we all wish we were able to put behind us. Leave behind in the past, violent artifacts of a tortured past; mankind's dark secrets. 

The fact is that we all thought we moved beyond this. In this exciting new age of space travel and television, tools for communication to bring us closer to each other, we can still be shocked, as we are shocked now, by what occurred on the evening of March 23rd.  

You're going to hear a lot of things from the district attorney, Mr. Rich over there, about what was done to Ms. Lent in that alley by the harbor where the ships come in. And your going to hear a lot from the assistant DA Mr. Mann, about what was done with those farm implements, allegedly by client, Mr. Sparks Pullman. 

At this point Mr. Story waves his hand towards the defendant who is sitting in the box. Story is a grunting and savage beast of a man, restrained by a faded yellow straight jacket. His wild hair has grown unkempt and dark circles under his eyes betray his mental state and the extent to which exhaustion has set in. Sparks Pullman spits on the floor by the defendants box. It pools on the floor, viscous and tinged with blood. 

You see ladies and gentlemen, my client, Mr. Sparks Pullman, is innocent of these crimes. He did nothing that he is accused of, but f he did, he only did it because he was driven to such destruction by society. You see, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Sparks Pullman was driven to horror by the hollow ring of progress that tolls with the lunch whistle at the microwave factory and resonates across the country as Ike's workmen dredge up the soil and lay concrete scars across the great American west and wireless communication means a telegram I wore to Europe will be heard mere minutes later. 

You see ladies and gentlemen, my client mr. Sparks Pullman is innocent. Driven mad by this atomic age, Mr. Sparks Pullman is ... what I am calling ... The Electro Man. 

The defendant snarls and the reek of feces fills the room. 

Sleep Steered Autumnal Skylines

She was

speaking japanese.  The Dowager awoke.  She had been speaking japanese.  The cart ride the ham that beast at the table.  The weight of prepositions.  The marble specter atrophying.  She didn't know the string patterns in an incessant brutish loop.  Things that are known only beautiful in not all sense.  She had never misspelled a word.  It could've been all the pork.  The episodes the dream the life and this place.  Sacred and hallow.  Protecting in its need for protection.  Thumb in the dike.  Even she was knew this expression entendra'd magnificiently but she knew she could get away with it due to age good to throw a green upstart and charlatan banker boys.

In the camps

of the Y's the debate over whether the pig slaughter was a healthy ritual or ecological disaster and whether to support it and whether that was the ideal of a lazy Y to go on pervailing social winds to not disturb the presence of time and leave continuity so that effect would not be thought through then there were those who argued that instead the truly lazy event would be to disturb time since it the easiest then to go without to much thought into the bouncy house of life.  But keys can pop the house some said.  Your worry is effort responded.  Deflated bouncy houses are also effort.  It became exhausting.  No one wanted to cook.  They wen to the hog stand.

The hit man

Get in there.

I'd rather not.

C'mon.

Can't you go?

Well, technically we both are. We both live in this walnut you call a brain.

Walnut? What am I? A brontosaurus?

Apatosaurus.

What?

They're called apata---Never mind. Gun loaded?

Yeah, its loaded, but I've never done this before.

Well, we owe a lot of money. Who told you to bluff on a pair of sixes?

You did.

Heh. Yeah. But now we're in the hole. And it won't be easy to climb out with a pair of broken legs. Hey, thats kind of funny. Pair of legs for a pair of sixes. Write that down.

Look, can we focus please?

You're right. This guy isn't going to kill himself.

......But what if he did?

.....What?

What if he killed himself?

Hey, yeah. Get your pad out.

(scribble)

Done.

What did you write?

"No one likes you."  Then I drew a picture of him.

Add stink lines.

Too rough.

Yeah. Too much.

Slip it under the door.

(knock knock)

Run!

********

Now what?

Wait I guess.

Yeah.

Is there a Waffle House nearby?

I think there's one of the highway

Thats a Cracker Barrel.

Are you sure? With the rocking chairs?

When in your life have you seen rocking chairs at a Waff---

(BLAM!)

Oh, shit. Was that a gun shot?

Sure was.

Get the room key. Hey, that was really cool how you charmed that girl at the counter for the key. You're really cool.

.....I wish you said that more.

Then I will.

Thanks. Ok, in we go.

Aww! He blew his jaw off! Is that fatal?

He looks dead to me.

Poke him. Get a stick.

"Get a stick?" Where? From the garden?

Y'know what? You're not cool anymore......He shit himself.

What?

Shit. In his pants. He's dead.

What have we wrought?

Dunno. Maybe the stink lines were too much.

We didn't draw the stink lines.

Oh. yeah.

Well...mission accomplished, I guess. Lets get some food.

I wanna go to Waffle House. They have that golf tee game.

Thats Cracker Barrel!

HERE WE GO AGAAAIN!

i know you won't read this. Someone might. But you won't. I'm not stupid. Naive perhaps, but not stupid. This account will change nothing. Barely a catharsis. A poorly structured narrative with a crumbling foundation built on wet sand.

But maybe theres a hope. A slim, follicle thin, foxhole prayer of a hope that the very mention of what you did will somehow initiate a modicum of change. A butterfly flapping its wings causing tremors in the pacific kind of alteration. Maybe, once the final period is in place, you'll get a chill or pinpricks on the back of your oily neck. You'll wake from a dream of a familiar place and you'll be stricken with an overwhelming sense of deja vu. Cold sweat, maybe. A tremor, hopefully. Some sort of physiological chain reaction that will freeze blood. Shock will set in. Veins will shunt. Limbs will go numb. You won't know why.

But you'll know. You'll know.

And I'll know. That you know. 

And maybe I'll sleep better. Maybe my unease will transfer to you like some sort of ethereal presence.

   But I know better.

This is mine to carry. For good. For all time. White knuckle on the steering wheel with the remembrance.  It hits me often, but with no warning. Because its mine.

What you did is mine.

May, 2008. It was hot. Dusty. Dirty.

You went into the laundry room. You took my laundry bag. Not my clothes. Just the bag.

I had to tie the sleeves on a t- shirt and carry the laundry inside of that, instead.

You owe me a bag.

My Dog Spot

My Dog Spot

Spot is a good dog. Except the day that he wasn't. but that day passed. I've forgiven Spot. His room is the basement.

He does tricks. He can even talk.

He sits on his haunches, stares at me with big chocolate eyes.

He says, " I'm sorry, Daddy."

I say "its ok Spot."

But Spot, crying, messes on the floor. He's five. He's not a puppy anymore. It makes me angry. I lose my temper.

I hurt Spot. He cowers. I shove his nose in the mess. He whimpers. But I keep hurting Spot.

I leave the basement. Spot stopped crying and he lays on the floor. But I know he's ok.

He's a good dog.

I remember the day Spot was born. I took him home, but his mother didn't join us.

That was Spot's fault. He was too big. "Complications." They had said.

He still smelled of bloody afterbirth. Even years later.

He's getting big. We go on walks. Spot is good. He doesn't need a leash.

Strangers pass. They look at Spot curiously. They say hello. I say hello

But Spot knows better than to talk to strangers. I told him never to sat anything. Anything at all.

Never about the basement. Or the mess.

"Because they won't believe you." I tell him. " Because of what you did to mommy."

He stops crying. Stops talking.

He used to think he was a person,

But now he knows he's a dog.

A good dog.

Quantam leap. Exploring the solar plexus under water.

Post apocalyptic self-deprivation chamber is this in the dark and waiting and waiting to reveal the squid bill. Sharp is his mind dull is his projection for now and pointilized is his perception of this questioningly crafted containment.
In a phone booth in an eddy in a vortex with a smitten grin he rubs his hands together. And dials. And then...tones. Transcending sonar resonance there is no echo. This reminds squid of soft grey dust and staring at photos on the mantle. Reminiscing in this what have you. Reflection is important but squid must be like prism and project into future. So he slips into his ready man jacket and sets out to unravel quite a yarn.

-Sweet Jane, I'll be your mirror-

And lo the Lord said unto the children "They look like good strong hands don't they? I always thought that's what they were..."

Deep out into the night sky, a velvet curtain streaked with brilliant gaseous power. Meteoric energy rending darkness asunder and throwing light into the black expanse of the universe. Millions of planets, small crusts of rock, exist and revolve and resolve. Days fade away and time changes. Everything floats, simply existing in an endless sea of inky blackness...

The scary squid monster sleeps.

Suspended in the nothingness of space, eternal and unyielding...

the scary squid monster dreams of Downton Abbey. 

Pulp Horror: Spicy Adventure Stories!

True Crime Stories: Gore Pulp!