TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction by Mike Davis
ISSUE 10:
· Tark Left Santiago by Joseph S. Pulver, SR
· The Spaces Between Space by Brett J. Talley
· Eliza by Joshua Reynolds
· White Noise by Michael Matheson
· The Vessels by Nancy O. Greene
ISSUE 11:
· Marked As Urgent by Aaron J. French
· This Scattered Ash by Jacob Henry Orloff and W. H. Pugmire
· I Am The Key by Mike Davis
· Inheritance by Patricia Correll
· Dark Ambient Metamorphosis by John Claude Smith
· The Locked Door by Brian M. Sammons
ISSUE 12:
· A Catechism for Aspiring Amnesiacs by Nicole Cushing
· Available Light by John Palisano
· That Old Problem by T.E. Grau
· Taking the Cure by Mark Howard Jones
· The Fire of Zon Mezzamalech by Randall D. Larson
ISSUE 13:
· Ecstasy of the Gold by Stephen Mark Rainey
· Scale Hall by Simon Kurt Unsworth
· The Dog Who Wished He’d Never Heard of Lovecraft by Anna Tambour
· The Ouroboros Apocrypha by Jayaprakash Satyamurthy
· Over the Hills by Victor Takac
· This Inscrutable Light: A Response to Thomas Ligotti’s “The Conspiracy Against the Human Race” an essay by Brandon H. Bell
ISSUE 14:
· A Beer and Tentacles by Holliann Kim
· Now She Preys Through Endless Days by Jenna M. Pitman
· Fiesta of Our Lady by Ann K. Schwader
· God Serum by Wendy N. Wagner
· Drive, She Said by Tracie McBride
ISSUE 15:
· Bus Stop by Jerod Brennen
· Starry… Yet… (NSFW) by Joseph S. Pulver, Sr
· Station Waiting Room by Simon Kurt Unsworth
· Pickman’s Marble by Peter and Mandy Rawlik
· Invitation by Siobhan Gallagher
· In Memoriam by W.H. Pugmire
· A Stranger at the Door by Bradly Shelby
ISSUE 16:
· In the Tank by Scott Nicolay
· The Thing In the Depths by Pete Rawlik
· Fish Eye by David A. Riley
· Fade to Black by Robert Borski
· The Visitor From Outside by A.J. French
ISSUE 17:
· A Mote in the Void by Simon Kewin
· Miscegenation by Glynn Barrass
· The Twilight Turns From Amethyst by Nicola Belte
· Red Sands by Douglas Poirier
· Extraction by Julio Toro San Martin
ISSUE 18:
· A Counting Game by Derek Ferreira
· Carnacki: The Parliament of Owls by William Meikle
· Twenty to Life in the Lonesome October by Evan Dicken
· The Great and Groovy Game by Joshua Wanisko
· My Least Immemorial Year by Zach Shephard
· The Gotterdammerung Gavotte by Josh Reynolds
· Big D, Little D by Edward Morris
· The Blackbird Whistling, or, Just After by Orrin Grey
· Fallen Books and Other Subtle Clues in Zelazny’s “A Night in the Lonesome October” by Dr. Christopher S. Kovacs
ISSUE 19:
· A Thousand Smokes by W.H. Pugmire
· The Strange Case of Crazy Joe Gallo by Jeffrey Thomas
· In the House of the Hummingbirds by Silvia Moreno-Garcia
· The Treatment Room by Kevin Crisp
· Obsidian Capra Aegagrus by Christopher Slatsky
· The Dig by Monica Valentinelli
· Amtopians by Logan Davis
ISSUE 20:
· Of Faith and Fallow by William R.D. Wood
· The Dead of Winter by Jay Caselberg
· Herbert West in Love by Molly Tanzer
· Wind Walker by Neil John Buchanan
· Yule Log by Richard Holland
Credits
Welcome to issues 10 through 20 of The Lovecraft eZine! These nine issues were published in 2012, and they are bundled together here for your convenience. The Lovecraft eZine is published once a month: visit www.lovecraftzine.com to read and buy current Kindle or Nook versions. Thanks for reading, and please be sure to leave a review on Amazon for us.
Mike Davis
Publisher & Editor
Tark Left Santiago
by Joseph S. Pulver, SR
Tark Left Santiago is an experimental “King in Yellow” prose-poem!
[for Karl Edward Wagner]
Tark left Santiago and its stalkers to their experiments of felt. Left behind his bike. Brought his scissors (always)(seems to)(rusted in the endeavors of his ice-white chapters he has to). Wanted to see her legs. In those black stockings. Sheer. Thin. Lovely. The ones with the run in them. The run that ended with a hole at the knee.
He didn’t fit in with them. Wasn’t a stalker, or low, pitiful, wasn’t a thief, or a mirror, wasn’t the Anti-Christ spilling statements of distance and damn it all on the broad veneer of abstraction. Let them say what they wanted. Let them. They would anyway.
But what would she say?
Hi and smile?
Hiss?
Try to bite him?
She might have a gun. Might still look like the woman in the black and white film. The one who didn’t smile. Not ever. Not even After.
Another After.
One more for the line. One more road to push it out on. Let it walk. See how far it would go. And if it lead anywhere.
Did they ever?
All those skies to get lost under. All those trees to wind through, some like devil-brutes, some a concert of angels, pushing green like it was hoping fingers. Half with cracked rotting branches. Pushing before the speed of autumnal brought the knife . . .
3 cigarettes left and still an hour to go. He took one out. Considered it. Odd. An odd thing. Strong as a drink. Quiet as a thoughtful friend. Lit it. Watched it burn.
Smoke. Like a carnival—not a big one, not one that you glee over body and soul, moving, swirling—whirlpool no crossroads, no previews. Dancing. Smelled like success.
Another illusion.
Didn’t preach. No.
Wasn’t a fairy tale.
Just a cigarette.
Watched it burn. Smoked it slowly.
Still had time.
Time before her scene and the tension it might release.
59.
Right there on the page of his thin little volume.
No entry between page 40 and page 59. Odd.
Not eerie odd. Strange. No blank pages either. All filled. But with the smoke closing doors he was having troubling seeing the shape of the black marks as whole and present.
Odd.
Then again the whole week had been. The afternoons stormy. The twilights uncertain. Nights were not too cold, more detours than lost highways.
Detours.
“You think my legs are detours.”
“Did I say that?”
“Your eyes did.”
Didn’t laugh. Never laughed at the stars. Or the faces. Didn’t laugh when they came right over to the porch and sat there with stories to tell. Love. Hate. Light and what it means. He never got to pick. They did. Didn’t smile. Never started like that. Gave him that look and before a second breath out came the consequences.
Deal.
Nothing to win.
No card to play.
Handle it. And move on.
She did.
Watched her. Then watched her walk away. The hole in the knee of her black stocking. Knew it was t
here. But didn’t get to see it.
Wanted to.
Wanted.
Wanted to ask her what she wanted.
Just lit a cigarette and watched the carnival.
Cigarette burned out and she was gone.
Page 40 (long as playing footsy with a hookah loaded with unstoppable flavors) was Santiago. Afternoons in the bar, not searching, just waiting for things to fade. Nights—here, there, busy, even if you didn’t agree with the venue. Didn’t deal with daylight when he could sidestep it.
Day was like jail, or a job posing as an execution. Took a long time. Didn’t give you much. Mere pennies or some water. Not much.
Much. That was night. Like a railway station. Going, going, going. Stops everywhere. Slow to desperate to polar. All you had to do was watch.
Maybe smile here and there. Maybe smoke a smoke while things burned. Didn’t have to hold up your hands for it to stop. Did that in its own time. Watch. You weren’t needed as cinematographer. Just smoke your smoke and watch.
He did.
Page 40. Wrote it down for later. Older, he needed reminding.
She told him he did.
He believed her. She was not to be overlooked, or disregarded. And one could not accuse her of reasonable doubt. Not when she was as clear as the siege of the clock’s big knife.
Here. Clock? Interlocked with some gesture by one’s fear. Blue as ink endowed, extended, chewing the calm. The lid of an eye, unpacking
the suitcase lost in the moat… (fear a chilling music)(something tight in the amnesiac lines of the curtains)(a ferry of loopholes, a sticky shakedown dragging some pitfall, begging for punishment and mercy to stop peeling unfettered black)(“We catch fire in the solarfire.”) unpacking… another (count out the past) and another (count the stills and the chase) and another (the constellations connected to her neck, like you’re some detective who can confront the verbs and colors under the crust of flesh) . . . All in there, the silt on it, temporary, preventing . . . But it can slide, mid-sentence; all the meanings, moving crows painting the lawn of shadows, and the clouds, unfolding the maps, making doors—leaning in…
Blackening(no soft isolated trumpet up in it). Gut captured on the platter(no crying sax or snare-shot to frame it) … Melting, a fraction of a ripple(anger that was banked comes out of the scrapbook—monkey on a knife or gun bender, spinning Joe Fraizer particles at your heart and ribs), the opposite side and its unborn dust an ice of ghost-wings—a delta of veins—spilled on the black and white canvas… 10 digits of madness grasp a hollow spot of language, a circle… Eyes like the perfume of a sea… A coitus of sundown…
…leaning in…
Elsewhere
the ghost-house, leaning in, splashing yesterday wall to wall
Cry.
(for Mother)(for bye and bye)(and windows)(open)
ash
dust
Words
a door
the season after The Crossing…
The circle, traces of stormy in the sand, salty air says it needs Forever.
Cry. (sister full of sour lunar illustrations cries, “There!”)(on the battlefield with the fire in brother’s “You’ll fall hard.” eyes)(every word blooms)(every speck—root to fable—picks at the years)
Words in the bedroom,
the crack in the sky,
the speed of the bed,
the calligraphy of the electric-light moon perched
diffusing
nebulae…
Page 40. A one way street named To-morrow. A weathervane hour swaying with names that never orbited golden. Something about a scarf that didn’t make a good shield. A big hole in the footnote you could fall through, some error without a pearl yes. All there. Overturned, and rubbing on the bottom of the echoes. Are all those signs you touched melting?
Somewhere in the night illusions are sleeping on a staircase. Drank their fill of rain, drank them right down to undone. A dim fugue of a sonnet swerved in the roots, lost its stitches, the auctions of sugar went Outer, whirled in the collision. Shriveled.
Boots impersonated miles. Santiago. Seemed like the highway to hang the verdict on.
Page 40. Frisson. Secrets. With make-up on it looks like a poem. Nice little hill—folded in prayer to the mountain, nice little halo, you don’t see the wedding of torn wings and the gun. (Arm reaches out)(longer) No evidence in the disturbing illustration. (middle dropped)(no coma)(no period). Sidewalk and city end in sleep.
Window’s open. No witness in it.
Night’s a good canoe in the FURTHER game (if your chemistry doesn’t get stuck on “But the thing is—”). You move, not independent, mouse (with no scissors) in an occult game of drain. Move . . . before Emptiness dyes the light DEAD.
The waves come, the waves go; jealousy, reckless, time is strange, words bleed and multiply with error and a circus of commas, sounds likes a blues for Monday, got some dead mixed in with the stormy. Repeat performances; night, big town, jungle. Fingerprints of pretenders with nocturnes to kiss to-morrows that decide not to come. Heated core in its error suit, the censor that doesn’t care what light it leaves on the floor after the interrogation.
Rowing. Rowing… lighthouse in Poe City burned out of dim, bellied-up to off…
Dulled doesn’t change much on the way south. Grey skies. Murmur, no surface bursts -rustle -feathers -feel every raindrop…
Rowing… all the rinds of the old poets are dirty, littered with exhausted vowels.
Rowing…
Hard enough might avoid the pendulum…
Till the wild wind blows.
And cold dances.
The horizon starts like a pinprick, a pitchfork erupting on the eye. No blur, no commentary. Not there to take a sworn statement of the disaster. Just there. Opening. Opening a spot labeled run. Could be a guide, or a hatch, but there’s no net.
No chase after a crime wave—the blood and tears over there, back there, offstage (ACT III –newly penned –an asylum/winter/deadfall/diamondback ripple ending on a scream), but caught just the same. Framed. The obsessions of dust seem to take over the room.
Ruin had the same margins as Macbeth. Eyes can’t stretch it out of their possession. Why can’t a pen, ink responding in WILL words, make a scene of “there is still time” there?
Page 40
(just before the last paragraph—PAIN-sorrow-press on, find redemption thin as a dead dog’s picked-over carcass. try not to worry about the toxic seams in the back-half of the 4th sentence . . .)
more tears ahead
other words about the other thing that spoke on the other page, spoke about gone, told you with harsh bells
Santiago.
Slow and lazy. Nice current of blue. Plenty green, a sea chemical-rich with metaphor. Entrepreneur could work with this if he stashed the bundles of rash and rowdy.
Little this and little yellow flowers. A soft district, no fog, no thrash, smiles you can hear in the glass windows. The bright one, simple as an escape, cut into the scene—Ankles. And fragrant knees. You like her shoulders, scrubbed gently. Nice, with a little fire. You like the arrows of ready her mouth clasps. Nice how she reads. Slow, one dab at a time, every summit a gateway. Nice little yellow print dress. Her legs make sense in it.
Slow and lazy. Bit of this, pieces of feast on her Scheherazade fingertips. Moments a little less chopped here; might be the cotton of her pulse; she twirls, her silk doesn’t bruise the secrets in your spoon. She’s a bird content with the threads you weave. Not love, but it glints with the same colors.
Slow and lazy.
Not writing it in the book. Not on the opulent paper. Not measuring disorder with light. Just enjoying how soft and yellow it is this time.
For a time. (stopped rowing)(didn’t reach out)(let longer stay Over There)
But then there were words. Fast as the isolated thing on the bed. Sleek yellow thing shaking her head no…
That river…
Before’s Night becomes Now.
(returns with The Face)
(and the sound of words that stand right next to you)
Tark leftSantiago…
2 cigarettes left. Took one out. Considered it. Odd. Strong as a drink. Quiet as a thoughtful friend. Lit it. Watched it burn like a carnival—not a big one, not one that you paid the price body and soul for. Moving, swirling—whirlpool, no crossroads.
Didn’t preach. No. Wasn’t a fairy tale.
Just a cigarette.
Watched it burn. Smoked it slowly.
Slow and lazy. Not hit by the imbalance of the scriptures. Not meditating on the soil of intricate. Crayon doesn’t have to play saint to the puzzle pieces. Don’t care what couplet came first. Just a cigarette, not death valley, not a home behind the damn.
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2012 Page 1
