The locusts are coming. It’s not a warning, it’s a promise. We know you are not a farmer. We know you don’t give a s****, but the locusts do. It’s a mutation within your DNA. Those locusts are just going to love you to bits. We suggest you don’t leave your apartment, and tape the windows and the doors shut.
There are letters on your doorstep. They are all the love letters that were lost, or never sent in the first place. There are simple napkins, post-its, envelopes, and torn notebook pages. Some are wet, some perfumed and some are pink. If you’re lucky, you live on ground floor, and you are able to leave through a window. If not… We will come to that next week. Continue reading “Weekly Horrorscope”
This week you are under the guidance and protection of the Ancient Eldritch Entities, aka THE cephalopods. It’s the eye of a Giant Ethereal Cuttlefish, that judges you 24/7. You will be up on the soul-board next month. You will be judged and disputed upon in the course of following nine days; even your first bids may arrive. We suggest you show your best or your worst. Whichever will do.
You may feel that you want to work more with your hands. That feeling coursing through your muscles will remain with you. What a curious feeling! Dig your hands into the garden soil, into the sand in children’s playground, let your fingertips taste the cold clay if you dig the hole for that body.
Continue reading “Weekly Horrorscope”
Keep walking. You’re on the path of ancient evil. We know it doesn’t feel like that, but ultimately you will meet your God. The revengeful God of so many regions is smiling upon you. No, let’s be precise. The revengeful God is sneering at you. Keep your head down, and don’t stop walking. We root for you.
It’s time to relax, dear Taurus. Eat, take naps and have some drinks, then go swim in the ocean. When you cannot see the shore, you will be surrounded by huge black fins, don’t be afraid. They have come to guide you to the turquoise cave. Dive and follow them. You will meet the Ocean herself. Listen to what she has to say. Continue reading “Weekly Horrorscope”
Always take time for a good breakfast. You need to go nourished into the flaming void of the new day. Coffee, omelet, croissants, orange juice, pastry, mung bean sprouts, strawberries, bacon and lots of steaks – fresh, bloody and kicking. Satisfy your appetites. Take what you need, or you will be taken by need.
Cordoba is a gorgeous place. The people there are beautiful, passionate, hot-headed, and there might be a unique element in their blood. That red in the walls of every building is no coincidence. There is magic, love, and lust. You should visit. Now! Continue reading “Weekly Horrorscope”
See? Nothing unusual. The doctor pats me on the shoulder and goes back to the only occupied e-bed. I go through the scans of Decker’s insides, from head to toe for the hundredths time. Brooding over it won’t help. Chalk it up to delirium. Trust me. He turn and flashes a big bright smile. I’m a doctor. Continue reading “med bay snippet #4”
The metro reeks of sweat and wet dog.
Her expression is empty.
It always is. Holding that old crutch of hers, she walks. She walks slowly, and looks miserable too. But that isn’t hard with those exposed, burnt and broken legs of hers.
“A cripple has nothing to lose,” her father says so, before burning her. He says it, before he breaks her ankle and knee. First her right leg, then the left.
She stretches out a hand, hovering in front of her, like a small cloud over a desert; white and calm, waiting to dissolve into the blue of space. She doesn’t look at the faces. People are easily annoyed. No eye contact. That’s the rule.
There is nothing to see. She tells herself. Although… There is something worth looking at, maybe even staring at. Continue reading “Nothing”
The Problem with Magic Thank you, Mladen and WritertoWriters
There is no such thing as magic.
Real magic is extinct.
I watched it die.
I can’t remember when I saw the last trace of its nurturing light. Odd… Come to think of it, it’s nearly two thousand years. I remember Alexandria. Wait, no. No. That’s not right.
The last time I recall sensing magic was in the Middle Ages. It isn’t a good, nor a very successful one. It’s more of a petty attempt to hide money. The man, in his third decade, speaks the words. A carney. Sloppy and slurred words, no meaning where it should be. He doesn’t know what he says.
Continue reading “The Problem With Magic”