Posts Tagged ‘Fiction’

The Dreamreader at the Library

Dream, Textuality | Posted by jmoore
Feb 05 2012

My wife Audrey and I are in our house. She wants to read a book I have. It is volume IX from a X volume set and she hasn’t read the other books. It’s a translation of a Japanese novel, by one Musakami, close to Murakami, but the “S” was prominent. I look into the book. The words are highly decorated. This text was printed beautifully. At the top of each page are interesting decorative pictures …a spider, a sword, a scroll… and other symbols. The book mentions “God” a lot, and I find this to be strange, coming from an Eastern source, especially as the God in question seems to be a Biblical one. The story is about a Ninja and as I read the book (together with my wife?), we watch a Ninja, fully covered and wrapped in black cloth, lightly treading through soft snow up a small mountain. The Ninja seemed to be a kind of monk.

Feelings: Surprise

Reality Check: I was having a slew of Japanese related literary dreams in 2010 to early 2011 (about Yukio Mishima among others), but this theme hasn’t come up for awhile. I guess it is saying, “Hey Justin, don’t forget about this thread of your inner life. It’s not over yet!” As a young boy I of course had a fondness for Ninjas… remember those Teenage Mutant Turtles?

The name in the dream, Musakami, is similar to Haruki Murakami whom I definitely want to read (and am reading now). Murakami’s novel’s A Wild Sheep Chase and Dance Dance Dance both have a lot of dream related stuff in them from what I hear.

~

So, the Haruki Murakami novel I wanted to read is checked out by another patron at the Public Library where I work. But now that I am a member of the Mercantile Library I look up Murakami in their catalog. Well, they don’t have A Wild Sheep Chase but they do have Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World also on my reading list. I go get it on my lunch break and start reading it over a bowl of spicy white bean chili and rice. It’s very humorous. Each paragraph is like a stanza in a poem. The translator has obviously done an excellent job.

hardboiled1

The book contains two narrative threads, one the “Hard Boiled Wonderland” is about a data launderer, who washes information for clients by processing it from his right to left brain. He gets hired by a mysterious scientist who lives in a lab far beneath an office building. You take the elevator all the way down, go through a maze of bureaucratic hallways, then take a ladder down several stories, pass through some caves, go underneath a waterfall from the underground river into the scientists lair, where he is working on “listening to skulls”. He has learned how to resonate the skulls of humans and animals via some kind of acoustic measurements…and now he has a plan to erase sound from the world. He says this will aid our evolution, implying that it will perhaps help us get full blown telepathy. And evolution is never easy he says.

The second narrative is “The End of the World” which takes place in small mysterious town -presumably so far in the future it looks like the past -or at the edge (End ?) of the world. The narrator of this section comes to the town. Everyone in the town is given a job by the Gatekeeper. The character is to become the towns Dreamreader. He must go to the Library every night at sundown and read the “old dreams” stored in the Library.

…and that is about as far as I’ve gotten. But it certainly seems like my dreams were leading me to the write reading material, for inspiration on my own stories and more. I can’t wait to learn more about the Dreamreader and the “old dreams” he reads.

To become a Dreamreader the narrator had to undergo a procedure from the Gatekeeper. An initiation. The Gatekeeper takes a knife and heats it up in a fire. After it cools he stabs the man in both eyes, but this doesn’t hurt him. This helps him to read the old dreams, kept inside of skulls. The Librarian tells him how to do this, “Before your eyes the skull will glow and give off heat. Trace that light with your fingertips. That is how old dreams are read.”

russianunicornskull1The Dreamreader narrates, “Dreamreading proves not as effortless as she has explained. The threads of light are so fine that despite how I concentrate the energies in my fingertips, I am incapable of unraveling the chaos of vision. Even so, I clearly sense the presence of dreams at my fingertips. It is a busy current, an endless stream of images. My fingers are as yet unable to grasp any distinct message, but I do apprehend an intensity there.”

I relish reading more and seeing where the right and left brain converge, into one skull-story.

Slowly Melting Euphoria

Fiction, multidimensional art | Posted by jmoore
Oct 29 2011

meltingcrayonkid

 

Slowly Melting Euphoria :
A Report On The Third Annual Soiree
Of Multidimensional Art Mongers

 

 

 

 This years third annual soiree of Multidimensional Art Mongers (M.A.M.) was a testy, sordid affair. Attendees had a difficult time remaining level headed due to recent schisms within the group and in the formerly close knit community of Multidimensional Artists. Florentine Flabberwright confided, “I’m not sure the cohesion of the group will gel back together enough in time for a fourth soiree. Besides, the bones of the artists are getting pretty lean, and we mongers will need to move on to a new movement that still has some meat and vitality left.”

 

Nathaniel Brunswick who was to give the after dinner speech, along with several other members, had been kicked out for issuing a new manifesto stating that Multidimensional Art was fiscally and theoretically bankrupt. These communiques were not readily embraced by the majority of mongers who had invested large sums of money in the development and subsequent marketing of astral galleries.

Those who remained at the soiree argued about the intellectual vacuity of Rupert Firedrakes morphogenetic installation over bowls of oyster and crawfish gumbo. Located in a shantytown just outside the Land of the Dead, and nearly indistinguishable from the glowing grub worms who did make a home there, his piece was not seen as being a work with a future, and the mongers worried about being able to sell his newer work, or get it placed in shows. His few defenders pitched back insults at his attackers with the snide aplumb typical of the aesthetic elite.

 

Blexie Pharish was however praised for her idiosyncratic use of sixth dimensional contours. Often considered the wunderkinder of the Multidimensional Art Movement (M.A.M.), her newest public work was regaled as a masterpiece of dream glamour. It functioned by worming its way into random selections of the dreaming populace, picking up on the fragmented detritus of sleep. The constructions succubus-enhanced astral slime also trailed off bits of juicy gossip into the dreams of others, seeding whole cities and towns with nefarious pheremones, one night at a time. No one knew how long the etheric thought form would live on. While it is true that among her peers, this work was roundly applauded, critics have claimed her reliance on sexual motifs is a crude tactic used to draw in an audience who would otherwise have nothing to do with her. Others have said she has just not grown into the full power of her voice yet, and given time her pieces will mature to encompass a broader range of themes.

 

The mongers, while concerned with aesthetics, were more concerned with markets, platforms, scaling, and sales. One monger summed up the feelings of the entire room with his question, “But how can we make a profit off this? “Indeed one of the problems long associated with M.A.M. (and here I mean the Art Movement as opposed to the mongers) has been the difficulty faced by cultural workers trying to make a sale, much less get a comission, or a grant. For the most part non-tangible, they create goods which exist only on the imaginal realms and in the subtle planes of reality. Some contend these « planes and realms » do not even exist, that Multidimensional Art is the ultimate form of artistic rebellion and mockery; the gallery, the museum, and even street art had all been co-opted by capital at large, so the only pure form of creation left to those who did not want their work appropriated by conglomerate scum bags were those which did not produce physical products. Such is the history of imaginary art in a nutshell.

 

A group of those who still hold these concerns protested the soiree for the entire evening, attempting to boycott the sale of astral works, heckling mongers and potential buyers alike as they arrived for the evening. They tried to roust them via agitprop messages printed on toilet paper covertly installed in the bathrooms at the Ivory Tower Hotel where the event was housed. Most of these protesters had been former members of S.M.A.C., or the Society for Multidimensional Art Concepts. Svaegnir Thorsson, the Icelandic founder of the group was also the first member to quit. He states, “My associates and I feel that the original aim of S.M.A.C. has been perverted by posers and pretenders, due to the mongering of the art. Our prime directive was to assist humanity in escaping the vapid materialism and haughtiness of the contemporary art scene. Modern man is also overly stimulated and so we tried to craft astral experiences which required the ability to slow down the mind in order to perceive them. Our methods were used to fight everything from Attention Deficit Disorder and the tooth decay caused by addiction to sweets. Our events and creations were designed to withstand the negative impact commodification has had on art movements throughout history. However, the mongers have found a way to capitalize the Astral Plane. They have colonized our dreams. That is why I’m here now, engaging in activism to educate the general public on the dangers of art mongering. I’m also conducting intense research on new tactics for resisting the corporate encroachments on every aspect of life. To this end I’ve started a new group, the Society for the Manifestation of Anarchist Chaos, whose initials are also S.M.A.C.”

Elmer Well’s, a co-founder of the original S.M.A.C. was also in attendance with the hopes of finding a patron among the mongers. It didn’t take long for him to warm up to the subject of his former colleague Thorsson. “Svaegnir is a fraud. He’s a failed painter himself, and can’t help but get irritated when he views someone else’s success. And he has this really bad habit of self sabotage, where if things start to go well for him, he thinks he doesn’t deserve it, goes on a Brenivin drinking binge and starts mouthing off at the people he’s closest to. I couldn’t take it anymore, and when he broke up with me, and broke away from the group, I stayed behind to keep S.M.A.C. operational. I’m still dedicated to the original cause of Multidimensional Art. If I can make a little money on the side, to feed back into the work, is that such a bad thing? Does that make me a sell out?”

 

Anonymous informants on the inside of the original S.M.A.C. claim Elmer himself is a fraud, that his most lauded works were stolen from Svaegnir after he’d left them abandoned in the Abyss. They don’t resent him for this, claiming the practice dates all the way back to the Readymade School founded by Saint Duchamp in the early years of the Twentieth Century. The panel of experts formed to look further into the matter at the soiree is the subject of heated debate among the mongers, as their findings will be decisive in terms of projected values for the Wells/Thorrson portifolio. Among the mongers, the initial findings of the experts has been the cause of a slowly melting euphoria.

An Open Letter on Indie Publishing

Fiction | Posted by jmoore
Mar 16 2011

aisfp_100x1001Shaun Farrell, host of one of my favorite podcasts, “Adventures in Sci-Fi Publishing”, has kindly posted a letter I wrote to the show. More broadly, it is an open letter for the whole Sci-Fi community about indie publishing, looking at the independent music scene for analogies of what has worked and what might be useful to writers. Furthermore it is a call to put the punk, back into “cyberpunk, steampunk, & mythpunk”. This is a call to the self reliant strength of local scenes and the DIY ethic.

“Local scenes will foster the independent writer. Small presses, collectives, and new initiatives will be made. Punk attitude and ire was aimed at authority. It is definitely right for authors to question the authority of agents, publishers, editors. By saying this I do not denigrate the larger houses and the larger audiences they can reach, but independent publishing should be seen as one viable option in a matrix of possibility. The savvy writer, as many in the industry will already have observed, will keep her or his options very flexible, and their writing will most likely appear in a wide variety of formats, from the smallest of presses, obscure webzines, to larger venues.”

Read the whole letter here. And be sure to subscribe to the “Adventures In Sci-Fi Publishing” podcast. These guys do a great job interviewing authors, editors, and others in the buisness. The subject matter is always fascinating, the discussions motivating, and often humorous. I am very thankful they have taken the time to post my letter on their blog.

Trepanning For Gold

Fiction | Posted by jmoore
Feb 15 2011

trepanning1Freedom waited on the other side of my last week at Chemco, the penal factory where I sweated off my debts to the corporate world.  On Saturday nights they let me out with the City Pass I’d earned.  I’d go to Club Eurydice to try and get out of my head.  After being whipped like an unloved dog all week you need that.  Plus I needed to talk to a contact I’d met there before going back north to Toronto, where I hoped to see my daughter Jena again.
I wrote her a letter every week.  I don’t know if she got them.  My ex-wife had stopped sending me pictures of her five years ago.
I was looking forward to seeing the Swine Gods of the Afterlife play that night while knocking back cold beers with Erik.  Their sordid brand of blistering electronic music was like a drug.  When it tore out of the loudspeakers the noise of my internal chatter dispersed and I lifted into takeoff, the stress of my indentured servitude temporarily forgotten.
Outside the uncertain possibility of reuniting with my daughter I had no prospects.  Sanmonto, the Corp where I had handled the encryption of genetic research data blacklisted me.  I sold their codes to a rival upstart company in the clone biz, Raellaerian, trying to earn some extra cash for my family.  I got caught, sacked, tried by the Corporate Judge and his jury of CEOs, sentenced with work-punishment at Chemco for ten years.  Elizabeth promptly divorced me.  I keep telling myself it could have been worse.  I’d never touch a computer professionally again.  On the bright side I had maintained my legal identification, so at least I wasn’t one of the countless strays existing on the bare fringed wires of society.
I’ve made it further than most.  Surviving the factories takes a lot of emotional willpower: it would be easy to let apathy override and step into a vat of hydrochloric acid.  Earning my City Pass had taken six years of grim determination.  Being able to leave for eight hours on the weekend kept my strength alive.  The end was in sight.  At Eurydice I’d finalize my plans with Erik: he had access to a car from the collective he belonged to in the Covington shantytown and said he’d drive me as far as Toledo, having a delivery to pick up there anyway….

*********************************************************************

Read the rest of my novelette, “Trepanning for Gold” , which received an honorable mention in the first quarter of the 2009 Writers of the Future contest. I have just added it as a PDF in my new Fiction library here on Sothis Medias. All the works posted there are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution No Derivatives 3.0 License. I have one other story there so far, but will be adding more. I have also created a Reviews section, with a list and links to the music and book reviews I write for Brainwashed.com. They are not all there yet, but there are a substantial amount and I will be working on adding more. I plan on making Trepanning for Gold available as a chapbook from Lulu.com. I’m still working on it. I’ll let you know when it is ready. In the meantime enjoy the work.

Joan Grant’s Winged Pharaoh

Writing as Magick | Posted by jmoore
Dec 22 2010

maat

It is no secret that the author Joan Grant was a believer in reincarnation and she wrote “Winged Pharaoh” as a magical memoir told from the viewpoint of a life lived long ago, through the means of what she called her “far memory”. Writing while in a state of light-trance she was able to reach back into the past, claim knowledge of a previous life, and give it new life on the page. The vitality of the book speaks to the soul of the reader as it relays important information regarding the nature of dreams, magic, and the cosmos in an entertaining form. It is a manual on the nature of Egyptian seership disguised as a novel.

That Joan Grant had a highly developed moral character is in full evidence. There is nothing prudish in the story, though it doesn’t indulge in idle arousal either. War, love affairs, and the tribulations of everyday life are all part of the tale. What makes it an uplifting story is that the reader is able to take part in the main characters own growth. The book tells the story of an entire life from childhood to death at old age. Sekeeta is a daughter of the Pharaoh Atet. Many smaller stories and many dreams are woven through the book, which is as tightly wound as the strings of a lyre. In that sense the book is a fair imitation of life, reflecting many truths through its tangle of words. That it gives a clear reflection makes the work all the more valuable.

The first section of the book is about Sekeeta growing up with her brother Neyah, and how her dreams lead her to become a priestess of Anubis. Her father and mother recognize that their daughter has a gift for dreaming true and this brings her to the attention of the priest Ney-Se-Ra, who gives her further instructions that test and refine her abilities. Eventually when she has reached maturity, following the heroic death of her father in battle defending Kam (Egypt) from swarthy invaders, she goes to the temple for intensive training.

One of the most important things she develops here is her memory. Inscribing her dreams on wax tablets in the morning, Sekeeta learns to strengthen her memory. Her days and nights blend seamlessly together as she learns to remember all of her dream and out-of-body travels. Earlier in the book her mother had impressed upon her to “cherish memory above all things, for memory of yourself, which is the silver key, will stop your feet straying upon a path that you have found leads not to freedom…One day you will posses the golden key which unlocks the memories of others. And this will show you that there is no pit into which you may fall, from which others have not climbed, no great mountain though it may seem steep, that others have not conquered, even as you must conquer…”

While there she is also taught prayers to the various Egyptian deities. This one is good for any dreamer, “Anubis teach me to become a master of paths, so that I may be as thy symbol, the jackal, which can cross a desert on a night with no stars and leave a track which others may follow in the light. And by thy wisdom may I cross the chasm between this world and thine, and lead my people to thy country of peace.”

Throughout Sekeeta’s training the reader is taken on a journey into the mythic and imaginal realms of Egypt, to various astral locales utilized by the priesthood, such as the Place of Records “where the Keepers of the Great Scales of Tahuti take those of mankind who cannot themselves look into the past; and here they show them those things that are reflected in their future, so that upon Earth they know what, of their free will, they should do to adjust the balance.” The Place of Weather is visited, and also realms where teachers appear, where prayers are answered, and places where peace or harmony dwell. After visiting all of these realms Sekeeta must face seven ordeals before she becomes a winged one, the highest rank that may be attained in the temple.

It is also while at temple that she meets an architect from Minoas who initiates her into the mysteries of love becoming the father of her child. Sadly, because of her high duty to the land and its people this is a love that is never able to grow into old age. They must confine themselves to secret trysts in moonlit gardens. Eventually the relationship is cut off (after she has left the temple to become Pharaoh ruling alongside her brother) when Dio learns of her status as a co-ruler of the country.

thoth-wands_quI was also struck by certain similarities between Sekeeta and the Phrygian Goddess Cybele. Sekeeta was fond of lions, tamed one, and kept it as a pet and Cybele was raised by lions. Sekeeta gave birth to her son Pakee while seated on a throne, surrounded by seers, priests, and healers. There is an Anatolian figurine of Cybele giving birth on a throne that has two feline hand rests. Besides these similarities I also see Sekeeta and Cybele as the Queen of Wands in the Thoth tarot deck. If nothing else, both the Goddess and character in the novel have the qualities of a lioness.

Students of dreamwork and the Western Mystery Tradition alike would do well to read this book. For those who work with the Goddess Maat (and I speak here as a member of Horus Maat Lodge) there is much valuable insight about the Goddess of Truth in these pages. When Sekeeta becomes Pharaoh, ruling with the flail and the scales of justice, it is required of her to weigh the hearts of those who come before her seeking justice. Nothing can be hidden from her, least of all the Truth, for she is an adept who has purified her inner sight in service to the Gods and Goddesses of the Light. As a dream traveler who can look into a person’s soul, she has the ability to call out those things which are most noble in an individual, and adjure him or her to let the ignoble fall away. The justice dispensed is never cruel or injurious to a person. Balance is always sought to restore the scales and usually this is in a form of karmic yoga, i.e., a way to repay or work off the debt is found. This is a far cry from the punishments exacted by the U.S. legal system. Those who work in law would also do well to study the ethical system laid out in this book.

In one of his many wise counsels to his children Atet tells them, “The strong do not fear the contact of evil, for they are like the vulture who dies not when he eats filth, but of his special strength, thrives upon it, and after such a meal can fly to great heights.” Maat, Goddess of Truth was often depicted as having the wings of a vulture. For those who walk in Truth need not fear the evils of the world. Through the power of flight the dreamer is able to rise above evil and free herself from the control of base urges.

Many other elements of magic are taught or hinted at throughout the book. There is much about Egyptian knowledge of the soul, myths from their pantheon are taught and recounted, as well as talk of the healing arts in various forms: herbal, surgical, and energy healing. Seers played a vital role in the latter by being able to perceive the human energy field and adjust it as necessary for the benefit of the sick and injured.

Joan Grant is generous in sharing her knowledge of the magic power of song and poetry, from the folk magic of the people who worked the land to the high art of the temples. Music in the 21st century is not used in the same ways it was even a century ago. In the workplace music may be played to pass the time, to distract oneself from the actual work one is doing, or in the case of ambient music, as sonic backdrop and aid to thinking. Yet as little as 100 years ago and less, songs were still sung in the fields and other places of labor, while working. Songs were sung to babies, songs were sung while cooking. There were many types of music for many types of occasions and purposes. People made it themselves, and while the extremely talented were highly regarded, music was not an industry and the main purpose of it was not consumption. These musical practices lent themselves to greater enjoyment of work and living, bonded the community together, and made the job easier by acting as a type of folk magic spell. For instance in the story a fisherman sings,

“O my net! Swing widely for your master.

Call to the fish that you would give them shelter

from the monsters of the river.

O fish! Leave the caverns of the reeds

and drowse in the shadow of my boat.

Blow softly, wind! So that my boat glides through the water

quiet as a naked girl swimming at sunset.

O fish! Hear me and join your brothers in my net

so that it may be weighed with silver

so that all my family rejoice with me.”

There are other magical folk songs sprinkled throughout the book, each one crafted to give aid to the chores of living. Perhaps in this contemporary world, people need songs about programming code, making lattes, bioengineering, and recycling resources.

The final part of the book follows Sekeeta into the afterlife, as she takes the Boat of Time into the great hall wear dwell the Forty-two Assessors of the dead. The Feather of Truth is balanced against her heart. She leaves this “shadow-land of tears and pain” to join her ancestors and companions in the Light.

Image at top is of Maat, and below the Queen of Wands from the Thoth Deck.

Winged Pharaoh was first published in 1937.

Jerry Rigged

Fiction | Posted by jmoore
Aug 14 2010

eightheadeddragon

Jerry was rigged.

His archnemesis Bing the Bison had torn the flexors and extensors connecting the digits of his left hand, as well as his pronator quadratus after a skuzzy backstreet pinball match a few asteroids over. After that he couldn’t play pinball the way he used to, but scraped along coaching the up and coming elroys, the new wannabe players, for a few dimes between shifts bussing tables at Moldavite Diner. Living from game to game, on any money he was able to pull in from bets, challenges, or tournaments, he couldn’t afford a doctor. So the muscles in his hand healed, but incorrectly.

He skimmed some old scans of even older physical therapy books and tried to get his wrists, fingers, and forearm back into shape. It was a pain. It hurt a lot. The miners who slept in the lockers next to Jerry’s complained about the whimpering sounds he made at night as he put his hand through the exercises, but the locklord was an old pinball wiz himself and ignored their bitching.

Eventually he trained his left hand to do things it had never been able to do before. The muscles had grown back differently and it was like a mutation. He’d been saving spare quarters for the day he would pull back the plunger and start playing again and when he got his confidence up he started trolling the arcades. A few people remembered him, the real pinball geeks who memorized scores going all the way back to the moon. He’d had a good record and not been gone so long that they’d forgotten his face. They kept an eye on him, and started hedging bets on him when he proved his mettle once more. Money started coming his way. He moved into a bigger locker and started eating double portions of smeat and drinking craft-brewed malt liquor. He bought a blue jumpsuit and found a nifty antique Nydeko 3000 wrist computer that he wore on his left forearm.

Then he got sick, came down with a bad case of the Retched Hector. A lot of asteroid crawlers got it in those days. Really it was just a label slapped on a bunch of symptoms, a lifestyle and environment disease. Blood pressure got wacked out due to variable gravity and from eating too much of the preserved foods treated with chemical salts so as to withstand the rigors of space travel. The atmospheric conditions of the colonies were also horrendous, stale air clouding the engineered tubes and enclosed rooms beneath the asteroids surface tended to produce leaky guts and pale lungs. Even the UV enhanced lighting wasn’t enough to stop the Vitamin D deficiency so many suffered from. Most crawlers were dosed up on high-octane rounds of supplements and vitamins. Jerry wasn’t a young man anymore, and now that he could afford to, he followed suit, changing his diet in the process. He was now eating a lot of sprout salads with flax seed oil dressing. To help ease into his new habits he opted for some elective surgery and had a small tube inserted in his middle finger. The other end came out on the top of his wrist where it connected to his Nydeko 3000. One of the spiffy things about the gizmo was that it had a built in fluid chamber. He kept his own homemade salad dressing in it (flax seed oil, apple cider vinegar, dijon mustard) so if he went out to a restaurant he could just squirt it onto the hydroponic leaves without having to eat the fake blue-cheese and high fructose nastiness they passed off as food.

By all appearances it was just another evening of flickering LED’s inside the tunnels of Gopherville, the asteroid he called home. The cosmonaut terraformers were still hacking away at the atmosphere up top, tweaking the ozone, trying to grow more bacteria in the transported dirt, and eventually plant some catalpa trees. When Jerry took the elevator forty-six floors down to Mole’s Arcade he wasn’t expecting anything unusual. A few regulars were already scouting the crowd, looking for over exacerbated fans to scam. Cyber-genetically engineered monkeys were hawking frankenfurters, all gooey with enhanced neon catsup and grainy morsels of anchovie and sauerkraut remoulade. Jerry’s stomach gurgled but he reminded himself that he couldn’t eat that junk anymore.

Then his stomach lurched when he saw Bing Bison. He’d earned his name from the horn implants grafted to his head. Ever since their last encounter he’d dreaded the prospect of running into the bully again. Yet if he was going to keep playing in the pinball circuits he knew that inevitability would one day arrive, and it had.

The way they operated the competitions was like this: each contestant had a set limit of time and a set number of those cold, shiny, little spheres. The game ended when the player ran out of the allotted time or his balls ran out. Whoever racked up the most points was the winner.

Bison scored high, in the low three millions, but Jerry knew he could whoop him. But when he stepped up to the machine, a pinball table that had a bushido theme, its fine cherry wood lacquered with a painting of a samurai stabbing a cybernetic eight-headed dragon with a flashy kitana, he found that the button for the left flipper was all gummed up. This had the reek of Bing Bison all over it. It was no use telling the referees. They doubled as bookies and were in on the take. Low dirty tricks were the norm from players who didn’t follow the wizard code.

That’s what made the difference between a wizard and a mere pinball punk.

Jerry tapped a button on his Nydeko 3000 and squirted some flax seed oil salad dressing from the tube in his middle finger around the button, lubricating it, easing up whatever foul gunk Bison had put in there. He loaded a ball in the chamber, pulled back the plunger and shot the sucker into orbit. The fingers of his left hand moved deftly, like those of a sorcerer casting a spell. Jerry played like a mad man until his time was up. He didn’t even have to use his third ball.

His score wasn’t high enough for him to take home the big pot that night, it went with Eldrich the Squid, but he outranked Bison and he felt just swell.

Jerry was back in the game.

- Justin Moore

August 5th, 2010

Cincinnati, Ohio

 

Image: Susanoo Slaying the Yamata-no-Orochi, 1870’s, by Toyahara Chikanobu

 This story is dedicated to my wife Audrey Lynn Cobb who gifted me with one of its seed ideas.

 

 

Dreaming Better Cities

Dream, Writing as Magick | Posted by jmoore
Jul 28 2010

stun city rudy ruckerThe best part of the movie “Inception” was also the shortest.  It was the scene when Ariadne, the architect, takes Dom Cobb through the city she has created, when she bends the streets so that the city folds in on itself. The concept of an archictect designing dream cities holds a lot of potential. Unfortunately the dream cities of “Inception” were far less mysterious, fantastical, and imaginative as those I travel in my own dreams, or in the fiction I read.

Charles de Lint is one of my favorite writers. Recently I’ve been delving into the short stories contained in his collection “Tapping the Dream Tree”. All of these take place in his fictional North American city of Newford. Although not specified, I always imagine it to be somewhere in the North West, in Canada. Newford is a great place to hang out. It is a city where you are liable to stumble across a voodon ritual, meet up with the Crow girls to help retrieve someones lost soul, sip a pint of ale in one of the many magical music venues, go to an opening where you might meet someone who has Fairie blood, and encounter Pixies who’ve slipped out from the computer screen at a bookstore.  The girl with Fairie blood is Sophie, one of the recurring characters who appears throughout de Lint’s Newford books. Every night when she goes to sleep she enters the dream city of Mabon. It is a city she dreamed up herself, and yet it has taken on a life of its own. She has a whole other life going on in her dream city. It’s even where her boyfriend lives. Here we have the fictional city of Newford, and within it a dream city of Mabon. Dreams within dreams, and cities within cities. I love it.

Another excellent book featuring imaginative dream cities is “Palimpsest” by Catherynne M. Valente. It is a story of a sexually transmitted city. The city is reached in dreams, but only after the characters have sex with someone who has been there before. Those who have been there are marked forever by a tattoo of the city. This is how the city is transmitted.Don’t forget “Invisible Cities” by Italo Calvino either, as if you could.

It’s time to start mapping our own  internal cities, and bringing the energy from them into waking life. The better cities we will build on earth all have their origin in the imagination. Grown from seeds, they can be woven into the fabric of reality.

Image is “Stun City” by polymath Science Fiction writer Rudy Rucker.

Trepanning for Gold

Fiction | Posted by jmoore
Apr 08 2009

I knew spring was going to be good, when, two days before my lovely daughters birthday (she’s a teenager now!) I got confirmation in the mail regarding my novellette, “Trepanning for Gold”: it made honorable mention in the 1st quarter of this years Writers of the Future Contest. As a person who writes speculative fiction I couldn’t be more pleased. Well, except if I had won in the contest. Still, hopefully it will be a little bit easier to get it published now (editors, are you listening?). I highly recommend the contest to my fellow starving writers. It is a great one. It is also open to Illustrators, and for many in both categories it has been a stepping stone into the publishing industry on a professional level, as I hope it will be for me.

I’m working on a new story now, and when it’s done, I’ll be sure to send it in to the contest. One of the great things about it, is that, since it is run quarterly, you can enter new material four times a year. Thanks L. Ron!

The Seven Ghosts of the Library

Dream, Fiction | Posted by jmoore
Apr 05 2009

Early in the morning I wake up to go to work. I hear the phone ringing before I’ve even got my pants on. It goes to the machine before I can get it. My cousin Chris is telling me a story.
“I’m observing,” he says, “the process of whale slaughter. People are taking the big gray humpbacks out of the water and with long pieces of hooked iron, ripping them open. It’s horrendous.” His voice is horrendous, blurred by the low fidelity fuzz of the answering machine. He continues. “They take the blubber and use it to make candles, lamps, cooking oil. They take the meat and put it in cans, and ship it to Japan where they make burgers out of it, using seaweed instead of lettuce and green curry instead of mayo. Still huge amounts of the whale are wasted, and blood stains the Antarctic shore, so much that the penguins get red splotches on their fur too. Hey, but look, I’ve got to get back on deck of the S.S. Fitzroy. It is time to reel the harpoons back in.”
I shudder, grab my coat, hat, scarf a bite of toast and head out the door. It always seems like I am racing against the bus, and before I know it the moon is up as I stand outside my palace of deployment. It’s an old museum, a bibliotech, a reliquary of forgotten texts, but a good feeding ground for the silverfish who like to nibble on yellowed pages.
Every time I come here I remember there is a whole wing of the museum I have never explored. Having clocked out of ordinary time I make my way into the foyer of the abandoned wing. Unlike other museums everything here is covered in dust. It is a labyrinth of stairwells that go nowhere, and creaking boards. The swirling motes caught in the lamplight contain a thousand worlds. The bookshelves tower above me like menacing angels. As I walk through I catch a glance at the titles (Felix Nobilis, A Feather on the Breath of God, Shimmers of the Secret Fire, and the Oneironomicon). I get a creeping sensation, goose bumps prickle on my shoulder blades. Coming into a room where the artifacts are kept in glass cases I see an old mirror with curly cues of gilded ivy wreathed around its oval form. The reflection leering back at me is composed wholly of shadow, all my rejected and unassimilated forms, the discards. He trails a long chain of baggage with him everywhere he goes. For a moment we acknowledge eachother and then go our separate ways.
I hear sounds coming from below. There is a trapdoor. I open it, clear the cobwebs and walk down the steps. The old kitchen is lit only by stumps of candle. The red haired Valkyrie stands at the counter chopping up a duck with a cleaver while smoking a cigarette. Dried sausages are hanging from the rafters, and limburger cheese sits on a plate. An old man smears some on a crusty piece of rye before quaffing it down with a swig from his stein.
“The ghosts are in the library again,” he says to the woman, “all seven of them>”
I’m curious. Excited. I hear the chaos down the hall, a high-pitched whine, and flutter of papers riffling through the air, spines breaking when they hit the wall. Something crashes.
I rush down the hall to see. The globe has become unmoored and rolls out of its orbit, a crack along the equator. The busts of roman gods have fallen to the ground, split into chunky marble fragments. The poltergeists swirl about their dominion, uncaring, unafraid.
The old man is behind me. “Who are these ghosts?” I ask.
“The seven ghosts of the library,” he says.
“The trivium of grammar, rhetoric and logic, the quadrivium of geometry, arithmetic, music and astronomy. They’ve all but disappeared from our shelves, leaving behind only these despot shades.”
I blink.
I’m in a movie theater. The reels start spinning. Freshly skinned animal hides are stretched across the screen. A priest is crossing the street. He points his cross up at the sky. The screen goes blank. Alien spacecrafts have eclipsed the sun.