Over the Brink Pt. 3 "We are Fucked"

Yeah, I finally finished it. Longest 10 pages I've ever written. Writers block is a bitch. I realized that a straight up Lovecraft interpretation isn't my style, and has been done better by other people. So I made my own universe and put my own spin on things.

Does it blow? Is it great? I'd like your opinion. Anonymous posting is on (and always will be) so feel free to call me a genius. Or that I should go suck a dick. Either way, I'm just glad to be fucking done.

Please at least read the sections in italics. I believe they are of the highest quality, written from the perspective of the protagonist.

The rest, you can take it or leave it.

I hope you like text:

November 25th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
The bound volume of vulgarity that Mr. Eire has been so adamant about appears to be little more than an appeasement to the violent mind. Though the later half of the book is unreadable, hidden behind inscrutable text and symbols written in no tongue of the Anglo-Saxon, Mr. Eire's handwriting is quite legible, and I can only assume that his translations are accurate. Though why he would sully his mind with such barbarities is a mystery to me, indulgences in the occult are definitely an attributing factor in his mind's erosion. The first translated section seems to instruct on the basic tenants of this black bible. It is as follows:

Darkness is not the presence of 'dark', but an absence of light. The same is true with life, for death is merely the absence of life. And as a candle will illuminate a sunless day, so too can life shine upon the dead. For a man can light the wick of a candle, and in doing so can he ignite the embers of existence. But a candle cannot be lit without a match, a tool to his enlightenment. The match of life is that of Him. Deep within the wells of eternity He lies, waiting with the dead, breathing the ethers of their ruin. And in Him life is stored, flowing anew into this world upon His summoning. However, even the most volatile of alchemy requires a spark, a signal, a star in the night of His world, to guide Him on His way. And He will bequeath the champion with His own life, imbuing the Morning Star with all His powers, and the fountain of life within. And as the stars, the Conduit will roam our Space with absolute impunity, free of all constraints concocted in the minds of mortal men. She will be bound by no steel shackles, equal even with the heavens, blessed with irrevocable immortality, forged by His will. And now is the time when Life will fill the lungs of every serf, echoing the sounds of His every utterance, bound in gratitude to Her generosity. For She is immovable to all but Him. Rejoice! All suffering will end and She will be its undoing!

On these pages, the symbol I found previously carved into the watch is inscribed, an orb with rays leading out of it, like a doodle of the sun drawn by a child. It also seems apparent that Ashley believes himself to be this 'Conduit', this 'Morning Star', although the text clearly describes 'the champion' as being female. It is hardly a case of gender confusion, but Ashley's undoubtedly distorted psyche can easily ignore any inconsistencies through that tainted filter of a mind. For the mental hygiene of the staff and myself, and having found no strong leads in its contents, I have ordered the book to be thrown into the incinerator. It is for the best. It has already taken one mind, and that is enough for me.

November 26th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I am perplexed at where he found the paint to do so, but there was an elaborate design sloshed on the walls of Mr. Eire's room, a series of geometries I am familiar with from the pages of that tainted tome. Mr. Eire was found by the guards rubbing the lines out with his forehead. He was screaming deliriously, "Tear it down! Wash it off! Cleanse this place! I will not be taken in the night!" That mans troubles are only beginning. Who knows how long his body will last under such psychiatric turmoil. He has become almost a skeleton of his former self, and his refusal to sleep is only making it worse. We have decided to apply drugs, for his benefit. Tomorrow, myself and a medical team will walk through that doorway, and administer enough tranquilizers to keep him down for at least a few days. Perhaps then he will be eased of his mind, for at least a short while.

…

The room is cold. So cold. And only getting colder. Sparks trickling off the synapses are the only fire still stoking the dying furnace of the heart. The rare chills of its beats pump ice, clogging veins with slush and slurry, blood so thick it strangles the bones. The air is so fine that it slips between teeth, starving a chest tight. Whatever feelings are left in the extremities, I can't feel them. Whatever noises my ears are hearing, I can't hear them. Whatever life I was supposed to be leading…

And right when you get to that point of epiphany, when it's all okay because you just don't care anymore, something isn't going to let you. It's going to be a few white coats lead by an elderly gentleman carrying the type of needle that makes a child cringe. That fine pointed steel proboscis invades your body, pumping all its squamous juices until you just want to scratch your skin off, to kill the itch. But you can't lift a finger. Liquid hands are holding you down, and you're not getting up. You can try. I tried. I think I said something, something to the effect of don't do this you don't know what you are doing blargh. And then your skin unravels, and your body is bound by a more ethereal epidermis. Your eyes aren't looking at anything in particular, but they are seeing everything. And that rotten old face of a man expands until it’s a whole sky of wrinkles and folds and moles and every little thing. And you are going to look right at it until it becomes a whole spectacle of planets and comets and asteroids, all hurdling at incomprehensible speeds through that Sargasso Sea of infinity. And when you finally look to the horizon, you will see exactly what you expected. It is just as black, and empty, and devoid of hope as you ever imagined. But in the middle of it all, waiting just for you, will be an island of light; A little star still gleaming in a night that devours your vision. This star is going to get bigger. It is going to burn brighter.

And you are going to become afraid.

…

November 28th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
All is quiet since the previous pacification of Mr. Ashley Eire. Though I have had a sleepless night filled with terrors I'd rather not dwell on, my mind is eased by at least this brief respite from days of chaos. I am filled with a hope for tomorrow, and what revelations it may bring. I meet the day willingly. May the sun shine on us all.

November 29th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I have alerted security to potential delinquent personnel. A few of the nurses did not checkout of their night shift, and their families have not seen them at home. The last thing we need is a shortage of staff.

December 5th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Now some of the interned have gone missing, completely gone from their rooms. My mind is wracked by the thought of these deviants roaming free amongst the masses. Security has been dispatched to find them, though there has been no further progress on their capture.

December 12th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
We are getting in a new batch of personnel today, rotating in for the holidays. I will remain as the overseer of this institution. Considering the drama we find ourselves in now, what with the disappearances and Mr. Eire staring comatose into space, it would be a lapse of judgment to leave this place unsupervised.

December 17th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Mr. Eire has awoken from his trance, and has been taken off the IV. He seems far more stable than his previous condition. But when I approached him in person, he broke out in a fit of laughter. When queried on this behavior, he simply responded, "Nothing. It's funny. You'll see." Although I do not know if his mind has healed in any way, he is much more subdued. Now the security staff may have an easier time with him.

December 18th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Bizarre. Upon the day of Ashley's awakening, strange symbols have appeared on the walls and in the hallways of the various wards, dripping wet, red as blood. This cannot be his doing, for he was locked away, watched by the medical team for signs of complications with the drugs. I can only assume some troublemakers are loose in the building, or perhaps a mischievous return of the escapees. Though I have served with pride this great institution, its monolithic size is proving problematic. I have requested the police assist in its security.

December 20th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
What tragedy does befall us. Several members of the assisting police force have been found dead in the incinerator room, dismembered and flayed in a most grotesque way. The safety of myself and the staff has been compromised, and a large police battalion is now stationed here for out protection. They will also be investigating the murder of the officers. It is good to have a dogged and reliable regiment of law enforcement in a facility apparently overrun by incompetence. In that same room, the book I had explicitly ordered to destroy, a book that is nothing but a contaminant to the human spirit, was found in perfect bound condition. If we were not in such a state of panic, a harsh reprimand would be in store for whoever displayed such blatant disregard for my authority. But that is a matter for a more trivial time. I await the synopsis of the police on our current predicament. On a gentler note, in my discussion with Ashley, he informed me that tomorrow is his birthday. 28 years, how nice it would be to be so young again, and how tragic it is that youth suffers his fate.

…

Murals of the macabre are painted on the walls, awash in the blood of the innocent and apathetic. Intestines are strung up like tinsel, in celebration of this holiday's holocaust. Bodies ornament the floor and ceiling, bound there by their own flesh, dripping life's lubricant. Eyes and mouths are wide open screaming their demise. Heads are propped up like road signs, denoting the dark directions of the hallways and corridors. Imps crawl about in cop's uniforms, spraying hot death from their hijacked human tools of destruction. And I'm wading knee deep through dead stares and red coats, dyed with the color of their untimely destruction.

I can't help but be a little proud, like a parent. My offspring may be spawned from a womb of pure terror, but dreary me, they grow up so fast.
She says congratulations on becoming a mom.
"Oh yeah, I'm so glad to have a subconscious that is essentially hell's vagina."
She chuckles, and tells me that she always did like my sense of humor. A comic mind tends to be the only type that can withstand staring directly into the unblinking eye of infinity. That kind of mentality can step back from the daunting first person perspective, sparing me the unfathomable torment of direct contact.
"It feels like my head is on fire."
She says that's normal. I should be thankful my brain didn't implode.
"The book wasn't destroyed."
She says she knows. She knew it could only be undone for a brief time. She just wanted to give me the time I needed to prepare. And I used that time to run away to an insane asylum.
"It seemed like a good idea."
She tells me I'll never escape it. It's too late for me. My skull will one day lie within the throne of the fallen, with hers, and hundreds of others who have committed the folly of curiosity. A shrine to hubris. I'm doomed. There is no escaping it. But the trap has been set. If I play my part just right, there will only be one more generation of Conduits. The sky will empty, and the twinkling hopes of the damned will be extinguished. His stars will no longer burn. And we will all be free.
I stop somewhere between the avenue of no return and the road to annihilation.
"I'll do it. Might as well make lemonade out of an army of hope eating monsters. What do I do first?"
Use the sword to close the breach.
"The sword is hundreds of miles away sealed in a glass container. How the hell am I supposed to get it?"
You just brought demons from another dimension across time and space to a mental institution in New York; I think you can manage a few hundred measly corporeal miles.
"Tell me the incantation."
Yank an incisor out of someone's head, and carve this in a reverse spiral around your navel.
"This is going to hurt isn't it?"
Like you wouldn't believe…

…

December 23rd, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
We have been held up in the south east section for the last few days. We are running out of ammo, and people. There is no clear front to fight these things. They appear from walls and shadows, pouncing on the unsuspected, taking their spark of life for their own. Some have even morphed into these creatures, their humanity stolen by some unseen hand. Oh God what monsters they are. All manner of beast, depictions of which I have seen drawn between the texts of that damned book. But such illustrations do not do justice the sheer horrors these things are. Tendrils and eyes grasping and searching, drilling into men's hearts and devouring their insides. Wings and claws, arms so numerous they become little more than a squirming mass. They be neither mammalian nor reptilian, a devious amalgamation of features to greater expedite our destruction. Some seem human, with equal proportions of arms and legs, but have bat like heads, and glowing orbs as eyes that seek out the darkness. They turn our weapons against us, sawing through a man, firing off guns into our midst, making every use of what they have to end our existence. We must constantly be on the move, as the contortions of the building have taken on a life of their own, conspiring against us. The corner we reside in is barricaded, and we must fight off any taint that intrudes on our territory. They can be destroyed. Some are susceptible to our lead volleys, while others need specific circumstances to be dispatched. One such monster withstood our barrage of bullets, but disintegrated upon being drenched with water. Another exploded when fire was brought to bear. They are a menagerie or tormentors that have us beset on all sides. We sent out a call for help prior to their complete outbreak, and pray that the cavalry will come equipped with the most advanced weapons of war. But now time is against us. There! I can hear them, railing against the walls, coming in on us! The barrier will only hold so long. Tentacles are peeking through, their puckered feelers testing our defenses. The guards are adept with their rifles, and they stand at the ready, but no human cunning can defeat monsters with otherworldly logic. Oh God! Here they come! A flood of fiends to wash away our lives! God help me! God help-

…

The wet thickness dripping off the end of the ultimate implement of annihilation was almost as heavy as the blade itself. The eldritch runes inscribed on the neck hummed merrily, sucking the edge dry. The hilt shook with the giddiness of a schoolgirl. I am beginning to question the wisdom of wielding a weapon that is both sentient and insatiable.
She says I shouldn't worry. Human meat isn't its forte. Just keep cutting glyphs into the bullets. I'll need every one.
"These creepy crawlies aren't as resilient as those abominations in the catacombs. Just shank 'em or shoot 'em. They wither and die like weeds."
She says the summoned are only as potent as the summoner. Those were the devils of her mind, and these are the children of mine.
"So my seed are weak sauce. Thanks for the boost in confidence."
She says she never managed to bring a fully formed Z'thly into our plane of being. That is an accomplishment. Take that as a sign of strength, to allow such a thing into life.
"Or a sign of weakness that I couldn't hold it back."
However you want it. But its destruction will seal the tear. You cannot leave unless you desire an open doorway to nothingness siphoning the life of this world.
"Fuck that. I just want something other than eternal damnation."
Then drop your socks and grab your gun. You remember the plan?
"Empty the revolver into its six mouths, each bullet a different letter in the spell of sedition. Its tendrils will seek to crush me, but the hexes on my body will sear its skin, as wards are apt to do. I then dive into its writhing mass, plunging the blade of apogee into its eye. All the while, I have to fend off the fiends and mind bending freaks of my own creation, for the succulent taste of my soul is like gravy to them. I think I got it."
Also, the Z'thly has merged with the building, an extension of its own body. As the cyclopean thing crumbles, so does the structure. Both will be absorbed by the brink…
"So get the hell out quick or spend an eternity with an omnipotent incarnation of lust, my body becoming a perverse play thing for it to toy with. Quasi-dimensional rape is not how I see this night ending. I'll learn to run."
You can't run from something that transcends movement. You'll have to trust me to lead you out.
"So follow the tunnel? Follow the light?"
I'll be the light in your darkness.
"Hey, they didn't name you Providence for nothing."
They named me Providence because white people are assholes.
"No argument from me."
Ashley?
"Yes Providence."
I love you.
"I sure hope so…"

…

They were gathered around the black cathedral, eyes fixed on the house of the cursed, mesmerized by its unnatural beauty. Spires and pillars and abbeys and arcades stood in testament to its foundation, a black core ravenous and alive. They watched the monolith as sheep watch the slaughterhouse, an unknown avenue whose doors lead to destruction. And they all winced as a blinding spear punctured its buttresses, piercing its center, trailing off into space. A vortex opened the sky, pulling back the peel of reality, a hole draining the minds of the onlookers. The gibbering mass was a puddle of supercilious bipeds, arrogance and importance replaced by emptiness and insanity, wailing incessantly. Brick and mortar fell into the air, dropping off the face of the earth, leaving nothing but a dark stain on the soil. There stood silent an entity who had looked directly into the face of oblivion and lived. He looks himself over, and over the people and what they have been reduced to. They are lucky. They no longer have the cognitive capability to understand their suffering. He will know it, every inch of it, every curve of it. But it will not last. For he will find an heir to his folly, and there will be redemption, for even the tallest buildings are founded on a single stone, and the fiercest fires are lit by a single spark. And if that stone were to crumble, or that spark is snuffed out…

…He will find another. Yes, He will find another.

Over the Brink Pt. 2 "Breakdown"

Journal Entry, November 13th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I have not made an entry to my Journal for a month, and it is because of the chaos previously upstanding Ashley Eire has brought unto this facility. On the day of his review, before I could even address his concerns, he flew into hysterics, attacking me, and has become a danger to himself and the staff. I have transcribed the audio recording of our conversation for peer review.

Dr. Edwards: Hello again Ashley, it has been awhile since we sat down to chat like this.

Mr. Eire: That it has. I hope you don't mind that I've refused your offers of discharge from this institution.

Dr. Edwards: Certainly not, now that I have come across the source of your discontent.

Mr. Eire: I don't think you have Dr. Edwards. I believe that if you did, you would be in one of these padded cells with me.

Dr. Edwards: After searching your possessions, we found a pocket watch with your book…

Mr. Eire: It's not really a book so much as a hobby.

Dr. Edwards: Well it seems very professional, the illustrations are quite explicit.

Mr. Eire: Illustrations? I don't recall any illustrations.

Dr. Edwards: Really? Perhaps you have a firmer constitution, because I almost wretched at the sight of some deformed ghoul dining on human flesh.

Mr. Eire: …We are talking about my cooking notes correct?

Dr. Edwards: (laughter) No of course not Mr. Eire. Your other book. The one with the strange symbols. It seemed like you had translated some of it. Surely you must have picked it up somewhere in your travels…

Mr. Eire: The book is here!?

Dr. Edwards: No need to shout Mr. Eire, I assure you the book is safe…

Mr. Eire: …how is the book here...it was destroyed…I watched it…in the fires of that pit…

(indecipherable)

Mr. Eire: How did you come upon it!

Dr. Edwards: Please sir, restrain yourself. I can assure you that it is in the same condition in which you brought it in.

(Screaming)

Mr. Eire: That witch! Damn her! I burned it just as it was to be done!

Dr. Edwards: Please! Mr. Eire! Calm yourself!

Mr. Eire: Destroy it! Cast the book into a fire stoked green with sulfur! It is a blight on this planet…

Dr. Edwards: There is no need to become aggressive…

(It is at this point that Mr. Eire grabbed me by the throat and forced me to the floor)

Mr. Eire: It has followed me here. I cannot sleep, for dreams are the hunting grounds of imps and ghouls. And yet waking I find my dreams follow me to my days! Now you listen, good man. Good, good man. His avatars will be born in flesh, and take more than your mind, lest that book and I make ourselves scarce. Damn her…she was right. It cannot be destroyed. It will not let itself be erased. Its agents are making ready here on earth. Its eyes are lidless, unblinking, and everywhere. I am the beacon that will lead it through the portal to our reality. I am the harbinger of its coming. And I'm afraid, Dr. Edwards, that I must take my leave of you.

(It is now that I have pressed the emergency button beneath my desk, and Mr. Eire is restrained, escorted to the highest level cell of the ward. The tape ends here)

Clearly I should have looked into this case more earnestly. It has become apparent that he sensed his weakening sanity, checking himself into this institution as a bulwark against the coming storm. I cannot help but feel regret that I did not realize the depth of Mr. Eire's instability upon his entrance to this facility. He has become unmanageable, and dangerous. At least five times since the incident, he has managed to escape his cell. Once he was found standing over a nurse with a scalpel, threatening to gut her, and wear her gizzard as a grotesque diadem. And again, he managed to escape the ward, making his way down to the storage room before being found out. Security reported finding him in a state of undress crouched above the now ubiquitous book, writing alien invocations into his skin with the only available utensil, an aluminum shank pried from a rusty can of peas. They attempted to bring him to the medical wing to treat the cuts, but before he could even be restrained the flesh healed over the incisions, creating lines of scarred script wrapping around his limbs and trunk. Almost every night, screams can be heard throughout the halls, his shouts speaking of grim portents and dire prophecy. In each scenario, he immediately becomes compliant when any kind of tranquilizer was threatened. He appears unwavering in his conviction to maintain consciousness, as warped a mind it may be. Who knows what kinds of demons reside in that man's soul, but I am determined to keep him free from society until they are pacified.

November 20th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Despite the consistent hell being raised by Mr. Eire on a daily basis, he has ceased screaming in the nights. However, the watch reports that though he is quiet, he remains awake throughout the evening, occasionally questioning them on the conditions of the outside, followed by entreaties to allow him to be discharged with the book. That book, it does seem to be the source of his troubles. Though his obliviousness to fact it was even in his possession is unexplainable, I will look into it, and question him on its origins. This will be interesting to see unfold.

Over the Brink Pt.1 "Misinterpretation"

I have long posited the creation of a Lovecraftian comic book, but the withered claws that I dare call hands though nimble and lithe on a keyboard or fretboard can trace only crude impressions onto any piece of palp. I can't draw. But other people can. Particularly this fellow, with whom I am corroborating on this project. But since I am clueless to the nature of comic book writing, I will merely write, and let my better part interpret the story as he will. This is the first of at least three parts I plan to post this week. This is the slow build-up all Lovecraft stuff seems to have before demons start popping out of the anus of hell like metamucil infused turds. Enjoy.

Journal Entry, September 5th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
A quite peculiar subject was admitted to the ward today. Though most come dragged screaming through the threshold by family members, exhausted of the wild ramblings and disparate behavior of a now intolerable loved one, this particular individual came only escorted by a plump black suitcase, dripping sleeves and socks over the lobby's floor. Dressed impeccably with vest, tie, formal pants, and shoes that would not be out of place on a dance floor, he was a welcome sight when most come clad in naught but their night ware. The only things out of order were an absence of a coat or hat, and the presence a disheveled shirt, with sleeves rolled past the elbow and collar loosely buttoned. Though he seemed malnourished, with eyes resting in deep purple circles, his slim frame was held tight and his face was still soft with youth. The secretary was alarmed when he revealed that he was not visiting some poor cracked relative, but rather checking himself in for treatment. His eloquence, humor, and candor spoke not of some wild mental deviant but of a sophisticate whose manners were toned by the heavy etiquette of New England aristocracy. When pressed on why such a well adjusted man would seek sanctuary in the loony bin, he simply stated that, 'we all have demons that we're trying to outrun; I'm just trying to throw mine off the scent'. Such an interesting case. I cannot wait to interview this subject for my records.

Journal Entry, September 8th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
What a fascinating case indeed! I was not disappointed by his account. Yes, he hailed from New England, a fine upper crust gentleman whose wise understanding of investment saved him from the poverty that has stricken so many in these times. A Mr. Ashley Eire, his interest in the sciences and of discovery had led him to quite the number of queer encounters in his life. A collector of books and wild theories, his library had outgrown his house by the time he was 18. He briefly attended college before finding work with a defense company, specializing in abstract and unique ordinance. Just past his mid twenties, he tells me he will turn 28 in December. Though I continually pressed him on why exactly he has institutionalized himself, he seems reticent to say more besides having 'grim misgivings' about the future. I told him such simple therapy would be better suited to a psychiatrist than an institution, but he insisted that only 'this place is safe' enough for his residence. This will certainly be an interesting case to see develop! For lack of any apparent aberrations in his personality, he has been assigned to the lowest level ward.

Journal Entry, September 9th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Upon trifling through his possessions, the nurses stumbled upon a myriad of abnormal items, not the least of which was a book transcribed in foreich symbols and riddled with apocryphal geometries and baleful illustrations. Another was a silver pocket watch containing a picture of a negro woman and a frayed map, covered in vague notations and chronicling some sort of subterranean system. Also found was a note book filled with various culinary recipes and critiques of local cuisine. The last one, being dated a mere month ago, praised a Gumbo stew mixed with alligator meat. My, my, this man is certainly an eclectic collector of the absurd and the occult!

Journal Entry, September 20th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Though Mr. Eire is consistently reminded of his freedom to leave at anytime, he persists in the facility, a darling of the staff and a friend to the nurses. He's even assisted them in subduing a rather rabid occupant, who was stopped before he could thrust a spoon into his nasal cavity. What a refreshing change of pace it is to have a cooperative and interesting individual in my care.

Journal Entry, October 1st, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
Couldn't help but flip through Mr. Eire's intriguing book. Upon closer examination, it appears the first few chapters, if they can even be called chapters, are translated into English text found hastily written in the margin. I could not stomach the illustrations, depicting graphic horrors I am unfamiliar with even in my nightmares, but the story seems to describe some ancient terror being brought to life by a wayward soul. How cliché. Though I question his taste in literature, one cannot doubt his ability in chess! He has already bested the junior doctors, and is swiftly working his way up the competitive latter. Perhaps I will get the honor to try my skills against him soon enough.

Journal Entry, October 5th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
I am seriously pushing the limits of my authority, but my curiosity could not be helped! I was returning the book to the stack of Mr. Eire possessions, when the pocket watch slipped from the box and fell to the ground. Upon ensuring that no damage had come to it, I noticed the picture had slipped partway from the frame. After removing the picture, to verify that it had not been tarnished in anyway, I noticed a strange engraving behind where it had sat. It was a symbol of some kind, a series of rays leading to a central circle. And on the back of the picture, written in pencil, were the words 'I will be the light in your darkness'. What possible connotations could this have? Did this man, seemingly upstanding and intelligent, have dalliances with a negro woman? Then indeed, he has chosen rightly to bring himself here. Sexual confusion is difficult to admit to, particularly miscegenation. I shall broach possible treatment to Mr. Eire in his one month review on the 8th. At least he has avoided the perversity of the sodomite, but there is serious work to be done.

Journal Entry, October 7th, 1933
Dr. Michael Edwards
The nurses have reported that Mr. Eire has not slept since he has submitted himself for care. Obvious subconscious guilt over his violation of natural law. But now that we have the symptom we can treat the disease, and I'm sure Mr. Eire will sleep easy knowing we have diagnosed the source of his unrest.


The Calm Before the Storm! Oh snap! What will happen next? Will shit go crazy up in this bitch? Will there be detailed descriptions of octopus impregnation? Probably! Find out for sure in the next installement of 'Channeling Lovecraft: Over the Brink'!

The Morning After (the Zombie Apocalypse)

The meandering menace that had scoured my city had left just as slowly and unintelligibly as it came. I can still here the cries of those too preoccupied and inconvenienced to elude the encroaching horde. But they are no more.

Brains. "Why do they always want out brains?"

The boat rocked idly through the harbor, a deprave vista before me. Flames danced in the horizon, gnawing away at the spires and structures that once supported an American paradise. The water was sick with the bloated and dead, and one must watch their toes to avoid the casual nibbles that doom the soul.

My luscious companion grasps my manly physique, bringing me close. "We survived didn't we?"

Her eyes perfectly complemented her ethnicity. She was an amalgamation of every strain of hotness that blesses the weaker sex. I mean she was like, super hot.

"Yes." I said.

"Yes we…survived."

"We survived the Zombie apocalypse."

My shotgun was still warm from discharge, my long and slender shaft polished to a blinding sheen. My flowing man-locks wafted in the breeze, drenched in the stench of death and Loreal Just For Men Shampoo (designed specifically for the rugged intensity of a man's hair).

The silver blades of F-63 Fighter/Bomber/Ass-kicker assault recon aircraft still sliced through the sky, circling the carcass of a dead city. The military could destroy, but it couldn’t create.

Hotness brought me closer to her, "What do we do now?"

My steely gaze and pumped biceps embrace Sexylicious, "We make a new world, rising like a phoenix from the ashes…" The sun parts the clouds, as we are enveloped in a ray of heavenly light, "and we are going to have sex. We are going to have sex like you wouldn't believe."

Our lips meet, and for the first time in a long while, all is good.

Then zombie Orcas leap from the sea and tear her in twain, her torso spinning in the air like a whirly gig before another zombie Orca (or Shamu-Z, as he is know to friends) snatches her from the sky. The bite is so powerful that the blood pressure pops her like a balloon, showering me with the entrails of my beloved.

Two silicon implants plop into my hands.

I look at the neat little piles and I think:

Shit.

The Apocalypse Has Been Televised

I have witnessed the fall of civilized society, and it is in the form of competitive spelling bees.

They are fucking loco.

A Child whose intelligence has far outgrown his wisdom (a dangerous combination) steps up to a microphone. He sweats and fidgets, taking deep, asthma breaths into his lungs.

The mike crackles with feedback.

The voice of God speaks: "Your word…is Hylocynth."

The Child's eyes go dim. "Can I have the root?"

God says of course of course, "the root is Latin, French, German, and English."

The Child mutters dammit under his runny nose. "Can you use it in a sentence please?"

God says certainly, "The Child lost the spelling bee because Hylocynth is a hard word to spell."

The Child says: "Shit"

Then he asks, "Can I have a definition?"

God says, "An aquatic marmot."

"Really?"

"No not really no."

"Okay", says the Child.

"Hylocynth…H-Y-L-O-S-Y-N-T-H?"

A bell rings and the child plunges into a circle of hell just below the pedophiles. Awkward.

God says, "Next."

The Children all have names that only a spelling bee champion could. Shlkdcvnykha. Xaieioeyh. Consonants that could crack teeth and vowels that would open wounds.

The parents don't seem to mind their Child's destructive determination.

Mary and David Dufrane love their child's precocious spelling proclivities.

"We let Jimmy do this because it makes him happy," she says, smile stale on her face, "and because it allows us to live out our own fantasies through him, as the once livid dreams of inspired youth have evaporated from our souls, leaving us dry and thirsty for validation. His success grants us this illusion of a dignified life."

David braces tighter against Mary's shoulder, as if it were the edge of a life boat, "Though we breathe, consume, and survive, we are dead inside. We died a long time ago. A long time…" David's eyes drift away. He has the look of a man that knows he has sunk too far from the surface to come up for air, drowning with contemptible complacency.

Jimmy steps up to the microphone, his glasses barely covering his naiveté.

God tightens his collar, "Your word…" Pages are flipped and numbers are checked, "is lilocaitenhe."

And the Child says: Shit.