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Issue #20: The Mythos Planet
Lovecraft inspired.
Newly imagined and terrifying vistas populated with horrific monstrosities. No one is safe anywhere. We can go to the Old Ones or the New Ones. Or they come to us. Invading our atmosphere, and our work space. Prehistory Old Ones whose smaller kin still flit among us. Shoggoth and Cthulhu born, and reborn… The terrifying sound of an ear-piercing chant in deepest space, destroying even the silence of the vacuum:
“Ia, Ia, Dagon…”
Issue #20: The Mythos Planet
Pseudopod, by Karen Bovenmyer****
The Mythos Planet, by Kevin Morley****
Hollow Deep, by Edward Taylor***
The Cubicle from Beyond Space and Time, by D.A. Madigan***
Litterbugs, by BanWynn Oakshadow
Meganuera monyi, by Richard Stevenson
Asterisks represent the editor’s favorite pieces.
All images are royalty free via Pixabay, unless otherwise noted.
The Mythos Planet, by Kevin Morley
Image by Nottsuo – nottsuo.deviantart and at Wikipedia (Shoggoth)
We fought the Xanee for more than a generation. It seems our peoples don’t mix well, though we do each die with some degree of regularity. At the boundary, where our two cultures collide, where our war rages most intensely, our conflict birthed a ripple.
Not a normal ripple, like from a rock thrown into a pool. This ripple grows from the drama of divergent culture clash. Underneath time and space, it festers, tearing holes in the fabric of our lives. Our dreams, the Xanee and ours, cross the barrier of this nether world and now we fight our wars privately in the quietness of our bedrooms and dream pods while we sleep. We fight, not with each other, but with Them.
I first came across the aching darkness and foulness of the Old Ones in this dream setting after a panic-filled first space battle. I did not know terror like that and I barely made it back from that first fight, dropping in and out of consciousness. Whispers around half-empty mugs hinted at dire things hidden in the corners and darkened places of our minds. Things long forgotten. Things long dismissed to the realm of the mad and possessed.
People said that the Old Ones had fled Earth, chased by humans and abandoned by their Elders, that we banished them from our shores in an age long past. We did not know, we could not know, that in so doing we cast them upon our future enemy, the Xanee. Our fears and our sorrows traveled with the forlorn Old Ones when we rid ourselves of their vitriol.
The Xanee subjugated the Old Ones, chaining them and making them into smallish things. Such is the nature of the Xanee. To rule. To enslave. They forced the Old Ones into servitude like the Elders before had done. The Xanee didn’t understand the power of the Old Ones. The Xanee didn’t understand the will to survive, dominate, and desecrate that drove the Old Ones.
And so, foulness curdled in the hearts of the Old Ones, souring them to their current imprisonment of body and mind. They reached into the depths of the Abyss and created something more.
Something greater and abler.
Something to collide with the Xanee.
And then the Old Ones set this Shoggoth of the New Line free along the rift.
Along our rift and loose in our dreams. It seems they found a way to strike back.
The New One grew strong in its fetid way. It conquered not peoples or lands, but planets and vast swaths of space. It stretched forth its hands, tentacles, and maws taking from its parents the means and will to subjugate other life.
It flourished.
I found it there, too, as my starship faltered in my next battle with the Xanee. As I fled the conflict to make repairs and so rejoin my brethren, it called to me. On the edge of a ripple of darkness and malice, of worlds clashing in ways unseen, I saw it. I must have passed out from the strain of the fight and as the loss of oxygen, perhaps, infringed upon my conscious state. My dream-self awoke in the very lair of the new Shoggoth and sought a place to land.
The world I found, the world shown to me in that nether-like dreamscape, appeared night-shrouded and cold in the deep black. It beckoned me.
I should have remembered the tale of the Shoggoths. I should have noticed that the night didn’t fold over the land in a natural way, but rather writhed in oily thick blackness, that the world had no light side, only dark.
Alas, I did not.
As I descended through that thickened ooze, my starship suffered first. The oily blackness tore at it, peeling it like a tuber for the pot. I saw lightning flashing, quick as thought, and eyes, thousands and thousands of eyes, all around my canopy as the glass and ceramics surrendered next to the malevolent love of the New One’s caress.
The whole of the planet stormed at me and my silver-like dagger. My single, far-flung dagger. Too small, I hoped, to bare awareness of me in the minds of the Old One’s spawn. Too soft to cause pain in something so vast. The New One on the surface stood larger than any mountain and greater than any villain of old.
I think I screamed when the oozing, slick mass breached the canopy and touched my skin.
Yes, yes I did scream.
And when I did, the new-birthed Shoggoth took it from me to wear as a bauble in a chain of other baubles around its many necks.
Now I lie in the convalescent’s ward, unable to speak, unable to move, and with sightless eyes staring at a world that has moved on without me. Around me are the others, the others that have encountered the New One of the rift. Loved ones visit us, but we, the Army of the Damned, have nothing to say.
I am a 20 year veteran Algebra teacher trying to reconnect with his inner writer. I post with fair regularity in the short story and poem links over at Writers Digest under the pen name Bushkill. When I’m not penning prose of some type I try to enjoy a plethora of other interests, though a penchant for beer and food does seem to get the better of me most of the time.
The Visit, by Brandy Stark
Image by BenduKiwi.
“Hail, Old Ones! Hail, Great Ones!” He called. Only the echo of His roar answered Him.
He narrowed His eyes to better view His surroundings. Jutting up from the ground were mounds of rocks, their peaks pushing past the ocean waves and reaching for the graying sky beyond. It was quiet and still around Him. The schools of fish had long scattered at His approach. Even the lowly corals had receded deep into their shells, cowering. For a moment He spied a few intrepid sharp toothed sharks hovering at the edge of His vision. Sensing His gaze they, too, disappeared into the depths.
His eyes scanned the mounds before Him. He could feel them. Why didn’t they answer?
He tried again: “Hail, Old Ones! Hail, Great Ones!”
For a moment more He stood in quiet nothingness. Then, there was a subtle shifting. The sense of movement came from inside one of the stony pillars. An energy, an outreach, a probing, then a connection.
The earth before Him strained as if willing itself to remain sealed. It screamed in protest and shuddered as it was wrenched open. For a moment, He saw the tips of curled appendages probe the maw of the fissure. Wilting, their work done, they receded from view and were replaced by an enormous eye. It lolled about, tugging at colorless flesh as it viewed its surroundings. Seeing him, the eye paused and the heavy weight of its scrutiny fell upon Him. He saw his own reflection peering back from the surface of the orb. He was enshrouded by the dying rays of the sunset that cast an eerie red-orange light onto the world around him. It was bright enough that he saw the iris as it expanded and contracted around the pupil. The colors within it were last seen at the birth of the universe. The dark center of the eye, however, contained a myriad of blacknesses, a series of darks carried forth from the death throes of the universe that existed before this one.
He waited, motionless, as the gaze moved across His body.
A rumble spread across the ocean floor before Him. The sound reached up and wrapped around him. “Cthulhu.”
He bowed in ascent.
“Seed of my seed, we bid you welcome.”
He waited.
“We are the beings of the Old Universe, the universe that was. We are the only ones left of that place and of that time. As you are now, we once were.”
The eye grew wide for a moment and its hold on Him lessoned. It grew unfocused, as if it could once again see the place of its birth. It looked to the Heavens and rolled back. A white membrane of flesh enveloped it. All grew quiet as it dwelled in memories.
The lids parted, unveiling the orb beneath. Again, the gaze focused on Him with new interest. Its intensity burned Him, reaching through his flesh, then blood, and touching his soul.
“We made our homes here and drew the earth about us. We watched and waited as life arose from the slime and mire. After a thousand generations had come and gone we grew comfortable. We slept. We waited. After a million generations, your father awakened us. We destroyed Him for His impetuousness. He fed us his scrambled brains and beating heart. The stench of his corpse destroyed most of the creatures above, but it was not yet time for an end to all. A million million generations have passed since then and you, son of my son, awaken us.”
Cthulhu raised His head.
“The noise from above reaches us. Anarchy calls. Anger. Distrust. Disillusionment.”
He waited. The eye rolled again, but this time it didn’t fully close. Within its depths was a new emotion: ecstasy. This resounded in the Old One’s voice as well. The next works were tinged with a tone of excitement.
“The time has come,” it said.
Though Cthulhu could not see his face, He knew that the Old One was smiling. Then Grandfather added, “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn”
Cthulhu closed his eyes.
Grandfather called again: “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”
The third time Grandfather said these words there were new voices saying them, too. The voices rose from the landmasses beyond the one holding Grandfather. Each island had its own Old One and each Old One joined in the call.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn! “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn! Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”
The water writhed around Him, trying to escape the reach of the chant. Fissures exploded from the protesting ground. Soft tendrils emerged from them, reaching for Him, caressing his skin. They gripped him, probed him, pulled him down.
Lighting rocked in the distant sky, indiscriminately striking the water and the land. He heard the screams from above. He felt the fear. He felt the panic.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”
This universe must come to an end. The Old Ones’ call filled his ears and spilled into his being; he felt the darknesses of a thousand universal death knells well within.
Slowly the tendrils dropped from his body, releasing him. He opened his eyes. It was time.
Brandy Stark is a Tampa Bay, Florida artist, educator and writer. Before becoming full time faculty in the Humanities, she served as an arts correspondent for the St. Petersburg Times from 1998 to 2002. She also wrote for other local publications, including Bayside News, Sterling Powell’s City Life, and several art based websites. Her award-winning creative writing has been published local. Recently, she self – published two booklets on the history and haunts of the Suntan Art Center (Spectral Musings) and Patty and Friends Antique Village (Ghostly Encounters: Patty and Friends Antique Village). Both may be purchased at Amazon.com in print or for Kindle.
Issue #18: Mark My Words: Prophesy, Signs, and Portents
Yes, I know. It’s been awhile. Life has thrown me a series of knuckleballs that body (and brain) slammed me. My last semester of university was a nightmare, but I got through… and have a nice expensive piece of paper to show for it. Then, between being fatigued all the time and shopping for a grad school, I kept shoving this magazine (which is honestly the joy of my life) further and further back on the back burner. So, it’s time. I’m feeling a bit better after changing my diet, getting more exercise and losing some weight. I’m still not one hundred percent, but I’m better than I was, so it is time to get the Traveler off hiatus and get cracking with publishing weird stories again. The Traveler has been on my mind during the past year. I’d like to do so much more with it. I’d like a new website for it, or at least a new banner and layout for this one.
As for starting this magazine again, I have made some small changes, some will be noted in the Submissions page. Most notably, starting from this point and going forward, I will select some original pieces each issue and mark them as Editor’s Choice. I am trying to get more into the habit of finding out when awards are issued, and nominating some stories/poetry. The Editor’s Choice asterisks will make it easier to find my favorites. Now, I just need to find more awards and keep track of when they accept nominations. Thank the gods for Google Calendar!
On that note, The Traveler has gotten some attention elsewhere, despite being offline for a year. In the last published issue, Issue 17: Drabble Stories, contributor Karen Bovenmyer and her drabble “What Dolls Eat” were recognized and nominated for a Dwarf Stars Award by the Science Fiction Poetry Association. That’s pretty big, for her especially, but also for this little rag.
A big shout out to Gwendolyn Kiste, who helped me read stories for this issue. And to all of the contributors who waited for over a year, thank you for your patience.
So, without further ado, I give you “Mark My Words.”
Issue #18: MARK MY WORDS: PROPHESY, SIGNS & PORTENTS
Bell Canyon, by Colin Rowe (micro-fiction) *
20 Things to Do, by Dina Leacock (short story)
The Prophet’s Mistress, by Rachel Ingraham (drabble) *
Toys, by Michael A. Kechula (flash fiction)
Four Haiku, by Denny Marshall (poetry)
Voices and Tarot, by Kally Jo Surbeck (drabble) *
The Ultimate Quest, by Earl Stoll (short story)
Flea Market Special, by Micheal A. Kechula (micro-fiction)
The Fortune Teller, by Ed Ahern (short story)
The Spirits Know All, by Michael A. Kechula (flash fiction)
Scorched Earth and the Prophet’s Silent Voice, by Kally Jo Surbeck (flash fiction)
Windfall, by Gary Hewitt (micro-fiction)
*Editor’s Choice
All images used are from Pixabay.
Bell Canyon, by Colin Rowe (micro-fiction)
Through the fog of Bell Canyon, up the twisting forest roads, the smugglers’ oxen pulled their wagons. They came with barrels of powder under barrels of fish; pikes stacked in lumber; swords wrapped in cloth. Tools of killing hidden within the tools of living.
Every Sunday the peasants of Bell Canyon were awoken by the ringing of silver bells gifted to a string of village churches in the canyon by the benevolent Lord Carro. On Sunday morning, they echoed up the canyon to his loving ears. When the people heard the bells, they trod into church in holey shoes to be told of the dignity of poverty.
“The Lord rewards the honest, the pious, and the hardworking” says the fat priest. The Lord lives above them, in a castle, full of luxury and free from want or fear.
“Do the bells sound different to you?” asks Lord Carro of his valet. “Not as clear of a ring as there used to be.”
“Probably just the weather” says the valet. “The fog muffles the sound.”
On Sunday the peasants go to church and on Monday the wagons come. They come with barrels of powder under barrels of fish; pikes stacked in lumber; swords wrapped in cloth. They come with church bells made of tin and leave with silver by the pound.
Colin Rowe has been published by Cracked.com, The Eunoia Review, The Boston Literary Magazine, Pure Slush, Beyond Imagination Literary Magazine, and The Santa Fe Literary Review. He lives in the desert with a talking cat and tweets under the handle @lowericon.
The Prophet’s Mistress, by Rachel Ingraham (drabble)
At the edge of the feral continent, she finds a door. It is bare as a stagecraft prop, just frame and painted planks in coastal wind.
Here, then: what she plunged and journeyed for.
In the other world, her body lies underwater, cooled and still. Machines alone whir her consciousness along.
Whenever the prophet speaks her future, she can choose to accept it or to flee. She does not flee. She did that once, and never will again.
On the other side of the door, she hears a pounding. One hand on the knob, she lets her caught breaths go.
Rachel Ingraham is pretty new to this fiction game. Her poetry has appeared previously in Cicada, Wicked Alice, and The Fifth Street Review.
Toys, by Michael A. Kechula (flash fiction)
This story was previously published in Weird Year Magazine in July, 2010.
*
When my wife left town to visit her sick mother, I hired a sitter and went to see a priest.
“What can I do for you?” asked Father Mahoney.
“Well, first off, I’m an atheist. So’s my wife. She’d go bonkers if she knew I was here. The thing is, something’s happened that boggles my mind. Something right out of the Twilight Zone. Since I consider all religions to be nothing more than Twilight Zone fantasies, I figure you might have some answers.”
“So what exactly is boggling your mind?”
“Remember last month when two planes collided in midair just outside of town?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. I was called to the crash site to give last rites. It was a terrible sight.”
“Do you remember the head-on car crash on the road to the mall that wiped out two families?”
“Yes. They were my parishioners.”
“Do you also remember when an ambulance lost control on Summit Road and flew over the cliff?”
“I remember all these things,” said Mahoney. “So what about them?”
“I think my six-year old son had something to do with all three accidents.”
“Oh? How could a six-year old possibly be involved?”
“Well, my wife and I were in the kitchen when Jimmy came in with two toy airplanes. One in each hand. He made airplane motor noises, making believe the planes were flying. Suddenly, he slammed them into each other, and let them fall to the floor. The very next day, the midair collision happened when two planes crashed outside of town.”
“Are you implying a cause and effect between what your son did with toy planes and what happened with two real planes?”
“It’s the only conclusion I can come to after all the other things that happened. For example, two days later, Jimmy held a red toy car in one hand, and a blue one in the other. He made motor sounds, and rolled them along the floor. He talked about them crashing into each other. He imitated all the sounds of screeching tires, and people yelling, and slammed the cars into each other. The next day, two cars had a head-on on the way to the mall.”
“Hmm. Were the cars in the accident red and blue?”
“Yes,” I said. “I checked with the newspaper. They put me in touch with the reporter who covered the story. He verified their colors.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me your son was playing with a toy ambulance the day before a real one flew over the cliff.”
“Unfortunately, yes. He was running a toy ambulance along the arm of the sofa, when he called out, ‘Look, Dad, the ambulance is out of control. It’s going over the cliff.’ He let it fall to the floor. It landed upside down. The next day, the same thing happened to County Hospital’s ambulance. The picture in the paper showed that it landed upside down.”
“It does sound quite strange,” said Mahoney. “But the world’s full of coincidences. However, our fantasies can sometimes get out of control. Perhaps you should discuss this with a psychiatrist. As to your son, I wouldn’t be overly concerned. Sounds like he’s normal, imaginative, and is just displaying normal, boyhood aggression. My brother was like that. He was always crashing toys together, not to mention dozens of kids he shot with his cap gun. He grew up to become the CEO of Amalgamated Airlines.”
Checking his watch, the priest added, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have an appointment in five minutes with our Choir Master. Do come again any time you wish to talk.”
“I don’t mean to press the point, but is there anything you could do?” I asked.
“Sure. If I suspected something evil afoot, I could do a minor exorcism by blessing your house, your son, and even his toys with holy water. We never know what malignant forces can sometimes attach themselves to inanimate objects and create mischief. But you’re an atheist, so I doubt you and your wife would tolerate my presence and my performing religious rituals in your home.”
“You’re right about that. I don’t want my son exposed to anything religious. But it’s kind of you to offer.
Thanks for your time. Would you accept a donation?”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary. If you wish, you can put the money in the poor box inside the church vestibule. We’ll use it to feed the hungry.”
I shook his hand and left. As much as I dreaded going into a church, I went into the vestibule where I found the poor box.
That afternoon Jimmy was playing with his Tonka truck that had a crane in back.
“What are you doing?” I asked, when I saw that he’d put rubber bands around a wooden block, had run the crane’s hook under the rubber bands, and was turning a crank to raise the block.
“This block’s a giant piano. Somebody up high in that big building downtown wants to have it brought in through a window.”
When he elevated the block a foot off the floor, the rubber bands broke. The block fell onto a little plastic toy soldier.
“Looks like your soldier was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I said. A piano just fell on his head.”
“It’s not a soldier,” Jimmy said. “I’m making believe it’s a priest.”
“Why a priest?”
“I don’t know.”
Next day, a weird accident was reported on TV. A piano that was being delivered through an outside window at the downtown high rise apartments, suddenly broke loose. It fell six stories and crushed a priest named Myles Mahoney. He was about to enter the building to give communion to a shut in.
My hands shook, as I dialed the number of the Bishop’s office to plead for an exorcist.
Michael A. Kechula’s flash, micro-fiction, and short stories have appeared in 157 magazines and 56 anthologies in 8 countries. He’s won 20 writing contests: 1st prize in 12 and 2nd prize in 8 others. Five collections of his stories have been published as eBooks and Paperbacks. In addition, he’s written 2 self-study books that teach how to write flash and micro-fiction drabbles. Both are available as eBooks and paperbacks. To read a free story or chapter in any of the above books, go to the publisher’s site at: www.BooksForABuck.com Obtain eBook version from the same publisher. Obtain paperback versions from www.Amazon.com
Four Haiku, by Denny Marshall (poetry)
the future will bring
changed continents and ranges
oh, what a good time
*
the planets align
during the end of the world
sign of the future
*
alien implant
for many years a servant
old life is distant
*
research shows big bang
still moves unlike boomerang
dark gravity rang
Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry and fiction published, some recently. See more at www.dennymarshall.com
The Were-Traveler 