Cult Fiction

This is the sort of moment you think only happens in stories.

There's a lame bar on the corner of Milwaukee and Western. The service is unpleasant, the food is overpriced, and it isn't worth thinking about the drinks. There's a room upstairs that's barely lit, with its own bar, and its own music, and everybody there is a wizard.

You think I'm kidding.

There's a guy with scars on his back that looks at stories like a conductor looks at sheet music. He can take it apart, knows how all the elements fall into place, and will look you straight in the eyes and ask you why your life is worth telling.

Another, the dreamer, will kiss his children on the forehead before he drags you screaming into a circus of blood and anguish. Worse, as you're chained into the madness, he'll wonder why you haven't thanked him for the privilege.

There's a sly latin man who has the wisdom of a thousand years of grandmothers, and whose sorrow you just want to kiss. Not to take away, but to steal for yourself.

These are powerful forces, gathered in a secret bar in a secret space, they could recreate the world if they wished.

And last night was open mike night.

The devil's factory was recited. God complained about the 10 plagues he -didn't- impose on the Egyptians. Refined ponies folded lace napkins.

And I was up.

I wasn't auditioning for them. I made my friends and proved myself years ago. I just need to know, as I began my path once more, if I could unlock it in myself.

And the monster came out. Dreaming of murder and torture, and the taste of flesh. Of assault made sacred.

And I came back.

Tuesdays are going to be a lot more fun. I know a place.

100/100 -5-

The queen of the sparkleponies worked on her scrapbook as her fairy assistants fluttered, glistening under the glass of the sacred moon chamber. She examined the pages, containing hundreds of images of sparkleponies, each one more darling and dimpled than the next. She took her time, affixing new pictures in the tome, as she recited their names in loving memory. Beauty was the currency of the sparkleponies, and each of these lovelies represented wealth nearly as great as the Queen’s. She smiled admiringly at them all, noting that the glittering glue made from their boiled hooves formed the ideal adhesive.

100/100 -4-

She knelt reverently in the basement of 2nd Hand Tunes. Surrounding her were theosophic seances, throat music, and the chantings of Siberian Khlysty pressed in vinyl. She gathered the records into a pile, and climbed the stairs. The cashier smiled as she gathered her funds.

“Interesting mix.”

“We’ll see once I get them on the tables.”

“Bringing something special to the party, dear?”

She winked as she touched the plaque on the door, matching a tattoo on her arm.

‘The sword cuts the barrier. The torch lights the way. And the break is the voice of God in the Song.’

100/100 -3-

The cyclist gazed up at the bag being attached to the IV, watching the deep dark fill into his arm.

“What’s it this time?”

“Something special. This will do the trick.”

The coach gave him the thumbs up. The cyclist sighed. Transfusions rarely did much, but were illegal enough to get you banned from racing. As he rested, however, his heart picked up speed. The room was so painfully bright, and the blood in the bag…wasn’t nearly enough. He was going to need so much more. The coach smiled, his canines lengthening.

“Thank goodness the race is at night, eh?”

100/100 -2-

“It’s all math,” said the sorcerer, as he tapped on his ipad. “Prayers, incantations, all rely on set forms of mathematics. Did you know Sir Gawain and The Green Knight had a prayer encoded into the meter of the poem? Incredibly complex pattern. Formed a seal of Solomon when it was decoded. No one knows what it was for. But, when you know the patterns, and can grasp the math. It can be put to all sorts of purposes.” He finished and pressed ‘send’.

“Hello! Good Friend I am the Director of Economics for Nigeria. Ten Million is locked away…”

100/100 -1-

“The soul isn’t energy,” said the necromancer as his intern assembled the contents of his instructor’s bag. “It’s kind of a story. You start as a blank slate. And then your senses kick in. You imprint on things. And as you do, a thread forms in your mind that puts those imprints together, and forms a core. Memories make new threads, and it all weaves together, forming…You.” The intern held a box, winding with magnetic tape, affixed to a hose, which the intern forced down the throat of the injured child, strapped to a dirty chair. “Now, what’s your story?”

Feb 6, 2011

That's the day everything changes.