Future Lovecraft

by Anthony Boulanger

  The fire traced wings on my back.

  And I flew.

  Dizzy, I grip the edge of the bar. “Your mother paid me a lot of money.” I force the words out through clenched teeth.

  Marco’s image doubles, sways. I see other eyes, reflecting flame—eyes so pale they would pick up the colour of whatever was around them, flaming gold like the setting sun, or silver like the rising moon. River-coloured eyes; rain-coloured eyes. Jason’s eyes, weeping love.

  I swam in marble corridors, in drowned-green canals. I tried to let tentacles steal the best of me, the rest of me. It wasn’t enough. My sin kept me safe; it kept me whole.

  “Your mother...,” I try again.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Marco shakes his head.

  The ghosted memory of a smoky voice, tasting of bitter chocolate, threads the air and fades away. Scratchy hay presses a pattern of almost-words into my skin. I hold a blind man as he sobs. Shadow tendrils touch the deepest part of me, stripping my bones clean, taking everything except what matters.

  I could cash in. I could make the biggest paycheck of my life. I could keep running and test the theory that the future is infinite. Or I could stay this time. I could burn.

  Marco’s gaze meets mine. Flames reflect between us. Inside the flames, impossible angles rise dripping from the canals. An eerie, piping song needles me with remembrance. Stars draw blood from my skin. Marco lays his hands, palms up, on the bar—an invitation.

  Ragged-nailed hands grip a microphone, cup a glass heart. Palms slicked with blood drop eyeballs near a drain.

  There are many possible futures; I see them all in Marco’s eyes. Two charred corpses decorate the remains of Josie’s restaurant, one in front of the bar and one behind. One charred corpse sits slumped against the bar. An empty, charred husk of a bar dies alone, with no one to witness its end.

  It will come down to a battle of wills, my will to survive against Marco’s will to die. I know what I gave up to survive; what did he give up to run? Which matters more?

  My scars itch and stretch tight across my back, shaping wings. Wings for flight, or wings for salvation? Maybe this time they’ll stay stitched beneath my skin, folded tight around my body like loving arms.

  My wings have always been there; the stars have always been right. R’leyh rose everywhere, everywhen. I have always been what I am now. I have always survived.

  For the moment, I take Marco’s hands. And together, we watch Venice burn.

  A DAY AND A NIGHT IN PROVIDENCE

  By Anthony Boulanger

  Anthony Boulanger is a French author living in Paris. He writes most often about the dark paths of Fantasy, but also makes frequent excursions into Space Opera. Among his favourite subjects, you can find birds (which come in many forms, with a marked preference for the Phoenix) and maledictions. Among his favourite authors, Tolkien, Glen Cook, Roland Wagner, Orson Scott Card, and Mathieu Gaborit occupy the top spots! You can join him on his blog (anthony-khellendros.blogspot.com), his Facebook page, or by email: mithrilas@wanadoo.fr.

  THE GROUP WAS one of the most heterogenous that Philips had ever led into the Providence basilica: some Asians, ears already glued to their guide; some Europeans, apparently wondering what they were doing there; and some American compatriots. Among all these people, how many came only because the building is listed on the tourist routes?

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Philips began, “welcome to the Most Holy Church of Our-Lady-of-Lothlorien. The initial structure was first constructed in 254 Before Tolkien by a pagan community. The conversion to the Saint’s cult dates to the fifth century.”

  The young guide did not turn toward his group. He refused to contemplate the children who preferred to play on their portable consoles, rather than look at the glass windows representing the creations of the Master-God, or the parents trying to masticate popcorn in this sacrosanct place.

  “The planned visit passes by the catacombs, in which you will be able to see a letter from Tolkien to his son, Saint Christopher the Messiah. But first, I draw your attention to the papal altar. Sculpted from a single block of white marble, it is decorated with gold veins of flowers and of niphredil of Seredon. But the magnificence of this altar is assuredly nothing in comparison to the Chapel of the Holy Trinity, where there are services every day from 18:00 hours to 22:00 hours, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

  In hing his sentence, the young man knelt on one knee on the ground and put his hand to his head. But what am I doing?

  Delaying for one last moment, he put his hand on his heart, then on his mouth. Behind him, only three other people took the trouble to make the sign of the Saint-Eru Illúvatar. Philips remained in this position for several minutes, masking behind his pious attitude the fear inside him. He had been inattentive several moments; he had almost made the evil Sign: the head for Madness and Horror, the lungs for Tuberculosis, and again to the head for Suicide.

  If the Inquisitor is in the basilica, or is viewing the screens right now, I risk a maximum…It will be necessary that I do the change in prayers tonight…Perhaps volunteer myself for the lecture on Saint Silmarillion. Pardon me, you of whom I carry one of the Holy Names.

  Philips stood up. Behind his back, sighs more insistent than usual made it clear to the guide that he was falling behind schedule. People like those he was leading today did not like to be late. This happened to be a peak hour for fast foods….

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now going to make a tour around the side bordering the nave. You can see here the portraits of the different saints, from Saint Gemmel to Saint Bradley. You can also….”

  He was stuck in automatic mode. Another hour and a few specks of minutes before the end of the tour, then another four hours of prayer before leaving this place. Philips was eager—oh, how eager—to return home. Once there, he shut himself in what he called his “chapel” and began preparing himself. This night was indeed one of the biggest nights of the year for the Shadow Cult, in which the Inquisitors of Tolkien ruthlessly pursued him….

  ***

  “Before the Necronomicon, today we call you. In the Name of the Madness and the Horror of our Father Lovecraft, who leads us and destroys us. In the name of the Decline and Misfortune of his Son Smith, who heard and read the Holy Words of The Father. In the Name of the Duplicity of the Corrupt Spirit Howard. We call you, you Great Old Ones: Cthulhu, Chtuga, Yig, Glaaki, Chaugnar Faugn, and Y’Golonac.”

  Philips was in trance. In a few moments, his group would take over the litany, the prayer to the Outer Gods. On this night of the 15th of March in the year 655, seven centuries after the death of the Father, the faithful ones of the Shadow Cult reunited in the city of Providence.

  The city in which he was born and in which he had died….

  The city in which he had revealed to the world the existence of the Great Old Ones, and of the other Gods.

  The chants reached a peak and would soon fall, to give the floor to Philips and his brothers and sisters. The chants did not act like constructed melodies, melodies that one could follow on a song sheet. They acted like a chaos of sounds, grave flights that chained themselves to magnificent, acute angles. In the spirit of the young man, colours devoured themselves, images of tentacles emerging from a cocoon of human flesh, succeeded to those of gigantic orbs, swirling about themselves. For a few heartbeats, Philips was Lovecraft. There appeared before his eyes the Revelations, the images which had enabled the Father to describe Cthulhu and all the others. He felt the fatigue that the Master had accumulated each day of his life, then the energy that ran through his body when he wrote out the Scriptures.

  This night, the adepts of the Shadow Cult would invoke the power of the Trinity so that the city of R’lyeh might arise from the waves and, with it, He-who-Dreams-and-Waits.

  “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”

  With this phrase, the first group concluded their part of the incantation. Screams of terror punctuated the litany as
the adepts were haunted, one after another, by nightmarish visions.

  “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl nafl’ftaghn,” answered the second group, including Philips.

  The phrase that he pronounced in that moment, the words of Saint Derleth, was one of the most powerful keys for the Call of Cthulhu. They marked the commencement of Horror!

  ***

  Over Providence, clouds gathered. Black clouds, charged with lightning, charged with hate, carriers of a creature rampant and magnificent. With the aid of bursts in his perpetually changing body, he attacked Reality, aided in this by tens of humans who prayed to him and the other Outer Gods. He was All in One and One in All. In this rhythm, there remained only a few hours before Yog-Sothoth infiltrated our world and ravaged it!

  Some kilometers from the city, the ocean was agitated by gigantic mountains of putrefying flesh. Columns suddenly pierced the waves. Rocks reddened by blood even the seawater could not efface. A white building, made of bones, suddenly appeared.

  A dome of tibiae and femurs, of skulls and ribs.

  A sudden explosion. A flood of chaos, of abyssal monstrosities.

  An opened tomb from which escaped indescribable creatures.

  Then two wings. A head of an octopus.

  A gigantic body of a man.

  Cthulhu was walking.

  Cthulhu was walking….

  ***

  Great Old Ones and Outer Gods massed around Providence, more numerous with each word that Philips and the others pronounced. Creatures nebulous and bloody, horrors born from the Chaos Primordial and the Infinite Madness. Beings the sight of whom blinded the spirit and annihilated all forms of life….

  In a world locked in a straitjacket of rules and pre-chewed thoughts, in this world where the Holy Fantastic Literature imposed its laws on creation, restricted the imagination of the most original, men and women still dared to defy the Church and the Inquisition. Persecuted for centuries, ever more fiercely and cruelly, they had decided to revolt in the most extreme fashion possible.

  In the name of Lovecraft, of Howard and of Smith, their Sombre Trinity, they called in, with all their body and soul, the End of the World.

  And on this night, the anniversary of the 15th of March, in this sacred city of Providence, It was at their door….

  A WELCOME SESTINA FROM CRUISE DIRECTOR ISABEAU MOLYNEUX

  By Mae Empson

  Mae Empson has a Master’s degree in English literature from Indiana University at Bloomington, and graduated with honours in English and in Creative Writing from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Mae began selling short stories to speculative fiction magazines and anthologies in July 2010, and can be found on twitter at @maeempson, and on the web at: maeempson.wordpress.com. Recent publications include “Little Rattle Belly” in Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine (March 2011), “An Interrupted Sacrifice” in the Historical Lovecraft anthology from Innsmouth Free Press (April 2011), and “Pathological Curves” in Poe Little Thing from Naked Snake Press (April 2011).

  “So, the Arctic is changing and it is changing faster than most people have predicted. This is leading to increased activity. As some of you know, last year, several German cargo vessels navigated the Northern Sea route unaided by icebreakers....In fact, this is about year three of the Arctic becoming essentially an adventurer’s playground, with yachts, cabin cruisers, folks seeking excitement and death in unusual ways....Fortunately, they have yet to find death in unusual ways, but we know that will happen, eventually; it is only a matter of time.”

  — Mr. Dana Goward, Director of the Office of Assessment, Integration and Risk Management of the United States Coast Guard, speaking at the Proceedings on Climate & Energy: Imperatives for Future Naval Forces, March 23-24, 2010.

  ***

  This private cruise to Svalbard was financed by adventurous foodies, by gastronautic dreams

  Of incomparable and illicit sights, aromas, and that first brave promised taste and swallow.

  With the Arctic melting, icebreakers have widened the ship lanes further, and the roving eye

  Of food frontier fashion has turned north, watching, hungrily, as the monster squid,

  (As the tweeters named them) began to be found frozen beneath the melting lid

  Of Arctic ice, where they’d apparently once, long ago, gathered to spawn and die,

  The ice between them riddled by acres of unanchored egg cases. Spawn, freeze and die.

  But are the eggs dead? You’re here because you’ve heard our claim, dream of dreams,

  That Norwegian scientist-opportunists asserting their national rights over the icy lid,

  Beneath which the frozen treasures waited, have experimented and, hard to swallow,

  Hard to believe, but true as toast, the eggs can be hatched, live paralarvae god squid,

  Infant monster squid, big as a man’s fist, miniatures of the adults, with each eye

  No bigger than a man’s thumb. You know the largest of the adults found so far has an eye

  Big as the TV screen in our standard cabin. These hatchlings are revived in order to die.

  To die by the most delicious means possible. Sure, you’ve had calamari before, mundane squid,

  But the god squid paralarvae preparation is in the Ortolan Bunting style; every Frenchman dreams

  Of that taste, of the songbird first caught and fattened, force-fed, required to swallow

  Twice its size in food, drowned in brandy, and tossed whole beneath the roasting pan’s lid,

  To be eaten whole, bones and all. The diner covers his head and face with a towel, before the lid

  Of the serving plate is lifted, so the rich aroma is trapped, and the diner’s face is hid from the eye

  Of God—at least that’s tradition, mon Dieu, our tradition. The same God who counts the swallow

  Before it falls. The sparrow. The songbird. But will he mourn the hatchling, the next to die?

  I think another eye is watching. The dead, frozen, monstrous mother. I see her in my dreams.

  Of course I dream of squid. It’s our livelihood now. Nothing to it. Just you wait to see the squid,

  The Mother of All Squid, waiting in the ice hotel in Svalbard. They took the largest squid,

  Carved the ice around her to a thin layer, an extraordinary ice sculpture. The base forms the lid

  Of the dining room table. You literally eat on the ice that houses her carcass. In my dreams,

  Her huge eye, that would look out upon the table, were it not closed, that hideous shut eye,

  Turns to face me wherever I sit, no matter how I hide behind my towel. Better to die

  Than know what happens when that eye opens. Better that the seas rise up and swallow

  Our ship. Better that you jump overboard and freeze than wear the towel and swallow

  The hatchling, the paralarva, the spawn of the mother, and let the tentacles of that tiny squid....

  That tiny squid...What? Forgive me. I’ve lost my train of thought. A momentary lapse. Die,

  Indeed. Folly. Better to eat. Better to taste. Better to know the forbidden. Open the lid

  And swallow the forbidden food whole. Fear is part of the savour of the illicit. Let the eye

  Of law be blind. Let risk be our reward. We are adventurers. We will live our wildest dreams.

  If by live, I mean die. Or, rather, live squid-ridden, like me. The hatchling will swallow

  Your brain. Your will. Your dreams. Her will. My Lady. My Mother. The Mother of All Squid

  Is hungrier than you. Watch! The lid opens. It’s all been worth it. Her glorious, dinner-plate eye!

  LOTTIE VERSUS THE MOON HOPPER

  By Pamela Rentz

  Pamela Rentz is a member of the Karuk Tribe and a graduate of Clarion West 2008.

  “I THOUGHT THE Space Barn had its own cleaning crew,” Lottie said, trying to sit up straight. She’d come straight from her shift and her old bones ached for the mattress.

 
“We don’t call it the ‘Space Barn’,” Phyllis said.

  Phyllis came from a family of tall, humourless Indians. Her first job at the United Tribes Space Travel Center had been on Lottie’s cleaning crew. Now she was Special Assistant to the Vice-President of Facilities, with an office like a museum. Lottie sat in an uncomfortable leather chair with polished wood armrests. Must be nice to have your brother elected to Tribal Council.

  Lottie rephrased the question, “I thought the Moon Hopper Storage and Refitting Hangar had its own crew.”

  “Used to,” Phyllis said. A wall-sized calendar behind her highlighted the monthly missions in bright yellow.

  “Then what happened?” Lottie asked.

  “Thirty percent pay raise,” Phyllis said. “I’d bring you on permanent. If you’re still interested.”

  Why wouldn’t Lottie be interested? Everybody who came through the front gate wanted to work on the Moon Hopper, even the janitors and lunchroom cooks. “Why me?”

  Phyllis folded her hands on the desk. The smooth surface reflected an upside down image of her tight smile. “Why not you?”

  “I applied for Moon Hopper crew a bunch. You told me I couldn’t keep up,” Lottie said. She’d given up a long time ago, but she could still summon the weeping fury she felt over that tangle with Phyllis. Phyllis had said everything except the words, “You’re too old.”

  Phyllis pressed her fingers to her mouth as if trying to remember. “Huh,” she said, at last. “Well, I need your experience. You’ve seen it all. I know you won’t let me down.”

  It was Lottie’s turn to say, “Huh.”

  “I got new workers. A space vessel can have unexpected....” Phyllis flapped a hand up by her head.

  Lottie had no idea what the woman was going on about.

  “You have to make sure the entire crew looks good. I need the whole thing to not be fussy.” Phyllis gave Lottie a knowing nod.