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Authors: Jordan Krall
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with his
toes. Shards of memory flood over him and he remembers what’s buried there.
He crouches down,
his fingers and palms working through the soil to unearth the secret beneath.
Finally it is revealed: the book.
When had he buried
it? He can’t remember. He thinks he remembers it exiting his body in a furious
deluge of shit.
It is his again,
that’s all he cares about. The binding is loose and the cover is filthy but the
book is still readable. Osman sits in the dirt and
opens the book, eager to relearn the blasphemies he had forgotten.
His eyes peruse the lurid descriptions of VCR
tapes: bloody magnetism and magick in the form of
popular entertainment. As he mumbles along with the text, he hears something.
It is coming from
the hole in the ground.
The sounds are
like tiny teeth chattering and fish slapping against flesh. Osman peers into the hole, into the abyss.
“There’s something
wrong with you,” the dwarf’s voice says.
Osman nods. He brings the book to his chest. “I know.”
“You belong down
here with us.”
“Yes.”
The dwarf laughs,
his tiny teeth chattering with delight. “Yes what ?”
Osman’s hands melt into the book and his brain breaks into
dark spirals.
“Yes….…..master.”
OUR
UNRELIABLE STRUCTURES
Several decaying
clocks chimed at once.
The noise woke
poor Ben from his melancholy slumber.
He had only
managed to get to sleep shortly after midnight
despite getting into bed at dusk. His small supper of lamb and cornhusks made
him more tired than usual and Ben expected to fall right to sleep once under
the covers. But he found himself staring at the walls for hours instead, trying
to decipher the shadows that covered the dull paint like fading hieroglyphics.
Once he did get to
sleep, his dreams were as mind-numbing as his waking life. Cyclopean machines
stood on grassy hills while Ben sat before them. He was not able to move his
body, only his eyes. Sleep had brought just a subtle change. Instead of staring
at the walls and shadows, his eyes were focused on the clanking apparatuses on
the hill. Though they looked modern, the hulking metal structures looked
strangely archaic to Ben as if they were built by a primitive people who had
not the faintest conception of how machinery should be constructed.
The dream seemed
to last for days, sending Ben into a hypnotic state until the chiming of the
clocks woke him up.
It was only two a.m., a little less than two hours after he
had fallen asleep and Ben cursed the clocks for finally deciding to work at
that most inopportune moment. He needed sleep to rest both his body and mind.
The sound of the clocks struck his ears like mischievous children eager to use
musical instruments for the first time.
Ben sat up in the
bed and stared into the darkness. Even the window was pure black. The usual
moonlight was absent and in its place was a thick darkness that seemed to creep
over the windowsill and into the room.
Not wanting to
tempt the blackness outside, Ben turned his eyes to the floor to find his slippers.
He could not see a thing.
After fumbling for
matches on his nightstand, Ben lit a candle. He saw his slippers partially
covered by an opened book he had not remembered even taking into his room.
The cover of the
book resembled dark yellow leather and Ben was reluctant to touch it. It did
not look familiar. It was not from his collection. But why was it opened and
draped over his slippers?
Slowly his hand
moved towards the book and as soon as his fingers touched it, the clocks
stopped chiming.
Through the
flickering candlelight Ben could make out the title of the book.
The title of the
book was Several Decaying Clocks Chimed at Once.
AND
YOU SHOULD BELIEVE IN SOLAR LODGES
Sometimes I fall asleep to the sound of
ominous spheres rolling down the hallway outside my door. Sometimes I awake to
the sound of spherical doom opening and closing doors in the hallway outside.
Sometimes I sit and listen to the soft babbling of my
toes. Shards of memory flood over him and he remembers what’s buried there.
He crouches down,
his fingers and palms working through the soil to unearth the secret beneath.
Finally it is revealed: the book.
When had he buried
it? He can’t remember. He thinks he remembers it exiting his body in a furious
deluge of shit.
It is his again,
that’s all he cares about. The binding is loose and the cover is filthy but the
book is still readable. Osman sits in the dirt and
opens the book, eager to relearn the blasphemies he had forgotten.
His eyes peruse the lurid descriptions of VCR
tapes: bloody magnetism and magick in the form of
popular entertainment. As he mumbles along with the text, he hears something.
It is coming from
the hole in the ground.
The sounds are
like tiny teeth chattering and fish slapping against flesh. Osman peers into the hole, into the abyss.
“There’s something
wrong with you,” the dwarf’s voice says.
Osman nods. He brings the book to his chest. “I know.”
“You belong down
here with us.”
“Yes.”
The dwarf laughs,
his tiny teeth chattering with delight. “Yes what ?”
Osman’s hands melt into the book and his brain breaks into
dark spirals.
“Yes….…..master.”
OUR
UNRELIABLE STRUCTURES
Several decaying
clocks chimed at once.
The noise woke
poor Ben from his melancholy slumber.
He had only
managed to get to sleep shortly after midnight
despite getting into bed at dusk. His small supper of lamb and cornhusks made
him more tired than usual and Ben expected to fall right to sleep once under
the covers. But he found himself staring at the walls for hours instead, trying
to decipher the shadows that covered the dull paint like fading hieroglyphics.
Once he did get to
sleep, his dreams were as mind-numbing as his waking life. Cyclopean machines
stood on grassy hills while Ben sat before them. He was not able to move his
body, only his eyes. Sleep had brought just a subtle change. Instead of staring
at the walls and shadows, his eyes were focused on the clanking apparatuses on
the hill. Though they looked modern, the hulking metal structures looked
strangely archaic to Ben as if they were built by a primitive people who had
not the faintest conception of how machinery should be constructed.
The dream seemed
to last for days, sending Ben into a hypnotic state until the chiming of the
clocks woke him up.
It was only two a.m., a little less than two hours after he
had fallen asleep and Ben cursed the clocks for finally deciding to work at
that most inopportune moment. He needed sleep to rest both his body and mind.
The sound of the clocks struck his ears like mischievous children eager to use
musical instruments for the first time.
Ben sat up in the
bed and stared into the darkness. Even the window was pure black. The usual
moonlight was absent and in its place was a thick darkness that seemed to creep
over the windowsill and into the room.
Not wanting to
tempt the blackness outside, Ben turned his eyes to the floor to find his slippers.
He could not see a thing.
After fumbling for
matches on his nightstand, Ben lit a candle. He saw his slippers partially
covered by an opened book he had not remembered even taking into his room.
The cover of the
book resembled dark yellow leather and Ben was reluctant to touch it. It did
not look familiar. It was not from his collection. But why was it opened and
draped over his slippers?
Slowly his hand
moved towards the book and as soon as his fingers touched it, the clocks
stopped chiming.
Through the
flickering candlelight Ben could make out the title of the book.
The title of the
book was Several Decaying Clocks Chimed at Once.
AND
YOU SHOULD BELIEVE IN SOLAR LODGES
Sometimes I fall asleep to the sound of
ominous spheres rolling down the hallway outside my door. Sometimes I awake to
the sound of spherical doom opening and closing doors in the hallway outside.
Sometimes I sit and listen to the soft babbling of my
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