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Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Sunday, December 2, 2018
Lovecraftian short story
A Lovecraftian short story I wrote. Enjoy, folks, and don't forget the comments! I also would like the opportunity to publish it!The Birth of Gug
by
Kenna Mary McKinnon
Over the line of the sultry hills bursts the blood of sun,
reminding me that I am late for the bloodbath with the Moon Beast and may be
late for my son’s birthing, as well. My son’s name will be Gug, who was conceived
in a dream of Kadath, the former home of the gods. He’ll be born into a heap of
skulls and other bones, as my wife, Mormo, wished. With teeth jagged to munch
on the midwife before she could tell the world of our undoing in the Valley of
Death, his eyes will be pink, jutting from each side of his black-furred head,
and his vertical yawning mouth yellow and agape between them. Our magic to
conceive him, juxtaposed from the Mythos of the Great Ones, was strong. You can
pile on the guilt but my heart will remain stone. I stand beside my wife and
newborn monster who will, I trust, help us to undo the outrage to my world.
I speak of the oceans and the plastic that will not bleed; I
speak of the designer water bottles that pollute and destroy; I speak of what Gug
can do when we lead the Green Party to election, just like Britain and its
henchmen, here in our Lord Anno Domino 1999.
My Palm PDA device flickers to life in my hand as my wife,
Mormo, summons me on her new golden PDA (so recently discovered and replacing
our old cell phone). Ensconced in our marriage bed, she breathes into the
instrument the words I’ve been waiting for all night, interrupting even my
bloodbath with the Moon Beast to make way for the birth of our son. Yes, we
named him already soon after the ultrasound showed us his tiny penis and shaggy
outline, our precious little Gug who will change the Earth for the better. Our
political agenda couldn’t happen at a better time, with trash littering the
planet where the new gods dwell. No, not Boston, but Winnipeg, for that is
where we live, my wife and I, and that is where the antichrist will be born.
Our precious Gug. I sigh with delight.
“Hippolytus,” my wife cries, “the time has come.”
I frown and bite my lip. Males are not allowed in the birthing
room. I am taking the call outside our dwelling, in the courtyard, and watch
the bloodred sun as it rises. The Moon Beast will not be happy with me. “Are
the midwives there?”
“Yes, all is ready. I feel the pangs of childbirth and they
are severe, but not as severe as the brushes of our Master,” she replies.
“He is cruel,” I agree, “and his pen draws close, I fear, to
the empty gods of Kadath.”
“Does the morning sun still stain the glass over the wondrous
halls of Winnipeg?”
“Yes, Mormo, I’m still here soaking it all in, the magical
vista before me of Winnipeg in the morning. The Moon Beast must find another
artist to best represent his fierceness. For I stayed here all night, slept in
the anteroom beside the birthing chamber, and now eagerly await the birth of
our little Gug.”
“I fear he is not so small,” she groaned. I could hear the
midwives scuttling about in the background. They would be helping my wife to
move into the birthing room next to our matrimonial chamber. I wished with every
tortured and bulging heart that I could be there, but the matriarchal society
in which we lived did not allow it.
Within my lifetime McCarthy won the election in the United
States and plunged us all into this nether universe, around which I understand
our sun whirls in disarray. There are those Nightgauntian spirits who insist
the earth is spherical. As you know, they are far outweighed by the rational
observation that the earth is flat and remains that way in spite of the
monsters who spiral up from the infernal edges, like the Kadathian god who is
Gug’s godfather and my good friend. The gods who dwell in Boston decreed it so,
that we should populate the Earth with our progeny that is our right, but the
Earth cannot sustain its original denizens much longer. Thus agrees our Maker.
There are many more like our son being born, right now, to the delight of the
Mythos Fandom, the whales and denizens of the oceans, and the turtles and rats
of Earth all entangled in the refuse left by Eve’s descendants.
Mormo went out and bought a little black onesie for Gug and
there is a black Pierre Trudeau toque sent from a friend on Manitoulin Island,
Ontario. We think our son will be well dressed. Our political agenda may come
to fruition with his birth. A boy from the Tower of Goth who munches plastic
and flesh. Excellent. He will be the perfect infernal machine to create a new
world, starting with our home town of Winnipeg and mowing down to the 49th
parallel then through Fargo, Minneapolis, and Fort Dodge. Boston is one of the worst
polluters but if Gug inherits my excellent eyesight and his mother’s good
sense, he will bypass Chicago and Boston rather than make a stint eastward. Our
nephew lives there with his wife and family. As an environmental engineer, our
nephew and his proctologist wife desire nothing less than to clean up their
city with the aid of clamps, scope, and gun, which is commensurate with the
plans of the gods. I’ve heard it’s architecturally bland, anyhow. Our Gug would
not be interested.
Today we welcome our son to the world. I hasten into the
anteroom next to the birthing chamber. For many hours I chew my nails and wait;
the birds on the patio beside the huge apple tree in the courtyard chatter in
tongues. I hear the groans of my wife and the wailing of the nurses, then cut
short by a pregnant silence. I know the child of the Tower of Goth has arrived.
“My husband,” croons my wife, and opens her arms to me. I
fall into her cavernous embrace, which includes the busy form of our newborn
son, shaggy and quick-witted.
“Mormo. You’ve done well. He looks like a god.”
“Yes, he does. But resembles you, my husband, above all
gods.”
I pinch my lip and frown. “Perhaps. But his features bring
one to mind of the Kadathian who is my friend and the baby’s godfather, our
Master.”
She laughs, her pointed teeth flashing in the blood light
that streams through the open sashes. Her tentacles entice and wander. “You’re
dreaming, darling. Mythos is a trusted
advisor and no more.”
The discussion ends with me trying to fit the black onesie
onto Gug’s monstrous shaggy form, while Mormo pops the toque onto his shaggy
head. “Perfect!” she cries.
Gug smiles and gurgles.
“He’s smiling at us!” I hold my son in a firm embrace, though
he towers far above my head.
“It’s gas,” explains the doctor, who arrives late, as always.
She opens her bag and pops a stethoscope onto Mormo’s distended stomach.
“Hmmmm.”
“Not another one in there?” Mormo shrieks.
“No. I wonder at the elasticity of your womb, though.”
“He grows fast,” my wife says. “He’s a big boy.”
The doctor snaps her bag shut and glances at the newborn
monster. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Help yourself,” I say, grinning. She screams, then there is
the silence of the slaughtered calves.
Gug munches happily as the doctor’s head disappears into his
maw like a gingerbread woman. My precocious son is so very precious. The blood
red sun has long ago risen from the east. I missed my appointment with the Moon
Beast due to Mormo’s bloodbath here in the birthing room. It may not be
important, but the bird of Good Fortune certainly shat decently on my
cornflakes this morning. Our political agenda is pure and certain. Even now,
Gug begins to munch his way from the birthing room to the kitchen, where stray
bits of plastic, like offerings to the gods, litter our table before being
taken to the recycling bin in our backyard. No need now. Gug’s massive incisor teeth
crunch through the back-screen door to the courtyard, then into the neighbor’s
bins, and next he trundles out through the gate to board the downtown city bus
to the Greyhound station. No one questions his lack of a ticket. He grins, and
the huge maw on the top of his shaggy head clicks and bleeds. I follow at a
distance, taking it all in, my newborn precious son and the political agenda he
will fulfill, as my Master told me he would.
Sunday, November 13, 2016
A Warm and Fuzzy Christmas Story -- A Review
A Millionaire's Christmas by Brian Porter
My 5 star reviewChristmas being less than two months away, and the unfortunate results of an unprecedentedly vicious US election behind us, I yearned for a cozy, warm and fuzzy story that would personify the meaning of love and charity at this holy season, and leave me with a feeling of peace on Earth.
I was not disappointed. This very short book by Brian Porter is Biblical in some of its references and a miracle that took place between a dying man and a dying small boy, and what might be called synchronicity rather than coincidence. There is no coincidence in miracles nor in Porter's mind, I'm sure.
A great hunger exists in the world today for beauty, love, charity, truth, and peace. Who can be blamed for wanting to stop the world and get off the merry-go-round, at times? This book is just the right length for reading in ten minutes or less. Porter has presented a Dickens-like heart for the suffering in the world and the futility of a life devoted exclusively to commerce. I loved the Greek names!
Saturday, June 18, 2016
Laura Secord's famous trek through history, retold
A little story for my Canadian readers. You all know the story of Laura Secord, who drove her cow through 20 miles of forest to warn the British of an American invasion during the 1812 war with the US. You also know of our famous Laura Secord chocolates based in Ontario, named after the heroine. This is a little tongue in cheek story of Laura's walk to fame, based on the real story but of course, embellished.
You Won a Milk Chocolate Gold Cigar
by Kenna Mary McKinnon
The white house at the bottom of the green hill
was more than twenty miles from the British forces at Beaver Hills. There in
the white house, a young woman, Laura
Secord, and her wounded soldier husband, James, billeted American troops. It
was June 21, 1813, the British forces unaware of a fiendish attack planned by
the chocolate eating Americans in Laura Secord's home. James lay helpless with
bullet wounds in his leg and shoulder, hardly able to lift a hand to pop a
miniature mint into his mouth.
"Good men," Laura said to their
slobbering guests, "I must go out and find Bossy Cow to have milk for the
liqueur tomorrow. Otherwise no Bossy no Candy."
"You nefarious Loyalist," a
captain said, "we won't need your box of miniatures tomorrow, nor a bag of
your perfect sized bars…"
"… all made from premium
chocolate." She concluded his sentence with pride. "Why not, may I
ask, good Captain, do you not require my premium chocolate, or perhaps a box of
premium teas?"
"Tea!" the Americans roared.
"Remember the Boston Tea Party!"
"Oops," Laura said. "Sorry, fellows."
"This is Canada," James said gently, raising himself onto his good
arm and reaching for a mug of French & Frosted Mint hot chocolate.
The American soldiers began to murmur
amongst themselves. Laura could hear "surprise attack" and "June
23" and "Beaver Dams". She knew the British commander,
Lieutenant James FitzGibbon, would be caught unaware if the Americans attacked
his post, as her husband had informed her that their encampment, reached only through
a trail of barbed wire, land mines, and cow dung, was not prepared for an
invasion. James had recently come back from Queenston Heights himself, where he
had been sorely wounded and now could scarcely lift a Milk Chocolate Crispy
Chip to his mouth.
So it was that the next morning, brave
Laura beat Bossy Cow with a stick ahead of her on the treacherous twenty mile
journey alone to Beaver Dams, to warn the British Lieutenant FitzGibbon and his
Loyalist troops of their danger.
She was successful.
The Americans were beaten back, and upper Canada held. No acknowledgment was
given to the slender, brown-eyed woman who so courageously trod the slippery
path of loyalty to the Crown and warned the British and their Mohawk allies of
an impending invasion. James later succumbed to an acute case of diarrhea, and
Laura died impoverished and unrecognized at the age of ninety-three, other than
having a number of schools, statues, a granite monument, a circulation stamp, a
chocolate factory, a deluge of articles, entries, and plays, and a coin named
after her.
Of course, that was after her death.
Small help it was to her then.
Brought to you by Blood Sister, a quirky and courageous mystery starring a schizophrenic young woman private eye and her two friends, formerly published under the title Red Herrings.
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| Add caption |
Friday, July 12, 2013
THE BEST FLASH FICTION READER IN THE UK
Morgen Bailey from England reads my flash fiction on her podcast here. It's #27 on Youtube, the 3rd story in the set.She reads it with the correct emphasis and pronunciation of Kijiji, a difficult word which I struggled with when I first heard it.
I'm impressed with Morgen's efficiency and good humor, and with her Jack Russell's forebearance, heh heh, Morgen must spend a great deal of time working.
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| A toast from Morgen's Jack Russell terrier |
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Wednesday, April 17, 2013
She Writes with Love - for Katie Jennings
I wrote it today for Katie's friend, thinking she would not get another love story like this one.I may save it for a future novel, of a Black Duke and a violent Faery Princess who are brought together by roses and music after 40 years of wandering…
ALTERNATIVE ENDING I
- It's not so easy to be a lady's duke and know that every lady loves your charms and interesting soul.
- It's not easy to be a lovely Faery Princess and know that your handsome warrior will never be yours for more than a day in 40 years.
- As the dove came back to Noah and the thrush sang Aura Lee, the white bird tangled in thorns sang its song for her and me.
ALTERNATIVE ENDING II
- It's not easy to be a Duke Pirate and love the adventure more than the lady herself.
- It's not easy to be a violent Princess who controls the destiny of the obsessed man she loves.
- A murder of crows surrounded us in the graveyard where we met and the dove was wet with tears. I took my arrow and killed the dove, and the lady buried it in her garden and wept that a little bit of love should die so soon.
ALTERNATIVE ENDING III
- I presented with army and shield, and a red sun behind me.
- The Princess romped on the hills of Rome in a toga and sandals.
- We were one for the history of all dangerous Dukes and careful Faeries. We loved one another like butter loves corn, like the cherry blossoms of spring, like magnolia trees and fountains in spring, like the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen classical Chinese gardens of Vancouver where history and culture intertwine, and we are not Roman nor First Nations nor Irish nor Scottish, we are Canadian lovers who have loved since the first sunrise.
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| Map of Canada |
- She is a stranger in a strange land and I am a poor wayfaring stranger in my own skin, or was before she stitched up my many wounds with her careful hands.
- Now the dove comes back to Noah and we celebrate, but gently, for the violence has forced us to take care.
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| Pastel bird on a branch |
- The white roses cascade from the sword, which cuts the Gordian knot and frees us.
- We love.
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| White rose |
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| Man running free |
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| Plane flying into sunrise |
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I don’t expect it to be in the eBook as her good friends have already collaborated but I will send it to you now.
It’s about a Pirate Duke.....................................
A LOVE STORY FOR A FAERY PRINCESS AND A DUKE
Her eyes were black and deep like a subterranean pool, her skin olive, her nose aquiline; she said she was Irish. “The black Irish” my mother would have said, and with that came the kiss of the blarney stone, for she was double-tongued and manipulative. I thought she was probably First Nations, Indian dark skinned and salt and pepper hair, and I thought she was bipolar because of her insane mood swings and her long episodes of withdrawal.
She and I shared that secret.
I was forward, dark too, honest and blunt. Persephone loved me for I came from a secret place in the underground, cursed by Hades. I thought I was possessed by the Devil and indeed I was, the devil's spawn this Dark Duke I was, and courted by his demons in Hell. I had escaped only to find the faery Princess more knowledgeable than I. She saw through me to the dark pits of my soul and was frightened, but more shocked than frightened, and more sickened than shocked. So she loved me and tried to help.
In 1974 she broke the hell hound’s spell when she confronted the Beast within me. Since then she fled, fearing the goblins and fiends unleashed as I ran wild over the heather in northern Scotland and the shamrocks in County Cork, wild to the pubs of Canada, the Druid and Kelly’s Bar, unable to imbibe because the whiskey had got the best of me by then. That scared her too, no doubt, I have no means of knowing because I didn’t see her again until 1991.
By that time I was tamed but splashing holy water on the walls of the psychiatric hospital to still the flames that roared from Hades in every crack of the old building. It worked, too, especially when the staff murdered me with a lethal injection.
They didn’t really kill me, of course, any more than they killed the love I had for her and she for me. I was a violent pirate Duke and she was a faery Princess who believed in violence to strip away the evil that lurked in every man's soul. The evil that lurked in my own in particular, although when I looked in a mirror the fierceness vomited back at my image and I was cured through homeopathy.
By 2009 I loved her enough to go to jail for her and say I was guilty of her own offense, her offense of lying and control and holding grudges.
The offense was really love and hope, though, and I pleaded love and hope.
Somewhere over the desire of the mountain to the east, rose a pink blush of moon. Not the sun yet, though that would come after the long silver night had shivered and worn its way down the horizon.
A thousand suns would rise on the morning we awakened, blasting the feeble goblins in Hell to sing anthems, and Hades himself to smile at the triumph of something he could not control, the triumph of her love over mine, and my love over the weakness of my body and mind.
She never liked the pirate or the Duke but bits of them remain to tease and torment her.
They may explain my triumph now, in the 39th year, and the desire of the mountain is gold dust in my hand.
I won’t forge a chain with it, or a ring. I’ll blow the dust onto the stamens of her orchids and ask for forgiveness and compassion, which once she offered but I did not accept.
If there is a ring it speaks of hope, compassion, forgiveness, forbearance, patience, laughter, and love.
Don’t take yourself too seriously, Duke, the faery princess will not always love you. She will care for you intermittently as you’ll be a Pirate till the day you die, and the lady does not always love an outlaw.
It’s not so easy to be a lady’s duke and love a lady who loves control, but that, too, can change.
As the dove came back to Noah and the thrush sang Aura Lee, the white bird entwined with roses came back to her and me.