What a whirlwind of a first week. There were highs and lows, there were smiles and tears. So much emotion was leaking out of us that there were points in which we didn’t even know which end of the pen to use.
Our brains are fizzled, our souls are frazzled, and our hands are cramping…
And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’m proud to say that as I write this update from Shoggoth.net HQ (literally a falling apart cabin deep in the Montana wilderness and surrounded by carvings of the Elder Sign. Just so none of us Shoggoth.net writers accidentally summon the apocalypse…) I have written 14,100 words in my story!
Where are you? Why are you? What are you writing about? Has your quest been satisfactory? Have you saved the witch in the quarry, yet? Have you carved your initials on the side of the moon? Praise be to Cthulhu? Or Damn the Eternal Spawn?
Let us know, and we’ll keep you up to date.
I don’t know where I was five seconds ago, but it sure as hell wasn’t here.
That was the thought that pounded, and pounded very painfully, through my skull as I stared down at the small porcelain cup sitting only inches from my shaking hand.
My entire body hurt. It was a sharp pulsing pain that started at the base of my skull and coursed all the way down my body before the next wave would start. That didn’t change the fundamental truth of my situation, though. My hand wasn’t shaking because of the fire that was racing across my nerves. My hand was shaking because I sure as hell wasn’t here five seconds ago.
Hey there Eldritch NaNoWriMo‘ers (we should work on the name…suggestions currently being accepted),
What’s the damage? How have you all done today?
I did a local Write-In and managed to get a little over 2400!
ROLL CALL!!! What have you done today! Off to a good start? What stories are you writing? Any great cover art?
“Flash fiction” is all the rage. And, with the following short-short, all the terror as well.
The woman collapsed in the foam of the oncoming surf, sobbing anguished screams and gripping fistfuls of wet sand so tightly that soaked granules slipped between her clenched fingers.
“Not Jason! Not my grandbaby!” She hurled curses against the roar of the inbound tide, foam bubbling white around her knees. This black night the ocean did not answer.
Part II of this epic novella.
“That was only the first dream. Countless others filtered into my mind every night while I slept, each one becoming more ridiculous and terrifying than the last. But they all had one connection, that monster. In some way or another, it was in each dream, even if the dream was a pleasant one. I remember, this one time, I was fooling around with Jennifer Sweet, a vivacious model at the time, and there it was, leaning over us like a disapproving mother. Before it yanked her from me, and hung her by her neck with its black tentacle, I jumped out of bed and puked. It came to the point that after every dream, I would wake up sick to my stomach.
“A few months had past and I was growing curious about the thing, so I ventured into the libraries and random bookstores in the city, looking for any type of books that dealt with supernaturalism, demonology, urban legends, and really anything that could be connected to dreams. I didn’t find much on the monster specifically, but I did find a lot of information on things that were to it, in a book called Vieni Prieš Mus, which roughly meant, Ones Before Us. Originally, I later found out, it was written in Egyptian, then translated in a few different languages, like old Chinese, Greek, and Hebrew. I assumed it was a pretty old book.
When I walked into the Cherry Brooke Gazette on Tuesday morning, I believed it was going to be a normal day. One filled with mundane tasks like going through dozens of replies to my ad in the paper, or Mr. Fisher would have me write up articles about some local events, like the fire that took place at the Moore Mansion the night before, or the car chase that ended with the culprit t-boning himself into a pole. But I was wrong … very wrong.
Entering my office, I saw there was a manila envelope laying on my desk. I picked it up and noticed how heavy it was, then sunk into my chair. Looking at it, I realized there wasn’t a return address, which was odd, but my wonderment of what was inside was far greater than the missing address.
Are you getting ready for NaNoWriMo?
Don’t know what it is? Maybe you should. NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, AKA November! A lot of the staff at Shoggoth.net are authors, and some of us partake in this annual word party.
The goal? 50,000 words in a month.
Interested? Sign up an NaNoWriMo.org and then comment in the comments of our site with your NaNoWriMo.com page link. We’d love to friend you and follow your progress.
November is going to be a fun month for NaNoWriMo members here at Shoggoth.net. We’re planning a few surprises as well as giving you regular updates as to our own progress.
That being said, how do you get 50,000 words in 1 month? It isn’t easy, but Shoggoth.net has built a little calendar that you can make as your wallpaper on your computer desktop to help keep you on track with your word count.
Let’s see how many words the NaNoShoggothers can get this next month. We’d love to see how many monsters we can bring into the world…
My NaNoWriMo link? Here ya go: http://nanowrimo.org/participants/spazenport
Monoliths. Ancient astronomical stone-gardens. Human-like statues beyond antiquity. All tap into our deepest sense of cosmic time … and cosmic horror.
As I moved down the sandy shore of the Woodell River, searching for rock samples, I stumbled upon a queerly stacked stone statue. Placed perfectly it was, on a large weathered rock, so much so not even the water moving across its base made it budge. It begged the question, “Who built this?”
Who, indeed, did build the small pillar of stone that seemed to speak in an unspoken language that not even a geologist’s mind could understand. Although it was strange, and built abnormally, I found it captivating. The statue seemed to have a force about it, something that pulled me towards its direction, kept me standing in the riverbed, and left me to wonder about its quixotic structure.
As the cool water rushed over my feet, and my eyes fixated on the stacked stones, I pondered, what type of person would create such an odd thing. Slowly, my imagination pieced together characters that seemed to be ripped from the fictional stories I have read over the years.
Gothic horror meets Lovecraftian horror. A scary mix, indeed.
Amy Winchester loved old books. The girls who teased her at school said she even looked ‘book-ish’, with her round glasses over large, round green eyes, long dresses that sometimes tripped her up, and pale, scaly skin (when the weather was dry). She would spend hours in the Academy’s huge tiered library reading Victorian mysteries or about valiant heroes trekking through lost lands. When she walked through the hallways, it was often while holding a leather-bound tome that felt almost as large as she was against her chest. Despite the looks she got from her classmates, she smiled at the wonderful smell of leather and old paper under her nose.
At her expansive home with her Aunt Nettie and Uncle Vernon, she did the same, reading in Uncle’s study, on the balcony and tucked into a corner. These were even older and more esoteric subjects. She read about her great uncle Mortimer, who took the ears of eight Congo cannibals (she’d grimaced when she’s read that and a little more than shocked when a brown, leathery object that must have been an ear fell in her lap), about Grandpa Joe that had scalped four Cherokees and was in his turn scalped by Apaches (and lived!), and Aunt Lenore that had died treating the Spanish Flu in France.
Regular contributor Duane Pesice turns his horrified gaze upon the realm of a certain jaundiced ruler …
The leading edge of the ripple is aquamarine, with trailing edges of amethyst. The two small suns, nameless, are prominent, one pale yellow, one dim crimson, high in an azure sky. The twin moons, nameless also, trace a path from the lake shore to the far horizon, passing before the starscraping towers of ruined Carcosa, over the courts of the King in Yellow.
It is the first season of the year on Carcosa. The blooms have yet to show. The lake, Hali, is verdant, mordant, fertile with possibility.
The versions of the play that are performed this season may hold out some forlorn hope, a touch of pathos, of genuine tragedy amid the madness and death. Perhaps a player or two will even survive until the next performance.
Stranger things have happened, in Yhtill.