Archive for Fiction

Deadtown Abbey Part 1

a old looking house with tentacles behind it

DOWNTON ABBEY MEETS LOVECRAFT MEETS NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD in Deadtown Abbey.

It is a world few of us have ever known. A world of masters and servants, where everyone knows one’s place. A world of newfangled technology like telephones and motorcars. A world of vampires, werewolves, zombies, and monsters of the deep. At the center of his necropolis estate lives the Earl of Monroe, who must hold the family he loves and the servants he trusts together against the eldritch onslaught of this rapidly changing world.

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Nikola Tesla meets The Slender Man Part 2

Nikola Tesla in front of an invention

Penny Dreadful Entertainment as related to his scrivener, Sean Hoade.

PART 2

A TRAGEDY IS REPORTED.

It was Boxing Day, 1904. I had just enjoyed the holiday previous with my friends the poet Robert Underwood Johnson and his wife, who had come up to Long Island from Washington, D.C. for the holiday. (I secured my own room next to theirs at the Hotel Astor to spend the night, on trustworthy bedding I had brought from home.) I felt refreshed and eager to return to work that crisp Monday morning.

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Nikola Tesla meets The Slender Man Part 4

Nikola Tesla in front of an invention

A Penny Dreadful Entertainment as related to his scrivener, Sean Hoade.

Part 4

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Nikola Tesla meets The Slender Man Part 3

Nikola Tesla in front of an invention

A Penny Dreadful Entertainment as related to his scrivener, Sean Hoade.

Part 3

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Nikola Tesla meets The Slender Man Part 1

Nikola Tesla in front of an invention

A Penny Dreadful Entertainment

as related to his scrivener, Sean Hoade.

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NIKOLA TESLA VS.THE DAYLIGHT VAMPIRES

Nikola Tesla in front of an invention

I assume that those young readers who follow my popular column in the Electrical Experimenter magazine are familiar with the Vampire (or wampir, as my Croatian grandparents called it in stories to keep us children from roaming outside at night). In fact, now that motion pictures feature sound However, I also am aware that for most adult Americans of late 1897, the plasticity of their brains hardening into rigidity of “everyday” behavior and thought meant that they were not conversant with the ancient legends of undead, blood-hungry ghouls who rise and feed on the living once the sun goes down. These creatures, formerly human, may transmogrify into wolves, or bats, or even mist; or so the Old World legends say.

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52! PART FIVE

Old West gambler Hank Hill screaming at the agony of billions and billions of hands of cards.

Hank doesn’t know how he knows it, but in the fifth or sixth year of shuffling and shuffling and shuffling–into insanity, if only his brain could please break down, but it ain’t doing that because he’s just mind, no brain to break no more–he knows that some Polack scientist type name of Czepiel figured out how many shuffles there really were in real-life terms.

Figured out. Or will figure out. Or will have figured. Or something.

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MUD MEN

Dan inhaled deeply on his High Point. Tastes sweet, like a cigarette treat! Not the most grammatical sentence in the world, but the slogan was good enough to keep the brand from collapse just after its launch in 1954, when those limey scientists told the world that smoking—a popular and perfectly legal act linked to good digestion and happy families back to the goddamn redskins—caused cancer and other fatal diseases. Fine, no more health claims, but it was undeniably a sweet-tasting smoke and who didn’t like a treat? People appreciated that, and what’s more, people liked to hear it from Bob Hope and Jackie Gleason on their Philco radios and Predicta television sets.

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52! Part 4

Hank screams as he is surrounded in his mind by the huge number 2,555,903,337,736,199,158,733,890,944,064,306,758,919,864,167,138,289,281,314,168.

As the seconds and minutes and hours and days pass, zip-zip-zip-zip-zip of the tabled riffle shuffle keeps time better than any clock Hank ever saw in his life. And that was good, because there is no day or night here, no sleep or waking or chowtime or … anything, really. No sky, no earth, no sun, so moon, no stars. Just the chair that didn’t hurt his ass or feel particularly comfortable; the table of smooth and shiny wood, like something out of a fancy parlor; other than there’s just whiteness, just nothing blankness without horizon or shadow or any feature at all. 

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52! Part 3

52! Part Three

As the seconds and minutes and hours and days pass, zip-zip-zip-zip-zip of the tabled riffle shuffle keeps time better than any clock Hank ever saw in his life. And that was good, because there is no day or night here, no sleep or waking or chowtime or … anything, really. No sky, no earth, no sun, so moon, no stars. Just the chair that didn’t hurt his ass or feel particularly comfortable; the table of smooth and shiny wood, like something out of a fancy parlor; other than there’s just whiteness, just nothing blankness without horizon or shadow or any feature at all. 

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