Saturday, March 20, 2010

Tentacle Envy and Razor Love

Personally, I’ve always dreamed about that kind of love The Beatles sang about back on BV Earth. Not the kind of "love" I have now with these mechanical whores fasting themselves to metal poles in vast alien scrapyards of their own making. These girls that were given to me by things with tentacles the size of asteroid belts. These girls...

Girls with more teeth than eyes.

But they do smell like women.

(that pleasant mixture of wildfruit and chemical trickery)

And most of all, I like their heroin smiles... for with these they remind me of my childhood… and that’s always when things get a little messy...

But love so often does.


“Time wounds all heels.”
~ John Lennon

Friday, March 19, 2010


Every morning was the same, a rough hack of dirty smoke, a stinging swig of cheap bourbon and the cool metal of the Smith and Wesson indenting the soft skin of his jawline. After a few seconds Robert would get his shit together, run a comb through his coarse hair and go back to work.

Dorsnag jumped from the low flying helicopter and onto the expanse of broken glass that was once called Death Valley. The white boy followed him, hardy enough junk implanted in his little body to be a real soldier, landing clumsily upon the glass ocean and sending out ripples like the dirty veins in his blue eyes. A relatively large former human hit the kid before he could even raise his gun, flinging up bone and shrapnel into the bloodied sky.

Robert dropped his pale forehead against the sticky keyboard. The pattern was repeating and he could do nothing about it. Where was this all coming from?

Blood had coagulated within his gears. He was surrounded by bodies. Every friendly within a hundred miles was dead. After a few seconds Dorsnag would get his shit together, run some chemical cleaner through his grimy circuitry and go back to work.

Monday, March 15, 2010


Bloodflowers bloomed like wild roses in winding thornless vines that kissed the stars, shrugged off gradually by the metalbody of the Mothership, abandoned to bleed and die alone in the soft vacuum of space.

Spores wove a path back to the base of the ship and the very window that opened into The Gardens themselves.

The maze of hallways and halfway pipes inside the ship were covered in a coagulated and timered slime, and it was from this which all life spang forth, curling and winding into knots of writhing pain.

The fleshy plant grew a porous soul for the sole purpose of enhancing its own agony, every bloom opening a new, masochistic, puss-filled wound.

The Valdrott loved to walk through these bleeding halls, watching the painflowers spring to life.

Empathy so far from reach.

Ed Means Business

for every life
there is

A Slackbroken jaw

and for every man
crimson fists

there is also a mother...

Monday, March 8, 2010

"Deep Space Hath No Fury"

"Women are all the same." Warren said, looking deep into to the green eyes of his lover.

"And what exactly do you mean by that?" Alice said, jumping down with inhuman dexterity from her perch atop the skyscraper's satellite.

"I don't know... but you are all the same."

"That’s very sweet honey." She kissed him.

Their kiss was interrupted by the shrapnel of concrete as some kind of heavy tank shell missed its mark. Warren was thrown back before he could even grab his antique sidearm, but somehow before he hit the ground he was already firing . At God knows what… Alice could only guess…

What she saw next was something so unreal it seemed ripped from the pages of a bad pulp magazine. A thick grey tentacle whipped down and ripped out Warren's shooting arm with a sick wet crunch.

...looking franticly around the small roof she realized that “shell” that had knocked poor Warren off his feet was not a shell at all, it was part of...

Alice looked away from the attacking creature's indescribable face and vomited.

As she retched, she saw Warren laying prone on the rooftop, half his blood already gone from his body, the left side of his torso mostly missing in a pool of gore, his wide eyes open and unmoving. The creature turned to her and commanded her to look upon it's visage, and she spun like a thrall to it's commands, whipping her head away from her love to face it even as she held back her bile. Tears ran freely down her face.

"I've come to see Warren." Its many sores seemed to ooze as it talked in a voice that somehow was distinctly male.

"YOU FOOL!" Alice shouted, "WARREN IS DEAD!" Her voice shook the very foundations of the skyscraper and almost pushed the beast's heinous features into something resembling a flinch.

The creature fled back into the dark corners of deep space.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Deep South Iconoclasm

The sky is ripe and pink over the stinking swamp, bubbled sweetly from below by a slow frog chorus. The scene is broken only by the water parting to allow a mass of slimy purple-black tentacles, reeking of sour chemical release even over the fetid odor of the swamp, to sprout forth and grope themselves around the nearest patch of solid roots.

Every single member of the Cult of Cthulhu evacuated the swamps a day later, their celestial deity now nothing more than a long forgotten fairy tale.

The Valdrott pissed a corrosive, inky, black liquid that ate away at the ancient god’s shrines, melting away the stone like candle wax...