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|Sunday, January 28th, 2007|
Blues4Kali- MetaMyth for the Millennium
What will Winter Solstice bring in
...an instant of Karma? ...an ethereal spiral dance of the collective soul? ... cosmic judgment leveled against civilization's expanse? ...destruction of the world as we know it? ...a chance for a new start? ...the rise and the revenge of the Goddess? or simply another day in the life of paranoia?
These are the false prophesies that your pastor warned you about!Reality Exchange Program
"Makes DMT seem like a whip-it."
Crazy Bear said there'd be days like this. As usual, no one believed him. Now, all I want to know is: where IS that lifeboat, and how DO I ditch this ship of fools, without any of these bliss ninnies noticing that I'm already gone?
Captain, my ass.
We are equal in this sea of madness.
That iceberg is looking awfully big.New Age Metaphysical Books
Amana Mission is on a quest to save the world, and the only problem is, she can't remember why
she got involved with such an obvious scam in the first
saves. Christ. What a loser.Kali
kills first, and recycles later.
Hitchhikers, load up for a ride to the Other Side. You may wish you had gone Greyhound."What the...?"
*A cranky band of prankster peace warriors who absolutely cannot resist
messing with each other's minds, no matter the cost.
*Cocky alchemy-dabbling quantum surfers, navigating the Ethersphere with hand-held computers, switching timelines to find a better party vibe and swap tips about the best temporary toilets for use as interdimensional portals.
*A burnt-out visionary hippie millionaire on a mission from Gaia to build a better "communitopia" by underwriting a convoy carrying telepathic priestesses.
*A wheelchair-bound mindpilot propelling a crystal-powered Seed Bank toward the post-Apocalyptic Garden, with psychic precision...and a predilection for high-velocity extreme driving.
*Hermaphrodite time-jumper fleeing a fate worse than death.
*Anarchist ghettoes where anything goes-except escape.
*Ancient Principals vying like sweatsoaked carpetbaggers for our loyalty as the Final Vote is tallied.
*Long-haired security patrols collecting a cannabis tribute tax from all pilgrims to the Valley of Fun.
*And an underground meat mafia bringing a black magic revival to a bloodless dreamworld gone bland.
All brought together by a secret psychedelic superdrug that tunes users in to reality through the eyes of another archetypal avatar inhabiting a different state of space and time. Mahayana
made easy. Budding Buddha natures are running amuck on a virtual superhighway where all roads lead to the Bo tree and singularity.
Twenty-first century Tantra is about more than sex, drugs, and
rock and roll.Confronting the Karma of every wasted breath is only the first step.
Welcome to the End Times. Kali
awaits. She already knows
The 21st century counterculture is even weirder
than it appears on the surface. This is not
your mommy’s MTV Road Rules. Satire Parody and Humor.Ride along
on this mesmerizing, metaphor-packed bus trip toward ecstasy and enlightenment, as three real-time guides-Amana, Sissy
, and Deva
, let you in on what they learned when they
asked what It was really
all about, after all.Become
them for a multilevel metafictional tour of infinity and awaken yourself
to the miracle-a-minute magic of mighty Mother Kali!Science Fiction Novel Blues 4 Kali Current Mood: creative
|Wednesday, June 28th, 2006|
Human sexuality and Religion
'Human Sexuality and Religion: reframing the problem' is the working title of my new project. Human sexuality and religion are like siblings with a love hate relationship. They are very similar in many ways ( I have always believed that the part in our inner selves which provides shelter for our religious emotions - our desire to worship something - is the same location where our sexuality lives). At the same time there is always tension between these two (perhaps not unlike the tension between family members living together) My interest in this project is in how we should understand this on-going problem between the siblings - human sexuality and religion. Now religious narratives on human sexuality (as indeed - thanks to Michel Foucault's insights - the medical/scientific narratives) claim to be presenting an objective statement of the reality about human sexuality. From this vantage point the problem over human sexuality and religion is about articulating the reality about sex. I will spend a considerable amount of time and space on how this way of framing the problem tends to unfold and to demonstrate why it leads to entrenchment of conflicting positions with no resolution in sight. What I will be arguing for is a re-framing or understanding of the problem in terms of construction rather than articulation. In other words discourse on human-sexuality (religious, medical, scientific etc) is not about articulating the objective reality of human sexuality (an attempt that assumes the existence of human sexuality in itself i.e. an essential human sexuality), it is rather an attempt to construct that reality from a wide range of discursive contexts. I will try to demonstrate how re-framing the problem thus might enable us to get over some of the ugly fights over sexuality and religion
|Tuesday, February 22nd, 2005|
|Sunday, November 21st, 2004|
The Moon's Whistle
I was 6 or 7 and it was one of the those late September nights that these sorts of memories are made of. Stars shining brightly in the moonless, deep navy sky and small waves rhythmically lapping at the sand. And that thick air that only exists for a few days each year – warm, but with the chill of autumn just beyond your senses.
I was playing with Skip, my runty little mutt-dog. He’d pull on the rope and I’d pull back. Sometimes I’d get it away from him and throw it down the beach for him to chase.
My mom yelled out from the beach house. She sounded worried, panicked, even. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but figured she wanted me to come inside for the night. Her fear of prowlers on the beach always seemed to ruin my fun.
I picked Skip up and trotted toward the door. My mom burst out of the house, but my dad caught her by the wrist before she had made it off the porch and pulled her back inside. She didn’t take her eyes off of me until the door had closed between us.
Frightened now, I picked up my pace for a few yards, but I slowed so that I could try to hear what was going on inside, instead of the thundering crunches of my own footsteps. I was relieved to hear that it was silent, but something beyond that silence caught my ear – a faint whistle, sad but musical, steadily growing louder. It seemed to come from the sky, so I attempted to find its source with my eyes, following the whistler until well after it had gone out of range of my hearing.
Those twenty seconds seemed like fifteen minutes of straining my ears and eyes. Time returned when my eyes reflexively leaped from where I estimated the whistler was to the flash on the horizon just below it.
I thought I’d caught the moon rising.
I watched the glow, waiting for the rest of the moon to come up. I wondered if it always whistled like that and listened for the next sound it would make. It began to growl.
I thought it was mad at me for watching it wake up, but it continued to rumble after I’d politely averted my eyes, so I went back to looking at it. Soon my ears were so filled with the moon’s roar that I couldn’t hear it – or anything else – any more.
Skip looked up at me quizzically and then burst into ash. My eyes darted around and took in everything. The sudden wind disintegrated it all, like a raygun in a cartoon. The grass, trees, and house exploded into dust just like Skip had a split second before.
I stood there, dumbfounded, and the moon dipped back behind the horizon, apparently satisfied.
And then it began to snow.The Moon's Whistle (c) 2004, Christopher StuckAnd I'd like to invite you all to www.fortressofevil.com
We run regular nanofic exercises and contests and are always looking for skilled writers and those looking for help with or opinions on their work.
|Monday, August 30th, 2004|
To illustrate my lesson for today, I’d like us to take Polaroid’s of this fat, sweaty, farmer tanned, fifty year old man.
Snap. Tttkkzzzttt. 30 seconds face down. Lift:
The image is filtered red by a red light in the room. In this picture we see a section of a table, waist height, covered in shallow dishes filled with a variety of liquids. There is a brick wall of large cinder blocks behind the table. We see the man; this is him in his basement. It’s hot, and we can see his bare back with thick rolls of hair and flesh, leaning over a vat of developing solution. He is topless, wearing dark pants with a thick leather or fake leather belt.
Snap. Tttkkzzzttt. 30 seconds face down. Lift:
He is leaning back; holding, with slender tongs, a sheet of red-reflecting white paper as it begins to show an image. We cannot clearly see what that image is. Now we notice the wire, dotted with clips, suspended between the corner walls to his right. A quarter of a picture shows, cut off by the frame of our shot, revealing a portion of a small leg and foot.
Snap. Tttkkzzzttt. 30 seconds face down. Lift:
Now we watch this wrinkled, liver-spotted man clip the photo to the wire with the three others that were already there. His pot belly hangs over a silver buckle, probably military issue, and the flesh on his wasting arms hangs from the bone. He has sunken rings around his eyes and a droopy chin pulled up by a twisted, horny smile. If we pay attention and look closely we can see the photo series that’s making him smile like that. Each photo is a separate image of the same girl. She is nude and young; she looks to be under ten years old. The first photo shows her in a bathing suit, the next, it’s off and in a third photo she is sitting spread-eagle on a couch, nude and crying. The last photo, the one he is hanging in our picture, stars both himself and the girl engaged in an act that you can see, and I don’t wish to describe.
Judging from these Polaroid’s, I think, as you will agree, that this man is a pedophile. He takes pictures of little girls and boys that he kidnaps. He has not yet been caught by the authorities.
The problem with pedophiles is that they don’t all look like this guy. Some of them are the lawyers that come into your work; others are the parents you see taking groups of children to see movies or to horse-around at the playground. The rest are people stuck in pathetic children’s entertainment gigs dressed as clowns and other fairytale fuck-ups.
The moral here is that anyone you know could be developing pictures of naked children that they have kidnapped. Your friends, family, co-workers, or lovers could be one of them. So my advice to you is this: either kill everyone you know, or don’t have children that can be snatched and fucked by your neighborhood creep-show.
Good luck, and happy hunting.
|Monday, August 9th, 2004|
share your talents:)
DARKMARKETS.COM - 08/08/2004
Following are the latest listings on darkmarkets.com:
Revelation from Magazines (Added: 04 Aug 2004)
Shadowed Realms from Magazines (Added: 18 Jul 2004)
Revelation from Magazineshttp://darkmarkets.com/jump.php3?id=122
Contact: Brian A. Dixon, Editor. Email: firstname.lastname@example.org.
"The independent magazine of apocalyptic art and literature."
FICTION: Revelation is interested in publishing any creative work - short stories, short plays, poems, essays, reviews, commentaries - that has been inspired by or is somehow connected to any conception of the end of the world. That doomsday connection may be tenuous, implied, or overwhelming. Submissions may be representative of any genre - horror, drama, comedy, mystery, romance, speculative fiction - provided there is a relevant and creative apocalyptic element apparent in the piece. As with most publications, the best means of determining what kind of work gets placed in the magazine is to familiarize yourself with the content of past issues. Revelation submissions should be made electronically, via e-mail, in text or Word format. Stories, plays, or essays should not exceed 8,000 words. Multiple submissions are acceptable. Those whose works are accepted for publication will receive a contributor's copy of the magazine and the satisfaction of having contributed to the publ
ic's apocalyptic paranoia. Visit Revelation's website for further details.
Shadowed Realms from Magazineshttp://darkmarkets.com/jump.php3?id=121
Shadowed Realms magazine, PO Box 4, Woodvale WA 6026 (Australia)
Contact: Angela Challis, Editor.
Shadowed Realms magazine is an Australian bimonthly webzine (published six times per year). Each issue contains eight flash stories and two featured stories (flash or short).
FICTION: Please check out their website for full guidelines - has strict reading period. Seeking: Dark, psychological speculative fiction - including horror, dark/urban fantasy, supernatural/occult, slipstream, thrillers and mysteries. We will also consider science fiction, fantasy, action, crime and erotica, as long as it contains a speculative element and captures the essence of psychological darkness. Shadowed Realms specialises in flash fiction (up to 1,000 words), although we will consider longer stories. Short stories 1,000-5,000 words. Payment for flash fiction is $0.04 per word (A$20 max.) Featured flash or short stories receive A$25.
DARKMARKETS DOT COMhttp://www.darkmarkets.com
|Saturday, March 13th, 2004|
Perhaps it had not been wise for him to challenge the Mages' Council. The curse, the magickal geas they laid upon him, bound him never to set foot outside his fortress. But his powerful soul would not be imprisoned, and his wizardry was great. He bent space, and rules, by taking the citadel with him.
Inspired by manea's challenge, here... Current Mood: creative
|Wednesday, February 25th, 2004|
Brooding. He couldn’t stop. The same things. Again. Again. He couldn’t stop.
He took a drink, eased himself into the steaming bath -- so hot! He drank more. He became more relaxed. More.
Sweet release ebbed through him.
He listened, surprised. He knew he was raving. But he also, finally, knew he wasn’t holding back.
|Thursday, January 29th, 2004|
Easy to See.
It was easy to see something was bothering her, even if she wouldn't say so. She usually hated being touched, he knew that. Still he took a chance, slipping his arms around her and pulling her close, keeping the hug brief. Letting her go, he was rewarded with a genuine smile.
"Thanks," she said quietly.
|Thursday, October 9th, 2003|
Barky the Dog
Barky woke at the noise coming from the window. Springing into action he rushed across the room to see what it could be. A man! True to his name, Barky raised such a ruckus that the would-be thief cursed and ran away. Barney, his owner, stumbled down the stairs half-asleep. “What’s wrong, boy?”
Ron arrived early for the meeting. He was the first one there, everyone else would probably be just on time or slightly late. Deciding to use the time wisely he looked around, settled into a good seat and pulled out a book. He thought to himself, “These meetings are such a waste of time.”
As usual these come in groups or at least pairs:
“What do you think of this one?,” Sarah asked quietly.
“I don’t know, it’s kind of small,” he replied. “Maybe something a little bigger?” Sam reached out and picked up the trans-eon device. “A medium one like this could get us all the way back to Roman times.”
Sarah smiled, “OK, let’s go on vacation!”
The scientist looks up from his research, stretches the kinks and knots from his aching muscles. He reaches for another cup of coffee. Memories and images of his mother, dying so young, filtered through his thoughts as they always do at this time of night. Back to work, the cure, so elusive, must be found.
|Tuesday, September 16th, 2003|
Not sure what to do really, assuming nanofic is a very short piece of fiction so here goes.
No-one knew him. He'd never even been in the town befoe but he could see the similarities from the first second he steped down from the bus. Church tower dominating the skyline, the sunset over the fields and a row of houses with perfectly manicured lawns. Yeah he'd seen it all before. These people were going to have a hell of a ride.
|Saturday, July 26th, 2003|
Seen the future, back to baseball.
|Tuesday, March 25th, 2003|
The old man kneeled down to pull the dead leaves from one last plant. Then stood to survey his garden in the fading light. A long afternoon, hot sun, sore back and knees. Contentment in the twilight as the soft sounds of the night surrounded him.
|Thursday, February 20th, 2003|
The Ranger moves up through the mountain pass, stopping as he reaches the top. The sun slowly setting behind him, the land ahead falls into darkness. The summer air feels clear and cool. Thoughts of the road ahead come as he stops to rest for the long trip down. Adjusting his pack, he begins.
|Thursday, November 21st, 2002|
He leaned in. "But you don't seem like you're from the middle of nowhere."
She thought about that for a second, inhaling deep on her ciagrette. "I guess it's because I never had enough hope. I'd look at the people in my class, and think, wow. Hope just shows how naive you can be."
"But you got out..."
"I had ambition. I never had hope." Current Mood: weird
|Sunday, November 17th, 2002|
“…Just About Pirates…”
>“It ain’t just about pirates! It’s about society
as the pirate. Ourselves in the pirate role...”
“That’s what you say about everything. There’s more to life then pirates and suburbia!”
“Oh yeah? Let’s see you prove it.”
“Uhhh...it...umm...it doesn’t need to be proven. It's...uh...it’s self-evident.”
“That’s what you say about everything.”
|Sunday, November 10th, 2002|
>Outdated maps of distant places tacked hastely to the wall. A solar-system of Lonely Planets lost in blankspace. Pins with flags, checkmarks and passport. Mescaline and Benadrill, rows of pills buried in urns of different soils. Dust and slants of light sheathing a globe half paper-machéd in worn bills. The body covered with broken luggage.