THE CHAMELEON

Santa Fe's psychiatric hospital

THE CHAMELEON

I am the harbinger of joy, the like of which has never existed before; I have discovered tasks of such lofty greatness that, until my time, no one had any idea of such things.

Friedrich Nietzsche -Ecce homo

It started to manifest early. At first, it was a curiosity, but soon, the novelty gave way to concern. With close detail and progressive ability, the child was able to impersonate anybody. No punishment was enough to straighten it out. His father belt drew on his back the incarnate calligraphy of impotence. They also chained him to the foot of the bed, but he managed to do his circus act anyway. Doctors could not pinpoint a diagnosis and labeled him as a rare case of multiple personalities. Upon reaching adulthood, everything became worse: for the average eye, it was impossible to distinguish the copycat, except for the drooling. Nobody knew what to do. They confined him in the Psychiatric Hospital after spending a week spying on a neighbor. Impersonate her by devotedly studying her manners was his deviated way of saying he loved her, but the next-door girl did not understand the nature of his homage and called the police. Judge also did not know what to do, and at the request of the family, he institutionalized it. They characterized his condition as "atypical psychotic disorder," as well as they medicated him with generosity. Then they marooned the inmate. The treatment was likely effective because the phases intermittency became more extended in time, and instead of months, now he devoted a couple of years to the same person. As hospital staff turnover at a high rate, for most of them, Flores was always a gentleman in a suit who spent the whole day stuck to the front fence asking for cigarettes, coins, or candies. One morning someone shouted: "The Chameleon has escaped! He's at the bus stop!". Nobody was surprised: the main door controls were not pretty much rigid. With more urgency than skill, they organized the capture, and sturdy nurses dragged him while the poor man shrieked that it was confusion that he was a clerk waiting for the bus to go to his job. They did not pay attention and confined him with sedation as hard as to dope an elephant, and they suspended his ambulatory freedom forever. While the bus reinitiated its way, a man sitting in the backseat smiled with a horrible grimace. With a dirty handkerchief, he cleaned the drooling. He returned to Barranquitas. An old insult was about to be paid out.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2019

(*) This short story was published in #169 of Revista miNatura devoted to madness.

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THE GATES OF HEAVEN

THE GATES OF HEAVEN

This apparatus is our previous Commandant’s invention. I also worked with him on the very first tests and took part in all the work right up to its completion.

Franz Kafka, In the penal colony

I was a poor man. And the wonders of biomolecular medicine were never available to poor people. Over the decades, an abyss had opened among those who still get ill and those who are healthy by genetic manipulation. We, the humans and they, the so-called “novohumans.” At that point in time, I was recovering from a disease. I don’t mention this as an excuse nor do I want to exonerate my betrayal, but it would seem the worst day of one’s existence is when you learn you have terminal cancer. On the other hand, you cannot fathom how difficult it is to bear the news that you have, in fact, healed and live with the possibility of a relapse gnawing your will until you go mad. Chemotherapy is not for everyone; it poisons both the bad cells and the brain. I was seriously considering suicide when I received an offer from a Dr. Prendick whose Heaven’s Door Program promised something forbidden to humankind. Totally unaware the process of DNA recombination is atrocious, I had no scruples about abandoning my mortality. At first, the body resisted the cannulas and enriched serums. But, in the end, I emerged purified and accustomed to a new appearance, aseptic and hairless. Next, I joined the new religion and became the most severe of the commissars in the Eugenics Project. It was in the large medical centers of each quadrant where all those patients selected by massive lotteries, received the latest biotechnological applications. And where we also heard the advent of the galactic community was imminent. Alas! a solar storm affected the communication satellite. By mistake, I read a message that revealed the whole lie: there was no improvement plan in progress. On the contrary, the medical centers were reservoirs of extermination, devious apparatus of systematic annihilation. Diseases, no, no; all who were ill would be eradicated from the face of the planet before the return of those who in ancient times, came down from heaven.  It was at that point that I rejected the inheritance acquired over the martyrdom of so many. It was difficult, yes but months of ignominious treatment restored my humanity. All tyranny begets the seed of its poverty. Now I'm poor again. Now, I am the leader of the rebellion against the novohumans. And all the while we wait, fiercely, for those who will come from outer space.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2018

(*) This short story has been published in #165 of Revista miNatura, an issue devoted to biopunk.

Muchas gracias por visitar EL ECLIPSE DE GYLLENE DRAKEN. Si te parece, puedes dejar un comentario. Conocer tu opinión es muy importante para los que hacemos el blog. Si te ha gustado o crees que a alguien más le pudiera gustar, te pedimos por favor que lo compartas en las redes sociales. Gracias otra vez. Y esperamos que vuelvas.

THE AGE OF DARKNESS

THE AGE OF DARKNESS

In beloved memory of Violeta Balián

                                        

               

The Stars, Sun, Moon all shrink away. A desert vast without a bound. And nothing left to eat or drink. And a dark desert all around.

William Blake - The mental traveler

This is the story of our known world, our three islands: The First, the Second and the Third one, the Continent-Island. We were always alone, uncontaminated, protected by the Sea of Storms, which abysses itself at a moon of navigation far. It was never known of a ship that survived the waterspouts and other furies darkening our horizon. However, the autumn mist brought an armada of black vessels that puked a horde of monsters embroidered in iron spikes. The wind flapped their flags which carried a horned serpent as badge. The ancient legends were true: the barbarians from the other side did exist.  And they were methodical with the invasion as well as merciless with the extermination. Our armies, veterans of parades and anniversaries, looked like paper figurines. But what terrified us the most was that the conquerors perpetrated the carnage in the most perfect silence. Later, we learned they had their tongues cut. Before winter, the insidious Sukur-Lamak proclaimed himself the satrap of the Third Island and married Urka, the widowed queen. The streets flowered with impaled bodies and all types of tortures. There was no woman or little girl left without being raped.  Men, young and old were enslaved and used in the iron oxide mines. Fruits withered, and crops rotted. In time, history books called this sinister time, "The Age of Darkness". I am Irukamis, the royal magician and I must admit none of my spells worked. I had to find the way to set my people free. There is no worse tragedy than living without hope. I read the old treaties of war and realized that you do not win not all victories on the battlefield. That is how I crafted the legend of a sword born in a cursed forge, made with the dark metal of a meteorite and the fire of volcanoes, while the necromancers sang their sad songs and lamentations. And soon, in fairs and roads peasants began to whisper the triumphs of "The russet one," so called by the bloodbath that left in its path. It was time to create the Titan able to rise such a legendary sword. Among the oppressed, the name of Askalion of Tamaria became both a psalm and a blessing. Then, restoration began. But that is another story.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2018

(*) This short story has been published in #161 of Revista miNatura, issue devoted to the Universe of Robert E. Howard .

Muchas gracias por visitar EL ECLIPSE DE GYLLENE DRAKEN. Si te parece, puedes dejar un comentario. Conocer tu opinión es muy importante para los que hacemos el blog. Si te ha gustado o crees que a alguien más le pudiera gustar, te pedimos por favor que lo compartas en las redes sociales. Gracias otra vez. Y esperamos que vuelvas.

THE EAGER HELP OF THE ANNELIDS

THE EAGER HELP OF THE ANNELIDS (*)

The words "you must have faith" are written on the entrance doors of the temple of science.

Max Planck

The unfortunate events of Epecuén were a catastrophe and a delay in the plans of Dr. Hariberth Webber. Where would he find a more favorable place? A ghost town devastated by the lagoon, the abandoned hospital and, above all, the graveyard full of corpses marvelously preserved by the salinity of the water. He had to put his plans on hold because of that nosey nurse. But, although Heaven tries not even God could stop it! Soon he will be able to reanimate the dead ones. He was very close to achieving such goal. The girl witnessed the contortions of the body. She also saw when the corpse opened his eyes and stretched out an arm. And before that, she observed the delightful job of the lampreys sucking the rotten flesh. Nobody can deny it. In spite of himself, he smiled. Certainly, there were many circumstances to lead her to lose her mind. But science admits no weaknesses. Herr Doktor knew he could open the doors of a maddening revelation but also, he could give birth to the dawn of new knowledge. Because of the rush, he, unfortunately, had to abandon most of his lampreys. However, he had already multiplied several times their amount. These were much smaller, with another color and he could not distinguish their serrated teeth, but without doubt, their naughty mouths sheltered the same purifying voracity. It was a happy discovery, another sign of his destiny. He had dropped his notebook and found them crouching among the bushes: revulsive, hungry, ready to help him. It was time to start again. Pretending to be ill, he managed to be admitted to the clinic and, in the carelessness of his guards, he stole a distiller, tubes, and catheters. The shortage of materials forced him to improvise. Neither the prodigious solution was no longer green phosphorescent, nor it had the original consistency, but urgency is enemy of a thoughtful proceeding. Besides, he had seen the disloyal girl on this side of the fence. And as much as the wardens insist that she is staying in another mental facility, he does not believe them. But they try to confuse him all the time. Like when they told him the tubed body in the fish bowl was nothing but a miserable frog. Such insolence! When his science only admits human beings. Everything is ready now. And glory awaits him.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2018

(*) This short story has been published in #161 of Revista miNatura issued devoted to Weird Tales and it is a sequel of "A strange case of delusion in Laguna Epecuen".

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LOOSE ENDS

LOOSE ENDS (*)

The unpleasant thing, which offends my modesty, 

is that fundamentally I am every name in history

Letter from Nietzsche to Jacob Burckardt

Newspapers portrayed the catastrophe of Saint Pierre, capital of Martinique. More than thirty thousand people burned by a volcano’s rage. Such slaughter had me desolated. I thought taking some air would be a clever idea, even if it was to investigate a death. A case of suicide, something very common in the Healthful-House, a hospice in front of the bay. The deceased was a Frenchman who before hanging himself wrote on the walls: "Ce ne fut pas le volcan. Ce fut le fulgurateur". According to his brief clinical history, he was a severe schizophrenic who two days ago went into an unusual state of alteration with persecutory hallucinations. I started to investigate. Although the staff showed no desire to collaborate I managed to discover that the unfortunate man had a huge outburst when he learned about of the island’s tragedy from a guard. I sat in the garden, and I lighted a cigarette trying to tie the loose ends. One of the inmates approached me for tobacco. Looking at the sky, he repeated several times that the dead man was a friend of a patient whom a spy male nurse and some pirates had kidnapped in a secret place in the Caribbean. As soon as I wanted to find out a bit more, he shut up and began to hum. They were the words of a madman, but just in case, I asked for the files. It took some effort, but I managed to find the medical records of some Thomas Roch, an engineer, who lost his sanity when he did not find a buyer for "The Roch's Fulgurator," a so-called weapon of mass destruction capable of destroying ten kilometers around. Although they say that in Europe there is a doctor Freud who unveiled the unconscious, over here they still do not cure anyone. There was, however, that brief annotation in Roch’s records which discharged him. Something very abnormal. And much weirder, it turned out when two gorillas in white approached me and claimed I had missed my electro-shock session. Obviously, they thought I was someone else, not the sheriff of New Bern who is here to investigate a suicide and now, a missing person and a possible criminal conspiracy to blow up the island. In any case, I could not make them understand the situation, so I grabbed a piece of paper, and before I got my brains fried I wrote for help: Please, send someone to rescue me.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2017

(*) This short story was published in #158 of Revista miNatura, dossier "Jules Verne".

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THE DOSE

THE DOSE 

For what seemed an immensely long time I gazed 

without knowing, even without wishing to know, 

what it was that confronted me. 

Aldous Houxley – The doors of perception 

Miles Burford, MD was the rising star of the London Galvanic Hospital. Once, as a fellow, he attended the experiments of Giovanni Aldini in which galvanic current was applied to the corpse of a criminal. On that occasion, the dead man moved his limbs and his body shook up as if he was breathing. After such promising outcome, the young Miles fell into a state of madness and decided to follow a definitive course of action, that is, with the help of electricity, he would defeat death. It was from that moment on that he devoted his career to find the dose capable to return the motility of the heart. Despite his enthusiasm, years went by and there were many failures. Mainly, because the complexity of the process demanding more precise appliances. And these were expensive. However, his obsession gave birth to a treatment that would finance the whole project: the use of galvanism to restore all the exercises of a man. After all, that was also a muscle. Success or mere hope, the good news soon toured all the Gentlemen’s clubs. Aware of such outstanding novelty, the eminent Sir Archibald Gladstone -who was none other than King George’s personal physician- came to visit his young colleague. Discreetly, they appointed a date and time. The young doctor declined all payment but did accept his designation as surgeon of the Royal House. The day arrived and the patient underwent the necessary preparations. His limping muscle was wrapped in copper wire and the lever pulled down. A sizzle ran through the wires. After a moment’s hesitation, the old bulldog smiled under his big mustaches as he watched the amazing signs of resurrection. Truly, the pain was considerable but the egregious director of the Royal College of Surgeons could not be happier with the virile cramp he wore down there. And so, imperative, he demanded an extra dose. Alas! It was not a good decision. His jaws began to tremble and all his nerves convulsed horribly. We do not know which happened first, the scream or the explosion but his manhood blasted like a rotten fruit spattering black blood as high as the ceiling. The smell of burnt meat was repulsive. Then, with a macabre hiss, the viscera began to slide through the smoky crater that blurred his crotch and Sir Archibald died with a gesture of disbelief. Upon learning of the tragedy, His Majesty ordered to conceal the misfortune and impose on Dr. Burford an immediate exile in India.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2017

(*) This short story has been published in #157 of Revista miNatura, dossier Splatterpunk and it is a prequel of "The city of silence".

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THE CITY OF SILENCE

THE CITY OF SILENCE

If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into being?

Edgar Allan Poe – The imp of perversity

Until the tragedy of Benares very little was known about Dr. Miles Burford, the gentleman who introduced himself as a surgeon to the Royal House. However, rumors of his past included experiments with criminals, a large recount of abominations and the exile imposed by the Crown. There was, no doubt, a good deal of truth to the gossip because his obsessions followed him here, to the Northeast of India where he soon joined a sect of extreme spirituality, the Aghori, worshippers of the god Shiva who believe that good and evil, the devout and the profane are part of a whole. And all sorts of infamies must be realized to attain enlightenment. And to this purpose, they wander naked among the funeral pyres anointing themselves with the ashes of cremated bodies. They also ingest excrements and the most fervent reach a higher state of consciousness by eating the floating corpses of the Ganges. It is their judgment that through these blasphemous acts they gain power over death. Although openly embracing the Aghori’s creed our good Doctor Burford was driven by a different eagerness. At first, he was only allowed to participate in black magic rituals and to have sex with women during their impure days. Later, a guru initiated him in the infamous eating of dead flesh and, as a result, achieved the required asceticism, he challenged his mental sanity by tasting the flesh. Subsequently, he proclaimed himself the Liberator of Death and during religious processions, it was not uncommon to see people approaching him with a corpse. But, as long as they were people from the Black Villages it was considered to be nothing more than a grotesque carnival. Except when a director of the East India Company brought his daughter, who had recently died of tuberculosis and the scandal unfolded. No such crowds were ever seen in the City of Silence. And perhaps Dr. Burford's faith was not strong enough or he feared failure because, in addition to necromancy, hymns and mantras, he added a dose of galvanism. Whichever the reason or the tools, the girl’s oval face began to move and the spasms became more evident. In the assembly room, many fainted and others puked out their guts. Then, inhabited by grimaces, the face of the deceased produced one last movement that resembled a diabolical smile before it deformed, exploded and splashed out on the onlookers. The girl´s father killed the doctor on the spot and the Sipahi massacred all of the Aghoris. It was a shame. Electricity was not necessary. At least not to me.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2017

(*) This short story has been published in #155 Revista miNatura dossier Mad Scientist

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THE FELINE SENESCHAL NU-WE

THE FELINE SENESCHAL NU-WE (*)

And I seemed to find in its necromancy a thing I had innately known or inherited, and for which I had always been vainly searching.

H. P. Lovecraft-The whisperer in darkness

We perceive the images of things but not the things themselves while the Admiral perceives them as they are. So does Bastet, his cat. It is clear to me that she lives in a dimension where space and time are absolute and her consciousness of the universe lies in that immobile and eternal perception. However, I am the Feline Seneschal and I should know but no, I do not. I have only a distant, diffused suspicion. I will receive the knowledge as soon as I am initiated in the sacred mysteries and, after going through the rigorous acts of purification and denial, my soul finally nestles in a symbiotic animal. In the meantime, the Admiral follows her orders, all of them. And all Bastet has to do is spread one claw over the navigation charts for the ship to set sail to unknown latitudes. Thus we came to this remote frontier where the natives considered us gods. Their adoration bewilders me but both, the Admiral and Bastet, revel in it. So much, they are not even disturbed by the deaths that resulted from our conquest. Our need for the locals’ extractive expertise was a good enough reason, they reckon. In exchange, we taught them the divinatory arts, the laws that govern the stars and the crops, the magic, and the funeral rites. Still, they were never satisfied. Many of the tribes felt oppressed and successive massacres failed to appease them. We fought them in battle and transgressed them. Despite it all, everything went wrong for us.  We mated with the daughters of men. An utter failure for our progeny is an aberration. And we quickly realized we were committing a blasphemy. If the Supreme One decrees it, there will be no expiation, much less, access to the ultimate knowledge. In the end, the enormous effort amounted to nothing. And now even Bastet seems uneasy as little is left of her quiet existence. The Admiral summoned us with urgency. He had received a directive: we must leave. In seven days time, everything will be swept away by a fabulous flood destined to bury the ingratitude of these perfidious beings. Although the ship’s log registers that it was their entire fault, I know we are accomplices of our own immorality. My name is Nu-ah. I will now defect and set free an innocent people. My soul will never unfold into a cat and I rather prefer it this way.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2016

(*) This short story has been published in Revista digital miNatura 154 Dossier Cats.

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THE LAST PARADOX

THE LAST PARADOX(*)

In my village, I am the only barber. I cannot shave the barber of my people. That's me!

Bertrand Russell - The paradox of the barber

We, with inflexible severity, repressed all warnings released by the experts. That is, as they came out, a team of venal scientists issued papers with strong impugnment. And while the citizens awaited the advent of a calamity, the Central Government´s resolve emphasized the obvious. However, to be honest, no one cared; in the end, global warming, poor harvests or any other excuse would get the blame. Suffice it to say the military invasion of the grain-producing countries was not a logical measure. The fields were left devastated and for several generations. Neither the butchery of the Wars of the Elements contributed to eroding the overpopulation in the large cities. As a result, the global surface was left an uninhabitable wasteland. We needed to proceed, at once to prevent a famine that would soon to be unstoppable. And yes, there was a solution, by all accounts implausible. But, as it was essentially true, everybody went along with it.  A couple of centuries ago, we abolished classical physics and replaced it with quantum physics. Even the hyperspace starships used those engines. So, without delay, the official propaganda proclaimed that thanks to a quantum leap it was indeed possible for half of the planet´s population to live in the same place and at the same time. To achieve that goal, we designed giant Coherent Superposition Projectors crammed with tiny quantum gates while the Army´s task was to force citizens into the so-called treatment. Some were reluctant. Others rebelled and invoked the principle of non-contradiction. Naturally, one can be and cannot be at the same time! We responded by publishing sound refutations of that ancient Greek hoax and executing the subversives in the public squares. The rebellion quelled, the rumors persisted as we came to realize that to observe another citizen we needed to set the instantaneous state of a given system inside the Projectors. Unfortunately, that procedure revealed complications as yet unsolved. And no zeal was enough to hide the fact that it was not possible to establish an acceptable decoherence time since most of those who submitted to the treatment were no longer around. Or were they? No one knows. However, I do not rule out that someday when we get the answer, they will be there, enjoying a happy existence. Right now, I am convinced no one can blame us. The urgency was real, and so was the intended remedy. We only misrepresented some of the circumstances as well as the success of the entire Project.  Sometimes world politics require such sacrifices.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2016

(*) This short story has been published in #151 Revista miNatura issue devoted to "Overpopulation".

Muchas gracias por visitar EL ECLIPSE DE GYLLENE DRAKEN. Si te parece, puedes dejar un comentario. Conocer tu opinión es muy importante para los que hacemos el blog. Si te ha gustado o crees que a alguien más le pudiera gustar, te pedimos por favor que lo compartas en las redes sociales. Gracias otra vez. Y esperamos que vuelvas.

TWIST OF FATE

TWIST OF FATE

“It was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice”.

Joseph Conrad - Heart of Darkness

Friends from Spain sent me a homemade video featuring an Argentinean couple having sex. But as soon as the girl moaned: "Oh, Ricardo" the joke was out: that’s my name. But wait, there was more. The faun fucked her with my voice. And let me make it crystal clear: my voice. Tone and words I pronounce at such events. The guy doesn’t resemble me, not as yet, but he was like me in everything else. Under a paranoid attack I imagined all sorts of secret recordings to double voices and use them for erotic scenes. But that was impossible; I have devoted myself to celibacy. So I guessed they had captured my voice and after some processing forged a false speech and attributed to my porn alter ego. But I live like a hermit monk. After the narcissistic outbreaks, I realized the idiocy of those thoughts. I have no fortune, I live a gray life. Besides, no one blackmailed me nor made fun of me with that video. It was a very strange thing. So, to find the source of that production, I sought the help of a nephew of mine, a hacker. With no little effort we finally located the video in the Deep Web. And, to the extent that we went forward along the winding path raiding locks and encrypted codes, an underground world unfolded before our eyes with astonishing novelty. Businesses, conspiracies, crimes and unbreathable pornography were all nested in the depths of dynamically generated addresses. It took many days for us to uncover the site manager until one morning he responded to our demands for a talk. The chat was erratic and absurd. We assumed it was another smokescreen. The man exhibited as much perplexity as we did, or more. And, a great deal of anger. We didn’t understand it at first. A “cyber aberration” he called us. So we thought he was referring to us breaking down their security protocols. But he kept on insulting us. “Programming default,” he called us and we began to sense that something wasn’t right. Raw anguish assaulted me. Over and over the guy kept saying we were a failure; a failure in the program commands. He left the chat for a while and we, mesmerized, watched the blinking cursor. Next, we run some tests on another computer.  I felt I was going mad. We were, perhaps, nothing more than puppets of advanced design or a developer´s envisioned nightmare of an adult entertainment. He came back.  But it wasn't him; it was someone else who called himself “The Developer.” Suddenly, I was unable to continue reading. All I can remember is that he was about to reset the system.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2015

(*) This short story has been published in #148 of Revista miNatura, issue Deep Web.

Muchas gracias por visitar EL ECLIPSE DE GYLLENE DRAKEN. Si te parece, puedes dejar un comentario. Conocer tu opinión es muy importante para los que hacemos el blog. Si te ha gustado o crees que a alguien más le pudiera gustar, te pedimos por favor que lo compartas en las redes sociales. Gracias otra vez. Y esperamos que vuelvas.

VACANT CROWN

VACANT CROWN

The man who can, is king.

Thomas Carlyle

I am a wealthy man. I inherited my aunt´s fortune and since then I have devoted myself to philanthropy becoming the main beneficiary. I travel around the world intent on receiving the advent of the twentieth century wherever it finds me. No fancy hotels for me. I rather mingle with the locals, taste their foods and have my fill with their spirits and drugs while surrendering to the enjoyment of their women. As such I consider myself a humanist. In fact, this is how I met him. He bumped into me as he was sweeping the courtyard of a brothel. The man was barefoot, wore shorts and had a sunburned skin. I mistook him for a native and did not pay him much attention. But as I was about to attack a juicy beefsteak he showed up unexpectedly and scolded me on an unknown proscription regarding the eating and the drinking of blood. Although his accent was guttural, and at moments beyond comprehension it was obvious that he, at one time, had been a subject of the British Empire. To his horror, I chewed on my steak with pleasure taking his demeanor to be both weird and holy. And acting upon the prerogatives of my ancestry and a few rupees, I forced the Madam to allow me to have a chat with him. Pouring a double measure of liquor I asked him about the curious anathema he´d proclaimed. His reply was a delivery of inconsistent statements about the Preacher of the Law. I surmised it to be another fashionable religious folly. I was wrong. He then spoke of a shipwreck, an island, a doctor who was a mystic but also depraved, and who experimented with live animals. He also described a colony of monstrous beings, governed according to the Law issued by the doctor many worshipped as a living god. The man laughed at such foolishness. "Such divinity did not prevent the mutant cats from eating him in the end" he said, with irony and kept on drinking. Whimpering, he told me of his being rescued by a ship out of course as well as his rage for having to pretend mental sanity to avoid the madhouse. He fell asleep. And mumbling incoherently, he revealed a sort of homesickness for that innocent savagery. The wretched man never knew how much he had changed my life for after our encounter I left behind my life of dissipation, acquired a sailboat and charts. I am now determined to find the island of the beast-men. I want to fill in the vacant crown and give them a new morality, a new order. I will be their God.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2015

(*) This short story has been published in #147 of Revista Digital miNatura, dossier devoted to the Universe of H. G. Wells

Muchas gracias por visitar EL ECLIPSE DE GYLLENE DRAKEN. Si te parece, puedes dejar un comentario. Conocer tu opinión es muy importante para los que hacemos el blog. Si te ha gustado o crees que a alguien más le pudiera gustar, te pedimos por favor que lo compartas en las redes sociales. Gracias otra vez. Y esperamos que vuelvas.

OUR LAST MAN ON THE MOON

OUR LAST MAN ON THE MOON

But my soul— the soul I can produce— will survive the death of the Sun and the freezing of the Earth.

Stanislaw Lem – The star diaries

First, from 2030 to 2040, burst the mini ice age. And predictions were not enough to foresee the effects of solar activity at a half of its power. Next, the biologists announced the disappearance of the vertebrate species at a rate comparable to the extinction of the dinosaurs. The news was calamitous,however the fighting bands did not surrender to the War of Elements and everything went from bad to worse. And the predators arrived from outer space. They were beings that originated from somewhere in the galaxy where cold and immorality reign supreme while they scavenge decaying worlds. They attacked without warning and our drones were no match against the Flying Fortresses.  Soon, we were vanquished. And after a short and barbaric takeover, the mother ships arrived to swallow up the crowds. Rumors, full of optimism spoke of slavery in their frozen planet while other sources whispered the ominous words: vital fuel. And with more urgency than hope, an organized resistance was put into place. In the meantime, a suicide patrol reached one of the few active satellites’ orbit and managed to communicate with Moonraker Base. A neural network of defense, it was never fully operational; that is, another billionaire failure originally intended to prevent a new, nuclear conflagration. Except now we would use it to rescue us. Moonraker had always been in charge of Colonel Scarlett Venom, a privileged mind in Astrophysics and Strategy whose image was not uncommon in TV commercials until all contact was lost. Fifty years ago Venom successfully organized human life under the lunar surface. And for me to have been appointed as liaison by the Resistance was an enormous responsibility that did not diminish the pride I felt. I saw him, and he spoke to me. He does not look at all like the old postcards but that it is not important as I am certain everything is going to be alright. Damn you ugly gibbous things: the solar system belongs to us, Earthlings! We have deciphered the sequence of its fractal shields.  And I cannot wait any longer to activate the electromagnetic pulse and fry the albino invaders.  Colonel Venom will give the orders at the precise moment. Right now, he is just a living brain imprisoned in a machine but I will not say a word because restoration will only come from our last man on the moon.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2015

(*) This short story has been published in #145 of Revista digital miNatura, dossier devoted to the Moon

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A FATEFUL ACHIEVEMENT

A FATEFUL ACHIEVEMENT

"By the power of Solomon’s cabalistic words «Abracadabra Elohim» which only You and him have the knowledge of, I conjure Thee, Lucifer, Luzbel and Satan to show yourself at once! I demand it thus!"

I must haste, and you must forgive me and excuse my lack of urbanity. I already forebode the viscous creep, the greed, and foretaste of a brutal chase. His pestilent breath filled corridors and the flowers in the inner courtyard have suddenly withered. A different silence corrodes the Abbey. I grieve for the fate of my brotherhood monks much more than the ruin of our treacherous Abbot. But I do not want my grudge to distract me while unspeakable shadows take hold of my spirit. What I feel is not fear, it is something else, deeper, bygone. Darkness, pain, and sorrow are useless words. I should have burnt the book and thus prevent any of the misfortunes. But I see now the futility of such action. For a time after time, through the ages, it returns from where it hides, from the tombs and the monuments to seize the innocent decoders of the Occult, pious exorcists, and fierce necromancers. Woe of those who believe it is possible to control the ancient demons! Woe of those idealists who expect to subdue them by will! Woe betides us all! I have no time to recall how I learned the fluvii transitus, some sorcery´s forbidden alphabet but suffice it to say that for a copyist of my renown, there exist few things still unknown. Still, I recognize I labored at deciphering the spell. However, and as I was pronouncing the invocation, I understood my fateful achievement: an infamous thunder told me that abominable doors were opening like slobbering jaws to demand a sacrifice beyond blood. No need to see it. I am aware I have released a procession of unclean beasts preparing the advent of the One most perfect, most frightening. I do not fear death. I dread the notion of perpetual pain while hoping I will be brave. I do not deserve God's forgiveness. I am defeated by my appetite for revenge. Vanity is not a good counselor. Neither is anger for it is the grimmest of guides. At this time, I declare and for all posterity that this book is not the work of King Solomon for a wise man such as him, would never submit to the writing of such blasphemies. I hear now the claws piercing the refectory door. He is coming. Pray for me. No, better yet, pray for thy souls for He will go after you all.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2015



(*) This short story has been published in #144 of Revista digital miNature, dossier The Devil

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THE PAYE, AN ANCIENT INDIGENOUS SPELL

THE PAYE, AN ANCIENT INDIGENOUS SPELL

"Take notice all of you interested in

Love spells, of who is most powerful

To do a good payé”.

Caburé payé – Chamamé[1]

I come from Ita Ibaté, a small town on the left margin of the Parana River, in the Province of Corrientes. Across the river is the Republic of Paraguay. We have much in common with the Paraguayans. Mixed in our language are many Guarani idioms, traditions and beliefs. The power of spells is a very popular belief and one of the most deeply rooted. We call them a payé[2]. And they fit all purposes: to avoid danger, achieve happiness, prevent disease and sometimes, even cause them. Also, to get lucky either in gambling or love. All I need now is a little bit of luck in love. I fell in love with my Braulio. He was a good boy, a hard-working man, and homebound. He promised me true love, and I gave him my virtue. However, no luck came our way; in fact, it was the life that separated us. So I traveled to Ituzaingó, another town some sixty-odd kilometers away to the North. Everyone in the area knows that Doña Irupé is a very powerful kuna payé[3], a sorcerer whose spells never fail. She asked me to bring along a piece of garment that belonged to Braulio, and better yet if it was an intimate one. Her shack was an ugly dump; no one could avoid feeling scared. She smoked a strong cigar and did not even look at me as I arrived. She stretched a hand that was like a claw, and I gave her the agreed sum of money. She then left the room and right away came back with a toad, a kururu[4], in their ancient indigenous language. It was a male, she said. When she put out her hand once again, I gave her Braulio’s underwear. She used it to tie the toad. Next, she sewed its eyes together with a green silk thread. I could barely watch. She mumbled something, and I quickly realized I needed to undress and allow her to rub my private parts with the toad. It gave me the shivers, but I let her proceed. She rubbed my body five times while repeating: "Toad, by the power of Añá[5], Lucifer and Beelzebub. By the power of the whole satanic militia! I command you! That just as relentlessly as I do this on to this young woman´s vagina let Braulio have no rest or peace until he returns, body and soul into her arms.” She then dropped the toad in a pot with water and put on the lid. I did not dare ask her if she planned to boil it. I went back to my village. Now, deep in my heart, I know my man will come for me tonight; there is no barrier that can stop the power of this spell. I got off the bus near the cemetery. I did not have the courage to tell the old witch that my Braulio had been killed in a fight.

© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2015

This short story was published by #144 Revista digital miNatura, issue devoted to The Devil

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[1] A folk music genre from the Argentine Northeast. It is played with guitar and accordion.

[2] A strong spell in the Guaraní culture.

[3] Witch, sorcerer.

[4] Toad.

[5] The Devil in the Guarani cosmogony.

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A STRANGE CASE OF DELUSION IN LAGUNA EPECUEN

A STRANGE CASE OF DELUSION IN LAGUNA EPECUEN (*)

                                                         That is not dead which can eternal lie,
                                                                      And with strange aeons even death may die.

H. P. Lovecraft - The Nameless City

Thirty years ago, a wet, south-easterly wind brought down the embankment. The governor decided to evacuate the population and blow up the retaining wall. And, as a result, the lagoon devoured the small town of Epecuén. The wind’s fury did not even respect the cemetery; there were coffins floating in the streets. Then, as soon as the waters receded, and where the land was cracked and parched, and the trees stood like claws, emerged a ghost town. Hariberth Webber, MD arrived not long after and settled in the abandoned hospital. He spoke Spanish with difficulty. His very presence was scary but as he took care of the sick, no one paid much attention to the foreigner. I became his nurse; out of boredom. It was not uncommon for him to get drunk and boast about the nature of his experiments which, according to him, would astonish all of mankind. Other times, he cursed the fall of the Berlin Wall for postponing his scientific triumph. I noticed my condescension exasperated him.  One night, he dragged me into the last wing, the one that bordered the cemetery and where an unexpected horror overtook me. Inside a huge aquarium, I could see a horde of gelatinous, cylindrical beings flapping like flags. They were lampreys, he said. Their horrible sucker- mouths, riddled with serrated teeth, clung on to something that was not readily distinguishable. I got closer and saw them fixed on a corpse and feeding frantically off it. Herr Doktor explained that the salty lagoon had preserved these human bodies in unbelievable freshness. And while the lampreys took care of the meager rot, optimal conditions were being set for the administering of that green, phosphorescent liquid bubbling in a distiller. It was the formula to reanimate dead bodies and restore rational functions. I was there to witness the event, he added. He then pressed a button; the lampreys received a shock and dropped the corpse. Another touch of a button and a drainage system quickly emptied the infected tank. Next he filled a syringe and started injecting small doses of the green liquid. At the peak of this atrocity, the body began to move, slowly at first and then with violent contortions. The poor soul opened his eyes and raised a hand. I guessed I passed out. When I regained consciousness, there was nothing and no one around me; I was now in a madhouse, they said. Only, I did not care anymore.  

© Pablo Martinez Burkett, 2015

(*) This short story has been published in #142 of Revista Digital miNatura issued devoted to Weird Tales.

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