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Website: HP Lovecraft’s favorite words
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Category Archives: Fantasy
Lazy Teenage Superheroes (short film)
Website: Propnomicon
“Propnomicon focuses on horror and fantasy props of interest to fans of H. P. Lovecraft and players of the ‘Call of Cthulhu’ role playing game. That includes items directly inspired by Lovecraft’s writing, DIY information for creating your own works, printable paper props, and source materials related to the 1920′s and 30′s, the ‘classic era’ of the Cthulhu Mythos.”
http://propnomicon.blogspot.com/
Three Destinies, by Gerry Huntman
(Illustration by Romeo Esparrago)
My name is Scaramouche, and I was made by Cimiar, the greatest alchemist of all time.
Snick, snick. Bite sharp! Taste blood; drink deep.
I am no ordinary dagger, oh, no. Not even for an enchanted blade. I was crafted by the master, and he had one, specific task for me. My sole purpose is to kill one human — the Sultan of Kzar-Runuk.
I remember when I was born, over two-thousand years ago, in one of Cimiar’s tall-towered castles, perched atop a small mountain thousands of miles from the Kzar – it was surrounded by green fields at that time, but now it is enveloped by burning, dusty desert. My making took many nights of work, and over many months, for it is uncommon to have three specific of the six moons in alignment – Asanar, of the Spirit, to allow life to embrace the cold metal; Melura, of Fire, essential for powerful enchantments; and Olander, of Earth, the element that governs my existence.
Snick, snick. Seek the Sultan’s flesh! Churn it into gory pieces!
Cimiar, my father, found the purest of iron and transformed it into the highest-grade steel, by use of masterful craftsmanship as well as the most arcane and powerful enchantments. He invoked the gods and demigods of Earth, and captured the stark, dark attention of Zirvana, goddess of black magic. He delved deep into the building blocks of my metal and rendered me virtually indestructible, and sharp enough to cut granite as if it were cheese. While I was still white hot he dropped a few pieces of ice on me, and as they instantly evaporated, they instilled the icy malice into my heart that was needed for his task.
He wanted me to be single-minded, focused entirely on one vengeful mission.
Snick, snick. Consume the Kzar essence! Fulfill my bloody purpose!
Cimiar served his liege-lord, the God-Emperor Kul, and obeyed every one of His wishes. The Sultan of Kzar-Runuk had deeply insulted the Emperor and posed a threat to the stability of Kul’s northern sultanates. An object lesson was required for the civilized world. And consequently I was born.
Fate, however, had different plans for me.
The Film Maker and the Sceptre, by Robby Charters
Illustration (c) 2010 by Walter Simon
Sir Gossabel mounted his steed, then beheld his opponent from across the field. What was going through the mind of that wretch, he could only guess. And what did Princess Gertrude see in him? He didn’t want to think. This duel would settle the matter.
At the signal, the opponents goaded their horses, and they galloped towards each other, their swords drawn and ready.
Gossabel knew better than to glance at the spectators. That could be fatal. The hazy image at the extreme periphery of his vision still showed the curled blonde ringlets of the princess’s head next to the grey locks of King Redbert’s, surrounded by all the important people of the kingdom. No doubt she was tense — as she had been when Gossabel had taken the liberty of looking.
Her father looked solemn, though some of the lords took the whole affair in a light-hearted manner:
“Let’s see which of these two upstarts will be left standing!”
“I could have told you it would come to this!”
“Ten Ducets says Norbert’s blood will flow…”
“I say Gossabel’s…”
The peasants were also gambling what few Ducets they had, calling out their favourite champion. But those who cared which one lived and which one died, weren’t so jovial.
Gossabel now approached Sir Norbert. Their swords clashed…
* * *
So far so good, thought Mark. This new medium had a special feel to it. They had said this would render images in greater than 100 percent reality. Mark had wondered how that could be so, but now, as he was creating the cinema footage, he could feel it. Re-running it, he could even sense the flippant attitude of the lords who were being entertained by the potential fate of Sir Gossabel and Sir Norbert, the deadly vibrations of iron sword clanging against iron sword — he almost didn’t know, himself, who would be left alive at the end.
How could I not know? I am creating the story! Mark was the expert who had been commissioned to test this medium on a feature-length production.
Yet, why was he telling himself he might have to end up making Sir Norbert the hero of the story in place of Sir Gossabel? In his whole career of film-making, he’d never experienced that kind of thought.
‘The Easy River to Success’ by Mark Lord
Illustration (c) Romeo Esparrago
Before dinner that Tuesday, I sat back in my leather-bound chair and indulged in a few moments of feeling quietly safisfied. Recently I had even felt the beginnings of optimism. After years of cloud and storm, the sun had broken through and I could at last bask in the success that I deserved. After all, who else now stood between me and the ear of the King?
On Tuesdays I always dined with the Treasurer, Flacio Abs: friend, rival, and sometime co-conspirator. We commonly held our meetings informally after government work was over. Roast quail and plum wine topped with gossip were the usual agenda items. As a side order, we touched on issues related to our two departments – Flacio’s Treasury, and the Chancery that I ran, source of the King’s letters and proclamations of state.
The meal that day was adequate, the talk good, but not startling. I felt that Flacio was holding something back. As we ate our dessert and finished our second bottle of wine, I asked him if he had anything he wished to share with me.
Flacio grinned. “You know, Benetus,” he said, “I was wondering when you would ask. Now that our meal is over, the news is ripe for me to pluck.” Flacio stood up then, which surprised me as I was hoping he would now share his news.
“Where are you going; aren’t you going to tell me the news?” I was annoyed with his play-acting. He was a bean-counter, for Viest’s sake, not a paid entertainer.
Flacio nodded and smiled. “It might be best if I show you. A picture is worth a thousand words, they say.”
“Not a thousand of my words, Flacio.” Nevertheless I stood and followed him to the door. I was concerned by Flacio’s behaviour. He seemed to be enjoying the fact that he knew something I didn’t. If I was ignorant of something important, that could be a big problem. Life as a courtier could be very short, and I had lived as long as I had only by knowing absolutely everything of significance that happened within the walls of the palace.
The air was warm outside the tavern; the warm evenings of summer were just beginning. The gentle waters of the Gulf of Storms lapped at the harbour walls as we passed revellers in the sailors’ quarter. Walking north, I realised we were heading back to the Palace District.
“Something in your rooms you want to show me? Why couldn’t you have brought it to the tavern?” Flacio’s apartments were near his place of work, a stone’s throw from the administrative buildings of the Western Annex. This journey, however, took me farther from where I lived. I preferred a place in the city, hidden in the anonymity of the crowd.
“No, no, but you are right to think we are heading towards the palace.” After that I could not get another word from him on the subject.
We nodded to the guards as we entered the palace complex, fierce-looking Usure tribesmen from the north. We had both passed the same men a hundred times or more. Still they demanded to see the seals of office that proved our identities. But this was wise practice when enemies threaten from so many sides. Their discipline and loyalty to the King was a comfort to me.
We walked past more guards, knights of the King’s own familia, into the central atrium of the palace, through the exotic gardens designed personally by the King with help from a Nukushite natural scientist. This was the heart of the palace, where one might expect to pass princes of the realm, members of the royal family and even the King. From nearby, somewhere hidden by the foliage of the garden, came the soft rhythm of poetry being read. The fuzzy glow of dim lamps indicated a gathering on the far side of the atrium-garden. The smell of strong Abatian wine and rolled tirbic sticks met our nostrils. The gathering was of the King and his closest familiars. A group that on many occasions in the last year I had been proud to belong.
I brushed the sleeves of my silk coat and started towards the group, thinking of a witticism with which to greet my beloved king, but Flacio stopped me with a tug on my sleeve.
“No, wait. There is something here I wish to show you.” He ushered me towards some shrubs and low trees that screened the King’s gathering.
‘The Hero’s Wife’ by Michael Meyerhofer
Illustration (c) Romeo Esparrago
You don’t know me, but you know my husband.
Likely, you heard about him fighting Shogun’s Bane, that undead dragon with a penchant for carrying off gorgeous but rather disagreeable virgins way back during the Year of Black Snow.
Or else you read that epic poem detailing my husband’s battle against the four-armed Troll King. Or how my precious Therocles stole a magic flower from the den of a kraken to heal a dying child. Maybe you told that same story to your own children to frighten away the chill of long winter nights. For me, though, those stories bring no comfort.
He says he comes home as often as he can, but that’s still only once or twice a year. I guess a leaky cottage and an aging wife can’t compare to the courts of kings and the shy giggles of well-manicured princesses. I know he made a vow — so did I — but there are some vows even knights don’t honor.
Every visit, it’s the same thing. Therocles paces for a few days, hot-tempered as a demon-bat, then says he has to get going before the snow blocks the roads. By then, Dastian has had his nose bloodied and I have finger-shaped bruises on my thighs.
This year was no different.
* * *
“I cannot sit idle all winter, woman!” He reached for his boots. “Somewhere, brave souls are in need!” His square jaw and jet-black hair made him imposing as ever. I thought of how his looks used to thrill my blood. Where had that feeling gone?
“We could use you here,” I said. “The plow’s still broken and there’s a wyvern nesting in the chimney–”
He cut me off. “Dastian, bring my pauldrons!”
I winced at how he spoke our sweet son’s name. Dastian would have done anything to earn his father’s praise instead of his fist. “I’ll get them for you,” I volunteered.
“No! Dastian is practically a man. Sooner he learns which end of a lance is up, the better he’ll be in this world!”
I decided to change the subject. “My love, about that chimney…”
He snarled with exasperation. “I don’t have time to tussle with a wyvern — not with the snows coming! And I don’t have the coin to see it done, either!”
I wanted to argue with him, but I knew he was right — about coin, at least. Wyverns always nest deep, steely talons burrowed in stone. They love chimneys because of the darkness, the heat. Safest way is to hire a sorcerer to charm them out. But for all my husband’s exploits, we rarely had two coins to rub together. Therocles rarely accepted payment for his adventures, and then only what was absolutely necessary to care for his steel and his horse, plus a few macabre gifts for me and Dastian. A Dwarfish jewel hammer carved with skulls. Scrolls of Elfish poetry, reeking of perfume. A map drawn on Troll skin.
This visit, though, what he brought back was far less impressive.
'The Man in the Cowboy Hat' by Jude Coulter-Pultz
Illustration by Romeo Esparrago
It’s the same every night. The same nightmare every night for weeks. It never changes, and that makes it all the worse.
In the nightmare, I’m only six years old. Even though I know I’m really sixteen, it doesn’t matter. You can only run so fast when you’ve got the legs of a kindergartner. In the end, I’m going to get chopped up by the man in the cowboy hat, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
It starts in the old Halloway house — the perfect setting for a game of hide and seek. It must have been built at least two hundred years ago, back when nooks and crannies were all the rage. I’ve been Nick Halloway’s friend for years, so I know all the best places. No one apart from Nick himself ever found my hiding spot behind the laundry machine in the basement. You have to crawl on all fours through the spiders and their spiderwebs, and lord knows what else just to reach it. Then you have to sit there in that dark, square hole, with your arms, legs, head, and butt all scrunched up against the damp pipes and the dusty floor.
I hear footsteps. Even the first time I had this dream, I knew what the footsteps meant. One by one, down the stairs. Each footfall seems to be carefully filled with the greatest possible amount of malice. I consider running over to the door to lock it, but it’s too late. It’s always too late. The rusty hinges let out a low creak as the man in the cowboy hat steps into the room. I can’t see him, but I know he’s there. I can hear the jingle-jangle of his spurs now, coming closer and closer. Ching. Ching. Ching. My only hope is that I can hold my breath until the man in the cowboy hat decides to walk away. The footsteps pause. He must be almost on top of the laundry machine by now. Time passes reluctantly, as if being squeezed from the air. Gradually, an itch grows at the back of my throat. It feels like one of the spiders has somehow crept into my mouth and has started spinning a web down inside my trachea. The waiting is unbearable.
At last the man in the cowboy hat turns and leaves, jingling and jangling and full of menace. Still I wait, fighting the maddening urge to clear my throat, until the footsteps disappear completely up the stairs. I emerge from behind the laundry machine like a drowning sailor, a coughing, gasping, sputtering mess. As I try to muffle the coughs with my hand, I spot a spider scurrying away over my fingers. It’s the same thing every night. I flick it away and wipe the strands of silk from my lip. Every night for weeks.
But this time, something happens to make me freeze. Standing in the middle of the darkened room is Nick Halloway, as if he had been waiting for me all along. This isn’t right. He’s not supposed to be here. Not now. My stomach suddenly turns heavy and cold. I thought knowing what was going to happen was what made this dream so awful. Now that it seems to be changing, I’m filled all the more with dread.
“Derek? Derek Young?” The voice that comes out of his mouth is not his. It’s older and it doesn’t belong at all.
My head starts to spin, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. I call out his name. Maybe if he hears his name, he’ll snap out of it and turn back into my best friend.
“Nick? Who–?” He looks down at himself and then smiles ruefully. “Oh, right– sorry. I forgot about that. Hold on.”
Nick takes a slow breath, closing his eyes and his lips tightly. Then, before my eyes, his body begins to inflate like a long balloon. Features come anew to his face and his body, defining a tall, pale man in a trenchcoat. His hair is an untamed mess that looks like it’s been slept on in all the wrong ways. As a finishing touch, a pair of fashionable shades appear atop his slender nose, although he immediately removes them. Underneath, he has the red-rimmed eyes of a profound insomniac.
“Gato, Nightmare Hunter, at your disposal,” he announces, with a slight bow.
"The Scroll of the 7 Roses" by David Kerschner
Illustration: “Dover Cat” © 2007 by Robert Sorensen
It exploded off of the ceiling and went crashing down with a resounding bang that echoed around the chambers and shook the woodlands outside, jarring the blue jays from their midday rest.
The tower shook in response, the earth grumbled in protest. A lithe feline made her way up the stairs, the yellow dress she wore glided gently over the cracked sandstone steps.
“Arthos, what’s all this noise?” She shook her head and made a gentle clicking sound with her teeth as she tapped a sharpened claw against them.
“S-sorry Deliasssh.” He bowed his head in shame, “I was just practicing.”
“You should do this sort of stuff in the basement, where it’s quieter. You’ve gone and woke the dead.” She turned her back and studied the bookshelf in front of her.
He pulled his red robes tightly around his body, “Yes, milady.”
The silence was deafening. Delias selected a cracked leather book, pulled it from the shelf and brushed her paw lightly against it. She blew hard on the cover.
Dust danced in the streams of light that filtered in from the ceiling.
Delias shook her head sadly; a single strand of silver hair pushed its way out off her cowl, and she reflexively swatted at it, pushing the troublesome hair back into place. “We simply cannot have these kinds of experiments going on in the tower. At least, not without the permission from and knowledge of the rest of the council.” She squinted at the title on the book and smiled to herself as she made her way to one of the recliners in the far corner.
“I will seek the permission, milady.” Arthos bowed low, excusing himself, as he hobbled down the steps descending into the blackened heart of the tower of elders, leaving Delias to her studies.
She was the head of the governing Council of the Seven Roses, entrusted with the supervision of all magical activity within the realm.
The golden rays of sunlight faded into twilight’s purple hues; the room grew dark.
“E’glan.” Her soft voice accented the phrase as the room grew brighter, as if lit by dozens of invisible candles.
She opened her book and soon became lost in her studies, oblivious to the sound of the approaching hooves.
"Thomas the Rhymer" by Resha Caner
[Illustration: “Fairyworld” © 2006 by D'Wayne Murphy.]
Bobby Burns is gone, and with him the fair tongue he spoke. I pray, therefore, the ancient Celts to forgive me as I interpret the Gaelic tongue in order to bring appreciation of it to a newer time. As a babe, my ears heard the words:
Ye maun ken of Thomas Rymour, of Ercildoun,
In Lauderdale. He had nae will to the wark
But was a gudsire wi’ pipes and song.
Those words remain behind, but I shall bring you the story.
Thomas the Rhymer, Lord Earlston, gave birth to prose before the likes of Chaucer had even worn a Christening cap. Thomas took much pride in his silver tongue, by which he oft wooed the fair maidens, but by which he mainly escaped the sweat of the plow.
It was a fine day when Thomas chose to lay on Huntly bank at the foot of the Eildon Hills. His mind wove a magical verse for use with the evening’s ale, but the thread was spoiled when down the bank rode a lady of great beauty. Thomas knew her for a queen. Her steed strode with majestic pride, carrying its burden gladly. Thirty silver bells and nine hanging from the mane played the magical songs of the wind. The lady’s saddle was of royal bone laid over in gold. Her attire gave homage to her beauty, not daring to shine greater. Yet, strangely, she had a bow in her hand and arrows in her belt – a huntress. Only a faerie queen could muster such strength yet remain so fair.
The faerie queen deigned to pass Thomas by, intent upon the trail her hounds followed. Thomas could not allow such a sight to escape him.
“My lady,” he called, rising from the bank.
Within moments the hounds surrounded him, guarding their lady from harm. She spurred the great steed towards the intruder of her hunt, and brought a dirk to bear on his throat.