Wednesday, January 27, 2016

An Interest Group Horror

Rarely do I attempt to write fiction, and for good reason, as you will soon see.  But recently I was inspired while lingering at a popular social media site, one famously oriented towards professionals seeking to network with colleagues and prospective employers in their field.  I realize now that I don’t belong there.

For over a year I waited to be admitted to the Lovecraft interest group at this site—a moderated group to which I had to apply for membership.  Presumably the group had specific criteria to use in deciding the matter of my admission request.  To paraphrase Marx—Groucho, not Karldid I really want to belong to a group that would accept people like me as a member? It was a long wait.  Finally, at the end of December, I was notified of my acceptance.

I promptly posted a greeting…and began waiting again.  Weeks went by, and to my dismay, it appeared that I was the only one still alive in the Lovecraft Interest Group.  Eventually a few souls replied to my post, but they all abruptly departed, perhaps not long after I “stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass.

Bored, and all alone, I began composing a series of short posts to amuse myself.  Lovecraft enthusiasts will quickly identify the classic story I am shamelessly imitating…


Start a conversation with your group…

Greetings All!                                                                              3w
Not much to say this evening except thank you for having me join your group.  I look forward to discussions about Lovecraft and his colleagues, and wish you all a happy and productive New Year.

Opens door, fumbles for light switch…                                    3w
“Hello?  Anyone home?  Hello?”

J.U. I forgot I even belonged to this group.  It seems to be have been lost in eons of Lovecraft time.

B.T. I’m here—lately, too.  Had some poetry [publisher] and fiction [publisher] out last year, and am looking forward to seeing what crawls down from the cosmos in 2016!  Anyone else have Lovecraftian works published last year? Or something up and coming?

O.S.C. No one but us rats.

B.N.D. Iä iä Cthulhu fhtagn!

Sean Eaton Hi folks. I am a mere blogger at the moment, but have some ideas for a nonfiction book I'd like to work on over the New Year. It took quite a while before my request to join was processed, (many months) and when I got here, it didn't look like there had been much activity in 2015. So it's great to see signs of life. Then again, "That is not dead which can eternal lie..."

[Cyber silence for several days…cyber cricket sounds.]
Sean Eaton I'm involved with some Lovecraftian sites elsewhere, (Google+, FB) which seem mostly fan oriented, with a few scholarly contributors here and there. Is this group similar in content, or are other purposes served? I am impressed with the continuing level of enthusiasm for this author and his ideas--nearly a century after his death.

[Silence continues.]
Alone in the dark again, power still out, storm still raging outside…  
“Hey! Where’d everyone go?”  He remembered that someone had yelledIä iä Cthulhu fhtagn!’, sending his companions fleeing into the rain and darkness outside.  He aims his pen light at a nearby shelf of books. Von Juntzt's Unaussprechlichen Kulten. Prinn's De Vermis Mysteriis. What was going on in this house? What happened to the 230 members who used to meet here?

Up above—what was that? A mouse?Bottom of Form
Hears the sound again, louder this time, inbetween claps of thunder…
It's coming from overhead, a slow, shuffling, dragging noise. A couple of loud thumps, the clank of something metallic. Sure as hell no mouse. Feels a drop of moisture on his face--too slippery to be water. "What the--"
                                                                                                                          Just now
Can’t believe this, can’t—hears the squeal of a door opening upstairs…
He shines the pen light on his finger. Sure enough: big dabs and smears of red. Holy shit! He hears the first footfall on the steps overhead, the creak of the old wood. He bolts for the front door.  Just before he gets there, lightning flashes on the bookshelf. He jerks around for just a second, plucks out the decrepit copy of De Vermis Mysteriis, tucks it under his shoulder and!

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