ONE winter's evening the sexton's wife was sitting by the fireside with her big black cat, Old Tom, on the other side, both half asleep and waiting for the master to come home. They waited and they waited, but still he didn't come, till at last he came rushing in, calling out, 'Who's Tommy Tildrum?' in such a wild way that both his wife and his cat stared at him to know what was the matter.
'Why, what's the matter?' said his wife, 'and why do you want to know who Tommy Tildrum is?'
'Oh, I've had such an adventure. I was digging away at old Mr Fordyce's grave when I suppose I must have dropped asleep, and only woke up by hearing a cat's Miaou.'
'Miaou!' said Old Tom in answer.
'Yes, just like that! So I looked over the edge of the grave, and what do you think I saw?'
'Now, how can I tell?' said the sexton's wife.
'Why, nine black cats all like our friend Tom here, all with a white spot on their chestesses. And what do you think they were carrying? Why, a small coffin covered with a black velvet pall, and on the pall was a small coronet all of gold, and at every third step they took they cried all together, Miaou -- '
'Miaou!' said Old Tom again.
'Yes, just like that!' said the sexton; 'and as they came nearer and nearer to me I could see them more distinctly; because their eyes shone out with a sort of green light. Well, they all came towards me, eight of them carrying the coffin, and the biggest cat of all walking in front for all the world like -- but look at our Tom, how he's looking at me. You'd think he knew all I was saying.'
'Go on, go on,' said his wife; 'never mind Old Tom.'
'Well, as I was a-saying, they came towards me slowly and solemnly, and at every third step crying all together, Miaou --'
'Miaou!' said Old Tom again.
'Yes, just like that, till they came and stood right opposite Mr Fordyce's grave, where I was, when they all stood still and looked straight at me. I did feel queer, that I did! But look at Old Tom; he's looking at me just like they did.'
'Go on, go on,' said his wife; 'never mind Old Tom.'
'Where was I? Oh, they stood still looking at me, when the one that wasn't carrying the coffin came forward and, staring straight at me, said to me -- yes, I tell 'ee, said to me, with a squeaky voice, "Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toidrum's dead," and that's why I asked you if you knew who Tom Tildrum was, for how can I tell Tom Tildrum Tim Toldrum's dead if I don't know who Tom Tildrum is?'
'Look at Old Tom, look at Old Tom!' screamed his wife.
And well he might look, for Tom was swelling and Tom was staring, and at last Tom shrieked out, 'What -- old Tom dead! then I'm the King o' the Cats!' and rushed up the chimney and was nevermore seen.
I guess Mr. Howard was, well, a white man in the early 20th century ie. a racist, but at one point Conan is briefly described as "brown-skinned" so my mind kind of went from there. I guess Howard meant he had a tan?
And like less....body builder-y, slightly leaner than all these illustrations I'm seeing of muscly Nordic men.
Conan reboot starring Terry Crews. Make it happen, Hollywood.
Guildenstern & Rosencrantz Are Dead is a play by Tom Stoppard that is about Hamlet by William Shakespeare.
And now, for your consideration, "We Haven't Got There Yet" is a short story by Harry Turtledove about Guildenstern & Rosencrantz, the play by Tom Stoppard which is about Hamlet by William Shakespeare.
Short side story about one of the main characters in Yoon Ha Lee's Ninefox Gambit. It's fun, but I think I mostly liked it because I already knew the character. It may not stand up as well without context.
“You cannot save Sodom.” “I know I can’t: what could I possibly do? But I will try, although what, I don’t yet know; I only know that I must persist. Because all my life I judged them more harshly than anyone else, because I have borne with them the heaviest burden: their faults. Lord, I don’t know how to tell You what they are to me; I can only show it by staying with them.” “Your people,” said the angel, “are those who are righteous and believe in the same God as you; the sinful, the godless, and the idolatrous are not your people.” “How could they not be, when they are the people of Sodom? You don’t understand, because you don’t know the voice of flesh and clay. What is Sodom, then? You say it is a city of wickedness. But when the people of Sodom fight, they do not fight for their wickedness, but for something better, something that was or will be; and even the worst of them may lay down his life for the sake of the others. Sodom means all of us, and if I have any merit in the eyes of the Lord let Him give the credit to Sodom, not to me. What more can I say? Tell the Lord: Lot, Thy servant, will stand before the men of Sodom and defend them against Thee, as if Thou wert his enemy.”
He isn't blind to his peoples' flaws. He acknowledges them, but refuses to reduce them to it. Because he sees and knows that they're more than that. Because he believes that they'd die for him, so he's willing to die for them. He hopes against all evidence - against power itself - that there's good in people, and he would risk his life for that hope.
And I see the sentiment every day, in so many people. So many people want to defend others at the cost of their own lives. And that knots me up, because I've lived my life so far on the exact opposite premise.
The one who deserves to survives is the one who has the will to make it happen. He wished for death. He ignored his will to survive and chose to die for a false hope.
I don't exist for the service of others, or obeisance to some higher virtue. I just...kind of exist for myself.
it's brutally violent, about a person in a sort of religious sanitarium?
I would tell you more, but... I honestly can't say any more. There aren't words to convey how weird and otherworldly it was. I feel as though I have somehow glimpsed a higher level of being.
picked up a proper compilation of some of his short stories
brain dump:
his writing is weird
because it very clearly falls into the realm.of "cosmic horror", but most of his stories usually have no supernatural elements, or if they do there's deliberately no explanation as to what they are, or what their point is, or any sort of emotional reason or through-line for what occurs.
also it's nasty
the perspective always falls somewhere between "decidedly detached" and "obfuscatory", but then it kinda likes to lean in through the fog of "what on earth is happening exactly" and whisper sensuously in your ear "hey you, you're MEAT. YOU AND YOUR MIND IS MEAT THAT CAN BREAK."
that's kind of the running theme, it's sort of "experience horror" I guess. turns out sustaining a traumatic brain injury on the job or having a nerve in your ear severed, or being locked in solitary and hearing (and smelling!) someone else be tortured on your behalf is more sanity warping than any number of tentacles.
though there are other variations on it, exploring the relationship between thoughts and control through a man trying to escape an abusive relationship, or the untamed, innocent sadism of children.
Yeah, I got that vibe from "The Brotherhood of Mutilation". There's a lot going on with the ways in which the body can go wrong and how people can become trapped in cycles of frightening self-justification, and there are hints at something out of whack to a supernatural degree but it's never confirmed and not necessary. It's like he takes the aesthetics and underpinnings of noir stories in that one, and then pushes them so hard they turn into this cosmic absurdist thing, where the world is a nightmarish travesty and there is no escape from the flesh and its myriad degradations but death.
it's about... a woman who cannot sleep, because she has carpal tunnel, which she used to assuage by resting her hands on her husband's arm, but then he gets part of his arm amputated and so she can't sleep.
Short stories folks: I would like to very, very highly recommend The Weird Compendium, and anthology put together by Jeff and Ann VanderMeer. It has some EXCELLENT horror/surreal/weird stories in - quite a few which we've actually link here and in other HH short story threads including:
Sredni Vashtar by Saki
Saving the Gleeful Horse by KJ Bishop
The Specialist's Hat by Kelly Link
Axolotl by Julio Cortazar
Bloodchild by Octavia Butler
and a BUNCH of other excellent ones. This is a very, very good anthology.
I can't recall... do you use an e-reader? I kinda want to say no, but if you do let me know and I can send ya an epub if it's not. It's kinda tough to get a hold of a physical copy.
Short stories folks: I would like to very, very highly recommend The Weird Compendium, and anthology put together by Jeff and Ann VanderMeer. It has some EXCELLENT horror/surreal/weird stories in - quite a few which we've actually link here and in other HH short story threads including:
Sredni Vashtar by Saki
Saving the Gleeful Horse by KJ Bishop
The Specialist's Hat by Kelly Link
Axolotl by Julio Cortazar
Bloodchild by Octavia Butler
and a BUNCH of other excellent ones. This is a very, very good anthology.
I can't recall... do you use an e-reader? I kinda want to say no, but if you do let me know and I can send ya an epub if it's not. It's kinda tough to get a hold of a physical copy.
Short stories folks: I would like to very, very highly recommend The Weird Compendium, and anthology put together by Jeff and Ann VanderMeer. It has some EXCELLENT horror/surreal/weird stories in - quite a few which we've actually link here and in other HH short story threads including:
Sredni Vashtar by Saki
Saving the Gleeful Horse by KJ Bishop
The Specialist's Hat by Kelly Link
Axolotl by Julio Cortazar
Bloodchild by Octavia Butler
and a BUNCH of other excellent ones. This is a very, very good anthology.
I have read this and it is indeed excellent
Same! Hagiwara Sakutarou’s “The Town of Cats” (a true rarity), Steve Duffy’s “In the Lion’s Den”, Robert Aickman’s “The Hospice”, Brian Evenson’s “The Brotherhood of Mutilation” and Leena Krohn’s Tainaron: Mail from Another City are all, as well, highly recommended. Additionally, Michel Bernanos’ The Other Side of the Mountain is one of the most fucked things I have ever read and both William Sansom stories and the one Leonora Carrington are essential “lost classics.”
Comments
ONE winter's evening the sexton's wife was sitting by the fireside with her big black cat, Old Tom, on the other side, both half asleep and waiting for the master to come home. They waited and they waited, but still he didn't come, till at last he came rushing in, calling out, 'Who's Tommy Tildrum?' in such a wild way that both his wife and his cat stared at him to know what was the matter.
'Why, what's the matter?' said his wife, 'and why do you want to know who Tommy Tildrum is?'
'Oh, I've had such an adventure. I was digging away at old Mr Fordyce's grave when I suppose I must have dropped asleep, and only woke up by hearing a cat's Miaou.'
'Miaou!' said Old Tom in answer.
'Yes, just like that! So I looked over the edge of the grave, and what do you think I saw?'
'Now, how can I tell?' said the sexton's wife.
'Why, nine black cats all like our friend Tom here, all with a white spot on their chestesses. And what do you think they were carrying? Why, a small coffin covered with a black velvet pall, and on the pall was a small coronet all of gold, and at every third step they took they cried all together, Miaou -- '
'Miaou!' said Old Tom again.
'Yes, just like that!' said the sexton; 'and as they came nearer and nearer to me I could see them more distinctly; because their eyes shone out with a sort of green light. Well, they all came towards me, eight of them carrying the coffin, and the biggest cat of all walking in front for all the world like -- but look at our Tom, how he's looking at me. You'd think he knew all I was saying.'
'Go on, go on,' said his wife; 'never mind Old Tom.'
'Well, as I was a-saying, they came towards me slowly and solemnly, and at every third step crying all together, Miaou --'
'Miaou!' said Old Tom again.
'Yes, just like that, till they came and stood right opposite Mr Fordyce's grave, where I was, when they all stood still and looked straight at me. I did feel queer, that I did! But look at Old Tom; he's looking at me just like they did.'
'Go on, go on,' said his wife; 'never mind Old Tom.'
'Where was I? Oh, they stood still looking at me, when the one that wasn't carrying the coffin came forward and, staring straight at me, said to me -- yes, I tell 'ee, said to me, with a squeaky voice, "Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toidrum's dead," and that's why I asked you if you knew who Tom Tildrum was, for how can I tell Tom Tildrum Tim Toldrum's dead if I don't know who Tom Tildrum is?'
'Look at Old Tom, look at Old Tom!' screamed his wife.
And well he might look, for Tom was swelling and Tom was staring, and at last Tom shrieked out, 'What -- old Tom dead! then I'm the King o' the Cats!' and rushed up the chimney and was nevermore seen.
Conan reboot starring Terry Crews. Make it happen, Hollywood.
Carol Emshwiller
☭
B̤̺͍̰͕̺̠̕u҉̖͙̝̮͕̲ͅm̟̼̦̠̹̙p͡s̹͖ ̻T́h̗̫͈̙̩r̮e̴̩̺̖̠̭̜ͅa̛̪̟͍̣͎͖̺d͉̦͠s͕̞͚̲͍ ̲̬̹̤Y̻̤̱o̭͠u̥͉̥̜͡ ̴̥̪D̳̲̳̤o̴͙̘͓̤̟̗͇n̰̗̞̼̳͙͖͢'҉͖t̳͓̣͍̗̰ ͉W̝̳͓̼͜a̗͉̳͖̘̮n͕ͅt͚̟͚ ̸̺T̜̖̖̺͎̱ͅo̭̪̰̼̥̜ ̼͍̟̝R̝̹̮̭ͅͅe̡̗͇a͍̘̤͉͘d̼̜ 
⚢
dear God. I just...was thinking about this story - Pseudo-Lot - for the longest time.
He isn't blind to his peoples' flaws. He acknowledges them, but refuses to reduce them to it. Because he sees and knows that they're more than that. Because he believes that they'd die for him, so he's willing to die for them. He hopes against all evidence - against power itself - that there's good in people, and he would risk his life for that hope.
I don't exist for the service of others, or obeisance to some higher virtue. I just...kind of exist for myself.
I wonder who's the lesser for it.
I don't know what that was
but I want more
it's brutally violent, about a person in a sort of religious sanitarium?
I would tell you more, but... I honestly can't say any more. There aren't words to convey how weird and otherworldly it was. I feel as though I have somehow glimpsed a higher level of being.
I must find more.
Also a novelization of Lords of Salem, which is a movie you might actually like, Sredni
I mainly know him for stuff like "The Brotherhood of Mutilation".
brain dump:
his writing is weird
because it very clearly falls into the realm.of "cosmic horror", but most of his stories usually have no supernatural elements, or if they do there's deliberately no explanation as to what they are, or what their point is, or any sort of emotional reason or through-line for what occurs.
also it's nasty
the perspective always falls somewhere between "decidedly detached" and "obfuscatory", but then it kinda likes to lean in through the fog of "what on earth is happening exactly" and whisper sensuously in your ear "hey you, you're MEAT. YOU AND YOUR MIND IS MEAT THAT CAN BREAK."
that's kind of the running theme, it's sort of "experience horror" I guess. turns out sustaining a traumatic brain injury on the job or having a nerve in your ear severed, or being locked in solitary and hearing (and smelling!) someone else be tortured on your behalf is more sanity warping than any number of tentacles.
though there are other variations on it, exploring the relationship between thoughts and control through a man trying to escape an abusive relationship, or the untamed, innocent sadism of children.
It's not for the weak of stomach.
☭
B̤̺͍̰͕̺̠̕u҉̖͙̝̮͕̲ͅm̟̼̦̠̹̙p͡s̹͖ ̻T́h̗̫͈̙̩r̮e̴̩̺̖̠̭̜ͅa̛̪̟͍̣͎͖̺d͉̦͠s͕̞͚̲͍ ̲̬̹̤Y̻̤̱o̭͠u̥͉̥̜͡ ̴̥̪D̳̲̳̤o̴͙̘͓̤̟̗͇n̰̗̞̼̳͙͖͢'҉͖t̳͓̣͍̗̰ ͉W̝̳͓̼͜a̗͉̳͖̘̮n͕ͅt͚̟͚ ̸̺T̜̖̖̺͎̱ͅo̭̪̰̼̥̜ ̼͍̟̝R̝̹̮̭ͅͅe̡̗͇a͍̘̤͉͘d̼̜ 
⚢
it's about... a woman who cannot sleep, because she has carpal tunnel, which she used to assuage by resting her hands on her husband's arm, but then he gets part of his arm amputated and so she can't sleep.
weird
also, less horrific than his usual fare
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead