Friday, July 24, 2026

Dark Dreams and Darker Visions 2nd Edition EBook Released


Some nightmares don't end when you wake.

A serial killer stalks other serial killers. A lonely woodland pond hungers for the unwary. A monstrous pig refuses to die. Ancient white pines whisper forgotten secrets, while haunted carnivals, cursed beauty, and quiet country roads conceal horrors just beyond the edge of the familiar.

In this newly revised second edition of Dark Dreams and Darker Visions, Alan Loewen presents twelve tales of dark fantasy and supernatural suspense—including two stories published here for the very first time. Carefully revised and expanded, these stories favor creeping dread, unforgettable atmosphere, and unsettling ideas over cheap shocks.

Enter if you dare. Just don't expect to sleep well afterward.

Except for the cover art, no AI was used in the authoring of this collection.

You can purchase the eBook here for 99¢ or in your own country's Amazon.

Thursday, July 16, 2026

The Dream-Quest of Mykel-Paul Hinojos

For Inktober, Tuesday, October 27, 2020. Prompt word: “crawl.” Tuckerization: Mykel-Paul Hinojos

I started this Inktober experiment way back on October 1st, 2020, and this was to be the final entry for Saturday, October 31, 2020. That means it took me over 5 years and 8 months to finish what was to be a month-long project. Click on the link above to see all 31 entries.

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant’s name. Other than that, no other similar characteristics are implied.

Please note that in the opening paragraphs I have borrowed heavily from H. P. Lovecraft's The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath. The rest is from my own imaginings. 

EXCEPT FOR THE ILLUSTRATION, NO AI WAS USED IN THE WRITING OF THIS STORY 

 
The Dream-Quest of Mykel-Paul Hinojos
(with apologies to H. P. Lovecraft)
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED



Mykel-Paul Hinojos dreamed three times of a city seen from afar where animals did not crawl on four legs, but walked in the manner of humanity.

And three times, he was snatched away before he could walk the streets of this fabled metropolis. Still, he could only look with longing at the creatures who walked among the temples, colonnades, and arched bridges of veined marble, silver-basined fountains of prismatic spray in broad squares and perfumed gardens, and wide streets marching between delicate trees and blossom-laden urns and ivory statues in gleaming rows; while on steep northward slopes climbed tiers of red roofs and old peaked gables harboring little lanes of grassy cobbles.

Determined to find this paradise, in light slumber Mykel descended the seventy steps to the cavern of flame and talked of his design to the bearded dream guardians, Raimundo and Bartolomé-Cambranes. Mykel was warned that finding his fabled city might be impossible, but, being old in the land of dreams, he counted on many useful memories and devices to aid him. So, asking for a farewell blessing from the gatekeepers and thinking shrewdly about his course, Mykel boldly descended the seven hundred steps to the Gate of Deeper Slumber, only to find himself suddenly in an ancient wood.

Avoiding the pits and perils as the guardians had instructed him, Mykel searched for one of the special trees that grew wild in the wood. He was to gather four or five of the purple oblate nuts and carry them with him for later use. Eventually the wanderer came into a region of gently rolling hills and meadows with copses of trees unlike any in the waking world. Birds of rainbow hues busied themselves in the branches or reeds until, from afar, he saw the quaint hamlet of Nir, on the river Skai.

The guardians had instructed Mykel to look for an old shop on a cobblestone street. Its front windows would display various dolls for sale, and he had been told not to look too closely at their eyes lest his sleep be disturbed. He was told to enter the store and speak to the proprietress, but not to drink any tea he was offered lest he spend the rest of eternity staring out at the world through a storefront window.

The wizened old woman who greeted him behind the dusty old counter smiled at him with a toothless grin and asked what he wanted. Turning down the proffered tea as he had been warned, Mykel spoke of his desire to find the ancient dream city where animals walked as men.

The old woman scoffed until Mykel brought out one of the nuts he had plucked from the ancient wood.

She stared at the seed, her eyes growing huge, and she convulsively reached out for the prize, but Mykel snatched it away.

It was eventually agreed that the old woman would share what she knew, but only in exchange for more of the nuts she coveted. Mykel took out a second one and laid it on the counter.

She smiled. "To the north there is a town. She lives in Mnarstead, a gray-stoned village near the Mnarian wastes. She will likely know of what you speak."

"And how will I find her in this village?"

The old woman remained silent, a sly smile on her face.

Mykel took out a third nut and laid it on the counter. A clawed hand snatched away the proffered nut as fast as a serpent's strike.

"Magic, my young friend. Magic."

"And this magic?"

"It will cost you."

"I have one more nut. Give me this magic, or I will leave." He took the shiny seed and held it before her eyes.

With a sneer, she reached under the counter and brought out a small glass in a tiny wooden frame. "This is the Glass of True Sight. You will recognize her immediately."

The transaction was completed, and Mykel moved the tiny spectacle to his right eye.

"Not in here!" the woman hissed. "Our business is done. Leave!"

Mykel turned to leave, but, curious, he turned back at the door to impulsively look at the woman through the glass.

With a sudden scream of terror, he turned and, flinging the door open, he fled from the thing that howled at him from behind the counter.

+ + +

The next day, Mykel discovered a caravan traveling to Mnarstead. Having hired himself out as a sellsword, Mykel took his position riding next to the driver of the lead wagon. Fortunately, the four-day trip was uneventful, though tiring, and he arrived at his destination tired and disheveled, though with a heavier purse than when he first started his journey.

Finding lodging at the town's only inn, he found respite in the town's public baths.

The next day, feeling refreshed and much cleaner, he began his search in the marketplace. Discreetly, he would peer at the customers and vendors in the small market, but his glass revealed nothing special. Neither did the next day ... or the next.

Concerned about his money purse growing lighter every day, he turned his magical glass on a middle-aged woman on his fourth day in the market. In his shock, he almost dropped his precious glass.

Though clothed in a woman's dress and tunic, fur covered the fox's arms, neck, and head, fur as white as snow, and she walked on two legs. Carefully, Mykel followed her through the marketplace, keeping just enough distance as not to lose her. Eventually, she walked away from the street, and he followed her through darker avenues and alleys.

Eventually, in a street where the buildings were so crowded together they shadowed the cobblestones underneath, he saw her enter a storefront. After many minutes had passed and she did not reappear, he approached the door.

It was a bookstore.

Cautiously, he opened the door. Inside, he was surprised to find the woman had cast off her illusion and sat behind a counter, surrounded by books piled higher than her. In one five-fingered paw, she held a small tome, and in another, a steaming cup of fragrant tea. The fragrance mingled with the aroma of the universal bouquet of old bookshops. The fox lady looked up.

"You are late," she said.

"Late?" Mykel stammered.

"We wondered whether you would come."

"You know me?"

"Of course. We know all dreamers, and we know why you are here."

She casually took a sip of her tea, slowly closed her book, placed it aside, and shrugged. "It is because of who we are. Every century, one human is allowed to quest for Hlanath Vale; one who hungers for dreams more enchanting and more wondrous than what the Dreamlands usually have to offer." The fox lady smiled. She nodded toward the back of the store, swallowed in darkness. "There is a door at the back of my shop. It enters the land of your ultimate dream."

Mykel licked his lips. "And all I have to do is walk through that door?"

The fox lady nodded. "Yes, but ... well, there is a cost."

Mykel froze. "And that is ..."

The fox lady took a sip of her tea, looking at him over the rim of her cup. "If you walk through that door, you can never return. Never. Your dreaming body will never awaken. It will eventually weaken and die.

"But you will attain your magical city."

Tears came unbidden to Mykel's eyes. "How can fate be so cruel? To be so close to my dreams, my ultimate goal."

The fox lady put her cup down, a look of evident surprise on her face. "So you reject my offer? Explain."

There was a long pause. "I ... I must," was the choked response. "There ... there are people waiting for me. People who depend on me. I ... cannot abandon them."

There was a long silence as the fox stared at him. "Every century, a dreamer comes through my door, and I make the same offer. It has never been rejected."

"I must. I ... do not live for myself."

The fox lady paused in thought. "I can offer you no other choice, but know that I am astonished. I will tell you this. You may still see the city of your dreams from afar, so I make this offer."

She put down her cup and walked toward him from behind the counter. "I am a poor substitute for Hlanath Vale, but you are free to visit me in your dreams. This place, this shop, this home can be your sanctuary in the midst of the Dreamlands that can sometimes offer only nightmares."

"If this is the best you can offer," Mykel said with sadness, "I accept it."

"Of all the dream walkers I have met, you are the most intriguing."

She held out a paw. "Now give me the Glass of True Sight. We will need it one hundred years from now for the next one who quests."

Mykel reached into his pocket and offered it to her. "How did you know I had it?"

Suddenly, the fox expanded, and she began to shine with a supernal glow. Though the room did not change in size, from Mykel's perspective, she expanded beyond the confines of the little store.

"I am the Messenger of Inari!" Her voice rang in his head, and he fell to his knees on the wooden floor. "I am the Cadmean vixen! I am the Teumessian fox! I hold the Essence of Reynard!" Abruptly, the figure diminished until, once again, it was a snow-white vixen. 

The glass fell from Mykel's nerveless fingers onto the floor.

"I beg forgiveness for my ignorance, my lady," he gasped, but the vixen held a finger to his lips. 

"Hush," she said. "It is still in my power to grant a boon, and I will now give you one no human has ever been granted." He felt her furred fingers caress his cheek. "You will no longer need the Glass of True Sight," she said. "I grant you Pure Vision for your travels in the Dreamlands as well as the waking world. Use it wisely."

Suddenly, Mykel had a vision from afar of Hlanath Vale, and tears of joy welled in his eyes at the sight of its beauty once again.

Then Mykel awoke to the bright morning sun shining through his bedroom window.

Thursday, May 21, 2026

New Logo!

I have a love/hate with artificial intelligence. There is so much of what is called AI slop out there, that I long for true human interaction and real books written by real people.

And by the bye, I want to assure you that I never use AI in my writing. Every word in my pages is 100% me, errors and all.

However, I have found a use for AI when it comes to creating a new logo.

Here is my old boring Facebook banner for my author's page:


I made this years ago with the graphic software that was at my disposal.

In one word, Yuck!

However, I did have a new banner made courtesy of ChatGPT. What do you think?


And don't think I just punched in a request and said generate. It took hours of researching the correct wording of the commands and descriptions to make me happy.

I also crafted a 3D image of the logo as well.


The bottom line is that AI can make writers lazy, but it can be beneficial for marketing.

 


Wednesday, March 11, 2026

Retirement Draws Near!

The day after Easter Sunday, I’ll begin a new chapter of life as I retire after 30 years serving as pastor of the Heidlersburg/Mount Olivet Charge of the Church of the United Brethren in Christ. Serving these congregations has been one of the great privileges of my life.

Retirement doesn’t mean slowing down — just shifting gears. My plans include:

1. Gradually moving from our home in Heidlersburg to Chambersburg.
2. Finishing the three novels that are so close to completion. (Retirement writing plan: finish three novels. Suspected obstacle: feline manuscript management.)


3. Starting a YouTube series that respectfully addresses common questions and objections about Christianity.
4. Taking some time to sort through my online connections, remembering old friends — especially those we lost during COVID — and letting go where needed. (That part will be bittersweet.)
5. Taming my massive library and reducing it by about 50% — likely with much weeping and wailing.
6. I’m also slowly rebuilding my old hobby in parlor magic. Years ago, I performed semi-professionally with the Society of American Magicians (1974–1979), and I still enjoy doing small shows for groups of 50 or fewer. Unfortunately, many of my props were damaged during an outdoor show a few years ago, so I’m starting over. These days it’s easy to find close-up magic — thanks in part to performers like David Blaine — but good parlor and stage effects are surprisingly hard to come by. Still, I recently discovered a wonderful old-fashioned magic shop in Reading, which feels a bit like finding buried treasure. So the rebuilding begins.
7. Research the possibility of obtaining a PhD in Aesthetic Theology (yes, that has been a long-term interest of mine) from Kairos University. Not because I want the title of Doctor before my name, but because I want to continue the discipline of study.

At 71, every day God gives me the strength to work toward these goals feels like a gift.

Short version: retirement just means I’ll be a busy little beaver in a different forest.

Saturday, February 7, 2026

New Release Upcoming

 Keep your eyes open for a new release from yours truly. A blend of SF and detective noir.

Target is a February 28th release.



Love in the Time of Chocolate

Last night at my writers' group, we were given a prompt and ten minutes to respond. As February 14th is Valentine's Day, we were told to write about something or someone sweet. For your flash fiction pleasure, here is what I came up with:

Love in the Time of Chocolate
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Have you heard about the Gingerbread Man? How about something sweeter? My good friend Gus Polinski was a world-renowned chocolatier, a master of the sweeter arts. His craftsmanship was par excellence, and his little shop in the backwaters of Harrisburg thrived. His truffles, brownie bites, peanut butter swirl, salted caramel, chocolate-covered strawberries, pretzels, nuts, and mini tarts had pushed many a poor unfortunate into type 2 diabetes, much to the joy of the local endocrinologists.

Less than a week ago, he came and urgently rapped on my front door. “Craig,” he said, blocking my front door. “I need your help. I’m being hunted down by assassins and enforcers from Hershey's and Nestlé's. And the worst are those Mars Bars fanatics. I desperately need a favor!”

“Of course, Gus,” I replied. “Anything for a friend. What do you need?”

He stepped aside and ushered in a confectioner’s dream. “My masterpiece,” he said. It was a lovely and petite woman, but with one unique difference. I could see she was composed completely out of chocolate. She blinked at me and smiled, surprising me. She was a statue of sentient chocolate.

“They want her, and I won’t let them have her. Please hide her for me until I can find a better way to protect her.”

“Of course,” I said. “But what does she eat? What are her needs?”

“She needs nothing,” Gus said. “Just prop her up somewhere and don’t let her get dusty.”

And that is how Nougat came into my life. 

She was a charming, albeit unique, individual. Her IQ was quite high, and needless to say, she had quite a sweet personality.

Now I know what you evil-minded readers are thinking, that I lost self-control and took an occasional nibble. But, no, her ending was far worse. 

One August morning, I left for work, and when I returned, I discovered that my air conditioning had malfunctioned during the day. 

Nougat had melted away into my carpet, leaving the room smelling like a confectionery. 

I called Gus, but he seemed nonplussed. “It’s quite all right,” he said.

“Now I’m working on chocolate pets. Care to take on two Chocolate Labs?” 

Friday, October 17, 2025

My Japanese Name (Morikawa Tomonobu)



Fascinated by AI, I have been chatting with ChatGPT since its inception (Note: I do NOT use AI in any of my writing ... that's deception). I use it to search the web and compile news reports on topics that interest me, such as Biblical archaeology, artificial intelligence, and other subjects.

I am also a confirmed Japanophile and someday hope to complete my novel, The Shrine War, a love letter to Japan.

Anyway, as ChatGPT knows me well, having fed it my biography and Christian testimony, I asked it the following question:

One aspect of my personality you may not know is that I am a sincere Japanophile. I love its culture, its history (including its negative history), its cuisine, and, though I am a dedicated Christian, I do have respect for Shinto, Japan's nature religion. If I were to adopt a Japanese name, knowing my history and interests, what would you recommend? Following the Japanese tradition of the surname (or family name) first, then the given name (called the first name in the West).

I received the following answer:

森川 智信 (Morikawa Tomonobu)

  • Surname (Morikawa 森川) – “Forest river.” Suggests peace, nature, and the quiet movement of life — qualities that fit your pastoral calm and your love for old, sacred places.

  • Given name (Tomonobu 智信) – “Wise faith.”

    • 智 (tomo) = wisdom, intelligence, discernment

    • 信 (nobu) = faith, trust, belief

    • Together: a man of wise faith.
      This combination beautifully blends Christian spirituality with Japanese reverence for wisdom and harmony.

Meaning Breakdown

森 (mori)forest
Symbol of life, tranquility, and natural mystery — an echo of the sacred groves in both Shinto and early Christian imagery.

川 (kawa)river
Represents continuity, renewal, and grace flowing through time. Together with mori, it paints a landscape of living faith amid nature: “the river through the forest.”

智 (tomo)wisdom, discernment
Not mere knowledge, but insight guided by compassion and understanding — a trait deeply aligned with your pastoral character.

信 (nobu)faith, trust, belief
This kanji appears in the Japanese word for faith (shinrai, 信頼) and belief (shinkō, 信仰). It’s a word of quiet conviction and reliability.


Poetic Interpretation

森川 智信 — “The Forest River of Wise Faith”

A soul whose wisdom flows like a river through the forest of time,
gentle yet enduring, reflecting heaven in quiet water.
His faith, like the current, shapes the stones it passes —
steadfast, serene, and full of grace.


It also created the beautiful graphic above to display my new name. It then offered to make a blessing that honored my new name:



You know what? I like this. Very much.


 

Wednesday, September 24, 2025

Doom, Gloom, and Drool

Created with ChatGPT v 5.0



Doom, Gloom, and Drool or Bram Stoker Never Wrote This
by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


“The sun is setting.” My friend intoned while striking a dramatic pose. An author of dark fantasy romances with a body count, he had a long, bad habit of affecting garish pretensions.

I groaned under my breath. “Yes,” I replied. “The sun is setting.” We continued our walk around the pond that graced his property as the crickets began their nightly vigil and the bullfrogs tuned up their nocturnal chorus.

“The sun is setting,” he repeated.

“You already said that,” I shot back. “Who cares?”

“The sun is setting. The creatures of the night will be upon us soon.”

“Oh, yes,” I answered with heavy sarcasm. “Katydids and bats. We’ll be feeding the mosquitoes soon. If you’re so wired up about it, we can go back to the house.”

He paused for a moment. “The children of the night! What beautiful music they make!”

“You two-bit hack!” I snapped back. “That line is from that old Dracula movie.”

Suddenly, a huge four-legged beast burst out of the darkness and threw me to the ground. The dark form stood over me. Its open jaws dripped drool on my face, and its fetid breath threatened to suffocate me.

My friend laughed fiendishly and ran away, leaving me to my fate.

“Get off of me, Brunhilde!” I yelled at my friend’s overly friendly Saint Bernard.

That was thirty minutes ago. Brunhilde adores me and refuses to let me go.

And my friend?

That penny-a-word scribbler left me to drown in doggy drool.

Thursday, August 14, 2025

My Publishing History

From 1990 to the present day, I have enjoyed having a number of stories published and republished in several magazines and anthologies. This list does not include my own personal collections and children's novel published in all international Amazons. Many of these publications are still available through Amazon and can be found through your favorite search engine.



  1. Roseanne, Elvis, and Us appeared in the April 1990 issue of The United Brethren magazine. 
  2. Olin G. Alwood (1905-1921): Faithful and Wise Steward (pp 106-114), the eighth chapter of the book, United Brethren Bishops from 1889-1997: Volume One edited by Dr. Paul R. Fetters, copyright August, 1996. 
  3. The Substance of Things Hoped For published in PawPrints Fanzine: Summer, 1998 
  4. Canticle of the Wolf published in PawPrints Fanzine: Summer, 1999 
  5. Alice Remembers the White Knight (poem) published in Beauty For Ashes Poetry Review: Fall, 1999
  6. Fox Hunt published in PawPrints Fanzine: Spring, 2000 
  7. Coventry House published in PawPrints Fanzine: Fall 2001
  8. Festival of Masks published in the Anthrocon 2003 convention book 
  9. The Substance of Things Hoped For republished in Gateway SF Magazine: Winter, 2005 
  10. Canticle of the Wolf republished in the Twilight Times Press Anthology Infinite Space, Infinite God, as well as Mask of the Ferret, co-written with author Ken Pick, Winter, 2006. ISIG won a 2007 Eppie award and was a Top 10 Finalist in the 2007 Preditors and Editors Readers Poll. Mask of the Ferret won an Honorable Mention from the 2008 Washington Science Fiction Association award. 
  11. Night Mares published in Sam Dot's Publishing magazine, Beyond Centauri, October 2007 (Issue 18).
  12. Dollmaker was published in the March 2009 edition of Aoife's Kiss from Sam's Dot Publishing. 
  13. My Pretty Pony published in the April, 2009 edition of Ethereal Tales. 
  14. The City of Sarkomand, A Guide for the Traveler, Chapter 32 was published in the July, 2009 issue of Ethereal Tales. 
  15. The Vampire Mice of the U&G: A Tale from The Universe the Next Door Over was published in the October, 2009 issue of Ethereal Tales. 
  16. My reprinted tale, Fox Hunt, as well as Down to Cathuria (a direct sequel to Mask of the Ferret and co-written with Ken Pick), was published in November 2009 in the Different Worlds, Different Skins anthology from editor Will Sanborn. 
  17. My Pretty Pony has been released as part of an Ethereal Tales three-CD audio book collection, November, 2009.
  18. Ethereal Tales published A Fairy Tale in April 2010. 
  19. Ethereal Tales published Greengate in October 2010. 
  20. My short story, The Pooka and the Redcap (formerly known as Fairy Tale) was released in the Static Movement anthology, Faeries, and is published by Pill Hill Press on January 1, 2010. 
  21. Dyads, a novella-length sequel to Mask of the Ferret and co-written with Ken Pick, was published in the anthology Infinite Space, Infinite God 2 from Twilight Times Press (November 15, 2010). 
  22. The Furry Con Mystery or My Fursuit is Hot (With Apologies to Dashiell Hammett) appeared in the anthology Darker Than Noir, edited by Faith Kauwe. (August, 2011) 
  23. Ethereal Tales published Storyteller in September 2011. 
  24. My short story, An Incident at a Carnival was published in the March 2012 issue of Cover of Darkness magazine. 
  25. Yew Manor was published in the Morphicon 2012 Convention book. 
  26. My Pretty Pony was republished in Morpheus Tales' Apocalypse Special Issue in February 2013.
  27. Morpheus Press published In the Father's Image in their Ethereal Tales Special Issue on February 1, 2014.
  28. Dollmaker was republished by the anthology, Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling on February 1, 2015 
  29. Fred Patten, accepted my flash fiction, To the Reader … for his anthology, Gods with Fur, published on June 16, 2016. 
  30. Fred Patten, accepted The Shrine War for his anthology, Dogs of War, published on January 13, 2017. 
  31. Child of His Desire was published in Morpheus Tales #31 on November 26, 2017.
  32. Through the Black Andes was published in Odd Tales of Wonder #7 on December 11, 2017.
  33. Fred Patten, accepted In Search of the Creators for his anthology, Exploring New Places, published on July 26, 2018. 
  34. Canticle of the Wolf was reprinted in the anthology, Wolf Wanderings, on January 20, 2024.
  35. Yew Manor was reprinted in the Fall 2025 issue of Hound of Heaven magazine.

Thursday, February 6, 2025

Back to Serious Writing ... Finally

With a sigh of relief, I can finally announce that I'm finally back to serious writing after at least two years of absence. The advent of Covid-19 four years ago did me no favors. I came down with the disease once, and I was fortunate. I cannot tell you the number of friends I lost to the disease.

That, and the advent of prostate cancer (now controlled by medicines) played a further role in the loss of morale.

Last Saturday, I was involved in a ZOOM meeting with my writing partner, Ken Pick, on wrapping up the first book of a science fiction trilogy, The Adventures of Jill Noir.


The other writing challenge is a dark fantasy short story exploring my fascination with cryptids, The White Thing.


The White Thing

With the latter, I have already played around with several scenarios, considering whether I want a first-person or third-person perspective, the setting of the story, how it begins, and, most importantly, how it ends.


I have mentally played with this story for at least two months now, and I have decided to use a first-person narrator to tell the story of his best friend, who lives in a cabin on the outskirts of the Allegheny National Forest. Summoned to the cabin, he finds his friend in severe straits, dealing with an almost daily visitation from what he calls the White Thing.


It is not a Bigfoot. I think that cryptid has been written into the dust. This a unique creature of my invention with peculiar reasons for terrifying the narrator's friend.


The picture gives an early impression of the White Thing, but I have already made subtle changes to its appearance.


Starting tomorrow, I start work on both projects. Wish me luck.

Tuesday, January 14, 2025

My Favorite Two Wolves Memes




1. Inside you, there are two wolves. Neither of them are paying rent.
2. Inside you are two wolves and your proctologist is frightened beyond words.
3. Inside you there are two wolves. Congratulations, Mrs. Werewolf, it's twins!
4. I don't have two wolves. I have 8 badgers, two mushrooms, and a snake.
5. Inside you there are 2 wolves. Sorry about the transporter malfunction.
6. Inside you there are two wolves, so they have advantage.
7. Inside me there are two wolves. I need serious medical attention.
8. Inside you there are two wolves. One always tells the truth the other always lies... or something like that.
9. "Inside you are 2 wolves" “Jokes on you, I can fit 3.”
10. Inside you there are two wolves. The other twelve are patiently waiting their turn.
11. Inside you there are two wolves. I'd recommend calling 911.
12. Inside you there are two wolves. Must have been one heck of a party!
13. Inside of me are two wolves, one of them is hungry. The second one is... hungry. You are hungry.
14. Inside you, there are 2 wolves. Sadly, there is no room for dessert.
15. Inside you, there are two wolves … wait. Now there are six wolves.
16. Inside me there are two wolves. I was really hungry this morning.
17. The doctor-recommended number of wolves inside of you is zero.
18. Inside of you there are two wolves. One of them is Adam Sandler. The other one is Adam Sandler. You are Adam Sandler.
19. Inside me there are two wolves. I will be incredibly sore tomorrow.
20. Inside you there are two wolves. You are dead.
21. Inside of you are two wolves. One craves cement. The other craves cement. You are addicted to cement.
22. Inside you are two wolves. They keep eating all the counting sheep. It's giving you insomnia.
23. You are inside 2 wolves (wait a minute…)
24. Inside of you are two knees. One is good. The other is bad. You are old.
25. Inside of you there are two wolves. One is wrong. The other one is wrong. You are wrong.
26. Inside your nose are two nostrils. One is so clogged, you can’t breathe. The other is so open you can taste the color of the air.
27. Inside you there are two wolves. One is wondering how it got there. The other is eating your liver.
28. Inside of you are two wolves. Both of them are exhausted.
29. Inside of you are two wolves. One is a coyote and the other is a coyote. You lack basic knowledge of North American carnivores.
30. Inside of you are two wolves. They are both fed up with your nonsense.





 

Friday, December 20, 2024

A Momentary Diversion

A Momentary Diversion: An Experiment in Absurdity

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Patrick sighed and sat on the park bench, letting the wood take his full weight. The chilly autumn air competed with the warmth of the full sun, and he folded into himself and let the sunlight sink through his suit coat to warm his bones.

The workday had been long and exhausting, and Patrick decided to walk another way home through a park he had never before visited. It wasn’t that he did not love his wife and daughter that kept him from rushing home, but he needed the quiet of the city’s park to shake off the stress of the day. He only wanted a moment to enjoy the quiet. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the autumn aromas.

Patrick felt somebody jostle the park bench, and he opened his eyes to see an elderly man in a business suit sitting beside him. “May I sit here?” he asked.

Patrick smiled, nodded, and closed his eyes again, hoping his visitor would take the hint that he was not interested in conversing.

His visitor ignored the hint. “So, are you here for the show?' the man asked.

Reluctantly, Patrick opened his eyes. “Show? There’s a show? I didn’t know anything about a show.”

The visitor laughed and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I thought that’s why you are here. Every day at 5:30. It’s quite unique.”

Patrick shrugged his shoulders. “Normally, I head home every day straight from work. This is the first time I’ve ever taken a seat here.”

The man nodded knowingly. “Well, that explains it.” With a grunt, he took out his cell phone and looked at the screen. “We’re early. Others will be showing up momentarily.”

True to his word, quietly, silently, others started appearing, either strolling down the sidewalk or walking out of the woods. The small crowd was a blend of humanity, and conversation was gentle and susurrant. Patrick looked around with growing curiosity. He sensed a growing air of expectation.

“Here they come,” somebody said.

Patrick craned his eyes toward the direction people looked and pointed. The next moment, he rubbed his eyes and looked again in surprise.

From around a bend in the sidewalk, initially obscured by the trees, two antelope came riding a tandem bicycle, their eyes intent on their path. They passed the group and, within moments, disappeared around another wooded bend on the sidewalk.

The crowd began to break up as people started to go their separate ways.

“What … what was that all about?” Patrick gasped.

His companion shrugged his shoulders. “Just a momentary diversion,” he said. “Nothing more.” He got up from the park bench, brushing off the seat of his pants. “Sometimes they are timber wolves ... or anteaters. Will I see you here tomorrow?”

Patrick spent a moment in thought. “Yes,” he slowly replied. “I believe you will.”



Tuesday, November 26, 2024

Incident at a Carnival: A Monologue




Incident at a Carnival: A Monologue
by
Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


INT. THE LIGHTS COME ON TO REVEAL AN ELDERLY WOMAN SITTING AT A SMALL TABLE FACING THE AUDIENCE. SHE IS DRESSED IN THE TRADITIONAL GARB OF A CARNIVAL FORTUNETELLER. A DECK OF TAROT CARDS IS OFF TO HER SIDE, WRAPPED IN SILK OR FINE LINEN. A BRANDY FLASK SITS OFF TO THE OTHER SIDE.

Hello, hello! Please come inside. Sit down there across the table from me.

SHE MOTIONS TO A NON-EXISTENT CHAIR IN FRONT OF THE TABLE

“My, my. What a pretty one you are!

“No, no, my dear. Don’t be concerned over a silly old lady like me. Sit! Sit!

“So, you want to know the future? Maybe the past? Yes?

“Well, of course, you already know the past! At least you think you do, but my cards have a way of helping you remember it.

“Ignore the noises of the carnival outside. Here it is just you and me.

“Now, I will unwrap the cards, and we shall begin.

SHE UNWRAPS THE CARDS AND PUTS THEM IN FRONT OF HER

“Yes, that’s natural silk they are wrapped in. I’m not some carnival hack, not Madame Gianopoulos. I have dealt these cards for over seventy years.

“What? Why, thank you. No, my child, I don’t look ninety years old, do I?

“Now, take the cards and just shuffle them the best you can. Any way is acceptable. The cards have to taste you.

“Yes, that does sound unpleasant, does it not? Let’s say they must know you, but listen to me prattle on.

“Very good. Yes, the cards do feel oddly warm. Ah! They are ready.

THE FORTUNETELLER TAKES THE CARDS AND LAYS THEM OUT AS DESCRIBED IN THE MONOLOGUE.

“Let me lay them out before you facedown. Four in the first row, three in the second, and one in the third row: the past, the present, and the future.

“Now let us look at the past, maybe a past you have forgotten?

“Oh, look! It is the Spring Maid in Flowers!

“What? You don’t remember the Spring Maid in Flowers being in the Tarot? Why, of course not. These are my cards. My special cards.

“Oh, look how young and pretty she is! How innocent! How she revels in the dawn of each new day. Ah, how it makes me remember my own childhood, but now we may not be as innocent? What a world of sorrow we live in.

“Here is the Summer Meadow, but it is inverted. Oh, the pretty little one is not living in a very nice place. How distressing. She had all that purity, but she lives amidst people and places that are not so uncorrupted. Let’s look at the next card.

“The Fiends of the Heart. Oh, this is dreadful. Look at the picture. Look how the child cringes from the beasts that crowd around here, the monsters that have been sown into her heart by those who were monsters themselves.

“No, child, you do not need to shy away. There is no need to cover your eyes. It is just a picture, see? It is just ink on a pasteboard.

“Let’s move on to the next. This may be a Cinderella story, yes?

“Ah! The Questing Youth!

“Now, now, how can the woman in the picture look like you? Her back is turned to us. How do you know what you look like from behind?

“Yet, she is looking for something. She is searching, but what is she questing for?

“The next card!

“Oh! The Blessing, inverted. Oh! Well, we need not talk of this one at this time. Let us look to the present, shall we? Let us do so. Quickly.

“The Lovers Slain. Oh. Oh. One moment, dearest. Yes, my hands do tremble so. Ignore them. I am an old woman.

“Let me have that flask there. The brandy inside will steady my hands.

SHE TAKES THE BRANDY FLASK IN TREMBLING HANDS AND TAKES A SIP.

“You are correct. The slain lovers are all men, and there they lay, the poor dears, in one large carrion pile. They dared to love somebody. Let’s see who that could have been.

“Ah, the Puppeteer!

“Yes, her eyes are not kind, are they? They have no love or tenderness within their depths.  Her marionettes lie limp on their strings. Used and now useless.

“Please do not look at me that way. See, now? There are just two cards left.

“The Vengeful Dead. Look how they reach out from the pasteboard!

“Please, my dear. Please put the knife away. Please. Look! There is just one more card. You have to admit the cards have power, don’t they?

“This last card is your future. Just let me flip it over.

“It is blank!

“Nothing but an eternity of whiteness, but look! Something takes shape within the card itself.

SUDDENLY LOOKS UP PUZZLED

“But my dear, where have you gone? Do you not want to see this card?

LOOKS DOWN AT THE CARD

The woman trapped within looks just like you.

THE FORTUNETELLER LOOKS UP AND AROUND AND THEN TAKES A LONG GLANCE AT THE CARD AND SIGHS

“I shall call this card A Broken Doll in Hell.”

THE STAGE LIGHTS GO OUT



Written permission must be given for this monologue to be performed with the following conditions:

1. I must be given credit as the playwright.

2. Admission may not be charged unless the organization is a registered nonprofit or educational institution.

3. A video of the performance must be sent to me either through YouTube or another video hosting service.

 

Friday, September 6, 2024

Fogbound

For Inktober, Friday, October 30, 2020. Prompt word: "ominous." Tuckerization: Gregory Salter

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, no similar characteristics are implied. 

This story is a continuation of the city stories that began with Sarkomand in Some Would Call it Worthless and continued in The Library.



Fogbound

by Alan Loewen

Gregory Salter continued his trek toward the west, following the road until the city-sized library was merely a speck in the distance. Having escaped the ennui of Sarkomand, he left the Library behind to see what might lay ahead of him.

The plethora of books he read was fascinating, and he was enchanted with the hundreds of lives he had lived, but after a while, he noticed, to his growing horror, that his real life began to disappear in countless incarnations. When Gregory discovered the basement filled with living skeletons, impulsively grabbing and reading one book after another, he filled an improvised backpack with food and water and fled.

With the weather warm and comfortable, Gregory passed the next two nights comfortably on the eastbound road, using only the canopy of trees as his only shelter.

It disturbed him that he had met no other people on the road, and the woods bordering it were eerily silent, devoid of the usual sounds of animals and birds. However, he continued his journey, and on the third day, he found himself walking into a mist that soon turned into a thick fog. Still able to see the road under his feet, he wondered if he should turn back but decided to soldier on. To bolster his courage, he found a thick branch in the woods that doubled as a walking stick and an improvised cudgel.

To his relief, he came to a set of city gates set in a stone wall. The fog was so thick that it was impossible to guess their height. Cautiously, he stepped past the entrance, surprised to see no people on the cobblestone street before him.

It was only until he walked a reasonable distance that he saw people furtively moving through the mist. They occasionally glanced at him but continued on whatever personal missions they had. None of them seemed willing to stop and talk to him, even though he tried to stop a few to ask questions.

He decided to avoid the dark stores with large empty windows, and though he was tempted to knock on the doors of the brownstone houses, he continued his trek through the fog.

A sign above a door gave him hope of finding answers to this weird city that had entered. The Cobblestone Pub beckoned him, and when he walked through the door, the patrons, sitting at the scattered round, wooden tables or leaning against the bar, turned as one to stare at him. Within seconds, they lost interest in him and either returned to their whispered conversations or turned to stare sullenly into their mugs.

Wishing to stay invisible, Gregory made his way to the bar. He beckoned to the barkeep, who came and silently stood before him with raised eyebrows.

“Excuse me, sir, but …” Gregory began, but the man interrupted him.

“You came from the Library,” the barkeep whispered. “You should have stayed there or returned to Sarkomand.” Stunned into silence, Gregory stood there as the barkeep turned and filled a mug with a dark liquid.

“On the house,” the barkeep said. “You’ll have to find a job to pay for your livelihood. There’s a guesthouse just down the street. They’ll take you in until you settle. Just don’t be out in the fog when night truly comes.”

“But,” Gregory stuttered. “I’m just moving on.”

A grim smile came to barkeep’s face. “Bad news, newcomer. Those who enter this city can never leave. Surely, they told you at the Library that no one ever returns from following the eastern road.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Gregory snarled. “The gate I entered is just down the street from where I entered. I can leave anytime I want.”

The barkeep shook his head slowly. “When you walked through the gate, it changed into a solid, unclimbable wall. It was the same for all of us. There is no escape. Now, drink your beer and get to the guesthouse. We’re an hour away from nightfall. I have no rooms to let, and I don’t want you sleeping on a table.”

“What …” Gregory said. “What happens at night?”

The barkeep shrugged. “People just disappear. Sometimes, we hear screams when some idiot loses track of time and doesn’t find shelter. Now, let me be. I have work to do.”

The barkeeper turned away to check on other patrons, leaving Gregory staring at his own beer mug. Tentatively, he took a sip, and hunger and thirst made him drain the mug dry.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Gregory shouldered his knapsack and made his way to the guesthouse.

True to the barkeep's word, he was taken in and given a week to find a job and a place to live.

Also, the barkeep spoke truth about the gate. Gregory never found the entrance where he had entered or any way to leave. The stone walls surrounding the city were smooth as glass, and when he tried to talk to people about building a ladder to find the top of the fog-shrouded walls, they stared at him and passed on.

He found work with a mushroom farmer, as the various types of fungus were the only edibles that would grow in a city perpetually covered in fog. A two-room flat became his new home, and he quickly learned to avoid being out at night in the ominous fog. Occasionally, Gregory would be awakened by a distant scream of some victim of the night, and he would tremble in his bed until the morning, unable to return to sleep.

Countless years later, Gregory shuffled his way through the streets like the other citizens of the city. He never learned the name of the fogbound city. It was a mystery, a town without a name.

One evening, Gregory sat at his small dinner table and quietly spooned tasteless soup into his mouth. He blinked his eyes and shook his head. A sudden realization came to him. He hated this city more than anything. He hated his life, day by day, digging mushrooms out of offal and trudging home before the dreaded night claimed him.

He quietly put his spoon down and shuddered. Better an end to this nameless purgatory than another day of soul-crushing ennui.

Gregory got up, tucked his chair into its place by the table, and walked outside into the fog.

As night quickly descended. Gregory swallowed his terror and waited quietly.

He gritted his teeth until he feared they would crack under the pressure of his jaws, but he clenched his fists and refused to move, ignoring the other people fleeing to shelter.

Complete darkness crept upon him, and Gregory felt a cosmic cold envelope his body. He could not help it when a nameless dread made him turn toward his door for shelter, but it was too late.

He felt gravity reverse, and Gregory fell into the sky with a shriek.

He plunged heavenward, tumbling through the fog until he was above the clouds in a maddening fall upwards. He suddenly saw the stars. As he was swallowed up in their glory, Gregory, in his terror, abruptly realized he had discovered a way to leave the city after all.

Tuesday, June 18, 2024

The House on the Borderland; A Review


In the early 90s, I had the privilege of traveling to the British Isles and, while there, picked up a small paperback. I had never heard of The House on the Borderland or its author, William Hope Hodgson. I remember that Brian Aldiss wrote the introduction. Then I remember being so captured by the story that I reread the novel several times until one day, one of my cats destroyed my original copy.

At that time, I discovered ebooks, so I always had a copy of this incredible tale. However, a few days ago, I found a small paperback (see the above graphic) at a bookstore in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Once again, I wandered with the narrator through the western part of Ireland, which is so rural and desolate that few maps of the area exist.

Written in 1908, the main story is framed by two men, Tonnison and the unnamed narrator, avid anglers who fish obscure streams for prize catches. One day, they discover the ruins of a large building perched precariously above a water-filled pit. Nosing about, they find the manuscript written by the last resident of the great House, only referred to as The Recluse.

Accompanied by his elderly sister and dog, Pepper, the Recluse enjoys his extreme solitude until one day, the House is unexplainedly besieged by hideous creatures in the shape of anthropomorphic swine from a nearby pit.

The story continues as the House works its evil will on the Recluse. With him, we fight off waves of the Swine-Things, explore the massive basement, the Pit, and experience a vision of the end of the universe. 

The bottom line is that lovers of weird literature can call themselves true devotees only if they have read this classic story. 

H. P. Lovecraft loved this tale, and he wrote:

The House on the Borderland (1908)—perhaps the greatest of all Mr. Hodgson’s works—tells of a lonely and evilly regarded house in Ireland which forms a focus for hideous other-world forces and sustains a siege by blasphemous hybrid anomalies from a hidden abyss below. The wanderings of the narrator’s spirit through limitless light-years of cosmic space and kalpas of eternity, and its witnessing of the solar system’s final destruction, constitute something almost unique in standard literature. And everywhere there is manifest the author’s power to suggest vague, ambushed horrors in natural scenery. But for a few touches of commonplace sentimentality this book would be a classic of the first water. (Supernatural Horror in Literature by H. P. Lovecraft)

Having reread this tale just a day agoeven though I knew what would happenthe writing still has the power to sway me with its cosmic horror, wonder, and subplot of lost love.

The House on the Borderland by William Hope Hodgson is in the public domain. eBook and PDF copies can be found through any of your favorite search engines. Paperbacks are available through any book dealer.




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