Halloween Gift #3 - Pepsi

From: mad_scientist@dmail.com
Subject: Building A Better Mousetrap, Day 1
Date: May 5, 2007 9:05:42 AM EDT
To: The_Col@loc.org

When I sent you the message concerning the Warner Brothers animated film Cats Don't Dance, I made an allusion to the benefits of having a sentient, anthropomorphic feline as a secretary. The more I thought about it, the more certain of my belief I'm sitting on a veritable gold mine. Take a little money, time, study, and research and … viola! … the end result is lots of little kitty secretaries for which the world would beat a path to my door. Surely a better mousetrap in more ways than one!

With that goal in mind, this morning I mailed my letter of resignation to my employer, went to a yard sale, and bought a used chemistry set, a used microscope and a gene splicer (Okay, it's really a roll of Scotch tape, but if I cut it very, very, very thin, I'm sure I can splice some genes with it). The SPCA refused to give me a cat so I then went to a local farmer who sold me a chicken.

I know it's not a cat, but I'm not discouraged. I'm certain I've read that all the great scientists who made breakthrough discoveries started out with chickens … Einstein, Edison, Madame Curie, Booker T. Washington, da Vinci.

I will keep you informed as to my progress as I continue toward my goal of creating the world's first sentient, anthropomorphic cat. Mark this date well. I am sure to go down in history!!!!

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

--
Dr. C. Loewen

* * * * *

From: mad_scientist@dmail.com
Subject: Building A Better Mousetrap, Day 2
Date: May 6, 2007 10:55:42 PM EDT
To: The_Col@loc.org

Okay.

The chicken blew up.

I'm really not all that discouraged because Wikipedia tells me most famous scientists had their chickens blow up the first few times around. In fact, I discovered that Edison blew up over 100 chickens before he realized they made poor light bulbs.

And how many chickens did Booker T. Washington bury before he finally discovered peanuts?

Anyway, my laboratory is covered with chicken feathers and I must go do some cleanup. Well, my laboratory is really my coat closet 'cause my wife won't let me work anywhere else, but, MARK THIS DAY! Someday, when my kitty secretaries are making coffee and taking dictation, you will be GLAD you knew me in these early halcyon days of my genius.

I would close by laughing fiendishly, but I discovered that I'm allergic to chicken feathers and I'm stuck on a coughing jag.

--
Dr. C. Loewen

* * * * *

From: mad_scientist@dmail.com
Subject: Building A Better Mousetrap, Day 3
Date: May 7, 2007 6:05:42 AM EDT
To: The_Col@loc.org

After the chicken debacle, I decided to follow the literary example of Mary Wallstonecraft Shelley, author of Frankenstein and procure another subject more suitable for my experiments.

Therefore, last night, under the light of a crescent moon rising in the east with clouds of heat lightning illuminating the west, I snuck into the local pet cemetery and desecrated the grave of Piffles … Beloved Pet.

Hurrying home with my ill-gotten volunteer, I prepared to make history!

I remember it so clearly. The Jacob's Ladders were arcing, the gyros were gyrating, Tesla coils were spitting out spikes of electricity, filling the air with the odor of ozone and casting dancing shadows on the coat closet walls (none of them actually do anything, but I do have a flair for the dramatic). As the lightning storm intensified I pulled the lever that opened the roof and turned the great crank that lifted the bed that bore the cold lifeless corpse of Piffles … Beloved Pet into the sky amidst the gusting winds, the lashing rain, and the bolts of lightning.

Suddenly, the laboratory rocked as massive bolts of energy each bearing millions of watts of electricity slammed into the bed, each bolt hotter than the surface of the sun. The thunder cracked windows and was matched only by my howls of mad laughter as I watched bolt after bolt surge through my machinery and the body of Piffles … Beloved Pet which lay so high above my head.

Within moments I was turning the crank to lower my creation back into the laboratory.

Sadly, Shelley was wrong. Lightning does not bring deceased matter back to life. In reality it deep fries it to a crisp crackly crunch. I went and reburied Piffles … Beloved Pet.

However, as I was tamping the last spadeful of earth back onto the grave, a little white kitten came out of nowhere and began caressing my ankles and purring. With a shout of triumph, I swooped her up to discover I had obtained a little white spitfire.

The doctor in the ER said that with therapy I might get full use of my left hand back someday.

Nonetheless, I have my cat. I will keep you fully informed as to my progress as I make my way toward becoming a millionaire. MARK THIS DAY! Someday, you will be glad to say, "I knew Craig before his Nobel Prize."

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!, etc.

--
Dr. C. Loewen

* * * * *

From: mad_scientist@dmail.com
Subject: Building A Better Mousetrap, Day 4
Date: May 8, 2007 9:05:42 AM EDT
To: The_Col@loc.org

Before my progress report, I feel compelled to respond to your previous message sent to me on May 8, 2007 5:19:19 AM EDT:

Craig, Exploding chickens? Have you thought of the weapons potential of this? Smuggle a chicken in and use it to attack people or destroy military defenses or annoy your friends! If the weapon thing bothers you, think of this as a great party gag. Remember, some of the best research was stumbled upon and I say you stumble with the best of them. -- The Col.

My dear, I must say that it appears you are not taking my research seriously. My goal to create a sentient race of feline secretaries goes far beyond military uses or party gags. I search for a higher, nobler purpose which shall someday place my visage on Mount Rushmore as well as make me rich beyond my wildest dreams (and my dreams can be quite wild!). Of course, I'm being all very humble about this and what not. But I digress …

You can imagine my delight when I discovered in the Ladies Home Journal an article listing a mail-order source for carrier viruses for genetic research ("Cooking With Vegetables You Mutate Yourself!" April 2007, pp 125-128). A quick phone call and 24-hours later I was growing carrier viruses loaded with a heady blend of Homo sapien and Felis catus DNA.

As I victoriously carried the Petri dishes from the growing chamber to the work station, I sadly broke one of the samples, the glass deeply cutting my thumb. It appears the tragic accident is one of those good news-bad news type of events. The good news is that I'm no longer bald. The bad news is that my hair color has changed from red to a sort of calico.

Nonetheless, I will not let a minor set back dissuade me. You’ve seen pictures of Albert Einstein and how his hair suffered from his experiments with relativity.

The DNA has been doing its work quite rapidly in my little white kitten friend. I have seen signs of expanding intelligence which I am cultivating by showing video tapes of Sesame Street and other assorted PBS shows played at the fastest speed possible. Her first exposure to a word processing program resulted in her first typewritten missive:

"I kill Big Bird."

I would write more, but tears of joy have made the screen blur and my mascara run. MARK THIS DAY! Someday, you will say, "I knew Craig before his face was carved on Mount Everest!"

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

--
Dr. C. Loewen

* * * * *

From: mad_scientist@dmail.com
Subject: Building A Better Mousetrap, Day 5
Date: May 9, 2007 9:32:42 AM EDT
To: The_Col@loc.org
On May 9, 2007 5:22:32 AM EDT, you wrote:

Craig, I have a question: is the little white cat blue-eyed? Doesn't that mean its deaf? Won't a deaf secretary be a bit of a problem. How will it take dictation? Answer phones? Yell at annoying servicemen (repair type, not military type)? -- The Col.

My dear, dispel all your worries since Pepsi, whom I have named after the sustaining beverage that has carried me through these many days, has developed into an exquisitely-formed, five foot, two inch tall, green-eyed, anthropomorphic feline beauty. The only difficulty is that I got her at the start of her shedding season and, as you're a cat owner and know how cats shed, you can imagine what a five foot, two inch tall cat can do. My house looks like an explosion in an albino mink fur factory.

Mounds of fur aside, I've clocked Pepsi at ninety-five words a minute on a Dvorak key board, but, sadly, she has inherited a tad too much of the feline nature. When she doesn't feel like working she says things like, "Bugger off!" or "Want me to claw your eyes out?" Several times when I asked her to do something for me, I found the task left undone while she read Garfield cartoons from the paper. Most unprofessional, if you ask me.

She also ate the computer mouse.

And it may be just my imagination, but I think my stash of catnip tea is disappearing too.

I may have seen success as a tad premature, but I shall endeavor to keep you posted on my slow, but determined march toward fame and financial success.

Ha, etc.

--
Dr. C. Loewen

* * * * *

From: mad_scientist@dmail.com
Subject: Building A Better Mousetrap, Day 6
Date: May 10, 2007 3:31:42 PM EDT
To: The_Col@loc.org

It appears the experiment has fizzled. Pepsi has left me and ran off to join a traveling veterinary convention as an exotic dancer.

You may say it's sour grapes, but I'm relieved the experiment ended this way. She was costing me a bundle in kitty litter and all last night she kept us awake working on a hairball.

I've given up on sentient feline secretaries. Fortunately, my letter of resignation to my employer returned due to insufficient postage, so I still have my day job.

Now I'm working on another idea—sentient food. This would give lonely people something to talk to when they eat at McDonald's.

The farmer has agreed to sell me another chicken tomorrow.

Love,

--
Craig





(Title graphic is labeled for noncommercial use with modification. Owner of the graphic is unclear, but may be located here.)

Kill Your Darlings (A Short Story)

Sitting in the window of my favorite coffee shop, I watched Reggie coax his battered Dodge Van into a parking slot. I glanced at my watch and knew something was wrong. Not only was my eccentric friend on time, he was actually a few minutes early. When he eased his bulk out of the van and started looking about, I assumed he forgot that I told him I would meet him inside the cafe.

He finally saw me waving through the window, and he waved back, yet as he walked to the entrance, he still looked about with a look that bordered on fear.

Inside, he shed his coat, and squeezed himself into the seat across from me.

“Skittish, aren’t you?” I asked as he motioned for the waitress.

“Fred, you are not going to believe what I think is happening to me. It’s … it’s incredible and I want you to tell me I’m just losing my mind.”

“Okay. You’re just losing your mind.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” he said, anger flashing in his eyes.“I think I’m in some serious kim chi.”

“Okay,” I said. “Spill.”

“First let me order something. I’m starved.”

He called the waitress over and ordered breakfast suitable for three men.

“Eating light today,” I said.

“Stress puts me off my feed,” he replied. “This has me all worked up.”

I boded my time as the waitress put a little coffee in Reggie’s cup of milk and sugar and wandered away. After taking a large gulp and a good amount of it joining the other stains on his shirt, he wiped his chin on the back of his hand and sighed. “Well, Fred,” he said, “remember that pile of stories I wrote for my humor anthology?”

I nodded.

“Did you read the one I wrote about the three girls attaining magical powers?”

I rolled my eyes. “Unfortunately. That was—how can I put this kindly?—sophomoric.”

“Well. Here’s the killer. Do you remember the last line of the story?”

I shook my head in the negative.

“Well, I do. I got the blasted thing memorized. I quote: ‘And when I get my hands on the clown who plotted this,’ Priscilla said through clenched teeth, ‘he'll wish he had never been born.’”

“Oh, yeah. I remember something like that.”

Reggie looked around nervously. “Fred, I didn’t write that. The last line I wrote was one of the girls making a crack about their new cheerleading routine.”

“Well … maybe you don’t remember writing that last line or maybe the editor thought she could improve on the story. I don’t know.”

Reggie shook his head. “Neither of them are true. And last night, I got an e-mail.” He reached into his pocket and unfolded a piece of paper and gave it to me. It was a computer printout and other than the typical header which said it was from a Priscilla Waverley, the message itself contained only on line. ‘A good writer kills his darlings. Maybe it’s time for the tables to be turned.’

“It’s a tasteless practical joke,” I said.

Reggie laughed, a high pitched nervous cackle. “Oh, but you see, I’m not a noob when it comes to computers. I know how to find the source of an email from its header.” He blinked at me owlishly through his thick glasses. “Fred, it comes from no known domain.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “Reggie, Reggie, Reggie, do you hear yourself? Do you hear what you are saying? You’re trying to get me to believe this e-mail came from a character in one of those silly stories you wrote!”

Reggie leaned in closer. “Fred, you gotta listen to me. Do you remember the super power I gave Priscilla Waverly in the story? I gave her the power to manipulate earth. Now you can ask my wife, but last night Emilia and I woke up to what felt like an earthquake.”

“It was an overloaded eighteen-wheeler driving by your house,” I said in growing impatience.

Then the waitress brought Reggie’s breakfast and our conversation was interrupted by my friend’s frontal assault on three Breakfast Specials. I nursed my coffee and kept silent while he ate. I learned early that getting Reggie to eat and talk at the same time was a guaranteed path to post-traumatic stress disorder.

In ten minutes he shoved his plates aside and hugged his refilled coffee cup like a beloved pet.

“So,” I asked, “what do you want me to do.”

Reggie shook his head. “I think I’m going to need some real help. If I find more evidence like this, you’ll help me right?”

I nodded. “Of course, but I’m telling you that you’re letting your imagination run away with you.. You need to relax. Go write a romance or something.” Reggie sneered and left. Three minutes later I realized he had stiffed me with the bill and the tip.

The next day was Sunday and that afternoon, I had just sat down to watch the latest Dr. Who bootlegs when the phone rang.

“I don’t know who this is and I’m not happy,” I said into the mouthpiece, when I was interrupted by Reggie’s high-pitched wheedle.

“Fred! Fred!” came the tinny voice over the phone, “You gotta help me! Please! Turn on the TV. Go to Channel 8!”

“Hold on,” I said. I found the remote I was sitting on and flipped the channels. A smartly dressed woman stood informing the viewers an unexpected earthquake measuring three on the Richter scale had struck south-central with its epicenter just two miles south of Dillsburg.

Where my friend lived.

“Fred, please. You gotta come. I don’t know what to do.”

“Reggie,” I said into the phone. “You have got to calm down. Literary characters do not come to life. It doesn’t happen.”

I heard my friend sob on the far side of the phone. “Fred. I’m calling from inside my writer’s shed. Priscilla Waverley is standing on top of the hill right across the road. Please come and get me out of here. I don’t think she’ll kill me if there are witnesses.”

Suddenly, I heard my friend shriek and his scream was drowned out by a low growl as if some gigantic beast had reared its head. The line went dead.

In two minutes I was in my car heading to my friend’s home.

My worry increased when the traffic report on the radio told drivers to steer away from the area that contained Reggie’s address.

Twenty minutes later, after lying through my teeth to get through the roadblocks, I came around the corner and brought my car to a halt alongside the road. My jaw hung open in shock.

Reggie’s home still stood intact, but a short distance away in an old field gone to weeds and shrub, an old shack served as his writing office. Or, better to say, had served.

Surrounded by rescue vehicles with their blinking lights, the place where Reggie’s shed should have been was nothing more than a huge gaping sink hole.

I put on the four ways and stepped out of my car. It didn't take any imagination to know my friend could not have survived the earth giving way under his very feet.

Slowly, I turned around to look at the grassy hill my friend had mentioned, the one that would have been clearly visible outside of his office window.

And there she was.

After gingerly climbing over a barbed wire fence, I slowly made my way up the hill to her, carefully picking my way around the occasional cow patty.

She didn’t run. She just stared at the destruction below with a sickly grin on her face.

“Priscilla Waverley?” I asked when I got close.

She turned and looked at me in alarm. “You know me? How do you know me?”

“Reggie told me that you were threatening him.”

She laughed. A little teenage girl giggle. “I think I did more than threaten.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Mind if I ask you a question? I really have to know.”

She shrugged. “Ask away. If I don’t like the question, I’ll just have the earth open up and swallow you. Nobody’ll ever know.”

“Do you have any memories of your life say, about a year or so ago?”

She snorted in contempt. “That’s stupid, of course I …” Suddenly she paused. Her brow furrowed in intense thought and a look of worry came to her face.

“In fact,” I asked, “other than the events in the story Reggie wrote and what you’ve done to scare him, do you have any memories of any life at all?”

She looked at me then. Scared. “I know if I think hard enough …”

“You know,” I interrupted, “I find it ironic that Reggie and his wife always wanted a child and in a unique sense of the word, he actually was your father.”

“Go … go away.”

“You’re guilty of patricide. And because of a perceived slight to your pride, you killed the man that brought you into existence.”

I had her full attention now.

“Now that Reggie’s dead,” I asked, “what’ll happen to you?”

She looked back down the hill at the ruin she caused. “I don’t know. I’ll get by.”

“No,” I said. "Not so. The man who brought you to life and could have sustained you is now dead.”

She looked at me, genuine panic in her face. “But you’re talking to me! You see me!”

I smiled at her. “Who, me? I don’t believe in you.” I turned on my heel and walked back down the hill.

When I got to my car, a policeman stopped me. “Excuse me, sir. But I have to find witnesses. Did you see what happened?”

“No,” I said. “It was well over and done when I arrived.”

“Didn’t I see you up that hill there talking to somebody? Could they have been a witness?”

I looked up at the empty hillside.“My apologies, officer, but you must be mistaken. I haven’t spoken to a living soul since I got here."

(Title graphic is labeled for noncommercial use with modification. Original artwork can be found here.) 

Halloween Gift #1 - Timely Revenge

Security Interview Transcript
Date: Monday, August 12, 2019
Time: 14:25
Subject: Dean Tevis, Engineer

"You say I killed Drew Carlson and my wife, Lisette, but I'd like to see you prove it. As far as we both know, they probably died peacefully in their sleep ... together. Exactly the way they wanted it.

"And what is Zeus Corporation going to do about it? There can't be a public trial, you know. The miniverse is a military secret, all hush-hush. Can't let that get out now can we with all our government contracts and everything, right?

"So, since none of us can get about our real work until you have the story, here it is.

"Can I have a cigarette? Thanks.

"You fellows brought me into the Genesis Project two years ago. By that time, you already had created a miniverse in that magnetic jar. Man, I wish I had been part of that. To rip a tear in our space/time continuum and create a tiny universe of our very own and all of it contained in a space that to our perspective is the size of a pea. Quantum physics rocks, doesn’t it? And then not only to have power over it all, but create a portal where we can go anywhere you want inside a universe of your own creation? To control its time flow and make it zip ahead twenty thousand years in less than a millisecond.

"I love how it makes me feel like God.

"By the way, how many universes has the Corporation created and destroyed before this one? I can see you either don't know or you can't tell me. No sweat, but I’d love to know. Does it ever make you wonder if our own universe is somebody's experiment? Gives me the willies to think about it, but let's not go there.

"Anyway, I came into the project with my wife, Lisette. I can't believe that I spent all that cash helping her get a doctorate in exobiology and here you guys actually gave her an opportunity to use that worthless degree. Knowing Lisette, I thought the money would have been better spent on basket weaving classes.

"But, Lisette and me? We were happy, emphasis of course on the past tense. I helped control your private little cosmos and she got to go inside and study all those weird little aliens you all evolved in there.

"But I couldn't go in with her. I had to stay out here with the engineering staff and help baby-sit an entire universe while she's in there looking at who-knows-what.

"And she's in there with Drew Carlson. Mister I-Got-Muscles-Instead-Of-Brains and he's in there with my wife and I find out he's doing a lot more than just studying your pets. He's in there making moves on my wife and they think I'm stupid and don't know.

"For pity's sake, man, I'm a freaking engineer! I hack computers in my sleep. Did she really think I wouldn't see the e-mails they were sending each other on their office computers?

"So they want to be together? No sweat. I waited two months until it was just them and them alone on an exploration trip. They go through the Portal to some backwater planet you guys had already seeded with Earth life and when nobody was looking, I aged the entire miniverse ninety thousand years in just a few seconds.

"With Drew and Lisette trapped inside it.

"I already heard the Corporation found the planet filled with little furry imbeciles with hints of Drew's  and Lisette's DNA. I guess inbreeding does do in the old sentience genes eventually, but hey, Warren and my wife got to be together, right? They even got the opportunity to raise a little family.

"Anyway, look at the bright side. If I hadn't showed you Security guys a dangerous loophole in the system, you wouldn't have those new safeguards in place. You should thank me.

"Anyway, a planet full of furry little freaks is pretty evident to me that Drew and Lisette lived a long time, so technically, I didn't kill 'em and you can't put me on trial and I'm too valuable for the project, so I'll just head back to work, okay?"

Concluding Report:

The Zeus Corporation has judged Engineer Dean Tevis unfit for further employment. He has been summarily fired and exiled alone to Earth VII, Shallivarden System in the Cathuria Sector and the entire miniverse time flow accelerated by two hundred years.

This case is considered closed.

(Title graphic is in the public domain and is labeled for noncommercial use with modification)

Question for Numismatists with Experience in Chinese Coins

 

Last weekend I was delighted to pick up a beautiful coin from the Western Han Dynasty. Called a whu zhu or 5 zhu coin, the above is quite a nice specimen.

Notice the crescent mark below the open square. Also, called a half moon or fingernail mark, according to my research, the symbol marks the coin as one of the earlier minted coins, but I could be wrong. If anybody reading this has any knowledge of ancient Chinese coins or could forward this entry to somebody who might know, I would be grateful for any insight as to its approximate age and what purpose, if any, the crescent symbol may have represented as not all whu zhu coins are marked.

Please respond in the comments section or you may email me at magic.by.alan AT gmail DOT com.

Thanks!

Shrine War Has Been Accepted For Publication!

This morning I received some of the best news an author could receive:

Dear Alan;

Congratulations! Your story, "The Shrine War," has been chosen for publication in FurPlanet Productions' The Dogs of War.

Actually, FurPlanet's goal was 120,000 to 150,000 words. We got almost 40 stories and 300,000 words. So FurPlanet has decided to accept all the stories and to publish two anthologies, one in January and one later in the year. Your story will be published now.

Best wishes;
Fred Patten

The Shrine War took 116 days to research, write and revise and it was a labor of love. I'm delighted beyond words that Fred accepted my work and that it will be shared with the world. Thanks to everybody who walked this path of creation with me on this blog.

I especially want to thank Emily Parke Chase, Kathy McQuaig, John Walker, and Eric Hinkle for their editing help.

Discussing Cthulhu At Capclave 2016

From LEFT to RIGHT: Darrell Schweitzer, Tim Powers, A.C. Wise, and some other dude

Capclave 2016 is now a pleasant memory and I had the pleasure of moderating two panels this year:

An Animal World discussed the roles of animals, both normal and anthropomorphic, in genre literature and included such luminaries as Mike McPhail, Bernie Mojzes (pronounced "Moses"), Michelle D. Sonnier, and Lawrence M. Schoen (pronounced "Shown"). All of them have impressive publishing credentials.

However, the highlight for me was moderating Sunday morning's panel Cthulhu Wants You! For Breakfast! with some of the biggest names in the field:

Darrell Schweitzer churns out novels and anthologies in the field of Lovecraftian horror and other Mythos work like you and I sneeze. And when he drops the big names known in Lovecraftia, he isn't being grandiose. He knows them all. His Facebook account is here.

If you don't know Tim Powers, you are missing one of the best writers in the fantasy genre of secret histories. A true gentleman, he is erudite and knowledgeable and the amount of research he puts into his books before he puts hand to keyboard is astounding. His best known work in the field of Lovecraftian horror is Descent, a Cold War espionage thriller involving Kim Philby, djinn, and the Ark on Mount Ararat.

A. C. Wise is a prolific author and her short fiction has appeared in publications such as Clarkesworld, Apex, Shimmer, and the Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror 2015. Her latest journey into Mythos territory is her short story, When the Stitches Come Undone in Ellen Datlow's anthology, Children of Lovecraft.

So how does a hack like me best known for dark fantasy romances with a body count get to moderate a panel with such notable masters of the craft?

Well, let me tell you. Listen carefully 'cause I'll only tell you once:

You get on your hands and knees and you beg and weep and plead and sob and wail until they let you have the gig simply because you're being an embarrassment. 

But, hey! It works!

PS: My own foray into experimenting with Lovecraftian horror is my collection, Dark Dreams and Darker Visions. It is presently available as an eBook, but a reedited Kindle version will be coming out soon.

Dark Dreams and Darker Visions paperback (Amazon US)

Dark Dreams and Darker Visions paperback (Amazon UK)

Dark Dreams and Darker Visions paperback (Amazon Canada)

Dark Dreams and Darker Visions eBook (Amazon Australia)

Also, of interest, might be my chapbook Come Into My Cellar: Darker Tales From A Cerebral Vault, only available for the Kindle Reader also available from Amazon.

Books Arrived For Capclave!

Books arrived for sale at Capclave!

And don't forget my public reading of The Shrine War at 4 PM in the Bethesda Room!