This is just to say that we’ve taken down the signs we had around the Mother Vines because they weren’t working. Neither were the fences, which we’re also no longer maintaining.
Going forward, let everyone in the village know that if they want to be hugged tightly by a plant that will whisper to them that everything is going to be all right– despite the teeth at the root ball and despite all of our ignored warnings– it’s okay. We won’t try to stop you.
It’ll be all right.
Just selling a few things that are starting to clutter the ol’ hut. Make an offer.
The Mask of Trees – Helps you blend in with trees, make friends with trees, seduce a tree’s tree-wife.
The Mask of Illusion – Makes you think you can look like anyone, but that’s an illusion. You look like an idiot in a mask that’s got no eye holes.
A pile of masks – I forget what these do. Probably cursed.
Even more masks – You know what? I thought I had a problem with clutter but I think it’s just these masks, reproducing. Rubbing their fake faces together and breeding.
Come get a mask. Cheap.
If you’re looking for inspiration, you could do worse than emulate the Teeth of the Bog. I mean, if I’m composed of mud and hunger, the last thing I’d want to do is, you know, get out there.
But every day, they’re hustling, taking travelers who’ve gone astray, ignored or willfully overlooked all the signs I put up that say MUD and TEETH, hauling the travelers to the bottom of slick pits to start the long, tedious process of making more Bog Teeth.
You don’t need self-help books, you just need to watch these gross creatures work. From a safe distance.
The Signal: EP140 – For your ears and the rest of you, 45 minutes of music aligned according the whims of one individual, unchecked by society, alone and unceasing. If you’re brave enough to listen, you’ll face beats from computers of some sort, as well as rock ‘n roll from Spain, Peru, Algeria, and the world of surf music. Jazzy sounds and a movie theater’s answering machine. A series of delights and wonders. Do you dare? Do you?
Look into your heart and be judged.
Download by clicking on the link (or image) above. The file is available only for a limited time. If you’re interested in the tracklist, it’s in the mp3 itself, in the id3 tags. Or, if you sign up to be a member of our mailing list, The Tuned In, you’ll be among the first on the planet to know when a new mix is posted, and you’ll get a permanent archive link and the entire playlist, delivered to your inbox.
It’s Thursday and we all know what it’s Thursday and Thursday and we all know what that all what it’s means.
It means the week is Thursday and almost over and we all know what that haven’t fixed what the time-stuttering Thursday yet and we all know what that means.
That means.
It happens, even to the best of us. You’re out, minding your own business, and before you know it, a cackling weirdo in a robe is stuck to you. Can’t peel ’em off. “This is my life now,” you think, already adjusting, and then some oddball wielding a twisty stick and talking to a crow adheres to your legs and slows you down.
You’ve got witches.
We’ve been there. First thing you have to know: Don’t swat them. Makes ’em mad.
Wait for nightfall and step outside. They’ll peel off and go looking for dark secrets on their own.
+ – Why did you do that? – catdad88
What? I can’t read your comment because of all the wasps. And the paper. And the spit-glue. Also, my thoughts have been replaced with the hum of industry so language feels increasingly distant, like a dream I once had.
All the other kids will forget.
The 90 kids will cling to each other. What makes them unique among a sea of blank faces?
As they become 90 adults, some of them will break and claim they too don’t remember, claim the amnesia peculiar to the rest of their generation.
We cannot blame them. Memory is a burden.
Learn from our mistakes: Flower golems are a terrible idea.
We thought it’d be simple: a little blood, some petals, a bit of chanting and you’ve got a garden that can move and talk.
Instead: Visibility is terrible as the pollen fog collects in drifts. I am so covered in pollen I look like a bee’s hind legs. Children are producing so much mucus in their sleep they need to be chipped free from their beds in the morning.
And still, the golems won’t stop making out.
lost time incident 69
Greetings from the land of rain-flecked windows. Greetings from the home of hot coffee in a memento mori/Dia de los Muertos mug. Life here is good. We have time to sit on a couch, listening to haunting ambient humming sounds streaming to us from parts unknown wirelessly (recommended via email from a UK author) while updating drivers on this computer in an attempt to find out why audio keeps glitching, as if the processor can’t keep up, as if this laptop wasn’t of recent vintage.
This is today’s biggest problem. This is not a problem. There’s rain outside the window and no war. There’s food and running water here. We’re in the season for a giving of thanks. We have a lot to be thankful for.
And I’d be even more thankful if this damn computer would play music properly.
Hey there, friend! Haven’t written to you in a while. Since you last had one of these show up in your inbox, I had a book come out. Well, technically, it’s a novella-length, I think, and insofar as “book” describes a technology, maybe I should say I had a “story” come out, made available for purchase, under a pseudonym.
The story is called MICROWAVE COVEN and its genre categories are “HORROR” and “APPLIANCE”. It’s the dumbest story I could manage to write and I laughed out loud at my own stupidity a few times while writing it, so I hope you’ll dig it. It’s about a sorority full of witches. Also: a haunted microwave.
This is the second story I’ve had published by the folks at Horrible Vacuum under the George G.G. George pseudonym. The previous story, SWAP MEAT, came out a year ago.
I should probably put something out under my own name next. I mean… I do have another George G.G. George idea as well. But as you may or may not know, while I was working on MICROWAVE COVEN, I was also writing micro-fiction on a site called witches.town, where I had registered because it was thematically appropriate.
Witches.town is a Mastodon instance, which means it’s a micro-blogging platform that shares its posts into a network of other websites that also run the Mastodon platform. It’s like Twitter, but spread across many websites instead of a single Nazi-infested one, each with its own volunteer admin. I’ve been thinking that I might be able to get a book project out of the material I’ve posted there… a sort of “best of witches.town” project. So… having a ponder about that.
Anyway, here’s some more that I originally published on witches.town:
millennials are killing the harvest god Industry
Unlike those of us born in the late 900s, this generation born circa the year 1000 refuses to choose from among their number an individual to be thrown into a pit, covered in pine, and left as a sacrifice to the harvest gods.
“My cousin died in a pit when I was a youth,” says Bedg, “and we had the sweetest yams the next year.”
“Times change,” says Wim. “We were born in a year with 4 digits. I don’t see how getting tossed in a pit affects the yield at all.”
Several nights of storms indicate the gods’ displeasure, but we’ll update as news is available.
varieties of ghosts
Blue Humbugs – Noted for their pallor, their lack of interest in answering questions, and are moving away from you as the universe expands
Howling Jerries – Technically the loudest of spirits, but you still need to get your ear or spirit horn right up to their mouths to hear them, and you’ll only find out they have opinions. Avoid.
Big Doof – Under my bed and come out, the big doof.
Fingy Glows – They touch y ou in the da rk wif dey FINGIES and you g et so scared you can’t t ype
elderly exchange
It’s Wednesday and we all know what that means! Time to take your elderly down to the village square for the weekly Elder Exchange. Swap out the wrinkled creature who’s been parked by your fire pit all week for a new one that’s slightly different shaped, but will at least have new complaints and may tell new stories. Every bit of lore we know was passed down from these valued elder relatives, so get down there and haggle for the best ones before they’re gone! Wednesdays!
A bit of friendly advice: Don’t trade for the following:
Mushroom-Eyed Ada – She’s all the time talking about how much she can now see since she swapped her eyes for mushrooms. Gross.
Mr. Lump – No one knows his real name, but there’s an old guy under those rags somewhere. Doesn’t talk. Smells a bit. Very active at night.
Dannica Hazelfountain – Only remembers one spell and it turns food into smoke. Only useful if you don’t eat, or if you breathe smoke comfortably. Good way to meet the village fire patrol, though.
well pennies
Please stop tossing pennies into the well. The spirit of the well doesn’t need pennies to grant your wishes. The spirit needs a ladder. It wants to crawl out of the well, dripping with goodwill, grinning with wet teeth, ready to assist young lovers and lonely widows with its wish-granting, moist fingertips.
No more pennies. Can’t eat any more pennies. Only ladder. A ladder in the dark.
ending theme song
So there’s that! The rainy morning has drifted seamlessly into a rainy afternoon and it’s time to get this thing out the door.
Hope you’re staying dry. Hope you’re doing well. Hope this packet of nonsense arrived as a welcome visitor in your inbox.
—Michael Van Vleet
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