With Apologies to Mr. Lovecraft

…and another thing, Fatima. If that cat shits in my shoes one more time I’m boiling him alive. I don’t care that he was a gift from your brother, I’m…what? No, don’t write this down!

–Abdul Alhazred
Pages excised from the Al Azif

Beyond a veil whose rifting would rend us asunder lies an abyssal plane of every atavistic nightmare known to man. I’m talking about really sick shit. It’s so vast and horrible I can’t really give a physical description, which kinda saves on nouns. From this ethereal horror, we turn to Simon Danford, just your average WASP-y Brown undergraduate. Danford had no idea what he was in for when he checked out that book of Arcane Magicks…which, I mean, come on. Arcane Magicks? Walked right into that one.

Simon Danford climbed the long, vista-laden path to his Gothic architectural home, tiptoeing past the scary brown people who had the nerve to rub their non-Anglophonic languages and cultures in his face, up to his student apartment. There, he kicked aside the hot plate and plunged into the tome. Long did he shudder at all the vaguely-described horror, icy were the chills going up his spine, full was his bladder. Each successive page filled him with a building terror until he reached the most accursed page.

There, after the grocery list someone had left in as a bookmark, he saw the most unholy of creatures in a hideous woodcut probably made from pine. The crude arrangement of limbs and eyes looked like God had reached into the reject box of evolution to decorate his hangover cupcakes. Simon vomited neatly in a nearby mug and kept reading for some reason. He read that this unholy terror, whose name had more consonants than a Russian stripper, could only be summoned by a complex mathematical equation, with imaginary numbers and all that jazz. Luckily he had never made it past Algebra 2, and thought himself safe. The fool! The foolish fool!

That night as he slept he dreamt that he wept and crept along a seaside ruint that seethed like an egg in a microwave, but there was no Brillo pad big enough to contain the baked-in horror of the rocks! For there, crouched in the ruins, was that monster oh too hideous to describe, but let’s try it anyway.

Simon took one look at that hideous, loathsome, rugose, tumescent, fermented, squamous, incandescent, ferrous, begrimed, venomous, feculent, diseased, boorish, uncouth, malodorous, rakish, eldritch, slatternly, salacious, titillating, unctuous, repellant, millipedal, hydroponic, suggestive, heinous creature and screamed himself awake.

Lo, did he sigh to see the sea from his apartment window, but O! The horror when he found his hands stained with chalk and, upon the cheap fiberboard they’d installed under the Berber he found those selfsame marking from his dream! The poor lad screamed so hard he fell into a faint, and, recovering from that faint, he fell into another faint, for who was before him but that selfsame creature from his dream, not the one with the dog wearing lipstick but the crazy evil one! And he passed out and peed himself and when he came to the monster was gone and we as a reader aren’t sure whether the monster was real or if it was just a product of his malaise. And that’s good writing, right there. It’s like that one Roman Polanski movie, the one before the one with Jack Nicholson. R-something. Revenge? No, damnit, this is going to bug me.

I tell you all of this, for I AM THAT BOY!

…wait, crap, did I tell you he had an illegitimate child? And the curse, did I get to that? Aw, hell, I don’t have time to rewrite this, I’m being stalked by a being of unimaginable horror and—yes, yes I’m getting to that—he keeps reading over my shoulder and making a general nuisance of himself. What? No, that juice is for Travis. No we don’t have any bacon, would you just sit down and stop getting into stuff? I’m trying to fulfill my writerly compunction to put down every possible word until you drag me off to some unknown horror. No, we don’t have cable…I don’t care that Wings is on, we can’t afford…well, you can just pay the hundred-dollar hookup fee then, I have to eat…no, we can’t ask Travis, technically I’m not even on the lease, you’re gonna get me in—wait, don’t shake that


These papers were found buried under the sediment of cat dander and coffee stains in the writer’s student apartment. The floor was all chalky and the police found a red substance on these papers, forensic testing proved it to be jam.


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