Silvia Moreno-Garcia - Future Lovecraft

I reach for Jason’s hand, squeeze fingers as chill as ice.

“The world is ending.” Jason’s breath is rapid, wine hot.

I nod, lean close. Our faces almost touch. He understands what’s coming and he wants me to save myself because I once saved him. I could refuse his gift, but I don’t. My heart beats, cracks, and salty water rushes in.

“It’s already ended,” Jason says.

“So, fuck me.” I pull him close, bite down hard on a kiss. I taste cheap wine and blood.

It would be mercy to say I slid into oblivion, but I felt every minute. I tasted every drop of sweat. I cherished every tear, cradled it on my tongue. After, Jason slept. I drank half the remaining bottle of wine, and threw the rest into the trashcan—a spray of glass, a gout of flame, the horse’s soft whinny turning into a scream of fear.

The fire traced wings on my back.

And I flew.

Dizzy, I grip the edge of the bar. “Your mother paid me a lot of money.” I force the words out through clenched teeth.

Marco’s image doubles, sways. I see other eyes, reflecting flame—eyes so pale they would pick up the colour of whatever was around them, flaming gold like the setting sun, or silver like the rising moon. River-coloured eyes; rain-coloured eyes. Jason’s eyes, weeping love.

I swam in marble corridors, in drowned-green canals. I tried to let tentacles steal the best of me, the rest of me. It wasn’t enough. My sin kept me safe; it kept me whole.

“Your mother…,” I try again.

“It doesn’t matter.” Marco shakes his head.

The ghosted memory of a smoky voice, tasting of bitter chocolate, threads the air and fades away. Scratchy hay presses a pattern of almost-words into my skin. I hold a blind man as he sobs. Shadow tendrils touch the deepest part of me, stripping my bones clean, taking everything except what matters.

I could cash in. I could make the biggest paycheck of my life. I could keep running and test the theory that the future is infinite. Or I could stay this time. I could burn.

Marco’s gaze meets mine. Flames reflect between us. Inside the flames, impossible angles rise dripping from the canals. An eerie, piping song needles me with remembrance. Stars draw blood from my skin. Marco lays his hands, palms up, on the bar—an invitation.

Ragged-nailed hands grip a microphone, cup a glass heart. Palms slicked with blood drop eyeballs near a drain.

There are many possible futures; I see them all in Marco’s eyes. Two charred corpses decorate the remains of Josie’s restaurant, one in front of the bar and one behind. One charred corpse sits slumped against the bar. An empty, charred husk of a bar dies alone, with no one to witness its end.

It will come down to a battle of wills, my will to survive against Marco’s will to die. I know what I gave up to survive; what did he give up to run? Which matters more?

My scars itch and stretch tight across my back, shaping wings. Wings for flight, or wings for salvation? Maybe this time they’ll stay stitched beneath my skin, folded tight around my body like loving arms.

My wings have always been there; the stars have always been right. R’leyh rose everywhere, everywhen . I have always been what I am now. I have always survived.

For the moment, I take Marco’s hands. And together, we watch Venice burn.

Anthony Boulangeris a French author living in Paris. He writes most often about the dark paths of Fantasy, but also makes frequent excursions into Space Opera. Among his favourite subjects, you can find birds (which come in many forms, with a marked preference for the Phoenix) and maledictions. Among his favourite authors, Tolkien, Glen Cook, Roland Wagner, Orson Scott Card, and Mathieu Gaborit occupy the top spots! You can join him on his blog (anthony-khellendros.blogspot.com), his Facebook page, or by email: mithrilas@wanadoo.fr.

THE GROUP WAS one of the most heterogenous that Philips had ever led into the Providence basilica: some Asians, ears already glued to their guide; some Europeans, apparently wondering what they were doing there; and some American compatriots. Among all these people, how many came only because the building is listed on the tourist routes?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Philips began, “welcome to the Most Holy Church of Our-Lady-of-Lothlorien. The initial structure was first constructed in 254 Before Tolkien by a pagan community. The conversion to the Saint’s cult dates to the fifth century.”

The young guide did not turn toward his group. He refused to contemplate the children who preferred to play on their portable consoles, rather than look at the glass windows representing the creations of the Master-God, or the parents trying to masticate popcorn in this sacrosanct place.

“The planned visit passes by the catacombs, in which you will be able to see a letter from Tolkien to his son, Saint Christopher the Messiah. But first, I draw your attention to the papal altar. Sculpted from a single block of white marble, it is decorated with gold veins of flowers and of niphredil of Seredon. But the magnificence of this altar is assuredly nothing in comparison to the Chapel of the Holy Trinity, where there are services every day from 18:00 hours to 22:00 hours, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

In hing his sentence, the young man knelt on one knee on the ground and put his hand to his head. But what am I doing?

Delaying for one last moment, he put his hand on his heart, then on his mouth. Behind him, only three other people took the trouble to make the sign of the Saint-Eru Illúvatar. Philips remained in this position for several minutes, masking behind his pious attitude the fear inside him. He had been inattentive several moments; he had almost made the evil Sign: the head for Madness and Horror, the lungs for Tuberculosis, and again to the head for Suicide.

If the Inquisitor is in the basilica, or is viewing the screens right now, I risk a maximum…It will be necessary that I do the change in prayers tonight…Perhaps volunteer myself for the lecture on Saint Silmarillion. Pardon me, you of whom I carry one of the Holy Names.

Philips stood up. Behind his back, sighs more insistent than usual made it clear to the guide that he was falling behind schedule. People like those he was leading today did not like to be late. This happened to be a peak hour for fast foods….

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now going to make a tour around the side bordering the nave. You can see here the portraits of the different saints, from Saint Gemmel to Saint Bradley. You can also….”

He was stuck in automatic mode. Another hour and a few specks of minutes before the end of the tour, then another four hours of prayer before leaving this place. Philips was eager—oh, how eager—to return home. Once there, he shut himself in what he called his “chapel” and began preparing himself. This night was indeed one of the biggest nights of the year for the Shadow Cult, in which the Inquisitors of Tolkien ruthlessly pursued him….

“Before the Necronomicon , today we call you. In the Name of the Madness and the Horror of our Father Lovecraft, who leads us and destroys us. In the name of the Decline and Misfortune of his Son Smith, who heard and read the Holy Words of The Father. In the Name of the Duplicity of the Corrupt Spirit Howard. We call you, you Great Old Ones: Cthulhu, Chtuga, Yig, Glaaki, Chaugnar Faugn, and Y’Golonac.”

Philips was in trance. In a few moments, his group would take over the litany, the prayer to the Outer Gods. On this night of the 15th of March in the year 655, seven centuries after the death of the Father, the faithful ones of the Shadow Cult reunited in the city of Providence.