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From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm-OBLITERATE-SPAM!@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Journey to Sxtlan (purple, ped)
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Date: Mon, 14 May 2007 06:10:01 -0400
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  WARNING !! XXX DANGER XXX !! HAZARD !! XXX WARNING !!

  This document is intended for the perusal of mature
  readers ONLY.  Those lacking in literary competence may
  find themselves in the disturbing situation of needing to
  reach for a dictionary, or (heaven forbid) a thesaurus.
  If you do not know what a thesaurus is, please inquire of
  your local neighborhood girl scout.

  If you have never read H.P.Lovecraft, you will find
  yourself a bit lost at first, but don't worry: sex will
  ensue shortly.


  To more fully enjoy this story in living, breathing HTML,
  please visit our website at:
 
    http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/vivian/www

  Now offering over 170,000 words of pure prurience!

  --------------------------------------------------------


 

                            Journey to Sxtlan

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

   It is only with great reluctance that I dare reveal the
   outlandish details of the twisted and bizarre tale that it has
   fallen to me to tell, a warped and dusty decayed cobweb whose lot
   it has befallen me to spin, whose devilish outlines only the most
   credulous and tolerant reader, one with the most active
   imagination, who is willing to suspend all but the most tenuous
   laws of science and reality as we know it, and allow the tortuous
   turnings of the crazed narrative embedded in the mad scrawlings
   of my own notes, writings that I barely remember scribbling
   through the grotesque state to which my mind had been reduced by
   the series of events, the fantastical babblings brought on by
   fantastical occurrences no doubt induced in part by powerful
   hallucinogens, but notwithstanding other such factors, the
   particulars of which, should they become known, would shake to
   the very core the delicate foundations of knowledge upon which
   modern scientific scholarship, as well as cosmological and
   evolutionary theories have been based.

   The facts set out herein only hint at a thin echo of the terrible
   rantings one may encounter in that horrible infamous tome, The
   Sexronomicon, in which one will find the crazed ravings of the
   mad Arab, Haz-al-Otto Harems. Yet, as incredible, nay
   unbelievable, as such things may be, I cannot but set in words
   the recounting, if only as a warning, an etiquette of hazard
   audaciously plastered on the door of the church, a signpost to
   alert the unwary, "Proceed only at your own peril," though no
   doubt the terrible meanderings will turn back all but the most
   heady traveler, for even within the tale itself do the gentle
   tendrils of enticement surround and entwine the heedless
   adventurer, until before one knows it, one has become hopelessly
   entangled in the sticky, perilous vines of poisoned
   prognostication, only to tumble helplessly into the depths of the
   most terrible darkness.

   Brave and daring reader, you have been warned. Your chance to
   turn back will soon fade. Indeed, would you be well advised to
   return now, to set aside this recounting of such an awful tangle
   of dreadful occurrences, while still you are able to recover the
   blissful and innocent brilliance of the daytime sun as might be
   pleasantly enjoyed by the average gentle person, one yet
   unacquainted with such knotted and decadent wanderings into the
   realm of irrevertible shadowy confusion, one who, with the
   unknowing bluster, perhaps of youth or some other folly, still
   might believe in the impossibility of becoming irretrievably
   bewildered solely from the product of fancy and intellection, who
   could still conceive a state from which one could recover the
   semblance of normality, one happily unbruised by the chilling
   titanic danger lurking beneath the seemingly harmless visible
   fragment of the alphabetical iceberg, bereft of any inkling of
   the terrible maze lying as a sinkhole beneath the thin appearance
   of verbal symbols, believing blithely the impossibility that one
   find oneself hopelessly bewildered and alien from the mere
   sentences of a tale such as as might shatter all remnants of
   sanity, leaving only bare thin threads of logic and reason in
   their wake.

   It was such a state of youthful folly indeed, in which I found
   myself partaking carelessly the fruits of abandon, perched so
   precariously as I was atop the ivory tower of scholarly
   contemplation, properly matriculated and enrolled in a tidy
   schedule of studies in an erudite and worthy institution of
   higher learning as might befit a youth of my intellectual stature
   and curiosity. For the sake of those who might be indiscreetly
   intruded by the eager fact-seeker, the name of the institution of
   which I speak will remain shrouded in concealment.

   We may refer to it simply as "Miskatonic." But let us just say
   that it was a lesser known academy, but nonetheless of
   significant repute, nestled in the placid country setting of a
   small town, sufficiently distant from the rough-and-tumble
   currents of coarse civilisation, yet not bereft of cultural
   events such as might be provided by the earnest performances of
   fellow students arduously engaged in polishing such hoary
   classics as might benefit embarkation on a career in music or
   theatrics, in the theatre or auditorium situated along two edges
   of the rectangular courtyard surrounded by Roman-style pillars,
   bordering the plaza within which dwelt the sinister yet seemingly
   random tile mosaic in black and white.

   Had I fathomed the depths to which I could fall from such a sheer
   height at which I found myself, perhaps I would not have strayed
   so close to the edge.

   Yet, it was precisely to that edge that I found myself drawn. It
   was the vertigo itself that served as an inescapable lure.

   Often I was accompanied in such ventures by my friend and
   companion Clifford, my friend whose name led to much hilarity
   from his compatriots. As, in contradiction to the image one might
   get from the popular series of small black and yellow books found
   on wire racks in University bookstores, he seldom took notes at
   all, and was often found in lecture classes without so much as a
   scrap of paper. He had a broad and expansive personality, with an
   uncanny ability to recall every detail of an hours-long lecture.
   Likewise, when he sat down to write, he would type entirely from
   memory. This ritual was generally preceeded by a period of
   several hours during which he sat silently in front of the
   typewriter, visualizing the shape and texture of the ideas and
   vocabulary spread across each page that would emerge.

   It was one evening when we found ourselves lounging together in
   the twilight on the steps overlooking the quad, in that very
   magical moment during which the worlds of light and dark exchange
   places, the sky all lit with the indescribable pinkish orange of
   sunset.

   "It's an edge just like this one that one might fall into the gap
   between our reality and the next," he said, sipping his wine.

   I laughed. "Do you suppose? Would it work the same way if I
   turned out the light in my room? I could make it flicker, just to
   enhance the occurrences of such gaps."

   He looked at me with great solemnity, as if my words had trod
   profanely over some grand honorable truth. He held up his glass
   of wine. "Do you ever wonder whether this brew of fermented
   grapes, the waste product of yeast, might be leading us astray.
   Might be deadening our minds instead of awakening them?"

   "Yeast shit," I jested. "I don't know. Let me try." I chugged the
   whole rest of my glass, and enjoyed the always-surprising rush of
   euphoria. "Gee," I said. "I can't tell if it's leading me astray
   or not. My mind is too deadened from the brew of grapes."

   "I have met a medicine woman," he continued solemnly. Two girls
   strolled in a diagonal across the lawn, chattering and laughing
   at some frivolity. I did not know their names, but found myself
   noticing their shapely beauty, the toss of their long hair, the
   pale shades of skin revealed by low-cut blouses, the mysterious
   shadows within their cleavage, the full roundness of their
   breasts, the delicious hint of young nipples pressed against taut
   fabric. They saw me noticing, I'm sure, and acknowledged as they
   often seem to do by smiling with more silliness and studiously
   ignoring me as they strolled on by.

   "The old woman gave me these," said Clifford quietly, opening his
   hand to reveal several round cactii, vaguely resembling giant
   tweed coat buttons, each having the appearance of a collection of
   tiny shriveled little green mammaries.

   My eyes widened. "Are those. . .?"

   He nodded seriously. "The sacred medicine of expanding
   consciousness, of true awareness. That seed of rebellion
   forbidden by the fascistic governmental authorities, who would
   not want us to uncover the Key to the Secrets of Reality and
   Beyond."

   "Peyote," I whispered.

   "We'll meet in twenty four hours on this spot," he said. "We each
   must be entirely sober. And once we have consumed the sacramental
   bread of knowledge, accompanied by a glass of the essential
   purity of sparkling spring water, we must each venture out on our
   own journey, guided by our own spirit." His bass voice emanated
   from the bowels of a darkness whose magnetic pull of gravity
   portended the termination of all academically light-hearted
   inanities to which I was accustomed, to which I might become
   alien once acquainted with the velvety black secrets of true
   reality.

   "Groovy," I said, lighting up a joint, and punching the `play'
   button on my portable cassette player, settling back into the
   sensuous distorted guitar of Jimi Hendrix. What a delightful
   device! Which delivered music on demand at any time and place.
   Such was my enjoyment of it that I could scarcely imagine life
   without.

   Cliff threw me a glance of sordid disdain as I handed him the
   smoking missile of smouldering herbal escape, starry comets of
   intense psychedelic energy flying from the glowing red ember. His
   brief flaming glare made me smile only more.

   Reminiscent, no doubt, of the time when we had been strolling
   along the garden mall of the small local downtown area, I lost in
   the heavy metal musical wanderings served to me through the
   ingenious device of headphones, allowing me to ignore all
   auditory stimulii around me by playing as the soundtrack to the
   movie in which I found myself an actor, when Cliff tugged at my
   sleeve, urging me to stop. Curious as to what focal point of
   attention had drawn his gaze, I discovered a bearded wanderer in
   a threadbare black suit situated neatly on a small wooden stool,
   striking with decorative mallets in the shape of the small letter
   `d' at an odd instrument with sets of metal strings stretched
   sideways across it.

   Impatiently, I had pulled out a single earpiece to hear what
   Cliff had to say. "What is it?" I demanded.

   It was at that moment that he had shot me the first of the sordid
   glances I would come to understand as his annoyance at my
   constant addiction to the earphone-delivered musical world of
   portable stereophonic cassette music.

   "Would you turn off the damn tape player and listen to the human
   being in front of you, creating beautiful harmonies through the
   sole effort of living spirit and the desire for artistic
   expression?"

   Still with my music blaring in one ear, I asked: "What do you
   call that weird thing he's playing, anyway?"

   "A hammered dulcimer," came the reply. "Would you shut off your
   damn machine and listen?"

   I considered deeply, for maybe a half a millisecond. "Can't
   interrupt `The Wind Cries Mary,'" I shrugged, popping the missing
   earpiece back in. He said something more, but I replied "I can't
   hear you!" and he soon gave up. Nonetheless, he made me stand
   there for about fifteen minutes watching this doofy guy playing
   some weird instrument, and I could even hear it through the
   headphones, ruining the silence of the breaks between songs.

   Back in the wine-drenched fading twilight, I watched Cliff
   looking away, stoically putting up with my headphone-and-rotting-
   grape-induced reverie. Honestly, the guy could learn to lighten
   up now and then.
     ____________________________________________________________

   And so it was that, the next evening, and ice-cold sober, aside
   from the rushing onset of nefarious hallucinogenic machinations,
   I found myself alone in the hellish blue late-night light of the
   full moon, listening to the disturbingly loud din of crickets
   gaily chirruping, studying the seemingly random black-and-white
   patterns in the rectangular tile mosaic in the quadrangle between
   theatre and auditorium, seeing colors where none had ever been
   seen before. It was to this seemingly meaningless pattern that I
   had now found myself drawn.

   This was the edge, whose vertigo worked at my subconscious
   yearnings with the tantalizing lure of the perilous unknown. To
   stare into the bottomless abyss beyond, as we often would from
   time to time, lying on the topmost platform at the edge of the
   spiral stairwell, safely secure from falling, but exploring the
   inescapable yet irrational human sense of vertigo, head thrust
   between the balusters, contemplating the endless tumble into the
   depths of a world which light had never seen.

   Frantically, importunately I pored over the mysterious tilework,
   and wondered what sinister poltergeist messages one might
   encounter in the frigid crashing snow of this semblance of a
   frozen and abandoned television set, with black and white
   molecules dancing in seemingly random patterns between the
   colorful particles of sparkling drug-induced nerve decay, as my
   mind reeled alarmingly out of control from the intensely damaging
   chemistry of synaptic solvents.

   Nervously trying to calm down, I fumbled clumsily with matches in
   the nearly imperceptible breeze, finally striking up sufficient
   flame to ignite a fatly rolled hashish-laced indica joint of
   which I inhaled deeply the relaxingly soothing dense intoxicating
   vapors.

   It was at that moment that the young girl, who must have been but
   a mere seven years old, came sprinting and somersaulting across
   the courtyard, leaving colorful swirling tracers and trailers in
   her wake as she tumbled and spun dancing in an erratic zigzag
   diagonal across my field of vision.

  _______________________________________________________


  For more stories, please visit our site:
    http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/vivian/www



  

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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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