Sunday, June 21, 2009

Fictognostic: The Lie

It might have been a small one: oh, my train was delayed, sorry, so sorry, I'll be there in an hour.

It might have been a heavier one: I can't make it to your wedding, I'm afraid, because we'll be in Hawaii that time - meeting the family, yes, only once a decade - sorry, but it's already booked, I'm sorry...

It may have been a huge one: Fucking your best friend? That's ridiculous! Why would I even think about having sex with him? You.. you're so fucking insecure!

They are all pieces of fiction passed hastily as items of fact: lies.

Fictognostics, those who seek Truth through Lies, are created in this manner. No one knows entirely what distinguishes one lie from another - some believe it to be astrological in nature, others are positive that it's just the universe trying to draw fictosorcerers together, most are unsure or have wilder theories - but it is one lie, the Lie, that makes a Fictognostic Qabal.

The funny thing is, most of the time the Fictognostics aren't even part of the lie. Say, for example, that Samantha is fucking Nicholas while she engaged to Mark. Mark, naturally, doesn't know, and Samantha doesn't exactly want to tell him. When this secret is exposed - and the really powerful, really bent ones always are - things happen. Samantha 'not' fucking Nicholas is the Lie.

Nicholas's brother, Daniel, is drawn in. Mark's ex-girlfriend, Suzanne, is as well. Samantha's best friend, Michelle, may as well be thrown in, and so is Mark's best friend, Troy. Troy, Michelle, Daniel, Suzanne: four individuals that have nothing to do with the Lie but are all linked through association.

One by one, they disappear from the world. The fiction gobbles them up. Their Fictognostic abilities are still freshly awakened, still raw; they manipulate fiction and fact through instinct and intuition instead of practice and discipline. They might lose their jobs; they might alienate their family; they might be committed to a sanitarium; they might vanish altogether. They have stopped being real.

While they are gone... they see worlds, impossible worlds, worlds that they control. They see with the true eyes, with eyes that can pierce the occult shroud that surrounds the world. They can discriminate and fabricate.. they are lost in illusion. This process might take months; it usually takes two to five years.

Assuming they aren't killed or sucked into horrible fantasy-places for eternity, they will return together. They will have seen and met each other in fiction, while they have projected their spirits into the world of fiction, and they will return as friends and allies: as a Qabal.

When they return, their initiation complete, they will escape their bonds. They will typically cut off whatever remaining ties they have to family and friends, and they will move in together, work together, fight together. They will have set up their sacred space, their alters, where they will work and live most of their lives.

Most Fictognostics will never leave their Qabal. They might go rogue, become solo practitioners, but they will never be accepted into another group. Qabal's are too personal for that.

They will have formed a Qabal - a group of two to six Fictognostics - and created a Lodge, the house where a Qabal is kept. The Lodge might, in time, join a Temple (a collection of Lodges), but this isn't a step most Lodges are prepared to take so quickly.

The Qabal will have greater things to worry about than Temples and the like, to begin with. They'll be busy exploring their new found powers and building their worlds. Unfortunately, all too soon their Shadow Lodge will form, and then the real struggle will begin..

Thursday, June 18, 2009

My Passion

(Taken from Miss Twist's perfect site, which you can find here, asking us to tell you about our passions without actually saying what it is. I doubt I can top Twist's, but I'll give it a shot anyways.)

Cold fingers on a colder keyboard.

Force and fire; silence and strength.

The white void laughs mockingly.

I laugh back. Tap tap tap. I laugh, and blackness takes the void.

The words come and go, but the page remains the same.

Cold outside, but the fire within is warmth enough.

The destruction of the blank page is satisfying, but knowing that I have destroyed it, and destroyed it well, is electric.

I kill it with a sword of words.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Enochia Lost I


(The first chapter for 2007's Nanowrimo entry. If people like it, or can even fathom it, I'll add more. I'd just finished reading Illuminatus! for the very first time, and a thousand bizarre ideas were buzzing around in my head, all at once. Out of twenty-two chapters, fourteen are finished, and only eight of them might ever see the light of day. A lot of this stuff would later be integrated into my second attempt at a novel, The Secret Vocab of Secret Melbourne. Enjoy having your head fucked a hundred different ways, even if it is only for the bad writing alone.)

(I stole a lot from the Illuminatus books, naturally. The entirety of this first chapter seems to be based on a single, weak premise: that when JK Rowling called Lord Voldemort 'He Who Must Not Be Named' she was really evoking the forces of Hastur, everyone's favourite Lovecraftian King in Yellow.)

(Bad writing: the way my mind deals with writing blocks. When I can't work on a project I usually just zoom off and write about UFO cults and Lovecraftian monsters and mix it all up, just to free my creative impulses.)



The Adversary Wears Yellow


I stare casually through the dim smoke, and as I stare it hits me; he knows, or he will know. He doesn’t know me, of course, but I know him; his name is Gerard Dorne. His mother is an accountant and his father owns a small bakery in East Brunswick. Gerard grew up a happy, curious child – he successfully passed his end of year exams last year, and is only now deciding what it is he actually wants to do with himself.

He sometimes feels attracted to men, and he knows his Irish mother would disown him if she knew. He subscribes to several pornography websites, and this costs him roughly a third of his monthly wages – he works part-time as a telemarketer.

Gerard doesn’t tell his friends he works as a telemarketer. He tells them he’s in multimedia and web design.

He’s drinking a light beer, and I know that he will soon need to excuse himself. I know his mates will pretend to be sad for him – but deep down they won’t really care. But, some do care for the boy; his mother will be driven to suicide, and his ex-girlfriend – no, current girlfriend – will name her child after him. Gerard won’t know she’s pregnant until he’s dead.

I don’t want to kill him; but it’s not like I have a real choice. The alternatives are much, much worse.

A while ago – a long, long, long while ago, before the advent of man and the discovery of fire, in a time before Atlantis, when the astral-currents ebbing from Enochia was all that could keep Earth’s feeble cycle of life from dying out, they came. They weren’t from our world, or even our universe, and came from a time that was perhaps a step to the left of ours – though many would argue it to be a step to the right. They were time-travelers, which isn’t really that new or rare now, but at the time it was pretty amazing; the Great Race of Yith was what they had called themselves, the title ‘Great’ referring to their then-dominance of the time-stream.

They came fleeing an ancient enemy, and as they entered our solar system they smiled. The great southern continent had enough energy for them; they would be able to set up a few bases around Enochia, perhaps dominating the primitive apes that inhabited our Earth. The Yithians traveled quickly and silently, but as they passed several people couldn’t help but notice them.

One of the lucky few to be able to watch the Yithian migration unto our planet, I was also at Woodstock, and also watching Gerard, and also having sex with what might or might not be a Martian. All of this happened almost simultaneously, but I’d had sex with a great deal of strange things in my time, I’d been to Woodstock almost two hundred times, and while the Yithian migration was pretty groovy, with all their lights and lasers and fire, it didn’t have the same affect on me as the now.

Gerard didn’t need to die, but I couldn’t exactly let him live, you know? It really didn’t work like that – well, I hoped it didn’t.

Jack sat down on one of the pub’s flimsy wooden stools – it was a nice day, so they’d decided to talk outside - and looked down at the picture – yeah, it wasn’t photo-shopped or anything. Karin looked that good.

“It’s a conspiracy,” he muttered, and the gorgeous brunette opposite of him tilted her head questioningly.

“What’s the matter, uh, Edgley?” Karin hadn’t been properly introduced with the man she had to partner up with, and he seemed a little aloof – but that just made him more attractive. He had a strange cuteness that Karin just wanted to gobble up; but that wouldn’t be professional, now, would it?

Jack looked at her, a small grin setting on his rugged face. “Well… they know I’m a married man. Why would they partner me up with the most attractive lady on the Force?”

Karin grinned. This was going to be fun.




John Dee opened up his cottage door, glaring at his new visitor – Edward Kelley, rival magician and master of the esoteric arts. Using that fallacy that can be called time, roughly two hundred and fifty years later Nikola Tesla did the same, opening the door to Thomas Edison. It is difficult to describe who was more troubled at the visit of their rival; both John and Nokola seemed pretty upset.

“What in the blazes do you want, you thieving bastard?” both the magician and the electrician snarled, their insults bouncing through time and space.

“Why, I just wanted to warn you,” the Edison-Kelley creature replied, “To stop researching into the Enochia – something disastrous might just come your way.”

It was a thinly veiled threat, and both Dee and Tesla shuddered. Edison was an incredibly powerful man, Kelley a prestigious sorcerer. The conversation ended in two separate ways.

“Both Vril and Freedom Energy will ruin the world, Tesla. Let the Vril-ya stay beneath the world, where the Vril-ya belong. Let their elixir, their energy, be forgotten to man. I beg of you.”

“Enochia belongs to me, Dee. The angels have said so. Our blessed Queen has said so. God wants it to be. I beg of you; let this not come to blows.”

It gets a hell of a lot more complicated when you throw in Aleister Crowley and Samuel Mathers, two occultists that fought around a hundred years after Edison and Tesla had their dispute. Suffice to say, this sort of dispute over Enochia happens often.

To prove my point, lets look at your present time; 2007. Crowl – who may or may not be the direct reincarnation of Crowley, but just to be safe let’s assume that he is – controls the Australian Government, which is not a good thing by the way you’d reckon it. He isn’t the Prime Minister, but instead the current leader of the Illuminated Seers of Bavaria, better known as the Illuminati. He isn’t evil, and he isn’t chaotic. He cannot truthfully be defined.

Crowl controls the Australian government, and is a lizardman. Or, if you prefer, a ‘reptilian’. He’d also answer to ‘Vulcanite’, or, ‘True Son of Vulcan’. He isn’t quite from this world, but his magic is; it has to be. The lizard magic died out a long time ago.

Crowl’s threatening Harold Crafte - who might or might not be the reincarnation of a certain pulp horror writer, but to be safe let’s assume he is – and Crafte is most certainly not part of the Illuminati.

(To be clear, he isn’t an Atlantean or an Alien or part of the New World Order. He isn’t an Anarchist, or a Discordian, or a terrorist; he isn’t from Mu, from Mars, from Mercury, Venus, or the Grand Halls of Vril. He is human, but he is also a pretty damn good magician.)

Crowl told Craft to back off, that Enochia will never belong to him – and he can stop trying and just disband his worthless band of rebels and dreamers. Craft likes the word, ‘Dreamer’, and wonders why he hadn’t thought of it before. It seemed so obvious; they work with the Dreamtime, so isn’t it natural they be called Dreamers?

Craft thanks Crowl, and ignores his threat, replacing it with one of his own: “Enochia is already mine. The Law of Fives pretty much sums it all up for you; by 2012 I will be the most powerful magician on this Earth, and humanity will own its birthright at last. It will no longer belong to the snakes that rule this planet. Poverty and wars will not own this planet. We’re going to mass-illuminate.”

Crowl, in his anger, orders the death of a hundred and fifty homeless people, just as Craft is whistling to himself – and I am watching Gerard, just as Jack and Karin are flirting. Jack now has a beer in one hand, the case in another.

“So… uh… Richard, right?” he asked himself. “Richard Sales. Editor, writer, journo; the whole thing. Runs The Sun is Black-“

“The Sun is Black?” Karin asks. “What the hell does that even mean? What sort of magazine is it?”

“Uh… looks like one of those occult types, the ones that search up UFO’s and the like. A leftist magazine. Half porn, half conspiracy crap. You know the drill. Our friend Rick has disappeared, and his offices have been firebombed.”


“Nothing. This wasn’t a fraud. Stop being so cynical, Kannin!”

Kannin? I raised an eyebrow just as I felt Gerard’s bladder slowly filling. They already have pet names for each other? His wife doesn’t have a hope in hell. What’s it supposed to mean, anyway? Cannon?

Ah. Gerard got up. I knew it wasn’t to get more drinks. I probably could have waited in the toilet, but I like the peaceful atmosphere this pub seems to give off. Nice atmosphere for thinking. As I think, I swallow bile; what am I going to do? I’m going to do what I’ve always done. What I’ve had to done. I was running Australia once, before it all got too much, and now I’m running Australia’s occult underground.

I wonder how Crafte’s doing. He’s fine; I check. Gerard enters the toilet. I should probably end it now, before it all gets too much for the kid. Maybe - perhaps. He doesn’t know he’ll know, but he knows that he shouldn’t know what he’s about to know; he’s been feeling uneasy all night.




Jack’s looking through the file now. Karin hasn’t noticed; she’s quietly fantasizing about her police-officer partner. She doesn’t have a boyfriend – or a girlfriend. He does, a wife – and two kids! She knows it’s wrong, but…

“Hey, Karin, look at this. We’ve got issues of The Sun is Black … as well as bank records from that Rick Sales person. He transferred several million into a private Swiss account we can’t check out. Does HAROLD CRAFT mean anything to you?”

“Huh? What? No…” Karin wasn’t ready for stimulating conversation. Jack ignored her vagueness, took a sip of his beer.

“Yeah. Well, how a writer that had declared bankruptcy twice could gain that much cash is beyond. We’ve also got a whole list of his memos for next weeks – his team was working on a book of some sort. The Sun is Black: And So Are Our Moons.”

Karin wasn’t listening – Jack had to repeat her name a few times to get her attention, and then repeated his findings to her. She pretends to be interested. “Uh, great. So what is the book about?”

“Well, you’ll certainly laugh,” ah, there’s Jack’s boyish grin again. “Aliens, Atlantis, the Lost Cities of Australia, Lizardmen… secret occult wars… Satanism…” Jack finished with a shrug. “Typical tabloid bullshit, if you ask me.”

“Memo’s, right? That sounds kind of familiar. There’s this book I read, a long time ago… in the late eighties, I suppose…”

“A book? What was it like? Not this kind of thing, right?”

“Not, uh, really. Well, kind of. Called… uh… Illuminatia or Illuminatus or something. Two bloke cops find that this left-wing magazine’s headquarters have been firebombed, and the editor has disappeared. That’s pretty funny, eh?”

“Yeah, or whoever’s writing this novel is pretty unoriginal. Show me the memo, then.”

They both laugh at their little silly joke, like two unsuspecting and naïve dear about to be shot by the wary hunter. I am that hunter – Gerard has now entered the restrooms, and has one of the dingy cubicle’s all to himself… I hold my breath, as I hear him sharply exhale. He has it. I look at my hands, and turn the door to dust…

He doesn’t realize. The poor bastard doesn’t really care anymore. He’s added it all up, he knows the secrets, and nothing is a mystery any more. I blame myself, and Crowl. I had nothing to do with it, but… if only I could stop him. If I could stop him from visiting the restroom without getting myself shot, or something, then it would all be okay…

But, in the grand scheme of things, he is nothing. Less than a drop in that colossal lake we call time.




I’ve done this a few times in the past, but I still have to gather the willpower to end a human life. I give everything else a shot, but I know I’m running out of time; once they’ve changed, it’s only a matter of time before Crowl gets them. The shitbag magician is a cocky one, though – and I use that to my advantage. More time.

Hah, more time.

I can see Dee now. Even though it is late, John is awake, preparing the ritual. This has gone on long enough; Kelly is a slippery one, and as soon as he is dealt with the better. The magic circle – pardon, sigil – has been prepared, the candles and incense has been lit, and the rock salt and fresh herbs are scattered in all the right places. John has the sword in his hands, and it is a great large thing, the epitome of all phallic imagery. He has the cup, but though it isn’t the Holy Grail it serves the same dark purpose.

The Angels speak to him. He knows this. When he was a small boy, the enchanter had come to the village. Before being cast out for reasons still mysterious to John, the enchanter had told him a few things. Told him of a great city… of a great city in the clouds. Enochia! He called it, and the language the angels speak is called Enochian… he explained it all, explaining how magic works with Enochia, and how it all fits together… how Enochia belongs to humanity, and everyone should visit it before they die, lest their souls burn forever in hell… it was a pilgrimage, the most sacred of them all...

John Dee later came to conclude that the enchanter had, himself, been a guiding angel, instructed to teach and inspire the young magician. Tesla had the same kind of experience; he’d grown up with only his father in the small industrial village he’d called home, when a wandering spiritualist came for a visit. He was a tall, dark man, strangely clothed. He talked to Tesla quite often, having become close acquaintances with Tesla’s father, and loved to tell the young boy all about spirits, God, the Devil… it all seemed kind of boring to the youthful Nikola, and he only really got involved when the science was mentioned.


ENOCHIA (En•oh•key•ah)
Tesla = Science
Dee = Séance


Enochia! It’s more than just a city. It’s a dream, it’s the dream. Atlantis, Mu, Danaan, Brigadoon, Lothowsow, Hyperborea, R’lyeh… it’s all just a pale reflection of Enochia. They exist, of course, but only in the way humanity both exists and doesn’t exist; trapped within time, nothing more than white specks of ash in a galaxy full of white specks of dust – we’re nothing, unnoticeable.

This is what I try to teach. Lovecraft was right. I am Lovecraft. I am also Harold Holte. This isn’t my story, really. It’s the story of the battle for the Great City, a battle for illumination and free enlightenment; it’s about the repressive government and the repressed psyche of the mind. It probably won’t make much sense to those of you who are trapped (prior 2012: most of you).

It doesn’t make much sense to me, but it made a lot of sense to Tesla. “Enochia,” said the nameless spiritualist “Is more than just a word. I speak to the dead; you have seen me, heard my talent. I help them move on. But there’s more than that. My power comes from Enochia, the secret city found on Australia’s strange shores. All true power does. Life came from Enochia; it could be said that Enochia is God’s Place. Many mortals can tap it, drawing on remarkable amounts of creativity and spirit; magicians do the same. But it’s not all just silly metaphysics. I know that’s not what a bright young lad like you wants.”

The man was most certainly crazy, Tesla thought, but his father liked the man – and it was respectful to at least listen to him for a short while. The spiritualist stopped talking about the dead, and angels, and started talking about the good stuff; “Now, boy, know this, for it is the secret that runs your theorems and your theories; all the “Secret Cities” exist, simply by the act of people searching for them; this is the Enochian effect. Magic works – and science, and metaphysics too - because we want it, and believe in it, and the City provides. All the best things and worse things in this world come from Enochia, and you should visit it if you can – but you probably can’t. Those who visit, they gain the strangest of manifestations…”

He spoke about the pilgrimage for a small while, and then; “Now, now, you ask – where is that science I promised? Well, it is here, and now. The world is round, flat, and slanted in a thousand different dimensions. Metaphysically, the world is round; natural cycles, everything going in circles; our globe is also technically round. But, to be completely honest, the world is more flat than anything; it all revolves, as a disc we cannot perceive, around Enochia. Everything is a shadow of the One True City. It is the only true poly-dimensional place on Earth. Now, Earth is also spiked because time is always spiked, and even though many who can walk through time believe it to be a simple illusion, that theory is simply another illusion… all time is one immaterial landscape…”

Boredom struck young Tesla again. The man was slowly getting more interesting, but his head seemed to be full of the most inane fiction. It picked up a bit later, however. “But, let me tell you this; there is an Earth below – the Hollow Earth, if you will – and it is a place of fiction, believe me you. There, the pulps rule, dinosaurs rule – banished by their cold, humanoid cousins - and as human creativity seeps deep into the Earth it is manifested by the lower depths of the Enochia. There is also an Earth above, a world of reason and intellect, and that is an even more terrifying place… the Vril-ya are the humans who live below are my point. You say you’re interested in science – more than that – in electricity? I can give you that. The Vril-ya are strange, pure white-skinned blue-eyed people, who brew an elixir called Vril, from which they are named… it both acts as an amplification to the natural abilities of humanity, such as strength and lifespan, as well as casting aside the lies and shadows above… it might be relevant to you, however, for the sole reason that if the right converter is built, Vril can be transmuted into a type of super energy, easily reused and incredibly potent…”

Tesla learned from this man from that point on, and slowly learnt that not all the spiritualist had been saying was a lie; the spiritualist organized a small expedition into the Hollow Earth, so they could study Vril, and it ended in tragedy… only Tesla and that estranged German boy, half Tesla’s age, had gotten out with their lives, and the very experience drove them both mad… but Dee was already mad. He knew he had to beat Kelly, because he knew that if he didn’t Kelly would have him killed…

As John Dee incanted the specifics for the ritual, the angels came and bade him not to do it. They had always spoken to him, but never to Kelly; no, Kelly was just jealous. The angels belonged to Dee, and he was going to summon the greatest one of them all. Dee’s esoteric mutterings didn’t go unnoticed by the entity, however, and neither did Tesla’s ranting and pseudo-incanting; Tesla screamed, clawed, fought as he tried to perfect the stabilizer. He worshipped an angel of his own; the angel of Reason, and it needed to be served… he wanted the Freedom Energy, and he didn’t care… he didn’t care what that strange youth was doing… Hitler? Yes, that was his name. Who cares who he’s killed, this damned reactor won’t work!

But I said there was a hundred years difference. So what? So what! I also said Vril increased a human’s natural lifespan… and at that point Tesla was pretty damn hooked on the juice… he was close to two hundred years old, and didn’t even notice…
“No!” Aleister Crowley snarled. It was 1948, and a depressingly wet day in New York. “You cannot beat me. All the legions of Hell stand behind me, ready to do my bidding; all the angels of Heaven stand afore me, ready to heed my call.”

Samuel Mathers, Crowley’s eternal enemy – and leader of the incredibly influential occult society The Golden Dawn – replied coldly, “Oh, but they all belong to me.”
Both Crowley and Mathers went to their luxurious manors – the headquarters of The Templi Orientis and The Golden Dawn, respectively – and started to invoke He Who Could Not Be Named. Two secretive societies were going to war and the Freemasons weren’t even involved!

Well, not yet, anyway.

You know, after all of this, I still tried talking to Gerard Dorne. “Man, come on, get up,” I kicked him softly. I had a minute and twenty three seconds…


23! It all fits!


…Before some one else was going to wander into the bathroom.
I kicked George Dorne a few times, and checked the scribbles on the cubicle wall. I know all the smutty comments and scribbles were there, but when I looked all I saw was –


Numerology was getting to me – I saw not the equation, but its answer. Hell, it had already gotten to Dorne. I tried talking some more sense it to him, but my words would only come out in fives; “Wake up, you’re just dreaming”, “Jesus, man, wake up, please!”, “You aren’t really that sick”, “Don’t you feel utterly free?”, “Oh fuck oh fuck … fuck!”

The Law of Fives. Once you realize that everything with mystical and spiritual connotations in the cosmos adds up to twenty three, everything material adds up to seventeen… and it all adds up to Fives… you’re trapped. The process usually takes a pretty rough trip to learn – or a successful First Pilgrimage to Enochia – but it can be forced on someone via subliminal brainwashing.




That’s what happened to poor Gerard. Crowl, the utter prick, did this to him; if he can breed those who have been truly awakened to the world, illuminated, he can abduct them and use them to power those deadly machines of his…

I couldn’t let him win. Gerard wasn’t ready for this information; it was too subtle. No mere human on our little planet Earth could have sussed out that the sexual innuendo, call-girl numbers, and random engravings on the right side of each toilet block, once given a numerological value, gives the mathematical construct of the universe.

Of course, you can’t usually figure that until you’re ready. Dorne wasn’t ready. I placed my hand on his skull, felt the psychic pressure within him build, and pressed hard…

All that was left was dust. Poor guy had aged a few thousand years. Trying to stumble away, I threw up onto the fine sand – all that remained of the late Gerard Dorne. Personalized time travel is a total fucking bitch, let me tell you… the prescience alone is enough to give you a permanent migraine…though Dee had a migraine for a different reason entirely. He was finally doing it, about to open the Yellow Seal; summoning HIM to the material world… he felt the power gather…

Kelly, who was hiding inside of John’s spacious closet, felt terror lurch through his spine. What was the fool doing? What was he trying to accomplish? Why? Why would you even bother to summon He Who is Not To Be Named?


No, not Voldemort. Not yet, anyway.
Stay the fuck away from my holy book, Rowling.


Kelly didn’t have the strength to stop Dee. He contemplated committing suicide, but was too scared for that as well. He knew that HE wasn’t an angel. He was the greatest magician after all, but he couldn’t believe he’d driven Dee to these lengths.

“GREAT HASTUR!” Dee screamed to the heavens, and they replied in turn with a silent symphony of their own macabre devising. “YELLOW HASTUR!” he screamed again, to Hell, and they replied with their constant screeches, sounds eschewing torture and mutilation…

UNSPEAKABLE HASTUR! Earth itself shuddered beneath the weight of the Unincantable Incantation, replying with its eternal screams…

(“Ah, so that’s what caused global warming!” Al Gore said menacingly.)

UNKNOWABLE HASTUR! Atlantis sinks, again, Mu disappears, again, and Brigadoon takes a thousand homeless Irish with it, again, in an unknowable effort to ward the Earth…

ASSATUR! XASTUR! KAIWAN! Enochia smiles. It doesn’t care. Hastur can’t beat it; it is the machine that makes Earth work…

Hastur comes, and he Comes In Yellow. Dee, Kelly, and Dee’s wife and two children see Hastur in all his glory, not even trying to resist as they die in an unquenchable fire. Dee had asked for Hastur to kill Kelly; Hastur obeyed.

Remember, in those times the term, “Be careful what you wish for”, didn’t exist.




Ambrose Bierce smiles wickedly as he writes his next grand masterpiece. (It is 1893.) It is called Haïta the Shepard, and it will slowly reveal Hastur the world. It will strengthen his place in this world; create a new renaissance – a time of Painting, of Poetry, of Writing. A great age - the millennia of creativity, where Art will dominate all, when magic overcomes science once again…

Ambrose didn’t know about Enochia. He knew about black Elder Gods. All he wanted was the best for mankind, which was, funnily enough, his image of the future. That is usually a very, very, bad thing for mankind.

What Ambrose didn’t realize is that the story was not, as your modern occultists (uh… occultists in 2007) would call it, a hypersigil; it was not going to supercharge the creativity and collectively illuminate a large portion of the world.

Ambrose knew how to write; besides knowing how to be a complete and utter bastard; that was pretty much it. He didn’t know anything about the occult, and his theory was flawed. Instead of using Hastur to create a hypersigil – which he didn’t have enough talent to do regardless – Hastur was using Ambrose to bring his dark influence closer to Enochia, the closest thing that could be called a rival for the Elder God.

That was bad. Suffice to say, Ambrose brought the disease to Earth; by creating Hastur, he allowed Dee to summon it three hundred years from that point back. The epidemic then started to spread.

(If that made no sense, uh, can I just repeat that time is an illusion? If that’s too hard to grasp – and it might be, because time isn’t really an illusion – think of it as a huge oval, with all the points in history scattered around. You can move freely between one point to another, and something that happens can affect everything around it. Ambrose created Hastur, but Hastur was already alive within his soul; effectively, Ambrose was a rookie magician who fucked up and damned all of mankind. More on that later – I’m sure you’re getting bored.)

Ambrose Bierce disappeared in 1914. I’m sure you can gather why…




“Get out of the house, Nikola. None of us want to see you hurt,” Edison was being remarkably patient; but this was necessary. He needed to be patient to get the most out of his rival’s demise; they were going to kill poor Tesla regardless. He had a group of fifteen of the government’s best men with him, each armed with rifles.

There was no reply, so they kicked the door down. They found Tesla dead, a strange sign carved unto his chest – it was as if three question marks had joined at the dot, and it was strangely disquieting. Poor old Nikola had probably sliced himself up in one of his frequent psychotic episodes.

Edison took the strange Vril-converter, and smiled to himself. He was also drinking steady amounts of Vril – what brilliant scientist wasn’t these days – and he couldn’t stop grinning at the chance to sell this to Hitler. Hitler needed it to fund his Last Reich, his Thousand Year Dictatorship, and Edison didn’t mind if he supplied that.

Edison had seen the Vril-ya. He knew they Aryans were the Master Race; this much was obvious. They could create Vril! Now, they’d have to supply Edison safe passage to the Hollow World, as Herr Fuhrer had promised. He needed to study the Vril-ya more, to know their secrets… and while it was dangerous trying to escape the Underworld; it should be safe when you’re actually down there…

(Yes. The history books have been lying to you. Time has been acting funny these past thousand years, you know…)

As long as Edison could get below before the war will begin, he should be safe. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

Adolf finally got the machine, but was a bit sad to hear of Tesla’s death. It had to be done, but… well, when he remember their expedition together, it brought back tears of nostalgia… that was the year when he finally found what he was looking for… the Master Race, the Vril-ya…

The converter didn’t work. It didn’t do anything. Hitler was furious; he belted Eva, had Edison killed, and started the war prematurely – against his own mystical advice, given to him by the Karotechia, that secret Nazi sect – which he ultimately lost.

The human sacrifice to Hastur was incredible. The machine wasn’t anything but a dark alter to the Yellow God, and HE reveled in HIS trick. More than ten million sacrificed was more than enough to add another point to the score…




(There was once a sickly young horror writer living in the early 1920’s. Now, he is known as the modern father of horror – and he was also known for his cosmic writing and magnificent imagination. This man was directly influenced by Bierce, and has influenced millions more; his name is Howard Phillips Lovecraft. He has been reincarnated, maybe.

He wasn’t that great a writer. His dialogue was terrible, and his prose was structured in a way that could make readers weep. His brilliance in the field of imagination, however, was unparalleled – that, plus he was one of the very few Enochian-Sensitive Espers - there are only 23 born each century; only five of them truly had enough power to directly manipulate their abilities.

It was H.P. Lovecraft that first dreamt of the Yithians – those time-traveling immigrants whose tale I have not yet told – and who first chronicled their plight. He believed it all to be fiction; none of it to be true. That man could not separate fact that had existed naturally from fact created by him. He didn’t create the Yithians, only spread their word.

However, he also detailed the ancient Australian city of Pnakotus – the Library-City of the Great Race of Yith. It is the only legendary/secret/underground city not to be created as a shadow of Enochia – but simply created to study it. The Yithians had their own Great True City.

The point I am trying to make, however, is that many who have read H.P. Lovecraft’s tales might believe it was he who invented Hastur. That isn’t true. He romanticized the Elder God, and many believe wrongly.

Truly, Lovecraft did not write enough about Hastur to cause an invocation – however, he did invoke/create many other dark gods, most notably Cthulhu. Since Lovecraft didn’t really do anything new, it doesn’t really count, which is a little disappointing.)


Crowley had his magic stripped from him, and was forced to fade into obscurity; he was lucky Hastur liked the old magus, or it would have been his life taken. Mathers, his ancient rival, just collapsed one day – and didn’t get up.

Hastur ruins those who use the magic given by Enochia, which is in essence all earthly magic. Crowley lost all fame, all reputation, all his abilities… being a notably stubborn man, he didn’t kill himself – but many others in that position would. He died happy, knowing that he’d defeated Mathers. Magic wasn’t important to him; it was the illumination it gave him that was the kicker.




So; we’ve jumped around a bit in space and time. I’m stumbling around blindly now, and surmise that I should have just poisoned the poor kid or something. It takes a lot of energy to hyper-decompose something, and while it’s great for leaving no evidence and being silent, that sort of personalized shift takes a toll on the body. Before I wanted off into the wet Melbourne streets, I make sure that Dorne’s girlfriend and family has an obscenely large amount of money in their accounts.

After the call, I look outside; it’s raining, and Jack and Karin are starting to move inside the very same pub. They eat dinner together; Jack ignores all the calls from his worried wife, and is only faintly surprised when he ends up sleeping with Karin.

Such is life, he laments. He has no idea that the Dreamers have manipulated this event to their satisfaction; we feel bad for his wife, but hell – this is a war!


Rowling examines her finance sheets, grinning madly at her bank account totals. In twenty short years, her empire had grown from almost nothing to selling the most popular children’s novel ever. She’s writing the eighth Harry Potter novel now, hoping to surprise her readers when she resurrects You-Know-Who.

Ah, but that’s exactly what she’s doing; all these books being sold, bearing Hastur’s pseudonym (He Who Must Not Be Named, etc.) have finally gathered enough power to invoke him. She doesn’t know that, of course; by definition, the occult is a secretive Art, and all she thinks she is doing is drawing on power from ambiguously mystical sources to sell her book. It’s much easier to charm your novels to make them incredibly desirable that actually working to get them published (especially if you’re a half-rate unimaginative hack) – and after so many knock backs from the publishers, she thought a little bit of magic couldn’t hurt.

Well, it was a lot of magic, but no one seemed to notice – or care. If there was one thing powerful enough to fuel a spell that strong, it was her thirst for the United Kingdom Pound. Ah, how she loved the smell of money…

Miss Rowling kept grinning, like a skull. What should I do next? What can I do with Book Eight? She wondered. Throw in another few sentences without verbs? No one notices them anyway, thanks to the magic. Why don’t I make Dumbledore gay, bring him back from the dead, and have the older wizard molest Harry? And then… what if… what if Harry enjoys it, and Hermione gets jealous? Hell, I pretty much gave it away in the Seventh Book when Harry tried to find ‘The Elder Wand’…

Ah, so many choices. If only the Christians really knew how much she advocated witchcraft. If only the ravenous fan fiction community could imagine what she had in mind…

Giggling, she decided to tell all the children that Dumbledore was gay at her signing tomorrow. That’d be good for a laugh; and sales would boom…

Unwittingly, that one act pushed it over the edge –




So, to make it clear to your readers, this is what happened; this is why Hastur is about to devour the Earth. A simple idea map will make it a bit more obvious, if you remember that five is the primal number that governs the universe.


1. AMBROSE BIERCE – Created Hastur
2. JOHN DEE – Invoked Hastur for the first time/Human sacrifice
3. NIKOLA TESLA – Caused a mass human-sacrifice in Hastur’s name
4. ALEISTER CROWLEY – Gave up his magic to Hastur/Human Sacrifice
5. JK ROWLING – Spread the NAME of Hastur to the almost everybody in the known world


Hastur has finally been invoked enough times to bring a direct manifestation of his will unto this Earth. That’s not good – this means that he is finally in the perfect position to destroy Enochia. Give him five years, and everything will be in place. He’ll be able to contend for Enochia’s power, after all these years… she may have created him, but that is all, he will replace her…

And mankind will belong to him.

Jack wakes up next to Karin. He feels a few small twangs of guilt for what he’s done, but it’s not like it was anything different with the hookers, anyway. And Karin is hot, he reminded himself. And his wife had been rather chunky ever since the first child.

Fuck her. As I walked down La Trobe Street, catching the tram back to our underground compound, I grimaced. This was the first Trip, of sorts, and it wasn’t the most pleasant of all the highs I’ve experienced.



Sunday, June 14, 2009

Ideapad - June 15th 09

(Ideapad: Where the ideas go)


Blogs that I haven't written yet - I might one day write for it, or I might not - that everyone except myself can access, and read. They probably think I was the one who gave them the link to the blog. Maybe I write for the blog on a regular basis but can't ever remember doing it. Is something erasing my memories? Am I repressing my memories? Is it something else?

Very eerie, that's for sure.

Source: Speaking with Shea/Twist about my blogs, and her mentioning one I confusingly thought was from a sinister parallel dimension

Drabble: Goodbye, Dog

(Drabble: A hundred-word short story)

Goodbye, Dog

The webcam flickered on. I waited. Nothing happened. This was not unusual.

I left. Goodbye, wife. Goodbye, kids. Goodbye, dog.

I returned, twelve hours later, to the sight of the dog. Hello, dog. The webcam flickered on. The dog whimpered. The dog left the room. I watched the footage.

Walking on two legs. While we were out. I was at work, the kids at school, the wife at tennis; the dog walked on two legs, read my emails. A dog can’t read, I thought. A dog can’t walk.

I knew it had been reading my emails. Now I had proof.

The Universe as Seen by the Fictognostic Cults


1. THE LOCKED CHEST. This is the deepest level of the metaphysical universe according to the Fictognostics. This is heaven and hell. This is God. This is where all the secrets of science and mysticism are held; of immortality, the cure for ills; of the true nature of the universe, or if there even is one; of the perfect mathematics that will one day replace all language.

Souls are locked here. After they have separated from the Story, and passed through the Universal Consciousness and the Dream Eternal, they enter the locked chest and become one with the core of the cosmos. This is why speed in all acts of necromancy is important, and why Fictognostics may often be resurrected years after their death: the weightier the soul, the faster it will fall and the less it will see as it plummets. What happens after souls enter the Chest are unknown, but there are many theories.

Humanity cannot enter the First Realm unless they are dead; breaking the lock destroys any chance of them returning alive. Fictoalchemy is the art, philosophy and science of fusing a living, human body with the Locked Chest. It is never successful. It has often been theorized that the perfect fictional character, perfected through from the Fictognostic Plane to the Locked Chest, may be able to pierce it; this is ultimate goal of all Fictognostic practices.

2. The Universal Consciousness.

When the Locked Chest opens, and humanity learns more about science/religion/philosophy/morality/etc., this is where that information is stored. This is where the very few 'objective facts' of reality that we have found are kept, such as the Principle of Sympathetics. All information humanity has ever had (as opposed to all information it will ever have) is kept here.

The landscape itself is often termed as being 'cold'; a collection of numbers, hard images, and objective outlines. Those fictions not based in perfection will be blasted to oblivion here. Human projections so close to the Chest often find that they've lost their ego, their personality, whatever makes them them... and often suffocate under the weight of their own nonexistence.

Souls travel through here from the Real, often learning as they go.

3. The Dream Eternal.

The Dream Eternal is where all the non-objective facts that humanity has ever learned are kept. Here a soul learns the answers to everything it has ever wondered; whether or not they are true, they instill a sense of ease within a soul. A Christian will learn that Christ is the saviour and God exists and that he/she is going to heaven; a Fictognostic will learn in turn that the Fictognostic model of the cosmos is correct, and that they are finally learning all of the secrets within the Locked Chest.

This is called the Dream Eternal not because it holds all of the world's stories - that the role of the Deepest Lake - but instead because it holds the sympathetic truth behind all of these stories. Here is where all the highly precognitive dreams are kept; those dreams that mirror the future, or eerily shadow the past, or offer maddening advice for the present.

If fictional characters make it to the Real before being blasted, they are often treated within the Dream Eternal; the heavy truths kept within make it a perfect place for a wounded character to rest and heal their injuries. There is a risk, though, that they might base themselves too heavily fact and either refuse to reenter the harrowing Real - which is common - or that they will sink and be blasted in the Universal consciousness.

4. The Real.

The Real, while considerably less real than the Lower Spheres, is still the only plane that living humans can naturally exist in. It is the world of here and now. It is Malkuth, the physical reflection of both the Locked Chest and the Last Depths. Here an individual is born - a fusing of his Story and his Soul, both which will part on the individual's death.

The Real is undoubtedly the most important sphere of existence for the Fictognostics. While they practice and dwell mostly in the Fictognostic Plane, and their ultimate goal revolves around manipulation of the Locked Chest, all of it is so that they can use their practices in the real world. Ultimately, it's not about what you find or learn in the other planes - it's about what you bring back.

Therein lies the trouble. The Fictognostic cabals have wildly varying views and philosophies on what, exactly, bettering the world through Fictognosis actually is. This is what they fight over: to reshape the world in their own, individually perfect image. Fictional characters, with enough effort and work, can exist in the Real; these are the agents that the Fictognostics pit against one another.

Knowledge of the Babilu Shards allows for imperfect fictions to exist on the Real. Howling, broken character-spirits from the Goetic grimoires may be summoned. Power words may be constructed and used to enchant people and artifacts. 'Real' information about rival Fictognostics may be fictionalized completely and destroyed, often killing the rival in question. Many other things may be accomplished, such as fictosynchronicity waves and the ever-popular 'storyreading': the art of reading minds.

5. The Deepest Lake.

The Deepest Lake: the pool of all of the stories, myths and legends, irrelevant of context or facts. Here they evolve and exist, pale reflections of humanity, and it is here where most Stories end up, too weak to travel any further.

Untrained necromancers often find that they've summoned the 'spirit' of an individual to the Real; this is usually just a personal Story from the Deepest Lake. They are incredibly easy to dredge up, but have only a limited reflection of the personality and character of their living counterpart.

Most people find everything they want in the Deepest Lake. Just the fact that they want it is enough for it to exist there. But the Lake isn't modifiable, and that is why it is next to useless for the Fictognostic. It just doesn't stick. If you create, it will soon just sink back into the lake. The easiest way to kill an enemy, using Fictognostic methods, is to bring the Story of, say, a speeding truck from the Lake and let it hit your enemy. The downside of this is that if the work is shoddy, or the Fictognostic's concentration is shot, the truck might just disappear before anything happens. The less conventional method and ultimately more reliable tactic is to use the information held within the Babilu Shards to rob a Fictognostic of their magic and to lock their psyche within the Deep Lake. They'll spend years drooling and muttering to themselves before they escape - and many don't escape at all.

6. The Outer Thoughts.

This is where powerful theories, most religions, and deeply potent personal Stories are found. Technically, they aren't 'true', but they resonate so deeply with humanity that it doesn't really matter. Most Stories don't want to be taken from the Outer Thoughts and actively resist any attempts at necromancy; the Outer Thoughts are so much more fulfilling than the Real could ever be.

The Outer Thoughts have solidified, and don't resemble the teeming mess of the Lake in any way. Many Fictognostics come here to seek counsel from Crowley or Einstein or Machiavelli or another; by this point, however, they are so defined by their personal legends that they resemble very little of their human selves. Outer Einstein, for example, knows more about quantum and Newtonian physics than anyone else in the Outer Thoughts; this doesn't resemble the Real at all, but the public perception of Einstein, and the knowledge can easily be applied in the Real.

Imperfect fictional characters are often blasted at this point; this is why none but the most potent characters escape the Fictognostic Plane, and it is the first obstacle novice Fictognostics learn to overcome. Many characters fall into the Outer Thoughts and resist being summoned to the Real, enjoying the interactions of the Outer Thoughts immensely.

7. The Fictognostic Plane.

Less of a plane and more of a collection of spheres of existence, the Fictognostic Plane exists solely of fictional worlds brought to life by a Fictognostic. This is best represented by fiction-lines, which act as roads between worlds, and the worlds themselves. This is where fictional characters are born.

Every Fictognostic has a fictional world; without it, they are simply a Fictosorcerer or Fictoscholar, both which receive no respect or prestige. They have control over their world: its geography, its rules of physics and reality, its inhabitants. Fictognostics are represented in their fictional worlds as fictional characters they control; kings, mighty sorcerers, wild-eyed heroes and divine messiahs are the most common.

Fictional worlds vary greatly in size and style; some are simple, savage realms where sorcery and sword-fighting is common, while others are giant pleasure-worlds filled with opium dens and brothers, and others still represent a mythological version of feudal China. Many are even more obscure, and because the only limits to these worlds are the Fictognostic's taste and skill, they are often perverse.

Fictional worlds need to be anchored with power information-codes drawn from sorcery performed in the Real, and these codes often manifest within the world as an item of power or an incredibly rare tome. Fictional worlds are easy to infiltrate, however, with fictional characters created by an enemy Fictognostic; these characters are used to destroy the world from the inside, or to seize these powerful information-codes and to break their puzzles so that Real information - credit card details, names, phone numbers - can be extracted, giving an opening to the Fictognostic.

Fictognostic's spend most of their considerable time 'projected' within a fictional character within their own worlds, enjoying the world and it's luxuries while building it's defenses and hiding it's anchors.

8. The Last Depths.

A purely hypothetical sphere of existence.. when Stories are summoned into a Fictional World from the Lake or the Thoughts, where do they go when they are banished? They cannot simply be destroyed, some would argue, and they do not return to their place of origin. Fictoscholars hypothesize an eighth realm, where Stories meet their true potential: the equivalent a of heaven for myths and legends.

The Pen and Paper Initiative

This is a blog dedicated to the writings of Nathaniel Robinson. I am, naturally, Nathaniel Robinson. It is very nice to meet you. I am sure we will be the best of friends.

Most of the writing on The Pen and Paper Initiative will be conceptual stuff; ideas, trailings, little pieces and thoughts. A lot of it will be stuff for role-playing games I am designing. Some of it will not be for role-playing games that I am designing.

Ultimately, I hope this blog will act as an online conceptual notebook. You might be interested in that, or you might not. I don't really mind. I lose notebooks at a scarily fast rate, and all of the stuff within them, and hopefully this blog will cut my losses.

Enjoy your stay.
Nathaniel Robinson