The UnMuseum - The Mystery Airship of 1896
I've been recently fascinated by the wave of "mystery airship" sightings of the 1800s, precursors to the modern UFO sightings of the 20th and 21st centuries.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Monday, September 1, 2014
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
BLEEDING HEARTS AND DRY BONES OF THE CHURCHYARD.
(Foreword: The short story below, "Bleeding Hearts and Dry Bones of the Churchyard" (the title is from a line in Bram Stoker's "Dracula") is a tale I wrote for an anthology about Steampunk and vampires sometime during the spring of 2011, that I never submitted because I did not finish it before the imposed deadline. Naturally, Paris and its World Fair duringthe late nineteenth century, all of the airships there, along with Eiffel Tower and industrialism, were my inspirations, as well as its catacombs, gargoyles and cemeteries. Vlad Dracula the Impaler, the real Count, or "Voivode", and his brother, Radu the Handsome, served as models for the villains, of course, not to mention the original "Dracula" novel written by Bram Stoker and its effect on me and the rest of the world. So, turn down the lights, put on your brass goggles, gas up the old airship jalopy, and let's blast the creepy undead vermin to fucking smithereens with our steamguns-they friggin' deserve it!)
BLEEDING HEARTS AND DRY BONES OF THE CHURCHYARD
"The dead travel fast."-Bram Stoker, "Dracula"
Jonathan Harker's Journal: 4 May, Paris-We have pursued the minions of Count Dracula as they retreated from his castle in Transylvania in defeat, when my dear, blessed friend, the Texan Quincy Morris, dispatched the evil vampyre with a bowie knife. Unfortunately, Quincy suffered a stabbing blow from this stuggle, and expired shortly thereafter. We secretly followed the Gypsy leiter-wagon caravan all the way across the Continent, finally cornering the majority of the undead here in the grand city of Paris, France. The Professor informed us about most of the demons' nests around Paris and its surrounding arrondisements and chateaus. Prof. Van Helsing also intimated to me that the vampire quarter of Paris, mainly around the Latin Quarter, have been practically destroyed.
I was most relieved by this information, even though we were almost flying down the populous avenues in that miraculous contraption-the steam-powered horseless carriage I rode in with Van Helsing this afternoon. Never would I have imagined such an extraordinary machine possible, or even dreamt I would be propelled down the Champ Elysees in one at such a high rate of speed! Astounding, and indeed I was amazed as well be the blooming science of Paris, the crystalline Grand Palais, the dirigibles buoyed in mid-air, and all the wondrous exhibits here the likes of which only Da Vinci himself could have concieved, and yet these modern marvels are here and real and on display for the commonest of men such as myself to see. Walking past the Opera, hot air balloons filled the sky. Bizet's "March of the Toreadors" and Debussy's "Reverie" spilled from the maisons and concert halls, and such incredible architectural wonders abound. Unthinkable it is that all these wonders are sullied by the presence of such vile monsters!
Van Helsing also reported on the discovery of thirteen bodies impaled in front of the Notre Dame cathedral this morning, hoisted on stakes in the manner of the Impaler. "A forest of the impaled," he said, "even here in this city of polite society." Below them, carved into an adjacent wall, was this: "We will have our revenge on you, Herr Van Helsing!" Abraham advised me of a peculiar sighting one of the passersby had last night, of how he had seen some of the stone gargoyles and grotesques moving of their own accord atop the cathedral, as well as sundry odd shadow figures leaping about the flying buttresses. Whether this is the work of the Count himself, or the remainder of his brethen, it is not known to us-nevertheless, we intend to burn these atrocious demons on fiery pits of coal!
Shall say to whomever may be reading the lines herein I am not terrified by these horrific murders? I shan't, for even now I look out my window on the City of Lights and shudder at the suspiscion of the lurking devils outside. Can I impart to the reader of these journals my sheer dread and lack of proper rest and solace? Nonetheless, I will not be twarted in my pursuit of true happiness with my new bride, Mina, the love of my life and keeper of my heart, and with our little Quincy, our new son and my newest reason to reach for the stars-
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
BLACK WINGS (a portion of one of my short stories)
BLACK WINGS
"When the moon is a cold chiseled
Dagger
Sharp enough to draw blood from
A stone
He rides through your dreams on
A coach
And horses and the fence posts
In the moonlight look like bones."
-Tom Waits, "Black Wings"
The collectivos, trains and cars ony went so far into the Lacandon rainforest of Chiapas, Mexico, especially at night, even along the new highway, the jungle was a dangerous place full of jaguars, tapirs ocelots, drug cartels, and mercenaries raiding the rancherias, and Marisol had had to procure a cheap "eco-tourist" guide. Miguel Ortiz, a sun-cracked old Mexican from Mexico City, in San Cristobal De Las Casas, drove them the rest of the way to the highland jungles of the Monte Agules Biosphere Reserve. And she had all but exhausted her credit cards travelling throught the Palenque Mayan ruins in order to write her graduate thesis for her Master's Degree of Anthropology for U. T. The dissertation detailed the repercussions of trade, such as that of N.A.F.T.A. and the Zapatista conflict on the preservation of Mayan relics, artifacts and culture. The bilingual guide had brought her and a few other ecotourists curious about the ecology of the Lacandon Jungle deep into the central forests. They had been traveling through the area, on their way to explore some recently excavated Mayan temples and caves near Guatemala. Marisol, whose family had immigrated to Texas from this area, was especially interested in seeing some old Camino Real mission ruins, but especially Lacondon and Tzotzil Mayan villages of her ancestry.
"Fucking fascists", said a fellow tourist dressed in Indiana Jones cosplay turned to Marisol, an older man who had introduced himself to her as a "Dr. Randol Dalton", but Marisol simply referred to him in her mind as "Dr. Random Douche-bag", and pointed in the direction of some soldiers situated on the roadside interrogating a Lacandon native. "The government should just let these folks be. This is their land. They should be recognized as an autonomous nation by Mexico, but this is how things are at the moment."
"Yeah", for once, she agreed with his sort, the kind that burned the candle at both ends, "but I seriously doubt that will happen. Their culture, language, way of life, will most likely fade away and be integrated into the dominant culture of Mexico, I'm afraid."
Army checkpoints abounded along the main highway en route southward into the Mayan wilderness. The battle raged on between the oppressive Mexican nationals and the reformist and freedom-seeking Zapatistas of Chiapas at the time. The travel guidebooks Marisol had read extolled Chiapas as a safe and friendly destination, but in the southern jungle river valleys and highlands the tension and bloodshed seethed like a wild animal ready to pounce from the darkness. The Mexican army discouraged media coverage of the events and area. Therefore, Marisol and the others took the back roads of dirt in the back of the ecotourism guide's ravaged pickup, complete with wood railings and chicken coops full of clucking and squawking birds.
"Mr. Ortiz, wait, where are you going? This wasn't part of our agreement-"
"Gracia, amiga-" he said as he was slowly rolling away in the old truck, oblivious to her complaints. "Gracias. The Nativos will help from here."
Then he had left them at a river lagoon outpost to be guided across in a dugout by a very primitive Tzotzil Mayan Indian guide, which would have to do, as the river taxis had stopped running due to the impending storms coming in from the Caribbean. As an employee who was paid a pittance the ecotourist guide didn't deem it necessary to put his ass on the line in the dangerous environs. Indigenous Mayans still lorded over the Ocosingo wilds, the languages and customs of their pre-Columbian ancestry still somewhat intact. These Tzotzil natives would be coming to pick them up at this cabana at nightfall, they were told very unceremoniously, were a paid a percentage from his fee, and they knew the nooks and nuances of the area by heart. With that the guide had disappeared, scrambling off in the rickety old truck down the dirt road without so much as a goodbye salutation.
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