Jared AxelrodWriter of Adventure

Who I Am Today, sent from the phone

And tomorrow. And the next day. However long it takes, really. As the man said, ‘Justice takes time. And I don’t mind waiting.’

When Randolf Carter phoned, I admit I thought nothing unusual of it!

“I do not know what has become of Harley Warren,” he said, his voice quavering. “Though I think–almost hope–that he is in peaceful oblivion, if there be anywhere so blessed a thing.”

“Aha!” I said! “A mystery! A missing person! Bizarre circumstances! Excellent! Please continue, Mr. Carter!”

And continue, he did! “It is true that I have for five years been his closest friend, and a partial sharer of his terrible researches into the unknown. The weird studies of Harley Warren were well known to me, and to some extent shared by me. Of his vast collection of strange, rare books on forbidden subjects I have read all that are written in the languages of which I am master; but these are few as compared with those in languages I cannot understand. Most, I believe, are in Arabic; and the fiend-inspired book which brought on the end was written in characters whose like I never saw elsewhere.”

“Zounds! What did it say, man?!? What did it say?”

“Warren would never tell me just what was in that book.”

“Blast! No matter! I’ll take the case! Where was Mr. Warren last seen?”

“The place was an ancient cemetery…”

I cut the man off. “No, no. Cemetery’s are no good, man! We begin our investigation in…THE LIBRARY!”

Harley Warren’s library was everything Mr. Carter had sworn and more! A room filled to the brim with books! Books filled to the brim with pages! Pages filled to the brim with words! Words filled to the brim with letters! Why, you could sling a cat anywhere and come across something to read!

“I say, Carter! You wouldn’t happen to have the book Warren was reading before being swallowed up by the unkown, do you?”

“That ancient book in undecipherable characters which had come to him from India a month before?”

“That’s the one!” I said, giving the frail man a forceful slap on the back!

“It’s—koff—there on the end table,” he said, looking a little unsteady.

“Excellent! So, you and this Warren fellow. Were you close?”

“Sometimes I feared him. I remember how I shuddered at his facial expression on the night before the awful happening, when he talked so incessantly of his theory, why certain corpses never decay, but rest firm and fat in their tombs for a thousand years. But I do not fear him now.”

“Oh?!?”

“For I suspect that he has known horrors beyond my ken. Now I fear for him.”

“You’re a creepy, creepy man, Mr. Carter! You remind me of my old sidekick, the poor doomed, fellow…”

But there was no time for idle reminiscing! No sooner had I gripped the tome than the entire library was awash with tentacles! I found myself in a grip such that I not known since my tussle with Madam Shuggoth in the adventure I have called “Revenge Is Best Served CRUSHED!” I thrashed about with the thousand tugging tentacles, spreading ichor all over my best satin cape!

“Zounds! Carter! You wouldn’t know of a good dry cleaner?!?”

But Carter was beyond thoughts of cleaning, dry or otherwise! The tentacles were dragging him deep into the depths of a gaping maw, the like of which not even light could escape!

“Hold on Carter!” I said! “I’ll be there in a jiffy!”

“I don’t think so, Mythos Man!” That voice! It was a voice that echoed from deep within my fondest nightmares!

I whirled! “Kid Mythos! I thought you were dead!” But the creature before me was far from the young Herbert West I remembered!

“Kid Mythos IS dead!” screamed the monstrous mockery of man standing amidst the undulating arms! “Call me….RE-ANIMATOR!”

After playing with it for a while, I think it’s safe to say that the most useful X-Mas present I recieved was the cloning device. Thanks, J.C.!

We’ve got a new president now, and he’s off to a promising start. I am attempting to temper my enthusiasm with skepticism, but it’s hard. I want to believe that this is a new dawn, that things will be different and we’ll all get a chance to start over.

That ’s the promise of every January, history-making president or not.

A few days ago, Mur Lafferty spoke on the power of daring to be stupid. That stuck with me. I wanted to do that.  I wanted to follow through on every stupid idea that popped in my head. Problem is,  I have quite honestly too many stupid ideas to realistically follow through with all of them.  Don’t believe me?  Here’s a list:

And I’ve labored on it since taking that photo, too.  I’ll have to add another sheet by February, just watch.

These are mostly projects I’ve started and never finished.  Some are last year’s.  Some the year before. One goes as far back as 2002. And I put them on this list because I want to finish them. I’m tired of them lurking around in the back of my head, waiting to be completed.  I don’t know how many will get done before the end of the year, but now with this list, I’ll be able to see which ones have and which ones haven’t.

The Dream is that by 2010, I start with a clean slate.  I’m not sure if that feasible, but there’s no reason not to try.

After all, I have a whole year, don’t I?  That’s the promise of 2009.

It took twenty years, but still, the fact remains. He got it wrong.

This year, Frank Jones, it’s your turn.

Janelle Monae - Many Moons

The She Creatures - Sexy Robot

Honor is the natural expression of a democratic society.

This was one of J.R.’s X-Mas presents.  It’s my first peice in the “neverwas artifacts” medium, as eximplifed by this fantastic Wonderland Expedition Kit, this Antique Vampire Hunter Kit and the astounding artwork of Alex CF (link removed by request). Won’t be the last, either, I wager. I’ve already got some ideas for future projects…

From the Manifest:

429/500 - Peridido St. Station Rail Pass
430/500 - Mirror Glasses
431/500 - Issac Deo der Grimnebulin’s notebook, concerning “the Yagharek Issue”
432/500-463/500: See Box 43B
464/500 - Empty Dreamshit vial
465/500 - Empty Dreamshit vial
466/500 - Sealed Dreamshit vial, containing dreamshit
467/500 - Fetal Handlinger, preserved
468/500-479/500 - Lost
480/500 - Wormseed Oil, from Lin’s Studio
481/500 - Scissors, for the Weaver
482/500 - Scissors, for the Weaver

The box is lined and stuffed with old copies of the Runagate Rampant.

New Crobuzon was a huge plague pit, a morbific city. Parasites, infection and rumour were uncontainable.
–China Miéville, Peridido Street Station