The Beacon, what a silly project. The idea had been with me sometime before I went and sat down and wrote it. It’s been years since I’ve read it but I was always so scared to really do anything with it. I feel that enough time has passed and I’ve grown enough to be able to share it.
You can buy it off of Amazon if you like, or you can download the pdf version of The Beacon for free.
It is with great pleasure and zero ounces of pride, that I’m announcing the release of The Beacon. This is included as a free download from this site, or if you want you can go buy it off of Amazon to read on yr kindle. Whichever works for you. What is The Beacon and what is it about? Let me attempt to summarize.
Occasionally things that are close and familiar can grow grotesque with time and shifts of perception. The original intent of a product grows distorted the further the origins of the product exceed the present moment. When we examine the toys of yesterday or read the works of authors long dead we interpret and experience these products through our current cultural sensitivities and expectations. The Beacon is an attempt to forecast the perceptions and interpretations of long-dead intellectual property. What was once a cultural phenomenon is subsumed by the characters unique views and present circumstances.
The plot is irrelevant. The language is obtuse. As a written work it is opaque.
It’s currently “under review” by Amazon. So that’s exciting. Once it’s live on there I’ll include a link and a way to DL it for free, cuz I mean really?
Cargo Bay 14 writhes like the stomach of a dead raccoon. Inside each intestine, maggots flourish and churn. Chubby shuttles slide along routine canals and stop at discrete intervals. When back hatches align with the caution lines of the loading docks their doors spring open and remote loaders stuff recycled caff and vital aminos into their gape.
Azul peeps her eyes through an access grate. Servos whine as the remotes shove objects into the holes of the shuttles. She watches the shuttles for a couple time units, eyes trying to zoom and enhance until – there, just behind the grey loader with the chipped caution stripes. She thinks, “Zarrrnnaa.”
Zarrrnnaa moves like wine through a crazy straw. As she is sucked from one robot to another the movement starts wither here head eyes face before twisting down to her shoulders, arms, elbows waist wrists, thighs, calves and feet. The ingrav units in the cargo bay are at less intensity as elsewhere in the ship to make the loading process less of a burden on the machines.
Zarrrnnaa floats to the next loader robot makes some minor adjustments and with a swirling twist dodges the spider whip data cable that spins out of the incoming data shuttle. Zarrrnnaa ensures the line is connected securely to a stack of servers, likely a new batch of SimEnts ready for mass distribution aftermarket testing on Spectacular Deee.
Azul sends a meme to Zarrrnnaa and watches as the supervisor fairly seizes with laughter at the unexpected pairing or bizarre poetry and sense bundle information.
“XD that was too much”
“Yassss”
“Wyd”
“I’m in your house”
“Huh?”
“Right behind your ear…”
“No.Staahp”
“Yaup”
“:person-shrugging-skintone4:”
“Knock knock”
Azul knocks on the grate and sends a snapshot video to Zarrrnnaa. Zarrrnnaa looks up towards the grate and places the palm of her hand over her face with a soft smack. She gestures and the grey chipped loader jerkily removes the grate and then drives it back into place after Azul swims out, over, and down to float near Zarrrnnaa.
“Can we :->: :EXIT:?”
“:thumbsup-skintone4:”
Zarrrnnaa floats ahead of Azul and palms an access panel open. They drift inside and the doors sizzle shut behind them as their feet sink back down. A time unit passes as the airlock rinses and cycles. Zarrrnnaa sends death and dying. They step out into a loading maintenance corridor the glows red. Further down service technicians consult work orders and burn holes in the side of their necks with chems.
They can open their mouths to speak now they’re out of vacuum and Azul is the first to blurt, “I want in. I’m down. Fuck the system. I have a plan.”
Thick paintbrush rainbow spiral from a centre point and waterfall-down the dome of the sky as Vindrok and Jorge stampede across a field of broken crystal towers. The purple lattice structures puncture the hard-packed mud and streak upwards with vibrating thrusts. The two hop from the unbroken ground to the seemingly safe patch of earth. Their knees constantly bent as they leap forward through the random crystal petals of the Great Crystal Fields.
Soil cracks like a broken clay pot as another multifaceted purple spire burst forth from beneath the surface of Planet Green Bear. Vindrok flinches as the pointy construct grows just past his lips. He chuffs and hollers back to his squire, “Keep your feet light. Don’t you fucking land if you value your life. No more ecstasy if you should fucking eat it now you bedraggled mayonnaise celebrant!” Both of Vindrok’s feet leap from the ground as the dull brown beneath buckles to the upward pressure of yet another crystal geyser. Vindrok lands four meters ahead, red mane slaps his back with sweat as he bellows, “JORGE! Hie, to me! Lest I am forced to chase you into the underworld! I’ve been there before, and I have a certain reputation. You don’t want to see me pull your soul from death’s grip!”
Jorge, blue tunic wet to his body, takes a sucking breath and leaps with his creamy thighs exposed to the air. Left foot forward, as his right, springs him hopefully forward. While in the air, Jorge considers a day in his youth, a turning point for himself, when he knew he was bound for the world outside that of his small village.
A broom sweeps the dirt floor. Bristles shift small pebbles and cracked stones towards the invisible line at the base of the door frame. The packed earth of the hut is kept free of impurities by the twice-daily dirt sweep. Dark hands grip the broomstick and jerk, twist, and cajole the small rocks out of the hut. Shoulders and the attached muscles move automatically as the face directs its gaze out the front door flap. Eyes skyward as the mind roams the what-ifs and waking dreams of a bored younger.
Ahead Vindrok bounds from crumbling crust to crumbling crust. The oils and waters of the planet burble and jet super-heated vapours with keening squelches.
Jorge staggers behind, taking calculated leaps to sections where the dirt is most homogeneous. There’s no way to sess what’s underneath, but Jorge cannot let the mad kneht win.
“Explode and I’ll swim through these noxious fumes to the bowels of this hollow fuck and sieve your soul from the wretched soup that roils at the core!” Vindrok threatens from the far end of the Plains of Final Judgement.
Jorge curses as his eyes fail to locate the next patch of safe earth. He slides left foot forward and feels the crust beneath his big toe begin to crumble as his stomach begins to drop out. He trusts in the failing ground and pushes off his right leg eyes wide and fervid in his skull. They scream as he launches himself forward.
Forked red, green, and gold burn across the sky. Trailing oozy grey smokes out behind. Eyes follow the shape, winged, dark, colossal. The broom stutters against the dirt before it clatters to the packed floor. Feet step out of the hut as the sky burns overhead.
Jorge’s fingers strain forward, nearly popping out of their joints as he reaches towards safety. Green vapour spouts up and around Jorge. His vision fills with a vibrant jade as the liquids jet towards the sky. His seeing globes judder violently as tissue dissolves off his outstretched hand. Bones. Flesh drips as the green steam surges past his extended digits and he sees his own bones.
The county airship floats the levy towards the scaled invader. Its thick canvas gas sacks strain against the taut rope of Jorge’s village. His hands remember coiling, binding, stretching and braiding the lashes that now stretch across the gas sacks woven from the village across the water. The airship adjusts course to intercept the dragon. For that is what the source of flame and destruction is. One of those arms of god manifest. As it seeks to tear the world apart from its heavenly dominion the airship adjusts weapons and directs all ire towards the dragon. The heart seeking harpoon launches from the bow and young Jorge’s eyes track the crystal shuriken amidst the smoke pouring out from the ruined huts of his neighbours.
Vindrok pauses and looks over his well-muscled shoulder. Sweat glistens as his charcoal eyes seek the truth amidst the exploding earth. He sees not the bits of Jorge gradually melt away from extreme heat, and liquid pressure. Vindrok sees aquamarine pseudo pods tickle the edge of white calcium. Feathers gently clipped by the nurturing beak of a foreign bird whose plumes burn green and sulphurous through an ultraviolet scrim.
Great blue claws tug at the embedded crystal. Golden chest scales heave and wither as the shuriken grinds deeper towards the dragon’s hearts.
There are no doors street level. Three story hovels and miscellaneous hostels spew derelicts into the streets at the base at a minimum safe distance of 200 meters.
Polly narrows her eyes at a stack of coffee shaded conapts.
Her legs lift over the soggy bottom of the threshold. Splintered and rat eaten cardboard splatters the tile floor of the apartment building’s entryway. Thirty pairs of shoes are scattered in clumps, brown, black, sneakers, guest slippers, dress shoes, loafers, house shoes, geta, crocs, and the wires of long rotted disposable footwear. Each discarded foot covering emanates a sorrowful aura the climbs through the dead roaches, stained moulding, and attempts to breach the antiseptic barrier of Polly’s Death’s Head boots. Her neon shadow falls through the door and darkens the tile. Flashing sprays of green, red, and cathode blue pour in the space between the woman and the door frame from the Pollo Campero across the street as the chicken struts along the marvellous marquee.
Green Fleur de lis wallpaper crawls in wrinkly ribbons down the back wall as Polly shuffles in. The process of unbuckling the deaths head boots reminds her to pop another stick of gum into her mouth to help cover the greasy smell of this apartment building. She also thinks about her sister, the last shower she had, the note she left, the men, women, and erotic others that who’s hearts she’s left bleeding and twisted in the crossfaded days of her younger self. The woman five years her elder, with the experimental music hobby, the range of middle-aged men, the boys, each of her firsts, and, as the left boot is removed, her days rooting in the garbage for stale loaves and ketchup packages, the extra clothes, her first encounter with Old Merve. This last flashback threatens to swamp her brain and she summons her tranquil place. “The beach. The beach. Think of the beach.”
The sky is a simulated blue. No birds foul the air. Waves and the subtle wind are the sounds that help drive the dirty memory from recall.
She lifts her boots and begins heading up the squealing stairs. As she pins the boots under her armpit she fiddles with a piece of gum. She squints while peeling the foil wrapping from the wilting green stick. Her feet on the stairs wobble without her eyes to keep balance.
The gum really likes the foil. It does not want to be separated and fairly communicates this nonverbally to Polly by adhering staunchly to the uncoated foil underside. She tries but is unsuccessful. Several stripes of foil cling yet to the gum before she loses patience and pops the piece into her mouth.
Okay okay. **cracks knuckles** first part I remember leaving a festival with my fam, they had on their onzies and my buddy Ram was there. So I get on a plane and am like “see you back home!” Cut to me being captured in some sort of aquatic jail and being experimented on, not in a bad way like – let’s turn Bruce into a super hero or military experiment and he can drink water like a hamster run on his wheel swim real good and learn about nutrition. This goes on for a period of time but then I check my little calendar and I realize I need to get back “home” I befriend the driver of the campus people mover – like one of those Disney trains that’s locked to a rail and moves slowly around the park. I guess they were cool. I cannot remember their gender but they wore black and the people mover was painted black and white with like the science company logo. Driver sneaks me out in a burlap sack and puts me in the driver cabin with them. Then we start driving away but there are tourists in the other train cars and they dunno what is going on but scientists start chasing us. We’re on this dumb rail, but the car can pivot like 90 degrees at this point near the road. Driver normally does this swiftly because the cab has a fat ass and sticks out a little into traffic. This time the driver turns, ass of the cab is hanging out and a police car enroute to fuck up our days blasts against the driver cab and this disconnects the rest of the train And, somehow cuz it’s a dream, allows the driver to drive the little people mover cab like a golf cart.
We start driving away down the road into the city, palm trees and a cool purple twilight sunset are happening, our golf cart is running out of batteries and the cops are behind us.
We stall near like a storm drain or concrete river ditch, like you have in big cities. Then the driver says they’ll stay in the car while I continue to run. They wish me luck and I give them a hug before wiggling out of the cab. I crawl through this ditch and I can hear like a helicopter and the police swarming around the driver
I just keep army crawling away.
I crawl up an incline, in this dark little concrete tunnel. I just keep crawling. I can hear the street out side but the tunnel is dark except for a light ahead.
I keep going. I am also wearing my normal black pants, black t-shirt, and black sport coat. I guess the experiments also made my hair glittery and purple and maybe like I got some blue eye shadow going on but as I crawl through the tunnel I get a little dirty. At the end the tunnel comes to like a big glass box. I can see ppl walking down the street and shopping and shit, it’s busy, lots of tourists, and then I’m in this glass box on my belly looking good and wondering what the fuck. Thy can see me and there are cops setting up a road block wayyy further ahead.
The tourists start to take photos of me and ask me to pose since I’m looking so photogenic. (I was) and then professional photographers show up. So many ppl taking glamour shots of me in this glass box that I can’t see the street or cops behind them anymore.
Next the floor of the box sinks and then we fade into the next dream location.
It’s like an old Japanese ryokan. The owner is this ex patriot dood who looks like Christian Bale from American Hustle. Greasy and shady AF! There are some other guests and old Japanese grampa chillin reading his paper in his pjs. Doilies, real cozy atmosphere. I check in, cuz I’m here to stay over night and then fly out in the morning I guess.
Owner guy checks me in and we’re speaking Japanese the whole time. I know some and I’m doing pretty well. Then, and it gets pretty creepy, he tells me that this place is also a yakuza brothel and that I get a free “lap sit” with my overnight. I haven’t seen the hotel fees or prices or anything at this point. But it’s a dream and I’m curious so I say “大丈夫です” the room of lap sitting is filled with a bunch of yakuza going at it on top of dark blue futons in this big open room and I get some real fucking stink I when I go in there to pick out my partner. The mood is holy shit don’t murder me just keep doing whatever it is you were doing.The Lap sit is short, kind of satisfying but in the end not enough. But, I know like I’m not really okay with this or continuing so I say thanks, make my excuses and leave the dark blue lap sitting room.
Im getting a drink at a nearby bar to like cope with my recent actions and some white people are like “dood?” I realize I should prolly go pay, knowing that even the drinks are gunna be expensive in a place like this, but like I’m a science fugitive so it’s kind of what you pay for to be hidden I guess. Owner explains the bill to me, turns out to be $1,100 – all the money I have except for like 43 bucks. I’m like fuck there goes my life. I guess I’ll figure out how to live on 43 bucks when I get back to LA.
Owner doesn’t have Venmo so I PayPal him the money.
Then, some Norwegian tourists ask the owner about finding some lakes to go fishing. He is giving them shit and is clearly fucking with them. They show him a map of the island with like locations of interest highlighted in yellow and red, owner is like “yeah nice map, you’ll find tons of nude beaches out there!” The Norwegians turn to me and ask if I speak German and I’m like “only very very very very little but I can understand some” they try telling me in German that they want to find a lake to go fishing in. Turns out the hotel owner knows German too and then tells them there is no fishing on the island.
I go to sleep and then wake up and begin to walk to the airport. Music is playing and I have no luggage, I’m still wearing my suit and stuff and I brushed my teeth. I begin shuffling down the street just happy as can be as the music plays, it was “Party” by Yung Bae. I passed by a pair of women with long black hair who give me a nice smile and I smile and wave and continue to dance onto the ramp into the plane.
That was my Dream hope you enjoyed it.
The spire bisects the wastewater treatment plant and the community gardens maintained by the Deerfield Retirement Community. It draws in blood from these two sources like an enormous needle. Seniors and shit are suctioned up into the steel confines of the police spire. Filtered, shaken, milked and processed so that the sucking machine can live.
When Great Grandma Hildegaard passes, and the relatives are too busy to collect her remains, the beds tilt and she slides into the catacombs beneath the community centre like a B-movie trap door executing its best special effects moment. She slides under the well-tended beds of the community gardens to the tune of comical music and an animated commercial for toothpaste, bumping against walls, her dead legs flopping in the air. G.G.H. tumbles along a chute, along with G.G.J. and numerous other centenarians, until they clatter like bowling pins into a well-oiled gutter.
This intersection is where the proximity of the wastewater treatment plant shines in its efficacy. As the bodies collect against the grate, too large to pass through, so too do the nanomachines and artificial cleaners collect in great swarms from their nanohives in the inside-out uteri of the treatment plant.
G.G.H. herself would most likely have passed listening to the top forty of her heyday, even if she never really liked those songs, they would have tickled her Alzheimer’s into believing that today was a once treasured moment and the vast potential of her life lay before her like an unspoiled napkin. Great feast ahead, patiently waiting for the main course, and secretly pining for the decadent dessert sure to follow. If this scene is frozen grey across the eyes and cortex of G.G.H.’s deceased body then, in its passive state it does also witness the slow dissolving of its constituent parts as the nanomachines clip, shear, and snip molecules of flesh. The soft raindrops, bits of Great Grandmother Hildegaard, are removed from the corpus and join the effluvia jettisoned by the treatment plant.
“And let’s murder this heckin’ tree!” The forest shakes as, with a mighty chop, Vindrok’s sword smokes through the trunk of the nearest tree. Fairly 30 meters tall the tree stands upright for a teetering moment before it descends. Its branches crash against its siblings. “Break! Snap!” Vindrok shouts.
The siblings spill to the side as hefty branches press the weight of years against their tender limbs. Forceful maturity bends and cracks off their reaching arms. They clatter to the hair crowded floor while the trunk continues its descent. Large arms drag and claw against the siblings.
The trees scream as their limbs are ripped off by old hoary hands, grasping claws, and woody nails. This giant that falls, this older sibling, cascading tresses lank as life gushes out their torso. The siblings cringe and cower as the dying body of their old pushes them aside.
Some siblings fall flat against the planet before even the sibling completes their descent. They weep into the dirty ground; sappy tears stick to the dead hair of the family.
Vindrok howls in triumph as his greedy nostrils dig deep the charcoal reek of the smoked tree. Roots from trunk smoulder after his furious axe cut.
“We’re going to burn all these offenders until they give up their lords!” Vindrok is a solid point of fury amidst the bodies of the cringing and dying family.
The trees continue to peel from the ground, their roots flinging earth into the air with plaintive snapping. The Old continues to fall, drags its leaves through the stratosphere. Dazzling green blades burn fluorescent orange as they scream across the infinite reaches of the sky.
“Though your family is slain all around me your crooked broken hearts are non-functioning. So, each death proves your abominable nature. It isn’t I who murders your family with burning sword.” His voice echoes through the canyon of trees. Echoing against their dense trunks further and deeper into the Hercynian wood.
The dirt and hair move aside as branches plunge down. Each cracking penetration forces aside detritus and loam. Drippy chunks the circumference of Jorge’s thighs explode from subterranean worms as the trees slice through their lengths.
I sigh, and the couple starts. Their whispers cut off. One man speaks and gestures at the table. “I’m not hungry.” He gestures again.
“We should just have something to make them happy.” Jacob again with his logic.
“You know what would make me happy?”
“Blueberry cobbler and a steak?” He cracks a smile from that silly face of his.
“That’s not fair.” I scowl at him as my stomach grumbles. I go to the small table and sit on the only stool. I eat the fish and biscuits while Jacob smirks from his gorgeous face.
“Oh, look who’s smiling!”
One of the partners makes a movement and before I know it I have him gripped by the throat and three feet off the ground. His partner screams in shock and begins screaming.
The man held aloft is choking as an earbud dangles from him, the white chord disappearing into his pocket. I pluck the earbud from the screaming man and take his phone.
Jacob has phased into giant wolf form just in time to keep the couple screaming their heads off. I smear off the earwax from the earbuds and slide them into my brain. I scan the library with rapid eye and hand movements, the phone fairly chugs as it races to keep up with my speedy reflexes.
Jacob is growling down at the couple and they are doing their level best to disappear through the cracks of their cabin. They begin clawing the walls and breaking off their fingernails against the sealant and kitschy decorations. A bear trap is struck with a palm. Palm only as the teeth slam shut and slice the man’s hand off at the wrist.
I find a song and press play. The sound shakes my bones. Blood fills the air and the screams threaten to drown out the sweet release I’ve found in these tiny speakers. I pass Jacob a mental note.
The music crushes my soul and I see again that which stalks me.
I was searching
You were on a mission
Then our hearts combined like
A neutron star collision
Every time I look into his eyes, I feel that moment, I die at that moment, the moment I was born, and he imprinted on me. At that moment, even unto forever I became for him the most important thing in his life.
I’m prepared as I turn to him, to meet his eyes again, to share a thought space. At least, I thought I was.
The warmth I feel is unusual, like the slow wet sleeve of an old sweater sliding up my neck and soaking my face with damp musk. When I lick my lips, I can taste a fuzzy cheerio. Each jewelled dram of thought plunges dry cells across blister tires. Coughing through the model coats my beams split a grist and chime mouse pads.
I ease into this new feeling and spread my mind. Jacob is there lapping up every bit of knowledge, the vision, the coyote, my heart hammered and pummelled by logs. Hammered and pummelled. In the bright desk, bleachers grin at cascades, but I gape on all fours. Trespassing with a rancid soliloquy that punishes falcon knuckles almost breaks me.
Then an ebb, a melancholy elbow wedges itself shallow. Door stoppers elicit the last fidget spinner from my daisy and I crinkle.
Arthur Challenger 