The Voice before the Void: Arcana, Story, Poetry

Halloween Special: Happy Halloweird. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Road to Horrorhill” Barb Lunde The road to Horrorhill is like a dark long piece of rope with chewing marks all along it. The trees look like telephone poles with strands of wire banging in the wind. The houses are like pancakes covered with tar. The shops are pieces of toast covered with grease. The people are like yellow tree frogs hopping on their hind legs only.

Halloween Special: Poe’s parable of the persisting pandemic known as death. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Masque of the Red Death” Edgar Allan Poe The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour. But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death”. It was towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence. It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. These were seven—an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different, as might have been expected from the duke’s love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose colour varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example in blue—and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the colour of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet—a deep blood colour.

Halloween Special: All we need is Halloween. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” Washington Irving FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky. Castle of Indolence. In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the

Halloween Special: The frugal and fearless, weird-seeking hero-philosopher Athenodorus is our kind of guy. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Haunted House” from correspondence Pliny the Younger translated from the Latin by John Delaware Lewis and William Melmoth edited by The Voice before the Void There was at Athens a mansion, spacious and large, but of evil repute and dangerous to health. In the dead of the night a noise, resembling the clashing of iron, was frequently heard, which, if you listened more attentively, sounded like the rattling of chains, distant at first, but approaching nearer by degrees: immediately afterwards a spectre appeared in the form of an old man, of extremely emaciated and squalid appearance, with a long beard and bristly hair, wearing shackles on his legs and fetters on his hands, and shaking them. Hence the distressed occupants, by reason of their fears, passed miserable and horrible nights in sleeplessness. This want of sleep was followed by disease, and, their terrors increasing, by death. Even in the day time, though the spirit did not appear, yet the impression remained so strong upon their imaginations that it still seemed before their eyes, and kept them in perpetual alarm. Consequently the house was at length deserted and, condemned to solitude, was entirely abandoned to the dreadful ghost. However, in hopes that some tenant might be found who was ignorant of the fearful curse attached to the house, an advertisement was put up, giving notice that the house was either to be let or sold. It happened that Athenodorus the philosopher came to Athens at this time, and, reading the bill, enquired the price. The extraordinary cheapness raised his suspicion; nevertheless, when he had made inquiries and he heard the whole story, he was not only not discouraged but he was even more strongly inclined to rent the house, and, in short, did so. When it grew towards evening, he ordered a sofa to be prepared for him in the front part of the house, and, after calling for his notebooks, writing implements, and a light, directed all his servants to retire to the interior apartments. That his mind might not, from want of occupation, be open to the vain terrors of imaginary noises and spirits, Athenodorus applied himself to writing with the utmost attention. The first part of the night passed in entire silence. At length, a clanking of iron and rattling of chains was heard, yet Athenodorus never raised his eyes nor slackened his pen, but hardened his soul and deadened his ears. The noise grew and approached, till it seemed to be at the door, and at last inside the chamber. Athenodorus looked round, beheld, and recognized the figure exactly as it had been described to him. It was standing and signaling to him with its finger, as though inviting him. Athenodorus, in reply, made a sign with his hand that it should wait a moment, and applied himself afresh to his tablets and pen. Upon this, the ghost then rattled its chains over the head of the philosopher as he wrote. On looking round again, Athenodorus saw it beckoning as before, and immediately arose, took up a light, and followed it. The ghost slowly stalked along, as though oppressed by its chains, and after turning into the courtyard of the house, suddenly vanished. Athenodorus, being thus left to himself, made a mark with some plucked grass and leaves on the spot where the ghost left him. The next day he talked to the magistrates, and urged them to have that spot exhumed. This was done, and there were found there some bones attached to and intermingled with chains; the body to which they had belonged, putrefied and mouldered away by time and the soil....

Halloween Special: Cool weird horror poetry. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Nightmare Lake” H.P. Lovecraft There is a lake in distant Zan, Beyond the wonted haunts of man, Where broods alone in a hideous state A spirit dead and desolate; A spirit ancient and unholy, Heavy with fearsome melancholy, Which from the waters dull and dense Draws vapors cursed with pestilence. Around the banks, a mire of clay, Sprawl things offensive in decay, And curious birds that reach that shore Are seen by mortals nevermore. Here shines by day the searing sun On glassy wastes beheld by none, And here by night pale moonbeams flow Into the deeps that yawn below. In nightmares only is it told What scenes beneath those beams unfold; What scenes, too old for human sight, Lie sunken there in endless night; For in those depths there only pace The shadows of a voiceless race. One midnight, redolent of ill, I saw that lake, asleep and still; While in the lurid sky there rode A gibbous moon that glow’d and glow’d. I saw the stretching marshy shore, And the foul things those marshes bore: Lizards and snakes convuls’d and dying; Ravens and vampires putrefying; All these, and hov’ring o’er the dead, Narcophagi that on them fed. And as the dreadful moon climb’d high, Fright’ning the stars from out the sky, I saw the lake’s dull water glow Till sunken things appear’d below. There shone unnumber’d fathoms down, The tow’rs of a forgotten town; The tarnish’d domes and mossy walls; Weed-tangled spires and empty halls; Deserted fanes and vaults of dread, And streets of gold uncoveted. These I beheld, and saw beside A horde of shapeless shadows glide; A noxious horde which to my glance Seem’d moving in a hideous dance Round slimy sepulchres that lay Beside a never-travell’d way. Straight from those tombs a heaving rose That vex’d the waters’ dull repose, While lethal shades of upper space Howl’d at the moon’s sardonic face. Then sank the lake within its bed, Suck’d down to caverns of the dead, Till from the reeking, new-stript earth Curl’d foetid fumes of noisome birth. About the city, nigh uncover’d, The monstrous dancing shadows hover’d, When lo! there oped with sudden stir The portal of each sepulchre! No ear may learn, no tongue may tell What nameless horror then befell. I see that lake—that moon agrin— That city and the things within— Waking, I pray that on that shore The nightmare lake may sink no more!

Odd and supreme beauty from Norway. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Father” Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson translated from the Norwegian by R.B. Anderson The man whose story is here to be told was the wealthiest and most influential person in his parish; his name was Thord Overaas. He appeared in the priest’s study one day, tall and earnest. “I have gotten a son,” said he, “and I wish to present him for baptism.” “What shall his name be?” “Finn,–after my father.” “And the sponsors?” They were mentioned, and proved to be the best men and women of Thord’s relations in the parish. “Is there anything else?” inquired the priest, and looked up. The peasant hesitated a little. “I should like very much to have him baptized by himself,” said he, finally. “That is to say on a week-day?” “Next Saturday, at twelve o’clock noon.” “Is there anything else?” inquired the priest. “There is nothing else;” and the peasant twirled his cap, as though he were about to go. Then the priest rose. “There is yet this, however,” said he, and walking toward Thord, he took him by the hand and looked gravely into his eyes: “God grant that the child may become a blessing to you!” One day sixteen years later, Thord stood once more in the priest’s study. “Really, you carry your age astonishingly well, Thord,” said the priest; for he saw no change whatever in the man. “That is because I have no troubles,” replied Thord. To this the priest said nothing, but after a while he asked: “What is your pleasure this evening?” “I have come this evening about that son of mine who is to be confirmed to-morrow.” “He is a bright boy.” “I did not wish to pay the priest until I heard what number the boy would have when he takes his place in church to-morrow.” “He will stand number one.” “So I have heard; and here are ten dollars for the priest.” “Is there anything else I can do for you?” inquired the priest, fixing his eyes on Thord. “There is nothing else.” Thord went out. Eight years more rolled by, and then one day a noise was heard outside of the priest’s study, for many men were approaching, and at their head was Thord, who entered first. The priest looked up and recognized him. “You come well attended this evening, Thord,” said he. “I am here to request that the banns may be published for my son; he is about to marry Karen Storliden, daughter of Gudmund, who stands here beside me.” “Why, that is the richest girl in the parish.” “So they say,” replied the peasant, stroking back his hair with one hand. The priest sat a while as if in deep thought, then entered the names in his book, without making any comments, and the men wrote their signatures underneath. Thord laid three dollars on the table. “One is all I am to have,” said the priest. “I know that very well; but he is my only child, I want to do it handsomely.” The priest took the money. “This is now the third time, Thord, that you have come here on your son’s account.” “But now I am through with him,” said Thord, and folding up his pocket-book he said farewell and walked away. The men slowly followed him. A fortnight later, the father and son were rowing across the lake, one calm, still day, to Storliden to make arrangements for the wedding. “This thwart is not secure,” said the son, and stood up to straighten the seat on which h...

We do not know when the end will come, but we do know that the end will come. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Ragnarok, The Twilight of the Gods” from Bulfinch’s Mythology Thomas Bulfinch It was a firm belief of the northern nations that a time would come when all the visible creation, the gods of Valhalla and Niffleheim, the inhabitants of Jotunheim, Alfheim, and Midgard, together with their habitations, would be destroyed. The fearful day of destruction will not, however, be without its forerunners. First will come a triple winter, during which snow will fall from the four corners of the heavens, the frost be very severe, the wind piercing, the weather tempestuous, and the sun impart no gladness. Three such winters will pass away without being tempered by a single summer. Three other similar winters will then follow, during which war and discord will spread over the universe. The earth itself will be frightened and begin to tremble, the sea leave its basin, the heavens tear asunder, and men perish in great numbers, and the eagles of the air feast upon their still quivering bodies. The wolf Fenris will now break his bands, the Midgard serpent rise out of her bed in the sea, and Loki, released from his bonds, will join the enemies of the gods. Amidst the general devastation the sons of Muspelheim will rush forth under their leader Surtur, before and behind whom are flames and burning fire. Onward they ride over Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, which breaks under the horses’ hoofs. But they, disregarding its fall, direct their course to the battlefield called Vigrid. Thither also repair the wolf Fenris, the Midgard serpent, Loki with all the followers of Hela, and the Frost giants. Heimdall now stands up and sounds the Giallar horn to assemble the gods and heroes for the contest. The gods advance, led on by Odin, who engages the wolf Fenris, but falls a victim to the monster, who is, however, slain by Vidar, Odin’s son. Thor gains great renown by killing the Midgard serpent, but recoils and falls dead, suffocated with the venom which the dying monster vomits over him. Loki and Heimdall meet and fight till they are both slain. The gods and their enemies having fallen in battle, Surtur, who has killed Freyr, darts fire and flames over the world, and the whole universe is burned. The sun becomes dim, the earth sinks into the ocean, the stars fall from heaven, and time is no more. After this Alfadur (the Almighty) will cause a new heaven and a new earth to arise out of the sea. The new earth filled with abundant supplies will spontaneously produce its fruits without labor or care. Wickedness and misery will no more be known, but the gods and men will live happily together.

Autumn Special: Jackson asserts that people want to have sex with each other in the autumn even more than they do in the summertime. ⁓The Voice before the Void “October’s Bright Blue Weather” Helen Hunt Jackson O suns and skies and clouds of June, And flowers of June together, Ye cannot rival for one hour October’s bright blue weather; When loud the bumble-bee makes haste, Belated, thriftless vagrant, And Golden-Rod is dying fast, And lanes with grapes are fragrant; When Gentians roll their fringes tight To save them for the morning, And chestnuts fall from satin burrs Without a sound of warning; When on the ground red apples lie In piles like jewels shining, And redder still on old stone walls Are leaves of woodbine twining; When all the lovely wayside things Their white-winged seeds are sowing, And in the fields, still green and fair, Late aftermaths are growing; When springs run low, and on the brooks, In idle golden freighting, Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush Of woods, for winter waiting; When comrades seek sweet country haunts, By twos and twos together, And count like misers, hour by hour, October’s bright blue weather. O suns and skies and flowers of June, Count all your boasts together, Love loveth best of all the year October’s bright blue weather.

Fyodor Shcherbatskoy’s Birthday Special: The reason you have ever heard of “nirvana.” ⁓The Voice before the Void “Fyodor Shcherbatskoy” Wikipedia Fyodor Ippolitovich Shcherbatskoy (Фёдор Ипполи́тович Щербатско́й) (1866 October 1 – 1942 March 18), often referred to in the literature as Stcherbatsky, was a Russian Indologist who, in large part, was responsible for laying the foundations in the Western world for the scholarly study of Buddhism and Buddhist philosophy. He was born in the Russian Empire in what is today Poland, and died at the Borovoye Resort in northern Kazakhstan. Shcherbatskoy studied in the famous Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum and later in the Historico-Philological Faculty of Saint Petersburg University, where his teachers were Ivan Minayeff and Serge Oldenburg. Subsequently sent abroad, Shcherbatskoy studied Indian poetry with Georg Bühler in Vienna and Buddhist philosophy with Hermann Jacobi in Bonn. In 1897, with Oldenburg, Shcherbatskoy inaugurated the Bibliotheca Buddhica, a library of rare Buddhist texts. Returning from a trip to India and Mongolia, Shcherbatskoy published in 1903, in Russian, the first volume of Theory of Knowledge and Logic of the Doctrine of Later Buddhists. In 1928, he established the Institute of Buddhist Culture in Leningrad. Shcherbatskoy’s The Conception of Buddhist Nirvana, written in English and published in 1927, caused a sensation in the West. That was followed by Shcherbatskoy’s main work in English, Buddhist Logic, published in two volumes in 1930 and 1932, which has exerted an immense influence on Buddhology. Although Shcherbatskoy remained less well-known in his own country, his extraordinary fluency in the Sanskrit and Tibetan languages won him the admiration of Jawaharlal Nehru and Rabindranath Tagore. According to Debiprasad Chattopadhyaya, “Shcherbatskoy did help us – the Indians – to discover our own past and to restore the right perspective of our own philosophical heritage.” The 2004 edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica acclaimed Shcherbatskoy as “the foremost Western authority on Buddhist philosophy.”

Wishek was an accomplished poet. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Desire” Nina Farley Wishek I longed to sail a gallant ship, Swinging across the sea– But well I know, no phantom bark Will ever sail for me. I hoped to sing a lilting song, Melodious, full and free– But lagging pen may never write That golden song for me. And I would paint the morning sky, The sun-kissed shrub and tree– But futile fingers may not catch That sylvan artistry. No ship, no sail, no lovely song, No surging, shining sea– For I must walk the worn, old road That others paved for me.

Science boldly marching. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Masters and Johnson” Wikipedia The Masters and Johnson research team, composed of William H. Masters and Virginia E. Johnson, pioneered research into the nature of human sexual response and the diagnosis and treatment of sexual disorders and dysfunctions from 1957 until the 1990s. The work of Masters and Johnson began in the Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology at Washington University in St. Louis and was continued at the independent not-for-profit research institution they founded in St. Louis in 1964, originally called the Reproductive Biology Research Foundation and renamed the Masters and Johnson Institute in 1978. In the initial phase of Masters and Johnson’s studies, from 1957 until 1965, they recorded some of the first laboratory data on the anatomy and physiology of human sexual response based on direct observation of 382 women and 312 men in what they conservatively estimated to be “10,000 complete cycles of sexual response.” Their findings, particularly on the nature of female sexual arousal (for example, describing the mechanisms of vaginal lubrication and debunking the earlier widely held notion that vaginal lubrication originated from the cervix) and orgasm (showing that the physiology of orgasmic response was identical whether stimulation was clitoral or vaginal, and proving that some women were capable of being multiorgasmic), dispelled many long-standing misconceptions. They jointly wrote two classic texts in the field, Human Sexual Response and Human Sexual Inadequacy, published in 1966 and 1970, respectively. Both of these books were best-sellers and were translated into more than thirty languages. 1. Research work Masters and Johnson met in 1957 when William Masters hired Virginia Johnson as a research assistant to undertake a comprehensive study of human sexuality. (Masters divorced his first wife to marry Johnson in 1971. They divorced in 1992.) Previously, the study of human sexuality (sexology) had been a largely neglected area of study due to the restrictive social conventions of the time, with prostitution as a notable exception. Alfred Kinsey and his colleagues at Indiana University had previously published two volumes on sexual behavior in the human male and female (known as the Kinsey Reports), in 1948 and 1953, respectively, both of which had been revolutionary and controversial in their time. Kinsey’s work however, had mainly investigated the frequency with which certain behaviors occurred in the population and was based on personal interviews, not on laboratory observation. In contrast, Masters and Johnson set about to study the structure, psychology, and physiology of sexual behavior, through observing and measuring masturbation and sexual intercourse in the laboratory. Initially, participants used in their experiments were prostitutes. Masters and Johnson explained that they were a socially isolated group of people, they were knowledgeable about sex, and that they were willing to cooperate with the study. Of the 145 prostitutes that participated, only a select few were further evaluated for their genital anatomy and their physiological responses. In later studies, however, Masters and Johnson recruited 382 women and 312 men from the community. The vast majority of participants were white, they had higher education levels, and most participants were married couples. As well as recording some of the first physiological data from the human body and sex organs during sexual excitation, they also framed their findings and conclusions in language that espoused sex as a healthy and natural activity that could be enjoyed as a source of pleasure and intimacy. The era in which their research was conducted permitted the use of methods that had not been attempted before, and that have not been attempted since: “[M]en and women we...

Battle of Chickamauga Anniversary Special: There are no accounts of battle like Bierce’s accounts of battle. ⁓The Voice before the Void “A Little of Chickamauga” Ambrose Bierce The history of that awful struggle is well known—I have not the intention to record it here, but only to relate some part of what I saw of it; my purpose not instruction, but entertainment. I was an officer of the staff of a Federal brigade. Chickamauga was not my first battle by many, for although hardly more than a boy in years, I had served at the front from the beginning of the trouble, and had seen enough of war to give me a fair understanding of it. We knew well enough that there was to be a fight: the fact that we did not want one would have told us that, for Bragg always retired when we wanted to fight and fought when we most desired peace. We had maneuvered him out of Chattanooga, but had not maneuvered our entire army into it, and he fell back so sullenly that those of us who followed, keeping him actually in sight, were a good deal more concerned about effecting a junction with the rest of our army than to push the pursuit. By the time that Rosecrans had got his three scattered corps together we were a long way from Chattanooga, with our line of communication with it so exposed that Bragg turned to seize it. Chickamauga was a fight for possession of a road. Back along this road raced Crittenden’s corps, with those of Thomas and McCook, which had not before traversed it. The whole army was moving by its left. There was sharp fighting all along and all day, for the forest was so dense that the hostile lines came almost into contact before fighting was possible. One instance was particularly horrible. After some hours of close engagement my brigade, with foul pieces and exhausted cartridge boxes, was relieved and withdrawn to the road to protect several batteries of artillery—probably two dozen pieces—which commanded an open field in the rear of our line. Before our weary and virtually disarmed men had actually reached the guns the line in front gave way, fell back behind the guns and went on, the Lord knows whither. A moment later the field was gray with Confederates in pursuit. Then the guns opened fire with grape and canister and for perhaps five minutes—it seemed an hour—nothing could be heard but the infernal din of their discharge and nothing seen through the smoke but a great ascension of dust from the smitten soil. When all was over, and the dust cloud had lifted, the spectacle was too dreadful to describe. The Confederates were still there—all of them, it seemed—some almost under the muzzles of the guns. But not a man of all these brave fellows was on his feet, and so thickly were all covered with dust that they looked as if they had been reclothed in yellow. “We bury our dead,” said a gunner, grimly, though doubtless all were afterward dug out, for some were partly alive. To a “day of danger” succeeded a “night of waking.” The enemy, everywhere held back from the road, continued to stretch his line northward in the hope to overlap us and put himself between us and Chattanooga. We neither saw nor heard his movement, but any man with half a head would have known that he was making it, and we met by a parallel movement to our left. By morning we had edged along a good way and thrown up rude intrenchments at a little distance from the road, on the threatened side. The day was not very far advanced when we were attacked furiously all along the line, beginning at the left. When repulsed, the enemy came again and again—his persistence was dispiriting. He seemed to be using against us the law of probabilities: for so many efforts one would eventually succeed. One did, and it was my luck to see it win. I had been sent by my chief, General Hazen, to order up some artillery ammunition and rode away to the right and rear in search of it.

Tremendousness by a young student. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Deep in the” Maria Williams Deep in the pit of my soul lies a small dead sparrow singing at the grave of my dog. Sparrows aren’t forever neither was my dog neither am I.

Weird fun fiction. ⁓The Voice before the Void “SCP-427” The SCP Foundation Item #: SCP-427 Object Class: Safe (Note: See containment procedures.) Special Containment Procedures: SCP-427 displays no means of self-locomotion or malicious intent at this time, and requires only minimal containment. Due to SCP-427’s adverse effects, only medical staff of Class 3 or above may handle or utilize it. All personnel using SCP-427 must record their total time using it in order to avoid unwanted mutations. Note: Instances of SCP-427-1 (colloquially referred to as “Flesh Beasts”) created by SCP-427 must be killed immediately as it is impossible to communicate with or experiment on them safely. For this reason, instances of SCP-427-1 are classified as Keter level. Description: SCP-427 is a small, spherical, ornately carved locket made of a polished silver material. The ornate carvings do not seem to serve any function; it is unknown whether SCP-427’s outer casing was crafted by sentients or not. Its circumference at its widest point is roughly 3 cm. SCP-427 was created after placing a pill of SCP-500 in the Input booth of SCP-914 and using the Fine setting. It displays no unusual activity when closed. When opened, a small glowing orb is visible at the center. The orb emits no radiation or energy aside from the visible spectrum. When SCP-427 is opened and exposed to biological tissue, it rapidly regenerates cellular damage and somehow is able to purge invading compounds or infections. As a standard of measure, the Common Cold takes 3 to 10 days to be worked through the human immune system and eventually removed. In the presence of an opened SCP-427, this time is reduced to 2 to 4 minutes. Its healing abilities are directional, so anything not in line of sight with the central orb experiences no effects. However, long-term exposure produces a significant health hazard. As the locket heals damage, it optimizes the body’s natural systems. Resistance to disease and toxins is increased by 500% compared to accepted LD50 or death-rate values after a total of 10 minutes of exposure, and 1000% after 15 minutes of exposure. Beyond 15 minutes of exposure, muscular systems begin optimizing, increasing strength and pain tolerance by 200-300%. All other systems continue to optimize. Class-D personnel exposed to the device for over an hour total began mutating into a shapeless mass of tissue. The conversion time accelerates with continued exposure to SCP-427. The “Flesh Beasts” (so named due to their appearance) created by SCP-427 are incredibly aggressive, attacking any and all personnel on sight with lethal results. They are highly resistant to most known weaponry, but can be disabled with sufficient shock trauma or heat in excess of 1100 degrees Celsius. Intelligence cannot be accurately gauged, but mapping of biological enhancement of the brain as a direct relationship with optimization of other systems suggests intelligence could exceed levels measured in humans when fully transformed. SCP-427 is currently being used as a partial replacement for SCP-500 pills, as it can cure most anything SCP-500 is able to cure. All “optimizations” imparted by SCP-427 are cumulative. Oversight has deemed the side effects an “acceptable risk,” but users must carefully record their total exposure time as sufficient mutations are grounds for termination.

An old poem by a pioneer woman of Dakota Territory. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Well, I’m back in North Dakota” Nina Farley Wishek Well, I’m back in North Dakota Where the prairie is broad and flat– Strange, how could I have forgotten That it looks like that. Years ago in times primeval, It did not then look like that– I suppose it took a million ages To roll it out so flat. But, I like its level vastness, Its herds of cattle, sleek and fat– And its miles and miles of grainfields, Stretching, waving, far and flat. Yes, I’m back from California, And to its grandeur, I lift my hat– To its climate, mountains, sunshine, And to its ocean, wide and flat. But, oh, you dusty, wind-swept prairie, With your sun-kissed spaces flat– Never could I, would I, change you, For I like you, just like that.