OTHER PUBLISHED WORK
Videos, Music, and Original Fiction
PIECES PUBLISHED IN LITERARY MAGAZINE
Maya 2019
Two of my original fictional pieces were accepted for publication in the 2019 edition of the Maya Literary Magazine. The pieces —The Fairy Circle and The Final Letters... — are featured below.
THE FAIRY CIRCLE
Begin your journey in the ballroom before dusk falls.
Find yourself there as the night begins to gather around you, long before the light outside truly vanishes. There is a balcony that feels infinitely more abandoned than the lack of people warrants, and an old woman who gazes out at you from her portrait with too-familiar eyes, and stark floors that kiss stockinged feet more solidly than the nightmares in your bedroom always seem to. Make your way to the bottom of the stairs and pass through the doors - the wooden ones first, then the glass, and finally the ones framed in stone - until at last you stand outside with not-yet-night air tapping cool fingers against your cheeks.
Turn right. You will not take the sinister path just yet.
Take another right. Walk past the old gnarled tree, the stone walls and black gates, the courtyard that is always larger than you expect it to be. Pass the empty fields and the buildings with the gaping doorways and through the thinning crowds of faces that will look at you but not quite seem to see you.
Here you will reach the dragon.
He is frozen in bronze and winding form, mounted on granite and worn walkway and legend and lore. He may help you, if you come at the right time and seek the right things. Tonight he will look over you with guarded eyes and point you back the way you came. It is a warning. You will not listen.
Here, at last, turn left. The world behind you will buzz to a hum after the first few steps. Ahead of you is the Old Building, filled with impossibly twisted hallways and rooms that are never quite how you remember them and stairs that only sometimes lead to the same places; and the stretches of green where lie the poets and the tired fools, who you may speak to, should they wish to respond, and the figures who look and listen, who you should not speak to, no matter how much you want to. Do not go ahead tonight.
On the grass to your right you will find the fairy circle.
It is perfectly round and vividly bright, twice as alive as the dark greenery that surrounds it. It draws your eyes and beckons your feet, and you find yourself closer with no memory of taking any further steps. The old stories whisper in your ears and beg you to leave before it is too late to pretend you saw nothing, warn you of fiddles and false gold and promises taken too far. You do not listen.
Here is what you have brought: red berries plucked from the bushes by the building that is not quite an apothecary; St. John’s Wort stolen from the poisonous garden outside the collection of human oddities; five small stones with water-worn holes gifted to you by the ocean; an iron key on a chain around your neck, clicking against a seashell given to you by an old love; a make-believe name and a head full of stories and hopes; and half a chance that maybe, if you are very lucky, you will find your way back to the path with the dragon and stone walls and black gates and gaping doors and empty fields.
The dark grass folds beneath you. Dusk brushes the toes of your boots brushing the edge of the circle. You still do not remember walking forward.
You take another step.
If you start in the ballroom, and make your way through the doors and past the gnarled tree and the sprawling courtyard and the faces that look but do not see, you will reach the bronze dragon. Behind him lies the path to the Old Building with its impossible secrets, the green stretches of poets and figures and fools, the wooden seats and stone walkways. If you stand at the mouth of the path and turn right, you will see the perfect circle of bright green in the darkened grass. Pressed into the grass you will see one pair of footprints. They will stop in the circle. There will be no one there.
The dragon will point you back the way you came.
Heed its warning.
THE FINAL LETTERS OF DR. BERTRAM MORCOM AND DR. SILAS NEMO SHAW
Dearest Bertram,
My congratulations on your future additional doctorate and condolences on your further lack of spare time, etc. I confess I see little point in undergoing the whole process, having gained a title myself seemingly without trying and having always prefered independent experiment, but I understand your addiction to the classroom and must thus express some sympathetic pride between friends.
You enquired in your previous letter on the state of my career, which is thus: I admit some lack of foresight in setting out to become a Mad Scientist, i.e. should have done some more research; however, I am managing regardless. Having found nothing about which to be particularly mad (you will recall that I have relocated to the secluded outskirts of Gearsport and thus no longer have annoying neighbors, at least of the human sort), I have decided to translate “mad” as a distinct lack of sanity, rather than as a particular chip on my shoulder about some matter or other.
I will write you with further developments. Do think warmly, or at least occasionally, on your dear friend,
Dr. Silas Nemo Shaw.
P.S. Have gotten about halfway through the book you sent me, and am finding it enjoyable, if largely incomprehensible. Also, have enclosed some formulas needing your review.
—
My Dear Silas,
Apologies for the late reply, as your letter was lost under a stack of papers and was not retrieved until after Sophie had forced me to clean, and then read the letter ahead of time, probably thinking it was a bill. She has instructed me to inform you that your letter verged on the rude side and that she found it quite entertaining.
Thank you for your congratulations, but they are not due until such a time as when I actually succeed in earning the doctorate. I will however readily accept your condolences, as I am in much need of them while dealing with several professors and lecturers seemingly incapable of understanding human nature, i.e. the need to sleep, especially when thoroughly bored, or overworked. I should hope I am not so horrible myself.
I have reviewed your formulas and found only simple algebraic miscalculations, although I am not entirely sure of the purpose and might further be benefitted were you to enlighten me. I daresay the likely result, along with the amusing illustrations provided in the margins, seems more violent than your usual tendencies.
I advise caution in pursuing insanity, but trust that you will mind your own judgment whether or not I warn against it.
Yours,
Dr. Bertram Morcom
—
My Dear Silas,
Am jotting down this letter quickly before class. Have not heard from you in quite some time. Hope to hear from you soon, am hoping that everything is alright.
Yours,
Bertram M.
P.S. Am enclosing some metal bits I found. Am unsure of type of metal, but seem allergic. Perhaps will have excuse to miss Prof. W’s class tomorrow.
—
Dearest Bertram,
I have been quite occupied in scheming up ways to go insane and had quite forgotten to respond to your letter. Kindly tell your sister that I write what I believe to be true and trust that you insert what pleasantries I may have omitted.
The scraps of metal appear to bronze affected by some chemical unknown to me. I suspect Sophie as the cause, and would ask that you get her to send me more samples so I may study them. The effects are mildly poisonous upon contact, with the rash fading quickly if washed properly.
After much consideration, I have decided to go insane via solitary living and a strange diet. The latter I shall devise later; the former necessitates that I cancel our usual Christmas together, although this must remain a secret from my parents so that they will not force me to visit them instead. I will continue writing with some consistency.
Now I must bid you adieu, with promises to make decisions that seem sound at the time.
Yours forever, in some sense of the word,
Dr. Silas Nemo Shaw
P.S. Nevermind, the rash has returned.
P.P.S. Also, disregard the formulas’ necessity; it did not work.
—
My Dear Silas,
I have enclosed an antidote to the poison that Sophie wrote up for me. I’m afraid it doesn’t keep well over distances, so sending it directly was impractical. I trust your ability to procure and mix the ingredients properly. Sophie sends her apologies, along with inquiries as to your reaction.
I am sorry to hear that you will be unable to join us for Christmas. I shall miss your company something awful, and will hopefully not be persuaded to engage in some other form of festivity; you well know my opinion that the entire holiday is usually superficial or misguided in some religious fashion, neither of which options appeal to me.
Professor Hodge recommended me a translated version of the book I have sent you, should you desire any clarifications. Best of luck with your latest endeavors, although perhaps I should be wishing you the worst of luck, given their nature.
Yours,
Dr. Bertram Morcom
—
Dearest Bertram,
Have been quite busy with insanity, which is going splendidly. Book is making much more sense in comparison, have decided to read it backwards and am quite enjoying it. Have enclosed some thoughts on scraps, e.g. old parchment, hide, leaf, etc. whatever was lying about.
Am quickly losing interest in human interaction except with you; unsure if this is side effect of new mental state or bout of common sense, but seems to be the latter. Also, have befriended a carrier pigeon, a handsome and capable specimen. Will wed him within the month unless otherwise persuaded.
Sincerely (or perhaps not),
Silas.
P.S. Rash persists; have named it Morty and should like to keep it.
—
My Dear Silas,
Haven’t much time to write. Many important things afoot. May be in danger, as of yet am unsure.
Kindly invite me to the wedding should you marry the pigeon, although I urge you to reconsider.
Yours,
Bertram M.
P.S. May not write again in quite some time.
—
Dearest Bertram,
Nevermind, he has flown away as it is. I fear my company may have grown tiresome, or perhaps there was some lady pigeon more interesting. As it is, I find myself unsure what a carrier pigeon was doing in these parts of Gearsport. Perhaps this is the insanity wearing off, which is unfortunate, as I had quite enjoyed it while it lasted. I may write Sophronia for a concoction to help it along.
Recently I have attempted to brew my own concoctions, with little success that I can recall. In the mornings I will find things written in my handwriting the actual pennings of which I have no recollection. Some good ideas. Have enclosed one of the less comprehensible sheets and request that you return it after you have taken a look.
Do try to stay out of danger. I should hate for you to die and leave me entirely a recluse.
With love,
Silas.
—
[Although the next letter implies the existence of some correspondence in between, none could be found. It is possible that Dr. Shaw only imagined writing them.]
—
Dearest Bertram,
I have decided to hold off on any further letters of substance until such a time as you can write back to me. I did request that you refrain from dying, and hope that you have not gone ahead and done it anyway.
Yours forever, etc.
Dr. Silas.
—
My Dear Silas,
Hi’do chivopew yal hi’tomb’z’ua wo(s)ov’t. Ua’iwhfwium’m mal. Fwoito hi’botvah shut maso, av hi’yubo us li(w) up hi’nets-vonondov sho i(b)vo(t).
Yours,
Dr. Bertram Morcom
—
No letters have yet been found between Dr. Morcom and Dr. Shaw beyond this last one. This final letter remained a mystery until late 2015, when the cipher was finally cracked by one of our members. The decryption reads as follows:
“Be careful how you send me letters. I cannot explain now. Please destroy this note, or hide it well if you must remember the address.”
No further mention of Dr. Bertram Morcom has yet been found in any documents. Those with further information to offer are encouraged to contact the Society of Paranormal Happenings with details.