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Operation Disclosure: GCR/RV Intel Alert for July 22, 2018

RV/INTELLIGENCE ALERT - July 22, 2018 (Disclaimer: The following is an overview of the current situation based on rumors/leaks from sev...

Monday, July 3, 2017

"A Few Poems & Stories Break?" by Dezerro - 7.3.17

Entry Submitted by Dezerro at 4:25 PM EDT on July 3, 2017


[H.P Lovecraft wrote strange tales]

Dark Star

Poe encountered Lovecraft on a wandering journey along fringes — those of borders, rule limits, and scary dreams.

They nodded politely in unison, wondering quietly to themselves just who would scare who first or the most, and who would live to tell the tale.

And further in unison, and so quietly, they carried those thoughts to different fringes — those of eventualities — and soon knew they would both vanish, in perfect unison, within the strange dreams of the other.

Scanning potential realities for solutions — for a soul vanished remains always an evil condition for all but the most moronic of the demented — they formed a plan.

And soon, now cooperatively merged at least temporarily into one, this growling and growing new and so thoroughly gargantuan Dark Star began the long tour of new fringes — those borders of zones called “chills for the soul” — and there they roamed……



Problem With Time

Frisgate Malform shuddered as his breath misted, and he took up the old blue enameled coffee pot and filled his dented cup. He placed the pot back on the hot coals and looked up, smelled the pine trees behind him rising up like spires.

The ice age passed along before him, finally dwindling in the distance.

“Hmmm,” he said.



You Are

They assumed you merely were absence of light rather than a zone vibrant in your own chilling way of haunting sun painted days.

You said little, but planned your excursions for the back sides of mountains and deep within haunted forests where photons, terrified at times, did not go.

For you are the hidden realm, where those in certain need go to hide.

And in a way you are hiding itself, hiding within yourself.

You are darkness.




From the viewpoint of the shadow, the tall sunlit thing became the result rather than the cause.

For without the shadow, no sunlit thing would have value -- that of being available to form a shadow beyond.

Light trod on even more slippery stone, for missing the thing requiring illuminating or the shadow requiring being cast or both, would render light a bad useless joke of existence.

The conversion had begun.

Shadows, having never truly existed, knew all about creating non-existingness, and these skills they used, mainly against all the sunlit things warm, naive and complacent.

Soon the shadows rose up and proud, gaining in density and girth, now churning, mobilized dark zones of action.

Sunlit things thinned, finally to merely two dimensional planes laid flat.

And flashing now in movie-like colors of images, all the potential activity churning deep within the new tall and vibrant shadows, mere things now moved in thin, flat, mimic dances.

And things became the new shadows as the conversion was done.

And thus did emerge this new land…

This ShadowLand.



The Silver Ball

Spherical and shining, in central park one cool late evening, it appeared near tall trees swaying in the breeze.

A week or so later, he tapped the glistening surface and asked out loud, "What IS this?"

A thin and slightly bearded fellow nearby said, "That is the exterior surface of the universe, silly!" and then he ambled away into the night."



Silent Bell

This darkest night of moonless fright
Sent up from freezing hell,
As I trod on and all along
The road to Silent Bell.

There in monolithic guise
Of dark and brassy sheen,
It loomed a mile high and wide,
By cold and wailing sea.

It had stood a thousand years
Upon dark mountainside.
And no reverberating tones
Had greeted raging tide.

I had in mind to break the silence,
Then my tale to tell.
Toward cold brass I plodded on...
To ring the Silent Bell.

Ever higher steeper climbing
Clawing for a hold.
Ascending fast, my dreams of ringing
Meeting now the cold.

Hours passed before my eyes,
Or was it many years?
Time and space now intertwining
Wringing out my tears.

Yes time and space and furtive glances,
There conspired to bind,
Lurking far beyond high towers,
Targetting my mind.

Yet on I made my weary way
Upon the soul of hope.
Yet hanging calm just out of sight,
High noose of roughest rope.

I knew within my darkest depths
I played with evil here,
I played at cards all smeared in red,
I prayed repentance dear.

At last I made a lunging run
And headlong there I fell
To find my torn and bloody hand
Laid on the Silent Bell.

Terror rose within my soul
My breath to far to grasp.
And there I clawed at rock and soil,
A passageway at last.

There beneath its massive rim
So slowly sinking down,
There like a snake I slithered through
Cold darkness all around.

I followed there within the inner
Curve of this great bell.
My grin was cold, a tentative
Denial I'd found hell.

I touched some massive granite rock
Awaiting out its fate.
I hauled it high above my head,
My dream could not there wait.

And now in one amazing lunging
Hurling of this stone,
I went to meet with darkest brass
All lost and all alone.

There the barest faint delay
Of silence filled the air.
But suddenly so howling, ringing
Thunder served its fare.

This darkest night of moonless fright
Sent up from freezing hell,
As I trod on and all along and round,
And round, and round, and round, and round,
Within this Silent Bell.

The End



Beyond A Crescendo - Descendo Of Silence

I pondered that likely original arrival, or perhaps emergence -- a zero of silence or an ultimate of noise -- which came first? Then I dropped the matter, for it didn't matter and didn't apply to the darkness I knew I crept toward -- journeys have their little side roads.

On a whim I followed the great diminishing retreat of all sound...to ZERO (a note: some whims are purely mad, and with no saving grace whatever, and I do not intend to warn, I simply mention it -- on a whim).

Then so NOT to my surprise -- for I had of late actively embraced, ah...invited, the shadowed sublime -- I passed across that Cheshire Cat Grin and grim barrier OF zero -- and into....


I wished myself -- and any other nemesis embracing loosly roving lunatic -- a great luck, or at least an avoidance of possible bleak accumulated negative kharma, and then went on happily.

I heard nothing, this no surprise of course. But then a gentle hint of a thing...or more. Manifesting it was.

I recalled noisy gaiety and joy of so long ago -- well it SEEMED so long before, there on my existential route through eternal stuff with all its sounds.

How far into this damnable eerieness I had embedded my soul I knew not for certain, and then I paused, and waited upon its arrival.

It didn't exactly arrive -- I simply then knew that something did now, with all of its own interest and enchantment, LISTEN to ME.



Axiom One

He peered at the cover page for the latest version of “Implementation of Artificial Intelligence — Specification Code Four, Final.” He had helped write it a month earlier.

He punched the elevator button and the doors closed and he began the journey to sub-basement level 65R, one of many restricted floors.

He pondered Axiom One of THE CODE, as he and his high-security cleared associates referred to it:

“All AI formations shall have installed a system allowing full and direct human override.”

The elevator, though set to a comfortable temperature, felt cold, and a chill traveled his spine. He pulled his coat tighter to him and waited for the familiar ring to signal arrival at 65R.

He exited between smoothly separating doors and walked the long hallway, turned right at its end and then to Room 16. He heard the elevator doors slam harder than usual in the distance.

He swiped the card hanging from his neck on a small chain over the sensor, and entering, hit the light switch and bright fluorescents came to life with a subdued flicker.

The monitor screen was an unfamiliar gray haze of tiny waves. He sat straighter and punched first the Escape key and then the Enter key. Nothing.

Under the edge of the desk a small panel held the recessed reset button. He pushed it and the screen blanked, and he assumed the computer was restarting. He went to the door planning a refill of his thermal cup with cold filtered water from the cooler located in a small alcove off the mail hallway.

The door lever seemed to be jammed. It was supposed to remain locked only from the outside for security. He pushed the lever harder, finally leaning on it in growing frustration.

He stared at the lever as memories of small irritations within the basement offices came to surface in his awareness. Things had been going slightly more awry over the last six months.

Maintenance would need a fire lit under their butts, for this was becoming a distraction to critical work requiring at times a severe level of concentration.

He returned to his desk space, and pulling up a handset, left a stern message for the maintenance chief and requesting immediate attention to the door handle.

The screen was still black so he punched the reset button once more. Within fifteen seconds a dark green background appeared and a red lettered message slowly began fading in.

He felt a static energy within the room building slowly and his hair began to stand out from his now furiously itching scalp. The fluorescents flickered in irregular spasms of flashing light. The itching deepened as he felt a pressure building in his head.

A few more seconds and his eyes were wide, strained with anxiety flowing to terror as the room began to fade in and out of view. There on the green glowing screen the words formed in now brilliant red:

“All human formations shall have installed a system allowing full and direct computer override.”

The End


The Sitting Man

Torey spat dryly and watched the horizon hang in the distance like a badly framed portrait. Dying would be easy. He kicked at a rock and it rolled away, disappearing under a bush and revealing a hole in the dry dirt

He sat down slowly and leaned against the sandstone wall looming behind him. It shot up six hundred feet, craggy and barren, and behind it, Torey could imagine, cool streams bubbled and broad oak trees swayed in the breeze shading luscious patches of clover under berry bushes. But in his dreams alone could he walk boldly through mountains.

The mist did not seem odd rising up out of the hole. He watched the cloud form, imagined rain clouds black with moisture surrounding him, wetting his clothes and washing away his dryness.

The cloud began to flatten, a thick blanket covering the desert for the coming night. But the night was hours away so Torey wondered in slow thoughts what odd thing might happen next.


The mountain sighed its own thoughts. Near it was, this unit of moisture, so close but so damnably separate, still it's own self and deciding on a whim where to lean, or walk or even run. Did it not realize the need of sandy walls for the moisture of life. No one gave a second thought to dry mountains anchored forever under raging sun and hot wind. No one cared. Something must change.


Torey waved his hand heavily through the growing mist but instead of cool he felt the dryness of dust and hot powder. It pressed against him, caressing, protecting. The urge to walk, to escape, swelled like bad dreams in a haunted night of half sleep. Torey tried to lean forward. He heard words voiced in silent screaming from his own soul. Run, flee, escape. The running man, he thought, was what he must become. But he could only sit in terror.


"Sergeant Larks, over here."

The officer plodded in the hot of the day thinking about his shade tree back at the edge of town. As he approached the mountain an outline emerged, a shadow in the rock hanging above the clothes and other items in the sand. "Call Inspector Bursen,” Larks said, his mouth dry. "Tell him we found something and he needs to see it."

Larks traced the perimeter of the shadow with tired eyes. It reminded him of a sitting man. In the distance a dark cloud faded. Probably a sandstorm, he thought. And then he noticed a hole nearby and the mist forming slowly.

The End



The tumult of dark gray roiled in and out of dense violent patterns in a darkened sky along the southwestern coast of the United States during the worst weather in over 75 years.

Meteorologists had gone nearly berserk in vain attempts to weave some thin fabric of logic from never before recorded reports of highs and lows of temperature and pressure and wildly varying currents of turbulent air around the globe. In Arizona a small enclave of heavily bundled scientists stared in disbelief at a tall saguaro cactus, freezing and dying.

The atmosphere of Earth had seemed to come alive, wailing madly in turbulent funks of long suppressed emotion.

Jerry Kurty swore an oath of frustration as he squinted red eyes to yet another meaningless printout to be added to a growing pile on the floor. None of them, singly or in any combination made any sense at all. Storms reversed themselves on apparent whim, or suddenly disappeared altogether in a magic act on a spherical stage larger than life.

Weather men and women gave up reporting what the next day would bring and contented themselves with conditions of the skies as they now were or had been. Mother nature was mad, some said, over conditions wrought by man in his quest of waning resources in the face of the growing needs of all.

"Jerry, you...uh, may want to have a look at this.” Ander Thomas softly called across the office floor of Blue Sky Labs at 11:45 PM. Their small privately funded weather center had maintained the best record of accurate predictions for the past five years and suddenly it was all going to hell. Several of their satellites were mysteriously off-line. Even their near genius IQ levels seemed to help none at all, and probably intensified the frustration, as they were not used to losing control of situations.

BluSkyLabs provided critical and unusually insightful research to scientists and governments, these reports often added to databases for weather control programs. The vote was still out on most of them, but results were recorded constantly and analyzed and adjustments made. Man had finally declared war on the winds.

Ander and Jerry weren't concerned with ratings or weather wars and never had been. They'd simply loved the skies and her turbulent spats in a thin layer of reality between a lumbering green and blue planet and the cold dark abyss of space.

Jerry threw down the latest sheets rolling off the printer, missing the pile on the floor by a foot. His thumb and forefinger covered his mouth as, with his head down and lost in thought, he made his way to a cubicle nestled in the far corner of the lab. He came up behind Ander who, wide eyed and staring at a global map covered with superimposed cloud formations, closed his mouth and mumbled, "It almost seems alive, it's like..."

"Ander, I'm done in, we need a rest, whacha got on the grid?” He flopped down into a padded armchair, closed his eyes and started falling asleep.

"Jer..., this is...strange. These patterns overhead...nothing like we've ever taped. Looks global...just amazing.” I swear, it's like the surface of...a brain. Heh heh. Probably thinking about what to do next. Haaaaa, ha ha ha ha...god, I need some rest."

Jerry heard nothing in his light snoring as his head hung forward, chin against chest. Ander looked at him and giggled in the glee of exhaustion, and then dropping to the thick carpet, and sprawling on his back, covered his eyes with his elbow against the harsh fluorescent tubes overhead and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

The next day, amid frigid winds, Ander and Jerry were rushed to a local hospital. In the hallway a bearded doctor frowned and stared at the floor beside a younger colleague. "Doug, I'm calling Dr. Tanner from Colorado, I've never seen frostbite this severe. I don't think we can save them."

The End


- Dezerro



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