Ragweed Roundup

Written

⭐ thanks everyone who got TORTURE WORKS! it is a very PRETTY BOOK inside and out, made with GREAT LOVE. it is a good way to read my stories of the last decade in an attractive format, and an auspicious TRANSITION to the next phase of our operation, a new wave of fresh, unclotted fluid.

I’m very proud of the layout and everyone who worked on it. I chose Averia Libre because it is a rare font that has personality but is also readable. I hope it added to the dreamy, sweaty feel…

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Civet Servant

Written

200 degrees of boiling water distilled with a concentrate of magnesium sulfate and sodium bicarbonate, ordinator-programmed for exact temperature control, heated in an industrial-class boiler, blasts through a stainless steel metal filter into Riparian’s cup, spurting from the leather and mahogany and rose gold $4000 coffee maker, complete with burr grinder and steam wand.

The dark-haired man dips his nose into the darkness of the cup, and inhales. His heart beats faster, as if the caffeine was already in his bloodstream. His eyes dilate over the ceramic rim, stark and creased as if sleepless from the womb.

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cunt toward enemy [s3e1] business casual

Written

Parsani notes that the premature birth of Ahriman is in fact an allegory for the self-introspection of Time (Zurvan) into its more abysmal scales…
— Reza Negarestani, Cyclonopedia

✦

Greenwich is showering. The concrete floor and gritty sand makes her think of a beach shower. But there is no ocean, only the black sea of petroleum beneath her feet in this desert bunker.

She opens her eyes and her skin gives her vertigo. Serpents barely visible in the murk of deep waters. The qatran is feeding off the violence like a school of red garra. She remembers going with her mother to a salon (the lull of fans and a corner-mounted TV and some toys sticky with other children’s fingers) and her mother’s feet going in a basin of fish which nibbled away the dead skin.

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processes

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Something had changed in the world and it had become bad. Going outside was dangerous. It was very bad in the field across from the parking lot. The ground was covered in sluggish lobes and it was easy to step inside the openings. I stayed in the house. I don’t think it was my house but it was where we were when it started. We didn’t remember things, or we didn’t have the ability to act on what we remembered.

He was showing me something in the second room down the hall. There was clutter everywhere and it was a small room. I stood outside and looked in. He had a large pot of soup and he opened the lid and particles or vapor came from it and filled the air like a disc of steam. It was difficult to see. It felt wrong. The soup had been in the refrigerator and was cold and congealed. He smiled and was not alarmed and was stupid and amused. He was “showing me something” but not thinking much about it. The cloud of air or particles or moisture above the pot seemed to be getting brighter or more “active” in a way that brightness does not describe. It was a kind of “bubbling” that was “dirty”. I had a really bad feeling. I reached for a white cord that was on the floor and pulled on it. Even though I was pulling it sideways and would bend the prongs, I didn’t want to go inside the room. If I went inside the room something permanent might happen to me, that had already happened to the world. I pulled the cord and I think the process stopped. But there was no way of knowing which processes had started or ended.