Vexed Cthulhu, the 13th Zodiac


Once a mighty monster, ensnared and imprisoned by mythology.

A former master of the art form,  Cthulhu — vexed — now finds himself caged within the prism. A fallen child of the Ancient Ones, left neither to prosper nor to suffer on a godforsaken planet located lifetimes and galaxies away from his nexus of birth. Cthulhu’s heritage was that of builders. Great, towering structures that adhered to a singular language of geometry. The properties of this geometry defied the ordered rules of the universe. No one could look upon these structures without a deepened sense of fear, awe, and profound disorientation. In short, it was the architecture of distortion.

There are many uses for the architecture of distortion, especially as a space and time traveling entity like Cthulhu. But to him and the others of his breeding it was an art used to construct vast cities, to explore the far reaches of the universe, to defy limitations of the self.

And then this art form came to the hands of another species occupying times and spaces known to the Ancient Ones: that of Man, who noted the architecture of distortion, measured its aspects, and put its powerful advantages to hateful purpose against his own kind, against his own gods and even against his own reason.

And now Cthulhu –vexed — lounges caged within the prism, feared by none, forgotten by all… except for the occasional exultation of certain junior literati.

Spindle Spine

Labeled Dactylspondylus on its enclosure by Dr. Lorelei, how shall I describe this miserable creature?

Etymology: dactyl – hand; spondylus – of the spine

It writhes. It fidgets. It picks at string. A long rope of vertebrae supported by spindly finger legs, not unlike a centipede. Except that in the case of the centipede, nature made her graceful, undulating and quick. The dactylspondylus is none of these things. Jerky, stiff and slow….I have yet to discover what it eats.

A Vile Laboratory

Dr. Lorelei was a mad man and there isn’t a shred of evidence to the contrary. I spent three years hunting him down, helplessly witnessing the cunning evolution of his “artwork.” I cannot deny his craftsmanship and ingenuity but the sickening practice cannot be praised without laboring over the abominable origins of each specimen.

Reanimating dead flesh is an old and well considered practice. The benefits to society abound as long as it is done in controlled conditions, with empathy ever at the heart of any operation. But Dr. Lorelei (so called “doctor’ because he was indeed a graduate of an elite medical institution) took this life saving procedure and bastardized it with the sickening addition of the body parts of animals: mammalian, reptilian and even insectoid.

Many of these creations are still living, caged in dirty and sad conditions. Is it more merciful to let them live or to destroy them? Can we study them without partaking of Dr. Lorelei’s unholy legacy?


The ghost goes by other names, of course. “Pondskirt” doesn’t really engender a sense of fear or invoke any tantalizing ideas about the undead or supernatural forces that inhabit our world. Perhaps the teenagers call it something more appropriate: the Banished Man, the Water’s Voice or the Hungry, all as for instance.

But in my mind It is only Pondskirt, one of those sensation-based phrases that dawns on you and you never quite shake. The vowel sounds lending shape to an already evocative combination of nouns.

I’ve seen It, that old Pondskirt. Making its rounds, always clockwise, around the dirty little lake. An oily smudge in an otherwise bright morning. The day must be bright in order to see. Unless, of course, you’ve come to know Its habits. Then you may even be able to find It in the dark. But only if you and It have chosen to visit this place on the same day and at the same time. And that, friend, takes a very strong sense of intuition.


To weasel but a morsel

of your exquisite love

the measle of my nose

would go as pink as blush


I can show you all my woodlands

splendid as the Moment

perfumed of black rich soils

and spring mosses so redolent


My dress it may look shabby

But it is pure ermine

O Lady, could you consider

A tenacious love like mine?


With every ounce of my being,

Your Vermin Valentine