Though the sasquatch is extinct, he uses this to his advantage: https://t.co/XAsAPJlTtK
— Uel Aramchek (@ThePatanoiac) December 12, 2015
The Black Pear‘s …
… natural poison is much too potent and complex to be fully separated from the nectar in which it dwells. It can be broken down further through fermentation, making the resultant wine much more popular to consume than the pear itself. It becomes entirely nonlethal after several years of aging, yet those drunk on the finished product still experience elaborate fever dreams and vivid hallucinations. […] This completes a curious ontological circuit. The black pear tree does not actually exist, and can only be perceived in the mind’s eye of those who are already drunk on black pear wine …
(This might be TSP’s favorite from Uel Aramchek so far.)
Some examples from illustrious names. The challenge was defined by Hemingway’s six word story “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” (Twitter is unnecessarily spacious for them.)
Neal Stephenson does it best:
Tick tock tick tock tick tick.
Laird Barron’s story, casting an eerie light on Thomas Ligotti, is available (complete) here.
L dwelt in a moribund American Heartland city (although independent confirmation of his residence and bona fides were lacking) that had been abandoned by most of the citizenry and at least half the rats. Afflicted by a severe mood disorder, he maintained few contacts among the professional writing community, albeit his associates were erudite men, scholars and theorists such as himself. Perhaps this hermit-philosopher persona is what eventually cemented his status as a quasi-guru whose fictive meditations upon cosmic horror and Man’s minuteness in the universe gradally shifted to relentless proselytizing of antinatalist propaganda in the form of email interviews, random tracts produced on basement presses, and one full-blown trade paperback essay entitled Horror of Being, or HoB as his acolytes dubbed it. That book was published to much clamor amongst his fans and a tentative round of golf claps by the critics who weren’t certain which way to jump when it came to analyzing L’s eerily lucid lunacy. Nobody enjoyed receiving death threats or dead rats in the post. On the other hand, endorsing such maxims as “The kindest and most noble act any sapient being may commit is to never procreate” and “Consciousness is an abomination” wasn’t too spiffy on a journalist’s credentials.
A selection of choice sound-bites (although it doesn’t include all of my favorites).
… the radio show.
Warning: Includes sex with aliens.