Accessory to the Fisherman on the Loose

by our roving reporter shaun grub

   Here we've all managed to escape into the fibrillating interiors within the fluctuating skein of Aurora B-time, a fractal manifestation of what we experience as ordinary realtime that remains a subvariant offshoot of the preliminary Oceanic time the electromagnetic aspects of the universe keep in bonded subatomic ratio-reversal electric equilibrium sufficiently for us to a) not only have manifested into the post-harmonic but b) lived to tell about it, something that c) 99.999% of individual beings incarnated have managed to escape from during that fraction of the Wavecrest that has yet to even begun to be considered Fallen.  

     Welcome to the minutest hair's-breadth, the most microscopic, unimaginably thin slice of the current brane of Laniakea known to have produced our thralldom, an exteriorized cross-section of the magnifie4d portion of a single cilia-strand revealing a Canyonland Kingdom curling into sight, which is the mirror-image of the Carnival Cusp reflecting the summary crawl of our species, from inception to concurrence, all the way through the constant molting and shedding of a succession of multiplicities of skins, from barest and smoothest of multicolored silks on up the roughening index of parameters which successively sprout chitinous formations resulting in the complete array of talons and horns befitting the bewitched among the squalid subjects of the Endless Forest, namely mammals and amphibians which remain among the few whose genetic programming allows a crossover-current of a certain amperage to be processed effectively enough for conducive shrines to be built in honor of the fathomless Sea that spawned them. 

       

     It's taken me this entire investigation hunting down the alleged paranormals which escaped their facilities to come around to various inescapable conclusions this wild goose chase has led me to consider.  The variant-generating aspect of the twisted trail whose scent I'm on leads me to believe the series of events which have led toward my having been alerted to even the remote possibility of these ex-convicts having escaped into the wild confines of our planet has me reconsidering the position I'm in from a whole new perspective.  And that viewpoint has warped sufficiently to form a sort of moebius-like continuum of events whose outcome appears to have seeded its inception, remarkably this configuration of impeccable logic happens to share it's variables with those selfsame quarks, atoms and electrons which make up our universe.  The realization this process engenders within the individual human mind can trigger heretofore undiscovered pathways in the brain of the recipient.  These pathways in no way shape or form alter the biological physicality of the subjects experiencing them nor the direct environment of the subject, but rather allow the subject's ratio/cortex sub-processing to reconfigure certain stability inducing protocols of the human brain which allow its consciousness to access certain electromagnetic sub-frequencies, in other words the solid nature of our direct environment gets to be temporarily bypassed in favor of a quantum induction action whose tangible results in our megahertz, if witnessed, could only be categorized under a paranormal heading. 

    The Fisherman was reputed to have been an escapee from a covert government organization's maximum security protocols.  Therefore, it can be surmised that this mysterious entity currently resides somewhere on Earth.  The city or country which harbors it at the moment remains unknown, as does the answer to the question of its whereabouts in any capacity.  For all we know, it has ensconced itself in a remote wilderness area.  The Fisherman' (called so due to his reputation as a blink dog analog remote controlled virtual puppet) said by some to be as vicious as can be and yet by others reckoned as more to be determined. Make no mistake about it, this creature possesses a sort of radar mind control ability rumored to be powered by gazing into its eyes. 

      Too many valid reports of a creature matching this description have been filed with the Organization, as of late. What's interesting to our panel of secret scouts seems to be its ability to shapeshift through a limited range of bodily contours.  Said to be accompanied by a presence of astral spirits or strange forms of radiating energy, as depicted by the enigmatic red cloaked figure to the lower right in the illustration above.   

    

   

introducing PLASMAMAN

 by   Shaun Lawton

the original Plasmaman in full face-armor 

rare image of Plasmaman without face-armor shields

Circus Act 334

 Scaving like a carvy rat
sleeting in the byway

careening in a critter curve 

 

skittled o'er skywise

Gerfenherders on rampaging 

textes over keys
slendered along the skittering
crevices of locksmiths

 With enterprises relocating 
for precious gems and stones
boundless ascertaining when their 

accrued polarity emerges

 Adjustant to a proletariat
tip-toed along a tight rope
skippy skipping tea
hee-haw mistress on the flow

 Down for a knuckle on a knee
and two for the show to start
eight to get married apart
one in a sudden disaster

 Five to go to court
for a divorce in the snow 

six to hold against them

in the midst of laughter

 For the rest of these lives
seven to stand ahead of them
while looking for new chapters
seven and a half on the circumstance

 Upon which this condition drives
and eight through ten watched the nine
see it happen all over again
the carousel's turning not

 Clockwise nor sounding
may keep up with its singular
ringing starbound cry
toward a pathway carved

 Next to all the rest left behind
as fossilized tracers of ions lit up
the echoes of everything
 else picked it up

 On the sonar so as not to
speak of its traveling faster
now since leaving the course
 of the rocks laid out on the sand

 Along the river way of warrens
babbling over stones without

a thought for the occurrence 

being picked up by drones

The Restoration: preface

   by   roving  reporter  Shaun Grub      

Buried deep in a subarctic cache of heavily encrypted  information held in stasis behind a frozen firewall of top-notch sophisticated perimeter-defense tech lay an encoded section of passages detailing the activity of two highly classified personnel whose involvement in a covert episode taking place in a restricted section of Arkansas woods has brought one deep-state agent's concerns to the fore.   He has been monitoring the two teenaged boys for several weeks. 

    Beforehand...

   Before he knew it, Greg Grub's grip on his sense of reality had begun to slip. A warm feeling that started in the center of his forehead and then swept back up to the top of his head started bothering him. 

     Hoping the temperature would not rise so high as to begin boiling his brains like sautéed mushrooms in a pan, he began thinking cooling thoughts and recollecting long ago days trapped in the ice and snow caverns of northern New England, with his Grub brothers. They'd often joked about being "ice elves." 

   

   During many past adventures, the Grub Bros' molecular make up had been beamed across the multiverse too many times to mention. They had been caught marauding in un-registered domains long before the Parameters of Tik-Tok-Tak had been secured.  The peculiar thing about these high energy plasma transmissions (which occur electromagnetically) remains a mystery that only one of the legendary duo happens to have retained, and this underlying secret (that of which of the two brothers has the cipher) was known only to the singular Grub brother in question.    

   

     Thus begins the story that has not yet been fully told.  It is a story of wonder and absurdities. Of adventure and woe. It is not a story for the faint of heart, or the easily dismissive of cooperative properties and quantum entanglement. It's a story for those persecuted by the virus of belief.  For those readily addicted to the mechanics of truth, in all its many guises (including deceptive variants and off-putting misnomers).  For the rest, it's a story that absolutely must be heard.  

     There are several things that should first be made clear, except for the fact that a few of the aspects won't be possible to convey in this medium we are currently in.  That is neither here nor there.  It's not really necessary to relate all the minutiae of our tale. Many things will fall into place when they are ready to.

        

     

 

    A dark winter silence fell upon us, of the extended Grub tribe, when word spread that our heroic brother in arms, Amra Crysten, had fallen on the battlefield during a medicine run for his mother.  The past few years since have proven rough for a variety of reasons, the least of which may have been the global novel coronavirus pandemic that swept the world into virulent upheaval. 

     Now the fading alarm resounds among our timelines like the sound of a gong drowned in memory. An ancestral shudder passes through each one of us while remembering our recently fallen brother.  Four years have passed, a mere tetrad of annular celebrations for us; some spent in our homes in quiet contemplation, others spent in the mountains camping out under the stars on cold winter nights, where our breath froze into plumes and the moonlight lit up the forest paths with criss-crossed shadows draped over tree trunks and branches.  For each member of our extended Grub tribe, the spirit of our fallen brother yet remains barely concealed amid the shadows between the trees. 

   

    In the world built of our memories, many graveyard scenes arise before us in our dreams. With the sky a dim-witted kaleidoscope of muted colors barely glimpsed through brooding thunderclouds, and the trees' branches reaching out creepily in all directions, with their fingers extending and bending toward us in the shadows of the night, we locate a crooked headstone in the repository of our vision to sit down and lean against on the cold wet ground. 

    

     

     I have come to realize that I've been captivated in the heart of the forest of my mind. What I never could have understood until now is how that primeval timberland has grown outward in all directions, including omnidirectionally across all of time.  It occurs to me that the seeds of memory become the anchors that keep us rooted to the world of our dreams.  With this knowledge dawning upon my consciousness, a smile is at last imparted to my face. 

   I can hardly wait to see you again, my friend.  I feel you had begun to understand the pact I had made after having undergone my new adventure as a father to an extraordinary young little man. Suspecting he will grow up to not remember you fills me with an echoing pain. So I try my best to remind him of you, by keeping the paintings you made of us hanging on our walls. By showing him the photographs of you and I and the rest of the Grubs during our adventures in the SCA and other times.  

      

       Viridian, who never stopped moving, not in all those years of constant adventure across the myriad provinces of synchronicity we managed to secure across our high-wire balancing act.  Here and now, I feel like the prince has grown and earned the comb of a crown to display, like a rooster standing guard over my young.  If this means the roots will begin to develop from me and invariably fasten me to the spot, I'm prepared to make the best of this new home I've built from the ground up, and in no small part do I owe much of it to you, my dear friend and soldier in arms, Gregory Grub.   

     The panoramic vision that bequeathed our Dream has recorded the majority of its labyrinthine majesty, from deep down in its darkest hidden crevasses, and on up to its most brilliant displays of starry-studded nights, and on and on into bright sun-dappled days never to be forgotten, on the glittering surface of a gently rolling Caribbean sea, on a nineteen-foot dory without any land in sight for three hundred and sixty degrees.  All of these details and more have been embedded and processed by the new upgraded Dream Machine we used to think of as our brains, and the best news is AI algorithms are partitioning sections of it off for storage one at a time based on experiential proximity with IP protocols! You know what this means already, because that part of your Overbrain retains the data after having circumscribed the temporal facility even once.  In other words, I have reason to believe, for lack of a better way to describe it, that your 'Undermind' had already scooped up the raw necessary data while you were yet alive!

     

    

     For now, suffice it to be said that the ever-growing branches from the original great tree (located somewhere in the vast reaches of the Neverending Forest we both used to explore in our youth) can never be lost to the depths of time due to the Silver Thread that connects us. It turns out the mycelial network supporting us and all life as we've known it has been proven to continue flourishing in every conceivable way which our minds could fathom, and it just so happens to encompass the totality of our compounded human imaginations.  How do you like that!  Now that you are here with me, subsumed into my mental construct of who you were, I carry you around inside my head like the shade of a ghost that will never fade away.  

         (to be cont.)

    

   

    

Extant Resolution

 by Shaun Lawton 

     Our descendants set the scope of their time machine to a series of certain points seeding portions of the universe with in-utero clones of themselves, with a closed-loop system of endless variations inherent to their genetic code.  

     It turns out the joke's on them.  Rather than the successful time travel they had hoped for, they became the very Gods exiled from their own progeniture. The fact They can know nothing of us should not be considered ironic.  

     The irony lies in us even beginning to suspect They might exist.  And so our destiny has been set. We will persist chasing after our fate until some day in the distant future we too will await in vain for our own progeny to arrive only to never hear them knock on our door.