Books by Nickolaus A. Pacione
Wheaton revisited but by the plagues, in the visitation becomes the stranger aeons. A tale of the Cthulhu Mythos. The short story opening the dark collection of short stories titled Collectives In A Foresaken Landscape. Nicholas Grabowsky gave this story new life on his website.
From this that eludes me which I pen this – as what I say what eludes me is sleep, and from the sleep becomes the etchings where the dreams begin. In them as they are typed, from the tired fingers I would draw from them in the eyes which sagged on with the thoughts that keep me awake. The waking thoughts as they would be there are what caused me to awaken violently a few days ago – that it would be still in the waning darkness which it would be described. That it would become from the eyes as they wait for the medications to take effect. It would draw from the years that passed, though what is written in the times of the present. In the eyes of the sleeping that I would not be able to tell if I was dreaming. In a glow of the screen looking back as it has a life or eyes of its own while it looks back at me. It would become in form of the grim details waiting as the body begins to fall asleep, from the frantic details as they would appear within the dream as they would be related here on the word processor.
In the effects of the medicine while it takes effect would follow the details proceeding, knowing that it would be from there – in the places I describe as a dense fog, like that which is in London. As it was all those years ago that I have visited there, but it would often play itself out in the memories. Within pages of journals that had been left blank on a written notebook in one form or another, and pages which become the development of a writer’s block that would not die – and in a writer’s block it would follow into the duration of a writer’s sleep. From them in the dreams that a horror of what was written becoming the harrowing truth, in horrors that are written from the papers of killer Africanized bees – the nightmares from their mind paint themselves true within a narrative as this.
In a duration that followed – it would become from the pages as written before me, from tired fingers and weary eyes; I draw upon the nightfall that becomes daylight. It comes in forms of the narrative which is related here. Beneath the influence of sleeping pills that were prescribed by the doctor – what I relate from the details as they rest in the fog, it would be seen in the streets as what gathers within the fog. Beneath them which brings into the darkness – it would become from a foreboding and ominous sound from the sky; that sound – the hissing of small insect wings flying in swarms. Swarms as they would become in the color of the fog, darkness as they fly with the echo of nightfall.
Proceeding; I write from them in details that I cannot find the words for what is remembered in waking memory but the dream descending – as the details are there, what I describe from them would be this of the setting resembling something of the small Du Page County city of Wheaton. It would draw into the details as they resided within the mind of the one who sleeps, the one who writes this. It would be covered in hornets and locusts in the way it was described – from patterns that dwell in the pages as they were written from the perspective of the writer who writes them. Every hornet was stinging and biting every person who walked among the streets and the locusts ate everything within their flight stream. It would be as the dream was writing itself out in the mind while the eyes of the writer were looking to the screen of the word processor. That the hornets and locusts came out of the dense fog; and the origin of the fog were that which cannot be described – or every rational explanation would be left without any form of rational thought inside. In the patterns drawn from the eyes of sleep, a dream as described which becomes the fading shadow – to what the moon brings while they fly in with their million eyes.
Every nightmare that remains written within the mind eludes the description as it would stand there before them, as I would put the words to record – yet it would be as they were never written at all. From all that stands behind the dreams as they rest beyond the walls of sleep. The remains of what were once there are in the eyes of the sleeping scribe, the dream, as it would remain as I closed my eyes. And from those closed eyes, it would remain in the details of the dream as they are described here. In a cryptic mind it would remain as it would stand in the sleep cycles as they were written. As it becomes from the close of the dream, it would be as it had already began. From them as they crawled like snakes in the garden it would be among the darkness that fades within the silence of sleep. Where the mind is awake and sees the echoes of hell within the memory as they are written out, in a depths of a shadow as they would dwell.
Drawn descending further into an echo, which it said among the description that stands of the dreams in the fog, beneath a darkness that rests in the back of the waking mind. From there which I stand – within a street covered with flying and biting insects. Among the shadows which the dreams had been penned , that in the places of eternal darkness that time had walked. In the places described where the insects crawl – the hornets as they are on the walls of buildings and the streets of Downtown Wheaton. As it would be among them within the glow of the pages as they are written upon a word processor in the waking hours – it remains as a shadow, a fog as it would be seen as when they fly in their swarms; locusts eating the food of places which provided food supply for all who lived there, young and old alike.
When the glow of the computer screen keeps me awake, it would be where the fingers have the thoughts of their own as it is written. Of what stands from surfaces beneath a shadow, and in a glow of a screen when they are written to the pages. After everything was spoken and one looks away – the dark when it grows beneath the eyes of locusts and hornets that dwell in the fog. The questions rise of what stirred in the imagination and the dreams when the fog takes over the grounds. It stood looking in the surfaces of an unwritten dream, knowing it was in the sense of a journal page. Of them which described of myself as it would be within the dream of going blind, and from that blindness that I heard the hissing of wings flying and biting. From them in the hissing it would become from the darkness that the day cannot greet – from even in broad daylight the darkness would be seen in form of the crawling life in swarms. As it would draw from the realities, it would become to them in a looming thunder that fades into a distant soul of clay; beneath the glow – it would paint the picture of a darkness that the human mind cannot begin to relate.
From the glow of the computer which it is written, and in the eyes of a tired scribe – it would stand among the sleep as waiting beneath a darkness that even daylight cannot kill. It becomes the void of light which it is when the writer sleeps, and it would be as I write within the glow of a computer screen. From the luminary glow from the monitor it would be in the eyes of demons and angels while in the dreams described of the locusts and hornets. In a time that is frozen which it is seen from a pattern written in shadows, and a glow of a screen which the scribe awakens from the dream. In them which they are written – the hissing of wings become the loudest thing that is described, as a sound of thunder. From luminary shadows it would draw from a world that lives inside a shadow of darkness; a darkness that lives within the hiss of hornet’s wings – a creation of an ominous fog.
The dream as seen describing the fog over Wheaton, Illinois, becoming the form that echoes pages from the book of Exodus. It would be in the ominous horror in the fog which described beneath the winter sky, and it would be from there as it stirs. That it would stand among the hissing of hornets and locusts which are seen swarming in the fog. Of pages when they are written, in the glow of computer screen which are penned from a tired hand. In the dream as it is written; the words I described of them would remain as the shadow – an unwritten pattern; where it would be seen within the city of Wheaton, Illinois. Gathered from a silence that remains faint, it would become from the dreams as they are written upon a glow of the word processor. In known times and modern years – a darkness seen as this would remain from times that have been long forgotten.
In the forlorn mind it would be described of the dream as it would be an incubus, yet it would stand as another shadow in the night. In sights described from them it stands in the shadow rising in ashes that are what remains. From the sounds of wind within the dead of winter it would create the landscape that echoes from the faint of silence – and in them which are recorded in a glow of a word processor. In that faint glow of a ghostly white, it would be from the coherent thought as it would fade from a writer’s sleep. Within the sleep, follows the fog as the darker shades of gray echo the hiss of hornet’s wings. From their hiss between the echo of dreams that one can hear the screams of the young and old alike.
That it would stand in the pages from the southern part of the United States, that horror in form of stinging Africanized bees – and the nightmares that which crawl into the memory. From them in the glow, the dreams which I describe as the plague of insects described as the accounts of locals that lived in the south years ago. In those accounts drawn upon the nightmares as I wrote of them to the pages of this narrative, from a memory that was seen from a glow of a computer screen. It would become in the surfaced being as they are told from the horrors of the soul. From the sleep with a writer’s nightmares fade into the darkness as it glows from the screen of a word processor – in a writer’s journal that the dream plays itself out, in one haunting form to a harrowing other. From them which become a private war of prayer and sanity – it would be from them as the dreams which are written, find themselves manifest.
From what effect these dreams echo the things that are read in the news – the illnesses inflicted by the carriers of the West Nile and to the plagues of insects as they are stated. The dream as it is written echoed the pages as they were from the Book of Revelation. Darkness drawn in pages which come about from nervous fingers running across the keys – horrors seen within time passing from one period of sleepless hours to the next in speculations. It would become from the luminary glow of a writer’s word processor, and from that glow in the running of the fingers would be the nightmares that manifest in the one’s mind. When I would hear the stories about Africanized bees, I kept thinking about the attack that was on me by a swarm of ground bees when I lived in Glendale Heights – since that bee attack – I had the bizarre dreams that I describe as the hornets swarming over Wheaton and Glen Ellyn, Illinois. That it would be described from the dream that it appears as a fog in middle of the winter months – and while the snow on the ground, the hornets proceed to attack the young and the old.
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|Reviewed by Nickolaus Pacione
|To P.I.P -- F**K OFF|
|Reviewed by Nicholas Mounts
|Reviewed by Lee Garrett
|creepy and chilling. Great write.|
|Reviewed by ***** ********* (Reader)
|VERRRRRRRY GOOD, Nickolaus, just plain top-flight writing!!! This story is quite timely given all the gloomy near-apocryphal predictions of various foreign illnesses that will supposedly descend on the American public! Creepy storytelling!|
|Reviewed by Janet Caldwell
|The creepier, the better. Hairs are raised on my arms, thank you for this. You WILL make it, be patient.
Love, JC xoxoxoxo
|Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner
*BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR shivers* i hate bugs...and now i remember why
thanks a lot, kiddo. next time i see a bee i'm gonna remember this story...great job, you really stung with this one :)
(((HUGS))) and love, karla.
here in texas, bugs are HUGE...and vicious :0
|Reviewed by Terry Vinson
|Daaaammmmmnnnnn, Nick, next time I see a bee...I'm gonna freak!
Great stuff....dreamscapes of graven imagery that stay with the reader long after the read! The media is still stirring the 'west nile virus' paranoia pot, and with spring only a few months away, it will soon begin anew!
Keep up the good work, man..
|Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado
|creepy write, but a very good one! if i have any nightmares tonight, it's your fault! LOL great story!
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in tx., karen lynn. :D