Writer’s Block For Lovecraftian Cultists
Dear Initiate,
Congratulations upon making it to, and possibly surviving, the Third Level Initiation!
We realize that after the many dreadful oaths; the threats of fates so far worse than death that human languages, in self-defense, have never found words to describe; the utter secrecy; the repeated recitation that permitting a single Mere Human know a single one of our Sacred Actions which would make the average Borgia say, “Hey, now, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”—that in light of all that stuff, it’s odd that you’re now getting your instructions from public posts on the Internet.
The fact is, the early stages of your Cthulhu Culthood are tests of sincerity, of ability to keep a secret, of not being some sort of meddling do-gooder, and also, of whether or not, if we really need someone to jump on the sacrificial altar, you’ll do your part and push someone else onto the damn thing.
But the truth is, all of the Order’s more important secrets are freely available on the Internet. We simply call them ‘fiction’. You’ve seen this before; people think that the writer is simply playing out the tired trope of pretending that their fiction is reality pretending to be fiction, but in fact, it is the lively and dynamic trope of pretending that one’s reality is fiction pretending to be reality pretending to be fiction pretending to be reality.
Got it? Great.
Now, as usual, we’ll explain the esoteric meaning of yet another seemingly-harmless not-for-the-public piece of knowledge which has now penetrated mainstream culture. As usual, they believe there are Secret Monsters everywhere; as usual, they are right; and as usual, they are terrible at detecting the actual monsters. But it keeps them too busy to find us, and they seem to enjoy it, so, hey, more power to them, eh?
While this one goes out to the writers, it’s become so prevalent (good on us!) that even most readers are aware of it: “If you’ve got writer’s block, then one cure is to sit down for 15 minutes a day, every day, and write down 15 minutes of whatever comes into your head. Even if it’s silly, even if it’s nonsense. You’ll break through the writer’s block, and start writing freely again!”
Now, those of you of the Fifth Level or higher are already chuckling, of course. Like every joke, it’s not as funny if you explain it, but we feel like you deserve to know:
All humans, as you’re aware, are capable of performing magic. It is the Psychic Censor, the part of our consciousness which isn’t mapped in our brains, but hangs out near our astral centers of projection, which saves us from ourselves. It’s why you can say “DAMN YOU!” without immediately opening up a rift between here and Hell and sucking your enemy straight down to the 9th Level and automatically enslaving you to Something unspeakable an appropriate tax. It’s why we don’t all win the lottery, thus bankrupting whatever state might have provided the lottery ticket. It’s why most attempts to wield The Force end up as nothing more than foolish wand-waving.
Now we, ourselves, aren’t exactly interested in Magic in general, except (as with everything else in this world) as a means to an end. Obviously, we want to use sorcery to bring about the thing we’ve wanted for millennia: an opening of the gates between Here and There, which will bring our Eldritch Masters through the Purple Spiral and into this world.
But we just can’t find the right combination of words to do it.
Every time we try, we go mad.
People keep talking about the brilliant Abdul Alhazred, and, of course, we all revere him, so much as we revere any members of the puny race whose only purpose is to be extinguished that we may feed the hunger of the Great Old Ones. But, like most people who managed to disable his Psychic Censor sufficient to intentionally write something monstrous, he went mad and was, as we all know, shredded by invisible demons in broad daylight.
Don’t worry. It won’t happen to you. You’ll be different.
But in the meantime, the best thing for us would be for some human who is ignorant of That Which Lurks Beyond to do the summoning for us.
And many have come close. Many writers, doing this exercise day after day for a few weeks, begin feeling peculiar emotions and hearing strange sounds; most of all, cats and dogs and other household pets (unless they’re snakes, obviously) begin to act very alarmed during the writing process.
So far, none have quite succeeded. Either they’ve broken the writer’s block just before opening the gate, or they’ve opened it only long enough for the writers, themselves, to be sucked through—and then it shuts again. This scarcely ever happens, and when it does, we try to provide homunculi as substitutes. (Sorry about Mr. Martin; we were looking forward to reading the end of that series as much as you were.)
But if you keep encouraging people to just relax, sit down, and write or type, and let whatever’s within come out…
…as you know, that’s one invitation magic can never resist. So far, it’s mostly just made the world a lot more surreal, but that’s okay. We’ve waited for millennia.
We can wait a little longer.
In conclusion, if you ever have writer’s block, it’s definitely your mind torturing you with a lack of words because it’s mean, and certainly not your mind trying to save you from yourself. So break through the…barrier. That way you can do lots and lots of writing. You can write ’til the end of the world, if you want.
That’s just an expression, of course.
Welp...Fuck me, I guess.
I'd like to start with two statements of fact: 1) I fucking nailed that shit, and 2) I'm an asshole.
Should've been hired. Should've been fine dining with my newly raised salary by now, but no. Why? You ask. I'll tell you why. Because of fucking Derek! Derek, for lack of a better term, is a fucking cunt. Pardon me. I'm sorry. I'm not, but I am, if you know what I mean. Because he is actually a bitch with a capital C. For context, here's is my (very apt-and not biased at all) description of Derek: tall muscley guy who wears shirts three sizes too small, always stands with his hands in his pockets, rocks back and forth on his heels so as to subtly thrust his junk in the direction of anyone who's unlucky enough to be trapped in unwanted conversations about his latest investment pursuits or protein shakes, and smells like cabbage farts. I'm not wrong, ask Lenny (my completely unbiased friend who just so happens to not work in the office and has never met Derek). I'm a reliable narrator. You'll just have to trust me on that.
Anywho, Derek got the promotion...Why? Couldn't fucking tell you, but do you wanna know who can? Stanley. Stanley can. Who's Stanley, you ask? Well, if you'd calm the fuck down for a second, I'll tell you. Stanley is the homeless man I vented to whilst not drunk at all waiting for the blue line to arrive. For the record, I'd like to say, that I'm handling this whole thing very well. Anyway, do you wanna know what Stanley pointed out to me when I relayed my woes? Stanley said, "Wanna know what I think?" I don't recall giving my consent for the continuation, but continue he did, saying, "I think you'd be pretty pissed off if I showed up at your house unannounced and dropped all my emotional baggage in your lap, and that's why Derek got the promotion." And then he motioned for me to get off his bench.
To Post or Not to Post (Hamlet’s dilemma in 2024)
To post, or not to post, that is the question.
Should I stop playing computer Solitaire
And tweet, I mean post, a delicious dollop
of gossip under my username on X
In a sea of virtual anonymity?
Or should I first weigh the harm that my missive
Might bring to another, not to mention
Consequences to my handle’s rep, if false?
Is it better to post and watch my thread grow
With agreeable replies flooding in like
A jackpot of coins in an old slot-machine,
Not to mention all the prospective reposts?
But what if the replies are just so hateful
That I cannot live with myself anymore?
To post or not to post? I am so consumed
With this existential question that I
Cannot be bothered with world news of wars
And national reports of strife and injustice.
Sigh, I will put off my posting dilemma.
Right now, I will put the red six just below
The black seven, and move my King of Diamonds;
It is easier to ponder Solitaire.
This is not even funny, DO NOT READ! This is not just clickbait. I promise! I promise! I promise! (INSERT WINKING EMOJI HERE) (INSERT DEVIL
Ah comedy,
The everlasting question that adults think about daily but nobody actually say for fear of sounding too much like the Joker, "Why. So. SERIOUS??!!"
HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA.
I swear, that man is comedy gold.
What was I saying?
Whatever.
Basically what I'm saying is that there is absolutely no way a common peasant like me will win this challenge with literally, like 266 entries in it, so I'm just going to write some random bull and hope there's someone who likes wasting their time enough to actually read this. Honestly, I'm not completely sure what this prompt is supposed to be or what I'm actually supposed to write because sometimes I say random stuff that pops into my head and people think it's funny. That's okay with me, I guess.
Why so serious?
Why so serious?
Why you sounding so much like the Joker?
Hey, do I have to fill all 333 words?
I know I don't but it would just be so funny if I did.
Oh yes it would.
And if you pick me, I will personally come and carve a smile into the sides of your mouth so that you can look like the Joker.
That would be so fun, wouldn't it?
I know you probably don't find that funny, why would you?
Sometimes I wonder if I don't understand humor or if everyone around me doesn't.
I'm gonna go with the latter just because I am an arrogant little narcissist.
Anyway, I think imma go now because I can't be bothered to write the rest of the words and I'm too lazy to go back and delete my previous statement about how I would write all 333 words.
THANK YOU FOR LISTENING!!!!!
why so serious?
The grating sound of my teeth makes it's treacherous way to my ears as I storm out of the corporate building and onto the bright street.
I wish I could say pathetic fallacy because I feel pretty pathetic right now but I can't because if this was a pathetic fallacy then it would be raining or something.
How could they do this to me! The moronic boss man-- no sorry, IDIOT didn't take my interview into consideration as soon as I delivered it, like a perfect performance at a concert, he was all like, "No, this dumb corporation has a better idea! We're going to hire an idiot because we need to present a united front. Sorry!"
I kick a small Pepsi can as I walk to the bus stop. Then I realize that my reaction wasn't big enough so I take off my coat and trample it because why would I need it now? If they can't recognize my obvious genius then who would?! Now I need to go live in the suburbs and become a cashier at a Walmart! I ruffle up my short brown hair and decide that a proper reaction would be to walk it off like an adult. But I guess only proper people can work at big companies so I scream into my elbow.
Some teenagers across the street are filming me so I give them the finger.
"Hey!" I look up and see a homeless man beckoning to me from the bus stop.
I roll my eyes, "I don't have any money, hipster."
The man grins amusedly, "I wasn't asking for money, bougie." He points to my coat, "Can you pick that up and bring it to me?"
I take a step back with shock, "No! That's my coat!"
The man's smile turns wry, "It didn't look like it."
I pick up my coat, make a show of putting it on and walk over the bus stop and set myself down right next to him, "My coat."
The man shrugs, "You seem pretty down. Tell you what. If I can make you smile, will you give me your coat?"
I turn to him, a huge frown on my face, "You can try.
"I have a knock-knock joke but you have to start it."
I roll my eyes again, "Knock-knock."
"Who's there?" he asks, sounding genuinely confused.
We stare at each other in completely bewilderment for a beat.
When I get on the bus I am without a coat.
Knock, Knock
"God be damned," I said under my breath, prayers shot.
"...didn't get the manager job at Alamy, eh?" he said, hoisting his linen trousers at the knees stiffly, as he sat himself down on the hard cold unforgiving park seat next to me. The guy was tall, voice projecting from the arches of his feet, a baritone that could pull down to bass. If need be. Serious.
He looked like he'd been unemployed four score and seven years ago... that founding father look, the anachronistic ill-fitting thrift store vintage threads... He didn't smell foreign, though.
And his skin had this sort of translucent sheen. Not an aura, you know? but delicate constitution, or something.
My guess was he was homeless. And had been. For a while.
He tapped my upper arm with the back of his hand, pleasantly, tap, tap, as we now sat too close on odd ends of this narrow concrete seat. Casually, like we already knew each other. He rubbed his rabbi beard for a think. Then, added, for comfort:
"I didn't get the job either," making light.
There was no way in hell he had applied here. I humored him with respectful silence.
"Shoulda been a shoe in, too," he carried on with a faint smile. I noticed he wasn't wearing any.
"What position?" I hazarded trying to establish context and draw myself out of my own descent.
"Top Gun."
Huh. I remembered how much I don't like Tom Cruise.
"Sure," I said, like one might say to the infirm. Gently, with a kind sincerity.
"No-- I'm God."
I tried hard not to look taken aback and checked my laugh to the inside.
"Well, isn't that a done deal?" I recovered as he looked on ahead with interest.
"Would you believe? No. I gotta reapply every fucking time. In the Trust."
"--what?!"
"Yeah. Like one-on-one... with every member of the Co-op... " he said looking at me deadpan:
"So, what'll it be?"
"You're shitting me, right?"
"No. I'm not."
The Joke’s On Me
I can't believe it! I nailed the interview. The guy had no more questions for me after only 15 minutes. I made him laugh. I made him agree with me. My resumé, he said, was "sterling." And there was only one other candidate in the waiting room with me when I was called in. Slim pickings. How hard was it to beat out only one other guy? And look at him! He looked like a homeless guy. Smelled of alcohol. Tertiary smoke exposure stinking up the whole room. Shiny clothes that could stand up by themselves.
When I left my interview, exchanging with the other guy, I didn't leave. I re-sat. I wanted to see how long it'd take before the guy was thrown out on his ass. I wanted to hear the yelling that was certainly forthcoming.
Ten minutes went by. Twenty. An hour. I heard the man--the deciding man--laughing uproariously. Could this be happening? Was this guy his son or another relative?
I heard chairs shuffling and then the door opened. The "man," the deciding man, had one hand on the doorknob of the door he was opening and the other in a firm handshake with they guy.
"Then, Monday?" the man, the goddamn deciding man, asked, to confirm.
"I'm looking forward to it," the disheveled, stinky, dirty miscreant said through what few teeth he still had in his head.
The man, the fucking deciding man, returned to his office, closing the door behind him. Mr. Homeless walked over to me and held out both his palms, an announcement of expectations realized. Like, what'd you expect?
"Congratulations," I offered tersely and got the hell out of there.
At the bus stop, I melted into the bench, sorting out my loser life. Would I ever get a decent job. I gave up the one I had because I knew I could do better. Could I? Ever?
That's when he--the same guy--plopped down on the bench with me.
"Sorry for your loss," he offered.
"Who died?" I asked sarcastically.
"You, a little bit, don't you think?"
"Great. I have a philosopher here. Harvard?"
"No. Y'know, school of hard knocks."
"I know that school," I scoffed. "I plan to pledge a fraternity there."
"Need something to lighten the mood?" he asked.
"Not unless you're declining that job. I'd be happy to take your place as next in line."
"No chance. But here's a little joke..."
Murder was still illegal, so I just said, "I'm listening."
He pulled out a cracked mirror from his soiled coat's pocket and held in front of my face.
"That's me," I said, waving away his mirror.
"That's the joke. You're the joke. But it's a joke you'll never get." He paused, then said, "You can start laughing any time."
So, I did. Why? Why did I laugh? It was funny, that's why. Very funny. I was a big joke. I just had never gotten to the punchline yet.
"Thanks for the giggle," I said, but I had tears in my eyes.
"Know what? I'm gonna by you a drink. You could use one." He rose and offered his hand to help me up.
"Sure can," I said. "Why not," I said in resignation.
We both stood up and began to walk across the street toward the bar on the corner there.
A homeless guy and an imposter walk into a bar...
The Gregarious Gorilla
On a bright summer day in the New Hampshire Zoo,
lived a monkey that people referred to as Ku,
Ku didn’t climb trees, or eat bugs, or play games
He instead pumped iron and ignored all the names
For seven long years he would lift, he then pressed,
And then Ku’s physique became one that impressed.
He could bench 450 and squat twice as much,
He could bicep curl more than a whale ate for lunch.
And then one day Ku, with his gigachad bod,
He went outside his enclosure with Todd.
Todd was a monkey, weighing 120
And the distance that Ku could throw Todd was quite plenty.
His plan of escape was to throw Todd the monkey,
Then break out the zoo with his muscles so hunky.
So with one solid step and a flick of his wrist,
Ku tried to throw Todd out the zoo, but he missed.
Instead Todd would up in a cage full of gators,
And Ku was blacklisted by investigators
Alas, Todd was eaten, and Ku was arrested,
For illegal steroids, and killing his best friend.