Postcards from Innsmouth

Postcards from Innsmouth continue to arrive within a mailbox that now plays the seashell sound of the waves when an ear is pressed to it. There are messages scribbled on the back. They warn me to abort the manuscript before it's too late. To delete my files along with my memory should hypnosis and a judicious applications of drugs be readily available.

Some just say - "Stay out of Innsmouth, Jack." - with the words 'China Town' and 'Jake' clearly scribbled out underneath the 'innsmouth' and 'Jack'.

Yet persist I must despite the unblinking gaze of deep ones outside my window at night or the curious way people's eyes start to bleed when I whistle on the bus. For such are the perils I face in order to bring you future tales so terrifying that you'l shart yourself screaming in the face of the unrelenting cosmic terror that awaits.

Or failing that get a few chuckles at least.

Stop... don't hop on equinox

“It was autumn, the springtime of death. Rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. Death was singing in the shower. Death was happy to be alive." ~ Tom Robbins, Still Life with Woodpecker