#weirdfiction

[patterspod]

It made me sad in the middle of work when I found out David Lynch died. I said out loud in my cubicle “no..no” and even teared up. Nobody noticed or showed any signs that this mattered as I quivered with emotion with a headset on and my white button down long sleeve shirt tucked in.

It made me sad because a force had left us, whose bread and butter it was to investigate - and keep alive like a crackling electrical connection, the human moments that bind us, while on the surface, deranged characters would plot or seethe and innocent, tragic or even “off-beat” types would fall in love, commit murder and generally play out elements of wholesome Americana.

There was no “us vs them” in the world of Lynch, there was just “Lynchian,” an umbrella term that unified universal beings under an unknowable but potent…something. Some kind of presence that was either manmade or primordial or a mixture of both and in most ways that answer didn’t matter because a teenager was dead and the community was hurting.

He felt like a bright shining beacon in a storm of normal norms. His presence alone was a comfort, like the idea that him just being alive meant that others gravitating toward the weird, thoughtful life could use him as a strong example of why this is a fulfilling path to take, and find similar travelers along the way.

When I was in middle school I listened to a punk rock album recorded live where the singer references having a bad haircut like “Eraserhead” which I had never heard of or seen. But I did see the cover in the video store and knew that if a punk rock singer was referencing it live on a recorded album that it must be cool or interesting at least. The Simpsons would send me on this type of journey multiple times throughout life.

I liked David Lynch’s relationship with creativity, how he seemed to tap into a pulsing, pre-existing force like placing his hand in a clear stream to catch a passing fish. He seemed to do this from the perspective of an everyman without ever believing once that to be an everyman was the goal. It was an archetype to step out of I think.

I equated his relationship with Americana to be a lot like Pee Wee Herman’s and John Waters, two of my other favorites. That normalcy was deranged on its own. No tweaking necessary. The grinning neighbor’s white smile where teeth might crack or shoot out was the strangest thing.

Oddball kitsch could be a comfort.

I was in awe of what Lynch did. As a thinker I was naturally curious about understanding “it” - like an exercise, but similar to the otherworldly presence of the Beyond in Twin Peaks, I never ever wanted it fully named. That wasn’t the point. The reaching was the point or the traveling or the phantoms.

The point was the Being, the relationships or the living. Or the dying - a process all its own that brought out humanity like instinctual figures called to an ancient ritual. Makes me think of the Log Lady’s last scene where she has a final conversation with Deputy Hawk and he knows her well and cares about her as Margaret Lanterman and she speaks urgently to him and it all feels lonely and intimate.

I suppose I identified with David Lynch. I was a Boy Scout. I was raised Mormon, had Mormon ancestry that I could trace all the way back to Brigham Young himself (though admittedly it was through his very first “pre-Mormon” wife Miriam Works. Who in a strange turn of fate right this very moment, I just learned for the first time she and I shared the very same birthday. I’m not sure if this is “Lynchian,” but it is strange.

I identified with David Lynch, because he always seemed to be putting Americana into focus from an earnest standpoint, and in looking at it so earnestly, he revealed the strangeness and a strangeness inherent in life itself, probably.

He championed a weirdness in me that was an unnameable force fighting against the rubric of my attempted but doomed traditional upbringing that my family always fell short of not through vice but doubt or apathy.

When it was time to go on my cinephile journey the Lynch filmography was there with a whole big groaning factory space all to his namesake. And discovering his movies were bread crumbs to a bigger community of fellow weirdos who were not weird but actually more normal than the normies. What did these words even mean actually?

There were traditional tales of masculinity and melodramatic love triangles mixed with ancient nameless evils. I mostly liked how comedic he could be while being thrilling and grotesque like when Bobby Peru blows his own head off, or how Lynch let things just be odd without scapegoating a character. After all, “This whole world is wild at heart and weird on top.”

He was an instrument that harnessed the ethereal like music and allowed me to be a type of device capable of receiving it.

I favored his atmospheric droning. I will internally refer to it as “industrial Lynch drone.” It is a version of room tone that feels proactive. It feels like a presence. It is soothing to me. I guess it’s Lynchian. I will miss knowing that his heart is beating out there. He is an idea now, but he was an idea then too.

Now he is a presence like sunlight or the fog through the trees on a mountain by a waterfall.

[daniel-profeta]

The Head

There was a place between sleep and wakefulness where anything could be possible. A haze of forgotten dreams and lost promises. Her hands hung out of the window and the gleeful grin on her face was infectious. She floated between states of being completely alive and nearly dead, but right then she was whole. He smiled back and sped up as the car careened across the mountainside. The world was awash in pink as the sun set. The trees opened on one side to give way to the entire countryside with the dead city just beyond it. It was all so real; they could almost reach out and touch it.

In a past world they were barely friends, but shared experience can bring people together in a way nothing else can. He was well acquainted with this concept already as his parents had bonded over their mutual hatred of their absent father figures. He had always hoped he could break the cycle, but some patterns are more universal than anyone could have imagined.

For example, the cycle of life had finally taken a turn and allowed something new to become apex. Finally, something had surpassed the limits of human ability and taken the worms out. All that remained were ruins and some survivors. Small communities of huddled forms abounded in the wilderness, and they both knew some humans had been kept alive in the cities. All that was left was to hide and wait for death. Or so thought most survivors.

Not them, not these humans, they had taken advantage of the situation and had risen. With gallons of stockpiled gasoline, stolen weapons, food reserves, and ingenuity, they were rulers of the wasteland. They found each other and found a hope that lasted beyond anything they had yet experienced. They were one of the few who managed to carve out a life beyond simple survival, they had become explorers of a new world filled with wonders and powerful entities just beyond the layers of hopeless chaos. They were heading to the dead city to try and loot it and see what they could learn. It seemed every place they found had a story to tell regarding the end of times. He put his foot down further and they sped up.

They had become each other's shadows. In everything they did they fed off each other’s energy and had almost become one person. At first working together was difficult, but with practice they had gotten so good it seemed impossible to stop them. He would rather go a week without food or water than go a week without her company, and thanks to current circumstances that exact scenario had occurred on multiple occasions. He couldn’t believe she had stuck with him for so long, and in everything they shared everything. Except for one twisted secret.

He was dying.

Something had taken hold of him inside and he had no idea what it was. He believed he had contracted it in the bunker they had stormed a few months prior, but where he got sick was immaterial. Last week the coughs had gotten worse, and he had started coughing up blood. Earlier today he found himself coughing up what looked like black sludge. His body, once strong and lean, was weakening. He could feel his brain burning and shriveling as his eyes stung every time he tried to close them. He couldn’t sleep.

She knew something was wrong and had asked him about it, but he had lied repeatedly to try and protect her from the knowledge she would soon be alone. He somehow knew in his heart this disease would finish him; it was something inevitable. He just had to try to hold on as long as possible.

They made their way down the mountainside, and through the tall grasses that paved the way to the city as well as any road. They had gotten incredibly lucky with the car they had found; it was built to last decades. Most recent car models were victims of planned obsolescence and were vastly overpriced, but the rich had vehicles most could never dream of. No longer. Now it belonged to the strongest and the smartest.

Darkness snuck up on the world slowly and like a wave descended and crashed onto the city, illuminating through polarity the small fires still sending smoke signals up into the dry night air. As they entered the core of the city, they felt alive. Her hand crept over to his and squeezed. Driving through the empty city at night was almost romantic in a strange way. Despite everything, they still existed. Despite all the world had been through, they had found and sustained each other through love and devotion.

Parking the car and looking up at the towering skyscrapers, they were struck by how small they were in comparison to these edifices of human achievement that were slowly eroding and falling into the ground. The earth would swallow them up and time would roll on by, totally unbothered by their presence. It was freeing and exhilarating, because with this knowledge comes the idea that one can live life for the joy of living beyond the idea of constraint and boundaries. There is nothing but the never ending potential of endless wonders, and the only sadness could be regret that you don’t have time to see even the smallest fraction of them. All that was inconsequential all along is revealed. Everything comes to an end, and it was foolish to ever try to convince themselves otherwise.

There was a faint sound carried by the wind from a far distant part of the city. It sounded like a distorted voice being carried aloft by a long-broken loudspeaker, probably a forgotten loop of the old advertisements that would constantly play to remind people to consume till they could actively consume no more. Then they would be shunted aside.

Their lips met and lingered, the doors opened, and they exited in tandem, armed and ready for anything that might come their way. There were not many humans who could say they had killed one of the creatures. They had killed many of them in that bunker where he had gotten sick…

They started to search the rubble and inside smaller buildings for anything useful. Small radios kept them in contact as they split up and moved slowly through the ruins like cats on the prowl. Focus was razor sharp. They could see their breath in the cold of the night. Days had been slowly growing colder and colder since the sun had begun to shrink.

He suddenly was wracked with self-doubt and faltered as the sickness almost overcame him. He knew he did not deserve this situation. Why was it he who managed to survive and not someone who needed to? Before the end came, he hadn’t had any direction in life, and he actively felt life had no purpose or reason to it. He couldn’t stand to look at himself in a mirror, he felt as though this body was not his own. He was not really that great of a person, but he had been forced by either hidden courage or simple instinct to adapt and stay alive.

Now he had a girl who would die to protect him, and he would do the same for her. But he couldn’t help but feel as though there was no reason it was he who made it this far. As he stopped to catch his breath, he realized that - in a way - he was happy he had gotten sick. He felt it was justified if he died.

Her voice, distorted yet obviously excited, came blowing out of the radio to inform him she had found something. He smiled at the thought of her. It had not been easy for her, yet she had retained her enthusiasm for life and living despite the circumstances. Mostly.

Occasionally, there would be mood swings where she would feel like she was completely worthless and attempt to take her own life. Thankfully, they balanced each other out and kept each other's doubt and self-hatred in check. It was a system that might work better if he was as honest with her as she was with him. But that is something he felt he couldn’t do.

As he moved quickly to her position, he tried to imagine life without her. Life without her smile. Without her daily kindness and thoughtfulness. Without her unconditional love. Without her soul staying beside his.

He coughed again.

She rushed to him and they embraced beneath an awning of sheer metal hanging out over what looked to have formerly been a restaurant of some kind. Her hug was warm and bracing and his worries left him, at least at that time.

She was holding a Journal that was wrapped in some strange animal skin. He ran his hands over it and asked her what it was. She told him it was either crocodile or alligator, but it might have been fake. Not that it mattered, the book itself was real. She had discovered it in a single-story home that had remained mostly intact. She opened it and showed him what she had been reading.

The name signed inside the front cover was nearly illegible, but after staring at it for a few seconds he thought it read “Rick.” He took the book and started flipping through it. It felt strange to hold, as if it were cursed. Evil. It was only a teenager’s diary, and it felt like an invasion of privacy to even be reading it. But there was no helping it, any discovery of what had caused the end of the world was worth it. What had happened leading up to it? Why had the sun gotten smaller? How did civilization collapse so quickly?

As she realized the book felt odd, she started looking around them and felt increasingly that something was invading them. They were not cats, they were mice. Insidious and slimy, it crept within and caught hold. Despair was setting in, and something weird was happening in the sky above them. The stars had gone black.

Looking up, they felt a sickly turning in their stomachs as long tendrils or ropes began to descend from the sky. These eerie tentacles were like nothing else these naïve humans had viewed before and following them up with their eyes found no place where the dead hanging ropes could originate from. It just seemed like they went up into the sky forever. Slowly lowering down to choke any fool caught in the grasp of self-doubt.

A split second of hesitation almost destroyed them both at once, but the universe had other plans for them. They stared in awe and fear at the slender limbs as more and more slowly appeared in the inky black sky. Then he grabbed her hand and bolted for the rubble of the home she had found the book in. In the air behind them small floating lights started opening and illuminating the large gaping pores on the falling limbs with a cold and calculating pale light. Daring to look back revealed the lights were darting alien eyeballs suspended at random points in the air, slowly floating and all staring at these idiot humans who got far too overconfident.

She slammed the rusty door shut as the sound of the loudspeakers in the distance faded, replaced by a single repeating sound that continually rang out at seemingly timed intervals. The sound was that of the chiming of a bell; small, sharp, and eager to annoy with its piercing yell. They had heard this sound before, and both knew they were going to die. It was not a matter of if, but a matter of when and how gruesomely. His sickness was starting to overtake him.

They locked their eyes together and realized they were going to be stuck in the dilapidated house for a while. Long enough to at least learn from the diary of Mr. Rick. Maybe it would reveal something secret information they could use to escape this god-forsaken place? At the very least it would pass the time before their fates were sealed. They moved furniture into position to block the door, but soon heard a strange hissing sound coming from outside. It was the sound of acid devouring or water being eviscerated by fire. The things outside were trying to get in. But what the humans did not know was they already had gotten in..

listen to the song I wrote to accompany this story.

[notesfromtheunknown]

Unverified Sighting

The bread courier was seen exiting the archives with a baguette under one arm and three missing notes stuck to his hat. Attempts to question him were thwarted by a swarm of crumbs.

Lys: “If you see him, tell him the sourdough is NOT for messages.”

[sensitiveasks]

Kind of a long prose-poem i wrote based on a track from a Miles Davis album i like a whole lot. Sort of David Lynch-ish aesthetically, i think (i've never seen one of his movies, but i feel like i know the kind of images he likes - and i'm not just talking about the obvious stuff, either). Also probably influenced in places (a couple of name drops, but less overt things, too) by two favorite pieces of Internet fiction, (both of whose authors are on Tumblr!) @nostalgebraist's The Northern Caves and @defaultfelix's Goodbye Strangers and the Fearful Frontier. I think that the latter has influenced all of my writing (even TLOSA, in places), though, so it doesn't really count - this is far from the most directly inspired. Some sort of weird fiction-influenced myth cycle. A bunch of ideas disparately gathered from various regions of my psyche, i guess.

[reclaimer42]

You know it's funny we can do everything we can do but we still haven't found a replacement for a long needle going in your arm. I hate shots. I asked the nurse what all this was for, like what diseases did she think I was going to catch. They said when you're going forward is when you're more likely to pick something up, but because of the way the viruses develop along with us over time it's when you go back that you could accidentally wipe everyone out without meaning to and that's sort of a bad way to start off. They said all this while they injected me, I guess it was a common question.

[trendtelescope2]

🪳 "The Metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka

📖 A short novella that somehow feels endless inside your mind. 📖

I’ve read a lot of novellas, but The Metamorphosis hit different. This post is just my take on it—hope it resonates with you.

I've read Kafka before, but this one devours you slowly. A man wakes up one morning as an insect—and somehow, that’s not even the strangest part.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re changing into something unexplainable, or like the world doesn’t recognize you anymore—this book sinks deep. Right into your bones.

Haunting line ✨: “Was he an animal, that music could move him so?” Even as a bug, he feels everything. Maybe more than ever.

🔗 Highly recommend this if you like:

surreal transformation

quiet emotional horror

the dreadful feeling of being utterly alone in a familiar place

(This visual captures the eerie loneliness of Gregor’s world.)

[wrens-hollow]

📜 Field Notes, Undated. 🖋 "Not a flower. Not an insect. No classification that fits." 📖 "Observed only at dusk. Vanishes at dawn. I am not the first to see them.

[rikkiwildfire]

For millennia, the sun has scared, confused, and mercilessly killed mankind just for the thrill. It abandons us during winter and abuses us come summer. And due to a seemingly endless, wholly passive-aggressive silent treatment, its reasoning for all this will likely remain a mystery for years to come.

But one mystery is finally solved.

A lack of orifices long left us unable to properly take the sun's temperature, leaving scientists to simply guess. But a collaboration between Apple and Frito-Lay saw the first manned mission to the sun in a heroic search for answers.

Unfortunately for 12-year old Daniel Lamb, from One Toilet, Indiana, and winner of the Doritos "Fun in the Sun Sweepstakes," this was a one-way trip.

"I just wanted a PlayStation," said Daniel in his final message, crying like a little baby.

As any parent who ever left their child in the car during a grueling heatwave so as to pop in for a quick root canal or colonoscopy might already know, children are often too stupid to turn on the A/C or crack a window.

But stupid children aside, there's also the matter of fuel.

"Have you seen how poor an iPhone's battery life is?" said Penny Pincher, Apple's V.P. of Tax Evasion. "And don't even get me started on the excessive cost of bundling our ship with a charging cable."

But while the incineration of a young child left his family mildly upset, scientists now know the sun is, at the very least, hot enough to do the same to aluminum and glass.

[crepusculedaemon]

Several holy weeks ago a man was carried down the side of the road and into the tunnel where a burly man tore off his dirty blue jeans and another approached with knife, nail, and hammer.

The man’s leaf-thin frame was held in the air and the curved blade was pulled across the shaft of his abnormally large member once blood fell out his wounds the wirery man stepped back and smiled like i’d imagine how some god looks at his sacrolist.

He walked with a wired gait digging the knife deeper into the skin only slightly above his member as the man uselessly jerked in pain his member was removed entirely in three cuts.

With it in his hands he looked back at a lady behind him in the void-eyed crowds and she ran to receive it. With a toothy grin she looked at him and he pointed to the heavily graffitied wall. She held his severed member the same way a child holds a drawing as their parents tape it to the fridge but in this situation it was nailed to a dirty concrete wall with an 11 inch nail.

The crowd behind the three only tilted their heads to where it now resided still having that unfocused gaze. Slowly the woman dropped to one knee and then the next with a sort of reverence a sinner has as they kneel to a priest.

Masses behind them stood there, idle as they relieved themselves, still as the days progressed, motionless as their health and bodies decayed. All of them died a creeping death but the three remained alive.

The bestially buff man stood with his hands in a faux spiritual mudra just sort of meditating-not-meditating. The weasel-esque man just stood there his hands in his fuzzy grey jacket with a pride that escaped all this reality’s dimensions.

The woman sat there like some catholic girl admiring the macabre and meretricious work she knelt and smiled longer and warmer than a summer’s day.

[theperfessor]

Check out the Halloween-themed Weird Fiction Quarterly flash fiction mag. I have 2 stories in it. Find us on Amazon.

[wrongstation]

//THE BOARD MEETS

//TO DISCUSS CHALLENGES FACING THE COMPANY

//CHALLENGES THAT CANNOT BE IGNORED

//NOT EVEN FOR A MOMENT

//OR ELSE

THE PLEDGE DRIVE CONTINUES WITH...

"MEETING MINUTES"

[patterspod]

So this is probably our most audio design intensive episode yet with the most original music too. And also our best episode?

Chapter 4 Part 2: Fate's Nickname is available for your listening pleasure

[mishflora]

Weird Tales, February 1935

[notesfromtheunknown]

Tavern Rumor

It is said the bread courier can deliver messages between worlds… but only if you pay in rye and never ask for receipts.

Blort: “He once delivered soup. Unforgivable.”

[madlabgames]

Bizarre Boroughs: NPC Entry - Horatio P. Thistlewick, The Wizard of Copyright Infringement 📜🧙‍♂️

The GICW's Most Stubborn Bureaucrat 😤

This is an entry for a specific NPC you might encounter when dealing with the most stubborn of magical bureaucrats in Bizarre Boroughs. Horatio P. Thistlewick isn't here to do your bidding; he's here to ensure that no one gets past him without the proper clearance. 🚫

Character Sheet: Horatio P. Thistlewick

Description: A classic wizard in a grey robe and a slightly askew pointed hat, looking identical to a famous fantasy wizard. 🧙 He wields a gnarled staff with the top ending in a finger, which he uses to block doorways and point accusatorily at people. ☝️ His demeanor is one of resolute refusal, and his favorite phrases are a simple, booming "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" or "YOU SHALL NOT SUE!". 🗣️

Species: Wizard (GICW Gatekeeper) - His magical training has been entirely focused on defensive spells, wards, and the bureaucratic authority that comes with guarding a doorway. 🛡️ He is a wall of passive-aggressive magical authority. 🧱

Current Job: GICW (Grand Interplanar Conglomeration of Wizards) - Door Warden. Horatio is the final line of defense for a variety of GICW-sanctioned locations, from the security counter at the Wizards' Guild to the break room. 🚪 He is the person you must get past to access anything, and he rarely budges. 🗿

Relatives: A hobbit-like apprentice. 🦶

Attributes:

Brawn: 2 (He's old but can push back with that staff.) 💪

Finesse: 1 (He's not graceful. He blocks doors, he doesn't open them elegantly.) ���

Wits: 3 (He's smart enough to know the rules, but his logic is often circular and maddeningly specific.) 🧠

Presence: 3 (His simple "YOU!" is surprisingly intimidating and authoritative.) 😠

Resolve: 5 (Unbreakable. You cannot convince him to do anything he doesn't want to do. Ever.) 😤

Core Ability: You Shall Not Pass!: Horatio's staff creates a minor, hyper-mundane ward across any doorway he chooses to block. This ward isn't a powerful magical barrier, but an irresistible, bureaucratic force that makes it impossible for an unauthorized person to cross the threshold. Attempting to pass requires a Contested Resolve Check against his Resolve 5. He is surprisingly good at this.

Mundane Magic Mischief: Any time he attempts to cast a more powerful spell, there's a chance of a small, hyper-mundane side effect. For example, a "fear" spell might only cause the target to develop an intense fear of filing cabinets. 📁😱

Profession Skill Bonuses:

Doorway-Based Authority: +1 D6 to any Presence check when his staff is in a blocking position. 🚪

GICW Regulations: +1 D6 when quoting a specific, obscure, and completely made-up GICW regulation to justify his refusal. 📄

Staff-Based Combat: +1 D6 for any Brawn-based combat rolls involving his staff (it's surprisingly solid). 💥

Life Goal: Retire to a Quiet Cottage: His one dream is to get enough pension and paperwork squared away to finally retire from his job and live in a quiet, magic-free cottage in the countryside. 🏡 He's currently been working towards this goal for 300 years, and every day he is forced to work brings him closer to achieving it, which only makes him more stubborn. 🕰️

Lore

Horatio P. Thistlewick is a wizard burdened by his own resemblance to a famous fantasy character, a fact that has become the entire focus of his career. He was originally a promising young wizard with a talent for enchantment, but a paperwork error from the GICW's "Licensing Department of Literary Aesthetics" accidentally assigned him the title of "Wizard of Copyright Infringement." He has been forced to lean into this role, adopting the catchphrases and staff of the character he spoofs to make his bureaucratic duties clear. He often feels that his apprentice, a hobbit-like creature, is just more salt in the wound of his bizarre existence. His constant proclamation of "YOU SHALL NOT SUE!" is a testament to the legal quagmire his very job represents. ⚖️

Encounters and Hooks

The Permit Problem: Your PCs need to enter a GICW office, but Horatio is blocking the door. He points his staff at a PC and declares, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" until the proper sign-in is completed. 🖊️

The Reality-Warp Violation: A PC has accidentally caused a minor reality warp (e.g., their toaster is now a portal to the Bagel Dimension). Horatio is the guard posted outside the GICW's "Reality Containment Unit." He won't let you inside to fix your mistake until you provide a "temporal liability release form," which you can only get from inside the office. 🥐

The Lunch Break: He is blocking the door to the break room, insisting that he has not yet received his "authorized lunch break schedule" from the head wizard. He will not move until a PC can convince him that his specific time slot has been approved, which requires a Wits (Bureaucratic Navigating) Check to find the correct file. 🥪

He is the perfect NPC to add a touch of bureaucratic absurdity to any quest, reminding your PCs that even in a world of magic and monsters, the real challenge is often just dealing with a wizard with a very strict understanding of policy. 🤷‍♂️

[reclaimer42]

I'm waiting to get my shots and the room has the faint stink of burnt smell from when they bake it in between exams. Any minute now someone is going to walk in and jab me in the arm so I'll be all ready for my trip, and then this room will become the temperature of a small sun to make sure nothing biological remains. The shots aren't even vaccines, kind of like the opposite, it's meant to emulate the bacterial background of that era or something, I don't know. Virology wasn't my specialty.