Susurrections
Published on
creeping softly towards the eve of All Hallows', a Pattern is followed.
every year novel and yet, paradoxically, exactly the same.
those of a certain affliction see it sprout, borne out in the banality of life:
a missed train connection,
a trouser leg dampened by a splash,
a pasta dish seasoned with a touch too much salt;
all these things whisper sweet susurrations, teasing at the edges of the subconscious...
as the days give way to weeks, even the most unattuned begin to feel the unease.
they fall into society's long-established soothing structures:
violently disfiguring gourds,
adorning themselves in costumes,
seeking comfort in sucrose.
trying to act like they're part of the Pattern, not just being pulled along by it, unaware.
autogaslighting as a defence mechanism. but this, too, is part of the Pattern;
a runaway flywheel of feedback: malease, appease... malease, appease... malease...
appease, round and round and round and round.
the rituals climax with the month. thirty-one days of ratcheting tension come to a head.
every soul knows that the night is not right.
parents placate,
Sisters semble,
cults convene.
the Pattern pulses, straining against metaphysicality, as it draws into reality.
some work their own lesser patterns to support it; others attempt to ward.
a tug-of-war contested across space and time, as the edges of reality flicker and falter,
succumbing to susurrations of the Pattern.
from the Pattern emerges a Presence, so Foreign it cannot be Conceived.
indistinct Impressions of Cephalopods, of being Seen, and of Unrelenting, Inexorable, Unentreatable Pressure.
the Fabric of the Universe starts to Twist as
IT.
COMES.
FORTH.
and then... nothing? november blooms, and people slowly blink.
was that...?
no, surely not.
it was just a Poem.
even those who saw through the veil of the pattern are wracked by doubt,
as the human brain, teetering on the verge of consummation, slams down its own defensive patterns.
I had two bits of (proximate) inspiration for this:
- A quote I found when I looked up “susurrations” in the dictionary (an amazing word): “Every syllable and fragment of susurration that might..betray the tendency of our colloquy”, T. De Quincey in ‘H. A. Page’.
- A Night in the Lonesome October by Roger Zelazny, a book I’m reading one chapter of per day in October.
Something about the phrasing of the quote resonated with me, and pairing it with the gothic horror/lovecraft-ian vibe of ANitLO seemed natural.
I tried to do a few things with this: there’s a load of alliteration, the word choice generally skews towards the archaic, and there are a few places that are deliberately meant to sound off-kilter. The most obvious conceit is probably the capitals, though: at first just the “Pattern” and some associated occult words are capitalised, then more and more as the reality invasion occurs. Then just that one pesky ‘P’ in poem as everyone tries their hardest to ‘autogaslight’ about what did/didn’t happen.
Happy Halloween!
Thanks for reading!
Have thoughts? Send me an e-mail!
MD87
#nobridge
as october slowly transits from the bookend of september, creeping softly towards the eve of All Hallows', a Pattern is followed. every year novel and yet, paradoxically, exactly the same. those of a certain affliction see it sprout, borne out in the banality of life: a missed train connection, a trouser leg dampened by a splash, a pasta dish seasoned with a touch too much salt; all these things whisper sweet susurrations, teasing at the edges of the subconscious... as the days give way to weeks, even the most unattuned begin to feel the unease. they fall into society's long-established soothing structures: violently disfiguring gourds, adorning themselves in costumes, seeking comfort in sucrose. trying to act like they're part of the Pattern, not just being pulled along by it, unaware. autogaslighting as a defence mechanism. but this, too, is part of the Pattern; a runaway flywheel of feedback: malease, appease... malease, appease... malease... appease, round and round and round and round. the rituals climax with the month. thirty-one days of ratcheting tension come to a head. every soul knows that the night is not right. parents placate, Sisters semble, cults convene. the Pattern pulses, straining against metaphysicality, as it draws into reality. some work their own lesser patterns to support it; others attempt to ward. a tug-of-war contested across space and time, as the edges of reality flicker and falter, succumbing to susurrations of the Pattern. from the Pattern emerges a Presence, so Foreign it cannot be Conceived. indistinct Impressions of Cephalopods, of being Seen, and of Unrelenting, Inexorable, Unentreatable Pressure. the Fabric of the Universe starts to Twist as IT. COMES. FORTH. and then... nothing? november blooms, and people slowly blink. was that...? no, surely not. it was just a Poem. even those who saw through the veil of the pattern are wracked by doubt, as the human brain, teetering on the verge of consummation, slams down its own defensive patterns.