The last master of Dunoran

IV
Higher than a man could reach
Higher than a man could leap
A rust coloured stain on the plaster of a wall

Not a mark from the weather
And not a strange vein of mould
It is nothing, no, nothing so lucky as those

A splash of old brains and blood it is
Where the skull of the squire was crushed
By the hand of the devil in a furious rage
As the midnight bells rang out

Marked there for a hundred years now
And marked there for a hundred more
No human hand will clear it, and no rain will wash it off

The last master of Dunoran
The last of the Sarsfield kin
He’ll never leave this place now. Not while these stones still stand.

 

‘Sir Dominick’s Bargain’ is Chapbook number one of four volumes published by the Olgada Press.

To read all four for free, please visit us at Amazon, Smashwords, ibooks, or Barnes and Noble.

 

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Food for worms

III
This ruined house stands doorless and open now
Silent and abandoned. Black mould stains on
Tall walls thick with ivy. It’s broken roof
Hangs wide and ragged, barking at the sky.

Such a grand house in its day. The pride of
A whole county. A place of revelry
And warm welcomes. Of wine and candlelight
Golden threaded ballgowns and midnight masques.

The marble-staircased heart of a small world
Now weatherbroken and bowed down
The transitoriness of all things writ clear
In spoiled plaster, grey stone and wet oak.

From the twilight sneers an unpleasant drawl
It’s whisper shocking in the sombre gloom
Harsh and oppressive and close in your ear
Repeating and repeating
“Food for worms, dead and rotten.
Food for worms. God over all.”

‘Sir Dominick’s Bargain’ is Chapbook number one of four volumes published by the Olgada Press.

To read all four for free, please visit us at Amazon, Smashwords, ibooks, or Barnes and Noble.

 

I travel to Dunoran

II
I travel to Dunoran
By bog and hill, by winding stream and twisting road
By rocky gorge and mountain range
By wild moor and straggling wood

I travel to Dunoran for business
By mail coach and by horseback
By posting house and rough thatched country inn
I travel as a gentleman will do
Solitary and melancholy
But with eyes wide open
A curious seeker after strange tales

I have no face, I have no name
I have no voice, save for the one in your head
I am the stranger by the fireside,
A wanderer in the woods
I am the ghost at the heart of the story
I am the ghost you cannot see but for looking

I travel to Dunoran
Up a long grass road, under the shadow of tall trees
Along the ridge of a precipice
At the wild edge of an ancient forest
To an old house, ruined and delapidated
Lonely and morose
I travel to Dunoran

‘Sir Dominick’s Bargain’ is Chapbook number one of four volumes published by the Olgada Press.

To read all four for free, please visit us at Amazon, Smashwords, ibooks, or Barnes and Noble.

 

Vane, venal Sir Dominick

I

Poor Sir Dominick. Vane, venal Sir Dominick
What hope did you ever have?
Spent your money ‘till every last guinea is gone
On drink and dice, on women and dogs
We know your story before you even start the telling
No bargain like yours ever did end well

Go to France, Sir Dominick
Take your guns and your horses
Take the first coin on offer and
Fight for Napoleon, fight for Wellington
Die on a battlefield as you were born to
With a sword in your hand and blood in your nostrils
It is a better end than any awaits you in Dunoran

Poor Sir Dominick. Proud, boastful Sir Dominick
He will come when your need is greatest
He will offer you that which you want most
Though the cost will be more than
Anyone could imagine

Poor Sir Dominick.
What hope did you ever have?
The trees stand tall here tonight
Their shadows hang thick around you
Listen
There is the sound of footsteps approaching.

 

 

‘Sir Dominick’s Bargain’ is Chapbook number one of four volumes published by the Olgada Press.

To read all four for free, please visit us at Amazon, Smashwords, ibooks, orBarnes and Noble.

Notes on the weird – Michel Houellebecq

Of course, life has no meaning. But neither does death. And this is another thing that curdles the blood when one discovers Lovecraft’s universe. The deaths of his heroes have no meaning. Death brings no appeasement. It in no way allows the story to conclude. Implacably, HPL destroys his characters, evoking only the dismemberment of marionettes. Indifferent to these pitiful vicissitudes, cosmic fear continues to expand. It swells and takes form. Great Cthulhu emerges from his slumber.

Michel Houellebecq

Notes on the weird – Caitlin Kiernan

I feel like too many people are obsessed with Lovecraft’s monsters, tentacles and polyps and shuggoths. Whatever. Frankly, I think they’re missing the point. At least, I can say they’re missing the part that has played the greatest influence on me, and those elements would be the importance of atmosphere, the found manuscript as a narrative device, and his appreciation of what paleontologists and geologists call deep time. Deep time is critical to his cosmicism, the existential shock a reader brings away from his stories. Our smallness and insignificance in the universe at large. In all possible universes. Within the concept of infinity. No one and nothing cares for us. No one’s watching out for us. To me, that’s Lovecraft.

Caitlin Kiernan

Notes on the weird – Ramsey Campbell

To an extent [Lovecraft’s] reputation is the victim of his mythos. It was conceived as an antidote to conventional Victorian occultism — as an attempt to reclaim the imaginative appeal of the unknown — and is only one of many ways his tales suggest worse, or greater, than they show. It is also just one of his means of reaching for a sense of wonder, the aim that produces the visionary horror of his finest work (by no means all of it belonging to the mythos). His stories represent a search for the perfect form for the weird tale, a process in which he tried out all the forms and all the styles of prose he could.

Ramsey Campbell