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eaten something horrible in there somewhere, too; the next morning I had a rough time removing some nameless blue froth that had crusted at the corners of my mouth, and my breath was redolent of ozone and grave clay. Possession can be hard on a body, natch.
    (On a purely academic level, The Atchison reminds us of the essentially magical nature of writing. As that other black book tells us, in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was, if not God, then at least Its closest approximation this side of the Shining Realms. Language is Reality. What sort of reality does The Atchison describe? Who reads this writing? On what walls?)
    The Topeka : the document was then sectioned and trimmed to size for the chapbook. Each copy of R’lyeh Sutra contains a section of the whole. Each section is unique. You hold in your hands an authentic occult artifact, similar to but unlike the others. If you got one with a sigil, bonus. Good for you.
    The Santa Fe : as the chapbooks are sold, gifted, stolen, discarded and otherwise dispersed through time and space from the moment of their creation, I imagine that the gaps between the sections of the original document will generate a certain quantum tension, a longing. It is this longing of the parts for the whole (coloured by the wonder, confusion, possibly the disdain, of the reader) which will provide energy for the spell to do its work upon the base code of whatever-this-is. Perhaps at some point in the imagined future, the chapbooks may come together again. I’m not sure I’d want to be there when that happens.
    And the nature of the spell, the true purpose of the Atchison Topeka and Santa Fe ? Well, that would be telling.
    ELECTRONIC EDITION NOTE: the following graphic depicts a single section of The Atchison , one not included in the original paper chapbook edition. Clicking on the link above will, if the reader has their browser enabled, take them to a web page with further samples of The Atchison, on a randomized setting. Though not as unique as the original paper edition, I hope that this feature will provide the reader of this electronic version of R’lyeh Sutra with a similar experience.
     

 

Hounds of Tindalos
coming in from mad corners
blue froth stains my mind
Iä! Shub-Niggurath!
Fertile horror! Goddess-thing!
I’m (somewhat) aroused
    Bells in the green deep
    tolling for the Forgotten
    shivers down the spine
the Brown Jenkin:
loathsome abomination?
Or kinky sex move!
Picture in the house:
“victuals yew cain’t raise nor buy!”
What’s that ceiling stain?
     

 

Behind the wheel of an industrial hovercraft, freight-hauling across a blasted desertscape of flattened brush, salt pans and black-blue onyx shale. On the seat next to me Astrid kneels, posing like a fetish Varga Girl, legs tucked beneath her, explosion of copper hair a halo of fire. She pouts. She's wearing a white rubber catsuit of some kind but it's obviously practical for the environment we're travelling through, there are tubes pulsing with some clear liquid criss-crossing her form and flat mesh panels at her abdomen, thighs and neck. She licks her lips and I laugh heartily. I am wearing a similar suit, black, cool against my skin.
    A screen set into the dash flickers to light. Alex's face fills the screen. He is wearing communication headgear and rectangular implants in his forehead designate his rank, which is high.
    "Agent Landotter, Agent Stargrave. You've got a stowaway. In the back."
    I angle the rearview mirror while Astrid turns around to look. In the flatbed behind us, there is a barely discernible numinous form trying to conceal itself behind a stack of battered metal cases.
    "Well, fuck," I say. "I thought this run was s'posed to be clean! Who do these disincarnates think they are? I mean, what's it want?"
    Alex is impatient. "What does anything imaginary want? A little more reality. Early telemetry suggests a possible origin in the post-eschaton. I need you to deal with this futurist asshole