Tag Archives: lovecraft

A poem.


Jessica’s Lamentations of a Day in Hell

by Nick Llanes


Prologue: Fields of the Mundane


Every day we toiled in sad Asphodel—

The mournful fields, bitter fields, evil fields.

Every day we sowed seeds in this grey Hell,

and we ate bitter grain as daily meals.

It was but an imitation of work

From our old lives, to try to forget that

We’re trapped in  places where evil things lurked.

And ‘twas ungodly, this dark world of rats.

We ended up here, refusing to repent,

Prideful men and prideful women, we had

Chosen freedom over the heaven-sent

Words of redemption. I asked, were we mad?

And woe–the hell people chanted:

“We were mad with anger.

We were mad with pride.

We were mad before we died.”



A Chorus Line of Wrathful Pigs

I was the prideful one; the jealous one,

hidden underneath the shadow of my

very own brother, the wrathful  one.

He who led me into the paths of pigs.

Paths of pigs, paths of lies.

Paths of pigs, paths of flies.

Paths of pigs, paths of —

Drugs, which took me high! High into the skies,

Like a sky-carriage, flying through blue:

Corrupting hallucinogenic lies.

He had destroyed me inside, so I knew.

So I knew—

So I knew.

So I knew.

That his stark success was not through vice.

He knew each name in every special place

And I knew. On that cold night, he should die,

For I could not stand to see his smug face.

His smug face—

His stupid face—

His elvish face—

His damned pudgy nose and flabby cheeks,

The way he laughs as he displays his wealth,

God should have helped me—I was so damn weak,

I believed he should die a painful death!

A painful death!

A painful death!

A painful death!

So many ways presented themselves to me,

Gunshot, drowning, knives, and poison were there.

“Which of these do you want to use?” asked he.

I shrugged at the thug, saying, “I didn’t care.”



An Infernal Fate

Long story short, saved for another date,

I’m left to suffer this infernal fate.

Lady in black, the magister in white,

They judged me to leave; I put up no fight.

Last I saw of brother, he wept in hell,

Like a child under our mother’s dark spell.

Thousands of tears falling down his damp cheeks,

When Death tapped his shoulder, I had felt so weak.

The Judge had put him there to save my soul,

Before I died, when he came back a ghost,

He was trapped within that grey, sullen place,

Not breaking apart, through the Judge’s grace.

In the dark, as I saw Death lift him up,

Dark arms pulled me in before I screamed “Stop!”

Death-woman and my brother walked away,

And I whimpered, as the demons said:




Epilogue: True Freedom and Cosmic Horrors

Welcome to Absolute Freedom, daddy-o.


That’s what we call this place.

We call it Dis, we call it that,

Hell, some even call it pandemonium.

Do you hear that?

Beyond the sound of the wailings of the suicides,

The criminals, the murderers,

Is a sound I always cringe to hear.

I always hear it, daddy-o.

Squirming tentacles  millions of miles wide, and


 wailing in the

darkness, gaping maws

with rows and rows

of razor



Eyes that could shatter your very sanity

Breath that smelled like a million rotting corpses.

Bodies that ran from galaxy-to-galaxy.

These were the gods in these parts, daddy-o,

And we’re just dust in the wind.

Lucifer ain’t got no real power here, daddy-o.

He’s the same as us—a prisoner. A prideful, spoiled king, but still a prisoner.

Puppet for the things wailing in the darkness.

‘cuz you see, daddy-o,

In that lil’ white room we called the Judgement Room,

When we refused to repent,

Our souls were sucked into this damn void,

the very void where God did not exist.

An’ because of that, daddy-o,

Things also came to replace God in the order of things.

An’  they ain’t friendly.

An’ they ain’t got no morals.

In the end, daddy-o,

Being humble ain’t such a bad idea after all.


A Crawling Chaos Monologue


I wrote this for my Stage Arts class in college. We had to write/find a monologue for our…monologue performance, and I wrote a monologue about Nyarlathotep. To be honest, the mere fact that I wrote this scares the shit out of me. Your Mileage May Vary.


By Nick Llanes

I look upon you and grin. Your follies. Your loves. Your hideous rituals. You constantly reassure yourselves of your own significance. From up there—out in the stars, dearest Ant, you are nothing but a mere speck of dust one flicks away in annoyance. My master does not even comprehend your existence, the Blind Idiot that He is.

Yet I, the Haunter of the Dark, do. And I laugh. And I laugh. And I laugh.  Each and every little paramecium here, has set up a whole plethora of barriers—hindrances, and you call them “Morals”.


What are Morals but barriers? See us, in our true forms, and let us see what “Morals” are compared them.  So many questions linger in the air, answers rendered meaningless.

What is beauty?

What is horror?

What is Good?

What is Evil?

All this are meaningless when we take that of which is ours. We are things bounded by no such creation—such concepts are incomprehensible to us as our appearances are to you.

The Great Old Ones are sleeping. Azathoth is slumbering. The underwater cities of old are sunken. Yet we shall rise again. What would your puny minds comprehend of us, then? Your gods will not protect you from the True powers of this Universe.

One day, the Old Ones shall rise from their death-like slumber, and the seas once more will be frothing in madness. The Deep Ones shall rise and claim their birth-rights—their lands. The Shoggoths will consume your cities, like alien tidal waves. On that day, humanity shall be rid of their morals, killing and revelling and laughing merrily. Great Cthulhu, from his risen house at sea, shall teach Man new ways of fear.

You look at me now, little dust mites, as if I was some hideous aberration. Point your guns. Point your blades. Point, even your sharpened sticks.  My mask is mortal, but my essence is immortal.  You look upon me in fear, bacterium, yet I am merely a voice. An echo. A consciousness, able to take forms you measly creatures can comprehend. There are things sleeping underneath the earth, in the depths of the sea, and even in the black void of space, that you must fear more.

Yet I suppose I may say that I am fear.

For when Man lay shivering in the caves, afraid of the black, I was the thing lurking in the dark. When men stare in to the Abyss, I am the Thing staring back. I was the daemon who whispered into Hitler’s ear. I was the one who told Nero burn the Christians in Rome. I have been here, dearest insects, since you were mere apes, and I shall be here when you—all of you—shall realize that you are merely a miniscule electron in this universe of universes.

I have many names and many faces. I am Nephren-ka. I am the Black Pharaoh. I am the Devil. The Haunter of the Dark. The Whisperer in the Darkness. The Walking’ Dude. The Howling God. I am the crawling chaos.  I am the Messenger, Will, and Voice of the Outer Gods.

I am Nyarlathotep.



Lovecraftian Fiction, and why it’s terrifying, P1.

Ia! Ia! Cthulhu Fhtagn!

He dreams. (Art by TristJones)


Size matters, they say.

To the lowliest of ants, we are dreaded gods, looking down from our Olympian thrones. To the littlest paramecium, ants are the gods, and we are little more than horror stories for their children. This leads us to the next, horrifying question—“Who looks down on us?”  Who, in this universe, looks down on our civilization, and sees our folly? This, in turn, leads to more questions, such as “Are they benevolent?” and “Can we comprehend them?” This is the plight of Lovecraftian Horror. This sub-genre of horror, as stated by Tvtropes.org, “depresses you with the fatalistic impression of being insignificantly powerless before the vast, unknowable and fundamentally alien entities.” It was named after the esteemed horror fiction writer, Howard Phillips “HP” Lovecraft, who codified the Lovecraftian Horror genre.

What, then, makes it so scary? I argue that Lovecraftian Horror is a terrifying sub-genre of Horror fiction due to the psychological horror of the unknown, the pervading sense of cosmic dread and doom, and the fate of the protagonist.

Psychological Horror

Psychological Horror, by definition, is a subgenre of horror that focuses on fears and emotional unstableness in order to build the tension. It focuses mostly on the more subtle aspects, rather than the traditional “Pop-up” horror.  While it may have all the essential aspects of horror, it builds up slowly, eating away at one’s mind. Most of the terror is left to the person’s imagination.

This is the Horror of the Unknown. Lovecraft, in his essay, Supernatural Horror in Literature, once wrote: “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” It shows in his works—Lovecraft wrote of hideous, alien abominations that are “indescribable” and “incomprehensible”, leaving the viewer to imagine the finer details for themselves. Lovecraft also used a variation of the literary convention in the most conventional of ways, as shown in his story The Music of Erich Zann. It is about a musician who plays strange music at night. In the story, nothing happens—no creatures burst out of unnameable dimensions; no alien horrors emerge from the deep, dark creases of the earth. The Threat, while implied to be lurking within, is not shown within the story. The reader is left to imagine what happened, instead.


Cosmic Dread and Atmosphere

Atmosphere plays a major role in Lovecraft’s works. It is there to set the mood of the story, as with any other work. Lovecraft wrote stories full of unspeakable horrors, and the mood followed. There was a sense of cosmic dread hanging in the “air” of his stories—a sense of hopelessness in the midst of a vast, uncaring Universe. It was so prevalent in his works that it was made into a literary philosophy—Cosmicism. This is the main emphasis of most of his works; the backbone, one could say.

Lovecraft took inspiration from the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Lord Dunsany, Arthur Machen, and Robert W. Chambers, and as such, his works gave off a gloomy, ghostly, and gothic vibe. This coincides with the psychological horror aspect of Lovecraftian Horror—his settings are unnaturally creepy.  Lovecraft often used New England (which was his home) as the setting of stories.

Sanity’s fragility and the fate of the Protagonist

Lastly, there is the concern of sanity. In Lovecraft’s works, where eldritch abominations lurk within the threshold of Human reason; where the monstrous, malevolent beings are apathetic to the existence of men; where there are beings so enormous in size that it would be maddening to fathom them; there would obviously be a lot of insane people. This is interconnected with the atmosphere of doom and the psychological aspects of the subgenre.

The doomed protagonists, at the end of the story, are either rotting away in an asylum, driven into insanity, or worse, killed by the very forces they uncovered. Then, there is also the concern of the “Unreliable Narrator”—it could be possible that some of Lovecraft’s characters were merely hallucinating. While not (to this author) explicitly stated, it could be possible that some of his stories involve hallucinating characters within an asylum. What makes this aspect of the subgenre so terrifying is the broken perception of reality—you do not know what’s real anymore.

Lovecraftian Horror, while sometimes seemingly obscure, is one of the most influential subgenres of Horror fiction. It is, also, one of the most terrifying, due to the subtleties, the atmosphere of cosmic dread, and sanity’s fragility. In my opinion, this subgenre is the ultimate form of Horror fiction—a world where everything could kill you with one swipe of a tentacle hand; a world where the things we perceive as “gods” are nothing but bigger fish in a small pond, and that there are even bigger fish swimming out there, in the great ocean that is the Universe. There are things man was not meant to know, and Lovecraft—and his subgenre—is here to show it.

Line up of articles.


Hey, guys. Haven’t been too active nowadays. It’s either I’m too lazy or I just don’t have the time. But, I feel like prioritizing you guys–whoever you are–and start writing the hell out of stuff.

So here’s a line-up of articles that I’ll (hopefully) write about.

Prometheus: The Lovecraft Connection.

Lovecraftian Horror: Why is it so scary? 

The Slender Man Mythos overview

Marble Hornets review 

SLENDER review 

Take an umbrella. Rainy as hell nowadays.