Book Review – Mind’s Horizon by Eric Malikyte

I’ve always loved H.P. Lovecraft’s ideas. The worlds he built were amazing with a richly detailed mythology that shows us exactly how tiny and insignificant we are in the universe. Imagine a universe where it was not only obvious that humans were terribly outgunned, there’s an undercurrent that god doesn’t really love us. It’s kind of like stepping to a guy in a bar and getting your ass handed to you and then spitting out your teeth and watching through swollen eyes as your gal goes off with him.

But here’s a funny thing: Much as I love Lovecraft’s worlds, I really have trouble getting into his writing. It’s too dense and has too many apostrophes. Maybe that’s just me, though. I’ve been bitter ever since Miskatonic University turned down my application for “not understanding magic” and “being lazy”. Anyway, the whole “universe is out to get you and, let’s face it, you’re boned” philosophy has a great vibe to it and giant world-eating things are fun to think about, even if reading Lovecraft’s prose ain’t my bag.

So, when I get a chance to read something that tracks along with Lovecraft’s “giant things about to eat the planet” mythos without his weighty prose, I jump at it.

If you look back a bit, you’ll see I reviewed one of Eric Malikyte’s books a while back. Echoes of Olympus Mons was a brilliant bit of sci-fi horror. Malikyte has recently followed up the woeful tale of Mars’s untimely death with a love letter to H.P. Lovecraft. Mind’s Horizon features all the good apocalyptic stuff you expect from Lovecraft, notably world-ending excitement, a hint of magic, and teeth. Lots of teeth.

Humanity’s time is done.
A modern ice age has all but stamped out human civilization and left the Earth nearly uninhabitable. For Ira Hartman and the dysfunctional band of survivors that surround her, all that’s left of the old world are ghosts trapped beneath the still forming ice sheets.
Living in retrofitted tunnels beneath Riverside, California, scrounging for food, supplies, and desperately trying not to kill each other, things could be worse; but when an accident causes the generators powering their shelter’s heating system to be destroyed, hope seems to have run out.
That is until Ira discovers a strange heat signature in the San Bernardino mountains, and it leads to a secret military research facility housed deep within the mountain.
At first, it seems like the perfect shelter. Plenty of rations. Water. Warmth.
Then they discover the remnants of horrifying experiments. Corpses, strapped to operating tables, horror etched on decomposing faces, experiment rooms filled with strange machines and occult symbols, and the logs of a raving lunatic. The unmistakable feeling that something is watching them, waiting in the cold, tubular concrete tunnels, in the shadows.
What Ira and the others don’t know might just kill them.

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Just Passing Through

Outside of The Eagles’ classic song Take It Easy, most people know absolutely fuck-all about Winslow, Arizona. I’m fortunate to have actually spent a little time in the place. My aunt and uncle lived there for a while and we used to spend Christmas with them. Actually, they lived there twice. Once when I was fairly young, then they moved, then they moved back. Then they moved again.

At any rate, I’ve spent some time in Winslow. It’s a tiny, little wide spot on I-40 between Holbrook (also a wide spot) and Flagstaff (a cool wide spot and home to Northern Arizona University and Bookman’s). Winslow is your run-of-the-mill small Arizona town and aside from the fact that the Mormon church went out of business and someone bought the place and turned it into a giant house, there’s not much to say about Winslow.

Oh, it also has a place that serves the world’s worst Chinese food. My grandfather loved that place.

Now Winslow is dying the same slow, desperate death a lot of small towns are experiencing. The movie Cars made this sound like a tragedy, but aside from the fact that Winslow is a convenient place to get gas and a lot of people are going to lose their shirts when the town finally closes its doors, not much of importance will be lost. People will find new places to live and the world will move on just like it has when countless other places have rolled up the streets and called it a done day.

Anyway, enough about the sad and sordid history of Winslow, Arizona. The point of this post is just how much of an asshole I am that I can look at the slow death of a small town and see nothing more than a story idea.

Last week we took a trip up to Zion National Park in Utah to spend some time with friends and celebrate some birthdays. As we were passing through Winslow (at exactly the speed limit, I assure you),  we saw the remnants of some building or another. All that was left was a mostly empty dirt log, the rusted I-beams that made up the frame, and an old rail freight car.

A perfect place for a story with all kinds of high weirdness. I wish I could have gotten a picture, but driving (at exactly the speed limit) wasn’t conducive to getting a decent shot. But I saw the scene and immediately saw the end of the world had come and gone and there were still a couple people out there working on some strange tech hammered together with dreams, bailing wire, and bits of crashed UFOs. Around them were 50 gallon drums filled with flaming refuse and the endless brown desert. The stars filled the skies. They had one final shot at redemption in a world that died with a whimper.

Maybe it’s just me, but I saw a story in that old frame and dirt-bound freight car. Inspiration comes from all sorts of bizarre places.