Large Fierce Mammal

The Duel

By LFM

Two men went out to fight one day,
A grave insult to fix.
Too wroth to even fetch their swords,
They settled it with sticks.

Their battle raged throughout the day,
So bent on settled scores,
Their weary seconds pubward went,
And spent three hours with whores.

Returning, as they crested o’er
The hill above the fray,
Such carnage was revealed as made
Them freeze and gasp dismay.

The grass was torn and trampled down.
All the trees were bare.
Nine critters of assorted kind
Lay dead, devoid of hair.

A barn that stood beside the field
They saw no longer stood,
Looking less like structure now
Than piles of kindling wood.

All the crops in nearby fields
Were blighted, scorched, and dead,
And as the two men gaped a crow
Fell spinning, sans its head.

The duellists’ spite was such that while
They fought no thing survived
That came near to their battle ground
Where nought but hatred thrived.

The clouds were dark as dark could be,
The air the hottest hot,
As both men made their timid way
Down to the battle spot.

They heard no sound to mark the place
Their principals were battling.
No lusty oath was on the wind,
No parried stick was rattling.

But then, at last, a path was spied
That showed the way they’d gone,
It passed around a hill and through
A disemboweled fawn.

A finger here, an eyeball there,
A shoe with foot still in it.
The gory path they traced in haste,
Not pausing for a minute.

And finally they stopped in shock,
Their quarry in their sight,
But such a scene had neither man
Expected from this fight.

A flock of ravens marked the place
The hateful hate was ended,
And as they watched, some circled down,
Unharmed as they descended.

A church once stood where now there were
But smoking ruined walls,
Atop of which the ravens swarmed
With loud, excited calls.

The seconds came unto that place
That reeked of blood and death.
Into a hole amid the floor
They peered with bated breath.

In the earthen cellar’s gloom
Two corpses were revealed,
Of angry men possessed of hate
That neither would see healed.

Their sticks long smashed to tiny shards,
Their bodies near destroyed,
Neither man could find relief
From being sore annoyed.

And so as life’s blood drained away
They’d crawled across the ground,
And gasping in a sewage drain
Thumb wrestled ’til they drowned.

O Cruel Sea - a 6 foot long washed up mermaid bleaching in the sun. Oh, the fun I could have with her. Click the picture to enlarge.

Mark Twain wrote, “When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not. But my faculties are decaying now, and soon I shall be so that I cannot remember any but the things that never happened. It is sad to go to pieces like this, but we all have to do it.”

I was reminded of those words the first time I encountered the grotesquely beautiful creations of Florida artist Juan Cabana, a taxidermist of a different sort, who plies his trade mounting the remains of sea creatures that never were.

Growing up in arguably the most famous seafaring port in Canada, I have always had an interest in the mysteries of the deep, and never missed a chance to marvel at the myriad of specimens on ice that were displayed each year at the annual Fisheries Exhibition. Looking at Juan Cabana’s work, I feel a similar sense of wonder, as though these are some combination of an actual living thing and something torn straight off the margins of an ancient mariner’s chart, perhaps with a dash of seasoning reminiscent of Lady Cottington’s Pressed Fairy Book. (more…)

In his About.com article on the subject of disappearing objects, paranormal phenomenon investigator Stephen Wagner does a thorough job of cataloguing the various possible explanations for a type of occurrence we’ve all experienced – something disappears and then later returns not only to the exact place we remember putting it, but most maddenly of all, we find it in the first place we looked. Most of the time these events have perfectly mundane answers … but then there are those other times. Today I’ll give you two examples from my personal experience.

Now you see it – now you don’t … and then you do! My knife was identical to this but with one less accessory – I bought it in 1975 before the “parcel hook” (on the bottom to the left of the cork screw) was added. I no longer have that knife, having parted ways over a bad choice of trousers. Another story entirely.

Back around 1979, I was helping my father lay linoleum in a room on the second floor of the old family homestead in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. We were nearly done and decided to take a coffee break before finishing the fine cuts in the two doorways.

If you’ve ever been involved in laying any kind of flooring, you’ll know it normally involves a completely empty room. Such was the case on the day I speak of, and just before we convinced ourselves to replenish our caffien blood levels there were four tools lying on the floor in front of the first doorway that needed trimming:

• a metal square;
• a tape measure;
• a linoleum knife and; most important of all;
• my red handled Victorinox Swiss Army Knife.

I carried that knife daily and made it a policy to never leave it behind so, after standing up and heading for the coffee I naturally did a mental inventory that reminded me of my knife. I turned to retrieve it only to find that it was no longer among those tools I just listed. I went through the usual dance of rechecking the pocket where it usually lived, then others in case I had experienced a brain fart – no dice. Next I checked other parts of the room including window sills, and even involved my father in the search. Still missing. (more…)

While Mrs. LFM and I have enjoyed their products, Canadian winery Sola-Nero for a time had a subtly unfortunate slogan emblazoned on their label – “GOES WELL WITH PEOPLE”.

German cannibal Armin Meiwes is currently serving a 15 year sentence for manslaughter after having killed, butchered, and eaten more than 20 kilograms worth of, engineer Bernd Brandes. (Thomas Lohnes/AFP/Getty Images)

On this thirteenth day of dark sentiments we’re going to delve into one of the darkest of all – cannibalism. Most particularly, we’ll eschew the subject as it has been documented to have been  practiced as a spiritual rite, possession by a malevolent spirit as in the legend of the Wendigo, or out of grim necessity, and concentrate instead on the shadow world of those people who live among us while harbouring a hunger for human flesh, or who are equally driven to be the one devoured.

The case of Armin Meiwes and Bernd Brandes first came to public attention in December 2002 after Meiwes killed and butchered Brandes, an engineer in his early 40’s, filming the entire process, and in subsequent months until he was discovered, consumed more than 20 kilograms of his flesh prepared in assorted ways.

Meiwes didn’t stalk Brandes by stealth or guile, nor did he employ subterfuge of any kind against him.  Everything that he intended to do was stated with crystal clarity, and occurred with the victim’s complete cooperation and consent, demented and misguided though it may have been, and it all happened the 21st century way – using the internet.

According to Harpers’s, Meiwes regularly placed personal ads on websites that cater to people with exotic tastes saying that he was looking for, “Well-built men, 18-30, who would like to be eaten by me.” He frequented chatrooms where he very specifically stated he was seeking, “… men for slaughter …”. After what are reported to have been hundreds of no-shows, Meiwes caught the eye of Brandes who had a perverse sexual fascination with being killed and eaten. The two met for the first and last time on 9 March 2001.

Paving the way to the night’s consummation, Brandes voluntarily consumed a combination of pain killers and schnapps after which he submitted to having his penis sliced off, and joined Meiwes in its consumption after he flambéed it. As he weakened from blood loss, Brandes was transferred by Meiwes to a bathtub where he ultimately lost consciousness, and died when Meiwes cut his throat. (more…)

Dark Sentiments 2010 included a profile of the work of incredibly gifted sculptor Ray Villafane. Famous for his artistry in pumpkin carving which I focused on last year, he began sculpting professionally in the field of toys and statues based on comic book heroes, and since 2008 has been working his magic at sand sculpture. (more…)

Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce in a portrait by J. H. E. Partington. Speaking for myself, I will not pose next to a skull I didn't harvest personally. Nobody knows Bierce's feelings on that.

On 7 October 2010 I published here my article concerned the curious life and end thereto of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. Tonight I’ll speak to another literary legend with his own dark baggage – Ambrose Bierce.

Born 24 June 1842, Bierce was a prolific journalist and writer in such genres as the history of the American Civil War, in which he served and was wounded, as well as poetry, satire, and horror. He was a man of his times, and I personally enjoy the tone and style of his work, not least because of his delightful choice of titles including The Fiend’s Delight (his first book consisting of a collection of his articles, published in 1873) and The Devil’s Dictionary first published in book form in 1906 as The Cynic’s Workbook.

Bierce disappeared without a trace after what is alleged to have been his last known correspondence dated 26 December 1913, sent to Blanche Partington who was an intimate friend, held by many Bierce scholars to have been his lover. It’s said to have stated, in part, “As to me, I leave here tomorrow for an unknown destination.” (more…)

Adele

Last year in Dark Sentiments – Day 12, Mrs. LFM and I collaborated in assembling a playlist of songs born of the darkest sentiments; the kind we characterized as, “Sentiments ranging from the acts of tortured souls, the anguish that can sometimes be born of love, hate, wounds that will never heal, and doors that were better left unopened.”

I was referring to Melissa Etheridge’s song Similar Features when I wrote of, “…  female music artists of such power and talent that, when one of them bared her soul to you, you almost felt like a shitheel voyeur for not averting your eyes and plugging your ears while politely excusing yourself.” This year, Mrs. LFM and I are in complete agreement that the same can be unreservedly said of Adele.

Today we’d like to present two specimens from Adele’s song book, each a polar opposite of the other. Inspired by a failed relationship with someone she’s clearly better off without, her artistically rendered agony enjoyed such financial success that the son of a bitch waste of protoplasm ex-boyfriend actually climbed out from under his rock and made a serious case for being entitled to a portion of her royalties. You should know that between typing what’s before and after this sentence, I felt compelled to take a break to hone every blade in the house – again.

Adele is a musical force of Nature who has taken a trip to the darkest and deepest depths of despair and turned her torment into magic. Here’s agony in two parts. Give her a listen.

Covey Island, called Payzant Island at the time our tale unfolds.

Signs leading into some communities on the south shore of Nova Scotia read, “We love the beauty that surrounds us and welcome you to share it.” Such a sunshiny bit of prose, but ’twas not always thus.

The town of Lunenburg and its surrounding area was settled by Protestant immigrants of German, Swiss, and French origin beginning in 1753. Among them was the Huguenot family led by the industrious  Louis Payzant and his wife Marie who came to the new world in 1755 as part of the Protestant exodus from France as those facing persecution in the wake of Louis XIV’s revocation of the Edict of Nantes voted against his sovereignty with their feet. (more…)

The Burning Times

By LFM

It was a simpler, darker age,
An age of Ox and plough,
When doughty farmers, iron thewed
Wrought life from earth and bough.

But woe is me, it came to pass
That clergy came to roost,
And serving up “the word of God”
An awful thing was loosed.

“The devil walks among us!”
Rose up the hue and cry,
“Let those who tread the olden ways
“Be rooted out to die!”

“A witch must burn to cleanse her soul,
“And every goodly man
“Shall join and bring our quarry down
“As quickly as he can.”

Oh fellow pilgrim, years it was
That neighbour turned on friend,
And any who refused to play
Found torture to their end.

Some who died were men, ’tis true,
But those who suffered most
Were those of gender feminine,
Accused as Satan’s host.

And as the witch hunt grew it lent
Itself to meaner things.
The kind that comes when axes grind
And evil that it brings.

The kind that makes a vengeful fool
Rejected by the ladies
Conspire to teach his lesson by
Condemning them to Hades.

And such was all too oft the case,
For comely lasses worse,
But brains and spirit most of all
Brought down the Church’s curse.

The rules of court were not the same
As known by such as I,
And people could be flogged or killed
By unsupported lie.

Ending sadly, as I’ve said
My tale quotes an accuser
Whose throat would yawn beneath my blade,
The mis’rable abuser.

He sought to mate above his place,
She rejected it as fated,
And so the one he lusted for
Became the one he hated.

His testimony seemed a thing
So simple to pronounce,
His inner manly man prepared
This woman to denounce.

And so he did, and she did die
But he is also dead,
Removed from life by his own hand,
His court words in his head.

“The beauteous witch did cast her spell
“And to Satan gave my cow,
“She seeks to turn me into stone,
“I feel it starting NOW!”

“You know, I often say that the world’s a crazy place – “crazy” in a good sense, and in the sense that, for example, when you walk in the forest or over the fields, or elsewhere, you never know what you’re going to come across.” ~ Laurie Lacey

One morning in the early autumn of my 17th year, I set forth to walk one of my favourite forest trails that led through one of my favourite forests. In those days most of my sorties were to places that were within walking distance of where I lived with my parents in the “old town” section of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, but this was never a hardship because walking ten minutes in a straight line in any direction from anywhere in Lunenburg would put you either on the shore or in the woods somewhere.

My trail on this day was the one that led more or less parallel to the shore of Lunenburg’s Back Harbour through a dim world of gnarled softwoods, moss, and ferns, occasionally crossed by small rivulets in deep scored stream beds that ran when water levels were sufficiently high, as they were that autumn, coming as it did at the end of an unusually wet summer. Throughout these woods were century old signs of cultivation long since devoured by Nature – lines of piled stones that once marked the edges of pastures and tilled fields, abandoned orchards, and the foundations of buildings that though painstakingly assembled through force of muscle, had long since been stripped of their crowning glory as need slipped into forgetfulness. (more…)