Chris Kelso [Kelso - I Dream Of Mirrors

I Dream Of Mirrors

Chris Kelso

Kelso is a fearless and accomplished prose stylist.

Ray Nessly, Literary Orphans

Chris Kelso writes in a style of broken glass and razor blades, barbed wire and gasoline. Stitching together prose, poetry, drama, and graphic novel in a Frankenstein aesthetic...'

John Langan, author of The Wide, Carnivorous Sky and Other Monstrous Geographies

I think Kelso is a major talent and youll hear more about him as time goes by. However, his work is not for the squeamish. His work is transgressive, erudite, shocking.

Mary Turzillo, NEBULA winner

'Chris Kelso is a writer of almost intimidating intelligence, wit, and imagination. On every page there is evidence of a great mind at work. Just when you're wondering if there are actually still writers out there who still feel and live their ideas out on the page, I come across a writer like Kelso, and suddenly the future feels a lot more optimistic. One calls to mind Burroughs, and Trocchi's more verbose offerings - whilst remaining uniquely himself, in a writer as young as he is, is a very encouraging sign: one of maturity that belies his youth. I look forward to reading more from him in the near future.'

Andrew Raymond Drennan, author of the Immaculate Heart

Chris Kelso is an important satirist, I think its safe to say.

Anna Tambour, author of Crandolin

Someday soon people will be naming him as one of their own influences.

INTERZONE magazine

Come into the dusty deserted publishing house where mummified editors sit over moth-eaten manuscripts of books that were never written...anyone who enjoys the work of my late friend William Burroughs will feel welcome here with Chris Kelso.'

Graham Masterton

Chris Kelsos prose swaggers like blues and jitters like bebop. Dig.

Nate Southard, author of Down and Just Like Hell.

Kelso steams with talent and dark wit and his blend of anarchy with precision is refreshing, inspiring and utterly entertaining...'

Rhys Hughes, author of Mister Gum

Choke down a handful of magic mushrooms and hop inside a rocket ship trip to futuristic settings filled with pop culture, strange creatures and all manner of sexual deviance.

Richard Thomas, author of Transubstantiate

Further reading by the Sinister Horror Company:

THE CHOCOLATEMAN Jonathan Butcher

WHAT GOOD GIRLS DO Jonathan Butcher

MARKED Stuart Park

HELL SHIP Benedict J. Jones

MR. ROBESPIERRE Daniel Marc Chant

INTO FEAR Daniel Marc Chant

DEVIL KICKERS Daniel Marc Chant & Vincent Hunt

CORPSING Kayleigh Marie Edwards

FOREST UNDERGROUND Lydian Faust

THE UNHEIMLICH MANOEUVRE Tracy Fahey

KING CARRION Rich Hawkins

MANIAC GODS Rich Hawkins

DEATH Paul Kane

THE BAD GAME Adam Millard

TERROR BYTE J. R. Park

PUNCH J.R Park

UPON WAKING J. R. Park

THE EXCHANGE J. R. Park

POSTAL J. R. Park & Matt Shaw

DEATH DREAMS IN A WHOREHOUSE J. R. Park

MAD DOG J. R. Park

GODBOMB! Kit Power

BREAKING POINT Kit Power

Visit SinisterHorrorCompany.com for further information on these and other titles.

PRESENTS

I Dream Of Mirrors

Copyright 2019 by Chris Kelso

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Edited by J. R. Park

Interior design by Daniel Marc Chant & J. R. Park

Cover design by Michael Bray

Published by The Sinister Horror Company

Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the authors imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

I Dream Of Mirrors -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-912578-07-8

Art / photography by Shane Swank.

For Denise.

RULES OF THE PEOPLE

ONE

The People, as a group led by Miles Dunwoody, prohibit the making of any law respecting an establishment of religion , impeding the freedom of speech , infringing on the freedom of the press , interfering with the right to peaceably assemble or prohibiting the petitioning for a governmental redress of grievances unless it is deemed exception by Miles Dunwoody.

It is not down on any map; true places never are.

Herman Melville , Moby-Dick

My bones feel new, brittle. You wont have heard any apocryphal stories about me because no one seems to know anything about me. My body is a sheet of paper from a worn manuscript, folded into the origami shape of a man. My life has been stuffed into a satchel. Carried to publishers and rejected by the majority. Its words are my words.

This begs the question who is the author?

I look down to the shuffling horde. I see the sun catch the corner of a skyscraper, whip it into a golden prism before sending it straight into the watery eye of the street-bound beholder. I watch them staring, transfixed by the light, a Clockwork Orange amid forced aversion therapy. Always searching for something. I look at my own hands, dry as rough-cast.

I suppose Ive been searching for something too. I hope my story is kind of like Ahabs.

One

I began with the Imaginary, I then had to chew on the story of the Symbolic ... and I finished by putting out for you this famous Real.

- Jacques Lacan

Ive concluded that happiness lives in the ephemera. You cannot see it, nor can it be considered tangible. Its not quite an optical illusion-no, not quite-but if you try to catch it, with the ultimate intention of somehow sustaining it for a prolonged period, then happiness will quickly dissolve to grief and disappointment inevitably, fatally .

This may seem like a redundant observation, but youll forgive me for being a little behind. Re-learning how to survive, how to kill and love is one thing, but remembering all the old cynicisms that really make you human, well, thats a completely different process altogether.

Kad and I stand on the roof of the old convenience store, loading up a spear gun - really, she does all the work since I lost four of my fingers when a shotgun exploded in my hands because of an obstructed barrel. Thats a story for another time.

Daytime has left us. Even at night, the uniform newness of the city sparkles, surreal and blue, against midnights cape. For us dwellers of the dark, bathed in the cities lustre, it makes fighting back a little easier when the light goes. Kad grips the handle of the weapon with her left hand, wedges the butt against her chest, reaches over with her right hand and yanks the elastic towards the notch of the spear. She grunts under the forced exertion.

Theyre coming! I warn her, clutching the bag of supplies we just looted.

I hear the cable click into the spear notch. She takes aim, pointing downwards into the oncoming horde. I can hear Kads breath escape in heavy gasps. I know she is nervous because the bracelets on her left hand are clanking against the speargun barrel with barely-contained energy. Fuck, my heart is going like a bursting bug in my throat. I dont think its ever pumped this hard before.

Keep it together, come on .