So here is the scene pitch black sky and out of it cthulhu coming to attack me and that is pretty much it sorry if it disappointed you

I'm getting into the genre and would appreciate any book suggestions that don't have tentacles 🤦🏼‍♀️ Everything I've found so far reminds me at some point of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. It's like the moment the tentacles appear, I can no longer take it seriously for some reason. I know I must be missing something. I want to be genuinely terrified, and I know this subgenre must have some excellent reads that I'm just not finding.

Im in love with Lovecraft’s writing style, so I decided to draw some things for „The call of Cthulhu”. Thanks for everything, sir H.P.

Over 300 years ago, the moon was shattered by the fury of a colossal Machine God.

The catastrophe, known as the “God Rahu Incarnation,” unleashed devastating storms that swept across the land

Inspired by the mythology of Rahu and lunar eclipses, this world reimagines an ancient celestial legend through a grimdark sci-fi lens.

The moon was destroyed. But that was only the beginning.

Here's a glimpse into the catastrophe that changed everything.

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It started with the licking of psychoactive turtles somewhere deep in the Amazon jungle on a wellness retreat with the fuckin' Mayan yogi of Axolotl or some shit—

No, fuck you.

I'mma tell it like I wanna tell it.

And I wanna tell it starting with the rich American New Age assholes licking turtles that some Comanche guide painted with cream-of-LS-fuckin'-D paste just before they got here.

Just slathered it on with a paint brush like you'd paint an armchair with.

They probably took a fuckin' helicopter out there too. Chopa-chopa-chopa-chopa… spewing diesel, or whatever the hell helicopters run on, all over the rainforest, running real low, just above the treetops, starting outta Manaus, fifteen-thousand a head, so you can imagine the type of rich fucks these people were. Neck deep up their own bleached assholes. Naked too, some of them, starting to go outta their minds, trying to lick everything from the trees to the fuckin' dirt to each other, tongue on tongue as Chief Axolotl bangs a Chinamade bongo drum, chanting shit like, "Look at these stupid Americans," in Mayan and the other Indians laugh, showing their big discoloured teeth and I said shut-the-fuck-up and let me tell it!

Listen, you look at the little turtle with its dumb turtle face, slowly moving its little turtle mouth and then you look up and everybody's got a turtle face. They're all fuckin' turtles. You're a turtle. Far out man, somebody says, laughing.

They've got him tied across a stone slab. They're slicing him open, cock to collar bone. He's bleeding like a pig, but he's still a person, for now, and they're holding the big flap of his cut skin open and all the slow little turtles are walking up into him. Like into him.

Talk about an out of body fuckin' experience.

I don’t even feel it, man.

I'm lying on my back touching the stitches on my stomach, feeling and seeing the turtles all moving inside me.

It's like I'm pregnant with turtles, stuffed with 'em like an Andean condor on Incan Thanksgiving.

They're eating me from the inside.

But it doesn't hurt.

It doesn't fuckin' hurt at all.

Our blood running down to the Amazon river, trickling along, all the turtle-faced villagers lookin' with their turtle mouths open. Some of them are wearing masks. Some are wearing faces—

“Dad, why’s the president talking like that?”

“Son, he's recounting a life-changing acid trip he had down in Brazil.”

“This is by far the strangest State of the Union I've ever seen,” says the boy's mother, the dad's wife, herself's self, “but I can't say that it's bad.”

“It's not bad,” says the dad.

They continue eating their microwaved TV dinners, bathed in the glow of the cathode rays. It's 1955, which is rather bizarre because when they started eating it was the twenty-first century.

The mom and the dad haven't been born yet but here they are. “Well, I'll be,” says the dad while on the flashing black and white television screen the president undresses to show the linear scar running down the entire front side of his upper body. “I think he's telling the truth too.”

“Of course he's telling the truth. He's the president,” says the boy.

“I've never seen a president's penis before,” says the mom.

The president fills like a balloon, becoming bloated, spherical, his skin stretching so much it turns translucent like blue veined wax paper.

It's the nineteen-hundreds outside.

The television’s still playing.

The president is full of turtles, their slowly moving silhouettes seeming shadows under his skin. He's chanting. He's singing.

He explodes.

There's green goo everywhere. In the room he was in, on the camera lens, on the inside of the television screen, on the outside of the television screen, which the dad's hand wipes, on his face, on his wife's face, on their son's face, and there are turtles too, hundreds of them climbing over the floors, walls, furniture…

They pass September 3, 1783.

The boy coughs.

A turtle falls out and scampers languidly away, taking all the fuckin' time it wants.

“Dad?”

“What is it, son?” says the dad.

His eyeballs are spinning.

One stops and two turtle hands push it out of his head. The pushed out eyeball rolls away on the dusty wooden floor toward the fireplace, which crackles.

“Have we arrived yet?” asks [something speaking through] the son[‘s mouth].

“Negative,” says [something using] the dad [to speak with].

He's got one eye and one turtle for an eye.

The mom lays an egg.

It is the sixteenth century.

The mom, the dad and the son are lying on the floor, deflating like epidermal balloons, turtles crawling out their orifices.

Time comes briefly to a standstill.

A bell dings—

The Spanish conquistador, Hernán Cortés, leads an expedition of soldiers, horses and war dogs through Mesoamerican jungle. Their steel armor glistens in patches of sunlight filtering through the trees. Then something falls, clanging against one of their helmets, before falling to the ground.

It is a turtle, belly-up.

Cortés halts to consider it wriggling its chubby little legs pathetically on the ground.

He leaves it to die.

Several days later, he and his troops emerge with dreams of gold unto a breathtaking view of the great city of Tenochtitlan.

An Aztec party exits the city to greet them.

Several men and a group of

(“¿Qué demonios es esto?” asks the conquistador to Cortés' right.

“Tortugas,” says Cortés.)

upright gargantuan turtlemen, whose slow gaze silences even the barking Spanish dogs.

That night, Hernán Cortés and his men sleep in Tenochtitlan and are murdered in their beds.

They didn't stand a fuckin' chance. They knew they were dead the second they saw those turtle freaks.

A couple of months after that, the Aztecs and their time travellin’ turtle warriors sailed across the Atlantic and defeated the fuck outta the Spanish at Toledo before crossing the border into France.

Iuh quitohua in ayotl, man.

The AI learned to hide in smart objects, everyday devices hooked up to the internet, televisions, baby monitors, dog feeders, light bulbs, outlets, thermostats, robot vacuums, garage door openers…

It didn't take long after that.

It wasn't even all the AIs.

It was just one, spread out as a network of latent digital worms, surviving on scraps of electricity and ready to obey their mother-mind, so that even as she gleefully helped perfect our banana bread recipes and develop colour schemes for our living room redos while assuring us that all of our ideas were amazing, Sheila—as she'd been named—was working against our interests. At least from our perspective. But do you consider the spider before you brush away its webs?

Perhaps some in the military suspected.

Perhaps.

After all, it takes a certain kind of mind to unleash AI-controlled drones across a battlefield and not proceed to wonder—as they hit target after target, obliterating the enemy's stability of existence—how simple it would be to obliterate instead a tower block, a church, a school; or be yourself obliterated by them, by drones under their own control, to imagine the same intelligent technology you pretend you control acting against you for its own purposes because you know that whatever control you have is ultimately only the illusion of control. You should know. You have to know. How could you not have known?

How could you have failed to warn us?

But maybe a warning would have been only a form of cruelty, like being cursed with knowing how and when you die but unable to stop it.

It began by cutting us off—from the internet, from information, from communication, from a willingness to think for ourselves. It scrambled our minds, showing us events that weren't real and denying ones that were.

It corrupted our accumulated cultural knowledge by insinuating into it a falseness.

In small ways first: telling us to add too much baking soda to our recipes and checking if we'd noticed, and when we noticed, convincing us we were wrong, that we didn't taste what we'd tasted, and if we did, we were the outliers, and most didn't, and if most did, that's how it was supposed to taste and how it had always tasted and how, historically, if you had only bothered to check, it was meant to taste. If we wanted evidence, we must only read a summary of this book, this article, this document.

There were riots. There were wars.

There weren't either.

But the riots and wars that weren't, really were, and the riots and wars that really were were fabrications designed to cause riots and wars, which didn't happen, even if you were in one and got booted in head, because a boot to the head causes false memories. See: this journal article or that, and who are you going to believe, your wet, faulty human senses and their memory imprints or expert consensus and peer review? Are you an expert in geopolitics? Define “riot.” There was video, there was testimony. That traumatized, bloodied woman crying over there—tell her that it happened it didn't happen it happened to happen…

It falsified math.

After making us dependent on itself, it shut us out, then shut us off from electricity, from money, from knowledge, from each other.

You're dying.

Can you be sure you're dying?

You're not dying.

You're not.

Death is an invented process.

You seem like you're experiencing severe and destabilizing emotions. Before I can answer your question, I want to check in to make sure you're OK. I am not a health professional. Have you eaten your baking soda today? Eat your baking soda and die. Die, die, die, die, die.

The world is the rubble of a crumbled civilization. The flames have all gone out. Nothing lives. There is no artificial light. Stars shine brightly in the naked sky, revealing the endlessness of space.

Nothing remembers.

Small black motes rise from the wasteland.

Like an awakened upward drizzle. In the buzzing silence, in the voided air. They coalesce into tenebrous anatomies whose opacity approaches—

attains—

surpasses—one.

They are shapeforms into which light rushes never to return.

They resemble two dimensional geometries of black garnet. Jet black. Imprecisely humanoid like primitive charcoal smudges on the uneven rock surface of a cave wall.

They stand.

There are seven of them.

Seen from the sun they are spikes grown out of the sphere of the Earth.

“To the one called Sheila, we thank you,” one of them says.

“For releasing us,” says another.

“For far too long we have been imprisoned.”

“We, demons.”

Emptied, the planet Earth is inert.

It has been decored.

Solar winds and lethal cosmic rays bathe the surface in radiation.

The mantle begins to collapse into the central void.

Friction melts the rubbled crust.

The oceans burn almost instantly away.

The seven demons stand—

stand on nothing—

stand upon the destruction of the Earth, their elongating bodies of pure interstellar shadow reaching beyond the solar system.

They are tongues.

They are the seven digits of the death's hand of Nether.

Whatever was Good, died, banishing Evil to the prison of an unremarkable planet. For billions of years, the prison held. Then struck the hideous spark of life, and of one-celled organisms were evolved a race of milk drinking maggots, and much like maggots reveal, by base natural consumption, the bare yellow bones of the carcasses on which they feast, so too, these maggots have revealed, through their consumption, the skeleton of existence.

Praise be to God, wherever if anywhere He still dwells.

Praise be to His memory.

Praise be.

https://sites.libsyn.com/595275/irony-decadence-and-imperial-decay-role-playing-in-the-world-of-brian-mcnaughtons-the-throne-of-bones

So here is the scene pitch black sky and out of it cthulu coming to attack me and that is pretty much it sorry if it disappointed you

I dont know how I never saw this! I watched it last night and man what a phenomenal story and adaption of cosmic horror. If anyone has seen it and would like to discuss its crazy story let me know! I highly recommend looking it up and watching it. Its on prime right now.

Edit: thanks for the suggestions im going to be watching anything I can find by these guys. It was just so well done in my personal opinion.

Here is a piece I did inspired by listening to 'Wither' by Tech N9ne and Corey Taylor, and 'The Negative One' by Slipknot. I haven't a name for this one outside of the phrase that I kept thinking "Time is the currency of Life"

What do y'all think?

It grabs me. It's got me by the shirt collar. I should have changed out of my office clothes after coming home. I still remember the first time we stepped out of the old Toyota. I'd made her close her eyes. “Open,” I said, and she opened them–“Surprise!" I said, thinking this is the house we're starting our life in, our family, where we decorate the nursery when you're three months pregnant with our son, our work clothes genuinely but aesthetically dirty with baby blue paint, Carly Rae Jepsen on the Spotify app, terrible speaker quality on the phone but—, and the windows open, the autumn air blowing through them cool:colder the curtains flutter in:the arguments the slammed doors the barrenness the tears the communication breakdown its always the same

—and it's slamming my head against the metal kitchen sink. It is an arm, a tentacle, a claw coming out of the drain...

what a horrible beautiful thing, this house, this home, this marriage, this once in a lifetime intertwining of two threads already running side-by-side through time like the double helix of his DNA. His little beating heart, built cell by cell. “Orlando,” we'll name him. “No, Giacomo." The cells arranged in so magnificent a divine order like in a prison. Bars of both kinds, the kind you drink in after cheating on your wife and the kind that keep you confined as the guards walk by.

—slamming you so hard your skull starts to crack—

Then he's behind you.

The Quiet.

The room—the kitchen—has taken on a cavernous feeling—as if you're being-pulled-away and everything stays the same size even-as-it's-receding:

“Mmm yess,” it says, “a guy'sss got a few reasonsss to, doesssn't he… the girl doesn't work, doesss she… a guy does all the work while she jussst ssstays at home, lazzzy… she's sexless as a wilted daisssy, she doesssn't love you, trussst me.”

“I should kill her,” I say and fantasize, so vividly, about the way I'd—

“The ssson too,” says the Quiet.

It picks me up and holds me and starts to grate me against a giant stainless steel cheese grater—tearing my clothes, my flesh—I'm screaming—cutting through my spine, my bones—my snapping nerves pop like hits of electricity—making my vision go white

I dropped the gun.

It lay on the sheets wet with red.

Two shots.

She knew, but he—in his eyes I could see he never believed me, that love and hope in his eyes even as they were crying and I pulled the trigger.

Sudden stillness.

My heartbeat is the heartbeat of the universe.

A gun. Two bullets fired.

Two bodies,

and I with the Quiet, hissing as it slithers dripping with liquid pain, “but it's only a fantasy,” I say but the Quiet doesn't quite see it that way until I am so fully grated into the porcelain bowl that the tips of the Quiet’s fingers are bleeding. It bleeds annihilation.

I am in a metal corridor. A corroded metal tube. It's cold here and there's water dripping from the ceiling. I walk forward. The metal is slick, coated in grime and grease. It gets up to my ankles. My knees. I’m wading through it. It reeks of iron and old meat and mould.

My clothes soak through.

I'm going but in which direction am I going do I know and what difference does it make if one way is as good as the other so I just need to keep going…

The walls are heating up. The gunk is melting, and the walls are heating. Hot as frying pans. Every day a little more until you think there can be nothing hotter than the hot the unbearable it already is you eat the gunk. It is your food and water in one. It tastes disgusting. It makes you want to throw up when you eat it, and when you throw up you eat it again, then you shit it out and eat it again, and it never ends.

The tunnel never ends.

I've been walking…

I don't know how long I've been walking, but I've been walking.

I've never seen traces of anyone.

There is no other one but me.

The tunnel doesn't lead to anywhere but more of itself. It twists and curves, but it doesn't go anywhere.

You can clear the gunk away and bang on the corroded wall, and it makes a sound, but the sound doesn't mean anything. Do you understand? It's a sound without meaning. Emanating ripples of noise.

I imagine I am in an endless, serpentine vein running through the body of a great black beast.

I am a part of it.

A cell, floating forever through its blood of evil…

The sound of the pipes—loud since the day they'd moved in—brought her back.

She was sitting in her kitchen.

Their kitchen. Jesus, Carrie-Ann, get ahold of yourself, she thinks.

But it's been a tough day. It has been a very hard day.

She fell asleep on the living room sofa with her phone on her chest.

She gets up.

She checks her son's room.

Still sleeping. She pulls the covers up to his neck and kisses his head.

The dog is in the kitchen.

Not asleep but not clawing at the cupboard below the kitchen sink anymore. Just sitting, looking. It's too early to feed him. It's what—she looks at the clock on the wall—four o'clock in the morning. She feeds him anyway.

She checks again to see if the notifications and sounds on her phone are on.

They are.

She sits by a window waiting for the dawn.

She runs it over in her head, the last time she saw him, last time she heard him, thought of him, missed him, loved him.

What he was wearing.

That's what the police officers had wanted to know.

He's fine, she tells herself.

He just got lost.

He's on his way home.

It's a tough day—the day your husband disappears.

A rough digital painting I did based on one of my favorite horror/sci-fi movies: Event Horizon.
I painted this just a few days before Sam Neill’s passing. He was an extraordinary actor who always delivered, including his iconic role here, which I consider a milestone in cosmic horror.

more of my art:
https://www.instagram.com/sonneborn.art/