Studio Scordatura • Reginald E. Bloom • The Gaping Maw

Excerpt from The Gaping Maw (1992)

Suffice it to say, the appalling events leading up to what I now know to be my inevitable death--transcribed here to the best of my waning recollection--will forever be marked as the moribund hallucinations of a madman on his deathbed. My failing health is progressing at such an alarming rate that even I do not know if I will be able to put the account to pen and paper before my body is consumed by the numerous maladies that even now eat away at it like so many hungry piranha. Despite my suffering physical state, my mind remains as sharp as ever; how long, though, I do not know and cannot say with any certainty. With that said, I will waste little time in relating to whoever might chance upon these desperate words the horrors I endured, whilst I must insist on reminding the reader that I am of sound mind, and that every word I lay before you now is the truth, and not--as you might perceive--the ravings of a misguided lunatic.

. . .

It was only a few short weeks ago that I began my annual sojourn into what comprises the backwoods of my beloved New England. As per the usual, I would spend the first day or two visiting my Aunt Mirtha, who--along with my now departed grandmother--raised me from the tender age of eight until I was of legal age. The spinster and my mother's only surviving parent were given immediate custody of me after my father was killed during an unfortunate accident while fishing just off the coast of Maine; my mother had succumbed to pneumonia two years prior. The freak storm that sank my father's charter not only robbed me of my surviving parent, but took me from me my formal education as well. Without this access to the literature and schooled knowledge that my hungry mind devoured indiscriminately, I was forced to rely on the limited resources of my late grandfather's comparatively meager library, whose every book I had read at least thrice before my twelfth year.

. . .

It was during this intellectual stagnancy that my once modest imagination began to flourish; instead of science--which previously had been an all-consuming interest with me--I began devoting my time to those subjects less rigidly defined and unaffected by the known laws of nature. I thrived on those fanciful tales derived from ancient mythologies and--in particular--the colourful folklore of the neighbouring regions. This wont, I later realized, also sparked my interest in writing crude tales that amounted to little more than conventional revisions of the aforementioned inspirations.

I will readily admit that I owe my entire career to not only the people who had weaned me, but to the land itself which bred this superstitious lot who--even to this day--continue to shy away from modern civilization. Every year, during the fall months when the demand for my creative output is at its lowest ebb, I take two, sometimes three weeks off from my job as a typesetter and drive into the country. As previously stated, I spend a few of these days with my aging aunt, who is now alone save for a handful of farm animals with which she converses regularly. (I sometimes wonder if she thinks me to be but a delusion that visits her once a year, even as she discusses the day's events with her livestock.) The remainder of my vacation is spent roaming the countryside, visiting small towns and talking to the populace who are always eager to recount the sinister tales passed down to them through the generations.

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