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CRIPPLE CREEK
A novel that began as a painting
What if a landscape could name your part, and punish you for refusing it?
Twin brothers arrive in Cripple Creek to earn enough money to bury their mother. There, a children’s rhyme passes from mouth to mouth as warning: seven anchors hidden in stone, six removed, one still holding. The ridge above them wakes under daylight. The creek below speaks. Rumor settles into fact. The mountain watches. Before long, people in town speak of the brothers as men whose arrival had been expected.
The brothers refuse what Cripple Creek has decided for them. They will not be split.
THE HEXAGONAL BOX
A six-volume art literature cycle about trauma, exile, initiation, liberation, and authorship
What if a missing psychiatrist left behind not a novel, but a six-volume device that quietly trains its readers to become authors in the deepest sense of the word?
The Hexagonal Box is a hybrid cycle that reads as a device disguised as literature: part archive, part occult manual, part visual art engine.
Across the six volumes, the vanished psychiatrist Dr. Alcemor Schlermanlagel leaves a trail of case files, drawings, psalms, and protocols. Trained in southern Brazil and later practicing in North America, he appears first as the author of the archive. Gradually, the archive begins to disclose another purpose: each form teaches the reader a different operation, until psychological liberation opens into something dimensional.
Each volume can be entered by itself, but none stays isolated for long. Patients return as relatives, lovers, witnesses, glyphs, or archetypes. A minor figure may disappear for hundreds of pages and surface in another book carrying a different name or function. Read together, the six volumes begin to behave less like separate books than one narrative body repeatedly shedding and regrowing its parts. Identities migrate, split, and recombine the way the series treats memory and trauma. Nothing is static. Everything is subject to reframing and reuse.
The writing moves between clinical intimacy, incantatory compression, narrative dread, and liturgical address, with the visuals functioning as evidence and ritual rather than illustration. Each book has its own paper world, visual language, and invented literary form, and each one advances the reader along a deliberate path, from “I am the patient in the file” to “I am the one who writes the protocols that define reality.”
Automatic Writings for Automatic Drawings
Water, Dissolution
Framed as recovered materials from Dr. Schlermanlagel’s practice in Porto Alegre, this first volume pairs abstract automatic drawings with raw, clinical, and confessional texts. It introduces Alcemory, a form that lives between transcript, poem, and diagnostic note. The book reads like an open file cabinet at the edge of a continent, where trauma, compulsion, and early departures begin to surface. The reader is treated as both patient and witness. The focus is dissolution of identity: patterns named, stability lost, the first cracks in an assumed self. Some of the people who will later darken into tales and Psalms first appear here before the mythology has taken them over.
Dark Poems in 100 Words
Fire, Calcination
Exactly one hundred words apiece, the poems follow an exile northward: from rural Brazil, through Central American corridors, and toward the United States, with addiction, grief, and migration applying heat at every stage. The constraint acts as a furnace. Sentiment burns off. What remains is pressure, rhythm, and residue. This is Hecatory, a liturgy of heat. A litmus design concept runs through the book, with color gradations that suggest psychic acidity and alkalinity. Here, the psyche is not cured. It is cooked. The reader learns to sit inside intensity and recognize it as material, not verdict. Scenes and individuals from Automatic Writings are recast as compressed flames here, then later return in altered form in the dark tales and psalms.
Dark Tales in 100 Words: The Seventh Vertex
Earth, Putrefaction
One hundred dark tales, again held to the hundred-word constraint, are paired with charcoal drawings in sacred media and treated explicitly as a device. In the book’s own language, it does not ask to be read. It operates. Titles and tales behave like switches. When read, the geometry of the collection acts on the room. Many tales echo borderlands, sanatoria, farm roads, and liminal spaces that mirror the Brazil to United States passage in uncanny form. Characters who appeared as patients or family in earlier volumes reemerge as figures in these stories, sometimes under slightly altered names, sometimes as pure archetypes. This is the moment when the archive pushes back. Horror becomes a medium for noticing that attention itself is an instrument.
Tales of the Light
Air, Transmutation
This book is the mirror and counterpoint to Dark Tales. The same archetypes return not as wounds but as instruments. Where the earlier volume named the break, Tales of the Light names the passage: counter rites, reversals, and integrations that show how a wound can be worked in the other direction. The series’ migration motifs reappear here as practices of return, home-building, and repair, with earlier dark scenes revisited from a higher vantage. Figures who once seemed only monstrous or broken are reintroduced as teachers, thresholds, and guides. The tone is not consoling. It is transmutational. Healing is presented as a discipline that demands full descent before full ascent.
The Redacted Psalms
Spirit, Fermentation
Structured as both a forbidden case archive and prayer book, The Redacted Psalms presents 144 psalm entries with glyphs, margin notes, and intentional errata, supported by a backmatter key.
Redactory enters here as a form in which memory, diagnosis, and the written record can all be tampered with. Clinics in Brazil, transit through Central America, and life in the United States survive only in pieces: a location blacked out, a name returned under another spelling, a fact contradicted by a later hand. Earlier characters are cross-referenced, renamed, or partly erased while new voices enter the margins to dispute what became of them. The dossier refuses to settle into biography.
Glyphs mark void, breach, mirroring, recursion, time dilation, and other states of consciousness. By the end of this book, the reader has been trained to see that every story about the self, including stories of origin and displacement, can be crossed out, revised, or repurposed.
The Apotheosis Codex
Gold, Coagulation
The final volume is a mythic manual composed of Apotheosis Codex Protocols, structured in ascending strata. Each protocol links to paintings created over twenty-five years, spanning realism, surrealism, and abstraction. This is Archectory, a form that blends ritual instruction, visionary text, and image to teach the reader to operate reality as a layered system. The Codex does not merely describe ascension. It rehearses it.
The geography that began in specific streets and waiting rooms in Brazil and continued through border crossings and American rooms is recast as an archetypal migration from third-layer density into higher-dimensional authorship. Faces and bodies the reader has met in all prior volumes return here as composite figures, gods in training, or pure fields of attention. The last revelation speaks directly back to the opening pages of the cycle, closing the loop and revealing the full design.
Across the six books, the same core move repeats in different guises:
A wound appears as a symptom.
The symptom is reframed as a signal.
The signal is turned into an instrument.
The instrument becomes curriculum.
Curriculum becomes protocol.
Protocol becomes authorship.
In character terms, this means that people the reader first meets as victims, patients, or antagonists gradually disclose new layers. The father who appears in a farm story in one book, the patient in a transcript, the man in a Polaroid, and the figure in a painting may resolve as the same presence, seen at different dimensional depths. The series rewards rereading. Small details in early books are revealed as seeds for later revelations, and seemingly isolated episodes are recognized as belonging to a continuous network of relationships.
The six books do not share a single visual skin. Each volume wears its alchemical stage on its body. Dissolution arrives as newsprint textures and marginalia; calcination as smoke-gray litmus paper; putrefaction as black vellum with the logic of a grimoire; transmutation as white vellum and mirrored gold; fermentation as fractured case files and glyphs; coagulation as a luminous codex. The paintings, drawings, typography, and paper do more than carry the text. They carry plot, ritual, and instruction alongside it.
Dr. Alcemor Schlermanlagel keeps changing function as the cycle advances: Brazilian psychiatrist in a small Porto Alegre office, migrant, North American clinician, subject, mythographer, absent architect. The reader pieces him together through transcripts, poems, tales, psalms, and protocols, only to discover that the real subject under study has always been the reader. The books repeatedly collapse the distance between observer and observed. Late entries in The Redacted Psalms and The Apotheosis Codex address the reader directly as file, field, and finally co-creator, inviting them to claim the same authorship that Dr. S pursues.
The Hexagonal Box does not belong cleanly on one shelf. It borrows the architecture of the novel, the physicality of the artist book, and the ritual logic of occult texts without settling completely into any of them. Its nearest relatives are works that make reading itself unstable: House of Leaves, the hybrid forms of Anne Carson, Ligotti’s metaphysical dread, Borges’s recursive fictions, and the visual-text experiments of independent art presses. The cycle is made for readers who return, annotate, compare, and collect. Hardcovers, dust jackets, glyph keys, reading protocols, and possible limited editions with physical relics or companion objects extend the books beyond the page. Because each volume can open as a self-contained episode while feeding a larger architecture, the cycle could also move naturally into anthology or limited-series form.
Trauma, exile, and transcendence are not merely subjects in The Hexagonal Box. They are stages the reader is made to pass through. It is constructed as a long-form initiation. If read in order, it quietly retrains how the reader understands identity, memory, geography, attention, and agency. What begins as a stack of strange books about a missing Brazilian psychiatrist who vanished somewhere between Central America and the United States reveals itself as a hexagonal instrument of liberation, psychological and dimensional, that teaches the reader, step by step, how to move from being the subject of an archive to the architect of one.
AUTOMATIC WRITINGS FOR AUTOMATIC DRAWINGS
Clinical sketches & session fragments, 2001–2004
What happens when a psychiatrist draws while you speak, and the picture knows what you did not say?
At the São Lucas Clinic in Porto Alegre, Dr. Alcemor Schlermanlagel kept case notes in one hand and a grease pencil in the other. Charcoal laid the structure; a single ink afterthought held the sting. When he turned the page toward them, patients went still, then named what they had kept off the record.
Over time the pages began to rhyme: unrelated cases echoing the same forms. Pattern outlasted story.
These recovered files mark the moment a clinician realizes his map will not cover the territory. What starts as evidence becomes a threshold, pointing past orthodox practice toward the dimensional work that consumed his final years.
DARK POEMS IN 100 WORDS
Mythological experiments & archetypal research, 2004–2007
What if you could test a myth like a lab assay, one hundred words at a time?
After leaving clinical practice, Dr. Alcemor Schlermanlagel crossed the Americas with a notebook and a question: could the oldest stories explain the impossible patterns he saw in therapy? Each poem here is a controlled experiment, exactly one hundred words, run against an archetype. Grail and labyrinth, flood and underworld, trickster and king; geometric forms and haunted symbols; the human mask and whatever looks through it.
The result is not ornament. It is field work in verse. These pieces measure inheritance and transgression, ask whether evil is learned or carried, and press on the limits of fate. Page by page, the myths hold or they break, pointing him toward the dimensional work that would define his final years.
DARK TALES IN 100 WORDS - THE SEVENTH VERTEX
The Consciousness-Altering Grimoire, 2007–2022
What if a book did not ask to be read; what if it operated on you?
In his last decade, Dr. Alcemor Schlermanlagel built a device disguised as literature: one hundred tales, each exactly one hundred words, paired with charcoal rites drawn in sacred media. Read aloud, the pages behave like switches. The geometry is deliberate; six points are fixed. The last appears only in use.
Early handlers reported odd side effects: objects aligning into hexagonal arrays; a steady sense of being watched from six feet behind and above; a voice not their own clearing its throat in the margins.
The fault line of study and spell. A book that does not describe altered consciousness; it enacts it.
TALES OF THE LIGHT
Healing Counterparts & Dimensional Integration (post-2022)
What if the map of the wound that led you into the ruins could teach the stitch and lead you home?
This is the mirror to Dark Tales. The archetypes return as instruments, not wounds. Where the first book named the break, Tales of the Light names the passage: counter-rites, reversals, and integrations spoken aloud until fracture becomes seam, heat becomes vow, and memory holds without harm.
These pages do not console; they transmute. They show how inherited damage can be worked through with dimensional attention, breath by breath. Whether Dr. Alcemor Schlermanlagel stands here in flesh or in the field he opened, the work completes the cycle. Shadow mapped. Light practiced.
What dark named, light now mends. You finish what the dark began.
THE REDACTED PSALMS
Suppressed Cases & Erased Accounts (Unknown Dates)
Among the files recovered after Dr. Schlermanlagel’s disappearance was a sealed folder labeled: Unfit for Record.
Inside were excerpts of his previous work too disturbing, too incomplete, or too inexplicable to include in his official writings. Pages struck through in Dr. Alcemor Schlermanlagel’s own hand. Others blacked by someone else. Names turned to bars.
Some leaves seem self-censored, crossed out, or left half-finished, as if interrupted mid-thought. Whole pages left blank except for a single glyph or a scrawled warning in the margin. Starts without endings; endings without cause.
The Redacted Psalms is the hidden chapter of the Alcemor archive: a book that speaks in omissions, a book that sings the silence between traumas, the parts an honest witness could not say aloud. Shelve it with poetry; handle it like evidence. What remains is the record of what could not be recorded.
THE APOTHEOSIS CODEX
The Creator’s Manual & Final Protocols (2025 – ∞)
What if a book did not write about reality; what if it wrote inside it?
After decades as doctor, mythographer, and archivist, Dr. Alcemor Schlermanlagel steps into his last role: architect. The Codex gathers visionary protocols, impossible geometries, and twenty-five years of paintings into a working manual for the final stage of dimensional practice: direct creation.
The earlier books traced the break. This one shows the making. How trauma is transmuted, how memory becomes manifestation, how a reader crosses from witness to maker. The language is engineered to act: spoken rites, glyph-logic, image as switch.
Scholars who have handled advance leaves describe a text that reorganizes attention as it is read. Call it a grimoire, a manual, an engine.
Here the making begins. Proceed.