A Cigarette In A Loose Hand

Post-Script (Part 6)

2010-03-03T01:41:00.000-08:00

“Finally, some rest.”

“I hope you’re joking, Fred.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m very tired and I need to unwind.”

“You have an interview on The Edward Maroon show at three.”

“What’s the time now?”

“It’s three.”

“Fuck.”

I scratched the back of my neck with a fidgety hand.

“Listen, you need to cancel my appointments for the rest of the day.”

Butterfly Girl laughed.

“Don’t be such a pussy. Do you think Thurston Moore and Kim Deal got where they are by giving up?”

“Do you have to reference cult icons in every fucking sentence?”

“Oh, I understand.’ She added. ‘You want to see Henri, right?”

Sweat bubbled on my forehead.

“Fine. I’ll pull a few strings.”

She began to type on her laptop.

“I mean, who cares about appearing on a show with over a million viewers? It’s not like they would enjoy hearing about Bluebird anyway, maybe even going to see it, paying their money and making you rich.”

“I’m not doing the show.”

“Of course. Of course! You’re going to hang out with Henri for awhile. One question, why does your girlfriend have a man’s name?”

“I don’t. ..”

“Anyway, she looks like a great fuck.”

Butterfly Girl turned her head away from me and looked out a tinted window.

She sighed, “I could really use some blow.”

Love Connection (Music Review RTRFM)

2010-02-28T19:27:00.000-08:00

Love Connection is the self-titled, debut album from band members Dean Noble, Kobi Simpson and Michael Caterer. Potential fans will be relieved to hear that the record bears no more than a passing reference to the American dating show of the same name. Instead, it explores the well tread genres of new wave and psychedelic synth through eight radio-friendly, indie-pop tunes.

Although the terrain is familiar, Love Connection has endeavored to create something unique with this record. Hypnotic jungle beats, sugary synths and sparse, jangly guitar help build a low-fi soundscape that is reminiscent of the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party (if it was held at sunset in Mushroom Kingdom). The arrangements are jelly – loose but shapely, and the transitional pieces flow like lemonade. Quite impressive for a record that was released six months after the band was formed.

Unfortunately, this album is no cake walk, despite its strengths. Folksy vocals drift in and out of the tracks and prove to be more of a distraction than anything memorable. Also, while the album is dynamic - subtly teasing its way towards the climatic cupcake-explosion of ‘Lost City of Gold’ - there isn’t a lot of identifiable movement within each song. This repetition may induce a live audience into a dance fiesta but isn’t varied enough for the humble headphone listener.

The party isn’t perfect, but there are still good times to be had. Love Connection has a defined sound and a wealth of potential. I eagerly await the crème de la crème.

Post-Script (Part 5)

2010-02-16T01:44:00.000-08:00

I emerged from the cinema with fresh colour in my cheeks. The Paparazzi renewed their assault with flash photography.

“Be sure to make a quick escape,” The Magician said. “Before they realise what you’ve done.”

It was good advice.

A black stretch limo beckoned me from a distance.

Before I could move, a reporter blocked my path and slapped a microphone against my cheek.

“Mr. Tottle! What an achievement. ‘Bluebird’. Wow. A rags to riches story, wouldn’t you say? What do you think of the reaction? The buzz is huge around you! Buzz Buzz Buzz!”

“Piss off.” I brushed past him.

The Reporter grabbed me by the arm and pulled backwards; I almost tripped over.

“Where do you think you’re going? The people have a right to know! They deserve an…”

THUMP!

He fell onto the sidewalk. Blood poured from his nose. My knuckles hurt.

“If you ever touch me again, I will fucking end you.”

The Magician applauded from within.

A strong aroma filled my nostrils, it was somewhere between burnt flesh and bile.

“Can you smell that?’” The Surgeon mused. “It reminds me of Auschwitz.”

A reddish-brown sludge seeped under the cinema doors. It puddled around my Berluti shoes and splashed against my William Fioravanti suit.

“Hey Baby! Baby Baby Baby Baby! I love you!”

It was the Silk-Spectre. She had jumped over the security rope and rushed towards me on high heels. She miss-stepped, waved her arms like a duck and collapsed into a stream of bloody gunk.

She flailed like a skinless whale.

Somebody screamed.

Three Policemen faced me.

(They were staring.)

“Pretend it’s part of the show!” The Magician screeched. “You have to fool them! It’s the only chance you have!”

I scanned the crowd and gestured like a politician.

“Those who dared to watch the première of this groundbreaking piece are the thinkers and explorers of this world. They seek an answer to the great mysteries of existence, which I, alone, have discovered.”

There was an awkward silence as the journalists struggled to understand my bullshit.

“What is it that attracts filth like you to a prophet like me? Perhaps you like my clothes? Or the way I style my hair? Whatever your reasons, I’m not Jesus and you’re not Mary Magdalene, so fuck off.’”

An audience member stumbled out of the cinema. She was blonde, mid-forties and well dressed. Her nose was hung from her face by a thin strand of skin. Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. She raised two skeletal hands and began to clap.

The sidewalk exploded in a myriad of sounds as the crowd acknowledged the woman. Some rushed to her aid. Others stood, dumbfounded.

One or two even managed to join in on the applause.

A Policeman shouted at me.

“Halt!”

I ran for my life.

The limo door flew open and I ducked inside.

My agent, who was known as The Butterfly Girl, sat across from me on the back seat. She grinned with mousy teeth. Her Prada glasses were balanced delicately on the end of her small nose.

“It’s a success, Mr. Tottle. You’ll be all over the news by tomorrow morning.”
“Good.” I replied, and then dismissed her with a flick of the wrist.

I was safe, for now.

The limo turned onto the main street and began its long stretch down the road. Skyscrapers thrust towards a purple sky.

Men and Women of great importance worked within the top floors of those high buildings. They issued orders, made the big decisions and controlled the world.

How many of them would eventually succumb to Bluebird?

I looked back towards the sidewalk.

Missing-Nose-Lady was still clapping, surrounded by the press.

She died on that sidewalk, amongst those wolves; she collapsed under the strain of their interrogations.

I never learnt her real name.

Post-Script (Part 4)

2010-02-07T19:21:00.000-08:00

Earlier that night, I had purchased an ice cream at the confectionary stand. It was my favourite flavour, mint-choc-chip. I unwrapped the sugary snack and sucked on it. I remembered the day my parents died; they had been on a plane travelling from Perth to Heathrow. It crashed and their bodies were never found. Since then, my needs had been simple. I wanted to create a loving family. My wife (Black, Virgo) would be called Natalie and my two daughters would be Rachael (Taurus) and Amanda (Capricorn). We were going to live in a mansion with spiked towers that reached towards the heavens. A dead hero once told me that Gothic architecture was the most spiritual, I agreed.

Another dead hero once informed me that Hell can conquer Heaven; all you need to do is turn the world upside down.

I stood up from my seat and walked down the aisle of the cinema. I did a victory dance as people crawled on the floor. They were gasping for air. Their lungs were burning as they sucked in a variety of noxious fumes. I shimmied. I jived. I felt just like Roberto Benigni when he won an Oscar for ‘La vita è bella’ in 1997. It was an uplifting moment. Of course, every positive action must be dealt with by an equally negative re-action in order for the universe to remain balanced. That is why, until the end of my days, I could never take responsibility for the events that transpired post-script.

Post-Script (Part 3)

2010-02-04T20:13:00.001-08:00

The film lasted for two hours, two good hours, which is more than I can say for the inane shit that dribbles out of Hollywood. The director waved to me as his eyes burst in their sockets and flowed down the front of his boiled face. I thought he had done an adequate job so I waved back.

Jungle Juice (Radio Script)

2010-02-01T22:19:00.000-08:00

SFX: JUNGLE SOUNDS, BIRDS, MONKEYS, ELEPHANT.

ANNCR: (SOUNDS LIKE DAVID ATTINBOROUGH) Here we are, in the heart of Africa, searching for Jungle Juice.

LION: Hello. I’m a lion. (ROARS).

ANNCR: Do you have any Jungle Juice?

LION: Of course I do. I’m the king of the jungle, after all.

SFX: SOUNDS OF ANNCR GULPING JUNGLE JUICE, REFRESHED SIGH.

ANNCR: Delicious! You found this in the jungle?

LION: No. I found it at the local supermarket. Comes in three exotic flavours, you know.

ANNCR: Remarkable! New Jungle juice – 100% juice in 3 exotic flavours, available at supermarkets now.

Post-Script (Part 2)

2010-01-14T17:19:00.000-08:00

‘Bluebird’ was the name of the script, although the working title had been ‘Bluebird in the Warm Rain’. I was suicidal when I wrote it. My mind had been a scattered mesh of broken synapses. The script had taken twenty-eight days to write. It was brutal. My typewriter had been viciously raped by the voices in my head. One was a black magician; he added two drops of poison into every line. His purpose was to invoke feelings of anxiety, nausea and distrust in the audience. The other was a Nazi surgeon. He butchered the script in the interests of science, cutting out words, phrases and any other hint of logical meaning. He did terrible things to the second act.

The voices ruled me like dysfunctional parents. I spent every night hiding under my bed. I would occasionally peek out to witness the creation of a monster.

“Don’t worry,” the surgeon urged, “the critics will eat this up.”

“That’s because you’re not giving them any choice.” I replied.

I smiled and waved as the cameras continued their assault, safely locked away behind a pair of Moss Lipow sunglasses. They cost me four thousand dollars. They were rare and therefore expressed my individuality. I remembered when I used to sleep on a child’s mattress, living off tap water and packets of Mee Goreng. I had lost ten kilos in two months. I burned all my photographs.

Newly acquired fans waved notepads and pens in my face; they all wanted to be a part of the machine. I imagined the first impact, their faces drained of emotion, skin melting into half eaten bags of popcorn. The second wave would be greeted with applause. Nothing would remain to witness the third and final solution. The credits would roll in silence. The first line would read ‘Bluebird’, the second, ‘Written by Fredrick Tottle’. My soul would descend into darkness. I would receive my accolades within the deepest layers of hell.

“I would like to thank the Anti-Christ for making this script possible...”

A particularly attractive, female fan pushed her way forward from the back of the crowd. She had a haircut similar to the Silk Spectre. This was the closest I would ever get to Allan Moore.

“Can I have your autograph?” She purred.

“Do you have a pad and pen?”

“No.”

“How can I write your autograph if you don’t have a pad and pen?”

The fan lifted up her green sweater to reveal enormous, cow-like breasts. They flapped and swayed and jiggled like puddings. A security guard grabbed me by the arm and led me towards the front doors of the cinema. The fan curled her hand into the shape of a phone and indicated that I should call her.

If only she knew what was about to happen.

Post-Script (Part 1)

2010-01-11T06:13:00.000-08:00

The premiere was the usual affair, or so they told me. I had never been to one before, especially not for a film that was based upon one of my scripts. The red carpet pointed the way. Cameras flashed. I was an attractive man. I would look good in one of those women’s magazines, cut and pasted next to Rose Byrne or Cate Blanchett as their ‘hot new squeeze’. It’s where I deserved to be. I was a celebrity now. This film was going to be huge. Australian cinema was going global and it was all because of me.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 2:F)

2009-12-30T17:31:00.000-08:00

Patrick rose from his bed.

He had been suffering from terrible nightmares for the past four years. The doctor had described them as night terrors. Sometimes he would sleepwalk and take a long stroll down the street. He could carry on a conversation, eyes open and focused, and no one would guess that he was still fast asleep. The next morning he would come to his senses, having broken into the bakery, or fallen down in a gutter, and have no recollection of how he got there.

The nightmares always revolved around the same theme. He was lost in the woods, naked, and something was chasing him. The creature, whatever it was, had once been human. It dressed in rags and wore a strange, metallic helmet on its head. It moved with incredible speed. Circular saws whirred and buzzed on its arms; they were strong enough to cut down tree trunks.

It would eventually catch Patrick, no matter how fast he ran. It would push him into the ground and begin to cut off pieces of his flesh. Usually, an ear would be sawed off, then a finger or the nose. The flesh would be spread over the creature’s body like tribal war paint. No matter how many limbs he lost, Patrick would remain conscious throughout the entire ordeal.

Then he would wake up, screaming.

Patrick had once awoken in the fields outside of town. He was sitting on a strange metal vehicle with two wheels. Its technology was far superior to anything he had ever seen before. The strange object had been marked with a strange symbol that, once analysed, branded it as as a ‘motorbike’.

The townsfolk had been terrified of the bike at first, but they soon adjusted. Now, it was looked upon with awe.

There were even rumours that His Majesty was going to send someone into town, to investigate, and possibly confiscate, this great find, but with the sudden outbreak of the sickness those plans may have been delayed.

The door of the studio opened with a squeak. Patrick stepped inside and surveyed his artwork. It was the only thing that had kept him alive during these long, lonely years. He found it strange that every time he experienced joy, his creativity dwindled. On the other hand, his misery made him a prolific painter.

The older pieces had all been portraits of a beautiful girl with long blonde hair. They were all pushed into a corner of the room. Every time Patrick looked upon them it felt as if a dagger was being pushed into his heart. There were literally over a hundred different paintings of the same woman.

The last dozen or so pieces had been reflections of his night terrors and the characters who lived within that horrific dream world.

There was a picture of the Saw-man, enraged, chasing a shadowed figure.

Another showed Patrick, naked, sitting on a rock.

The latest picture had been hung above his bed. It depicted a hermit, with strange ghosts lurking in the trees.

Patrick paused, a spark of recollection flickered in his mind. He had been woken up this evening by another horrible nightmare. It had involved him and the mysterious Hermit. They had been fighting. He had lost.

Amanda had been taken!

Patrick rushed back to his bedroom and was relieved to see that she was still under the sheets, her knees huddled up against her chest.

He put a hand on her shoulders and shook her gently. There was no response.

‘Amanda!’ He whispered. ‘Amanda, wake up!’

She didn’t respond.

Patrick’s grip tightened, his nails dug into her soft, white skin.

Nothing.

Patrick felt Amanda’s pulse, her heart was beating steadily and she was still breathing.

Black ash drifted throughout the room. Small fragments landed on the bed and left a smudged grey. Patrick looked up and found the source; the painting above the bed had burned within its frame. The only image that remained untouched was that of the small, green gem.

Amanda had been put under some sort of spell, for what purpose, Patrick hadn’t the faintest.

However, he did know of someone who could help.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 2:7)

2009-12-30T17:16:00.000-08:00

Bluebird cried out in anguish as she rocked against her cage. She could feel the rain upon her feathers. The cold air chilled her to the bone. The bird could see thin a burst of moonlight, it shone through gaps in the trees above. She also felt the presence of others nearby, not human, not animal, something else.

The hermit was carrying the birdcage in a bony hand. He was silent, unrelenting in his task. He approached a small clearing in the woods and placed the cage on the ground. He dug into his coat and withdrew a small pouch. He walked around the cage in a circle, took a fine substance from the bag and sprinkling it onto fallen leaves. He faced the South, extended his arm and pointed a finger. He then did the same for the East, West and the North. Finally, he placed the finger over his closed lips in a gesture of silence.

There was a loud, melodic cry of pain from Bluebird. She fell down inside her prison, shuddering. She threw her head back and forth, flapped her feathers and curled her toes in agony.

The outline of the circle shone like gold.

Shapes began to emerge from the surroundings. They were barely visible and hovered like a thin mist. A careless man might have missed their presence entirely, but the Hermit knew they would come. He began to perform elaborate gestures, beckoning them to aid in the ritual. The spectres, six in number, floated on the edges of the circle. They whispered to one another, their voices like the rustling of leaves.

‘I remember her.’

‘We used to play together.’

‘She has grown into a woman’

‘She has been cursed.’

‘A fate most undeserved.’

‘Her soul must not be tainted by his hands.’

The ghosts began to chant in unison. The air around them thickened, it began to taste like salt upon the tongue. Wildlife scattered in all directions.

The Hermit sat inside the circle in a meditative position. He cleared his mind of all distractions and began to imagine the girl. He had never seen her, but with the help of the six spectres, he could piece together an idea of who she was and what she looked like.

An incorporeal shape began to form above Bluebird’s cage. Several lines danced in the air, they twisted together to form the outline of a bed. Various browns and blacks seeped into the frame as if someone was pouring them from above; it took on the appearance of wood.

Soft, white sheets and pillows followed.

The figure of a man appeared, fully clothed. He on top of the bed. A bright aura shone around him, which was so intense that it almost distracted the Hermit. The man had his arms around a girl, hidden under the sheets. Long, blonde hair spilled over a pillow as a shapely leg dangled out the side of the bed. A gritty, black cloud sludged within her body. It was the mark of the beast. The woman had been carrying it within her, unnoticed, for years.

This was the woman that the Hermit had been searching for. Using his greatest instrument of power, he pulled her image downwards. He watched as she fell through the bottom of the bed, her body shifted like sand in an hourglass, towards the birdcage.

A hand shot through the bottom of the bed and grabbed the girl by the hair. It was the man; he had woken and was trying to disrupt the ritual. The blonde hovered in the air, torn between two places. Her body stretched tight. She was in pain.

‘No!’ A Spectre screamed.

‘You cannot allow him to succeed.’ Another cried.

‘Martin! Do something!’

The Hermit focused his mind in an attempt to separate the girl from the rest of the vision. The man struggled against him. A short-lived battle of wills ensued.
A high-pitched squeal shot through the woodlands. The chanting became louder, more intense. It was deafening.

Objects began to bleed and merge under the strain of the two combatants, trees blending with the stars and the sky. The Moon collapsed upon itself; only those within the golden circle remained untouched.

The man grimaced; the fight was clearly taking its toll.

The hermit remained still. His body was like marble.

There was a desperate cry as the Man’s grasp on the girl slipped. He tried to reach for her again but the bed drifted upwards as the girl continued to filter below. The vision, now fractured, began to disintegrate. Pieces of the bed frame broke off like clouds and evaporated into the air.

The image of the man faded; a look of absolute sorrow upon his face.

Bluebird relaxed as the as the girl seeped into her feathered head. The Hermit was visibly shaking from his ordeal but retained enough composure to bow to each of the six spectres, who each, in turn, disappeared back into the woods.

Only one hesitated.

What are you going to do about the man?’

‘Do not worry,’ The Hermit replied. ‘I will draw him to this place.’

‘Are you certain he will come?’

‘Yes. He will not be allowed to interfere.’

The golden light of the circle perished. The trees resumed their rhythmic swaying and the animals slowly returned to their homes.

The woods had returned to its natural routine.

Bluebird slowly rose to her feet. She spun around her cage. A new consciousness had awakened within her and it was terrified.

‘Where am I?’ Amanda thought to herself. ‘How did I get here?’

The cage shook as it was lifted from the ground. Amanda crashed against metal bars.

She tried to scream, but could only emit a desperate tweet.

The Hermit disappeared into the woods.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 2:6)

2009-12-28T20:27:00.001-08:00

Patrick’s bedroom was as immaculate as the rest of the house. There was a large, king-sized bed situated in its centre. Sprawled out on the sheets were a long sleeved black shirt, grey coat, black jeans and a set of frilly, blue underwear. Amanda tiptoed into the room, utterly naked. She recognised the clothes. She hadn’t seen them in years.

Amanda wondered whether she could still fit into them.

A large painting hung above the bed. It depicted a hermit, hunch-backed, illuminated only by the torch he carried. Dark trees loomed, and from within the dense foliage lurked strange, translucent beings. Expressions of great fear and madness were etched upon their faces. Amanda recognised the location; it was a drawing of the woods just outside of town. She peered closer and saw that the Hermit had something clenched tightly within his hand. It was a small, green stone.

‘Do you like it?’

The whore turned to find Patrick standing in the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, hands in his pockets.

Amanda freaked. She wrapped an arm over her breasts, touched her knees together and placed the palm of her other hand between her thighs.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ She shrieked.

‘Mandy, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you like this. The memory had almost faded from my mind.’

Patrick strode towards Amanda. He reached forward with a hand and touched her shoulder. She recoiled, not from alarm, but pain. His thin, elongated fingers ran across one of her many bruises.

‘Did somebody hurt you?’

‘Please, Patrick. Don’t touch me like that.’

‘I would never take advantage of you.’

‘I know.’ She brushed his hand away, walked to the bed and lifted up the sheet. She sat down, resting her had against a pillow. ‘I don’t want to talk about it now. I desperately need some sleep. We can catch up tomorrow. I promise.’

Patrick lingered. ‘Can I stay with you tonight?’

‘Do you have to?’

‘I’d like to.’

Amanda turned onto her side and closed her eyes. She hugged her knees, desperate to fall into the safety of sleep. She heard Patrick take off his shoes, then his jacket. He slid into bed next to her. He lay on his back, on top of the sheets.

‘Patrick…’ she whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m cold.’

There was a pause, and then Amanda felt Patrick’s body press up against her back. He held her gently.

She wept openly. Afterwards, she slept.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 2:5)

2009-12-25T04:44:00.000-08:00

Large bubbles floated around Amanda's head. She giggled and attempted to swat them with a big toe. The water was silken; it had been filled with aromatic oils.

The whore couldn't remember the last time she had felt this pampered, perhaps when she was younger, before her reputation had spiralled out of control. Back then, all her men were young and dashing. They danced attendance to her in hopes of marriage. Later, once the word had spread out that she didn't intend to settle down, the good men lost interest. Her lovers became increasingly debauched.

She preferred life that way. Ugly. Chaotic.

Patrick's apartment was extremely clean and the bathroom was no exception. The walls, ceiling, sink and floors were gleaming white. Amanda's dress was draped over a mirror. It was soiled grey with numerous stains.

Patrick's voice called from his studio.

'Is everything Okay?'

'Yes, Patrick, and I'll let you know if I need anything.'

'Fine.'

'Question. Why is this place so fucking tidy?'

'I've told you this before. I can't create in a messy house. It feels like my thoughts are scattered all over the place.'

'You must hate having me here, messing everything up.'

'No, I don't mind. It's just like old times.'

Amanda dipped her head under the water and screamed in silence.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 2:4)

2009-12-22T21:16:00.000-08:00

The streets were almost empty. Even so, many eyes were drawn to Amanda and Caleb. It was uncommon to see such a respected officer in the company of a whore.

Caleb was the first to break the silence.

‘We could have a wake for Tommy, share a few drinks at the local bar, it might cheer us up.’

‘No more bars.’

‘Do you live nearby?’

‘Why, do you want to walk me home?’ Amanda scoffed at Caleb’s surprised reaction. ‘It’s such a common line. I’m sick of hearing it.’

‘Of course.’

A short man came running down from the other end of the street. He was short and stocky. Caleb recognised him as the guard’s messenger, Finkley.

‘I’m glad to have found you.’ Finkley stopped in front of Caleb, gasping for breath. ‘There’s been an incident at Sir Donovan’s’

Caleb furrowed his brow.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We found the butler this morning, dead. It looks like the plague got to him. The family is missing, we assumed they had left town, but no one saw them pass through the gates.’

‘This is hardly worth my time.’

‘That’s not all.’ Finkley paused. He cleared his throat.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, when we entered the house, we found that one of the rooms had been disturbed. Someone, or something, had burrowed its way through the floor.’

Amanda started to hum. Caleb tried to ignore it.

‘Is that all?’

‘No sir.’ Finkley continued. ‘We found three sets of clothes on the floor, neatly arranged. One belonged to Sir Donovan, one to his wife, and another to one of his children.’

Caleb sighed. ‘I’ll be there immediately.’

‘Yes sir.’

Finkley left as quickly as he had arrived.

Caleb looked to Amanda.

‘I’m afraid this is where we part ways.’

The whore shrugged. Caleb gave her one final, lingering look and then moved down the street.

Amanda wished that she hadn’t woken up at all. The voice spoke inside her head.

‘They deserved to die.’

The whore felt dizzy. She sat down on the road and felt a surge of liquid in her chest. She coughed violently, cupping both hands in front of her mouth. Her back and shoulders heaved. When her body had finally settled, she removed her hands to see a mass of bloody puss on her palms. She wiped it off on her dress.

A pair of legs appeared in front of her, dressed in black trousers. There were black shoes also.. Amanda looked up to see the sombre face of Patrick. He was an attractive man, with pointed features and a roman nose. He was clean-shaven, with short, brown hair. He sucked on a worn pipe. His eyes, electric blue, were close to tears.

‘Another day on the street?’

Patrick offered Amanda his hand, but she brushed it aside, choosing to stand up on her own. She was amazed at how often she found herself sitting down on the ground.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Her usual harsh tone was smothered by pity.

‘Sometimes, I feel like you’re doing this to upset me.’

‘Don’t talk like that. You know it’s not true.’

‘You don’t care how I feel, one way or the other.’

‘Listen, I don’t have time to talk right now. Another time, I promise.’

Amanda started to walk away. She had become adept at avoiding Patrick whenever she saw him. She didn’t care to relive the past; it was something he brought up whenever they spoke to each other.

‘Amanda, wait!’

Patrick caught up with the whore and grabbed her by the arm. She spun around, glaring.

‘Don’t touch me Patrick! You don’t have the right to do that anymore!’

He recoiled. ‘You look terrible. Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know. I’m tired. I’ve been having a terrible day.’

‘Please, come back to my apartment, where you can rest for awhile.’

‘Nothing is going to happen between us.’

‘I know.’ Patrick looked agitated. ‘Just come over and get yourself cleaned up, have a meal. I promise that it won’t get weird.’

Amanda nodded her head; she was about to collapse from mental and physical exhaustion.

‘This way.’

Patrick led the whore to his motorbike. He popped on a black helmet and handed her another one. He mounted the bike and she straddled it behind him. She wrapped both arms around his waist. The bike started with a loud roar and they sped down the street.

Amanda remembered the last time she hitched a ride with Patrick and began to cry.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 2:3)

2009-12-20T16:19:00.000-08:00

Herdsman Downs was a maze of twisting streets and lanes. Houses were scattered throughout. They were made with straw roofs and the majority were empty or deserted. Limestone walls had been licked black; the remains of several major fires.

Peasants walked up and down the markets with their heads bowed and their eyes to the ground. Food was a necessity yet it risked exposure to the sickness. It was better to be quick about one’s business and then withdraw to a safe place. Some had covered their front doors with blood in an attempt to ward off evil spirits. Many of the faithful spent their days in prayer in an attempt to cleanse their souls before Death took their bodies. It was business as usual for the demented, the damned and the devilish, they screamed on street corners, slept in alleyways and looted the dead. al

Orphans were everywhere. They protected one another, followed their own laws and conducted their own funerals. Although many of them would die from malnutrition, crime and the sickness, they were not without joy.

Sometimes they would form a circle in a square and dance. They would also sing,

‘Ring a Ring O' Roses,
A pocketful of posies,
Atishoo! Atishoo!
We all fall dead!’

and then drop to the ground.

Even the guards assigned to Herdsman Downs, protected by mail and mace, their Guilds insignia blazoned across their chests, were terrified of the sickness.

It had come without warning, during a time of great anxiety.

It had been raining for many months.

A significant amount of crops had drowned. The townsfolk had feared that there would not be enough yield for the season. When the downpour ceased there was a celebration that lasted for weeks. The town was consumed by its own ecstatic madness; lewd acts were consummated on a daily basis. The Clergymen shook their heads in disappointment.

Tom, a small time butcher, was the first to perish. He collapsed during trade hours, purple discolorations etched across his skin. He was running an extremely high fever. By the time the Doctor arrived, four hours later, he was dead.

The sickness was highly contagious. Within another week, several dozen townsfolk had perished, each with identical symptoms to Tom.

Herdsman Downs was seized with terror.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 2:2)

2009-12-18T23:03:00.000-08:00

The four men looked to Amanda.

‘What are you doing here?’ Mr. Baron addressed her sharply. ‘This burial ground is off-limits to the likes of you.’

‘Tommy wanted to be buried in a real grave,’ Amanda whispered. ‘I can’t believe you are going to deny him that.’

‘There’s more at stake here than one dead black-hat.’

Mr Baron cast a fearsome glance at the two workers. They looked down. He smirked and then continued.

‘You won’t get him past the town guards, and even if you did, no priest will commit to blessing him.’

‘What difference would it make to a priest, whether he died in town or outside of it?’

‘The difference is that I am going to warn the entire clergy that any attempt to sanctify this man’s body will result in fierce repercussions.’

Amanda turned away from the men. She stood at the edge of the pit and stared into its darkness.

The bald man looked to Mr. Baron.

‘What do you want us to do?’

‘I don’t care, Anthony. This isn’t my problem anymore, but if I see this worker’s body again, I will have each and every one of you thrown into jail.’

The two black-hats looked to each other. Caleb nodded his respect to Mr. Baron, who in turn walked away from the group and towards a white carriage.

Amanda moved towards Tommy. She grabbed his ankles with both hands and started to drag his body to the crater.

‘What are you doing?’ Caleb asked.

‘I’m dumping the body. You should help me.’

‘This is wrong.’

‘I agree. We all deserve better, but that doesn’t change anything. I doubt anyone here is going to risk their life so Tommy can have a proper farewell.’

Caleb watched as the whore struggled with the weight of the body. Slowly, she moved Tommy to the pit, and then, sitting down on the grass, she pushed him into the grave with her bare feet.

Amanda looked to the woods beyond the clearing. It had lost all menace in the light. There were no voices. Nothing beckoned her. All that remained were tall trees, which moved with the wind.

The two black-hats walked away from the scene, muttering to each other.

Caleb approached the whore.

‘Let me lead you back into town. This ordeal must have taken its toll on you.’

Amanda didn’t know whether she was upset because Tommy was dead or because she was coming down. Either way, she was too exhausted to argue.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 2:1)

2009-12-15T07:37:00.000-08:00

Amanda woke up on her back; she was lying on green grass. She stretched out her arms, pointed her toes and looked up at the afternoon sun. The day was bright and warm. She lifted herself into a sitting position and felt a throbbing pain run down from her neck and across her shoulders. She felt around the usual hiding places and realised that she had no money.

Groaning, she stumbled to her feet. Her brain felt like it had swollen inside her head. She couldn’t stop blinking. Her eyes were dry. Her mouth ached from the constant grinding of her teeth. Amanda vowed silently that she would remain sober for the rest of the week, at least until she had some cash.

The town was a few hours away. Its cathedral pierced towards the heavens. A thick cloud of smog blotted out the sun. The population was small, several tens of thousands, and it was depleting by the day. All those who could afford to leave had done so. They tried to outrun the sickness that afflicted them.

Only the poor remained.

Amanda had heard that a member of the royal family had recently passed away due to the plague; it had sent the authorities into an outright panic. However, in this town, several dozen people died each night and nobody cared.

Amanda started to walk. People who fled from death should consider themselves lucky; to have something they cared about so much they were afraid to leave it behind.

Those who had nothing to live for did not fear death, as it was a release from the horrors of their existence.

A voice spoke inside Amanda’s head,

‘All things must end.’ It told her. ‘You must embrace the cycle of life and death to reach the heights of immortality.’

Amanda approached a massive hole in the ground. She remembered it from the previous night, a mass grave. The majority of workers and carts had disappeared, yet a small group of men remained. They were standing near the edge of the crater. She could see that one of them was dressed in robes of vibrant colours. He was waving his hands and talking to the others. He was elderly.

A muscled, balding man nodded his head. Amanda recognised him as the one who had been ordering the workers to pour oil down the pit.

Two cart drivers finished the group, their heads were bowed, black hats held in front of their chests. They had circled around the fallen figure. It was one of their own.

Amanda joined the group.

‘Our priority,’ the old man stated, ‘is to ensure that this body does not re-enter the town limits. All traces of this dreadful affliction must be expunged from Herdsman Downs.’

Herdsman Downs.

Amanda hadn’t heard anyone refer to the name of the town for a very long time. In the past few months, many of the local folk had considered themselves to be cursed, and any mention of town was considered an invitation for more bad omens.

‘Mr. Baron,’ the bald man replied, ‘these cart drivers work under inhuman conditions. They do it for one reason alone, because His Majesty promised they shall receive the proper rites of passage upon death.’

Amanda recognised the corpse on the ground.

It was Tommy.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 1:F)

2009-12-08T19:02:00.000-08:00

Lady Donovan turned towards her husband. Her eyes had been removed from their sockets. Her nose was hanging from her face by a thin thread. Black, bubbling bile exploded from her mouth and splattered in front of the gentleman’s shoes. Her body levitated into the air. Her fat legs dangled.

The Lady swooped upon Sir Donovan. She dug a hand into what little remained of his hair. Her other arm, now a stump, beat him in the face. Both legs wrapped around his waist; pointy tits pushed into his chest. Skin fell from her body like wet paper and attached itself to his body.

The gentleman grabbed hold of her shoulders and pushed forward with all his strength.

Lady Donovan flew backwards. Her legs were ripped from her hips. They sent out sprays of black blood. Her flesh clung to his body and dripped between them both like melted cheese.

A winged creature, the same size as a Chihuahua, stood on a mantelpiece above the fireplace. It looked like a deformed baby, with large, lidless eyes. It stared at Lady Donovan and moved its lips. It was chanting.

Sir Donovan bellowed at the creature.

‘What have you done to my wife?’

He felt a great pain in his heart as Lady Donovan hovered in the air, a mutilated figure.

The monster looked at the gentleman and screeched in an indecipherable language.

Lady Donovan fell to the floor like a puppet cut from its strings.

Hugo lifted his head from the bookshelf.

Sir Donovan made a dash for the fireplace.

The baby-creature flapped its scaled wings and moved up to the ceiling. It began to hit its head against the roof like a trapped bird.

Donovan reached out and took hold of a sharp, metallic poker.

Hugo turned around to face his Father. The boy’s face was twisted in agony. He was crying. Large clumps of his hair had been pulled out and thin strands of blood trickled from the wounds. He was covered in various boils and sores.

Whatever this creature had done to his family, Donovan knew it was irreversible. He took aim and threw the poker towards his son. It speared through the air, impacted against the child’s face and sent him flying backwards, he crashed against the bookshelf. The poker travelled out the back of the boy’s head and embedded itself into a rare, first edition. Hugo’s body slumped; his weight caused the poker to rip out the top of his head, splitting it in two. His cadaver crumpled to the floor.

Bang. Bang. Bang. The creature continued to knock its head against the ceiling.

Sir Donovan looked upwards and almost gagged.

Edward, the eldest son in the family, had been spread across the roof like dough. His skin had been stretched to over half a metre in diameter. The boy had obviously suffered, and was now being made to pay an ever more horrible fate post-mortem - he was sentenced to forever stare down at the horribly coloured carpet.

Donovan could hear the sounds of burrowing. A snakelike bulge appeared in the floor.

The gentleman squealed in panic as the lump moved under his feet. He jumped back as the ground burst open.

A long, fat blob began to extend from the hole. It had thousands of tiny legs that twitched to and fro; each one had a serrated nail at its tip. It was black and shiny. It caught the dismay on Donovan’s face and reflected it a million times over, from one plate to another.

‘This is all wrong!’

Donovan screamed at the baby-creature,

‘I haven’t done anything! I’m a good man! I’m innocent!’

The gentleman fell onto his knees and began to sob into his bloodstained hands. The centipede crawled across the windows and blotted out the moonlight. It encircled the carpet, walls, chairs and tables. The room became a thriving, breathing mess of legs and plates. A thousand crying faces surrounded the gentleman and mimicked his movements.

‘God help me,’ Donovan stammered.

Thousands of insect legs twittered with the sound of knives sharpening. Sir Donovan crawled to the fallen body of his wife and cradled her in his arms.

‘Forgive me.'

Blades descended upon the gentleman and sliced him with the calm precision of a surgeon. His clothes were left perfectly intact, yet every vein and artery was masterfully opened, allowing scores of hungry mouths to suck him dry. The body of the centipede-demon swelled. It became bloated with blood.

Baby-monster watched the scene greedily.

After devouring its victims, the insect-demon lazily crawled back down into its hole and disappeared from sight. The baby-demon dropped from the ceiling and waddled over to Sir Donovan’s corpse; a mixture of tattered, dry flesh and bones were still nestled inside his suit. It reached down and removed the gentleman’s gold pocket watch with a toothless mouth and then took flight. It burst out of a window and into the dawn.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 1:9)

2009-12-02T19:50:00.000-08:00

The lounge was lavishly decorated. A large carpet ran over dark floorboards and covered the entire room. It was a mixture of blues and reds and yellows and oranges and greens in the shape of squares and circles and squiggles and squirls. It was the only piece of furniture in the house that Sir Donovan had picked out personally. Lady Donovan had detested it and the children agreed with her, they wouldn’t dare say anything else.

Donovan’s wife was sitting by the fire. She was wearing her favourite dress, light pink. The hem rested upon her fat knees. Her limp hair was tied back into a bun. Her eyelids were closed. She was very still.

Hugh, the youngest in the family, stood in a far corner of the room. He was facing a large bookcase. The books stored within had never been read. (It is a shame that the Donovan’s never took the time to browse some of their rare, religious texts; it may have helped them to avert the tragedy that was about to befall them). Hugh was leaning forwards, his small forehead rested against a shelf. Thick drool spilled from his lips and onto the carpet.

Sir Donovan entered the lounge with the demeanour of a man who had eaten his own bowels. He noticed his wife first, but chose to ignore her and look upon his son.

‘Hugh, my boy! Rifling through the literature of old, are we?’

There was an eerie silence. The gentleman cleared his throat.

‘Your old man used to be quite the bookworm. Yes indeed.’

Hugh lifted both arms into the air and danced with his fingers. He shot both arms forward, grabbed the bookcase and shook it violently. He began to rock back and forth on his feet, toe to heel.

‘Yes, well,’ the gentleman continued. ‘I can see that you’ve been at the cake again.’

Hugo stopped, then leant forward and rested his head back upon the shelf.

Sir Donovan decided to deal with the child later. He tiptoed towards his wife, sweat beaded on his brow.

‘Hello, honey-dumpling,’ he purred. ‘It was so nice of you to wait for my return. I am so terribly late. I, suppose you want to know the reason for my delay?’

Lady Donovan didn’t respond. She stared at the empty fireplace.

‘I apologise for my tardiness.’

Donovan knew that a loving gesture was required to prove his false sincerity. He took a knee, reached forward and took one of his wife’s hands in his own. It was cold. He pressed a thumb against her skin in search of a heartbeat, only to feel it give way like fudge. His digit easily pushed through the back of her hand and out her palm.

The gentleman screamed. His body tensed in alarm, causing his grip on the Lady to tighten. Gooey flesh squidged in-between his fingers.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 1:8)

2009-11-30T20:08:00.000-08:00

The gentleman ran up the long pathway of his estate. He was late, which meant that his wife would be waiting. She would berate him endlessly. Her shrill, educated voice would haunt him throughout the house as a reminder of every indiscretion he had ever carried out within their twelve years of marriage.

He was relieved to see the front doors were already open. They emitted a warm light. Gerard, the butler, had no doubt been waiting for his return. All of the servants were used to their master’s late night walks, but this evening was different to his normal drunken escapades. The gentleman had committed a grave sin, the act of
infidelity. He worried that someone would smell it on him. His bottom lip quivered with apprehension.

He stepped through the front door, offering a curt nod to Gerard, who was standing to one side.

Donovan shivered as he continued down the hallway.

He knew what was coming; it was unavoidable. He started to formulate an alibi to explain his late return. Perhaps he had witnessed a murder and was forced to explain what he saw to the local law? No, it wouldn’t work. His wife would investigate and find that no murder had taken place. Could he have stopped to help an abandoned child, afflicted by the plague, to a nearby quarantine zone? Not even Donovan could stomach that lie, he would never approach anyone who was infected. The gentleman concluded that he had no hope of escaping the conversation unscathed.

A sublime thought entered Donovan’s head. Why not tell the truth? He had drunk himself into a stupor at the seediest bar he could find and then boinked a floosy in an alleyway. His wife would demand a divorce, and then he’d be free. She would claim half his estate, but there was enough wealth to go around. She might even demand custody of the kids; he had never been fond of any of them. Donovan could see the dull faces of his two sons as they were taken away by carriage, leaving him to dance around the mansion, naked, drinking gin from the bottle, surrounded by half a dozen of the town’s finest whores.

He might even invite the blonde from the bar into his
bachelor pad, lay her down on his silken sheets and fuck her senseless.

Donovan was so involved in his fantasy that he failed to hear a loud crash at the front doors of the mansion. Gerard had fallen onto the floor, his elderly frame riddled with newly formed boils and sores. The old butler was dead.

In fact, Gerard had been officially deceased for the past three hours.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 1:7)

2009-11-27T08:57:00.000-08:00

The cart had picked up another two bodies by the time Amanda and Tommy had reached their destination. The whore’s previously high spirits had evaporated, leaving Tommy to drag the cart off the cobblestone road and onto the surrounding grass.

Amanda noticed that they were heading into a clearing between the edge of town and the woodlands beyond. She looked to the tall, green trees and felt as if something beckoned her. She resisted.

Tommy noticed the shift in her demeanour.

‘T’e woods are speakin’ to ye, aren’ t’ey?’

Amanda looked down at her bare feet. She didn’t reply.

‘Nobody enters t’ose woods wit’out t’e proper equipment, unless t’ey ‘ave gone completely mad.’ Tommy snorted and then spat a lump of bloody puss on the grass. ‘I used te do some trade between t’is town and t’e next, always made sure we wore proper ‘elmets, you know, to make sure t’e voices didn’t get te us. We stayed on t’e path t’e whole trip, we only lost a man once, ‘e was idiot enough to go leave t’e group, said he could see t’e spirit of his Granny. We didn’t ‘ave t’e nerve to stay and look for ‘im, so we kept goin’. Poor sod.’

Amanda wasn’t listening.

The two continued in silence. The sun was beginning to rise by the time they had reached their final stop. A huge pit had been dug into the clearing; it was surrounded by a dozen or so carts. Workers, wearing black hats identical to Tommy’s, were dropping sacks into the hole. Tommy and Amanda pulled in at the crater’s edge. The stench was unbearable. Amanda fanned her face with a porcelain hand.

Tommy moved to the back of the cart and started unloading bodies. Amanda sat on the edge of the pit and dangled her legs over the abyss. She couldn’t see the bottom of it, just darkness. She had underestimated the smells that rose from the crater; within moments she was vomiting violently, showering the hole with the remnants of several Long Island Ice Tea’s.

Several of the black-hatted workers cheered.

‘Good work honey!’ one of them offered, ‘that will get the corpses burning nice and bright!’

‘Burning?’ Amanda murmured to herself.

She noticed a bald man to her right. He was barking orders at several of the workers and waving his finger around. Black-hatted men approached the crater with large barrels; they tipped them over at the pits edge. The drums released a dark brown liquid. Amanda guessed that they were dumping oil.

‘Is this how they are going to bury you, Tommy?’

Tommy noted the mocking tone in the girl’s voice.

‘One of t’e perks of workin’ t’is job is t’at t’ey will pay for me to ‘ave a proper grave. A priest will give a prayer and everyt’in’. Don’t ye worry ‘bout me.’

Tommy dropped the sack he was carrying and looked over to where Amanda had been sitting. He had planned to ask her to his funeral, but she had already left.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 1:6)

2009-11-24T21:17:00.000-08:00

The two had walked for over three hours, stopping at every house as they travelled towards the edge of town. The only people that opened their doors to Tommy were those that needed his help, the rest wanted to keep as far away from the sickness as possible.

Tommy had considered asking Amanda if she was afraid of becoming infected, but he soon realised that her actions proved she was either unaware of the danger or held no value over her own life.

She spent her time close to him, an arm around his waist.

‘Where is your family, Tommy?’

‘T’ey all died. Ma’ passed away when I was four. Me sisters and me Pa both caught t’e sickness a month back, t’ey didn’t last long, ‘spite me doin’ ma best to take care of t’em. ‘T’was only time ‘fore I caught t’e bug me’self.’

‘What a dreadful story.’

If Amanda’s reply had any hint of emotion, Tommy couldn’t hear it.

‘I had parents once. At least, I think I did. I must have. I can’t remember.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe I wanted to forget them, so I did. Maybe I just am, you know, like I’ve always been here. Do you ever think about that?’

Tommy had no idea what she was talking about. Amanda lost her train of thought and moved on.

‘We make a funny pair. I bet you didn’t think you’d have someone like me following you around tonight, huh? You must feel pretty lucky.’

‘To be honest wit’ yer, I ain’t been t’inkin’ ‘bout nottin’ ‘cept wot lies right in front of me. Jus’ a few moons ago t’ese town folk were livin’ out t’ere lives, raisin’ families and all ‘dat.’

Tommy looked back at his cart.

‘Now, parents are burien’ t’ere children, lovers are dyin’ in each ot’ers arms, and nobody knows t’e reason fer any of it.’

Amanda jumped up and down, unable to contain her excitement.

‘I know the reason why everyone is dying!’

‘Do ye now?’

Tommy asked, unconvinced. Something about the psychotic gleam in Amanda’s eyes made him wonder whether the sickness was the least of his problems.

‘Well, wot is it?’

A nearby streetlight flickered, the whore blinked in out of the darkness, her oval face spread into a grin. Her lipstick, rouge, was smudged; her teeth were sharp and yellowed.

‘We deserve it,’ she stated, ‘as punishment for our sins.’

Tommy rubbed his chin with a gloved hand; the black hat fell down over his eyes.

‘I don’t t’ink ye can prove t’at, ‘specially w’en yer one of t’e few t’at aren’t infected. Yer a sinner, lass, I can tell from t’e look of ye’.

Amanda’s face contorted into a snarl.

‘You’ve got it all around the wrong way! I’m not a sinner. I merely follow my heart, wherever it takes me. All the diseased, the dying, they are nothing but repressed, little sheep!’

Amanda’s face flushed with the innocence of a child. She pulled her lips over her teeth and stuck her tongue out at the worker.

‘Baaaa! Baaa!’ she cried. ‘Baaaaaa!’

‘You still t’ink t’is is all a joke, don’t ye woman? Ma family didn’t die ‘cause t’ey weren't feelin'. We died ‘cause we were poor! We couldn’t ‘fford te ‘ole ourselves up in a castle, or move towns, or visit t’e doctor fer medicine. We were left t’e die in our ‘ome, and after Pa died we couldn’t even afford to pay fer t’at, so we were cast into t’e streets like vermin!

‘You say that you’re not repressed,’ Amanda shot back, ‘but you haven’t tried to fuck me once this entire trip.’

Tommy moved towards the whore. He reached down and began to unfasten his belt.

‘Per’aps ye can answer me t’is question, missy,’ he spoke to Amanda in a rasp, before dropping his pants around his ankles. ‘Do ye really t’ink I can bed anyone wit’ t’is?’

The whore’s eyes widened, for it was the most horrifying thing she had ever seen in her life. Tommy’s genetalia was a blackened, rotting mess. Red, blood soaked boils rose from weeping flesh. Organs that should have been limp and flaccid were instead twisted and bloated. There were holes in his skin; the wounds were so deep that she could see the curl of his intestines.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 1:5)

2009-11-22T21:13:00.000-08:00

The wooden cart was piled with at least six sacks. There was no doubt in Amanda’s mind that each one contained a human corpse.

‘Are these all victims of the Great Mortality?’ She inquired.

Tommy didn’t reply, instead, he grabbed the fallen body with both arms and lifted it off the ground with a grunt. His legs trembled. Although the worker had stood defiantly against the gentleman, he now seemed extremely frail. Amanda rushed to him and placed both hands under the sack, doing her best to carry some of the weight.

Sweat was pouring from Tommy’s face.

‘T’at right, missy, all seven of ‘em died just yesterday. Once infected, best ye can manage is four days before ye end up in sack like t’is lot!’

Amanda giggled.

‘Ye t’ink t’is is funny?’ Tommy looked at the whore. He seemed uncomfortable.

‘I’m not laughing about that,’ she replied, waving a hand over the spectacle of death. ‘It’s just your accent. It’s totally tripping me out!’

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 1:4)

2009-11-17T19:44:00.000-08:00

eyAmanda spilled out the alleyway and onto the dank, cobblestone streets. She tripped; somewhere along the way she had lost one of her shoes. The whore cursed. She lifted a leg back, peeled the remaining shoe from an oversized foot and sent it flying into the purple, night sky. Her vision was blurred yet she pressed on, one incapable step after the other.

She managed to stumble in the pathway of a lone worker pulling a cart. He came to an abrupt halt. A large sack fell from the front of the wooden vehicle and landed on the ground with a wet squidge.

The whore fell flat on her round ass.

The worker looked over Amanda with dull eyes. His lips were thin and cracked. His face was covered in stubble and dirt.

‘I’m sorry, so sorry.’

Amanda reached up with delicate hands and grabbed at the cart driver’s hole-ridden shirt.

‘Please forgive me.’

His dull eyes continued to penetrate into the back of her head.

The gentleman emerged from the alleyway. He moved with the ill grace of a walrus attempting to look inconspicuous. He straightened his coat and re-attached a monocle to his left eye. The trimmed hairs of his moustache shivered in the cold air.
‘Unhand the Lady. Don’t make me use force, you infected wretch!’

In one swift motion the worker reached into his dirty coat pocket and withdrew a small knife.

‘Don’t ye be telling Tommy wot to do now, else I’ll be guttin’ ya’.’

‘Come on Lady,’ the gentleman pleaded. ‘Let us leave this man and the death that surrounds him. He is obviously insane, and on top of that, poor.’

Amanda rolled onto her back and giggled. She moved a hand to her left breast and squeezed it. Her legs were covered in warm love. She was beautiful.

Tommy spoke again, his voice a harsh whisper.

‘I’d wager ye’ve already got what ye came for wit’ this one. Now get lost! Ye wouldn’t be the first noble to bleed out on t’e streets.’

The street echoed with the sounds of well made shoes tapping on stone. The gentleman was gone.

A haggard cough escaped Tommy’s lips. A surge of puss and blood shot out of his chest.

Amanda gathered herself and rose to her feet. She was at least a foot shorter than Tommy, disregarding the wide brimmed, black hat he wore. She looked down at the sack, which had tipped off the cart. It had split open. A rotten, human head was staring at her through the hole.

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 1:3)

2009-11-15T16:59:00.000-08:00

A burst of pain shot through Amanda’s body as she was roughly pushed down onto her knees. She lifted the white dress over her waist to reveal an engorged, pink pussy. She was wet, her juices dribbled onto the ground. Her ripe, honeyed fruit was enough for any man to feast upon for days.

The gentleman unbuckled his belt, bent down and seized Amanda’s ample hips with greedy hands. Her skin was soft milk. He pushed his cock into the open folds of her cunt. Gasping in delight, he began to thrust back and forth as she clenched around him.

A sigh escaped her lips, followed by immense disappointment. He was miniscule. She barely knew he was inside her. Still, she was aroused by the act itself. Her head hung low, she stared at small breasts as they bounced with the fuck. She was vivacious. No wonder every man in town wanted her. She could reduce the most conservative of them into whimpering puppies, the most intelligent of suitors into babbling, incoherent messes. She moaned and began to push back against him, rolling her ass up and down against his cock. It was too much. The gentleman groaned and shot his load within her shallow recesses. He withdrew and fell back against the ground, lost in the delirium of the afterglow.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the alleyway. It was tall, muscled and dressed in a simple loincloth. It had the head of a goat. Two spiral horns rose up from its temples. Its lower body was covered in thick fur; its feet were cloven hooves, which made no sound.

The figure carried a long, golden staff, fitted with an onyx gem.

Silence lingered as Amanda tried to call for help. She scrambled backwards. The figure stopped a few feet from her. It ran its staff across the ground and scooped up her white dress, which had been lying in a crumpled heap.

A voice filled the girl’s head.

‘This garment belongs to you. Take it.’

Amanda rose to her feet. The whore had a figure that Ancient Greek painters would have died for. She reached for the dress with a shaking hand.

The figure waved its staff over Amanda’s eyes. A bright light blinded her. She found herself floating in total darkness. Time no longer had any meaning. Her life, her dreams, the entire world had simply vanished. She slowly became aware of a presence other than her own. A glowing, purple ball of fire floated into view. It was the size of a planet. Amanda drifted towards it. She felt insignificantly small against its magnificence, and yet, she also felt like it was a part of her. All people, all stars, all galaxies; the infinity of space was one.

She never wanted to leave.

Amanda heard the figure speak once more, after that she would remember nothing that had transpired between the two of them.

‘Do not fear, mortal child. I am Dahreihumus, Lord of the South. All that you have done, all that you are and will ever be has pleased me greatly. Your passions are an inspiration.'

'We will meet again soon, for only I can remove the misery that ails you.'

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 1:2)

2009-11-12T17:30:00.000-08:00

‘I would be happy to buy you a drink, lady. I’d even walk you home. Just promise me that you won’t tell the wife.’

The bar was quiet at this time of night. The only patrons who remained were the drunks, the lustful and Amanda. She simply had no home to go to. She wasn’t in a position to sleep regardless; she was too high.

Long locks of blonde hair dipped into her Long Island Ice Tea as she swayed back and forth on a barstool. Her dusty, white dress rode up over porcelain thighs to reveal dark bruises, a result of many nights of loveless fornication.

She hated it when men liked her, even worse when they loved her. Men who loved Amanda never rode her as hard; they didn’t want to cause any pain. What they never realised was that the lady’s pussy was a bottomless pit of pleasure. She had lost count of the amount of men she had squeezed dry. That was her gift, total control of the pelvic muscles. She milked her lovers, sucked at their souls. As far as she knew (or cared to know) a man’s sexual lust was at the very centre of his being.

Amanda looked across the bar. The gentleman who had spoken to her was unattractively clean; his greying hair was slicked back to reveal a large, wrinkled forehead. He wasn’t old, yet he had the posture of a broken man. He had no doubt been a coward his entire life. He had never questioned the way of things or held an opinion that spat in the face of reason. However, despite his numerous flaws, when Amanda had first entered the bar he had stood out from among the crowd. They had all been looking at her, licking their dog lips, but in this man’s eyes she saw a different kind of hunger. This gentleman had been tied with invisible chains his entire life. He wanted freedom.

Amanda also liked his gold pocket-watch.

‘We won’t be staying at your place?’

The Gentleman squirmed in his chair. Amanda giggled. He was too easy. She picked up her drink and swung it back, allowing the cool, sweet juices to flow down her throat. The barkeep brought another.

With an incoherent mumble, the gentleman rubbed his sweaty hands against each other. Amanda cut him off coolly.

‘I know of a wonderful spot just behind this building. You could escort me?’

‘The alleyway? The only people who live there are the bums and the lepers.’

Abyssal Tales of Gold (Part 1:1)

2009-11-10T20:01:00.000-08:00

Many try to forget the darkness in their hearts. They marry, have children and live out their insignificant lives in monotony. Routine is their vice. Apathy is their king. The laws of the land are their saviours. Nothing shall ever change under such leadership. All that remains is the stagnation of the body, mind and spirit.

Babylon was truly revolutionary; this is the reason it was ultimately destroyed.

The spirit of Babylon remains for those who wish to see. Its ghost is naked, covered in the blood and semen of a thousand men. It takes in abundance and gives only what passion dictates. It is a vision that allures youth. An aggressive seductress, it tempts the weakest members of society, the gifted and the beautiful.

We all have desires. A lover’s moan. Red lipstick. Chocolate. Panties doused in perfume. The stallion and its saddle. Roses in bloom. A pink tongue dripping in false truths. A stained mattress in a cheap motel. Rainbow pills. Absinthe. Copper and vinegar.

Babylon whispers to us.

A Devilish Truth

2009-11-08T19:29:00.000-08:00

Lovers whisper a cruel, devilish truth,
Boredom consumes their lonely hearts and minds,
Romantics old, the innocence of youth,
Fall prey to love’s chaos, all love is blind.

A broken heart still yearning for the past,
Is junkie scum that clings to memory,
Without another’s touch it cannot last,
It learns in time, all love is misery.

We say that love is a divine pursuit,
Betray our friends in Aphrodite’s name,
Prostrate ourselves in rituals of Nuit,
We are deceived, all love is just a game.

Deny all love! Beware that black abyss!
For love is death, its touch eternal bliss.

Ivory Tower (Final)

2009-11-03T18:52:00.000-08:00

The stage was lit. The crowd was hungry for blood. They had been waiting all night for the next big thing, the flavour of the month, the fairytale rags to riches story of four young boys who had followed their dreams to stardom.

There was no mistaking it; Ivory Tower had hit the big time. Their self-titled debut album had gone double platinum. In one rollercoaster of a year they had moved out of the basement and onto the world stage.

Legions of fans and paparazzi followed the band wherever they went. Joey, Lynx and Ringo loved the attention, the women and the drugs. Kevin just wanted to be left alone.

‘I don’t think he’s coping very well.’ Lynx had whispered to Ringo one day, on the back of a tour bus.

‘Don’t worry, he’ll be okay,’ Ringo had replied. ‘He went through a lot of shit at his Uncle’s. You have to remember, he’s the one on the magazine covers. He does all the interviews. All that pressure, it must get to him, sometimes.’

They had found Kevin later that day, in his hotel room. The furniture had been smashed. The window had been left wide open. Kevin was lying on the floor, palms sliced open, in the middle of a circle of blood.

He recovered in time for the evening’s performance.

Lynx took to the stage first. The crowd went wild. He pumped a fist into the air and then sat down at his kit.

Joey followed shortly after. He ignored the applause and took residence in front of his massive, 8x10 Ampeg Bass rig.

Ringo moved behind the keys. He offered a simple nod to the swarms of people that had crammed into the club.

Finally, Kevin emerged. The women in the front row began screeching at the top of their lungs, delicate arms outstretched in the hopes of touching their idol. The crowd surged forward; several fans fell over and were hopelessly trampled.

Kevin slung a Platinum Les Paul over his shoulders and struck a pose. He strummed the opening chord of the set and began to sing; he hissed the words like a snake.

‘Rise/ Fallen One/ Almighty Southern God/ Give me the lute/ The audience's awe/ Ravish me with your mastery of sound/ Allow me to pierce the light/’

The fans cried out in ecstasy. Hundreds of sweating bodies began to slither against one another. A fight broke out. Virgins who attended the gig would lose their
cherry’s that night. Over a quarter of the audience would go on to form their own bands, inspired by what they saw.

Kevin looked down upon them with insane eyes. He hated every single one of them. They would never know the tortures he had endured in order to create his music,
or the years of perseverance that were demanded of him, in spite of numerous failures. None of them would ever understand the great sacrifice he had made.

‘My body shall be broken and renewed under the harsh Saturn sky/ I hear the devil's song/ Throughout the aeons/ Allow time to crush me into gold/’

Kevin looked down and saw that the wounds on his palms had been cut open again; his guitar was covered in blood.

A few months after the tour ended, Kevin returned to the ruins of his Uncle’s House.
It had burned to the ground shortly after Kevin had been rescued. The Fire Brigade believed that a stray cigarette butt had been the cause. Everything inside the house had been reduced to ash. The book was never found.

Kevin searched the fields for hours. He was relentless. When the sunlight left, to be replaced by the calm moon, he took a torch out of his backpack and continued the task at hand.

Eventually, he found it. The mud-hole.

Kevin jumped to the bottom of the pit and landed with a thud. He got to his knees and began digging at the ground with both hands.

Something had been troubling him all these months. When Ringo pulled him out of the hole, Kevin had kicked out with his foot. Something had snapped. At the time, he thought it was a root.

But that was impossible, it had sounded like something else, something unmistakably human.

Kevin’s hands hit something hard and his heart skipped a beat. He feverishly uncovered the rest.

It was a human skeleton.

Kevin sighed. He knew exactly who it was.

‘Hello, Uncle.’

Ivory Tower (Part 12)

2009-11-01T19:20:00.000-08:00

Ringo returned about an hour later.

‘Jesus,’ Kevin whined. ‘Hurry up already. I’m fucking drowning here!’

‘Okay. Catch this.’

Ringo unlooped a guitar lead from his arm and tossed one end down the mud-hole. It swung in front of Kevin’s face.

‘Do you think it will hold me?’

‘I hope so.’

Kevin held onto the lead with both hands as Ringo began to pull.

‘Nothing’s happening.’

Ringo was undeterred. ‘Give it time, you fat prick!’

Kevin felt like his body was being stretched into toffee. His foot was still entangled. It wouldn’t budge.

‘Help me out here!’ Ringo ordered from above.

‘Okay! Okay!’

Kevin kicked out with the strength he had left.

Something snapped, followed by a loud, plopping sound as Kevin’s body began to lift out of the mud. He slid up the side of the pit and onto the grass. Ringo fell down onto his knees, panting.

Kevin had barely landed on solid ground before he opened his mouth again.

‘I don’t get it. How did you know where I was?’

Ringo took a deep breath.

‘I drove to the house to apologise. I didn’t mean to get upset with you at rehearsals man, but you gotta understand, I thought you were bailing on us all. I rang Joey a few weeks later and he told me that you were out here. I felt so bad, obviously you had been telling the truth about coming out to the country to make some music.’

Kevin laughed. ‘I’ve written the whole album.’

‘Really? Sweet.’

‘But, how did you know that I’d fallen down a hole?’

‘Well, that’s the strange part. You weren’t inside the house, but your car was still parked on the road, so I thought you had to be wondering in the fields somewhere. I spent ages looking for you, but no luck. I had just about given up on you when I heard a strange noise, off in the distance. I followed it and found you.’

‘Noise?’ Kevin inquired. ‘What kind of noise?’

‘I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. It was kinda rough, so sad and lonely...

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Ringo scratched the back of his head. ‘To be honest with you, it sounded just like a goat.’

Ivory Tower (Part 11)

2009-10-27T20:48:00.000-07:00

The sun rose, then set, then rose, then set, then rose again. Kevin had not managed to escape his predicament yet the situation had improved, ever so slightly. The bugs were dead. Clinging onto a half-submerged man, who was constantly being showered upon, was hardly a winning strategy. One by one, they had fallen into the mud. They convulsed for a short period of time and then died. Their bodies glittered on the surface of the water.

The storm had also cleared, leaving Kevin to his own devices. He was not thirsty; he could just open his mouth and receive a lungful of liquid. However, he was dying of hunger. It didn’t matter how many insects he ate.

Kevin wasn’t interested in saving himself; something within him knew that the solution would reveal itself at the right moment. Instead, his mind was filled with music. In the beginning, there were notes. He played them through imaginary instruments, a piano, an acoustic guitar, an electric guitar. He added treble, squished the mids and didn’t stop until he was completely satisfied. The notes bled together to form chords. From there, riffs were plucked out of thin air. By the third morning, he had created an entire album.

Once this task had been completed, Kevin felt complete peace of mind. Soon, he would be adored by millions.

That evening, Kevin looked up to find a shadowed figure standing at the edge of the mud-hole.

‘Holy shit!’ Ringo cried. ‘What are you doing down there?’

The keys player leaned over the edge of the pit and shook his head.

‘You stupid bastard.’ He continued. ‘Don’t you ever watch where you’re going? How could you miss such a massive hole?’

‘Shutup.’ Was all that Kevin could manage.

‘What a come-back.’ Ringo snorted. ‘How about I help you out of there?’

Kevin nodded feebly.

‘I’ll need to get something to pull you up with. I’ll be back in a sec.’

Kevin heard the sounds of footsteps as Ringo hurried towards the house. He was alone, again.

Ivory Tower (Part 10)

2009-10-22T21:04:00.000-07:00

The storm continued. Kevin spluttered as rain splashed down onto his face. The deluge swelled upwards and within an hour it had reached his shoulders.

An assortment of colourful insects crawled out of the soil. There were centipedes, with hundreds of tiny, twittering legs. Bloated worms flopped to and fro. The occasional spider dropped from the sky, black and shiny.

Kevin screamed as the bugs swam towards him; in desperation they sought dry land. At first, he swatted at them with his arms, but soon grew weary. Without the strength to keep afloat, his head dipped under the mud.

Silence.

All was still beneath the surface of the water.

There was no need to struggle.

He could just slip away.

Better to drown quickly than to die of starvation.

Either way, he was a failure until the very end.

Kevin did not fear death.

He had been flirting with the concept his entire life.

Why else would he drink himself into oblivion every night?

Death was a gift, a release from the misery of existence.

It was certainly preferable to life as a nobody.

Suddenly, there was pain.

Kevin’s lungs felt as if they were about to burst. All thoughts of giving up fled from his mind as adrenaline kicked in, paired with the animal instinct to survive at all costs. Kevin thrashed his arms and pulled himself upward. He broke into the night air and took a deep, revitalising breath.

Swarms of glittering insects boarded him once more; Kevin allowed them to do so. They crawled along his neck, across his face, dug their way into his ears and up his nose. They tickled, scratched and bit him.

It was a living hell, but Kevin couldn’t have cared less.

He had chosen to live.

Ivory Tower (Part 9)

2009-10-19T20:42:00.000-07:00

Harsh winds blew across the vacant fields. They shrieked like a cursed prophet, never to be understood by mortal man. The moon was veiled by black clouds yet still managed to bathe the sprawling grass in its cold light. Withered bushels of corn were littered amongst the greenery.

Kevin was soaked from head to toe the moment he stepped outside the house. Pink, cotton pyjamas sagged against his lean body. His hair was blown backwards to reveal a small scar on his forehead. The wound had been sustained during an energetic gig, when he had accidentally smashed his head against a microphone.

He felt now as he did back then, utterly numb.

Lightning streaked across the dim sky and illuminated the figure. It moved effortlessly on thick, hairy legs. Kevin doubted that he could keep up with it, but nothing was going to stop him from trying.

He pressed on, delirious. Sharp sticks cut into the soft undersides of his feet. Fresh blood spilled onto the ground.

The figure stopped near the edge of the first field. It turned to face Kevin, its hood unmoved by the winds. Remarkably, it remained dry. The rain would rather change course than contact any part of its body.

A stitch began to burn at Kevin’s side. He fought past it, drawing closer to the strange creature.

‘This is our last chance.’

He had told his band mates, but what he really meant was that it was his last chance. Ringo had already left. Lynx and Joey had only stayed on because they were curious about what he could accomplish. After all, he had been the main songwriter for Ivory Tower since its formation. However, there was only so much one man could do, no matter how talented, cunning or ambitious. Eventually, the well ran dry. His re-acquired alcoholism had kept things afloat momentarily, but that time had passed. He had crossed the line from artist to addict. He would be left broken and alone, without a friend in the world, forgotten.

No. Never again.

The figure reached forward with its long fingers and beckoned him to come closer. He was almost there…

Kevin’s foot snagged on a grass knot. He stumbled forward, straight into mouth of a giant mud-hole. He dropped over ten feet before he hit the bottom. His legs sank into the muddy earth. His left foot caught on what felt like a group of tangled roots. He struggled violently but his legs wouldn’t budge. He was trapped, waist-deep in muck.

Moist walls of mud rose up around him. Dozens of stars lingered in the sky; they shone a deathly grey.

Ivory Tower (Part 8)

2009-10-12T08:12:00.000-07:00

That night, Kevin awoke to find a black, hooded figure standing at the end of his bed.

A slight breeze filled the room. The curtains danced. Kevin’s gaze shifted to the open window. There was only a small drop from the bedroom to the ground. All he had to do was roll off the side of the bed, run past the figure and jump outside.

The intruder leaned towards Kevin, its head coming to rest just above his belly button. Leathery hands rose from its sides. Elongated fingers tiptoed across the bedspread.

Kevin made his move.

Two hands struck out and speared Kevin in place, sliding between the thick fabric of his pyjamas and his shoulders. Sharp fingertips buried themselves deep within the headboard as he dangled, several inches above the mattress.

The figure mounted the bed with a distinctly feminine grace. Limbs shifted under its black hood to reveal curvaceous hips and cloven hooves. It pressed against his body and purred like a kitten.

Time stretched as the creature silently regarded its captive.

Kevin found it hard to breathe. He was overwhelmed by the figure’s scent; it smelt like gasoline.

Dark clouds had been gathering outside the house. Now they struck against one another in a thunderous applause. Hard rain fell against the roof in a torrential downpour.

The figure’s eyes burned from beneath its black hood. They were a bright, science fiction green.

It spoke.

…I want to show you something.

Before Kevin could reply, the creature had slithered out of the open window and into the night.

Kevin followed it.

Ivory Tower (Part 7)

2009-10-05T09:06:00.000-07:00

The lights of the cellar flickered on, faintly illuminating the dusty room. Kevin had chosen this part of the house because it was the only space large enough to draw the details of the circle. He didn’t have the slightest idea about what he was doing, but guessed that the black robed figure in the illustration must have been the same one that visited Geezer. If he could summon this creature, perhaps it would give him the same success it lent to Black Sabbath (he had always suspected that no mortal man could have written the riffs to A National Acrobat without the help of a supernatural power).

Kevin assumed the circle would have to be drawn in blood, so he took a plectrum from his jeans pocket, snapped it in half and sliced open his palm with a sharp point. Drunk, diluted blood spilled into a mixing bowl he had brought for the occasion. The next few minutes were spent closely analysing the symbols in the book and then
drawing them upon the floor.

Kevin had been adept at art in high school and had designed most of the band’s flyers, so the end result was fairly close to its depiction.

Although they weren’t black, Kevin had found four candles in various parts of the house. He had rolled each one in ash from the fireplace, resulting in an unattractive blend of greyish-white. They would have to do.

Finally, Kevin stood in the centre of the circle with the ancient book in his hands. He read a passage aloud.

‘Orior oriri ortus cado unus! Omnipotens Inferus Deus! Tribuo plectrum vox quod celebratio reverentia. Raptor mihi per vestri dominatus sanus. Sino mihi ut pierce lux lucis.’

Kevin spoke with conviction, despite having no clue about what he was saying. As the frontman of a rock band, he had often come across lyrics that made little sense to him. In such cases, it had been his job to convince an audience that the words were meaningful, even poetic. Reading Latin was not entirely dissimilar.

There was a popping sound as the cellar plunged into near darkness. The only light now shone from the four candles, a murky blue.

Kevin continued.

‘Meus somes vadum exsisto infractus quod resumo sub severus Saturnia divum. Audiam diabolus carmen per aeons. Sino vicis contero mihi in aurum.’

The room began to spin, which was manageable, until Kevin started to feel like he was turning in the opposite direction. A sick sensation began to rise from the pit of his stomach. Kevin staggered backwards. One of his shoes slipped on wet blood. He fell onto the floor.

The sanctity of the circle was broken.

Kevin lay on the ground for some time. Eventually, he rose to his feet and left the cellar. He returned with a bucket and mop. The next few hours were spent cleaning up the mess he’d made.

Ivory Tower (Part 6)

2009-09-30T23:45:00.000-07:00

Several weeks passed and not a single song had been written.

Kevin sat on a chair in the makeshift studio he had created, knees crossed, a Fender Jaguar on his lap. The click track thumped in his ears as a Converse All-star tapped lazily against the floorboards. It was time to face the truth. He had nothing to say that hadn’t already been said.

It was raining heavily. Lightning flashed outside. The leather jacket made Kevin feel cool but it did nothing to keep out the chill air. He disarmed the guitar and placed it back upon a stand, before leaving the room.

The kid needed a smoke.

All three packets of Marlboro’s had already been emptied, but Kevin was desperate. He cursed his way into the kitchen and grabbed his backpack, which had been drooped over a rickety chair. Not wasting any time, he turned the bag upside down and shook it violently. Geezer’s book fell onto the table with a thud. A single cigarette followed. It was half crushed. Kevin didn’t care. He sat down on the chair, popped the cancer stick into his mouth, grabbed the lighter from his coat pocket and lit up. He took one large drag and felt his muscles begin to relax. His erratic thoughts ceased to exist.

…Sabbra Cadabra.

The occult text had landed on the kitchen table with its pages open. Kevin scanned it with vacant eyes. The whole thing was written in Latin. He couldn’t understand a single word.

Luckily, the book was illustrated. It depicted a chamber with a large circle drawn in its centre, on the floor. Four black candles were placed at the north, west, south and east ends of the room.

Two smaller circles were drawn within the larger one; a long, rectangular shape connected them both.

‘Oh man,’ Kevin muttered to himself, ‘It looks so phallic.’

Within each of the smaller circles were various lines and shapes, it was hard to tell what they symbolised. Standing to the side of the circle was a man dressed in a black robe, praying.

Kevin stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, grabbed the book and rushed out of the room.

Less than a minute later he returned to the kitchen, picked up a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel’s and then left again.

Ivory Tower (Part 5)

2009-09-28T20:35:00.000-07:00

Kevin’s car pulled up on the side of the road. The property his Uncle lived on was vast. Unfortunately, it had been left to run wild ever since the old man disappeared. What remained of the driveway was littered with potholes; the rest had blended into the overgrown fields.

Cursing under his breath, Kevin left the car where it was, having no option but to continue towards the house on foot. His equipment was heavy. It would take several trips before he was unpacked.

Aside from several guitars, two amplifiers and recording gear, Kevin had brought provisions to aid his creativity. Most notable of these was an entire suitcase packed with whiskey. There was also a photo album filled with happy snaps of ex-girlfriends, in case he needed emotional stimuli. Several bags contained nothing but clothes, all of which were expensive and highly fashionable. Kevin liked to look and feel the part when he was playing the persona of a rock god.

The book had also found its way to the bottom of a backpack, buried beneath a carton of orange juice, three packets of Marlboro’s and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps.
Thick, twisted grass formed huge knots in the ground, which Kevin would occasionally snag with a foot and trip over. Whatever he carried at the time would disappear under amongst the dense flora or fall into one of the giant mud holes which littered the fields.

Despite the numerous traps, which served to injure and aggravate, Kevin thought the house looked promising. It was weatherboard and appeared to be rotting. Cobwebs and dust covered every surface. It was small, one-story, with a cellar below. The kitchen was dirty but usable. The toilet and shower still worked.

Kevin sang a few notes and heard them bounce of the walls, echoing throughout the rooms. The acoustics were amazing. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the perfect place to write a masterpiece, his debut album.

Ivory Tower (Part 4)

2009-09-24T08:34:00.000-07:00

Joey had embellished the story, there was no doubt of that; the guy had always been melodramatic. However, it couldn’t have just been some urban legend, as Kevin was holding the book in his hands. He could see it. He could smell it.

He could feel it.

The ancient text felt warm to the touch. Kevin could feel a heartbeat thumping in his fingers; he assumed it was his own.

‘This can’t be right. You’re telling me that you found the book?’

Joey giggled, ‘Nah. My Dad bought it off E-bay. Cost him a mint, but he assures me it’s from a reliable source. That book is the same one Geezer used to own.’

‘Shouldn’t you give it back to him? Geezer, I mean.’

‘Hell no.’ Joey narrowed his eyes. ‘Remember, we now have the key to his success.’

‘Wow.’

Kevin wanted to say more, but the entire situation was starting to creep him out. Now he was really under pressure. The band would be devastated if he didn’t write some amazing songs at his Uncle’s, especially when he had this kind of magic at his disposal.

‘Thanks Joey. I don’t know how to repay you for this.’

‘Just don’t let me down.’

Without another word, Joey turned around and started jogging back to the house.

Kevin slumped against his car. He was in way over his head. If only his band mates knew how uncertain he was of the plan, they would have followed Ringo out of the door. Ivory Tower would have ceased to exist.

Ivory Tower (Part 3)

2009-09-21T08:32:00.000-07:00

Kevin packed his guitar gear into the boot of his car. Ringo had left several hours earlier; he had refused to talk to any of them. Lynx and Joey were pretty sure that he’d quit the band. They had both decided to stick it out and see what Kevin could create. It was a hell of a lot of pressure.

The car boot slammed shut. Kevin heard the sounds of heavy breathing. He slowly turned around.

Joey was gasping for air, hands on his knees.

‘Jesus,’ Kevin cried, ‘you scared the shit out of me!’

‘Sorry. I ran all the way from the rehearsal room. I needed to give you this.’

The bass player reached into his coat and withdrew an old book, bound in leather. Kevin reached out and took it. The cover depicted a skeleton with a scythe, dancing in a cornfield. It was dressed in rags. A crown sat upon its skull. There was also a tall mountain in the background. An old goat stood at the peak. It looked down upon the land with insane eyes.

‘Yeah, thanks.’ Kevin stuttered, still dazzled by the goat’s intense glare. ‘But I’m not really into this religious stuff.’

‘You can be a sceptic if you want to,’ Joey shrugged. ‘I just thought you were a real Black Sabbath fan, that’s all.’

‘You know I am. Paranoid is the greatest album ever written.’

Joey flashed a devilish smile.

‘In that case, you’d be aware of the mysterious circumstances surrounding the formation of the band.’

‘What do you mean? They took a lot of drugs?’

Joey laughed, ‘You’re way off. It’s so much more interesting than that.’

*

‘I can’t believe you don’t know the story. It’s legendary!

You see, Sabbath’s long time bassist, Geezer Butler, discovered an old, occult book one day after a jam with the band (they called themselves Earth back then). Anyway, he became so obsessed with the book that it inspired him to re-name the band Black Sabbath.

Several days later, Butler was startled awake in the middle of the night. He saw a black, hooded figure standing at the foot of his bed. It was gone in an instant.
Geezer knew that the vision was related to the book. He rushed to his library to consult the ancient text, but it had vanished!

He retold the events of the night at the band’s next rehearsal. Ozzy was so intrigued by what happened that it kick started his lifelong flirtation with black magic.

Sabbath went on to achieve worldwide success. The book was never seen again.

Until now…’

*

Joey had embellished the story, there was no doubt of that; the guy had always been melodramatic. However, it couldn’t have just been some urban legend, as Kevin was holding the book in his hands. He could see it. He could smell it.

He could feel it.

The ancient text felt warm to the touch. Kevin could feel a heartbeat thumping in his fingers; he assumed it was his own.

‘This can’t be right. You’re telling me that you found the book?’

Joey giggled, ‘Nah. My Dad bought it off E-bay. Cost him a mint, but he assures me it’s from a reliable source. That book is the same one Geezer used to own.’

‘Shouldn’t you give it back to him? Geezer, I mean.’

‘Hell no.’ Joey narrowed his eyes. ‘Remember, we now have the key to his success.’

‘Wow.’

Kevin wanted to say more, but the entire situation was starting to creep him out. Now he was really under pressure. The band would be devastated if he didn’t write some amazing songs at his Uncle’s, especially when he had this kind of magic at his disposal.

‘Thanks Joey. I don’t know how to repay you for this.’

‘Just don’t let me down.’

Without another word, Joey turned around and started jogging back to the house.

Kevin slumped against his car. He was in way over his head. If only his band mates knew how uncertain he was of the plan, they would have followed Ringo out of the door. Ivory Tower would have ceased to exist.

Ivory Tower (Part 2)

2009-09-17T08:58:00.000-07:00

Kevin had made the weekly trip to his drummer’s house, a Bogan by the name of Lynx. Nobody knew his real name and didn’t care either, he was an amazing musician. Joey was the bass player and Ringo played the keys. The group was called Ivory Tower; they had been performing together for almost three years. They were small time, garage-rock, with one EP under their belt. The recording had cost them thousands of dollars and had failed miserably.

Ivory Tower rehearsed for a few hours before Kevin spoke up.

‘Guys, this isn’t going anywhere. I mean, every time we gig, less people turn up. If we don’t do something drastic now, we’re finished.’

There was an awkward silence, which was finally broken by Ringo.

‘Are you quitting on us Kev?’

‘Of course not, I wouldn’t even think of it. I’m just saying we need to put our heads down and push ourselves harder than we have been.’

Joey mumbled something incoherent. He lay against his amplifier. A half-smoked spliff hung from his lower lip. Nobody paid him any attention.

‘It’s a great plan, mate.’ Lynx interjected, ‘but not everyone has that much free time to dedicate to practice.’

Kevin knew this was coming. He had gone through the speech in front of his mirror for weeks. Even so, he still managed to blurt it out like a complete ass.

‘I know. I have been thinking this over for a while. I have made arrangements to move into my Uncle’s house for the next two months. I’m going to take my equipment down and write a new album. After that, I’ll come back and go over the songs with you guys.’

The room was filled with a stunned silence.

‘Please think about it,’ Kevin added. ‘This is our last chance to make it.’

‘You don’t want us to be part of the creative process?’ Ringo spat out.

‘Don’t take it like that, it’s just -’

‘What total bullshit!’ Ringo stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Lynx scratched his head. ‘I have to agree with Ringo, man. You’re totally cutting us out.’

Ivory Tower (Part 1)

2009-09-14T07:37:00.000-07:00

Kevin woke in the middle of the night. His body was covered in a cold sweat. The sheets lay in a crumpled heap around his ankles. One of the pillows had been thrown halfway across the room. A mirror had been shattered. The carpet was a sea of glass; its dark waters reflected a yellow moon. Clothes had been taken from the wardrobe, torn to pieces and stuck against the walls. Kevin’s hands itched. He looked down and saw that his palms were crusted with dry blood. There was also skin underneath his fingernails. His temples throbbed with pain.

An empty bottle of Jack Daniels fell from the bedside table as Kevin rose to his feet. Blood rushed to his head and equilibrium disappeared. He stumbled to the bedroom window, stuck his head outside and began to vomit. Acid stung his throat.
Over the past few months, Kevin’s drinking problem had spiralled out of control.

…Killing Yourself To Live.

Everything was calm outside the house. Kevin listened to the sound of a thousand crickets in concert. He hadn’t played the guitar in ages; he hadn’t the strength for it.

He had first moved to the country to find the peace of mind necessary to create great music.

The band had tried to talk him out of it.

Inside A Decaying Mind (Final)

2009-09-07T21:03:00.000-07:00

The next few weeks were spent inside my apartment, watching the television. The news channel informed me that creatures had overtaken the entire town. They were highly infectious. The area had been quarantined. The survival rate was zero. It was too late for me anyway. I couldn’t sleep. My mind had become numb. I couldn’t remember who my parents were or where I was born. I forgot my own name. The only thing that remained was the image of Kathy, standing in the kitchen, crying. Where had she gone?

Something within me stirred. It took me three hours to remember where my study was, another four to turn on my laptop. The world needed to know exactly what had transpired in this sleepy town. I had to force myself to remember the things I’d forgotten. It was the only chance I had.

I wrote my story for the next two days, after that my will dissolved into a thick, grey paste. Government Extermination squads broke into the apartment, equipped with high-tech combat gear. I attacked them, just another mindless creature. After a brief struggle I was put out of my misery by a short-range shotgun blast to the
head. One of the squad members regarded a framed photograph of Kathy and me hanging from the study wall. Another found the laptop sitting on my desk. It was still
turned on. He glanced at the screen, said a prayer under his breath and left the room. He ordered his squad to move out of the building.

In the end, all that I could write was one word, one simple word that expressed all the thoughts left in my decaying mind.

Just one word.

Brains.

Inside A Decaying Mind (Part 4)

2009-09-03T07:29:00.000-07:00

It took moments to arrive at my destination. I reached inside the pocket of my jeans…

Damn!

My wallet was missing, probably being chewed on by one of those creatures. I knocked on the front door to my apartment. There was no response. Another knock. Nothing. I slammed both fists into the heavy, oaken door and it ripped off its hinges, falling to the ground in several pieces. I stepped inside.

The hallway was silent, unrevealing. As I walked towards the kitchen I could hear music, The Gossip, which meant Kathy had arrived. She had been playing the same album for the past.

There were signs of a violent struggle. Pots and pans littered every surface. The microwave had been smashed to bits. A kettle was overturned, leaking scolding water down the side of a cupboard door. A creature was bent backwards over the bench; a knife protruded from its left eye socket. I stepped towards it, my shoes crunched on the remains of cups and plates. I was right. It was human. It had once been a man, late thirties, with a receding hairline and trimmed beard. He was wearing a green sweater over blue jeans, soaked in his own congealed blood. It was dark red with bits, some purple, some black. His mouth was open, gums were bleeding and it looked like he had bitten off his own tongue. His skin was grey, flaking. He smelt of rotting garbage.

"Henry, is that you?"

I turned around to see Kathy holding a cricket bat with both hands. She was shaking. Her dark, curly hair had been roused into thick clumps. Her make up was running, tears were falling from her eyes in dark streaks. Her breast heaved. I tried to answer her but could only emit a shredded moan. Kathy dropped the bat. She took a step backwards, shaking her head. She mumbled something incoherently, turned and ran. I followed. She was halfway down the hallway but I was faster. I reached out and grabbed the back of her dress. She tripped and fell over, landing roughly on her stomach. She tried to crawl across the carpet but I had a firm hold on her. I turned her over. My elongated fingers reached for her skull. She screamed and thrashed her head from side to side. I dug my digits into the bone. The screaming stopped. She relaxed. I was drooling. I leant forward and began to feast on the jelly-like remains of her head.

I loved Kathy more than anything else in the world.

Inside A Decaying Mind (Part 3)

2009-08-31T08:10:00.000-07:00

My phone started to ring. It was Kathy. I tried to answer but it went dead.

The realisation of everything that happened in the past few minutes came crashing down around me. I sat on the pavement, put my head in my hands and started sobbing. Snot came out of my nose in thick streams. I omitted long, loud wails, sounding like a baby crossed with a whale. My appearance resembled some sort of demented snot-goblin. I couldn’t have possibly seen the things I saw. Creatures like that didn’t exist in the real world.

The next thing I remembered was waking up in the alleyway.

Another scream, this time as a creature wrapped its drooling mouth around my arm and bit down, hard. I felt a splash of warm blood against my face. It pulled and dragged me across the cement. It giggled like a schoolgirl. My eyes began to focus. I saw the creatures. They looked human. They were laughing at me, tearing me to pieces. I was going to die.

Gunshots. Bullets ricocheted off brick walls. One of the creatures cried out in pain and fell over. The others retreated. I was lying in a pool of my own blood. I had to get up before they came back. I stumbled to my feet, using the walls for support. Pieces of my skin and flesh, muscle and bone were missing. A female voice called from the end of the alleyway. A bright light shone on my face. I saw the silhouettes of two figures holding guns, behind them the red, white and blue of a Police vehicle flashed intermittingly. I raised my arms towards them. I tried to mouth my thanks but the only sounds that emitted from my throat were bloodied gurgles and a low rasp.

More gunshots. The noise was deafening. I ran towards the light. I saw the Police Officers, their faces wide with fear. One of them pointed her gun at me. I pushed it away and knocked her over. I jumped over the bonnet of the Police car with ease and kept running. It was exhilarating. I felt fantastic. My wounds were already beginning to heal. I was moving faster than ever before in my life. My heart had stopped pounding, vision cleared.

My apartment was close by. I had to make sure Kathy was safe.

Inside A Decaying Mind (Part 2)

2009-08-27T21:39:00.000-07:00

I put the can of soup in my basket and headed towards the checkout. It was eerily quiet and as I walked through several aisles I realised that some of the lights were broken, enveloping me in near darkness. I took my mobile phone out of my pocket and used its display screen as a makeshift torch (I felt very clever for doing this). My foot hit something hard and I stumbled. Gathering myself, I shone a light on the ground. There was an overturned shelf, its content spilt across the floor. A chill went down my spine. I picked up my pace, the feeble light shining in front of me.

Footsteps, very quiet. Something was tracking me through the building. My foot hit something hard and I stumbled again. I turned around. It was a body. It had been a man. I knew this because his groin had been separated from between his thighs and smeared across the floor. I heard a noise in front of me. I raised my phone and saw bloodshot eyes. Two arms stretched out from the darkness, holding a moist, hairy mound of flesh. It was a disembodied head. The hands tightened and the head popped with an unimaginable sound. Bone, blood and brain matter squirted into the blackness.

I screamed, dropped my basket and ran. I bumped into shelves, knocked over tins and boxes and packets and containers. All the aisles looked the same. I couldn’t read any of the signs. I had to get out. The darkness was swallowing me. The footsteps followed. They grew faster. It was running. All I could see were its eyes. It wanted to kill me. I shuddered to think what else it wanted to do.

I burst out of the front door to Benny’s and onto the street. The apartment building in front of me was on fire. Its windows had been shattered. Broken glass littered the roads. There were bodies on the ground. People had jumped from their balconies to escape. I ran down the street. My heart was pounding. I kept running until I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. I looked over my shoulder. The creature was gone. I afforded myself a nervous laugh.

Inside A Decaying Mind (Part 1)

2009-08-25T08:08:00.000-07:00

A scream. Skin was cold. The whole place smelt of garbage. Heavy breathing. Not Mine. Coming from creatures hovering above me. I opened my eyes but could only see darkness. That can’t be right. God. No. I was blind. They had blinded me. Those creatures had done this to me. How did this happen?

I remembered.

I had been shopping at the local supermarket, Benny’s. It was a dirty place. The meat was slightly grey, the milk was near its expiry date and they never had my favourite flavour of crisps in stock. It wasn’t important. Kathy was coming over for dinner and I needed to show her a good time (we hadn’t had sex in a month). Also, Benny’s was extremely cheap and I was incredibly poor. Times were tough but to be honest, I had brought it upon myself. There had been many opportunities to earn a great deal of wealth. I had been sent to the best private schools and achieved top grades in all my classes. I could have been a Lawyer, a Doctor or a Dentist. I could have even become an astronaut if I really wanted.

Unfortunately (and much to my parents dismay) I desired nothing more than to become a writer. I attended Arts School. It didn’t last very long. Not my fault, the problem was that I wanted to become a unique writer, pushing the envelope with never-before-seen stylistic genius. My tutors, on the other hand, wanted me to be their kind of writer, a man who learnt his craft by copying his influences, churning out page after page of bestseller drivel. Sure, it could have worked, but who wants to be known as a rich and famous hack?

I picked up a can of ‘Home Brand’ tomato soup and smiled. I had no future prospects but at least I was true to myself. My feet slipped on the floor. I looked down and noticed that I was standing on a large patch of sticky, red fluid. There were lumps in it, some purple, some black. My foot had squished a particular purple ball and it oozed thick, yellowish pus. It smelt putrid. I looked for a shop assistant to clean up the mess but there was no one.

Strange, Benny’s was usually busy at this time of night.

The Depressing Life of Bonnie (1:2)

2009-08-20T04:32:00.000-07:00

Scene Two: Laundry

There is a bowl of cat biscuits and a bowl of water on the floor.

YUFFIE is eating from the bowl of cat biscuits.

JACK is lying in a basket full of dirty clothes.

BONNIE enters the LAUNDRY. She looks into the bowl of water and sees her reflection.

BONNIE:

I’m not ugly.

YUFFIE:

Maybe we’re all ugly. Ever considered that?

BONNIE:

No.

YUFFIE:

Woah. Maybe you should learn to expand your mind. See the world and all its intricacies.

BONNIE:

I just want to play ball-ie and be happy.

YUFFIE:

Yeah, and all I ever wanted to do is play guitar for Cat Power. Now look at me.

JACK:

Would you stop all that fucking whining!

JACK peeks his head out of the clothes basket.

YUFFIE:

Holy shit! Do you see that?

BONNIE:

See what?

YUFFIE:

The cat in the clothes basket! Is it REAL?

BONNIE:

I think so.

YUFFIE:

This is too much.

YUFFIE buries her head the biscuit bowl.

BONNIE:

Yuffie? Are you okay?

JACK:

She’ll be fine.

JACK jumps out of the clothes basket and walks towards BONNIE.

BONNIE:

Jack, Our new owner thinks that I’m ugly.

JACK:

You’re beautiful to me.

BONNIE:

Then he…he threw a spoon at my head!

JACK:

What? I’ll kill him!

JACK tries to run out the room.

BONNIE latches onto his tail with her mouth.

JACK:

Let go of me! Spoon-man has to die!

YUFFIE lifts her head from the biscuit bowl.

YUFFIE:

Oh my god! Bonnie’s gone crazy! She’s eating Jack!

BONNIE:

(muffled) No I’m not!

YUFFIE:

We’re all going to die!

YUFFIE starts screaming and thrashing her head from side to side.

BONNIE lets go off Jack.

JACK flies into the clothes basket.

BONNIE begins to howl.

YUFFIE continues to scream.

JACK attempts to squirm out of the clothes basket. He fails.

JACK:

Soon as I get out of here, I'm going to bring the pain.

JAZZ enters through the open window.

YUFFIE and BONNIE fall silent.

JAZZ:

Is something wrong, Jack?

JACK:

No.

JAZZ:

Are you sure?

JACK:

Yes ma’am.

JAZZ:

Bonnie? Yuffie? Is there any particular reason that you’re making such a commotion?

BONNIE and YUFFIE shake their heads.

JAZZ:

Then please desist. You are disrupting my beauty sleep.

JAZZ brushes her tail against the faces of YUFFIE and BONNIE as she walks to the biscuit bowl. She nibbles on a single biscuit, sips the water and then returns to the window.

JAZZ:

I better not hear from you three again.

JAZZ exits through the open window.

JACK crawls out from the clothes basket.

JACK:

Okay, I’ve decided to let the whole thing go, for now.

BONNIE:

Thankyou.

JACK:

Let’s get out of here.

JACK jumps onto BONNIE’S back. He holds onto her giant ears with his paws.

BONNIE:

Where are we going?

JACK:

To the pond! I’m going to prove that you’re not ugly.

JACK pulls on BONNIE’s ears and she hovers into the air. She floats for a moment, before shooting into a wall and bursting out the other side.

JACK and BONNIE disappear into the sky.

YUFFIE walks to the newly created hole in the wall. She blinks.

YUFFIE:

I’m losing my mind!

The Depressing Life of Bonnie (1:1)

2009-08-17T07:01:00.000-07:00

Scene One: House Kitchen

DAVID is sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal with a spoon.

TIMMIE is preparing a baked pasta dish in the kitchen corner.

TIMMIE:

How’s the writing going, sweetie?

DAVID:

Terribly. I can’t think of anything. I just stare at the computer screen like a….like a..

BONNIE enters the kitchen.

DAVID:

Like a Bonnie!

DAVID laughs.

BONNIE looks at DAVID with a sad face.

TIMMIE:

Honestly David, you can be so mean.

DAVID:

I can’t help it. She’s such an ugly dog.

BONNIE:

I’m not ugly. Am I?

DAVID:

Yes you are! You’re ugly and I hate you! Stupid fucking dog!

DAVID throws his spoon at BONNIE.

It hits her in the forehead.

BONNIE:

Ow!

BONNIE runs out of the kitchen.

TIMMIE:

David! What the hell are you doing!

DAVID:

Taking out the trash.

TIMMIE:

Do you remember how we got this house, David?

DAVID:

My parents gave it to us.

TIMMIE:

And when they handed us the keys, what did they make us promise to do?

DAVID:

…Look after the animals.

TIMMIE:

Correct. We swore to take care of their four animals, Yuffie the Cat, Jack the Cat, Jazz the Cat, and….?

DAVID:

…Bonnie.

TIMMIE:

That’s right, Bonnie the Dog. Think about it, next time you want to throw a spoon at her head.

DAVID:

Fine Timmie, you’ve made your point. But mark my words, one day I’ll take that dog for a long walk. We’ll head on down to ole River Daniels, where the water runs deep, and when we get there, I’ll put a bullet through her brain.

A Fool's Guide To Quicksand (Final)

2009-08-14T21:51:00.000-07:00

Whatever the relationship may be, it will only delay the inevitable. The all-seeing eye of Shiva is not swayed by humanity’s ignorance of itself. Clinging to another may provide shelter from the storm but it does not offer protection from a nuclear explosion.

Life is quicksand. The harder one tries to escape, the quicker they fall. Jim Morrison would agree.

You WILL find yourself in this situation,
Drowning…
Drowning..
Drowned.

Don’t drown. You can always become one of them.

New drugs are being developed every day by pharmaceutical companies around the world. Addictive drugs. Expensive drugs. Drugs that come in a variety of colours, shapes and sizes. You will lose your highs and lows, your desire to live, your desire to die, the creative spark, everything that has made you an individual. You will become a machine. You will feed the very industries that propagate the sickening status-quo that has caused your misery in the first place.

They will keep your head above water, for a time.

Your body will become wrinkled and fat. Your mind will degenerate into a series of routines. You will not be able to look after yourself. Your family will confer in hushed whispers and eventually send you to a nursing home. A beautiful, blonde nurse will wipe your ass every night as you shit yourself in a bed that doesn’t belong to you. More pills, this time your children will be paying. Every time you have an accident they will pray that you die.

There will be glorious memories of a time when you were beautiful and in love with another, but they will be lies. You were a taker. The giver mourned you for a time but eventually found another.

You have nothing left because you were nothing to begin with.

(And you’re still drowning…)

A Fool's Guide To Quicksand (Part 3)

2009-08-12T08:41:00.000-07:00

While most people cannot avoid the final seconds of suffocation created through their own existence, the process can be slowed considerably by the distraction of another.

This interaction will initially fall under the pretences of mutual love and affection but will inevitably become a dysfunctional relationship.

It takes two kinds of people to fall under such a spell. One is a toxic personality that consumes anything that is offered (not unlike the great gods of old), we call them takers. The other has a crippling desire to offer aid and affection to anything it loves, we call them givers. It is not unusual for a person to fulfil both roles within their lifetime.

Takers take from the givers. Givers give to the takers. While the giver may appear to be the victim in this cycle, both roles are utterly self-serving in nature.

The giver enters a dysfunctional relationship for a variety of reasons. They may have been raised in a loving atmosphere and are simply not aware that one person could use another for selfish gain. They give to the taker and assume they will be treated with an equal amount of fervour. Another type of giver suffers from the ‘rescue me’ complex, in which they target individuals who are suffering and attempt to save them. This type of giver is easily exploited by a taker, who is both self-centred and completely co-dependant.

The taker views the relationship as a preferable alternative to using the loaded gun they have hidden under their pillow.

A Fool's Guide To Quicksand (Part 2)

2009-08-09T20:08:00.000-07:00

The third alternative turns negative energy into positive energy through the creation of Art and the undertaking of the Great Work.

We will not delve into this technique, however, as we doubt anyone who reads this guide has the confidence, natural talent and spiritual maturity required to become an artist.

Hint: the creation of Art requires the assistance of Death and The Devil.

(It is unfortunate that so few of us are created each year. Where a half dozen, dysfunctional idiots are crushed into gold, several thousand are stomped into a fine powder and sprinkled at the base of the Great Pyramids. If one were to witness the magnitude of genius being laid to waste by banal, animalistic masses of fast-food-eating-Diet-Coke-drinking-satellite-cable-watching excrement, they would weep.)

A Fool's Guide To Quicksand (Part 1)

2009-08-06T04:54:00.000-07:00

Peace of mind cannot be found at the bottom of a bottle, or the barrel of a gun, but it helps to keep those things around the house. Bars are expensive and if you cut yourself on a shard of glass or fall over a table there may not be anyone to help you back on your feet. However, if you have an accident at home, the medicine cabinet will be close by. Remember, life is a precious thing. Happiness is just around the corner. True love is waiting in the wings…

…let’s face it, life is sometimes too painful to bear. When this happens, a person must alleviate their misery through extreme methods.

One can choose to force their negative energy outwards. They may run outside and stab a stranger to death with a kitchen knife. They may abuse their children or cheat on their partner. These are not recommended courses of action but are legitimate re-actions to the ‘universal sorrow’ experienced by less than 4% of the population.

The alternative is to turn the pain inwards. This will result in a variety of mental and physical disorders, including (but not limited to):

Anxiety Disorders
Depression/Manic Depression/Bi-Polar
Bulimia/Anorexia
Masochism/Sadism/Sado-Masochism
Insomnia
Enlightenment/Alienation

There is no way for the average person to break the downward spiral of destruction once it has begun. You should keep a loaded firearm under your bedroom pillow to help prepare for the moment your feet touch the ground and you experience self-realisation.

Oracle (Notes)

2009-07-28T02:03:00.000-07:00

God, I really feel like a cigarette today.

I have a cure for that. ..

Do tell...

It involves my lips, blood-red, and a greedy, rose-tinted tongue

So now you've got me captivated, what happens next?

The tongue hardens, a soft-firmness that encircles a moistened hood of your pussy, and teases the flesh beneath.

Okay, then what?

It pauses, a deep moan elicits from your quivering body. You shift on the cold, hard marble table. Your legs spread wider, invitingly.

Where are we? Why is there a marble table?

The congregation looks on in awe. Dark prayers fill the hall, hissing from within purple robes.

Aha... very good.

The tongue resumes, enscribing a symbol upon your clit with short, fast strokes; your mind glazes over, and you sink downwards, deeper and deeper...

Is this something you plan to do, or have you already done this to me...no wonder I am a slave to you.

The hall is filled with a loud crack as dozens of clergy fall to their knees in submission; they have just witnessed the rebirth of a Goddess.

Maybe a demi-Goddess.

The tongue recedes back into its masters mouth. He stands, lithe and beautiful, and beholds his queen, his eternal slave.

you are the God, you sexy Capricorn.

He feels her energy running through his veins like blood, the essence of life itself...

...And I worship you, my protector and guardian, my soul mate

He draws his sword from a sheathe by the table; it is long and thick, far beyond his slight stature, and he massacres the priests and priestesses. He sheds their blood in her name. For only his eyes will ever fall upon her naked, vulnerable body, and live.

...and that's the story

Do you still need a cigarette?

(David Sayers/Hedone's Heartbreak)

Milkman Blues (Final)

2009-07-21T08:43:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, I'm lying. ..

I never had a family of cats. I never sold vacuum cleaners. I didn't attack an old lady or steal milk vans.

I'm so sorry. I haven't spoken to anybody in such a long time.

Patty.

My God Patty. I love you so much.

Glorious Milk.

Milkman Blues (Part 9)

2009-07-16T00:41:00.000-07:00

Turns out my kitties were moving into a house in the next block. The place belonged to a woman, a widow. I had heard of her before. She was senile, and spent her days knitting on the front porch.

Old hag...

There was no time to orchestrate a rescue plan. I had to save my kitties there and then, before they started to enjoy themselves; we all know how fickle a cat's love can be.

I ran up to the old bat's house and ninja-kicked my way through the front window. I landed in the lounge room.

She was there, swaying menacingly on a rocking chair. She stroked a long haired Russian Blue and laughed. I yelled back at her.

'Give me back my babies, you cat-napper!'

She had a heart attack and died.

Dozens of kitties ran to me, some came from her bathroom, others her bedroom, a few jumped out from under her skirt. I bent over, reached out and embraced them all in a humungous hug.

We all mewed in delight.

Milkman Blues (Part 8)

2009-07-13T06:25:00.000-07:00

One day I woke to discover that all my cat friends had left!

I searched my entire apartment, top to bottom and there was nothing. Not one whisker remained.

I went outside and looked down the street to see one of them scamper off into the horizon. I ran after it.

Why would they leave me? Why would anyone want to leave me alone again? You give someone everything you have, all the love in your heart and then they are gone. You're alone, empty and afraid, and you did nothing wrong. You don't deserve it, any of it. They take everything you have and give nothing in return. I doubt they even realise what you have sacrificed for their happiness. They just move onto the next partner and start sucking it all up again, or they die; they would rather be dead than take responsability for their actions.

Milkman Blues (Part 7)

2009-07-09T00:20:00.000-07:00

Another enterprise of mine was cat milk. I figured, my kittie drinks so much of it, surely their own milk tastes extra milky?

I was wrong. Horribly wrong.

I admit, if it's the end of the week and I don't have any money for groceries I'll have a little suckle, but you really shouldn't expose others to the taste, or the adverse physical and mental effects, of drinking kitty juice.

Milkman Blues (Part 6)

2009-07-05T21:58:00.000-07:00

I was eventually fired from my job. I had been a milkman for fifteen years.

It's strange how things change. One day, people want milk delivered to their doorstep, the next they want to go to the local fuel station to purchase it at three times the normal price.

It may be hard to believe, but there aren't many job prospects for an out of work milkman. I was too old to be a paperboy.

I was eventually picked up by a company that sold vacuum cleaners, door to door. It wasn't the glamorous life that I was used to, but I had responsibilities, mouths to feed!

I had a pitch that was very effective. You know how most salesmen would take out a vacuum cleaner, put it together and let you watch while he cleaned up a particular room or carpet? Not me. You see, every night I would gather up a few of my cats and stuff them into the vacuum bag. The next day I'd enter a prospective customers house, take out the cleaner, turn it on and bam! I'd be shooting cat bullets all over the place.

The clients were usually very old, and startled easily, so they'd be running around the house like a headless chicken, crying out,

'You're breaking my antique china!'

I'd keep doing it until they bought something. It worked every time.

Milkman Blues (Part 5)

2009-07-02T19:06:00.000-07:00

I noticed that some of the cats were very undernourished, their fur thin and patchy, like little crack addicts of the pet kingdom.

I started feeding them milk, but soon realised there were too many mouths to feed and not enough product. So, I began stalking other milkmen in my spare time. I would wait until they were engrossed with a customer over the price of a quart and break into their milk vans, driving it away at high speed, hood and bonnet covered in hitchhiking kitties, their claws digging into the paintwork as they sped along at sixty kilometers an hour.

Some of the cats weren't able to hold on. They would fly off the van and splatter on the road beneath. Some of the more conventional kitties would land on their feet; the impact shoved their leg bones up into their body's.

They were all killed in action, I suppose. But don't worry, I never left a cat behind. I would always come back at night and scrape them off the tarmic, depositing their flattened remains into empty milk bottles.

Milkman Blues (Part 4)

2009-06-29T00:53:00.000-07:00

The only thing I had left was my work. I buried myself in the daily routine of visiting houses, knocking on doors, putting on a brave face and selling my dairy goods to assholes who didn't care whether I lived or died.

What little compassion people showed me, I rejected. I refused to be pitied.

The only interactions I could tolerate were those of the local cats. As I was walking on my route I would occasionally see a member of the feline community, sitting on a letterbox, staring up at me with knowing, yellow eyes. In response, I would say something to them.

Sometimes I would offer a simple greeting.

'Hello Ms. Kitty. How is the family?' Or, 'Hey Mr. Fat-Cat, looking sharp, my main man.'

Other times, I would tell them how I really felt.

'Hey Kit-Kat. I want to die.'

Whatever the response, the cats seemed to like it. They started following me on my route.

First, it was just a single, black lady-cat, very demure, she slunk a metre or two back from me in complete silence. She eventually left when she started dating the local tom (I think she had a boy boy complex). But others soon followed, and within a few months I could hear dozens of kitty paws tapping behind me.

Milkman Blues (Part 3)

2009-06-26T00:39:00.000-07:00

My life had always felt insignificant, but after Patty's death it developed a new sense of futility. There was nobody left to love, no one to love me. My time was up. All I could do was yearn to have her back, my mind constantly replaying memories of our happiest moments. I forgot all about the bad times.

What little sleep I had was filled with cruel dreams where Patty hadn't died, instead, she had returned to me looking excactly as she had before the addiction. I would believe these dreams were real and my entire body would fill with joy.

Then I would wake, reality would set in and I would weep, cradling my pillow against my chest.

Milkman Blues (Part 2)

2009-06-24T20:14:00.000-07:00

I thought that if I truly loved someone, they'd never leave me. I had so much to give, so much love and support. While we were together I thought it would be forever. When the problems started between us, I thought we would work through it, because even when I was angry with Patty, I still loved her.

When she started smoking, I thought she was just experimenting, and who was I to tell Patty what she could and couldn't do. I convinced myself that she could handle herself because I believed that she would never let anything get in the way of our happiness, especially not something as insignificant as a highly addictive drug.

Her shifts became longer and longer. She said she needed the money to pay for her rising debts, but she'd just spend it all on more drugs. Sometimes, I'd wait all day for her to come home, alone in our apartment, my mind bouncing off the walls. I was so worried about her that I stopped eating. I couldn't sleep. I developed an anxiety problem, which only made it harder for us to communicate.

Even when Patty came home, she wasn't the same. Red acne slowly etched its way across her skin; her hair became thin and frail. Her eyes, which once had so much energy, faded into blank orbs. When I looked at her I didn't even know whether she recognised me anymore. Sometimes she would yell at me, thick spit flying out of her mouth. Other times she'd sit on the couch, a zombie, nothing I said could rouse her.

I started searching the house everyday, following the remnants of that sweet, chemical smell. I'd find her glass pipe or one of those little, plastic bags of white crystals and destroy them, but it didn't matter, she just found new hiding places for her paraphernalia. In the end I contacted her Mother, who had Patty taken away to a rehabilitation centre.

The next time I heard from Patty's Mother, she told me that Patty had passed away.

Milkman Blues (Part 1)

2009-06-23T00:38:00.000-07:00

Milk! Glorious Milk! Is there anything better on the lips, on the hips, in the tits? I kid, not everyone drinks breast milk, their loss.

I used to work with a girl named Patty, the only milkwoman in the district. She was a saucy bitch. She turned things around in the 'burbs, made a man happy to wake up in the morning, don his uniform, eat his Wheat-bix and head into work, just to catch a glimpse of her grinning, porcelain face.

The customers loved Patty too. She used to make shady deals with some of the lucky one's. If you were part of Patty's route, you could buy a pint of milk for a dollar, three pints for two dollars, or let her inside, give her a fifty and she'd let you lick the cream from her panties. No matter which choice you made, you'd always end up with strong bone.

Patty. Those were the days...

An Observation

2009-06-19T01:00:00.000-07:00

I didn't want to be there.

A man walked onto the stage. He was semi famous, which way saying something. He talked. Somebody laughed. Another heckled. My stomache turned, teeth grinded. I couldn't sit still. Nobody was paying any attention to me. People were drinking cheap bottles of wine and talking with English accents.

I looked to my left and saw an ugly man. He chatted to his date. The poor bastard was trying too hard. The girl just stared at her shoes. I didn't blame her; those shoes were beautiful.

The intermission came.

I lined up for the bathroom. All the guys were tense. They dressed like metrosexuals and nobody could tell who was gay.

Second act, the headliner spoke through a stuffed cat. More heckling (these people dive infront of television cameras). A drunken teenager fell over a chair.

The lady sitting to my right was a mother. She had left home to feel like a free woman. Her head was filled with copper and vinegar. She clung to her husband.

The evening ended with undertones of violence. I fled to a dark room and looked for a skirt to hide underneath.

Opening

2009-06-16T07:43:00.000-07:00

"To me a book is a message from the gods to mankind; or if not, should never be published at all. A message from the gods should be delivered at once. It is damned near blasphemous to talk about the autumn season and so on. How dare the author or publisher demand a price for doing his duty, the highest and most honorable to which a man can be called?"

-Aleister Crowley

This was not the opening quote I had hoped for. For a start, it uses the words 'gods' and 'blasphemous', which may lead some with quick-scanning-eyes to think that A Cigarette In A Loose Hand is a religious effort. They would be wrong, but I can't blame them. After all, one searches the web at breakneck speeds. There is no success to be had with hidden subtleties.

Just look at The Horrors. They are a very talented band (the proof is in their densely layered, shoegazing, sophomore effort Primary Colours), but they were first propelled into the spotlight through brash, forgettable garage rock songs, 15 minute sets and a heavy focus on fashion.

Now that they have the media's attention, they can do what they like, which (in this case) is write amazing music.

I have very strong reservations in enacting the same techniques with my writing. Some webpages suggest that a great way to get noticed is to create a Twitter account. Small posts of 150 words or less! Signposts on the Internet Superhighway!

It's a fantastic idea. Like The Horrors, an upcoming author could gain a large fanbase with their bite-sized posts, before launching whatever they wanted upon their newly devoted readers.

(Did I just type 'devoted'?)

Unfortunately, my plans cannot involve such clever, modern-world PR experiments, no matter how successful they are.

Why?

Because I am an old goat at heart. My pride simply cannot bear it.

So, by all means, join me. Venture forth into the unknown future of a writer who wishes to make a mark in a world that has already left him behind.