I walked past Mr. Elliot’s studio on the corner of Crescent’s Peak and Juniper Hill Avenue. “Hours by Appointment or By Chance” emblazoned on his front door. After moving to the Friendly Ridge neighborhood, the door and its charming proclamation were a quant milestone for every promenade to the yoga studio or a stop at the bar around the corner. Having never been inside, I could only fathom from the window displays the type of artist Mr. Elliot was within the small studio’s confines. Sculptures and canvases crowded the display, illustrating a fantastical tapestry of tribalistic depictions of futuristic people and animals. I couldn’t tell if his work belonged in a trinket shop that sold oddities from another place or time or if they were best suited as added décor to the Psychedelic Funk section at Nobody’s Records across the street. Pictures posted to his social media site boasted of group painting sessions. Seven very different copies of a landscape portrait floated just below the smiling faces of middle-aged women proud of their handy work. Despite these events, I envisioned Mr. Elliot as a solitary man, utilizing his space to inspire his latest creations.

Amongst the portraits of jazz legends, dogs and surreal landscapes was the most distinct painting which fused ancient Egyptian artifacts with space travel and wonder. Everything in the window felt like a fever dream of late nights listening to anything from Sun-Ra to Parliament to jazz funk fusion while reading passages of esoteric lore in between big gulps of Cabernet, everything from Crowley to Kabballah to Dianetics. Perhaps, the creative process was less exciting than I imagined. He could be with just an aging man listening to NPR or Charlie Parker at a very respectable level.

Anytime I walked past the studio, I attempted to sneak glances inside, without appearing too nosy.  There was something sacred about an artist’s privacy I did not wish to violate. Maybe I feared catching a glimpse of Medusa and turning to stone, but there was also something about the mystery of the space that kept my eyeballs from lingering too long.  It was a curiosity within myself I wished I kept quelled, but something got the best of me on the day I took that chance and caught Mr. Elliot at his studio.

“You know what I’m talking about?” he stubbed out his Montego in the ash tray. It was half full of my Camel Crush butts. Tiny weed prints encircled the glass surrounding the words ‘Destin, Florida’ in cheap, tourist cursive.

“Yeah, I get it.” I sipped the last of my PBR and tossed the can into the red trash bin next to the fridge. We were participating in our usual weekly ritual: splitting an 18-pack of beer, chain smoking and complaining about the things we cannot change / bullshit from our past. I felt like we were in Hell’s waiting room, which happened to be a cramped 9×9 kitchen in Garrett’ one bedroom apartment he shared with Raoul, his roommate of about 7 years.

Garrett grabbed another PBR from the fridge and offered it to me. I graciously accepted. Sitting in the only chair in the entire kitchen, I popped open the can, gulped down what felt like almost half of its contents, and pulled another Camel Crush out of my pack. We lit our cigarettes in unison.

“That’s another thing, I get paid $12.00 an hour and I manage to do everything they ask, and they still yell at me. I’m basically Rodney Dangerfield, but less attractive.”  Garrett took a long drag of his cigarette in place of a sigh.

“I’ve told you this over and over, you’re way too smart for that job. You can do better.”

“Well, at least I can smoke as much as I want.” He stopped for a moment before hopping back on his soapbox. “But that’s another thing, I’m dealing with these neanderthals, day in and day out and my boss has no appreciation for what I have to deal with.”

I stared off into the distance past him, looking at the storm trooper doll in the windowsill. Same conversation every week. Same boulder we keep pushing up that hill. I had a dream not long ago. I got up to go to the bathroom and out of the living room I could see Raoul was having a party. Every time I went to go to the bathroom, the apartment grew, and the guest count swelled exponentially. I shifted my focus from the storm trooper to his weary face. Same kitchen, same bullshit.

“Anyway, did I ever tell you about this band, Fulci?” He pulled a video up on his phone. I nodded as I listened to an Italian Death Metal song blaring from his phone speaker. I was only about two beers in, not quite at the stage where my lying skills are at their most believable.

“This is good, I’d listen to this.” I made a half-hearted attempt to care. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it, I just wasn’t having the out of body, psychic experience I felt all music owed me.

Already done with beer number four, Garrett crushed his can and yanked open the fridge door for number five. I stood at the fridge door. A magnet asked me if I hugged my armadillo today. Another informed me that God is good because the accompanying image of a pop tart dipped in Nutella is undeniable evidence.

“I don’t want to celebrate Christmas this year.” I made the proclamation, as I started on beer number 3.

Volcanic ash burns my skin

As the great destroyer dwells within

With every gulp of fire and smoke

He huffs and seethes while I choke

The blizzard coats the earth with fluff

His fur the same grayish scruff

Those mounds of crisp, smoky flakes

Grow in size with every quake

Bleeding seasons into one

This boiling pot melts and runs

Eruption breeds another turn

As one by one we all will burn

Glowing eyes and pointed ears

The sharpest teeth pierce my fears

Blackest whiskers and cotton tail

He has emerged to conquer the vale

In the Spring of 2010, I took a Russian Folklore class my junior year of college. One of our assignments was to write our own Russian folklore story. I decided to go retro 80s’ and take a more Soviet approach to the assignment. Below is my unaltered folktale. It’s terrible, but I was also 21 years old.

One fine looking morning in the U.S.S.R. as the red dawn approached, Lenin was polishing up on his Marx and Engels.  Growing weary of his new communist empire he had created, Lenin decided to go for a walk around the Kremlin.  As he turned a corner on his early morning stroll, a burst of light blinded his beady, little eyes. A metallic vehicle of sorts appeared, slowing down from its 88 M.P.H voyage through time and space. Stroking his pointy, black beard and furrowing his arched eyebrows, Lenin grew curious and perplexed.  As the white, haired, crazy-eyed looking man popped open the door and stepped out, Lenin decided this would be the utmost opportunity for V.I. Lenin’s patented brand of mischief. 

            “I am Doc Brown and I come from the year 1985!” exclaimed the strange man.

            “AH HA! A capitalist spy! And a future spy to boot!” retorted Lenin.

            “No, I am not a spy, but a scientist experimenting with time travel!” Doc Brown replied,  

            “I am not a spy and I certainly am not a capitalist spy at that.”

Looking around, Doc Brown grew nervous. He gazed upon the clock tower of the Kremlin, St. Basil’s Cathedral, and the Red Square beyond the Kremlin walls.

            “Great Scott!” I am in the Motherland!!” Doc Brown shouted.

Lenin realized this opportune moment in which the space time continuum was at his fingertips.

            “Tell me space man,” Lenin began, “What is the Soviet Union like in the year 1985?”

            Doc Brown began to explain, but as he was speaking, Lenin hopped into the metallic machine.  As Doc Brown was shouting and pleading for him to step out, Lenin fiddled with some strange buttons and began to drive away.  He reached 88 M.P.H. and a bright light surrounded him.  Lenin slowed the car, killed the engine and then stepped out of the car. He was not in the 1920s anymore!

He decided to disguise himself with the yellow suit he found in the back seat and placed the strange mask over his face as to become incognito.  Lenin wanted to surprise everyone from the future.

            In his new disguise, Lenin entered the Kremlin. He stealthily snuck towards his former headquarters. As he glanced around the corner, he saw his old crony, Joseph Stalin.  Lenin, furrowing his eyebrows, he jumped out in front of Stalin.  The man of steal nearly had a heart attack as he saw some strange figure in yellow.

            “I come from a distant, far off planet!” he said in a spooky voice, “Bring me to your leader!”

            Cowering in his creamy, white military uniform, Stalin replied, “I am,” he winced and got down on his knees, shaking in terror.  Lenin, disgusted by this man, struck a deal with him, “I will let you live as long as you promise to give me all of your livestock, grassy fields, and mother earth for plowing and let me take all those who are low born: peasants, factory workers and soldiers.”

            Stalin, trying to figure out how he could have a space man imprisoned for treachery, agreed to the bargain. 

            “Sike!” Lenin ran away, leaving a shaken Stalin to breathe a sigh of relief.

            After a while, Lenin grew tired of pretending to be a space man and scaring people. This was not what his trip’s purpose was all about. Instead, he decided to hop into his time machine and travel to the year 1985, where the machine came from originally; however, Lenin accidentally hit a wrong button and ended up in America in 1985. 

            Flabbergasted and disgusted, but weary of time travel, Lenin settled into a seaside home in Los Angeles, starred in an original sitcom based off his time traveling experiences and was sued by Robert Zemeckis for stealing the idea from Back to the Future.  Lenin eventually saw the fall of communism years later and was disappointed in the Soviet Union’s failure.  Growing indifferent to his social experiment and its future outcome, Lenin became a playwright in New York receiving mixed reviews.

            Meanwhile, in the Soviet Union of the 1920s, Doc Brown became an instant iconic leader, thanks to his flamboyant personality, and of course, his love of the common people. He lived to see the advent of World War II upon the Soviet soil.  He challenged the Axis powers to a fist fight and won ending the War on the Soviet front, dying heroically by means of an arrant lance.  

            And that is how Lenin discovered the joys of time travel!

My friend and I had this grand plan that we would trade short stories back and forth via a series of writing prompts. Big surprise, this never happened. I have no clue if she actually wrote anything from our first prompt, but I sure as hell gave it a shot! The prompt was a picture of a man on a beach with a lantern. It is unclear if it was a sunset or just before the dawn, but I took my best guess. I actually enjoy the atmosphere of this story and keeping it simple was the right way to go for me.

The tide rolled in and barely touched the edge of Derek’s scuffed work boots. The tide reminded him a lot of Raina. Either giving too much of herself or never enough. The ebb and flow of the water and the undulations of her frequent mood swings echoed in his memory. Most mornings, she would wake in a serene bath of angelic light. By the end of the day, she would envelop herself in a matte black blanket of her own self-pity and hate. She wouldn’t approve of his activities this evening. In fact, she didn’t approve of anything past or present involving Derek’s affairs with his older brother. His complicated familial ties sunk their relationship.

It was only a year ago Raina gave him the ultimatum, stop spending time with Dave and quit dealing or she was out. Derek managed to keep part of that bargain, but unfortunately for him, there was only so many job options for an ex-con. Anyway, how else was he going to afford to take care of her? Afford her meds? Today, he would break the other piece of that bargain.

The lantern flickered and pulled Derek away from his memories back to the coast. Dawn would soon break, and the lantern would prove useless. Every roll of the tide inching over him or away was like the tick tock of a time piece. Counting the waves, instead of seconds, minutes, hours. How long had he been out there? His eldest brother Dave said he would meet him for the pickup at sunrise. Anxiety creeping, tide crashing, nerves burning.

As Derek stared into the dark skyline, he remembered the many trips he and Raina made to the beach. There was one day that stood out in Derek’s mind from a few months ago. She wore that sweater made of argyle. It was May in Mobile, but she didn’t care. She was always cold. Her mama said she might as well have been born with out a pulse. Derek knew that wasn’t true. She was full of life, and was always cold because that’s how the world treated her. He tried to be her warmth and comfort. She wore the sweater to the beach. All the other girls sported swimsuits, hoping to score glances from all the lucky passersby. Not Raina. She refused to make eye contact.  Sitting on toasted granules of sand, she drew pictures with her timid pointer finger, calm like the tide that day. By nightfall, she slammed herself into the walls of their apartment, screaming for release. Derek had witnessed this before, but this night was different. This was the night he realized he could not save her.

Her body crashed into the wall and shook the medicine cabinet. Castanet like sounds of pills hit against the cabinet door. She yanked it open and ripped the lids off with a strange desperation. After turning the faucet on full blast, the rainbow Rx were poured into the sink. Derek attempted to fish the pills out, pawing at the water like a bear hunting for salmon in the stream. Raina sunk to the floor, her hair sticking to her sticky tear-soaked face. They were both at a loss. Their relationship going down the drain with those pills.

Distant headlights glared on the side of the lantern.  A rusted Ford pick-up parked and doused the light. The engine cut out and the tide recoiled.

“You got something for me” Dave lazily called out, stating as more of a fact than an actual question. Derek ambled towards him, fingering the Skoll in his pocket. The men solemnly bent their heads towards the sand. Seagulls whirred in the distance.

“All right, brother. You grab the top, I’ll grab the bottom.”

Derek spit the tobacco into the sand before bending over. They heaved and struggled to make it back to the truck, despite the short distance between them and the vehicle.

Once they reached the truck and unloaded their haul, Derek caught one last glimpse of that argyle sweater.

I wrote this piece in late 2016 after attending a concert. It is a rather schmaltzy piece of poetry, but I think anyone who loves the brilliance of live music can appreciate this kind of “in the moment” high you get when you attend a great show. I was also at a huge turning point in my life regarding my personal growth. I was on the verge of living on my own for the first time, I was ending a long term, serious relationship and not sure where I was going. For the first time as an adult, I didn’t really know who I was yet, what I liked about myself and what I loved about the world around me. I totally questioned my identity and what kind of person I wanted to be. This experience really helped me take the first steps towards a more complete version of the self I am today. Also, this piece is bittersweet given our current state in the world of zero live music, so it serves as a memory of things that have come to past, but a reminder of what is waiting for us on the other side.

I finally felt that spark underneath, that menacing undulation. It had been so long. How many nights has it been? How many humdrum weeks? The months drone on and the spark remains dormant. Maybe it was the psychosexual tension in the air, that dark cave hollowed out amongst the concrete jungle. The pulse was like thunder, vibrating through my feet charging every little toe and running up through my thighs, hips and inhabiting every space of my body.  It was a chamber, abandoned by time and utter indifference. Sounds emulating the cries of the gods, a reawakening of the senses.

Time now passes like scales. A crescendo’s anxious arrival finding shelter through the spaces that occupies moment to moment. Chords, wrapping around the minutes, seconds, carrying its listeners like a gentle wave through the universe. Another crash of percussion and a thousand lifetimes have passed in a blink of an eye. Lost, but not forgotten. Alone, but forever cradled by its harmony.

Haunted, Haunting, Haunts. Melody weaponizes a piercing shockwave, a flutter of my heart. Do I have to go home? Can I simply surrender? Can I make a pact with this moment? Will it capture me forever? I hope it smothers me into oblivion. To walk out of this dream alive or unscathed is to have felt nothing at all.

How many fortunate souls have gown down with this ship, only to rise, be reborn and become revitalized? It is a gift from a nameless piece of our universe. Who is to say that this journey is not bending our boundaries of space and time?

Applause breaks the sound barrier. The screams, the cries of joy beg to be enraptured, plead to be ravaged once again. Why does it have to end? There is no other beauty to run to. Only rejection, shame, fear and brutality. It is a dreadful fate to be turned away from such salvation. The price to re-enter into its grace is more than one soul can even bear.

Light gradually enters the aura of consciousness. The murmur of a moribund life echoes back into the chamber. I am a singular being once more, no longer a powerful wave piercing through the cosmos. I am a 27-year-old female several inches too short and about 50 pounds too heavy.  I will walk out of this hall of bliss and out into the streets full of filth where the magic does not travel. The little pieces I have gleaned have been stuffed into my pocket. I fear if I clutch onto them so hard, they will either escape my grasp or consume me. Consume me to a point where my hunger for its vibrato, its majesty will never be satiated.

Walking to my car, the weight of reality forces me down, down to a shuffle of regret. My compass tells me to go down, down into the mines where I must eat, sleep, breath mediocrity like dust from a coal shaft, chocking on the disappointment. But my true north calls me back to that place, back to that temple. As I glance behind me, a shadow hovers above the city. Clouds of light and beams of sounds circle like the eye of the hurricane directly above the hall of kings that generates a universal energy.

Looping through these past moments before I turn away is like wearing down an old record. The song, once a vibrant melody, begins to slow down all the lovely nuances fading with each turn of the table. The needle is an old, familiar scratch gently running its sharp nail into the grooves, releasing a most angelic noise.

I start the ignition and my body is transported reluctantly back to the realm of the mundane and away from the enchantment of that evening.

Note: This was written about a year ago from this post. I was planning on submitting it as a writing sample to Obscura Undead, but I was too chicken to move forward with sharing it.  Obscura Undead is a network of DJs primarily located in the Tampa, FL region who spin mostly Goth, Post-punk, Deathrock, Dark Wave, Synth etc. In our pre-pandemic world, they hosted Goth nights and concert events in the Tampa/Orlando region, but currently stream weekly events (a real treat for us who cannot attend in person due to geographical limitations). Plus, they release YouTube videos that either feature goth related news, album review or discussions critical to the Goth subculture. At the time, they were looking for more collaborators to contribute to their website.

Part of the reason I created this website/blog/page whatever you want to call it is so I can have a means to share my writing. I wanted to stop worrying my writing wasn’t good enough and just allow my self to make mistakes, receive criticism but also receive credit where credit is due.

Many concert goers would agree the best performances are usually the ones that involve an artist they are intimately familiar with or one that they can easily identify by at a few of their songs.  These individuals flock to shows that pumps them full of energy as they bounce about the venue with reckless abandon or provide a digestible and often predictable set-list and presentation. Most consumers expect an “enjoyable” or “fun” experience (Whatever the hell that means).  But what if a musical performance was not meant to lull you into a familiar bubble of comfort and self-satisfaction. What if music was a gaseous element meant to permeate the holes in your psyche in order to jolt you into a new reality? Perhaps, the dulcet tones you anticipate morph into a nightmare, or a cacophony of cries?

Music is doing its job when it makes you feel uncomfortable and puts you on edge. By uncomfortable, I don’t mean disagreeable lyrics or cringy story lines.  What I mean is the atmosphere an artist creates within the universe they have carved out for you that twists your stomach and overcharges your senses. This is not a game of color by numbers as you run though track 1 to 2, from 2 to 3 and so on and so forth.

Seth Sher and Heather Gabel of HIDE accomplish this feat of creating discomfort and uncertainty at their Saturday November 9^th  2019  show in Louisville , KY show. The venue, Art Sanctuary, structured their multipurpose space into an intimate event.  Art Sanctuary serves as the current throne for Convergence Festival’s 2020 reign and is tailor made for such experiences. Zigzagging amongst the gallery’s current installments lurked a layer of fog. While a modest space, the sparseness and outline of the current structure lent to the ambiance and uncertainty.  To date, I have seen HIDE at a second venue, Northside Yacht Club in Cincinnati, OH, and the feeling of dread still hangs heavy in their performance space.

During their performance, HIDE absorb the energy from their minimal space as Heather moved through the coordinated light, sound and movement. It felt real, yet unpretentious. Effortless, yet jerky. Her occupied space, which was not even an elevated stage, put her at the same level of the audience and was smaller than that of a caged animal from a traveling circus.  Heather commanded the space with the same intensity and frustration as a tiger.  When her eyes locked with mine, it felt as if she was ready to pounce. I was so engrossed I didn’t even think to take a picture or record the performance. I was too personally involved in the experience, mouth agape and right hand gripping my PBR can more tightly than usual.

After their set, I visited Heather at the merch table. She was very approachable and less threatening than her on stage persona.  I gushed over my love of their album “Castration Anxiety” and picked up a ‘Hell is Here’ t-shirt which I wore during Thanksgiving dinner with my family (I think the message was well received).

This is the most appropriate way to experience an act like HIDE. Their performance evoked pure feeling of dread and discomfort.  Listening to their music in the car or their latest release on vinyl, did not prepare me for their live performance. It’s a lot like waiting on the other side of a door where someone or something is pounding, waiting to get in. Now, the door has been knocked down, the fog is rolling in and you have no clue what is standing in front of you. Your heart is racing, and you are not quite sure if you want to run in another direction or stick around to see what will happen next.

“Tricky Tickle… what the hell did that doctor call it?” Leslie’s mother fumbled through a packet of handouts printed off the internet and some poorly xeroxed copies from the DSM the psychiatrist gave her back at the clinic hoping to respond to her husband’s ludicrous pronunciation of their daughter’s affliction.

“Tri-cho-till-o-mania.” Each time her mouth formed another syllable, Leslie cringed, trying to keep her hands under her thighs during the car ride home. She wished the rain pouring buckets on the car would drown out the sound, but her mother’s shrill voice made it impossible to focus on anything else.

 “What about Wrestlemania!?” Wesley exclaimed, barely looking up from his iPad.

It’s okay, maybe this car will crash into something, anything and I’ll never have to hear them talk about me again, look at myself in the mirror again and all those stupid printouts will mean nothing. Leslie thought as she fought the urge to slide her hand up through her bucket hat.

This was a hat that reminded her of something her grandmother forced her mother to wear as a child. Probably the same one. Who knows! Her mother just yanked it out of the closet one day and nervously requested she wear it in public. It was hard enough having to hand her homeroom teacher the note explaining why she, out of all the students, was allowed to break the dress code. She was already getting envious glances from the kids in the back who were always getting yelled at to remove their baseball caps. The girls, with their slits for eyes, appeared eager to fan the flames with their “How come Leslie gets to wear a hat?” or “I don’t see why she is so special and can’t take hers off like the rest of us” comments. Most of them knew already why, but feigning ignorance only gave them more power. Her teacher read the perfectly crafted note, her mother’s wispy cursive, as she stood, defeated in front of them all.

“Wesley, stop making up words! You too Tim this is serious.” Her Mother, so naïve and sensitive about the whole situation, would not tolerate any more attention drawn to Leslie nor would she stand for any humiliation brought upon their family especially from within. Everything about what was happening to her 16-year old daughter should be dealt with as quietly as possible.

“I just don’t get the deal with these complicated, funny names to confuse us. Why can’t they just call it ‘Nervous Hair Pulling Syndrome’ or something?” Leslie’s father always had a casual way of reducing the most serious of situations to nothing more than a cliché or a simple misunderstanding between man and the universe.  A bought of depression was just “a case of the blues.” A tragic fire killing hundreds was “a spot of bad luck” in the eyes of her father.

“Tim please. We tried to manage this on our own and we need their help so as far as I am concerned they can call it whatever they want as long as they can fix it.” While her mother was dismissing her father’s comments, he glanced at his daughter through the rear-view mirror. After a split second, he pulled away, too embarrassed to meet her eyes.

That was how Leslie felt to her parents. She was this well-oiled machine that had a bad part. Someone was going to replace that bad part and all would be right with the world. The family could go about their business and put the whole thing behind them.

She promised herself she wouldn’t cry anymore if someone looked at her with those disappointing eyes, but something about the glare her father gave her as he tried to understand what was happening to his first born made Leslie tear up. It was too much to handle. The sound of Wesley tapping on his screen, her mother fidgeting up front with paperwork and her father’s sighs. Her hands moved from under her thighs to the tops of her knobby knees. She could get away with it this time. Dad’s hands were on the wheel, Mother was distracted with medical terms and psycho babel and Wesley… well he never gave a fuck anyway. Besides, the tingle, it was too much to handle.

Slowly, slowly like a creepy crawly, her gnarled fingers walked up the side of her head, up under the cap as she felt nothing but scabs, patches of hair and tender skin. She touched a raw spot and that tingle zapped her to her core. It was like opening the flood gates. Before she knew it, Leslie had lost control of herself. A chunk of hair fell out onto her lap.

“Leslie No!!!” Her Mother screamed. The screech of her mother’s voice ignited the tingle of pain like a fire poker stabbing at her scalp. Coals begging to be turned over in a pit of fire beckoning her to extract more hair, aching to be touched. The echo of screams rattled in her brain alongside the thunderous pounding of the vehicle against the side of her body, the shards of glass, the taste of metal, the smell of burning rubber.

Just as quickly as it began, all sounds ceased. Her father’s body, slummed over the steering wheel, her mother’s screams silenced by sudden impact and poor Wesley, his delicate head and neck hanging loosely to his side.

Leslie crawled outside, noticing the deer, only slightly injured in comparison to her family’s horrific accident. Under her feet, the crunch of car carnage reminded her of the tingle. The piece of glass was just large enough. Besides, no one was there to tell her no.