Broken Up Thoughts (Vulgar)

I didn’t miss this shit for a second. This can only end badly. Yet here I stand at the crossroads of 5th and shit. Give me back my time. Give me back my life, and I’ll waste it how I see fit. Laziness took hold, sunk its fangs deep, and won’t let go. I don’t care anymore even if I’m left caring. Freedom is infectious. Freedom is not an absolute. Oh, how I wish it was. Oh lord, how I wish it could be.

The blood cascades down the wall
You know you are home
When everything is comfortable
Bones line the edges of the room
You know you are home
When everything is fine
Skin drapes the furniture
You know you are home
When everything is normal

The same sad fucks show up every day. The same time. Ticking away time as though it doesn’t matter. Bull shit everyday problems progress into even more shit. Snowball effect I think it is called. Ever passing moments of life. So sick of the humdrum crap we have to deal with. Same faces populate my everyday life. Their scars scratched deep across their faces. They try to hide them but they are too obscene to stay hidden for long. Battle scorn left for dead. Left to fend for themselves in this spinning ball of shit called life. To be somewhere different, to see a whole new set of sad shit eating faces to deal with.

Tangled up in all your razor wire
Think about running
But all I know is pain
I think about what if
But all I know is disappointment
I was told everything would be fine
Now all I know has been only lies
Hold out long enough everything should be okay
Though I know on a scale from bad to worse
Everything is the same

This weeks theme I guess is bitter… I’m bitter that here in America we can’t stop lodging our heads up our asses… I write all of this a month in advance… And I feel confident that something stupid, regretful, or all around what the fuck happened this week… Am I some soothsaying witch doctor or is it only the way things are now?… A track record that is just too hard to break?… I want to be wrong… I can’t express how much I hope that I am wrong about this week… But the safe bet is that I am not… Bitter beyond belief… 

Creepy idea/thought for all the bloggers out there… As I said I write all of this in advance… Imagine if we all just disappeared…. But for the next month after the internet went on as if nothing happened… Our messages of sadness, hope, best wishes, health, beauty tips, poetry left for no one to read… creepy until you realize we do this already… So thank you for reading and/or taking the time to comment… : ) 

A Notice of Change…

It has been one crazy six months… I have been having a blast writing every month, every week, and every day for those of you have stuck with me… I will be taking the month of February off… To work on my book and to think of more exciting stories to tell you in the coming year… What that means is that I won’t be posting any new stories or blog pieces… I will be posting some of the most liked stories for the last six months, new Broken Thoughts, and Poetry though… 

This is only temporary so I can get ahead of the curve… I will still be visiting blogs, answering comments, and be around in general… So that is why I am calling it a change rather than a break… I will be back to my regular schedule for March…

Thank you so much for following, reading, commenting, and being here with me this past six months… I appreciate each and every one of you… each and every day…

Layne Ambrose
1/30/18 

 

One more thing before I go

How Ugly It Truly Is….

“Working is how life passes you by. Time itself passes you by. Relationships pass you by. It is only so long until everything passes you by and you are left with nothing or no one. There are so many aspects to this country and money seems to be the biggest one. We all have to make money no matter the culture. But what do we become when we make money our culture? We make the money match the time? Money can always be earned, but the time? Days spent unconscious as life passed by. So I can pay the bills on time, afford the drinks to keep me going, so me and mine can live the life we want to live. Which looking back was never the life we wanted to live. It wasn’t the life we dreamed about for ourselves or you. It wasn’t much of a life at all. In my opinion, life is nothing more than this ever passing time. Since as long as long as I could remember life has just been going on. Whether I was part of it or not. Whether I did the right thing or not. The amount of control and freedom you think you have is how little of both you actually have. Nothing is free. We all pay a price. Whether it is our bodies or the very soul we think we have. Listen to me rambling like the old man I have become. You didn’t come to visit me to hear the ramblings of an old man. You came here to make peace with yourself. Get right with God or whatever you kids call it these days. I’ll admit I like these visits except for your need to want to escape.”

He looks up from his phone, “Dad that’s not how it is.” He goes back to his phone. “Bullshit, you don’t think I’ve been you? Nothing you’ve done or said is anything I haven’t already done, said, or thought. The subject has changed but the words will always stay the same. Humanity is in an endless cycle. No two ways about it. The meaning of life isn’t to live it is to keep going,” I huff. “Have you been taking you Meds?” He asks the phone. “Of course I have been taking my medication. They don’t shut my brain down. If anything they amplify my mind in this useless shell of what I once was. Keep death from knocking on my door. If anything I should stop taking them. Haven’t you been listening?” Have you ever listened? My life has been wasted on this pursuit of nothingness.” I look down upon my wheelchair. Look at my broken useless body. “Here I sit telling you the same thing I was told by my father then and he was told before as well in what could be called the cycle of life. Since the dawn of time and maybe even before then. Hell for all I know the god damn animals are telling each other the same thing,” my voice raises. “Calm down. What’s the point of this speech Dad?”

“The point, the point is to not waste time. To not look back and regret the time wasted on needless things. If you are going to do something, anything, do it because you want to. Don’t do it because you are told too.” He looks up from his phone once again, “That’s not how the world works.” He stands up and pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you again in a couple of weeks. Let me know if you need anything.” He hugs me as he leaves.  It bothers me to know that he does it because he is expected to. Not because he could give a damn, but it is my fault in the end. Never was there always had something. Time is a beautiful thing until you realize just how ugly it truly is.

And Other Things From This Time Preview

Staying Down

My mind is going a mile a minute
A minute a mile and I have to remember
This is only a symptom
Of something that I have created
I wish I could forget or maybe remember
Not everything has to have a reason
Heavy-handed and light-headed
I miss the days where none of this mattered
Picking my words wisely, won’t know
Which ones will be my last
Though I kind of figured
The way things are, the way they are going
It might be sooner than expected

Thoughts in My Head

When the world ends
There won’t be anything left to say we were here
But I’m sure somehow, some way
I’ll be staring at your face for all eternity
Your demon-like eyes and your poisonous thighs
Will all, but warm me by the fire
So cold I will still be, that none of this
Will ever seem like it truly exists
Trapped in a wake
Trapped in an illusion
It doesn’t need a name but
Most people call it hell
I can feel your newly developed spines
Piercing the skin, digging deeper
Your cold dead fingers latch onto my soul
I know now that you will never let go
I told myself it was okay at first
But now I wish I could cut and run
Trapped in my mind
Trapped in my head
Most people call it a nightmare
I’m left calling it home

 

You Are Cordially Invited to the Holy Union of Bailey Bigsby and Archie Spellman

A man dressed in a once crisp tuxedo is now covered in cake and blood. His rental is far from returnable which only adds to his horrible experience tonight. He stands next to a police detective that is taken down his every word about what happened this evening.  He tells the detective about how beautiful the ceremony had been. He tells him about how much fun they were having. He tells him all about how quickly it was all came to an end. Two police cars over an older lady dressed in her Sunday’s best is saying the same thing. On the other side of the parking lot, a group of friends replay the same story over and over. Some of the people are in tears and some of them are so shocked that they have resorted to the not saying a single word.

The family of the deceased is nowhere to be found hidden away from the other guests. They are the only suspects the police even have and they have nothing to do with the events today, but if the police dug lightly at the surface they would surely find plenty of motive. The police would only have to ask the father of Archie Spellman to find what it is they are looking for. Mr. Spellman wanted nothing to do with this event, to begin with, even before it became a murder scene, which is really sad because the grandkids would have truly been beautiful. But no worries for Mr. and Mrs. Spellman they have two other sons to replace the one they lost today. The same could be said of about Mr. and Mrs. Bigsby, but they lost their only daughter today not a son. To say the families were at war would be stretching it since neither family was better than middle class. Even though they are the only suspects in a crime with no real suspects they would be better suited to be seen as victims of a horrible mistake.

See their children died for no greater reason than revenge, a revenge that had nothing to do with them. No the silenced bullet that came across the other side of the cove in which they were holding the reception party was never supposed to find its way into Archie’s skull. The bullet in question was meant for an even more important man, a man whose death would have meant something. The same goes for the two shots that enter into Bailey’s neck and chest, spraying blood all over the beautifully arranged flowers and decorative tablecloths the kind with the frilly shit no one really cares about, were never hers to except either. Till death do us apart was a vow they were able to keep even if they only made it less than a few hour ago. It is rather ironic, poetic if you will considering that over half of the guests had bets on whether or not they would even make it a year. No, the bullets and the death, the blood and the pain weren’t meant for them. They were meant for the canceled wedding party. Who was lucky enough to avoid their very own deaths. After a fight, they had earlier in the week led them to cancel their very own holy union. The reception that was supposed to have taken place today was for Alexis Fife and Joseph Ashburn, and who is Joseph Ashburn?

Well, Joseph Ashburn is the only child of Detective Ashburn. The same Detective Ashburn that is currently grilling the families of the deceased when all of this has more to do with him than anyone else. See if he hadn’t tried to extort some money out of the local mafia the hit would have never been called, and none of this would have ever happened.  It is funny how life is made up of nothing but chances. Little opportunities to change everything around us. Even the ones we don’t know.  Had the couple not chosen to fill the empty spot left behind by Fife and Ashburn they could be enjoying their new life rather than the inside of a body bag. Life is funny.

All We Have Are Lies

Lately, I have been feeling as though everything is escaping me. As though life itself is nothing more than a silly, meaningless game that I have to play. Win or lose, rich or poor, but unlike a game, I can’t start over or walk away. I hate this feeling. This looming feeling of waiting to die because I have nothing else better to do. It is a waste and worst of all I know it is. Though I do nothing to change or fix the odds in my favor. If this was a game by now I would have found a way to cheat.

I’d find a way to make it all seem easier or seem more fun. In reality, though it doesn’t get better and all the fun is long gone. I’m an adult now. Any new experience is only one I’ve felt before taken to some new extreme. Any thought is only one I have repeated to myself one more damn time. All that I need to know to survive is known to me to some degree or another. I would like to think that life still has some surprise left for me, but in my heart, I know it really doesn’t. Life is what it is, and what it is, is pretty shitty.

The world is left with broken dreams and heartache. Bleak, I know. The truth often is. The truth is often the worst thing about life. It is the lies that we truly enjoy. It is lies that move us in our minds and in our lives. We would like to think that it is the opposite the other way around, but it has never been that way. Our past is made up of lies and so is our future. I’ll lie and say that isn’t all right, that isn’t the way it should be. But in truth it is alright and that is the way it is. If it wasn’t for lies most if not all of us would be dead, dying, or in the ground.

I think, I know that is why we follow a religion, false prophets, science or any other bullshit we drug ourselves with. These false promises of something better made out of lies. These things are not better. They are only the same with different surroundings. Heaven is no way to live just a lie we tell ourselves to keep going. A dream to push us to that next level, but every level is the same. Play any game it is the same. The outcome and the process, are the same.

If you want to get to where I am. Start ripping out the stitches made of lies. Pull the skin apart and realize we were all we ever needed to survive.

Broken Up Thoughts – Child Like

Things have changed. I have changed yet I am still stuck between child and adult. Gridlocked between wanting to be my own person and doing what I’m told. I’m so depressed I just feel like giving up. Child like thoughts still laced within my mind. The thoughts, the train of thought too hard to shake. The ideas burning through my mind. What’s the point in fighting if you can’t win? My life is descending into a lost cause. A hopeless excuses to wake up every morning. The slope gets steeper and steeper each day as more and more shit piles up at the top. If only I could Hide under a rock and never come out. A grave of despair. Disappear in a way that I’m still alive, but no one would even know I’m here. If only I could, I would. So sick of this and so sick of that. An endless wave of adolescent thoughts in an adult body. Need to grow up, but when and how?

We give it up
We give it all up in blood
Until we are nothing
Never enough for some or no one at all
We turn it over
We turn it over with our souls
Until we have nothing left
Never enough for most or anyone at all
We work it all
We work it all with our lives
Until it is all we are
Never enough so we come back for more

I was forced into a room full of strangers. Eight hours straight of waiting in line, on a plane, and yet another chair. Only to be placed in a place I did not know with people I don’t know. I was so lost I didn’t know what to do. Disappeared into the air. It didn’t take long before I started drinking like there was no tomorrow, and many nights I wished for the words to be true. I didn’t know what to do. I was done. Felt like a child in this adult body. Parents are entrusting in the idea that you will always be their child. They will always want you to act as one no matter what your age. I think it has to do with a self-conscious need to also feel young. To feel as though yes I am an adult, but my children are still kids so I’m not that old. Farthest from the truth. At some point the child too has to become an adult. An equal to both his or her parents and their peers. With adult needs and adult demands, and yes it is hard to let go. But is has to be done. My mother refuses to as I imagine most mothers do. It creates a conflict of interests for my generation and the last. Trapped between nothing and something. Act like an adult, but you are still a child. A sense of identity is hard to accomplish under the watch full eyes of our parents. A problem propelled by the increase of age. Life expectancy is tearing down the fabric of our society. As a child of this generation and a human being I can’t say whether I’m for or against it. I can’t lie and say I don’t need the help. At the same time I don’t want it. Feel trapped within my own skin. Ungrateful for not wanting to give in.

Wearing myself thin, dead skin mask
Stretched so tight, who am I supposed to be
If I can’t be you
Envision myself to be better
Lies I tell myself to get by
Broken boned and everything I despise
Two more days and I’ll be okay
Keep telling myself the same old shit
Hasn’t worked yet, what’s the meaning of insanity
Beating my head against the wall
Soon all the thoughts will flow out
Soon all that is wrong will be right again
Long drawn out thoughts
With no meaning at all

 

Good Times In My Head (Vulgar)

I can’t stand being here any longer. I can’t stand the control you think you have over me because you are in “charge.” Every day spent here is a waste of my time. I just want to scream in his face, but “insubordination leads to termination” or whatever the stupid ass saying is at this shit hole. The asshole in question is a ponytail wearing prick who thinks he has some form of hold over me because he is the lead. A worthless fucking title that basically means he has failed harder than me. Of course, I want the title too. If you are going to fail at least burn that mother fucker into the ground go for management. All he has over me is a need to not want to be homeless or in jail. They don’t tell you that when you are young. Follow your dreams, follow this, but don’t worry about the reality that is life. “It’s to work or it’s to jail.” All Hail by The Devil Makes Three. (That’s a real song. Check it out sometime.)

We choke down these broken ideas of a future that can’t be for everyone. If everyone got to do what they wanted why would we have war? If all it took was hard work why would anyone ever give up? Lies, jokes splashed into our young faces in hopes to grow a few flowers out of the bull shit. Reality is that most of us will only get buried in the ground. Fighting for sunlight and hoping for a chance at something. A root deeply rooted into the ground. All I know is that he is lucky.

Lucky I still drink the water or his ponytail wearing ass would be on the floor. Three hits is all it would take. One hit to the face, another for his ponytail to whip around, and him hitting the floor. If only I had enough venom to stand up to his abuse. I’d do it and laugh my ass off out of the building. Strip my clothes off and run around carrying a lighter screaming, “I am the one true God. The fire inside us all.” Turn this assault into a real show of insanity. The perception of which all of this really is. Here I am a grown man about to ask if I can go to the restroom like a fucking child. Whoever came before him must have been some twisted fuck or maybe his parents did a number on him. Either way, I don’t care if he was beaten daily as a child or made to do every horrible thing at this fucking place. At some point, you’ve got to make a stand and say enough is an enough. I’m not them and they are not me.

“Excuse me, Mr. Goodwin.” He stops stocking for a moment. “Yes,” he says in his smug fucking tone. “May I use the restroom?” I ask as calmly as a man burning alive from the inside can. “It will count as one of your breaks.” I only get two of these fucking things I think. “If you really want to waste one of your breaks on using the restroom then, by all means, go ahead.” I want to waste one of them mopping up his blood, a thought I keep to myself. The warmth of my piss takes a hold of my shorts before he can open his dumb fucking mouth again. I look him dead in the eyes, “No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” He glances at my urine-soaked crotch. He wants a child than a child he shall get. “Did you just piss yourself?” I look down at my crotch, “Looks like it.” His face is full of disgust. I don’t laugh and I don’t smile before turning away. Going back to work all I can think is I’m just grateful I didn’t have to shit.

Running Into Traffic Preview

Awaken

Blood drips from the walls, “Awaken.” Blood drips from the walls as shadows dance above me. They take the form of hooded nightmares, “Awaken.” They chant over and over for no reason at all until I obey. Shaking I reach for the glass on the nightstand. Straight whiskey and straight down. The whiskey makes me what to puke, even after all this time, to the point that I don’t know if I have or it is only the burn of the liquor. I light a cigarette as I sit up in bed. I can still hear their words just as I did as a child. “Awaken,” they chant but why? Why always the same nightmare from my past. The darkness of the room subsides as I put out the half-finished cigarette. I want to sleep but I want to reach for the light just as much. A darkness resides in me. A darkness I am no closer to understanding even in adulthood. I begin to drift asleep once again.

The blood drips down the walls of the hall. I hesitate before continuing the cold sticky feel with every step. A low light at the end of the hall grows as I get closer. The blood drips into pools as my eyes focus on the light. I enter the room at the end of the hall. Lite with candles I can see the bodies lying in the corners of the room, but I can’t make out their faces. Living or dead I do not know. I can feel my pajamas becoming saturated with blood as I stand there in horror. Panicked I drop to the floor. The figures rise and come towards me as I scream. “Awaken,” they chant as a deep rhythm comes from beyond them. I scream louder and louder until I awake to the sound of my neighbor pounding on the wall. “Awake the fuck up you freak,” he shouts. My pissed soaked pants clinging to my legs. “Fuck you,” I shout back. “Fuck you,” I whisper under my breath.

My therapist says that I should keep a sleep journal. Write down my thoughts and dreams. How I feel. Scared I feel scared and confused. The images don’t leave my mind I tell her every time. A sleep journal is pointless, but all she says is that it will help. Help what? Relive the same nightmare over and over again. My brain hurts from the hangover. My brain hurts from all the thinking. I want to drain my skull and forget it all. Hit start over and watch it drift away. Can’t sleep without the drink. The drink is what got me in trouble. A cycle of bull shit. I wish I knew where this started. Wish I could remember so I could forget. The day goes on but it is the night that I fear.

Work is hard to come by for a drunk. Another lost job doesn’t mean much when you live in a shit hole, to begin with. I trade my food stamps for cash. Be easier if they only feed my addiction and not my stomach. I have another interview for some shitty job later today. The interview is easy. It is easy to get the job, but keeping one on no sleep and a deep hangover is the hard part. Even worse when the days bleed together as they have lately. Is today the interview? Or is it tomorrow? Taking another drink. “What does it matter anymore?” I ask no one in particular. A radiant silence feels the room. One more couldn’t hurt.

“Awaken for we are here. Awaken,” the voices chant. A wetness hits my head. Drip after drip, “You must awaken. The demon calls for a sacrifice. Awaken child for it is time.” I awaken as a drop of liquid smacks the center of my forehead. I wipe it clean and even the moonlight that lights my room I can tell that it is blood. Scared I scramble to sit up in my bed. Another drop smacks the top of my head. I look up at the ceiling and scream as I fall out of bed. A large dark spot rests over my bed. I begin to weep as I sit on the floor. What has been done? “Why are you so weak?” A voice from the corner asks. I can see a shadowy figure but can’t make out the features in the dark. “We had so much hope for you. You only failed us in the end,” the figure continues. I want to reach for the light but I am too scared. “Maybe it is because you were the last of them. Could that be why you are so weak? Could that be why you never fulfilled your purpose? Your brothers were no better. Dying in wars or failing after a few murders, but at least they embraced what they were,” the figure pauses. “What,” I finally bring myself to say. The figure ignores what I said, “You seek help and use alcohol like a crutch. So weak you have become. Could it because you are my son? Were we not hard enough on you as we were the others? I question our actions every day. Did we do the right things? Too much faith in one’s actions leads them to failure.” I wipe the tears from my face and only find more blood, “What happened to my neighbors upstairs?” “Don’t you know that after all this time you have awaken?” The figure asks. The scream of a little voice pierces the night air. “It would appear that you have missed one,” the voice states before laughing. “My child the failure.” “I am not your child,” I shout back. “Are you not? Rise and finish what you have started,” the figure shouts back. The screams upstairs have turned to loud sobbing. Without thought I stand up. I try to fight my actions as I grab the bloody knife off the nightstand and leave the room. Slowly ascending the stairs the knife drags against the wall leaving a trail to where I am going. The knife follows a similar path as before. Bloody footprints descends the worn out stairs. My footprints retrace my previous steps. How can I not remember this from before? Entering the apartment I look down the long hallway at the light at the end. A shadow dances from within the room as I continue my march along the path.  Bodies line the sides of the wall execution style. A child wanders around the room crying unable to console herself, unable to understand what has happened. Unable to see the hooded monsters that surround her. From behind me I hear the figure say, “Finish what you have started.”

“I didn’t start this,” I tell the voice. “Of course you did,” the figure laughs. “Who else could have done something like this?” The figure says in its cryptic voice. The unaware child is now aware of me. She walks to me, eyes red from the rubbing, from the tears. She stands before me scared, but unsure. “You can’t fight what you are destined to do. Fate has a place whether you believe or not. Best to do what needs to be done,”the figure’s voice is somber but unapologetic. My body and soul on rails does what I tell it to not. I grab the child by the neck and push her to the ground. Her little body fights it but she contains no equal strength to my own. She hits the hardwood floor with a thud. Terror washes over her face. Even she can sense the danger she is in. I cut the child’s eyes out of her skull. I weep for my sins.  As I listen to her screams it becomes so clear that everything has led up to this. I slit her throat and watch as her little heart push the blood out of her throat until there is no more strength. Flashes of the past enter my mind. Face after face, I realize the monster I have become, the monster I have always been. “In the darkness child is when we learn what we truly are. In the darkness is when our true self awakens,” the cryptic voice lingers in my mind. “Awaken.”

 

Awaken will be featured in my forthcoming book Running Into Traffic… When that will come out who knows, but hopefully this year… It will be my second short story collection… It will cover a wide variety of topics… Similar to my last one, but with less emphasis on serial killers this time around… Horror in general really…. well it depends on your definition of horror… If I haven’t sold you on the book yet it ain’t getting any better… But I am excited about it… I think it contains some of my best work so far… and it also means that this other story that has been in my head for years will finally be done… told you… 

Look for Running Into Traffic at a Kindle store near you… at some point…. 

Oh… If anyone wants to collaborate on a cover… I don’t have one set in stone so let me know… or if you have a cool idea for a cover… I was thinking of continuing using my paints for covers (See A Lie)… but I was told they don’t really convey a story or incite a riot… Whatever the fuck that means… 

The Last Great Band (Part 2 Vulgar)

Part 1 posted yesterday… Might want to read that first… I love the rebel in you…

Slowly the light begins to cut through the darkness and immerse the crowd in its glow. The light rises high above the back of the stage before flickering for a moment. The light goes completely out once again as the prerecorded music begins to play. In the absences of light the fans begin to chant, “Suicide, suicide, it’s time to die.” The chant becomes hypnotic repeated over and over again. Lost in a daze of the darkness and the sound time became slower. Out of nowhere, the light behind the stage comes back at full capacity to reveal itself as a giant LED inverted cross. In the darkness, the crew had raised a thin curtain in front of the stage. The band’s shadows appear on the curtain bathed in red. The fans stop chanting and begin cheering. Clive rips into the opening riff for “God’s on a Holiday.” His shadow dancing across the curtain and the black hole begins to circle the concert floor. The black hole only grows as the song continues on. I don’t know if everyone or anyone will make it out alive, and it is at this moment that I begin to question if anyone is supposed to. As the first of many breakdowns begins the curtain drops revealing the band to the crowd. All the members have joined in at this point creating a symphony of sound and carnage. From the side of the stage, I can see the band quite clearly. The band is out for blood and the fans are more than willing to give them every last drop within them. I have never seen a band like this and I wonder if I ever will again. The moments of that night flashback and forth in my mind like an LSD trip. Some days I wonder if I am there at this moment or here in the now.  The energy of the show that night took a hold of me and everyone in that building and none of it was lost as the band went into their next song, “The Soul Needs It.” Despite it not being a hit song the song gets more energy from the crowd and the pit than the last one. Clive changed the solo to this song to a more complicated one than the one recorded on tape years ago. At the time though I didn’t know that. At that moment it was all so new to me. Mike wasn’t kidding when he said they play heavier live. Though to be honest I don’t know if even modern recording could capture the energy the band puts out live. Mike’s drums rumble with the power and rage of thunder. As he strikes each hit after hit across his kit it is as though the earth around you is coming apart. Clive and Beatrix’s guitars crash like lightning directly into your body cementing you in place. But it is Korbin with his words that truly take you somewhere else.  He sings as though he is God himself delivering a message. Everything works so beautifully that one’s mind gets lost in it all and yet you understand everything that is happening around you. I remember the crowd as they tore each other apart. Bloody knuckle after bloody knuckle smashing into each other’s faces. The cries and screams of the crowd begging for the pain to stop yet they continued as though nothing was wrong. I remember the faces of the women who stripped as they walked to the center of the black hole. The only calm place on the floor that night. I watched and I understood as they laid on the floor covering themselves head to toe in blood. Men emerged from the crowd and the women maybe five or six of them began stripping the men before getting down on all fours to face the band. Their faces dripping with blood and sin as the men fucked them from behind. Even through all the noise that night I swear that I could hear their laughter and their cries of pleasure. Transfixed I barely noticed that the music had stopped. Korbin’s voice sounds like an angel with bent wings as he greets the crowd, “Thank you all for coming out tonight. Many people fear this day, but as I stand here to bare witness there is no reason to fear the devil. Who’s ready to bleed for their maker?” The crowd erupts as the heaviest version of “Don’t Fear the Devil” begins to play. The lyrics are fit for a day that only comes once every thousand years. A song about the evils of the world, a song about the truth, and a reason we should all rejoice on this day.

The men and women in the center of the black hole switch out with other men and women from the crowd. Their naked bloody bodies gleaming in the red glow from the cross. The band plays on with the songs “Bone Collectors of West Memphis” and “Cruel Intentions and a Kind Soul” before thrashing into their number one single, “As We Vanish.” Through the red hue of the lights, I see what could only be described as the figure from early in the evening. Only now there are more of them beginning to surround the band. They stand in a wall like formation and watch on as Clive switches guitars during the extended drum and bass solo. I hear Korbin lead into the second chorus of the song as Clive begins the riff I stare off into the crowd. The amount of bloody naked bodies has tripled and more couples have made it to the center of the black hole. Korbin’s voice echoes as he sings, “I will die mother fucker, I will die and vanish in time.” As I turn my head back to the band I see them all drop to the ground. What seems to be very fake suddenly becomes very real when Mike falls off the drum risers hitting the ground with such force I can hear it through the feedback of Clive’s guitar.  Beatrix’s body lies on top of her bass convulsing as blood and foam comes out of her mouth. Korbin lays flat on his back shaking as the foam is spewing out of his mouth and on to the floor around him. His mic has rolled across the stage and stopped next to Clive who is lying on his side hunched over his guitar not moving. The once loud crowd becomes silent as the house lights come one. The figures that once surrounded the band have disappeared in the light. The crowd begins to scream, to cry, and to lose their minds. Those covered in blood on their naked bodies scream the loudest. Those clothed and not chosen try to help the others in the chaos. Everyone in the room becomes confused for one reason or another. Those on the floor begin to cry as everything comes crashing down. They finally see the band and the medical staff surrounding them. Many of the fans begin to fall to the floor filled with emotions. I watched as one of the naked women from the center go into the fetal position and begin to rock back and forth. A strange image that is suddenly broken when the crowd’s confusion turns to anger. Those still left standing rush the stage as those stationed in front of the stage fight for their lives extra protection moves in. Security holds back grown men and teenaged kids alike as no one still knows what is truly happening or why. The back of the stage is just as hectic as the crowd. Friends and family running around trying to find out anything they can about their loved ones, but no one knows what is going on back here either. Hidden behind all this panic and chaos though is this underwhelming feeling that nothing matters anymore. Nothing means anything anymore. I watched for what seemed like hours before finally just turning around and leaving. I don’t remember getting home, but I remember the blood. I don’t remember what I have been doing the last few months, but I remember the pain.

It has been almost a year since that night. I’ve had a year to process the twenty thousand stories of that evening. Mine included and yet I still don’t understand. No one really does, but those there and those not there. Those that were fans of the band feel the emptiness every day. We listen to the records but somehow it is not the same. If only I had seen them more when they were here. If only I could have seen them again. An investigation into what happened that night yield nothing, but journals detailing ramblings about the devil and the second coming. Many fans of the band didn’t wait for the reports and began making decisions that seem ill-fitting at the time. The initial suicides spurred a wave of suicides throughout the country and the world. Presser was put on the F.B.I to look further into the case. But as the days grew on the F.B.I. couldn’t find any conclusion then they killed themselves to become more famous. A second wave grew out of this conclusion. A wave with one question on their lips, why? Eventually excerpts from their journals found on the tour bus and their shared home in Pittsburgh began to explain some of the question. Beatrix’s journal revealed the reason they chose Los Angles, “A town of fake people pretending they’re alive, but really they are as dead as the rest of us. Los Angeles will be the perfect place to make it permanent.” Stranger things lie ahead though as time went on. Many of the women in the black hole that night became pregnant. Nearly every one of the “Virgin Babies,” as they became to be known, were carried to term. In all of those women that participated that evening six of them produced a child. This in itself is not strange as the world is built on this idea, but what is mysterious is the way that each of their mothers died shortly after. None of whom died to complication of pregnancy, but by their own hand joining those before them that had done much of the same. Not a single one of them left the world with a note or a reason. By all accounts despite the way their children came into this world most were overjoyed. A dark sisterhood they each were having one of the “Virgin Babies,” and yet they each killed themselves. Their offspring were however spared in a sense as their whereabouts are unknown at this time. Only time will tell what will happen to the “Virgin Babies,” or even how much of their own story they will know. As each wave of suicide grew larger so did the mystic of joining those that had committed to the act already. Whole families torn apart by a selfless act. The government began to fear the worst. Feared what they could not understand. What none of us could understand. They asked the media to refrain from any mentioning of the band or suicide in hopes that the, “less we know the better.” Some of the media fought it at first, but in the end most complied in fear of being to blame for the continued deaths.

Many questions were still left unanswered even after a year. No one still knows why this happened even if it was for nothing more than fame they already had it. Most of the information was spread across the four member’s journals, but no one was able to paint a full picture out of any of it. The little that is known, the speculations have only made their legend grow into the biggest mystery in modern time like the assassination of JFK or the collapsing of the twin towers no one will ever really understand what truly took place the night the Virgin Suicides died.

That night opened up my eyes, my soul even. Something changed in me that night. I don’t know if it was the sight of the black figures or the spectacle that was that night or the aftermath that followed. I no longer see this world as a wonderful place full of beauty and wonder. Something about those four losing their lives right before my eyes for no explainable reason. It leaves me feeling not only cheated but also empty and longing for something I can not explain. That night showed me how dirty and filthy this world truly is. We are all filled with rage and hatred and guilt not just for life, but each other. I can’t take any more of this wicked place. My head can’t take any more speculation or questions. Why did they collect the blood? Why did they surround them just before?  Why, why, why? What happens from now until the end of the earth doesn’t matter. Nothing anyone ever does will truly matter. Don’t judge me. Judge yourself. This planet is nothing more than a dumping ground for shit and decay. The world is ugly and you are not alone in thinking that it is. I tried I really did but I can still see them.

Jonathan Murdock

 

 

The end of the Last Great Band… I actually cut a lot of the story to make it fit into a two-day format… Wasn’t sure anybody would want to read a three-day story or close to three thousand words in one go for two straight days… Well on the internet… I would hope someone would want to read the whole story… In a book form… So I did trim the fat so to speak… 

Thank you for reading

The Last Great Band (Part 1)

Skin and Bones magazine issue 9 volume 6

Let the Fun Begin

The amphitheater was alive with the sound of music. The fans were more than pumped and ready to go for the first band of the evening. The up and coming band Plath opened the concert nicely, driving the 15,000 plus fans to start a miniature black hole of a mosh pit. Person after person backstage commented it takes balls to be in there. “You will come out a bloody and bruised mess,” Vicki West of Plath predicted before the show, and she was more than right. The pit was quite large for an opening band, but there were still a lot of fans waiting for the Virgin Suicides to come on the stage before they joined in on the black hole. Most if not all of these fans waiting on the sides wear shirts that signify they are only here for one thing. These hardcore fans are known as the Suicide Squad. The SS wait patiently for the Virgin Suicides to come on watching over the others as though they are an elite military guard. “They sit there waiting because once we come on heads are going to roll. They know this so they save their energy for when they are going to need it. Everyone calls the pit a black hole, but I like to call it the red ring of carnage and mayhem. The last place I would ever want to be is in there with them,” Beatrix of the Virgin Suicides told me. Many of these fans travel from all over the country and even the world. Some are even known to follow the band for whole tours no matter how long or how far. Today is unique in that today is all about them. Tickets for this show were limited to “true” fans only. A selection process that not even the press was allowed access to. To say this isn’t a show for the fans would be a lie. Just looking around one can understand just how much these fans love the band. One fan, in particular, Matt “Skin” Larson, traveled all the way from Chicago to see the band tonight. I asked him before the show why he would travel so far to see one band? “This is the greatest band to ever walk the face of the earth. They are not only the voice of our generation but of life itself.” Strong words from a super fan all of twenty-one years old. However, he was not alone in his thoughts about the band. Many fans from the age of eighteen to even forty-five years old said much of the same. This band runs deep in the hearts of many of these fans. The concert seems more and more like a gathering than a show the longer I stand back and watch.

Despite the venue being packed with Virgin Suicides fans they still warmed up nicely to Plath that night. Plath finished their set with their hit song “Into the Wild.” After a short instrument switch, the band Red Blood Stain Parade amped up the carnage even further. I watched as the pit began to grow to an unruly size. More dangerous and larger the pit moved to a soundtrack provided by a band of misfits from all over the United States. RBSP may be from all over, but they met here in Los Angeles almost a decade ago. They are currently touring in support of their fourth album. Though they have been around for a while now they hadn’t started to make much of an impact on the music scene. That was until they took a little know band as an opening act four years ago. That band was the Virgin Suicides, and by the end of their first tour, they went from being openers to being co-headliners. Since then RBSP has toured a lot with the Virgin Suicides forming a friendship out of a situation most people wouldn’t have. The lead singer of RBSP Ari Stain spoke with me about that friendship.

Skin and Bones: How was it to watch the opening band go from opening to closing on that first tour?

Ari Stain: Strange very, very strange. Unheard of, but really you would have had to see the reaction to the crowd on the first five or six shows to truly understand. I’ve never seen anything like it. Even when we go out on tour with other bands there is still never anything like it. Our band has great fans and I love them, but their fans are die hard, to say the least. The strangest thing about VS is that they are able to turn a crowd in as little as two songs. I know when it first started happening I was pissed, but who wouldn’t be? Luckily though the members of the band are just too cool of human beings to really be pissed at.

Skin and Bones: The band says that Red Blood Stain Parade is a huge influence on them as a band. How do you feel about that?

Ari Stain: They say that all the time. (Smile) But I think in actuality they influence us way more. Every band out there is trying to capture lightning in a bottle, but for them, it is as the lighting goes directly to them. The band is so amazing and it has been more than a blessing to be able to spend these past few years touring together. They can say what they want and I don’t doubt for a second that they aren’t being honest, but honestly, we are just trying to ride the lightning with them.

Due to the amount of touring these two bands have done together many members of the Suicide Squad have joined the pit than for Plath. RBSP packed many of their hits into their forty-five minute set including “Death is Being On the Radio,” “A Cross,” and their major hit “Laptop Diaries.” Nearly every voice in the venue provided the backing vocals for their major hit. It was an impressive thing to hear that night in the amphitheater. It wasn’t until the intermission between RBSP and the Virgin Suicides though that I noticed how much blood was on the floor. It was as though a war was taking place right in front of the stage. Despite the carnage, I felt a slight jealous that I too was not down there with them. Especially now that the Suicides were coming on stage next.

Security rushed in with towels and rubber gloves to clean up as much blood as possible before the Virgin Suicides came on. With the lights on I could see the fans with bloody noses, swollen eyes, and one fan in a white t-shirt was covered in so much blood he looked as if he was a victim of a murder scene. After he took his shirt off and threw it on the floor I realized he was fine other than what I am guessing was a broken nose. His shirt was picked up by a figure dressed completely in black with no markings. If it wasn’t for the lights I’m not sure I would have even noticed the figure. To this day I’m not even sure what I saw. The figure walked back to the side of the stage and took all the towels from security. Clive Godard told me they pass out free waters to the fans for safety reasons more than anything. He also recalled times that this act of generosity has backfired in the form of half-drunken bottles to the face. “I don’t get why they do it, but it’s really nothing more than a death wish. One concert I saw a bottle thrower get their ass beaten by the Squad so bad that we had to stop the show to get him out of there. Since then there has been a whole hell of a lot fewer bottles being thrown, but there’s always one or two assholes in the crowd,” he smiled as though that this was normal. This particular incident turned out to be less than normal for any band. The bottle thrower was never identified nor was he ever seen again. A myth or a legend has grown to an epic level. Mysterious such as the lost bottle thrower, the burning down of multiple hotel rooms, and rumors human sacrifice have followed the band since the early days. This assignment was offered to many other writers, but no one was brave enough to take it. I’m beginning to understand what they mean. There are quite a few ambulances on hand for the concert. Korbin told me, “The fans can get a little crazy. We like them to be as safe as possible, but for some the music can make them go rather insane. Most people not looking to have their face rearranged hang out in the back. Beatrix calls them the Flower Children as a joke, but it has caught on and now they are a subgroup of the Squad.” For a nickname like the Flower Children, there are a surprising amount of men. It seems the name is not reflective of the individuals themselves, but rather something else. All dressed in black and holding orchids they begin to get anxious like the rest of us. It doesn’t take long for the Virgin’s roadies to switch out RBSP’s equipment for their own. As the last roadie exits the stage the lights go out all around us. Out of the darkness, a red glow begins at the stage.

 

End Part 1… Tomorrow Part 2… Don’t worry… No twists this time around… I promise… ; )

Thanks for checking out my long ass story… Hope to see you all tomorrow…