Bats set listies 050612

I love being able to play "Pluto" by Björk whenever I can, however I can.

Such a good goddamn song.

Any hoot, I'm actually working on some ideas for tonight's sets, so I'll keep it brief. Here's last week's sets!

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Bats
The Box - Santa Cruz (industrial/noise/ebm/gothy/punky/post-punk/anything that wears predominantly black)



I

Black Room

A Familiar Taste - Trent Reznor/Atticus Ross
Zero (Totakeke Remix) - Terrorfakt
Psychosomatic - Front Line Assembly
Breathe - Prodigy
Pluto - Björk
Relax and Ride It (Aesthetic Perfection Remix) - Alter der Ruine
Stand Up - Stromkern



II

Black Room

Xcess (Remix) - Slick Idiot
My Violent Heart (Remix) - NIN
Sleep Now (Angelspit Remix) - Angelspit
Join in the Chant (Burn!) [request] - Nitzer Ebb
Days of Swine and Roses (KMFDM Remix) - Thrill Kill Kult
It Speaks - Alter der Ruine
I Feel Loved - Depeche Mode

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On a completely unrelated note from DJing: I'm so glad to see so many people took interest in my latest short, A Pale Horse (The Man in Grey). Despite how *quiet* you've all been (I'm still not sure if that's a good or bad thing) most of the hits for this humble site have been for that particular post. Rad. Please, if you want to post any comments or criticisms, feel free to comment or shoot me an email.

'til next time!

A Pale Horse (The Man in Grey)

I wrote this for my friend's zine down in Buenos Aires; it's still got a second to be published down there, so I wanted to post it here, first.

I hope you dig it. It's especially fun because it's interactive. Check it:

Whenever the gent with the guitar starts to play something, listen to the following songs in this order:

1. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-2y2ovSkCU&feature=relmfu
(Complete Rumba Flamenca)

2. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dsz4zNtHQ9k
(Moonlight Sonata Classical Guitar Eric Henderson)

3. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J_aBRAqgX7k
(Farruca: A Simple Arpeggio Falsetta)

4. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Gzhc7b-ruI&feature=relmfu
(Flamenco Tremolo [Quintuplet])

And for the last section, listen to number two as a bit of a reprise.

I hope you like it.

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September, 1891

The desert

Somewhere in the Old West

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The desert can be so treacherous.

It's so vast, this landscape. So empty. Occasionally, a tumbleweed would trail along my front or back, but eventually the wind would have it dance away to my right. Sometimes a critter would scurry out of the corner of the eye, and if I'm fast enough I could get something of a meal for later. I managed to get a gopher, earlier. I paused behind one of those mounds of rocks that dot the terrain marking someone's grave to light one of my hand rolled cigarettes.

Maybe it was someone I knew. Maybe it was one of their kin.

I took slow strides of steps, my clothes covered in dust and drying sweat.

The red sky was sweltering, but I knew it'd grow cold too quickly.

You can imagine my surprise to see a figure sitting behind a warm glow in the distance, out of the left corner of my eye. He just seemed to appear out of no where. I'd been walking through the desert for weeks, I surely would've seen him at some point beforehand. I came up and made acquaintances. He didn't say anything. He was the man in grey.

He sat across from me, behind the warm yet meager fire, quietly strumming his guitar. He kept toying around with the same few strings; I reckon he was tuning it. He was fixated on whatever it was.

I turned over the gopher from earlier, listening to the meat and fat sizzling over the flames. It'd been cooking for about an hour. Just about done.

He strummed the guitar, seeming satisfied, and began to play something brisk. Powerful. Picking at individual notes before laying down flowing, rapturous chords. Sometimes he'd tap the body of the instrument before strumming more of those cascading notes. His fingers seemed to tap dance with the rhythms he played. I let my mind drift with the melody.

Half his face was covered by the low brim of a wide black hat. He appeared to wear only grey in the dwindling light--a grey jacket, a faded white button-up undershirt, and some grey slacks whose legs were crossed Indian-style beneath him, hiding the feet. All grey, except for the hat and some black gloves seeming to be made of silk, the tips cut off on the top for his strumming and picking. The nails were pale, long and pointy--almost sharpened. You could make out thin, nimble fingers through the material, like a spider's legs, dexterous enough to handle the complicated positions his fingers would make for the intricate chords and arpeggios ringing throughout the desert dusk.

He plucked a few more notes of the guitar before giving a powerful ending strum, and sat still for a moment.

'That's a good'n. Where'd you pick it up?' I asked.

He adjusted one of the nobs on the head of the guitar.

'Feller from Mexico, transplanted from Spain. Said it's a flamenco number he messed around with. Some love story.'

Some love story.

It made me think of the wedding ceremony I took part in some years ago. Not by invitation, not even by choice, but only loathing--both for the institution itself, and the parties at hand. It just happened to be there, in the town I was passing through. I killed the small wedding party. Every last one of them. The parents of the groom, and the father of the bride, as well as her little sister, not more than an adolescent. The bride was the one I took down last. After everyone else's blood and brains were splattered on that pretty dress of hers, I took her down.

He began to play a different song. Something about it immediately caught my attention.

'Wait a second! I know that one! I heard it on piano, once.'

He paused his playing, seeming a bit perturbed, but patiently responded.

'It's Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. I managed to interpret it for guitar.'

I asked him to start from the beginning, to which he obliged.

Doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo...

I stared up at the darkening sky, as the notes drifted throughout the air, beyond the flames of our modest fire. Small stars scattered the nightscape, just beginning their emergence. The dulled colors of the sky and land began to match that of the man in grey. He swayed rhythmically with the gloomy notes he played.

I could hear it over piano, in my mind, but the guitar was equally as beautiful and haunting.

The last time I heard it, I was at a saloon just outside of Reno, making nice with one of the dancers there--her long black hair smelling so vibrantly, taking in every scent as she rested in my arms, kissing me with those rose petal lips.

We were up in her room, getting closer...

'Touch me' she cooed. She rubbed against me. 'Get closer.'

'I ain't in the right state of mind..' I replied, swigging off the whiskey bottle.

'That's kind of the point, cowboy' she laughed as she slinked her fingers through mine, deftly removing the bottle from my hand.

We kissed deeply. She grabbed my neck and brought me closer to her, panting.

'Get closer to me.'

I did. I wanted her.

But something inside of me wanted more.

I turned her around and started kissing the back of her neck, watching her reactions in the stand-up mirror, staring at our reflection.

Then I brought out the knife. My Bowie knife.

I held it against her neck and watched her freeze--her eyes growing wide with fear. She started gasping.

'No--no, I--I didn't--please--please, honey--'

She was so panicked. She walloped me good with the back of her hand against my cheek as she tried to make her escape, cutting me, and pushed me away trying to make a run for it. I laughed and grabbed her by her arm, then pushed her to the ground. She struggled, again taking swats at me however she could. We wrestled a bit more before I sat on her arms with my knees, and clasped her mouth shut. Her eyes were wide; frozen with terror.

I loved it.

'Say goodnight, baby.'

I slid it across her throat and stared into her eyes as I felt her warm blood spray over my shirtless stomach. I watched the terror dim from her eyes and become nothing more than a dulled stare. Her face grew paler and paler and paler, save for the splashes of blood reaching up to her cheek.

As her blood-soaked body lay there, I gingerly picked her up and held her for a moment, staring at the draining beauty.

'If only you knew--' I whispered to her. 'If only you knew. Sorry darlin'.'

I kissed her once more and laid her on the bed, face down. Someone would find her by the morning.

He finished the last few cascading notes, again pausing for a moment and tinkering with the strings and nobs.

The man in grey didn't know from whom he was sitting across.

It's what you do for survival out here: make alliances whenever you can. That's exactly how it happened for me and the stranger: I wandered, he had a fire going, I offered some food and he nodded. A fair trade; no matter of what may occur as the darkness grows.

He began to play another slow, somber piece, and I listened closely. It was a haunting melody. I took a swig of the tequila I nabbed off a tradesman from earlier, and offered him a swig that went unnoticed. He was fixated on his craft at hand, letting nothing else interrupt him. Again he swayed the whole of his body with the tempo of the morose tune. I tipped the tequila back and studied his fingers. He began to play the same notes, but in a more rapid fashion, a quicker tempo. It seemed to change the tone of the piece completely. It came to a frantic, feverish end. After another swig, I gave him a round of applause.

'Thank you,' he quietly acknowledged.

'Quite the minstrel, ain't ya?'

It grew quiet for another moment, as he readjusted the nobs again. I turned over the gopher once more, and tried to get a glimpse of the rest of his face in the glow of the fire's light. No luck. That damn hat was so big it cast a shadow over his mouth and chin, dimming the features.

'Not a man of many words, I take it?'

He shrugged. 'Music is what does the talkin'. Only thing that needs to, really.'

I saw a lizard scurry to my right out of the corner of my eye, whipped around and stabbed it in the back of its neck with my Bowie knife. I'll gut it and put it on another stick over the fire later. Desert dessert. I looked back at the wide-brimmed hat.

'Pretty fascinating how much music can transcend, I do say,' I acknowledged.

He strummed the guitar a bit more and finally responded with another nod.

'It's associated with everything. People write songs to emote the things words can't. The moon, the stars, even this damn desert. No 'ifs,' 'ands,' nor 'buts.''

'Y'know, they say the devil plays a fiddle,' I prompted.

'Indeed, they do,' he responded. There seemed to be a hint of laughter in his tone.

I continued, as I cut the head off the lizard: 'Some say if you outplay him, you can save your soul or make a bargain or what have you. Others say you hear it right before you die, as kind of a courtesy notice of where you're ending up.'

'Interesting...' he half-responded.

As I flayed open its belly, he started playing another slow piece--be it all too brief. Lots of tremolo in this one.

'What about that one? Where'd you learn it?'

He adjusted his hat, slightly.

'That's one they teach kids back in Spain, when they want to learn how to pick up flamenco guitar. Teaches them finger placement, as well as pacing.'

'It's short.'

'I suppose so. Gotta start them off with something, though.'

'Play it again. I like it.'

He thought for a moment, and started playing it again at an even slower pace.

It took me back to the small spot I grew up in, down in New Mexico.

Of my momma.

Religious woman, she was. Feared God and expected the same of me. Drank heavily at the same time, off her White Lightning. Didn't want me getting any smarter, and leaving her. Beating me to a pulp while cursing me for being too much like my 'bastard daddy.' Didn't want me seeing 'any of those whores of girls' in town.

Always keeping me apart from Rebecca, the prettiest girl in town, unapproving of our innocent flirtations with each other. O, how I loved her...

Lessons to live by, she'd call them.

The last time she used the belt on me, spitting out damnations, breath hot with White Lightning, I grabbed it out of her hand and wrapped it around her neck. Her eyes bugged out in those last moments. She was sputtering curses all the while until she gagged the last breath and her tongue stuck out, off to the side.

I broke the bottle and let it spill over the floor.

Burnt the whole house down, I did; her in it.

I then left town. Raised myself since.

Rebecca married soon after, last I heard.

Just then a similar sort of darkness came over me. A trigger was set off within. My eyes honed on in that damn instrument, and the annoyingly quiet musician behind it.

Talk, you smug bastard. Say something more than two goddamn sentences.

'Where'd you get it?' I asked, absently nodding toward the guitar.

I could make out a thin smile cross over the man in grey's face.

'Got it just outside of Albuquerque some 18 years back.'

My brow furrowed and I looked off to the side. 18 years back? That was when...

'Been traveling the land with it ever since. Use it to make money where I can. Saloons, celebrations, weddings...'

I turned my head. Something in my memory remembered a stray guitarist in both the saloon and the wedding ceremony--years apart, but a similar sort of man being there both times.

'Funerals...'

I glared, staring daggers at the stranger before me.

'Wherever I may roam.'

A grimace crossed over my face.

'Always been a nomad, actually.'

I stood up and began to stalk toward the sitting man in grey. I pulled out my Smith & Wesson and aimed it straight at him, yet still he didn't budge. I pulled back the hammer.

'It's a nice instrument. Bet I could make some good money with it, myself.'

He almost stubbornly refused to look up at me.

'Hand it over, padre,' I ordered.

He didn't budge. He didn't even breathe.

'Fine. Make it easy for me.'

I aimed to his heart and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet through the top corner of the guitar which was resting against his chest. The bang echoed throughout the desert sky, traveling onward toward distant canyons and causing the strings to inadvertently play out.

There was gunsmoke coming from my weapon, and some emoting from the bullet hole itself, yet...the man didn't bleed. He didn't even fall back. It was then he raised his head to look up at me with a sinister, skeletal smile.

The stranger had a thin, bony face, with black stained teeth and grey stringy hair dangling beneath his wide brimmed hat. His pallid skin seemed to be stretched out in a thin layer over his skull. His eyes were colorless--just two perfectly round orbs of black. His smile was permanent. My position was stuck, and the gun was still pointing towards him but I couldn't make an effort to pull the trigger again. He then snatched me by the throat.

I suddenly realized that his fingers weren't just dexterous and pointed for fashion: they were, in fact, actual bones. He rose, and as he gripped my neck, I felt an icy chill shoot throughout my entire body; from the beginning of the actual neck, down into my core and spreading with a numbing cold onto my extremities, all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. I wanted to call out, I wanted to scream, but all I could do was stare back at the petrifying figure before me.

His eyes reflected the firelight like black onyx stones. He smiled that same cadaverous smile back at me after a moment, still clutching my windpipe.

'You should've known, boy, that we never travel alone. Ain't no such thing as a free ride. I'm your shadow, always stalking you.'

He tightened his grip and brought me closer to the horrifying grimace. His voice dropped to a demonic growl:

'Always.'

He opened his mouth to let out an almost animal-like roar directly to my face. In doing so, he released a stomach-turning sweetly sour stench accompanied by a swarm of thousands of black flies whizzing out and all around, none of which I could react to, save for a few blinks here and there.

I could feel my lips growing purple and my eyes becoming permanently stuck in a fearful stare. I couldn't move, I couldn't even sputter out a plea. At best, I could only wince at the Pale Death staring me down.

He suddenly dropped me to the ground just as a gust of wind blew out the small fire which brought me to my fate. I could feel everything draining from my being, but my eyes were stuck open, watching his every move.

He smiled down that terrifying grin at me once more, and then strode off some 10 feet before letting out a brief whistle through those black and grey teeth. I began to hear galloping in the distance.

From his right, a gaunt, grey horse with dark spots blotting its body came toward him. His expression didn't change but he patted the animal's rear with sort of a satisfied compassion, as you would a trusty old friend. The guitar had fallen off his wispy body during our altercation, and he strapped it back over his shoulders and swung one slender leg after the other over the horse's black saddle.

He gave me one last tip of his large brimmed hat.

'Been a pleasure, stranger.'

He gave a quick 'Hyah!' and nudged his heels into the Pale Horse, riding off into the night.

I could feel it all washing over me.

It seemed it was about time. I could only look out at the dark landscape and the dots of stars above me. I was so cold inside, it didn't really matter how frigid it actually was all around. I reckon it was supposed to be this way.

A lone fat scorpion crawled next to me and raised itself onto my cheek, when I heard it:

The faint sound of a fiddle playing right behind me, only growing louder and closer to my back.

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Riding away from me in the distance, I heard the stranger's maniacal laughter.

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End.

Writer's spotlight

My interview with Underneath the Juniper Tree is up and ready to read! Go, go, go!!!!

http://underneaththejunipertree.com/?p=1575

Most satisfactory, indeed. :)

I'm working on a spooky old west sorta deal for a friend's zine down in Buenos Aires, but when it's finished I'll be posting it here, first.

Henry Crow (pt. 1)

He wasn't a very nice man.



Henry Crow was not a man known for his blindingly sunny disposition.



He wasn't necessarily the type to make lemonade, when life would hand out lemons, so much as squish them directly into his mouth with a reckless abandon after doing a shot of tequila beforehand, and then subsequently spit on the ground. He wallowed in life's bitterness, at times.



Henry Crow would drift around town after the sun set and the street lights became bright, getting rowdy from bar to bar, breaking the jukebox for not playing his song soon enough on more than one occasion. He was sleazy with the women and sometimes the menfolk too, if his fancy struck him, though more often than not it came to blows of a different kind at the end of the night.



A man with that much bitterness in him has to have had it bore into him right from the start. This was a man who felt life's stinging prick early on. Alcoholic, unattentive parents, countless failed romances, and most recently the death of his closest and only friend, Dave, in a freak accident involving a bear being hurled through a car's windshield. The world made even less sense to him than it had previously, at that point.



Henry Crow was a man who would take whatever he could get. He finds a chilly, near-full beer left alone, he grabs it. He always looked at the ground when he walked, hoping to score a dropped pack of smokes or some other forgotten trinket lying on the streets, undiscerning as to what he may find. He was dirty and grizzled, a slight hunch in his stature and very gaunt; a decent dresser but nothing too flashy, clothes always a bit wrinkled--always a slight bounce in his step. His hair was a thick mess of brown that he'd haphazardly slick back from his face. His brow was dark and thick, and always furrowed into a frown. Even when he laughed, it sounded more like a demonic cackle.



People were always a bit wary around him, though each person expressed it differently. Some react to the fear by staying away, while others would want to poke and pry, seeing what lay underneath the gruff exterior. Often, the latter came with some form of price on the offending party's part.



Henry Crow was a man alone in a dark and dreary world, made darker by his emptiness without Dave and by his own dark mind.



Soon, at least, he'd have one last evening with his oldest, closest friend.



...



Flying bear to the fucking face, he thought to himself as he meandered through the store.



What the fuck?



He stopped in front of the beer, grabbing a cheap 40 for the road. He managed to have a bit on him, magically finding a five dollar bill earlier on, and decided to splurge for the night. He even got his own pack of smokes. He took dull thuds of strides back to his flat. He felt particularly tired that night.



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Slowly he walked up the stairs and almost collapsed through the door as he unlocked it, gripping the black plastic grocery bag tightly. He flicked on the lights and stared at the pile of papers on his tiny kitchen table, adjacent some three feet to his miniature (and rather unkempt) stove top against the wall. He hadn't swept in a while. It was chilly in there.



He rested the black bag on the table and sifted through the contents: his 40 and a pack of Camels--and something else...? Some prize was still resting in the bag, an error either he or the cashier didn't notice. He peeked in. Deli turkey, roasted, thin-sliced. He took it out of the bag and studied it, smelling it, making sure there wasn't anything particularly foul or grotesque on it. He tested just a nibble, and gave a few minutes before grinning to himself and breaking open the 40, taking a few large gulps and then going over to his dingy fridge. He broke out the bread and mayo and topped it with a bit of mustard.



Henry Crow was a scandalous man.



He put on some Mozart as he bit into his free meal. He almost thought it must've tasted better simply by the fact it was given to him by plain dumb luck. The musical accompaniment made it all the more delectable. He attacked that damn sandwich. This was going to make the work week all the more sweeter, knowing he could have that bit of food to come home to. He had plenty else for his mind to fixate itself on, otherwise.



Dave floated to the front of his mind for an instant, as he was about halfway through his dinner. He paused for a moment to take a sip from the 40, offering a bit in remembrance of his friend. He toasted the air in solidarity, letting out a crisp exhale after a few large swigs of the malt liquor.



Dave would approve of this, he thought to himself.



Dave would've done the same thing, if he found that prize in his bag.



After he swallowed one particular bite about halfway through, he felt a tinny sensation roll over his tongue. His taste became metallic, like he'd had some pennies in his mouth. He coughed a bit, clearing his throat, and went for the bottle again to wash it down. He stood there for a moment, feeling a dizziness starting to come over him as he leaned against a metal chair. He started to notice time seeming to slow down, and a heaviness sinking directly into his skull. He looked down at the seemingly innocent sandwich still in his hand.



Mother..fucker..., he thought, as he started to pass out.



He collapsed face down onto the linoleum floor before him, the sandwich hopping out of his grip and flinging itself all over the ground. He lay there, one arm outstretched, the other tucked beside him; he felt his legs going. His breathing was steady, but still a bit slow. He felt paralyzed--his eyes bugged wide open, stuck in a stare at his tiny, messy excuse of a living room. He couldn't even make a noise.



Without warning, a familiar voice came from above.



'Oh, Henry?'



Henry Crow's eyes rolled as far as they could toward the side and saw what appeared to be the silhouette of his old friend, Dave, blocking out the lamplight and looking down at him, pitifully.



Dave smiled and leaned down, whispering into his ear: 'You get to learn you a lesson tonight, friend.'



His eyes glazed over and everything went black before him, traces of "Rondo Alla Turca" jubilantly wilting away in the distance.



...



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(This one's gonna have a lot of dark humor. I'm excited.)

Friday the 13th edition

I've been working on another short story for the past week or so, and I wrapped it up earlier today. I like it, I hope you do, too.

(Though I'm probably going to work on fleshing out the ending. Damn those endings!)

...

Busted, bloody knuckles.

I always have busted, bloody knuckles.

Little rubies, little rivers of lava embedded with small flesh platelets. They only hurt when I touch them on certain spots, at least. Otherwise, it feels like a badge; a reminder of protection.

...

I went to visit my grandparents' grave site, as I do every Sunday. I find cemeteries to be peaceful places as a whole, and frequent them often to clear my thoughts and be still for a moment. Theirs is my favorite, both for sentimental and aesthetic value.

The gravel road gives way to fine dirt, a few precocious pebbles scattered throughout. Small grassy mounds give way to vast, rolling hills of the dead. For the dead. A variety of wooden, rotting crosses, some barely together still, paired next to areas of awful beauty; a marbled Christ resting his weary head upon the cross, and a stained Mary weeping at chiseled feet. Standard headstones broken in half, one only reading 'MY MOTHER,' rest next to grandiose mausoleums in the privy lots for the privy few. A beautiful ivory woman sits contemplatively atop a checker-topped sarcophagus in a flowing dress, hand resting on her chin, staring down at the pattern before her.

The day was dark, and the wind was strong. It howled through the passageways throughout the cemetery as I clung onto my overcoat, trying to keep warm. It was menacing, that Sunday. It seemed to loom overhead, whatever the impression was, and its presence was felt with every passing step.

Even the statues seemed to gain sensation.

Even the beatific angels seemed to be screaming.

...

I sat down on the grass cross-legged, next to their grave. I lit up a cigarette and took a slow drag--I've managed to cut down and it was my first one in two weeks at the time.

'EVANS'

The name stared back at me. A small anchor designed onto his side, a delicate rose etched onto hers. They didn't live more than three years without each other.

The sky was gray, ominous clouds rolling over me. I heard a slight rumble of thunder in the distance. Rain was on the way, so I made the decision to leave a bit earlier than planned. I kissed a finger and laid it on the stone.

"'Night, guys," I sighed to myself before trudging off.

A heaviness seemed to sink on my chest. I could even feel it resting on my shoulders. Something dark wanted to grasp my attention. I kept walking at a steady pace along the dirt road, feeling the condensation rise in the air, occasional drags off my rapidly dwindling cigarette. A few mist droplets landed near its pointed ember.

Won't be long now, I thought to myself.

A few drags more, and I flicked the end of the smoke a few feet in front of me, and squished it underneath my boot's sole.

The statues almost seemed to have a mind of their own. I passed a display of life and death--a woman dancing with the shrouded figure of a skeleton, forever dipped in a mournful embrace. She seemed weary, and her fingers curled upright uncomfortably, as though she was enormously fatigued by her struggle.

When they gained distance behind me, I swore I could hear a piano tinkling an eerie tango near their plot.

As I walked long, weary strides along the path, some part of the sensation looming throughout the cemetery started to come over me. My thoughts began racing, blurry images in my mind playing with my actual eye sight, things seeming strained in front of me. I felt something crawling inside me, writhing underneath my skin. I felt it creep along my spine, causing my whole body to shudder. I felt my muscles tense up. Suddenly, for no reason, I felt a burning within my very core, and I lashed around, screaming and striking the closest thing to me. My fist hit the delicate features of a granite statue, a man in a cloaked hood standing guard at one of the mausoleums, half his face hidden--only a sullen mouth and stern chin to be seen; a moss-ridden bible in his hands. My hand, now completely dulled with pain and stuck in a tight grip, came back to me. A new, shiny, perfectly straight slit appeared on my thoroughly calloused middle knuckle, while two bright new red dots on the opposing sides stared back at me. Powder from the stone breaking against my skin coated the open wounds. I looked back at the statue.

My blood made perfect little imprints into the slight indentation I made on its gray skin, along the chin. And as I stared at it, the statue seemed to raise its head, as if raising its gaze toward me, its mouth straightening into a tight grimace. I froze, startled.

The statue...shook its head very, very slowly at me. As if it were saying 'No, no, no...

I took a step back, gasping in surprise.

'Time to go. It's time to go,' I decided to myself.

'Noooooo, don't LEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAVVVE usssss!' they rasped.

As the wind picked up, lightning struck nearby, almost lighting one of the dead trees aflame. Indistinct moaning seemed to be rising from nowhere. The heaviness on my shoulders became almost unbearable, and I felt the adrenaline surge through my body as I spun around and ran down the hill, desperate to get back to my car.

There was a deafening choir of groans, cries and howling winds in my sprint back to safety. Dirt and debris kicked up into my eyes, blinding me for an instant and causing me to trip over myself just as I reached the bottom of the hill, the cemetery gates not more than 20 feet in front of me. I landed on my chest and a bit of my face, slightly winded for an instant, but rolled over and hobbled over to my parked car, thankful for the enclosure.

I could still hear them faintly moaning as I took in deep breaths and tried to steady myself, sweat beading all along my brow. I dipped my head into the inside of my shirt to wipe it off, and gave a bit of a chuckle to myself as I reached inside my coat pocket to get my keys and take off out of there, back to the comfort of a steadying drink in the privacy of my home.

They weren't in the pocket I normally place them in.

As I checked the other pockets, it became painfully aware to me that they fell out at some point during my mad dash back to the automobile. I felt my heart sink to the very center of the earth. I had to go back and look for them. The day was only getting bleaker, making the possibility of walking to the nearest establishment null. Even then, it was at least 10 miles up the road. I didn't have a cell phone on me. There was no other way.

Slowly, I stepped outside of my car, and turned to face the cemetery again.

'Cooooommmme baaaaaaaaaaaccccck!' they cried, as eerie laughter followed.

I took a deep breath and adjusted my coat, and strode through the iron gates.

I looked only on the ground, desperate to see something silver and not let the terrifying noises and movements out the corner of my eye throw me off. They seemed to only get louder, having a competition with the roaring wind, chanting and crying from all sides around me.

However, as I began to ascend back up the hill, just at the base of it, one noise in particular seemed to stand out from the rest. A beautiful, soothing, calming voice rose above the cacophony, and said to me a simple, 'Wait..'

I turned to the voice, over to my left, and noticed a placid angel resting underneath a wreath of orange and brown leaves from a dying blackberry bush, weaving themselves above her head and all over the body. Her outstretched wings covered in brown, thorny, veins. Her hand was outstretched toward the heavens contemplatively, and on one of those very vines entwined around her index finger hung my misplaced keys. After a bit of struggling and maneuvering, and a few more cuts on my hands, I retrieved them and stared at the angel for a moment.

She raised her blank eyes to the sky, and commanded me to go.

A booming groan went off behind me, breaking my fascination, and I darted past the gates and back into my car.

I switched on the lights, started the engine, and peeled off onto the gravel entryway. I smoked a cigarette when I reached the freeway. Even the clouds let up when I reached the main road.

.

I do still visit every Sunday, to this day.

But only when the weather's good.

...

.

Ladies in White

There is always
A Lady in White

In every empty home
On every breaking step
There is always
A Lady in White

And on every breaking rung
Glides her flowing white gown
Her quiet voice rings out
In every deafening silence
Oh, but who is she?
We always must know
Who is she?
Is she but a figure of imagination
Or did she truly used to be?
Oh, but who is she..?

In every aching stairwell
There is always
A Lady in White
Or at a vacant crossing
Is the Lady in White

Stories whispered
About a past
But we don't know what's true
We don't know what's true

Just a sweet perfume
Blowing past,
Wafting near
The same whose clicking heels
We hear
She is
The Lady in White

Rapping, echoing at our doors
There is always
The Lady in White

The Ladies of Sorrow (wrap-up)

Well, I've managed to finish up one of my bigger attempts to write something.

It started as the first entry in here, as well as being the first real big effort of my own to write something...different.
edit: http://gabrielgrub.blogspot.com/2008/10/ladies-of-sorrow-unfinished-dream.html/ (Since it effed ish up.)

And it wraps up...here

...

While Madonna moves
With woeful grace
The Third will leave blood
In her trace

And the Second Sister
Sighs her weary song
Her gentle weeps, the melody
The Third cries out unholy screams
And bitter cackles
For her trickery

She breathes fire into lungs
From heavy bosoms, hidden
Behind black, draping locks
And lips cold,
Frozen
Like midnight
On a first winter's eve

Her dance
Is for the Mysteries
That haunt us
Long after
Laid to wake
And her title
Is The Youngest
Our Lady
Of Darkness

Praise the Ladies of Sorrow!

As there were three Fates
There are three Ladies of Sorrow
For three Graces,
There are three Furies,
Just the same
Their laughter is unheard
Their songs, unsung,
They speak the symbols,
While we dream the words..

Untitled woodland number

And I've walked the darkened woods
And heard the shadows speak
Seen them twist and contort
Through different shades of night

I've seen violence in the girl
And pity in the man
Fingers outstretched
Like the desperate,
Brittle limbs

They crave the cold and dark
The bite of winter's frost
Shades of grey
Shades of gloom
Far removed of warmth
The flowers have no bloom
No existence

And in the fading sun's light
I wonder if the shadow
Walking beside me
Is that of my own
Or if it has a companion,
A woman never there,
To brave the unfamiliarity
Of this stark forest
Where the vibrant reds and oranges
Lay their final rest
On dirt-ridden paths

Is anything as it
Truly seems
In this forest of
The dead trees?

A Love Song, A Ghost Story (cont.)

Breath is stolen
And the tension builds
Oh, baby
Yours is the kind of love
That kills

What is a ghost?
A tear that falls to open palm?
Drifting melodies writ in song?
A familiar voice heard in a crowd?
Mem'ries familiar, kept in shroud..

No exact answers
No right or wrong
It's different for everyone
But they come along

They come and go
As they choose
They come and go
As ghosts do

Is it real?
Is it true?
Neither option
Matters much
To you...

Breath is stolen
And the tension builds
Oh, darling
Yours is the kind of love
That kills

...

(almost there...)

Untitled, but Happy Halloween anyway

Go to the back of the red barn
The one that's falling at the hinges
Get there at dusk
When the mist just starts to sit

He's gonna be there

A man's gonna be expecting you

You won't see his face
And his name, unmentioned
Only to help you
Is his only intention
Your secrets he knows,
And your dreams as well

Back of the barn!
Back of the barn, kid!

Feel that chill up you back
If it's the wind, you can't tell

Back of the barn, kid!
Back of the barn!

Eerie sights
But there are no sounds
Eerie silence is all around
He'll take your hand,
And hold it tight

'Everything will be alright
You're in dire straights,
I'm here to help.
In your darkest hours,
My presence, you've felt
Ask me a favor;
To your aid I will come.
But there's gonna be a price, boy!
Oh yes
There is always a sum.
Let's see that finger.
Just a prick of the thumb..'

Back of the barn!
Back of the barn, kid!

Is there blood on his hand?
O, god!
Why is it red?!

Back of the barn. kid!
Back of the barn!

'There ain't no pain, child
But I'll need your name in blood.
It'll ink our contract,
Or else our deal's no good.
Do you see the storm,
And hear the rumble as it arrives?
Are you a believer of omens, boy?
Do you believe in signs?'

...

(later)

A Love Song (unfinished)

Do you believe in ghosts?
Have you felt the presence behind you?
The tickle about your neck?
Oh, how those moments are fleeting
Those close encounters
Those deathly meetings
Come and gone
Come and gone

When the hand of flesh
Meets that of the spirit
Oh, there are no words
Emotions, indescribable
But to feel that
Unearthly realm
If for a moment, only
To not be alone
Oh, the strangest feelings
Shaken to the bone

Breath is stolen
And the tension builds
Oh, baby
Yours is the kind of love
That kills