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There’s a new chapbook by a very good friend of mine and a truly brilliant writer, Loren Rhoads. Loren is the woman behind the gone but never forgotten Morbid Curiosity magazine, a hugely influential nonfiction zine about first-person experience. Her fiction is equally cool, so I’m really looking forward to checking this out! Sex. Drugs. […]
They hurtle south on 15, the desert sands raining upon them like a plague of locusts. They blast the radio through Cedar City and St. George, Fado singing harmony on “Blue Suede Shoes” at the top of his lungs. Outside of Mesquite, they pause for ref reshment, Senor Fado leaning back in the seat and chuckling while Andre does his job, for which he will be paid in artistic and spiritual coin. Afterwards, Fado puts the Caddy in gear and floors it, sending a bewildered Andre sprawling in the seat, cursi ng in three languages as he wipes his chin. Andre calls the Senor a foul name. Senor Fado responds in kind, laughing, and Andre pouts fetchingly. Afterwards they stop for blue-raspberry slushes at Mesquite’s only Meat Market and Convenience Store.
The fog was coming off the river and shrouding the town in winter magic. Vi slipped the 68 Caddy into low gear and came down the hill toward the housing development. Bruno reached out and touched her on the arm, a gesture of reassurance. She looked at him without smiling, but the warmth between them was obvious. They were two soldiers in combat.
My friend Mike seems to know a thing or two about astrology. He’s not a New Age freak or anything, just a casual sort of weekend occultist. He told me there was a hardcore Mercury Retrogrades in December, and if I had any hopes for being productive I should just ditch them right now and save everyone a lot of trouble.
Or: Music to Fuck to, Andante
It’s no surprise that a person using the moniker Necrophillia Guy has, um, esoteric tastes, or “special needs” as they are sometimes called. My taste in tunes, as in most other things, leans toward the macabre. No big shock there either, I suppose. After all, how appropriate would it be to set the stage for a necrophilliac encounter by playing Barry Manilow or Bad Company at top volume?
