In the Van: "This Illusion": A story based on "Feel" by Big Star

This week's story is up over at Prime Number Magazine, a great little online journal that you should definitely flip through for awhile. The story is based on the song "Feel" by Big Star, one of my favorite bands. This is my first attempt at incorporating a female magician into one of my stories. I like her a lot, so maybe she'll be back.

Check it out!



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Updates and Downtime

In the past two months, I've done 53 submissions, mostly flash fiction. Of the responses I've gotten so far, I've gotten 22 rejections, 6 acceptances, and 1 acceptance that had some conditions I didn't agree to, leading me to politely decline publication. Also, I had to make three retractions due to the rules of simultaneous submissions: if something get picked up, let the other journals know immediately so they don't waste time reading bullshit they can't have.

From work on this project, in addition to other writing I've been able to squeeze in when I can, I've amassed quite the backlog of work: 70+ pieces of flash fiction (of varying levels of quality, of course). I'm glad I'm finally getting an opportunity to spread it all around. With this deluge of good fortune, I'm anticipating the inevitable drought when all my quality work is (hopefully) snatched up and I'm back to square one.

For now, another week with no new story. I'll be back next week with something new. For now, check out the harvest . . .

And don't forget to submit your own story to Our Band Could Be Your Lit! Click here for details.

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"Always Say the Person's Name" is based on "Ode to Billie Joe" by Bobbie Gentry and was suggested by writer Jenny Diski, originally for OBCBYL story 013. It's up now in issue #31 of The Legendary. This is my big Amy Hempel rip off. Or at least as close as I'm going to get to one.

READ "ALWAYS SAY THE PERSON'S NAME" HERE!

The Legendary

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"Look At How Fast I Can Go Nowhere At All" is based on "Life Passed Me By" by Super Stereo and was suggested by Jersey Devil Press Assistant Editor Monica Rodriguez for OBCBYL story 027. It's up now on amphibi.us. I was totally lost on this story--the original draft was more of a shitty extended scene that didn't make much sense--until some veteran at work randomly told me the story of the USS Indianapolis. I went right home after work and came up with what is now the actual story.

READ "LOOK AT HOW FAST I CAN GO NOWHERE AT ALL" HERE!
amphibi.us

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A first sentence I wrote for 50-to-1--they only publish stories under fifty words or the first sentences of stories that don't exist--is up right here. I wrote the line a year or two ago as an exercise in a workshop and never really planned on writing the whole story. At least some good came from it.

READ THE FIRST LINE I WROTE AND SOMEONE PUBLISHED (REALLY?) HERE!

50-to-1

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"When There Is No Road" is based on "Rock N Roll" by Paleface and was suggested by Monica "Mo" Samalot of Paleface for OBCBYL story 019. It will be appearing in the next issue of Literary Fever, under the theme of "Fortune Favors the Bold." I love boxing stories, and they always turn out pretty well for me. Kristie at Literary Fever said they were missing "the fight" for this issue, and "When There Is No Road" totally did it for them.

Literary Fever

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"Layers" is based on "Undone (The Sweater Song)" by Weezer and was suggested by two girls in a young adult writing workshop I was moderating. It will be up as of December 5th on the short short section of the Fiction At Work website. I had the kids write to music they had never heard before, and in trying to get me back they picked out "the weirdest song" on one of their iPods. I've played this song in front of crowds more than they've heard it. I think I wrote the story in about fifteen minutes.

Fiction At Work

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"This Illusion" is based on "Feel" by Big Star. It will be appearing in the next update on issue 13 of Prime Number Magazine (Prime Decimal 13.2). This is the publication I'm most excited about, as I really dig a lot of the work PNM puts out, including this killer story by OBCBYL contributor Kevin Wilson.

READ "THIS ILLUSION" HERE!

Prime Number Magazine

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"Is That You John Wayne? Is This Me?": A story based on "It's a Long Road" by Dan Hill, as suggested by musician Topon Das of Fuck the Facts (42/100)

Is That You John Wayne? Is This Me?

The tall girl with roses on her dress rubs a hand up the inside of Deacon’s thigh and grabs him firm in the crotch. She’s spilled peach schnapps down her chin and neck and breasts, where it’s dried in a narrow stream and soaked into the top hem of the mostly white dress. Instead of that, Deacon thinks about Vietnam and how he got drafted, how he didn’t pass the physical and isn’t actually going.

“The way having no arches works is that there’s a minor-but-ignorable discomfort when spending long stretches of time standing or walking,” the doctor told Deacon, “and the arrival of the overall pain is not unlike a hand grenade with a two decade waiting period.”

He’ll need a cane within five years, a wheelchair within ten. So, Deacon’s not going to Nam. The girl with roses on her dress has two friends, one tall and one short, who are drinking whiskey out of champagne flutes and trying to get Deacon to go take pictures of them playing dress-up back at the short one’s house. He’s going there.

The girls are college freshmen with undeclared majors. Deacon follows them outside and hails a cab. The women pile in first, followed by Deacon crunching in next to the tall one with the lilies on her dress. He wants to change out of his tux first but the girls tell him not to. When he goes to loosen his tie, Lilies takes his hand and puts his middle finger in her mouth, removing it slowly around the circle of her lips.

The girls are talking amongst themselves. Roses pulls out a joint and passes it to Shorty, who lights it up and drags deeply. Lilies is waiting for the joint, and in the meantime she massages the sides of her thighs with her thumbs and palms and manages to wiggle out of her panties. The other girls laugh and do the same.

The cab pulls up in front of Shorty’s house, a mile outside of downtown, a place where the protests have tapered to one woman with an acoustic guitar sitting on the curb and strumming the chords to “One Tin Soldier” and “Waist Deep In the Big Muddy.” Deacon pays the cab driver while the girls stumble to the house, lifting up each other’s skirts and laughing obnoxiously. As soon as they get in the door, Lilies kisses Roses on the cheek clumsily and then licks the side of her face. Roses takes two steps forward and shoves her hand up Shorty’s dress in slow motion and then shoves her entire hand in her mouth.

They throw Deacon a camera and take turns running in and out of Shorty’s room with different outfits on, none of which fit the two taller girls. Deacon snaps picture after picture and the girls mostly ignore him except for the few seconds they stop to strike a pose in front of him. They’ve given up on undergarments and come out of the room with a breast hanging out or their pubic hair puffing up from the top of unfastened polyester pants. After about twenty minutes of the girls rotating outfits and revolving around the camera like a cyclone, Deacon doesn’t even bother aiming his shots anymore. He holds the camera to his side with both hands and clicks the button as if he’s in the war.

“Let’s go kill someone,” Deacon says.

The girls have started drinking again, relentlessly and without purpose. Shorty is the first to say something, which is “Let’s fucking do it.” Everyone’s quiet for a second until Lilies pushes Roses and then laughs. They all start laughing and shoving one another, throwing fake punches and then real ones. Shorty takes a right hook to the eye and throws haymakers out like hummingbird wings until, within seconds, everyone but Deacon has a bloody nose. They won’t stop laughing.

They don’t call a cab this time, they just take off toward downtown, blood and booze staining their faces and clothes. Deacon’s left his cummerbund and tie and jacket back at the place, but he’s still wearing everything else, the long shirt with cufflinks and the suspenders. The cheap plastic shoes begin to hurt his feet halfway to the protests. The girls have formed a messy v-shape, Shorty flanked by Lilies and Roses, and they’re following Deacon toward the noise and light.

The first guy they see is a wannabe hippy whose aggression is real and far less rheumy than the actual passive hippies. The girls call him over and he walks right by Deacon. They walk fifty feet to get to a parking ramp and then start walking to the top level. Deacon’s far behind the girls and the fake hippy. Lilies is in front now, turning it into a game, telling the fake hippy to come get them if he thinks he can catch them. Deacon stops for a second to take off his shoes. He starts to rub his feet and by the time he meets back up with the group at the top of the parking ramp, Roses is already down on her knees in front of the fake hippy, unbuttoning his pants.

“Get the fuck out of here,” the fake hippy says to Deacon, loud enough to travel across the top level of the ramp and not much further. Lilies punches the fake hippy in the back of the head, which doesn’t do much of anything. When he turns around, Roses stands up and shoves the pointed heel of her shoe into the side of the man’s neck. The three women begin to pummel him. The shoe won’t fall out, but as the seal of skin around the leather begins to loosen, spurts of blood shoot out in two-foot arcs every second, keeping time.

Deacon turns and runs. The girls have forgotten about Deacon and would have forgotten about the war if they had ever considered it. Deacon runs and doesn’t stop, not when he begins to cry and not when he begins to vomit, letting loose with hot bile and wedding food all over his stomach and legs. He runs until his steps begin to falter, his non-existent arches burning up his heels and shins. He runs with no destination, with no possible end of the road.

**********



Lyrics

Dan Hill is a Canadian musician who has a bunch of albums, but who gives a shit because he wrote the theme song for the first Rambo movie, so nothing's going to be as badass as that. Also, he's not the Dan Hill who married Faith Hill before she got famous--that was some Nashville guy who people somehow manage to give less of a fuck about than the Rambo Dan Hill.

Topon Das is a Canadian musician who has a bunch of albums, and you should give a shit because grind is awesome. He plays guitar in the band Fuck the Facts, my personal favorite album of theirs being Disgorge Mexico, in which they keep a lot of the same baby-punching elements of grind/death and add some space to breathe. Then you get hammered in the balls again. Everyone wins. Also, he likes Secret Chiefs, so he's cool as hell in my book.

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Next week: a story based on "If You Love Someone, Set Them On Fire" by Dead Milkmen, as suggested by writer Danger_Slater.

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"Drench Your Bad Ideas In Diesel Fuel": A story based on "Parting Words" by Backwoods Payback, as suggested by musician Mike Cummings (40/100)

Drench Your Bad Ideas In Diesel Fuel

Light them up like the 5th of July. Fireworks. Half off. Put a roman candle in your mouth and repeat the worst things you’ve ever said. When you get to the end, start over.

Pull out a tooth—a canine from your bottom row—and stick a firecracker in there. Don’t light it. It’s stupid to light it. It’s something else entirely to lick the tip hanging near the end of your tongue, picking out the flavors, dividing them into categories. Phosphorus: chemical. Anticipation: criminal.

In the movies, Arnold or Sly drive the motorcycle out of the airplane while the fuselage explodes behind them. They land in the canopy of a redwood or the deep end of a swamp. When you take off, do it over open land, agoraphobia be damned.

Here’s what you do when you get motion sickness in a car: slow down or close your eyes or stop. When you’re nose-diving at a hundred-and-something feet-per-second on a third-hand Harley Davidson and you get motion sickness, rip the side-mirror off and bite down hard. It'll look like the glass is falling up. It won’t do anything to help you, but think of it: first the glory and then, the glory.

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[No Video]

[No Lyrics]

Backwoods Payback is a band from Pennsylvania who put out a demo called Whiskey and Arm Wrestling, so you already know they're cool as fuck. Their sound is one of fuzzed-out power, giant riffs and rhythms that sound like they're from, where else, the darkest parts of the deepest woods. Their new album, Momantha, sounds like someone filled a dumpster with peanut butter and Jim Beam and then plugged a Sunn head into it. Buy it or die.

Mike Cummings is the guitarist/vocalist for the band Backwoods Payback. He likes motorcycles and Black Flag and he has a Zakk Wylde guitar. Much like previous Small Stone contributor Gideon Smith, Mike is a writer himself, having put out the book Confessions of a Lackluster Performer, wherein he goes over the peaks and valleys of being in the underground music scene for the past couple of decades. Buy that, too.

(I'd like to extend a special thanks to Scott from Small Stone Recordings for hooking Mike up with this project. He runs a great label with some of the best heavy rock there's ever been. Without a lot of the bands on Small Stone, I wouldn't play the music I play or listen to the music I listen to. Thanks for everything, Scott.)

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Next week: A story based on "Terrapin" by Syd Barrett, as suggested by writer Misti Rainwater-Lites.

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"Refund": A story based on "On To You" by The Constantines, as suggested by musician Kevin J. Frank of Haymarket Riot (38/100)

Refund

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Lyrics

The Constantines are the most Canadian band ever other than The Weakerthans. They sort of remind me of Lucero when Lucero reminds me of The Replacements, so they pretty much kick ass. Steve Lambke has that Jawbreaker rasp in his voice and the songs are mighty tales of personal achievement/fuck-ups that never err on the side of sentimentality or whining. Features former members of the band Shoulder, who sometimes did err on the side of sentimentality, but still kicked plenty of ass.

Kevin J. Frank sings and plays guitar in Chicago's Haymarket Riot. In 2007, I saw the band in Dubuque, Iowa with Tornavalanche (same day I saw William Elliott Whitmore and met the girl I'd date fir the next couple of years). Personal attachment aside, they were really nice dudes and they kicked total ass. Their tunes are angular and frightening, the mood is as unstable and the beat is not. I don't know if this is the same Kevin J. Frank who played drums in Silvertide, but if it is, that's pretty cool too. (I liked that "Ain't Comin' Home" song!)

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Next week: A story based on "Black Coffee" by Sarah Vaughan, as suggested by writer Dena Rash Guzman.

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"A Priest and a Rabbi Walk Into a Car Crash": A story based on "Love" by John Coltrane, as suggested by musician Steve Marion of Delicate Steve 36/100

A Priest and a Rabbi Walk Into a Car Crash

When Father Garrison and Rabbi Kohn both stepped onto the accident scene at the same time, they were surprised to see each other, as though they'd walked not into chaos, but into the set-up for a joke. The cars had collided at their front corners and then slid around each other in such a way that their tail ends touched, like two people in the beginning stage of duel. Garrison and Kohn each had their instincts: the Father to the knocked-out mother and crying child in the station wagon and the Rabbi to the nervous and harrowed teen in the Saab. They thought nothing more or less of each other for this, and in the odd spaces that appear in times of disorder, were thankful for the efficiency of their reactions.

They'd met a few times before in passing, at interfaith events or conferences. After the accident, realizing their previous appointments were as good as cancelled, they decided to go to a nearby café and discuss the accident. Neither mentioned the ways in which they followed another instinct, to bond over grief and reflect on what is gained when nothing is lost.

* * *

Earlier in the day, before the accident and the café, a woman had come into the church and done a tarot reading for Father Garrison. He was in the confessional finishing up with one member of the congregation when the door opened and then immediately closed again.

“Touch the cards,” the voice said.

Father Garrison reached up and placed the tips of his fingers on the cards and then leaned over top of them to peer through the screen. A dark figure, like everyone else on the other side.

“These things usually start off with something along the lines of ‘forgive me father, for I have sinned’ and not a request to touch a deck of cards.” He had become more serious in these later years, for the first time feeling as if he were forced into the priesthood by his family and then, after time, by convenience.

The figure on the other side of the screen was still, but Father Garrison could hear shuffling and, on the small shelf reserved for the folded hands of kneeling confessors, the laying down of five cards. He sat back in his chair, curious.

* * *

Father Garrison came over to the table and lightly placed two cups of tea in front of him. “Rabbi Kohn, do you know much about tarot cards?”

“Is that what the disco singer says she’ll do on those late night infomercials?”

“Not exactly. A woman came in today for confessional and mentioned something about them.”

Rabbi Kohn nodded, but was obviously thinking about something else, already having passed off the situation as a non-sequitur, a way to not talk about the accident.

Father Garrison’s card in the first position was the Knight of Wands. “The horse is riding through the desert,” the figure said. “Constant movement is necessary so you are not burned on the hot sands. If you stop, you burn.” Her voice wasn’t that of an old crone or a young gypsy. She was as worn out and non-descript as a news anchor or a waitress in a big town. “The horse is moving to the left, the path of non-traditional thought.”

“Miss, this is an obvious fabrication, and I don’t feel it’s necessary to make a mockery of my life as I’ve lived it for our lord and savior Jesus Christ.” Father Garrison’s tone was level and stern, but he didn’t even bother to lean forward, a defeated edge in him that made the woman continue, unabated.

“Your card in the second position is what you cannot see: the Hierophant. You may be feeling a lack of respect for ceremony and the law, perhaps doubting your knowledge of tradition.” She drew for him the Ten of Cups in the third position, showing that he is able to do away with what he’s comfortable with. Then the Two of Swords in the fourth position, his inability to change intuition or rely on other senses, blind in his situation but unafraid and, in fact, centered.

Father Garrison moved his head from against the wall and took a slight glance through the screen. He quietly asked if they were finished, but he was ignored again. “Your last card in the last position is your overall outcome. The Fool.”

“Wait just a damn minute,” Father Garrison burst out under his breath. He did not realize until a long lull in conversation with Rabbi Kohn later on that he had swore in the house of the Lord.

“Now now, Father,” the figure said, for the first time sounding as if she were deviating from a script. “The Fool in the final position it not bad. Look forward to a new beginning of simplicity. A fresh start with a straightforward heart.”

Father Garrison stood up and then sat back down when the woman said, “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

* * *

“Do you remember why you became a rabbi?” Father Garrison asked Rabbi Kohn.

“Ah, boychick, what a heavy question!”

“I used to think so myself, but . . .”

“But?”

“But now I don’t.”

“Well, I mean, I had a good education as a young Jew in the Midwest, that was a good start. I learned early on that the Jewish peoples have a rich history, one of sorrow and longing and, above all, hope. I just wanted to learn and teach, be burrowed in so deep to that one thing that it surpasses faith and become knowledge.”

And like that it became quiet, God as uncomplicated and sensible an intangibility as love itself. Father Garrison sat back slowly and thought of the baby crying in the backseat of the car, pieces of the windshield shining like heaven in her hair.

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John Coltrane was a jazz musician who pretty much ruled. He made a tenor sax sound heavier than any metal band. He died of liver cancer at the age of 40. He also did a shitload of drugs and was sainted by the African Orthodox Church in 1982.

Steve Marion is the main creative force behind the band Delicate Steve. He likes doing yoga, which I tried to do once, but stopped after finding out it's more breathing exercises than Tae-bo. The new Delicate Steve album Wondervisions is cohesive not despite of its wandering, psych-melodies and soundscapes, but because of them. You can buy it here.

"Butterfly" from Wondervisions

"The Ballad of Speck and Pebble" from Wondervisions

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Next week: A story based on "Bicycle Bicycle, You Are My Bicycle" by Be Your Own Pet, as suggested by writer Kevin Wilson.

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"A Painting of a Woman On a Motorcycle": A story based on "Shimmering Rain" by Gideon Smith & the Dixie Damned, as suggested by Gideon Smith (34/100)

A Painting of a Woman on a Motorcycle

After three days of non-stop rain, a man showed up at my door trying to sell me a painting of a woman on a motorcycle. The painting was wrapped in a thick piece of clear plastic like an oversized sandwich bag. I could just make out the blues of the sky and the grays of the road.

The man himself stood no taller than five feet. His face was swollen to bursting, like a glove filled with turkey and dressing. He was balding, his head like an egg in a hula skirt, and for the first few minutes I was distracted by it, the way the rain sat there as if his skin had recently been sealed with wax. When I invited him in, he removed his jacket and gave it a shake above the rug he was standing on.

He was nervous and said little. After he finally rubbed the water from the top of his head, he repeated the act several more times as a matter of habit, looking around my sparsely decorated living room as if he were considering renting the place. I could understand why he felt sheepish and was unable to conceal it. There was only a couch and a folding chair to sit on. In the corner were two broken televisions stacked on top of one another. I unwrapped the painting and examined it in the light before propping it up against the televisions. I know nothing of art but everything of looking at something slowly. The woman’s eyes were slightly crossed and there was a lake in the background, far enough off that it was almost lost, a single swipe of the brush. I owned no other art at the time and hadn’t even really hung up anything on my walls since the centerfolds of my youth.

I paid a meager sum for the painting and sent the man on his way, both of us content. My head was burning, but not in any way I could help with medicine or rest. The woman on the motorcycle had never felt frustration. I could tell. It wasn’t the freedom of the road, the biker clichés. It was the way her knuckles, white at their centers, wrapped around the handles with the satisfaction of revenge. But her eyes! There was not the silence of precision. One eye refused to follow the other directly and the resulting clash made her face a mass of harsh, beautiful noise. I fell asleep in the folding chair that night wondering how heavy her love could be.

The man showed up again a few days later. It was still raining and we went through the same procedure as last time, he acted no less awkward and embarrassed for my living situation. By then I had started recreating the painting on the longest wall of my living room. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. He needed the painting back. Apparently, there had been a misunderstanding. I made it clear that I didn’t comprehend, but that was all he said. Surely he didn’t work for a company selling individual paintings door to door. I was sure he’d sold the painting in haste, a painting that belonged to either him or someone he was momentarily upset with, and he was then trying to undo what he had done out of dissatisfaction.

I told him no. He didn’t beg or attempt to explain his situation. But he didn’t leave. I asked him if he’d like to help me finish the painting on the wall. At first he declined and said he’d watch me paint instead, but eventually he made his way over and began painting a tree in the far off corner. “I watched Bob Ross,” he said. “When I was younger.” I nodded and told him that he was doing good but that he must keep consulting the original. We painted through the night, the rhythms of the rain against the windows lulling our brushes into a sort of fluidity. In the morning we were finished and as I stood back to look at the finished product, I noticed that I had made her mouth open, not in a smile, but in a laugh. In the original it was closed. I looked at the pudgy salesman and told him to mix up white and blue with a drop of black. “Like this,” I said, dipping my pinky finger into the mixture and setting it down lightly on the wall, lifting up into a wisp on top of the dot. The rain came down on her like a marching band. Oh, how little she cared.

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[No Video]

[No Lyrics]

Gideon Smith and the Dixie Damned is a band from North Carolina, also known as "Horsemen Country" in the world of professional wrestling. Somewhere between the Allman Brothers and mid-period Corrosion of Conformity is Gideon Smith and the Dixie Damned, vocals and riffs both grizzled and authentic, unable to be spoken about without using the word "swagger."

Gideon Smith is the leading force behind Gideon Smith and the Dixie Damned. Not only is he a musician, but he's a writer, too, having released the book Way of the Outlaw Spirit. He's also done spoken word and poetry in the vein of a shamanistic southern gothic troubadour (so basically, he's badass across all mediums). From my personal dealings with him to everything I've read about him, Gideon is the coolest, most positive dude in the world. Rock and roll need more guys like him. Everything needs more guys like him. If he's ever in Southwest Wisconsin, I'll buy him a burger and let him crash on my couch. Buy his music through Small Stone Records here.

(I'd like to extend a special thanks to Scott from Small Stone Recordings for hooking Gideon up with this project. He runs a great label with some of the best heavy rock there's ever been. Without a lot of the bands on Small Stone, I wouldn't play the music I play or listen to the music I listen to. Thanks for everything, Scott.)

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Next week: Still gathering responses from musicians and writers. Stay tuned.

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"The Vikings": A story based on "Smoke On the Water" by Deep Purple, as suggested by musician Kristian Dunn of El Ten Eleven (33/100)

The Vikings

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Lyrics

Deep Purple are playing at a state fair near you.

Kristian Dunn is the guitarist/bassist for the band El Ten Eleven. I think he suggested Deep Purple as a joke (I actually love Deep Purple), but he's a killer musician, so it's all right. If I could work a loop pedal half as well as him, I'd be in heaven. I still wouldn't be able to write songs as well as he does, but I'd have a foot up, at least.

"My Only Swerving" from the album El Ten Eleven

"I Like Van Halen Because My Sister Says They Are Cool" from the album These Promises Are Being Videotaped

"Indian Winter" from the album It's Still Like A Secret


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Next week: I take a break from OBCBYL to finish a manuscript, but it keeps on rolling with guest posts by Samuel Snoek-Brown.

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"Flood": A story based on "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" by Bob Dylan, as suggested by musician Patrick Fleming of The Posion Control Center (32/100)

Flood

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[I couldn't find a video, unless you want
to see some dickhead covering it in their
mom and dad's living room (trust me, you
don't). Besides, if you have never heard Bob
Dylan you either don't give a shit or you
have no interest in music, in which case,
you're in the wrong place.]

Lyrics

Bob Dylan is the dad of that guy from the Wallflowers.

Patrick Fleming is one of the guitarist/vocalists for the Iowan band The Poison Control Center. The first time I saw them, Patrick did the splits for the majority of the first song, then did a solo on his back with his legs in the air. He then went out into the crowd, smoked someone's cigarette before putting it out, drank someone's beer before throwing it down, and then kissed this meathead dude right on the lips. It was rad as hell. Also, the band has a great combination of pop hooks and weirdo guitar freakouts. They're the band I'd listen to most if I took a bunch of pills and figured a Frank Zappa album might kill me. But, since I don't take pills, I'll have to settle for enjoying the band in an unaltered state of pop rock bliss. Flip through their discography page and pick something to buy!

"Make Love a Star"

"Torpedoes On Tuesday"

"Shot In the Face"


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Next week: A story based on "Smoke On the Water" by Deep Purple, as suggested by musician Kristian Dunn of El Ten Eleven.

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"Sergei Avdeyev": A story based on "Traveller In Time" by Uriah Heep, as suggested by musician Mike Conte of Early Man (28/100)

Sergei Avdeyev

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Lyrics

Uriah Heep is a rock band from the UK. If you've ever played D&D, you probably already knew that.

Mike Conte is the singer/guitarist for heavy metal band Early Man. His riffs eat mall kids for breakfast. His vocals are in the tradition of Mille Petroza and Tom Gabriel Fischer getting singing lessons from Geoff Tate and Michael Kiske (when they had balls). Early Man play metal the way it's meant to be played: fast and dangerous. Go to their website and order all their stuff, unless you're a pussy.

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Next week: A story based on "Have a Cigar" by Pink Floyd, as suggested by writer Don Balch.

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"When There Is No Road": A story based on "Rock N Roll" by Paleface, as suggested by musician Monica "Mo" Samalot of Paleface (19/100)

When There Is No Road

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Paleface is a band from North Carolina. Paleface is also the name of the tall, singing/guitaring man in the band. Mo the name of the short, singing drummer in the band. Their sound is fun and casual, enjoyable without being pointless. Daniel Johnston and Beck both like Paleface, and you should, too. They have a new album called One Big Party, featuring the song this story is based on and other sweet jams. Order it here.

Monica "Mo" Samalot is a drummer. She is quite nice, rather adorable, and a good musician. She is Puerto Rican, though she relocated to the USA in 1993. Because I don't know much about her, I will just say that 1993 was a great year for black metal.

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Next week: A story based on "Mike's Love Xexagon" by The Fall, as suggested by writer Thomas Cooper.

"To Be the Sun": A story based on "Farmer In the City (Remembering Pasolini)" by Scott Walker, as suggested by musician Steven R. Smith (18/100)

To Be the Sun

Gabe counted the ten-penny nails in his lower lip. There were two rows, like the base of a pyramid: eleven in a line and then, a bit further away from his teeth, ten more. He had woken up seated at his kitchen, his hands bound behind his back and his lower lip nailed to the edge of his giant oak table. The blinds and curtains were open, but the windows were closed. It was dark outside and the lights overhead were dimmed to a dull yellow.

“You’ll start to get some more feeling back in that lip as time moves on,” John said from behind Gabe.

Drool and blood were pooling together in Gabe’s mouth. He kept moving his tongue forward and pushing out loads of the whole mess, where they fell in long, shiny pillars that crawled downward onto the carpet.

“I’m not the brightest, and I can admit it,” John said. “But I do know what a premonition is. And, since you seem like a man refinement, is it fair to assume you know what that means, too?”

Gabe said nothing and John dropped a hammer onto the table. It landed within an inch of Gabe’s lip, and the tiny vibration cut into his mouth.

John pulled out a chair and sat next to Gabe. “Good. I had one of ‘em, once. It was after you killed my daughter.”

Gabe became omniscient. He knew the things he already knew, that nearly two decades ago he had helped two other men kill John’s daughter. He’d been consumed in a fit of restlessness. Extreme restlessness. Still, it was just a magnification of simple, ceaseless anxiety. And in his omniscience he learned new things. His current position—punishment—and what would come. More punishment. Heavy and soon.

“That premonition I had came after y’all killed her. I thought, ‘Hell, this thing came a bit late. All the bad stuff already happened.’ But then it got worse and worse and I figured that the premonition came just in time.” John cleared his throat. “I began to forget everything except that dream, that crazy dream where I see three guys beatin’ her. I couldn’t remember how to run the thresher. I couldn’t saddle a horse to save my life. There was just that dream.” He kicked his feet up on the table, and Gabe felt another vibration surge through his lip, regaining feeling faster now. He both smelled and saw the cow shit sitting thick and green in the treads of John’s boots.

“Farm’s gone now, like everything else. I like to think if I still had her, I’d still have the rest of it. I can’t prove that, though, you know? I can’t prove that you had anything to do with it, either. A dream don’t hold up in court,” John brought his feet down and stood up. “But I ain’t wrong.”

The kitchen lights were dimmed slowly down to nothing. Gabe remained silent. Within a moment John had taken out a large, wide buck knife and rolled the edge of the blade over Gabe’s lip. The sound was like that of a palm slowly gripping a moist sponge, coiling finger-by-finger into a fist. Gabe fell to the ground and began kicking his legs. He didn’t yell out, but he began to nosh his teeth and sputter out moist noises, producing tiny bubbles that ran down his face.

John watched him, would watch him and occasionally feel for a pulse until there wasn’t one. The bottom of John’s stomach was cold and he felt as if it were cavernous, completely empty and larger than his body would allow. He walked over to the window and looked through it for hours until the sun began to come up. It slipped in between the buildings, unlike on the farm, where it hit everything at once, like a new apocalypse every day. I’d switch you places in a heartbeat, John thought, looking at the rising sun. John began to think of the places it would light, the places it would pass over.

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Lyrics

Scott Walker is a crazy old genius from Ohio. In the 1960s, he was a part of the group The Walker Brothers. None of them were related or had the actual last name of Walker. They're probably best remembered for their version of the song "The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine (Anymore)" but I think their best track is "The Electrician" from their 1978 reunion album Nite Flights. Scott put out four self-titled solo albums in the late 60s, each one showcasing his giant voice and, as time went on, his originality as a songwriter. After the completely-original Scott 4 was declared a commercial failure (and later praised as a masterpiece, as is usually the case), he lost whatever self-confidence he had gained and made a couple lackluster albums that were supposed to pander to the masses. Then he started taking about eleven years between albums. But goddamn, it's so worth it. 2017's gonna kick ass!

Steven R. Smith is a highly-prolific and inventive Californian that people sometimes refer to as "the ambient David Lee Roth." His music is occasionally like Jim O'Rourke and occasionally like Stars of the Lid, but more often than not his music is his own and, because of its emotional impact, it is ours, too. His album Cities is the audio equivalent of a Cormac McCarthy novel, the way violence sounds when it's slowed down enough to be beautiful. The rest of his catalog is as wonderfully thoughtful and apocalyptic, and you can order some stuff from it right here.

"Oriel" from 2002's Lineaments

"The Road" from 2009's Cities

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Next week: A story based on "Mike's Love Xexagon" by The Fall, as suggested by writer Thomas Cooper.

"What the River Drinks . . .": A story based on "Doing An Evil Deed Blues" by John Fahey, as suggested by musician Drew Bissell of Aseethe (16/100)

What the River Drinks In Sun, It Spits In Bones

Moses figures there’ll be a next morning, because there’d been one every day thus far. He’ll be right, and on that next morning, the police will drag the lake and find him at the bottom with his tools in his pockets and a 12 foot boa around his neck. The kids will not stop playing nearby after he is found. Three boys will count the sunbeams on the water and argue over the numbers they come up with. A thousand. A million. Infinity. An old negro will tell them that it don't matter who's right and who's wrong, because no amount of sunbeams is gonna move that damn still water. The sheriff will tell them all to leave when he notices that the snake isn’t constricted and stuck, but, rather, tied in a knot. It’ll be an albino that’s even more pale than when people spotted it originally, whiter than a wedding dress and looking a whole goddamn lot like the snake the Keech boys had found dead near the lock and dam a few days ago. The sheriff will cross his arms and tell his deputy to quit taking notes, that a snake around a nigger’s neck is accident enough, knot or not. They’ll laugh about that for the rest of the day. Knot or not. They’ll go home to their wives and God and whiskey. Until then, until the next morning, Moses will be whistling, walking along by the river and saying Morning, morning to everyone he passes. The words will slip through his lips pained and quickly, like a tongue made of sandpaper, in such a way that everyone will swear that they hear his mantra as Moanin’, moanin’.

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John Fahey was a guitarist who played unaccompanied steel guitar licks and made it sound totally badass.

Drew Bissell is a bassist who likes to ask the question, "Are you sure that riff can't be slower?" when writing songs with his band Aseethe.

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Next week: A guest post from someone!

"Rust": A story based on "Your Friend and Mine--Neil's Song" by Love, as suggested by musician Bob Bucko Jr (14/100)

Rust

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Lyrics

Love were a band from L.A. that had about as many different members as Dokken, but were always led by Arthur Lee (though they would have been better if they had been led by Don Dokken). Their album Forever Changes is famous for being one of those records that hipsters and their parents can both enjoy unironically. Their name proves that the idea of someone trying to Google them 40 years later was not even a concern.

Bob Bucko Jr has been in a thousand bands you've never heard of. He used to play baseball and he loves the Harry Potter books. He's also one of my favorite guitarists, and he wrote one of my favorite songs ever. I've never heard anyone use the phrase "three-minute pop song" more than Bob. A true multi-genre embarrassment, I've heard him play doo-wop, Poison, jazz, bar rock, Captain Beefheart freakouts, and just about everything else. Also, he's always wanted to write a song called "Is My Pussy Man Enough For You?" but is yet to do so. I urge you all to steal this song title from him.

MySpace grab bag of songs

Nitetrotter solo guitar session

Always With the Don't Go EP

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Next week: A story based on "Only Shallow" by My Bloody Valentine, as suggested by writer Victor David Giron.

"Excuses": A story based on "No Love Lost" by Joy Division, as suggested by musician Aaron Beam of Red Fang (12/100)

Excuses

The autumn I tried to start smiling with more teeth, I got caught stealing cigarettes from the gas station and then went on a big family revival kick, deciding that I needed to visit all of them, every aunt uncle and cousin I never see. It was a bust like it is anytime someone tries to do something like that, but I was so caught up in all of it that I ended up not shaving between Thanksgiving and a week into the new year. I was out of a job and the majority of my savings when I finally got around to shaving, so I had time to do it in stages over the course of several days: chinstrap beard, then chops and a goatee, then the Frank Zappa, etc. My only option for the last day seemed to be a Hitler mustache. So, I shaved it in and walked around my house with it for a day, forgetting I had it until catching my reflection in a window or mirror.

I left it for another day. That’s when I started acting like him. On purpose, of course. I was bored and kind of curious about how much it takes to get caught up in an idea, fake or not. It started with standing on a chair in my kitchen and yelling in German, which amounted to a lot of harsh vowels strung together with throat-clearing noises. It was nonsense, but in my head I was speaking of freedom and infestation, the things that hold my people back. I would move slowly around my room on my desk chair as if in my dictator’s car, saluting people who stand up for me, idolize me as a savior of their beliefs, a savior of their morality.

I left it for a while longer. As I became more removed from the initial shaving-in, I became more removed from being Hitler. I felt as if I had moved from being the man himself to being a look-alike, someone designed to throw his detractors off his trail. I was shaving daily but leaving the mustache, trimming around it. I still had it a week later, by which time I was just a loyal soldier, herding the people through the camps, standing in front of my bed with my chest puffed out, holding my mother’s old color-guard rifle and pretending to oversee the abuse of the prisoners. I was watching the rapes and beatings with pride, knowing that bringing the world back up from its forlorn condition involves a cure that must be achieved and instituted, country by country, starting with mine.

Days passed and I lost sight of Hitler completely. I went from the camps to the crowd, staring out my window at cars driving by and pretending Hitler was in one. I wouldn’t salute. I’d just stare, hopeful. It all trickled down though, and I ended up becoming myself one morning, some guy with a tiny square mustache looking into the mirror and wondering how and why it all felt so natural. The things that came out of me surely were not in me. That night, when I tilted my head under the light and picked up my can of shaving cream, I set it back down and walked away, slowly, with a stride that said, “I’m going nowhere.”

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Lyrics

Joy Division was a band. Then they weren't. Then (a version of) they were New Order, which played up every Joy Division fan's secret desire to dance and be sad all at the same time. Like INXS lead singer Michael Hutchence, Joy Division lead singer Ian Curtis died from hanging himself. Unlike INXS, Joy Division didn't have a shitty reality show to find a new lead singer, though Rockstar: INXS runner-up Marty Casey pretty much kicked ass when I saw him singing with LA Guns on the back of a flatbed truck in the outfield of a softball field in Farley, Iowa.

Aaron Beam plays bass and does vocals in the band Red Fang. They are based in Portland, OR, but instead of holding that against them, I will instead say that they are an awesome band in a place I don't think I'd like very much. Red Fang's music is pummeling rock and roll. There's really no other way to say it, and you should order their album through Sargent House records, because Sargent House fucking rules. Aaron is actually a Midwest boy, much like myself. However, he's from Iowa instead of Wisconsin. Still, his music is a throwback to the days of bearded men playing giant riffs, so I will not hold that against him either. The Red Fang burger at Kuma's Corner had bacon on it, and though I am unsure of the other toppings, it looks delicious. I also find it highly unlikely that they are not named after the Native American football player Chief Xavier Downwind.

"Prehistoric Dog" from Red Fang.

"Sharks" from Red Fang.

"Reverse Thunder" from Red Fang.

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Next week: A story based on "Ode to Billy Joe" by Bobbie Gentry, as suggested by writer Jenny Diski.

"Love, I Guess": A story based on "Pyramid" by Andreas Vollenweider, as suggested by musician Ulrich Schnauss (10/100)

Love, I Guess

Keri had moved out of our cabin in the fall, but I found out where she went to. Every once in awhile I’d pay the grocer’s boy in town fifty cents to call her up and just listen, write down everything she said. Which was this: Henry, I know it’s you and you need to stop calling me and figure out your life. Except the boy was thirteen and a terrible speller, so when I’d go into town to get supplies and pay him, he’d hand me the notepad paper he transcribed her words onto and it’d come out looking like Henree you aint never bin a god dam foole til now and I just need to see things you cant show me. I dont hate you but im gonna let the police no abowt this if I get won more call from you I sware to God. I’d thank him and give him his fifty cents.

“She sounded mad, Hank” he said to me once.

“You didn’t say anything, did you?”

“Nope. I just listened like you said.” He clicked the two quarters together. “Why you havin’ me do this, Hank?”

“Love, I guess.”

“Oh.”

“It’s,” I started and then stopped. “Go like this.” I held my arms out in front of me with my fingers pointed up, elbows bent at a ninety degree angle, and then tilted my hands towards each other at the same pace until the fingertips touched gently in the middle.

The boy copied me exact. “Like this?”

I took my pointer and middle fingers on each hand and walked both of them halfway up his slanted arms. “Like that.”

People in town started talking about how Keri got her pilot’s license in December. I kept watching for planes to fly over the farm. It was late April when one finally did, and I started making the shapes the next day, when the winter wheat was knee-high. I counted the rows and had my whole crop all drawn out on some graph paper. Every couple of nights I’d belt some tennis rackets to my feet and go make a big shape in the wheat. First it was something simple, just a circle or a triangle. Then I’d climb up on my roof to get an idea of how I did.

I wasn't great at first, but eventually I got better. And wild, too. I could make a horse. A guitar. A cowboy hat. I made a three-tiered cake over the course of an entire day, all by myself, rolling my feet like an ocean and flattening the wheat. I made angel wings. Medusa's head. I was crushing the crop with expectations, strapping leather to leather and trying to see how much more beautiful it all could be, each strand of wheat laid down flat and looking up as part of something larger than itself.

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Andreas Vollenweider is a Swiss harpist who, in my head, walks everywhere with his harp. He's really into non-violence and all that stuff, which makes total sense, because his music is so chilled out that I'd find it really hard to beat anyone's ass while listening to it. He worked with Carly Simon on some stuff, so we know her taste in musical collaborators is far superior than her taste in men.

Ulrich Schnauss ist sehr gut. He is an electronic musician from Germany. His music takes nods from shoegaze and all sorts of electronic/hip-hop stuff and just keeps layering it all together until there's some really gorgeous soundscape where there was previously only a smattering of noises. He's released music under his own name as well as various others such as View to the Future, Police In Cars With Headphones, Ethereal 77, and others. I can't say enough nice things about the guy. And he looks like a suave and less "I'm going to eat your children" Nick Cave. And his name is fun to say. Like I said, the dude's awesome. My personal favorite album of his is 2001's Far Away Trains Passing By, but you can't go wrong with any of his stuff. His record labels sued Guns N' Roses. It's hard to say Axl doesn't have shit like that coming to him."Knuddlemaus" is one of my favorite songs ever, which is something I know I say a lot, but it's always true.

"Knuddlemaus" from Far Away Trains Passing By

"Blumenthal" from A Strangely Isolated Place

"Never Be the Same" from Goodbye

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Next week: A story based on "Pulaski Skyway" by Clutch, as suggested by writer Eirik Gumeny.

"Feeding Mona Marie Claire": A story based on "Blood and Tears" by Danzig, as suggested by musician Andrew Tweedy of Buried Inside (8/100)

Feeding Mona Marie Claire

I graduated with a film degree and ended up with a job instead of a career. The only work I could find that required no skills but still had enough tact to sort of frown upon felony charges was a job delivering groceries to the elderly. That’s how I met Mona Marie Claire. She was an actress, still is if someone were to ask her what she does, though she’s over eighty years old and hasn’t had a leading role in fifty years and not so much as a cameo in twenty-five.

I was obsessed with writing a successful script. I kept a pad and pen sitting in the basket of the cart when I was going through the grocery store and when I wasn't at work I was writing through the night, passing out in my desk chair more often than not. I finally sold my bed, got enough money to pay postage on a couple dozen scripts.

Mona was always watching her movies when I would deliver the groceries. She knew when I was coming every week, but I don’t think she ever planned it out. I don’t think she even knew that I was aware of her acting career, let alone that the fact that it could possibly be her on the screen, bronzed and busty, sparkling with chastity in the 1950s, clutching scarves to her chest and fainting between two prospective lovers, being Mona Marie Claire better than anyone: the virginal tease.

I wasn’t sleeping very well or very much. It had been months and there was no reply from any of the scripts I sent out. When I’d go out for Mona’s groceries, I’d take all day and add on anything I wanted to the bill. First it was just a Twix, but when she didn’t notice, I did it again. In a few weeks she was feeding the both of us. She didn’t seem to care, and if she did, she never mentioned it. I would sometimes try to make small talk when dropping off the groceries, some comment about how many people were at the store or about something different on her list, but she would only nod or wave me off with a smile. The only time I heard her voice was when she had lines in whatever film it was she was watching.

I was working on a new script because I was always working on a new script, convincing myself they were becoming better and better, slowly realizing they were all just different sorts of decent. I was missing the x-factor. That’s what I was thinking about one day on deliveries. I spent so much time focusing on the one scene or shot that would define my art that I missed the idea of an ever-receding context, the idea that a scene needs to fit into a film as much as a film needs to fit into something larger than it and larger than that, even. I was about to tell Mona all of this, just gush to her in an insomniac’s ramble, but as I turned to her, I noticed the film: The Mercy Club. 1954. Mona Marie Claire’s character is Hosanna, a newly married girl thought to be living the perfect life up until her husband’s betrayal. In this scene, she is absorbing the story of her lover’s infidelity, crying with both passion and dignity, both literally and figuratively holding her head up. It’s famous in some circles, as the director called for Mona to be wearing heavy, black eye make-up, seated and looking upward as the camera shoots her from the ground. The man speaking is off-screen, but his voice is resonating through the image of those dark tears, those Mother Mary tears collecting one, two, and three before dropping from the corner of her jaw. I see this and can only think of our usual non-sequiturs. I watch until the end of the scene, the part Mona ad-libbed on set, the part where she looks at the voice off-screen and says, now smirking, “Darling, nothing lasts.”

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Lyrics

Danzig is a band fronted by Glenn Danzig, a very angry man of very little stature. He's from New Jersey, if that explains anything. His first four albums are pretty kick ass. I was in a band that covered the majority of Danzig II, and we even paid tribute to it with the artwork and title of our second album. Danzig is also an internet celebrity and book enthusiast. He should start doing stand-up, as he's one of the funniest dudes ever, albeit unintentionally. My friend Jack met him once and said he was pretty cool, though when everyone else was on the bus, Danzig just sat in the back painting D & D figurines and looking at porno mags. Danzig is the little brother of metal culture: if you're a metalhead, you're allowed to make fun of him, and if not you can go fuck yourself, because he's awesome.

Andrew Tweedy is a member of the Ottowa, Ontario band Buried Inside. The band recently broke up (or at least decided to play a couple more shows and make no plans for new material or gigs), which is a bummer, because their last couple of albums were amazing conceptual pieces of soundscape-sludge. Their 2009 album Spoils of Failure is especially badass, as is the Eugene-Debs-influenced (amongst other things) Chronoclast from 2005. Their first two albums (1999's In and of the Self and 2001's Suspect Symmetry) have a bit more of the hardcore and straight-ahead pummeling stuff, but are still killer. In keeping with the idea that Canada is one tiny city where everyone knows everyone else based solely on the fact that they're all Canadian, I can only assume that Tweedy is meeting up for coffee later on today with Trish Stratus and the dudes from The Tragically Hip. And the members of Exciter will be out front begging for change. Check out Tweedy's solo material, where he gets all tender and lovelorn.

"In and of the Self" from In and of the Self

"Terrortourismology" from Suspect Symmetry

"Time As Imperialism" from Chronoclast

"IV" from Spoils of Failure

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Next week: A story based on "Jesus Christ" by Brand New, as suggested by writer Adam Gallari.

"Haunt": A story based on "Ghosts of the Garden City" by Caspian, as suggested by musician Philip Jamieson of Caspian (6/100)

Haunt

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Philip Jamieson is the tallest member of the band Caspian. I'd like to thank him for not beating the shit out of me when I asked him if he was going to be playing any Aerosmith songs at the Red Sparowes/Fang Island show I saw him at in April of 2010, though he did offer to beat the shit out of me later for a completely different reason. We both respect and enjoy the music of Neil Young and Mark Kozelek. His guitar gear is way badass, and I don't know if I've ever seen so many delay/echo pedals on one board. Despite his height, I think I could take him in a one-on-one (or two-on-two) game of basketball.

Caspian is an instrumental band from Beverly, Massachusetts. They do not play any Aerosmith songs, but that's all right because their original music is a transcending force to be reckoned with, the sound of prettiness eating itself at a thousand decibels. They're pretty tasteful with the drum machine stuff, too. And they like noted author/scumbag Charles Bukowski. I've heard a couple people say that only the first EP is good, but these people are being assholes (and incorrect assholes, at that). That EP,2005's You Are the Conductor, is a great album, but they've only gotten better with time. In 2007 the band released The Four Trees and in 2009 they released Tertia (my personal favorite). If I made a list of my favorite songs from 2009, I bet "Sycamore" from Tertia would be in the top five.

"Loft" from You Are the Conductor

"Moksha" from The Four Trees

"Vienna" from Tertia

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Next week: A story based on "New Kind of Kick" by The Cramps, as suggested by writer yt sumner.

(Note: This week's story owes a huge debt of gratitude to Kevin Brockmeier's fantastic book The Brief History of the Dead. I consider this story to take place in an alternate-yet-similar location as the city created in Brokemeier's book, and on the offhand chance you enjoyed my take on literary sci-fi involving the post-mortal, do yourself a favor and get The Brief History of the Dead.)

"Friday, August 9, 1985. 9:43 PM": A story based on "The Needle Has Landed" by Neko Case, as suggested by musician Mike Lust of Tight Phantomz (4/100)

Friday, August 9, 1985. 9:43 PM

I: Sparrow

Sparrow pointed at the radio station and told the driver, “Right there is fine.” She walked around the building a few times checking for renovations, security updates. She stood facing the street with her hands in her pockets, kicking her heels against the steps to the front door. Then she turned around and walked into the building, past the receptionist, and into the sound booth. The DJ didn’t want to tell the police he had been physically removed by a gangly redhead in a white leather jacket, so he stayed silent and in the hallway.

She locked the door and dug through the records. She found singles of “Carmelita” and “Cherry Bomb” and stacked them. She slipped the LP of Small Change by Tom Waits underneath. The pile was growing. She picked up the 45 for “The Boys Are Back In Town,” put it back, and then grabbed it again. She was talking to herself as if trying to remember the items on a grocery list left at home, saying things like “Did he like KISS as much as I did?” and “Is ‘Memory Motel’ a bit chintzy in a situation like this?” The DJ was watching her through the window. She turned to the door and started asking him the questions. “What was playing when he left me at the bus station?” The DJ didn’t even shrug, just stood there defeated. “Oh,” she said to him, “‘Magic Man.’” She paused for a second to hear the song that was playing, then looked back to the DJ and said, “Peter Gabriel sucks.”

Sparrow had worked at a station in Minneapolis years ago, and ran the controls effortlessly. She cleared her throat and said, “Hello, Tacoma. This will be the last time I come back for the last time.” She laughed and dropped the needle.

II: Hudson

Aside from a few gaps here and there, Hudson’s left arm was already covered in tattoos. That night was the blackout. Wrist-to-shoulder with nothing but black. Usually former Nazis get it to cover all their swastikas and SS logos. Two other tattoo artists were getting ready, putting on their gloves, prepping their machines. Hudson was shaving his arm. They had a tray full of ink, all of it black. Hudson was going to start at the bottom and the other two were going to start at the top. They were going to meet near his elbow, and between the three of them, they’d use all the ink.

He got his first one the night he dropped her off at the bus station, his truck sputtering in the cold and kicking smoke as he pulled away, barely giving her enough time to slam the door. It was 1976 and the closest tattoo shop was fifty miles way. He floored it and still managed to drink a twelve pack by the time he got there. He picked an eagle off the wall of designs, one in mid-flight and going down. It took up his whole bicep. When she came back for the first time two years later she walked into his trailer and when Hudson stood up he grabbed the thing nearest him to throw at her. It was a bible. He threw it just like a Frisbee and hit her right between the eyes with the base of the spine. He went out a week later and got a cross on the bottom of his forearm. When he pointed at the ground it was normal and chaste and when he pointed at the sky it was inverted. By the next time she came back, Hudson had his own tattoo shop. It was 1983 and she stayed the whole summer, the two of them going out to the air force base and lying in the bed of his truck, the planes flying fast right above their faces. When summer was over, he got the 446th Airlift Wing inked into the top of his forearm, moving in a straight line toward his fingers.

“You ready, Hudson?” said one of the other tattoo artists.

“Yeah, just shut that damn radio off. I hate Peter Gabriel.”

Someone behind him clicked the radio off and they sat there in silence until Hudson started his machine. “All right,” he said, and then laughed as he dipped the needle into the ink and pressed it to his skin.

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Lyrics

Neko Case is redhead from Virginia who is an honorary Canadian and Washingtonian. In addition to performing in several punk bands earlier on in her career, she has put out albums with The New Pornographers, with Carolyn Mark as one half of The Corn Sisters, and as a solo artist. Her song "This Tornado Loves You" is my favorite song ever. I have written a heroic crown of sonnets about a fabricated relationship with her, which is admittedly creepy, though I know a guy who used to draw pictures of my friend Ashley as a topless mermaid killing herself with a sword, so it could be a lot worse, really. Neko currently lives with her dogs in Tucson, Arizona.

Mike Lust lives in Chicago, Illinois and plays guitar/vocals in the rock band Tight Phantomz. He is often in need of a haircut. He used to play in the band Lustre King, who were pretty badass. I once convinced original TPz drummer Jay Dandurand that Vinnie Paul of Pantera plays in cowboy boots and records all his tracks with quarters taped to the beater of his kick drum pedals. I will forever be in debt to Mike for writing the song "Hash Sisters," which ranks only slightly below "This Tornado Loves You" on my list of favorite songs. For the past few years, Tight Phantomz have been trying to release Silk Prison, a massive, ridiculously great double album whose delayed distribution has led it to be called "the Chinese Democracy of our times" by followers of the band. Though Silk Prison is currently unavailable outside of a few CDR copies (one of which I would love to have), you can get your fill of riff-filled debauchery by picking up the 2004 EP Nightfool and the 2005 full-length Crazy When Wet.

"Sickening" from Split with Tornavalanche/Silk Prison

"There Goes My Protege" from Silk Prison

"Ahead, So Gone" from Silk Prison

Our Band Could Be Your Lit on Facebook, Twitter, and MySpace.

Next week: A story based on "Hyper Ballad" by Björk, as suggested by writer Benjamin Rosenbaum.

"Sweet Tooth": A story based on "I Wanna Be Your Dog" by The Stooges, as suggested by musician Ted Nesseth of The Heavenly States (2/100)

Sweet Tooth

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Lyrics

The Stooges, much like Grand Funk Railroad, are a band from Michigan. However, unlike the mighty GFR, The Stooges were abrasive and seedy. Mark Farner and Iggy Pop both performed shirtless a lot. Lots of people say Fun House is the best rock and roll album ever. Nobody says that about Grand Funk Railroad's All the Girls in the World Beware!!!. I hope nobody ever wants me to write a story about "Butt Town" by Iggy Pop.

Ted Nesseth is the guitarist and vocalist for the band The Heavenly States. He 's really good at saying the word "androgyny." I think their first album, The Heavenly States, is a perfect power-pop record. Their other albums are really good, too. Rumor has it that Ted used to play in a band that covered the entirety of Terence Trent D'Arby's Neither Fish Nor Flesh. An Aries like me, Ted is most likely prone to fiery arguments and personal discussion. His wife Genevieve is talented and adorable and always wearing cool boots. The Heavenly States are working on their fourth album right now, and while you're waiting for it to drop, you can go buy their self-titled debut, 2005's Black Comet, and 2008's Delayer to hold you over.

"The Story Of" from The Heavenly States

"Pretty Life" from Black Comet

"The Race" from Delayer

Our Band Could Be Your Lit on Facebook, Twitter, and MySpace.

Next week: A story based on "Crosseyed and Painless" by The Talking Heads, as suggested by writer Kirk Nessett.