Frownland

Perfect! I haven't heard any of those. Expect reviews in the coming weeks.

Mondo, send me a link to yours, I can't find it anywhere. Nine and grind are all set though.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Frownland

I'll get to those reviews soon, gentlemen. I'm going to do another in the meantime.


Gunther's Grass is a San Diego based drone duo. Marcelo Radulovich plays hurdy gurdy and the other member, Christopher Adler, plays the khaen. There are some other musicians who join the bill as well. Scott Walton joins in on bass on the tracks "Earlier in the Future That Dawned Earlier On," "Boat People," and "Hull." Charles Curtis plays cello on the tracks "Automatic Writing" and is also on "Hull" with Walton and the others. Lastly, we have Marcos Fernandes playing tamboura box on "Boat People." Given that not everyone knows what these instruments are, I'll post some photos of them.


The hurdy-gurdy is a stringed instrument that is bowed using a rosined wheel, which is controlled by a handcrank. There are also keys that can change the pitch of the strings and it sounds pretty sweet. Hurdy-gurdies date back to Eleventh Century B.C. where they are depicted by Ibn Khurradadhbih (like a badass version of Marco Polo). However, the instrument was not in its modern form by that time. Due to the original size of the liras or organastrums used in the Byzantine Empire that Khurradadbih, it was played by two people at once: one person for the hand crank and one for the keys. There are other early reports that the organastrums were also used in Spain and some Middle Eastern countries, likely because of merchants spreading the various elements of the cultures that they visited. After its time in the Middle East, the solo organstrum appeared. Early versions of the solo organastrum— which is similar to the hurdy-gurdies that we see today—first appeared in Spain and France. In 1968, Donovan released the song "Hurdy Gurdy Man" and sparked interest in the instrument, although the instrument wasn't present on the track. It's since been revived after a long break and used in several genres, but I think that it's an instrument best suited for drone.


The khaen is a mouth organ instrument made up of hollowed out bamboo shoots. It uses a free reed similar to a harmonica or harmonium and when combined with circular breathing it can be pretty interesting. Khaens date back to the Bronze Age (1000-700ish BC) Laos, where it was allegedly created by a woman who just felt like making some instruments that day. She recreated her bamboo contraption until she was ready to reveal it to the king or whateverthefuck ruler they had there. After she played it for Sir Whoeverthefuck, the gentleman said he enjoyed it and then he named it "khaen" because some kings are dicks who want to take credit for everything.


You guys know about this probably.


You probably know about the cello, too. If you don't, think of the stand-up bass's younger cousin.


A cigar box sitar. Well how about that. Sitars are badass and cigar box guitars are badass, I can't believe I never heard of or thought of this creation before Gunther's Grass.

Never in the Future That Dawned Earlier On is a beautiful album full of sustained drones that touches on some magical moments, really. All of the music is improvised, but whether or not there is some structure, I'm not sure. There are six tracks on the album and none of them are below six minutes long, in fact most of these are in the 12-16 minute mark. This is a lot more pleasant than a lot of the other drone groups that I've heard, but I do hear overtones of Keiji Haino's hurdy-gurdy playing (I highly recommend listening to any of the versions of Haino's 21st Century Hardy-Guide-Y-Man).

Even though this is a drone record full of long and blaring chords, it still moves around quite a bit. To be honest I think that it makes it a little more accessible than the more difficult drone music that they're emulating, such as La Monte Young's Theatre of Eternal Music which included John Cale, Angus MacLise, Tony Conrad, Terry Riley, John Hassell, and Terry Jennings, among others. NITFTDEO hits all the right points of drone music, in my opinion, and I think that it would be a great starter for anyone who's really interested in getting to know the genre.

Here's a live video of the group:


And here's an art piece that's cool:

Salvador Dali - The Great Batlord

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Frownland

One of the pioneers and extremely left-field bands of the already off-the-wall post punk genre, The Pop Group has rebanded 35 years after releasing their second album, For How Much Longer Do We Tolerate Mass Murder? There are always worries that bands have “lost it” over the years, but post-punk seems to be immune to this affliction with artists like Public Image Ltd., The Fall and Gang of Four still trudging along and coming out with solid albums.

The Pop Group’s reintroduction to the music world, Citizen Zombie, could definitely be seen this way. The new album has little of what their first two albums offered: chaos, cathartic shrieks and disconcertingly layered instruments that still managed to be catchy and groovy despite the avant-garde overtones. However, I would move that Citizen Zombie—while a move away from a sound of theirs that I prefer—is not so much The Pop Group losing their musical element, but rather changing it.

Citizen Zombie, although it can be a disappointment to fans of their earlier work who expect a revival of their old sound, is still a great album when taken into its own right. The album follows more traditional post-punk song structures of bands like Public Image Ltd. and Pere Ubu, while falling into experimental interludes that hint back to their earlier sound.

Singer Mark Stewart falls back onto a lighter vocal style than what we heard on earlier albums like Y and How Much Longer Do We Tolerate Mass Murder? wherein he assaults his voice with effects while his voice reciprocates against the delay and reverb pedals with harsh shrieks and vocalizations. Unfortunately, Stewart is no longer in his twenties so I imagine that this is a lot more difficult for him to do these days.

This by no means suggests that he cannot sing anymore. In fact, the vocals are fantastic and Stewart still goes all out on tracks like “St. Outrageous”. There is a quality of Stewart’s singing on this that sounds very similar to Pere Ubu’s vocalist, David Thomas. While this certainly is not a bad thing in terms of the musical outcome, I feel like The Pop Group loses a bit of their identity due to the similarity. If someone showed me this album and told me it was the new Pere Ubu album, I would believe them; I’ve even accidentally referred to the album as “the new Pere Ubu album” when discussing it with fellow post-punk enthusiasts.

With that being said, this album is still very much The Pop Group, even if it doesn't quite live up to the far superior Y. They have incorporated more modern technology into their music and it works better than when most older musicians tinker around with these new-fangled devices. The first half of the album is almost something that you can dance to even if you’re not invested in the genre. The second half moves on to a darker vibe, with tracks like “Nations” flowing through with a fast paced beat and keys while Stewart joins in, chanting a chilling and intimidating message.

We still have the layered sound that The Pop Group is known for, but instead of pulling it out and waving it in your face on the first listen, Citizen Zombie waits until the third or so listen like a respectable album to reveal the intricacies and complexities within the music. On first listen, I was disillusioned by how the group had changed their earlier insane sound, but I moved on from that disappointment quickly by taking this record for what it is: a brilliant post-punk record.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Frownland

Frownrant: Overanalyzing Pornography Is a Detriment to Society

The outcries of well-meaning observers attempting to censor media that they don’t understand or agree with is nothing new; another trend that one can easily see throughout history and into the modern day is the media’s reaction. Presumably foaming at the mouth, upon seeing these outcries and one-sided criticisms, the media deems these situations newsworthy. Chanting “for the children” as they process through the hallways of the Rupert Murdoch Pantheon or proceed to kneel at the Anderson Cooper shrine, the first amendment becomes the punchline of a joke as a moral panic is streamlined into the public’s vein (presumably).

One thing that has changed in the world of elitist moral preaching is the source. In the 80s we were met with the Washington Wives pushing the Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC) on Congress to prevent children from hearing music that is profane, violent, sexual, or related to the occult. There was a massive outcry in the music world, with guitarist and composer Frank Zappa making a statement to Congress likening the PMRC’s goals to the construction of a fascist theocracy.

For the children, they chant.

A clear issue with the PMRC is that the people who truly believed that they were doing well were religious conservatives and made it unclear how to (or who will) categorize what is frowned upon by proper society to prevent the corruption of our simple and close-minded youth. A war was declared on the content itself as the Washington Wives patted themselves on the back for making sure that your nine year old did not listen to Madonna.

Today we do not see so much spittle flying from the lips of the morally supercilious towards the content of what hurts their sensibilities, though this is certainly an element of what is decried. These days the inciters of the moral outcry has shifted from the religious right to the radical progressives.

It’s what is implied that’s become the new enemy for people to shout and wave their finger at. The recent offenders in the eyes of the people new to art—good or bad—is “Fifty Shades of Grey.”

I understand that, because I understand how fun it can be to hate something. I seriously look down on some music that I really dislike. Manowar, Limp Bizkit and most of Kanye West’s music make me laugh they’re so bad, but I look down on them because they don’t serve the function of good artists for me.

What a majority of the moral police complaining about the trendiest topic to be mad about do is forgetting to contextualize the very thing they’re whining about. “Fifty Shades of Grey” is a money grab of a novel, a shoddily written piece of garbage that a lot of people liked to masturbate to. That’s sexuality for you, I guess.

That’s all that I need to not like the film. I feel no urge to make things up about Slipknot or Van Halen’s art for promoting violence and public intoxication (respectively), because their music is bad enough for me to know that it’s not for me. I don’t need to put them down because anyone with similar taste to mine will see them in a poor light, and others may not. With that being said, art inherently breeds discussion, so this often comes with strong opinions one way or another.

However, in the heat of the sexual tension between the public and their cheap thrills, another attempt to cash in on people’s orgasms has been made; some radical progressives see a new beast rising from the shore, but time the horns adorn the film industry. The demonic corruption that has infiltrated society flicking its red tail as wonton stares seduce passersby—yes, we are referring to the Antichrist himself—is “Fifty Shades of Grey.”

I heard that it's a pretty awful film, I'll take their word for it. I implore you to write a negative review of “Fifty Shades of Grey,” but belittle it for being a poorly made film attempting to capitalize on bored housewives. There’s no need to justify hating someone’s poorly written sexual fantasy by making things up by misreading what could be intentionally implied to make a message or just as easily something unintentionally conveyed.

Or you could let the film slide into obscurity by not giving it its credit through intense analysis and discussion. Much like Kim Kardashian, “Fifty Shades of Grey,” thrives on discussion/debate, both positive and negative. Sans the hype, the film would likely do poorly in its opening weekend.

There are brilliant films that go to dark places in terms of the violent sexual content in “Fifty Shades of Grey,” such as Pasolini’s “Salo: Or 120 Days of Sodom,” Haneke’s “The Piano Teacher” or von Trier’s “Nymphomaniac” (Part II, especially with regards to abuse, nymphomania and sexuality). It’s possible for a film to rely on hard and dark themes and still be a great viewing experience.

Apparently the film promotes rape culture, among other things, which makes it problematic for men to see because we are all simple minded and withhold zero ability to ignore our lizard-brain instincts. However, according to Adweek, men only make up 20 to 30% of the audience for “Fifty Shades of Grey.” Women are the ones flocking to the film that is apparently degrading women and promoting violence against them.

“Fifty Shades of Grey” is apparently a sloppy depiction of the BDSM community, which is interesting because Hollywood has always been so well known for its realistic depictions of the world. I have never seen a film where I had to suspend my disbelief. Never have I seen a film where I thought to myself “well that was awful.”

“Fifty Shades of Grey” is a sad case where zealots on both sides—sides that usually oppose one another—are battling the existence of art they do not enjoy, understand or just pay far too much attention to. These groups still find ways to be different from one another and they have debates on why “Fifty Shades of Grey” is a detriment to society.

We have these arguments for the children.

For the children, they chant.

“Fifty Shades of Grey” is simply just pulp, a new way for housewives and little girls to get their jollies that will fade like the next fad (see: Magic Mike). I wouldn’t recommend watching the film from a cinematic perspective; dicks or dildos out would be the best way to watch it, really. Or avoid watching it period and enjoy the rich history that film has to offer—whatever genre of film there is, I'm sure you can find a more redeemable film that is far better than "Fifty Shades of Grey." Unfortunately, I am obliged to say that I would not get any sex tips from this film nor give it the time of day.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Frownland

So I'm going to talk about myself again because my new album is one of the best of 2015 so far. I'll also be providing a little insight on how the tracks were made, what influenced them, and other trivia.


The title for Obtuse Psychotria came from a random word generator. I just generated different pairs of words until I found one that I like, and since psychotria is the genus that are used to produce DMT, I decided to go with that one since it fit pretty well. I took the photo for the album cover in San Marcos, CA. I got dropped off at the train station and the train was coming in around twenty minutes so I had time to dick around and smoke a cigarette whatehaveyou. I noticed the creek after a little bit and was struck by how similar it is to some of the imagery in Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker. I played with the grain/contrast/etc. a little bit until I found a combination that I liked.

"But Frownland," you ask. "Why are you releasing a new album so soon after Thunder Music?"

Because I'm a fucking musical genius, that's why. Musically I've been on something of a peak, similar where I was at with Wolves In Sheepskin around mid-2014. I can record essentially every day and lately my procrastination skills have allowed me to direct my focus to anything else with great results.

I'll be talking about this album track by track. Commence this talk.

1. Excessive Eating Ceremony

Excessive Eating Ceremony is quite possibly the most minimalist song that I've done, since my music tends to go through several changes in the same song. It's also one of my few composed tracks as this one uses aleotoric methods. First, I emulated Alvin Lucier by creating acoustic resonance in my room through recording silence and playing it into the room over and over again, recording it each time. I think that for this recording, I did somewhere between 10-15 re-recordings to get the resonance to take over (although I did the piece with silence and the sounds of me sitting at my computer dictate the resonance as opposed to how Alvin Lucier used speech in I Am Sitting In a Room. Following this, I made two copies and laid them over the original, making it so that three of the same track were going on at the same time. After this I started to manipulate each of the tracks, and my method for determining how to do so is where the chance methods kick in. Using a random numbers table, I went through three rounds to decide at what lengths the manipulations would go on for. Going through each row, I would read the numbers in threes and use 001-100 to determine the length of the changes in seconds until I completed the length of the whole track. Having had the times determined, I moved on to choose by what percentage I change the speed of the sounds at those times. I also decided whether or not to alter the speed in a positive or negative direction based off of coin flips. It took me around 5 hours total (not at once) to do the track and I'm very happy with the result.

2. Dazed By the Sunn

This album is a scatter across several different styles of mine, so I went into my catalogue of unreleased tracks that shouldn't stay unreleased. I came up with Dazed by the Sunn for a MusicBanter thread I was running where musicians would compete to create a track to follow a theme which we would vote on afterward. For the round that led me to make this track, the theme was "sun." Being a massive dronehead, I decided to add another n to the theme and do some heavy guitar drones. At one point, my roommate came into the room and walked in from of the mic, which is why the piece sounds a bit muffled partway through.

3. Prenatal Remnant

This track is much newer than Dazed by the Sunn, having only been recorded around 6 hours before it was released. It was played entirely on my pedals, which is two analog Behringer VD400 delay pedals and a Digitech Whammy that has pitch shifting and harmonizing effects. I was just really feeling it after getting a second pedal and this is one of the better tracks that came out of it.

4. Clerical Photographer

Another newer track, this was while I was practicing for a show that I played. I was so enthused by the sound that I had to record what I was doing. This is another guitar drone track, but it's much different from any of the drones that Sunn O))) or other drone metal artists offer. It's more akin to Keiji Haino, John Cale, or Tony Conrad in its style. Using a bow I played my guitar while it was facing up in my lap while I fed these sounds through a Crybaby wah pedal, octave harmonies, reverb, and distortion as high as allowed. The result is a very noisy and very powerful piece. As much as I like this track, the recorded version doesn't do it much justice; playing in this style with my amp turned almost all the way up at the event I was playing at was otherworldly.

5. Breakpoint Soundtrack

This is the soundtrack to a friend's film that I starred in called Breakpoint. The story follows the investigation of a college tennis player who has been suspected of throwing games, but it turns out that the coach was drugging him before the games in order to make the tennis player lose. The coach does this because he owes money to a racketeer who pressures the coach into doing this ****. It was a pretty terribly written script tbh, but the friend who asked if I'd star in it was just the director and cameraman. During one scene where the coach asked the tennis player if he was throwing games, a very freeform and contemplative guitar starts meandering over the top notch bad acting from the tennis player. The director knew that I played music and asked me to make something so I just went to my guitar and hit record. What I ended up doing was almost like jazz, almost like ambient, vaguely Japanese, and entirely different from everything else that we hear on this album.

6. Fazed Baptismal Reasoning

This track is the only one done on an acoustic guitar. I prepared it by sticking a fork in the strings along the neck; when I plucked the fork's handle, it would rattle the strings in a very pleasing way. This was another chance recording when I was experimenting with a fork and really liked the sound. It could have been longer, but this was done with a few minutes until I had to leave for class. I stuck with this version instead of recording another one because I really liked its general sound and making it shorter made it better because I bet some people listen to my music and think that it overstays its welcome.

7. Foamy Boycott Ascending

This one is from the same recording/jam session as Clerical Photographer. This one has more focus on the wah and starts off with some ambient leanings and slowly progresses into something more dramatic with me hammering strings with the end my bow, then progressing further as I begin to bow again. I think that Clerical Photographer is better because it's so in your face and intense, but this one's really good as well.

8. Missing Pretense Report

I recorded this one over Christmas break after my dog passed away. My family had gone out to take care of some of their bullshiit that didn't involve me so I took it as a chance to drown the house with the sounds of the electric guitar. Still very upset from my losing Skye, the result was a raw, rumbling, and angry piece that stands out from my other drones. That's one of the reasons why I'm so proud of this album, there are a lot of drone tracks, but a lot of them sound entirely different from one another. This is a feat in the drone world because sometimes artists can become one-dimensional in their approach to sustained tones.

Since I'm too lazy to look up an art piece, I just decided to save the album cover for the end. Click the image for a link to the bandcamp page.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Frownland

I have listened to all of your albums that you recommended. I'm not going to do a full review yet, but I did like all of them quite a bit. Non Credo had an awesome singer, quite reminiscent of Sainkho Namtchylak with her use of extended voice technique. Trist was fantastic as well, I really like their raw and atmospheric sound. I enjoyed Solanaceae Tau, but I'm going to need to give it a few more listens. I didn't enjoy it as much as the other two albums based on the few listens that I have given it.

More detailed reviews will possible be coming soon.

I'm going to post a story I wrote from outer space. Enjoy:

Plums struck the thin veneer of the watershed roof tiles. Hissing as they splash and trickle; the man's sickly frame bowed forward, feeling the radiator as it fusses and hisses.

The rooftop erodes in the omnipresent drizzle. Under, above, and in from the sides they flew, harsh droplets that would kiss the shingling tile. Flaking away piece by piece. Hard sands struck wood panels lay inside indoors once before, but sands were unionized into puddles of mud in the late Winter storm.

Struck by the dilemma of fall's plum drizzle, rotting away and oozing down the gutter. Flooded with water, streams sputter from the deposit below. Sands before leapt from the roads. Left milky hazes as wind dashed, making housesides wind tunnels. A water floods the eye, wheeled outside for a moment's time. Usually sunlight radiates, warms his bones but the evil mistress of the clouds bore upon him. Clouds, rumbling, bear waste to shake loose.

The water runs down his cheek. Reeled back inside, trails from his chair behind him stained the floor. Clear, cold trails.

Missing the last series of mainstay artistry in the winter's reflection below the mirror glass windows.Drying streams lines his cheeks. Immobilized. Eyes distorted from the watered lens, he glimpses forward. Finds behind counters of medicine parlors, birthed in age, licking its lips, pangs of hunger throttle the hourglass figure frame. Finds behind the eyes a more acceptable brand of insanity. Finding which direction to gaze, lost again through the misty haze.

Armchair leaning across the coffee table. Tongue and lip dictate letters and shape of a sense, but senseless ramblings take the floor. Numbing prick in arm, gazing double sighted as holes spreckle the ceiling. Freckles flock around the nose, hiding reverberations of shouts, moans. Groaning once before the final bell rings. Alone in silence, radiator sings. Darkness hiding him away from the cold. Streams on cheeks, hard lines.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Frownland

This is a metal album that I enjoy.



This has been my contribution to metal month.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Frownland

Okay, so I decided that my last review was a little lazy. You guys deserve better than an eight word long review and a youtube video.


Thou - Heathen

This is a great album. I like the vocalist a lot. It has a nice and thick sound to it that really grabs me.

This concludes my second contribution to metal month.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Black Francis

Great journal, i can barely understand it and alot is going over my head but thankfully im getting some of it. I like how you end your reviews with art pieces too.

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"Hey Kids you got to meet the MIGHTY PIXIES!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JbRbCtIgW3A

Frownland

Here's a story I wrote. It needs a little work, so all feedback is appreciated.

Moloch

He had almost begun to enjoy mindlessly humming out the nonsensical incantation before it struck him.

“Moloch.”

The word glibly slipped off of his tongue and pierced through the clutter as the only intelligible word amidst the gibberish, ripping him from his almost euphoric and slightly terrified state of half consciousness. Embalmed with fatigue, he forced his eyes to discern the clock on the wall opposite of his bed. Obfuscated rays of moonlight dimly lit the hands upon a blank face that melded into the wall.

3:00 AM

His fluttering muddy mind subsided and his eyelids settled shut. He could slowly begin to make out a pair of faceless figures, fragmented by his interlaced fingers that pretended to cover his eyes. Flesh coloured veils had been stretched across their faces, erasing any recognizable features, but he could still see how they writhed.

Their shadows danced across his now closed eyes as his hands muffled his ears to no good effect. The shrieks filled every pocket of sound that he was able to contemplate. Seething, guttural screams panned in and out of his scattered mind before he opened his eyes again.

"Ixtab memoria. Moloch.”

The words subconsciously fled from his chest and through his mouth, shattering the stained glass windows of silence. Moloch had pulled him from his sleep once again. He strained his eyes to make out the vague hands of the clock on the wall in his bedroom with one small window.



The words bounced around the room and established themselves in echoes that haunted his ears with the dense silence that only comes about at 3 AM. It’s a very specific type of emptiness that catches the sounds of the room from days past. Sounds that like to wander around for months, maybe years at a time, before they become audible.

Hearing these noises rattled his skull, with a scowling grin creeping across his cheeks. A unique form of beauty underlined the room’s memories of sickened self loathing and sleeplessness. He was disgusted at the thought of the echoes of days past returning to him when he least needed them. He was disgusted because he would never hear them again. He had already forgotten their final cries.

The sun hadn’t come out yet and he hadn’t had but two hours of sleep. He was so exhausted that he could barely move a muscle, but he knew that on nights like this there was no point in tossing and turning until it was an acceptable hour to wake up. There were more productive things to do.

Even if he could fall asleep, he didn’t want to risk dreaming. Not tonight.

As he sat up in his bed, the sheets falling to his waist, he noticed that the air was noticeably crisper than usual this morning. He rubbed his hand across his face to wipe the thin film that his attempt at sleep had left behind. Dried riverbeds clung to his cheeks. He had been crying in his sleep.


Before he walked out into his living room he heard a choir of faint whistling. He had only just noticed that he could see his breath when the early morning air bared its teeth and sunk into his flesh. His folded his arms to ward it off to no effect. He began shivering erratically. An observer might think that he was having a seizure.

Once he had gotten a hold of his uncontrollable shaking, he saw why it was so cold. The large window at the front of the room had shattered. As the brisk winter evening whispered sweet nothings to him, he remembered what the sound of breaking glass was like. The shards scream in terror as they are ripped apart from one another, turning a singular unit into a legion of disparate and equally useless bits.

He couldn’t tell how it had happened. What looked like equal amounts of glass on both the inside and outside of the house gave no indication as to whether it had been done by something trying to break in or escape. It was as if the window simply looked inward and destroyed itself. Panic slithered through his veins and his heart raced to purge the breathless being from his body.

His eyes began to dart around the room, trying to spot anything else out of the ordinary. His gaze rested on me for a few moments and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. I was sure he had spotted me, but he relinquished a foggy sigh before heading off to the kitchen.

By the time he had gotten to the kitchen, I had just finished pouring his drink. The first thing that caught his eye was the flicker of light that caught the rim of the glass. I could tell it made him uncomfortable. His eyes widened momentarily before he was struck by a wave of familiarity. He picked up the glass and took a massive gulp.

He sat down at the counter, directly in front of me, resting his head on his hands. He was looking at nothing while I happened to be in the way. His thoughts played out on his watery eyes. I leaned in until I was mere inches from his face to catch a better glimpse.

A single dark spot on the floor was soon joined by several before they all pooled together. Staying with his head down is only making the puddle grow, but looking up ensured a worse alternative. Black heels scattered across the floor and stopped right next to the pool. The heels toppled and now he could see a faceless figure lying beside him, motionless, soaking the cloth that covered its face with vibrant shades of red.

I poured him another drink. Hopefully he wouldn’t start seeing clearly. My face would surely terrify him, even though he was the one who brought me here. He didn’t need anything new to remember. I waited for him to finish his second drink before I leaned in and tried to look inside again, but the only thing that I could see were his hollow eyes. They were sifting sand. They flickered with pangs of guilt and sorrow. For the first time in years, I saw him blink. Perhaps it was an overexpressive wince.

I grabbed the bottle of spirits and began to pour him another glass when he took it out of my hands to do it himself. His actions were efficient and confident; it seemed as if he was no longer quivering.

There were two ice cubes in his glass that had shrunk to the size of peppermints. He flung these onto the floor before filling the glass to the rim. When the spirits were drained from the bottle they flowed thickly and heavily, a clear tar that preserves its victims after first burning their flesh.


When my last glass was filled, I brought the bottle down to my waist and let it slide from my fingers. I counted the seconds before it hit the ground. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. That’s much too long. I looked down. What was left in the bottle wasn’t even sprawling itself across the floor any longer, as if it had been there for minutes.

I gazed back into Moloch’s blackened eyes as I sipped my drink. The unwavering intensity at which he returned the stare told me that he was starving. Sips turned to gulps and my glass was empty once again. I sat in silence. Dawn would be coming soon. I savoured the darkness while I could. It swallowed me whole and I slipped loose from the grip of my surroundings. Suspended in the serene blankness, a lightness that I had never felt before.

Moloch grunted and stomped his hooves.

My free flowing suspension came to an end as I crashed back down into my stool. My stomach throbbed and I doubled over, forcing my eyes closed as if it would ease my nausea. I could see the pool of blood forming from my dripping nose once again. This caused the churning in my stomach to burn with a blistering acidity that bored through my stomach lining. Averting my eyes I can see her lying before me, her face bloodied, her eyes looking right back at me without seeing.

My heart stabbed my chest as I choked out a sob. I opened my eyes again and Moloch was looming over me, awaiting his feast. I closed my eyes again to find myself clutching my stomach as a boot pulled itself back. My eyes wandered up the leg to see whose boot it was. He was glaring. A bitter snarl infected his face, which was usually endearing and kind.

I was helplessly whimpering, scattered between two equally horrific worlds. I opened my eyes again to find Moloch with his face directly in front of mine. His horns cast shadows on my face in the pale moonlight that wandered in through the open window.

I had begun to heave and convulse. Moloch rose and stood before me. I closed my eyes again and saw the vermillion stained floor below me. The floor opened up and the room fell out from under me into a valley of flames. Her unfocused eyes remained motionless and his hand reached back out toward me as they made their slow descent. Soon the flames began to dwindle, leaving me suspended in darkness once again.

Moloch grunted and stomped his hooves.

I was snapped out of the darkness and found myself back on all fours in my kitchen, still jerking, stomach writhing. One heave finally struck the right chord and the poisons frothed over my stomach and rose up and through my throat. I vomited a sickening sludge that spilled out onto the floor and all over Moloch’s hooves.

“Moloch,” I uttered as I began to fade away. Any attempt to fight the allure of unconsciousness was futile. I sunk into the floor and saw Moloch, looking down on me. His face grew blurry except for his dark and empty eyes. The eyes that had seen me longer than I was aware of. The eyes that had been to my past. The eyes that had fought to keep me safe from not only others, but myself. The eyes that had washed away my memories with their tears.


He awoke on his kitchen floor, disoriented and groggy, as the sunlight that was trickling into the house began to pour in. He sat up to discover a broken bottle of scotch to his right and vomit all over his shoes. The scent flooded his nostrils and he stood up to escape it.

The backdoor of the kitchen opened up to his patio and he wandered out and sat in his chair. It was soaking wet. He was wondering if it had rained last night when he saw a splotch appear on the ground before him. Slowly more and more rain droplets found their way to the ground before blending together, darkening the concrete. He clicked his vomit-caked boots together while he watched the rain painting the ground for a moment longer. Slowly, he raised his head to the sky. The rain flicked his face lightly and began to drip off of his cheek. Whatever had happened last night, he wanted nothing to do with it, he decided.

He got up and went back inside. Water fell from his face and onto the kitchen floor, which made him uneasy for reasons he was unsure of. He leaned against the counter and sighed deeply. It was then that he saw it.

A glass of scotch, filled to the brim. Two large ice cubes bobbed in the drink as if they had just been plopped in.

“Moloch.”

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.