A.D. Hurley

by Horror Sleaze Trash on August 20, 2017

A.D. Hurley is a content writer, novelist, poet, editor, and photographer. She lives in the mountains of Georgia with her 5 children, 2 dogs, and a fabulously domesticated husband. Her prose and poetry have been published in Ariel Chart, Spirit Wind Poetry Gallery, and Wayward Sword. Don’t try to steal her scuppernongs.  She’s known to bite.

 


 

Seti’s New Drum

            Seti stood and raised his fist high, then brought it down hard on the crash cymbal three times, ending the song.  The crowd, barely visible through the blinding stage lights, cheered and whistled their approval.  The lead singer, Fallen, took a bow, threw his mic to the floor, and walked offstage.  The lead guitarist, Crawl, the bassist, Rob, and Fred, the rhythm guitarist, racked their guitars simultaneously.  Crawl and Rob left the stage and only Fred, the rhythm guitarist, and he were left.  Fred jumped off the stage into the crowd.  It was a small-ish crowd, granted.  Not quite the sold-out amphitheater the band, Noise Violation, was aiming for just yet.  But, it was gaining enough momentum that cute blonde haired, thong-panty wearing, nipple pierced babes were asking them to sign their tits and slap their asses, not to mention the local media presence they’d picked up. Seti watched him sign a brunette’s rack and began the dubious task of taking apart his drum kit.

 He could’ve left it to the roadies to pack up all that shit, but there was no one he trusted enough to handle it.  He had spent years putting together that kit.  The whole thing had cost nearly $10,000, easy.  The measly $400 he got for each gig wasn’t nearly enough of a return on investment, but the sound of the crowd was.  The heat of the stage lights, the energy that seemed so alive that the beat of the drums resounding through the monitors resembled its heartbeat – it was all about the music.  All of it was a part of him, and worth every penny.  Seti took a swig of a whiskey bottle someone had handed him during the set, unscrewed the base of the snare drum, and gently laid the $1700 piece in its case.  Soon, though, this piece would be in retirement as the bidding on a far better piece closed. 

He checked the time, and could only think about racing home to see if his bid had won.  He worked faster, until finally the entire kit was packed up and loaded onto the truck.  Sticking his head into the backstage area, babes were audaciously prancing half-naked and performing fellatio on several members of the band.

“Seti!!”  Fallen called to him and stood, dumping the blonde out of his lap as he motioned for Seti to join them.  He placed an arm around his shoulders as he came in and said, “I don’t know why you won’t let the roadies handle your shit.  It’s their job.  Right, you fucking parasites?”  He laughed loudly as some of them passed him an unnoticed evil eye.  “Join us!  The night’s just started!”  He pulled some blow from his pocket and opened it, offering it to him.

“Not tonight, bro,” he said.

             Fallen laughed as he dug into the vial with his nail and took the first of many hits he would probably have tonight.  “Oh, right.  I forgot this fucker is buying a new snare drum tonight.  Can you believe he’s actually buying something off Ebay?” 

The group laughed.

 “Laugh if you want to.  This isn’t just any drum, dude.  This is the shit Vassal Coup used, up until the night of his fucking death, man.  If I win this auction bid, I can get that motherfucker by our next gig.”

          “Alright, Alright enough shit, man.  Go get your fucking drum.”  Fallen clapped his shoulder and pushed him towards the curtain where he’d come. 

 

***

 

 Three weeks it took for them to ship the goddamned drum.  As soon as it arrived, Seti locked himself in the practice room, unloaded the cargo from its container, and stared at it. 

It was beautiful- a red sparkle, DW snare.  It didn’t surprise him to learn Vassal used high-quality shit. Vassal had purchased it shortly before his first European tour. It had been played only one time on stage.  Who knew if it was used in the studio or at home — but who the fuck cared either? It was Vassal Coup’s drum!    

Seti ran his fingers over the top of the drum, feeling the grooves where the drumstick had struck so fiercely, feeling the raw energy it exuded, proof of hope defined.  He traced the Coup logo, absorbing the throng of the crowd this magnificent piece had played for.  Attaching the piece to his kit, he sat on the stool and readied to test its sound.  He raised a drumstick, twirled it, then struck it on the new snare. 

A perfect “crack” sound emitted from it, as did a yellow light so bright he flinched away.  If he’d had any drugs that day, he would’ve sworn it was a fucking hallucination.  But today he was flying stone fucking sober.  The yellow light seemed to emanate from within the drum, pushing outward and causing the entire drum to glow.  The light moved quickly.  It swirled between the hi-hats and weaved through the toms, penetrated through the kick drum like an alien glow. For a moment, the light stayed where it was, illuminating each piece of the kit, and surrounding him with a surreal light. Then suddenly, it infused him.  He could feel the light inside, bouncing off each organ, flowing through blood with each thump-thump of his heart.  Dropping the sticks, he backed away from the drum.  The light still shone through each piece, but within seconds the light dimmed and extinguished.  Seti stared at the drum set for a few minutes before shaking his head and stepping back to the stool to sit down again.

Some fucking flashback,” he concluded.  Still, he couldn’t bring himself to play the damn thing again.

 

 

***

 

            As gig night loomed, Seti had all but forgotten the weird experience.  So, without reservation, he assembled the kit with the usual care, attaching the new snare drum at its rightful place in front of the hi-hats.  Assembly completed, and the riser wheeled out of the opening band’s way, he meandered backstage to hang until show time.

            “Seti, my man!”  Fallen and Crawl greeted him with a bottle of Crown Royal.

            “What’s up?”  He asked, taking a swig of the shit.

            “Crawl here, met with a record exec.  He wants to sign us!  This is our fucking break, man!” 

            “You’re shitting me!”  He bumped fists with each of them and took a bigger chug from the bottle.

            “This calls for some fucking celebration!”  Fallen whooped and pulled a bag from inside his leather jacket, holding it out.  “This is the best shit around.”

            Fallen, Crawl, and Seti followed Fred and Rob to the plush couches and sat down. Fallen stuffed a pipe full, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He passed it to Seti, who followed suit. Greedily, he inhaled from the glass pipe and leaned into the couch as the drug took its mellowing effect. 

            The five of them sat for a while, drinking and shooting the shit, talking about dreams of stardom, fast cars, mansions, sold out stadiums, and the abundant pussy that would inevitably follow their rise to fame. The final chords of the opening band drifted through the door and the sound of the roadie’s mic check began.

            “Shit, you guys. It’s almost show time,” Crawl said.

Pumped and ready to go, they took their places on stage. As he settled in his stool, twirling the drumsticks in anticipation of the first chords Fred would strike, Seti couldn’t help noticing the size of the crowd.  The club was packed with people, for sure in violation of the fire code, and the bouncers were turning away people at the door.

Fallen flipped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it as the crowd pushed forward, waiting for the first notes of the club-famous song to start.

“How you fuckers doin’ tonight?”  He screeched into the mic. 

The crowd cheered in response.

“You all ready to get fucked up with Noise Violation?”

They cheered again, this time forming their fingers into the devil’s horns and chanting “Noise Violation! Noise Violation! Noise Violation!”

As Crawl struck the first notes on the custom green and black Les Paul, he smiled at the size of the crowd.  It gave more of a rush than anything he’d experienced. He bounced his foot off the kick drum pedal in time to the guitar, as the rhythm of the song began to move the crowd.  Showing off a bit, he bounced the drumstick off the floor tom, shooting it into the air, and catching it as it fell, never missing a beat. 

Shortly after the song started, he struck the new snare drum.  A shock of electricity surged through the drumstick and into his arm, and he could feel the light again, around and inside of his body.  The kit illuminated, but the crowd seemed oblivious to it.  He continued playing, scared shitless that there was a worse trip coming than the first one. 

Seti’s heart beat faster and faster with each passing second.  The light bounced around his insides like a ping-pong ball.  Each heartbeat, each strike of the snare drum passed this strange light deeper, to his very core.  Perspiration ran off his body in rivulets, in a way the stage lights could never have caused.  His heart beat faster.

The band played on, unaware of the light inside his body; unaware of the luminescent drum kit.  He continued playing with them, even though his heart beat faster-so fast it ached.  The ache turned into a searing pain.  The stage lights blurred, then faded to black.

           

            The entire drum kit fell off the riser, kicked up and off by Seti’s flailing legs.  He fell backwards off the stage and sat still, as the entire band rushed to his aid.  His eyes rolled back in their sockets and he lay completely still, a drumstick clutched in his hand.  The crowd pushed forward, tying to see what had happened, as security held them in place.

            A roadie checked for a pulse and shook his head when he found none.

 Fallen flung himself at the guy, clutching at his shirt and spitting in his face.  “Check again, you little fuck!”

            “I’m sorry, man,” he said. 

            Crawl, Rob, and Fred tried to hold him back as he decked the roadie.

           

 

           

            Weeks later, the news of Seti’s death was all anyone who’d seen them play could talk about.

            “How’d he die?”  One asked.

            “They said overdose, but the rest of the band said he only had a little weed,” another, apparently in the know, replied.

“Yeah right,” someone snorted, “Next you know, they’ll be saying he didn’t do drugs at all.”

            They laughed. 

“Such a shame.  They really rocked. I heard they’d just gotten signed, too.”

            “Yeah, they did! Talk about bad timing.  Hey, did you know they’re giving away Seti’s new drum in a raffle? Some benefit thing in his honor.” 

            “Really?”

            “Yeah.  Supposedly, it used to belong to Vassal Coup.”

            “No shit?”

            “It’s true.”

            “Hey, didn’t Vassal Coup die on stage, too?”

            “Yeah.  That’s right, he did.  Man, that’s some fucking coincidence.”

            “Yeah,” he echoed “…some fucking coincidence.”

 

 

Wayne Russell

by Horror Sleaze Trash on August 18, 2017

Wayne Russell is a creative writer that was born and raised in Florida, he has traveled the world and currently resides in Columbus, Ohio. His work has been published as a fiction writer, poet, and photographer in various zines, online and in print.

As of March 2016, Wayne leads an all-star cast at Degenerate Literature you can find them at the following link. 

http://degenerateliterature.weebly.com/submissions.html

 


 

Photo 1 “Welcome” 
Photo 2 “No Entry”
Photo 3 “Stone House”
Photo 4 “Rust”
Photo 5 “Scrapped” 
Photo 6 “Bars That Rust 1”
Photo 7 “Bars That Rust 2”
Photo 8 “Closed”
Photo 9 “Confinement”
Photo 10 “Grey”

 

 

 


 

See

I see the children

play

innocent on

tricycles

and puppies

trailing

behind

and mothers

that don’t

work

because day care

cost too

much

and father

toils away

in the factory

while father

toils away

at some

underpaying

fast food

joint

and

mother says

press those

peddles

     Forward

Marley

   press those

peddles Forward

the girl sings

the birds sing

my

PTSD flairs

&

my childhood memories

flair

I close the garage

door

upon her happy

future

& my

unhappy

  past

& the beer

slides

down my

gullet

as Marley

sings

and my

  garage door

slowly

closes

on a shifty

future

 

 


 

 

#47

 

this is a poem about
another year
that to me is
dead and gone
half way through
the year
another rung
descended
into the
cold dark
cave
death loves us
all
and shall never fail
us
i
called my mother
today
she couldn’t remember
who i was
and she
couldn’t remember
that it was my birthday
today
she’s sick with 
the madness
her baby sister
said that
she has may have dementia
my father never called
he’s probably stoned again
in his lean to shack
redneck vision 
vulture skull and rebel flags
welcoming all that enter
perched high upon his thrown
rotted puke green
70’s barber’s chair
with his flock gathered
faithfully at his cowboy boot
adorned feet
met him once
back in 2012
i was 42
first time since i was 1
but i can’t remember that far back 
he showed me pictures of his
near fatal drunken car wreck
like it was a congressional
medal of honor
a newspaper clipping
dated July 69′
his passenger was not so lucky
neck snapped clean into
hee hee
i was in a full body cast 
forever  

i was born in 1970
in June
a full body cast
never kept a good fool
down.

 


 

we are spirits

 

used to sleep to much
       now i don’t sleep enough
   but the beer flows as does the Olentangy River
  muddy and with morning coffee
    dark like a seance

gone wrong
nestled in the safe confines of central Ohio
            dreams fade with the seasons
and the characters hustle and bustle
            everyone’s so busy
nobody sticks around for too long
they are busy living
they are busy dying
they are spirits staggering from

 nation to nation
    from redneck bars in Alabama & northern Florida
    to Irish pubs
to the gold laden paths of the UAE
           and the Sangria’s partaken upon the beaches of Palma Majorca
                      we are but restless wandering souls
      passing aimlessly through this life
  into
   the next life

 

 


 

 

We go

 

before the noose grasped and snapped the hyoid bone/ and before the booze killed the pain/ we are the one/ the night of aloneness/ that no one bothered to call/ a soldier/ a sailor/ best days long gone/ we truly are alone/ caught in that moment that would not end/ no friends gathered at the tomb of fair winds/ a blemished ravens tear/ no one came to the funeral/ the rain fell from a death grey sky/ the beer plummeted down upon the bones of pearly white/ the savoir failed to save the wounded / the flesh decayed/ the buildings fell into a state of disrepair/ just as they were always supposed to/ the cycle continues/ a baby cries/ the old man dies/ while somewhere in between we exists collecting possessions that we’ll never take with us/ when that numbers called/ we go/

 

 


 

 

mind your step

 

nurse my cancer
suck my wound
bleed for me
for days
in this tomb
alabaster hidden
dog snoring underneath
the soft Florida pine
I grew up here
white sand beaches
pristine shore
such a
pretty boy
with his golden locks
they laughed when I said
that I had
caught a fish
like
Uncle Robert

but it was only a dead fish
that had washed ashore
earlier in the day
as I grew into the awkward
young man of 16
my father offered me up
some booze
my virgin drink
so I partook
of
and
drank peppermint snops
and then my first beer
dad laughed
when I chucked it all up
like daemons from his abyss
that would someday claim him
it was like he was setting me up
for failure
I clutched his baton
like a runner
and sprinted into the sunset
he seemed to say
run you adopted dumb ass
run and don’t forget this torch

of debauchery that I have proudly
passed onto you

was it genetics
from the drunken biological father
that could not raise his own son?
was it my own daemons lurking in the closet
and the problems grew
the clinical depression
the ptsd
the autism
the loneliness
the isolation
here is the cliff
the devil pronounced
now if you would just take
that
     final
          step

 

 

James D. Casey IV

August 18, 2017

  James D. Casey IV is a self published author of three volumes of poetry that likes a little coffee in his whiskey. His work can be found in print and online in several places including Triadæ Magazine, Pink Litter, In Between Hangovers, Indiana Voice Journal, Beatnik Cowboy, Dissident Voice, Scarlet Leaf Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, […]

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August 17, 2017

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Michael Marrotti

August 16, 2017

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His chapbook, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, is available on Amazon. On his free time, he volunteers at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission. He is also the editor of Excavation, a poetry blog. Submissions are open: https://excavatingtheunderground.wordpress.com/     Brainwashed Goyim   Going on six months now this […]

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‘The Ghost of Kerouac & Other Poems: Gerald Nicosia

August 15, 2017

‘The Ghost of Kerouac & Other Poems: Gerald Nicosia This 34 page chapbook is a refreshing and most welcomed latest collection from Gerald Nicosia: the poems are lyrical and strong and the warmth and truth of this writer is strongly evident throughout: moving portaits and tributes to Gregory Corso and Lenore Kandel grace the pages, […]

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