This is a selected chapter of a new book I'm writing. This is rough draft, without context. This chapter was written as a standalone. No artwork for this piece yet.
Enjoy.....
Riddle of the Sphinx:
The vampire slept in their tomb, spiraling down the darkness until thoughts disappeared, hunger dissolved, and the blood hunger boiled overhead like the atmosphere of an alien world. A place where time and space are mere blocks set down by stranger creatures, and the world of light is built upon their shoulders.
The vampire became mist, became a nebula, and swirled within their coffin, full of stars and planets. Full of tears and failures. Full of a thousand years of heartache and grief. They unraveled their tears and flattened their thoughts. The wind of the abyss blew through the hole in their heart and cleaned them with darkness.
Years became hours, and distinction faded into a dream. Light was a distant memory, unnecessary and unbound to the roots of darkness. The urgency of life passed by the sleeping vampire. The brutish Roman emperors paved the way for the even more brutish Holy Roman Empire. Ruled by rage and violence, the first kings of the dark age were veterans of war, the crusades, the wars of territory, and the brutal arithmetic of controlling resources.
Treasure was more valuable than knowledge, and darkness washed the landscape.
Yet regardless of the sharp nature of society, some still sought knowledge, even if to find treasure. Such a seeker found their way to the feet of the Sphinx of Egypt. The sculpture was 22 meters high, depicting the body of a lion, the face of a woman, and the wings of a bird. What knowledge survived the transition to the new Holy Roman era was small, but enough to tempt the imaginations of treasure hunters.
Such a seeker had come to the Sphinx. After spending nearly a lifetime searching, they found a scroll describing an unmarked entrance to a deeper section beneath the Sphinx. So here they were, at the feet of the Sphinx, ready for her riddles and mysteries.
Just as the scroll indicated, the unseen entrance could be seen on the Equinox, by the light of a moon. The door was outlined in silver, and the sparkle of words could be seen above.
Above the entrance, read in hieroglyphs: “You will find no absolution here.” An ominous warning for the superstitious.
The digger scratched their head, pausing a moment before producing a book from a canvas knapsack. They turned to a familiar page and rechecked the translation. They also checked the word for treasure just in case they were similar enough. The warning made sense if treasure was here, but absolution? What ancient and unholy sin would compel someone to seek spiritual peace under the Sphinx? The warning made no sense in this regard, and the digger decided it was a lost dialect.
They pushed the stone door, and the opening moved easily, as if propped up, and disguised quickly. The stone crumbled and shifted, revealing a pregnant darkness beyond.
The strangeness filled the shadows with possibilities; a reflex of the abyss.
Within the warm light of the candle, the digger continued down the crude tunnel. They covered their mouth and nose with linen, which helped against the dust. The particles had not been disturbed since the Roman era. Nearly 400 years of isolation, and rumors of curses floated nearby the digger’s imagination.
Like a shadow, the curse followed the digger deeper into the tunnel. The method of construction was crude, inarticulate. As if a beast had clawed their way through, desperate to flee the sunlight. There were no hieroglyphs, no cartouches, nothing to indicate when the tunnel was made, or by whom.
Sweat mixed with ancient dust and labored breathing. Hours passed as they cleared away stones which had fallen in, the pathway revealed itself, leading to a solid iron door.
The iron door had no markings, but above the opening another vague warning was seen. ” Let me sleep, nothing glitters here except the bones of the rotten Pheonix.”
The digger paused a moment, and again searched their notes and books for references. The Pheonix was the bird of Osiris. The bird was a pet, an allegory for the world of empires. The frequency of the resurrection was once every 500 years, as the prophecy was written by the blind oracle of Nix. The notes written in the margins described the first appearance of the fiery bird.
The Pheonix struggles to be born,
Upon their wings are lies,
Heralding a future which will never be,
Their eyes cannot see,
What rots without decay,
Will be born blind and mad,
With nothing to say.
A broken sunshine bird,
A glittering mirage,
Will become an egg,
To die again.
The digger ran their hand through their graying hair. Now desperate for a pattern or a direction, they sought a deeper meaning in the prophecy. The word “Glitter” stood out, and as the doubt surrounded them, clarity pierced through, and the world treasure echoed in their mind yet again.
So, after a short respite in the dark, the digger continued. They thought of treasure, turquoise artifacts, or objects made of solid gold! The iron door was not locked, and when the stones of causal collapse were cleared, the open door offered empty darkness.
The digger brought the candle into the low room. The rough ceilings forced a stoop of the back, and a hunch of the spine. They saw the unmarked coffin in the center of the room. No treasure, no symbols indicating who and when. There was no depiction of the journey to the afterlife, no cosmic judgment, no heaven, or ornately painted history. This room was a void.
The hunger for information, context, or anything compelled the digger to attempt to open the coffin. They needed to know. All this digging, all the travel and research, must contain something valuable buried in the sands of history. If not material, the world would give them fame!
The coffin was made of heavy lead, and no lock was seen. The digger produced a crowbar and tried to pry the coffin open. After 30 minutes of attempts the lid would not move. The digger beat the coffin with their crowbar in frustration. They would have to get a crew, and pay them, which turned the digger’s stomach. They didn’t want to share.
The digger took another break, unable to open the coffin. Exhaustion took them for a moment, and they fell into a suffocating sleep.
A moment was enough. The locks within the coffin were undone, the click went unheard by the sleeping digger. The lid was silently lifted up, and placed nearby. Then, like thick unfiltered oil, the shadow crawled across the room. There were no thoughts, no sound, only a dark hunger moving closer to the sleeping digger.
The shadow poured itself into figure, and the human turned to dust within moments. Their skin shrank from their bones, the eyes sank into a deeper darkness, and the crispy limbs curled into the brittle legs of a dead insect.
Then a wind emitted from the shadow; a voice unspoken for 400 years.
The vampire took the knapsack, the books and tools, and put on the clothes of the digger. The Sun greeted the shadow for the first time since the blood of pharaohs flowed from the pyramids.
Sunday, April 21, 2024
Wednesday, March 6, 2024
Do Not Duplicate
Which opens no door,
No window or hatch,
For no building now stands,
Where the doorway once was.
No parking lot or painted lines,
No fines for the tickets,
No moving violations to unlock.
The key sits by the fan,
Waiting for hands,
To warm up the brass,
A useless contraband,
A token of access,
Now left to dispose.
The other side reads,
Do not duplicate,
Now destined for trash,
For keys with no locks,
Who can not pretend,
Their purpose is ended,
Their notches undone,
Long after the tumblers were fixed,
And the screws swollen shut,
The place with no name, and no way to remember,
What those keys once unlocked.
Wednesday, November 29, 2023
Vacuum Coffin
For those who are visiting my blog: There is a side bar of links for self-published books for consideration which might not be viewable on certain mobile devices. Many of my posts on this blog are first drafts, raw and unedited or refined. If you enjoy the posts and the content, I encourage you to check out some of the collections with all the refinement and editing process. Also, I may delete stories and posts from time to time depending on the requirements of publishing.
I have also been writing articles for a local blog which broadcast to the local area. These articles are about experiences or concepts in the art world I am part of. Here is the Art Corner on the B-Town Blog
I have also been writing articles for a local blog which broadcast to the local area. These articles are about experiences or concepts in the art world I am part of. Here is the Art Corner on the B-Town Blog
You searched for art corner - The B-Town (Burien) Blog (b-townblog.com)
Also, I love email exchange, so please email me. I am happy to mail books directly to you with a signature, let me know at my email here: d20raymond@gmail.com
So here are my links:
Also, I love email exchange, so please email me. I am happy to mail books directly to you with a signature, let me know at my email here: d20raymond@gmail.com
So here are my links:
Neon Rodeo
A collection created during COVID
Food for Thoth
A collection of zines from 2019-2020 with a foreword by Amberraven
The Crystal Sun
A single-story novella about a far future crisis.
Creature Comforts
My most popular seller, featuring an amazing collection of surreal sci-fi.
Fluffy Stuffing v17
A coffee table companion for those cozy nights.
Back to the Beginning
A collection of flash fiction from my earlier years, contains 65 stories, which is more than any other collection.
Tombs and Towers
A slow boiled collection of stories from 2018
The Void is Bright
A high fantasy collection of gnomes and shadows.
Vision Thing
A novella featuring a hunter who witnesses the firsthand transition between the bronze and iron age.
Plutonium Television
My first published collection, with all the radioactive fireballs included.
Terrible Parables
A collection of artwork and poetry of the natural world.
Dreams of the Dragon
A deluxe hardback collection of artwork, poetry and stories.
Cosmic Cuisine
This is the main course of literary enjoyment. A premium selection of poetry, essay, and stories.
I am currently working on something with will be released in parts/pieces, so stay tuned for more artwork and written work!
Friday, September 1, 2023
Path of Petals
Besides my typical poetry, short stories and essays, I also write articles for art events and reviews. Here is a recent article on a most amazing day.
Here is the original link: Art Corner: Normandy Park’s Music in the Park 2023 Finalé had a 'Path of Petals' - The B-Town (Burien) Blog (b-townblog.com)
Many cities host a Music in the Park series; providing space for free concerts and theatre groups. Normandy Park is a small City between Burien and Des Moines, with space for music located in a place called Marvista Park. Here is an account from my experience of the final concert of the series, which I think is a particular noteworthy event.
On Sundays in July and August at 5:pm people come with foldout chairs and find a location in the shade provided by the trees and listen to different bands. There is a Gazebo where most musicians set up, dedicated to the late Art Commissioner Zen McManigal who started and supported the Music in the Park series for 20+ years.
Each one of the bands this season were fantastic, offering their variety and style to the lineup. However, this year Normandy Park did something different for the last show which was August 27th. This Finale was a concert, but with something extra, something more than a performance. This event was about participation, improvisation, and the artistic capacity we all share.
Thie Finale featured 2 bands and an art performance group called Botanical Alchemists. Rather than the usual 5:00pm start time, this event started 2 hours earlier at 3:00pm. They brought an abundance of flowers from flower shops, river rocks, and their colorful magic from Spokane.
You can also see more work by the Botanical Alchemists here on their Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/the.botanical.alchemists/
Rocks were laid out to form a heart with mountains, a river, and a Sun. I was a volunteer for the pre-set up, so I had the privilege of setting the stones for the foundation. Buckets of flowers were organized by color and style, and little containers were prepared for people to find their own materials. The first part of this unique art experience was to find a couple of sticks, feathers, rocks, or anything within Marvista Park. Then everyone would create and decorate their own little art piece, expressing shapes or designs they wanted. Then after the solo creation, we would all come together and place colors and pieces in the larger design.
The set up took a couple of hours, and at 3:00pm the Botanical Alchemists placed a path of petals in the park leading to a dedicated place by the community pea patch. Also, at 3:00PM the first musician was set up and ready to perform. Some of the designs created were lizards, mermaids, mountains made of bark, a chicken made of pinecones, and designs of carefully placed intentions. Then at 4:00pm, while Marina shared more of her music, the group design outlined in stones was placed, and petals filled shapes of the river, mountains, and sunbeams, forming a heart.
The artist was Marina Albero playing a hammered dulcimer with a guitar companion. Marina is self-taught on the hammered dulcimer, played the most exquisite set of improvised songs. Her style seemed to be heavily influenced by Spanish guitar and jazz. Typically, she plays piano, but today she provided a special treat. While children and families were improvising their art pieces with flowers, Marina’s music filled the air with an enchanting mood. Marina ended her set with a song containing the message “Music is Love”, which seemed to be the vibe of the hour.
You can visit the Normandy Park Art Commission Facebook page for more pictures of Marina’s performances and the creations of the participants of the event. https://www.facebook.com/NPArtsCommission/
Marina Albero’s Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/marinalbero
At 4:30PM there was a break, and everyone toured the signed on the grass, shadowed by the trees. I walked around and took pictures, made a small piece of artwork myself. I used some painted rocks and flower petals to make a radial design. Besides Zen’s memorial at the park, there is also a memorial bench for pets who have crossed over the Rainbow bridge. Behind the bench there were cable wires with pet tags of furry friends.
The next musician prepared their set, and people took a refreshing moment to enjoy ice cream from Ice Cream Express, and free coffee and water provided by FONP (Friends of Normandy Park).
Then Eric Ode took the stage at 5:00pm. Eric is an author, poet, singer and song writer, and his songs included the participation of children in the audience. He sang about possums, sharks, and the daily routines of a rooster as children jumped, sang, and had a great time.
Eric Ode Website. https://www.ericode.com/about
One child who participated in the flower art and sang songs said “This is the best day ever!”
Wednesday, August 23, 2023
The Diary of a Demonologist
When I was young, every story of ghouls and demons intrigued me. I soaked my mind in any book of fantasy, religion, myth, and especially gravitated towards vampires and monsters of fairytales. My interest continued into adulthood, and I then sought out the text and manuscripts of these tales. I visited libraries, temples, and pursued any shred of strange occurrences. I wanted to witness a truly supernatural event, some proof of their existence beyond the pages of myth. I stayed the night at haunted houses, attended religious rites, even visited the castles of Vlad the Impaler and the infamous Countess Bathory, who was rumored to bathe in the blood of virgins.
Why virgins? Why did creatures require virgins? Was it innocence, hoping to inflict an unforgettable trauma? Was it the purity of passing on genetics, a remnant of hereditary rulership? Or was blood something more, some source of life? Regardless, visiting these places showed me something more, something which has since afflicted me with doubtless terror.
I found something, a signature in the bowels of both the castles of Vlad the Impaler and the Countess. Although separated by hundreds of years, the sigil was found at both places. The symbol was carved into the stone foundation, a Latin name, comprised of 2 words.
In both places the words Vex Obernoth were etched. The letters overlapped, becoming a single letter or symbol.
I looked for a reference anywhere in my books and resources. I found nothing in my own, but I did find a reference in the 1st edition of Dante’s Inferno. A demon who lived on the outskirts of the City of Dis, a location near the center of hell. This demon would usher the most vile and corrupted souls past the city gates and deeper into the infernal pit. I found the mention only once, but I had a trail to follow.
For years I searched, and a few crumbs led me to ancient rulers. I found the sigil of Vex Obernoth in the ruins of the library of Ashurbanipal. This tyrannical ruler was obsessed with collecting ancient texts in the hopes of finding immortality. I found the sigil in 2 of the great pyramids, thousands of years before Dante’s Inferno was written. The unnamed tombs had their names scratched off. From the hieroglyphs there was mention of eternal life, a contract with the demon Vex, a great serpent of the sky.
I took photos and rubbings of these findings; I collected as much as I could on my own. Then with access to the internet and its ghostly immortality, I found others had also done rubbings of artifacts. I found a rubbing of the Holy Grail, and on its side, I saw the distinct sigil of Vex. This is when is started to put the pieces together.
The common theme was immortality, and eternal life. With the Grail, the knights were successful and whatever terrors or justifications of their quest, was quietly omitted from the pages of history. Whereas with Ashurbanipal, Vlad, and the Countess, their crimes were all which remained of their immortality attempts. So, I surmised the demon would tempt rulers with eternal life and the price of some great evil or cost.
Then I investigated the biggest story of eternal life; Christianity. I was able to visit the Vatican in Rome and see some of the letters which were the foundation for the New Testament. I discovered of the 26 included letters, 13 were written by the Apostle Paul, and the book of Revelation was written by John. I found the sigil of Vex Obernoth on 3 of Paul’s letters, and 1 on manuscript of Revelations. Such a connection was unmistakable. I recorded my findings, but besides the sigils, I had no further details about Vex Obernoth.
Then as luck would have it, I was at a family gathering, and my sister suggested her piano might be haunted. I found the sigil of Vex hidden within and asked to borrow the piano. Later, when I played the piano, in the hopes some inspiration or knowledge would occur to me. A swirl of black miasma flowed from it, and a fiendish voice spoke from behind the cloud. I listened in paralyzed silence.
“I will give you eternal life mortal, in exchange for the blood of your family. Kill them and live until time itself disappears. What is my low price compared to an eternal reward?”
I awoke in a fever, without the memory of going to sleep. I can still feel the demon nearby, and when no one else is in my home, I can hear 2 notes played on the piano, a reminder of the infernal contract awaiting me. I won’t deny it’s temptation; to live to see the modern world play out, to see what happens in 500 years, or 1000. To see how history moves, naked without the blur of secondhand experience. I am not a killer, nor will I be the demon’s victim, but the illicit magic of such a wonderous thing consumes and enthralls me. I feel like I am a part of an ancient and endless legacy. I feel like Dante, visiting the locations of Hell, an awestruck tourist of corruption.
So here is my dilemma, do I take such knowledge to the grave, or to publish these findings? If I tell others, they might take up the demon on their transaction. They might invoke the sigil and through great evil acts justify the promise of eternal life. Yet even thinking these thoughts, my mind is drawn towards the age of my family, and how easy they might step into death as they enter old age. I feel like a worm, dangling on a hook for some great monstrance to consume.
Thursday, August 17, 2023
Death Traps of Unusual Size
There are many things worse than death; slavery, anguish, grief, pain, all sorts of human conditions when in sufficient intensity, are better left for the grave. However, choice is slippery, and not always an easy to push red button. Anguish and grief for example, can build up, or crush slowly, hiding the button behind blurry tears and anxious nightmares.
As with any Death Trap, the trap is sprung at the last moment. A Death Trap could be a mine with terrible support beams, ready to fall and bury you in the dark. Or perhaps surrounded by flammable materials with no fire escape. Perhaps your work demands you risk your life to venture into the trap, and perhaps the thrill of exploring a cave beckons you into the cracks of adventure.
However, there is a single trap which has quite a strange shape. Resembling a gigantic rat trap; there is a piece of cheese at its center. This cheese can be opioids, money, control, or even simply the fulfillment of hunger. This cheese can take many other shapes, and vaguely resembles pleasure itself. There is a nearly universal draw towards the bait. This is because the smell of cheese is programmed into human beings in the form of instinct. The instinct is wholesome, its pleasure, it’s safety and security, its comfort, it’s all the happy chemicals in the brain which tell you everything is going to be ok. It’s a soothing cheese; bringing stillness to the crisis and emergency of life.
The cheese is constantly being prepared and packaged for consumption. There are new flavors invented every year in countless varieties and colors. There are fluffy green cheeses and cheap knock-off cheeses, fancy pants cheeses and cheeses made of lethal ammunition. There are cheeses made from oil, alcohol, hope, all sorts of mundane madness paraded around and consumed for whoever would try them.
Regardless of the cheese’s nebulas construction, the most important feature of any trap is the creature it seeks to contain. The human creature is not made of flesh and bone and does not share a single head. The blood of the human being is made of money; a super-conductive material used for commerce. Their heads are constantly sprouting from their body, like little flowers from the concrete garden of super-malls. Their mouths are even more numerous, consuming any cheese they can find. Occasionally they pause to recite a poem, story, or song, expressing the horror of some experience. Their hands and feet are blistered and burned from the great hunger of existence. Their back is bent and curved over the mountains of their waste, made of plastic towers, and radioactive pits seeping into their water sources. Their body survives on poison and pollution, like the necrotic breath of a sweet dream. The bones and skin of the human creature are a twitching pile of terror, full of fertile secrets, guilt, and cancerous self-reflection. This is why the cheese must be so glamourous and wholesome, to distract the creature, to relieve the human being from their misery and strife.
Getting human creatures to eat the cheese is relatively easy. They are constantly looking for a new cheese, a balm against the reality of their hunger and their position in the trash-filled universe. However, tolerance increases quickly so then a new cheese must be found.
Springing the trap is the hardest part. This is because the physical dimensions of the trap are difficult to see at first. The trap might cause genetic damage, like from lead poisoning or pollution, but as soon as the descent into extinction begins, the human creature wiggles out and seeks a new cheese. Drugs are great traps, but too obvious for every head of the human creature to fall into.
In the past the most potent trap to close the circle of life has been success. Nature spreads her arms and legs, elongating to form a net, seeking the sweetest variety of cheese, some exotic creature never before imagined. Once the chosen creature emerges, all other traps are sprung. For example, during the early Triassic period (about 200 million years ago) a small creature measuring 1 meter in length called the Lystrosaurus represented 95% of land vertebrates on Pangea. With their success and procreation, bacteria within their stomachs also grew. This bacterium emitted methane and was so abundant a global extinction occurred. Methane drove up the global temperature and 35% of all life on the planet died.
This is a single example of how the trap of success closes in around a creature.
Humans are likewise successful, and intelligent in their own way. They found ways to harness energy from petroleum and could increase their food production to match their population rate. This success was built on technology, logistics, and the virtue of efficiency, a virtue forever driving the progress of evolution.
This is how money became their blood, their hands became cars burning on the highways, and metal wings grew from their back in the shape of jet engines. Their eyes became cameras, their brains were augmented with libraries, computers, and machines of immense computational power. No longer limited by the crude biology of flesh and bone, they were free to populate their heads and bodies as much as the machines could progress. This journey of transformation is well documented as the industrial revolution. Humans grew in population from 0.6 billion in 1700 to 8 billion by 2023.
Success has built a gigantic trap all around the human creature, and there is no certainty the cheese will retain its sweet delight. Once the hunger for cheese stops, once the capitalistic death boner becomes flaccid, the trap will spring, and the teeth of success will pierce the bubble of glory. Perhaps the desire for cheese of any kind will become mundane, and courting extinction will be the only thrill, driven by the moral relief of suicide.
For now, the cheese continues to sparkle in wholesome glory, and the trap grows larger each day.
Monday, July 31, 2023
Ear Worms
I woke up with half a conversation in my head. Who was I arguing with? The words fled with the light of day. I had a gig tonight, it was a 15-minute set, but it was still a gig. We were going to play at a skating rink. They set up an island on the floor for the amps and mics. We were 1 of 7 bands playing that night.
The morning was coffee, cold leftovers, and scrolling down longer than I wanted. I should have been practicing, but habits are hard to break. I started to get ready in the afternoon, then met the crew at my buddy’s house. We all crammed into the back of his van with our gear. The drive was a little nauseating in the back with no windows and a full load of chattering unsecured electronics.
We arrived 45 mins before our set, grabbed a beer and listened to a couple of other bands. When our time came, we set up quickly, played our 3 best songs. People skated around us, which was a little unnerving at first. There were maybe 30 people skating.
After the set, we got our pay, which was meager. We needed a hundred of these small gigs before we could consider quitting our day jobs. This small gig just made us all anxious and irritated. We promised to practice more, maybe come up with new material. Lots of promises! However, even a small gig is a gig and I had something to tell people when they asked me what I am up to.
Even a part time rock star has dreams.
Then I had a life changing dream. I fell asleep as I usually do; anxious about money, life, what to do with myself. Then the dream rolled in, like the clouds of a heavy rainstorm, full of a wet and smothering darkness. I dreamed of a red theatre, with curtains from ceiling to the floor. The red was almost neon, radiating with a squirming light. I saw an audience from the stage, faceless forms, chattering with electric voices. They were taking their seats and slowing growing quiet until there was silence.
I was alone there on the stage with my guitar. The instrument felt like a weapon. The strings felt vorpal and serrated. Silence grew and I felt the weight of the crowd’s anticipation. I felt the curtains wrap around me, squeezing me and my guitar. The guitar reacted belligerently, as if the silence insulted its existence. A chord played out, my fingers moved without memory or intention. The guitar was playing on its own.
A chord hung in the air; a deep drone, laying the landscape. I strummed the guitar slowly, building the shoreline out of sequence of riffs and notes. The audience remained silent, and the curtains twisted, almost animated by the distortion from my speaker. Then the progression hit, like a wave from an ancient ocean, tumbling from note to note.
I felt the sound waves wash over me, then they repeated. The progression felt like magic in my veins, electric adrenaline rising up in the theatre. The curtains glowed and the faceless people opened their eyes, which were sharp and focused. Then as I repeated the progression again, they grew mouths and murmured, softly at first, then opened wide. Then on the third repeat, their mouths howled and screamed, repeating the notes of the guitar. I screamed too, and mimicked the guitar, caught in its ocean of sound, bound by the progression. I played it over and over, like the rain of a violent storm, the place was drenched in the music, soaked with the magic of the sound.
I played for the howling crowd for what felt like hours until I felt exhausted in my dream and the cold light of consciousness peaked from under the curtain. I felt tattooed, burnt by the intensity of the progression. I was etched, and for the first time in my life I knew what awaited me.
When the band practiced next, I played the progression. I didn’t suffer any difficulty remembering. I summoned the storm and unleashed the chords. My band mates found space in the notes and added their own voice. We played for 4 hours without a break and knew what we would be playing at our next gig. The practice was effortless and exhausting.
Our next gig was at a bar which was converted into a music venue once a month. We were opening for a local band of moderate popularity, a typical bar band; familiar songs for half-drunk patrons. When I got on stage, I felt the same familiar weight from my dream and began in the same way. The guitar played me, starting off slow and steadily, then rising with intensity with each progression.
I could see the faceless people turn their heads, their eyes wide and their mouths slowly open. When after 20 mins their voices were howling in excitement. We were a hit, completely overshadowing the band we were opening for.
Fame flowed like a river. We found gigs easily, and people sought us out. We played the same song from my dream and each time the same reaction occurred. We played for many years and burned ourselves with success.
Now there are no more dreams, and the nightmare plays itself out. I have joined the audience of howling mouths; my face is added to theirs and the curtains cover any exits which might be hidden behind them. I am bound to the guitar until my fingers are turned to dust and my bones wash away.
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