A fall from that height will only break your ankles… by Sebastien de Robillard

A fall from that height will only break your ankles…

Josh was on the brink of something bad. Something horrible. The night had not worked out as well as he wished, and he was looking for comfort. And not necessarily in the wrong places. In fact, the night had turned out rather well, but that didn’t seem to matter.

He had put together the evening a few months earlier, organising the bands to play. The budget for advertising was larger than usual, and he and a friend had splashed posters near and around The Fernace a few weeks prior to the event. Josh was hoping a few hundred might turn up, but would settle an even hundred.

The night had proceeded along splendidly. The rain had cleared, and the hundred or so turned up, and everyone was in good spirits. The bands played loud and were energetic, but Josh just stood still. Everyone was in good spirits. Everyone but Josh of course. Standing near the bar, he checked his watch again. He seemed to be checking it constantly he thought. Why? I have no where to go. He looked again. 9:23 PM it read. He moved away from the bar and walked round the back, to the restricted area. Up the stairs he marched towards the roof. He unlocked the door, and closed it behind him.

The night was chilly, and Josh appreciated this. He enjoyed the slight sting on his bare arms. It looked like it was going to rain. He lit a cigarette and cupped his beer tighter. Josh did not understand why he felt like he felt. Why the melancholy was consuming his body and time so much lately?

His pocket vibrated. A text from his girlfriend. Sarah was on her way, and should be there in approximately 5 minutes, it read. She wrote out ‘approximately’. Josh shook his head.

He had fluffed through the afternoon, yelling and cussing as was his regular habit. He had been excited about the show he said. He couldn’t wait for tonight he said. He can remember lying. Liar after liar after liar.

He stood on the edge of the roof. It was only one story high. It wouldn’t kill him. It would be painful, and more annoying than anything else, but it would not kill him.

His phone vibrated again. A call this time.

“Hey Josh.”
“Hey Sarah.”
“What’s wrong babe?”
“Nothing Sarah.”
“Where are you?”
“On the roof.”
“Well come down for a smoke.”
“Be there in a sec.”

And then he jumped.

Falls Festival by Atticus.

Stand in the crowd. Wait in anticipation for the band you've all come to see. Friends shift restlessly. Breath fogs in front of your faces. The sound checks are lost amongst the chatter, disappear between the giggles. Expectations build; the crowd lifts and swells as one.

Stop.

Pause for a moment.

Imagine the heartbeats that surround you. The rhythym that throbs and pulses and underlies your very existence here, in this moment. All other senses fade as the sound sharpens. It fills your ears and prods the edges of your skull. Thousands of hearts, all beating, all around. Including your own. You take a breath.

The band begins.

My Name is Blue Van Meer - Diary Entry 2009 83.2 by Aylma Pessl

My face is tingling with tingl-ation and brightness. My cheeks burn red, and my bellow swooshies up and down and my… well, I fell great everywhere. Is this what acid feels like dear Sebastien? A great, wonderful tingl-ation and brightness?

I wanted to scream and scream some more.

Wait, and stop dear Blue. I don’t know how to properly express myself in this situation. A truly, magnificent…thing to be honest. For an example please…oh my god. I cannot find a suitable reference to express my current state of joy.

Oh my I am flushed.

Stoker's Horror Blog by Steven Rogers - Part 18: Where ARE the Wild Things?

Rec and I went to see the new Spike Jonze film, the much anticipated Where the Wild Things Are. Overall, I must say I enjoyed the film, but for a full review, check out my blog.

The cinema was rather empty, except for a few single men. They all looked like they were clutching their safety blankets, or pictures of their mum. They all stayed and watch the entire closing credits, as I did, and as we walked out – Rec, me and a few single, lonely men – at least one commented on the brilliance of the film to no one in particular. I looked back at him, and nodded, hoping to perhaps start a conversation (I figured it could be good for my review to see what unemployed men thought) but he could only repeat the comment and turn away from me. His eyes looked red.

I looked at Rec and rolled my eyes. She didn’t notice, as usual, and we sauntered outside where we ran into Matt. Good, old fucking Matt. He was recently broken up again. Again. And he needed some counselling.

We sat down together – some place that served Lavazza Coffee (gross, sick, puke) and he started going on about his ex and their relationship and God knows what else. I tuned out. My coffee came and I drank that bastard down.

‘She was never there for me, not like you Rec. You too Steve. Always off…’ I turned away. Rec looked at him – bleeding heart – and put her hands on his. He reciprocated. I butted in; he was always hitting on Rec.

‘In my opinion Matt, she wasn’t worth much anyway. You only dated her for a month or so...’

‘…it was four actually.’

‘Yeah, okay, whatever. Anyway, she didn’t mean anything so, you need to just get the fuck over it.’

‘Matt, just ignore him,’ Rec said. She glared at me. I got up,

‘I need to make a quick call, I will be back in a jiffy.’ As I walked away, Matt asked the following question to my lovely Rec,

‘Is he still persisting with that horrible film review blog?’

I went to Borders and lamented the poorly organised comic book section, and so much Manga. Poor, so poor. I procrastinated there for as long as I could, and then found them again at the café, both looking rather light-hearted, as if they had been laughing. Laughing a lot.

‘…and you should have read his review about There Will Be Blood,’ Rec burst out laughing. They seemed to be rather jolly.

‘That film was brilliant,’ Matt said.

‘I know, but Steve… you know Steve. Oh hello there Steve.’ She looked at me, and then returned to Matt, ‘He tore it apart. Well, he tried to tear it apart. He could only do so as much as he could understand the film. The review was terrible.’ Matt burst out laughing and touched Rec (probably for the umpteenth time).

‘Listen,’ I said sitting down, ‘It was a well made film, sure, but it was boring as hell. Why was it so slow, and what was with the performance of Day-Lewis? So ridiculous…’

Matt counted, ‘How can you say that Steve? It was amazing. One of the best films I have ever seen. So masterful, and brilliant. Daniel Day-Lewis was amazing in that role, and how he missed out on the Oscar…’

‘..Oh Oscars, why is everything measured by Oscars.’

‘Thank you Steve, for interrupting. It was a superbly made film, so reminiscent of Kubrick. The score as well, was breathtaking in its ability to add to the story telling…’

‘I hate it when you see that guy,’ I later said to Rec. She was brushing her teeth at the time. ‘Not only is he a loser – he can’t stay in a relationship for more than 6 minutes – he is constantly hitting on you. He touches you, and the way he looks at you… I fucking hate it.’ Rec glared at me, and washed her mouth out. As she walked out of the bathroom, she said, ‘Steve, I hate it when you talk to me when I’m brushing my teeth.’ She went into our room, and slid into bed.

‘Do you not agree though? He has a thing for you?’ She kept ignoring my comments, making herself comfortable. She grabbed her book. I took my shirt off.

‘He’s a nice guy Steve, he has trouble with women,’ she then looked at me mischievously, ‘and can you blame him for liking me?’ Rec was trying to make light of the situation, but I wasn’t hanging around for that.

‘Yes. I can. There are millions of women out there. You’re mine. He can go like someone else.’

‘Are we a little jealous there?’

‘Well, yes, I am jealous. I am… I’m… he is a good looking man, in pain, women love that shit. Their hearts melt and they explode in cum everywhere.’

She looked at me in disgust, ‘Steve, you are a fucking animal sometimes.’

‘My point is, women love that sad dog shit. They love it. They want to take the man into their arms and let cry a little and then fuck him!’ I was starting to sweat.

‘You have no idea what women want. Steve, this argument is as flawed as your review of District 9…’

‘…Why do you have to bring that up?’ I yelled.

I stood there, exasperated. Rec put her book down and decided to do what she had to do.

‘Shut up you idiot and listen to me! You have no idea what you are arguing for, or against. You think you’re ideas, or better yet, prejudices are the truth, are fucking gospel. You assume the world is ordered into the Right, Wrong and Fucking-Steve-Says-So. It doesn’t work that way.’

She ripped the blanket off and lept out of bed.

‘Yes, men with feelings are attractive, but so are burly men and men’s men and areshole men and ugly men and hot men and tall men and short men…’

‘..NOT short men!’

‘ … ALL types of men. Even a man like you –with the assistance of a great deal of alcohol, drugs and severe, extreme loneliness on my behalf - can be considered attractive.’

Ouch.

CountDown by Kate Barnaby

10.

They stand on a balcony, in a Melbourne apartment, waiting with party blowers, poppers and sparklers. Both think about the year gone past, and the events that had taken place between them. So much said and done, so much left to say and do, both too shy to admit it.

9.

Their hands move closer together on the rails of the balcony. The night a few months earlier - it had started off with a major make-out session and ended with a food fight on Elizabeth Street - flashes back into their minds. She smiles at the memory, he scoffs out loud, “Remember when I got sausage roll in your hair?!”

8.

They were as close as brother and sister. And initially, that was their relationship. In the past few months, she had realised that she was falling for him, and wanted nothing more than to start a new year with him. He, who had been there for her. He, who she had scorned unintentionally, before his feelings were known to her. He stands there and accidentally blows his party blower while breathing out, and she laughs at the boyish grin that followed.

7.

He had loved her since the very beginning. Well, almost. He’d never been able to speak so freely to someone in such a short amount of time, but she fell for someone else. He was always there for her though. Their last kiss was at Christmas. She was drunk and upset and he was angry. He helped her into a cab, and they kissed again. He needed time. She would wait for him.

6.

They were no longer angry when she came back from her Christmas holiday. It was so easy to slip back into the comfortable friendship they had before the fight. Now there was this new vigour between them, they sat closer together, held hands or hugged or brushed against each other more often, and were making plans to go to the movies, to hang out and get stoned, and to, subconsciously, just be together. Although too embarrassed to be the first to say it out loud, they are happy.

5.

Others come out onto the balcony with champagne corks ready to fly, stumbling from the pre-countdown consumptions. She is pushed into him. “Shit!” he cries, “you jumped on my foot!” Silly, clumsy girl was always doing things like this by accident. A nice girl, not at all classy, but proud of that fact. She puts out her cigarette and hugs him to apologise. He kissed the top of her head in forgiveness, and rests his chin on the top of her head for a moment.

4.

He moves away from her but doesn’t let go of her hand. They stand subtly, secretly, holding hands on the balcony. Images run through their minds, past events and the wants of the future. They were laughing, play fighting, making love, making out, making nachos while drunk. They can feel what they think is just nervousness, drunkenness, but its more than likely an energy, a spark between them. He sees her smile out of the corner of his eye.

3.

It’s getting louder, more enthusiastic on the balcony. They both know now what they want, what is the natural progression of their lives. This is it, them, together, for now. He swallows a lump down his throat, and she quickly licks her lips to moisten them. They turn to look at each other, seconds dwindling down to a new year, a new decade.

2.

They stare at each other for no longer than an instant, but there is so much more there. A new year, a new love, a resolution of amazing existences for both of them. It’s about time, she thinks. He pulls her close, and in the dying seconds of the year, he smiles, and kisses her.

1.

Miguel Sanchez Presents… by Sebastien de Robillard

He wanted to make it up to her. To apologise, not too much, but enough, and also to give her something. What exactly? A music compilation: nothing original, but involves enough effort and can speak volumes. What was the intention of this gift you ask? Why bother bro? He thought he had been a little too rude. Not that rude, just too rude.

But where did this all stem from? Why the sudden guilt? It probably had a lot to do with Monday night. It was not a normal Monday night for Jack. He decided to go see a film (which did meet his expectations, but was not brilliant, which is a shame as it should have been brilliant) and a film he saw, friends in tow. The cinema was not too cold, it was actually quite full for a Monday night.

The film didn’t finish late. And he was in bed by 11 p.m. He turned the light off not long after this, and waited for sleep to take him to a world of red nightmares and black dreams.

But Jack did not sleep. And there were three reasons for this.

1) Coffee. Strong coffee. With three sugars.
2) The film’s central monster character reminded him of himself. He saw all of his bullshit in that one, fake character. His selfishness and his manipulative thoughtfulness (He wanted a king for him and his friends. Not because they needed leadership, but because he wanted somebody to blame when things went bad. Someone to hurt. He was nice so others would be nice to him; he gave so he would receive).
3) His not so nice behaviour on the previous Saturday. He had grunted responses throughout the night. Not that this was the problem. She had been fishing for attention no doubt, and she definitely wanted compliments, but she did seem to genuinely want to talk to him. Jack wasn’t that interested in any of these things. Compliment yourself! He probably thought. Get your friends to lavish you with attention, he would have pondered. He only grunted, and that was okay. Short, sharp responses were perfectly apt at this point. Jack didn’t feel like playing the losing game anymore. He had participated in this game for a long time, and was quite good at it. But then the losing game got too hard, so he pulled out. No games. But or however…? (No, however sounds better). However, as mentioned in the introduction, Jack felt he had been too rude. Too rude. Jack’s brain replayed scene after scene of him being a bloated, grunting, mono-syllabic arse, and felt like shit. Who was he to treat someone like this? Why was he so superior? At two or three in the morning, he admitted, out loud, to himself, in the dark, that he was an arse. “Now let me sleep!’ he exclaimed.

So, what happened? What was the tipping point? He was asked a rather simple question. Simple and harmless.

“Are you coming to my birthday party next weekend?” Jack, without missing a beat, looked her in her pretty eyes and said, “Probably not.”

In fact, and I cannot recall this detail as well as I would hope -I was busy scoring blow at the time - he probably just coughed some inaudible, bullshit, insensitive comment. For the sake of this tale, we will stick with ‘Probably not’.

Probably Not. What a bastard.

So, this rather cold response leapt back and forth in his head, all night long. He didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. Poor guy, he must have been pretty tired the next day at work.


So he wanted to make it up. He thought a mix-tape would do the trick. He hoped it would say the following but not the following after that;
1) I am sorry for acting a little rudely.
2) I don’t think I will come to your birthday party, but I hope you have a good time my dear.
3) Please understand that this is not a last, final grab for you affections, but rather an apology. This is not a present made my starry eyes, but a show of affection, respectful attention. We may not be friends, but that doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t respect you.

But Jack my dear boy, what about her, the girl?

1) What if she doesn’t remember?
2) Does remember but doesn’t care?
3) Thinks you are a boring bunt (silly kunt) anyway.

What if this piece contains too many lists? Will people lose interest?

If she doesn’t care, Jack thought, that was okay, and if she doesn’t remember, then that was okay too. This was about him behaving badly, and him feeling the need to make it up to her.

This was about him about doing the right thing and not doing everything for himself.

He wanted his mix-tape to travel back in time, to the previous Saturday’s party, and say the following:

‘You look spectacular tonight. Amazingly spectacular.’

Stoker’s Horror Blog: Thoughts and Critiques by Steven Rogers - Part 15: Tears and Cartoons by Sebastien de Robillard

Modern cartoons don’t have the heat of old cartoons. I think that every time I see another crappy trailer on TV or before a feature. Crappy animation, crappy story telling and crappy acting.

Of course, you could argue that I, Steven Rogers, does not watch kids’ cartoons. I don’t have time for that shit. But some of my friends love them. Especially the Pixar films. I don’t get it. I don’t get Pixar and why they are so popular and wonderful. I mean who gives a rat’s arse about a fucking rat, or some stupid toy or some stupid car? I don’t.

I recently purchased the new Yeah Yeah Yeah’s album. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. They seem to have lost their old punk-styles, and developed a more generic, synthesizer sound. How dull and predictable. Rec didn’t think so. She thought it was marvellous.

‘Don’t type that. I never said it was marvellous Steve, I said it was really good. Don’t put words into my mouth.’ She was lying next to me, apparently reading the morning paper. She knew I would probably use the following words in my review of their album: “shit”, “popular” and “boring”.

‘Is this like your whole “Kings of Leon” thing? ‘Cos they are massively popular now?’

‘No, no, no. No. It’s not like that. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Of course not. I wouldn’t understand how your opinions on things are based on the opinions of others? Right. Sure.’

‘Oh hey,’ she continued, ‘there is a documentary about a metal band form Baghdad showing this week in town? It could be good.”

I made a face. She didn’t look at me.

‘Is that your pretty face Steve? God I hope not.’

A few hours later, she picked me up from the comic book store down the road - new Green Lanterns, a new Robin, a one about Zombies (genius) and some Superman stuff. I had called her because it was spitting a little, and I didn’t want to walk home in the rain and YES I DON’T HAVE A CAR.

Okay?

‘Thanks Rec my sweet dear,’ I said, jumping into the back so I could lay out the comics as I opened up each one. She looked over her shoulder.

‘You know its only a few hundred meters home?’ I ignored her. I wish she didn’t fucking interrupt me when I was reading my comics. Fuck.

I started reading the first one, Ah Hal Jordan, you are spectacular. I finished it and then grabbed another. Something was wrong. We were in a car park.

‘Where are we?’ I asked. She looked at me, and said, with measured controlled,
‘We are at the movies.’
‘No, Rec, no, fuck off. Please no. I don’t want to go to a movie about stupid fucking metal. I won’t go. I refuse to go.’ She got out of the car and started walking away; I quickly jumped out and followed her. She locked the car with that beep beep sound.

We quickly reached the box office, and I grabbed her arm, with all the manliness I could muster.

‘No, no. I will not watch this film.’ I looked around; metal heads everywhere, all wearing the individualistic uniforms of black on black on black. Fucking losers.
‘These people are so fucked. I mean, look at that fat one, wearing a grey cardigan over an ice hockey top. Who fucking dresses like that? Is he trying to be ironic? Look at his glasses too…’
‘Steve,’ Rec cut me off, ‘I am seeing this film now. Are you coming in with me?’
‘No.’
‘Fine, meet you out here in 2 hours.’
‘What? No. Well…give me your car keys at least? So I can get my comics.’
She came up to me, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and gave me an almighty kiss. I kissed back – what else could I do? This was nice. This was very…
‘Fuck you,’ she said and turned to walk inside.
‘Well, what am I SUPPOSED TO DO FOR 2 HOURS?’
Rec shrugged her shoulders without turning around.