Stephen Mark Rainey's Blog, page 92

Inauguration

It is with a heavy heart I say farewell to President Obama and his family. I have admired him, disagreed with him, sometimes sworn a little at him, praised him, laughed with him, and been shocked for him. I know a lot of people will disagree when I say that he and the first family brought a much-needed sense of dignity to the White House; but when you consider the relentless obstructionism from his political opponents, the unwarranted personal attacks by the ignorant masses he and his family suffered, and the unknowable challenge of being the first US President of African American heritage, down to the end, he refused to stoop to the level of his detractors. From day one of his presidency, his opponents brazenly boasted of their intent to make him a one-term president, and despite one attempt after another to reach across the aisle to them, the president was forever rebuffed, derided as "divisive," and subjected to increasingly ridiculous attempts to discredit him (birth certificate, anyone?). He was and is blamed — quite wrongly — for racial divisions that have come to the forefront of our national consciousness. There is all kinds of fault to go around, to be sure, but at the end of the day, we, not the president, are responsible. And yes, I know many of you disliked his policies, not his skin color, but racism was, in fact, a horrifyingly huge component of the hatred heaped upon the Obamas. For god's sake, I have personally witnessed racists coming out of the woodwork way too often, not just on social media but in the world at large. I stopped going to one local establishment I had frequented for years because, since 2008, the owners and staff constantly bitched and moaned about the "Muslim nigger from Kenya." Those exact words. Over and over and over. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

I have disagreed with President Obama on any number of issues; he did spend too much, he tended to go for over-regulation rather strike a fair balance between necessary protections — for the environment, for minorities, for labor issues — and executive overreach. I think he too often caved to special interests rather than stand up for the middle class. That said, however, the more he braved the slings and arrows of his detractors, the more I admired him. When his initiatives failed, he was derided as weak and ineffective; when they succeeded, he was vilified as a tyrant. From the right, no consistency, little logic, and never a reasonable alternative proposed. Nothing he did could please his detractors. And again, the uglier his detractors become, the more I came to admire him. Little illustrates the ridiculousness of the prejudice against him than the right's condemnation of his farewell address (to which I was going to link, but the White House site has apparently removed it), in which Obama's usage of the first person was condemned as "narcissistic." I did a little math on this myself. The speech ran approximately 4,800 words long. Obama referred to himself in the first person 75 times. That's 1.5 percent of the word count. To those of you in opposition, I defy you to produce a 4,800-word missive detailing one's eight-year tenure, one's accomplishments, one's failures, one's hopes, one's recollections of how it personally impacted one's family, one's forecasts for our nation, without mentioning yourself using no more than 1.5% of the total word count. I defy you.

"Oh, but the speech shouldn't be about him, it's about us." Next breath: "We never could get to know Obama because he was distant and disconnected." Sure. Sure thing.

A personal disappointment: more than anything, having seen the complete, utter failure of our pre-ACA health system to address severe, chronic illness — up close and personal — I truly wanted Obamacare to succeed. There are so many positive tenets of the plan, it's a damn shame it was implemented so poorly; I have never felt it beyond repair, however, and I fear the direction we'll be going in the coming days with healthcare is going to be an even greater disaster. I hope I'm wrong.

In fact, when it comes to President Donald Trump, I hope I'm very, very wrong in my, oh, maybe slightly negative evaluation of him. No, really. I have, with more than due conscientiousness, evaluated every conceivable rationale for accepting his shortcomings, every argument for his strengths, and I'm sorry, but there's just nothing there. Nothing. What we have today is a narcissistic, immature, tone-deaf bully, who has assembled the least-qualified bunch of clowns to staff his cabinet positions that any sentient being could imagine. I can't see any good coming out of this, and if you can, you must give me the name of your eye doctor.

All that said, I do not want to see Trump crash and burn. Our country, our fortunes, our lives depend on this man being an effective leader, a respected player on the world stage, a partner in the success of the United States. But at the end of the day, Trump works for us, we Americans who put him where he is, however unwillingly. Me, I will oppose his every utterance that does not reflect my values. As I have from the day I reached legal voting age, I will speak with my vote as well as whatever ability I might possess to influence rational, reasonable people to see what I see, as objectively as possible. If Trump follows through with his promises to bolster the middle class, to present a workable health plan that does not leave the most vulnerable of us to the wolves, to boost a still-struggling economy, to keep America a respected world power without thrusting us into yet another avoidable conflict... I will say to you, to the world, to Trump, to anyone with an ear to hear it... that I was wrong in my evaluation of his abilities. My ego has no vested interest here. But my well-being, and the well-being of my loved ones does. However, I will never apologize for condemning this man's lack of character, not only admitted to but celebrated by his most rabid supporters. Given that a disproportionately large number of Trump's supporters are diehard Christians... I'd call that an irreconcilable absurdity. Wouldn't you?

Yeah, I understand a dislike of Trump's opponent. Hillary Clinton brought enough baggage with her to kill a train of pack mules. But I tell you this, I'd vote for her again in a heartbeat over what our now-President Trump brings to the table.

If you don't see things as I do, I'm fine with that... up to the point that you and I get thrust into a void from which we can never return. I'm not fine with that. And truly, despite having been brought up in a period when fallout shelters were ubiquitous and we rather amusingly learned how to drop, duck and cover, this chapter of life is one that brings with it a unique trepidation, a sense that the territory into which we're treading is anything but Great.

No, I'm not religious, but I pray that I am the wrongest son of a bitch to ever walk this land. I pray this. If I'm wrong, in four years, you can have a front row seat as I eat humble pie. Deal?

Das Boot

I was off work today for Martin Luther King's birthday, so Bloody Rob (retired and almost always available for geocaching, the miserable old rat) and I headed over to the American Tobacco Trail in Wake County to finish the "Boot Print" geoart, which we had begun back in October (see "Getting the Boot," October 16, 2016 ). Dummy coordinates form a boot print on the map; to get the actual coordinates for the caches in the pattern, you must correctly answer a question on each cache listing page about Wake County Parks. There are 40 caches in total, which we've picked up on three separate hiking trips to the ATT. I was hoping at least a couple of the irregular Old Farts and Cupdaisy might join us today, but it was not to be. Thus, we had to tangle with all kinds of monstrous critters, such as the one you see to the left, all by our aging lonesomes — and tell me that big old beast right there wouldn't spoil your picnic. Our cache hider, the dastardly and devious NCBiscuit, a.k.a. Linda, concealed many of the caches in the series in such fashion, some of them even scarier than a big-ass fire ant (such as this mean old rotten bastard ).

On a sad note, I understand that Linda's faithful canine caching companion, Miss Biscuit (for whom she adopted her geocaching handle), just passed away. Miss Biscuit was a constant companion to her, I know, so I send out my deepest sympathies. I could never get along without a houseful of critters, and I know how hard it is to lose them. Adieu, Biscuit!

My appreciation for a clever and fun series of caches.

Another Paranoid Shizophrenic

Another Songwriters' Showcase at the Daily Grind in Martinsville, and another fun racket, courtesy of the old man and a slew of other talented individuals from all around Virginia, North Carolina, and even as far away as LA — as in Los Angeles, not Lower Axton, as some Martinsville natives have dubbed the neighboring community. The first songwriters' event, back in September, drew a respectable crowd. This one, with twice as many musicians, drew what appeared to be about three times the number of attendees.

Ms. Brugger and I got there a little early to partake of their wine tasting, which proved decent enough, as did the paninis we attacked with ferocious delight, as neither of us had eaten in about a month. Our friends/fellow geocachers Tom and Linda Imbus from Browns Summit showed up to heckle me, as did old friends Ashby and Lynn Pritchett from Martinsville, and to their credit, none of them took it upon themselves to hurl undesirable objects or epithets my way. Sporting souls, our fine friends.

The event ran from roughly 7:30 to 10:00 PM, with eleven musicians, including me, signed up to play. My set consisted of three original songs, "Paranoid Schizophrenia" (again), "Ice Blossoms" (whose origin is recounted here ), and "The Watcher" (yet again). I was hoping to include the video of "Ice Blossoms" here, as it's my favorite of the lot, but between electronic glitches and crowd noise, the video didn't turn out very well. I may go ahead and upload it to YouTube regardless, and I'll leave it to you to decide whether to give it a look or avoid it all costs and preserve your sanity.

I'll post the lyrics to "Paranoid Schizophrenia" — which is the second song I ever wrote, back in 1978, while I was at Ferrum College — beneath the videos below. Enjoy or run like hell, your choice.



Paranoid Schizophrenia
Talked with him just yesterday because I was all alone.
I heard his voice and what he said; it's different now you've gone.
In darkened halls and haunted paths, I hear him sing his song.
He told me what I thought I felt; he told me I was wrong.

Run away, I told myself. Run away, I cried.
I'm mad, I must be bad. Run away.

He told me to calm myself. He told me never run.
He told me to help myself. He told me never cry.

He's right again, he's never wrong; how could he ever lose?
I've talked with him, I can't believe there's nothing left to choose.
Talked with him just yesterday because I was all alone.
I've heard his voice inside of me — my heart, my guide, my soul.

Run away, I told myself. Run away, I cried.
I'm mad, I must be bad. Run away.

"Paranoid Schizophrenia," ©1978, 2017 Stephen Mark Rainey

Songwriter's Showcase — Friday, January 13, 2017

Coming up next Friday — the dreaded 13th of January — I'll be making a racket at The Daily Grind in Martinsville, VA, at their second Songwriters Showcase . At their first event back in September, along with several other musicians, I played to an enthusiastic crowd, with nary a tomato or rotten egg chucked at the performers. It's all original music, no covers allowed, and I can tell you that the first such event featured some accomplished and innovative talents. I'll be playing several of my originals, including a couple I did not perform at the first ("Ice Blossoms" being one of them, the origin of which can be found in yesterday's blog, here ). There will also be a wine tasting, which might entice you further, and certainly Brugger and I will look forward to it. If you're in the vicinity, or in comfortable traveling distance, please come round and enjoy yourself.

Songwriters Showcase at The Daily Grind
303 E. Church St., Martinsville, VA 24112
7:30 PM–10:00 PM

Ice Blossoms

The obligatory snow selfie. I feel impelled
to watch The Shining.
A nice big snowfall last night and this morning. So far, it's one of those where it's just snow, rather than that god-awful mix of snow and ice that takes out the power, which is what we more frequently get around here.

Here's a semi-random snow story from way back when....

After graduating from UGA in December 1981, I spent a little over a year in Martinsville, trying to make enough money to move to Chicago, which I eventually did, mostly by selling my artwork and teaching art. All the while, I entertained myself and tortured others by playing guitar, singing, and writing original music (I still occasionally torture others with this very endeavor; in fact, next Friday, 1/13/17, I'll be playing at The Daily Grind in Martinsville). It was one night in either late '82 or early '83 when we had a pretty big snowfall, and I went out walking in the neighborhood, and by the time I got back home, many hours later, I had the lyrics to a new song, called "Ice Blossoms," composed in my head. It's about freezing to death, and I plan to play it at The Daily Grind next week.

At the time, my brother, Phred, was seeing a young lady named Leslie, and earlier that evening he'd driven up to her house, a mile or so away. I decided to take a walk in that general direction, figuring that I'd eventually run into him on his way home, and he could give me a ride back. Well, I got as far as the corner of her street, and he still hadn't left, so, being the adventurous soul I was (and still strive to be), I found myself a tall tree that offered a good view of the neighborhood and climbed up it — way up it, figuring I'd be able to spot my brother's car coming well in advance.

I sat up in that tree for at least an hour, freezing my hind end off, eventually questioning the wisdom of my decision and wondering whether I should just get down and walk back home.

No. No, no. I sat up there well into the wee hours, at least partially bolstered by select botanical compounds I'd had the foresight to bring with me. By the time I finally saw my brother's car coming, I had the following lyrics firmly in my head, and the accompanying music written by the next afternoon.

Ice Blossoms
Wind in your hair, the snow in your eyes,
Feeling the chill of a cold winter's night.
Breathing the air brought by winds of the north,
Ice blossoms blooming forever.

Clear songs from forests a-glaze under ice,
Joining the spirits who dance in the night,
Who call to you in a crystal clear voice,
Reaching your soul from the nether.

Snowfall soft, open your eyes aloft,
You feel no cold, no pain. Open your eyes again.
There is no fear of the night, only hope inside.
There is a song calling you, so strong.

Then, in the sky, colors dance, glowing bright.
And your lifeline's gone. Spirits howl their song.
Colors bright.

Ice blossoms blooming in cold morning light.
Forests breathe songs that arise to the sky.
Standing alone torn by winds of the north,
Silently brooding forever.

Eyes dead and glazed under snowfall so fine,
Hands clutching nothing thrown wild at your sides.
Spirit has gone with your brothers of ice,
Singing your sad song forever.
 #
Fortunately, I didn't freeze to death, but I was probably as close to hypothermia as I've ever come. Mighty cold in that tree, I was.

Today's snow, so far, has been pretty, and I took an enjoyable mile-long walk through the neighborhood this morning while it was still coming down. Currently, there's about nine inches of accumulation. No ice blossoms.

"Ice Blossoms," ©1982, 2017, by Stephen Mark Rainey

The homestead as the snow falls L: devilish hoofprints leading to my back door? R: Corner of Martin Ave. and Wilcox Dr. I had never noticed there was a little footbridge — now half-collapsed — over a stream,
a short distance down the street A little hidden glen near Martin Ave. Heading north on Martin Ave., toward Pine Needle Dr.

Next Chapter, Please

Old dude getting up close and personal with some fireUnlike some past years' festivities, last night's New Year's Eve celebration was fairly low-key, with dinner, drinks, and fireworks with friends at Ms. Brugger's house. While I almost always enjoy New Year's Eve, I've never cared for the whole business of changing the calendar, which primarily serves to remind one that the clock is ticking, the countdown drawing ever nearer to zero. These past few years, the clock has been zipping right along, and it just keeps speeding up. No like! No like!

For me, 2016 had many wonderful moments. But every moment of every day, my mom's declining health, which has required me to manage almost all her affairs, is a specter that takes no holiday. My day job, which I have held and loved for going on 18 years, has seen all kinds of changes due to our owner putting the company up for sale, the results of which will soon be revealed. While I'm very thankful that I will, in all probability, keep my job, I'll be facing a whole different daily dynamic, involving considerably more commute time, far less convenience for shopping and personal appointments, and lord knows what other changes; I can only hope that any new level of stress will be relatively minor, for my health's sake. I can feel how much dealing with Mom's diminished capacity has worn me down, and that aspect of life is not going to get any easier. Quite the contrary.

It's no secret that I have little but contempt for President-elect Donald Trump, and I cannot have anything like high hopes for where he and his cabal of billionaire bitches will lead this country. I've never been much stressed out over politics before, but there is nothing normal about what's happening in the USA, and I think we're going to have a hell of a bad ride. I want to be wrong; I pray to be wrong. But I bet I'm not.

The passing of people, famous and infamous... holy cow. Again, I've never been one to get shook up by the deaths of individuals who may be high profile but that I've never personally known. But this year... so many personalities that I have greatly admired, such as Mohamed Ali, David Bowie, William Christopher, Carrie Fisher (followed almost immediately by her mom, Debbie Reynolds), Ron Glass, John Glenn, Florence Henderson, George Michael, Prince, Alan Rickman, Gene Wilder, and so many others. It's just about enough to rattle one. Not to mention several deaths that did impact me personally, such as our friend, Dan Shannon, who died of cancer this past summer, as well as a number of old acquaintances from my hometown, many taken too young.

Some good stuff:

Several of my stories published or accepted for publication in very reputable markets. I was more prolific in the fiction department this past year than I have been for some time. My story "The Nothing" very recently came out at BuzzyMag.com. My novelization of the Smith Brothers' movie, Young Blood was published early in the year. My short-short nonfiction piece, "Arachnid Alley — Or 'How I Learned to Stop Screaming and Love the Spider'" appeared in the anthology of geocaching stories titled GPS: Great Personal Stories of Geocaching Firsts . And I'll have quite a few new ones coming up in the near future, all quite gratifying.

Shin Godzilla. Far from a perfect movie, but it was great to have a theatrical release of a film with so many powerful, impressive moments.

Star Wars: Rogue One. Me, a Star Wars geek? Well, some people would say so. I quite enjoyed this one, maybe a bit more than last year's The Force Awakens , which I also liked a lot.

Numerous gatherings and/or geocaching outings with some of the best friends and family in the world — my daughter, Allison; my brother, Phred; Joe and Suzy Albanese; Doug Cox and Jenny Chapman; Scott Hager; Faun de Henry; Tom and Linda Imbus; Rob Isenhour; Tom Kidd; Bridget Langley; Robbin Lee; Terry and Beth Nelson; Debbie Shoffner; Cortney Skinner and Beth Massie; Sarah Stevens; Beth Walton (whom I'd not seen in too many years), Gretchen and Todd Wickliffe; and lots of others — forgive me if I didn't drop your name. And at the risk of being mean, this year saw the (hopefully permanent) departure of an individual or two from my sphere of influence who really needed to depart, for their sake and mine.

And, of course, Kimberly Brugger remains the one human being in my life who keeps me sane and relatively stable. This year will make seven years together, all of which were made better — even damn near perfect — by her presence, her energy, and her love. At times in the past, I thought I knew what it meant to love, to be in love. The hell I did. I wish I had, as it would have been fairer to all involved. Sometimes, I think, it takes a rough ride, even a wrong ride, to get where one is meant to be, if this is even possible. Maybe, just maybe, it is.

To all my readers, my friends, my peers, and the rest of you out there: please, be good to each other. Lord knows, if there's anyone who has a hard time with that, it's me, but I'm working at it. Truly.

Happy New One Day Closer to Death to all of us.

 The video of the fiery maelstrom shown in the photo above — one of several fiery maelstroms we produced.

It's Time Again — Put Some Fear into Your New Year

JUST FOR NEW YEAR'S...

STARTING TODAY — 12/29/16 — and running for the next six days, you can pick up my novella, The Gods of Moab , for your Kindle at the special discounted price of 99¢ (regular price $2.99).

"A pleasant New Year's Eve outing becomes an experience in otherworldly horror when two close-knit couples discover a shocking secret in the darkest corners of the Appalachian mountains. At an opulent mountain inn, Warren Burr, his fiancee, Anne, and their friends, Roger and Kristin Leverman, encounter a religious zealot named John Hanger, who makes it his business to bear witness to them of his peculiar...and disturbing...faith. His efforts rebuffed, Hanger insidiously assumes control of the couples' technological devices, leading them to stumble into unexpected, surreal landscapes...landscapes inhabited by nightmarish beings that defy explanation and rationality. To return to the world they thought they knew, Warren and his friends must not only escape the deadly entities that pursue them but somehow stop John Hanger's nightmare-plague from spreading to the outside world.

"The Gods of Moab is a chilling novella of Lovecraftian horror by Stephen Mark Rainey, acclaimed author of Balak , Blue Devil Island , Other Gods , The Nightmare Frontier , Dark Shadows: Dreams of the Dark (with Elizabeth Massie), and former editor of the award-winning Deathrealm Magazine."

The Gods of Moab is just the ticket to put a little fear in your new year. Check it out from Amazon.com here: The Gods of Moab by Stephen Mark Rainey

Love it or hate it, Amazon.com reviews are always appreciate. Do enjoy!

Krakens, Krampuses, and Krankies

It was a fairly low-key Christmas for the Raineys, mainly due to Mum's ongoing health limitations. But it was generally good family time, with plenty of vittles, nice presents, and even a spot or two of exercise for the old man. For me, Christmas vacation began on Friday, which I spent on the hunt for a couple of caches in Burlington/Alamance County. Once home, I spent most of the rest of the day wrapping presents and preparing a big old pot of chili for Christmas Eve dinner.

Saturday, Brugger and I made our way to Martinsville by way of the nearby Grove Winery, same as we did last year on Christmas Eve. However, we didn't realize that they were closing at 3:00 PM this year, and it was 2:45 when we arrived. The proprietor, however, was kind enough to give us a couple of glasses, and I picked up a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon for later. Nice lady and I decided to proceed to M'ville and enjoy a couple of glasses of wine at the bar at Rania's, which, as I have no doubt indicated in this blog before, served as the inspiration for the bar in my novel, The Lebo Coven way back when. Once at Mum's, Ms. B. and I discovered a special visitor on the back porch — a Christmas bat, which was hanging on the wall beside the back door. I suspect the poor little guy was old and/or infirm, as he remained back there the whole weekend, alive but seemingly only just. Kind of sad, as I do like bats. Anyway, Ms. B. and I at last proceeded to get the chili fired up, which turned out perfect, and then we worked off a calorie or two on a long walk through the neighborhood around Lake Lanier, during which time I regaled the lady with endless stories about my childhood, most of which she had heard umpteen times. But taking these long walks does bring forth many vivid memories, and most are entertaining, at least to one of us. To continue one of our favorite annual Christmas Eve traditions, we finally planted ourselves in Mum's sunroom and watched the 10:00 PM showing of A Christmas Story , which still turns both of us into madly laughing fools. To be sure, this year, we're needing as many mad laughing fits as possible, so this was time well-spent. Some Kraken rum with eggnog made for the perfect nightcap, and finally something akin to Christmas spirit managed to settle in.

Christmas morning came a bit dreary but not cold, and I spent some time listening to Christmas tunes and sending scary, animated images of the Krampus to friends on Facebook before returning to the kitchen to help Ms. B. prepare a big dinner of chicken-ham-swiss cheese roll-ups with cheese and mushroom sauce, fresh asparagus, smashed potatoes, and assorted pies and cakes for afters. Brother Phred arrived late morning, and we proceeded to hurl gifts at each other. Made out nicely, with a new shirt, a CD collection of Ennio Morricone western scores, Lara Parker's newest Dark Shadows novel, a Michigan-shaped cutting board, and lots of other items both necessary and fun — some Krankies coffee from Brother Phred being among the most necessary.

Following the feast, naps overtook at least a couple of the troops, while I went out on walkabout through the woods and about wore myself out going up and down many of Martinsville's rolling hills, which have apparently gotten considerably longer and steeper than they were just a few years ago. Then came one of the day's true highlights — a visit from Todd and Gretchen Wickliffe, of whom I see far too little these days, since they rarely make it up from Atlanta, at least when I'm at Mum's. We spent a good couple of hours talking about life here and there, then and now, and shocking Mum with stories about how certain of us barely survived our childhoods. Of course I'm referring to the Wickliffe kids, as I would never have taken brazen risks or done anything monumentally foolish when I was a youngster.

For our evening's viewing pleasure, Ms. B. and I settled in the den and streamed Don't Breathe and Insidious on Amazon.com, which kept us occupied until well past midnight.

We arrived back in Greensboro early this afternoon, and I immediately headed out after a new cache over at the Laurel Bluff trail head on Lake Brandt Road. Retrieving this one required a fun terrain challenge, which I made doubly difficult by attempting it the old fashioned way — by climbing the tree — before playing it the way it was more or less meant to be played: by getting a boost from an appropriate elevation-increasing device, in this case, my car (see the sequencing diagram below).

Later this week, I anticipate a bit more geocaching and probably an enjoyable evening or two with Ms. B., but there is more than plenty of work to keep me busy, including a new piece of fiction I'm laboring over. Overall, it's bound to be better than this time last year, when Mum's health situation reached a crisis point. It's still very, very difficult for me, and knowing that she simply will never get better is both emotionally and physically taxing. The past few days have been more melancholy than truly happy, but there were many transcendent moments, with Mum, Brother Phred, Kimberly, and the Wickliffes. It's these times of recharging that keep me going, I think.

And I'll keep going, as there are people to see, stories to write, and caches to find.
Christmas lights at Lake Lanier. What the L? The cauldron of Christmas Eve chili Our little Christmas bat, who seems to have seen better days. Poor chap. The bonny swans down at Lake Lanier. They came to see if I had any goodies for them. When they
determined that I did not, off they swam. The emblem of our Kung Fu club when I was in ninth grade, circa 1974, carved in a beech tree back in
the woods behind the old homestead. "Marakumo no Tsurugi," it says, which I think means pretty much
nothing, although I had intended it to mean "Sword of Swords" or something such. Krank up the Krankies, men! How to find a little cache out on a long, narrow limb, step 1 How to find a little cache out on a long, narrow limb, step 2 How to find a little cache out on a long, narrow limb, step3

A Wretched Canticle

It's a rare and pleasant surprise when I learn that a band or musician has recorded a song based on one of my works of fiction, and last night, guitarist and vocalist (and former editor) Steve Sommerville, of the band Gates of Endor out of Raleigh, informed me that they had recorded a song inspired by my tale “Sabbath of the Black Goat,” which originally appeared in the Chaosium anthology The Shub-Niggurath Cycle (1994), edited by Robert M. Price. My story involves the discovery of a coven of witches in a remote area of North Carolina, and — naturally enough for one of my stories — these are not benign practitioners of Wicca or any such business but malevolent followers of the Lovecraftian title character. The Gates of Endor song is titled "A Wretched Canticle," and it takes the malevolence portrayed in my story to a whole new level. It's a heavy, driving heavy metal dirge that forgoes any of the quiet build-up of the story and skips straight to nerve-shattering terror, with pounding percussion; growling, screaming guitars; and coarse, raging, animalistic vocals by Mr. Sommerville. Now, make no mistake, I've never been a knocked-out fan of heavy metal, but once in a spell I enjoy a good dose of decibels, and there's a sense of sly fun about this piece that I find endearing.

You can can listen to "A Wretched Canticle" using the embedded link below, and visit Gates of Endor's Bandcamp site, featuring several of their compositions, here .

A Wretched Canticle by Gates of Endor

Orchestra of the Antisemite

I just chanced upon a kind review in a blog — from 2014 — of my story "Orchestra," which appeared in CD Publication's October Dreams some years ago. It's the same story that led at least one reviewer to conclude that I must surely be antisemitic because "only someone who harbors a hatred of Jewish people could come up with such a story." My character was an exceedingly nasty entity who sprang from Old Testament days; he did despise the Jews and acted on his hatred in unabashedly brutal fashion. However, attempting to psychoanalyze an author based on a single work is, to my mind, an exercise in futility, not to mention less than professional. In the case of "Orchestra," my delving into the character's deviant mindset was neither easy nor pleasant, yet in the context of the story, it served a crucial dramatic purpose. It's natural enough for readers to attempt to glean what they can of writers' personalities based on their writings; however, If authors — particularly those in the business of horror — were to be defined by the actions of their characters, most of us would have to be chained up and locked away. In my experience, many writers who've portrayed the worst possible human beings in their work are themselves individuals of the highest caliber. I'll not necessarily make that claim, but I think it's fair to say I'm anything but antisemitic. I'm actually a fairly well-rounded misanthrope. I'm pleased that this particular reviewer "got it."

Read the review here: "Orchestra" by Stephen Mark Rainey

Order October Dreams from Amazon.com