Posted tagged ‘Sinister’

Monstrance Clock

August 12, 2013

Come together, together as a one
Come together for Lucifer’s son
Come together, together as a one
Come together for Lucifer’s son


I’ve seen the future of rock n’ roll and it is doom. There is a rock group from Sweden treading the boards whose front man dresses as the devil incarnate. The vocalist goes by the name of Papa Emeritus II, (He was Papa Emeritus on the first album, we’ll get to that in a moment) the other members of the band have no names preferring to be called nameless ghouls. The band are called Ghost.

Ghost have released two albums and another of their gimmicks was pretending that Papa Emeritus II was a different singer from the one on their debut album, the plain Papa Emeritus, presumably the first. Those of us with an ear for music are not buying it. The singer remains the same. Incidentally, bookmakers are taking no money on a Papa Emeritus III being on the third LP.

Following in the footsteps of other costumed bands -Kiss, Slipknot, Lordi, The Wombles- Ghost put on a theatrical show, a hard rock equivalent of Phantom of the Opera. Playing mock-satanic music while incense burns in the background their concerts are a mixture of dark forboding and humour. After all, the devil worship thing is not for real. Most heavy metal fans have normal jobs and a steady head on their dandruff-ridden shoulders. We don’t take ourselves seriously.

Now for more confusion. Ghost had to change their name in North America to Ghost BC for copyright reasons but for those of us that were in on them from the beginning they will always be plain Ghost. And these dark Lords just might make the mainstream as their music has a commercial ring to it, notwithstanding the occult lyrics and spooky tunes. If they do make it big, you heard it here first.

This little song has a singalong catchy chorus. It will stick in your head and you’ll find yourself humming it for days, end of days.


Lovecraft’s Chin

January 7, 2013

hp-lovecraftRand woke from a tormented sleep. Slowly, his senses awakened. His eyes told him that he was inside an unexplored cave. His mind became a book with pages  being flicked from cover to cover, the shuffling stopped when he recalled Shabbala, sweet Shabbala. His love for Shabbala was the one thing that gave him a will to live.

For days he had been lost in this wild cavern of shadows and cobwebs, wet ditches and inclines, crystal walls that could not be scaled, scents that burned his nostrils and, inevitably, strange creatures. Being chased by a territorial unicorn in such a confined space was a terrifying experience. Only a jump from a cliff into a, thankfully, just deep enough ravine saved him from the horn of antiquity. The water was full of leeches but Rand was happy for small mercies.

Markings on the cave wall were in a language that was undecipherable. Rand’s voluminous library at home, with its manuscripts from the six sides of the world, might have in one of the dusty, long forgotten alcoves a text that could translate the drawings and scribbled words that were fading on the rocky substance. Could the horoscope tomes of Eden or the theological treatise of Van Banner decipher this gibberish? He could not check as he was a long way from home. The signs and logos could only be the traces of an undiscovered species.

Dragging his feet through the bat guano that muddied the floor in a sickening puddle of thick black mucous, Rand scanned the ceiling expecting to see a bat colony. Licking his parched lips that were encrusted with sores a cup of bat blood would be refreshing. Yet the bats seemed to have deserted this sinking ship. Was this portentous? Craving Shabbala he hoped this was a good omen.

Rand saw an opening as a chink of daylight glared like a beacon in one of the upper levels of the cave. Using what was left of his drained strength he pulled himself up the crumbling plaster wall and breathed the air of the outside. The intoxication was short-lived as cries of despair were howling in the valley below. Cries that were inhuman in nature. Rand squeezed through the gap and saw for himself what was the cause of this sonic nightmare.

Below him in the undergrowth were some of the most monstrous creations that a grand designer could ever make. Half-human creatures with anatomies that could not be described shrieked at one another, yet they did not seem to have any mouths. The sounds were coming from within. There were no portals on any part of their bodies. Tentatively, Rand closed in on the inhabitants of this weird plain. To his surprise the devilish beings moved away from him. Something caused them to take flight as they kicked up the dust in a mad stampede to put distance between themselves and Rand.

The gentle flow of a stream was a gift from the gods to Rand. He filled his dry throat. His drinking stopped when he saw his reflection in the pool. He quickly turned away with his hands over his face hoping it was his mind playing games but a second look confirmed the worst. There, staring back at him was the ugliest form that a man could take. His features were completely asymmetrical. Rand’s tears dropped onto the surface of the water. Shabbala? His flower, Shabbala. What would Shabbala think of the monstrosity that was Rand?

The Ribbon of Death

March 2, 2011

The following story won an award. Check here.

It had been a few months since we last held a meeting. The authorities had cracked down hard on our activities and our band of disenfranchised rebels was dwindling. As I still retained my membership I was summoned to an extraordinary reunion of the Ribbonmen.

The venue chosen brought tears to my eyes. It was in this holy place that I said a final goodbye to my kid brother. Everybody loved Gerry, from the little kids to the old rummies. He never got mixed up in schemes of Nationalism. Gerry was always exploring, on the move making new friends but the Good Lord had taken him in the prime of his life.

This land, our land, is exactly as the poets portray: windswept, wild and free. Villages and farms and people and livestock might well have been invisible such was the width and breadth of our Emerald isle. If stealthy enough, it was relatively easy to go unnoticed. Using discretion I made my way to the nocturnal meeting with a detached mind. My brother’s death had changed my attitude towards the nefarious actions my society had perpetrated in the past. I admit there was a tang of jealousy that his temperament, different from mine, made him a better man than me.

At length I arrived at the parish chapel. Greeted by fellow holders of the green ribbon I was presented to the Captain, the leader of our brotherhood, who offered me a glass of whiskey.

“Drink, comrade to your good health then join the others as we take the sacred oath.”

Memories of Gerry flooded my thoughts and I could not concentrate on the Captain’s words. Shuffled in the middle of a pack of fifty Ribbonmen, I felt lonely and yearned to go home. My lamentable ruminations were in contrast to the sinister sermon being preached from the pulpit. This ended and was replaced by fiendish yells as the house of God turned into a congregation of shrieking satanic hordes. Armed with sticks, spears, flaming torches, guns and pistols the doors of the chapel were thrown open and the braying mob made their way onward with fury. Trapped in the middle of the mass, in the squeeze I was catapulted headlong against my will.

Guiding the swarming rats over peat bogs as the rain cried Mary and Joseph; the Captain led his troupe of creatures to a house that I knew: the abode of Gerry’s friend, Andy Lynch. The Captain’s every feature represented a death mask of malignant revenge. Using a combustible he enveloped one side of the house in flames. A few Ribbonmen stepped back when they heard the raging cries of anguish inside and one of them tried to snuff out the fire. Pistols full of vengeance were pointed at the liberator.

“Any man who shows mercy will be a corpse,” declared the Captain “I want to hear Lynch scream. He will pay for the fire in his loins. Kill them. Kill them all.”

The realisation of why we were here dawned on me. A rumour had started that Andy Lynch was conducting an affair with James Connelly’s wife. James Connelly was the Captain. Our organisation was mutating as it seemed we no longer just poured violence on the occupiers. Connelly had made this personal, not business. And a searing perception like a flash of lightning hit me. Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone; it’s with Lynch in the grave.

From a blazing window the burning heads of Andy Lynch and his wife screamed in agony. Bayonets from the incensed Ribbonmen pushed the couple back into the fiery elements of thick flames. Filled with sorrow I hung back and moved to the side of the house that was less engulfed with the inferno. From a small bunker in the ground I heard movement. Digging from the burrow was a child wearing a dress blackened by soot. Her exposed skin was burned through to the bone. Hiding Andy lynch’s daughter in my long cloak I moved away from the carnage.

The angry arsonists were too engrossed in watching the bonfire and whooping with delight when a part of the house fell to notice that I had removed myself from the scene. Cradling the girl to safety I put her down on our soft forgiving soil. I could feel the ghost of Gerry at my side.

“Run, little angel. Run far, far away.”

I watched as the tiny figure departed into nothingness on the horizon leaving only one fixed image that waved as if saying goodbye -the pink ribbon that fluttered in the little girl’s hair.

* * * * *

This is based on a true story by William Carleton which can be found here.

The Charity of Caliban

May 30, 2010

The thunderstorm was falling on the speeding car as hard as a ton of bricks. The long haired male driver was more concerned with the interference the rain was causing to the Metal Chainsaw show on radio 666. The Dark Lord DJ said the last three records played were-

Diamond Head- Am I Evil?

Anthrax- Riding Shotgun

Dio (in memory of Ronnie James Dio)- Rainbow in the Dark

Gulping down on Jameson’s, you can’t beat good catholic whiskey the driver shouted, suddenly a huge burst of wind blew off his windscreen wiper. Driving blind into the storm he rolled down his window and stuck his head out. The tempest was raging in his face and his dragging exhaust was hammering in his ears. Still he ploughed on with one drunken hand on the wheel.

Not far ahead he could see the lights of a twenty four hour Asda and he headed for the busy car park. Turning off his snarling engine he began his hunt in the pouring forecourt amidst incoming and outgoing shoppers.

He was no petrol head and couldn’t tell one car from the other, all he knew was that his motor was coloured black.
“They’re all black in this damned dark.” he cursed.

Running out of patience he ripped a wiper from the nearest car. Pulling out some of his hair he used his locks to tie the wiper to his deluged windscreen. After slugging from his bottle he hurtled away maniacally into the flooded night. And he thought, there’s no need to share a problem when you can give it completely away.