A Haunting

“We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.” 
― Stephen King

It's a cold, still night of mid September. It is almost too still. Although there is warmth in your bed the chill of harsh air rubs on your nose and cheeks. The house makes no noise; no creaking, no humming television from a distant room, no cars sleek in the street, no faucet drip. Just. Silence.

You turn to look at your window, normally your curtains are drawn but tonight they lie open. You are sure you shut them. You cannot find the energy nor the will to rise from your bed. Staring at the window you realise there is no need to close them; no light is coming in from the window. Like a black sheet pulled over the pane. Black oil from which no light emits and none escapes. 

Steam rises from your uneasy breath. 

You dare not close your eyes. You curse yourself every blink. Staring straight at the ceiling. You do not dare glance to the side. You couldn't if you tried.

You are frozen in place. 

You cannot move.

As if buried alive. Your limbs held tightly in place as something else shovels cold, damp dirt down onto and over body. Maybe it's just cold damp sweat sticking to your sheets, but you swear you can feel insects crawling over you. Your lungs becomes quick. Your heart palpitates. You try to move your neck but, again, you cannot. 

A dark shape appears in the corner of your vision. It is human. Maybe. It has, something else to it. Slightly out of shape. Slumped. Broken. 

It moves towards you. 

It does not take any breath itself, it is noiseless except for its slow, deliberate steps. A clump and drag as if lame - towards you. 

You try your best to move but to no avail. You are pinned down by some otherworldly force. Even to blink as the sweat drips from your forehead into your eyes takes such force that it hurts immensely. 

The creature stops by your bed and gets into it next to you. 

You can hear it breathing now. You can feel it ever so gently on the side of your neck. Cold breath, colder than the room, like ice. 

The creature's head moves next to yours. You can no longer see it. Only feel it.

It feels like an hour has passed. The creature is an inch away, if not less, from your ear. It parts its' lips, if they are indeed lips, slowly, like a stitched wound being torn open. It moves even closer. 

Touching your ear.

Another hour passes. 

And it speaks...

"I'm First Minister Alex Salmond and I want you to take this opportunity with both hands and vote Yes on the 18th of September."

The Bull

Work is a boring thing. Although we spend the majority of our lives slaving away to make money so we can buy things like shoes or food or Magic: The Gathering booster packs we mostly hate it. Most people would probably be happier if their brain could be removed from their body then plugged into a Minecraft server for all eternity. Sadly the technology just doesn't exist yet.

When you work a shitty job this creates an odd camaraderie where, for me, you mostly come up with stupid jokes that nobody else would appreciate or understand.

Warpaint - What's in a name?

Warpaint

I really like Warpaint. I really, really like Warpaint.

Warpaint is an indie rock piece hailing from Los Angeles that make chilled-ambient-rock-pop kind of stuff that feels effortlessly cool but also permeating raw energy. Like a colourful flower sprouting out of a crack in the roadside. There are elements to their sound I find hard to straight up define - their sound is aggressive yet relaxed. A chilled out militancy that everyone can enjoy; I can hear influences from genres like grunge, noise, chamber-pop, lo-fi and grrl but driving along with my mum on the way home from the shops she remarked how she liked them. Which is a huge step in Mother/Son music relations.

Family aside one thing I really want to talk about is Warpaints name.

What’s in a name?