Black Angels / Prodigal Sun


Leonard Nimoy, 1931 — 2015


As we all know, Leonard Nimoy died yesterday. I wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror if I didn’t mark his passing. Nimoy as Spock was truly an iconic figure and character in our collective pop-culture consciousness, and I guess we all thought he would live forever. He didn’t. None of us do. But he lived pretty long, and he certainly prospered. I’ll spare you my memories of growing up with Star Trek ToS, my appreciation (and occasional jeering) of his numerous artistic efforts and accomplishments, the time I met and spoke with him, etc, because the outpouring of sadness and shock across all media outlets regarding Mr Nimoy’s passing on Friday February 27 2015 served as undeniable recognition of what Nimoy/Spock meant to everybody: someone and something so unique and potent, it felt like a death in the family, a piece of ourselves who would never come back, now gone forever, a Science Fiction and American original.



Holy Shit! Neill Blomkamp’s Next Movie Will Be a Direct Sequel to James Cameron’s ALIENS!

nb-alien-6 reports:

It wasn’t long ago that Neill Blomkamp took to Instagram to post some concept photos of an Alien film he could have been working on and then abandoned. However, it seems the tides have turned in Blomkamp’s favor and, in the past couple of days, news has been rolling in continuously about the South African director directing a fifth installment in the Alien franchise. Not only that, but it seems the rumors are true: Signourney Weaver will be reprising her role as Ripley.

Sky Media was able to get in touch with both Neill Blomkamp and Sigourney Weaver regarding the announcements, and it seems that everything will be moving forward with the idea that Ripley will receive a “proper ending” to her tale. During the talk, Blomkamp hinted to the fact that his film may ignore the continuity of the last two Alien films in the franchise, Alien 3 and Alien: Resurrection.

“I want this film to feel like it is literally the genetic sibling of ‘Alien.’ So it’s ‘Alien,’ ‘Aliens’ and then this movie.”

Some of the concept art also revealed that Corporal Dwayne Hicks (played by Michael Biehn of Terminator fame) will be in Blomkamp’s film, further alluding that he aims to ignore the last two films.



Worth revisiting: Demeter In Outer Space: The Mythic Cycle of Ellen Ripley




Free For Friday: Assorted Short Fictions


Free PDF



 Free PDF

(No PDF, sorry.)

OUR HEROINE HAS GROWN BORED with the romance of bats and fangs, faces at the window, bad dreams. True, he is snappy dresser and never uses foul language—he has always been, if nothing else, a perfect gentleman—but endless midnight necking as the wolves howl satisfies for only so long, no matter how captivating his accent. It is nearly twelve and the moon hangs full of hunger in the raven sky; he will be appearing soon. She is unable to sit still; dressed in denim shorts and T-shirt and without a trace of makeup she pads from room to room, muttering half-words to herself, glancing from the clock to the window to the TV that flickers in bright rapid-fire silence. She pauses before the set and slips a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. Close-up of an extraordinarily handsome man grinding his teeth, then spinning black tires and slick neon streets. A car chase. A cop show. She watches for a moment, then looks at the clock.


Too late for any thoughts of escape.

She moves to the stereo. The Bach Partitas that Vladimir insists she spin for his arrival sit ignored in their jewel cases; the stereo is pounding full tilt with The Red Hot Chili Peppers, music he can’t stand. She turns it up. Let him flip, she thinks, finishes her ice cream, throws the empty container at the wastebasket and misses. The container rolls on the kitchen floor, stops dead center. Her lips curl in defiance; she notes how effectively she’s trashed her apartment in the course of coming to her decision. Wet towels hang from doorknobs and issues of Cosmo cover the floor, a stack of dishes in the sink, overflowing ashtrays and empty Smartfood bags. And thrown in the corner, the puffed white Victorian gown she has come to despise. She touches her neck. The curl of  her lips become a snarl.

She wonders how she ever brought herself to play his loony game night after night, wonders how she actually got into that ridiculous gown—taking care to slip one strap off her shoulder—then lay in bed and pretended to sleep and waited for him, every night, for the last four weeks. It’s all so… weird! So old-fashioned! Which is exactly what her friends said in the beginning, cooing with jealousy, Oh it’s so dark and mysterious and romantic, etc. She smiled and blushed, lapped up their attention the way Vladimir lapped at her throat and coyly shrugged at their endless questions: Does he really speak French? Isn’t he too old for you? Is he rich, do you do it in a coffin, does he bite DOWN THERE? Now she lives for their fucking phone calls, like postcards from a lost childhood. She finds herself missing the goofy, normal things: razor stubble, musk, hairy backs, beer breath. She longs for the electric din of a nightclub in the company of strangers, the feel of Bob’s fingers inside her, Jasmine’s weird trick of talking like a guy and kissing like a girl but all the while… Oh. Her tongue pushes against her teeth. Oh yeah, the good stuff, pleasures her black-clad suitor never dreamed of.

When exactly did his spell fade? When he introduced her to his friends, maybe? No, after that, she realizes, probably the night they fought, the night she suggested they order pizza and Vladimir recoiled, lips curling back over his fangs. “PeetZAAA? You seriously expect a child of secrets and shadows to dine on greasy rounded slabs splattered with noxious spices and crisped in hellish ovens until they bubble and pop and ooze slime blah blah BLAH!” He bitched for hours. So uncool. She could have had a better time with somebody’s great-grandfather. He left her that night without drawing blood, only to slither through the window the following night with murmured words of apology. He would try harder to understand her, he said, it was, after all, a strange new world. The moment she saw the pathetic bunch of flowers in his hand she knew it was finished, he had blown it. The mystery, the thrill, the passion… it had all turned to dust.

She despised him.

She notices a sudden chill in the air, a prickle at her neck, a certain musky smell. She turns. It’s midnight, exactly. A thick grey mist is churning outside her window. She sees the soft ripple of shadow bones unfolding, taking shape. The Chili Peppers are pleading If you see me getting mighty, if you see me getting high, knock me down! Our heroine draws a long, slow breath, then goes to the window and slides it up.

The vampire pours himself into the room, a swirl of smoke and claws that curls around her lovingly, brushing against her ankles, her legs, her stomach. She barely holds back the grimace. Then there is the crush of a phantom kiss against her cheek and she stiffens, turns away, and his psychic mutter of confusion is almost audible. The image of a crow flashes behind her eyes, then a wolf, then some unnamable creature with teeth like a broken picket fence. She shudders, forces back the image, and he tears away from her in a roar and a rush to materialize in the center of the room, black cloak flaring as if in a tempest, his blue eyes caught somewhere between lust and fury. She takes an instinctive step back, wondering, not for the first time, what kind of man he was when he was just that, a man. Then she realizes with a start he’s speaking to her, his lips moving in a rapid angry way but she can’t hear him, the music is so loud. She shakes her head.

“That noise!” he shouts, and it is like a knife in each ear: two windows shatter, a picture falls from the wall, the CD player spits sparks and the music, predictably, dies.

“Great,” she says, slowly lowering her hands from her ears. “That’s real good.”

He looks at the damage he’s caused. He licks his lips. His eyes narrow. Then he turns his gaze on her.

“You,” he begins, “are supposed to be in bed, pretending to be asleep.”

“Oh yeah?” she says. “Well, that’s the type of girl I am, full of surprises. Didn’t you once say you like surprises?”

“Surprises, sometimes. The timbre of your voice, no.”

“The what?” she snaps. “The timbre of my voice?” She rolls her eyes. “Listen, Vlad, we’ve got to talk.”

He draws closer but she steps out of his reach. He stops, one hand frozen before him.

“Come to me,” he says.

She shakes her head.

His fingers curl slowly into a fist. When he speaks his voice barely above a whisper. “You… dare… not!”

She laughs. “I’ll dare what I please, pal. I must have been blitzed out of my face the night I met you!”

“Do not say these things!”

She allows her mouth to become cruel. “I’m saying them. It’s been, ah,unreal, but look, it’s done. Come on, pack up those bat wings, let’s not make it any messier than it has to be.”

“I have spoken words to you that have not fallen from my lips in seven hundred years, shared secrets the manner of which undreamed of by paltry mortal minds, brought you to heights of rapture that would leave lesser women babbling and senseless!” She cuts him short by pretending to stifle a yawn. He seethes in silence for a moment, then says, “And you would throw it all away, for what?!”

She pretends to think about it. “A stiff dick?”

“Aarrgggh!” he screams, his features boiling. “I knew it!”

“Vlad,” she begins but stops; she’s laughing too hard.

“I thought you were a woman of sensitivity! Of substance!”

“Come on Vlad,” she manages to gasp around her laughter, “it’s just a joke,” but he isn’t listening, he’s a sudden blur of black and teeth and then she’s flying through the air, the wall smashes into her and she crumples to the floor.

“Is this what you want?” she hears him say through her pain-wracked skull. “This is what my lovers usually expect. It’s usually what they get. Butyou…!”

She manages to focus her vision in time to see him cross the room in a single pounce; he reaches down and yanks her up and holds her aloft. Her feet dangle above the floor.

“Is this what you want?” His once-blue eyes are burning desert yellow, his teeth jutting broken plates. “Tell me, dearest,” he says, his voice shaking. She panics. She twists against him, tries to kick him, punch him. A shudder passes through him. His mouth quivers. He slams her against the wall. Then he does it again. Then again.

Then again.

Scream! Scream! Scream! Some part of her brain thinks, but his nails are digging into her throat, she can barely breathe, she can barely think, each crack of her head against the wall is a car crash, and she thinks stupidly of the handsome man in his car on TV, she thinks of the first she saw Vladimir, how tall and unbreakable and cruel he seemed, how he wiped the steaming blood on the back of his hand and let the husk of his victim drop at his feet and how he turned, slowly, to face her, how his eyes seemed to fill with the sight of her, the need of her, and how she felt the red flood rush though her, the deep warm red pushing the single word from her lips,Yes, until it became a pulse, an ache, and she moaned it, Yes, and he came to her, wrapped his arms around her and he kissed her.

He just kissed her.

She realizes he’s released her and she’s sitting on the floor, coughing.

Vlad is crouched halfway across the room, watching her. She sees that he’s a miserable heap of shakes and blood-red tears.

“Did it,” he sputters through his sobs, “did it ever occur to you that I could break your bones in twos and threes, that I could drain you to dust?” His shoulders tremble; he spits a curse in some ancient, foreign language. “I could have!” he says. “I can! But…” his voice cracks. He reaches toward her. “I can’t make you what I am,” he says. “I… love… you…”

Something turns inside her, like over-ripe food at a summer carnival. And even through the throb of her head and ache of her throat, she manages to say, “You know, I used to wonder what kind of man you used to be.”

His eyes lock on her.

“Now I know,” she says, and forces herself to swallow. “Get out.”

He doesn’t move.

She closes her eyes and draws a long, ragged breath. Then she staggers to her feet and looks down at him. “Get out,” she says. “Get out, you fucking faggot.” He stops shaking and stares at the floor but doesn’t move. She steps toward him. “Get out of my sight, you fucking dickless wimp.”

His jaw flexes, and she thinks for a moment he’s going to cry. She sees he’s searching for something, anything to say, and she feels a momentary twinge of pity.

“Just leave,” she says.

He turns, and is gone.

A sigh rattles out of her. She rubs her throat and stands at the window for a long time, looking out into the night.

Then our heroine is tearing through her apartment, wondering where she left her fucking cigarettes.


GFstudio / Carisa Swenson at THE ZEALOT’S ELIXIR


Carisa says,

Now showing through March 7 at Modern Eden Gallery, “The Zealot’s Elixir”….a show focusing on snake oil salesmen, false prophets and hope for the lost. My piece, “Shining Apples” (inspired by the song of the same name on the “Tales from the Black Meadow” album by The Soulless Party) is on display with a collection of amazing works. To view the exhibition online check it out here!

A few photos of my contribution to the show.



Visit Carisa at goblinfruitstudio and on twitter.


DEATH HAS A VOICE / Death and the Maiden



S Elizabeth has created this beautiful playlist of women who have constructed and composed aural memento mori exclusively for Death & the Maiden. As humans, we occupy a unique place in the saga of mortality, and these women in particular offer illuminating perspectives on the subject as it relates to the afterlife, funerals & wakes, ancestral memories, etc.

'Gallows' Cocorosie [2010]

– S Elizabeth –

S Elizabeth

S. Elizabeth is a fancier of fine old things, nostalgic whimsies and magics both macabre and melancholy. She is a shadow seamstress, star stitcher, word witch and weaver of the weird. She currently lives among the mosses and swamps, enjoys her coffee a great deal, and is a friend to all felines. You can follow S. Elizabeth on Twitter @mlleghoul

Death has a voice.

From end of life celebrations, to fatalistic revelations, to mournful lamentations, there are myriad ways in which music gives death, and the dead, a voice.  Songs of the sighs of a sorrowful widow, the heartfelt  promises to a friend on their deathbed, the haunting whispers of a ghost to it’s murderer  – music is one of the most profound ways we can express or respond to the end of life experience.

The following playlist is comprised of women who have constructed and composed aural memento mori in this regard. As humans, we occupy a unique place in the saga of mortality, and these women in particular offer illuminating perspectives on the subject as it relates to the afterlife, funerals & wakes, ancestral memories, etc.


 Track List:

O Death – Jen Titus
Waiting Around to Die – The Be Good Tanyas
Harmonica – Anna von Hausswolff
Cross Bones Style – Cat Power
Wakes – Nina Nastasia
Sleeping Dead - Emily Jane White
Caleb Meyer – Gillian Welch
Fancy Funeral – Lucinda Williams
Long Ride Home – Patty Griffin
Family – Dar Williams
Buried in Teeth – Mariee Sioux
The Dirt – Mirel Wagner
Into Dust – Mazzy Star
Herb Girls Of Birkenau – Rasputina
Eulogy – La Vampires & Zola Jesus
Gallows – Cocorosie
A Lily For The Spectre – Stephanie Dosen
White Fire – Angel Olsen
Graveyard – Feist
Suzanne & I Anna – Calvi
Many Funerals – Eisley
My Boy Builds Coffins – Florence + The Machine
Living Dead – Marine and the Diamonds
Happy Phantom – Tori Amos

There are, of course, songs not included here which you might have on your own personal “Death and the Maiden” playlist – there is so much fantastically beautiful, heartbreaking, music to choose from that taps into our experiences with death and dying, and so your results may vary! Music is intensely personal and so, this list reflects the author’s own experiences.

Feel free to post your own playlist and comments.

This post comes to you via DEAD MAIDENS dot com.


I Still Believe


I still believe in the power of fiction, I still believe in super girls.


Of course it’s an aesthetic. Super-powered girls and women, my Muse on mega steroids, yeah, well, so what? What’s wrong with that? Beautiful prose, “beautiful fantasy lovers,” fiction is supposed to seduce us, and we as writers must seduce our readers.


I mean, my first literary crush was



Who, in my fantasies, looked like this:



Damn, I wanted to save Sylvia. In a fantasy sort of way. Like averting the Titanic disaster, or killing Hitler in 1933. I wanted to save Sylvia Plath. Because I believed. Her words, her genius.

I wanted to save her from the fires and fumes of her self destruction.

Reading her poetry as a teenage boy, I felt nothing less than anguish. Here was a real Supergirl—but she just couldn’t live. Not on this Earth. Not on this world.




Lady Lazarus


I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

† † †

I grew up with three older sisters. They were all weird and powerful, overwhelming to poor little drax! It must come as no surprise to even the most casual of my readers that I’ve fetishized super-powerful women in the bulk of my fiction.


Gloriana Blitz from DOOMTOOPERS by Jo Chen & La Shae Ortiz


Samantha Cross from CYBERSTORM by William Briggs Jr

Dark Mori babe unknown_rev1

Mori Kim Marr from EXIT VECTOR by Claire Boucher Grimes

So is she my super-muse or my super-dream girlfriend? Both. Like I said up top, “Of course it’s an aesthetic.” And again, so what? It is an aesthetic that has served me well in both literature and life. Example: when I met my former wife in 1994, she was a 3rd degree Black Belt and she kept weapons in her fucking kitchen. “Show me,” I asked her, and she whipped out a Sai for her right and a Sai for her left and she tore through that tiny kitchen, black tights and bare feet, her hair flying, a blur, she would have put Frank Miller’s Elektra to shame and I thought OH MY GOD OH MY GOD BABY I WANT TO MARRY YOU, and I did, and we did, and it was great and we had two amazing children, but in 2015 we don’t love each other anymore, and that’s okay—that happens—but it’s also okay because…

I still believe.

I received a few gift cards for my recent birthday. I was adamant. I wanted a copy of STATION ELEVEN and a Supergirl Action Figure, an icon for my desk.


I had to release Supergirl’s ankles from metal bindings as the cat on my lap looked on. This might be the most surreal photo I’ve ever snapped.


But there she is! On my filthy fucking black desk! An ideal, an aesthetic, a heroine, a muse. I still believe, I still believe, I still believe.




† † †


is an illustrator and graphic designer


She draws spooky and powerful women and usually posts her work on






You can find Becky on instagram, her professional site, and twitter.

† † †



The Sound Repository 2

by Wizards Tell Lies

  • Digital Album

    Includes high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more. Paying supporters also get unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app.

    Buy Now  name your price

    Send as Gift



A second volume of rare tracks, demos, early and alternative versions.
Some tracks are unmastered.


released 06 February 2015

Wizards Tell Lies is:
Fox, Owl and Hart

Dedicated to Steph, Lucas & Eliza

† † †
Screen Shot 2015-02-08 at 4.49.04 PM copy
Ok, you have been warned. Gorgone says,

I am a french Kinbaku model and rigger.

I discovered Ropes 4 years ago. Immediately seduced, I started looking for real power exchange experiences in ropes and became interested in traditional Japanese rope bondage. I am now lucky enough to be a Rope educator and performer as a main passion and full-time job.

I have been co-organizing BOUND with Nina Russ and Esinem in 2013 and I am currently excited to be part of the first Rope Bondage major international touring stage production « Cirque Shibari » as co-creator and Bondage Director.

I started my path with Ropes as a model/bottom. I cannot say that I like it more than rigging, though if I had to learn to be a rigger it has always felt natural to bottom. My experience as a professional rope bottom brings to my rigging some very useful knowledge and understanding from the other side of the rope.

My path and identity as a rigger is the result of constant exposure to many different styles that I absorb, appropriate and develop on my own. I’ve had the privilege to learn from exposure to some of the world’s greatest teachers but I am mostly self-taught and I do not identify to any specific Ryu (school/style).

Though, my strongest influences remain
-Naka Akira with whom I have the pleasure and honor to work abroad regularly. The beauty of his Kinbaku is unique and has seduced rope lovers all over the world. He was the first and only one from whom I’ve received any formal tuition.
-Nawashi Kanna, incredible artist, performer and part of the ‘Cirque Shibari’ cast. I am lucky to collaborate with him on the elaboration of the show’s Shibari sequences and learn a lot with him in this exploration and technical challenge.

I am active in the International rope scene as a freelance performer, teacher and simple rope enthusiast.
So far I have been teaching and/or performing as a model and/or a rigger in Paris, Berlin, London, Rome, Athens, Madrid, Lausanne, Prague, Bucharest, San Francisco, New-York, Louisville, Chicago, Atlanta, Houston, Seattle, Tokyo and Osaka.

In May 2014 I had the great honor to be the very first non-Japanese woman to be ever photographed by renowned and talented SM photographer Sugiura Norio.

I believe ropes shape the shapeless. It is a subtle tool of communication that can bring truth out of the vulnerable body and soul.

Kinbaku doesn’t start with the rope. It starts with a glance, a touch. It is a shiver turning into an earthquake.

 † † †
SPACE 1999
† † †
These very excellent Twin Peaks remixes can be found here and downloaded for
† † †
ANGRY MORON #4, Heroes Return
MORI KIM MARR: So what the fuck happened?!
ME: How the fuck did you get here?!
MORI KIM MARR: I’ve been living on your desktop for the last few months and you’ve been thinking about me, jerk! You’ve been teaming me up with everybody from Darius Kane to Sherlock fucking Holmes, ya moron!
Me: Sorry, okay. Hi, Mori. Missed you. How can I help you?
Mori: Why didn’t you “pub” Angry Moron #4?
Me: Because it was fucking redundant. The heroes returned and they all sucked. Peter Capaldi’s Doctor Who was revealed as a disappointment (THANK YOU MISTER MOFFAT), NBC’s Constantine was so embarrassingly bad that the show’s cancellation came as a relief, and the fucking Harlock movie? I thought, who cares? It’s SPACE PIRATE CAPTAIN HARLOCK, for fucks sake, who would give a shit besides me, me, and me? Besides, I wasn’t going to go in and get all those screencaps.
Mori: So you let Coop down, you jerk?
Me: No, I didn’t let Coop down, you little tramp. I pubbed it here.
Mori: And what about the Electric Diesel Pagan Faggot Battalion?
ME: That, my dear, is the code name for my new breakfast cereal.

That Fragment of Ruin: a mix by @mlleghoul / ghoulnextdoor


► 8tracks radio | That fragment of ruin by ghoulnextdoor.

Inspired by William Hope Hodgson’s The House on The Borderland.
Image: Ed Emshwiller


Black Arts Cryo Chamber, Dronny Darko | Call of the Exile, NIGHTBRINGER | Onyx Towers, Black Blight | Faces In The Fog, Electric Hell | pathways in the dark, blackantlers | Images of Dream and Death, Wretched Excess | Strange Summoning, Possessor | The Night Scene, Oscillopeisia |The Death, Sumokem | The Prophecy, Lamia Vox | Godhead Emanation., Metatron Omega | Surround the Fire, Muscle and Marrow | Qulielfi (29th Tunnel of Set), y3mk

The tags are dark ambient, drone, black metal, occult, doom. It’s a real feel-good spin, kids! Enjoy.




Stargazers across the UK got a glimpse of a rare meteorological phenomenon last night as a glowing ring encircled the full moon.

The incredible sight occurs when light from the moon reflects off ice crystals in the atmosphere.

The high stratus clouds and the freezing temperatures last night led to hundreds of people (who could bear the cold) taking incredible pictures of the ‘moon halo’. link




All images were found via this search.


  • Calendar

    March 2015
    M T W T F S S
    « Feb    
  • Archives

  • Categories


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 381 other followers