Short Story: Bonnie Is Magick

People never really knew what to do with Bonnie.

When she was very young, most people treated her like there was something wrong with the way she acted. At three years old she drew a map of the entire world all over her grandmothers living room furniture. When she was six, she hypnotized a boy in her class and covered him with ink, drawing symbols all over him. When the teacher asked her what she was doing, she looked at her work and simply said, "I'm preparing him for the end of the world." Later that afternoon, the world ended. But the only person who noticed was Bonnie. Even the boy she covered in sacred symbols never saw the dragons crushing the planet under their wings, the demons howling up from the ocean and consuming the shore. The only person who saw it was Bonnie, the only person to thank the Warriors who beat them back and rebuilt reality was Bonnie.

At eight years old she helped a dying kingdom rebuild its crumbling walls. The king thanked her for all her help and a very confused gardener walked away from the farm, grateful for this strange magickal girl that lived there and knew where all the roots were.

From her view, everything seemed normal. Cars were terrible beasts, legends were born in every sentence and the fantastic never stopped when she woke up from the night. The reality that every other person tried to stuff her brain into was so flat and dull that her mind wouldn't accept it as true. She would lose herself in the afternoon sky and people always said, "Oh what an active imagination! She's so creative!". What they didn't see were the endless battles of the Sky Giants protecting their Ring Hordes from the Black Dawn. At age ten she brought a pumpkin to school for lunch and when the teacher asked her why, she said nothing.

Bonnie looked up from her desk at this gargoyle leering down at her and could not understand why the pumpkin would seem out of place to it. It's a gargoyle, she thought, why does it care if I have a pumpkin? As she held on to her pumpkin with all her might, she saw the faces of the other kids in her class, laughing and pointing, jeering or just looking away. Gargoyles were everywhere then, grasping and tearing at her skin and trying to wrestle this food away from her grip. She closed her eyes and wished them all away. All the laughing kids, all the gargoyles, even the pumpkin.

Bonnie was alone. The classroom was completely empty. No desks, no papers, no chalkboard. She stopped shaking and looked around, pleased at the quiet of it all. She could see glittering rivers of light flowing through the hallways and could smell the fresh green air from the open doors. She walked slowly out towards the doors of the school and peered outside. The world was silent, still. No hordes of children thronging in the playground, no cars. The roads in front of her school had disappeared and all she could see was green grass and clouds. She stood there, soaking it in and laughing.

The tear in the sky swallowed the sun. Dark clouds bore down where she stood and rain poured out of the sky. Bonnie shielded her eyes as much as she could and tried to make it back inside. The hallway was wet and her foot slipped up as she tried to make it back under cover through the open doorway. Her face hit the ground hard and she could feel something important give way as she fell. Blood oozed from underneath her chest and her head swam in clouds of confusion.

The teachers stood over Bonnie and glared down with disapproval. She lay face first in a pile of broken pumpkin in the hallway and was crying and moaning. She stood up and looked down at her chest in horror and desperately tried to stuff the shattered remains of the pumpkin into her shirt. When chunks would fall off, she would scream and try even harder. All she can remember is the horror of a crushed pumpkin. The jeers of the children, the dying of a sunny day in the grass.

When the school counselor asked Bonnie how she feels, all she did is sit and stare at her, shirt and hair covered in pumpkin. The conversation ignores her. Her mother is there. The words float above and beyond her. All she can think of is the loss of that sky, the end of a perfect day. Her tears flow like rain now, her cries reach out past the school and into the echoing hallways of the universe. Something wakes up. Something starts to fly.

The next morning as Bonnie feeds her invisible spider and gets ready for school, her mother comes to her room to meet her.

"Bonnie, it's time to go see the doctor honey. You're not going to school today."

Bonnie looked up at her mom and simply smiled. "OK mom. Can we go get breakfast afterwords?"

The car ride passes slowly and Bonnie is watching the horses try and keep up with the car. Laughing the whole way there, she pats the white one on the nose when they get out of the car and follows her mom up to the entrance to the building. Inside, all is cool and bright. The glare of the white light pushes into her brain and she starts getting nervous. Her mom tightens her grip slightly and leads her into the office of the doctor.

The doctor asks Bonnie a lot of questions. How many horses were there on the way here? How often do you see them? Does your invisible spider eat? The morning drags on and Bonnie starts to get bored with the doctors questions. How can he not know the answers already? What kind of doctor does not know about the Sky Giants?

As the car pulls away from the office she can see the horses start to gallop again. They follow her all the way to the diner and hang out right outside the window where Bonnie and her mom sit.

"Bonnie, I've got a pill I want you to take every morning. The doctor said that these will help you concentrate. They'll help you with schoolwork and keep you focused on important things."

Bonnie stared at the tiny white pill. It was so tiny. So blindingly brilliantly white. It must be good. Besides, she wanted to do good in school, it made her mom so happy. She popped the pill in her mouth and swallowed it with a big gulp of orange juice. Not too bad, she thought. Breakfast arrived and she devoured it whole.

As she followed her mom out to the car she started to panic. The horses were gone. Not even a trace remained. No hoof prints, no smell. She worried the whole way home. What could have happened to the horses? They had been running alongside the car ever since she could remember, they kept other cars away from her and her mom, kept them safe from the other beasts that roamed the streets. What would they do now that the horses weren't protecting them?

The hit never registered in her mind. All she remembered was waking up in the hospital with her mom crying and leaning over her. Her mind felt like someone had stuffed cotton in her head and everything she looked at was blurred out. She looked down at her feet and saw that the right side of her body was covered in a cast. "Mom? what happened?" Her mother sobbed more and held her hand tight. "We were in a bad car accident. You leg got hurt when the truck hit us and now you're in the hospital." Bonnie thought for a moment and looked at her mom. "You shouldn't have made the horses go away."

After three years of pills, Bonnie didn't see the Sky Giants any more. She didn't miss the horses and she had long ago gotten rid of the tank for her invisible spider. Her mind was sharp, focused and her grades in school were excellent. The kids in her class didn't call her Bonnie Bonkers any more. The past was the past.

The dreams were not so easily ignored. Every night she woke up sobbing in the dark, some unknown sadness gripping at her and not letting her go. She could never put a finger on it and the wear it put on her was starting to show. Her performance at school was starting to lag. The doctor and her mom took note of this and decided that it was time for her to start a new pill.

"Bonnie, these are anti-depressants. They will help you deal with your sadness and make your life easier to bear."

Bonnie was willing to do anything to push the shadows from her mind and she took the new blue pills with resignation. That night she swallowed the blue pill and drifted off to sleep. She woke in the morning with a start. She had dreamt nothing. For the first time in here life, she slept without a dream. This scared her more than the nightmares so she went and talked with her mom.

"Mom, I don't know if these blue pills are helping. I didn't dream anything last night, and I always dream."

"That's good sweetheart, you slept all the way through the night. How do you feel this morning? Are you sad?"

"No, I'm not sad. I'm not.... anything."

"That's great honey, that's great. I'm glad to know you're not sad anymore."

Bonnie stared out at the farm and saw nothing. Felt nothing. Was Nothing.

She went to school.

She came home.
She studied and she ate.

Something panicked and started flying faster.

The Nothing that had overtaken Bonnie started to have its own needs. It needed sensation. It needed fire. It called out at night and made its wishes known. Bonnie listened and found what nothing wanted most. Booze. Drugs. Sex. Money. Power. Armed with this knowledge she fed it everything it could ever dream of.

Nothing purred and curled up close against her heart. It kept the dreams at bay. It shielded her from pain and fear, Nothing can fill the void, Nothing can keep you content. Nothing led her down the road, across the country and deep into the dark forests of her mind. Bonnie and Nothing lived together for a long time, purring and petting each other. But what she did not see was that while Nothing grew fat and content, Bonnie was withering away.

Something arrived almost too late. Bonnie had become one tiny flame of what had been a bonfire when Something started its journey. It barely recognized her when it flew over the new bridges and concrete that grew over the fields. Something squinted at the tiny light below and rushed down towards the ground. The air screamed and the clouds ran away from the terror of Something. Nothing never saw it coming, it was too busy counting gold and enjoying another drink to pay any attention to the skies.

Something slammed into Bonnie at full speed, bowling her over a picnic table and spilling her beer all over the ground. Something grabbed Nothing in its teeth and wrestled it to the ground. Nothings gold went flying all around and Nothing threw Something off its back.

"Who are you to come barging in here like this? We're quite happy, Bonnie and I."

Something smiled and glared. "I am Something. I have come to kill you for draining all the magick from this girl."

Nothing sneered. "It was not I who drained the magick. It was not I who cast these shadows. Do you blame the mold that takes hold when bread sits out too long?"

Something thought deeply and started circling. "No, I do not blame the vine for choking the tree but I will chop you off at your root."

Something lunged for Nothings throat.

For three years they tore away at each other and Bonnie shook with earthquakes every day. A hundred kingdoms vanished under the might of their battle, a thousand seas went dark with the blood, ten thousand birds flew in terror. Bonnie could only look at the battle that raged and wonder what she could do. The people around her began to wonder at the change. Something had returned but it wasn't there all the time. Bonnie started to notice it too. She worried and fretted, she gnashed her teeth and drank another beer.

After three years of endless warfare, the hundred kingdoms were in tatters. Something and Nothing lay beaten and bleeding under the trees near the edge of the forest. For the first time they noticed Bonnie sitting near them, watching. Too tired to move, they stared at Bonnie with confusion.

Something spoke. "What are you doing here little girl? I have come to save you from Nothing. I will protect you and keep you safe."

Nothing coughed up blood and rasped. "You are a fool Something! She needs me here. She is here to send you away. Bonnie, don't you want to go have a drink with me?"

Bonnie didn't move. She sat there for a long time looking at the pile of fur and broken bones that Something and Nothing had made of each other. As the sun set behind her the Sky Giants peered down from their castles and waited. The birds returned to hear the words and the Demons looked out from their caves.

Finally as dusk set in, Bonnie spoke.

"I remember it now,
those years ago.
Before the anger
Before the pills
Before this warfare
Before the thrills.

Before Nothing and Something
bled the skies red
I had dreamt up a world for me
laying in bed
I see now the truth there is
In what's called psychosis
By demons of logic
Who speak like they know this:

I am Everything, I am my dreams
Everything is exactly just as it seems
I am the savior, I am the sin
Alpha and Omega I scrawl on my skin
To burn this moment into my head
The sight of you both here, verging on dead.

Thank you both for your lessons
I shall not forget
But if there's one thing
I've come to regret
It's believing a savior
could find me my rest.
Believing there's challenges
I need help to best.

I'll be walking away now
to leave this behind
To recognize Everything
and live free in mind."

Bonnie got up and left Something and Nothing behind, their death throes echoing off the mountain sides and their blood soaking the earth. She held Everything tight and it pawed at her hands, curling up against her chest. It was a tiny Everything but she knew it would grow. The Sky Giants were so tiny when they first came to be, but look at them now. No Black Dawn had ever touched their Ring Hordes in all those years she missed. Everything must grow in the fullness of time. As she climbed up the trails towards the home of the Sky Giants she saw the horses playing down on the field below for the first time in a decade and Everything knew she would make it.

She stayed with the Sky Giants until the night, when their vigil begins. She bade them all fare well and headed off to her apartment. Everything was curled up on the bed and begging for food. She sat down and fed it four chapters from a book, a few cigarettes and three beers. Everything was satisfied, Everything was alright.

Musical Etiquette: At The Grocery Store

Originally Posted at Crappy Indie Music.

Dear Musical Etiquette:
I was walking through the grocery store the other day and ran into XXXX from XXXX shopping! I was so nervous, but I walked up and said hi anyway. I told him I was his biggest fan ever and gave him my demo CD. Good thing I keep some on me! He didn't really talk to me, he just sort of stared at the CD, said thanks and kept on walking. Did I do something wrong here? Why would he ignore me? I'm his biggest fan, I've been to like every show!

Help! XXXXX


The answer is yes, you did do something wrong. See, the thing is, your local celebrity is a human being. I know it's sometimes hard to see, but this guy just probably just wanted to get his grocery shopping done and go home. At the risk of sounding rude, I must inform that you're being annoying. You see, the grocery store is one of those times where he just gets to be normal and boring and to someone who spends a great deal of time on stage and under the lights, it's a great relief. You just shattered his illusion that he is just a normal guy, buying food and deodorant.

It's a Job
You must realize that being in a band is a job. It's true. His role in the band is what he does for a living, even if it's not a full time job. So walking up to him in the grocery store and slobbering all over him is akin to someone walking up to you and demanding a spreadsheet of your time clock entries, or being told to make a sandwich. He's not "on the clock" right now. Don't expect him to jump up and down and thank you profusely for interrupting him while he's trying to select the right breakfast cereal. A few brief words introducing yourself, a handshake and an appreciative compliment is sufficient. Please, don't give out demos for your band or try and set up a show here in the cereal isle. If you're really interested and you think you've got a good chance to work together, feel free to give them your card and leave them in peace.

Quit slobbering
Frankly, this sort of worshipful fawning over someone at the grocery store is demeaning to you and can be very uncomfortable to the person you're worshiping. If you're really trying to impress this person with your music, act like a human being. Granted, there are people who enjopy this kind of attention and they are hollow, insecure shells and you probably belong together. If you are convinced that they will enjoy this kind of attention then don't do it halfway. Have a chorus of singers behind you, offer burned sacrifices, light candles and chant, waft incense over their body as you sing their praises. I mean really do it up. Offer them your first born child, show off that tattoo you got of their first album cover artwork, read them that tear stained poem in your back pocket you wrote in the darkest hour of your life for them. Worship them wholly and fight the police when they show up.

Be People
If you really are interested in this person that you worship so much, talk to them about food. Share a recipe, comment on the quality of their selections, amuse them with an anecdote about what they're buying. You'd be surprised by their reaction to it. A great deal of "famous" people lose the opportunity to have honest dialogue with random people and it's nice for them to not worry about being that guy on stage. When you approach someone, remember that they are a stranger. No matter how much you think you know about that person from their songs, you really don't know this person at all.

OK, Now You're Good
There are good times to drop a CD in someone's hand, or pay them more than a passing compliment on their work. A musician that just got off stage, is signing CDs or posters or is at an industry event is more than open to hearing about how much their art inspires you, makes you cry or fills your enpty life with meaning. This is the time they put aside to hear this kind of thing and interact with their fans. It's not wise to take up too much of their time still, remember you're a stranger and you don't have the right. So just play it cool, say what you want to and move on.

Please don't be offended if their is a luke warm reaction to your demo or contact information. Successful musicians deal with hundreds of people every day and if you meet them after a really long day they might not be in the best of moods. Don't be pushy, don't be rude. Just remember that they're people too and they have lives that don't involve music. Let the man shop.

Till next time!
Eriq Nelson

Send me your inquiries and horror stories at musicaletiquette@gmail.com

Album Review: Iron and Wine - Fall 2007

Originally posted at Crappy Indie Music

Essentially the demo versions of Shepherd's Dog, this feels like a personal concert playing in my bedroom. It is stripped completely naked, just Sam and a guitar and it's great to hear these songs like this. There's some serious differences here too. "Boy With A Coin" has an extended vocal section that I've only heard live. "Innocent Bones" has a slightly slower tempo and achieves even more intimacy than the album cut.

The entire thing is so intimate and warm it makes me feel like Sam Beam is hitting on me while I'm sitting in front of a fireplace. He reaches over in between songs and fills my wine glass again. I reconsider my commitment to the heterosexual lifestyle as he winks subtly at me and picks up his guitar.

This brings me straight back to The Creek Drank the Cradle and falling head over heels in love with this mans voice and guitar style. It's not nearly as scratchy as earlier works (let's hear it for the cash of success!) but it still feels like a bedroom album, raw and unapologetically simple. It's good songwriting technique, filling an entire track with voice and guitar and only lending support to the song with other instrumentation.

The collection closes with Resurrection Fern, my personal favorite track off of Shepherd's Dog and a lullaby of quiet beauty. Revisiting one of my favorite records from 2007 in it's raw state has been a great experience and I look forward to Around The Well, the upcoming collection of rare and unreleased Iron and Wine due on May 19th this year.

Available for free on Iron and Wine's website.
Released today: "The Trapeze Swinger" from the film "In Good Company"

Rant: Derivative Crap

Originally posted at Crappy Indie Music.

There is no doubt that other forms of music are a huge influence on anyone creating music in the 21st century. With the huge collection of recorded music available to the modern artist and the speed at which this music comes to us, it becomes difficult to distinguish a bands influences from it's creativity. So what qualifies a band as being derivative? I believe it is the extent to which they are able to synthesize these influences and progress the art form. Derivative music can be traced back to a tiny handful or perhaps just one major influence. Truly good modern music can trace it's lineage to a thousand different influences and a progressive form that pushes the boundaries of how you define what you're hearing. It is said that imitation is the greatest form of flattery. That may be so, but I don't feel compelled to listen to it.

Any decent musician has spent a huge amount of time listening to music; absorbing, reacting, analyzing and deconstructing their favorite recordings. They will have spent innumerable hours listening to their own work and the performances of others and reflecting on what they like about it. Likewise, they have an opinion about what they don't like. Taste is everything in music production. There is little doubt that what you listen to has a deep rooted influence on what you play, they are both extensions of your musical tastes and come from the same place. This is an inescapable fact of music. It doesn't mean that you can't innovate.

Derivative music is music without risk. It is the safe road, the comfortable pair of shoes. It is familiar and does not challenge the ear. Papa Roach is a perfect example of derivative music. It's actual worth as music can be debated endlessly, such things are the realm of taste but even a most ardent fan of their work must admit that there is little innovation present. Their music is a culmination of modern rock radio habits. The song structure that they employ varies by no more than 10% per song. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, out. It is a method that has evolved significantly in the last 30 years and left this particular canker sore of pop music behind. There is nothing distinctive whatsoever about this band, they pass through my ears like every other craptacular band with a Digitech pedal rig and a few bad ideas about songwriting that radio calls "modern rock".

In another sense music that, while derived from a great number of influences, fails utterly to either properly synthesize these influences or innovate upon them is just as bad. Ne-Yo is little more than a place marker sitting on top of twenty years of dull eyed, radio friendly R&B music. It is the culmination of a generation of mediocrity in soul, artists unwilling to take a risk with their sound or truly flex their vocal abilities; choosing instead to play to the least common denominator and appease the lazy listening habits of a pre-defined market. It is a grand example of the major label music form, as bland and lifeless as a bowl of cold oatmeal. The fact is, there is a great deal of room for innovation even within the context of soul music and performers like Ne-Yo fail to even recognize it's existence. If you don't believe me, go listen to Cee-Lo.

In that light there is merit to traditional forms. Soul music is becoming a tradition slowly, and it is still very young. If you want to see the progression of a traditional form that has a longer lineage look no further than bluegrass. Abigail Washburn is a banjo player of considerable skill. This is not why she stands out. Bluegrass is chock full of extremely talented pickers and the dexterity with which they play amazes me constantly. Her talent is in the arrangement of her material, her fine sense of timing and her inclusion of Chinese folk forms in her music. There are deep parallels between Celtic root and Chinese root music but I won't bore you with the technical aspects of this. Instead, look to the beauty and uniqueness of her art. One can draw a direct line between her and her influences and still, we must stand in awe of her brilliant fusion. It is what distinguishes her from so many other bluegrass musicians and it shows a deep commitment to progressing the tradition instead of keeping it locked away in a glass box to be admired from afar.

Broken Social Scene stands in as my example of truly excellent modern music. I can dissect the influences that lead into it, I can analyze the structure and it would take me far too long. It is a finely woven mesh of music, pulling from so many areas of culture that it takes in a life of it's own. It is transcendent art, recognizing it's past while embracing the future. Broken Social Scene is becoming an influence on music moving forward, which is the mark of true innovation. You could debate the relative worth of their contribution to music but one cannot escape the fact that they have made a contribution, which is more than I can say for the vast array of trite, boring crap that occupies so much of popular culture. Even within their collected recordings and side projects there is a remarkable amount of diversity and creativity. They give me hope, they make me think that I'm not doomed to listen to the same music over and over again until I die.

High quality modern music is more than the sum of it's influences. It is a unique synthesis of other musical forms but achieves far more than acting as a single point at the end of an extensive lineage. It expresses the personalities of the musicians involved and ensures that their voices come through in the song. It challenges our preconceptions of what music is capable of and keeps the lifeblood of art flowing forward. It synthesizes and improves on music we thought we knew so much about and keeps people like me from getting burned out and cynical. On occasion an entirely new form of musical expression will come along. Many times it is simply not worth listening to, a great deal of modern music theory revolves around concepts so cerebral, so disconnected from reality that it has little resemblance to an enjoyable experience. I would not presume to know the future history of musical innovation (who in the 60's could predict the rise of hip-hop?) but I can tell you one thing. Influence is no bad thing, there is a considerable amount of synthesis that has yet to be explored and music will continue to evolve. I hope we will always have artists that refuse to be derivative and take big artistic risks for the chance to make me wake up and pay attention.

Short Story: Spacemonkeyz Vs. Gorillaz - Laika Come Home

I packed a suitcase with a few essential belongings and headed outside to the waiting cab. It was early that Saturday morning and I still had a hard time believing my good fortune. I'd been selected to pilot the first orbiting music studio in human history, a joint venture between Virgin Galactic and Apple Computers.

A few months before this, the head of the project contacted me through my website to let me know I'd made the short list to head the LEO (Low Earth Orbit) Remix division. It seems that my essays on astropolyrhythmics had made some waves with management. Soon I was confirmed for training and tendered my resignation to my then employer, Beat Science Ltd. I spent three months in a training facility in California, getting my body into shape for long term low gee and learning from the Duboligists at the newly founded Institute for Low Gravity Recomposition.

So the day had finally come and I stood there staring out into the horizon when the cab driver hit the horn and gave me a nasty look. I had spent my entire professional career studying astropolyrhythmics and the time had come to put it into practice. When we arrived at the guard shack in front of the launch site the entire facility was in a state of complete panic and disarray. I found the rest of my team near the crew prep area and was quickly filled in by Ian, my Chief Beat Engineer for the mission.

It seemed that the monkeys that were used to test our module had broken out of their holding pens about half an hour before then and were putting the ship into preflight checks. The monkeys had shut ground control out of the systems and the capsule was designed to be completely secure, guarded against industrial espionage. The rocket lifted off that morning packed full of a $150 million in experimental studio equipment and three stoned out test monkeys.

The world watched and listened in wonder as over the course of one year, the Spacemonkeyz released one of the greatest dub concepts ever given form track by track back to the planet on pirate radio. People ask me if I'm upset by this turn of events and in interviews I always say the same thing. Those monkeys have fulfilled my greatest dream, to remix an album in orbit and elevate the science of astropolyrhythmics to legitimacy.

They're still up their and last week I sent them new source material from Thievery Corporation, Scientist and King Tubby.

Good for: Traveling without moving. Founding a colony on Mars based entirely on slick beats and reverb.

Get into orbit on Amazon.

Short Story: Broken Social Scene - Bee Hives

The swirling dirt and dust around her feet seemed to guide Julie forward, waving in her direction from ground level. Hoping that the air could tell her what last night could not, she followed the tiny vortex down the quiet concrete of the abandoned main street. Two birds flew quietly overhead as she crossed to the other side, still following this jinn of cigarette ash and road dirt. Clouds gathered overhead, threatening to mask the rays of a wan and silvery sunlight that pervaded the atmosphere of Stuart Nebraska.

Julie Wainsworth was not a tall woman. This particular morning she reflected that it is at times an advantage to be short, the wind passed over her while the trees looked as though they might lie down for a nap after straining so long to stand up. She had been born to a mixed family, her mother's Omaha side lost somewhere in the history of family bibles and alcohol and her father's ancestry some uniquely American mix of French-Canadian, Irish and something else. Her mother had been a quiet woman and she inherited most of her features, broad face, good hips, short height and a quiet demeanor. The other people here had always treated her with a distanced respect and she preferred it that way.

All of this past seemed to fade into dream as she continued following the tiny tornado west out of town and into the endless fields of commercial farming and cattle. It always hit her like a punch in the gut, seeing the pesticide laden soil groan under the weight of profit and the endless ambition of American business. Trying to find an audience for her feelings had always been impossible in a town of a few hundred farmers and their kin. Julie spent her nights alone as a child, staring out at the stars from a tree and wishing there was some way out of here, laughing deeply as age and wisdom taught her that "out there" was no different for a thousand miles on either side of the town.

It was mid-morning now and the crowded farm buildings gave way to the open sky and endless fields of their pursuits. Her feet stopped short as the vortex halted suddenly next to an access road, about 20 feet in front of her. It moved very slowly down the access road and she stood there, wondering just what the hell she was doing. She was certain that the bank manager had been calling her mother's house for several hours at this point, she was at least three hours late for her shift. Why did it seem so far away? So unimportant? Fuck it, she thinks and walks down the access road, chasing this tiny spirit.

An hour and a half later, the jinn stopped again near a telephone pole and suddenly dropped it's payload in a poof of dust and ash. Julie coughed and wiped her eyes , red sparks playing against her eyelids and Nebraska trying to force it's way into her throat. As the faerie light of her eyes cleared into the glare of the afternoon, a pay phone resolved into focus sitting next to the pole. It looked as though it had been there for sixty years, wind worn and faded from a life in the wild. A wild pay phone? Is it tamed?

The musings of herds of wild pay phones broke into iron tinged fear as the phone began to ring, piercing the windy solitude of her portable temple. Three shrill rings and she stood there, petrified at the way her day had gone. Silence for a moment, a released breath escapes her lips. The phone rings again and her chest seizes up. It's still ringing. Her hand reaches for the receiver, shaking and terrified. As the earpiece hits her ear and she begins to say hello, her lips freeze mid speech as the tinny speaker springs to life.

A sound like bees swimming through an ocean of digital waves gives way to a guitar in the distance telling the tales of her life. She strains against the hot black plastic to hear each note as the story unfolds in her mind's eye. The ground gives way beneath her, an earthquake lifts the red brown dust into the sky and the farm folds back in on itself. Every emotion of her life is turned into a digital pulse, converted by the aged and worn out telephone system and output through this minuscule electromagnet. Her eyes roll back in her head as the sky stares down at this strange sight, birds chirping their questions at the trees and the trees retaining their knowing silence.

Julie Wainsworth is dead now. That's what everyone in Stuart knows to be true. The county coroner confirmed that heart failure led to her demise. If he only knew how true that was. Her heart had failed years ago, this tiny town had never spoken to her and it was sheer willpower that kept her limping along. I know the truth says the tree. She has gone home across the wires around my fingers. Her body lay at my feet that spring morning, but Julie was racing across the plains, waving her goodbyes to the land that gives us life. Julie was my friend, she lived among my branches as a young-ling and stared at the stars until her tears fed my roots. I know Julie Wainsworth, I know her fears, I know her wishes and I know she smiles now.

Julie Wainsworth is not dead.

Short Story: DJ Cheb i Sabbah: As Far As: A DJ Mix

The low red sun burned through the fog of the last few sleepless nights. I rolled out of the borrowed sleeping bag and onto the hard packed dirt floor of the tent. Camp coffee, cruel black gunk that burned like lava was all that we had left in the supplies so I launched a healthy dose down my throat and got dressed. The clothes I borrowed from Madin three days ago were stale and smelled like I'd borrowed them three years ago. We'd been waiting for almost a week to get into the Bhimbetka rock shelters to see the petroglyphs with our own eyes.

Moving to India in my early twenties was an impulse move. Tired of the relentless pace of Western life and the excesses it brings, I packed a bag and headed to the subcontinent with no real plan. How could I have predicted that that shit would follow me, even here. Now every corner of India is plastered with ads for American products, Internet cafes and cheap knockoffs from up north in China. Authenticity in the age of plastic is a fools dream, but I have always been a fool.

Thusly did I find myself staring at 10,000 year old human settlements squinting in the early morning with Madin, my friend and mentor. Well dosed on shitty coffee we parted the tarps covering the nearest cave and set up our mats just inside. I had been practicing my meditation techniques and learning from Madin since I'd arrived in India and I quickly stilled my mind and peered past the rock carvings and into the earth. I saw the hands of a thousand generations lain upon this stone, trying to see what the carvers had meant so many years ago.

As the glyphs settled into the back of my conscious mind the cave fell away and the scene opened up on the sea of green spread before me. The jungle went on as far as I could see and for the first time I saw the India I had come looking for. The land before even the times of Siddhartha Gautama. The rhythm of the land swept through my mind's eye and shook the last bit of disbelief from existence.

In a rush the world around me blurred as vision ans sensation fast forwarded. Time and space become concepts as I moved through Asia and into Arabia. Before I could catch my breath the mighty empires of the Middle East and North Africa rose and fell in front of me. Egypt ascendant, then nothing but wind blasted monuments to an era long past. The vision swept me north once more, to the high mountain reaches of Nepal. Past the endless expanses of the Tibetan highlands and into the Gobi. When I arrived here the journey stopped.

All of these visions came at once then, threatening to overwhelm me. Just when I thought I could take no more, I woke to the cool inside of these ancient caverns to find Madin smiling softly at me. I lay cold and shivering on my mat inside the cave and confused, my body stiff and sore from what felt like years of sitting.

There it was, in a moments flash. I realized then that this endless quest for the real was but one more illusion to strip from my awareness, one more bridge to cross in life. I bowed deeply to my friend, to the cave and to the thousand hands that came before me. Outside, the air had taken on a new lightness. I realized in that moment that it was I that had become lightness, laughed and put my feet upon the road once more.