Frightening Fridays: The Dixies…

(Based on a nightmare my brother had when he was 4 in 1969)

Donnie screamed to Daddy “I saw the Dixies”

Daddy told Donnie

“Go to sleep now boy & stop playing trixies”

But the Dixies were real, three monstrous heads, floating through the window towards Donnie’s bed.

At the crack of dawn there was a bit of dread,

as Daddy now sees that Donnie is dead !

Balls ?…

It came out cool though, kind of funny too.

Ok so I got this digital Animation program for my tablet to pass the time on while on the mend. I never utilized my associates in specialized technology except for a freelance storyboard job. Yes the Animation is crude, but I am drawing with my finger on my tablet, and no I didn’t draw the background because if I did the actual Animation would’ve matched the quality. LOL.

New Track on the Bottom of Page (Your Coconuts Suck)…

Your coconuts suck has a very vintage feel to it, utilizing 1930’s style instrumentation and samples with a soothing vibe and a slice of lame humor at the end courtesy of yours truly. Unlike the last two tracks that I have removed that were very raw, this song utilizes the mixer. It’s been quite a while since I have made any music, so that’s why I changed the player to say “Quirky Music”.

If you like experimental loop based music with a hint of humor and the occasional poetry slam, you’ll dig what I will be offering in the coming months.

Matt The 27th Angel Snyder

Music On The Bottom…

Take Note, there will be samples of electronic music i am editing now and again on the bottom of my page there is a media player that will slowly grow into multiple tracks. From 2003-2007 I made music as a means of therapeutic creative output. I’ve decided to try my hand at that again. Future pieces will contain more samples of either music or other kinds of sounds made into music. There are two tracks loaded for now under The 27th Angel. If perchance you are interested give a listen. 🙂

Frightening Fridays: The Sacrifice (loosely based on a true story**)…

The Tarot card. This was my friend Ronit’s medium of choice to display her psychic ability. I’ve always had an interest in the occult/new wave religions. Always looking up books on the topic at the library or going to the local occult shop & new age book store.

Then I met Ronit. She was a client of mine through an arts transaction we made when I was a speaker at the Second Sunday Salon (a Local Arts Venue). I was very curious when she showed me her ancient deck of ornate cards. I had my fortunes read in the past, one person was vague and the other who drew my aura told me things about my late Mother that there is no way they could’ve known. Ronit was the same when she read for me.

One day she asked if I would be interested in trying the cards. She handed me the deck and as I shuffled I looked up and saw what I would call the angel of death hovering over her head. I refused and handed the cards back to her. She asked me what was wrong and I just said I wasn’t that interested.

One day Ronit told me about this place north of us called Columcile Megalith Park. It is a meditation retreat rooted in Gaelic history. We decide to take a trip there. It’s a beautiful park with a lot of stone formations. We find a cave like structure and go inside. There is a rock structure that almost looks like a sacrificial alter.

Ronit asks me to take a photo of her lying on the alter. I tell her it’s probably not a good idea. This is is probably a sacred area and we should just let it be, but she insists and takes out a pocket knife. Here she says, handing me the knife, hold it like you are sacrificing me and snap my photo. I reluctantly comply. As I snap the photo, the room gets cold, the wind has picked up outside and the skies have gotten dark. I tell Ronit that I knew it wasn’t a good idea to stage that photo. As we head to my car a very large branch from the tree we are standing under falls a few feet in front of us. Had we been any closer it could have been far more tragic.

I chuckle to myself and turn to Ronit and say “That was a close one huh.” Ronit turns to look at me and her eyes are blank and hallow. The Specter has returned. I stand there petrified. He cradles her body and they both disintegrate into thin air.

I haven’t ever gone back to that park, I tell Dr. Martin. Dr. Martin just asks me to take my med’s and retire to my room here at Martins Psychiatric Clinic.

** Everything that happened is true except for the very end, no one died **

Frightening Fridays: Webs…

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Damn this itch. I heard no one else I know who has Covid-19 to be dealing with this itch inside their head. Paranoia shoots through me like I am dealing with a new hybrid of the disease.

I just woke up one day with the worst head cold of my life. Both of my ears were stuffed up but my right ear, despite the ear drops I’ve been putting in, has a bizarre itch. When they swabbed my nose for the test, the nurse seemed slightly concerned by the silky consistency of my mucus.

Then one day I got the call that I tested positive but they also said they were doing further testing and would call me back within two weeks.

In the meanwhile, I have been sick as a dog. Laid up in bed with a fever of 102 that comes and goes. I feel incredibly weak at times but also have urges to crochet like a madwoman. I’m not doing anything particular but my work oddly resembles that of a spider’s web. I don’t think much of it, it’s something my hands feel compelled to do to pass the time.

I haven’t had much of an appetite which I am sure has everything to do with the illness. I sit and watch our two cats play with a fly that managed to get into our home. I feel jealous of their enjoyment, until our Tabby, Buster brings me his prey.

I tell him he’s a good kitty and I grab a napkin to pick up the dead fly to throw away, but the dead scent of this insect is appealing to me, I don’t why. I’m enlightened and disgusted at the same time.

I crawl back into bed. That damn itch I felt in my ear has traveled to my nose, to the back of my throat and into my chest. It is an unbearable feeling that I cannot seem to get rid of.

I take a few melatonin’s to help me sleep.

She never wakes up.

Her Cell Phone rings and goes to voicemail. “Miss Lebare this is Nurse Lopez, we got results from our further testing, we need you to come into our office immediately please call us back at 484-653-0098.

There is loud meowing in the house. Sadness & fear echoes in those meows. Inside Melanie Lebare’s room lies her corpse and crawling out of every orifice are millions & millions of tiny spiders.

Tribal…

Tribal

He roared with the wind

Set sail with the sun

the rain flowed freely

the storms erupted like thunderous drums

eventually the calm sea was his healing

the God’s beckon

the people praise

the demon was vanquished from wheeling and dealing

in the end

the darkness will rescind

Frightening Fridays: Bad Decisions (A Fictionalized Account of a True Story)…

(Dedicated in loving Memory of my friend Dean 1963-2018, sorry brother that you had to experience shit like this)

Insomnia. Ain’t it a bitch. But this is when I am at my most creative. The magazine I started is taking off and issue 2 is about to go to press but I need a draw. The opioid crisis is out of control; and I wish there was something more I could give to my readers, something raw.

Sigh. Back to Facebook. I come across this guy named John. He is a self described opioid vigilante. He lost his his daughter to an overdose and is now on a mission to save other young people from their demons. He is a bit of a character.

John & I start talking and he finds out I am a journalist. John wants to put his point in the spotlight, he asks me if I own a video camera and if I would be interested in tagging along on his next mission and film the whole experience; he’s thinking millions of hits on YouTube and I am thinking I got my scoop.

John tells me to meet him in the parking lot of Lowe’s. I question why he can’t just pick me up at my joint but I figure fuck it, I’m down with it. I head out the door with my video camera and head to Lowe’s and wait.

It’s late. Real late. I am starting to doubt my decision and consider leaving but the magazine needs this. Just then an SUV littered in Gun Toting, Gun Rights Stickers with tinted windows pulls up beside me. The window rolls down, “You Dean ?”

“Yeah, we doin’ this ?”, I say.

John asks me if I would be willing to drive. He’s never really navigated through NYC. I say sure not a problem hop in and we’ll be on our way. John says, “No I mean can you drive my SUV ?”. Uh I guess so. This guy is definitely an attention seeker. ” Don’t you think it would be better to take my car instead, you can infiltrate easier ?” John insists we take his SUV.

I oblige.

I never knew this decision would be the worst I would ever make. John gets out and I get in. There is a young woman in the back seat. “Hi, I’m Kim. I am a counselor. I know the girl were going to save.”, she says. “Dean, I’m here to document this whole experience.”, I say.

John tells me that Kim has some marijuana to help ease the girl off the heroin that she is on. Ok, I figure this woman knows what she is doing, they have both done these rescue missions together in the past. Off we go. As Kim and John talk I realize like me, she and him just met tonight. There is a slight knot in the pit of my stomach, but I continue to drive because I need this story.

John shows Kim his loaded 45. We are driving thru Jersey and headed towards the Holland Tunnel. Just then sirens are heard and we are asked to pull over. Both John & Kim seem panicked. “Hide the fucking weed!”, John Yells at Kim and “Sit on my weapon bro.”

“Don’t you have a permit, what the fuck ? You sit on it !”, I yell.

He shoves the gun behind me with his hand on the trigger. The cop heads up to us with caution. I roll down the window. The cop tells me he pulled me over because of a crack in the wind shield. He asks me to get out of the SUV. All I keep thinking is fuck, I’m a fucking Patsy.

What did I get myself into ?

The Cop see’s the loaded 45 and orders everyone out and on the ground. I try to tell the cop, that I’m a journalist, that it’s not my truck and definitely not my gun. He calls for back up and the truck is searched. John didn’t just have that 45. He had an arsenal of loaded weapons & body armor, where as Kim didn’t have prescription weed it was a street quality dime bag.

Fuck.

This is bad. Real Bad.

Trapped in this damn cell with this fucking psycho who used me. As if my insomnia wasn’t already in high gear there is no way in hell I am getting ANY sleep now.

Incompetent lawyers, family & friends telling me the the “press” is painting me in a bad way; And all I was doing was chasing a story. And here I am now, the oldest of the HOLLAND TUNNEL THREE, the one who should’ve known better. I should’ve insisted we take my car or no deal. Had I had sleep, I may have had better judgement. I should’ve been aware of everything in that SUV.

But, I wasn’t. I was used. And I might be in here for the rest of my life.

My family & friends rallied behind my innocence and convinced a better lawyer to set up a plea deal for me. Kim & I testified against John and he is serving time. Our sentences were converted to time served.

Free at last. Obviously the opioid issue of the magazine will go to press as is. I feel I need to give more with my life. A higher calling. Prior to this incident I was heavily involved with helping the homeless, while starting the magazine and making a name for myself as an award winning freelance graphic designer. After prison, I was tainted; I lost my clients, my dog died of a broken heart and I really felt like my bad decision let everyone down.

Especially my elderly parents who I live with, that I have been taking care of. My girlfriend, Jesus, even my dog. I find myself calling family and friends and begging for forgiveness for all of my wrong doings.

I call Matt, he was close to my younger sister growing up. He and I met at her funeral. Over the last 9 years we’ve become very close thanks to Facebook. I even asked Matt to sculpt me a Hello Kitty for my upcoming birthday. A true friend, wrote me the entire time I was incarcerated, never doubting my innocence.

Sigh.

Still tainted, forever guilty. Internet Trolls have a field day with me, what’s the point of living anymore ?

I call Matt and leave this message: I love you. I am so sorry for all those times when we were younger and I bullied you. It was wrong. I want to hug you brother, I want to kiss the ground you walk on. Thanks for everything, I mean it. EVERYTHING.

Then I swallowed a handful.

Happy deathday to me, 17 days shy of my 55th birthday…

The Mug Shots of John C, Kim A & Dean S