Entry # 10

Taking a Trip

By

Jessica Wagner

I drove for a long while, humming cheerfully to drown out the sound of her screaming. When that didn’t work, I turned on the stereo, allowing crackly, static-filled country to fill the cramped interior of the little sedan. I nodded in approval as some woman began belting out a heart-felt, anguish-filled song about betrayal and love. It wasn’t usually my thing—I’m an easygoing guy—but it was painfully appropriate.

“Please, Tom, I can explain!”

I cranked up the volume louder, continuing to hum, and downshifted as I crested over a hill to greet the panorama of colors smeared across the sky—a New Mexico sunset in all its glory, providing a backdrop along with the mountains and rabbit-brush spattered hills for me. There were no other cars driving along the road for as far as I could see—that was the true beauty of the Land of Enchantment. Even living in a country along with over three-hundred million people, you could still find ways to be utterly alone.

“It wasn’t my idea! You know how my mother is, Tom!”

My jaw twitched a little, but I smoothed a smile back on my face as I caught sight of the turnoff. I turned onto a dirt road, and I heard little thuds in the back of my trunk as I eased the car over a cattle guard.

“Oww!”

I reached over to steady the bloody little bundle, wrapped lovingly in a fuzzy blue blanket and resting next to me in the passenger’s seat. I briefly recalled the many times that Judie had sat here alongside me during road trips, flashing pearly whites as she laughed at one of our privately shared jokes, the wind whipping her blond hair so that it streamed out behind her, her green eyes sparkling in the sunshine. I put that thought carefully away, and braked as one of the many cows that grazed in the pastures alongside the road decided to cross not three feet from my bumper.

“Please, try to understand! She would have taken all my money away! I would have never done it otherwise!”

I waved at a rancher and one of his hands who were riding herd on their cattle, looking as at home in the saddle as I felt holding the chainsaw currently resting across the back seat. It had been a long time since I’d last ridden a horse—as a woodworker I’d never really had much of a need for them. But I felt a sudden yearning to be in the saddle again—perhaps I would ask the rancher if he needed an extra helper when I was done here.

I continued on, until the pastures were well out of sight and tall pines started flying past the windows, and then eased my car off to the side of the road. I shifted into neutral, pulled the parking brake into place, and reluctantly killed the engine. The music stopped instantly, and Judie’s loud, hiccupping sobs filled the air instead, drowning out the subtle symphony of the forest. I couldn’t help the twinge of annoyance I felt; I liked listening to the chirping of birds, the rustle of squirrels in the trees, watching the occasional rabbit scamper by. Why did she have to ruin it with her caterwauling?

Oh well, there would be time enough for him to sit back and enjoy nature’s symphony. Plenty of time.

I reached down to pop the lever for the trunk, then grabbed the chainsaw and opened the door. I left the bloody bundle inside as I walked around and lifted the trunk door to see her looking up at me, sooty streaks of mascara running down her blanched cheeks, hair rumpled in a way that just yesterday I would have found delightful. She was dressed in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, both stained with blood, her wrists and ankles bound with twine.

“Tom, please, you have to believe that this wasn't my fault! I love you!!!”

I briefly wondered why I hadn’t gagged her—it would have made the trip much more pleasant. I sighed and rested the chainsaw on the ground as I lifted her into my arms and cradled her against my chest, for the last time.

“I did too—until I found our child in the dumpster this morning.”

Entry # 9

                                                                Nightmare at Sea

                                                                         by

                                                                  Cypher Lx

The ship gently rocked on the empty ocean. There was no wind to catch the sails. The only sound was the occasional wave lapping against the wooden hull. No one manned the crow's nest. Not that there was a need. There were no other ships and no land in sight. Skies were clear and a full moon shone brilliantly, reflecting on the water and illuminating the decks. Only two men were on the deck, the rest below decks in a deep slumber. A shadowy figure moved quietly toward the man staring out to sea while taking the occasional puff on his pipe. The figure stood behind him and the blade caught a glint of moonlight just before plunging deeply into the man's back. The pipe fell into the water with a barely audible plunk and he slumped forward without a sound. The figure drew back the blade and made its way toward the man at the wheel. The man was the captain. He allowed his crew to sleep after the three days of rough seas and now he was at the helm. The figure crept up behind him, but the captain heard the slight creak of the one loose board that lay two steps away. He spun around to meet a familiar face.

"Ah, it's just you," the captain said with relief in his voice. "Couldn't sleep?"

The figure gave a kind smile. "No."

With a sudden and swift movement the captain's throat was sliced open and he dropped making only quiet gurgling noises.

For several moments the figure looked around and took in all that had just happened and the irony of the fresh salt air in the crisp night. Somehow it seemed that the night made everything clean, including death. It gave the figure great pleasure and looking up at the crow's nest he let out a small laugh. Being that close to the sky made the rest of them look like ants and for days he just wanted to stomp on them. He had been relieved of duty earlier in the evening when the first mate had climbed up to his post. And the first mate had been relieved of his duty immediately after with one swift flick of a knife. The figure contemplated what had compelled him do these things, but could not come to an answer. What did it matter? This gave him more pleasure than anything ever had. After some time, he made his way below decks. The smell down there began to bother him more and more. No one else seemed to notice. The mixture of fruits, days old food, spilt rum, and the stench of his fellow crew was almost more than he could bear. He had been on many other voyages and it never affected him. This time was different, though he didn't know why.

Ever since the last port four days ago, he had felt different. Like everyone else, he indulged in the luxuries that all good ports have. Real food, much drink in different varieties, and all of the loose women a man could handle. Each of these done in excess. Normal behavior for men of the sea and something that he had grown accustomed to these last few years. And like all visits to a port, most could not remember pieces of the revelry. He was no exception. But something had changed and he could not pinpoint the exact moment when it did. He stood in the doorway of the sleeping quarters watching his crewmates as they lay in their bunks, completely unaware of the fate that would take them one by one. As the moonlight cascaded through the portholes, he tried to remember what the whiskey and rum had seemed to wash away. He recalled eating many different and somewhat exotic dishes made with poultry and seafood. The tastes of the rich desserts still haunted his tongue like a lost lover. Being a younger man, he had no problem with the women. There were trysts with four, or maybe five, different whores. A couple of them were taken at the same time. The brief moments in between were filled with drink and laughter.

He stepped from the doorway and crouched down against the wall. The memories came clear and clouded at the same time. They all mixed together in a flood of pleasure. It aroused him even now. He had woken up on the ship just before they had set sail again. Others had also indulged too much and had to be carried aboard. Suddenly, he remembered that he had a task and sprang to his feet. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted. He had to be very quiet so as not to wake anyone. If one of the crew were to hear his actions, it would all be over and he would be taken down quickly. They would accuse him of mutiny and that was not his goal. Not that he really knew what the goal was. He had no desire to control the ship and he was not sure of what drove his actions. He just wanted this. This moment when time seemed to stand still, waiting just for him. Stepping softly to the first bunk, he covered the crewman's mouth and gingerly slit his throat. It was so easy. He continued from bunk to bunk repeating his actions with only the sound of his own heart beating in his ears. It was exhilarating beyond belief. A feeling that all the best food, drink, and whores in the world could not compare to. He glanced back in the pale light at his victims, some with their eyes open in horror, and a smile crept across his face. The massacre continued until he reached the last bunk. Here lay his best friend out of the crew. For a long moment he stood there watching his friend breathe. Blood dripped from the knife and hit the floor like velvet. He leaned over, holding the knife behind him.

"Wake up," he whispered.

His friend opened his eyes, sleep still weighing heavily on him.

"Has something happened?"

A grin slowly appeared on the killer's face. The irony of the question was not lost on him. In fact, he found it quite humorous.

"Nothing at all," he replied, and began laughing.

His friend's clouded mind cleared rapidly as he glimpsed the carnage behind the figure hovering over him. The figure brought his hand forward producing the bloodstained knife. His friend was trapped between him and the wall. His grin became even more evil when he heard the first yelp of fear. Stabbing over and over, he did not stop until he saw nothing but moonlit scarlet soaking his friend's clothing and blanket. Silence. A welcome deafness that only death can provide. Sweat drenched his brow and he backed toward the doorway to survey his work. As he stood there, sound began to return. The gentle lapping of the waves against the wooden hull, the occasional creak of the sea-worn ship, droplets of blood as they softly hit the floorboards. And with the sounds, the smell of iron canvassed the room, covering the stench that had so bothered him before. Never before had he felt such release.

So consumed was he with his job well done, that he did not immediately notice the presence behind him. He felt the breath on the back of his neck. It was hot and yet he was suddenly frozen in fear.

"Excellent," hissed the presence into his ear.

The knife fell from his hand, clattering to the floor. He screamed and dropped to his knees. In the moonlight he could see that he was soaked with blood. A hand lay kindly on his shoulder and he began sobbing uncontrollably. He now remembered what he had forgotten.

Entry # 8

                                                    A Witch's Kiss

                                                          By

                                                     Katrina Jack

Against a backdrop of midnight blue, sprinkled with the tiny lights of a million, billion stars and planets, Celandine flew. Perched “side-saddle” on the narrow wooden pole, she breathed in the heady fragrance of autumn, drifting up from the night-shrouded ground below. 

A gentle breeze ruffled her raven-dark curls, spilling out from beneath the brim of her hat. Albert, her green eyed, black furred cat, regarded her wisely from his place nestled amidst the bristles of the enchanted besom.

High above the earth Celandine soared filled with the peculiar joy that only Halloween could bring. It was the time of year that witches were at their most powerful; when spells could be cast with the sure certainty they would work.

Celandine clicked the heels of her boots together and increased her speed. Beneath her the stream of traffic on the motorway became a continuous blur of light. She squinted into the distance and spied the houses of the town. The sodium glare of streetlights dotted the edges of the roads. Celandine slowed the broom, until she was cruising above the rooftops.

She watched as human children progressed from door to door in search of “trick or treats.” Her lips curved in an indulgent smile and her heart, usually so cold, warmed at the sight of their rosy cheeks.

She flew on until at last she saw him, walking alone, head down and hands shoved into his pockets. She’d watched him for a long time now and coveted him, body and soul. Celadine’s pulse beat loud in her ears and she almost lost control. Albert hissed at her carelessness, before settling back again. 

She brought the broom down, landing silently in an alley, where she dismounted, took off her hat, and shook out her hair. Albert watched her, as she headed off towards the street.

As she neared the head of the alley, she paused. Her Beldame had cautioned against what she was about to do, warning that at best she could lose her powers, at worst her life. Phh! What did the old know about love?

Footsteps echoed along the road and Celandine stepped out, almost colliding with the man she’d chosen. As she gazed up into his startled face, she knew she’d been right. He was so handsome and there was kindness in those eyes. She muttered the carefully prepared spell and a white mist, filled with twinkling dots of light, rose up, surrounding them both. As the charm took effect, the young man reached out for her and took her in his arms. Celandine offered up her lips to him.

The kiss was everything she’d hoped for and its sweetness permeated her from head to toe. Then pain burned through her and she opened her mouth in a wordless cry. The face now looking down at her was hard and cold, the eyes narrowed and the lips a thin, tight line.

As she fell to the ground, her life blood ebbing around the blade of the knife stuck between her ribs, Celandine realised her Beldame had been right.

‘Do not think that witch-hunters are extinct my dear. Even in this, the 21st century of mortal man, they still exist. Beware the hunter, for he will have no mercy. Is it not written that thou shall not suffer a witch to live?’

The young man looked down at the fallen girl and a sigh of almost regret escaped him. Such a beautiful creature, but beneath that beauty lay evil and he must never forget it.

He glanced up at the star strewn sky, until the sound of children’s laughter sounded nearby. With a deft movement, he scooped the body into his arms and walked off towards the local crematorium, where he worked. There was a cremation scheduled for tomorrow.

No one would notice a few extra ashes.

Entry # 7

The Job

By

Ellie Potts

            May you walk through the raining pools of blood, and dance on the guts of your victims.

            The words floated to the top of her head. She had been given a job, a good job, a job she knew she could really do. A job she had been dreaming for since she could remember. Remember since when? Lucifer had explained her duties, and she planned on doing her very best. To show not only Lucifer, but his other head-honchos that he chose well.

            Raining pools of blood.

            She shivered as his words caressed down her spine, building the anticipation. The freedom of the job set her free. She smiled a small smile as she thought of all the possibilities. She opted to stay here in hell. Oh she could have done this on top-side, but her life on top side had been full of bland dull painful memories, and feelings. All so close to the surface, but yet her mind could not grasp them. Her hand ran over the small scar on her forehead.

            She entered the room, and looked at all the frightened souls; her toys, her victims, her vices. She would do as she pleased with them. They were there to be tortured, to fulfill their heavy dirty souls. Would the doctors who touched her come soon? Would the guards who held her down and had their many ways with her come too? She remembered some of them, but where had she been? Would Lucifer let her have them? She would have to ask.

            Her tight black corset made her already snow white skin glow in a sick yellow way under the florescent lights. Her very long black hair, no longer having to be kept in the tight braid they had made her keep it in, fell around her shoulders in a black cloak. She saw that her appearance made the souls quiver in fear. She could almost taste heavy copper on her tongue with the anticipation of what would soon happen.

            But what scared them were her eyes. Oh sure she had a cute small nose, a bit sharp for her. Her mouth also small, but had perfect pink pouty lips. But it was the eyes. The doctors had talked about them.

            The eyes of a psychopath.

            Her eyes had scared anyone around her, including some of her new colleagues. They hid it, but she could sense their nervousness. Like that of her parents, until they had just stopped visiting her. Even her nurses they felt nervous and pity for her. What had she done to deserve what had happened to her? The thought made her stop briefly, head tilted as she tried to remember something, a fleeting memory. Shaking her head, she thought of Lucifer, he did not fear her dark brown orbs when she looked at him with childish curiosity.

            There she had stood. In front of the very man, her parents had said she would meet with pain and torture, and he had accepted her with a hug and a job. There was no fright, nervousness, or pity in him. He knew what she wanted, deep down, and the job had fit.

            She walked along the wall holding her instruments. Her toys. They looked sharp, deadly and damn fun. Her hand ran lightly over knives of all different shapes and sizes, her favorite were the serrated blades. Their bites the victims felt. Again that memory that was so close to touch came back like a small nagging pain, she tried to grab at it, but it escaped through her hands like liquid, like blood.

            She grabbed the cat o’ nine tails. Nine thongs of strong cords, but with her own twist added to the ends. Small razor blades were added to the tips. Why torture them with whipping, she wanted to pass the foreplay and get straight to the blood.

            She turned to her scared victims, already her wrist snapping the cat o’ nines hitting there marks. The souls cried out and screamed for mercies. The blood flowed in small cuts. She moved and circled, humming a favorite childhood song, as her wrist snapped over and over. And the screams spiraled louder echoing on themselves. They could not pass out, so they would stay awake for everything she threw at them.

            She went to pick another torture item from the wall, something bigger that would get the blood flying. Homemade devices, she had no name for, but would work. She turned to the red eyed, snot sniffling souls. Fear and pleading in their eyes. Her body heated with something close to lust. She released her new toy on them. The blood flew coating her like velvet wet new skin. She licked her lips, rolling the thick copperness on her tongue.

            She sang and twisted. The blood ran, splattering the walls, coating the ground. But still the souls screamed as there was no escape for them. No unconsciousness for them. And in her blood rage glee, that nagging thought finally came close enough to grasp. She stopped as the memories flooded her.

            Her first kill, the feel of the life going out of the small animal, its lifeless glass eyes staring at nothing and how it made her feel. And then the evil older boy who had tried to make her take off her dress, and would that didn’t work he tried to rip it off her body. How it had felt to shove the garden shears into his stomach. How his small whimpers of pain thrilled her as she straddled his body and used the blades to make the cut bigger enough to place her hands inside. How she explored the inside of his warm body, the bloody tissue and organs slippery to her touch. She had discovered the almost long wormy thing, and started to pull out the thick corded stuff. Later she would discover it had been the intestines.

            They had locked her up. She had been punished, she had been beat, she had been electrocuted, and then finally she had been lobotomized. She had lived a horrible life of nothingness, living stuck inside her head, while the world went on around her. She was nothing but a drooling feeble body, until she lost her will to live, and her life just went out, and she was glad for the darkness. And when she awoke she had found herself, now able to function, sitting in the reception room in hell. The secretary, the bitch she was, actually offered her a magazine to read. The man next to her, shocked, said the cold hearted bitch offered nothing, just an evil look on her face.

            She came back to herself. That little memory had done nothing to her, and nothing to change her feelings of the task at hand. Instead it fuelled the spark for the job. And the anticipation that her religious go happy parents would soon be there to enjoy the pain she will inflict on them. She will torture them until they confessed to their own evil. She would torture all who had done wrong to her. Maybe Lucifer could find the boy who had tried to rip her dress off, maybe she could gut him again. Oh yes, she will dance on the guts of her victims.

Entry # 6

Beyond Belief

Yezall Strongheart

All Rights Reserved Copyright 2012

The blackness of the asylum surrounded her as day after pitiful day she looked out of the window at a world full of color.

“I’m not crazy,” She murmured to herself, “it’s real…”

They counseled her and medicated her but to no avail.  “She’ll die here.”  She heard the nurses’ whisper among themselves.

Dr. Melville entered her room, “Betsy, come away from the window and talk to me.”

The sound of his voice startled her and she flattened herself against the wall opposite him.  “Nooooo….Nooooo.” she turned her head away.

Dr. Melville’s demeanor changed; he became angry.  He rose from his chair and smiling sweetly to the nurses in the hall, “I think we are having a break though.”  He whispered.  The nurses turned to each other and smiled.  He closed the door to Betsy’s room, locking it.

Turning from the closed door Dr. Melville quickly crossed the room to Betsy.  “You do such a great job convincing them you’re nuts!” he barked at her.  “Don’t you see you’re just making it soooo easy for me?”  He laughed sardonically.

“Who would believe me...no one…it’s unbelievable….and now you have me trapped here!”  Betsy cried with her head down.

“Well, it's too bad little Betsy, you are mine now.  You better get used to it...”  He stormed to the door and then paused, smiling, “I’ll see you later.”  As he leaves, he merely shakes his head at the nurse’s hopeful glances.  Their expressions turned sad and they go about their business.

Betsy turned back to the window, tears in her eyes.  Knowing she is doomed to repeat the same scenario every night until the end of time.  For the first few months, when her parents still came to see her, she tried to tell them what was going on here.  Dr. Melville had planned carefully; however, they believed it was only part of her delusion.  It was no comfort, but she knew she wasn't the only one.  The patients were not allowed out of their rooms to associate with others on their own; it was like a prison.  She knew because when they gathered in the evening, she saw the terror in their faces, they weren't crazy either

The drugs he prescribed for her fatigue, made her hallucinate at times.  That was only to help prove to her parents she needed to be institutionalized.  Now that she was under his control, Betsy was right where he wanted her.

The day started to wane and darkness was blocking her view.  She could see the nurses leaving for the day and the “night crew” arriving.  She shuddered.  They looked normal; no one would ever guess the hell that would soon be unleashed.

The dinner they gave her was left untouched.  Betsy sought to starve herself to end her life.  Even she knew that if it got too bad they would feed her intravenously.  She looked at the tray and flipped it upside down onto the floor.

Someone Betsy had never seen before rushed into the room, “What’s all that racket in here?”  A small woman dressed like a nurse stands with her hands on her hips, looking at the mess on the floor.

Betsy stared at her through slitted eyes, “Who are you?”

The nurse smiled, “I’m new here, name's Sandy.”  She reached out her hand expecting Betsy to shake her hand.  When Betsy doesn’t, she slowly draws it back.  “What’s wrong?”

Betsy eyed her for a moment and then said, “Do you know what goes on here after dark, Sandy?”

Sandy looked confused, “I’m not sure what you mean…”  Nurse Sandy backs away slowly; it was obvious she was afraid Betsy might become violent.

Betsy looks at her wide-eyed saying softly, “Then you aren’t one of them… you should run while you can Sandy, run fast!”

Sandy backed toward the door, “I sure will, Miss, I sure will.”  With that, she exited the door closing the door behind her. 

It was clear to Betsy the woman thought she was insane.  It was almost time to begin.  Betsy knelt down and prayed to die.  The lights went out in the entire building.  Betsy could hear screaming and scuffling.  She knew she had nowhere to go, but she screamed and ran when they came for her. 

Restraining her and drugging her to make her more compliant, they took her by the arm down the hallway.  There were others in front of her and more behind.  She could hear the familiar chaotic music now, and the shrieking and wailing.  The bowels of hell had opened and they were about to enter.

Even in her drugged state, the abhorrent sexual scenes that assaulted her eyes sickened Betsy, knowing she would be a part of it soon.  Entering the auditorium in the center of the building, it was filled to capacity with the people who pretended to be caring doctors and nurses during the day.  They escorted the patients into the room droves to take part in their unholy acts.  Betsy numbly followed those in front of her.  From bits of conversation she overheard, it appeared this was a special night. 

She stopped long enough to see Dr. Melville, wearing nothing but ram horns on his head, standing at the head of the room.  He freely fondled men and women alike and danced suggestively as they passed him.  Betsy could not believe how some of these people actually seemed to be enjoying themselves.  As she was touched, and her clothes were removed, she screamed inside her body, and denied them permission.  On the outside, she stood and blankly allowed them to do as they pleased.

 It was all part of the “ceremony” during which someone would be murdered.  Looking up to the altar, Betsy could only say, “I warned you, Sandy”   The new nurse lay naked and sprawled, restrained by leather straps.  Sandy writhed and screamed, as those that attended her caressed her with knives.

The music suddenly stopped.  Dr. Melville walked towards the altar.  The only sound in the room was Sandy's voice pleading for her life, and her screams.  Her last scream pierced the air like a rocket, and then her blood flowed.  As it ran to the edge of the altar and spilled, it was caught by goblets.

A very large goblet encrusted with rubies, emeralds and diamonds was filled to the brim and handed to Dr. Melville.  He drank from the goblet, throwing his head back, and when he finished, he smiled and said, "Happy All Hallow's Eve!  Let the fun begin!" 

Entry # 5

Midnight Snack

By

Lilian Kendrick

Halfway across the room, the rodent sensed danger and stopped moving.  He crouched, concentrating on the silence, ready to pounce or flee, but all was silent as his eyes darted about seeking the cause of his sudden unease.  He waited and then resumed his journey towards the cot where the three-year-old lay sleeping. He could smell the milk, dripping from the discarded feeding bottle onto the linoleum.  His nightly treat was almost within his reach. The child always left some milk. When she grew tired of the bottle, she would push it aside and sleep. Tonight the teat was poking between the bars of the cot and he would not have to struggle to reach it. He started lapping at the puddle, rejoicing in the creamy flavour and welcoming the nutrition so freely given. He felt gratitude towards his young benefactor, if a rat can feel such a thing.  The sense of danger returned and he looked up from his supper to meet the little girl’s curious gaze. She was peering down at him.

“Hello...,” she paused, thinking of her next word. “Mousey?”  She seemed to know that wasn’t quite right, but it was near enough. The rat resumed his drinking while she watched.

“Hungry,” the child was beginning to whimper. She picked up the bottle and began to suck the last drops from it. Dismayed, the rat squealed and leapt after his food source. Squeezing between the bars of the cot, he found himself staring into the eyes of his tormentor.

I don’t want to hurt you, I just want the milk. He knew she couldn’t understand him, but he had to have the milk. The ache in his belly still needed to be appeased. Give me the milk.The child stared back at him as she continued to suck. At last, she cast the bottle aside. It was empty, drained completely. The rat sniffed around the teat, licking in vain. The little girl lay down, pulling the quilt over her shoulders as she prepared to sleep again without a thought for her still hungry guest.

Her chin is flecked with droplets. I could have those. No-one is here to stop me. The big people are asleep next door. This little one likes me. She talks to me and calls me ‘Mousey’.  He crept towards the drowsy child and licked the milk from her chin. She chuckled at the tickling sensation of his rough tongue, too tired now to resist. Her pudgy little fingers stroked between his ears until finally, warm and comforted he fell asleep locked in her embrace – a grotesque parody of a teddy bear.

The morning sun cast a spotlight on the scene when Maria entered the nursery to investigate why her little one was sleeping late. She crossed the room and smiled indulgently as she removed the bloodstained quilt from the cot and dropped it into the laundry basket, shaking her head.

“Joe, get in here will you? I need some help cleaning up.” She lifted the child from the cot as Joe entered the room carrying a plastic bucket.  “It’s in the cot. I can’t see what she’s done with the head this time, but she’s got real case of ‘morning breath’.”

Joe looked at his stepdaughter who was now awake and smiling, reaching for him.

“In a bit, sweetie.” He said.  “Mummy’s gonna give you a bath and help you brush your teeth while Daddy sorts out this mess.” 

Entry # 4

Ghosts of Jazz

By

 Alan Place

The town of Cheltenham is renowned worldwide for many things, from music festivals to the girls school and the racing, depending on your taste and what you want. Behind this rich Edwardian exterior lies a little story that I hope will tantalize your imagination.

During the International jazz festival which is usually held on the last weekend of April, thousands of fans flock to the town to see today's names. This story is a taste of real jazz for you, I hope. With all the festival pomp going on at the Town hall, the Budwieser stage and the theatre. Everybody misses the real home, a small venue and now all but forgotten. Walking past the town hall, and heading to the Montpelier district, you have to cross the road, it was here that I first took note of real jazz music. The club is called the Subtone, unless you know where to look and listen, it is so easily missed.

Under all the huge Edwardian buildings used as offices for anything from solicitors to hair dressers, lies a small path to a little club. No more than about  fifty feet long by a hundred feet wide and nearly always smoky, this is the real jazz not the big stages for the modern imitation by 20 year olds who think hitting a few notes makes them a jazz icon.

I was standing at the gate, when I thought I heard someone playing a trumpet, thinking it might be from a fringe event, I ventured down and to my surprise came across a wonderous thing. As I stepped through the gate, the door opened to the club, and a doorman met me."Good evening sir, I hope you enjoy the show." he said.

 "Thank you,’ I replied. “Can you tell me who is playing tonight, please?"

 "That I cannot say sir."

 "Cannot or will not." I enquired both intrigued and a bit annoyed.

 "Come on in, and you will see why I cannot answer the question sir."

 "I will be delighted to see why you cannot say." I said getting more than interested as to the meanings behind the statement.

As I stepped in, I could see the stage at the back, covered in the smoky atmosphere I was expecting, what followed was something trult amazing.I could  vaguely see figures moving about. Nobody was solid, just a mist and the outlines of bodies, yet the music was so clear as if the people themselves were there. The forms seemed to change shapes, to suit the mood of the music.

Coming from the stage I could hear a trumpet playing, and recognised the style of West coast jazz,familiar to Chet Baker in his prime, alongside the sax of Gerry Mulligan and  clarinet of Art Pepper, on the drums it appeared to be Buddy Rich.

“This is wrong!"I thought. Turning to the man next to me I said "Excuse me sir,but don’t you think Chet is on form tonight, and that clarinet of Art is so clear, after all these years."

The man turned and said "Sorry sir, we are watching different sessions, I cannot see who you do, for me it is Colttrane, Miles Davis, Gene Krupa up there."

 "How come? We are in the same room, looking at the same stage at the same time.”

The weirdness of the reply aroused my interest immenely, I started to walk around the club asking various people who they saw and got all combinations possible. I found out that even though there were over a hunders people in the room, there was little cross over for the session and no two sessions were identical. Musicians were there from Ike Quebec to Coleman Hawkins, Tony Williams to Lonnie Donnegan, and the styles went from the early 20s to the skiffle of the late 60s, the more I found out, the less I found I knew, this was a total mystery.

In the midst of my confused state, I finally got to the door, and had a talk with mine host. "I see what you mean now, you could not tell me who is playing, as you had no idea."

"That is right sir, the secret of the club is that YOU decide who appears. You can come every night and never see the same group of performers playing the same tunes, it is all up to YOU."

"Can you answer a few questions for me please?"

"If I can I will be glad to !"

"Thank you very much," I replied "I see there is no sign of either Jamie Cullum, Polar bear, Ingrid Laubruch here, or any other modern jazz group.Do you forbid it?as the jazz here is so pure.”

"Not at all, everyone is welcomed, but without realising it, you answered your question when you said MODERN jazz, the people you mentioned are still alive." Seeing my puzzled look, my new friend explained to me "When you asked around, didn't you notice, everyone saw someone different. Yet they had one thing in common, they have all passed the veil of time to this endless stream of jazz."

"I see now, the only qualification is being dead then."

"That is correct sir.

"How come, with all the festival going on in town, so few people have come here and yet standing at the gate, I can hear the music?"

 "Again you have answered the question sir, YOU heard the music, because you wanted to and you have been here before, so knew where to look for us."

 "One or two more questions, first is there a nationality bar, or is it any dead jazz musicians?"

"No sir, we have no bar at all, the other day someone left saying they were listening to Joe Zawinul, Karlheinz Stockhausen and Django Reinhardt, among others."

"As the festival is over soon, will you be closing down and finishing until next year then?’

"No sir, as I said this is an endless stream of jazz, it never finishes and we play all evenings to ever increasing crowds."

I thanked the doorman as I turned to leave and walked up the steps to the main road. All the time, thinking of the various questions raised. How many variations of styles from 20s through be-bop to skiffle and beyond, all the musicians who had joined the band.And the non-answerable question.

   "Who is in the best band ?"

There are as many answers as people asked, as we all like our jazz differently.