rules: shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist and post the first 10 songs, then tag 10 friends to do the same (I will not being doing this last part because I am Anxious™)
I was tagged by @consultingzoologist! Thank you for thinking of me 🥺
Alright, let's do this! Here's my On Repeat playlist:
There Are Other Ways from Epic the Musical by Jorge Rivera-Herrans, Talya Sindel, and the cast of Epic
Amateurs by Sleepy Tom and Lights
Never Love an Anchor by The Crane Wives
Fall with Me by Burn the Ballroom
Too Close/Too Late by Spiritbox
Waves by The Dear Hunter
87.5% by Tummy Boy (Jacob Andrews of Drawfee fame)
Possibility by Autoheart
End of the Line from Rogers: The Musical by Luke Monday and Josey Montana McCoy
Breathe by Dom Fera
Feel free to tag me if you also do this game, I'd love to (try to) listen to new music!
Written in July 2021, after a particularly strange dream, originally posted on Twitter.
It’s a gray sort of day, you note. Clouds hang heavy in the sky and the road ahead seems obscured by the fog in your brain after a long day. You tap impatiently on the steering wheel as you drive from Point A to Point B. The buzzing on the radio is relentless.
The radio finally picks something up. The woman on the radio has a voice so sweet, so kind, so alluring; it almost warms your heart. There’s a familiarity to it, and it beckons to you.
You quickly fumble around with the radio until it goes back to the relentless buzzing.
---
Recently you’ve noticed a woman who also hails from Point A and drives along the same path as you until she must split off to go to Point C. She often wears a stunningly dull red scarf around her neck and her gorgeously plain wedding ring seems to dwarf her viciously frail hands.
---
You come to a stoplight and lower your window. This stoplight rarely changes, and you always arrive when it’s red. At least you can talk to the kindly farmer who likes to come up to your window. Somehow the light always turns green when the conversation is about done.
---
As you drive down one of many hills, you come upon a horrid view of monotony: row after row of perfect white houses, all filled with perfectly broken people with perfectly sad smiles on their faces.
They don’t like change here.
---
Months later, you note that it’s a gray sort of day.
Why did you note it was a gray sort of day when it’s always been a gray sort of day? Funny, you’ve never had any sort of day that wasn’t gray. You decide to delete that note.
---
As you drive over that hill again, you notice one house has been burnt to the ground. A glaring blemish amongst so many perfect rows of houses.
Figures. They don’t like change here.
---
One day you tell the farmer that tomorrow, you’ll have to get to Point B quickly, so you can’t stay long for a chat. The farmer gets very angry.
Cars aren’t cheap to fix.
The next day, you run through the red light and never see him again, save for in the rear-view mirror.
---
When the woman who goes to Point C pulls up next to you this time around, the scarf is black and the ring is gone. She has taken to wearing lavishly bland sunglasses.
It’s a better look on her, you think.
---
You haven’t heard it since that first time, but the radio woman’s voice comes back on. You shudder. How can anyone’s voice be so cruel, so menacing, so vile? There’s a familiarity to it, and it beckons to you.
Why won’t the buzzing return?
---
Hm, interesting. It’s a brown sort of day, you note. Dirt clings to the road and the sky above can’t be seen beyond the mental fortifications you worked so hard to build. You continue the journey from Point A to Point B. The voices in your head are relentless.
Written in November 2022 for NaNoWriMo, as part of my novel "A Blinking in the Woods". Unedited.
His ears throbbed when the music cut off abruptly.
“Hey, I was listening to that!” Vincent whined. Of course, he thought then, who cares? Vincent had come to learn that very few do, and when they do, that care does not last forever. Certainly, the man standing in front of him scowling did not care, with his beer belly nearly hanging out under his polo uniform top and his brows drawn in together as lovers do at sunset.
“Vince,” Paul growled, “you can’t just listen to your headphones all day. You’ve gotta actually work, you know." He gestured around the store. "Do shit.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Vincent felt safe enough to wave Paul off, for as little care Vincent had been shown, he knew that few cared for Paul, too. Paul couldn’t afford to fire him, especially not when electronics specialists were so hard to come by these days. “I will, when we get actual customers.”
“Real pain in the ass,” Paul murmured under his breath, though he knew Vincent could hear. “Look, you can listen over the store stereos, can’t you?”
“You said you didn’t like my music, man, and other customers complained,” Vincent snapped back, though that wasn’t the entire truth. There was something pleasant about the way music rang in the ears, something homely about how close it felt when the headphones were on. They said that, before the Blackout, there were devices to listen to music even when you were away from your music player. That they were this close to basically implanting chips into your head so that you could just transmit music into your brain. Vincent cursed; why couldn’t he have been born into that timeline?
“Hey, earth to Vince?” Paul called out, clapping Vincent out of his daze. Vincent lazily let his eyes wander back up to Paul’s, and once Paul met Vincent’s gaze, he shook his head. “Kids these days, honestly. Look, dude–just finish the workday then lock up properly. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Vincent repeated. “I heard you, old man.”
“Let’s hope to the gods you did,” Paul grumbled, before stepping back. “Fine. Just know that if you leave the store unlocked one more time–”
“Oh yeah? I’ll really get it this time, huh?”
The response was a scowl and the slamming of the store door.
“Fucking finally,” Vincent mumbled, slipping his headphones back on.
And then the music was back. His ears were throbbing and his heart was soaring and his fingers were tapping. Something about music was freeing, exhilarating; many at school thought that he may be a bit high constantly or something of the sort, but no–music just gave him something. It was a home, a comfort, a source of power, a being, something to care for. And good gods, he needed something to care for on this damn Peninsula.
Hours could pass in this boring-ass electronics store and he would be happy so long as he had his music. That was how most weekdays after school passed. Very few people cared to buy television sets anymore, especially since good channels were hard to come by on the Peninsula, anyways. Portable and home stereo systems became briefly popular with students when that one cute girl started doing 1-Rad10-15 broadcasts, but that hype has passed. Until some next big thing, Vincent was just meant to sit here and pass the time, headphones on, and wait for someone to address him.
Today was different.
There was always a blinking in the woods. There always had been, as long as he could remember. Everyone knew it was from some old radio tower, and the blinking was meant to keep aircraft from flying into it, but it wasn’t high enough to warrant that sort of warning in Vincent’s opinion. Besides, no broadcasts had come from that radio tower in decades, apparently. It was some misguided attempt to set something up in the swamp for lost hikers, campers, miners, and captains, but as with all attempts to try things in the swamp, it went nowhere.
But the sky grew dark, the clouds obscured the moon’s gaze and the red light flickered on. It took a few moments for Vincent to realize something that, for reasons he could not put into words, terrified him:
The light stayed on.
Now, generally, no one would really care. Maybe the electric grid that ran the old radio tower finally failed to keep it blinking, instead maintaining an “on” function. Perhaps someone is trying to get it up and working again, and the red light is a sign that there may be another radio station soon. Whatever it was, Vincent came to realize that it probably did not concern him.
The music pressed on, but he could not.
Vincent’s favourite part of the music he enjoyed was the rhythm. Anything with a strong rhythm, no matter the genre, was appreciated. He didn’t care much for syncopated beats or off-time riffs. What he wanted was the heartbeat of the song, and a strong one, at that. He’d once been told that certain pre-Blackout cultures found the rhythm of the song to be a constant of life, and he took that to heart. There should always be a rhythm, because that’s simply how the world works.
Ah, he thought, that’s why the red light being on constantly is creeping me out. It had a rhythm before. And for the first time in a while, Vincent had a renewed appreciation for his sense with music. Music was a constant, a given; music could be found anywhere and everywhere. Even in the silence, the throbbing that remained in his ears–the remnants of that beating heart–were enough to lull him into a deep state of comfort. For him to find a rhythm within something more visual, such as the blinking in the woods, felt both enlightening and foolish. Enlightening in that it provided a deeper connection with his music; foolish in that he had put so much meaning, though unintentionally, into this now-steady light in the distance. His north star, his guide, ironically put out by its consistent brightness.
He wondered why it had stopped blinking. He tried to focus on the rhythms pressing on his ears to no avail; he was much too curious. His mind started to wander; he had time, after all. He’d be closing up soon, so what did it matter to wonder a bit, to wander at all? And so he did.
Why did the blinking stop? Why was it on? If it was a failure of the electric grid, wouldn’t it have just turned off? It bothered him more than he could say, and no amount of guessing with his expertise would be enough to satiate him. He wondered if anyone else noticed, and if anyone else would find it just as frustrating as him. But he’d probably say something weird like “it feels, to me, to be music held on a note for far too long” and they would respond with “okay, sure, Vince”. No; he’d simply have to observe and see if anyone else cared. Surely someone else did? He chuckled to himself, imagining that radio girl reporting about something as menial and fascinating as this.
For a rhythm to hold or a rhythm to stop–what comes next? Does one move on to the next song, and if so, what is the light’s next song? Vincent shuddered; the chills that ran up his spine were sudden and cruel. They teased him: what if there was no more blinking in the woods? What if the rhythm was on hold in perpetuity, keeping him waiting, keeping him in want of more? What if the song is to continue, and he would not be here to witness its cadence?
No, decided Vincent, the song must continue. A song needs its rhythm and a heart cannot beat still.
He didn’t know exactly what he’d do about it, but he knew he had to find out. He would go to the radio tower tonight, of that he was sure. And how–
Crash!
His headphones pressing in on his temples, his music pulsing in his ears, Vincent’s feet dragged towards the swamp.
Written in July 2020, originally posted on Twitter.
You instantly hear the clacking of buttons and overly enthusiastic voice lines emanating from old machines as you enter Acheron Arcade. What a flurry of audio, light, and play.
People said you could find Charon here, and they weren’t wrong.
You go to say hi.
They’re standing right behind the counter, bored, waiting to offer the cheapest of prizes for the most valiant of efforts. Their hands have calluses from centuries of rowing people across to Hades. Either that, or they’re really good at the games here. Probably both.
---
Charon never liked small talk, so they were very relieved when you asked them bluntly about how many tickets were required to win an obol and get to Hades. You came prepared with a few hundred bucks just in case.
“1000 tickets,” they respond.
---
“An obol is worth at most a few dollars,” you point out, though you expected this. “I’ll have to spend much more than that to win 1000 tickets.”
A half-assed shrug. “Inflation.”
You pay for fifty tokens and get to work.
---
There are several people at the tables, all with slices of mediocre pizza and sticky cups of soda in front of them. Figures; winning all these tickets is tiring. Even in purgatory, people need breaks.
The cheese pizza seems slightly less sad than the pepperoni.
---
Children are running around, and you both envy and pity them. They trade in their tickets for the stuff in the glass counter--pencils, erasers, candy, bracelets… You wonder who is going to tell them about the obol, and how many tickets they’ve got to save up for it.
---
You’re not half-bad at the multiplayer driving games, and you’re surprisingly good at the dancing games. The claw machines are tempting, but you avoid them for the most part.
Too bad you can’t win tickets from these games. You buy more tokens.
---
There’s a man who has been here for years. You’ve only been here for a few weeks, but you already have several hundred tickets. There can’t be more than a hundred in his hands.
“I get obols for the children here,” he says distantly, “while I wait for my own son to join us.”
---
Big Bass Wheel is oddly addictive. You get so, so close to the Jackpot every single time. The day it breaks down distresses you--even without the Jackpot, it was the only consistent way to win tickets in bulk around here. Charon isn’t sure when they can get it fixed.
---
Whac-A-Mole gives you a headache, but it’s also a really great way to vent your frustrations with the machines in this place. It’s better than Down the Clown, at least, even if it gives you less tickets. The line behind you indicates you’re not the only one who feels this way.
---
One day, a woman gives her tickets to a person eating a devastatingly dry piece of pizza, and they finally go to Hades.
“This restless arcade is a better resting place than being in my husband’s arms again,” she explains, fear in her eyes.
---
You go to play Bubble Bobble, but Charon is moving the machine. They gesture to the front of the arcade, where a kid in a wheelchair waits.
“Built this place in the 80’s, so we’re not up to ADA standards, but the newer place closed down.”
You help them rearrange the arcade.
---
A little over a month later, you finally win the Jackpot at Quick Drop. It’s enough to leave, but you notice that the man who gives obols to children is arguing with another man who looks quite a lot like him. You give both of them all your tickets so they can leave together.
---
Finally, about three months after you first arrived, you have enough tickets. You trade them all in and Charon hands you an obol. You hand it right back. They lead you to the back room, labeled “Employees Only”. You can’t help but feel wrong about entering.
---
The back room leads to a long series of hallways and staircases that Charon escorts you through. Those who enter without paying would surely get lost.
“Interesting take on the River Styx,” you say.
“It’s the Acheron, and I don’t like small talk,” Charon replies.
Noted.
---
You get to the end of the series of hallways and you see a rather big indoor play area with places to climb and slides that lead to a ball pit. Charon tells you to have fun and starts walking back towards the arcade.
The ball pit looks inviting!
---
Sliding into the ball pit gives you a nice sort of childish rush as you fall right through onto a mat in front of a very curious Cerberus.
You use your Down the Clown skills to distract Cerberus with some balls that followed you from the pit above.
---
You finally enter Hades, and what a journey it’s been. Some people are waiting excitedly by the entrance, but upon seeing it’s just you, they get disappointed again. There are parents, a bloody husband, and several others. No one for you.
---
You walk deeper. Finally, no more endless loops of 32-bit music or disappointing robotic chirps of loss. No more stuffing tickets into your pockets and buying slice after slice of old pizza. No more machines that break down in the middle of giving you tickets.
---
You didn’t realize how tired your legs were or how strained your eyes have become. You follow the signs until you finally arrive at the Asphodel Meadows. Here, you’re given a blanket and a bottle of water labeled “Lethe” to drink. You down it quickly.
---
You go to place the blanket on a grassy patch away from several others who are here. You lay upon it and watch the clouds drift lazily above you.
Strange… why does the faint smell of old pizza and the sound of clacking buttons linger on your mind…?
vaporwave
romaincrisis
2087
titsay
yousharknotpass
