The Rock N' Roll Horror Zine

Afterglow by Charlotte O’Farrell Tom held the drumsticks aloft as if he couldn’t quite believe they existed. Throwing aside the packaging they’d arrived in, he kept repeating to himself “these are mine now. Mine”. Twenty years ago, they had belonged to him , when there was still a “him” alive to own things. But now they were Tom’s. He sat on the sofa in the middle of his tiny apartment, rolling the worn wooden sticks between his fingers. Scraping together enough cash to win the auction – through selling his car and most of his otherworldly possessions – had been a great moment, but nothing had prepared Tom for this. He was holding the sticks of the world’s greatest ever rockstar, Fleet Hicks, in his shaking hands. Fleet had been Tom’s hero since he was a lonely kid, penning terrible song lyrics about his latest crushes in his bedroom. There was something almost supernatural about the drummer’s talent; every song pulsated with longing and urgency. It had been Fleet that ha...

That Time I Hung Out With Mötley Crüe By Frank Edler I lived some prime years of my life through the decadent age of hard rock and heavy metal that dominated the music landscape in the 1980's. It was an incredible time. The music was loud, the clothing was loud and the hair went all the way to 11. Anything worth doing was worth overdoing. I followed those bands with the big hair and the black leather and the flashy guitars like they were a religion. I bought the rock magazines and studied the articles. I tore the glossy photos from the rags and plastered the walls of my bedroom with them. I bought cheap mall knockoff rock star clothing and frequented every local music store dreaming of the day I would be able to afford a sexy looking $700 guitar that would make women melt without even playing a single note. My dedication to the music, the bands and the scene led me on many great adventures. I frequently sought out the bands when they were in town. I would stalk their tour b...

Strings of Madness By Micah Castle I quickly walked into Jordan’s house. The stench of stale weed made me cough. He said on the phone that he wrote — or found? — something that I had to check out. It wasn’t just another thrash metal riff, or deathcore breakdown, or power metal guitar solo, it was something completely original and new. I doubted it, but I decided to entertain him — what else did I have to do on a Wednesday night anyway? “Jordan?” I called, shutting the door. “In here!” He was in the living room, sitting on the old, plaid couch his grandparents gave him when he finally moved out of his parents’ basement. The band t-shirt he wore was torn near the collar, and the faded blue jeans looked older than me. He had his guitar sitting on his lap, while the knee-high amp hummed with white noise. A bud burned in a gray ashtray on the stained coffee table in front of him. There was only one chair in the room, an old recliner he picked up from Goodwill. I sat down an...