The Rock N' Roll Horror Zine

The Riffmaster General by Ben Fitts Lilith trembled as she plugged her Gibson Explorer into the massive Orange stack on the stage. Of course, her guitar wasn’t really made by Gibson and the amplifier wasn’t really made by Orange. They were just clones of the original brands. It was possible that those companies still existed back on Earth, but Lilith thought it was unlikely. Ever since the United Nations Of Earth ordered the exile of all metalheads from the planet, citing their presence as a danger to religious freedom and Christian values, the gear manufacturers must have been hit pretty hard. Lilith thought Fender was probably fine, though. The decision had no impact on indie rock bands or country singers. Everyone from the village was there watching her, sitting solemnly in their ceremonial patch jackets and bullet belts. She was able to make out her parents in the dim blue light shining on the audience. They sat front and center by the stage, as was customary fo...

The Devil Guitar by Michael Britten It had been delivered.   I raced up to my lofty apartment with both trepidation and excitement.  I moved through my rooms down towards the back, and there it stood, The Devil Guitar. It was basically a 335, but with a difference.  Said to be one of a kind. Handcrafted by Mr. Gibson himself for a man who performed the black arts.  The guitar had become a legend. Its hollow body looked lackluster with its natural, and I might add, unvarnished wood.  This was a request of the customer. It is said that he baptized the guitar with the blood of a human sacrifice, hence the slightly darkened staining.  And it is also written that the tuning pegs were carved from real bone. These I quickly inspected, but they offered up no clue, other than being slightly course to the touch.   I did not further inspect this stunning curio.  The legend surrounding it and its strange owner was for another day. ...

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...