The Rock N' Roll Horror Zine

Do you want all three copies of the zine at once? Well then you're in luck! Here by popular demand,  the three zine bundle is all of the extant issues of the zine available for one low price! Get it direct here (U.S. only):  https://doomgoat666.wixsite.com/benfitts/zines or through Etsy here (U.S. + international orders):  https://www.etsy.com/listing/632868784/the-rock-n-roll-horror-zine-3-issue

Farewell Tour By Chase Block The flashbulbs cast a strobe on the five, long haired, leather clad men in various states of their mid-sixties. The rapid clip of camera shutters accompanied the sound of shouts from the press corps. The sound of fame. “You there! Liquorice lip!” The lead singer for Gatesohell, Roger Cummings, sat in the center of the table, calling on the reporter with a thin black mustache. “Michael Cervil, Metal Digest . How does it feel, playing your last show, ever?” “Pretty good, mate. Next question.” Roger said, eliciting chuckles from the assembly. “‘Za bit, how’z you say, whimsful.” “Wistful,” Charles Sitton, the drummer, corrected him. “Yea, ‘at’s wot I said, whimsful,” Roger said. “It’s been a long road, you know? To fink we started ‘ere in Forgesbury, now endin’ ‘ere, makes you feel we’ve gone full circle.” He spoke with a thick Kentish, informed by elements of Cockney he absorbed over the years he struggled to make it in London. Black John, th...

Isolated Drums By F.M. Scott New Year’s Eve: In the basement of my house at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac, in one of those old, quiet Sunset Terrace neighborhoods, I bleed out.  I’m sitting at an old wooden table that came with the house. My wrists stretch over a ceramic bowl into which I have already poured a tincture of autumn mandrake and pure grain alcohol.  The razor blade lies next to the bowl. I’m staring down the life that now drains from me.  I’ve had some great times, so it’s not for contempt of life itself that I do this.  What burns inside me instead is the struggle against a great silence—a lasting silence born of the brutality of chance and time, severing me from what I had once been. Dal Agostino’s the name.  Yeah, the drummer. One of those guys who got tagged as an architect of the Tulsa sound.  A workhorse with a true respect for the art. I’ve recorded and toured with the greatest, from Leon Russell to Ry Cooder to John Le...

A Piece Of History By Ben Fitts David spotted the guitar in the back of the shop, buried behind rows of shiny new Stratocasters and Les Pauls and sleek black guitars marketed towards bedroom shredders. The guitar looked ancient. Its once white finish had turned a sickly pale yellow with age and strips of it were missing, revealing the bare swamp ash underneath. At some point someone must have spilled nail polish or something on it, because flecks of dark red stained the guitar around its humbucker pickups.   But best of all, it had no brand logo or other identifier on its headstock, meaning it was probably built in some average joe’s workshop. It was probably one of a kind. “Hey,” David called to the clerk behind the counter, “could I please try that one over there in the back?” The clerk ceased fiddling with the massive blue gauge in her left ear. A crusty ring surrounded the piercing and it looked freshly infected. “Sure,” she said, fishing a key out from a drawe...