The Rock N' Roll Horror Zine

The Dedication By E. N. Dahl My town’s suicide rates are astronomical. Literally off the chart. If you plotted every single American city on a single grid, you’d have a relatively flat line, with peaks for high density areas like New York City. Seven million people all going into crushing debt at the same time are obviously going to have higher numbers than, say, Nowhere, Colorado, where property values are low and legal weed abundant. Then you have my town. I refuse to write its name, or else you might come visit. Whatever amount of deaths per year NYC has, my home has triple. It’s because of Alexia M. Mykov. People don’t think it’s her. She’s everywhere you look, and always around a person right before they die. Doesn’t matter how. They meet, she leaves, the other dies. In the past two months, four people were found with their wrists slit in the bathtub, six jumped off the overpass, two overdosed on pain pills, three hanged, and seventeen shot themselves. She plays in...

Sonic Teratology By Thomas Vaughn “So why do people call you Suicide?” The blogger’s question amused the razor-scared woman born with the unfortunate name Norma Hackfleisch. It wasn’t like the old days when the reporters from magazines like Zigzag or Flipside knew how to ask questions. Even the hacks at Spin knew their ass from a hole in the ground. But the band’s manager had assured them the smooth-skinned, twenty-something hipster whose glasses frames matched his shirt had ten times the readers than any rag from the old days. “I guess it’s because of the all of the beauty in the world,” she replied at length. “Beauty? I don’t get it.” “You know… All of the birds and flowers and shit. It makes me want to blow my brains out.” The sarcasm in her voice was only outweighed by the Brooklyn dialect. Thirty-five years later Sonic Teratology was still at it. Suicide discovered the guitar at fifteen. She had just broken out of the detention center for the third time. ...