1. |
Bully Beatdown
03:27
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The bullies had claimed the playground. The swing set, the slide, the sandbox, and the roundabout were all being guarded by their minions. No one was even using the play equipment. It just sat there motionless and silent, adding insult to injury.
The head bullies — there were only three of them — were over on the monkey bars, talking excitedly among themselves, and occasionally looking over at the rest of us, pointing and laughing.
They had stolen all the Fruit Roll-Ups too. As soon as Mrs. Lawrence turned her back, they snatched them up from the folding table and stuffed them in a duffel bag which was now dangling from the monkey bars like a pirate’s sack of rubies.
Keith, of course, tried to talk to them, to negotiate. He let them know it’s unfair, and don’t they see our side of it? But bullies can’t be reasoned with. Their brains aren’t even developed enough to understand perspective, and their hearts aren’t big enough to care. What stops a bully? Only one thing. The beatdown of a lifetime.
And we’re no dummies. We know we outnumber them ten to one. We’ve already gathered our arsenal: rocks, sticks, metal lunch boxes, sharpened pencils, geometry compasses, rulers, and even a couple of pairs of cleats. Before recess, Jessica hid Mrs. Lawrence's whistle. As soon as she realizes it's missing and goes in to find it, we’ll descend upon those bullies, and make no mistake, they are going to pay. Cause they’re never going to stop ruining things for everyone else unless we make them.
They leave us no choice.
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2. |
Kid Trouble
03:43
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Brother and I went into the yard again this afternoon. We tried to get a look in that basement window. Waited first, across the street behind some bushes for when we thought the Herschels had left — their black Rolls Royce creeping down the long drive, easing around the curve, and out the front gate. We watched as it turned right and cruised off down the quiet, shaded lane. We couldn’t tell for sure if the old witch was in there, but we decided the gamble was worth trying to get Dad back.
Once we could no longer hear the hum of the engine, we climbed over the high chain-link fence and painfully squeezed between the formidable red spruces that line the property and conceal the mansion and grounds from view. There, at the edge of the yard, we remained crouched on a floor of dead pine needles, surveying the scene for any sign of activity.
There was nothing. Not a bird or squirrel. The gray marble fountain in the center of the yard was dry and lifeless just as it had been the previous Sunday evening. Signaling each other with a look, we swiftly, but surreptitiously, began heading across the yard to the basement window where we’d heard the moaning. I was a fist of pulsing nerves, heart thuds, and elevator stomach when we were stopped in our tracks by the appearance of three silver-collared Doberman pinschers from around the corner.
…Burst of action, pepper spray with no aim, sneakers booking it, frantic. Fifty seconds and three bites later we were back on the street, running for the church and Father Michael, blood spotting the road behind us like the dotted line on a contract with death. I glanced back at my brother bringing up the rear. He had one less pinky finger.
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3. |
Grime Witch
03:44
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“Ira Hester lives on the edge of a swamp, a bog really. It’s out route 17, past Kent. Her place is a dilapidated shack she inherited from her grandpa. The last time I was there the thing was about to fall apart. I can’t imagine what condition it’s in now. That’s the only person I can think of might be able to help ya.”
“How my gonna know which place is hers?”
“Only one out that way. No neighbors. Just take the right at the old Baptist church. It’s an unmarked country road. Go about two miles. You’ll start headin’ up a ridge, but pretty quickly it’ll dip down into a marshy valley — Ripley Hollow, it’s called. Anyway, the road down in there is real susceptible to floods, but you should be good this time of year. Ira’s is roughly a quarter mile in. You better get goin’ — be harder to find in the dark.”
“The old woman really a witch?”
“Something like that. Dabbles in lots of things, from what I’ve gathered. You know I never believed in any of that stuff, ’til what happened with Beth.”
“I know, I know… Thanks Terry, I owe you.”
“Ain’t nuthin’. You’re my brother. DA’s comin’ tomorrow mornin’ ‘round eleven, just try to be unfindable by then.”
They said their goodbyes, keeping it brief and tearless, though each man knew he may never see the other one again. Then Arlin was out of the sheriff’s office and speeding west along the dusty, sunlit road. Whether it was toward his escape or his demise, he didn’t know.
—
Forty-seven miles away, in a rundown hovel, Ira clipped her long silver-gray hair to the side and put on a grime-covered smock. A visitor was coming — a wayward traveler in need. She could tell it was gonna be a big job. Better start collecting all the blood now.
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4. |
Jennifer's Kiss
04:04
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It was the final game of the season. The Kansas City Royals pulled it off in the bottom of the ninth. It was the whole bases-loaded/two-outs scenario, just like in the movies. No pinch hitter was necessary — Holt Crowley was up and just did it, grand slam. The final score was 13 to 9. Later that night, Crowley’s father would tell him that he could hear the cheers all the way out at the quarry.
But right now the sun was setting, half-submerged behind the slight hill that overlooked the creek. Coach Williams was securing all the gear into four large duffel bags and loading them into the back of his pickup while the whole team celebrated around the bleachers with plastic cups of Sunkist and peanut butter cookies.
Holt and Cary, the first baseman, chatted excitedly about the approaching school year. Best friends since the third grade, they’d soon be freshmen at Central High. Once Cary had finished his snack, he excused himself and headed for the outskirts of the woods at the far end of the park to take a leak. Holt sat on the bleachers by himself just enjoying the remains of the after-game high and the diminishing warmth of the late summer heat on his cheeks.
Suddenly, amidst the crowd of his teammates and their families, Jennifer emerged in her pink Blondie shirt. She was sipping from a cup of orange soda. “I heard you won it,” she said to Holt. “Sorry, I couldn’t be here in time.” “Yeah, who’d you hear that from?” Holt asked, blushing. Jenny motioned to Bliss, the coach’s wife who was collecting trash. “I really wish I could have seen it,” she said again, then leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. Electricity surged throughout Holt’s entire body. He could taste Sunkist on her lips and was aware of the faint scents of coconut and vanilla he thought must be her shampoo. For just those few seconds, the rest of the world faded away.
It was a moment he’d remember for the rest of his life.
—
For the rest of his short life.
For the rest of his short life.
For the rest of his short life.
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5. |
The Gun
05:34
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Look out the window
Taillights leave the driveway
The sun is setting on the field
Get out of bed now
Descend the dark stairs
There’s not a light on in this house
I know you won’t be back til very late
No matter, I know these spirits all by name
Go to the kitchen
Flick on the light switch
The dripping faucet keeps my time
Brown bottles clinking
Rummage through the cupboards
Bare feet are cold out on the tiles
I know you won’t be back til very late
No matter, I know these spirits all by name
There is no life here
Back in the dark now
Turn to the paneled living room
Sit on the long couch
Old wood, coffee table
End table lamps dim with glow
I know you won’t be back til very late
No matter, I know these spirits all by name
The clock is sticking
The house is still with flicker
Wonder just how long til you’re home
Snow pelts the bushes
Out the front window
Hands close the curtains on the sight
I know you won’t be back til very late
No matter, I know these spirits all by name
The hour’s late now
No lights in the driveway
I fall asleep and dream of you
I put your shirt on
Turn off the TV
It was just static anyway
I know you won’t be back til very late
No matter, I know these spirits all by name
Walk in the bathroom
The towel’s still dripping
Look in the mirror at these eyes
Turn on the water
The coldness hits this face
I fall right through your fingertips
I know you won’t be back til very late
No matter, I know these spirits all by name
The backroom calls me
Can’t see at all in this room
The dark green box on the shelf
Retrieve the step-stool
Seek for the voices
I hear your truck pull in the drive
I know you won’t be back til very late
No matter, I know these spirits all by name
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The Pumpkin Patch Portland, Oregon
The Pumpkin Patch is a home for side projects by Pumpkin Friend.
If you like Trouble on the Backroads (Side B), you may also like:
Portland shoegaze that plays, as the best representatives of the genre do, with huge, hollow atmosphere against intimate observations.
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Influenced by music of the Pacific Northwest, drowse riffs on detachment, memory and the relationship to "self."
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Hermetic Topography
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Stuttgart collective Zebularin create densely atmospheric pieces that meld digital noise with analog free jazz.
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featured on Bandcamp Radio Dec 17, 2013
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From reflective and celestial to exhilarating and incessant, Mr Ripper proves his remixes are as fun as his solo tunes.
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Gnarly punk rock from the Philadelphia duo is unhinged in the best way, an in-the-red sonic assault a la Motorhead/Stooges.
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Psychedelic Anxiety
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The New York-based artist makes bedroom pop for hitting snooze on your phone’s fourth alarm of the morning.
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