THE KILLING OF AN OFF-BROADWAY PRODUCER

Desperate Times Short Story Forum Presents:

THE KILLING OF AN OFF-BROADWAY PRODUCER (an excerpt from MUSICAL THEATRE PUNK)

I would shake and cough and twitch in rehearsal. Maybe I gave myself away. The producer didn’t like me. She cut me from THE show. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten myself so emotionally attached.

She was my first victim.

I learned I didn’t like hearing them scream while I sliced them up, so; If I knew things were going to get A) Messy or B) Loud – I took precautions.

I wanted to make sure this woman suffered.. I wanted her to feel the pain of my rejection. I knew this was impossible. She could never feel the way I felt. How could she objectively see what she had done to me? She couldn’t. But at least I could still torture and kill her.

I stuffed her mouth full of crumpled up Playbills and Gaff taped her mouth shut. The tears were pouring down her wrinkled old face now. I didn’t like hearing her plead – it tugged at my conscience.

I had seen an ad on late night tv for the 'Butcher’s Boy Blade', a knife so sharp that it could "CUT THROUGH BONE" (according to the ad) so I decided to test it out on sweet cheeks over here.

I drew myself closer and closer to her face – shooting her with my eyes, drawing out the moment of anticipation as much as I could before I started smacking her around. It was fun toying with her. She couldn’t speak, but her eyes begged me to let her go.

I raised my blade high in the air and brought it down with swift vengeance. She shrieked like a banshee and blood spewed everywhere; but that’s what tarps and gags are for.

I picked up her hand and started smacking it against her face.

“Hey. Quit hittin’ yerself. Quit hittin’ yerself.” Hah.

I cut her up and down her wrinkled shriveled body. She bled. She cried.

“Slice, slice, snicker snack. Here’s a blade across your back.” I sliced her diagonally from shoulder blade to hip; and she bled.

For the next few minutes my victim drifted in and out of consciousness. And I realized I had a rehearsal to get to.

She was trying to say something.

“What? I’m sorry I can’t hear you with your mouth gagged like that.” I ripped off the gaff tape, along with her bottom lip.

“Please” she cried “I’m sorry. Please don’t!”

Sweat and blood poured from the old woman’s head. She had pissed herself several times already and the room was starting to smell.

“You’re sorry?” I joked “Really? You’re sorry.”

“I was wrong. I should have –“

“Yes you were wrong. Oh so very wrong. And now you’re sorry…” I let out a sarcastic sigh. “Let me hear you say you’re sorry again.”

“I’m sorry!” she screamed through blood and tears.

“Not good enough.” I plunged the blade into her chest and carved out her heart; making sure she lived long enough to watch it stop, beating.

I made a plan to burn her remains.

Ah Rehearsal.

I feel a pop in my brain; then a loud pinging sound. It grows louder by the second – Black blood courses through my veins – I feel my head pulsing. The pain gets worse. My left arms goes numb and my feet start to burn. I grind my teeth from side to side and wish for a new stomach. Someone get this monster out of my head.


It’s a low sky out tonight; Foggy and bitter, like a head-cold.



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Home Alone with my Friends

Desperate Times Prose Series Presents:

Home Alone With My Friends

My blue friend makes me nervous

My white friend makes me still

My brown friend makes me dizzy

my green friend makes me chill

My blonde friend changed her hair - and now it's something dark;

like my soul on a Sunday night, chewing idea tree bark.


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Rock N' Roll Sucide

Desperate Times A SONG A DAY(ish) Series Presents: Rock N' Roll Suicide

We here at Desperate Times have and always will present You, the reader, only the most truthful emotional explosions.

Along those lines, we bring you our humble cover of Rock N' Roll Suicide off of David Bowie's album Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. Done with just Desperate Times and the guitar... and a little distorted piano... and a few minutes of Garage Band. Enjoy another blurry video.



Maybe tomorrow I'll make a proper music video. Or maybe not.


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A SONG A DAY(ish) Ballad of The End of The World

(Shameless Self Promotion)

I promised I'd be back tomorrow with a new post of an original song entitled: Ballad of The End Of The World. It's a simple little acoustic guitar melody off the as of yet unreleased Lithe As A Cat... let's say it's track 4.

I don't know how to post just audio on here yet, so I had to create a blurry music video on iMovie for the song. Click play. Enjoy.



maybe i'll be back tomorrow with a cover for ya... in the meantime - go listen to Things to Ruin


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Shameless Self-Promotion: A Song a Day(ish)

In an act of shameless self-promotion I've decided to post some clips of me performing. I'm going to try and post a new song every day... Most of 'em will be covers, but it'll also give You (the reader/listener/viewer) a chance to check out some tracks from Lithe As A Cat; my as of yet to be released debut album.

First up:
Haddonfield, 15 Years Later
Music and Lyrics by Joe Iconis - Live at the Beechman Theatre 1/28/11



Tomorrow: Track 1 off of Lithe as a Cat; Ballad Of the End of The World



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Desperate Times Presents: Prose from the Wasteland

Before the Dark

Data on the screen and in my head
Neither have wisdom
and I'm filled with dread

My heart is a colander; emptying out my love; holding on to my pain
The screen snows flickers
I've learned it's refrain

No more for my room
full up is my kitchen

The oven burns
The heart churns

The screen shorts out -
the sound is gone

The embers have grown
A faulty extinguisher am I
A faulty human.

I see the fire burning up the curtains
I focus on the screen
I can not move, but to breathe in the smoke

My chest contracts and I cough
I gag and wheeze and contort,
but I still see the Data on the screen

The room grew bright


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Desperate Times Presents: Prose from the Wasteland

The Light

"Send me solace!" He cried; naked and alone - he walked - in the dark
- not knowing where he was - or how his legs were suddenly functioning

His miraculously cured paralysis did not astound him as much as the destruction laid out before him.

The skyline was gone.

Only rubble and rock, dust and ash remained.

He walked...

The clouds rained scarlet tears - He sought shelter and wept; and decided that he would gladly trade his newfound mobility for the world he knew

The air reaked of sulfur

The Old Man's chest pounded and he grimaced

The man fell; and he watched his knee cry the same scarlet tears as the clouds

The man walked on.

The man called out to any that would listen;

"Am I not worth being heard?!" He cursed his maker.

Sulfur seemed to filled his lungs... the Man could not breathe.

The man fell a second time; and remembered cigarettes.
Coffee; the Man remembered the smell. He remembered donuts.
The man remembered his life and cried.

"I miss you"

And a voice seemed to acknowledge his declaration.
The Old Man sighed and wished for light.
He knelt and closed his eyes.
The sun came out - and as the radiation burned away his skin and muscle tissue, the man smiled his last.


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