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1 CONTENTS Cover ‘Assassination of the Pope’ By Sean Madden Frontispiece ‘If Zeus Don’t Charm’ By Dolorosa De La Cruz ‘Interesting Times: Kind Strangers’ By Andrew Maben p5 ‘Tangier Morocco, 1957’ By Joe Ambrose p19 ‘The Mercenaries Of Time: Parts I & II’ By Michele Dawn Saint Thomas p23 ‘Night in the Natural History Museum: Douglas Preston and the Power of Relic’ By Noah Charney p33 Art ‘Subterranean Altar Piece – Left’ By F.X. Tobin p39 ‘Mugged by a Movie Star’ By B. Kold p40 ‘Fame Whore’ By Mike Hudson, Photo By Malcolm Alcala p48 Art ‘Venus – A’ By Rob Sussman p52 ‘The Fallen’ By Michael Hann p53 Art ‘Venus – B’ By Rob Sussman p64 ‘Rapier’ By Salena Godden p65 ‘Lobster Cracking, Stomach Skinning and the Air Loom’ By D M Mitchell, Photos By Max Reeves p74 ‘Legacy’ By Christopher Nosnibor, Photo By Lisa Wormsley p83 ‘To Eat the Sky Like an Apple’ By Craig Woods, Images By Sarah Amy Fishlock p88 ‘Th’ Knap Witch Ov Wessex’ By Matt Leyshon p96 ‘Ruffy’ By Steve Overbury p99 Art ‘Subterranean Altar Piece – Center’ By F.X. Tobin p102 ‘Taste Is a Form of Self-Censorship’ Mark Stewart Interviewed By Craig Woods p103 ‘Thoughts on Zombies and Tropical Storms’ By Jim Coleman p122 ‘Schizophrenia at the Kitchen Door, 3AM’ By Patrick Wright p126 ‘The Feast of the February Flies’ By Gene Stewart Writing As Samael Gyre p129 Art ‘The Black Orchid Beckons’ By F.X. Tobin p134 ‘Procedure 769: CDC# B66883’ By Díre McCain p135 ‘The Unit’ By Ron Churchill p140 ‘Drug’ By Claudia Bellocq, Photo By Tom Garretson p144 Art ‘Ex-communication’ By Lana Gentry p147 ‘The News From My Area’ By Chris Madoch, Photo By Michael Dent p148 ‘Mr. Sunrise’ By Brett Garcia Rose, Photos By Toby Huss p162 Art ‘Subterranean Altar Piece – Right’ By F.X. Tobin p170 ‘Polka Dots’ By Ron D’Alena, Photo By Malcolm Alcala p171 Art ‘Hell & Bone’ – Cryptical Swamp Drawing © 2010 (brad, felt, ink, gold, cufflink, charcoal, ocelot’s pils, junk stuff) By Merle Leonce Bone (aka Manuel Aubert) p177 ‘A Dog Named Boo’ By dixē.flatlin3, Photo By Sid Graves p178 ‘The True Stories Of Robert Brock: Rainy Morning’ By Robert Earl Reed p182 ‘Lest Romance Die’ By Rick Grimes p184 ‘The Wood Fairy’ By Matt Hill, Photos By Richard A. Meade p186 ‘Madonna 666’ By Rob Same p189 Art ‘Must Be Santa – Portrait of Beautiful JonBenet Ramsey and ‘Santa’ Bill McReynolds’ By Lana Gentry p199 2 Whatever Happened To Odia Coates? A Tragedy In Six Acts (Part III) By David Gionfriddo Photos By Claudia Murari p200 ‘Billy Rai & The Ozark Jesus’ By Ron Garmon p231 ‘Bitchin’ Bibliography On Banned Books’ By Adel Souto p242 ‘Babette’ Ross Eliot Interviewed By Cricket Corleone p245 Four Fabulous Females Of Los Angeles Who Are World-class Rock Singer/Songwriters By Heather Harris p252 ‘Untitled’ Edward Paul Quist Interviewed By Yen Tan p265 Art ‘Subterranean Altar Piece – Bottom’ By F.X. Tobin p271 ‘Ballads, Blues & Bluegrass’ A Review By Simon Phillips p272 ‘Shortcuts To Infinity/ Symptomology’ A Review By Simon Phillips p274 Contributors’ Links Book Adverts Back Cover ‘As Heathen Velvet Grunts On’ By Dolorosa De La Cruz Editor in Chief Díre McCain Contributing Editors Christopher Nosnibor Craig Woods Edited & Designed By Díre McCain Contact Paraphilia [email protected] Website www.paraphiliamagazine.com Official Facebook Page https://www.facebook.com/ParaphiliaMagazine Official Twitter Page http://twitter.com/paraphiliamag Submissions: Please send all submissions as email attachments, Rich Text Format documents and JPG photographs. Be sure you include your name, contact details, and any internet links you would like shown in the magazine. PARAPHILIA MAGAZINE is currently a non-profit venture, thus we are unable to provide financial compensation for published works. All copyrights, of course, belong to the writers, artists, photographers, etc. Any opinions or beliefs – religious, political, or moral – expressed anywhere within these pages are not necessarily those of the editors. 3 4 INTERESTING TIMES: KIND STRANGERS By Andrew Maben You’d think that at this point I might have stopped, or at least paused, to take stock, to consider what I thought I was doing, where I thought I might be going. Apparently not. If I had a picture of myself at the time it was arms spread high, head back, running at full tilt. If asked, I would certainly have claimed to be running to embrace life, but who knows? Perhaps I was in headlong flight… In any event I hope you’ll indulge me as I venture a few thoughts from my present vantage, with all the advantages of hindsight. All kinds of ideals and ideas filled my head, heady visions of possibilities that I was convinced both could and should be realised were confronted with harsh realities that it would seem I believed would be overcome through sheer blind faith. My schoolboy infatuation with Christ, itself born of the loneliness and pain of my schooldays, remained on the one hand as a deep desire to find a way to live a life both just and kind, and on the other had mutated into a certainly unrealistic, and quite probably unhealthy, idealisation, idolatry even, of “Woman”. I still believed in the transformative power of Art, but with no clear notion of how that might be realised in actuality. And of course I had been bewitched by the many utopian notions that were abroad at the time: the promise of a world in which work would be but a small part of lives dedicated to leisure and self-fulfillment; and of course Leary’s Pied Piper call to “turn on, tune in, drop out”. Now I was coming face to face with the difficulties of living a just life in a profoundly unjust world, and as you’ll see making some pretty dubious moral choices as a result. My artistic ambitions were still reeling from my expulsion from art school. My notions of romantic love had received a near-crippling blow at Sally’s hands. Finally I was finding just how difficult it is to “drop out” without the advantages of privilege and celebrity enjoyed by figures like Leary. Then, of course there’s the laughable irony, not to say hypocrisy, of the scion of an English family with upper-middle class aspirations pretending to adopt poverty as a way of life… Alas, I failed to even recognise, let alone confront these conflicts in any meaningful way. So it was that not many days later I was sitting at an outside table at the Café St. Michel, nursing an espresso, enjoying the waiters studiously ignoring American tourists’ calls of “Garçon!”, and 5 watching the passing parade and the youngsters sitting on the wall of the fountain. My eye was caught by two very attractive girls approaching from the direction of St. André des Arts – the first was the perfect embodiment of chic, thigh-high boots, mini skirt and polo-neck that perfectly flaunted her Bardotesque figure, her companion rail thin and less ostentatiously attired, a Pre-Raphaelite faerie queen. To my astonishment they asked if they might join me, and needless to say I agreed. Well, of course it was not my stunning good looks that had caught their eye, simply that I looked as though I might be able to find some hash… They told me their names – the siren was Xanthe, the sylph Helen – gave me some money and an address, and went on their way. Some hours later I rang the bell of what turned out to be Xanthe’s flat. I was soon, subtly but unmistakably, disabused of any idea that I might have had of bedding Xanthe, or even being allowed to stay for a night or three… Helen, however, was rather more willing to extend the hand of friendship, and so it was that the two of us were back at the Café St. Michel late one evening. There was a small group of Germans frequenting the Quartier who, rumour had it, were in the habit of robbing people at knife point, so I was a little put out when a couple of them sat down uninvited at our table. “Wanna buy some hash?” asked the burlier of the two. “No way,” I replied, “that leads straight to heroin.” I suppose I had some idea that this would be enough to send them on their way. I was mistaken. We were subjected to an intensive sales spiel, by turns cajoling, pleading, reasoning. Somehow I signalled to Helen to follow my lead, and for the next twenty minutes or so we resisted all their blandishments. Finally: “You should at least try it once.” And reluctantly we allowed ourselves to be persuaded. Given their reputation, god alone knows what I was thinking in going myself into this bears’ lair, let alone bringing Helen along. Nevertheless, off we went to a grimy piaule in a back street near to Shakespeare & Co. All five of their little gang were crammed into the tiny space, and Helen and I were offered the only two straight backed chairs. A joint was rolled. Some very potent Afghani. “What do you feel?” I was asked after taking a first hit. “Nothing at all,” I lied. “Take another hit.” I did. “Still nothing.” I passed the joint on to Helen, who also professed to be unaffected. And so it went. They rolled joint after joint, and we claimed to be completely unaffected. Finally I asked for the loo, where I shook some drops of piss onto blotting paper and wrapped them in foil – in those days I carried all kinds of paraphernalia – before going back into the room.