Eraserhead X Present Mic Novels & Stories

She said while rolling her eyes at me but before I could even react or say something to defend myself and as an extension Jace from her snarky advice and remark the girl overtook me and bounced up the stairs going all the way to my room, "Sigh... This girl" Feeling dejected I dropped my head before shortly after I followed behind with hands stuffed inside the pocket of my PJ's while taking each step up the staircase but in the process I flailed my arms at the elbow with each step which gave the impression of an exasperated bird except mine was done out of fatigue "Kleo Alexis Dawson, what the fuck!!" I had barely made it up the stairs but this was the greeting I got from Dawn and did i forge

She cleared her throat again. “Uhm…” Eric was wearing headphones and was so invested in his work that he didn’t acknowledge her in the first place. Penelope pressed her lips into a thin line. She picked up a pen and poked his side lightly. He got startled. “HEY!” He said loudly. Her eyes widened. He removed his headphones and looked at her. “Uh- yes?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry… I was just… my music was too loud.” He chuckled awkwardly.

Eric eased away slightly, and she craned her neck to look up at him. “Can I cuddle with you later?” he asked her. “I’d rather you watch me shower,” she whispered. His entire body stiffened. Yes, his entire body. “Uh.” He squeezed her tightly again. “Are you serious?” “Shhh. Go rehearse. I’ve got work to do.” Once she got the guitar amps in sync with the soundboard—Trey and Brian were phenomenal—she returned to the stage to hook up Eric’s vocal mic. “I think we’ll have to go with a headset model,” she told him. “You can’t flail around like you normally do, or it will fly off.” He held still while she slipped a headset into place and adjusted it. “Is that comfortable?”

Paul checked the microphone, and the sound adjustments on the mixer. "Ayayayaya" Serina then tried to tone her voice, the speaker's feedback sounded nicely, and both of them raised a thumbs-up. "It's done." She exclaimed. Paul looked at her, and Seri looked at him and nodded. Both raising a thumbs-up again to let the vibe go on. "This is Serina Green, Welcome to September Ends, I will be your singer for tonight." Seri introduces herself. "This is Paul Simons, my partner who will play the guitar, and he will deliver a nice melody for tonight" She pointed at Paul and nodded. Paul slightly raised his common maroon acoustic guitar.

The work is the ceremony. The showing was in the studio. Six fellows, whatever they'd made in eight months, the work arranged in the space and Celestine moving through it with the particular attention she brought to everything taking in each piece, saying what she thought, directly, without the cushioning that made feedback easier to hear and less useful. She came to Elena's section last. The Residue collection. Twelve pieces now she'd finished the eleventh and twelfth in August, the seventh piece still open at its ending, the way she'd decided it needed to stay. All twelve in the studio light, the north light doing what it always did.

He loves like a blade you can’t see until it’s already between you and danger. It’s one of my favorites. It’s also the most obviously about him. My stomach flips. “Do you want a break?” Serena asks, like she can tell I’m spiraling. I shake my head. “No. I’m good.” I’m not good. But I’m here, and I’m doing it, and maybe that’s enough. I adjust the mic slightly and start. This one is quieter at first, then opens up. He doesn’t say “I’m sorry” like a plea,

The pink rubber mass of the **Eraser** didn’t fall like a stone; it descended like a deadline. It was a slab of absolute negation, a silent, scouring force that turned the "Raw Source"—the white, unallocated space where we huddled—into a grainy, grey static. Where it touched the edge of the crowd, people didn't scream. They simply ceased to have ever been. I watched a man from the 1998 "Originals," a man who had just been weeping for his lost dog, vanish. His dog, his tears, the memory of his name—all of it was "Skritch-skritched" away in a microsecond.