With Amex Gold, you can experience the gold standard. You get access to exceptional dining, plus four times membership rewards points on eligible dining purchases. That's the powerful backing of American Express. Terms apply, cap applies, learn more at americanexpress.com/withamex. This is the sound of your ride home with Dad, after he caught evaping. Awkward, isn't it? Most Vapes contain seriously addictive levels of nicotine and disappointment. Know the real cost of Vapes, brought to you by the FDA. I just mailed chimp my marketing. You mailed chimp chair or what? I mailed chimp my marketing with AI to create an effective marketing campaign in minutes. No, mail chimping away. Yes, mail chimping away. Now I can hyper personalize my campaigns across email and SMS. You can do all that with mail chimp. What did I just mail chimp and say? Mail chimp your marketing with the number one AI powered email marketing and automation platform. Into it, mail chimp. Number one, based on publicly available data on competitors, customers, plans vary. SMS available as add-ons, visit mailchimp.com. Rock is lit. Rock is lit. Rock is lit. Rock is lit. You're listening to Rock is lit with Christy Halberg. Rock on, Christy. Rock is lit. Hey there, lit listeners. Welcome to season four of Rock is lit. The first podcast devoted to rock novels and also the 2024 American Writing Awards podcast of the year in the categories of music and arts. Rock is lit is a proud member of the Pantheon Podcast Network. Hey, I'm John Stewart and you're listening to the Pantheon Network. Rock is lit is hosted, executive produced, and edited by me, Christy Alexander Halberg, author of my own rock novel, searching for Jimmy Page. Big shout out to this season's incredible team, social media intern Keeley Clats, and our three production interns, Major Lagulin, Tyler Elcock, and The Air Lower. This season, we're shaking things up with a fresh new format. Instead of our usual author interviews, we'll be rolling out a weekly reading series, giving you a deeper dive into the world of rock novels through curated readings and literary explorations. To keep up with all things Rock is lit, follow me on Twitter, Instagram, and YouTube at Christy Halberg and @RockisLit podcast on Instagram. For more info, head to ChristyAlexandherhalberg.com. Got a rock novel you'd like to see featured? Drop me a line at ChristyAlexandherhalberg@gmail.com. I'd love to hear from you. If you're enjoying the show, please subscribe, leave a comment, and give us a five-star rating on your favorite podcast platform. Wyatt, the Rock is lit, mascot, and I thank you for your support. This is Stacy Lane Wilson, and you are listening to Rock is Lit. Lucky you. [Laughing] [Music] Well, sometimes I go out, bars, and I look across the water. And I think of all the things I've done, and in my head I've been a feature. But since I come home, well, my body's been a magnet, and I miss your gender health, and the way you like to dance, I want you to come on over, stop making a fool. My name is Stacy Lane Wilson, and I am a reader and a writer. I have a series of 14 books called Rock and Roll Nightmares. They run the gamut from horror fiction to true crime with many other topics in between. I've always loved to read, as a kid I binged all of the Black Stallion and Nancy Drew books. But my mom would let me read her personal library, so I also read a lot of Stephen King, Jackie Collins, and the light. I have thousands of books. I read mostly for research, but I'm also a hopeful book addict, as in I'll buy it now and read it later. I have a few hundred hardcovers and paperbacks on my bookshelves, and overflowing from there, plus hundreds more via Kindle and Audible. The National Endowment for the Art says that reading is at an all-time low for adults, but apparently they haven't met me. Aside from writing, my longest-lasting other job was working as a red carpet reporter in Hollywood for about 15 years. I'm also a pet sitter, which is a perfect side hustle because I love animals, and I can bring my laptop with me to work on my books and other writing jobs. My latest book in the Rock and Roll Nightmares book series is Phantom Chords. It's nonfiction about famous rock stars, paranormal encounters, just in time for Halloween and spooky season. But today, at the request of our lovely host, Christy, I am going to read from Rock and Roll Nightmares 28, the 27 Club edition. It posits the question, what if the 27 Club had lived? This story is about Amy Winehouse. It tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no. Here's something black, but when I come back, no, no, no. I ain't got the time, and if my daddy thinks I'm fine, they try to make me go to rehab. I don't want to go to Remus by Stacey Lane Wilson. Amy awoke, bleary eyed, and had spun. Not that that was anything new, but this felt different. For one thing, she was in a cell. Again, nothing new, but this cell was decked out like a set from a swinging '60s sci-fi movie. Everything was white from the modular furniture to the faux fur drow rugs. As her world sharpened lazily into focus, she heard her own music being piped in through unseen speakers, and she could smell hints of rubbing alcohol, wafting on the oddly thick air. Her stomach lurched, she was so hungover. She glanced down at her emaciated body and saw that it was clad in a form-fitting white two-piece outfit that covered her from her collarbones to her wrist and ankles. She rolled over on the starched sheets and saw a glass of water on the nightstand. Or maybe it was gin, if only. She struggled into a sitting position and brought the heavy glass to her lips and took a long swallow, water. While it was a band-aid on a bullet wound, the drink did refresh her and had cleared the thicket of her mind somewhat. She tried to see beyond the sparkling white bars of her prison, but everything was maddeningly blurry. No, not blurry exactly, but she couldn't focus on anything outside those bars. Maybe backtracking would help. She remembered going out to lunch with her mom and her fiancé, when, yesterday? Yeah, it had to be. She was home in London after disastrous, aborted tour of the Baltic states and was trying to dry out on her own. She watched some videos of herself on YouTube, then got depressed and relapsed. She had a few vodkas, bottles, not shots. And that was all she could remember, apart from having a strange dream about finding a large pulsating organic pod under her bed. A long, person-sized pod that oozed a rotten-looking greenish goo. She shuttered, thinking of an almost forgotten movie she'd seen us a kid at the Saturday afternoon matinee. It had to be the D.T. Amy had experienced the delirium tremens before, but not like this. She'd never seen things. She shuttered. What had she done last night? Amy swung her pin-thin legs over the side of the bed and her feet met water. A pipe must have burst somewhere. Great. She gave her new quarters a look-see. The cell was small, but bigger than a typical bed-sit. There was the mattress, a nightstand, a hanging white plastic egg chair, a desk with a monitor, and a white cube on it, a kitchenette behind her, and a freestanding toilet mirror and sink grouped at the opposite wall. In front of her were bars, sand store. Amy brought her hands to her head and felt stubble. My beehive, she explained, padding frantically at her bare head. She lurched and stumbled toward the mirror, stopping just short of slamming into it. She peered into the glass and saw herself dressed to the nines, beautifully made up, and with her long black tresses coifed, to towering perfection. "What in the actual fox?" she whispered, suddenly feeling woozy again. For the self she saw was not a real-time reflection. It was an upper-sealing corner camera's eye view of the bedroom in her flat. "This must be a video clip," she thought. "How long have I been under surveillance? And why am I here?" she turned to face the bars of herself. "Boy," she yelled, "warden, or whoever. Where the fuck are you? What the hell is going on?" A white pamphlet dropped from the ceiling and drifted to the floor at her feet. "What the?" Amy bent and picked it up, shaking water from it. It was a brochure of some sort, folded to create six panels. There was type on it that moved like a swarm of insects and she nearly dropped it, but stopped herself when the words arranged themselves into English. "What the?" she repeated, blinking. The headline declared, "Welcome to Remus," and underneath it was a Q&A that looked like a party invitation. "Who?" "Carbon-based life form." "What?" "Abduction." "Where?" "Twin planets, Romulus and Remus." "When?" "July 23rd, 2011." "Why?" "National Anthem." Amy took a deep breath through her nose and exhaled out her mouth. She did that several times until she felt her heartbeat slow to its normal loved up. "It's all a joke. It's just some sick joke. That's all." She felt her shaved head in her free hand. "Did I join a cult?" "My lord, they don't call them mind-altering substances for no reason, Amy." She dropped the pamphlet and the incident hit the pristine white floor it disappeared with a faint whooshing sound. She turned back to the mirror and now she saw her real-time reflection. She had a face like a slapped arse and her hair had indeed been completely shaved off. She was devoid of makeup. Her nail polish had been stripped and she didn't have any jewelry on, the horror. She turned to the bed and finished her water. It had a slightly sweet, salty, indefinable taste. She sneaked at the empty glass, noticing once again that the air felt just a little too heavy. The temperature was neutral, but the only way she could define atmosphere would be humid. Not bad, but not quite right either. Was she really on another planet? Earth to Amy, she said, then chuckled bitterly. She lay back down and on her side then drew her knees up. The fetal position comforted her somewhat and she closed her eyes. She tried to remember the fable of Romulus and Remus. Something about twins being abandoned and thrown into a river, separation, and one being nourished by the milk of what. She couldn't remember. It was all just too much. When Amy came to who knows how much later, she was hurtling through time, space, and dimension without a safety belt. She felt her bones thrum. Her spine was a tuning fork and her skull felt radioactive. She was perspiring like a sinner in church and people were holding her down as she seized. No, not people. They wore white coats, but instead of hands, writhing tentacles dangled from their sleeves and the heads above their collars were squid-like. One put its suckered feeler to her eye prying it open. Before she could scream, she surrendered to darkness and let herself float on an ocean of oblivion. The next time Amy opened her eyes, it was napalm bright and the prison felt alive and pulsating with unseen activity. She heard metal clanging, footstep shuffling, and the hum of unintelligible voices. Her stomach lurched and rumbled. She hoped that breakfast was coming, and she wondered if it would be astronaut food that came in small, add-water packets. She rose from the sweat-soaked cot and wobbled over to the mirror, sloshing through the flooded floor. The mirror was now full length, and she took thoughtful, critical stock of herself. She thought she looked like a stick figure with a bargain-basement boob job and prison tattoos. Do I actually look like that? Damn, I need to cut back on the booze and bocanals. She used to think she looked great. Her breast enhancement surgery had sent her back, 35,000 pounds after all, and the cats were from Henry Hates' prick parlor. During one of her flunked stabs at rehab, Amy remembered a pamphlet that said alcohol abuse led to aggression, agitation, compulsive behavior, and a self-destructive lack of restraint. That was she to a T Amy had to admit. She was not easy to be around, and her once full circle of friends had dwindled to a dot. At least she still had her boyfriend and her family. She wondered if they had also been abducted and maybe brought here with her. She turned to look through the bars of herself, but everything was oddly out of focus. She looked back to the mirror and saw a sheen of sickly sweat on her face and decided to clean up as best she could. She felt weak and in desperate need of an adult beverage. There was no shower, so she disrobed in front of the sink and did what was called a horse bath, splashing water on her pits, tits, and bits. When she bent down to pull her pants back up, a brand new stack of clothes appeared at her feet, and much the same manner the pamphlet had disappeared the day before. She put them on, noting that it was the same mundane, all-white outfit, and they were strangely dry against her skin, like the inside of a wetsuit. She ran her bony fingers over the alien territory of her shorn scalp, suddenly fearing a possible impending lobotomy, then patted over to the front of herself. "Oi, she yelled. Is anyone there?" As if and replied, the bars dissolved into the thick air, freeing her. Amy hesitated, then took a step forward, wondering if her bare feet would suddenly catch flame, breeze, or shatter. None of that happened, but she did find herself suddenly standing in a queue with others who were dressed exactly as she was. The flood had also affected the corridor, with the tepid water standing an inch or two deep. She tapped the shoulder of the person in front of her, noticing that he too was bald. "Hello?" she ventured. The man turned. He spoke gibberish, or words to that effect, despite the fact he had no mouth. "Huh?" Amy replied. The humanoid tapped both of his ears three times, then pointed at her. It seemed he was indicating that she should mimic him. "What the hell?" She shrugged and tapped each of her ears three times. "That's better," he said. "Now you'll understand everything they say to you." He narrowed his gaze and peered at her. "I see you've already got the contacts. That's good. Contacts," she blinked, then brought a hand up to her left eye. "Don't take them out," her fellow prisoner advised. "You won't like what you've seen." Amy tried not to stare, but it was odd talking to someone that had no face. A mouth, nose, and eyes were implied, as were his ears, but she couldn't make them out. He was like a pixelated photo come to life. There was no other way to think about him. Even his gender was tacit in her mind. The line inched forward, water sloshing, and Amy dropped her hand back to her side. "Where are we?" Another person, bald, faceless, clad in white from neck to ankle, joined the line behind her. "Didn't you get the welcome packet?" "I think so, but it had to be a joke or not on another planet." "What planet are you from?" the second stranger asked. "I've never seen a creature like you." The line moved forward. Amy didn't have a snappy response at the tip of her tongue, so she simply said, "Earth." The first male spoke. "Oh, Earth, I met a guy from there once. Do you know Gary?" "Uh, no," she said. "Where are you lot from?" The light form in front of her seemed like he was about to tell her, but a loud speaker crackled to life, petting him off. "Five minute warning," an unseen boy spooked. "We'd better hurry," said the prisoner behind her, or no protein pill today. Protein pill, Amy echoed, like Major Tom. By way of reply, she was given a gentle push forward. "Guess not," she muttered. There was a squid-like authority figure at the head of the line facing the prisoners. As each approached, it somehow dropped a pill into their non-existent mouths, as they turned to their right, then entered a room through a pulsating, somehow organic, dark pod-like doorway. When it was Amy's turn, she shied away. "I'm not taking that pill. What is that? Leave me alone or I'll turn your kneecaps into frisbees." She stamped her feet in a sudden surge of impotent toddler rage. As she screamed and shouted, the saliva pod calmly flicked the capsule into her mouth. The moment it hit her tongue is sprouted feet, and she felt it thitter patter down her throat. She coughed vigorously to no avail. "I bet you don't even have kneecaps," she grumbled, heading to the same exit where the others have gone. She paused at the doorway and peered into the inky blackness. She shrugged and took a step of faith. There was a fireworks-like burst of colored luminosity, and then nothing. In the dimly lit room, Amy's trembling form lay restrained on a cold metal table, like a mortician's slab. But she knew she was alive for her runaway heart pounded in her chest, a rapid rhythm of fear. The music she'd heard earlier was gone, and the air was heavy with an eerie stillness as a swirling mist enveloped the room, suffocating her sense. Suddenly, a blinding beam of light pierced through the mist, casting grotesque shadows on the walls that looked like a flipbook through her rapid confused flanks. Her octopus captors were lighting up the chamber with their natural bioluminescent. She screwed her eyes shut, squeezing the lid's tight. Unseen tentacles, cold, wet, and alien, probed and prodded her vulnerable body. Their suckers stuck to her bare skin, then withdrew, leaving painful stingray tingles. Was she naked? She couldn't tell. Amy's screams echoed through the hollow, but the sound was absorbed by the sudden presence of a wet rag in her mouth. Lost in a realm where her tormentors remained nameless and faceless. What was next, an eye-pick poked through the corner of her eye and up into her frontal cortex? She almost laughed remembering an old joke. I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. Time seemed to blur as if hours bled into seconds and then reverse like a rewound tape. Amy's pain was unrelenting, her skin crawling with the sickening sensation of foreign intrusion. Her body, once whole, now felt violated, invaded by the extraterrestrial beings that saw her as nothing more than a specimen. Thread coiled around her consciousness, tightening its grip with each passing moment. She yearned for release, a respite from the grotesque experiments that had turned her into nothing more than a fawn in their terrifying interstellar machinations. At least the wet rag was gone from her mouth. "I need a drink," she heard herself mutter. "That was her, wasn't it?" "Oh yes, liquid oblivion would free her. Please!" As the alien entities ignored her imploration and continued their relentless probes, a chilling realization crept into Amy's English mind. They sought more than physical examination. Their intentions ran deeper, more insidious. She felt their tendrils of curiosity slithering into her thoughts, unraveling her very essence. They sought to know her secrets, her fears, and her deepest vulnerabilities. A wave of despair washed over her as she realized that these unearthly entities were extracting not only her flesh, but also the very essence of her humanity. She paired up at them and nearly fainted. The orifices and their hideous heads were oozing with sea-green gunt, and their indistinct form swarmed under their white uniforms. One of them opened its maw, a dark liquid squid ink dribbled out, words formed on its chin, one day at a time. "Why are they talking about an old American TV sitcom?" Amy thought, "What the fuck? This really is torture. She'd much rather be watching sex in the city, and their relentless pursuit of her innermost fears. They were leaving her soul in tatters, a hollow vessel haunted by the echoes of her former self. In that room of otherworldly terror, Amy's existence hung in the balance. Her all-too-human body, violated and tormented, would surely bear the scars of these cruel, intrusive experiments for the rest of her pitiful days. Would she be one of those people, slinking in private shame to an alien abductee support group, or would she be on reality TV spilling her guts and swearing to all the world that she had hidden trackers embedded in her molars? Maybe she should just give up and die. No. Her spirit clung to a flickering flame of defiance, refusing to surrender to the darkness that threatened to consume and bury her in a shallow unmarked grave. As the probing continued, her eyes began to burn with the defiant fire, a glimmer of strength in the presence of the unimaginable Lovecraftian horror. Deep within, she vowed to resist, to preserve her humanity despite the unwanted relentless onslaught. How long could she endure this torture? She saw suckered fingers long and ghastly coming at her eyes. Two of them, each with what looked like a contact lens on their tips, quickly inserted the soft, clear discs. Amy tugged at her restraints, finding them surprisingly loose. She flung herself from the metal slab, her bare feet scrambled on air as she hurtled through space. She heard her music again, but this time it was sampled into another song. A chill wind whistled into her brain, obscuring the genre of the tune. She tried to tap the conscious of her ears to change the frequency, but her arms were flapping uselessly like empty sleeves. She found herself on a slick, grooved black surface, spinning as if she were a speck of dust on a giant vinyl record. Then she was thrown headlong through another doorway. She landed hard onto a sappy, wet, carpeted floor, and the walls were covered in shag, too. As she found her footing, Amy looked around her and saw that she was inside an old recording booth, a really old one, maybe from the 1960s. A speaker blared feedback, then a voice dripping with sarcasm said, "So glad you can join us, Amy, from Earth." Inked dribbled from the bottom of a speaker, forming words that she couldn't read as they hung in the air before splashing to the floor. She peered through the window and saw three of the people, or beings, or whatever they were, form a protein pill line standing in the adjacent room. They each held an instrument of some sort, though the only one she fully recognized was a cowbell. "What the fuck?" she asked Gob's math. She looked around for a doorknob poking through the shag, but there was none. "Let me out of here!" she yelled. "Not until you help us write our national anthem, a weirdly accented voice from the hanging speaker said. And it had better be good. You've just been recalibrated and tuned, so there's no excuse. Her mind flitted back to the words on the weird pamphlet. Why? National Anthem." So that was the reason she'd been abducted by tentacled aliens, brought to their bizarre swinging sixties-themed planet and waterboarded, to write and record music for them. I want to go home. Now, even you, with your infantile human awareness, must know that two identical particles, with half-integer spins, cannot occupy the same space within a quantum system. Huh? She'd waited still searching for a doorknob. There was a heavy sigh from the speaker, and although Amy still couldn't make out the features on the faces of her fellow prisoners, she sensed their eye rolls. The speaker crackled, then dripped with black ink. "You can't go back because you're already here. Look, I'll show you." A free floating screen dropped down, coming to rest at her eye level. A movie began to play, showing her bedroom and, once again, herself inside, looking happy and healthy. Too happy and healthy. It had to be a facsimile of herself, let behind on earth, so that no one would know she'd been kidnapped. But they'd have to know. It had been several months since Amy's skin had gloaned with any sort of vigor, and her bright hazel eyes never looked so serene. This perfect Amy copy would surely alert her nearest and dearest. They'd never buy it. But what then? Would the aliens smite her family to keep the world from knowing of their evil known national anthem empires? She shook her head, noticing that it wore her fashionably ripped jeans, her favorite salt and peppity, and a pair of dangerously high pumps. The other Amy knelt by the bed and reached down, feeling for something underneath. Its hand came back up, filled with dripping gelatinous green goo. A two-tiered beak emerged from the red-lipped mouth, then a long tongue penetrated the stuff and stayed there until the hand was empty. Amy blanched, disgusting. Now that the doppelganger had finished nourishing itself from the hidden pod, it turned and hodered from the room, closing the door behind it. Where is she going, Amy demanded? Then she thought it belonged strange tongue and wondered what other uses it might have. She better not be screwing my boyfriend. The screen disappeared, with the same whoosh as the pamphlet had. Suddenly, Amy spied a knob. She lunged at it, opening the previously obscured shag carpeted door. She stumbled out into the main recording area and took stock of the situation. Behind the glass, sitting at what she presumed was a mixing board sat a trio of alien creatures. Bagley octopus-like, but still the figures and features were madlingly and distinct. In her immediate vicinity were the other prisoners, each holding an instrument. They were humanoid, but not exactly human, she realized. She couldn't quite see. The contacts. She reached up to her eyes, fully intending to remove the alien's blindfold, but a stopped her in mid-pinch. These whispered one of the musicians covering his mouth with his hands. "Just do this so we can all go home. Trust me, you really don't want to see them, or us." It wasn't easy writing a song with extraterrestrials, but as it's been said, music is the universal language, and before long they have the lyrics to a passable national anthem for the tentacle of the alien. It was no Star Spangled Banner, Advanced Australia Fair, or God Save the Queen, but it wasn't half bad. As the ragtag interstellar band prepared to start recording, their enthusiasm shriveled and was replaced by frustration. The initial takes were riddled with mistakes, the notes clashed, the timing faltered, and the harmonies collided in discord. Finally, Amy suggested they take a break. They gathered around discussing their predicament. As it turned out, they were all famous musicians in their own worlds. That's why they've been abducted, they supposed. This squishy squid planet didn't have music of its own, which was weird, Amy thought. With eight arms, they should be able to play a double-neck guitar better than Jimmy Page and Rick Nielsen combined, but it made sense. None of them knew how long they'd been held captive, but reinvigorated by their shared mission to get the fuck off this waterlogged planet. The band returned to the recording studio, ready to give it another try. This would be like trying to turn chicken shit into chicken salad, Amy thought. But it's not like she had any choice. They decided to start from scratch, taking a different approach. As the new arrangement took shape, eclectic energy filled the room, Amy let go of her fear pouring her soul into the music. With the bluesy rasp that would make sandpaper jealous, she sang squid's honor with her whole being, putting everything she had into the anthem. Her new bandmates were likewise communicating through their instruments with upbeat and enthusiastic newfound harmony. The sound that emerged from the speakers was nothing short of magical, a fusion of raw emotion, powerful cords, and soaring melodies. As the last note hung on the air, then disappeared into satisfactory silence, Amy heard a symphony of applause coming from the control room. 24 tentacles swapped together like nothing she'd ever heard before. She sagged with relief. Finally she could go home. Amy was home. Finally, she wriggled warm in her bed, luxuriating on her firm pillow and enjoying the fluffiness of her goose down comforter. She tried to open her eyes, but the irritated burning lid stuck to her hazel orbs. Damn, she thought, I slept in me contacts again. With the blunt tips of her long fake fingernail, she scraped the discs from her eyes. Ah, better. She blinked and her eyes watered obligingly. She rolled the disposable lenses between the pads of her thumbs and forefingers and set them on the white nightstand. She rose to a half sitting position and ran her hands through her hair. Her very short hair. What the... Amy sighed now that the sandman had cleared out, she remembered everything. But waking up was still hard. It was as if her mind was caught between worlds or more like eras, drinking and after drinking. Six months ago, on July 23, 2011, she'd been rushed to the hospital due to acute alcohol poisoning. The night before was hazy. She could vaguely remember watching videos of herself on YouTube, drinking vodka straight from the bottle, and then diving deeper into the rabbit hole, watching clips of performances by Christina Aguilera, Lady Gaga, and Britney Spears. She happened upon the infamous 2007 Britney meltdown when the pop princess shaved her head on camera. That seemed like a grand idea, so Amy decided to do a live feed of herself doing the same thing. Thank goodness fans tuned in, got worried, and called 999. Later, her doctor told her that one more drink could have killed her. Amy was sent to a rehab facility by the sea, a beautiful and serene spot where she dried out. There were twin compounds, one for the first and most painful part of her recovery, and another where she received therapy and was encouraged to sing and write music. She formed a band with a few of her newly minted abstainers. They called themselves female companionship. What the women wrote was mostly direct, but she didn't mind it felt good to be sober, healthy, and interested in the creative process. On her 28th birthday in September, she penned a farewell song to vodka called "So in Love Without You". It was good. She planned on putting it on her next album. She'd been released and returned to her Camden flat over the Christmas holidays. Despite the scrutiny of the press and the relentless pursuit of the paparazzi, she was doing well. She kept herself busy with friends and family during the day, but in the dark, alone, she had nightmares. The dreams were bizarre, but she understood them. Her therapist explained to her that the ever-present blood water represented vodka gin and tequila. The contacts were metaphorical rose-colored glasses keeping her from seeing her sickness. Her oceanic capture represented the opposite of drying out. Their tentacles were the hold that her addictions had over her, and she likened being sober to having a lobotomy. But the hidden doorway to the music had been found, and now she was free. She sat up fully and peered at herself near-sidedly in the mirror, across from the bed. She had color in her cheeks, her eyes were clear, and her short dark curls shone with help. She could even fashion them into a mini beehive with enough bobby pins. She sighed and stretched and got up. She went to the dresser and got into a pair of fashionably torn jeans. Her favorite salt and pepper concert t-shirt and stepped into a pair of pumps. She felt a rumble in her stomach. Since her transformation, Amy had come to understand that a healthy breakfast was the most important meal of the day, so she never skipped it. She went to her bed and knelt beside it. She reached down and scooped a handful of nutritious placenta from the remiss pod that had birthed her and consumed it. Sated, alien Amy left the room ready to face her new world, one day at a time. Back on Romulus, Earth Amy assimilated into squid society. She hoped that writing their national anthem would win her a one-way ticket back to Britain, or anywhere on Earth except maybe the Baltic states. But the resident celeb popods were so impressed by her talents that they decided to keep her. They also kept the other musicians and went so far as to import a few more earthling and interplanetary beings along with several musical instruments. Before long, the twin planets of Remus and Romulus were like a big pot of tuneful gumbo. Some of the squids even tried to learn how to play guitar, but their suckers kept sticking to the frets, so much for being planetary, pages, and Neilsons. As it turned out, the aliens weren't evil. They'd only been employing some tough love. Amy and her fellow transplants were talented, but troubled. They all needed modifications of some sort, and as they adjusted, so too did their twins on their respective planets. Over time, they learned to think and seek for themselves through telepathy, making the contact lenses and hearing aids unnecessary. On these planets, Amy found that she could morph into a wolf-like creature if she so chose, but she preferred her earthly form, boobs, beehive, and all. For the first year or so, whatever marked the passage of time there in the drizzly double cosmos, Amy checked in with her replica on the monitor of her now-barless flat. At first, it made her feel a little jealous and melancholy to see how much better the clueless alien was at living her life than she herself had been. The creature had been programmed to believe that she was indeed the singing superstar, and aside from the strange protein shakes she drank, not to mention the abstinence from booze and drugs, she spent her days as the original would have, and no one was the wiser. Amy's tears eventually dried on their own, and she realized that she was living the same beautiful life just elsewhere, one day at a time. [Music] Thanks for tuning in Lit listeners. If you enjoyed the show, please subscribe and leave a rating and comment on Good Pods and Apple Podcast, links in the show notes. Wyatt, the Rock is Lit mascot, and I really appreciate your support. Until next time, keep rockin' and readin' and gettin' lit. Rock is Lit. [Music] [BLANK_AUDIO]
In this episode of the Rock is Lit Season 4 Reading Series, Staci Layne Wilson reads her short story “I Don’t Wanna Go to Remus,” featured in the anthology ‘28’. The collection imagines an alternate reality where members of the infamous 27 Club, such as Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, and Amy Winehouse, live beyond their tragic ends. In Wilson’s story, Amy—a talented but troubled musician known for her refusal to seek help—faces a surreal twist. After a life of chaotic partying comes to an abrupt halt, Amy finds herself in an otherworldly rehab facility . . . on another planet. The narrative explores what might have happened if Amy had given rehabilitation a chance, adding a science fiction spin to her legacy.
Staci Layne Wilson is an award-winning filmmaker (‘The Ventures: Stars on Guitars’, ‘Cabaret of the Dead’, ‘Psycho Therapy’) and an Amazon #1 bestselling author (‘So L.A. - A Hollywood Memoir’, ‘City of Devils’, ‘Sex Death Rock N Roll’). She wrote, produced and hosted three entertainment talk shows online: ‘This Week In Movies’, ‘Inside Horror’, and ‘Dread Central Live’. She has been featured on the BBC, Bravo, Reelz, MTV, CNN (and many more) as a film historian and author. She’s the daughter of Don Wilson (The Ventures) and Nancy “Buni” Bacon (pin-up model, author, actress). Staci is also the host of the podcast Rock ‘N’ Roll Nightmares.
Catch Staci on Episode 49 of Rock is Lit, where we talk about the fourth novel in her Immortal Confessions vampire series, ‘Rhapsody in Red’: https://www.christyalexanderhallberg.com/rockislitpodcast/stacilaynewilson
MUSIC IN THE EPISODE IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:
Rock is Lit theme music
[Guitar Instrumental Beat] Sad Rock [Free Use Music] Punch Deck—“I Can’t Stop”
Amy Winehouse “Valerie”
Amy Winehouse “Rehab”
Amy Winehouse “Back to Black”
[Guitar Instrumental Beat] Sad Rock [Free Use Music] Punch Deck—“I Can’t Stop”
Rock is Lit theme music
LINKS:
Leave a rating and comment for Rock is Lit on Goodpods: https://goodpods.com/podcasts/rock-is-lit-212451
Leave a rating and comment for Rock is Lit on Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/rock-is-lit/id1642987350
Staci Layne Wilson’s website: https://www.stacilaynewilson.com/
Rock ‘N’ Roll Nightmares website: https://rock-n-roll-nightmares.com/
Staci on Twitter: staciwilson
Staci on Instagram: @stacilaynewilson
Staci’s YouTube channel: @stacilayne
Christy Alexander Hallberg’s website: www.christyalexanderhallberg.com
Christy Alexander Hallberg on Twitter, Instagram & YouTube: @ChristyHallberg
Rock is Lit on Instagram: @rockislitpodcast
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