March 1, 2025
Hello, Hermits, and welcome to the fifth ritual of Hermit Rites! February was a month, eh? It was not quite as stressful for me as January, although it did suck a little bit mid-month when my roommate became my former roommate. This does mean louder music now, so there are some plus sides to being a crazy cat dad living alone. I just have no idea who misses her more, me or Oscar.
February brought changes to how I write in a specific way: the app I was using on my laptop needs to be registered to use (Atlantis) and I have not registered it yet. So I had to switch back to a word processor I like less (AbiWord), but still with no AI functions. In fact, the one I switched back to isn't even supported anymore. It's pretty awesome. The amount I wrote was also pretty okay. I always wish for more but that's because of how many stories I feel inside of me trying to get out. I'm working on a cold horror/cryptid and I started and finished a disgusting little splatterpunk. I think being forced to change part of my writing process in this small way has helped to change my creativity.
Music was almost always in my ears in February, but honestly not as much as January. There were many hours spent without music playing, which was weird as hell but also refreshing. New bands or albums were not explored nearly as much either, instead focusing on the shit that I already knew and loved. Some might spot what part of the month I started writing the aforementioned disgusting splatterpunk (hint: 51). I also listened to a bunch of Darkthrone, who are still I think my favourite band ever, and My Dying Bride, who are in contention for that crown. If I allowed myself to, I could probably write many paragraphs on those two bands and more. Perhaps I should allow myself to?
In comparison to last year, I for sure did not "crush" my reading goals this month, but I did exceed them by reading two one-and-a-half books, the fantastic Welcome to Meadowbrook by Cassandra L. Thompson and most of Finders Keepers by Stephen King. Thompson's prose makes me wish I wasn't on a book buying ban because I want everything she's ever written now. And well, it's Uncle Steve. I'm sadly quite behind in both buying and reading his books, which is why I'm reading so many of his (hopefully) this year.
When it comes to watching movies, I don't do it very often. I used to literally watch a movie a night at one point in my life (early 20's). This month I watched The Substance and I think it's one of my favourite movies. Like, ever.
At the end of this ritual is the short story "Entrance" that I wrote back in 2021. It, like "The Transfer" last month, is raw and un-edited. There are things about it, reading over it again to include it here, that I might expand upon if the idea seeds germinate. As a funny (to me) aside, I realized that a much more recent piece I was working on could actually become a sequel to "Entrance", with just the right amount of tweaks.
Thank you for reading, and please don't be afraid to subscribe. It costs you nothing except email inbox space and it helps me by blowing up my ego giving me a sense of pride and accomplishment.
This month I kind of wanted to keep things closer to what I already knew. January was a tonne of musical exploration, this month is the opposite for the most part. This is because I wanted to listen to a specific Darkthrone CD, and couldn't find it, but I did find a bunch of other CDs I wanted to listen to that I had not in awhile. This also means that in my last move I lost a lot of CDs. So now I need to replace them, probably via Bandcamp and Revolver.
Some of what I've listened to I've also reviewed, and the reviews are, handily, below. The formats I listen to are Bandcamp [BC], Cassette [CS], Compact Disc [CD]. If you see a release title with "Quotation Marks" around it, it's literally just a song, not a full release. February is the first time I'm using years and genre, it might not continue, so please let me know what you think of that info. Also, the titles in Italics are bands from Canada.
In 2024 Cassandra L Thompson released Welcome to Meadowbrook, a gothic horror novel that spans decades. The main character of the novel is Meadowbrook herself, a building in the middle of nowhere made of stone, faded burgundy carpets, marble, and gold. She been a hotel for the rich, a psychiatric facility, a casino, and more.
We meet Olivia, Randall, Helen, Michael, and of course Harold through the decades and come to care about them and their situation within the very spooky building. The humans in the story move the many plot threads forward, but the Meadowbrook sometimes moves them backwards as well...
There are so many going on that I don't want to give too much away; it's all so beautifully woven together. The imagery that Cassandra conjures and her word choices to do so are "...deliciously historical..." to quote a part of this book I read and re-read, and even took a photo of with my phone when I read it. I loved Welcome to Meadowbrook. I think the Meadowbrook and I are going to be acquainted again before the end of the year.
Continuing off from Mr Mercedes this novel does not. I expected it would, but didn't know how exactly, and so I have begun to write this while about to start page 127 of 434.
What this story so far is, is a back and forth between the 1970's and 2000's. A famous author is murdered, his money and Moleskines stolen and buried in a trunk. The killer gets caught for something else, and heaved into prison for life. A family is struggling financially with the parents on the verge of possible divorce, and the young son finds a fallen tree with a trunk buried under it. He digs it up, finds it is full of money and notebooks, and quietly gets it home.
The story starts progressing faster and faster at about the middle, when a certain writer's killer is released from prison and wants the money and notebooks back. Naturally this is written in the same tone as most Stephen King novels, and the way he writes and the way my brain works makes it so I'm right there. I see, hear, and smell the heads exploding under tires, I watch hungover men puke in jail cells, I'm a fly on the wall when big brothers worry about their little sisters.
Unfortunately, since I've been in a weird head-space this month, I have not finished reading Finder's Keepers, so this is as far as the review goes. I'll have the rest of my thoughts ready next month.
I have started writing this review on the night of the fourth of February, 2025. I've just come from my neighbour's house after watching The Substance, one of them new talkies I've wanted to watch for awhile now. The following contains some spoilers.
At it's most surface appearance, The Substance is a body horror movie that is--in just that genre--amazing. The effects are like 99% practical, and Coralie Fargeat, the director, took part not just in designing the effects and prosthetics, but in their use. Some of it is quite gross (complimentary), and possibly triggering for some. It's not just the visuals either, but the sounds too, including the squish and squelch of sewing flesh back together, and the music. In some scenes everything comes together to become extremely claustrophobic and uncomfortable, which, I mean, is one of the reasons some of us watch horror, eh? Shout out to the elevator/finger nail scene for being particularly effective.
It's once you get barely under the surface, only about as deep as a needle goes to find a vein, that is when The Substance becomes so much more than just a body horror movie that does what it says on the tin.
Because this isn't a movie.
The Substance is a fucking film.
Demi Moore stars as an aging actress named Elisabeth Sparkle who is fired from her aerobics show on her fiftieth birthday. She then gets into a car accident on the way home, is uninjured somehow, and at the hospital is surreptitiously given a flash drive by the nurse. Curiosity overcomes her, and she plugs it into her TV. A video plays, offering her the ability to become her younger, better self again, with a few catches. She calls the number on the flash drive, goes to the sketchy alley to get the black market drug that gives the movie it's name, The Substance, and goes home. In her bathroom she's checking herself out and decides to pull the trigger. Well, push the plunger, and then out of her back she gives birth to Sue.
Sue, played by Margaret Qualley, then sees the ad the network placed to find a replacement for Elisabeth, and goes in. And gets the job. Elisabeth's show is renamed Pump It Up, and Sue becomes the biggest name in television.
Now here is where the catches in the use of the Substance begin to wear at the tenuous relationship of Elisabeth and Sue, shall we say, with some serious shit hitting some pretty big fans. As the film progresses, the horrors progress, and the cinematography, music, costumes, and prosthetics progress along with them to lead to an incredible crescendo of violence that brings one of the most beautifully gory endings that will sit right alongside classics like Carrie and The Fly and Requiem for a Dream.
Thematically, The Substance talks about beauty standards for women and the male gaze throughout. It tackles topics like aging, misogyny, the power that men in male-dominated fields hold and the hypocrisy they spew. The whole thing is a giant fuck you to everything that Hollywood is, was, and forever shall be, and will go down as a goddamn classic as a result.
Nominations for the film are plentiful, with a few wins, and every single one is deserved. Huge note for the cinematography and sound design of The Substance, I would give this film awards just in the first like twenty minutes alone.
I remember when Demi Moore was on the cover of everything in the 90's. And if she wasn't on the cover, her name was because she was inside. To see her tackle being an aging star so head on like this is fantastic.
Margaret Qualley I've never seen nor heard of before seeing The Substance, but holy shit she's good. Her descent into madness is intense, especially with the hyperrealistic camera work and colours used by Coralie Fargeat giving it such a visceral feeling.
Also, a special note on Dennis Quaid, who plays the executive who fires Elisabeth and hires Sue. Ray Liotta was originally cast for the role, but sadly died. I would love to have seen his take on the character (Ray Liotta is fantastic), but Dennis Quaid plays every stereotype of a shitty fake executive ever and he's so damn good at it, going so far as to Denethor several pounds of shrimp in one scene and then immediately running over and glad (shrimp) handing some other old guy who means nothing to no one to avoid answering Elisabeth's questions.
The three teenagers huddled behind the fence in the alley, beside a garbage can that reeked of diapers and Chef Boyardee. Dim light was provided by a bare bulb shining above a garage door a few houses down. Each youth was wearing the same band's hoodie with the hoods up and balaclavas over their green face masks. If their family saw them this way they wouldn't be able to tell who was who, but each of the kids knew the others just as they knew themselves.
Gareth's grey eyes shone with excitement. "Downstairs," he whispered. "They have video games and booze." His back was to the fence and his round boyish face was lit up by the garage light. The balaclava was terrible at obscuring the wearer; Gareth's different eye colour alone singled him out in this town as a point of ridicule, and his size did not help either.
"What's upstairs?" Sean's eyes were completely in shadow. The barest suggestion of angular features was discernible in the gloom of his hood. His hands opened and closed in his flapping way in the single pocket.
"Nothing we want to fuck with."
Sean nodded. "Sounds good."
As per their usual, Corey didn't say a word. They hated talking. Confirming a go signal with a right thumb up, Corey stood up and under their careful hand, the gate into the backyard of the Henderson's was opened soundlessly. The WD-40 they sprayed on the hinges probably helped as well.
The light from above the unknown garage door did not follow the trio into the Hendersons's yard. The darkness was thicker there. It pressed down onto the shoulders of the kids and squeezed their chests. All three felt their hearts speed up and reality sharpen with adrenaline.
Corey reached behind themself to grab Gareth's hand. Gareth reached behind him to grab Sean. A three link chain of teenagers made its way from the gate to the side of the shed in the corner. With their finger over their lips, gesturing for Gareth and Sean to stay quiet and get low, Corey made their way to the side of the house.
"The hell are they doing?" Gareth whispered.
"Fucked if I know, mate." Sean's enthusiasm for this endeavour was beginning to dissipate already. "They're a bit of a nutter," he said matter-of-fact.
Corey stopped, stooped, and after a moment of fiddling with something, they gestured for the others to come. They had opened the window to the basement, an unexpected and more than welcome development, if Gareth could fit through. If not, they would go with Plan A, breaking in through the back door.
"Well fuck Corey, do you think?" Gareth was skeptical, but Corey popped up their thumb again, then turned it to three quarters. "That's what I was thinking. I'll give it a go."
Sean, the smallest of the group, went down first. He lit his lighter, guiding Corey to follow. The point of ingress was above the washer and dryer. Getting in and out would be easier this way, but there was a risk of noise. The two agreed that Gareth would probably fit, then helped him down into the laundry room of the Henderson's.
The room was barely big enough for the washer, dryer, and two piles of clothes without the door open. Housing three teenagers made it a cramped and hot affair, but the door stayed closed until all three were fully inside and ready. Corey opened the door like they opened the gate, slowly and carefully. The laundry room opened up to a three-way hall. On the right was a rumpus room, directly ahead was stairs leading up with a storage room door to the left of that, and at the end of the hall was probably a bedroom. Gareth and Sean immediately began investigating the rumpus room while Corey stayed behind and looked into the storage room under the stairs.
Sean pulled out a small torch from his pocket, lighting up the rumpus room. It was a simple rectangle, almost a square, and instead of a door it boasted a simple opening. The television sat on a corner stand, with a pair of green and beat up looking leather chesterfields along the opposing walls. A landscape painting hung above each, one probably a David Lidbetter and the other maybe a Gregory Hardy or someone similar. Sean took his eyes off the walls and empty backpacks were filled. Connected to the ancient Sony television was some classic vintage gaming systems, and each boasted a modest but clearly well curated collection of games.
"Why were you using your lighter if you have a flashlight?" Gareth's whisper would crumble under the weight of a butterfly, which still surprised Sean after knowing him since they were wee.
"Less light to filter out of the room, less light to cause attention." Sean narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"Just wondering."
The last of the booty was stored in the backpacks and the two boys stood up, ready to make their escape. Corey was not in sight.
"Core?" Sean was glad no one could see his face. He knew his eyes were bugging out, he knew his mouth was hanging open, and he could do nothing about it. "Core where the fuck?" The torch lit up the short hall just as Corey backed out of the storage room and closed the door. They looked over at Sean, their eyes squinting into the light, raising a middle finger.
"Sorry, mate." Sean lowered the torch and the trio filed back into the laundry room. They exited out the window, Sean going first while Corey passed the backpacks out. Corey clambered out and then helped Sean get Gareth out. Slowly they reformed a chain and picked their path away from the Henderson property, carrying away Henderson property.
Fifteen minutes later, Gareth broke the silence first. "Hey Corey, besides the booze, what all was in that room?" Corey's only response was to shake their head.
(Dustin Ekman, June 16, 2021)
February 1, 2025
Hello Hermits! Welcome to the fourth ritual of Hermit Rites. The last month has been interesting to say the least, and getting these arcane spells together was a bit different, and difficult. I'm going through some stuff, as is the rest of the world, and to add to that we are all being bombarded by right wing nazi bullshit from the people that are, hypothetically, supposed to be preventing that shit, and we are being assaulted with propaganda and lies from the people we are, again hypothetically, supposed to be trusting the most.
In December and January I was given a large amount of time to just do whatever I wanted to, and what I wanted to do was listen to an absurd amount of music, read as much as I could, and write as much as I could. As a direct result, this ritual features the full list of music I listened to in January, a review for Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King, and a raw and unedited short story called "The Transfer" from 2023.
Making sure I took the time afforded me, I was also able to finish writing and edit my debut novella. It took me a little over a year to finally get it right, and I am beyond excited to unleash it. Later today all the details will be published in its own post.
Thank you for reading, and don't be afraid to subscribe.
I have never kept track of what I listen to in a month like this before, even when I was a music reviewer. The only releases I kept track of back then were the ones I reviewed. One of the many things I've decided to hyperfixate on this year is what I listen to, and to write about it. I've missed writing about and reviewing music, and with my most recent Interview with Mother Endless being the first interview I've done in what feels like close to a decade ripping that bandage off, I have the itch again. But now that I have interviewed Mother Endless, I don't want to just chat with musicians, but also wrestlers and my fellow writers. Meaning, Hermit Rites is now getting a more firm direction with what you'll be finding in this turnbuckle of Substack.
A huge chunk of what is on this list is stuff that I've listened to for the first time EVER. Lots of it is my usual, but even in the genres I genrelly frequent (yes I said that) there are bands that are new to me in this list. I've also been exploring dungeon synth thanks to my friend Bariann (with others who will come to light). She is not just the small woodland creature introducing me to the music, but also the fierce antifascist vegan who runs Fiadh Productions out of New York. So if this list (and any others in the future) seems a bit Fiadh-biased, it is. Bariann is also introducing me to the equally antifascist group of musicians that create these pastoral woods and raging seas that fuel my writing of late, and even a few regular fans.
At about half-way through January I had already listened to over 80 releases and I told my friends, but they didn't say anything because I have no friends and they were like "how can you listen to so much music?" And the answers are ADHD, autism, self-isolation, depression, and the desire to only listen to music, read, write, and watch professional wrestling multitudinous.
It was about the 20th of the month when I dug out my old Sony boombox that survived an apartment fire so that I could listen to cassettes, which is one of my favourite formats to listen to music with. So now I have a Sony CD/iPod player and a Sony CD/cassette player. Just need to complete the office with a Sony CD/record player.
Some of what I've listened to I've also reviewed, and the reviews are, handily, below. The formats I listen to are Bandcamp [BC], Cassette [CS], Compact Disc [CD], and (if I had a player) Vinyl [LP] [10"] [7"]. And if you see a release title with "Quotation Marks" around it, it's literally just a song, not a full release.
Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King starts off in a fashion we Constant Readers are familiar with. An older man encounters a younger, single mom. She has an issue, he's kind enough to help, maybe this will lead to a complete subversion of everything we think is happening? Yeah, it sure does. All three-man, mom, and baby, as well as a bunch of other people-get run over by a Mercedes and die in the cold, foggy parking lot at a job fair.
And that's how it starts, remember. That's twelve pages.
Enter Bill Hodges, a retired police detective. He's sitting in his La-Z-Boy and considering killing himself, but then he gets a letter from the perpetrator of one of the few cases Hodges hasn't solved, the Mercedes Killer. This gets Hodges going, gets him out of his depression and gets him looking into things. Looking into things he legally should not be, mind you.
We are introduced to characters we obviously are supposed to cheer for: Jerome, the black kid who is friends with Hodges; Holly Gibney, the middle-aged woman with OCD and possibly other mental health afflictions; Jerome's mom and sister and dog; Janey, Holly's cousin. We are also introduced to a pair of characters who we almost immediately despise, Janey's aunt and uncle. The uncle is a nobody in the grand scheme of things, but hot damn is Aunt Charlotte a fucking cunt. I almost wished she would have run into Mr Mercedes at some point in time. This leads me to think that Stephen has been reading his son Joe's works a lot, because that dude can write some seriously shitty humans. I almost threw my copy of The Fireman at the wall because of one of the antagonists is such a shitpile.
The plot thickens. People we don't expect to die, do, and in so doing the hinges holding Mr. Mercedes's brain together come off. Shit gets real, and shit hits the fan, and we, the reader, get hit in the face with it. The ending of the book comes fast and hard, and in a typical Stephen King fashion: adrenaline floods the reader, and the closer we get to the end we're asking how it's going to end, and we know goddamn well that it's not going to be good for everyone involved. There's high stakes involved in a way Constant Readers are used to (Insomnia, anyone?) but a few were lost on me a little bit because this book is from a decade ago and I already own the sequels. I am very excited to read Finders Keepers, the next book in the Bill Hodges Trilogy, which I'm reading next.
After work on a payday awhile ago, I was told by my boss I was getting a transfer. He had no idea I had filed for one, and I told him that I didn't. I liked my job and I figured if I stayed long enough and worked my ass off (which I did) I would eventually become assistant manager. My boss and I were both stumped about my transfer, but it was put through by people higher up than him, so there was nothing else to do but go home and pack my belongings. There wasn't much, I lived very minimalistic.
Two days later, Sunday, the movers plopped me into a brand new two bedroom corner apartment above an old man with a small dog and below a young woman, also with a small dog, but louder. Both suites beside me were empty. The walls were painfully bright white. The smell of fresh paint was sharp. The movers, hired by Omnibank and not me, put all my stuff mostly away, I just finished the laundry and small things.
Monday I reported for work, and found out my new boss, Centola, was not going to be there until Thursday. A young teller named Jamie handed me a file with my name on it, and welcomed me. Inside it was my hiring package detailing my promotion to assistant manager-not just a transfer. Jamie once again proved invaluable by showing me around the place and introducing me to the other three tellers and our security guard, a Korean War veteran named Gerry. I soon found out that Gerry was a full thirty years older than he looked and was not just a veteran in Korea but a hero in World War II that made Rambo look like a damsel in distress. He was in his nineties and still packing a sidearm, his own teeth, and his own hair.
Tuesday was basically the same. I was still learning the names of the tellers, and meeting the regular customers of this Omnibank branch, so by the end of the day my brain was fried. I asked everyone if they'd join me for a drink at the nearest bar before we went home, and everyone joined in.
A round of beers later, with a ginger ale for me, and our crew dispersed. Madison, Gabby, and Clinton went home, while Jamie and I stayed for another. She let her gaze linger at times. I knew I was being flirted with, but did not lead on. Mixing work and love rarely worked out, especially since I was a full decade older than Jamie. The temptation was there, however, don't get me wrong. She was beautiful; red hair, blue eyes, pale as hell, the thick thighs that save lives, Scottish accent.
Wednesday came and Jamie was giving me a cold shoulder, or at least one that had chilled a little after the night before. The others smiled at me like conspirators. The whole day was awkward and time passed so slowly that it felt like a twelve hour shift in a coal mine.
I was nicely surprised around eleven when a pair of elderly men came in, two of my old clients from my old branch. They decided they wanted to follow me to this newer, bigger Omnibank, despite being a full fifteen minute bus ride extra. After that conversation the day began to drag again.
I invited everyone out for drinks, but this time only Jamie took up my offer. She again seemed flirtatious, and this time I called her on it, explaining why I felt work and romance didn't work out. She understood, or so she said. The rest of the night was great, with no more awkwardness.
Thursday came, and I finally met Centola. She arrived at the Omnibank branch shortly after I had. She came right up to me and introduced herself, handshake at the ready, pleasantly surprised that I wasn't middle aged. She also handed me a coffee from the roaster down the road, sipping one of her own. She told me she already knew me by my work, and that was why she had requested my transfer, and given me a promotion.
I'm sure I blushed, red like a clown's nose. Never had I been given such praise; it was quite embarrassing but part of me also loved it. I think I stammered out a thank you, and she walked away with a nod.
The rest of the day is a blur. I was on pure autopilot until well after I got home. I know I met a few people, more long-time clients of this Omnibank branch, but I cannot put a single name to any face. I also know I ordered a pizza, because my first real memory after meeting Centola was putting the empty box aside and turning the TV up. I was surprised that it was a large box, and not an individual size. I was watching wrestling, and the main event was about to come on, which meant it was quarter to eight. Pretty much twelve hours of a day, smudged to strange colours in my memory. I watched Kenny Omega defend the AEW World Championship against Ricochet, then went to my fridge. I became strangely aware I had no real emotional connection to anything at the time, I had become very cold to my surroundings, and I took a root beer out and cracked it open. How the hell, I thought, did I lose half a day from a compliment?
The emotional impact came with the taste of vanilla notes, and was like a bullet. Fast and painful, small at first then ripping a huge hole as it exited. The realization that I had fallen in love with Centola was not like some majestic dawning. It was like being in the shadow of a thousand suns. I knew love at first sight didn't exist, and thought love in general probably didn't either. Yet at the thought of Centola and her beautiful brown skin and dark hair and alluring scent, I lost myself.
I knelt down, the fridge still open and the root beer spilling out onto the floor. I could not reason how something that didn't exist could exist, and within me no less.
I cleaned up my mess and went to bed. I knew what I had to do in the morning.
Friday dawned and I woke up at six, showered, had a smoothie and went to the grocery store on the way to work. I bought the twelve freshest, reddest roses, which were wrapped with a card and chocolates. I went to work, put them all on Centola's desk, and waited. When she got to work she waved at me, gave me another coffee, then went to her office. Five minutes later, but feeling like fifty, Centola called my extension and asked me into her office. My heart fluttered.
When I went in she had her feet on the desk and was reclined in her chair. The roses were in one hand, and she was eating chocolates with the other.
She looked me in the eye, and nodded. She asked me if my coffee was good. I said it was. She told me to go grab it and come back. I did. I sat down in the chair in front of her desk. Again she nodded, slowly, and licked her lips. Her tongue was thin, forked. Immediately fear flooded my body and I knew I was in over my head. She stood, our eyes locked until she told me to look at the floor. I could do nothing but obey, and I liked it. She told me to do lots of things after, and I obeyed, and I liked it.
Afterwards, both of us dressed again, she picked up her phone and whispered with a smile. A moment later Jamie came into the office, and Centola showed her how submissive I was. Jamie tried to give me the same commands, and I obeyed her too. Then Madison after. Centola told me to drink my hours-cold coffee after Clinton was done, and then the blur begins again.
When I came to, I was in a bed. It wasn't mine. The emotional coldness was back. The overhead light was on and I was naked as a jaybird. The room was cool, the window open. The night outside was dark, a few stars in the sky. I sat up, stiff everywhere, made my way to my feet and went to the window. It looked out onto a dark alley. The door behind me opened, and I spun. Centola looked at me, noticing my stiffness, and came forward.
Her legs didn't move, and she was a full inch above the ground. She smiled, her sharp teeth bright, and took my stiffness into her hand. She said the most wonderful words I've ever heard.
"You cannot leave. You are mine." She gave me a coffee, and I drank it gratefully.
(Dustin Ekman, June 5, 2023)
January 1, 2025
Happy New Year!(?) Hermit Rites is three months old! I am still learning how to use Substack, and I probably will always be learning how to use Substack. It's giving me old school MySpace vibes at times. We, the users, are seemingly not getting used. Our data is being harvested, yes, but it so far seems like it's actually for us to connect to each other, not to disconnect us into a frothing rage.
Last year was a benchmark year for me in fuck near all aspects of my life. I opened 2024 with heartache and honest to fuck misery. I am closing 2024 with residual bruising and a lot of hope. For the first time in a long time I am in a wonderful relationship with someone who makes me feel loved and respected. I have a great home life with my cat Oscar and our roommate. I am improving my five pin bowling average slowly. I have a job that doesn't completely drain me, and another one that does.
Since November of 2023 I have added nine more piercings to my body for a total of twelve, and a few more tattoo sessions to bring my tattoo total up to thirteen. I am finally looking closer to the person I wanted to look like as a kid.
My extreme horror story "The Nightmare", my poems "Queen Goddess" and "Mapwork", a drabble, and my interview with professional wrestling sensation Mother Endless were all published via Death Wish Poetry in 2024. In December of 2023 I started writing a novella and now it is mostly finished. It's currently with beta readers, with a release date of April 18, 2025. I will be doing a cover and title reveal in the next issue of Hermit Rites, so that has been keeping me excited. And finally, over 2023 I read 45 books. My goal was twelve, one per month. Anything else was extra. I think I did okay with my goal. The books are listed below; bold text is a goal book, and the photo at the top is also the goal books. Books listed with a star (*) beside them are books I do not own physically.
December 1, 2024
I have not written a live music review in years! The night started with Dripfeeder, a crusty d-beat band that I've had the pleasure of seeing twice now. The first time was at The Dive Bar, opening for Idaho's Weald+Woe just a few months ago. I have been listening to a lot more d-beat and crust lately, so those elements within Dripfeeder presented themselves to me much more this time around, and I've discovered that I love this band.
Feeding sound like old school death metal crossed with punk. And by old school I mean these guys sounded like they were a Florida band, something a lot of Edmonton bands used to try to pass off and fail hard at. Feeding, however, do not. I'm hoping I see these guys again soon.
Pearl Malle was up next, and this was another band I'd never heard before, nor even heard of. From Calgary, they were a weird black metal/punk/d-beat monster that I loved. I actually forgot to take a photo of them, but their singer had a super cool moustache, and I bought their patch.
Begrime Exemious are probably one of those bands where when I write of them, there will inevitably be gushing praise. I have loved this band since June 30, 2010, when I first saw them play at New City Suburbs with Death Toll Rising (RIP) and Bison.
As I'm sure you can tell from the above paragraph, Begrime were my main selling point to go to this show, and once again they absolutely killed it. And my neck. The first few songs were progressively faster and faster, with Derek whipping the crowd into a frenzy between each one. I think, as far as the set list goes, they were playing stuff from damn near the whole discography too, so that was dope. Like Dripfeeder, I just saw them at Dive Bar a few months ago with Weald+Woe, but like fuck I could get tired of seeing them.
There is genuinely a lot of thrash, black and death metal in this city, and has been for probably thirty to forty years, and I honestly think Begrime Exemious should be in the conversation for top ten in Edmonton. They have the riffs, the attitudes, and the outright talent. They are also on one of the best labels for death metal, Dark Descent Records, so it's really just a Decibel Mag tour away for them to completely blow up.
(After Begrime Exemious was Scalding, but I had to leave before they played.).
The cook's key unlocked the front doors, and his hands locked them behind him as he entered the restaurant. He disarmed the alarm, turned the kitchen lights, air system, grills and fryer all on, then set the dish pit up.
It was Sunday, probably going to be busy, but he didn't rush making the Hollandaise. If you rush it, you ruin it. He navigated the sauce, dishes, and the arrival of coworkers easily.
The kitchen was ready for war. Soon enough the smell of bacon crisping brought the first wave of hungry customers to their tables and the battle began.
The heavy stench of tension bloated the air he breathed. He could cut it with a knife, thick as a throat. The crowd was deathly silent for three seconds, the longest three seconds of his life. The booing started quietly as the referee raised his arm in victory. The crowd erupted in chaos near the ring as he was handed the belt.
The fans began to riot.
Plastic cups shattered cheaply across his face as he sneered, holding his world championship high. When the chairs began to be thrown into the ring, he and his opponent ran to the back.
A family of birds twirled and wheeled in the air above me. They were a trio of unframed art on a canvas of vibrant cerulean. Three magpies, chasing and soaring.
The sun was low, but not low enough for pink and orange to yet stain the blue. Clouds were nonexistent. I ignored the derelict buildings in view as I looked up and watched the wonders unfold.
A car was coming up behind me, and despite being on the sidewalk, I still shoulder-checked. You can't trust this street without your wits about you.
The birds roosted, and I continued my walk.
Steve Stred's novella The Window in the Ground is a window to horror told through the eyes (and pen) of a fifteen year old boy who is shown the town's darkest secret a full three years before he is supposed to be.
His life is never the same again, and we get to experience the same terrifying things that he does in the aftermath of being shown the terrifying and logic defying window.
Taking place at the same time as The Window in the Ground, The Stone Door opens to more horrors than we originally imagined.
We learn more about the lore of the universe that Steve Stred is creating, and it is a very rich universe despite being a total of not quite 200 pages between the two novellas. The Stone Door focuses on two new characters and how they (and the town) deal with the events in The Window in the Ground.
I loved every page of it, and even though it satisfies it still leaves you wanting more. Good thing there is a related novel coming in 2025.
November 4, 2024
In 000 I got super metaphorical and fun when introducing myself and this website. In this, the first proper issue, I wanted to start with a more grounded and serious introduction to Hermit Rites and what my current goals are with it. I am creating Hermit Rites not just because I missed writing about music/books/shit I love--and I do miss it, immensely--but because I wanted to devote more time to writing fiction and poetry as well; so to bring it all together gives me one outlet for both. Depending on my mood, each 'issue' might be very different from the last, especially as right now there is no one else involved in Hermit Rites. Some might be long. Some short. Some, like this one, are bookish, others will be more music obsessed. How often they come out, I don't know, but I am hoping monthly.
I would love to have a future physical Hermit Rites, but what writer doesn't want all of their writings in print, to touch and hold? Hopefully there are enough physical humans interacting with what I bring to the digital version that it warrants a physical version of Hermit Rites.
Will Hermit Rites impact my current work with Death Wish Poetry, where I am a staff writer, and indeed am their Deranged Prince of Darkness? No. I plan on still ruining King Loke's day with my emailed horrors whenever they are required, and he will ruin your day as he sees fit to post said horrors to the always growing and always amazing Death Wish Poetry website.
What will each issue of Hermit Rites contain? Probably a mix of everything. This one contains a mixture of three of my old drabble (stories that consist of exactly one hundred words), three of my goodreads reviews of three of R.J. Powell's novellas, and as an update on the werewolf novelette I'm writing.
Thank you for being here. Hail Satan, Praise Nabu.
His eyes scanned the stars above, the heavens cold and emotionless. Even in this city, they somehow made him feel alive, those distant points.
A foot scraping behind him brought his attention back down to earth. He turned to the movement, seeing someone he didn't know shambling in approach. A local drunk, probably, as Spanky Pete's was just down the alley he was currently ruminating in. Even still, a knot of fear grew within.
"Spare change?" the shambler asked.
"No, sorry."
"Have a good night."
"You too."
The shambler passed, reeking of liquor. He himself continued stargazing, his fear abated.
Three boys crouched behind the oak, watching Caroline. She was about to ring the doorbell of the old scientist's place, then run away.
As she poked toward the bell, dogs started howling inside. She fell back with a scream.
As she scrambled up, the door opened and Old Man McCarthy ran out hollering.
Scared further, Caroline fell to her hands and knees. Just as the scientist was about to grab her, the boys stormed to protect their friend.
The dogs ran outside and pounced. They weren't dogs of this world, but Hellhounds, and they killed and ate the screaming children.
The jagged peaks of the Kranylian mountain range stabbed and buried themselves in the grey clouds. There would be more snow that night, as if there wasn't enough to nearly bury a large man should he fall off his mount.
Gavin strategically placed three logs on the fire, to keep it burning but to keep the light low. His teacher watched on, silent. This was Gavin's test, and the only way to succeed was to survive. Gavin laid a strong protective circle, to blind eyes to the fire and the men before it.
At midnight, dragonfire proved Gavin had failed.
If my memory serves right, R.J. Powell started off like a lot of self-published horror authors: Bookstagram. Just a girl who loves gory horror that finally says fuck it, and writes her own story, and writes it well. I cannot remember when I started following R.J. Powell on Bookstagram, it was either shortly before or after her first book came out, and I know there's a way to check, but whatever. That part isn't important. What is, is that she has released four novellas and I have read three, and I loved all three of them. (The other part that is important is her dog is so fucking cute it hurts.) What follows is my three Goodreads reviews of those little books.
R.J.'s fourth novella, Madness in Tandem: Menage a Trois, a sequel to her first release Madness in Tandem, is available through her website. I just keep forgetting to buy it because ADHD. Maybe writing this will help it stick in my head better and I'll finally remember on Friday (it's Monday).
This is disgusting. Abhorrent. Repulsive. I wish it was longer, because I loved every page. Madness in Tandem is my first from RJ Powell. RJ is a sick freak, possibly needs a few years of therapy, and I think she's an autobuy author now. After also talking to her a few times in the last few months, I've also realized she's an amazing human and more than deserves the support of the splatterpunk community.
The second novella from RJ Powell is a tantalizing tale of a woman who murders men and is interviewed by a psychiatrist. On the surface, eight cases of Jane is not anywhere near as disgusting as RJ's first novella, Madness in Tandem (also a five-star read), but after you let it sit and marinate in your memory for awhile you realize it might be even more disturbing.
Jane Murphy is a fantastic character. She is written so vibrantly and you almost can't help but love her. She's a smart and classy Southern gal. She just happened to have killed a few people, in very violent and terrifying ways, and we get to find out just how she did it. And why.
R.J. has proven why she's amazing once again with this ultra disgusting, ultra vile, ultra heartwarming revenge tale.
If you're already a splatterpunk fan and have read R.J.'s Madness in Tandem, Dollface makes that book look like a mid-2000's light R horror.
I cannot recommend it enough.
Finally, an update on the werewolf horror novelette I was going to have released during Spooky Season 2024: It's a werewolf horror novella now, and is halfway through the editing phase as far as chapter numbers go. I think it has a title, finally, but I am still letting it simmer. King Loke at Death Wish Poetry read an early version of it and said "What a nasty, brutal ride that was."
I am looking for artists for the cover, so if anyone reading this happens to know or be an artist who can do extreme horror werewolves, please get in touch.
October 31, 2024
It's Halloween. Today I woke up and chose to put on my gardening gloves, as I was instructed to yesterday. Metaphorical ones. I have not taken up gardening in the real world yet, but it is on my list of things I want to do, and hopefully be good at. With my gardening gloves I grabbed my seed pouch and took inventory. There's a lot of small seeds in here, and the all important dark one.
Some are the seeds left behind by my previous endeavors. I learned a lot while I involved myself in the music industry because I was too fucking dumb stubborn to admit when I was over my head. Nowadays, at the greying age of thirty-nine, I know I'm over my head. I've come to realize that is how I live. In the music industry I somehow made lasting friendships and acquaintances, and a lot of those friends and acquaintances are still in those trenches of war. They make and do amazing things that I enjoy and want to shout at people from rooftops about.
Since leaving music I rediscovered my love of reading via Bookstagram and as a result have made a lot of friends and acquaintances in the world of books and publishing. I have a feeling this happens to a lot of people when their biggest passions are music and books. Especially the ones with ADHD and undiagnosed but peer reviewed autism (hi). This has given me another ton of small seeds, some of which have become either a couple finished short stories, infinite works in progress, stunted mockeries of life, or are still waiting to be planted. This has also given me an endless supply of amazing things that I enjoy and want to shout at people from rooftops about.
The thing is, it's almost 2025. If you shout at people from rooftops nowadays the cops will arrest you if you're white lucky, or shoot you if you're black not. So instead of rooftop shoutery, I shall engage in internet typery, which is still kind of the same thing but with less damage to my vocal cords, and possibly less bullets.
Then there is the dark seed here in my pouch that I've had for as long as I can remember. I had no idea what it was for the longest time. It is mostly small, like most seeds, but will occasionally grow massive. Not in size, mind you, but weight, like trying to hold a black hole. Maybe a black hole is what it is, really; because it is the colour of dread, black as night; sharp as a razor; double edged like a sword. It can be used to take out a grown man's heart. It can be used to heal one, too. After consulting a few of my dreams and a lot of my thoughts, I knew for sure this was what I was afraid of: this was the seed of desire, and I knew it's name.
And so I have sat on this seed for a year almost, but not knowing what direction I wanted the seed to grow. I moved it around, held it, sat with it, hid it in the darkness of my closet, yelled at it, whispered. And finally, on October 30, 2024, the seed cracked open a tiny bit and the burgeoning plant inside whispered to me:
"Just fuckin plant me, asshole!"And so here we are, at the site of the planting of seeds. This is Hermit Rites. I am Dustin Ekman, and these are my stories and poems, as well as my thoughts on books and music, possibly movies, possibly other things barely tangentially related to any of the above. I am going to try my best to bring my love of the macabre and gore to the forefront with Hermit Rites, but also my love of whimsy and cottagecore. I am also hoping to open my hermitage to others in the future, to give space to other stories, poems, and thoughts. Whether I succeed at that or not is up to future Dustin to decide, and whoever else reads this (thank you, by the way). But who am I? The following is my official writer's bio as of 31/10/24:
Dustin Ekman is a writer from Edmonton. This is not exactly his fault, but he did choose to move there from a small town that was even worse than Edmonton.
Dustin is a former record label owner, music critic, and metal promoter (founder of Funeral Rain Records, Crown of Viserys, and Black Mourning Light Metal Festival), as well as a fan of horror, science fiction, and fantasy. Before the CoV website came down, Dustin published several hundred music reviews.
He lives with his cat, a roommate, an addiction to caffeine, various works in progress, and an increasingly shaky mental stability.
