Ralph Pullins

Out there in the darkness, something is circling us. something cold, something terrible.  It circles us, and sometimes, it takes one of us. Punks tend to have a short lifespan. We die early, through overdose or violence, through neglect or disease.  And we die of suicide. It happens. Way too often, it happens. It is patient, this terrible thing, it waits.  We huddle together around the light we created for one another. The thing hates the light, but there is just too much darkness, and the terrible thing whispers, and sometimes, one of us, we listen. We come to punk in self defense; in many ways it is a reaction, a response to a hostile and uncaring world.  Hardly anybody comes to punk as an adult. You don't come to punk because you are well adjusted . You come to punk because you're fucked up. You're fucked up and angry and young, and then you hear a song, and the sound sounds like you feel, and the words speak like you feel, and you realize that someone out t

The trick to fermenting honey or apple cider, or any sugar really, into alcohol is to set up a yeast party.  What you want to do is set up a perfect place for your yeast, a little yeast heaven, filled with good food and warmth. You want to create a fun, wild, yeast party, one where everyone feels comfortable and happy, where yeast can really chow down on all the stuff you have provided, where nobody makes them feel like a hog if they eat too much or dance too wildly.  Yeast like atmosphere; give them good dim mood lighting and a cozy space and they are down to party for a while.  You want it to be just right. Not too hot, not too cold. If you don't get the temperature right, the yeast don't want to party at all. They just sit down and quit, no small talk, no picking at the snacks, they just shut down.  I like yeast. I identify with yeast.  Given the right environment, I too like to party.  I also hate it if it is too warm.  I too like being cared for, and provided with the th

What I remember most is the laughter.  We stayed up too late, singing Jimmy Buffett songs, and those tragic oldies, Neil Diamond, Bottle of Wine... I remember drinking, and smoking cigarettes, and laughing. We- I am feeling- Maybe I should just state the facts, as if there are facts to state, as if I were capable of just stating them if there were. I had a friend, and his name was Ben. Ben died, recently; he was a relatively young man, when it comes to dying, not yet out of his sixties. When I was sixteen or so, my friends and I would hang out at his house, and our band would play shows and practice in his garage. He was my friend's dad. I don't know what to say here, except my feelings are complicated and ever changing. My friend is dead and I don't even know how to feel. He was a veteran of the Vietnam War. He was, and remains, a large part of my life.  He was a huge influence on me. And yeah, my adult self cringes at the idea of a kid drinking and s

Listen carefully, because this is important. You are going to fail. There will come a time when you will think it was all for nothing, all of your time and effort, you will think it was a waste. You will look at all you have accomplished, all that you have done, and you will not feel pride at the things you have managed to do in the face of resistance and adversity, but a numb despair that, after everything, this is all you have to show for it, these shabby relics, these nothings. You may consider quitting. Maybe you will quit, you will tell yourself that it isn't worth it, that arriving at the destination is not worth the hardships of the journey. You will try to walk away. You are going to fail, and if you fail, you are then a failure. You will be a failure. Maybe you have had nothing but success up to this point, maybe you begin to believe that the usual hardships have just passed you by, maybe you will begin to think that you are just lucky, or that all the warn

I originally wrote this story for an anthology of cosmic horror that ultimately never came to fruition.  It is based on an idea from my son, Cayden, who asked during the run up to the 2016 election, what if they actually did build a wall, and then there is some kind of  apocalypse and instead of keeping people out, the wall ends up trapping everyone inside with the sickness?  So when I saw the call for submissions for cosmic horror stories with a political theme, I asked him if it was alright if I stole his idea as long as I give him a co-author credit, and that he had better say yes, or I would make him pick up the dog poop all summer.  He agreed, his brother got stuck with the poop patrol again, and I sat down and wrote this story.  Since the anthology never came to pass, and it was written for that alone, it has been sitting in my file for quite some time.  Recently, there has been a lot of wall talk in the news again, and so I decided to just put it up here because, after reading

Here is a good word for you: dissolution. It means is the end of a relationship or contract. What it means to me is that Antiartists is no longer being published by Pen Name Publishing. And I am- I- Look, it took me a long time to adopt the word writer when describing myself, because I think it is one of those words that come with a lot of baggage.  I don't like term as a title, because I believe people are too ready to adopt it as their own because it gives then a sense of accomplishment or importance or mystery, and there is no other word that distinguishes between a hobbyist knocking out a couple hundred words every other month if they remember, and someone like myself that has put significant parts of their life into the craft.  We are both writers, and I understand that, but let's be real here, okay? There are writers, and there are writers, and for sure there are good and bad examples of both, but I am one and not the other and there is no word to distingui