THE NIGHTLY CHILL
By Steve Arviso
FIGHT THE DAWN!
As the sunlit sanity of the waking world burns the night to ash,
embrace the unbound madness of your wildest dreams,
laugh into the endless abyss of your darkest fantasies,
and rage against the coming dawn.
The Nightly Chill is an irregular, yet wholly absurd intimate experience with an idiot. Mon-Fri. Ish. Written and published by writer, publisher, and, on occasion, part-time lover, Steve Arviso (@AmoralCrackpot). Ish.
- OBTRUSIVE ADVERTISEMENT
- THE BIT AT THE BEGINNING
- A LETTERS’ PAGE
- A CHEAP PLUG
- SOME TRIVIAL BIT OF SILLINESS
- YET ANOTHER OBTRUSIVE ADVERTISEMENT
- A SATISFACTORY, WELL-WRITTEN BIT THAT SOMEHOW STILL FAILS TO LIVE UP TO SOME ARBITRARY STANDARD CREATED AND IMPOSED BY NOBODY
- LAST-MINUTE ATTEMPT AT ENGAGEMENT
- BLATANT, YET ALSO REDUNDANT SELF-PROMOTION
- THE END BITS NOBODY CARES MUCH FOR
VIRAL LOAD PODCAST
The “Viral Load Podcast” is, I’ve been assured, a podcast in the same way that audio uploaded to some temporary or long-term repository for the sake of publication and distribution across various outlets, inlets, and piglets accessible vis-à-vis the internet might, in some fashion, be considered a “podcast.” In it, comedian Andrew Pupa and co-host Brett Bayles, who may or may not be a comedian–but who am I to place such labels on anyone?–explore the weirder, more unsettling corners of diseases that plague us.
THE BIT AT THE BEGINNING
Lotta fun stuff planned for the coming weeks. Old projects to finish. New projects to try out and throw out into the wild. My hearing is still recovering, but hopefully by next week I’ll be able to return to live streaming some original material, a bit of gaming, and maybe a few other ideas.
I’m still working on my anxiety issues and such, and part of that is simply moving forward with whatever I’m trying to accomplish, even when I feel I can’t. The Nightly Chill is me trying to be better–as a writer, as an entertainer, as a person. Part of that, for me, is making even the laziest of self-applied deadlines. “Nightly” is a goal. Today I’ve managed to make that goal, even if only barely. Even if it is mostly older material I’ve squirreled away or shared elsewhere at some point. But I did it. And I feel better for it.
As Dr. Leo says, “Baby steps.”
BETWEEN THE CRACKS
(A LETTERS’ PAGE)
Existence is futile and reality is an illusion. Should I quit my job and become a professional balloon animal trainer?
— Circus-Bound in Cypress
I’m hurt you would ever think I’d ever say, “No.”
JASON IS UP LATE
(A CHEAP PLUG)
Be sure to listen to “Jason is Up Late,” a new podcast from Los Angeles comedian Jason King., who is not well-known for turning in early for the evening, but, to the contrary, is rather notorious for staying up well-past any decently dressed hour.
(SOME TRIVIAL BIT OF SILLINESS)
Originally published in The Nightly Chill zine on Instagram, and available in “Fight the Dawn: Ugh! Ugh! I’m Dying, You Idiot!”
The girl sat in a chair in the kitchen of a small house in an unincorporated corner of Anaheim, a bed sheet tied around her neck. Polyps stretched and reached from seemingly every pore on her face. The skin there twitching and pulling taut as slender tendrils, some several inches long, writhed, flicked, and teased at the thin slits of light slipping in from where the curtains were drawn and pinned shut. And a boy, not much younger than the girl, stood across from her, a pair of his mother’s scissors trembling in his chubby fist.
“I think this is going to hurt,” the boy said.
The girl nodded. “Yeah. Do it.”
(YET ANOTHER OBTRUSIVE ADVERTISEMENT)
“DOUGS IN SPACE”
(A SATISFACTORY, WELL-WRITTEN BIT THAT SOMEHOW FAILS TO LIVE UP TO SOME ARBITRARY STANDARD CREATED AND IMPOSED BY NOBODY)
Also originally published in The Nightly Chill zine on Instagram, and available in “Fight the Dawn: Ugh! Ugh! I’m Dying, You Idiot!”
Douglas Anderson never left California in his thirty-seven years of existence. He once traveled as far north as Stockton for a one-week training seminar for a rental car company he worked for while in college. He also visited San Diego on several occasions, though he wasn’t particularly fond of it. (When pressed for a reason why he felt this way about an entire city, Doug only ever averted his eyes and curled his lip.) He even once had plans to visit Vegas. It was to be a celebration of his twenty-first birthday with a group of his closest friends. The culmination of a lifelong bond forged through the crucible of childhood and, in once case, a brief stint in juvenile hall. Unfortunately for Doug, he had the misfortune of falling ill with a mild cold mere days before. And rather than risk getting anyone else sick, he took the headache and stuffy nose as a sign from the Universe to stay home. Doug would never see the neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip, nor the many fliers and pamphlets for adult entertainment that line it.
That said. Try to imagine Doug’s surprise when, without warning, he found himself ripped from atop his toilet, sent crashing up and through the ceiling of the converted garage he rented in Santa Ana from a kindly old woman named Gloria for five-hundred dollars a month, and then hurled by some unseen force into orbit.
Despite the arguments that invariably arise whenever the wholesale abandonment of Douglas Anderson by physics itself is brought up in conversation, Doug was neither frightened nor quick to make some sarcastic, witty remark with his final breath. Instead, he welcomed his end with open arms. His final thought before he found himself shredded to pieces by a passing stream of space debris (located somewhere between Newport and the moon) was this: “Dreams really do come true.”
Gloria, unfortunately, passed away several months after Doug’s ejection from the planet Earth. With Doug gone, there was nobody home on Wednesday afternoons. Thus, there was nobody around to hold the chair steady for Gloria as she refilled the bird feeder in her garden. Her body was found several weeks later by her son, Tito, who had stopped by in the hopes of borrowing fifty dollars until he started his new job.
Tito currently operates and manages daily tours of the hole left behind in his mother’s garage.
Purchase a copy of the “Fight the Dawn: Ugh! Ugh! I’m Dying, You Idiot” ebook to support this and other silliness.
LAST-MINUTE ATTEMPT AT ENGAGEMENT
Please, contact us however you can if you, or someone you know, engages in the following acts of debauchery:
- Animal Husbandry
- Audio plays
- Pulp and/or other genre fiction
- Shopping lists
- Absurd acts of defiance against a pleasantly cold, yet wholly uncaring universe
- Short films
The weirder, the better.
We are The Lost. And together, we’ll make sure the world sees and hears us.
(BLATANT, YET ALSO REDUNDANT SELF-PROMOTION)
Tonight, CHILL with “Grand Ghoulish,” an absurd twisted romance between a photographer, a housewife, and her husband–a surgeon who enjoys getting a little blood on his hands!
THE END BITS NOBODY CARES MUCH FOR
(READ: OBLIGATORY PLEA FOR MONEY)
Subscribe for that walk-of-shame feeling every morning after. And if you enjoy The Nightly Chill and would like to support such silliness, please consider supporting it via Patreon for as little as $1 a month.
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- Mixer (@thenightlychill)
- Twitter (@thenightlychill)
- Website (AmoralCrackpot.com/TheNightlyChill)
YOU ARE NOT ALONE
THE NIGHTLY CHILL