Scenes from the Second Storey: International
Edited by Mark S. Deniz & Sharon Ring
Published by Morrigan Books
Kindle Edition
Östra Promenaden 43
602 29 Norrköping
Sweden
www.morriganbooks.com
www.amazon.com
Cover art by Amanda Pillar © 2011
First Published November 2011
All stories © 2011 by their respective authors, printed by permission of the authors
Kindle Edition, Licence Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
DEDICATIONs
MARK S. DENIZ
The God Machine — for eighteen years of inspiration.
Sharon Ring
Jerry, Cherily, Margaret — my mum, my daughter, my aunt. Without these three women in my life the world would make a lot less sense.
Mark and Sharon WOULD LIKE TO THANK:
Our wily proofreaders: Mihai Adascelitei, Richard Palmer and Lynne Lumsden Green, Amanda Pillar for yet another glorious Morrigan Books' cover, our thirteen authors for rising up to the challenge of creating a story with such narrow guidelines and everyone else who has helped to see this project unleashed upon the world!
CONTENTS
Foreword - Mark S. Deniz
Dream Machine - Miles Deacon
She Said - KV Taylor
The Blind Man - Carole Johnstone
I've Seen the Man - Gary McMahon
The Desert Song - Adrienne Jones
Home - Shannon Page
It's All Over - Paul Kane
Temptation - Pete Kempshall
Out - Mike Stone
Ego - Gerard Brennan
Seven - Joseph D'Lacey
Purity - T. A. Moore
The Piano Song - Ian Whates
Previous Publications
About the Authors
Foreword
SIDE A
So where did it all begin? Definitely not in any traditional way you may have heard before, that's for sure...
It was the summer of '93, and I was a mere twenty-two years old, walking home from a shopping trip, when I spied a cassette on the ground. It was battered, a Sony cassette in a BASF case (don't you hate things like that?) with no writing anywhere on either the former or the latter. I had my Walkman with me — incidentally, I was listening to a New Order compilation I had made for myself — and I switched tapes, curious.
The anticipation turned to disappointment as I heard Kurt Cobain's familiar voice singing the chorus to 'Smells Like Teen Spirit', and even though I suspected Nevermind, I hoped it was a compilation. As I wound through the tracks, murdering the batteries in the Walkman, I was disappointed to find one side of the cassette was, indeed, Nirvana's cult classic. I already owned Nevermind, so it seemed there was no new music for me.
Yet there was still hope, for side B beckoned and side B was...well, nothing I had heard before. There was a gravelly voice which opened up the track and something about us seeing life as an inexhaustible well ('Dream Machine'), before a song of such sheer power and intensity that I was smitten, right then and there.
But, and the big but, was that I had absolutely no idea who the band was. I walked home, going through the first five tracks; they were unmistakably the same artist. I had to hear the rest. I made the decision to take the tape to the two specialist record shops in the town to find out who the band was — I had to find out.
After dropping off my shopping, I began the twenty minute or so walk back into town, annoyed that my batteries died about halfway there, during a very powerful line about some things always being there if you dream ('Seven').
The first shop had absolutely no idea about who it was, even after asking the co-owner from the back, who was, to many of us in the town, a guru for quality music. This meant putting my faith in the 'lesser' specialist, who had only been in the town a few months. He put the tape in the stereo, pressed play and nodded along to the tune — but was this in acceptance of the quality or an indication that he knew who it was — I had to know.
"Yep, it's The Garden Machine," he said and I was at once relieved and disappointed. Relieved that I'd finally found out the band's name and disappointed at how terrible it was. I asked if he could get hold of the album and he said he would try and order it. I didn't like the 'try' in the answer and so went back to the real specialists and informed them who it was. They hadn't heard of the band, but said they'd look into ordering their albums.
So three weeks (and many rewinds and plays) later, I received a phone call from the second record store, saying they had my vinyl copy of The God Machine's Scenes from the Second Storey. Did the owner just say 'The God Machine'? That was a much better name.
I re-arranged my day and went to the store to pick up the LP, immediately buying a plastic sleeve for it and spending a few minutes just reading the title and the names of the tracks, tracks that I'd played extensively in the three weeks leading up to this. And, of course, none of the titles were the same as those I had given each song.
Before returning home with my prize, I popped into the other shop, apologised for giving them the wrong name and thanked them for having a look for me. They were fine about it, in fact, said it was strange as the previous week somebody had come in and asked them to order a copy of Scenes from the Second Storey by The God Machine. Owner of the cassette? Your guess is as good as mine.
SIDE B
Eighteen years on and not only does the album still resonate with me, inspire me and amaze me, but I dare to suggest that it is even better than it was then. The I that listened to the album as a twenty-two year old was only hearing a minute essence of what was contained within; even now I am at a loss to describe just how good the album is, in entirety and when thinking about each individual song.
The album has a darkness, a melancholy, which, clichéd as it seems, requires a bit of living to appreciate; there needs to have been some form of tragedy in life to fully get the album. Keats had it right when he talked about the understanding of both joy and sorrow. You could never really appreciate either without experiencing both. We need comparisons, we need references.
After many years of listening to the album, immersing myself in it time and time again, I decided I wanted to do a literary cover version — the ultimate homage. My musical skills, somewhat akin to the singing of a toddler, were certainly not adequate for the task. No, what I wanted was to write a collection of thirteen stories, each one an interpretation of a song from the album, attempting to do them justice with my own words, my own ideas.
More years passed with the collection yet to become a reality, but my experiences continued on in true Keats' fashion. I immersed myself in publishing and editing, became accustomed to seeing how other writers worked; how their ideas emerged from the nascent to the tangible. I felt that my cover anthology might benefit more from other people's perspectives and I started to contact the writers whose work I admired, asking them about the possibility of writing a short story based on the song lyrics and music from the Scen
es album.
While my love for this band is deep-seated, it came as no surprise to find that most of the authors I contacted were unfamiliar with either the band or the album, yet they were interested in the project. I had already worked closely with many Australian writers, so most of those I contacted in the beginning were Australians. I filled a book with thirteen authors very quickly. However, I did have writers I wanted to work with from other countries as well, and that led to the decision to publish two books, both of which I would edit and both of which would be a homage to both the album and a complement to each other.
Of course, now my book was no longer a mere idea, a massive workload at Morrigan Books meant that editing two books was practically impossible and I asked my in-house editor, Amanda Pillar, to work with Morrigan Books' contributor Pete Kempshall, to edit the Australian version. I then contacted my proof-reader/editor/friend, Sharon Ring, to work on the international version with me.
Whichever of the versions you have in your hand (I sincerely wish that you have both), I hope you enjoy the stories within — excellent stories all — crafted by writers with a real eye (and ear, it seems), for the story inside a story. Perhaps after submerging yourself in the quality to be had within the pages, you will consider it time to listen to one of the best, most inspiring albums of all time.
Mark S. Deniz
July 2010
Dream Machine
Miles Deacon
Martin presses the bony heels of his hands against his temples, squeezing his skull, trying to push the pain away. He stumbles forward, one heavy step after the other, his wool coat clinging fog-damp around his back and thighs.
Somehow, after a century of pain, he reaches home. He fumbles his way inside. The door slams shut behind him and he is in darkness. Head throbbing and stabbing, unable to face any more light for fear that his skull will crack, he feels his way through the darkness to the dream machine.
His fingers brush against the warm, velvet artefact. He doesn't search for the nickel and brass contacts. They're so familiar to him that they find him, shifting into place like squirming spawn finding a mother's teats. There's a jolt of electricity. The machine starts to rattle.
God places a soft hand on Martin's chest and shines.
*****
A thousand simultaneous orgasms. A million soothing hands. Every cell in his body sings. God suffuses him. He is lifted into the company of saints and angels. Pain is inconceivable. Everything is light and beauty and love. Everything is eternity and infinity.
Everything is good.
*****
He's soaked through. The bitter-cold rain slips down his neck, down his back. Martin stands stunned on the promenade like a golem. He's cold and wet, his body aches and he's confused.
Why is he here?
People are looking at him.
What has he been saying? Did he tell anybody about it?
No.
Must not tell.
No. No. No.
Must not tell.
There is no saint-sweetness in his mouth, no angels singing in his mind. His tongue is rancid and his teeth are furry. He can smell the stale sweat on his clothes. His hair is soaked and his feet hurt.
The machine. He has to get back to the machine.
Why has he started leaving the house? What is he thinking when the rapture takes him?
He starts the long walk home again, pressing the heels of his hand against his temple again. And somehow, as if he's skipped a track in his head, he's back in his house again and he's staring at the dream machine.
He presses his hand on the contacts.
Nothing happens.
He notices the red light on the machine, the power warning light.
No.
Not that.
It's a glitch.
The machine has power. The indicator is obviously not working.
Yes.
That's it.
Just a glitch.
Martin caresses the machine's contacts, his heart in his throat.
Nothing happens.
Martin jams his hand onto the contact points and waits for the small buzz of connection.
Still nothing.
*****
The machine is illegal. It doesn't use mains power. Mains power on these things can be traced through the network's pattern analysis. The machines use power packs. Not easily available, only through a few, guarded suppliers.
"What do you want?" says Phil when he opens the door to Martin. Martin's supplier is wearing a stained black suit. He has a large black beard that looks like a fungus. He has a multitude of sunken gold and brass contacts built into his head and face; it looks like metal acne.
Martin's head is cracking. He wants to scream but his throat is swollen and dry.
"Need a pack."
"Don't have no packs today, mate," says Phil. "Problems with supply."
"Need a pack."
"I told you, I don't have none."
"Need a pack. Lost the saints. Lost God."
"Yeah? Tell me, why do I deal with you losers? Do I look like I give a shit about your god and your saints? Go on. Piss off."
Suddenly Martin is kneeling on Phil's chest, and he has his hands around Phil's neck and is squeezingsqueezingsqueezing hard, and Phil is already blue, and he's clawing at Martin's arms, clawing at his face, but Martin doesn't give a shit, doesn'tcaredoesn'tcare, because that pain is nothingnothingnothing compared to the jagged pain in his brain.
After a long time, Phil stops struggling. His tongue protrudes from his blue lips like some strange glistening sea creature.
Martin is on his feet, moving on.
Pack.
Need the pack.
Packpackpack.
Martin stumbles into Phil's house, stepping on the corpse's chest as he passes.
*****
Phil's house is a sty. Filth abounds. Martin staggers through it as his head bursts and splits.
Where are the packs? Where the fuck are they?
Come on! Come on!
In one small room he finds a young woman slumped on a mattress. She stares at him dull-eyed. Her hair is greasy. She has tears in her eyes. She's rocking slightly, as if she's holding something to her chest, but there's nothing there.
Phil's woman?
No. A junkie.
"Where are the packs?" he says.
She stares at him, says nothing.
He moves closer.
"Where are the packs?"
She blinks slowly, as if she's coated in thick glue.
Martin hasn't got the time for this. He has to find the packs soon or he's going to die. He lunges for her, grabs her by the neck and pushes her against the wall.
"Where are the packs?"
Her mouth opens and closes; a fish gulping air. Martin finds this more revolting than her sickly smell, her foul breath. He squeezes her throat. She arches her back.
"Where are the packs?"
Her eyes are bulging now. She's scared. Hallelujah, he's getting through to her! He loosens his grip. She whispers something. He can't hear what she's saying. He leans closer, careful to keep out of biting range.
She whispers again.
"My baby. My baby."
Ah shit.
She's wasting his time.
No use to him. He tosses her away. She hits the wall hard and slumps to the floor.
Too hard?
Dead?
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter.
Come on!
Find the pack.
Come on!
He ransacks the room and finds only vomit and empty drug capsules.
Come on!
Find the packs.
He starts towards the door, making for the rest of the house.
And then.
Something.
Gives.
Something.
Shifts.
Inside.
His.
Head.
The rooms.
Grey.
&
nbsp; Air.
Stagnant.
Light.
Cold
Then.
Then.
Then.
*****
Then.
Light.
He's in a white room. A pale, thin man is looking down on him. Martin can see the long, dark hairs in the man's nose, the underside of his chin where the man hasn't shaved properly. He can see the bloodshot left eye and the blackheads dotted across the man's bulbous nose.
"Mr Jones," says the man.
Martin closes his eyes. Nothing feels right. He feels as if he's slipped sideways away from himself. Where is he? What's happened?
"I'm Leister Crawley," says the face. "I'm your lawyer. You're in hospital. "
Hospital. Drugs. That explains the sideways, grimy feeling.
Martin tries to speak, but only a grunt comes out.
"No," says the lawyer. "Don't say anything. The doctors say you have to have rest while your brain connections heal. You just lie there, nice and still and everything will be okay."
Brain connections?
"Connn-n-n-ngggg," he says. "Connn-n-n-n-g?"
"Don't speak," says the lawyer, patting Martin's shoulder. "Don't speak. You're going through The Cure. Soon you'll feel better and we can talk, just you and me. You and me."
Martin doesn't answer.
He slides further sideways out of the light and into the dark.
*****
He's in a hospital bed. The room is standard utilitarian hospital room: white paint and heavy linen, bedpans and a long line of empty, sagging beds. There's a curtain blocking the main door. Halfway down the curtain is the ghost of a large brown stain of indeterminate provenance. Someone coughs in the distance, hacking and spitting up thick fluids. Someone screams for a nurse.
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