Doug tore at the guitar string. His fingers were shredded, the guitar fed back. Louder and louder till it was ringing in his ears.
He looked at the notebook.
Big Empty.
He grabbed a glass and knocked back the drink. He was nearly sick as he picked up the bottle and threw it against the wall. He watched it smash and cheap whisky burst all over the wall.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He sat down at the edge of the bed and slid to the floor. The light was off, the place was silent. He looked out the big window, the sky above was alive. Colours breaking over the darkness. The moon looking on.
The room was cold. He pulled his coat twice against the chill. His eyes felt heavy as he felt himself sinking down. Lower and lower into the earth. Pages of words and ideas falling around him like rain. He felt the darkness envelop him.
He shouldered the guitar and hit an A chord.
He was flying.
Looking back down at himself, sitting in that room as he soared above the city. The lights, the traffic, the people. Fading. He was free. Soaring faster, the stars above, but he didn’t care. He cut through the still night air, felt it rushing past him.
He took a deep breath and yelled with delight.
“Fuck yessss.”
He swooped down over the dark river, under the bridge, and back up to the sky. Higher and higher. Gravity pulling at him but he felt the rush in his blood. Gravity trying to hold him. He smiled, but he could feel himself slowing.
“Fuck you,” he yelled.
For a moment there was just life.
He just was.
Feeling the pulse of the universe.
Whole.
And then. He was falling. Faster and faster. He kicked his arms and legs, he shouted and yelled. But it was all in vain. As he gained speed he laughed like a child. What else could he do?
The city was getting closer. The lights brighter. He was spinning through the sky.
He heard the traffic.
Somewhere there was music playing, he heard a lonely piano. He smelt the food cooking over the stove, saw the chefs in the back alleys having their smokes, the party girls out for the night, and an old guy stumbling out the bar.
And then he landed with a crash on top of a pile of rubbish below his window.
As he lay there he felt the grey flood into his veins, his eyes, his bones. He lay there for a moment, looking up at an empty sky as the stars faded.
He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled out to the road. He felt something rise up inside of him and vomited on the pavement as the number 11 bus rolled by.
It was playing music.
One of his songs.
What the fuck.
He felt pain shoot up from his chest and there was a ringing in his ear. He wiped the sick from his mouth and half walked, half stumbled down the pavement. His laces were loose and they spun as he walked.
He stumbled left.
Stumbled right.
Stopped and tried to steady himself.
People saw him coming and moved out the way.
He sat down on the church steps. His breathing heavy. He watched the crowds, and felt the world spinning. The minister came out and had a look of concern when he spotted him. He said,
“You can’t sit here pal, this is a church.”
“Aye I just need a minute. I was flying a moment ago.”
“Sure you were, sonny,” he laughed.
“No, I really was.” He looked at him.
“Listen I’m showing a few youtubers around and everything has got to be just right. They have got a big follower count..”
He turned and walked away.
“Well go fuck yourself.”
The minister didn’t look back.
Doug slipped away, down a side alley and away from the people. He heard a conversation and there was an old man drinking from a bottle, muttering to himself.
The old man had a big pile of papers and notebooks. He scored through a line and threw it on the fire. Then a whole notebook. He took a swig from a bottle of cheap booze. Talking to no one in particular. He was dressed up in a suit and tie.
He offered Doug the bottle and he took a swig, as the old man laughed. The world turned and stretched and leaked like paint waiting to dry.
“What was in that?” he asked.
“Life and death, my friend,” the man smiled a toothless grin.
Doug shuddered. Fuck. The man’s face blurring, melting.
“Who are you? What the fuck are you?”
“Don’t you know?” laughed the old man. “I’m the writer, all my life, words, tumbling like rain, caught in the storm, finding my way. Fighting the emptiness, big empty.”
“Well, how did you end up here?”
“Life my friend, life. We don’t get to write the ending ourselves.”
Doug just looked at him. “We’ll see”
“Got a couple of quid?” The old man asked.
Doug dug into his pocket and gave the man £5. The old guy put a hand on his shoulder.
“Thanks friend, now kindly fuck off.”
Doug looked at him as the old man started burning more paper.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” said Doug.
The old man just stared into the flames as they built higher and higher.
Doug stepped back, not wanting to get caught in the flames. He turned and stumbled on, back to the street where the bus warped and flashed like it wasn’t even there.
He saw people walking past. He couldn’t see their faces. One of them bumped into him. Then another. Someone swore at him.
Aye well fuck off.
He held his hands up to his face. He felt an arm on his shoulder.
“You alright Doug? You’re late, you’re due on in 5 minutes.”
He looked at a man’s body with a cat’s head talking like an old friend.
“Ok, I’ll play big pussy cat, where do I go? Ya big puss”
“Why you got to be such an arsehole, man?”
“I’m sorry, Catman, where do I go?”
He led Doug through a door and up a flight of stairs. The old wooden stairs creaked below his feet. The place smelled like sweat and beer and the definite smell of perfume lingering in the air.
An old wooden stage stretched out.
The Catman thrust a guitar into his hand and Doug looked at him like what? He just looked at Doug.
“You been on the fucking bin juice or something? Get out there.”
And he pushed Doug out onto the stage.
The crowd stood and applauded. Doug gave them a wave. They sat down and there was silence. He lifted the guitar and felt the weight of the strap on his shoulder.
Doug shouted,
“What do I do, Catman?”
Cat came back,
“Throw us a rope, bring us back from the big empty.”
He looked at the crowd and looked down at the ground. He looked at the guitar.
He remembered.
The broken glass.
The ambulance lights.
His blood on his guitar.
Strings.
Electricity.
He closed his eyes.
Hit the chord.
The notes filled the stage.
The light was blinding.
The roof tore open.
Music ripped the sky.
And he was soaring again.
Alive.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 