The International Writers Magazine: Dreamscapes Fiction
for the weekend
The top was down and we were pushing
ninety. I had my head back and was screaming and laughing and
had been doing so since we hit the motorway and Trish let rip.
It was the first time I had been out the city for years. Plus
I dropped a tab before we left and it was starting to kick in
But what beat everything
was the music. After I squeezed into the car I slid the box out from
under my seat and found The Doors.
I hadn't listened to The Doors for years. Or to anyone else for that
matter. Before I met Trish I was living in a kind of void. Trish reckoned
this was because a lot happened to me during my twenties and my brain
had simply shut down.
We stopped at a service station. Trish was starving and needed to eat.
" You coming?"
I lit a cigarette, shaking, and said I would find her in the restaurant.
" I told Stewart we would be there by eleven. We haven't got long,"
Trish said and left.
I dropped another tab, tossed my cigarette away and went and sat on
the toilet and chatted to myself for what I believed was a minute or
two but was in fact over an hour.
" Where the hell have you been!" Trish demanded.
I explained but Trish didn't believe me. She said I was a liar. Then
walked away, shouting, choosing words she knew I wouldn't understand.
I knew Brixton well. A long time ago I came here to visit a friend and
ended up staying for ten years. That was when I began taking music seriously
and joined a band. At one point I was described in a magazine as the
leading guitar player in London.
Her brother's name was Stewart. But I didn't call him Stewart. I called
him Baldy. I don't know why, but it just came out that way. If he was
bald I could maybe understand it. I often called bald people Baldy.
I also called fat people Fatty. My mouth ran away with me back then.
It was like it had a mind of its own.
It didn't matter, though. Stewart didn't hear me. It was like I wasn't
there. It was like I didn't exist.
" What's wrong with him?" I asked her.
" He gets like this sometimes," Trish said, squatting down
and staring into Stewart's eyes which had not moved or blinked since
we had let ourselves in. " That's why I bring a key."
After that things got weird.
Trish mutated into a cartoon character. Then I was no longer sitting
next to Stewart but in a field surrounded by rabbits.
Then I was on stage and my fingers were a blur. And the crowd was going
crazy, baying me to go for it.
So I went for it. That one note or maybe that series of notes when everything
crystalizes into something bigger and better than what it actually is.
Then I'm on a beach, grinning, looking at the sea, shielding my eyes
because the sun is burning, really burning.
" I'm back, Trish."
© Alan Stokes April 2005
Cold in the staffroom
Fiction in Dreamscapes
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