Scenes from the Second Storey: International
Published by Morrigan Books
Smashwords Edition
Östra Promenaden 43
602 29 Norrköping
Sweden
Editors: Mark S. Deniz & Sharon Ring
Cover art by Amanda Pillar © 2011
First Published November 2011
All stories © 2011 by their respective authors, printed by permission of the authors
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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
****
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 Scenes 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
*****
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.
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.
Martin tries to sit up but his head sways like it's balancing on a thin stick. He's overcome with dizziness and nausea. He closes his eyes and falls back against his pillow, breathing hard.
"Martin?"
The lawyer's voice again, soft and gentle.
Martin keeps his eyes closed. Doesn't want to talk right now.
"Martin," says the lawyer. "I've been asked to talk to you about the machine."
Martin opens his eyes.
The lawyer is standing over him, all blackheads and bulbous nose, thin pale skin, looking concerned.
"I don't have much time to explain this, Martin. The hearings start in an hour. I need you to know what we're dealing with."
Bile rises in Martin's throat.
"You've been suffering from a form of brain damage, Martin, brought on by, what do you call it, your dream machine? Yes? Well, you think you've been conversing with God and saints and angels, but you haven't. I have to tell you this. Your faith wasn't real, Martin. There is no God. The law says so."
Martin is wool-muffled and slow. The lawyer's words drag through the air.
Brain damage?
The lawyer moves closer, out of focus.
"They've corrected the damage, Martin, and they've corrected you. You aren't to be held responsible for the deaths of those...people. You weren't yourself. You can't be blamed. You're the victim here, Martin, and I'm here for you. I'm a fighter, Martin, they all say it. I asked to represent you, Martin. Nobody wanted you, but I did, because I believe you need to go home. I'll get you home, I promise."
The lawyer pats Martin's shoulder.
"I'll get you home soon."
*****
A room with six people in white coats lined up behind a long dark table. The floors are parquet. The walls are painted dark red. The smell of bleach and vomit pervades.
Martin sits unrestrained on a short chair, lower than the people facing him.
"Are you cured, Martin?"
"Yes."
"Do you experience God, Martin?"
"No."
"Our notes say you have recovered fully. Have you recovered fully?"
"Yes. And I want you to know how thankful I am for your effort."
This pleases them. They don't smile, but he can see it in their eyes.
"Thank you, Martin. We have discussed your case and, based on your lawyer's representation and your progress in therapy, we feel we have no choice but to send you home."
Martin nods quietly and looks humbly grateful. It's taken the lawyer three days to help Martin get that look right. It's a winner.
"We must reiterate, Martin, that part of The Cure changes receptors in your brain permanently. If you try to use a dream machine again for more than a few hours, it will kill you. You must not return to the machine, Martin. Do you understand?"
Martin nods solemnly. Yeah, he understands that one. How convenient. A cure that prevents backsliding.
"I understand," he says.
"I have a question," says a white coat.
Martin sees his lawyer tense.
"Is your conscience clear, Martin?" asks the white coat.
The lawyer stands up.
"Don't answer that, Martin. You're the victim here. Remember that."
Martin nods. But to answer the question, his conscience is clear. He has come to terms with the killings, thanks to The Cure and the therapy and the true support of his lawyer. He knows he is innocent, at no fault for what he did. It was the machine that did this, not him.
He was simply its victim.
*****
He sits with his lawyer in a taxi, going home. Outside, the rain clatters down. Inside smells of sweat, pine freshener and old vomit.
"Well done," says the lawyer. "You said it all just right."
Martin doesn't answer. All he wants right now is to get home, close the door and shut out the world.
The taxi slows, drifts to the side and stops outside Martin's house.
"Here we are," says the lawyer. The lawyer hands Martin his pressed clothes, the bloodstains removed. He hands Martin the house keys. "I've had the place cleaned. You have food. I've made sure you have everything you need."
Martin stares at the door of his house. How long has he been away?
"You never know what life has in store for you, do you?" says the lawyer.
Martin reaches for the door handle. The lawyer grabs his arm.
"I had this friend," says the lawyer. "She lost a child and she developed a problem with drugs. She had a chance of getting better, with the right help. But she died. She died before we could help her."
Martin frowns.
What is this idiot wittering on about? Friends? Child?
Forget it.
Time to go home.
Martin starts to open the door, but the lawyer grabs Martin's arm.
"After all our time together, Martin, after my friend's death, I find myself asking questions about your God. I find myself thinking about the machine and The Cure and your situation. I find myself asking: is the machine such a bad thing? Even if it kills you? Even in your situation? Is two hours with God better than a lifetime without?"
The lawyer stares at him with one clear eye and one bloodshot eye.
Martin doesn't respond. He's tired. He wants to go home. That's all.
"Goodbye, Martin," says the lawyer. "May your God go with you."
The lawyer releases Martin. Martin fumbles with the door and steps out into the drizzle. The taxi slides away, receding into the smog. Martin watches it disappear then turns to his house. He walks to the door. He uses the key the lawyer gave him and he steps inside.
Home.
Thank God.
Smiling, he wanders into the main room to settle down and simply chill out, be normal again, whatever that means.
He almost trips over the dream machine.
It's squatting in the middle of the room on the floor as if no time has passed since he last saw it. Pristine velvet. No dust.
What?
What the fuck?
The police took it. He knows the police took it. They said they destroyed it.
Is he hallucinating? Is this some sort of latent brain glitch from The Cure?
Martin sits cross-legged on the bare floor in front of it and stares. He extends his index finger and gently prods the velvet, gets resistance. Solid. Not a hallucination. He runs his hand down the velvet, strokes the machine. It's warm. It feels alive. It has power. The red light isn't blinking.
Martin holds his fingertips over the contacts, leaving a careful distance.
If he uses the machine for an hour and then stops; he'll be okay, won't he? Yes. He can swing this. He can control this.
Is two hours with God better than a lifetime without?
No. Don't do this. This isn't good. This will kill you. You can't control it. You know it. You can't do this. Don't do it. Don't.
Yes.
But.
Is two hours with God better than a lifetime without?
Martin lowers his hand.
*****
Amelia took it harder than I did when they found Dad all slashed up. No one was surprised, least of all me, though not for the reasons they thought.
She held herself together pretty well until a week after the funeral, when she stumbled through the cabin door at midnight, pale cheeks painted with little mascara rivers. I started trying to demolish them with my thumb, mostly to keep her from throwing her arms around me.
"Why won't you ever hug me?"
"I'm trying to fix your face. You're a mess."
"Fuck that, Tory. What kind of brother are you?"
Not much of one, I guessed, no matter how I tried. But she had this look on her face, this clichéd sadness in her big blue eyes, so I didn't say it. "Why were you crying?"
"Are you stupid? I can't stay in that house by myself. Let me stay here, please."
She looked like she was going to try and hug me again, so I held her at arm's length and examined her carefully. She was shaking. Panic attack: first sign of drama to come.
I hoped it'd hurry up; I didn't like feeling helpless to fix her. "I have a lot of work to do."
Her small, pointed chin quivered. Her eyes glistened. "You're fucking heartless."
I almost agreed, but I didn't like to lie to Amelia. Instead I just looked at her, wondering how to tell her no without shattering her harder than she wanted me to.
She blinked back her tears. "What do I have to do? Slash my own wrists?"
I let her go. Acid rose in the back of my throat. I swallowed it hard.
She saw. "Guess so. Think that's why Dad did it, to get a reaction out of you?"
It was so ridiculous that under normal circumstances I would've laughed. But I was too sick in that fluttery, excited way. I let my legs give out and sank into the seventies-orange couch behind me.
She took out a cigarette and lit it with trembling hands. Her customized Zippo with the tattoo-looking heart, her prized possession, went back into the purse. "Well?"
I looked at her for a few more seconds. My insides shook.
Why would she use that, of all the attention-whoring ammunition in her arsenal? She didn't know, she couldn't know, but even if she had, it couldn't have been more awfully perfect.
Now she glared. "Answer me."
I couldn't, though, not really. All that came out was, "You shouldn't have said that." I saw her with blood welling from dark slits, leaving viscous red trails down her white arms. Tracks that told the story of her life. I knew she wouldn't, but I saw it anyhow.