Story H

LaurieAK · Post by **LaurieAK** » Tue Oct 18, 2005 8:40 pm

STORY H

Living next door to Leonard Cohen

Simon hit the face of the statue at 30 mph. An early tingling of ‘gravel rash’ began its slow march along Simon’s arm and leg, with a promise of agonies yet to come. Adrenaline worked its temporary magic without Simon noticing.

The sky, pale grey with red streaks, smothered his vision; blurring this street in Krakow. “Polish tarmac is surprisingly cool for such a warm autumn day,” he thought. Cold hands and legs too, were an equal surprise, yet his tingling arm had a slow, crawling warmth, snaking over his flesh.
“I’m in trouble,” continued his disjointed thoughts, within the confines of the crash helmet. Then nothing.

A man was singing, (or was it talking?) in a rhythmic bass next to him.
“What the hell is that?” spoke part of Simon’s mind.
“I don’t bloody know!” exclaimed another, as Simon surrendered to the warmth and comfort of his bedcovers.
“Alive?” He needed proof. “Saved for eternity, or just for now?” It was one or the other, for Simon had no doubt about that.
The sky’s greyness, was now powder blue, from which red streaks had withdrawn.
“Lovely shade of blue with a hint of pain and detergent thrown in.”
Simon tried desperately to wonder why he thought that. Then nothing.

The Voice was talking again. Not singing, talking. “..women have been very kind to me.” Nothingness, returned, but with a hint of something like dreams. Flying solo on an updraft of petrol fumes and fear.

The Voice returned, and it had friends with it, lady friends. “..time’s gonna heal this wound, rocket ships are climbing,” but Simon couldn’t see any rockets. “..there ain’t no cure,” sent Simon into a powder blue panic.
“Where are the rockets?” Simon looked for them with just one eye, for a long, long time, but The Voice spoke his thoughts for him,
“I need you, I don’t need you,” and Simon smelled his own sweat, blood and fear. “Where are the bloody rockets?” Pain he’d forgotten existed, returned, to remind him, and once more, Nothing swept through him.

He could sense the man next to him, even before the deepest of voices asked him, “..you who wish to conquer pain?”
“Oh yes please, and make it soon,” thought Simon,
“..learn what makes me kind, your pain is no credential here,” and Simon wanted to smash the voice, hard.
“No credential? Who the hell do you think you are? Pain is all I am right now brother!”
“I know you are not poor,” breathed The Voice, and Simon knew he was being set up for cash.
“Bloodsucking leech,” became his mantra as Simon was slowly swallowed into Nothing again, as he faintly heard the man singing, “..everybody knows the deal is rotten,” and he sounded cheerful!
Petrol-fumed flight, faded into an acrid, metallic, swamp of glue, which ‘leeched’ through nostril and burning leg, under a powder blue sky. “Oh God, where am I?” cried part of his mind. “Not dead,” answered a voice deep from within.

Simon’s thoughts were sluggish and confused. “I must be drugged!” Powder blue appeared in both eyes with a hint of custard off to the right. Simon was hungry, very hungry, “Custard’ll do,” he thought.
The Voice called to him, “..my swollen appetite,” and Simon hated it again. “Why, what, what do you want?” he thought and The Voice answered, “I showed my heart to the doctor.”
“Hospital! Of course, hospital, not sky, ceiling, powder blues and pills,” thought Simon, sinking into warmth and numbness, hating The Voice, but puzzled.

The swamp of dreams faded in its turn, and Simon squinted through a blue haze, searching for rockets, but giving up when The Voice declared, “they’ll never, ever reach the moon.”
A statue emerged from the floor at the foot of his bed and appeared to be bandaged around its face. “Mr Smith? Can you eat anything today?” she asked. “Custard,” he whispered, and “tartly” drifted across his mind, smiling.

“Am I whole?” he asked, but wondering, “is it her?”
“Yes Simon, you’re whole,” smiled the bandage on the statue’s face. Simon sighed, wept, dribbled and let Nothing take him peacefully, this time.
He stirred, recognising a strangely worrying sensation.
“Wake up, Simon,” called his mind. The drifting presence of drugs faded, as Simon woke properly.
The statue moved. A hand held his wrist. Alcohol fumes filled his nose.
Simon looked hard, to complete the picture. The nurse returned his gaze. The eyes above the bandage smiled again, as antiseptic wafted through his nose. Simon remembered being told he’d “go clear,” yet couldn’t remember. Was this ‘clear’?

It took hours, possibly, to turn his head.
The Voice was chatting next to him, saying, “..and I said I am Kris Kristofferson,” and a crowd of people burst out laughing. Simon couldn’t lift his head to see how many were there, but it must have been a lot.
“Good afternoon Mr Smith,” said a woman’s voice and Simon noticed her next to him. “We’ve had to keep you sedated for some time I’m afraid, and the past six weeks will be lost to you. I hope Mr Stiller’s music hasn’t been a nuisance while you and he have been next to each other in here?”
“Hi,” said a man’s voice, with an unfamiliar accent. “Glad to see you’re back with us.” Simon couldn’t place the voice. Where was the other man?
“Hello,” replied Simon, “have you been in here long?” he asked.
“About two months. I was attending a concert and during an open-mic session, I fell off the stage. Too much Red Needle I’m afraid,” laughed the man.
“Is there anyone else here?” asked Simon, “only, I kept hearing a man singing.”
“Oh I’m sorry,” said Mr Stiller, “that’ll be my Leonard Cohen tapes, I hope you didn’t mind?”
“Mind?” said Simon; “I feel I’ve been living next door to Leonard Cohen for the last six weeks!”
“D’you know what Simon, that’s just what these Sisters of Mercy said.”

Fljotsdale · Post by **Fljotsdale** » Tue Oct 18, 2005 10:39 pm

Oh, well done! Clever! I like clever.

Byron · Post by **Byron** » Wed Oct 19, 2005 10:59 pm

After my operation last year, when I couldn't make any sense of what was going on around me, and the drugs made me groggy, it was very much like this particular story. Is that Tom D who gets a mention as well? But why Poland?

Diane · Post by **Diane** » Thu Oct 20, 2005 10:16 am

Clever and very entertaining.

Byron · Post by **Byron** » Thu Oct 20, 2005 1:20 pm

In Poland there is a convent run by Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy.

I wanted to bring a sense of the unreal through a character who was unaware of what was happening around him. Dreams seem very real when we experience them. Nighmares are genuinely frightening.

This character was between this world and his subconscious.

By using the lyrics of leonard's songs and interviews, I enjoyed playing the character (Simon) along, as real and unreal swept through his mind.

I also like the idea of using the character 'Voice' as a 'voice' in a story. A double meaning to the Voice in literature.

Glad you enjoyed it.

This is my own personal favourite of all the ones I entered.

I just had to bring Tom D Stiller's name in as well.

Fljotsdale · Post by **Fljotsdale** » Fri Oct 21, 2005 1:34 am

FOURTH?!

Byron · Post by **Byron** » Fri Oct 21, 2005 1:42 am

fifth.

Fljotsdale · Post by **Fljotsdale** » Fri Oct 21, 2005 1:54 am

Ye gods!

You were determined to write a winner, hey?

LaurieAK · Post by **LaurieAK** » Fri Oct 21, 2005 2:18 am

Hi Fljotsdale~

But he DID write a winner!
So did you!!
All the stories were 'winner' good.

Next time, if I am a judge, I insist on some real crap stuff to make the task easier. hahahaha

Laurie

Byron · Post by **Byron** » Fri Oct 21, 2005 11:19 am

Fljotsdale wrote:Ye gods! You were determined to write a winner, hey?

'I' found an excuse to spend some personal quality time in allowing 'me' to indulge myself. It kept the elephant cowering in the corner.

The buzz was addictive as each story developed in its own way. To win would be fine. To enjoy the process was better.

Keeping them to an 'anal' 1000 words was very difficult.

I certainly understand how Ali had to leave some detail out of her story. It's a bit like an Agatha Christie, or Colombo story, in which we see what happens, BUT one of the characters has to explain the reasons and details, in an 'epilogue.' The short story can't have that luxury.

Life happens and we never get to understand large parts of it. It's the same with people.
If we all instinctively understood everybody, = b-o-r-i-n-g........

Fljotsdale · Post by **Fljotsdale** » Sat Oct 22, 2005 3:56 pm

One of the things I particularly like about short story-writing is it's brevity, and the concomitant necessity of making every word count.

Though one short that I wrote was SO short that I had to pad it out - and the padding made the story.

So I guess it was essential, even though I had not originally planned it that way!

tom.d.stiller · Post by **tom.d.stiller** » Tue Oct 25, 2005 8:39 pm

Byron wrote:I just had to bring Tom D Stiller's name in as well.

Thank you, Byron, for the honour to appear in this excellent short story, cleverly composed, brilliantly written.

I should have come along to thank you much earlier, but as you know, I was busy building a new cyberhome for some poems. So maybe you can forgive my being late (I had to take care of your children...)

The new site is called 'tom's d.stillery' and is open 24 hours on http://www.tomdstiller.0nyx.com

Cheers
tom

Byron · Post by **Byron** » Tue Oct 25, 2005 9:26 pm

“Alive?” He needed proof. “Saved for eternity, or just for now?” It was one or the other, for Simon had no doubt about that.

Simon is a religious man. Hence the certainty of being alive or in the next life. I introduced this because of where I wanted Simon to wake in which hospital.
The Sisters belong to an Order from which a Saint emerged...

“Am I whole?” he asked, but wondering, “is it her?”

Who is the "her," Simon is refering to ?

“Yes Simon, you’re whole,” smiled the bandage on the statue’s face. Simon sighed, wept, dribbled and let Nothing take him peacefully, this time.

Why did Simon let Nothing take him peacefully, this time ?

Firstly, I borrowed from the Catholic use of 'statues.' Simon, who is religious, sees what he believes to be a 'statue.' He is experiencing something even more personal than leonard's 'Voice.'

In 'Beautiful Losers' Leonard opens with the name of a saint, Catherine Tekakwitha. Her 'statue' has been seen by some of you. I have only seen a photograph.

Secondly, I wanted to allude to the Saint who emerged from these Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy. Her name was Helena Kowalska (1905 - 1938) and Pope John Paul II canonised her into Sainthood in 2000 AD. Two of the miracles she worked were in the US. That in itself, makes the connection with the Old World and the New World, interesting.

Thirdly, St Tekakwitha was a young woman who joined the original natives of the New World with the Old World.

You may find this interesting or not. I wanted to have an underlying story going on inside the mind of Simon, but it had to have tangible links to our world, the Old World, and the world to come. The connection with lc and his book is another one of those connections. And of course, the connection to Tom D links the story with all of us.

This was my favourite of the stories I wrote.

And the name of the saint?

Saint Faustina