Category: Short Stories

He couldn’t believe it when she jumped. High on the ledge. One minute she was there and the next gone. Just like that.

All day she had been depressed. As the tears formed he knew she was on her way to a better place. ‘Hey honey, what’s up?’ he’d asked over breakfast. ‘Nothing’ she whispered, head full of clouds. “Just wanna get high.’ But they had to wait. First thing you learn is that you always gotta wait.

Kathy was ‘The Man’ – she had thrown them into it. Older, wiser, she had come to them – “Yesterday I was so high! I mean, really out there! Soooo good!” she pushed the words out between breathless breaths, freeing their minds by capturing their desire. That was the beginning of the fall.

He had loved Kathy, but now Alice was the only one. For a time, all three of them enjoyed the rush together, the speed. Until last week when Kathy ran herself into the ground. His last memory was her smile, uncertain and faded. Last night in a dream, an angel who had come to protect him lost its wings and fell to earth. “I miss her so much!”

It hit Alice hardest. Her perfectly packed backpack was now ripped and torn inside. She just didn’t want to think any more. More than ever now she needed the pure thrill of the rush to cover the pain. Her dream was spiraling towards the ground with zero resistance.

We knew we had to end it. We both knew that this had to be the last time. The risks were too high. Maybe we would be able to pull through. Maybe this time we would hit the ground running. It all seemed so different from up here. Up there everything that was difficult became easy. The door was open, you just had to choose whether to go through or whether to stay behind.

So they had gone to the usual place and gone through the ritual. Pretty soon they were floating high above the world. Somewhere between reality and fantasy he woke from a dream. And then she was on the ledge. He didn’t think she would do it. Really, really didn’t think she’d be able to do it. And then, suddenly out of time, she jumped and was gone. Just like that.

He ran to the ledge screaming and screaming and jumped after her. As the wind pushed his face to terminal velocity he could see the island and Alice’s open ‘chute way below.

He let gravity take control and enjoyed the ride.

 Copyright  Mark Devlin July 1996

For the first time in years Simon Jones was having fun. He was painting.

He was sick of them all. Especially Andy. Andy was getting more boring by the day. The weird thing was that even though he was the reasonable one, the others seemed to side with Andy. Even James, their “long-suffering” manager had taken him aside yesterday after the sound check.

The others have asked me to have a word with you. Just to see if you are ok.”
“I’m fine,” he mumbled.
“How’s Susan?”
“Fine.” He didn’t mention the fight.
“We’re worried about you.”
He drew blankly on his cigarette.
“The guys just want to know where we are going with this.”
“What’s Andy saying now?”
“Nothing. He’s off with Jane.”
They both looked at each other for a moment, and laughed survivors’ laughs. Bitch from Hell.

James’voice turned serious now, although it didn’t suit his cherub face.
“Simon, it’s a system; you, the band, the audience and you’ve got to keep control. Let’s talk after the show.”

But he didn’t want to talk. He was done with talking. Tonight was special. It would be the last night. He was going to show them what a show was. They just provided the backing, he was the artist. They came to see him while the others fumbled in the shadows to catch up.

He had imagined this several months ago when he was tripping with Spock and the guys down at Chambers Street.

“I’ve got to take the show further. I want to take it out there.”
“Cool” they said.
“Communicating with the audience through non-communication”
“Cool” they said.
“More than face-to-face, it’s mind-to-mind!”
“Cool” they said.

Then they all took more acid.

He avoided the band the rest of the day. They were probably down the pub. It hurt him that Andy couldn’t understand where he was going with the show. They had grown up together. He used to tease Andy about his youthful desire to be a policeman. “When I grow up I want to be a painter, not a plodder”. But they had found that together they were able to attack the audience with their incompetent noise and even get paid for it.

Success for a short second. And then slowly, eventually Simon had got tired of hearing Andy’s complaint “We have to play better, we have to play songs the audience knows. We have to get more professional.”

But to Simon, this noise was professional. His art was unpredictability, not repeatability. And he didn’t want to explain that because it shouldn’t have to be explained. He didn’t want to argue. He just pitied Andy silently for wanting to control the uncontrollable.

The last show was amazing. He was on the stage, tripping, and the audience were feeling his vibe and getting off on it. He didn’t even have to play his guitar. It was like telepathy. There could be no closer communication of mind and spirit. The other guys in the band didn’t understand. They were scared, because they couldn’t let go. They would never understand what it was like to be out in front. Putting your mind on the line.

He saw a girl in the audience. She was swaying backward and forward. Back and forth to the music and colors in his mind. And for a moment she looked into his eyes and saw nothing reflected back but the universe.

James had tried to talk to him after the show, but he was on too much of a high. He didn’t want to say or sing a single word ever again. He had left that world and was now somewhere warm and comfortable. And frankly, he had never felt better.

And then it came to him. He had to paint. He was an artist and an artist must paint. He took a taxi back, clutching three tins of paint he’d found behind the stage.

Like a child he felt the wicked exhilaration of slapping paint on his wall’s cool surface. He dripped, he daubed, he rubbed. His fingers merged the colors of his mind into a huge swirl that looked like heaven and hell.

The yellow had run out. He threw the tin at the wall, making a cute sunburst, just like his guitar. Then he threw his guitar at the wall. Another sunburst. Then he threw himself at the wall.

Some time later when all the paint was gone and the sun seared through the slit in the curtains he pulled his wet fingers from the wall and stepped back. His masterpiece. It had perfect form. He smiled to himself and decided to call it “Sanity”. He sat, lit up his last cigarette and admired it for a very long time.

The phone had been ringing for a while. He shook himself and, looking back at the wall, lifted the receiver. “Mr Jones, this is housekeeping, this is your wake-up call…Mr Jones?…Hello?”

He replaced the receiver and looked at the wall. He was awake and he was an artist!

Copyright Mark Devlin July 30 2001

They were stuck on that damn island with no way to get off. A horrible, horrible maze of a place with the threat of danger all around. Months of work, finally finished and now they couldn’t get home.

Of course, it was dad’s idea to come here. Lured by the prospect of easy money and the promise of glory his inventor’s  mind had gone into overdrive. Was he a genius? Or a madman? I wondered if all he wanted was for us to go down in history.

Mum was right, we should never have got involved with that bullheaded prick in the first place. The project had gone on far too long and, this was how we got paid. Death threats! I suppose I was too young to question the danger. They always said I was too young and high-spirited. Blah! Blah! Blah! I just kept those thoughts to myself, as usual. But now I knew the worst was coming.

The worst had come: Dad wanted us to fly out. I had seen it in a dream. The same dream over and over, ever since I can remember. We were running, then flying, soaring towards the sun. And then, falling, always in silence. Not fear for flying –fear of falling.

It didn’t help that my father knew I was terrified. He was such an optimist. “Listen, Ike,” dad said, “I know you are tired. I am too. But it’s  the only way out of this place.” His old eyes were strong as ever. But all I could do was mumble over and over “This is the end.”

So I was caught between a rock (in the ocean) and a hard place. There really was no other way. Dad arranged everything and made sure that I was as secure as possible. I even saw a tear slide down his check as he strapped me in. “It’s not far,” he said looking out over the ocean. “We won’t go too high or low. You should be able to see the sea at all times.” But I wasn’t really listening, I was staring into the dream, its premonition reverberating through my spine.

We were running, then flying, then soaring. I finally managed to exhale: we were in the sky. Old fears were cast off like old skins as I sped between the gods of the sea and the sun. This was great. The pain of our island hell seemed so far behind us. I forgot about home, mum, the island. I forgot about dad. He seemed far below me now. I had found my space.

I lost sight of the sea. I was going for the sun. I’d waited my whole damn life just to make that flight. And as the wax melted and the feathers blew in the wind I thought “Well Icarus, isn’t this ironic.”