Enjoy the benefits of a premium membership!
Upgrade Account
-
TalkBass has been independent since 1998. Add your voice.
Create a free account to reply to discussions, view embedded media, and browse with fewer display ads.
Join free Log in
Want zero display ads or expanded classifieds tools? Compare plans.
LYRICS! DROP EM HERE!
- Thread starter OPBASSMAN1994
- Start date
Good to be back!
Part One:
OCTOBER
The first snow of the year started to come down. Dancing from the steel grey sky, it covered the once grey landscape in a white blanket. The pure, virgin snow lay on the chimneys, the roof beneath them, the factory gates before them, and the path leading up to the gates. Here, a solitary man walked up to the wrought-iron towers, his footsteps trailing behind. Looking up into the swirling mist, he let out a brief sigh, before walking onwards. Past the great red monolith, a monument to the triumph of industry, he carried on down to the river.
The edges had iced over, but beyond them the grey mass churned violently. He had once seen a man drown here. Swept into the oncoming rush of water by some unseen force, he had drifted downstream too fast for anyone to affect a rescue. How he now wished to suffer the same fate. To die alone and now, far from the reach of anyone. To be distant to the troubles of the world around him, to slip the surly bonds of life and explore the final frontier of death. To leave behind the mocking laughs of the man he once trusted, the faint derision of the men he once called friends, the ignorant betrayal of a woman he once loved, but most of all the cowardice and loathing of himself.
He had not always felt this way. But a matter of days beforehand, his life had seemed without compare. The warmth of friendship and the satisfaction of his work. And above all, he had the love of a perfect woman. Though this was not a love shared, nor even a love confessed upon her, it was enough for him. At night he comforted himself with dreams of life with her, of appearing as Culwch, to take her Olwen as his bride. She was his stuff of dreams, yet no more. Truth be told, she was real, but to him, she was as distant as any maiden of Arthurian legend. Known throughout these parts as the single most beautiful woman to ere grace the eyes of man, and blessed with a wit and wisdom beyond her tender years, it was as though an angel were removed from heaven and placed in his life. And yet he, so infatuated with this being of pure perfection was a mere mortal. Unremarkable. If anything, forgettable. Disposable. Of no importance. Yet another of the faceless mass known as humanity. He had ambition, but these were little more than unreached dreams. He dreamt of great power and an entire nation held in the shadow of his heel. Yet he was not, and never would be known beyond his small group of friends and colleagues.
He had reached the railway station now. As he walked alongside the lines, the snow thickened. Much more and the services would be halted, but for now, the lines were clear enough, and a dirty black locomotive rumbled past, the precious cargo of raw coal covered by an uneasy layer of snow. Moving up and down the tracks, great beasts and diminutive workhorses moved all manner of objects from one place to another. Letting out a grim chuckle the man realised just how his life had become much the same. Routines. Endless drudgery. Cyclical.
And yet, he had his one glimmer of hope. A last chance to salvage a life from this existence. Her. She visited him in his mind’s eye. The two of them sat together before a fireplace, holding each other close, two separate entities acting as one. Two hearts beating in perfect unison. Two souls endlessly intertwined and inescapably drawn together. They would sit for hours on end, talking to each other, sharing thoughts, commenting on their perfect relationship, or even simply being there with one another. They would take long walks in the country-side, far from the smoke belched out from the factory’s stacks, amongst beautiful singing birds and under endless blue skies. And of course, they made love. The most sensual and pure love there has ever been was enacted between these two. It was an expression of their love, the ultimate manifestation of their eternal and infinitely beautiful love. In time, of course, they would be married, in a grand cathedral. Then they would settle down in a small cottage near where they used to walk hand-in-hand, and have children. A boy and a girl, separated by two years. They would be rosy cheeked and full of life. As they played in the garden, their parents would watch, before staring into each other’s eyes. The feeling was of accomplishment, of pride and of having perpetuated their love. In time, he would take his government post, rise to lead his party and then contest an election on principles of honesty, working for the people and making the World a better place. Upon taking office, he would dedicate his victory to his wife, his muse and his reason for existence itself. He would leave loved by the people, a love which would never reach the depths of love he felt for his beloved, and die with her at his side, forever together.
Passing under the shadow of the football ground, the man was reminded of his friend. The man he had once trusted with his life, many years ago. How now, he wished never to see him again, never for their paths to cross while he had yet breath within his body. How he loathed the shallow qualities his friend offered, the athletes body, the artists sensitivity. How he despised the foolhardiness of his friend, the lack of fear of consequence and that sheer damned recklessness of his. His friend was, in truth, exactly what a young girl would have dreamt of. His athlete’s body developed through years of activity, his artist’s sensitivity honed by countless expositions of the natural condition in oil. And above all he was not a timid man, unfased by the shame of failure; he lived in a dream-like state, where actions had no consequence and success was a mere occurrence.
With this cavalier ignorance, the man had stood no chance against his friend. Not wishing to place upon himself the depression of rejection, and not to ever put her in the position of utmost discomfort, he had kept the love a secret to her. His friends had known, through many a drunken rambling upon the subject, and indeed one of her friends was aware of his feelings, yet he did not approach her. His cowardice, disguised as goodwill and a desire to make life more passable for both parties involved, led him to a life of fantasy, of dreams. And now, this fear of rejection left him alone, as the woman he loved was led to the arms of a man he had once loved.
The first chills of winter began to set in as he approached his home, forcing the last desperate remnants of summer into exile. The snow lay thicker here, over row after row of terraces. Peterson next door had put his bins out early. The man found it odd that he would notice such a detail. He cast his mind back to the times he had spent with her. In front of the fire, in the country side, in the cathedral, the cottage, in power and on his deathbed. He smiled grimly to himself, and walked inside, feeling for the last time the cruel warmth of life.
Part One:
OCTOBER
The first snow of the year started to come down. Dancing from the steel grey sky, it covered the once grey landscape in a white blanket. The pure, virgin snow lay on the chimneys, the roof beneath them, the factory gates before them, and the path leading up to the gates. Here, a solitary man walked up to the wrought-iron towers, his footsteps trailing behind. Looking up into the swirling mist, he let out a brief sigh, before walking onwards. Past the great red monolith, a monument to the triumph of industry, he carried on down to the river.
The edges had iced over, but beyond them the grey mass churned violently. He had once seen a man drown here. Swept into the oncoming rush of water by some unseen force, he had drifted downstream too fast for anyone to affect a rescue. How he now wished to suffer the same fate. To die alone and now, far from the reach of anyone. To be distant to the troubles of the world around him, to slip the surly bonds of life and explore the final frontier of death. To leave behind the mocking laughs of the man he once trusted, the faint derision of the men he once called friends, the ignorant betrayal of a woman he once loved, but most of all the cowardice and loathing of himself.
He had not always felt this way. But a matter of days beforehand, his life had seemed without compare. The warmth of friendship and the satisfaction of his work. And above all, he had the love of a perfect woman. Though this was not a love shared, nor even a love confessed upon her, it was enough for him. At night he comforted himself with dreams of life with her, of appearing as Culwch, to take her Olwen as his bride. She was his stuff of dreams, yet no more. Truth be told, she was real, but to him, she was as distant as any maiden of Arthurian legend. Known throughout these parts as the single most beautiful woman to ere grace the eyes of man, and blessed with a wit and wisdom beyond her tender years, it was as though an angel were removed from heaven and placed in his life. And yet he, so infatuated with this being of pure perfection was a mere mortal. Unremarkable. If anything, forgettable. Disposable. Of no importance. Yet another of the faceless mass known as humanity. He had ambition, but these were little more than unreached dreams. He dreamt of great power and an entire nation held in the shadow of his heel. Yet he was not, and never would be known beyond his small group of friends and colleagues.
He had reached the railway station now. As he walked alongside the lines, the snow thickened. Much more and the services would be halted, but for now, the lines were clear enough, and a dirty black locomotive rumbled past, the precious cargo of raw coal covered by an uneasy layer of snow. Moving up and down the tracks, great beasts and diminutive workhorses moved all manner of objects from one place to another. Letting out a grim chuckle the man realised just how his life had become much the same. Routines. Endless drudgery. Cyclical.
And yet, he had his one glimmer of hope. A last chance to salvage a life from this existence. Her. She visited him in his mind’s eye. The two of them sat together before a fireplace, holding each other close, two separate entities acting as one. Two hearts beating in perfect unison. Two souls endlessly intertwined and inescapably drawn together. They would sit for hours on end, talking to each other, sharing thoughts, commenting on their perfect relationship, or even simply being there with one another. They would take long walks in the country-side, far from the smoke belched out from the factory’s stacks, amongst beautiful singing birds and under endless blue skies. And of course, they made love. The most sensual and pure love there has ever been was enacted between these two. It was an expression of their love, the ultimate manifestation of their eternal and infinitely beautiful love. In time, of course, they would be married, in a grand cathedral. Then they would settle down in a small cottage near where they used to walk hand-in-hand, and have children. A boy and a girl, separated by two years. They would be rosy cheeked and full of life. As they played in the garden, their parents would watch, before staring into each other’s eyes. The feeling was of accomplishment, of pride and of having perpetuated their love. In time, he would take his government post, rise to lead his party and then contest an election on principles of honesty, working for the people and making the World a better place. Upon taking office, he would dedicate his victory to his wife, his muse and his reason for existence itself. He would leave loved by the people, a love which would never reach the depths of love he felt for his beloved, and die with her at his side, forever together.
Passing under the shadow of the football ground, the man was reminded of his friend. The man he had once trusted with his life, many years ago. How now, he wished never to see him again, never for their paths to cross while he had yet breath within his body. How he loathed the shallow qualities his friend offered, the athletes body, the artists sensitivity. How he despised the foolhardiness of his friend, the lack of fear of consequence and that sheer damned recklessness of his. His friend was, in truth, exactly what a young girl would have dreamt of. His athlete’s body developed through years of activity, his artist’s sensitivity honed by countless expositions of the natural condition in oil. And above all he was not a timid man, unfased by the shame of failure; he lived in a dream-like state, where actions had no consequence and success was a mere occurrence.
With this cavalier ignorance, the man had stood no chance against his friend. Not wishing to place upon himself the depression of rejection, and not to ever put her in the position of utmost discomfort, he had kept the love a secret to her. His friends had known, through many a drunken rambling upon the subject, and indeed one of her friends was aware of his feelings, yet he did not approach her. His cowardice, disguised as goodwill and a desire to make life more passable for both parties involved, led him to a life of fantasy, of dreams. And now, this fear of rejection left him alone, as the woman he loved was led to the arms of a man he had once loved.
The first chills of winter began to set in as he approached his home, forcing the last desperate remnants of summer into exile. The snow lay thicker here, over row after row of terraces. Peterson next door had put his bins out early. The man found it odd that he would notice such a detail. He cast his mind back to the times he had spent with her. In front of the fire, in the country side, in the cathedral, the cottage, in power and on his deathbed. He smiled grimly to himself, and walked inside, feeling for the last time the cruel warmth of life.
Part 2:
WAR
They say the more men you kill, the easier it gets. Whoever “they” are, they lied. It can never become easier to kill. You only learn to get used to it. When you’ve seen a man with his face torn off by shrapnel, a tangled mess of blood and torn muscle where moments before glinting eyes darted above a quick smile. When you’ve seen a man hung on wire, his phosphorus grenade alight and slowly cooking him alive, begging to be shot. When you’ve seen a man standing next to you with one step, and with the next lying motionless, one eye now a black hole and the back of his head opened like a flower sensing the first rays of morning light, the ground beneath him spotted with grey-pink lumps of brain. Then you learn to live with death. It never becomes easy to deal it out, but you can learn to walk side-by-side with the Reaper, his right hand man.
I’m not a violent man, but in the fields of Normandy I became more vicious than I believed it possible to be. But war does that. It twists and distorts. The mind falls under a spell, in the same way as opium addicts kill themselves to live for their addiction. And war works in the same way. It is death. It is suffering. It is pain. And yet, it evokes the most primal instinct inside of all of us. The need to fight. The rush of adrenaline. The beating of the heart which truly proves you are alive. It’s odd, but the time when you feel life the most is when you are the closest to losing it. When the silent, dormant desires inside of you awake, a different man is created. Under fire, men who once sat quietly, awaiting the off become savages, snarling and tearing at the chance to spill blood and to fight. Upon hearing the clarion call there is not a single man unmoved by the unspoken forces of millennia old emotion. Yet, fear is all too common. There was not a night when I slept soundly in my slit trench, each closing of my eyes revealing an enemy far greater than the men in grey uniforms not 500 yards away – myself. I feared for my life, for the lives of those around me, for the lives of those I’d killed, for those I was to kill and above all for the future. The smallest error, misjudgment, mistake or moment of humanity would mean the end. And it truly would be the end, the final, crushing blackness of infinity stretching before me. Many men had their faith to comfort them, but this war was proof that if there is a God, then He is not worth believing in, for such suffering and pain could only inflicted by a hate filled and callous power.
At times, the war seems to disappear, as old memories flood back. I see the fields, reaching as far as the horizon, with row upon row of golden hay bales standing in line. The friendly old vicar, Reverend Timms, with his small, round face seemingly always split by a smile and his rosy cheeks. A row of ducks swimming across the millpond as the late afternoon sun turned the water’s surface crimson. And of course, the swallows flitting about the sky, darting on the wing as they catch insects in the summer sky. But then reality pervades. The rows of golden bales are now burnt out hulls of tanks, gleaming in the light of the fire consuming them. Reverend Timms has been replaced by a dead body, the face contorted with pain, and the cheeks rosied by a deep cut to the temple. The row of ducks on the millpond was now a German floating face down along a stream as the blood from his outstretched hand turned the water’s surface crimson. And the swallows were now Typhoons and Spitfires, wheeling from cloud to cloud and roaring over tree tops to unleash a barrage of 8-Inch rockets on a formation of Panthers.
And that was how I found myself that morning. Reminiscing. Trying to cast my mind back to a time when all I had to worry about was whether Villa were at home that weekend. And as I walked up that hill, filed into rank behind the Captain, I could swear I heard the roar of the crowd once again. But, alas, my mind was wandering. An artie battery had spotted us and had opened fire. Running for the cover of a crest, I flattened myself against the ground, as the earth around me was torn up. Looking left I could see they’d hit Peterson, the one we called “Gramps” because at 32, he was the oldest of us. But he would never grow any older, his legs strewn across one side of a shell hole, and his body across the other. To my right, the Captain was shouting at us to stay low, or we’d end up the same. Truth be told, at that point I would have been perfectly happy to stand up and shout across to the Germans “Here I am! Why don’t you try and hit me for once? Take me away from all this, why don’t you, you bastards?” But I never did. The barrage stopped, as a formation of Cromwells appeared over the ridge of another hill, in full view of the battery. As they turned their attention, the Captain stood up, and shouted at us to get going and take out those guns before they tear the armour apart.
And that was when I killed a man.
If I’d have done what I’d done a year later, in such broad light, in front of so many people, I’d have been put on trial.
But for doing it then, and under those conditions, I was applauded. In fact, worse than that. It was not even noticed.
I could just make him out. A tall man, with a mess of dark hair sprouting from his head. He didn’t even have a gun, he was just sat at the PAK-88, looking down the sights at the formation of tanks. I don’t even know what compelled me to fire at him of all people, but I leveled the Enfield and pulled the trigger. He slumped forwards in his seat, the once grey uniform on his back stained red by his blood. I stood staring for a moment, as all around me the firing continued. I didn’t even notice it, but our small company had just neutralised an entire battery, and saved the formation of Cromwells.
That night, as I tried to sleep, his face, which I had never seen, haunted me in my thoughts. He had an odd air about him, intelligent, yet misplaced and above all he gave off a sense of unfulfilled promise, as if he had a great future, never to be realised. And whatever he would have become no longer mattered.
But did any of it really matter? That after such an apocalypse there would be hope for a renewed society? That given time all wounds would heal? Whether or not he would have realised his potential or whether he would have been too meek to accomplish what he had wanted. What if he were a coward, too afraid of failure to chance his arm? Then would my actions be justified? Would they ever? Would we ever be absolved? I did not know then, and nor do I now…
WAR
They say the more men you kill, the easier it gets. Whoever “they” are, they lied. It can never become easier to kill. You only learn to get used to it. When you’ve seen a man with his face torn off by shrapnel, a tangled mess of blood and torn muscle where moments before glinting eyes darted above a quick smile. When you’ve seen a man hung on wire, his phosphorus grenade alight and slowly cooking him alive, begging to be shot. When you’ve seen a man standing next to you with one step, and with the next lying motionless, one eye now a black hole and the back of his head opened like a flower sensing the first rays of morning light, the ground beneath him spotted with grey-pink lumps of brain. Then you learn to live with death. It never becomes easy to deal it out, but you can learn to walk side-by-side with the Reaper, his right hand man.
I’m not a violent man, but in the fields of Normandy I became more vicious than I believed it possible to be. But war does that. It twists and distorts. The mind falls under a spell, in the same way as opium addicts kill themselves to live for their addiction. And war works in the same way. It is death. It is suffering. It is pain. And yet, it evokes the most primal instinct inside of all of us. The need to fight. The rush of adrenaline. The beating of the heart which truly proves you are alive. It’s odd, but the time when you feel life the most is when you are the closest to losing it. When the silent, dormant desires inside of you awake, a different man is created. Under fire, men who once sat quietly, awaiting the off become savages, snarling and tearing at the chance to spill blood and to fight. Upon hearing the clarion call there is not a single man unmoved by the unspoken forces of millennia old emotion. Yet, fear is all too common. There was not a night when I slept soundly in my slit trench, each closing of my eyes revealing an enemy far greater than the men in grey uniforms not 500 yards away – myself. I feared for my life, for the lives of those around me, for the lives of those I’d killed, for those I was to kill and above all for the future. The smallest error, misjudgment, mistake or moment of humanity would mean the end. And it truly would be the end, the final, crushing blackness of infinity stretching before me. Many men had their faith to comfort them, but this war was proof that if there is a God, then He is not worth believing in, for such suffering and pain could only inflicted by a hate filled and callous power.
At times, the war seems to disappear, as old memories flood back. I see the fields, reaching as far as the horizon, with row upon row of golden hay bales standing in line. The friendly old vicar, Reverend Timms, with his small, round face seemingly always split by a smile and his rosy cheeks. A row of ducks swimming across the millpond as the late afternoon sun turned the water’s surface crimson. And of course, the swallows flitting about the sky, darting on the wing as they catch insects in the summer sky. But then reality pervades. The rows of golden bales are now burnt out hulls of tanks, gleaming in the light of the fire consuming them. Reverend Timms has been replaced by a dead body, the face contorted with pain, and the cheeks rosied by a deep cut to the temple. The row of ducks on the millpond was now a German floating face down along a stream as the blood from his outstretched hand turned the water’s surface crimson. And the swallows were now Typhoons and Spitfires, wheeling from cloud to cloud and roaring over tree tops to unleash a barrage of 8-Inch rockets on a formation of Panthers.
And that was how I found myself that morning. Reminiscing. Trying to cast my mind back to a time when all I had to worry about was whether Villa were at home that weekend. And as I walked up that hill, filed into rank behind the Captain, I could swear I heard the roar of the crowd once again. But, alas, my mind was wandering. An artie battery had spotted us and had opened fire. Running for the cover of a crest, I flattened myself against the ground, as the earth around me was torn up. Looking left I could see they’d hit Peterson, the one we called “Gramps” because at 32, he was the oldest of us. But he would never grow any older, his legs strewn across one side of a shell hole, and his body across the other. To my right, the Captain was shouting at us to stay low, or we’d end up the same. Truth be told, at that point I would have been perfectly happy to stand up and shout across to the Germans “Here I am! Why don’t you try and hit me for once? Take me away from all this, why don’t you, you bastards?” But I never did. The barrage stopped, as a formation of Cromwells appeared over the ridge of another hill, in full view of the battery. As they turned their attention, the Captain stood up, and shouted at us to get going and take out those guns before they tear the armour apart.
And that was when I killed a man.
If I’d have done what I’d done a year later, in such broad light, in front of so many people, I’d have been put on trial.
But for doing it then, and under those conditions, I was applauded. In fact, worse than that. It was not even noticed.
I could just make him out. A tall man, with a mess of dark hair sprouting from his head. He didn’t even have a gun, he was just sat at the PAK-88, looking down the sights at the formation of tanks. I don’t even know what compelled me to fire at him of all people, but I leveled the Enfield and pulled the trigger. He slumped forwards in his seat, the once grey uniform on his back stained red by his blood. I stood staring for a moment, as all around me the firing continued. I didn’t even notice it, but our small company had just neutralised an entire battery, and saved the formation of Cromwells.
That night, as I tried to sleep, his face, which I had never seen, haunted me in my thoughts. He had an odd air about him, intelligent, yet misplaced and above all he gave off a sense of unfulfilled promise, as if he had a great future, never to be realised. And whatever he would have become no longer mattered.
But did any of it really matter? That after such an apocalypse there would be hope for a renewed society? That given time all wounds would heal? Whether or not he would have realised his potential or whether he would have been too meek to accomplish what he had wanted. What if he were a coward, too afraid of failure to chance his arm? Then would my actions be justified? Would they ever? Would we ever be absolved? I did not know then, and nor do I now…
Part 3:
ALL YOU CAN’T LEAVE BEHIND
Rolling green fields passed by, a verdant sea stretching to the horizon. The land here was near untouched by man and only the odd farmhouse or telegraph pole reminding of civilisation. An early afternoon sun, obscured by finger-like wisps of cloud, threw a dull shadow less light over the countryside. A pair of train tracks cut through the scene, bringing a small piece of Thatcher’s modernity to the old world. A train sped along. Inside, the suited passengers indulged in their privacy, these knights of the boardroom table, in their polyester armour were fixed upon their newspapers, spreadsheets and numbers, their faces turned from the world passing by.
Yet, two faces were pressed against the window, rapt with excitement at the passing land. The boy and girl turned back to each other from the world flashing past. “There was no fields like this in Aston”, he said to her,
“Do you think London’ll be like this?” she asked,
“No way, London’s a big city, full of big buildings, statues, museums, shops and the Queen! Not to mention the Odeon, Rainbow, the Ruskin and the Soundhouse!”
She gazed in wonder. “The Queen?” she mouthed, “Can we see her?”
“Dunno. I think she lives inside. Anyway, we need to do some work. Get a job in the City and make some money on the footy. Then get a house in Belgrade. But for now, my uncle Davpet...”
“S’he a Paki?
“No, his name’s Dave Peterson so we call him Uncle Davpet. His Dad, my gramps, was killed in the war. Anyway, he says we can live with him in Leytonstone, until we get some money, at least.”
“What’s Ley’onstone like?”
“Dunno. But it’s in London, so it must be better than Aston.”
It had been raining in Aston. It always seemed to be raining in Aston, the grey sky providing the perfect backdrop to row after row of grey, terraced houses, rising and falling with the gentle sway of the earth. The greyness was broken only by the framework of the gasometers, towering above the houses like downed zeppelins making one last attempt at flight, and by the great pantheon of sport, Villa Park. But from the street, a façade of grey brick was dominant, the houses on either side with all the warmth of death row. A door opened, and a boy and a girl walked out, both carrying an old leather suitcase. He carried a map, and neither spoke in their anticipation. They walked off down the road, away from the stadium and the gasometers, towards the phone tower in the centre of the city.
The train they had caught from New Street station had reached Wimbledon, just minutes from Waterloo. Here the open farmyard collided with the city in a riot of parkland and bright, red-brown houses. The afternoon sun shone brightly as the train moved past the new apartments and the majestic monstrosity of Battersea power station. Once again, the suited masses did not look up in wonder at the now urban scenery, as the two young travelers did. As they neared Waterloo, they caught a glimpse of the Houses of Parliament.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, “It’s the brown sauce building!” Before he could look up though, it had slipped out of sight, replaced by the glass and metalwork roof of Waterloo station.
They left the train, still carrying their battered suitcases and the map. But now, as they neared their journey’s end, the early anxiety had faded to youthful excitement as they worked out how to get to his uncle’s house.
“We could drive” she suggested.
“No” he said, “I only just passed, the license hasn’t got through yet, anyway we don’t have a car”
“Taxi?”
“Costs too much, let’s take the tube”
“Isn’t it famous?”
“I think someone said it’s infamous”
“What’s that mean?”
“More than famous, I think”
“Wow.” With that, they bought their tickets to Leytonstone station and entered the labyrinth of platforms and tunnels.
As the train neared Leytonstone, they grew impatient, awaiting their first true view of the utopian centre of the civilized world. Finally the train stopped at yet another station, except here the blue and white sign read “Leytonstone”. They hurried out, narrowly avoiding the closing doors. They walked up the stairs, their minds filled with visions of Leicester Square, Buckingham Palace and the Tower. The sun had gone down now, and they could see a streetlight illuminating a doorway and they walked into the light, emerging on Leytonstone high street.
It was raining in Leytonstone, the clouded sky shining dull red with the setting sun, complementing row after row of red brick terraces, as flat as the land below. In the distance the NatWest Tower stuck out from the ground like a splinter upon the skin of a great beast. But from the street, all that could be seen was an endless stretch of terracotta red, anonymous houses, packed side by side, indistinguishable, faceless, Aston in all but colour, as the rain beat down, melting his map, and hiding her tears.
ALL YOU CAN’T LEAVE BEHIND
Rolling green fields passed by, a verdant sea stretching to the horizon. The land here was near untouched by man and only the odd farmhouse or telegraph pole reminding of civilisation. An early afternoon sun, obscured by finger-like wisps of cloud, threw a dull shadow less light over the countryside. A pair of train tracks cut through the scene, bringing a small piece of Thatcher’s modernity to the old world. A train sped along. Inside, the suited passengers indulged in their privacy, these knights of the boardroom table, in their polyester armour were fixed upon their newspapers, spreadsheets and numbers, their faces turned from the world passing by.
Yet, two faces were pressed against the window, rapt with excitement at the passing land. The boy and girl turned back to each other from the world flashing past. “There was no fields like this in Aston”, he said to her,
“Do you think London’ll be like this?” she asked,
“No way, London’s a big city, full of big buildings, statues, museums, shops and the Queen! Not to mention the Odeon, Rainbow, the Ruskin and the Soundhouse!”
She gazed in wonder. “The Queen?” she mouthed, “Can we see her?”
“Dunno. I think she lives inside. Anyway, we need to do some work. Get a job in the City and make some money on the footy. Then get a house in Belgrade. But for now, my uncle Davpet...”
“S’he a Paki?
“No, his name’s Dave Peterson so we call him Uncle Davpet. His Dad, my gramps, was killed in the war. Anyway, he says we can live with him in Leytonstone, until we get some money, at least.”
“What’s Ley’onstone like?”
“Dunno. But it’s in London, so it must be better than Aston.”
It had been raining in Aston. It always seemed to be raining in Aston, the grey sky providing the perfect backdrop to row after row of grey, terraced houses, rising and falling with the gentle sway of the earth. The greyness was broken only by the framework of the gasometers, towering above the houses like downed zeppelins making one last attempt at flight, and by the great pantheon of sport, Villa Park. But from the street, a façade of grey brick was dominant, the houses on either side with all the warmth of death row. A door opened, and a boy and a girl walked out, both carrying an old leather suitcase. He carried a map, and neither spoke in their anticipation. They walked off down the road, away from the stadium and the gasometers, towards the phone tower in the centre of the city.
The train they had caught from New Street station had reached Wimbledon, just minutes from Waterloo. Here the open farmyard collided with the city in a riot of parkland and bright, red-brown houses. The afternoon sun shone brightly as the train moved past the new apartments and the majestic monstrosity of Battersea power station. Once again, the suited masses did not look up in wonder at the now urban scenery, as the two young travelers did. As they neared Waterloo, they caught a glimpse of the Houses of Parliament.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, “It’s the brown sauce building!” Before he could look up though, it had slipped out of sight, replaced by the glass and metalwork roof of Waterloo station.
They left the train, still carrying their battered suitcases and the map. But now, as they neared their journey’s end, the early anxiety had faded to youthful excitement as they worked out how to get to his uncle’s house.
“We could drive” she suggested.
“No” he said, “I only just passed, the license hasn’t got through yet, anyway we don’t have a car”
“Taxi?”
“Costs too much, let’s take the tube”
“Isn’t it famous?”
“I think someone said it’s infamous”
“What’s that mean?”
“More than famous, I think”
“Wow.” With that, they bought their tickets to Leytonstone station and entered the labyrinth of platforms and tunnels.
As the train neared Leytonstone, they grew impatient, awaiting their first true view of the utopian centre of the civilized world. Finally the train stopped at yet another station, except here the blue and white sign read “Leytonstone”. They hurried out, narrowly avoiding the closing doors. They walked up the stairs, their minds filled with visions of Leicester Square, Buckingham Palace and the Tower. The sun had gone down now, and they could see a streetlight illuminating a doorway and they walked into the light, emerging on Leytonstone high street.
It was raining in Leytonstone, the clouded sky shining dull red with the setting sun, complementing row after row of red brick terraces, as flat as the land below. In the distance the NatWest Tower stuck out from the ground like a splinter upon the skin of a great beast. But from the street, all that could be seen was an endless stretch of terracotta red, anonymous houses, packed side by side, indistinguishable, faceless, Aston in all but colour, as the rain beat down, melting his map, and hiding her tears.
Im not a christian, but I have to say thats pretty damn good.
The lyrical hooks are just stellar.
Thank you greatly Alucard.
And to Edhunter. That was a fantastic series of short stories. You are a stellar writer. the story was compelling, it was fluidly written, and the irony of who the protagonist killed towards the end was absolutely brilliant. I'm guessing this is a vent for some things that have gone on in your life recently. I can only say that whatever they are, they must be quite a burden to carry. I'm sorry that you've had such hardships. I know it might not mean much to you, but I will keep you in my prayers, my friend.
oh, and you might consider making that story into your own 2112-esque story!
Fantastic stuff, bro.
And to Edhunter. That was a fantastic series of short stories. You are a stellar writer. the story was compelling, it was fluidly written, and the irony of who the protagonist killed towards the end was absolutely brilliant. I'm guessing this is a vent for some things that have gone on in your life recently. I can only say that whatever they are, they must be quite a burden to carry. I'm sorry that you've had such hardships. I know it might not mean much to you, but I will keep you in my prayers, my friend.
oh, and you might consider making that story into your own 2112-esque story!
Fantastic stuff, bro.Thanks a lot! The personal stuff is a touch of an exaggaration (I'm not about to top myself, don't worry...) but having that little root in reality helps the stories a great deal, I even wrote myself into WAR as the German...
Something tells me that based on your lyrical élan, you could quite easily put together something half-decent yourself.
Something tells me that based on your lyrical élan, you could quite easily put together something half-decent yourself.
elan? Not quite familiar with that word. And thank you. I'm really hoping to get started working with the epics I've written with my band sometime soon. We've got two shorter songs to accomplish first, though....
NSD: New Song Day.
The Way Life Goes (Daniel Graham, 2010)
Spiraling down, falling out of control,
we've walked to the window, to watch the black hole.
But that's the way life goes.
It's always been a freight train train,
speeding to an explosive end.
We've only just now found the means,
to see, to hear, to send.
Life will go on with the old familiar flow.
Some minority, peacemaking middle with nowhere to go.
A thoughtful performer when no one came to the show.
That's just the way life goes.
A preacher who is sane enough, to preach in truth, not show,
will never be given time of day in the strength of extremist flow.
A sage who's teaching sanity, all the while fighting undertow.
It's just the way life goes.
Revelation after revolution.
Retrospect a decade late.
Another ruling party
will overthrow and recreate.
All that we can do is hold our fire in a quick-to-trigger place.
All that we can do is hold on to our faith and grace.
All that we can do is try to reshape this shaken Earth.
If we've shined a light, given hope to one, we know our work has worth.
And that's the way life goes.
The Way Life Goes (Daniel Graham, 2010)
Spiraling down, falling out of control,
we've walked to the window, to watch the black hole.
But that's the way life goes.
It's always been a freight train train,
speeding to an explosive end.
We've only just now found the means,
to see, to hear, to send.
Life will go on with the old familiar flow.
Some minority, peacemaking middle with nowhere to go.
A thoughtful performer when no one came to the show.
That's just the way life goes.
A preacher who is sane enough, to preach in truth, not show,
will never be given time of day in the strength of extremist flow.
A sage who's teaching sanity, all the while fighting undertow.
It's just the way life goes.
Revelation after revolution.
Retrospect a decade late.
Another ruling party
will overthrow and recreate.
All that we can do is hold our fire in a quick-to-trigger place.
All that we can do is hold on to our faith and grace.
All that we can do is try to reshape this shaken Earth.
If we've shined a light, given hope to one, we know our work has worth.
And that's the way life goes.
Kind of another song about my hate of extremism, and how much it rules the world in modern times....and that it's my job as a Christian to demonstrate Christ's love for everyone through my example as a rational, caring and understanding person, and my job as a human being to try to be one of the tiny voices of reason in a world full of insanity.
I like it. I've had writer's block recently so to write a good song is a victory in and of itself.
I like it. I've had writer's block recently so to write a good song is a victory in and of itself.
I hate writing lyrics, and was asked to. I pulled these out in fifteen minutes.
Here in my room
Locked in tight
Brooding gloom
Dim all the lights
Hide the day
Rise at night
When I do wake
Another glass
I shall take
Red Summers wine
Faithful Year
'69
And as the cask flows
I'll numb my sorrows
Forty years of tears
That you will never hear
And when the cask is through
I'll often think of you
The times that we would spend
The days would never end
This bottle of wine
Is but a point in time
a time of sanguine
Now a melancholic dream
But though the cask is done
I'll draw another one
Stuck living with my past
How much longer must I last
Hmm, maybe I can turn it into an epic based on the cask of the amontillado. When he comes to his final cask, he saves it and uses it to get his revenge on the man who took his love....or maybe not.
Here in my room
Locked in tight
Brooding gloom
Dim all the lights
Hide the day
Rise at night
When I do wake
Another glass
I shall take
Red Summers wine
Faithful Year
'69
And as the cask flows
I'll numb my sorrows
Forty years of tears
That you will never hear
And when the cask is through
I'll often think of you
The times that we would spend
The days would never end
This bottle of wine
Is but a point in time
a time of sanguine
Now a melancholic dream
But though the cask is done
I'll draw another one
Stuck living with my past
How much longer must I last
Hmm, maybe I can turn it into an epic based on the cask of the amontillado. When he comes to his final cask, he saves it and uses it to get his revenge on the man who took his love....or maybe not.
Here's one my band seems to like called "Sangria":
sangria
it's the finest drink in town
sangria
it's the only thing that cools me down
love to watch the young girls dancing
bodies moving with the beat
just pretending while I'm contending with the heat
Maria
don't be jealous of the sun
Maria
don't you know that we have just begun?
when the summer sun is setting
and my head is clear of wine
I will find you and I'll remind you that you're mine
[female singer solo]
if his Maria even hears a rumor
she tends to come undone
about some things she has no sense of humor
unless he is so dumb he better just have some
sangria
it's the finest drink in town
sangria
it's the only thing that cools me down
love to watch the young girls dancing
bodies moving with the beat
just pretending while I'm contending with the heat
[everyone]
sangria
sangria
sangria
more at Invalid Link Removed
sangria
it's the finest drink in town
sangria
it's the only thing that cools me down
love to watch the young girls dancing
bodies moving with the beat
just pretending while I'm contending with the heat
Maria
don't be jealous of the sun
Maria
don't you know that we have just begun?
when the summer sun is setting
and my head is clear of wine
I will find you and I'll remind you that you're mine
[female singer solo]
if his Maria even hears a rumor
she tends to come undone
about some things she has no sense of humor
unless he is so dumb he better just have some
sangria
it's the finest drink in town
sangria
it's the only thing that cools me down
love to watch the young girls dancing
bodies moving with the beat
just pretending while I'm contending with the heat
[everyone]
sangria
sangria
sangria
more at Invalid Link Removed
Got a coupla new lines on the go, it's gonna develop into a piece challenging the worth of our freedom and encouraging revolution:
Have you ever felt the wind,
Blow upon your face?
The great pride,
To be born of free race?
Did you ever take the time,
To take a look around?
At the brave new world,
Which we have found?
And I finished off "If That Doesn't Get You Laid, Nothing Will":
If That Doesnt Get You Laid, Nothing Will...
Out on town tonight, looking for some love.
Gonna take you down when push comes to shove.
Have this drink, itll make you feel grand.
Afraid thisll be just a one night stand.
Chorus
If that dont get you laid, nothing will.
Gotta find my doctor, find my pill.
Gonna make you mine and do what I will.
Youre going down, Im in for the kill.
Got this thing called rohypnol,
Youre gonna be my very own living doll.
Have to take to take up a dark back alley,
You can be my only one true Mustang Sally.
More Choruses and Whatnot
A few nice innuendos, and should fit nicely to a fast blues-rocker
Have you ever felt the wind,
Blow upon your face?
The great pride,
To be born of free race?
Did you ever take the time,
To take a look around?
At the brave new world,
Which we have found?
And I finished off "If That Doesn't Get You Laid, Nothing Will":
If That Doesnt Get You Laid, Nothing Will...
Out on town tonight, looking for some love.
Gonna take you down when push comes to shove.
Have this drink, itll make you feel grand.
Afraid thisll be just a one night stand.
Chorus
If that dont get you laid, nothing will.
Gotta find my doctor, find my pill.
Gonna make you mine and do what I will.
Youre going down, Im in for the kill.
Got this thing called rohypnol,
Youre gonna be my very own living doll.
Have to take to take up a dark back alley,
You can be my only one true Mustang Sally.
More Choruses and Whatnot
A few nice innuendos, and should fit nicely to a fast blues-rocker
That first line or so sounds like a nice, edgy, Dream Theater-ish prog metal epic. Keep me informed how that one goes.
The second one isn't my style, but it sounds catchy. You're right about the blues rock stuff. Good to have some action on this thread again!
The second one isn't my style, but it sounds catchy. You're right about the blues rock stuff. Good to have some action on this thread again!
I'm not known for my lyrics and high concept they are not, but they make me smile. In fact, I strive for silly.
This first one was written to cheer up a friend. He missed the big July 4th bash because the week before he got in an accident on his new bike driving home from the liquor store. The bike was totaled and he hurt himself pretty bad because he landed on the 40oz bottles he had stuffed down the front of his jacket. Ouch!
"Fell on a 40"
I was ridin to the store
Just wanted to get more
This dosent seem quite right
Just look at my new bike
Belly flop on to pavement
I dont think I'm gonna make it
I know this story sucks
But those 40s were just bad luck
(chorus)
I fell on a 40
I got my beer all on me
Oh no!
My memory is foggy
I think that bike is dodgy
Oh no!
I was feelin kinda thirsty
But all it did was hurt me
Oh no!
I fell on my 40
I got my beer all on me
Oh no!
Colt 45
Mickey's and St. Ides
Billy doesn't lie
It works every single time
The mighty Haffenreffer
Strikin like Green Lightning
On a hot summers day
Man its really something
(chorus)
I fell on a 40
I got my beer all on me
Oh no!
My memory is foggy
I think that bike is dodgy
Oh no!
I was feelin kinda thirsty
But all it did was hurt me
Oh no!
I fell on my 40
I got my beer all on me
Oh no!
Olde English 800 is a goodie
Thats what El Duce told me
Black Label and Crazy Horse
I love them all of couse
King Cobra and Camo 40
Like a Golden Anniversary
Ballantine and Country Club
I just love those malty suds
(Repeat chorus)
Because there aren't enough dune buggy songs in the world. Especially ones that are metaphors.
"My Dune Buggy"
Come on with me honey
Dont think of it as funny
Come on riding with me in
My dune buggy
Baby its such a gas
You know I'll make it last
A ride in my dune buggy
Is such a blast
Bouncin over dunes
Were laughin just like loons
A ride in my dune buggy
Never ends too soon
Baby its all right
You know I'll treat ya right
You can ride in my dune buggy
Every single night
Where is it that you wanna go
I need to know
Tell me what it is you want to see
I'll make it be
Theres one thing that I think you should know
You need to see
I can drive my dune buggy slow
Or as fast as can be
(repeat)
And who hasn't thought about running away to join the circus and starting over...or is it just me?
"The Carny Way"
Todays the day I'm running away
Today
I Dont care what you might have to say
Today
I'm gonna go and do it all my own way
Today
Tomorrow you'll find me out on the midway
I say
I'm not gonna play by the rules anymore
I need to find what life has in store
Gonna live my life my own way
Today
Dont care where I'm gonna stay
Today
Gonna live it up the old carny way
Today
If you dont like it then what can I say?
Need to find what life has behind the next door
Once more to live a life of glory and lore
Tilt-a-whirls and teddy bears
Burn the lot cause no one cares
Butcher them with alibis
Them jocks are makin Jenny fly
See my possum belly queen in the bone yard
How was I thought that life was hard?
Found just what lie behind the next door
Once more a chance to live my life and to soar
Sugar shacks and games to gaff
When Larrys near I always laugh
Not a forty miler or a splinter head
I speak the language that what I said
Just dont ask me for the key to the midway
For those who do I have nothing to say.
Todays the day I'm runnin away
Today
Dont care where I'm gonna stay
Today
Gonna live it up the old carny way
Today
Tomorrow you'll find me out on the midway
I say
Gonna live my life my own way
Today
Dont care where I'm gonna stay
Today
Gonna live it up the old carny way
Today
If you dont like it then what can I say?
Yea, not the best rhyme schemes but hey, I never claimed to be good.
This first one was written to cheer up a friend. He missed the big July 4th bash because the week before he got in an accident on his new bike driving home from the liquor store. The bike was totaled and he hurt himself pretty bad because he landed on the 40oz bottles he had stuffed down the front of his jacket. Ouch!
"Fell on a 40"
I was ridin to the store
Just wanted to get more
This dosent seem quite right
Just look at my new bike
Belly flop on to pavement
I dont think I'm gonna make it
I know this story sucks
But those 40s were just bad luck
(chorus)
I fell on a 40
I got my beer all on me
Oh no!
My memory is foggy
I think that bike is dodgy
Oh no!
I was feelin kinda thirsty
But all it did was hurt me
Oh no!
I fell on my 40
I got my beer all on me
Oh no!
Colt 45
Mickey's and St. Ides
Billy doesn't lie
It works every single time
The mighty Haffenreffer
Strikin like Green Lightning
On a hot summers day
Man its really something
(chorus)
I fell on a 40
I got my beer all on me
Oh no!
My memory is foggy
I think that bike is dodgy
Oh no!
I was feelin kinda thirsty
But all it did was hurt me
Oh no!
I fell on my 40
I got my beer all on me
Oh no!
Olde English 800 is a goodie
Thats what El Duce told me
Black Label and Crazy Horse
I love them all of couse
King Cobra and Camo 40
Like a Golden Anniversary
Ballantine and Country Club
I just love those malty suds
(Repeat chorus)
Because there aren't enough dune buggy songs in the world. Especially ones that are metaphors.
"My Dune Buggy"
Come on with me honey
Dont think of it as funny
Come on riding with me in
My dune buggy
Baby its such a gas
You know I'll make it last
A ride in my dune buggy
Is such a blast
Bouncin over dunes
Were laughin just like loons
A ride in my dune buggy
Never ends too soon
Baby its all right
You know I'll treat ya right
You can ride in my dune buggy
Every single night
Where is it that you wanna go
I need to know
Tell me what it is you want to see
I'll make it be
Theres one thing that I think you should know
You need to see
I can drive my dune buggy slow
Or as fast as can be
(repeat)
And who hasn't thought about running away to join the circus and starting over...or is it just me?
"The Carny Way"
Todays the day I'm running away
Today
I Dont care what you might have to say
Today
I'm gonna go and do it all my own way
Today
Tomorrow you'll find me out on the midway
I say
I'm not gonna play by the rules anymore
I need to find what life has in store
Gonna live my life my own way
Today
Dont care where I'm gonna stay
Today
Gonna live it up the old carny way
Today
If you dont like it then what can I say?
Need to find what life has behind the next door
Once more to live a life of glory and lore
Tilt-a-whirls and teddy bears
Burn the lot cause no one cares
Butcher them with alibis
Them jocks are makin Jenny fly
See my possum belly queen in the bone yard
How was I thought that life was hard?
Found just what lie behind the next door
Once more a chance to live my life and to soar
Sugar shacks and games to gaff
When Larrys near I always laugh
Not a forty miler or a splinter head
I speak the language that what I said
Just dont ask me for the key to the midway
For those who do I have nothing to say.
Todays the day I'm runnin away
Today
Dont care where I'm gonna stay
Today
Gonna live it up the old carny way
Today
Tomorrow you'll find me out on the midway
I say
Gonna live my life my own way
Today
Dont care where I'm gonna stay
Today
Gonna live it up the old carny way
Today
If you dont like it then what can I say?
Yea, not the best rhyme schemes but hey, I never claimed to be good.
I'm not the lyricist for our band but I wrote this for one of our songs for fun and to kinda get some ideas rolling, there are no repeating parts in the song so there are also no repeating parts in the lyrical sections. I based the lyrics off of the book "Grendel" by John Gardner (which was an interpretation of Beowulf from Grendel's perspective, a GREAT read)
I am the only of my kind
In this hollow I sleep
With these thoughts swimming in my mind
And no one to tell them to
Mother speaks in..growls [drums enter]
Mother speaks in howls
But I watched and learned
I speak your tongue,
Though you cannot understand
You cannot understand
[dynamic change]
Foolish men fall victim to this canticle
You call me the monster, but look at you
Fighting for what you...cannot control
Spilling your own blood into the earth
Am I the monster?
[Break]
I'm no monster
I've shaped you're very souls
I push you to strive
To crawl out from your holes
Yet you crawl on sightless
As the blind lead the blind
Letting him reach into the
Space that once held your minds
The Shaper says I'm a demon, and I might be
But isn't that what..you..wanted?
Even a demon can become a god
Isn't this what..you..wanted?
You push me
I'll push you back!
You push me
And I'll push you back against the wall!
You push me
I'll push you back!
You push me
And I'll push you back against the wall!
Against the wall
Against the wall
Against the wall!!
But even gods can waver
My skin crawls at the sight of you
With excitement
With anxiety
This could be the death of me
Time to cleave my own path
Time to burst these doors wide open
Time to cleave my own path
Time to wake the dragon inside of me
Time to cleave my own path
Time to put man's head against the ground
My life it wanes
As my blood drains into the ground [Whispered over 7/4 bass break)
I thought I could not be harmed
Then he took my arm
[Ends with a scream/bellow]
I am the only of my kind
In this hollow I sleep
With these thoughts swimming in my mind
And no one to tell them to
Mother speaks in..growls [drums enter]
Mother speaks in howls
But I watched and learned
I speak your tongue,
Though you cannot understand
You cannot understand
[dynamic change]
Foolish men fall victim to this canticle
You call me the monster, but look at you
Fighting for what you...cannot control
Spilling your own blood into the earth
Am I the monster?
[Break]
I'm no monster
I've shaped you're very souls
I push you to strive
To crawl out from your holes
Yet you crawl on sightless
As the blind lead the blind
Letting him reach into the
Space that once held your minds
The Shaper says I'm a demon, and I might be
But isn't that what..you..wanted?
Even a demon can become a god
Isn't this what..you..wanted?
You push me
I'll push you back!
You push me
And I'll push you back against the wall!
You push me
I'll push you back!
You push me
And I'll push you back against the wall!
Against the wall
Against the wall
Against the wall!!
But even gods can waver
My skin crawls at the sight of you
With excitement
With anxiety
This could be the death of me
Time to cleave my own path
Time to burst these doors wide open
Time to cleave my own path
Time to wake the dragon inside of me
Time to cleave my own path
Time to put man's head against the ground
My life it wanes
As my blood drains into the ground [Whispered over 7/4 bass break)
I thought I could not be harmed
Then he took my arm
[Ends with a scream/bellow]
To the guy before you Iri5 punk. "Revealing Science of God" they are not, but fun to read, and to each his own my friend.
Thank you. my band mates thought it sounded too angry and depressing since Grendel eventually dies by getting his arm ripped off haha. "We're experimental/prog rock, Pat...we don't talk about people getting their arms ripped off"
Woops lol.
Woops lol.
