Chapter 4. Vinyl.

Cracked and crumpled, the package revealed a record sleeve. The man almost laughed, a smile almost met his lips. He reached his freezing hand in and drew out a charcoal circle. The title read “Dexys Midnight Runners – Come on Eileen”.

He hadn’t seen vinyl since he was a child, now in 2002 everything was CD’s and cassettes. He traced his fingers across the lines and turned his head, swishing his feathery hair in the chill to turn around and see Marina clutching a large cardboard box.

“Thanks” the man replied.

“Don’t you want to know what’s in here?” She could barely contain her excitement.

“I think I’ve guessed”

“Then what is it?”

“Might it be my parents’ record player?”

“It might.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, its fine if you don’t want to, but you can’t just avoid everything that was theirs forever.”

“I know, sorry. Thanks”

“Well are you going to help me or not?!”

“Okay.”

 

 

Jumping up, two souls broke open a decaying box to reveal something that resembled a midnight blue suitcase. Cracking open the clasps, the suitcase became a record player, smothered in dust and choked with  age, no idea whether it worked or not.

“Pass me the record?”

“Here.”

A painted yellow cover depicting a man and a woman in dungarees and messy hair was handed over. The title inscribed in red lettering at the bottom.

“It this your new project then?” the man inquired with a spike of hope.

“You happiness is my only project, James – it was my first and at this rate it will be my last.”

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  • #stories #read #please #come on eileen #dexys midnight runners
  • 1 month ago

Chapter 3. Marina Moonlight

Now this man, he was a painter. I saw him, he used to adore every stroke, every day he spent staring at the sunrise and relating those colours into sought-after art. He used to crave it, the rush of creativity, and the music to his eyes.

Now the brushes lie stiff, only a few forced strokes on sagging canvases, wooden stands rotting. It was lost, somewhere along the way. The dust sheets of his home only hide dust, no glimmer. He gave it up, he sits frozen and abandoned by the world.  

People wonder where he has gone. ‘No-one can retire at twenty.’ They say. He hasn’t retired, but what is there if there isn’t hope. He lives in an alternate reality, where everything has been faded in the light and all he sees are cracked pastels.

There’s hope for him somewhere, and she goes by the name of Marina Moonlight.

///

4 is on the way

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  • 1 month ago

Chapter 2. Acrylics

Now this man, he was a painter. I saw him, he used to adore every stroke, every day he spent staring at the sunrise and relating those colours into sought-after art. He used to crave it, the rush of creativity, and the music to his eyes.

Now the brushes lie stiff, only a few forced strokes on sagging canvases, wooden stands rotting. It was lost, somewhere along the way. The dust sheets of his home only hide dust, no glimmer. He gave it up, he sits frozen and abandoned by the world.  

People wonder where he has gone. ‘No-one can retire at twenty.’ They say. He hasn’t retired, but what is there if there isn’t hope. He lives in an alternate reality, where everything has been faded in the light and all he sees are cracked pastels.

There’s hope for him somewhere, and she goes by the name of Marina Moonlight.

////

Chapter 3 is in action.

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  • 1 month ago

Chapter 1. Paisley Patterns

I remember the first time I saw that room. Cracked coffee cups settled on the table. Bars of lights seeping in through the windows and around the sagging curtains. Terracotta pots with no creations upon shelves holding only stiff paintbrushes and dust.

He sat on the table, swept blonde hair with black roots, and amber eyes staring into the swirling bitter of caffeine. The metal lace of the iron chair, squatted on the marble floor, sent shivers down his bones. His cream knitted cardigan crept over his palms, right fingers curled around the handle, left emitting smoke from the cigarette poised between his pale fingers.  

Forcing himself up, cracking knees he stuttered over to the kitchen, and dropped his plate into the metallic sink. His skeleton managed to limp to the balcony, and then seated crossed legged, frozen to the core, printed paper revealed, and through the black rims of his glasses, he is swept to a better place.

Poison ivy chokes the iron bars keeping him from falling, life living on the walls with the only intention but to destroy. Sipping glass water through an old milk bottle, he lifted his head to see and hear the London he loves. Black cabs swerve and steam rises from the houses. People chatter and skateboards screech and ash clings to the cream-stone buildings defended by iron poles. And he smiled a crystal smile, cheeks wrinkled, at the cast grey sky.

This man, he sees the world and he understands, but it just seems the world can’t do the same for him. 

////

Chapter 2 coming soon

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  • #writing #stories
  • 1 month ago
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