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Dave was cleaning out a shelf behind the counter at the Vinyl Café when Kenny Wong arrived carrying a battered notebook held together with some hockey tape, and brown packing tape, some loose staples and a prayer or two. "Look what I found," said Kenny. Dave looked up. "If that's evidence, burn it." "It's our list." Dave's face went pale. Every boy has a list. Not a written list. A mental list. A record of all the things that seemed like excellent ideas right up until the moment they weren't. Kenny, unfortunately, had written theirs down. On the front cover, in crooked pencil, were the words: "Experiments and Challenges for Becoming Men." Dave groaned. "We spelled 'becoming' wrong," said Kenny. "That is not the problem." They sat at the counter flipping pages. There were checkmarks beside things like building ramps for bicycles, riding shopping carts downhill, testing whether frozen puddles could support a person, and seeing who could hold their breath the longest. Every page contained proof that boys possess confidence far in excess of useful knowledge. Kenny laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool. "Remember the cardboard sleds?" Dave nodded. "I still have a scar shaped like Saskatchewan." "And the bicycle jump?" "Which bicycle jump?" Kenny thought for a moment. "Good point." About then Max wandered into the Café looking for a cookie and some advice. He found neither. Instead he found Kenny and Dave staring at the notebook. "What's that?" asked Max. Dave and Kenny exchanged a glance. It was the sort of glance that has launched countless regrettable adventures. "History," said Kenny. "Very important history," said Dave. Twenty minutes later they were seated around a table while Kenny explained that before the internet, boys entertained themselves by making mistakes in person, without the aid of tik tok, or any of the other platforms that now put stupid ideas in young boys heads. Max was fascinated. Dave kept adding disclaimers. "Most of these were terrible ideas." "Very terrible," agreed Kenny. Then he smiled. "But memorable, man were they memorable. Not just by us either. The police, the neighbors, teachers and your Grandma. She never forgot." Max spent the afternoon listening to stories about cardboard toboggans, homemade forts, bicycle crashes, and experiments that ended with somebody's mother yelling from a porch, or police cars driving past slowly if they happened to see Dave or Kenny walking together. The stories grew larger with every telling. By the time Kenny finished, Dave and Kenny sounded less like children and more like poorly supervised stuntmen. Max listened with wide eyes. The next morning, Dave found Max in the kitchen holding a nine-volt battery. "What are you doing?" asked Dave. "Science." Dave should have recognized the danger immediately. Unfortunately, "science" was exactly what he and Kenny had called most of their mistakes. A short time later Max appeared at the Café looking puzzled. "I think my retainer is acting funny," he said. "Funny how?" asked Kenny. Max tilted his head. Somewhere, faintly, through the metal in the retainer came the crackling sound of a distant radio station. Kenny nearly inhaled his coffee. Dave stared. A voice emerged from Max's mouth. "...and now today's weather..." Max looked alarmed. Kenny looked delighted. "He's picking up AM radio!" "He's not a radio," said Dave. The weather report continued. Max opened and closed his mouth. The signal got louder. Kenny was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen." "No," said Dave. "The greatest thing you've ever seen was when Jimmy Peters launched himself into Mrs. Callahan's rhubarb patch." "Second greatest." Max stood perfectly still. "Can you make it stop?" Before Dave could answer, the front door opened. Morley walked in carrying groceries. She stopped. Max was standing rigidly. Kenny was laughing. Dave looked guilty. The radio forecast was coming from somewhere in the room. Morley immediately understood more than she wanted to. "What happened?" Nobody spoke. "Dave." "It's not exactly what it looks like." "What does it look like?" "Two middle-aged men accidentally created a human transistor radio." Morley put down the groceries. "Why?" Dave pointed at Kenny. Kenny pointed at Dave. Max pointed at the notebook. Morley picked it up. She read the title. She closed her eyes. "Experiments and Challenges for Becoming Men." The silence that followed was profound. "You showed him this?" "For historical, educational purposes," said Kenny. "Educational and historical ," said Dave. "Educational?" said Morley. "Mostly." Morley flipped through the pages. Each page made her expression worse. "You two survived this?" "Barely," said Dave. "This explains a lot," said Morley. She handed the notebook back. "New rule." Dave didn't like the sound of that. Kenny liked it even less. "From now on," said Morley, "if either of you wants to teach Max life lessons, I approve them first." "That seems extreme," said Kenny. "You turned my son into an AM radio station. Nobody listens to AM anymore, so....I don't what I should be madder about." "Fair point." Max suddenly perked up. "Traffic report coming." Everyone listened. Sure enough, a traffic report emerged from his retainer. Morley sat down. Even she had to laugh. Not much. But enough. Dave looked relieved. Kenny looked proud. Max looked famous. And somewhere in a drawer at the Vinyl Café sat an old notebook containing all the reasons boys should never be left unsupervised—and all the reasons they usually are.
0
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 7:21 PM UTC
roger-turner
Because
Dave was cleaning out a shelf behind the counter at the Vinyl Café when Kenny Wong arrived carrying a battered notebook held together with some hockey tape, and brown packing tape, some loose staples and a prayer or two. "Look what I found," said Kenny. Dave looked up. "If that's evidence, burn it." "It's our list." Dave's face went pale. Every boy has a list. Not a written list. A mental list. A record of all the things that seemed like excellent ideas right up until the moment they weren't. Kenny, unfortunately, had written theirs down. On the front cover, in crooked pencil, were the words: "Experiments and Challenges for Becoming Men." Dave groaned. "We spelled 'becoming' wrong," said Kenny. "That is not the problem." They sat at the counter flipping pages. There were checkmarks beside things like building ramps for bicycles, riding shopping carts downhill, testing whether frozen puddles could support a person, and seeing who could hold their breath the longest. Every page contained proof that boys possess confidence far in excess of useful knowledge. Kenny laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool. "Remember the cardboard sleds?" Dave nodded. "I still have a scar shaped like Saskatchewan." "And the bicycle jump?" "Which bicycle jump?" Kenny thought for a moment. "Good point." About then Max wandered into the Café looking for a cookie and some advice. He found neither. Instead he found Kenny and Dave staring at the notebook. "What's that?" asked Max. Dave and Kenny exchanged a glance. It was the sort of glance that has launched countless regrettable adventures. "History," said Kenny. "Very important history," said Dave. Twenty minutes later they were seated around a table while Kenny explained that before the internet, boys entertained themselves by making mistakes in person, without the aid of tik tok, or any of the other platforms that now put stupid ideas in young boys heads. Max was fascinated. Dave kept adding disclaimers. "Most of these were terrible ideas." "Very terrible," agreed Kenny. Then he smiled. "But memorable, man were they memorable. Not just by us either. The police, the neighbors, teachers and your Grandma. She never forgot." Max spent the afternoon listening to stories about cardboard toboggans, homemade forts, bicycle crashes, and experiments that ended with somebody's mother yelling from a porch, or police cars driving past slowly if they happened to see Dave or Kenny walking together. The stories grew larger with every telling. By the time Kenny finished, Dave and Kenny sounded less like children and more like poorly supervised stuntmen. Max listened with wide eyes. The next morning, Dave found Max in the kitchen holding a nine-volt battery. "What are you doing?" asked Dave. "Science." Dave should have recognized the danger immediately. Unfortunately, "science" was exactly what he and Kenny had called most of their mistakes. A short time later Max appeared at the Café looking puzzled. "I think my retainer is acting funny," he said. "Funny how?" asked Kenny. Max tilted his head. Somewhere, faintly, through the metal in the retainer came the crackling sound of a distant radio station. Kenny nearly inhaled his coffee. Dave stared. A voice emerged from Max's mouth. "...and now today's weather..." Max looked alarmed. Kenny looked delighted. "He's picking up AM radio!" "He's not a radio," said Dave. The weather report continued. Max opened and closed his mouth. The signal got louder. Kenny was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen." "No," said Dave. "The greatest thing you've ever seen was when Jimmy Peters launched himself into Mrs. Callahan's rhubarb patch." "Second greatest." Max stood perfectly still. "Can you make it stop?" Before Dave could answer, the front door opened. Morley walked in carrying groceries. She stopped. Max was standing rigidly. Kenny was laughing. Dave looked guilty. The radio forecast was coming from somewhere in the room. Morley immediately understood more than she wanted to. "What happened?" Nobody spoke. "Dave." "It's not exactly what it looks like." "What does it look like?" "Two middle-aged men accidentally created a human transistor radio." Morley put down the groceries. "Why?" Dave pointed at Kenny. Kenny pointed at Dave. Max pointed at the notebook. Morley picked it up. She read the title. She closed her eyes. "Experiments and Challenges for Becoming Men." The silence that followed was profound. "You showed him this?" "For historical, educational purposes," said Kenny. "Educational and historical ," said Dave. "Educational?" said Morley. "Mostly." Morley flipped through the pages. Each page made her expression worse. "You two survived this?" "Barely," said Dave. "This explains a lot," said Morley. She handed the notebook back. "New rule." Dave didn't like the sound of that. Kenny liked it even less. "From now on," said Morley, "if either of you wants to teach Max life lessons, I approve them first." "That seems extreme," said Kenny. "You turned my son into an AM radio station. Nobody listens to AM anymore, so....I don't what I should be madder about." "Fair point." Max suddenly perked up. "Traffic report coming." Everyone listened. Sure enough, a traffic report emerged from his retainer. Morley sat down. Even she had to laugh. Not much. But enough. Dave looked relieved. Kenny looked proud. Max looked famous. And somewhere in a drawer at the Vinyl Café sat an old notebook containing all the reasons boys should never be left unsupervised—and all the reasons they usually are.
Continue reading...
120
It started, as these things so often do, with a promise. Dave had promised Morley, for the fourth spring in a row, that he would finally clean out the basement of the Vinyl Cafe. “You can’t even see the furnace anymore,” Morley had said, standing at the top of the stairs with a look of concern reserved for cave divers and parents of toddlers holding permanent markers. “It’s not that bad,” Dave replied. Which, of course, meant it was worse. Enter Sam. Sixteen, suspiciously strong for someone who routinely claimed lifting a dish towel was “too much,” and in need of volunteer hours for school. “Consider this character-building,” Dave said, handing him a flashlight and a dust mask like he was sending him into the catacombs of Paris. The Vinyl Cafe basement was a time capsule. Or a storage locker. Or possibly an archaeological dig. There were crates of unsold records, half-broken stools, a blender from 1973, and boxes simply labelled “Dave’s Stuff.” Sam, being Sam, naturally gravitated toward those. Now, it should be noted that Dave had once, long ago, agreed to part with a certain collection of artifacts when Morley discovered them stashed behind the furnace in their house. He’d nodded solemnly, promised full disposal, and then, apparently, quietly relocated them to the cafe. Sam opened the first box expecting old concert posters or invoices. Instead, he found—well—let’s just say the first page he saw involved a woman named “Trixie” who apparently did her best thinking on the hood of a red convertible. He flipped a few pages. All the women seemed to be leaning on cars, tractors, or pool tables. Some had hard hats. None were wearing them. Sam, in the way of teenage boys since time immemorial, stared at the contents for a moment, blinked, and slowly backed away like he’d opened the Ark of the Covenant. “Uh…Dad?” he called up the stairs. Dave came bounding down, carrying two Tim Hortons coffees and whistling Cheeseburger in Paradise. He stopped short at the box in front of Sam. “Oh. Ohhhhh. Right,” said Dave, voice rising like he’d just remembered he’d left a pie in the oven…fourteen years ago. “I thought you got rid of these,” Sam said. Dave glanced at the pin-ups, then at Sam. “I did! I mean, I was going to. But they’re historical. It’s more of a cultural archive.” “Sure, Dad. A museum of naked ladies.” “I prefer the term ‘tasteful ****** Dave paused. “And they’re not naked. Some of them are wearing… tool belts.” Sam smirked. “So, what do we do with them?” Dave looked around. “Well… we don’t tell your mother. That’s what we do first.” Naturally, Morley found out within the hour. Because the next box Sam opened had ******* issues from the early 80s, including one with a mysterious sticky note marked “Dave’s first car. Page 47.” When Morley arrived, summoned by Sam with a dramatic, “You might want to see this,” Dave was holding a calendar featuring a woman named Candy who was, ironically, pouring syrup over a stack of flapjacks in stilettos. There was a moment of silence. “Dave,” Morley said, very calmly, “I thought you said you got rid of these.” “I did,” he said. “Well, I relocated them.” “To your place of business?” “Technically it’s historical research,” Dave mumbled. Sam was enjoying this immensely. Morley walked over, picked up one of the magazines, flipped it open to a centerfold, and raised an eyebrow. “This one’s wearing earmuffs.” “Practical!” Dave offered brightly. Morley sighed. “I don’t care what you do with them, but they are not going back in the house.” Dave nodded solemnly. “Agreed.” That’s how, two hours later, Dave and Kenny Wong found themselves in Kenny’s garage flipping through the stash, laughing like high schoolers, and arguing over whether a 1981 issue of Oui had collectible value. “This one’s art,” Kenny said, holding up a black-and-white photo. “It’s a woman vacuuming in heels,” Dave replied. “Exactly. No one vacuums like that anymore.” Eventually, they boxed it all up and decided to store it—temporarily—in the back of Kenny’s shed, behind the snow tires and the broken lawn darts. Morley, for her part, decided not to push the matter. She just raised her eyebrows every time Dave mentioned “cleaning projects.” Sam got his volunteer hours. And a few stories to share with his friends—although he did omit the “sticky note with the car” bit when retelling it to Stephanie. As for the café basement? It was marginally cleaner. At least you could see the furnace. And tucked between the cleaning rags and mop buckets was a single pin-up, laminated and framed, featuring a woman in coveralls and work boots, holding a record player. Dave claimed it was motivational. Morley let it slide. Because in the end, in the Vinyl Cafe, things weren’t always clean. But they were always honest. Well… mostly.
0
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 9:30 AM UTC
roger-turner
Pinup
It started, as these things so often do, with a promise. Dave had promised Morley, for the fourth spring in a row, that he would finally clean out the basement of the Vinyl Cafe. “You can’t even see the furnace anymore,” Morley had said, standing at the top of the stairs with a look of concern reserved for cave divers and parents of toddlers holding permanent markers. “It’s not that bad,” Dave replied. Which, of course, meant it was worse. Enter Sam. Sixteen, suspiciously strong for someone who routinely claimed lifting a dish towel was “too much,” and in need of volunteer hours for school. “Consider this character-building,” Dave said, handing him a flashlight and a dust mask like he was sending him into the catacombs of Paris. The Vinyl Cafe basement was a time capsule. Or a storage locker. Or possibly an archaeological dig. There were crates of unsold records, half-broken stools, a blender from 1973, and boxes simply labelled “Dave’s Stuff.” Sam, being Sam, naturally gravitated toward those. Now, it should be noted that Dave had once, long ago, agreed to part with a certain collection of artifacts when Morley discovered them stashed behind the furnace in their house. He’d nodded solemnly, promised full disposal, and then, apparently, quietly relocated them to the cafe. Sam opened the first box expecting old concert posters or invoices. Instead, he found—well—let’s just say the first page he saw involved a woman named “Trixie” who apparently did her best thinking on the hood of a red convertible. He flipped a few pages. All the women seemed to be leaning on cars, tractors, or pool tables. Some had hard hats. None were wearing them. Sam, in the way of teenage boys since time immemorial, stared at the contents for a moment, blinked, and slowly backed away like he’d opened the Ark of the Covenant. “Uh…Dad?” he called up the stairs. Dave came bounding down, carrying two Tim Hortons coffees and whistling Cheeseburger in Paradise. He stopped short at the box in front of Sam. “Oh. Ohhhhh. Right,” said Dave, voice rising like he’d just remembered he’d left a pie in the oven…fourteen years ago. “I thought you got rid of these,” Sam said. Dave glanced at the pin-ups, then at Sam. “I did! I mean, I was going to. But they’re historical. It’s more of a cultural archive.” “Sure, Dad. A museum of naked ladies.” “I prefer the term ‘tasteful ****** Dave paused. “And they’re not naked. Some of them are wearing… tool belts.” Sam smirked. “So, what do we do with them?” Dave looked around. “Well… we don’t tell your mother. That’s what we do first.” Naturally, Morley found out within the hour. Because the next box Sam opened had ******* issues from the early 80s, including one with a mysterious sticky note marked “Dave’s first car. Page 47.” When Morley arrived, summoned by Sam with a dramatic, “You might want to see this,” Dave was holding a calendar featuring a woman named Candy who was, ironically, pouring syrup over a stack of flapjacks in stilettos. There was a moment of silence. “Dave,” Morley said, very calmly, “I thought you said you got rid of these.” “I did,” he said. “Well, I relocated them.” “To your place of business?” “Technically it’s historical research,” Dave mumbled. Sam was enjoying this immensely. Morley walked over, picked up one of the magazines, flipped it open to a centerfold, and raised an eyebrow. “This one’s wearing earmuffs.” “Practical!” Dave offered brightly. Morley sighed. “I don’t care what you do with them, but they are not going back in the house.” Dave nodded solemnly. “Agreed.” That’s how, two hours later, Dave and Kenny Wong found themselves in Kenny’s garage flipping through the stash, laughing like high schoolers, and arguing over whether a 1981 issue of Oui had collectible value. “This one’s art,” Kenny said, holding up a black-and-white photo. “It’s a woman vacuuming in heels,” Dave replied. “Exactly. No one vacuums like that anymore.” Eventually, they boxed it all up and decided to store it—temporarily—in the back of Kenny’s shed, behind the snow tires and the broken lawn darts. Morley, for her part, decided not to push the matter. She just raised her eyebrows every time Dave mentioned “cleaning projects.” Sam got his volunteer hours. And a few stories to share with his friends—although he did omit the “sticky note with the car” bit when retelling it to Stephanie. As for the café basement? It was marginally cleaner. At least you could see the furnace. And tucked between the cleaning rags and mop buckets was a single pin-up, laminated and framed, featuring a woman in coveralls and work boots, holding a record player. Dave claimed it was motivational. Morley let it slide. Because in the end, in the Vinyl Cafe, things weren’t always clean. But they were always honest. Well… mostly.
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47
"Long live the record!" I only owned a couple, My mother and father, a few more. But my poppa*, he owned hundreds! And they lined the walls Of room after room after room, Miles (Davis) long in The Globe* hotel. They held up the sounds Unfamiliar, but what would become skin deep censular — Resonating in my heart and soul, As the records turned round, right round and right round again, reaching the primal score.
0
Feb 14
Feb 14, 2026 at 4:03 PM UTC
bekahalle
CD killed the record
"Long live the record!" I only owned a couple, My mother and father, a few more. But my poppa*, he owned hundreds! And they lined the walls Of room after room after room, Miles (Davis) long in The Globe* hotel. They held up the sounds Unfamiliar, but what would become skin deep censular — Resonating in my heart and soul, As the records turned round, right round and right round again, reaching the primal score.
Continue reading...
11
I Stacked green crates by the futon, records sealed as buried letters, each sleeve longing to be drawn out into daylight by her small, thoughtful hands. I just want to play that Nick Cave again teenager’s resolve in her voice, she drops the needle on "Tupelo", traces Peter Murphy with her thumb, holds Kate Bush to the light like stained glass. She laughs at the ****** box on the speaker. I tell her it’s never going to happen. She grins, unbothered, says she only came for the vinyl. I watch her tilt each sleeve, never touching the grooves, brush the dust, lay the needle like a secret, slide the disc back without a wrinkle. Each time I’m surprised by her precision. It’s the third time she’s dropped by. She makes mixtapes. Pressing pause, pressing record, stitching songs into a spine of hiss. Once, to me, or to herself, she said her father wanted a tape. She’d mail it when he had somewhere to send it. She follows me across the bridge, talking about her brother, an ex-best friend, mimicking her professor, how he wags his tongue when he writes on the chalkboard. I haul a duffel: apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease. She skips in the rain, strumming cables, humming the last song played, still in the air. II I unlock the door, steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat, boots leaving grime on the boards. She isn’t there- only the crates, stacked neater, jackets squared, spines aligned, as if her care was meant for me. The room settles with her absence, yet holds me upright in its small, thoughtful hands.
0
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
William-A-Gibson
Crates
I Stacked green crates by the futon, records sealed as buried letters, each sleeve longing to be drawn out into daylight by her small, thoughtful hands. I just want to play that Nick Cave again teenager’s resolve in her voice, she drops the needle on "Tupelo", traces Peter Murphy with her thumb, holds Kate Bush to the light like stained glass. She laughs at the ****** box on the speaker. I tell her it’s never going to happen. She grins, unbothered, says she only came for the vinyl. I watch her tilt each sleeve, never touching the grooves, brush the dust, lay the needle like a secret, slide the disc back without a wrinkle. Each time I’m surprised by her precision. It’s the third time she’s dropped by. She makes mixtapes. Pressing pause, pressing record, stitching songs into a spine of hiss. Once, to me, or to herself, she said her father wanted a tape. She’d mail it when he had somewhere to send it. She follows me across the bridge, talking about her brother, an ex-best friend, mimicking her professor, how he wags his tongue when he writes on the chalkboard. I haul a duffel: apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease. She skips in the rain, strumming cables, humming the last song played, still in the air. II I unlock the door, steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat, boots leaving grime on the boards. She isn’t there- only the crates, stacked neater, jackets squared, spines aligned, as if her care was meant for me. The room settles with her absence, yet holds me upright in its small, thoughtful hands.
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57
I'm gonna get me a record player, So I can throw on jazz vinyls, Classical symphonies, modernistic musics, raptastic tracks-ish. So I can hear those low notes blow, Those high notes reach, whistle, then pop, So I can listen to all 'em tunes, That got me thinking about you non-stop.
0
Feb 26, 2025
Feb 26, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
AbbottJHardison
All 'Em Tunes
I'm gonna get me a record player, So I can throw on jazz vinyls, Classical symphonies, modernistic musics, raptastic tracks-ish. So I can hear those low notes blow, Those high notes reach, whistle, then pop, So I can listen to all 'em tunes, That got me thinking about you non-stop.
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7
Words don't come easy music is the food of love play mystic for me crackling champagne crispy sounds I fell in love on Simone.
0
Jan 19, 2025
Jan 19, 2025 at 4:54 PM UTC
DMC
Nina - Tanka
Words don't come easy music is the food of love play mystic for me crackling champagne crispy sounds I fell in love on Simone.
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5
I love the static after a vinyl had finished I love how she spins on a slant And moves like the ocean How it plays and asks nothing in return Although I will never be able to wrap my head around how indents create sound I will love her with my whole heart Until she it too exhausted to play And even then I will cherish The love she gave me
0
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 9:09 PM UTC
katarinaspoems
Soft spin
I love the static after a vinyl had finished I love how she spins on a slant And moves like the ocean How it plays and asks nothing in return Although I will never be able to wrap my head around how indents create sound I will love her with my whole heart Until she it too exhausted to play And even then I will cherish The love she gave me
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9
I'm listening to records not heard for thirty years I've carried this collection gathering dust on my shelves needle scrapes across vinyl music to my ears an old friend not seen for a while, but it feels like yesterday my kids look on in awe even with their MP4 as I spin the black circle I'll make collectors of them all and I'm not old just retro and it's still rock 'n' roll
0
Jul 10, 2024
Jul 10, 2024 at 7:34 PM UTC
nigdaw
I bought a new record player
I'm listening to records not heard for thirty years I've carried this collection gathering dust on my shelves needle scrapes across vinyl music to my ears an old friend not seen for a while, but it feels like yesterday my kids look on in awe even with their MP4 as I spin the black circle I'll make collectors of them all and I'm not old just retro and it's still rock 'n' roll
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15
needle idling leading in taking flight across the groove crackling into life unchanged since 1889 black disc spinning revealing secrets from the darkness of vinyl rumble of base crash of high hat lyrical weavings entwined around a density of sound unmatched by digital cleanliness the smell of aging cardboard with artwork fit for a gallery
0
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 5:51 AM UTC
nigdaw
record
needle idling leading in taking flight across the groove crackling into life unchanged since 1889 black disc spinning revealing secrets from the darkness of vinyl rumble of base crash of high hat lyrical weavings entwined around a density of sound unmatched by digital cleanliness the smell of aging cardboard with artwork fit for a gallery
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18
My turntable doesn't have an auto stop Or an arm that returns when the disc is up So I have to be alert, conscious, and in tune Less that scratchy white noise fills up the room If I'm busy with chores, or out in the yard A trench slowly forms, Vinyl's soft, diamond's hard But when I pay attention, I inherently know Two songs left to go, one more... Get up, flip and flow My player might not be smart, doesn't know when to stop But it's got me programmed, whether I like it or not.
0
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 5:24 PM UTC
cosmic_laughter
For the Record
My turntable doesn't have an auto stop Or an arm that returns when the disc is up So I have to be alert, conscious, and in tune Less that scratchy white noise fills up the room If I'm busy with chores, or out in the yard A trench slowly forms, Vinyl's soft, diamond's hard But when I pay attention, I inherently know Two songs left to go, one more... Get up, flip and flow My player might not be smart, doesn't know when to stop But it's got me programmed, whether I like it or not.
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14
spun like a vinyl you’re the needle laid on top I’m titled for you
0
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 11:09 PM UTC
scatterbrained
Haiku21421
spun like a vinyl you’re the needle laid on top I’m titled for you
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3
Aerosmith on vinyl Your hand on my throat Listen to Toys In The Attic I'll be your toy, Make me choke Kiss me ever so softly While your lips tell me jokes Send chills down my spine When I smell your cologne Show me your favorite songs Tell me your crazy stories I want to know who you are I just want you to adore me Look through my eyes to my soul Hands all over my body Steal the air from my lungs I swear you're killing me softly
0
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 10:55 AM UTC
strangely-samantha
Record Player
Aerosmith on vinyl Your hand on my throat Listen to Toys In The Attic I'll be your toy, Make me choke Kiss me ever so softly While your lips tell me jokes Send chills down my spine When I smell your cologne Show me your favorite songs Tell me your crazy stories I want to know who you are I just want you to adore me Look through my eyes to my soul Hands all over my body Steal the air from my lungs I swear you're killing me softly
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16
The record player plays the Vinyl of November, the forthcoming of winter and the apparent festival of lights amidst all the glow a light shinier than the rest radiated by this woman draped in customary pink, smiled like the light of a candle lighting up the room. A different match however lighting up this candle, unsettling it was to see and it still is, but the beauty always lied in one's being amidst the light of this ever lit up candle. The vinyl stops abruptly bringing me back to the cold dark room as cold and as dark as the reality has been, neither a candle nor a match to be seen.
0
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 4:47 PM UTC
diljeev
Vinyl of November
The record player plays the Vinyl of November, the forthcoming of winter and the apparent festival of lights amidst all the glow a light shinier than the rest radiated by this woman draped in customary pink, smiled like the light of a candle lighting up the room. A different match however lighting up this candle, unsettling it was to see and it still is, but the beauty always lied in one's being amidst the light of this ever lit up candle. The vinyl stops abruptly bringing me back to the cold dark room as cold and as dark as the reality has been, neither a candle nor a match to be seen.
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24
Vinyl is so final It can quickly turn the table And just for the record The surface is scratched About half way down your back In disdain we repeat the refrain But I fear this time next year The goodnight kiss we'll skip I cannot say for certain When we lost our groove Broken but never spoken We wear it on our sleeve
0
Jan 19, 2020
Jan 19, 2020 at 11:50 AM UTC
Carlo-C-Gomez
Long Play
Vinyl is so final It can quickly turn the table And just for the record The surface is scratched About half way down your back In disdain we repeat the refrain But I fear this time next year The goodnight kiss we'll skip I cannot say for certain When we lost our groove Broken but never spoken We wear it on our sleeve
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12
Removed from paper inner sleeve shiny black disc catching light, rainbows across the groove carefully placed on turntable's spinning platter to keep finger marks at bay spinning, 33 1/3 snap, crackle, pop the needle takes flight leading in to the rumble of bass crash of high hat singer's lyrical weavings a density of sound the smell of vinyl a whiff of aging cardboard sleeve artwork fit for a gallery
0
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 6:36 AM UTC
nigdaw
The Romance of Vinyl
Removed from paper inner sleeve shiny black disc catching light, rainbows across the groove carefully placed on turntable's spinning platter to keep finger marks at bay spinning, 33 1/3 snap, crackle, pop the needle takes flight leading in to the rumble of bass crash of high hat singer's lyrical weavings a density of sound the smell of vinyl a whiff of aging cardboard sleeve artwork fit for a gallery
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17
In the center gravity holds tightly as we spiral awaiting to enfold ever pressed in cosmic vinyl
0
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 2:16 PM UTC
EvilShredder
Cosmic Vinyl
In the center gravity holds tightly as we spiral awaiting to enfold ever pressed in cosmic vinyl
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4
_Spin me some velvet, Scuff me over with gravel, Pick me some bluesy strings; Tie me a bunch of wildflower quavers, Let’s hear how your phoney sax sings. Dip me in treacle, Needle me with soul, Groove me some dirt and some bass; Blow me your ***** devil’s pipe strong, Let’s play us some bourbon and lace. Spin me some velvet, Scuff me over with gravel, Lay me down in meadowsong; Rent me a dime’s worth of old dust and daydreams, Honey chil’, you cain’t do me no wrong._
0
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 9:13 PM UTC
annh
Old Vinyl
_Spin me some velvet, Scuff me over with gravel, Pick me some bluesy strings; Tie me a bunch of wildflower quavers, Let’s hear how your phoney sax sings. Dip me in treacle, Needle me with soul, Groove me some dirt and some bass; Blow me your ***** devil’s pipe strong, Let’s play us some bourbon and lace. Spin me some velvet, Scuff me over with gravel, Lay me down in meadowsong; Rent me a dime’s worth of old dust and daydreams, Honey chil’, you cain’t do me no wrong._
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15
Prologue A raw, unfiltered scream filled the air. The boy dropped the gun and rushed towards the body lying beside the wooden stand. The man before him was clutching his stomach- his t-shirt soaked with blood. His eyes began to well up with tears as he cradled his father in his arms. Groaning softly, the man used his free arm to touch the boy’s cheek. “Shhhh. It’s okay. I know it was an accident,” the man said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. We’ll get you to a hospital,” the boy choked out. “The doctors will fix you. I promise.” The boy was trembling with a sob caught in his throat, and his head buried in his father’s chest. “Hey, you’re gonna be okay, son. Look at me-” He coughed suddenly and a stream of blood began to spill from his mouth, “I forgive you. But listen to me, you won’t be able to fix me. Just know that I will always be proud of you and the great man that you will one day become.” With that final assurance, his hands finally fell limp. You must understand: when a child opens his eyes for the first time, he is like a caterpillar. As the years go by, his growth is measured by the number of skins he sheds as he outgrows another version of himself. And for each one that he discards, there will be another, buried deep inside of him, that will be drawn closer towards reality. Then one day, he will collapse into himself. For this freshly-bereaved little boy, it is time to seek refuge and rebuild. For many years he will be consumed with the thought that he is not ready to be a man. He will refuse to leave his chrysalis. Eventually, he will forget about the world that lies beyond its walls until the day finally comes where he will have to make a choice: remain a boy or become the man his father wanted him to be. SCENE ONE MANY YEARS LATER… A medley of voices sounded in the air as hundreds of city-dwellers navigated their way around the rush hour traffic. Horns blared all around them, and the skies were grey and dripped with moisture. Jaywalking across Oak and fifth with a cold cappuccino in hand, was a frazzled young man named John. His freckled face was lined with worry as he stole another glance at his wristwatch and quickened his pace. On days like this, John really hated having a day-job. A welcome distraction presented itself as the sudden playing of ‘I Want It that Way’ by Backstreet Boys. The woman beside him raised her eyebrows and glanced at his front pocket. Smiling sheepishly, he pulled out his phone. After pushing up his glasses and bringing it within nanometres of his face, he finally made out the Caller ID. Eyes widening, he hastily answered the call. “Hello, this is John speaking.” “I expect that you are ready for tomorrow,” said the voice on the line. “Of course. The scope I ordered arrived last night,” replied John. John bit his lip and ran a hand through his messy red hair. “Yet your last assignment left two of my men in prison” continued the voice. “Do not mistake me, if Oliver Baxter’s heart is still beating by the end of tomorrow, you will suffer the same fate as your father.” John moved the phone away from his ear- fearful of going deaf. “Whatever is left of your future relies on this mission. Don’t miss.” Static took over the line. Then, silence. John squeezed his eyes shut and became aware of the metallic taste in his mouth. His lip was bleeding. He rummaged through his bag and searched for pack of tissues. In his carelessness, his elbow banged up against his rifle. Quickly extracting the pack, he shoved the weapon further down the bag. He heaved a heavy sigh and nursed his elbow in his hand. “Stop doubting yourself, John. He’s just another corrupt C.E.O.- he has it coming,” he muttered to himself. “Just get it done, Johnny, get it done.” SCENE TWO Just a block away from John, waiting impatiently at the corner of Oak and Robson, was a scowling dark-haired man with a 5 O’Clock morning shadow. The sleeves of his button-down were scrunched up to his elbows and his tie hung loosely around his neck. Noticing the rain beginning to intensify, the man stuffed the rest of his croissant into his mouth in an attempt to salvage its flaky goodness. No such luck. With a guttural sigh, he tossed his napkin into a nearby trash bin and grumbled to himself about the disgrace that is cold, store-bought pastries. Thankfully for him, his phone rang and interrupted his reverie of self-pity. “Who’s calling?” He answered gruffly. “James. Always the charmer,” drawled the voice from the other line. “Now, that's no way to greet an old friend.” “Well, I didn’t get an answer for my question now did I?” James said through gritted teeth Over the line, he could hear his caller clicking his tongue disapprovingly. “It’s Aaron, my good man. Have you really forgotten?” Oh yes, Aaron Benson. The pretentious Englishman he shared an apartment with in his college days- the one with a relentless infatuation with Kate Middleton. “Of course. Aaron. I could never.” He could only wish he had. “I hear you’ve made a name for yourself as a photographer?” he questioned. “What’s it to you?” James said. “I have a job for you. My cousin is on a business trip to your side of the Atlantic over the weekend. Oliver Baxter, the CEO for some big menswear company in London. Top thirty under thirty kind of bloke. I can’t stand him, but he’s family. Anyway, his birthday’s coming up and my family wants you to have a photoshoot with him.” said Aaron James sighed. “So you want me to take a couple headshots of pretty boy for his Forbes cover page?” “No, no. Take my word, he is as unphotogenic as a dung beetle. I say that with love. Partially,” Aaron snickered. “Just take a couple pictures- he doesn’t need to look good. We just want something to add to the slideshow for a couple of laughs.” “Alright, I’ll do it. Send me his specifics by the end of the day, and I’ll tell you where you should wire the payment.” said James “I’m grateful. Aside from that, I just wanted to ask you again about that suit I left at our apartment when I flew back to London. Were you able to find-” James hung up. He was definitely not getting that suit back. James didn’t feel too guilty. After all, he thought to himself, the guy has enough money to buy it three times over. If not, he could take a loan from Mr. Thirty under thirty. SCENE THREE Later that day, a bleary-eyed and yawning James stepped into a bar. Groaning softly, he massaged the crook of his neck- blistering red patches lined the areas where his camera strap had rested on mere minutes ago. The ever-familiar scent of liquor and sweat hung in the air. Suddenly, a cheer erupted from the back corner of the room. As his eyes finally adjusted to the dimly-lit space, he spotted a lanky, red-headed figure by the dart station. A stadium of intoxicated onlookers was chanting his name. James’ fingers twitched to reach for his camera but he quickly quelled it. The lighting was not in his favour. He strode over towards an empty stool by the bar. Unsurprisingly, his eyes were still fixed on the strange fellow pushing up his tortoiseshell glasses and setting up his stance for another shot at the target. Bullseye. The crowd bellowed appreciatively. Standing up from his table on the other side of the bar, a man called out to the stranger, “Hey kid! Bet you wouldn’t be so tough without those glasses!” James scoffed. The guy had half of his shirt unbuttoned and a half-emptied beer mug in hand. Regardless, all eyes turned towards the ginger superstar. The guy scratched the back of his neck and let out a nervous chuckle. Then, with a final shake of his head, he removed his lenses. “How much?” Drunken hollering ensued, as well as some severely off-target slaps on the back. James watched as he carefully placed his frames on the counter and caught the stranger’s eye. Leaning back on his stool, James raised his eyebrows at him and tilted his head. A boyish grin spread across the stranger’s face. Laughing now, the man made his way back towards his station and readied himself. One, two, three… The crowd roared. The dart, still quivering, was lodged precisely in the centre of the target. James turned away from the mayhem and ordered a drink. Coming up from behind him, the dart-savvy stranger slid into the seat next to him. “Just some water, please.” “Sure thing, hon,” said the bartender. James looked to the man beside him and nodded curtly. Eyes twinkling, the boy smiled back. “I take it you weren’t impressed by my little stunt up there.” No response. “My name’s John. John Doe actually. I wish I was kidding.” James finally afforded him his attention. “Bond. James Bond. I know the struggle.” “Our parents really did us wrong, didn’t they?” said John. James raised his glass. “Cheers to that.” After both men had taken a sip of their drinks, James continued, “So, you don’t really need those glasses do you?” “Well, of course I need them,” said John “but it’s not like I’m legally blind without them. I take it you don’t have any lenses for yourself?” he asked “Yes, I do actually- a different kind though. I carry all my lenses with me, even my scope,” James explained, gently patting the bag hanging across his shoulders. John’s eyes widened. “It’s nice to finally meet someone from my own line of work,” said John. “Really? There’s a ton of us in the city. People here pay a pretty penny for just a couple shots,” James replied dubiously. “Very true. One time an MLA candidate offered me over two million to take care of, and I quote, ‘an old friend,’” agreed John. **** that’s a real friend right there,” said James, shaking his head. “So, are you the type to schedule appointments with your assignments, or do you prefer candids?” “I’d say candids for sure,” replied John. “It’s easier when people aren’t suspecting it. That way it’s just one and done. The real nightmare comes when you’re asked to shoot multiple people.” “The worst part of the job!” James sighed, rolling his eyes, “It’s so much quicker to find the perfect angle when you only have to worry about one guy.” “Exactly! Clients are always so demanding! Don’t even get me started on scheduling families,” exclaimed John, throwing his hands into the air. “Married couples are understable, though. I can see why you would want to do both at the same time- so you can make sure you don’t leave any loose ends.” James nodded in agreement. “It’s just a pain, given that some jobs can takes hours to complete,” said James. “The subject either keeps on moving, or you can’t get the right angle. It makes my hair turn grey.” John sat up straighter, enjoying the conversation.“Hear me out, I have seen my fair share of husbands and wives calling in for me to take care of their spouse,” carried on John. “Honestly, it makes me reconsider having a love life…” Sniggering, James replied, “The only thing worse is when they get their kids involved. It physically pains me to have to include them when I’m taking my shots.” “Truthfully, I’ve gotten to the point where if a client asks me to take down a kid, I just hang up. It’s not worth the trouble… or the emotional scars.” John said, eyes darkening. “I wish I had the ***** to do something like that,” said James, looking at John with admiration, “but I just can’t afford to. I have to pay my rent somehow, you know?” “Well, I started out pretty young so I think I’ve made a name for myself among the more influential circles. Although, for the public, I try to keep a low profile. But it’s getting harder now that more of my shots are making the headlines,” said John. “Not bad, kid.” said James. “I got into this whole business while I was still in college as a way to pay for my tuition. Man, you go in there, thinking that all those frat-boys and sorority-girls are just a bunch of alcoholic party-goers, but when they go and hire you… I still have nightmares about the things they made me do,” James whispered, shivering. “Fascinating!” replied John. “I didn’t know that colleges dabbled in our kind of underground operations.” “They come with occupational hazards,” said James. “Most of my assignments nowadays consist of old clients calling in a favour,” shared John. “I’ll end up tracking down some really important people- world leaders and such.” James whistled appreciatively. John continued, “It’s especially fun to fire your shot while they’re making a speech. It’s all so dramatic, and the shot almost freezes time for a second.” “Have you been assigned to any higher-ups recently?” Said James. “Yes, actually. A shareholder for some big entertainment outlet put me on Stan Lee.” “You shot Stan Lee! I’ve been a fan of him for years! Do you still have the pictures?” “Uh, I mean, I don’t really save pictures of the people I shoot… “ said John, scratching his head. “It leaves a paper trail, and I prefer to stay anonymous. Their photos usually end up on the news anyway,” said John “It’s a shame that he died. At least his legacy lives on,” said James, frowning slightly. “Well, of course he’s dead. I did shoot him...” John said, furrowing his eyebrows, but James didn’t hear him. The rest of the night passed by quickly as the two continued to share their stories,and marvel at their uncanny similarities. It was a miracle, truly, that they were able to find another man who understood them so deeply. SCENE FOUR THE FOLLOWING DAY... John crept towards the edge of the rooftop. Across from him, a couple stories below, was the window to Oliver Baxter’s suite. His hands were shaking. You’re just cold he thought to himself, It's nothing more. He slowly unzipped the top of his bag and and pulled out his rifle. After he made sure his weapon was loaded, he reached back into his bag to pull out his scope and brought out- “A camera lens? Why would I have a camera lens”- the realization struck him- “James. I’m so stupid. He’s not another hitman- he’s a photographer. And he’s got my scope, too.” His musings were stopped short; Oliver Baxter had just re-entered his room. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered to himself. “Today of all days…” John reluctantly returned the camera lens to his bag. He couldn’t waste any more time. “I guess I’ll have to use the old one.” Annoyed, he reached into the front pocket of his bag and pulled out a small, scratched contraption. A gun scope! Albeit, a rather unimpressive model. “It’s a good thing I kept my old one as a backup. Who doesn’t love a good case of Chanel versus Walmart?” Hint: Not John. Unaware of the hitman outside his window, Mr. Baxter finally ended his call and plopped down onto a nearby armchair. With his looming height, his neck easily rose above the top of the chair. Sighing, he ran a callused hand through his hair and leaned back. John swiftly finished setting up his stand. Just as he was about to about to fire, a butterfly fluttered towards him and landed on top of the trigger. It’s miniature wings were coloured with vivid reds, sparkling greens, and candy-apple oranges. John shrugged it off. It was time. John exhaled shakily and closed his eyes. Why was he hesitating? This was not his first assignment. Although, it was his first time being assigned to someone from outside the country. He knew nothing of Oliver Baxter. Unlike his past victims, John had no way to gauge that the man was worthy of his fate. Standing alone on the top of an abandoned warehouse, John desperately wished that he wasn’t making a mistake. Suddenly, the image of his father lying in a pool of crimson flashed beneath his closed eyelids. His ears rang with the sound of the bullet that tore through his skin. His hands still remembered the weight of his dying body- the wetness of his blood that stained his fingertips. “You won’t be able to fix me,” his father had whispered to him. He was right. Suddenly, another voice, booming and full of static, echoed throughout his mind. “Don’t miss.” John opened his eyes and a familiar calmness overtook him. He pressed the trigger. Not so far away, Oliver Baxter slumped into his chair. “I never miss.” SCENE FIVE By the time our friend James Bond came to pay his own visit to Mr. Baxter, John had already slipped in and cleaned up after himself. Assuredly, he had changed the man into a nondescript red hoodie and tucked him securely into his bed. He even took the liberty of placing Mr. Baxter’s phone on silent. John had a feeling that Mr. Baxter wouldn’t mind. When he was finally satisfied with his handiwork, he took his leave. Not long after, a huffing and puffing James Bond arrived on the 15th floor. With his patchy red cheeks and sweaty brow, he was truly a sight for sore eyes. He stepped out of the stairwell and muttered a series of curse words underneath his breath. Gritting his teeth, he walked over to the shining elevator doors beside him and gave them a hard kick. The “Out of Order” sign hanging off of it floated to the floor, and James whimpered as he nursed his aching toe. “I’ll be ****** taking a picture of a monkey would’ve been easier than this.” He stood in the hallway for a little while longer and gathered his wits. After the pain subsided, he strode over to the C.E.O.’s door and knocked. He immediately positioned himself to capture a candid of Mr. Baxter as he opened the door. No one came. John tried again. No answer. Finally, his patience worn thin. James fished out the keys he had flirtatiously convinced the new receptionist downstairs to lend him and carefully unlocked the hotel door. He stepped inside and surveyed the suite in search of his assignment only to find him underneath the freshly-washed blankets of his bed- sound asleep. “Well then… Aaron did say it didn’t have to be a good photo.” Shrugging, James reached into his bag for his camera lens and pulled it out. “What the hell? This isn’t mine.” James said. He narrowed his eyes and examined the object in his hand. The instrument was long and bulbous with two black clamps attached to the bottom. Although, the clamps did not open wide enough to fit a camera- it almost looked as if they were meant to be attached to some some sort of cylinder. He peered through and in the middle of the lens lay a bright red dot. He supposed he and John must have inadvertently swapped lenses in the bar. Then, he came to a realization. “I see what’s going on here!” James proclaimed a little too loudly, “John must use this for long range pictures. Must be some new tech- and pretty expensive too. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” For a split-second, James was tempted to pocket it, but a twinge of guilt urged him to return it to his bag. Sighing, he put away his camera and pulled out his phone. Aaron would have to make do with some lesser quality resolution. James knelt down with his makeshift camera poised for the shot. Aaron had made no exaggerations about his cousin. The man was unnaturally pale and smelled strongly of… detergent? Honestly, a corpse would have looked more alive. His jaw was slack and, peculiarly enough, a red hoodie was pulled over his matted hair. A British thing, maybe? At the very least, he had the decency not to snore or drool. Once satisfied with his pictures, James walked swiftly out the door and locked it behind him. By the time he had completed the tiresome journey back to the first floor, he had saved the photographs onto his USB drive. The only thing he had left to do was send them to Aaron. SCENE SIX When John entered the bar again, his eyes immediately fell on his companion from last night- the cynical James Bond. Given his current state, perhaps it would be wiser to keep his distance. Then again, when had he ever made the smart decision? John greeted James as he collapsed into the stool next to him. “Heard the news?” slurred James, “Oliver Baxter, up-and-coming C.E.O. of some big London company was found dead a couple hours ago.” John’s heart skipped a beat. He responded carefully. “No, this is news to me. I guess I was a little too busy today at work… You know, shooting my shots. In my photography studio. With my camera. That I use for photography, “ replied John. James looked at him strangely. John continued, “Poor guy. Never heard of him before, though. Oliver Brown, was it?” “Baxter, not Brown,” James corrected him. “Of course. Baxter. Sorry, I’m bad with names,” said John. He stole a glance at his friend, hoping he wasn’t seeing through him. Fortunately for him, James was too busy staring glumly into the frothy contents of his beer mug. “I’m sorry. Did he mean anything to you?” “He was my assignment,” replied James. “When I came into his room for his shoot, he was asleep. My client, his cousin, said that he didn’t need to look good for the picture, so I snapped a couple shots of him like that and left. Turns out he wasn’t sleeping. Just dead.” John’s throat tightened. Out of all the pessimistic photographers in the city, he just had to befriend the one who’s assignment he killed, didn’t he? “It’s not your fault. No one would have expected him to be dead,” said John. He had made sure of it. Chuckling mirthlessly, James replied, “People always see the truth. One way or another, they see people for who they truly are, and see themselves for who they’ve become. They’re only either too scared to admit it, or they cover their eyes. What’s funny is that in our line of work it almost becomes the opposite. You don’t see anybody as either ordinary or extraordinary. You see them simply as people in front of your lens. Then one day, they stop being people at all.” John’s stomach dropped. His friend did not give himself enough credit; James was not a horrible man. At least, he was not as awful as the man sitting beside him. “Well, as photographers,” said John, “We also know that the truth can be ugly. And when you capture it with the perfect shot- when you shoot the right person, at the right time, in the right place- it comes back to haunt you.” James lifted his eyes from the table and met his. Raising his half-empty glass to him, he whispered, “To the shots that haunt us.” “To the shots that haunt us,” John repeated. *** Not long after their grim declaration, John decided to return home. By that time, only streetlights continued to shine. His glasses could do little to aid his vision, but he still managed to make out the overstuffed mailbox in front of his house. With a roll of his eyes, he walked over to it, pushed the “No Flyers or Junk Mail” sign aside, and collected their ever-punctual delivery of coupons. He swiftly unlocked the front door and closed it behind him. Just as he was about to reach for the remote and commence some much-needed binge-therapy, he realized that his mother was already seated on the sofa. “Hey, mom,” he said as he walked over to her and kissed her forehead. “You’ve come home late tonight, Johnny,” she said. “I’ve been spending the past few hours rifling through these albums.” Surely enough, stacked up on the coffee table in front of them was a collection of his family’s photo albums. It was at that moment when the realization struck him. “It’s been twelve years,” he whispered. How could he have forgotten what day it was? “Every day after your dad died feels like a lifetime.” “Every day after I killed-” His mother cut him off, “Don’t you finish that sentence.” John cast his eyes downward and pursed his lips. Her eyes softened and she lifted the album off of her lap and placed it onto the table. “Johnny, look at me,” she said. “What happened to your father was an accident- it was not your fault.” John interrupted “I pulled that trigger. Me. I took him away from you.” His mom sighed “Okay. You did. For years, after that day, I felt like someone had torn off my wings and left me to drown. I felt like I would never be able to fly again, like I would never be happy again. But raising you, watching you grow up, gave me hope. You have so much potential and a long life left to live, but your guilt keeps you trapped inside the past. I have already forgiven you, and I know he has too,” she paused, “It’s time that you forgive yourself.” “What if I can’t?” “You need to. You owe it to your father to be the man he wanted you to be. You’ll never be able to do that if you keep on punishing yourself.” John did not know how to reply. James was right. He knew his mother was speaking the truth but all he wanted to do was cover his ears and shut his eyes. He had spent everyday for the past twelve years training and refining his accuracy- proving to the world that he would never miss another shot. All of this, just to make up for the one shot that took his father's life. Worse yet, he defiled himself; he painted his hands in crimson with the lives of his victims in an effort to conceal the blood he shed twelve years ago. But who was he to decide who would live or die? He was no god. He never was and never would be. He had only ever been a boy: honest, clumsy, and- dare he say it- faultless. Now, however, he was a man. A man who used other people’s lives to indulge in years of self-pity. This sin, he deserved to pay for. In that moment, Johnny Doe finally broke free of his cocoon and unfurled his wings. For twelve years he had remained in that shell, unready to see the light that lay beyond. But now, he wanted to taste freedom- no matter what the cost may be. SCENE SEVEN “In an unexpected turn of events for the ****** case of Oliver Baxter, the city’s most elusive hitman has turned himself in and pleaded guilty,” said the voice from the bar’s flat screen TV. A well-past-sober James lifted his head from the bar counter and turned up the volume. “A complete genius, that one is,” he muttered to himself. “The young man of 24 has identified himself as John Edwards Doe,” she continued. James froze. He slowly turned his head towards the screen, frightened about what he might see. Plastered on the screen, with his unmistakable tortoise shell glasses and shock of red hair, was a mugshot of the man that sat beside him mere hours ago. “Thanks to the city much-relieved police force, I can say with confidence that John Doe has finally taken his last shot,” she said. The newscaster began to elaborate on the details of the trial but James was no longer listening. He rubbed his eyes and looked again at the screen. After a long moment of disbelief, he called out to the bartender. “I think I need another shot.”
0
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 10:17 PM UTC
GandyLamb
SHOT
Prologue A raw, unfiltered scream filled the air. The boy dropped the gun and rushed towards the body lying beside the wooden stand. The man before him was clutching his stomach- his t-shirt soaked with blood. His eyes began to well up with tears as he cradled his father in his arms. Groaning softly, the man used his free arm to touch the boy’s cheek. “Shhhh. It’s okay. I know it was an accident,” the man said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. We’ll get you to a hospital,” the boy choked out. “The doctors will fix you. I promise.” The boy was trembling with a sob caught in his throat, and his head buried in his father’s chest. “Hey, you’re gonna be okay, son. Look at me-” He coughed suddenly and a stream of blood began to spill from his mouth, “I forgive you. But listen to me, you won’t be able to fix me. Just know that I will always be proud of you and the great man that you will one day become.” With that final assurance, his hands finally fell limp. You must understand: when a child opens his eyes for the first time, he is like a caterpillar. As the years go by, his growth is measured by the number of skins he sheds as he outgrows another version of himself. And for each one that he discards, there will be another, buried deep inside of him, that will be drawn closer towards reality. Then one day, he will collapse into himself. For this freshly-bereaved little boy, it is time to seek refuge and rebuild. For many years he will be consumed with the thought that he is not ready to be a man. He will refuse to leave his chrysalis. Eventually, he will forget about the world that lies beyond its walls until the day finally comes where he will have to make a choice: remain a boy or become the man his father wanted him to be. SCENE ONE MANY YEARS LATER… A medley of voices sounded in the air as hundreds of city-dwellers navigated their way around the rush hour traffic. Horns blared all around them, and the skies were grey and dripped with moisture. Jaywalking across Oak and fifth with a cold cappuccino in hand, was a frazzled young man named John. His freckled face was lined with worry as he stole another glance at his wristwatch and quickened his pace. On days like this, John really hated having a day-job. A welcome distraction presented itself as the sudden playing of ‘I Want It that Way’ by Backstreet Boys. The woman beside him raised her eyebrows and glanced at his front pocket. Smiling sheepishly, he pulled out his phone. After pushing up his glasses and bringing it within nanometres of his face, he finally made out the Caller ID. Eyes widening, he hastily answered the call. “Hello, this is John speaking.” “I expect that you are ready for tomorrow,” said the voice on the line. “Of course. The scope I ordered arrived last night,” replied John. John bit his lip and ran a hand through his messy red hair. “Yet your last assignment left two of my men in prison” continued the voice. “Do not mistake me, if Oliver Baxter’s heart is still beating by the end of tomorrow, you will suffer the same fate as your father.” John moved the phone away from his ear- fearful of going deaf. “Whatever is left of your future relies on this mission. Don’t miss.” Static took over the line. Then, silence. John squeezed his eyes shut and became aware of the metallic taste in his mouth. His lip was bleeding. He rummaged through his bag and searched for pack of tissues. In his carelessness, his elbow banged up against his rifle. Quickly extracting the pack, he shoved the weapon further down the bag. He heaved a heavy sigh and nursed his elbow in his hand. “Stop doubting yourself, John. He’s just another corrupt C.E.O.- he has it coming,” he muttered to himself. “Just get it done, Johnny, get it done.” SCENE TWO Just a block away from John, waiting impatiently at the corner of Oak and Robson, was a scowling dark-haired man with a 5 O’Clock morning shadow. The sleeves of his button-down were scrunched up to his elbows and his tie hung loosely around his neck. Noticing the rain beginning to intensify, the man stuffed the rest of his croissant into his mouth in an attempt to salvage its flaky goodness. No such luck. With a guttural sigh, he tossed his napkin into a nearby trash bin and grumbled to himself about the disgrace that is cold, store-bought pastries. Thankfully for him, his phone rang and interrupted his reverie of self-pity. “Who’s calling?” He answered gruffly. “James. Always the charmer,” drawled the voice from the other line. “Now, that's no way to greet an old friend.” “Well, I didn’t get an answer for my question now did I?” James said through gritted teeth Over the line, he could hear his caller clicking his tongue disapprovingly. “It’s Aaron, my good man. Have you really forgotten?” Oh yes, Aaron Benson. The pretentious Englishman he shared an apartment with in his college days- the one with a relentless infatuation with Kate Middleton. “Of course. Aaron. I could never.” He could only wish he had. “I hear you’ve made a name for yourself as a photographer?” he questioned. “What’s it to you?” James said. “I have a job for you. My cousin is on a business trip to your side of the Atlantic over the weekend. Oliver Baxter, the CEO for some big menswear company in London. Top thirty under thirty kind of bloke. I can’t stand him, but he’s family. Anyway, his birthday’s coming up and my family wants you to have a photoshoot with him.” said Aaron James sighed. “So you want me to take a couple headshots of pretty boy for his Forbes cover page?” “No, no. Take my word, he is as unphotogenic as a dung beetle. I say that with love. Partially,” Aaron snickered. “Just take a couple pictures- he doesn’t need to look good. We just want something to add to the slideshow for a couple of laughs.” “Alright, I’ll do it. Send me his specifics by the end of the day, and I’ll tell you where you should wire the payment.” said James “I’m grateful. Aside from that, I just wanted to ask you again about that suit I left at our apartment when I flew back to London. Were you able to find-” James hung up. He was definitely not getting that suit back. James didn’t feel too guilty. After all, he thought to himself, the guy has enough money to buy it three times over. If not, he could take a loan from Mr. Thirty under thirty. SCENE THREE Later that day, a bleary-eyed and yawning James stepped into a bar. Groaning softly, he massaged the crook of his neck- blistering red patches lined the areas where his camera strap had rested on mere minutes ago. The ever-familiar scent of liquor and sweat hung in the air. Suddenly, a cheer erupted from the back corner of the room. As his eyes finally adjusted to the dimly-lit space, he spotted a lanky, red-headed figure by the dart station. A stadium of intoxicated onlookers was chanting his name. James’ fingers twitched to reach for his camera but he quickly quelled it. The lighting was not in his favour. He strode over towards an empty stool by the bar. Unsurprisingly, his eyes were still fixed on the strange fellow pushing up his tortoiseshell glasses and setting up his stance for another shot at the target. Bullseye. The crowd bellowed appreciatively. Standing up from his table on the other side of the bar, a man called out to the stranger, “Hey kid! Bet you wouldn’t be so tough without those glasses!” James scoffed. The guy had half of his shirt unbuttoned and a half-emptied beer mug in hand. Regardless, all eyes turned towards the ginger superstar. The guy scratched the back of his neck and let out a nervous chuckle. Then, with a final shake of his head, he removed his lenses. “How much?” Drunken hollering ensued, as well as some severely off-target slaps on the back. James watched as he carefully placed his frames on the counter and caught the stranger’s eye. Leaning back on his stool, James raised his eyebrows at him and tilted his head. A boyish grin spread across the stranger’s face. Laughing now, the man made his way back towards his station and readied himself. One, two, three… The crowd roared. The dart, still quivering, was lodged precisely in the centre of the target. James turned away from the mayhem and ordered a drink. Coming up from behind him, the dart-savvy stranger slid into the seat next to him. “Just some water, please.” “Sure thing, hon,” said the bartender. James looked to the man beside him and nodded curtly. Eyes twinkling, the boy smiled back. “I take it you weren’t impressed by my little stunt up there.” No response. “My name’s John. John Doe actually. I wish I was kidding.” James finally afforded him his attention. “Bond. James Bond. I know the struggle.” “Our parents really did us wrong, didn’t they?” said John. James raised his glass. “Cheers to that.” After both men had taken a sip of their drinks, James continued, “So, you don’t really need those glasses do you?” “Well, of course I need them,” said John “but it’s not like I’m legally blind without them. I take it you don’t have any lenses for yourself?” he asked “Yes, I do actually- a different kind though. I carry all my lenses with me, even my scope,” James explained, gently patting the bag hanging across his shoulders. John’s eyes widened. “It’s nice to finally meet someone from my own line of work,” said John. “Really? There’s a ton of us in the city. People here pay a pretty penny for just a couple shots,” James replied dubiously. “Very true. One time an MLA candidate offered me over two million to take care of, and I quote, ‘an old friend,’” agreed John. **** that’s a real friend right there,” said James, shaking his head. “So, are you the type to schedule appointments with your assignments, or do you prefer candids?” “I’d say candids for sure,” replied John. “It’s easier when people aren’t suspecting it. That way it’s just one and done. The real nightmare comes when you’re asked to shoot multiple people.” “The worst part of the job!” James sighed, rolling his eyes, “It’s so much quicker to find the perfect angle when you only have to worry about one guy.” “Exactly! Clients are always so demanding! Don’t even get me started on scheduling families,” exclaimed John, throwing his hands into the air. “Married couples are understable, though. I can see why you would want to do both at the same time- so you can make sure you don’t leave any loose ends.” James nodded in agreement. “It’s just a pain, given that some jobs can takes hours to complete,” said James. “The subject either keeps on moving, or you can’t get the right angle. It makes my hair turn grey.” John sat up straighter, enjoying the conversation.“Hear me out, I have seen my fair share of husbands and wives calling in for me to take care of their spouse,” carried on John. “Honestly, it makes me reconsider having a love life…” Sniggering, James replied, “The only thing worse is when they get their kids involved. It physically pains me to have to include them when I’m taking my shots.” “Truthfully, I’ve gotten to the point where if a client asks me to take down a kid, I just hang up. It’s not worth the trouble… or the emotional scars.” John said, eyes darkening. “I wish I had the ***** to do something like that,” said James, looking at John with admiration, “but I just can’t afford to. I have to pay my rent somehow, you know?” “Well, I started out pretty young so I think I’ve made a name for myself among the more influential circles. Although, for the public, I try to keep a low profile. But it’s getting harder now that more of my shots are making the headlines,” said John. “Not bad, kid.” said James. “I got into this whole business while I was still in college as a way to pay for my tuition. Man, you go in there, thinking that all those frat-boys and sorority-girls are just a bunch of alcoholic party-goers, but when they go and hire you… I still have nightmares about the things they made me do,” James whispered, shivering. “Fascinating!” replied John. “I didn’t know that colleges dabbled in our kind of underground operations.” “They come with occupational hazards,” said James. “Most of my assignments nowadays consist of old clients calling in a favour,” shared John. “I’ll end up tracking down some really important people- world leaders and such.” James whistled appreciatively. John continued, “It’s especially fun to fire your shot while they’re making a speech. It’s all so dramatic, and the shot almost freezes time for a second.” “Have you been assigned to any higher-ups recently?” Said James. “Yes, actually. A shareholder for some big entertainment outlet put me on Stan Lee.” “You shot Stan Lee! I’ve been a fan of him for years! Do you still have the pictures?” “Uh, I mean, I don’t really save pictures of the people I shoot… “ said John, scratching his head. “It leaves a paper trail, and I prefer to stay anonymous. Their photos usually end up on the news anyway,” said John “It’s a shame that he died. At least his legacy lives on,” said James, frowning slightly. “Well, of course he’s dead. I did shoot him...” John said, furrowing his eyebrows, but James didn’t hear him. The rest of the night passed by quickly as the two continued to share their stories,and marvel at their uncanny similarities. It was a miracle, truly, that they were able to find another man who understood them so deeply. SCENE FOUR THE FOLLOWING DAY... John crept towards the edge of the rooftop. Across from him, a couple stories below, was the window to Oliver Baxter’s suite. His hands were shaking. You’re just cold he thought to himself, It's nothing more. He slowly unzipped the top of his bag and and pulled out his rifle. After he made sure his weapon was loaded, he reached back into his bag to pull out his scope and brought out- “A camera lens? Why would I have a camera lens”- the realization struck him- “James. I’m so stupid. He’s not another hitman- he’s a photographer. And he’s got my scope, too.” His musings were stopped short; Oliver Baxter had just re-entered his room. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered to himself. “Today of all days…” John reluctantly returned the camera lens to his bag. He couldn’t waste any more time. “I guess I’ll have to use the old one.” Annoyed, he reached into the front pocket of his bag and pulled out a small, scratched contraption. A gun scope! Albeit, a rather unimpressive model. “It’s a good thing I kept my old one as a backup. Who doesn’t love a good case of Chanel versus Walmart?” Hint: Not John. Unaware of the hitman outside his window, Mr. Baxter finally ended his call and plopped down onto a nearby armchair. With his looming height, his neck easily rose above the top of the chair. Sighing, he ran a callused hand through his hair and leaned back. John swiftly finished setting up his stand. Just as he was about to about to fire, a butterfly fluttered towards him and landed on top of the trigger. It’s miniature wings were coloured with vivid reds, sparkling greens, and candy-apple oranges. John shrugged it off. It was time. John exhaled shakily and closed his eyes. Why was he hesitating? This was not his first assignment. Although, it was his first time being assigned to someone from outside the country. He knew nothing of Oliver Baxter. Unlike his past victims, John had no way to gauge that the man was worthy of his fate. Standing alone on the top of an abandoned warehouse, John desperately wished that he wasn’t making a mistake. Suddenly, the image of his father lying in a pool of crimson flashed beneath his closed eyelids. His ears rang with the sound of the bullet that tore through his skin. His hands still remembered the weight of his dying body- the wetness of his blood that stained his fingertips. “You won’t be able to fix me,” his father had whispered to him. He was right. Suddenly, another voice, booming and full of static, echoed throughout his mind. “Don’t miss.” John opened his eyes and a familiar calmness overtook him. He pressed the trigger. Not so far away, Oliver Baxter slumped into his chair. “I never miss.” SCENE FIVE By the time our friend James Bond came to pay his own visit to Mr. Baxter, John had already slipped in and cleaned up after himself. Assuredly, he had changed the man into a nondescript red hoodie and tucked him securely into his bed. He even took the liberty of placing Mr. Baxter’s phone on silent. John had a feeling that Mr. Baxter wouldn’t mind. When he was finally satisfied with his handiwork, he took his leave. Not long after, a huffing and puffing James Bond arrived on the 15th floor. With his patchy red cheeks and sweaty brow, he was truly a sight for sore eyes. He stepped out of the stairwell and muttered a series of curse words underneath his breath. Gritting his teeth, he walked over to the shining elevator doors beside him and gave them a hard kick. The “Out of Order” sign hanging off of it floated to the floor, and James whimpered as he nursed his aching toe. “I’ll be ****** taking a picture of a monkey would’ve been easier than this.” He stood in the hallway for a little while longer and gathered his wits. After the pain subsided, he strode over to the C.E.O.’s door and knocked. He immediately positioned himself to capture a candid of Mr. Baxter as he opened the door. No one came. John tried again. No answer. Finally, his patience worn thin. James fished out the keys he had flirtatiously convinced the new receptionist downstairs to lend him and carefully unlocked the hotel door. He stepped inside and surveyed the suite in search of his assignment only to find him underneath the freshly-washed blankets of his bed- sound asleep. “Well then… Aaron did say it didn’t have to be a good photo.” Shrugging, James reached into his bag for his camera lens and pulled it out. “What the hell? This isn’t mine.” James said. He narrowed his eyes and examined the object in his hand. The instrument was long and bulbous with two black clamps attached to the bottom. Although, the clamps did not open wide enough to fit a camera- it almost looked as if they were meant to be attached to some some sort of cylinder. He peered through and in the middle of the lens lay a bright red dot. He supposed he and John must have inadvertently swapped lenses in the bar. Then, he came to a realization. “I see what’s going on here!” James proclaimed a little too loudly, “John must use this for long range pictures. Must be some new tech- and pretty expensive too. I’ve never seen anything like it before.” For a split-second, James was tempted to pocket it, but a twinge of guilt urged him to return it to his bag. Sighing, he put away his camera and pulled out his phone. Aaron would have to make do with some lesser quality resolution. James knelt down with his makeshift camera poised for the shot. Aaron had made no exaggerations about his cousin. The man was unnaturally pale and smelled strongly of… detergent? Honestly, a corpse would have looked more alive. His jaw was slack and, peculiarly enough, a red hoodie was pulled over his matted hair. A British thing, maybe? At the very least, he had the decency not to snore or drool. Once satisfied with his pictures, James walked swiftly out the door and locked it behind him. By the time he had completed the tiresome journey back to the first floor, he had saved the photographs onto his USB drive. The only thing he had left to do was send them to Aaron. SCENE SIX When John entered the bar again, his eyes immediately fell on his companion from last night- the cynical James Bond. Given his current state, perhaps it would be wiser to keep his distance. Then again, when had he ever made the smart decision? John greeted James as he collapsed into the stool next to him. “Heard the news?” slurred James, “Oliver Baxter, up-and-coming C.E.O. of some big London company was found dead a couple hours ago.” John’s heart skipped a beat. He responded carefully. “No, this is news to me. I guess I was a little too busy today at work… You know, shooting my shots. In my photography studio. With my camera. That I use for photography, “ replied John. James looked at him strangely. John continued, “Poor guy. Never heard of him before, though. Oliver Brown, was it?” “Baxter, not Brown,” James corrected him. “Of course. Baxter. Sorry, I’m bad with names,” said John. He stole a glance at his friend, hoping he wasn’t seeing through him. Fortunately for him, James was too busy staring glumly into the frothy contents of his beer mug. “I’m sorry. Did he mean anything to you?” “He was my assignment,” replied James. “When I came into his room for his shoot, he was asleep. My client, his cousin, said that he didn’t need to look good for the picture, so I snapped a couple shots of him like that and left. Turns out he wasn’t sleeping. Just dead.” John’s throat tightened. Out of all the pessimistic photographers in the city, he just had to befriend the one who’s assignment he killed, didn’t he? “It’s not your fault. No one would have expected him to be dead,” said John. He had made sure of it. Chuckling mirthlessly, James replied, “People always see the truth. One way or another, they see people for who they truly are, and see themselves for who they’ve become. They’re only either too scared to admit it, or they cover their eyes. What’s funny is that in our line of work it almost becomes the opposite. You don’t see anybody as either ordinary or extraordinary. You see them simply as people in front of your lens. Then one day, they stop being people at all.” John’s stomach dropped. His friend did not give himself enough credit; James was not a horrible man. At least, he was not as awful as the man sitting beside him. “Well, as photographers,” said John, “We also know that the truth can be ugly. And when you capture it with the perfect shot- when you shoot the right person, at the right time, in the right place- it comes back to haunt you.” James lifted his eyes from the table and met his. Raising his half-empty glass to him, he whispered, “To the shots that haunt us.” “To the shots that haunt us,” John repeated. *** Not long after their grim declaration, John decided to return home. By that time, only streetlights continued to shine. His glasses could do little to aid his vision, but he still managed to make out the overstuffed mailbox in front of his house. With a roll of his eyes, he walked over to it, pushed the “No Flyers or Junk Mail” sign aside, and collected their ever-punctual delivery of coupons. He swiftly unlocked the front door and closed it behind him. Just as he was about to reach for the remote and commence some much-needed binge-therapy, he realized that his mother was already seated on the sofa. “Hey, mom,” he said as he walked over to her and kissed her forehead. “You’ve come home late tonight, Johnny,” she said. “I’ve been spending the past few hours rifling through these albums.” Surely enough, stacked up on the coffee table in front of them was a collection of his family’s photo albums. It was at that moment when the realization struck him. “It’s been twelve years,” he whispered. How could he have forgotten what day it was? “Every day after your dad died feels like a lifetime.” “Every day after I killed-” His mother cut him off, “Don’t you finish that sentence.” John cast his eyes downward and pursed his lips. Her eyes softened and she lifted the album off of her lap and placed it onto the table. “Johnny, look at me,” she said. “What happened to your father was an accident- it was not your fault.” John interrupted “I pulled that trigger. Me. I took him away from you.” His mom sighed “Okay. You did. For years, after that day, I felt like someone had torn off my wings and left me to drown. I felt like I would never be able to fly again, like I would never be happy again. But raising you, watching you grow up, gave me hope. You have so much potential and a long life left to live, but your guilt keeps you trapped inside the past. I have already forgiven you, and I know he has too,” she paused, “It’s time that you forgive yourself.” “What if I can’t?” “You need to. You owe it to your father to be the man he wanted you to be. You’ll never be able to do that if you keep on punishing yourself.” John did not know how to reply. James was right. He knew his mother was speaking the truth but all he wanted to do was cover his ears and shut his eyes. He had spent everyday for the past twelve years training and refining his accuracy- proving to the world that he would never miss another shot. All of this, just to make up for the one shot that took his father's life. Worse yet, he defiled himself; he painted his hands in crimson with the lives of his victims in an effort to conceal the blood he shed twelve years ago. But who was he to decide who would live or die? He was no god. He never was and never would be. He had only ever been a boy: honest, clumsy, and- dare he say it- faultless. Now, however, he was a man. A man who used other people’s lives to indulge in years of self-pity. This sin, he deserved to pay for. In that moment, Johnny Doe finally broke free of his cocoon and unfurled his wings. For twelve years he had remained in that shell, unready to see the light that lay beyond. But now, he wanted to taste freedom- no matter what the cost may be. SCENE SEVEN “In an unexpected turn of events for the ****** case of Oliver Baxter, the city’s most elusive hitman has turned himself in and pleaded guilty,” said the voice from the bar’s flat screen TV. A well-past-sober James lifted his head from the bar counter and turned up the volume. “A complete genius, that one is,” he muttered to himself. “The young man of 24 has identified himself as John Edwards Doe,” she continued. James froze. He slowly turned his head towards the screen, frightened about what he might see. Plastered on the screen, with his unmistakable tortoise shell glasses and shock of red hair, was a mugshot of the man that sat beside him mere hours ago. “Thanks to the city much-relieved police force, I can say with confidence that John Doe has finally taken his last shot,” she said. The newscaster began to elaborate on the details of the trial but James was no longer listening. He rubbed his eyes and looked again at the screen. After a long moment of disbelief, he called out to the bartender. “I think I need another shot.”
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183
screeching blackness the music is over the veil has fallen I am the needle running in circles spinning its wheels running on empty for hours on end for days ongoing waiting for the hand to tear through the shadows the white noise flip the vinyl world and guide me on track where all I touch is your songs where curtains are wings and my sky is your melody
0
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 10:14 AM UTC
gabriel-burns
Half-Eight
screeching blackness the music is over the veil has fallen I am the needle running in circles spinning its wheels running on empty for hours on end for days ongoing waiting for the hand to tear through the shadows the white noise flip the vinyl world and guide me on track where all I touch is your songs where curtains are wings and my sky is your melody
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17
There you were: Second to last track Side 1, “Atlantic Soul Classics”.1987 R.E.S.P.E.C.T. (Take out the TCP) The power, the control, the energy, Never heard a **** thing like it. Then that Cliff Richard Show footage I saw on some old BBC clip show (yeah, I know…Cliff, eh?) “Don’t Play That Song” in crackly black & white Sorry for the language, Sister.. but **** the power of your piano playing in that moment made me realise that you were not “just a singer” but a full-on force to be reckoned with. Like Sinatra you studied lyrics like a monk deep in illumination and then blew the song away with your received otherworldly knowledge: Eleanor Rigby The Weight The Dark End of The Street Border Song Bridge Over Troubled Water I Say A Little Prayer Oh, these were your songs, now. Don’t let anyone forget it. But there was something more to you than all of this. The way MLK kissed you with beaming pride at some long, forgotten award ceremony. The way you sashayed African culture when you stepped out in public. The way you ripped up your own records when you tread the boards & faced your humbled audience. The way you stood by Angela Davis when she was hooked up on some stupid jackshit Hoover charge. The way you verbalized the black American experience not just through countless moments of  sheer liberation but in the solemn way you stepped up to the piano on Amazing Grace You comforted this whiter-than-white Paddy on more than one occasion and forged a path of hope in many of his troubled waters. Oh, God we will miss you & your power – all of it. That once in a millennia voice whose measured restraint & joyful release touched millions. You will never walk alone. Farewell Queen. You are finally at peace. Thank you, thank you Ms. Franklin Sean M. O’Kane 16/8/18
0
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:21 PM UTC
sean-m-o-kane
WX 105 (for Aretha)
There you were: Second to last track Side 1, “Atlantic Soul Classics”.1987 R.E.S.P.E.C.T. (Take out the TCP) The power, the control, the energy, Never heard a **** thing like it. Then that Cliff Richard Show footage I saw on some old BBC clip show (yeah, I know…Cliff, eh?) “Don’t Play That Song” in crackly black & white Sorry for the language, Sister.. but **** the power of your piano playing in that moment made me realise that you were not “just a singer” but a full-on force to be reckoned with. Like Sinatra you studied lyrics like a monk deep in illumination and then blew the song away with your received otherworldly knowledge: Eleanor Rigby The Weight The Dark End of The Street Border Song Bridge Over Troubled Water I Say A Little Prayer Oh, these were your songs, now. Don’t let anyone forget it. But there was something more to you than all of this. The way MLK kissed you with beaming pride at some long, forgotten award ceremony. The way you sashayed African culture when you stepped out in public. The way you ripped up your own records when you tread the boards & faced your humbled audience. The way you stood by Angela Davis when she was hooked up on some stupid jackshit Hoover charge. The way you verbalized the black American experience not just through countless moments of  sheer liberation but in the solemn way you stepped up to the piano on Amazing Grace You comforted this whiter-than-white Paddy on more than one occasion and forged a path of hope in many of his troubled waters. Oh, God we will miss you & your power – all of it. That once in a millennia voice whose measured restraint & joyful release touched millions. You will never walk alone. Farewell Queen. You are finally at peace. Thank you, thank you Ms. Franklin Sean M. O’Kane 16/8/18
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32
Still, without the touch of the needle The silent record sits in wait. Line after line of etched in melody Worn, -- even abused Scarred and scraped A scratch here Some dust there Replayed, again and again Black vinyl, once heavy, worn thin Only to be abandoned on the turntable Where it once served its purpose. Neglected, unused The silent record stays still Hoping to one day turn again.
0
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
Madison21
the silent record
Still, without the touch of the needle The silent record sits in wait. Line after line of etched in melody Worn, -- even abused Scarred and scraped A scratch here Some dust there Replayed, again and again Black vinyl, once heavy, worn thin Only to be abandoned on the turntable Where it once served its purpose. Neglected, unused The silent record stays still Hoping to one day turn again.
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14
Overwhelming heat Stuck to the linoleum floor Listening to vinyl Keeping one eye on the door Not knowing what will happen next It was clear to me That you were not like all the rest Moving in slowly As to not scare you away Subtle stares Magic sent through pages Writing each other notes To ensure this isn’t just another hoax Pouring out our souls Discussing the future and our goals We begin to coast Vibing endlessly We lose track of time And before I know it I begin to rhyme Singing of you in every line
0
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
NomadicMovement
Untitled
Overwhelming heat Stuck to the linoleum floor Listening to vinyl Keeping one eye on the door Not knowing what will happen next It was clear to me That you were not like all the rest Moving in slowly As to not scare you away Subtle stares Magic sent through pages Writing each other notes To ensure this isn’t just another hoax Pouring out our souls Discussing the future and our goals We begin to coast Vibing endlessly We lose track of time And before I know it I begin to rhyme Singing of you in every line
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21
It is because of you that I am fully attentive Soundwaves that wash over me from start to end Music, my only friend Now, we ride the waves of wifi to get what we need But our gaze upon an artist is lost Once our playlists consist of only a few of their songs Handpicked amongst others, so our entertainment isn't lost I understand the desire of variety But I value the intimacy of a record I can hold Knowing that for a while, it's just me and this music alone
0
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
stereojoy
Ode To Vinyls
It is because of you that I am fully attentive Soundwaves that wash over me from start to end Music, my only friend Now, we ride the waves of wifi to get what we need But our gaze upon an artist is lost Once our playlists consist of only a few of their songs Handpicked amongst others, so our entertainment isn't lost I understand the desire of variety But I value the intimacy of a record I can hold Knowing that for a while, it's just me and this music alone
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10
Human existence Is a story Accident or miracle? An accident, for sure, But could it not be both? We Are alive And so am I Something from nothing, Is that not miraculous? People talk a lot About Human nature As if We are The Stone When We are The Mountain Of The Earth and Our Image in The Lake Reveals The Truth of Gods Our Dominion is the Consciousness We give away To get back when We Know So for sure It does not Work Not at all like that I will explain it All for my child Under the light of day Make no mistake We have Made this place Where Currency determines Which of Us will ascend And it has been For me all my life That's when I look at you And see you for the first time A piece of The Soul Welcomed to an entrance Among Our every new Where Our Elders sit In circles of no clarity Selling songs, selling food, Selling news, selling views, Selling Us modes of Life Pandered to preselected groups Test and Market approved And Selling it as soon as through Our parents who Would Paper Our deepest wombs
0
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Simillacrum
Obsession w/ Material Record
Human existence Is a story Accident or miracle? An accident, for sure, But could it not be both? We Are alive And so am I Something from nothing, Is that not miraculous? People talk a lot About Human nature As if We are The Stone When We are The Mountain Of The Earth and Our Image in The Lake Reveals The Truth of Gods Our Dominion is the Consciousness We give away To get back when We Know So for sure It does not Work Not at all like that I will explain it All for my child Under the light of day Make no mistake We have Made this place Where Currency determines Which of Us will ascend And it has been For me all my life That's when I look at you And see you for the first time A piece of The Soul Welcomed to an entrance Among Our every new Where Our Elders sit In circles of no clarity Selling songs, selling food, Selling news, selling views, Selling Us modes of Life Pandered to preselected groups Test and Market approved And Selling it as soon as through Our parents who Would Paper Our deepest wombs
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