This was written for a prompt. The prompt was to write a story where a character is asked a question that has been taken from the lyric of a song. The character must find the answer within 24 hours. The story must be MORE than 5000 words.
I chose the song Jimmy, by Tool. I’ve put the beginning up here because Tool fans are more likely to understand the themes than mere mortals. Here goes.
Mandala
1.
The organ pulses, like a heartbeat. It’s Chopin. James hated Chopin. He liked Philip Glass, but that was about as far as his classical repertoire went. The organ player is either stoned, or very much an amateur. She’s key-mashing like her fingers (or feet?) belong to someone twice her weight. I hope she is stoned.
I blink and get to my feet. They walk me down the lonely aisle. Heads turn. I feel like a bride, except I am walking the wrong way, I am wearing black and my fiancé is in a coffin.
The sky is a still and silent lagoon above me. Blue from horizon to horizon. There are blossoms and bird calls and wild flowers floating on the breeze. I take a bench at the far end of the churchyard. From my little black bag comes my MP3 player, earphones attached. I listen to Philip Glass, Metamorphosis. I have never read Kafka. From a hidden pocket in my bag comes a silver case that James gave me on my twenty-first birthday. There is a pre-rolled spliff hooked under the holder. I slip it out and in between two fingers. I have a zippo that matches the silver case. James gave it to me on my last birthday, my twenty-second. I flick it open and stroke the end of the spliff with a long flickering flame. I let the flame dance for much longer than necessary, watching it play. It is beautiful.
Every year I watch the unfolding of spring. I love to see the same things over and over again. I love repetition. Originality is ugly. Repetition is beautiful. Repetition is ever-lasting. Originality is progression and progression leads to expansion and expansion leads to millions of heads hitting a high ceiling. This world is beautiful because it is limited. Limitation necessitates repetition. There is only so much expansion that is possible within a limited system. Every year I watch the blooming of the cowslips, the primroses, the lady’s smock. Then I watch them wither, die, rot. It is the same every year.
Except this year James is not here with me to watch it like he has for the past eleven.
My eyes scan the headstones that rise up out of the ground. Many of them are decaying, covered in moss and weather. I take my phone from my bag and smooth the screen with greasy fingers. My other hand brings the spliff to my lips. I kiss the end and suck, eyes on the phone screen. The name that reads is JAMES. I hook out one earpiece and click the green button, pressing the phone to my ear. It goes straight to the answer machine. James tells me that he is not able to pick up right now and not to bother leaving a message because he doesn’t have enough credit to listen. I leave one anyway.
‘I really need to talk to you,’ I say. ‘Something really shit has happened and I really need to talk to you about it. I don’t know what the fuck to do.’
I take another drag on the spliff.
‘Come on. Please. Where do I go? What do I do? Please.’
I end the call and throw my phone into my lap, glancing across at the headstones and the trees and the wildflowers. The breeze picks up locks of my hair and spirals it across my face like a veil. I tuck long blonde strands behind the Glass-plugged ear. The music haunts and rolls, incessantly, urgently repeats itself. I pick the phone up again. Incessantly, urgently, I repeat myself. The call connects.
‘What was it like to see the face of your own stability suddenly look away, leaving you with the dead and hopeless?’
‘What?’ I drop the spliff. It lands on my lap. I swear and scoop the smouldering stick up from the thin fabric of my dress. There is a small hole. ‘James?’ I ask my phone, distracted.
He is telling me not to leave a message because he has no credit to listen to it. I wait for the beep.
‘James! What the… you… this is driving me insane.’ I close my eyes. ‘I thought you just asked me a question. I really did. I thought you just spoke to me. This is driving me insane.’ I end the call and stub out the spliff, putting the earphone back in and letting the music calm me down a little.
He asked me a question, I’m sure of it. But I didn’t really understand it. I feel a gentle, cascading sense of unease that rots my stomach.
People start to come out of the church. They spill into the sunlight like a train of black ants. James’ mother and aunt walk towards me. I squint up at them. They are two giant silhouettes above me, pushed out of focus by the rude blue sky beyond. Their words are shaded. I can’t hear them. The words roll down me like raindrops on a window pane. I cannot hear them. I am only able to catch the drift.
It is so sad. It is so hard. You have been together such a long time. How old were you when you started to date? It was so cute, seeing the two of you holding hands as you walked to the park. How old were you? How long were you together?
‘Eleven years,’ I mutter.
How are you holding up? Have you seen any of the others? What was it like to see the face of your own stability suddenly look away, leaving you with the dead and hopeless? Aren’t you coming to the burial?
My face is creased. ‘Oh. Um. Yes.’
‘Would you like to ride in our car?’
I shake my head and scope the churchyard for my dad. ‘No, that’s okay. My dad is driving me.’
‘You know the way? It’s not too far.’
Of course I know the way. I grew up in this place. I know the way to anywhere around here. I give them a small false smile and lift myself to shaky tired feet.
....
If you want to read the rest of it follow either link. The first goes to a pdf, the second goes to deviantart.
http://fc02.deviantart.net/fs70/f/20...by_Zomzara.pdf
http://zomzara.deviantart.com/#/d2qkxbc
