View Full Version : A Heavy Heart Makes A Big Splash (Story) - Strong Language

February 13th, 2013, 07:03 PM
Looking for some feedback. Suggestions, difficulties, etc. Thanks

I wandered down by the old sewer station and brought myself a pound of harsh from the guy that quoted Lord Byron and wore a top hat and tails. He was with sparks in his eyes and springs in his steps.

His kid hung round back reading de Sade and spouted tales of the end of the world through the cigarette smoke. I took a moment and rolled myself a joint and chewed on his melancholy and spat out some time.

We talked about the tide and where the surf was good, about some golf clubs on the black market he thought I might be interested in.

I took a hit from the dream weaver and blew my mind on some of the sharpest purple haze I had ever tasted.

The Pleasure Dome at the end of the west pier chucked disco beats out to sea. Zanado spinning discs for the heaving mass of bodies that writhed in filthy desire, groaning and moaning and bumping and grinding in a chorus of howls from the dogs of lust. They were off their heads on shooting stars and supernovas, bodies melting to mush, minds drenched in ultra violet light as kids dealt out hand jobs for a buck as serpents stiffened as forbidden fruit was suckled and sucked.

The Killer Queens were out front waiting for their downtown boys to pick them up and take them off into the night. Carry them through the city like bats out of hell, sampling thick unhealthy liquid loves at the Pink Flamingo.

I stopped and thought of Gene Jeanie, knew she would be there swinging from the balance beam.

I thought of the last time we kissed, of the endless summer nights spent in bed reading pulp novels and drinking cheap wine, fucking in the bushes and decorating our bodies with tattoos.

She had been my baby and me her hero. Two star crossed lovers with wild hearts beating to the same rhythm, outlaws at large and young and reckless. Free and full of hunger.

Her parents had been hippies had conceived her in the grave yard of Lancing Baptist Church on the night of the great storm. They called her Lighting and sent her to live with her grandmother at the age of five, for a childhood of foul tasting stews and coarse barb wired pullovers.

Baby came to London at 15 and threw it up in the Thames, expelled it all and cleansed her self of the soap and suffering. She freed the stifled passion which pumped through her fragile body and called her self Gene Jeanie. She wore a raspberry beret and hung out at the 5 and dime buying old 45's and spinning out to Billie Holiday high on E's and Wizz.

We met and fell hard, sang the songs of love, bitter yet sweet as stomachs churned and hearts bleed during our summer of young love. But that was then and now winter had long since set in and turned the skies to eternal darkness, ripping the once fresh fruit from my grasp. I slapped myself back to reality and headed for the Black Sabbath for cheap drinks ad quick shooters, for a night of binging and banging, for crazy talk and furious fists. For lost boys to lose them selves to nocturnal pleasures and heavy duty hangovers.

Halloween Jack and Telegraph Sam sat around flipping dimes with the Metal Guru, gashing about some girl, throwing out fierce jive waiting for the night to make plans.

I sat myself down and filled in the gaps. I brought myself a drink and wished upon a star and gave a straight up confession to Aphrodite to send me angel, to lift the heavy loss of love that sat heavy upon me and clouded my mind like a thick egg yolk.

The drink were consumed in quick steady fashion. I felt hazed to the core, buzzing with an electrical storm. My rocks were off, my hunger stirring, a blood lust tasted on my tongue. The four of us charging up blind with drink and hot to the head.

Halloween Jack gave a shout for the Pink Flamingo. Telegram Sam threw in his two bits and then we were off. While the Pleasure Dome homed the fags and the queers, the sickos and the freaks, the Pink Flamingo played host to the whores and junkies, to the pimps and wasters, to the high school girls that spoke with blue tongues and erect young lads foamed at the mouth and hungered for the pussy strapped up in neon colored thongs.

Jack got us in and led us to the balcony which over looked the kids as they did the monster mash. There in the eye of the storm swinging back and fourth in pretty patterns, a radiation of love causing toxic fallout, was Gene Jeanie. Yy baby, my sweet like candy, kicking her feet and smiling with endless joy above the teenage wasteland. My heart flipped and my gut clenched, my head spun round and round. Everything else in my head faded to black except for her. I drifted back to the last words we spoke, of the terrific argument which drove her out and me insane.

A lifetime of hurt and loss rolled over me, a lip a trembled, an apology muttered oh my breath that I should have shared a long time ago.

Jack wrapped an arm round my shoulders and acknowledge my pain. He sucked me back through the worm hole and to the evening of corse tongues and deep bellies of rapturous sordid laughter. Telegram Sam was giving a waitress a hard time, playing with her skirt and trying to shove a twenty pound notes into her hand, trying to buy her trade. When she was having none of it Halloween Jack and Telegram Sam ran off to join single entity on the dance floor, imbedding themselves in the single cell. It was just me and the Metal Guru. He spat balls of phlegm from his gob onto the crowd below. We both retreated back to the wall and line up shots.

He was a real downbeat who crawled the concert halls in wallows of self pity. A shadow boxer waiting for his opponent to make his move. We wiped the sweat from our foreheads and talked slurred ramblings, losing what was said beneath the bass.

Metal guru was the kind of guy that read Nietzsche and rated Showgirls his number one movie, who listened to classical music and ate sugar puffs from a dirty bowl.

He quoted pain and lose though had never known his own love to lose. Regurgitated everything he knew from the romantic poets and talked about suicide whimsically and hoarded the largest collection of Eastern European porn this side of the channel.

Tonight he was in typical form, everything delivered with a bite, eyes rolling around as if loose in his head. He summarized life and proclaimed not to understand a lick of it, fainted and sank off to the toilets to take a nap.

I was left alone looking up to catch sight of Jean Genie, fresh from her break, dressed up in a golden jump suit with large elaborate purple wings. She swung back and fourth as I watched her on slow emotional reply. A wish and a why, a regret lost and a love rediscovered, brought in on the wild winds. I wished to be next to her breast, to feel her breath on my neck, for a sorry to be said and a forgiveness to be given. My mind and heart drenched in scented sentimental songs and half baked memories.

As I watched her I reached out, as if I could touch her, take her in my arms and make the hurt inside go away. Out of my head and running on empty I climbed the railings and breathed in sync with her swing. I leaned further forward, my fingers stretching for the briefest of touches.

I fell with my words half way out when the screams below swallowed them up.

February 13th, 2013, 07:38 PM
I was lost reading through this. Not that it's bad writing, I did like some of the imagery, I just think the slang coupled with jumping around from time and place and topics was confusing to me. Maybe some more description of the characters you introduced would help. It reads more like poetry or spoken word to me than a short story. This is just my opinion, but I'm kind of uncool so I may just not get it. Also, you might want to list language and mature themes in your title.

February 16th, 2013, 02:33 AM
I have to agree with ash. In my humble opinion, this sounds a lot like this should be spoken word. When I read it I imagined a young man narrating while a montage played in my head. As a short story it seems incomplete. It's like a piece to a puzzle. While this piece is well written it would be stronger with someone reading at along with some images or videos of the scenery and people that you wrote about.

There is my two cents.

February 16th, 2013, 04:49 AM
this is all fair enough. While it says short story I agree its not really a short story, its just something I wrote, playing around with names of bands and lyrics.

So taking on board what you say, what should i do with it? I like it, is it not worth pursing? or is their a medium I should use it in?

February 16th, 2013, 05:04 AM
It would make a cool short film or art film I think, especially with some cool music. Pursue it for sure, I think the writing is good, just need to be plugged into something. So to me, that means either adding more to it and tying the thoughts together, or by filming it and tying the thoughts together with imagery and music.

February 16th, 2013, 05:16 AM
It would make a cool short film or art film I think, especially with some cool music. Pursue it for sure, I think the writing is good, just need to be plugged into something. So to me, that means either adding more to it and tying the thoughts together, or by filming it and tying the thoughts together with imagery and music.

ha thanks, i don't do movies! i'll try to do something more standard. thanks for the read though