Austin, 2014. An idea was born into the streets. Two men walking, teeth dry from the ways of liquor. One stares in front. Downtown festival. Talks to the city ahead, but to the one walking next to him.

     I have an idea for an app. 

    Small city, the grey heat. Overcast no match. No hope to burn off the film from the damage last night. Hotel lounge, hair of the dog. The city had grown, and they were strangers now, each waiting to leave there, one by plane, one by car and dog. Talks of Prose., the font. Talks of why it would work, a family the size of a world. Strangers yet not quite. Revolt against apathy. Earned things, lost in paces too fast to retain soul, to keep their light. Drinks and words, the lobby bar turned museum for the old death of the words eaten by technology. A way out through a way back in. 

     We are all here now. 

     Thank you for being here with us. 

     Thank you.  

Being attacked is a lot like writing a guitar solo. Neither ever seem to happen in the present tense. In the moment of such an event occurring, your subconscious is struck with an unavoidable lightning bolt of innate purpose; it takes control of you so fully that the most your conscious mind can manage is to watch the events unfurl like a drunk tourist taking photos of everything with the wrong settings. Once it’s over, your recollection is over-exposed, full of ghostly illusions, and more than likely shadowed in the darkness of your own hand puppets.

Jon was standing in the living room with one bare foot on the cold beechwood floor, the other see-sawing on his wah pedal, his eyes closed so tight he could see colours, strumming and plucking with one hand, the fingers of his other sliding and stabbing and bending across the entire neck of his gold-green Fender Mexican Strat.

He felt someone kick him in the middle of his back so hard that he found himself waking up lying down with his face propped up against the skirting board beside the fireplace with the taste of metal in his mouth and a throbbing right temple.

He tried to roll over but was stopped mid-twist by the neck of his guitar swinging into the ground and thrashing out a distant open drop-D chord. He rested his forehead briefly as he devised a way to move. In doing so he sighed and a black-ish red snot splatted against the wallpaper, “ughh, brilliant” he gargled before being forced to swallow half a mouthful of irony mucus. He reached back his right hand under the strap and took it in front of his head then pushed himself off the wall, sliding himself along the polished floor away from the bloodied wall and guitar.

A snapshot of his back being kicked sprang to mind and he spun around, looking towards his front door. He didn’t want to see anyone but felt a throbbing urgency in his chest as his body chemistry and brain fought between cowardice and revenge.

They settled on 50/50. His eyes widened enough that he felt the cool still air against them, as if to display the intentions of a mad man, while his paranoia helped him rapidly scan his house for evidence.

He started with the kitchen to his left as it was closest and had no door, thereby necessitating his attention whether he wanted to go in or not. He couldn’t see or hear anything coming from inside so confidently jumped to his feet and trampled loudly to the fridge and slapped it hard enough that its fans briefly stalled before winding up again. “Right!” he whispered to nobody.

Jon felt the sensation that a large figure was creeping up on him and spun around. He held up his hands in horrified defence and quickly realised the living room was still empty. He turned and took in the whole kitchen environment again just to be certain something hadn’t somehow spun around with him. Nothing. Back to the living room. Nothing.

Before the front door began a set of stairs. Jon rapidly flexed all of his fingers at random, as if he was about to perform surgery, but more like he was trying not to piss himself. He sucked up his sphincters and pelvic floor and quickly but quietly tip-toed to the foot of the stairs.

He looked up to the landing and saw nothing but the doors to other rooms. He suddenly remembered the door behind him, slid around and looked through the bumpy glass for any sign of movement in the short path up to the house. Nothing. He spun back around and started trying his damnedest to think of ways he could convince himself, on his own, to walk upstairs.

He noticed he was crouched by his shoes so grabbed them and his coat which was hung up, carefully opened the front door, waddled outside on his knees, gently closed it, took the bundle of keys out of his inside coat pocket, felt his way to the correct key while keeping watch of the distorted stairs, stepped outside, and quietly locked he door.

Jon looked up at the bathroom window and realised, more now than ever, he really needed a piss.

Slight Return

Standing outside with his eyes locked on the upstairs bathroom window, Jon’s feet felt their way to knocking his trainers upright and shoving themselves into their loose-fitting escape from the cold concrete driveway. He knelt down. Eyes still entranced, his fingers spidered across his large woollen coat until they felt the shiny lining then ran along the collar until they reached the interior left pocket where they slid out his phone. He pressed the home button. ‘Oh god I need to unlock it’ - he panicked at the thought of the villain's shadow escaping his glimpse and somehow magically sneaking up behind him. He quickly looked down and saw number pad was already up. ‘For Emergency Use Only’ it read. “Oh yeah, I can do that.” He pressed 999 and held the phone up to his ear as he reconnected his defensive stare and slid on his coat, swapping the phone between his hands as he threaded them into either sleeve.

A thought struck Jon, ‘What if I imagined it?’. He turned his focus to his back but a courteous elderly man’s voice abruptly entered his ear, “What emergency service to you require?”. “Umm”, his back throbbed, “Oh thank god.”

“Excuse me, sir? If you let me know which-”

“-uh, police, please. Thank you.”

“Transferring you now.”

The events transpiring suddenly became very real. Not in a beneficial way like his senses were taking in the situation or his mind was consciously compiling the evidence required to conclude as to what had happened. Real like the opposite. Real like he’d just called the police and a cloud of doubt had gone from looming over him to now surrounding him.

“You’re speaking to Officer Rimmer. What’s the situation - how can I help?”

“I think there’s a man in my house? I dunno, someone kicked me in my house. I’m outside. I don’t know if they’re inside.” Saying it out loud seemed to help Jon feel more confident. If he said it to a police officer, he was at least certain enough to do that so they couldn’t catch him out for pretending. He was definitely scared. And his back hurt.

“Someone attacked you? OK. Are they still there - could you describe them?”

“Um, no I woke up after. I felt them kick me and I woke up. I hit my head.”

“Do you want an ambulance - are you ok?” The officer, although helpful, was speaking in such a level monotone that it heightened Jon’s paranoia and self-doubt. Did the officer think he was taking the piss?

“No, I think I’m ok. My head and my back hurt. My hand hurts a bit from landing on my guitar. I don’t think I’m cut or whatever. I think I just blacked out for a split second.”

“The person who attacked you - they ran away to somewhere in your house?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t hear them.”

“Sorry I don’t understand. They got in, kicked you, and disappeared?”

“No, no. I don’t know. It felt like I was out for a split second. Like, I woke up but I think I felt my hand land like I’d just felt.”

“Can you describe the shoe?”

“The what? I didn’t see it.”

“No, sir. I mean, did you feel what hit you? Was it a large boot; could you guess their height from where they managed to kick you?”

“It was sort of in the middle of my back, between my shoulder blades.”

“Were you sat down?”

“No, I was standing up, using a pedal. An effects pedal for the guitar.”

“Could it have been a punch sir?”

“Uh, I don’t think so. It sent me right against a wall a few feet away. I’m not super heavy but I don’t think I could be punched like that.”

A thought struck Jon and the cloud of despair solidified into a force that slapped him into an awareness of the possibility that he’d rather not have noticed.

“Sir, you were playing an electric guitar did you say?”

Fuck. Even the policeman had figured it out.

You can’t hang up on a police officer.

Play along? Play it stupid? Fuck.

Maybe honesty? Jesus.

“Uh yeah, in my living room with an amp. That’s how I landed on the guitar.”

“Do you know if the sockets you were using were surge protected?”

“Ah fuck. I think so.” 'Honestly stupid' it is.

“Right. Because it sounds like you might have electrocuted yourself.”

“Ah. That does make sense.”

“I can send you an ambulance sir if you’d like to be checked over?”

“No. I think I’m ok. Just a bruised ego.”

“No worries sir. If you change your mind or think there’s evidence you might have actually been-”

“-no I think I’m OK but thank you. I’m sorry, I think I was just shocked.”

“It’s understandable sir. You sound like you've been, well, shocked. You sound like you’re OK now but feel free to call again if you feel unsafe.”

“Thank you”.

“You’re welcome sir.”

The phone hung up.

Jon sighed an exhausted back-aching sigh as he looked down at his trainers. He’d shoved them on too fast and squashed the backs down beneath his heels. He stood back out of them and picked them up. He unlocked his door, went inside and looked at his guitar and amp. “Fucking surge protectors then. I’m not doing that again. I could be fucking dead.”

“Almost”, came a voice from the landing.

Jon was struck with terror and his body felt like it had caught on fire with the impending sense that his bladder was about to explode. He ran for the door, fishing out the bundle of keys he had just used to lock it. Jon shook in desperation as he rattled through the silver and copper metal shapes that all suddenly looked and felt indistinguishable, fighting the urge to turn to see the figure he could hear walking down the stairs behind him. Jon slid a winning key into the lock and grabbed the door handle but two large hands in woollen gloves grab his head and slammed it against the framed bubbled windows of his front door, causing the glass to crack which pinched the skin on his forehead. Jon’s vision tunnelled and went dim as he slid to the floor. He landed on his knees, curled up, and covered his head but no further strikes landed on him.

He looked through a crack between his hands and saw a tall rotund man in a brown bomber jacket and ripped denim jeans picking up his guitar. “Would you like to hear a solo, Jon?”

Jon felt behind himself for the keys but they were gone. He turned back to the man and saw his red embossed metal Fender logo keyring hanging out from one of the wool-edged bomber jacket pockets.

Jon considered the open areas of the house that surrounded himself and the man. The kitchen was probably reachable but the windows above the sink were tiny. His bedroom window upstairs was big but it didn’t have a lock. The bathroom! Plus, Jesus, this piss! There’s the window overlooking the front dormer window of the living room and it’s got a lock.

Jon took a deep breath then realised there wasn’t a method to this and sprung to his feet, ran upstairs two steps per stride at a speed he didn’t know was possible, swung around the bannister at the top of the stairs and catapulted himself into the bathroom. He was running so fast that he couldn’t stop himself hitting his shins on the bath but spun around fast enough to slam and lock the door before the man could grab the handle.

Jon’s thoughts went again to the piss before the man started shouldering the door. The noise was incredibly loud and low; it didn’t sound like it would break easily but it wouldn’t be long before that kind of force would take the hinges off or rip the lock out of the frame.

“Fuuuuuuuck!”, Jon screamed at the door in fear and anger, “Fuck Off!”, Jon kicked the door, “Fuck oooooff!”, his voice broke and tears streamed down his face has he kicked the bath behind him. He could hear the amplifier downstairs screaming back up at him.

Panic and the need to escape took over. Jon turned to the window. It was already open. He climbed into the bath, leant his torso over the window ledge, and looked down at the roof of the dormer window. "There’s no other way. Height or not." Jon heard the door crack as he grabbed the window frame and propelled himself through the window.

His foot caught on the window catch causing his body to roll before the latch tore through his skin and released his weight.

Jon landed on the felt of the roof with less pain that he expected but the momentum of the fall caused him to continue to roll off the roof legs first.

He landed on his feet and fell forward onto his hands causing him to sprain his wrists. The pain forced him to immediately fall off his hands onto his side on the wet grass.

He looked at his wet green-stained hands, hoping to see no signs of a break. There were black lines on some of his fingers. He imagined holding a guitar. The black lines lined up with where the strings would be.

He had electrocuted himself.

Who was in his house?

Jon was beginning to think God didn’t want him to have a piss.

Footsteps approached Jon from across the road along with the comforting voice of someone not trying to kill him, “Oh my god! Are you ok?”. A middle-aged woman in a parker stood at his feet, keeping to the pavement, “Do you want me to call an ambulance? My God, I saw you fall", she looked up at the window audibly congratulating herself. She looked back down at Jon, "Are you OK? God, are you pissing yourself?”.

Jon closed his eyes and smiled, "Fuck God". He could hear a guitar solo being played. It was pretty good; the kind he’d always wished he could play.

     The woman with tangled hair sways in front of the reference desk with unblinking eyes. I tuned out and stopped trying to talk to people hours ago, but her sporadic hand motions catch my eye. She huffs under her breath and wanders away. Her shirt is buttoned haphazardly, as if she forgot midway or gave up, exposing a swath of irritated skin and ancient brassiere.

     Sunlight filters through the glass windows. There is a hush in the library as patrons wander, slow and sluggish, pausing often to stare around the room or eye each other blankly. Circling around and around, they carve paths through aisles of bookcases and rows of dead computer monitors.

     An old man teeters to my desk. His mouth opens wide and snaps shut, once, twice. He gestures vaguely over my head and I turn around in my swivel chair but there is nothing. I point to his wife, who sits on the floor next to the copy machine. In her lap lies a dead possum with glassy eyes and a rivulet of blood running from jaws to her muddy skirt. Its long rat tail droops from the crook of her elbow and she strokes the fur slowly, her eyes two moons in a slack face. Yesterday, a lifetime ago, I gave them the daily newspaper and watched as they read and laughed softly in twin armchairs by the window. His eyes follow my finger, hovers on his wife, and passes over.

     People thump against the glass windows like moths. They wander in and out of the door in various states of undress. Do they remember who they are? Did they awake as empty husks, instinct propelling them to routines—drive to work, drop off kids, pick up groceries? They move with aimless purpose, without speaking, some sit down abruptly like infants. Outside, a car careens down the street and into a tree, folding into itself like a cardboard box. A man stumbles out, dazed, blood running down his face, and stands there with his neck craned back to look at the cloudless sky. What answers will you find up there, carless man? Everywhere there are abandoned cars: flipped over on the street or parked in incongruous spots, crooked and random, in the library parking lot.

     A naked man with a pale, hairy belly walks up and down the fiction aisles, raking his nails along the spines. Before I could call out, he sweeps his hand across a shelf in a single furious motion. The books fall like dying birds, pages flapping and torn. A girl sitting near the magazine racks tears out pages by the handful. People watch and I look into the emptiness of their expressions, already unfamiliar and inhuman. All this knowledge, all this useless paper containing stories and memories and information, as irrelevant as firewood to a flintless man. I hear the sound of laughing and guttural weeping, echoing and faint as if from a great distance. Heads turn slowly at the sound of my keening, but no one approaches.

The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

"There's a queasy feeling in my stomach, looks like something's brewing inside!"

Burrrrrppp...

"Ohh...It's just a bubble of gas. Ummm...Let me do something interesting with it."

Phoooooooo...

"Ahhh...Whacktastic!! It's mighty powerful! Those stars were old anyway, I needed a break from them. And, the stardust looks like an interesting creation. But, ummm...what do I do with it?"

Hmmmm...

"Alrightie! I haves an ideaz! Let me roll it into a ball and then I can have some playtime with my latest toy!"

Swisssshhhhh...Swasssssshhh...Booom!!!!!

"Oh! The Mighty Heavens! Look what I just did!!"

"This is my most stunning creation. Look, how its golden gleams in the light of that orange ball I created earlier! It makes me want to sing."

"Hmmmm...where is that musical instrument I crafted that produces the sweetest melody? And, what did I call it...?"

"Ahhh...I remember! I called it a FLUTE. And I placed it securely at the center of galaxy number 10000000008. I must get it. Now!"

Doooo...di..da..da...doooo..di..di..da..♪♫

"Here, I am! Ohhh...these puffy clouds of hope. I'm sure my flute's charm creates these. But they also obscure my flute. Hmpf!"

*Whistle whistle* *blow blow*

"Oh my flute, you little doe!

Come into my hands, and let us go.

Do not let, my impatience grow,

Coz Universe awaits, a mighty show!"

"Aha! You look as fresh and resplendent as when I made you. You, my child, were made for a purpose. The purpose of making sweet music. And, your time has come."

Doooo...di..da..da...doooo..di..di..da..♪♫

"Here we are! Can you see that golden ball shimmering in the glow of that other orange ball? Oh, the beauty makes my heart want to sing. Let's not waste any more time."

♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬

♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬

♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬

"Oh, no! It's that queasy feeling, again. This time, in my chest!"

*Sniff sniff*

"It's rising to my head! It needs an outlet."

"What's this liquid that's coming out through my eyes? Ahh! But the queasiness dwindles.."

Hmmmm...Lick.."This tastes salty. It is so precious! I must not waste it. Let me send it inside that new golden ball. I'll create a hole through its center to allow this liquid inside."

Rizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

"Ahh, there! It flows into the golden ball. This liquid gives a cooling and calming sensation as it flows. I'll call it 'OCEAN'. I need a plan. A plan to keep the ocean in the golden ball."

"OK! I have it! It's called the 'centrifugal force'. If the ball rotates at a certain speed, the ocean will never spill out! Yay!"

"This ball is turning out to be quite an adventurous creation so far. I must do more with it."

"The Mighty Heavens! That irritating queasy feeling again. It is now arresting my eardrums."

"Eeeeww! What's this coming out of my ears? It's sticky and gooey! It's green and mucky. What do I do with it?"

Hmmmm..."Right now, I have only one place where I can dispose it off. The golden ball!"

"Ta..da..swoooooshhhh"

"There! Ohh! It's mixing with the ocean! Freak-show! It is creating a storm inside the golden ball!! Waaaaaaaaa!!"

*Sob sob*

"Hun...the storm is settling. The ocean is separating from the muck. What a relief! It's forming a different surface, a hard one! Wow! I knew it!! Everything I do is magical! That hard surface looks fertile. I can do more with it, but, first, I need to name it."

"EARTH! Yes, I'll call it earth. In fact, the golden ball will henceforth be called Earth."

"Flute! Let's do some more singing and add some more things to this most entertaining creation of mine!" 

La - la la la - la la la - la la la ♪♫

"Fish!"

"More marine life!"

"Plants. They shall germinate."

"Birds. They will fly high and add beauty to the upper echelons of this earth."

"Animals. They shall propagate themselves."

"Still something missing."

"Yeah! MAN!"

"But, he must have a partner for the fun and frolic. Hmmm..ok..WOMAN!"

"Oh, I forgot! Just like man needs a woman, earth needs more companions! I'll give it siblings. Eight...errr...nine of them. But ninth I'll keep hidden. I'll let man discover it!"

"Hehehe! Flute! Do you see how beautiful the earth looks? Man and woman are having fun along with fish, animals and birds!"

"But, Flute, some fun is missing! Let's sing again."

La - la la la - la la la - la la la ♪♫

"That darned queasiness, it plagues my groins! I think I need to pee!"

"Umm...where do I go? Oh yes! Earth, of course!"

"What a relief! Ohh, it forms a lake! But, I must warn man and woman not to drink from this lake, nor eat the fruit from its banks or they'll suffer when they want to propagate."

"Man and woman! Listen, you must never drink from this lake nor eat any fruit that hangs in the orchards that grow near it. The water is contaminated and so is the fruit."

"If you drink that water, you will suffer queasiness in your chest whenever the two of you part. If you eat the fruit, you'll suffer queasiness in your groins when you want to propagate which will be followed by pain when you birth the creation."

"Hmpf!!"

"I told them! I told them, not to!! They did not listen! And now, they will suffer. They will suffer for generations upon generations."

"What do I do? How do I help them? Yes! I will add 'emotion' to childbirth and that will bring them peace, calmness and happiness!"

"This seems perfect! Now they are all set for a long long time to come."

"Ohh!! I forgot to give them a method to communicate with me."

"Flute! Music!"

♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪♫ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬

"Wave communication technology! Yes! I give them the internet. And I'll plant myself as the 'GOD App'."

Hahaha!

"They'll get in touch and they'll get answers and they'll think they are just having fun! They won't even know it's me! Yo!"

La - la la la - la la la - la la la ♪♫

And thus, HE played HIS music...

P.S. There is a reason why they say that children's prayers never go unanswered. Through personal experience I know that's true as well. Hence, in my mind, God must have a child-like innocence and excitement about each of his creations. Also, in my head, music represents the "Word". That's what I've tried to capture in this story and have also added some imaginative funny instances. No offence meant to anyone.

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