#4 Escher Music

Shaken by what had happened, he had wandered outside, preferring to be in the street for a relaxing smoke when, in the descending dusk, he stumbled on a discarded mattress and as he tried to catch his balance he was overcome by a particularly bad attack of angina which caused him to drop down dead, right there on the mattress, in between the two derelict shops opposite the Gold Store.  John, who was pacing nearby, imploring whoever it was at the other end of the phone to help him find a certain Freddie, so engrossed was he in describing all the bad that Freddie had meted upon him that he walked clean into the just dead Desmond; falling over him and then onto him, his phone dropping from his hand and sliding across the street.  Young Rick, who had been hanging around for an opportunity, seized the opportunity and pounced upon the approaching handset then sprinted down to the end of the road, leaping over the barrier and legging it to the left, hopping onto a bus just in time.  As the doors closed, one glanced his right temple, traditionally a reliable trigger for his hyperactive Vegus nerve, and accordingly he fainted on the spot, crumpling into a heap and taking Monica down with him.  Monica who always wore heels was, on this occasion, wearing possibly the world's sharpest stilettos which came to rest on Gloria's shopping, or more specifically, inside the shopping bag which contained the olive oil.  The force of Young Rick's fall had caused one of Monica's heels to pierce Gloria's discount plastic olive oil bottle, and the contents surged out, under and beyond Monica, down towards the exit.  The driver had left the back doors open due to the commotion caused by Young Rick's fainting, and Blow decided to get the hell out of there in case any uniforms appeared.  He met with the river of oil which effectively expedited his exit from the bus.  Blow slipped forth towards a parked Toyota upon which he duly landed, but suddenly it wasn't so parked anymore, rather it was taking him sightseeing towards the canal.  Farah had only recently passed her driving test and had yet to master the skill of negotiating the rush hour with a drug dealer on her bonnet. She screeched to a halt propelling Blow off the car and into the water. His landing was dramatic and its splash extensive, reaching as far as the far side of the canal and onto the plates of the diners enjoying their business's annual bonding barbeque in the comfort of their local gastro pub's heated beer garden.  The sudden appearance of much water on Gwen's plate, as she was returning to her seat from the barbeque buffet, caused within her the reflex of letting go and the plate took off, Frisbee-like, across the canal, through an open window and landed on the kitchen table of a smoker who was about to light up.  "Is nowhere safe anymore?"  he was heard to exclaim. Shaken by what had happened, he wandered outside, preferring to be in the street for a relaxing smoke.

©LolaPerrin2010

#3 Lost Music

She can't be more than six years of age.  She is pulling on her lead and crying, the staff frantic around her, scampering this way then that, in great commotion, scrabbling over themselves to find out who’d tied her up there.

But she knows where her family is, and that they'll be back for her before long. That's why she, and all the other dogs in the world, howl so. She would prefer to be lost.  Woof.

©LolaPerrin2010

#2 Sick Music

The janitor was in the bog behind the boiler room.  He looked up into the mirror to examine his complexion; it was grey.

     "Blimey!"

He threw more cold water onto his face, listening to the toilet still flushing vigorously; reminding him of what he'd rather not be reminded.   It was 4pm and he thought he would have felt better by now, but he was still queasy.  Everything had to be ready by the 5pm start time. Better get a move on, if only his guts weren't still so sore.  He didn't have much more to do; he'd finished polishing the floorboards and wiping the glass panes in the doors; all that was left was to sweep the second staircase that led to the Bridge and then do a final security check. An hour would do it. 

Up on Deck Level a large boned man in a dark suit was leaning over a lavatory bowl and puking violently.

One floor down, behind the galley kitchen, a woman in an apron was gingerly making her way across the floor of the staff toilets.  She hadn't realised until she started skidding that she'd stepped in it, her shoes were covered! 

It was a fine day and little white puffs of clouds were nicely positioned far in the distance. The Bridge smelt of cigarettes, and vomit. There was a wet patch beneath a low hanging basket in the corner, and a lingering smell.  She tried not to think about that, concentrating instead on anything and everything else, her very lovely dress, and the clouds, and her recent session, and her To Do list.  But it was too much; before long she returned to the wet patch and retched into the hanging basket.

The show must go on! At 5pm the janitor and the two curators, breathing through their mouths, opened the doors to a bustling queue of keen art lovers; everyone wanted to be first in to the show.  Until now the event had been shrouded in secrecy, you could almost hear the buzz created by its ambiguous title, in twenty meter high letters on the frontage; "Its SICK".

The artist wasn't present.  Nor was the gallery owner; he who notoriously avoided all his shows and especially this one which, as usual, he'd bought for a record sum.  

©LolaPerrin2010

#1 Soundbite Music

The MP was in trouble.  Something had been bothering him for quite some time.  It was worse than an ache; he felt like his throat was biting into itself, into his soft tissues.  It hurt when he spoke.  His words produced prickles of pain that felt like insect bites, or stings, or welts down at the back of his mouth. Of course, this made him want to jump around a lot when he spoke, but he worried the voting public might think him odd so he covered it up best he could.

Reflecting on all of this, he felt relieved to be finally doing something about it and not before time, he'd been meaning to go to the doctor's for an age!   

      "Sorry to have kept you waiting...what can I do for you?" asked the doctor, tapping away at her keyboard.

      "It is good to face the problem, although it's certainly not right to only face half of the problem. Ow! – that's a bad one!"

He clasped his hands around his throat in pain.

The doctor looked up.   "Are you here for a check up or is it something specific?"

       "This is not about making friends and influencing people. Ooh!"

He rotated his head clockwise, then anticlockwise, in an attempt to dissipate the sharp sensations.

       "Let's take it from the beginning," she said.  "How are things generally?"
       "The problem about what was said is that only part….ow…of the…ow… problem was described."

       "Please, try to describe exactly what the problem is."

Speaking much more quickly so he could spit the words out before the biting, stinging, welty feeling took over, he said,

       "It is certainly the case that describing only part of the problem was a launching pad for all this uncertainty."

He sat back panting.

        "If I could just ask you to stick your tongue out and say ahh?  Very good…..very good."  After some time she removed the stick from his mouth.  " It looks nasty down there, any other symptoms?"

        "This is turning into an abject lesson on how not to make friends and how not to influence people.  Oh!"

His final word was an octave higher and raspy.

         "How many times per day would you say that you notice this?"

          "I'm afraid what we see here is the difference between making headlines and making a difference. Ooh – that's another bad one, ow ow ow!"  He was dancing around the room, hands once again around his neck.

©LolaPerrin2010