Beautiful Tales for the Disenchanted: Living in the Shadow of Your Song

On the Big Squid podcast we have a segment called, “Beautiful Tales for the Disenchanted”. I work with audio producer Shaun Allen to create stories that will draw you into a world that could exist in a place that can only be seen out of the corner of your eye. You can listen to this story here. I think you’ll enjoy this episode best if you have your headphones on while laying on the lounge at that point of the day when the sun is setting and the moon hasn’t quite arrived.

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There is a place just for you.

A place that embraces the promise of a warm spring night.

And a reminder to hurry home on a cool autumn evening.

It is a place that exist above and below.

Where the surreal and the sublime dance cheek-to-cheek.

This is a place just for you.

To sit back and enjoy

Beautiful Tales for the Disenchanted.

Tonight’s story is called “Living in the Shadow of Your Song”

Edward Sheridan swore he could hear his song.

It was long after the sun had set, and the shadows had crawled across the floor and up the walls of his apartment. Holding his empty wine glass by the edge of the bowl, he noticed it was coming from outside. Placing the glass on the floor between three empty pill bottles elicited a groan as did standing up from his lounge. Rubbing away the grit and stuffing that clung to his arms, he stumbled toward the balcony with the grace of a toddler drunk on their mother’s milk.

Outside a cool breeze soothed Edward’s neck as thick rivulets of sweat trickled down his spine. He could smell his armpits, warm and sour. The moon hung low in the sky, pale and scarred. Leaning against the balcony’s railing he listened for his song. It took him a moment to find it, but he eventually surmised it was coming from downstairs. 

Edward decided to leave his apartment.

He walked to the door, buttoning his shirt to cover his grotesque pot belly. His body made him sick to touch. During the height of his fame Edward had posed in photo shoots wearing open white linen shirts, his smooth muscular chest on full display. His long blonde hair accentuated his cheekbones, and his cool blue eyes were the focus of young girls’ dreams. 

That was a long time ago. 

Edward left the safety of his apartment and took the stairs. He loathed idle chit chat, and the elevator was where dull conversations with strangers thrived. He made his way downstairs focusing on each step as it came to meet him.  The only time he looked up was when his mother walked past carrying a blonde-haired baby in her arms.  He attempted to offer some help but when he tried to speak his throat was dry. Thoughts that desired to be words turned to dust on his lips and soon the moment with his mother had passed. The child looked over his mother’s shoulder at him with cool blue eyes.  Edward burped bile into his mouth, burning and vile. He swallowed and returned his attention to the stairs. 

Out in the back alley the song was clearer.  He stood between the spill of the alley’s white lights and took a moment to listen. He hadn’t thought of his song in a long time. When Edward was flush with youth, he’d hear his song playing in cafés or pounding through the speakers of passing cars.  He’d heard his song in bars, at fairgrounds and at large sporting events.  He’d heard covers of his song by musicians from faraway places.  Audiences would spontaneously break into the chorus before he’d begun to strum the next chord. 

For years the song presented him with everything he ever wanted. He bought a house with the money.  His new profile brought him attention. He dated a beautiful and sweet woman.  After a short courtship, they sold their surprise wedding photos to the highest bidders.  Edward’s life was a dream.

Eventually the song became claustrophobic.  Everywhere he turned, the song was there, haunting him. Edward’s new songs failed to capture the public’s imagination and he soon became resentful. At gigs he’d leave the song until the end of the night, but the crowd would grow restless and begin to talk as they impatiently waited.  For a while he changed tact and would open with the song but then as the night progressed, he’d watch his audience disappear having heard his only hit.  A few times he refused to play the song at all. 

That never went well.

When was the last time he’d heard his song?   It was the day he finally acquiesced to signing his divorce papers.   He’d left his lawyer’s office stunned.  He couldn’t believe his wife was leaving and taking their daughter. Didn’t they know how much he loved them? He might have been drinking too much.  He might have been aggressive.  It’s not like he ever hit anyone.  Only the wall and the cupboards and the doors.  Didn’t they understand he was frustrated? Edward was doing his best to write another song so they could continue to live the life they expected. 

On the day he signed his old life away, Edward caught the train home. Staring out the window, he daydreamed about the past because he could no longer imagine a better future. Then he noticed he could hear his song, small and muffled as it leaked from a young girl’s headphones.  He began to cry.  Edward couldn’t bear to hear the song that had built him a life he no longer had access to. He jumped off the train at the next station even though he was three stops short of home.  He found the closest pub and made a deal with himself that he would have just one drink. Edward eventually found his way home as the sun began to rise the next day. 

He hadn’t heard or thought of his song since. 

That was ten years ago.

That was ten months ago.

That was ten weeks ago.

Edward’s focus returned to the alley where he watched a young boy bouncing a tennis ball against a brick wall. The boy’s blonde hair created a perfect little halo as it caught the white light spilling from the doorway. Edward recognised this place.  It was where he used to play while his mother worked long into the night. 

“Can you hear my song?” said Edward. 

The young boy turned and nodded, his cool blue eyes round and innocent. He pointed to the end of the alley which became a path through a forest, bathed in lunar blue.  Edward looked up at the moon and decided to accept the invitation.  He turned to thank the boy, but the boy was gone.

Walking the path Edward observed the blue roses that lined the edges. He turned his attention to his hands, the creases in his knuckles, the way his fingers curled and became a fist.  He knew that if he lost focus for just a moment, he would slip away and be lost forever.  Here on the path, the song was clearer.  The singer’s voice strong and passionate. Edward didn’t know who was singing, but he already knew he didn’t like him.

Edward stopped walking and found himself on a city street that stretched both ways beyond his sight.  The bitumen simmered with the heat of the day, the air thick and scentless.  The streetlights broke up the night with splashes of burnt orange.  Somewhere in the city a bus exhaled as it changed gears.

Across the road he saw The Urban Owl, a venue Edward performed at regularly in his youth.  He wandered over and pressed his hands and face against the window.  Inside was warm, glowing, full of beautiful young people looking in awe at whoever was singing his song.  Edward couldn’t see the singer, so he walked around the corner in the hope of finding another window, but this side of the venue was a blank slab that swallowed the shadows.  From here he couldn’t even see the moon. 

Back out the front Edward found a young man leaning on the façade of the club.  In one hand he held a guitar case, and in the other a cigarette dangled between two fingers.  Edward could see the young man’s cool blue eyes staring back at him.  They watched each other for a moment.  Edward rubbed his bald head and bulging belly.  He found the man’s youth confronting.  

“Was that you in there singing that song?” Edward asked, pointing a thumb in the direction of the club.  The young man took a long drag of his cigarette and let the smoke drift from his mouth.

“Yeah.”

The young man flicked his hair to one side and smiled.  The glow of the orange streetlight cast a perfect shadow down his profile, defining his cheekbones and the outline of his jaw.  Not one part of his face sagged or was graffitied with lines of age. 

“And who wrote that song?” Edward asked.

Another smile.

“I did,” he replied.

“And what will you do next?”

“Next?”

“When nobody wants this song anymore.”

The young man laughed and shook his head.

“I have lots of songs,” he replied.  “There’s more to come.”

Edward held up one finger to hold the conversation and walked to the curb to throw up.  The vomit splashed onto the pavement and made a mess across his sneakers.  In this light the red wine looked like blood. His throat burned.  His eyes stung.  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Edward moved away from the gutter as the warm acidic smell wafted up.  He lent on the streetlight to regain his composure. He shook his head and chuckled. 

“That feels better,” said Edward.

With a sudden ferocity he launched himself towards the young man and grabbed him by the face.  He rammed his head against the wall of the Urban Owl.  He rammed it again.  And again.  The flesh made a dull thud with each blow. Edward continued until he ran out of breath and his hands were numb.  Gasping for air, he staggered back towards the curb.  The young man’s lifeless body slid down the wall, his white linen shirt covered in blood.  Edward bent over, hands on knees, drool spilling from his mouth while he panted like a dog.  It took him a moment before he heard the clapping.  Edward turned to see a Man standing in the middle of the road.

“Bravo,” the Man said. 

Edward focussed on this stranger dressed in a dirty white shirt that protruded around the belly, his thin blonde hair swaying back and forth with the mild breeze.  The Man stared at Edward with cool blue eyes.  Above him hovered the moon, fat and bloated.

“What are you going to do with the body?” the Man asked.

“Dunno,” said Edward.  He was covered in blood, so he no longer needed his clothes. He peeled them from his body and left them on the pavement. Edward bowed to his audience and when he stood back up, he was standing on the path illuminated by the moon in a perfect spotlight. Here Edward felt strong, his naked body muscular, his head full of hair, his hands clean of murder.  It was nice to be back.  He deserved this.  Back at the Urban Owl the Man was lifting the dead body.

“I’ll bury the body,” the Man called.  “We’re done now.”

Edward watched the Man drag the fat, dead corpse into the shadows.  Edward turned and walked, stopping briefly to pick one of the blue roses.  It came away easily from the earth and felt fragile in his hand.  With each step the forest began to fade.  He was back in the alley where the white lights burned.  Edward held his hand up to shield his eyes and noticed the blue rose was gone.  He was now holding a mottled tennis ball.

Through the door and up the stairs, Edward paused to throw the tennis ball over his shoulder. He listened to the bouncing until it reached the bottom. He then walked to his apartment and caught the sight of his mother entering the elevator. She pressed the button to go up, the baby in her arms looking at Edward with those cool blue eyes. He sneered at the child as the elevator doors closed.

Back inside Edward felt the humidity grab hold of his throat.  His chest heaved with effort. Drenched in sweat, his breathing felt rapid and shallow. He calmed himself by rubbing his flat stomach and running his hands through his hair.  At least his body felt strong.

He stumbled in the dark over to the lounge.  He flopped backwards and tried to regain his breath.

After a moment, Edward decided he should call someone and let them know everything was okay.  He was alright.  The very least he could do was let people know things were looking up.  He didn’t want anyone to worry.  Not anymore.  Edward wondered who he should call first.  With one last sigh he closed his eyes. Even if he did call someone, he didn’t know what he would say.

 Copyright Justin Hamilton 2022