Far Beyond
S.O. Kilburn
There are many roads to Nowhere. We all know this. But there are only a few roads to Limbo. And fewer still to immortality. This is how Ive found variants of all three.
I work part time as a continuity checker at a major architectural firm, which I wont name. I basically show up, point out the freaked out mistakes in structural, mechanical and whatnot , why this wont work, get ignored, and leave. I get paid okay, so whatever.
My real gig doesnt pay as well, but keeps my spirit alive; I teach guitar, electric, acoustic, what have you. My students range from a ninety year old ex-exec who loves Chuck Berry to to Nicky. The latter is a teenaged paraplegic who lives in a bad part of town, whose mother doesnt make much but loves her son with the calm intensity of summer sunlight. She wants him to learn how to play that long-hair music, I.e. classical in the Segovia range, but we also delve into more dirty stuff, like Jimi and Johnny Guitar Watson , with some hillbilly craziness when we want to feel off-kilter and strangely cool.
Nickys second big recital was in two days, and he called one afternoon, saying he couldnt get transport this time (mom was still at work,) but could I please come over for a refresher on the adagio he had chosen - as well as a critique on his version of Red House. You tell me; would you say no? Nicky was a great kid, talented, working hard - I liked him. And the twenty bucks wouldnt hurt, either.
The traffic was harsh, but it was still early enough to make it with a few hours of sunlight; we liked playing in the local park, and my trunk was big enough for his wheelchair. I pulled up a ways from their brownstone tenement , got my Taylor acoustic and wad of sheet music out of the back, and started walking. I ignored the cadre of dope-dealers as I passed; they were used to seeing me here. As I got closer Nicky rolled out on the sidewalk, his Takamine strapped across his back in its soft shell case. I started to wave, then I noticed a bling-blinged El Dorado pull onto the street. My nerves shrieked, and I began to run towards Nicky, yelling for him to get back into the safety of the concrete stairs. The black car sped up and guns sprouted from rolled-down tinted windows. The first thing I did was drop (lightly,) my guitar on the sidewalk, and I dove between Nicky and the car as it began to strafe the entire area with gunfire. I felt blazing coldness along different points of my body and heard Nickys screams of terror and pain as bullets slammed into him, though I didnt see where he got hit.
This is one way to get to Limbo, I suppose.
I came to after a long period of blackness. Did I say long? Sorry - There was no way to tell how much time had passed until the black faded and I awoke to a gray stillness, dressed as I was when I got shot, sitting crouched next to a complete stranger, who ignored me for a while as he contemplated the
endlessness with a half smile, puffing on ,from the shape and smell (were there scents in Limbo? Guess so,) a large joint of profound potency. He was dressed in jeans and t-shirt , his long curly black hair tied into a tail at his neck. He seemed familiar, but I couldnt place him exactly; no facial hair, no tattoos, just that smile, spleef, and a sense of something.
Something lost.
He said, through a cloud of pungency, Kind of sparse here, huh? How ydoing? I shook my head, trying to comprehend, and yet feeling bitterness, and anger. I was getting the idea that this guy was here for the same reason as I was, and would understand, so I began, Doing pretty shitty, since you asked. Im dead, youre dead, my student Nicky is dead, and for what: dope; vengeance; kicks, whatever. I hope they all rot in hell. I felt tears coming but was too stinking proud to let them flow.
He exhaled, lowered his head, muttered, Yeah, I know the feeling. Had a lot to do, a lot of doing the hang, places to rock and people to see. He took a hit and said, Thing is - (choking sound,) you aint dead - I am. You teach guitar, right? Numbly I nodded, replied, Yeah, I did. Another exhalation, then the offer, normally one I would politely refuse, but, hey, I was dead, right? I took a hit deep into my lungs, and immediately coughed it out, feeling the rush of an immediate buzz unlike anything I had ever felt before. I felt calm, clear, and ready for whatever would happen to us, then it hit me.
What do you mean, Im not dead? This ( I gestured broadly with my joint laden hand,) is Limbo, perfect stranger, and I dont feel like Im going anywhere but - I realized my companion was grinning, gesturing for his smoke. He laughed, said, Dude, you rock; seriously, bro, the bullet that wouldve smashed your students face glanced off your skull; the slug that was aiming to disembowel Nicky caromed off your ribcage. Man, youre alive, Nicky is alive. He snatched the joint, took a hit. Youre just here for the gathering. I shook my head like a punchdrunk, asked, What the hell are you talking about? And why do you seem so freaking familiar?! This last with some heat, I should say.
Because you were right to be here, bro; you were close enough, what with the drive-by and all, plus you are a kick-ass teacher, you make people feel the instrument, yknow? That moment the face registered in my memory and I almost fell out, but my new (and old,) friend turned to look into the opalescent distance. Sorry, bro, gotta blaze; my escort is here. I rose and so did he, shaking my hand as people I would know more readily than my own family stepped into view to gather around him: Randy, quiet and gentle, his smile small yet revealing his heart ; Stevie, his hat cocked to the side rakishly; Django, eyes wise and presence soothing; then, from mists and dreams came a man tall and dark, his arms long, hands huge and exquisite gesturing to come, lets go, brother, bands of gypsies cant stop for too long. Jimi glanced at me and winked, smiled, said That Red House Nickys got going; groovy.
They surrounded Dime and took him Home, left me aghast for loss and glory, and memories, music that will never die. I woke up in the hospital weeping for no reason, but knew the music had to go on, and fuck the dumb shit; there are still those of us wholl steal the sun and hide it, just to give it to those who have to dwell in darkness
I don't like PC's, but I wrote this the day after the shooting, and was schooled on how to share; does anyone else have fiction or other good stuff?
Oh, about anything, but esp. Dime- I've played gitfiddle for 26 years, and Dime was really the only one who came close to being an ideal and a cool peer in the art of shredding. Later.
S.O. Kilburn
There are many roads to Nowhere. We all know this. But there are only a few roads to Limbo. And fewer still to immortality. This is how Ive found variants of all three.
I work part time as a continuity checker at a major architectural firm, which I wont name. I basically show up, point out the freaked out mistakes in structural, mechanical and whatnot , why this wont work, get ignored, and leave. I get paid okay, so whatever.
My real gig doesnt pay as well, but keeps my spirit alive; I teach guitar, electric, acoustic, what have you. My students range from a ninety year old ex-exec who loves Chuck Berry to to Nicky. The latter is a teenaged paraplegic who lives in a bad part of town, whose mother doesnt make much but loves her son with the calm intensity of summer sunlight. She wants him to learn how to play that long-hair music, I.e. classical in the Segovia range, but we also delve into more dirty stuff, like Jimi and Johnny Guitar Watson , with some hillbilly craziness when we want to feel off-kilter and strangely cool.
Nickys second big recital was in two days, and he called one afternoon, saying he couldnt get transport this time (mom was still at work,) but could I please come over for a refresher on the adagio he had chosen - as well as a critique on his version of Red House. You tell me; would you say no? Nicky was a great kid, talented, working hard - I liked him. And the twenty bucks wouldnt hurt, either.
The traffic was harsh, but it was still early enough to make it with a few hours of sunlight; we liked playing in the local park, and my trunk was big enough for his wheelchair. I pulled up a ways from their brownstone tenement , got my Taylor acoustic and wad of sheet music out of the back, and started walking. I ignored the cadre of dope-dealers as I passed; they were used to seeing me here. As I got closer Nicky rolled out on the sidewalk, his Takamine strapped across his back in its soft shell case. I started to wave, then I noticed a bling-blinged El Dorado pull onto the street. My nerves shrieked, and I began to run towards Nicky, yelling for him to get back into the safety of the concrete stairs. The black car sped up and guns sprouted from rolled-down tinted windows. The first thing I did was drop (lightly,) my guitar on the sidewalk, and I dove between Nicky and the car as it began to strafe the entire area with gunfire. I felt blazing coldness along different points of my body and heard Nickys screams of terror and pain as bullets slammed into him, though I didnt see where he got hit.
This is one way to get to Limbo, I suppose.
I came to after a long period of blackness. Did I say long? Sorry - There was no way to tell how much time had passed until the black faded and I awoke to a gray stillness, dressed as I was when I got shot, sitting crouched next to a complete stranger, who ignored me for a while as he contemplated the
endlessness with a half smile, puffing on ,from the shape and smell (were there scents in Limbo? Guess so,) a large joint of profound potency. He was dressed in jeans and t-shirt , his long curly black hair tied into a tail at his neck. He seemed familiar, but I couldnt place him exactly; no facial hair, no tattoos, just that smile, spleef, and a sense of something.
Something lost.
He said, through a cloud of pungency, Kind of sparse here, huh? How ydoing? I shook my head, trying to comprehend, and yet feeling bitterness, and anger. I was getting the idea that this guy was here for the same reason as I was, and would understand, so I began, Doing pretty shitty, since you asked. Im dead, youre dead, my student Nicky is dead, and for what: dope; vengeance; kicks, whatever. I hope they all rot in hell. I felt tears coming but was too stinking proud to let them flow.
He exhaled, lowered his head, muttered, Yeah, I know the feeling. Had a lot to do, a lot of doing the hang, places to rock and people to see. He took a hit and said, Thing is - (choking sound,) you aint dead - I am. You teach guitar, right? Numbly I nodded, replied, Yeah, I did. Another exhalation, then the offer, normally one I would politely refuse, but, hey, I was dead, right? I took a hit deep into my lungs, and immediately coughed it out, feeling the rush of an immediate buzz unlike anything I had ever felt before. I felt calm, clear, and ready for whatever would happen to us, then it hit me.
What do you mean, Im not dead? This ( I gestured broadly with my joint laden hand,) is Limbo, perfect stranger, and I dont feel like Im going anywhere but - I realized my companion was grinning, gesturing for his smoke. He laughed, said, Dude, you rock; seriously, bro, the bullet that wouldve smashed your students face glanced off your skull; the slug that was aiming to disembowel Nicky caromed off your ribcage. Man, youre alive, Nicky is alive. He snatched the joint, took a hit. Youre just here for the gathering. I shook my head like a punchdrunk, asked, What the hell are you talking about? And why do you seem so freaking familiar?! This last with some heat, I should say.
Because you were right to be here, bro; you were close enough, what with the drive-by and all, plus you are a kick-ass teacher, you make people feel the instrument, yknow? That moment the face registered in my memory and I almost fell out, but my new (and old,) friend turned to look into the opalescent distance. Sorry, bro, gotta blaze; my escort is here. I rose and so did he, shaking my hand as people I would know more readily than my own family stepped into view to gather around him: Randy, quiet and gentle, his smile small yet revealing his heart ; Stevie, his hat cocked to the side rakishly; Django, eyes wise and presence soothing; then, from mists and dreams came a man tall and dark, his arms long, hands huge and exquisite gesturing to come, lets go, brother, bands of gypsies cant stop for too long. Jimi glanced at me and winked, smiled, said That Red House Nickys got going; groovy.
They surrounded Dime and took him Home, left me aghast for loss and glory, and memories, music that will never die. I woke up in the hospital weeping for no reason, but knew the music had to go on, and fuck the dumb shit; there are still those of us wholl steal the sun and hide it, just to give it to those who have to dwell in darkness
I don't like PC's, but I wrote this the day after the shooting, and was schooled on how to share; does anyone else have fiction or other good stuff?
Oh, about anything, but esp. Dime- I've played gitfiddle for 26 years, and Dime was really the only one who came close to being an ideal and a cool peer in the art of shredding. Later.
