EXPECTING TO FLY

Brilliant. Trust my obituary to be left in the hands of a guy who likes to write stories told from the viewpoint of an animal. Spoiler alert: I’m a fucking penguin.

Epitaphs aren’t written for the dead, of course – the number of people who sue from the afterlife remains a zero – so wheel out the harp and sing my praises for the ones left behind, jostling to show how deep goes the me shaped hole in their hearts.

I suppose it’s right they spare loved ones the truth. Mother need never know about the dearly departed’s autozoophilia fetishes. The widow won’t want a word spoken of the one, from so long ago, that he’ll be most nervous about bumping into hell.

They say this isn’t a time to be sad. We should celebrate a life. Share fond memories. Actually, if it’s not too needy to make it all about me at my own funeral, I’d say this is a perfect time to be miserable. To regret every single thing I did wrong and question what exactly I did right. To cry over those years we’d spent with feeling, howl my apologies and damn the eyes of all who dared smite me.

I always suspected I wouldn’t get to wave goodbye. The story doesn’t ends where you hope it might. After the perfect last words, there’s the long, awkward sigh, and a so, anyway…

My song will never be mine to sing. I am, after all, a penguin.

I could always fly, you know. It’s just that no one ever expected me to.

Now you know I tried.

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Neil Young, Buffalo Springfield 

SONG TO THE SIREN

‘Imagine you are far away from all your troubles and drifting away in an ocean of calm,’ the hypnotist says and I freak because I can’t swim. But I go with it because I’m paying her to cure me of my fear of heights – I can always write a damning review if this makes the one about drowning weirder in the process.

‘You are in a bubble that nothing can penetrate…’

Getting hard to breathe here, ma’am.

‘Rolling along gently afloat on a shipless ocean…’

I do my best to smile. It’s the face to go with a body recoiling from a rifle shot.

‘You now come to the edge of the water, safe in your bubble, gently bobbing, feeling light as a ray. Now I want you to slowly look down…’

What? Roll back! Roll back!

‘To behold the most wondrous thing you have ever seen.’

I see blackness. Wrapped in white fear. The only wonder here is why I’m paying someone to push me into the abyss.

And then, beyond the clamour of the savage waves lashing against the rocks and the wind shrieking in anguish, I hear the call.

Sail to me, sail to me.

I am not so deep in trance that I imagine I am Poseidon, or that I have wings and nymphs to guide me, but with this one breath I pierce the bubble, let the sea enfold me, and fall.

Here I am. Knowing you’ll be there.

Waiting to hold me.

For Priya Joi. By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Tim Buckley, Larry Beckett, This Mortal Coil

LITTLE WONDER

Dreams can only be assessed afterwards, of course. It’s the morning mind, if it can be arsed, that indulges them with perception, or files away in nevermind land marked with a giant question.

The old man knows this, but how to convey it to a little girl who can accept reality without needing to judge it first? It’s not that she asked a big question. It’s the size of the answer that matters, and he wanted his to help her be someone who won’t waste a good dream by pinching herself.

His harshest critic, who revels in dismissing ideas that get above their station, scoffs all too heartily. There really isn’t one older in the book than ‘it was all a dream’.

Goaded, the old man cracks.

‘The gnome is grumpy because it isn’t laughing anymore,’ he snaps. He doesn’t want to go with the Snow White allegory. Putting it down to drugs is the second cheapest excuse going. ‘The hope is that after they find life on Mars it will be one big happy nation. The hands are fat because he’s no longer thin.’

Everything makes sense if you’re willing to take it apart and reshape it. Interpretation is an act of faith. Wars are waged on nonsense.

‘Hm,’ muses the harshest critic, not entirely unconvinced. ‘And Sneezing Bhutan?’

‘I don’t know!’ The old man is screeching now. Heaven knows why he keeps the ignominious little runt in his pay. ‘The silly boy blue snorting his way though religion?’

‘Ha!’ The smile slices the harshest critic’s face in two. He made the old man go there.

The little girl, meanwhile, has lost interest, wandered off somewhere far, far away. But who’s to say she didn’t get it?

Let her wonder how she pleases, old man. And please, try not to belittle it with a point.

For Leela Joi. By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff:
David Bowie, Mark Plati, Reeves Gabrels

THE MERCY SEAT

This was not a meal to die for.

Here he was, in the land of haute cuisine, and all Mo could afford was a plat du fucking jour. Always the same wherever you went. An undercooked hunk of chicken in a pasty tomato sauce with veg the texture of chewed up gum. A ragged cup of coffee, tasting of wood and wire. Strawberry ice cream with a crumb of chocolate like a blackened tooth in a scarlet fog. Who’d miss these sinister dinner deals?

Café owner must’ve felt pity on him or something, because he laid down a complimentary bowl of soup. There’s a swirl in it, looks like Jesus or Allahu, depending on your mood.

He was never going to work them out, the French. Done trying to interpret their signs. Did you know the first thing that happens to a French baby after it’s born is to have a finger shoved up its anus? The first shit they ever take is black. Bottom kind. The sick breath at its hind.

How twisted do you have to be feeling to stick around for dessert? Mo knew the ever after, and there was no brûlée after Quran.

Mo paid up, waited for change. There’s no tip worth leaving that’d be of any use to these lost causes. His chariot awaits. It was far from gold but this would not be the last seat he ever sat on, of that Mo was nearly wholly sure. His filthy five clenched on the wheel, neither challenging nor resisting, the tan line round his wedding finger starved of what was once good.

Funny, thought Mo, out here when they say ‘mercy’, they mean thanks.

By God, they’d thank him for this.

An eye that can’t see or a tooth that chews on the lie? A foolish life without burdens or one of truths and consequences? Hated on earth or hailed in heaven? He was done with all this measuring of truth.

It’s a beautiful night on the Promenade des Anglais. The key turns, the engine roars, the wicked wheels spin. Deliver us thy blood of atonement.

Let history unfold.

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Nick Cave, Mick Harvey, Johnny Cash

SOMETIMES IT SNOWS IN APRIL

Still haven’t wiped away your last tear, I see.

You see right, Tracy, The moon is as full and cherry-red as my heart once more, and here I am, rolling out paisley tears for another friend, like all I do is cry for friends.

You only see me when you hear the door slam. They don’t always leave me, my friends, you know. But they have to sometimes.

Shut up already, damn, Tracy sneers. Making out you feel as much pain for this one as you did for the last love you lost. Snivelling like he was your only friend.

And I think maybe you’re right Tracy. I can’t remember the last time I held his hand in the rain. But the thought of it did keep me warm inside. Like the man said. It isn’t love until it’s past.

Wipe away your foolish tears. He’s a whole lot better off than the fools he left here, says Tracy. I know he’s looking at me.

You don’t need to remind me good things never last, Tracy. That you always cry for love, never for pain.

But what is always without sometimes, Tracy? Haven’t you seen how the sun can be buried, even when it’s his time to shine?

Sometimes I feel. Sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes I wish it never snowed at all.

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Prince/ Wendy Melvoin/ Lisa Coleman

SUEDEHEAD

Max woke from a night of uneasy dreams to find his head had metamorphosed into a giant root vegetable.

He’d really gone and done it this time.

‘Why do you comb hair?’ He thought he heard himself ask.

The face in the mirror would look bemused, if it weren’t a turnip.

He couldn’t think who might know, so he rang himself. Check the voice inside his head was still him. It was not.

Max started to spin, the chord of the telephone tying him up in silly knots.

‘You’re making this lard for me,’ complained the voice inside the rutabaga.

‘Sorry,’ Max tore himself away from the mirror and sneaked into his room. A cow slept noisily in the corner, cartons and cartons of milk and milk products all around her. Nothing to see here but dairy.

He sat down and began to draw. A handsome man, happy, looking fresh and ever so slick, not a trace of sickness. Next to the picture Max drew an arrow and scrawled: ‘Me. In my dream!’

‘Dear Me,’ he wrote, forcing a cough into a laugh. ‘Just one letter away from the truth.’

It was a good lie.

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Steven Morrissey/Stephen Street

TRASH

She felt it the moment he landed on her. Foreign, full of forbidden fluids dripping all over, the scrunch of cellophane clung with the streak of a dirty powder rubbing her sides, his very touch making her feel unholy, unclean.

Think of the sweetness, she ordered herself, hoping not to fall apart.

‘Ironic, ain’t it, the clothes we wear?’ he said after shuffling into something nowhere close to comfortable. ‘Me in black, dressed like a flippin’ Jihadist, you all in white.’

‘It’s quite fitting actually,’ she snapped back. ‘In our culture, we wear white at funerals.’

‘Sure that’s not so you can look like one of them virgins for your fellas up there,’ he couldn’t help saying.

‘Rubbish,’ she reviewed, tightening up. The bagginess of this lot’s morals, now that was one thing she wouldn’t miss. She could smell the cheapness in him, the reek of tastelessness.

‘You ever wonder,’ he said, like it was a lazy day they’d wake up from soon.  ‘The words you heard in your mosque, the music I heard in them clubs, whether they meant anything?’

She did wonder. When you were in a nowhere town, in your nowhere place, you had to believe in something, that whatever answer may be blowing in the wind was more than the litter in the breeze.  Drown out the rot with dreams of sweetness.

‘It’s in everything we do,’ she said.

They both heard the grind of the wheels, the screams of the ones they feared, hated, or longed to be accepted by, suddenly so much like them, all thrown into a pile of soon to be nothingness.

‘I always thought we was different, you and me’ he sighed. ‘Guess we both got crazed in our own ways knowing we’d end up in the same dump, huh?’

He somehow felt a little less darker edging closer to her blushing whiteness, an unexpected togetherness at the end of it all, looked on by passing seagulls as just another kooky pair of no consequence, the lovers on the street who left it too late to share the times they had.

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Bret Anderson, Richard Oakes

A CASE OF YOU

“If you want me I’ll be in the bar.”

All these years in the law business and that gag never got old.

“Can the defence and the prosecution approach the bench,” I sighed wearily, feeling like the black female Judge at the end of her tether I’d seen in every movie.

Who are you prosecuting?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“No,” the prosecutor said, sheepishly. “You.”

“And I take it that means you,” I turned to the defence attorney, already looking as lost as a star in the darkness, “are defending…”

“You.”

“Right,” I really needed that drink. “And where is the defendant?”

“Absent your honour, but the defence would like to call this woman we met,” the lawyer’s cheeks were two roses. “She has a mouth like my client. She knows her life and her deeds.”

“What the devil?”

The confusion spread across the courtroom like wine spilled in a bathtub. With no one in the docks, the sketch artist busied herself by doodling cartoon images of countries she had no desire to ever go to.

If the woman braying for blood was clutching at straws, the prosecution calling upon a lonely painter as witness was the last one.

“I live in a box of paints,” he announced.

“What is the charge here?” I thundered.

“Transfusion, your honour.”

I threw question marks at them, wishing they could be daggers.

“You intoxicated without permission.”

“Objection, your honour! This is a straightforward case of love touching mutually consenting souls.”

“You put wine in the veins instead of blood!”

“Surely you see this was a holy act. By an unsung goddess, perhaps…”

I came down hard on the bench like I was brandishing the warhammer of Zillyhoo. No one brings god into my courtroom.

It was at the bar that I saw you, in the blue TV screen light. There was nothing to judge, no one to blame. Only a feeling that poured out of every part of me, replaced by something so much sweeter.

And it knocked me off my feet.

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Joni Mitchell

TRANSMISSION

He’s dancing weirdly again. Time travelling, I think. The way he connects with the sound you’d think it was a live radio broadcast, not the beat from a show that ended many years ago.

The curtains are drawn, the room dark grey, a scene for the blind or anyone frightened of the sun. None who dwell in the daylight can see in. This is a private journey, to which only I am privy.

It doesn’t help that he doesn’t always use words, convinced he can transmit ideas to me through knowing nods and jerking grunts, like some epileptic Jedi master. I’m always sure to gurgle in a way that says, ‘I get it’.

No language, just sound, that’s all we need to know, right?

He’s reliving the fine times he lived in the night, that much is clear to see, the destruction, the getting wasted years. From this distance, he can only recall the touching memories, forgetful of any wounds they left in their wake.

What I’m meant to get from this is that he would’ve gone on that way, happy in the same place, staying out the time. But then he misses a beat, puts a foot wrong, and suddenly he catches his reflection. Old, fat, all too aware the things he’s learned are no longer enough.

Dammit. I’ve transmitted my thoughts too well! See his face has darkened, his feet ground to a halt. The scene: still as a faded postcard of a dreary old northern town. No one wants to play when they’re transported to somewhere like that.

I offer up my brightest smile, my arms outstretched. Everything about me whoops, ‘and we could dance!’

‘Dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, to the radio.’

He obeys, of course, as dancers must.

 

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff:
Bernard Sumner, Peter Hook, Ian Curtis, Stephen Morris

HARVEST MOON

Talk about a Lesser God.

There’s Saturn lording it over all of agriculture, Isis giving the fertile land the horn, Indra kissing the sky to make it rain just right so that everything that grew on their green earth grew good enough to eat.

Then there was him. Xochipilli, god of maize.

‘Nice ears,’ the children of the other deities mocked, but he was too busy dreaming to get hurt.

She was Artemis, the lunar goddess, who he loved with all his heart, the one he danced away each and every night with.

‘In your dreams,’ the children taunted, and they were right.

Xochipilli preferred to watch her from afar, never daring to get even a little closer, lest he saw her shine in someone else’s eye. It was all too easy to picture her riding off into the moonlight with a worthier divinity. Like that Hindu god Soma, who—and this maddened and impressed Xochipilli in equal measures—knew how to get drunk by drinking the moon!

That summer, Limos plagued the land with a famine so catastrophic it made all crops fail, but for reasons known only to the elements, could not harm the maize. By the equinox, Xochipilli’s yield was the only thing keeping the deities fed. He was on the cover of Top Of The Crops. Demeter, the goddess of harvest, wondered if he was free for dinner.

‘Good cob,’ the children cheered.

He felt he should celebrate, and had barely hit the town when a figure came bursting out of nowhere and knocked him off his feet.

‘You know where the music’s playing?’

That voice. That grace. Artemis. He was beholding the sweet and heavenly Artemis!

‘C’mon, baby, where’s the party at?’ She howled. High as the rising moon, one too many moonshines.

Xochipilli could only stand there, frozen.

‘Hey, you’re the sweet potato guy, right?’

‘Maize,’ he managed a nervous mumble.

‘I know you!’ She giggled. ‘I think you’re a-maize-ing!’

‘That’s pretty corny,’ he punned back, intended.

‘Hey, you wanna go out and feel the night?’ she hiccupped. ‘Let’s go dancing in the light, woo!’

And with that, Artemis danced into a field, hurled into the corn and passed out sprawled across the sea of cobs. Like children sleeping, he thought.

Xochipilli did not know whether she would remember him when the sun came back to reign, or if he would ever get to see her dance again, but as he gently lifted her to dream the night away in the nook of her silken crescent, he knew only one thing.

He would always be in love with her.

For Priya Joi. By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff:
Neil Young