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No one chooses who to love, only who to be with. Dinosaur follows the lives of Rebecca and Erik, intertwining their stories in a way only flash fiction can. Although their lives are held close within the pages of this Novella-in-Flash, they meet for only a short, albeit life-changing time. . . . Published by Ellipsis Zine Reduced price for pre-order: £5.50 (UK P&P) £8.00 (Euro P&P) 9.00 (Int P&P) |
'Side A' is the first story in the Novella-in-Flash: Dinosaur.
Side A
No one has told him so, but Erik is sure his dad is Jim Morrison.
His dad left behind his LPs — hundreds of them, in rows across the floor, against two walls in the spare room.
Downstairs, Erik’s mum and her boyfriend are arguing again.
Erik leafs through the LPs and finds The Doors’ best album: Morrison Hotel.
Beneath the window is a record player, amplifier and two tall, wooden speakers. He handles Morrison Hotel the way his dad showed him, his hand catching the white paper insert. Resting it in his palm, he reveals the black vinyl. With it held between two rigid palms, he lowers his head, closes one eye and blows. He threads the record onto the turntable, slides back the plastic switch on the front right corner, positions himself so he can see where the needle touches the spinning record, holds his breath and drops it.
Side A. The crackle of vinyl. Guitar. Drums. Morrison shouts: yeah. Harmonica. Piano. Morrison’s voice. ‘Roadhouse Blues.’
Erik sits on the floor, his legs crossed, eyes level with the record, fixed on the lift and dip of the needle as it spins through its spiral from the outer edge to the centre.
He taps his leg in time with the beat. His dad is somewhere in America, in a motel, lying on a bed, dressed in an open black shirt, brown leather trousers, cowboy boots, a guitar leaning against the wall, a bottle of bourbon on the side table next to a cigarette that burns in a brown glass ashtray.
The door opens. It’s Max, his mum’s boyfriend.
‘Great song.’
Erik sighs, moves onto his knees and turns down the volume, nudging the record player so it skips.
‘Careful,’ Max says. ‘You’ll scratch it.’
It’s Max’s fault for being there and making him turn it down.
‘Shame,’ Max says. ‘Morrison, Hendrix, Joplin, Wilson, that guitarist from The Stones — what was his name? Brian Jones.’
Erik turns to the LPs in a row against the wall and flicks through them.
‘All of them. Dead at twenty-seven. Strange huh?’
Erik stops at Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours.
‘Anyway, your mum says you shouldn’t be in here. Told me to tell you.’
Morrison, dead.
Erik had no idea.
Max leaves and Erik sits back on his heels. The room is warmer, musty and close. Crying is not something he does these days. He lifts the needle, flips over the record to side B, and drops the needle onto track four: ‘Indian Summer’.
Soft guitar. Far-away drums. Echoing vocals.
A tear falls onto track three. The record spins, and the tear crawls to track two, then track one, until finally it falls over the edge.
His dad left behind his LPs — hundreds of them, in rows across the floor, against two walls in the spare room.
Downstairs, Erik’s mum and her boyfriend are arguing again.
Erik leafs through the LPs and finds The Doors’ best album: Morrison Hotel.
Beneath the window is a record player, amplifier and two tall, wooden speakers. He handles Morrison Hotel the way his dad showed him, his hand catching the white paper insert. Resting it in his palm, he reveals the black vinyl. With it held between two rigid palms, he lowers his head, closes one eye and blows. He threads the record onto the turntable, slides back the plastic switch on the front right corner, positions himself so he can see where the needle touches the spinning record, holds his breath and drops it.
Side A. The crackle of vinyl. Guitar. Drums. Morrison shouts: yeah. Harmonica. Piano. Morrison’s voice. ‘Roadhouse Blues.’
Erik sits on the floor, his legs crossed, eyes level with the record, fixed on the lift and dip of the needle as it spins through its spiral from the outer edge to the centre.
He taps his leg in time with the beat. His dad is somewhere in America, in a motel, lying on a bed, dressed in an open black shirt, brown leather trousers, cowboy boots, a guitar leaning against the wall, a bottle of bourbon on the side table next to a cigarette that burns in a brown glass ashtray.
The door opens. It’s Max, his mum’s boyfriend.
‘Great song.’
Erik sighs, moves onto his knees and turns down the volume, nudging the record player so it skips.
‘Careful,’ Max says. ‘You’ll scratch it.’
It’s Max’s fault for being there and making him turn it down.
‘Shame,’ Max says. ‘Morrison, Hendrix, Joplin, Wilson, that guitarist from The Stones — what was his name? Brian Jones.’
Erik turns to the LPs in a row against the wall and flicks through them.
‘All of them. Dead at twenty-seven. Strange huh?’
Erik stops at Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours.
‘Anyway, your mum says you shouldn’t be in here. Told me to tell you.’
Morrison, dead.
Erik had no idea.
Max leaves and Erik sits back on his heels. The room is warmer, musty and close. Crying is not something he does these days. He lifts the needle, flips over the record to side B, and drops the needle onto track four: ‘Indian Summer’.
Soft guitar. Far-away drums. Echoing vocals.
A tear falls onto track three. The record spins, and the tear crawls to track two, then track one, until finally it falls over the edge.
If you need convincing 'Morrison Hotel' is the best album by The Doors, check out the two songs featured in this story.
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