Twisted Fiction Press

Higher

by on Nov.12, 2009, under Flash

by J.S. Breukelaar

Bobby left the apartment and went to find the DJ, but the DJ had left the building. At the end of the hall, he pushed through a door and began to climb the stairs, dark drifts of dust at the edges. At the top of the stairs, he pushed hard against another door, stepping over butts and condoms jizzed to the spongy threshold, the smell so sad, and the door opened to the night and there she was, up on the roof, sitting with her back to him high above the silent streets.

‘Listen to me,’ the DJ said.

He wiped his eyes and went toward her until he reached the edge. On the long empty road far beneath her dangling legs some shadows moved and some didn’t.

‘I’ve played in Varanasi. The band set up on a ghat beside the piles of white ash. Ram, my roadie at the time—I picked him up in Cairo—had to kick aside a human femur to hook up the amp. Once I played in the Rio favela, the decks set up on an overturned bathtub on the roof of someone’s kitchen, and twice I blew a marine outside of Fallujah for some scag, but I don’t remember the first time. The second time I met you I wrote you a song, but I lost it, and the remix isn’t as good. Out of one song comes another, each dream a little death. I got the giggles over a mass grave outside of Kladovo, it’s the way it hits you sometimes, but it only hurts when I laugh. I slept in a Malaysian body parts depot or tried to, just to put myself in the mood for our homecoming tour. But you never came. I heard you on a radio interview once. You called in with a question. I was down Sonora Beach at the time. I’d dropped the mic down into a dumpster for some unique samples, the wind blowing across the dunes through the ears of a rodent. But all I got were the sounds of teeth on metal. You wanted to know what song I would play to someone who had just been born.’

Bobby sat down beside the DJ on the ledge, his legs dangling into space next to hers, and the wind gusting all around. He knew she would not let him fall.

J.S. Breukelaar is a Sydney based writer.
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