Dark Side of the Moon

ROCK BOOK VOLUME II

  DARK SIDE OF THE MOON

  BY

  C. SEAN MCGEE

  Rock Book Volume II: Dark Side of the Moon

  Copyright© 2013 Cian Sean McGee

  CSM Publishing

  ‘The Free Art Collection’

  Santo André, Sao Paulo, Brazil

  Second Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, scanning or digital information storage and retrieval without permission from the author.

  Cover Design: C. Sean McGee

  Moon Man Image: Carol Ribeiro

  Interior layout: C. Sean McGee

  Author Photo: Carla Raiter

  Disclaimer:

  This book pays homage to the works of Pink Floyd and notably Dark Side of the Moon. This is a literary cover. Lyrics from the album are used throughout the story and I hope you kind people don’t sue me for it. It is meant as a celebration of a great piece of music celebrated in a unique way, through story.

  CHAPTERS

  SPEAK TO ME

  BREATHE

  ON THE RUN

  TIME

  THE GREAT GIG IN THE SKY

  MONEY

  US AND THEM

  ANY COLOUR YOU LIKE

  BRAIN DAMAGE

  ECLIPSE

  FOR KELI, NENAGH AND TOMÁS

  SPEAK TO ME

  When a heart beats inside of a rabbit, one can assume that even in his stillness, even in the absence of his breath or in the muting of his cry, even in the coldness of his skin or in the vacuity of his eye, that he is, in some way, alive and if you asked him then maybe he might tell you that this was how it had always seemed in that, at no point; in all that he had seen and all that he had done and in all the fields unto which all he had run, had ever he felt like life had, in any way, already begun.

  Theodore’s heart thumped over and over and he followed each beat like a print in time, wondering if he was walking in slow circles towards his own intrepid finality and he saw himself in a bright orange field with hundreds of thousands of millions of bright orange flowers all swaying about under a bright orange sun which had been painted upon a bright blue sky and with every beat of his heart, a giant mechanical fist swung down from the bright invisible heavens and crushed a circle of bright orange flowers not far from where he stood and as he hopped along through the long leaves of grass; feeling the sun warming his fine fur as the bright orange flowers gently brushed his face, tickling the skin by his bushy tail, he wondered to himself, “Am I mad?”

  And spurred by his yearning, to be not insane, Theodore the rabbit wished gone of the sun and prayed for deplorable rain.

  “He killed himself,” he said out loud in his head as if the words were another’s describing how this rabbit had wound up so obviously dead.

  “He’s crazy.”

  “He’s mad.”

  “He’s bonkers.”

  “Confused.”

  “He’ll never win a race with apathetic shoes.”

  “He’s loopy.”

  “He’s balmy.”

  “He’s clearly insane”

  “There’s obviously something defunct in his brain.”

  And the voices repeated inside of his mind and he wished in the colour for a safe place to hide; in the greens of the grass and orange of flowers, for somewhere to burrow, a covert to cower.

  And the sound of his beating heart was now pounding faster and louder and it didn’t seem like any of it was ever going to end. And with every perorated thump, he stood in vacant awe as above him, through the bright blue sky came a massive crushing mechanical hammer like fist and it stretched out from the heavens and beat down on the ground with each beat of his heart a then torturous sound; pulverising, evulsing, defiling, expulsing each bright orange flower so all that was left was a cavernous breach in the earth, a colourless turn of affection, black fetid dirt.

  Theodore hopped through the blades of grass and the coloured flowers trying to forget the sound of his own heart, but it was no use. For every orange flower that touched his little pink nose, a thousand more were trampled by massive swinging mechanical fists until the whole plain was swiftly raped of the entire of its colour and Theodore stood; with his little pink nose sniffing the air, by the last blade of grass that clung like a frightened child to the last orange flower which craned its neck towards the heavens in a last defiant kiss of the sun.

  Looking up into the blue sky, Theodore could see the shiny silver mechanical fist gently swaying back and forth as if some fine thread were keeping it bridged to the stars; and only the finest breath would set it free, crushing down upon him.

  And so he held his breath and tried to still his despotic heart and his ears filled with heavied influence from the drunken banter of stupid rabbits and then the sound of locks clicking and pockets picking and the ka-ching of the cash registers ringing like a chorus line singing that everything thought was everything told and everything taught was everything sold and each thing had a price and each price had a place and each place had a number and each number had a face and each lie could be gauged as a scholarly truth just as time unto money or age unto youth, for one and the other were thought of as real, as states to acquire or penchants to steal and the sound of it all was so loud in his head that poor old Theodore, he wished and wished he were dead.

  He turned his sight from the high in the sky and he spoke to the flower with a tear in his eye and he said “I am sorry, it is who that I am, that I imagined you flower and that mechanical hand and I shouldn’t have ever, imagined you alive, for all I have done is to curse you to die.”

  And the flower she craned with a smile and a sigh and she wiped with her petal of the winter in his eye.

  “I’m not crazy,” Theodore said.

  The flower smiled.

  Theodore looked up into the sky and he could see, riding on the mechanical fist was a small angry looking black and white striped bigot and he was screaming and drunk and he reeked and he stunk and his words they were sinking, defeating and sunk.

  “You’ve always been mad, like most of us have, very hard to explain why you’re mad,” said The Badger with a moment’s contemplation in a moment of hesitation, “even if you’re not mad.”

  Theodore kissed the bright orange flower and his heart beat one last time and as he looked up into the bright blue sky where the bright orange sun played witness to the life and death of each and everyone one, he smiled and hoped that this would be some kind of an end.