Happy Friday all !! Here is a short that has recently been published in Penny Dreadful Magazine, USA. You get to read it for FREE !!

Sam’s Song

By Neville Raper

My name is Sam, a three letter name, born into a three ring circus. I once read about a serial killer who used the name Sam, is that the definition of irony?

I was born in Little Happens, they called it a village, but really it wasn’t much more than a Hamlet. Isolated, nothing much had changed in generations. A population of around 300 mainly elderly, in fact, growing up, I was the only child. Funny how I never questioned this, I suppose I knew no better.

Dad was the local vet, always of service to a community dominated by farming. A big man with a big heart, unfortunately too big for his frame. Systematic hypertension had enlarged his pulmonary walls. He died of a massive heart attack on my 10th birthday.

Mum was never really the same again, never cold, but always distant. I felt she was marking time.

I was educated by Mrs Stanley. She was a retired school teacher and well versed in most subjects. A jolly round lady, her circumference exceeded her height. Her husband had died some 10 years hence, I suspected she may have rolled onto him during the night.

She taught me up to high school standard and I when my knowledge gap exceeded her reach, we relied on distance learning packs to get me up the certificate level. As I was her only pupil Mrs Stanley was able to focus on my strengths and weaknesses, as a consequence I attained very good grades. I was expected to go on to higher education. I had no intention of following in my Father’s footsteps by leaving my mother. 

So my life continued, I obtained work on our neighbor’s, Mr Fisher’s farm. I started doing menial physical jobs, fixing fences and moving livestock. Bright and quick to learn, I was

quickly promoted to more complicated roles. Fertiliser construction, yield control and animal slaughter.

I enjoyed dispatching the livestock. I felt it reinforced my position in the natural world. I was the apex in this universe, the uber-predator. I controlled the lives of the animals on the farm, from birth to death. I was their benign God, deciding whether their deaths would be fast or slow, agonising or painless. When they suffered, they did so for me, in homage to my dominion.

It was at that time I started to hear the music.

The fact that I was the youngest person in the village actually made me quite in demand. Always there to help with a smile, I was everybody's adopted boy. Slowly, very slowly I realised the power I had within the community and how it reflected my predominance over my animals.

Bards in the 17th Century called it the music of the spheres. The songs that the planets and stars made orbiting our Earth. These, metaphysical poets, believed that our world was the centre of the universe and that everything revolved around us, as God’s blessed creations.

I knew that no God had made me, I was constructed by the stars and a result of natural selection. But they must have got something right for I knew that everything revolved around me. I created my own gravity my own idiocratic inertia.

I had my own constant soundtrack. At first, I thought it was my internal monologue, that voice in your head that narrates your life. Looking into the serial killer who shared my Christian name I discovered he did hear voices. David Berkowitz was known as Son of Sam. In New York between 1976 and 1977 he killed 6 people. His choice of tool was a .44 pistol. Far too quick.

He claimed that a demon spoke to him and that it took the voice of his father, Sam. I found a copy of a letter he wrote to the New York Police:-

I am deeply hurt by your calling me a woman hater. I am not. But I am a monster. I am the "Son of Sam." I am a little "brat". When father Sam gets drunk he gets mean. He beats his family. Sometimes he ties me up to the back of the house. Other times he locks me in the garage. Sam loves to drink blood. "Go out and kill" commands father Sam. Behind our house some rest. Mostly young — raped and slaughtered — their blood drained — just bones now. Papa Sam keeps me locked in the attic, too. I can't get out but I look out the attic window and watch the world go by. I feel like an outsider. I am on a different wave length then everybody else — programmed to kill. However, to stop me you must kill me. Attention all police: Shoot me first — shoot to kill or else. Keep out of my way or you will die! Papa Sam is old now. He needs some blood to preserve his youth.

He has had too many heart attacks. Too many heart attacks. "Ugh, it hurts sonny boy." I miss my pretty princess most of all. She's resting in our ladies house but I'll see her soon. I am the "Monster" — "Beelzebub" — the "Chubby Behemouth." I love to hunt. Prowling the streets looking for fair game — tasty meat. The women of Queens are prettiest of all. I must be the water they drink. I live for the hunt — my life. Blood for papa. Mr. Borrelli, sir, I dont want to kill anymore no sir, no more but I must, "honour thy father." I want to make love to the world. I love people. I don't belong on Earth. Return me to yahoos. To the people of Queens, I love you. And I want to wish all of you a happy Easter. May God bless you in this life and in the next and for now I say goodbye and goodnight. Police — Let me haunt you with these words; I'll be back! I'll be back! To be interrpreted as — bang, bang, bang, bang, bang — ugh!! Yours in murder Mr. Monster

It was interesting he spoke about frequency. Wasn’t that was what my music was.

He dodged the death penalty and is now languishing in prison, where he will be until he dies. Interestingly he was the first serial killer who profited from his art. The American media made him a star, a natural born killer, TV thriller.

I was, of course, nothing like him, no voices in my head, I wasn’t mad.

I had my music. Sometimes melancholic, full of sophomoric saxophone and deep resonance, other times a crescendo of strings, violins, cellos and harps. A celestial concerto. My soundtrack was an ocean, it waved and waned, rose and fell, deep and dark and always there.

Sometimes I’d put lyrics to my songs. I’d pass the day gently singing to myself. Some of the villagers heard me and commented on how it added to my contentment, my cheery disposition.

It wasn’t long before I started to hear their songs. Most were discordant, out of tune, flat, and an assault to my melodic mindset. I can’t tell you how much I hated those songs. Mr Fisher’s song was a dirge, full of accordion asthmatic wheezes. There was no rise and fall, no climax, the beat was erratic. Luckily, the faultless rhythm I played on his skull, with the ball peen hammer drowned out his melody. I fed him to the pigs.

I carried on working on his farm, as long as the routine was maintained things appeared normal.

                                                                            ***

A strange thing happened upon the dispatch of Farmer Fisher. His soundtrack joined mine. Now his accordion had joined my orchestra. It added a new depth to my songs, a new instrument. My song now took a different path an octave higher.

I now shared my time between the Fisher Farm and home. I kept up a pantomime of normalcy. As long as the farm's bills were paid, and processes remained the same no questions were asked.

I’d just about been running the farm before the farmer had reached his coda, so I found the extra work, no problem.

I soon became bored, my soundtrack began to be monotonous, toneless, it lacked…passion. I tried to raise the meter by devising more interesting ways to turn my herd into burgers. Although their squeals added a percussion of pain to my arias, it was all too temporary, like their lives.

It was an entertaining pastime, but it did nothing to raise my melody.

At least this extra slaughter allowed me to keep food on my Mothers table. We sat, this evening sharing a meal of roast pork, if she had known how it came to be dinner I doubt she would have eaten it. As we talked, the normal blah blah of everyday life, I tried to listen for my mother’s theme song.

It took me a while to hear. It was very faint and faded in and out, like a radio transmission on a car travelling in a tunnel.

Then I heard it, it was so, so far away. Its sadness was haunting a lilting lament to loneliness. I could hear strings, a cello solo sang the melody. It faded in and out, a tide of my mother’s solitude.

I never realised how lonely she was, how I wasn’t enough, how much she missed my Father. I made sure she missed him no more. I drowned her in the gravy. She could now do a duet with him in heaven.

I now had a cello.

                                                                          ***

Shortly after my mother’s ascension to the choir heavenly, I started to read. I needed these sojourns from the silence caused by her vacuum. Although my stanzas still filled my consciousness, I needed more. I wanted to know if I was unique in this world, whether anyone else had my gift. I began to read and had a revelation.

The poet John Milton, born in 1608, was most famous for his poem “Paradise Lost”. The poem mainly concerns the fall of Satan from heaven to hell. I read it and realised that John, if not like me, then certainly understood the music.

He wrote:-

The heavenly tune, which none can hear

Of human mould with gross unpurged ear.

I was astounded, only I could hear my song, he’d written exactly what I was experiencing. How did he know? Did he experience the same? I read on.

Celestial voices to the midnight air

With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds

In full harmonic number joined, their songs

Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heaven.

Their song was partial, but the harmony

(What could it less when spirits immortal sing?)

Suspended hell, and took with ravishment

The thronging audience.

I was now convinced that Milton had the same gift as me. The ability to hear the music contained within reality, to understand the frequency of everything.

It was during this research that I looked up the meaning of my name:-

Samuel is a male given name of Hebrew origin meaning either "name of God" or "God has heard”

I was astounded. Again, a reference to sound and heaven, another celestial connection. It all made sense. As if everything was ordained and decided. I was the conductor a metaphysical musician. Although the evidence appeared concrete, I felt I needed further confirmation. I knew one person who would be able to help. My old teacher Mrs Stanley.

                                                           ***

Since she’d stopped teaching, and as I was the only child in the village, Mrs Stanley had taken over the local hall and made it into a small library.

As I walked in, I noticed, unbelievably, that she had put on more weight. She now looked as, if any minute she would explode out of her clothes. “Hello Sam” she boomed, her chins jiggling as she spoke.

“How are you? And how is your mother? Are you still working on Mr Fisher’s farm?

“I’m fine, mother’s resting and yes I’m still on the farm”

“So what brings you to my little library?”

“I need some advice, have you ever heard of Milton?”

“Of course dear boy, born 1608 died 1674, how can I help?”

We sat down and began to talk about his poetry, particularly Paradise Lost.

Mrs Stanley rooted about in her book collection and pulled out a copy of various mixed verse.

We went through the poem together, Mrs Stanley reading it perfectly. As I listened intently I started to hear her music. Her loud cheerful voice had initially drowned it out, but now she was reflectively reading, it began to bubble to the surface. It was a beautiful brass baritone. I could hear trumpets a trombone and a deep soulful tuba. The song bobbled along, it reminded me of a 70’s sitcom theme. I couldn’t help smiling. My soundtracks had all been, so far, very earnest, I liked the humour of her tune.

She came to the end of the poem and closed the book, “What did you want to know Samuel?”

I explained that I, like Milton, could hear people’s music. She looked puzzled, “How long have you been like this? Do you hear voices too?”

I knew exactly what she was inferring. In my research I’d found cases of people with severe mental health issues. In lots of cases, particularly schizophrenia, sufferers heard disembodied voices. I was offended that she thought this of me. “NO!” I shouted, “I thought you’d understand” I was furious.

“I do, I do, my boy” she stuttered. “I’m just trying to help, it might be an idea if we think about talking to some-one who might understand this more than myself”

“Don’t condescend me!” I warned.

“I wouldn’t dream of it Samuel” Her theme tune began to stutter and break rhythm. Although she could lie to me verbally her refrain could not.

I made my way round to her side of the table, her 70’s sitcom sped up, now a 45 played at 78rpm. Her beautiful brass now had the all the quality of a kazoo.

“I really thought you would understand”

Her music started to skip, ironically like the vinyl it had sped up to.

“Can you not hear it?” I asked her “It’s so loud”

“Yes, yes I can” She stammered.

“I know you can’t, your stanzas are becoming disjointed”

She was now visibly shaking, tremolo was added.

“When I killed my Mother and Mr Fisher, I gained their instruments”

“Oh my God, you did what?”

“I put them out of my misery, they were out of tune”

She started to sob.

“It’s OK” I soothed. “You will live on, you will be in the choir immortal”

“You’re mad”

“They always say that about geniuses”

I reached past her head and found several paperbacks on Italian cooking. They had pretty covers showing various views of pasta served in rural areas. I managed to look at most of the covers as I forced them one by one down her throat.

I now had a tuba.

                                                                               ***

And so it was Sunday, Harvest Festival. All the village would be there.

It was unseasonably warm for October as I whistled along to my jaunty tune. I smiled and waved at everyone and everyone smiled and waved back.

I quickly took my pew in the middle of the church, laying my bag and coat on the floor in front of me. The chapel filled with the crisply dressed congregation. They sat bolt upright, rigamortis righteous. The Vicar mounted his pulpit and welcomed all to the service. We started with an innocuous hymn, all things bright and beautiful. I rose and joined in, I must admit, I found it difficult. The music from the organ did nothing to drown out all those melodies. A cacophony of sound, it felt as if the fillings would fall from my mouth.

I was relieved when it ended and the sermon began. He spoke of thankfulness, he preached of giving and receiving and he talked of voices in union. It was no good I had to tell him, I had to tell them all about my ability, share with them my gift.

I stood and interrupted him. I bade all the congregation to listen, I explained to them their songs, my songs, of how we were the choir. I tried to tell them of the music we could create, concertos within our own musical minds. I spoke about Milton, I spoke about the music of the spheres, and how I wanted, most of all to be heard.

The first snigger was muted, someone laughed into their hand, then, and they could hold it in no more. Gales of thunderous laughter resounded around the church, to my disgust, even the Vicar, who should have understood what I said, was laughing too.

I picked up my coat and left.

                                                                                                       ***

So now I sit here in the graveyard. I can hear them singing again, a discordant dirge. I hate the composition, but I knew how to correct it, a good composer always does.

I pressed the detonator in my hand. The homemade fertiliser bomb in my bag exploded. The sound was spectacular. Glass exploded a thousand glittering glockenspiels catching light as they collided. The spire fell inwards, imploded like a deflated balloon. The shingles percussioned onto the already burning flock. The smell was very similar to Farmer Fisher’s slaughter house.

My song, for now, had been sung. The climax had been reached and the instruments could be put away. Their deaths had made an invaluable contribution and I thanked them for that. They would forever exist in the frequency between the stars.

For now, I had my orchestra, there would be new songs to take and make.

I looked forward to going on tour.

                              END

Neville Raper

2016