Wordsmoker

In case you’re wondering? The noises I was making out of my mouth during my nap there? They were the words to “She Loves You” by The Beatles. See – singing “She Loves You” by The Beatles defeated the evil in the house I was in while I was napping. It was a horrid burst of a nightmare which lasted about an hour in nap time, but aeons in dreamtime. This house – wherever it was – was shrouded in darkness with only the weak, watery light of a full moon spilling through the windows. All was quiet. Apart from me. There was an incredible sense of doom in the house, and something nightmarish lurked in there. I never saw it, but shit me – I could feel it. That – as you know – makes it even more scary.

So – there I am, lying on top of my duvet in Paisley having a nap, and there I am in this terrible empty house which existed where no house actually does (I’ve got a vague if not concrete idea of the actual physical location in my corner of the world) and I cannot leave, and I’m fighting an evil I cannot see but know exists, and it’s there, with me, around every corner, capering in every room I’m not in and it’s waiting for me. The longer it waits, I’m sure about this – the stronger it grows. I think there’s someone with me – an innocent, but I cannot see them or feel them – but it was important that I protect them. Finally? After what seemed like hours walking around afraid? I get angry. And I get the giggles. I get both these very human things and through their power I find a power of my own. Something for it to fear. I dunno what? Resolve? Something to do with whistling past a graveyard? The person I’m protecting still cowers behind me, but I’ve honestly had enough. By laughing at the situation I discover something. Strength. I mean – I’m absolutely fucking terrified still, but laughing helps. Then I start to shout. We’re in a sort of bathroom now, dark as the rest of the house. And it’s a big house. And a big bathroom. The innocent beside me hides in the bath. I stand outside it in the gloom. There are bath towels. The door to the bathroom is open. I start laughing. And swearing. Swearing like only an angry Scottish person can. But it’s punctuated by my laughter. I’m giggling as I’m calling this evil everything under the sun. I just make shit up. Call it everything. I grab a bath towel and throw it out the door at the evil, for I know it lurks just outside, around the corner, just always out of sight. Another towel. I throw this one too. Then the hand towels. “Here – here’s yer fucking towels ya big evil cunt” I say. I’m laughing like a loon. It’s still there. “What do you want, ya big fuck? Is it a song yer wanting?” Who knows why “She Loves Your” was my choice for a song. Was the innocent I was protecting my lover? Was I all that stood between her and True Evil? I dunno. Anyway, it’s The Beatles. And I start singing “She Loves You” and

in Paisley, on a bed that needs made lies a man experiencing true fear. He’s still dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, even has his shoes still on because it was a nap and he had to get up later to do the dishes and stuff, so best to stay dressed and if you look closer maybe you see his eyelids flutter and the eyes roll beneath them and you know he’s seeing and going through something horrid, maybe his face is contorted in anger or terror and if you wait long enough and stay quiet you’ll hear something coming out of his mouth so maybe get a little closer, move closer and what can you hear

I sing like fuck. Sing for my supper. Sing for my life. I sing out against this huge, unknowable evil, just outside this large bathroom

She loves you, yeah yeah yeah
She loves you, yeah yeah yeah
She loves you, yeah yeah yeah

in Paisley, still on a bed that needs made, lies a man experiencing true fear. His eyes are maybe rolling around like thunder now, there’s no way to see what he sees, so get really close, kissing-close and you can see the mouth on his tortured face move, and you maybe hear a whisper at first, a whisper that grows to a moan but a moan with a shape to it, a rhythm, a tempo and if you listen long enough maybe you start to make out

You think you’ve lost your love
Well I saw her yesterday
It’s you she’s thinking of
And she told me what to say

and in this house I’ve never been in before? I feel – sense – this enormous evil recoil. Maybe for the first time since it existed. Maybe it’s never felt fear before, or had to recoil in its long, dark life, but recoil – slightly – it does. It flinches. I feel it flinch. I’m in tune, singing one of the world’s favourite songs, but it hates it

She says she loves you
And you know that can’t be bad
Yes, she loves you
And you know you should be glad

I’m singing while laughing now. Laugh-singing. I’ve got no more towels to through out the door into the nothingness, so I’m emptying the bathroom cabinet of whatever’s in there, I don’t care, it gets the towel-treatment and gets fucking FLUNG out the door, punctuating the Lennon and McCartney lines now being shout-sung out my mouth

in Paisley, on a bed that really needs made, come on, lies a man moaning in bed. He’s asleep, but not in a deep sleep. Maybe his eyes sometimes shutter open as he breaks out from unconsciousness then instantly falls back in and down, but he’s definitely moaning now, and it’s getting louder and there’s definitely a shape to it now and maybe if you know pop songs from the 1960′s before people even dreamed of shooting John Lennon after they got their album signed by him, well, if you know your 60′s pop songs by dead John Lennon then you’ll more than probably place a shape on these moans, and you’ll know he’s singing

She said you hurt her so
She almost lost her mind
But now she says she knows
You’re not the hurting kind
She says she loves you (toothbrush thrown)
And you know that can’t be bad (something else, mouthwash?)
Yes, she loves you (some Bandaids? thrown)
And you know you should be glad. OOOOH! (bottle of vitamins? thrown)

Oh this evil fucker. It hates this. Not only is it recoiling, it’s screaming but making no sound. I’m still terrified beyond rational thought, but fuck me – I’m singing like it’s going out of fashion tomorrow and I’m BELTING OUT THE BEATLES FROM MY MOUTH AND I AM ALIVE AND IT IS GLORIOUS and the evil hates it. Hates it as much as sunlight, or truth or

SHE LOVES YOU, YEAH. YEAH. YEAH!
SHE LOVES YOU. YEAH! YEAH! YEAH!
WITH A LOVE. LIKE. THAT!
YOU KNOW YOU SHOULD BE GLAD!!!!

in a bed, fucksake it needs made, this bed – in Paisley, lies a man nearly awake and sure as shit is shitty he’s moaning ‘Beatles lyrics and they’re definitely “She Loves You”, one of the ones written before they met Dylan and he turned them onto weed and John met Yoko at the gallery and yep, listen

YOU KNOW IT’S UP TO YOU
I THINK IT’S ONLY FAIR
PRIDE CAN HURT YOU TOO
APOLOGISE TO HER

Hahah! Desperation is not the mother of invention but maybe today it’s a surrogate because desperately singing Beatles songs at evil is having – let’s say – a marked effect. Evil hates The Beatles, and this is before I even get to Hey Jude or Get Back or Long and Winding Road, perhaps they’re other arrows in my arsenal but right now I can’t pretend to give a fuck because I’m screaming with laughter and love

BECAUSE SHE LOVES YOU
AND YOU KNOW THAT CAN’T BE BAD
SHE LOVES YOU
AND YOU KNOW YOU SHOULD BE GLAD

oh – this bed? In Paisley? With the man lying on it, moaning like a mental? He crosses for the last time hopefully between unconsciousness to consciousness and he awakes and lies on his back, catching his breath and feeling darkness fall away. It’s midnight now, and the nap was maybe a bad idea. He lies on his back letting reality come back. He hears the noise of the tv from the lounge and opens his eyes to actual darkness. He’s lying in his un-made bed in his bedroom and the window’s open and a light breeze is slinking in, pushing the curtain out, and he’s glad to be out of it and back to his own, more mortal terrors which tonight include doing the dishes and maybe some painting because he’s sure as shit going to be up all night now. Fucking naps. How do they work? Anyway. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and staggers to the bathroom. His cat’s in there, up at the window, staring at nothing, and his cat greets him hello with a multitude of meows in a burst of cat news, but he doesn’t acknowledge them, only unzips his jeans and begins to pee. The noise wakens him further. He finishes, washes his hands, pats the cat on the head and goes into the kitchen to make some tea.

Some time later? He sits down with a lovely cup of tea at his desk. He rolls a cigarette. Lights it. He starts writing a Facebook status update about his horrible napmare but it suddenly jumps from twenty words to one hundred and he decides, fuck it, I’ll fire up Wordsmoker and just write the whole fucking thing down because it’s plainly too long for a status update.

Seventeen hundred-odd words later, he proves this to be correct.