Table of Contents
- Home
- Introduction
- Where Goths Come From - Neef
- The Watcher - Hobbes
- The Resurrection Shuffle - Barbarella
- Cassandra - Cosey Mo
- Drunken Old Bastard - Sandro
- Alcohol - Trayce
- Shadows - Entrippy
- Entropy - Kage-Ryu
- Is There A Point - Trajik
- Whispers - Kitsune
- Confessional - Sandro
- Garden - Entrippy
- Radio - Cam
- Cold Spell - Nikolai
- Slices - Neef
- A Bottle of Something Strong - Jraff
- The Light Fades - Tim
- Rain - Tim
- Self Help - Gothic Gallae
- Cato - Trajik
- Addiction/Fragment - Trayce
- Heal Thyself - Nikolai
- Shattered - Hobbes
- Travelling Song - Solitaire
- Distance - Stranger
- Legacy - Stranger
Alcohol
The Moon And The Burghers Of Calais
Patrick took to going to the lake in winter. It was colder than he could bear, but he wanted it that way. He would get the last bus down to the art gallery and walk through the sculpture garden amongst the dead shadows, where the still mist veiled the Rodin statues like they'd been put away for the night.
When he got to the lake's edge he would stand and look out over the water, light a cigarette and watch the white smoke pour from his face and fingers. He fancied himself to be on fire, that all the alcohol he'd ever drunk had stayed in him, soaked him like a sponge. He thought he might spontaneously combust. But no, of course it was far too cold for anything that exciting. He tried to shift his feet and couldn't, they'd gone as numb as the concrete he stood on.
Frozen, fused to the ground, Patrick stared up at the yawning black sky. he saw the moon slide out from the dense fog and stare at him.
'Fuck off!' he shouted to the moon. It watched him nonetheless. It always watched him. He hunched down, covered his head with his arms. He sat on the footpath, on the lake's edge, and dangled his feet into the green water. He felt the icy liquid seep into his Doc Martens. It made his ankles ache. He was pleased. He deserved it.
Patrick lit another cigarette and let it slowly burn, without smoking it; waved it in the air. The red end glowed as it moved, opened up the sky, protected him from the staring moon, the green lake, the black night.
The night. The cold. Patrick could see Phoebe now, in his mind's eye; she came unasked. He could see her in her stupid dress and her stupid hat, lying on the couch like a dead fish, looking at him with big fishy eyes, stupidly.
It made him shake. He stood up and let the water dribble out of his jeans and his shoes. He stood there, staring back into the sculpture garden. He felt hard like those Rodins. They stood there in the moonlight, glowing from within, hard as his own hard soul. He wished he could stand there like they did, strong and composed and frozen, staring unfeelingly out at the mist, not caring what the moon did.
He wished the moon would go away.