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    Dark Side of the Moon
    Dark Side of the Moon
    Dark Side of the Moon
    Ebook95 pages1 hour

    Dark Side of the Moon

    By C. Sean McGee

    5/5

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    About this ebook

    “Self-help and those stupid proverbs, they do nothing. Soul food? It’s like trying to cure starvation with a sugar cube. It might taste sweet on the lips but once it dissolves, the emptiness is still there.”

    Set to the music and lyrics of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, this is the story of Theodore the disenfranchised rabbit; working tirelessly on the moon to dig a hole from one side to the other to let the sun through; playing in a mundane rock band and having sex rampantly but without much zest.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherC. Sean McGee
    Release dateMay 17, 2013
    ISBN9781301800506
    Dark Side of the Moon
    Author

    C. Sean McGee

    "I write weird books."

    Read more from C. Sean Mc Gee

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      Book preview

      Dark Side of the Moon - C. Sean McGee

      DARK SIDE OF THE MOON

      BY

      C. SEAN MCGEE

      Dark Side of the Moon

      Rock Book Volume II

      Copyright© 2013, 2024 Cian Sean McGee

      Published at Smashwords

      Rotting Flower

      Araraquara, Sao Paulo, Brazil

      First edition - 2013

      Second Edition - 2024

      All rights reserved. This ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, the reader is not charged to access it and the downloader or sharer does not attempt to assume any part of the work as their own.

      Cover Design: C. Sean McGee

      Moon Man Image: Carol Ribeiro

      Interior layout: C. Sean McGee

      Disclaimer:

      This book is 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 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

      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. See himself, he did, in a bright orange field with hundreds of millions of bright orange flowers, all swaying about under a bright orange sun that had been painted upon a bright blue sky.

      And with every beat of his heart, a giant mechanical fist swung down from the bright blue sky and came crashing down upon a circle of bright orange flowers not far from where he stood.

      As he hopped along through the long leaves of grass, feeling the sun warm his fine fur and those bright orange flowers brush gently against his face, tickling his little pink nose, Theodore 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 mind 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 as the voices repeated inside his mind, Theodore wished for, somewhere in the field, a safe place to hide - in the greens of the grass or neath the orange of a flower, for somewhere to burrow, a covert to cower. 

      The sound of his beating heart now pounded louder and faster, and it didn’t seem like any of it was ever going to end. And with every perorated thump, Theodore stood in vacant awe as above him, through the bright blue sky came the massive crushing mechanical fist, stretching out from the heavens and smashing down on the ground.

      Torturous, the sound was, pulverising, avulsing, and defiling. One by one, and millions at a time, each bright orange flower was ripped from the ground 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 ignore his heartbeat, but it was no use. For every orange flower that touched his little pink nose, a thousand more were trampled by the mechanical fist, until soon enough, the whole plain was swiftly raped of its life and colour.

      And there Theodore stood, with his little pink nose sniffing into the air, by the last blade of grass that clung like a frightened child to the last orange flower which itself was craning its neck towards the heavens in a last defiant kiss of the sun.

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

      And so, he held his breath and tried to still his despotic heart. And as he did, his ears filled with deplorable noise - the drunken banter of stupid rabbits, the sound of locks clicking and pockets picking, and finally 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 the poor little rabbit wished he were dead.

      Theodore turned away from the mechanical fist that hung overhead and instead, looked at the lone flower by his little paws. Speak, he did, to the flower with a tear in his eye.

      I am sorry, he said. It is who I am. I imagined you, little flower. And I imagined that mechanical fist too. I am responsible for all of this. I’m incapable of kindness. I’m incapable of love. All I do is destroy. I should never have imagined you alive for all I have done is to curse you to die.

      And the flower, she craned and kissed the rabbit’s paw.

      I’m not crazy, Theodore said. I’m not mad.

      The flower

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