By: Lydia Crow
“I’m just saying, I think it’s an awesome name for a band.”
The three of them were all sprawled on the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of them, and gazing at the same spot on the ceiling. There was a fourth, but he hadn’t been engaging in conversation for some time: Woody was curled up in the armchair in the corner of the room, face turned away towards the wall.
“Yeah, I can see that,” one them replied. “Sort of, Bob Dylan meets Radiohead.”
“Lennon. You gotta have some Lennon,” mumbled another. It could have been the same one.
“I could play my guitar,” said the one in the middle. “You could sing – ” he feebly jabbed the one to the his right, “ – and you could play bass.” He nudged the one to his left.
They all nodded in unison, still staring at the spot on the ceiling that was exactly the same as the rest of the ceiling. Outside the window a siren moaned past, taking forever to disappear into the distance. The last track on the CD, a surprisingly good unlisted track in a raw state of completion that concluded an album of pretentious whining songs sung by a public schoolboy with a guitar, came to an end and the room slipped into silence.
“Lennon. Genius. You gotta have some Lennon.”
One by one, Chemocracy Coma fell asleep.
Woody continued to stare at the wall, unseeing eyes long since glazed over.