# The Jukebox (a short story I wrote some time ago)



## Aglarthalion (Dec 16, 2002)

Hello everyone

"The Jukebox" is a short story I wrote around 6 months ago. You may have read my poem based on the short story, which I posted in the Poetry thread here.  I'm posting the story here so that I may be able to receive any feedback or opinions on the story, so I can then develop the story further (which is something I've been meaning to do for a while now). If you'd like to tell me what you think of "The Jukebox", then I would be very appreciative. Thankyou.

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The Jukebox

Was it a light breeze, or a few drops of rain? These were the things that Hawthorne missed most, after peace. To have peace of mind, to be at peace with himself. He had been alone in the world since his wife Della had died in her sleep with no known cause, exactly a year to the day, and he had been unable to recover. His friends, of course, offered their sympathy, but he could see through their transparent looks of dejection, their pretend words of condolence. All he could do to ease his loneliness was to listen to the song that Della had written. It was untitled; Della had never bothered with naming her songs.

Hawthorne stood at the edge of the cliff, in the breeze and the light rain, looking out towards the ocean. This had always been Della’s favourite place. They had met here, four years ago, and they used to come, often to remain silent, and look out to the boundless waters. The tiny metal wheel scratched the flint and ignited the cotton. This produced a flame from the top of the lighter, and Hawthorne watched it flicker. He brought it up to his mouth, and lit the nickel blade. The aroma tasted sweet, and it was less dangerous than the aged tobacco that he used to inhale, when he was younger.

After lighting his pipe, he walked back towards the road, and stopped. He was remembering how he used to drive this road, and the many hours of loneliness that he spent delivering packages to the people he had long forgotten. ‘Jones should be here now’, Hawthorne thought aloud. Jones was his only close friend, and ever since Della had died, Jones had been the only person Hawthorne could turn to, if only to know someone was there. Jones was not like the other so called ‘friends’. He was quiet, always brooding, and he was cold and silent. He did not seem like someone who would have even one friend, let alone a person who was alone in the world such as Hawthorne.

Hawthorne looked up the road, and saw two dim lights emerging from the haze of the misty rain. After a few more seconds, the lights revealed themselves to be two headlights from a truck. Hawthorne recognised that truck. It was the vehicle he had driven so long ago, it seemed, when he gave the people their packages, and they signed his clipboard. The truck was faded, most of the paint had peeled away long ago, and the only distinguishable feature of the chassis was the copper emblem that may have been the proprietors logo, or maybe just a design of the truck.

The truck slowed down near the road where Hawthorne was standing, The door opened and he climbed inside. A man could barely be seen in the dark interior, and all that could be made out were patches of his skin in the reflected light from the windscreen. His skin seemed aged and wrinkled, like old, tarnished leather that had remained unoiled for many years.
"Well, Hawthorne, where to now", said the figure, in a voice that seemed out of place coming from such a grizzled man. His voice was faint and mellow, and he seemed to not be so much asking a question as to stating an order in an inquisitive tone.

"To the shipyard, Jones", said Hawthorne. Jones then gave the barest of nods, and he looked down the street to see if anyone was coming. A freighter sped past them, and Jones quickly drove on to the road. He drove down, deeper; it seemed, into the blank dark of night. After a minute or so, however, Hawthorne felt a slight rumble, even though the road had recently been resealed for at least the fourth time, as far back as Hawthorne could recollect. He knew every curve, every rise in the road, and he knew that Jones must have hit something on the road.

"I think we’ve run over something", said Hawthorne. Jones pulled over to the side of the road, and he and Hawthorne both got out of the truck. After a minute or so of searching around the road for any sign of what the bump may have been caused by, Jones spoke to Hawthorne.
"Must have been an imperfection in the tyre. I didn’t feel anything". Jones’ voice seemed a little less demanding now.
"You’re right", said Hawthorne. "I must have been feeling things. Let’s get back". He and Jones then walked back to the door of the truck, and just as Hawthorne was about step in, he heard something drop against the ground, the sound softer than a pin drop. He motioned for Jones to come with him, and Hawthorne led him to the sound. They walked around to the front grille of the truck, and Jones saw a small, almost indistinguishable blur on the ground.

There was a tiny spike under his front bumper. Hawthorne reached out for it. As his arm stretched outwards, there was a whirring hum and then a piercing ring in his ear, but he felt that he was nowhere near his ears. He saw Hawthorne reach out to him, then nothing. He closed his eyes, in the hope that when he opened them he would be back in the driver’s seat of the truck. 

His eyes opened and he was in a large, slanting room that resembled a movie theatre. There were many seats, and there was a large screen at the bottom of the sloped room. As Hawthorne stepped forward towards the screen, a projector behind and above him whirred into life, and images of a 1950s diner began appearing on the screen, and he heard some faint music growing louder, that sounded the wailing of some dying creature. On the screen, the image moved around the deserted diner, around the seats, and towards an old jukebox in the corner. Hawthorne stepped forward again, and the jukebox disappeared. He then heard a thud behind him.

Hawthorne turned around, and saw the chromed jukebox behind him. He also saw a pile of coins in the return slot. He picked one up, examined it, and inserted it into the slot. The buttons lit up, and Hawthorne pressed the top leftmost one. He thought he heard Della's song, the first few lines playing over and over again. The song subsided, and Hawthorne again felt the ringing sound in his ears again, but this time it was not painful. The experience felt good, the constant, high pitched noise that seemed to nullify his senses. His view became distorted, and he began to spin violently, and all he could see was the jukebox, now silent.

He was back, standing next to Jones, although Jones was facing away from him.
"Let’s go, Hawthorne", said Jones. Hawthorne got into the truck on the passenger side, and Jones got in on the other side. Jones started the truck again, and pulled onto the road, and then accelerated. Neither spoke for the next two hours to the dilapidated shipyard, as Hawthorne tried to make sense of what had happened to him. Time passed, and soon Jones was pulling into the shipyard, and he parked the truck into the carpark. There was only one other, smaller vehicle stationed there, and Hawthorne went and inspected it. It was a sedan, off white, and there was a jukebox lying across the back seats, identical to the one in the diner. He thought nothing of it, and went over to Jones, who had been locking the wheel and the truck.

The two of them walked over to the shipyard office, where a crooked old man was sitting, reading a newspaper. The man looked at Hawthorne and Jones as they entered. As he walked in, Hawthorne saw a picture of another identical jukebox, this time on the front page of the newspaper the old man was reading. Della's song seemed to be emanating from the pages, the barest whispers of the melody, faint pieces of the sound. He felt like screaming as the ringing sound filled his mind again after the song finished, but this time the sound lasted only a few seconds. As the sound ceased, he saw the old man and Jones staring at him, and Hawthorne collapsed onto the uncarpeted, stone floor. He remembered nothing more, and when he came to, he was in the truck, with Jones driving, and everywhere he looked outside he saw the same jukebox, over and over, playing the same song.

He turned to Jones, who was driving, and to Hawthorne's horror, Jones was asleep, and for all of Hawthorne's efforts to wake him, Jones would not move from his deep slumber. Hawthorne then looked out to the windscreen, and he saw the sign on the side of the road, and it seemed to grow larger until it engulfed his vision. It showed a sudden bend in the road, a bend which had not been part of the road for the many years he had travelled along it. He grabbed the wheel, and spun hard, but the cliff was too close. The truck swerved and crashed through the light barrier that rounded the cliff edge, and, almost as if in slow motion, fell over the edge. But Hawthorne did not hear his own screaming; his head was filled with the piercing, ringing tone, and as he hit the ground, he suddenly heard the song from the jukebox, this time much closer and clearer, as though the person singing it were right next to him.

~End

***

Thanks for any feedback, I'd really appreciate it.

Regards,

Aglarthalion Ainagil


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## Dragon (Dec 17, 2002)

that was a very nice, flowing peice. it was a little creepy, but if it wasn't, it wouldn't be any good, because it would have worked against the story. I like how it ends, so that you don't know exactly what happens, but you can guess according to what you think would be most fitting. I like it.


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## TheFool (Dec 17, 2002)

Your story reminded me, in a way, of the last few scenes of the film 2001 - the lonely man, the 'cuts', the mysterious jukebox. I enjoyed reading it, I thought it was a good length and it kept me held to the end.

And now  I know everyone hates nitpicking, but:


> There was only one other, smaller vehicle stationed there, and Hawthorne went and inspected it. It was a sedan, off white, and there was a jukebox lying across the back seats, identical to the one in the diner. He thought nothing of it, and went over to Hawthorne, who had been locking the wheel and the truck.


Is this bit slightly muddled?

TF.


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## Aglarthalion (Dec 18, 2002)

Dragon -- Thanks. I intended for it to be somewhat chilling, because this gives the story a colder and more intense feeling, in my opinion. And I'm glad you found the ending the way I had intended it, to be left somewhat open yet still leave you knowing what happened.

TheFool -- I'm glad the story kept you kept reading until the end. I wrote the story to try and remain somewhat mysterious, yet to keep on moving and not stand still. I'm also thankful that you found a mistake:



> _Originally posted by TheFool _
> *Is this bit slightly muddled?*



Yes, it was. The second name should have been Jones, not Hawthorne.  It's fixed now. Don't worry about nitpicking, I'm also a compulsive nitpicker.

Thanks again, both of you.


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## Dragon (Dec 18, 2002)

you are veeerrrryyy weeellcccooommmeee, yooouuu aaarrreee geeettiiinnggg veeerrrrryyy ssllleeeeeeeeppppyyy, yooouuurrr eeeyyyeeesss aarreee gggeeetttiiinnngg vvveeerrryyy drroooooopppyyy *snap* 
(you snap out of it and wonder why my post has so many letters)


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## sauronbill (Dec 21, 2002)

In my opinion the story is not bad at all. Actually is good, but it could have been better, if you give it a little more thinking you'll do it better.....


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## Aglarthalion (Dec 22, 2002)

> _Originally posted by sauronbill _
> *In my opinion the story is not bad at all. Actually is good, but it could have been better, if you give it a little more thinking you'll do it better..... *



That's why I posted it here -- to get feedback so I can make it better.


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