Nick Power premieres new prose piece

Nick Power premieres new prose piece

Nick Power's world is one of provincial paralysis. Morose paens told knee deep in quick sand from desolate North West beaches. A warped public conscious revolving around the watchers ghostly gonzo-ness. If Brian Wilson conveyed love and mercy, then this is love and violence - the surfers are dead and the town is bored. 

Power punctuates his day job as one fifth of psych-pop oddballs The Coral, with a method writer existence that has so far produced two acclaimed prose collections 'Small Town Chase' and 'Holy Nowhere'. The Liverpool born, Hoylake based author is currently writing a new collection, some of which will premiere on Coney's Loft. Here is 'Night Screen Odyssey', for your eyes only. 

'Night Screen Odyssey' by Nick Power

They're watching movies again. I hear them from their open bedroom window. Outdoor voices. An opening theme. The screech of car tyres and a high-pitched scream. I'm in a terrace directly beside theirs and every movement, every sound is transparent. I imagine it's what a drive-in-cinema might sound like in 1950's America. But this is North-West England, present day. There are other sounds.

All the films we watch seem to be out of sync. The actors mouth words and nothing comes out until seconds later. Explosions are a ball of silent flame. The aftermath nearly rips through the flimsy flat-screen speakers. This one happens as the Munroe lookalike is talking in a room papered with leather-bound books. Nobody on the screen flinches at the sound of the fireball. 

From outside, I hear the wail of an ambulance siren hurtling through the street like some injured bird. I move from the bed to the window and watch it fizz past. I notice the blue light and the siren happen separately from each other; some splicing of the action and the sound. An un-concurrence. The siren warps and distorts the further away it gets, like an old, worn piece of videotape. 

She's under the covers now, and I call out to her. I feel my mouth move and half-expect the sound to come seconds later, out-of-sync, like everything in our lives seem to be. 

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