Far Voyager

POSTSCRIPTS: FAR VOYAGER, featuring my dirty l’il rock ‘n’ roll story, SISTER FREE, is available now from PS Publishing.

Just in time for Christmas. How about that for great timing?

And because it’s the holiday season, here’s a snippet from SISTER FREE:

London, England. July 1969.

The girl leaves in tears. Eighteen years old. A Mary Quant model, pretty enough to outshine starlight, but faded now, filled with cum and cocaine. Tommy watches as she gathers her things. Makeup blurred across her face. Fingers looped into the straps of her heels. He is expressionless. He has seen tears before, and will again. Success has handed him many things: the best clothes money can buy, the fastest cars, nameless girls with fragile hearts … the hammer with which to break them.

The door slams behind her.

He drifts into sleep and dreams about pain.

Awakens some time later. Some … time. Could be midnight or noon. The curtains in the suite are tightly drawn and the electric lamps hum a piss-yellow tune. He can hear someone crying, and wonders how many tears fall through his life these days. He gets out of bed, slips into a pair of trousers, and walks through to the suite’s sitting room. The smell of strong spirits and sweat. Debris everywhere. A broken table. Shattered mirror fragments glittering in the carpet. Filthy plates and glasses. Flies with thick bodies, droning constantly, as if they are tapped into the power grid. The “Do Not Disturb” sign has been on the door for five days.

In the corner, Joe snorts cocaine from the cover of Melody Maker. His hand trembles. His tears splash into the white powder in tiny puffs.

“You’re snorting your tears,” Tommy says.

“Brian is dead,” Joe says. A line disappears up the tube—a tightly rolled ten pound note. He gasps. Spit glistens on his lower lip.


“Yeah.” He draws back the powder in his throat and swallows with a click. Leans over the newspaper for another line. Lennon and Yoko are on the cover. The Stones, too. With their new guitarist. They fired Brian a couple of weeks ago. And now he’s dead.

“Fuck,” Tommy says.

“Drowned in his swimming pool.”


Joe runs his forearm across his eyes, smearing tears. His thin chest quivers, and Tommy imagines his heart running too quickly. Heart of a bird. Something about to fly away. He watches Joe shake a spoonful of coke onto the newspaper and use his thumbnail to cut it into two tracks.

“Here …” He hands Tommy the rolled up note. “For Brian.”

Tommy drops to one knee and snorts. Both lines. When he looks up, Joe is pouring whiskey into two cloudy glasses, half-filling them. They drink to Brian’s memory—empty their glasses. Then they drink again. Time moves like a dog on a leash, running ahead and snapping back. Running ahead. Snapping back. Joe throws his glass against the wall. It shatters with a sound like laughter. He drinks from the bottle. Passes out. Tommy toots another line. At some point Noel Redding calls. Have you heard the news? Tommy doesn’t reply. He turns on the radio. The Rolling Stones are singing “Paint it Black.” Tommy puts the receiver next to the speaker and walks away.

As stated in a previous post, SISTER FREE marks my fourth appearance in this award-winning publication. I’ve had a long and wonderful relationship with PS Publishing, and I’m proud for it to continue here.

Edited by Nick Gevers, POSTSCRIPTS: FAR VOYAGER is available in a beautiful jacketed hardcover for £30.00. You can order it (and check out the impressive table of contents) right HERE.

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