ISLA | Chapter Seven

Juxtaposition

Apr 22, 2025

We’re shifting our focus to explore Mexico's eastern coast with twelve-year-old George Perez in the serialized novel: ISLA.

For longer fiction visit Stories, and for flash fiction go to Sketchbook.

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July 1983

George’s eyes are just above the paper record sleeve, scanning lyrics line by line, when he stops at a phrase. He reads it in a whisper, then again, puzzled.

“What does ‘Caught between Scylla and Charybdis’ mean?” The words tumble out awkwardly.

“It’s from Greek mythology. Scylla and Charybdis were monsters sailors had to navigate between—a rock and a hard place, you might say,” his father explains.

Behind, a tattered chair groans as his father shifts. The armrests are worn out, too, but George knows he’ll never get rid of it. Like his favorite coffee mug (gross!) or that tie he wears to school functions, it’ll be around forever. Once his father became fond of something, it was impossible to get rid of.

“Scylla was a creature with six heads ready to snatch a sailor from their ship. Charybdis was a whirlpool that could swallow an entire ship whole,” his father said.

George wriggles his fingers in the deep shag carpet, his legs moving autonomously somewhere behind him. They’re following the rhythm of the music playing on the stereo, an undulating synthesizer. George thinks the whooshes are the sounds of comets hurtling through space. He doesn't know which track it is; they’re all named Oxygéne, but he likes this one.

George re-reads the line, his hand feeling the edge of the record, Synchronicity, still inside the sleeve. “So, it’s about choosing between monsters?”

“In a way. It’s about difficult choices, the kind you can’t escape without some danger. But those are the decisions you have to make.”

George thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Those monsters sound way cooler than Puff the Magic Dragon.”

His father laughs. “Way cooler.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “If you ask me, Jackie Paper might have been the real monster in Puff’s story.”

George knew exactly where that record lived. Puff was neatly tucked in with other 45s but on a lower shelf, readily accessible to small hands with limited reach. The remainder of the walls, save for where the large cabinet stereo lived, was filled with LPs and books. Though it was only a corner of their apartment, this was the kind of library George wanted someday, except he’d have more Hot Wheels and Star Wars toys. But he’d keep them the same way his father kept albums: neatly in their packaging and always cleaned. It would be a museum for play.

“Do other songs have monsters?”

“Yes, of course. I mean, some songs are about real monsters. Like the one about Godzilla.”

George's eyes widen, then he squints. Really? His father smiles.

“But some are imagined or from literature. Zeppelin has a bunch—Battle of Evermore, Ramble On, and Misty Mountain Hop are filled with Tolkien’s Middle-earth locations and monsters. Grendel by Marillion is a prog rock retelling of Beowulf. But, do you want to know my favorite?”

George nods, pushing the sleeve he’s been looking at into the album cover and sits up. His father settles down on the floor, setting his crossword aside. George peeks at the crossword, always done in red ink. 3 across: Tall, carved stones for historical inscriptions: STELAE.

“My favorite,” his father says, his voice lowering to a whisper, “lean in, because I don’t like this getting out—it would ruin me with the faculty. It’s the scariest one.”

George leans in, he loves this part of being invited into the study—the secrets.

Eyes focused on the boy, his father says, “My favorite is Werewolves of London.”

George pushes him, duped. His father laughs. "C’mon! It’s true!”

“Werewolves! At best they’re like the…fifth scariest monster! And, they’re not even real,” George says.

“Okay, okay. You want to know about the scariest ones? The ones that’ll make you quake in your Keds?”

George is wary of the answer, preparing for another joke. But his father continues…

“Imagined monsters are the scariest. Not the big, screaming banshees or kaiju—the shapes from your dreams that stay with you long after you wake. They don't even need a face; they're scarier as a feeling. Like The Cure's Charlotte Sometimes and Siouxsie and the Banshees' Spellbound. These are like ghost stories in a song. Imposing shapes in the dark."

As if on cue, clouds outside dim the afternoon light, making the lamp on the side table the only source, and George sees his father's face. His dark features and broad shoulders bring the conversation intimately close, almost a whisper. The last notes of Jean-Michel Jarre's synthesizer linger before the needle starts to circle the dead wax. It's this moment George will store in his mental Rolodex.

"Jorge," his father says affectionately, "Music is poetry. It’s premonition and history. It can be tragic, or blissful. Unlike most literature, there are no rules in music. And sometimes, the feel of a song doesn’t match the meaning; it’s meant to throw you off—a juxtaposition.”

"Juxta–?"

“Juxtaposition. Think of a song that sounds happy… like The Beatles’ Maxwell’s Silver Hammer. It’s got an old timey, almost vaudeville sound. But if you listen to the words, it’s really describing murders…”

Clang! Clang!
Maxwell’s silver hammer made sure that
She was dead

George takes a breath. This is a song he knows, one he likes to sing along with, never really knowing the words. It just sounded like something from Schoolhouse Rock.

His father’s eyebrows go up, nodding, as he sees George is making the connection.

“It’s hiding a secret in plain sight by putting on a musical mask. Each strum pulls you one way while the words pull you another.”

His father retrieves a size 11 shoe box from beside the stereo. Inside, a jumble of cassette tapes lies in disarray. He organizes them, setting each in order: jewel cases up front, loose cassettes in the back. Finding a new cassette, still in its shrink wrap, he pulls it from the box.

"Let’s add a newer one to your mix tapes. This is a good one. It’s called Blue Monday."