Fan fiction: A narrative interpretation of 'Speak of this to no one.'

A listener sent me the following text that I thought some people would enjoy reading. I am extremely flattered and honored to have my sounds personalized and interpreted in this way. My heartfelt thanks to John and everyone else who has gotten in touch and shared their impressions with me. -JF

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“Speak of this to no one.” is the latest album by Connecticut-based artist Joe Frawley. When I first heard the album I was surprised by my reaction to it. The first track, The Kiss reminded me of a very specific period in my childhood which is almost impossible to describe since it is really just based on feelings. I started to visualize a story to go with it which was partly based on these feelings and also on my memories of a fever I had when I was fourteen. I tried to write a review of this album but I was unable to put anything much into words. So instead I decided to write the story that I had invented, told from the point of view of the protagonist, a little girl.


Speak of this to no one.

I am sitting on the couch. I like this couch. It's so soft. But I'm cold. I hate being cold. Someone is playing a piano. It's nice. Mother is in the kitchen, as usual. I wish she would come and sit with me. I want to kiss her. Yesterday I was seven and it was sunny but no one came to my party. Now it's cloudy and I don't feel well.

I fell asleep and in my dream there was a big girl. She looked like mother but she was nice and kind. She kept saying the same things over and over again. Then she was talking about putting on make-up. When I grow up I will have make-up too. I want all black make-up not like mother's horrible pink and red. I want black make-up and black dresses. I think I am getting flu or something. I dreamed I answered the phone and there was a lady and I couldn't understand what she was saying, but she comes from a place that gets a lot of snow.

I am asleep again and now everything is safe and orange. I think I am upside-down. Mother is screaming. I am moving and there is a bright light. Someone is hitting me. I start to scream. They are going to call me Emily.

Mother is in the room. I feel so cold but everyone is saying I'm too hot. They say it's not flu and they are going to call the doctor. They keep asking me if I want things; more blankets, a drink, a teddy bear. I say yes to all of it because I don't really know where I am. Mother wants to help me get undressed. She wants me to get into bed. Everything is spinning and so bright that it hurts my eyes.

I had another dream but I was not really asleep. There were mirrors everywhere I looked and I could see myself in them. Some of them were darker and I was older in those ones. Some of them were so dark that I couldn't see what was in them but I think it was something bad.

Now I think I am awake but I'm not sure. The doctor is here and he smells of medicine. His hands are so cold. Now they are taking me outside and I am in a big white car. They are taking me down a long winding road. I can hear a bird singing and it is making me feel sad. I am afraid.

They have put a needle in my arm. There is something warm going through it. I feel calm and peaceful. I am not afraid anymore. I can hear a lady talking but I don't think she is real.

I was asleep but they woke me up with their talking. They were talking about the flowers. I'm dying and mother is talking about the flowers. I can see them and they are not even nice flowers. They are grey and withered just like me. But I think she loves them. Now nothing seems real. It's as if this is all happening on television.

Mother is by the bed. She is warm. I can feel her hand on my head. I think she is sad. I am not sad. I can feel that she loves me but I am not really there any more. Mother is crying because it was her fault that I died. It was because she did something wrong when she made my dinner. Please, speak of this to no one.


-John Croudy, October, 2010