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HEART SHAPED BOX PDF

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Generated using the Power Tab Editor by Brad Larsen. http://powertab. resourceone.info HEART SHAPED BOX. As recorded by Nirvana. Transcribed by Jonnie. David felt the butterflies in his stomach as he pulled the box out of his pocket and presented it to Angela. “Happy Valentine's Day,” he said with a nervous smile. Nirvana - In Utero - 03 - Heart Shaped Box [email protected]rceone.info Page 1 sur 3. Heart-Shaped Box. Nirvana. Dave Grohl. Tempo:


Heart Shaped Box Pdf

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Nirvana-Heart Shaped resourceone.info - Download as PDF File . pdf) or read online. Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd. Flag for inappropriate . Documents Similar To Heart Shaped Box Nirvana. No One Knows. Uploaded by. Print and download in PDF or MIDI Heart-Shaped Box. The well-known Nirvana song, all on piano! As with many standard verse-chorus songs.

MuseScore Search. Browse Community. Choose where you want to share: Link to this page Embed on your site. The score can be downloaded in the format of your preference: Try again mquay2 worked hard on this score. Want to give something back? Give a small token of appreciation! Try again More of this, please? Follow to get notified when mquay2 has uploaded new scores.

To print parts, please upgrade to a Pro account first. Go Pro. Select part. Download PDF Print. Why am I seeing this? She was sixty-nine, and her voice was all twang and warble. To her he would always be Justin Cowzynski. You know. The line hissed with white noise.

Jude had been interviewed over the phone by a radio personality in Beijing and taken calls from Brian Johnson in Australia, and the connections had been as crisp and clear as if they were phoning him from down the street.

Voices from other phone calls would bleed in and out, faintly audible for a few moments and then gone. They might have high-speed Internet connections in Baton Rouge, but in the little towns in the swamps north of Lake Pontchartrain, if you wanted a high-speed connection with the rest of the world, you souped up a car and got the fuck out.

And vanilla custard. He never used to have a sweet tooth. Are you sure? He just chokes on whatever I put in his mouth. Newland was in to see him yesterday. He thinks your dad had another infarction. This was one of the little blow-outs. We can care for him just as well or better here. Newland in every day. But we can send him to the hospital. It would be cheaper there, if that matters to you. What happens now? He had an idea that the question had taken her by surprise.

Her tone, when she spoke again, was both gently reasonable and apologetic, the tone of a woman explaining a harsh truth to a child. Till he has another little blowout and he forgets how to breathe. Or we can just let him be. Are you? When he replied, though, his voice was steady and his own.

No tube.

Keep me updated, all right? The conversation had taken a leap from one thing to another, without warning, like a needle skipping across a record from one track to the next. He had not seen his father, stood in the same room with him, in three decades. Jude did not want to see the old man before he was gone, and he did not want to look at him after. He had no plans to so much as attend the funeral, although he would be the one to pay for it. It was the best thing the money could buy: distance.

He turns his eyes to watch folks come and watch folks go. People get that way, once enough lights have burned out. He thought maybe the conversation was over, and was prepared to say good-bye. It was only when you got close that you could see that all those tiny red figures were actually images of shriveled dead rats. He leaned into her and pulled her hand out of her mouth to inspect her thumb. The tip was swollen and had a white, soft-looking sore on it.

As soon as he said it, a part of him wished he could take it back. In their metal-studded bracelets and glossy black, dead-girl lipstick, they wanted harshness, the girls like Georgia.

They wanted to prove something to themselves about how much they could take, to prove they were hard. That was why they came to him, not in spite of the things he said to them or the way he treated them but because of those things.

And it was just understood that sooner or later they would go away. Jude woke just after three in the morning at the sound of it, pacing in the hallway, a rustle and a light swish of restless movement, a soft bump against the wall. One of them had got into the house somehow, that was all. Jude sat for a moment, still drunk and stuporous from sleep.

A blue splash of moonlight fell across Georgia, sleeping on her belly to his left. Now he heard nothing in the hallway. He slid out of bed. The damp and the cold took him by surprise. The day had been the coolest in months, the first real day of fall, and now there was a raw, clinging chill in the air, which meant it had to be even colder outside. Maybe that was why the dogs were in the house.

Maybe they had burrowed under the wall of the pen and somehow forced their way in, desperate to be warm. They had an indoor-outdoor pen, could go into the heated barn if they were cold. He started toward the door, to peek into the hall, then hesitated at the window and twitched aside the curtain to look outside.

The dogs were in the outdoor half of the pen, both of them, up against the wall of the barn. Angus roamed back and forth over the straw, his body long and sleek, his sliding, sideways movements agitated. Bon sat primly in one corner. Her eyes flashed a bright, unnatural green in the darkness.

She was too still, too unblinking, like a statue of a dog instead of the real thing. But that was not as bad as knowing that something else was in the house, moving around, bumping into things in the hallway.

Jude glanced at the security panel next to the bedroom door. The house was monitored, inside and out, by a collection of motion detectors. Jude wondered if the chip was smart enough to tell the difference between a dog and a naked psychotic scrambling around on all fours with a knife in his teeth.

Jude had a gun, but it was in his private recording studio, in the safe.

He reached for the Dobro guitar leaning against the wall. Jude had never been one to smash a guitar for effect. His father had smashed his very first guitar for him, in an early attempt to rid Jude of his musical ambitions.

In a sense he supposed he had always used them as weapons. He heard one floorboard creak in the hall, then another, then a sigh, as of someone settling. His blood quickened. He opened the door. But the hallway was empty.

Jude plashed through long rectangles of icy light, cast by the skylights. He stopped at each closed door, listened, then glanced within. A blanket tossed across a chair looked, for a moment, like a deformed dwarf glaring at him. In another room he found a tall, gaunt figure standing behind the door, and his heart reared in his chest, and he almost swung the guitar, then realized it was a coatrack, and all the breath came rushing unsteadily out of him.

He returned to the corridor and went downstairs. It was the wrong kind of stillness, the shocked stillness that follows the bang of a cherry bomb. His eardrums throbbed from the pressure of all that quiet, a dreadful silence.

He leaned the guitar against the wall and exhaled noisily. By then he was so ill at ease the sound of his own voice unnerved him, sent a cool, prickling rush up his forearms. He had never been one to talk to himself. He climbed the stairs and started back down the hall to the bedroom.

His gaze drifted to an old man, sitting in an antique Shaker chair against the wall. As soon as Jude saw him, his pulse lunged in alarm, and he looked away, fixed his gaze on his bedroom door, so he could only see the old man from the edge of his vision. In the moments that followed, Jude felt it was a matter of life and death not to make eye contact with the old man, to give no sign that he saw him.

He did not see him, Jude told himself. There was no one there. His hat was off, resting on his knee. His hair was a close bristle, with the brilliance of new frost.

The buttons down the front of his coat flashed in the gloom, chromed by moonlight.

Nirvana-Heart Shaped Box-SheetMusicDownload.pdf

Jude recognized the suit in a glance. He had last seen it folded in the black, heart-shaped box that had gone into the rear of his closet. But by then Jude was beyond him, almost to the door. He was careful not to run. He let himself into the bedroom and clicked the door shut behind him.

He went straight to his bed and got into it and immediately began to shake. A part of him wanted to roll against Georgia and cling to her, let her body warm him and drive away the chills, but he stayed on his side of the bed so as not to wake her. He stared at the ceiling. Georgia was restless and moaned unhappily in her sleep. Georgia was on her side, her small hand resting lightly on his chest and her breath soft on his shoulder.

He slipped out of bed and away from her, let himself into the hall and walked downstairs. The Dobro leaned against the wall where he had left it.

The sight of it gave his heart a bad turn. He had set himself a goal of not thinking about it. But there was the Dobro. He had nothing to say to Danny and no reason to bother him, but in another moment he was at the door of the office. The compulsion to be in the company of another human, someone awake and sensible and with a head full of everyday nonsense, was irresistible.

Danny was on the phone, craned back in his office chair, laughing about something. He was still in his suede jacket. He himself had a robe over his shoulders and was hugging himself under it. The office was filled with a damp cold. He mouthed the words You okay? Danny got rid of whoever he was talking to, then rotated in his chair to turn a solicitous look upon him.

You look like fucking hell. Then he hugged himself, mock-shivered. Tipped his head toward the phone. This place is a fucking tomb. It came. I want to call her. I want to find some things out. He swiveled partway back to his computer and got the phone, but his gaze remained fixed on Jude.

Find her number, will you? The temperature was in the low fifties, and the air was white with a fine-grained mist. Still, it was more comfortable than the damp, clinging cold of the house. Angus licked at his hand, his tongue rough and hot and so real that for a moment Jude felt an almost painful throb of gratitude. He was glad to be among the dogs, with their stink of wet fur and their eagerness for play.

Nothing reminded him of who he was, and where he had come from, faster than the rank smell of dog, and by the time he reentered the house, he felt steadier, more himself. Can you hold a moment for Mr. Down in Florida. She had a perfectly ordinary sort of name, but for some reason it caught his attention. Jude put the receiver to his ear and nodded.

Danny pressed the button again to take it off hold. Judas Coyne. Her voice carried a delicate southern lilt, and her tone was easy and pleasant… and something else. There was a hint in it, a sweet, teasing hint of something like mockery. He had never been one to take his time getting to the point. Go on, now. Go on. Fucking with him.

Go ahead. You can send the suit back to me. No refunds, Mr. No exchanges. Jude noticed then the sound of his own breath, harsh and deep. He struggled for words, to know what to say. She spoke first. More money? Her voice had suddenly, without warning, lost the veneer of easy humor.

Our stepdaddy is the one who found her. He felt a sudden ache in the pit of his stomach, a sensation of cold, sick weight. In the same moment, his head seemed to come clear, to shake off the cobwebs of exhaustion and superstitious fear. She told fortunes, knew tarot and palmistry.

She and her older sister both had learned how from their stepfather.

Heart-Shaped Box: A Novel

He was a hypnotist by trade, the last resort of smokers and self-loathing fat ladies who wanted to be done with their cigarettes and their Twinkies. But hypnotism was the meal ticket: You can relax now. You can close your eyes. Just listen to my voice. Jessica Price was talking again. Jude had the impression her husband had been a reservist who bought it in Tikrit, thought he recalled Anna telling him that.

Anna had said her sister made almost seventy thousand dollars a year at it. He sounded calmer than she did. You had to pay. Anna told me all about your sick little collection… your dirty little oh-cult pervert shit.

Just you. How do you like your purchase? Oh, you have got some fun ahead of you. Just get out of the house. Take Georgia for a trip to L. Pack a couple suitcases, be on a flight in three hours. See what happens. Still in possession of himself.

Still perfectly calm. A pause. The angry sister was out of breath, needed a moment before she could reply. Jude could hear a sprinkler running in the background, children shouting in the street.

She was depressed. She was too miserable to go out, get help, see anyone. You made her hate herself. You made it so she wanted to die.

You ever think it was the pleasure of your company drove her over the edge? He cut her off. They drive Harleys, live in trailers, cook crystal meth, abuse their children, and shoot their wives. Want to see if I can find a few who live in your area to drop in and say hello? You will not live, and no one who gives you aid or comfort will live.

Jude glared at the black phone, still gripped in his white-knuckled hand, and listened to the slow, martial drumbeat of his heart. He knew that Danny had asked a question, but it was like a voice overheard through a closed door, part of a conversation taking place in another room, nothing to do with him. It was beginning to settle in that Florida was dead. Now, though, there was no running from it.

He felt the knowledge of her death in his blood, which went heavy and thick and strange on him. When he sent her away.

What do you think happens to us when we die? Enough questions to drive a man mad. Not fashionably depressed, in the way of some Goth chicks, but clinically. Danny half stood behind his desk. He had lost some of his color, his ginger freckles standing out in high relief against the white of his cheeks. He played the role of the urbane, understanding gay pal, someone they could trust to keep their secrets, someone they could vent to and gossip with, someone who provided intimacy without involvement.

His mother hanged herself six months later, and Danny had been the one who discovered her. Her body dangled from the single rafter in the pantry, her toes pointed downward, turning in small circles above a kicked-over footstool. Jude collected them in almost exactly the same way the Pied Piper had collected rats, and children.

He made melodies out of hate and perversion and pain, and they came to him, skipping to the music, hoping he would let them sing along. It would be better not to tell him. He told him anyway. Anna McDermott. She cut her wrists.

The woman I was just talking to is her sister. He settled back into his chair. It creaked beneath him. He looked winded. He pressed his hands to his abdomen, then leaned forward slightly, as if his stomach were cramping up. No words had ever sounded less obscene. A silence followed. Jude noticed, for the first time, that the radio was on, murmuring softly.

Trent Reznor sang that he was ready to give up his empire of dirt. It was funny hearing Nine Inch Nails on the radio just then. Jude had met Florida at a Trent Reznor show, backstage. The fact of her death hit him fresh, all over again, as if he were just realizing it for the first time.

And then the shock began to coalesce into a sickened resentment. Maybe you noticed. She was one hell of a sweet kid. Her and her questions. She asked me once if I had a favorite place to watch the rain when I was a kid.

What the hell kind of question is that? She made me shut my eyes and describe what it looked like outside my bedroom window when it was raining. For ten minutes. You never knew what she was going to ask next. We were big-time compadres. I mean, I know she was depressed. She told me about it. Danny leaned forward again. I mean — what the Christ? What the fuck is going on here? The old man sitting in the hallway, outside his bedroom door at A.

She tricked us into buying it. Anyway, I could tell there was something wrong about it as soon as it came. It was in this fucked-up black heart-shaped box and — this will maybe sound a little paranoid — but it had a pin hidden inside to stick someone. Did it stick you? It poked Georgia good, though.

Do you think there was something on it? Deeply and intensely crazy, but not stupid. She wants to scare me, not go to jail. I grew up not far from the Panhandle. Place is crawling with toothless, possumeating trailer trash full of weird ideas. You can wear a crown of thorns to your job at the Krispy Kreme and no one will bat an eye. He was finding his footing now.

Me, too. I sat right here and heard the whole thing. Jude grinned back, in spite of himself. Danny was shameless. But you can do one thing for me. Anna sent a couple letters after she went home.

You want to poke around? Talking about sending people after her.

Going down there yourself. You were pretty pissed. Do I need to be worried? He needed to quiet the noise in his head, a thing usually best accomplished by making some noise with his hands. Jude went into the closet to look for a capo to choke the strings and found a box of bullets instead.

Free ebook of Joe Hill's Heart Shaped Box for owners of the print book

Martin never gave her anything else — no roses or rings or bottles of champagne — but always the same big box of chocolates from the same department store. Her reaction was as unvarying as his gift. Always, she smiled, a thin, uncomfortable smile, keeping her lips together.

She was shy about her teeth. The uppers were false. The real ones had been punched in. Always, she offered the box first to her husband, who, smiling proudly, as if his gift were a diamond necklace and not a three-dollar box of chocolates, would shake his head.

Then she presented them to Jude. And always Jude picked the same one, the one in the center, a chocolatecovered cherry.

Song Title

He liked the gloosh of it when he bit into it, the faintly corrupt, sticky-sweet sap, the rotten-soft texture of the cherry itself. He imagined he was helping himself to a chocolate-covered eyeball. Even in those days, Jude took pleasure in dreaming up the worst, reveled in gruesome possibilities. He did not waste a lot of time looking back. He picked the candy box up, then dropped it just as quickly, his hands going nerveless on him.

Jude knew what was in it without even opening it, knew at first sight. If there was any doubt at all, though, it fled when the box hit the ground and he heard the brass shells jingle-jangle inside. It had not left Louisiana with him, and there was no way it could be lying there behind his old guitar case, only it was. He stared at the yellow heart-shaped box for a moment, then forced himself to pick it up. He pulled off the lid and tipped the box over.

Bullets spilled onto the floor. He had collected them himself, as avid for them as some children were for baseball cards: his first collection. It was fall, when the old man shot at turkeys. Justin sniffed the splintered, flattened case.

It was soon joined by two live shells for a. He had traded for this last, and it had cost him dear — an issue of Creepy with a Frazetta cover — but he felt he had got value for value. In high school he strung the British bullet on a leather thong and wore it around his throat until the principal confiscated it.

Jude wondered that he had not found a way to kill someone in those days. People wondered how something like Columbine could happen. It was a warning. It was a crazy thing to think. There had to be a dozen more reasonable explanations for the box, for the bullets. He only cared what was true. He had seen a dead man in the night. He was steadier now, found himself considering the bullets coolly. It came to him that maybe it was more than a warning.

Perhaps it was also a message. The dead man, the ghost, was telling him to arm himself. Jude considered the. But what would he shoot at? He understood that the ghost existed first and foremost within his own head. That maybe ghosts always haunted minds, not places. But there were other kinds of ammunition. He had a collection of books on the shelf at one end of the studio, books about the occult and the supernatural. Jude had already taken up the study of group psychology and mass hypnosis, on the theory that if fans were good, cultists were even better.

He added volumes by Aleister Crowley and Charles Dexter Ward to the reading list, and he worked his way through them with a careful, joyless concentration, underlining concepts and key facts.

Jude placed the box of bullets up on the shelf among his books, all thoughts of finding a capo and playing some Skynyrd gone. He ran his thumbnail along the spines of the hardcovers. For a while he struggled to make his way through a strangled discourse on animal familiars, creatures of intense feeling who were bound by love and blood to their masters, and who could deal with the dead directly. But it was written in dense eighteenth-century English, without any punctuation.

He set it aside. One grotesque illustration showed an old man sprawled on his bed, among tangled sheets, his eyes bulging in horror and his mouth gaping open, while a leering, naked homunculus climbed out from between his lips.

Or, a worse thought: Maybe the thing was climbing in.He put it on the counter and poured coffee. Danny was on the phone, craned back in his office chair, laughing about something. He had last seen it folded in the black, heart-shaped box that had gone into the rear of his closet. I want to find some things out. But he always did. He laid it gently back into its box.