Write something now

Amen!

Hallelujah!

This thread is a healing light designed by the Lord.

---
Made from an extremely authentic tough shiny blue nylon, every detail is matched to the original spec. The real mouton sheepskin collar is just sumptuous, and their reproduction of the Crown zipper is stunning.
"Hi, righteous group huh?"
"Totally, really slammin in here. Good energy going on."
"Oh yeah, totally."

They both had to take a pause as one of their cohorts went flying past them, crashing into some random stranger, both flying apart laughing.

"Yeah, I been boppin around Jupiter's for a while, then got pulled in here. No way to get out now ya know. But hey, it's a good time in here eh?" He was tring to get her warmed up, she had this electric feield around her, but he knew that he needed to get her going just a bit more.

She watched him move in a bit closer, circling around her now. She liked him, maybe soon? but she needed a but more motion before that happened. Let's see how he moves. "Oh yeah, I came in with Haley, We'd been making the rounds for a while, but I bailed on her when I saw this party, can't say no to Helios can you?"

"Mmmmmm no you can't baby" he said as he eyed her up and down. Then he took her hand and swung out on a tight orbit, whipping back into her, pressing close in for a moment, letting her feel the charge.

"OOooooooo" she coed into his ear as he spiraled away. "I like that. You wanna go?"

He looked at her, a little surprised, but pleased "You sure move fast, Wouldn't have figured that from you." he said as he moved closer.

"Well" she said, "Why don't you come closer and we'll see what else you can find out about me."

They spun closer together, lettign the charge build up around them, spinning tighter and faster until they fused, and with a cry of joy, released a single photon, which 8 minutes later, bounced off the moon, and 7 seconds after that, landed on a drop of water on a glass of a night club in new york, just in time to hear someone walk up and say, "Hey, righteous group huh?"

"It is a good viewpoint to see the world as a dream. When you have something like a nightmare, upon waking, you will tell yourself that it is only a dream. It is said the world we live in is not a bit different than this." - Yamamoto Tsunemoto
Baseball is a pointless and annoying addiction to have - it's out there past bacon sandwiches *and* dancer in terms of 'gotcha' (no points for spotting ATP reference) and frequently quite unrewarding, especially as (1) the Atlanta Braves ALWAYS get to the post-season and (2) they NEVER actually win the World Series.

Those two facts are the other two constants in the universe that somehow square out the 'death and taxes' maxim and give us a multi-dimensioned universe. At least that's MY theory, no matter what that Stephen Hawking man says. Superstrings, pah. Instead of having two points joined by a string we now have FOUR points which therefore make a Cosmic Supersquare, creating a two-dimensional trampoline on which reality bounces. Anyone notice the cosmic shift when the Braves won in 1995? Could easily have been the end of the universe. Hawking failed to take this into account, presumably because he never rated Smoltz as a post-season prospect.

On the upside, the Braves did beat the Cubs 7-2 on Sunday Night Baseball last week (and without Jonny Gould in the Channel 5 studio, either).

So doing a quick recap:

BAD: Stephen Hawking's superstring theory is wrong.

GOOD: Atlanta Braves stuffed the Cubbies good and proper.

Thus karma is sated and the universe is balanced once more. You may sleep easily again.
Nobody knew it at the time, of course, but the period between the first notable spike in suicide rates was followed by an interim period of speculation and conjecture which amounted to little more than coffehouse banter and party conversation. The second and more drastic spike in suicide rates sent humanity into a headlong psychic tailspin. The bottom line was that no definitive or satisfactory explaination could be given for either spike, or whether a third and more devastating spike was on the horizon. Theories for what caused the spikes varied greatly, and depending on your faith in the divine or fear of some pathogen which led otherwise normal people end their lives with such determination that few survived the first suicide attemp, even fewer remain cognizant of their surroundings and thus, shed no light on their motives.
"Come a little closer," said Maria. Her voice was a velvet whisper. "I want to. . ."

An electronic beep interrupted her, and my concentration wavered for a moment.

"Whatever you want, baby!" I agreed.

The beep seemed to come out of her mouth, and she twisted away from me.

"Don't go!" I begged.

She faded to white.

Beep.

I opened my eyes to the white hotel ceiling. I struggled against the tangle of sheets, and rolled over to find the alarm clock.

Be--- I found the off switch.

What city is this? Why am I here? God, I need another job.

-------------------
There is no sig.
Gerald has had enough of crappy cellular service.

"Ring Ring"

PERSONAL ASSISTANT(female): Roland Dikkal's office, how may I help you?

GERALD: So Roland Dikkal is the Vice-President for Operations?

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: Yes, who is this please?

GERALD: This is a customer. I want to talk to him.

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: How did you get this number? This isn't customer service. This is a restricted number, Sir.

GERALD: Yeah, well is the VP in? Because I want to talk to him about his crappy operations.

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: How did you get this number?

GERALD: I'm not saying. Let me talk to him.

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: You have to tell me how you got this number, Sir.

GERALD: No I don't.

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: Yes. You do. You're breaking the law, Sir.

GERALD: No I'm not. That's stupid! Calling a number is against the law?

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: Yes, you're in trouble. Now, how did you get this number? Who gave it to you?

GERALD: HAHAHAHA! No! I'm not saying! What if I just hang up?

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: You're not going to hang up. You're going to tell me how you got this phone number and you're going to tell me right this minute!

GERALD: HAHAHAHA! Lady, what makes you think I can't just hang up? This is stupid!

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: Because. I have caller ID so I already know everything I need to know about you to turn you into the FB... the FCC.

GERALD: AHAAAA! Caught you! You were going to say FBI! Lets admit the truth, Lady, your Caller ID doesn't work. You have it, but its broken!

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: How did you know that?

GERALD: Because Caller ID on corporate phone systems never works. It's always broken. Always!

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: (starting to cry a little) Please! Tell me how you got this number!

GERALD: (speaking softly) No. I'm not going to tell you that.

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: (crying a lot now) Pleeeease!

GERALD: Tell you what.... you want to go out for a drink?

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: (happier now, sobbing) Yes.

GERALD: Okay, you're downtown, right? Meet me at the Bennigans on 22nd.

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: (happy now) When?

GERALD: Right now. It''l take me about 10 minutes to get there.

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: How will I know you?

GERALD: I'm wearing a black T-shirt and a black baseball cap with a Japanese flag on it.

PERSONAL ASSISTANT: (very pleasantly) Okay, meet you there!
Tuesday mornings usually suck.

The web-connected closet, particularly. It's supposed to interface with my programmable wardrobe, and make sure that I'm hip, in, whatever.

All my shirts are digital now. The closet down-loads from the shop, and my credit card gets billed, fifty cents a copy, except for Mondays. (on Monday, my closet selects a random shade of gray)

So, I woke up to bad news about deflation, Ebola, and computer viruses.

Then my closet tries to give me an orange shirt with yellow dots the size of coffee-cup rings.

I don't want to be stylish. I want my old clothes back.

-------------------
There is no sig.
I am hungover in Hobart, told midget jokes when playing a gig last night...
feel like i've had a valium
stranded in the city for an hour waiting for the bus just enough change to get home

scrubbed the word satan off my arm in the shower had some bread

-----------------------
Catastrophe
or So long and thanks for all the cheese.

I woke up today and checked my email, well tried to, the computer kept freezing on me. I had to restart it half a dozen times before I could even get the Finder up. I had the old Macintosh PowerbookG3; The top of the line (in it's day), curvaceous, black model with the glowing upside-down Apple logo. It was old and I thought that it might be time for a replacement, as sad and reluctant as I am to part with it. It's easy to antromorphise Macs and grow attached to them. I don't really know why.

Anyway, even after I got Remote Access open to connect to the internet, it still couldn't connect. Frustrated, I left for work minus my daily supplement of mail and musings from the William Gibson Board, where I am an avid reader and dedicated reposter. I filled my cat's bowl full of dried food for her breakfast. She looked at me in a strange, intense way. A look I've never seen before this week and I remembered that she kept me awake all night last night with her constant crying and running around. I eventually had to put her outside but somehow, as always, she managed to let herself back in, though I have no idea how.

It was one of those things that bugged me about her, I mean, if she can let herself in, why does she have to whinge for me to open the door for her. Like I'm some bloody doorman to her apartment.

˜See you SCSI,' I said to her, ˜have a good day at work.' I tried to pet her but she deftly avoided my hand and leapt away. Running off into my bedroom.

˜See ya Will!' I said to myself, in her imagined voice. Strange cat, I thought.

I tried to open the door. It was sticky and at first even the doorknob refused to turn.Damn damp apartment, I cursed internally. It must've rained last night or something. I finally yanked the door open and went to catch a train to work.

...

The train was over half an hour late. Everybody was pissed off and looking rather scruffy, as if none of them had any sleep or had their morning shower today. Or they were all hung over. I watched two cats try to out-stare each other in the vacant lot opposite the train station. Both of them immobile and intense. Then without warning they viciously leapt at each other like Neo and Agent Smith in The Matrix. Hissing and with claws drawn. They're seriously fighting as the carriage pulled in, blocking out the view. I hopped aboard the train, a little bit concerned and vaguely disturbed. Though I don't know why.

On the train, I opened my morning paper to read an article about the Internet breaking down. Whole national groups of ISPs and Servers across the world reported alarmingly strange glitches that they can't seem to fix or diagnosed. There was speculation of a new computer super virus that threatened to bring down the whole Net by attacking crucial servers, some kind of terrorist act perhaps, or a highly skilled hacker sect, executing the prank of a lifetime. There were now holes in the World Wide Web, bigger than the holes in the Ozone layer. Whole continents becoming Information Dead Zones. Banking sectors, the stock exchange and government networks are in disarray. Hysteria bleeding from the pages. Ink stains my fingers.

In the last page of the paper, a woman - with eleven cats and four dogs - fell into an inexplicable coma. The dogs all died of a heart attack and the cats became feral and had taken horrific bites out of the dogs and the woman. A neighbour heard noises she described as ˜satanic' issuing from the house and opened the door to a unholy hissing and a tsunami-like exodus of felines. She couldn't understand what had happened, the cats were known to be affectionate, loving pets. The Cat Woman, Mrs Bast, was famous in her neck of the woods, so were her brigade of cats.

The paper crumbled in my hand. Literally, as if it was a million years old. Becoming this powdery dust. I was about to freak out when suddenly the train buckled, the lights flickered then died. Screeching to a halt with a sound like it was on heat. What's happening to everything? Why is it all breaking down?

The train doors refused to open and for a while there was a general panic as some people experienced hysterical claustrophobia. Eventually, the doors simply fell off and warily, we all jumped down and was directed by the driver of the train to walk along the train tracks to next station.

...

More cats. We kept seeing legions of them, which was pretty strange. They're not the most social of creatures. Cats everywhere. Staring at us with crystalline eyes. Some of them hissing and bickering. Some of them still as stones.

˜What's going on?' said a woman walking beside me. ˜What's with them?'
˜ I don't know,' I said, ˜Do you have a cat?'
˜Yes, I have two.'
˜Have you noticed them doing anything weird? Maybe they know something we don't.'
˜I'm not sure, I noticed that they're only eating a little bit, mostly they keep fighting. I had to break up several nasty ones, ones that drew blood even. They usually get on very well though, you know, they'd groom each other and sleep curled in on themselves, soooo cute! But yes, I think you're right; something's not quite right with them.'
˜Mine is doing strange things too.' Said another woman, this really cute girl with short black hair, looking a little like Audrey Tatou from Jean-Pierre Juennet's Amelie, ˜she, like, kept crying all night and like, ran around like a little racehorse the entire day yesterday.'
˜Yeah, mine too,' I said, ˜that's really weird. Something's definitely wrong. The internet; breaking down because the servers are failing. Trains, disintegrating newspapers and I couldn't get the toaster working yesterday.'
˜Why is that so strange?' said the Amelie chick.
˜Well,' I said, hoping to impress her with really weird news, ˜the element comes on when I try to toast, but the bread won't toast.'
˜Huh? What do you mean? It won't go down?'
˜No, I can put it down, the element comes on, it gets hot and stuff. But the bread won't brown, won't toast.'
˜You think someone is playing a trick on you? Like, some kind of novelty bread?'
˜Nah, couldn't be. I went out and bought a different brand and everything. I went and bought wholemeal and multi-grain, all from the supermarket. Nothing!'
˜Wow. That's so strange.' She said, looking at me with huge green eyes and my heart fluttered and I felt all hot.
˜My cat haven't slept in a week' said a guy that looked a little bit like the Christopher Llyod character from Back to the Future. He wore a tweed suit over a Hawaiian shirt. ˜I've been noticing it. He stopped sleeping a week ago.'
˜A cat, with insomnia?' I said, ˜that's unheard of.'
˜I realise that, young man, yet I have observed it. Young Einstein have kept me awake every night for the past week. He's been very bad-tempered. As would any of us, I suppose, if you haven't slept for a week.'
˜Hey, you know what? I don't think Millicent's been sleeping either.'

I cast my mind back for a week, have I seen SCSI asleep? With growing unease I realise that; no, I haven't.
Cats are often always asleep. It seemed to be their full time job. Sleeping, dreaming. I realise in a blinding epiphany that for the past week all SCSI have done is to restlessly wonder around the house, sniffing for something, getting irritated, staring at me with that strange look, keeping me up and complaining a lot.
˜Yeah, mine's been running around lots. Like, maybe trying to tire herself out.'
˜Mine, the twins, keeps eating. they look bloated now. I don't think I've noticed them sleeping either. They usually sleep on my bed all afternoon.'

Awake! The whole time! Come to think of it, that's when stuff started to break down. The telephone kept ringing and there'd be no one on the other end, just this howling void, like wind blowing in a desolate place. A dead place. I was freaking myself out. This is silly.

˜What if,' said this kid of maybe eleven, or twelve, Harry Potter glasses, black, unruly hair, ˜what if the world needs the cats to sleep and dream so that it could work. Maybe the world is like...you know, built on top of their dreams.'
˜Hey, there was a Neil Gaiman story like that on The Sandman, "The Dream of a Thousand Cats". Maybe the Reality software is being hosted on their brainwaves. You know, like rod-logic processors, maybe they're all linked telepathically, networked.' Said this other kid, this nerd with a hooded jacket and an Episode One, Darth Maul T-shirt.
˜Like Servers...hosting the Internet.'
˜That's so stupid.' I said, all angry and scared and feeling stupid for being angry and scared at such a ludicrous concept. I wanted to hit the Darth Maul kid for suggesting such a stupid idea.

Then there was this awful noise, very loud and at the same time eerily haunting, sending goose pimples up and down my arms, raising the hair at the back of my neck.

˜It's the cats. They're crying. All of them.'

And I can picture all the cats in the world. All over the world. Awake, irritable, unable to sleep. Staring with feral eyes. Simultaneously sending out a distress Meow.

All of them, hundreds of thousands, millions of cats.

Then we heard another noise, louder than the cats' meow. We looked about trying to find the source of this noise; growing louder and louder. Like a bomb falling in a war movie.

We looked up.

And watched in horror as an Ansett Boeing 747 directly in the sky in front and above us plummets towards the earth like a falling angel. Shrieking with a terrifying noise to tear the world apart.
Herald of


[System Crash]



The End.
Copyright © 2003 W.Serantak. Brisbane, Australia.

Written just a bit late of now.
Big Grin

I am Otaku Lite™
I woke up to the sound of a girls voice.

Yuka?

I was sitting where I remembered, on the hard, lime-green sofa overlooking the city. Still holding the cold cup of coffee. Felt like my soul had fallen through the floor, landed in the parking-lot below.

A transvestite in black walked by.

Yuka was still talking to me. She'd been talking to me for a minute now, not knowing I was asleep.

The bamboo egg behind me seemed ready to explode under the pressure.

I smiled and nodded while the Japanese half of my brain went through it's boot-up sequence. She didn't mind to keep talking.

The transvestite returned, trailed by two girls in cowboy hats.

I managed to mumble some words, not really thinking about the meaning, but it seems to trigger something beneath thick shell of makeup and pink lights.

That's when she told me where I could find the lesbians.
I'm not posting anything at the moment. These off-the-cuff, from-the-hip, spontaneous explosions of instantaneous brilliance take quite a bit of planning, extensive research, repeated drafting, meticulous proof-reading, targeted customer sampling, creative revision, nit-picky editing, generous post-production and polishing to a dazzling shine. I just wanted to say that the contributions hitherto are of a very high quality, and I thank you all for brightening my Monday morning, especially Trogdor for starting it.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It's like I can breathe again.

I feel my lungs inflate, the searing burning pain, followed by that cool sweet air flowing in, soothing. Oxygen, conciousness, life.

I can see then. Faces, places, things. I see this room. These hundred ghosts staring out from brown paper sketches and polaroid photos. One hundred voices faling silent at my presence. And this space, these artifacts, echo with the chorus of their sound, cut off by the return of my self.

The door opens, and my wife looks in. Her eyes red with tears, shaking, looking at me with fear and horror. Oh god, what has that bastard been doing to her?

Nothing at all
Wait, what are you doing here?
I decided to break our little deal we had going on
No, you can't do that
I don't think your in a position to argue. Remember, she doesn't know about us does she? You think you can talk your way out of everything I've done this time?
No, Goddamit, GET OUT, THIS IS MY TURN NOW!!!!!
Incorrect. I rather like it out here. And I'm not going back to the dark

It always feels like water, when he wins

"It is a good viewpoint to see the world as a dream. When you have something like a nightmare, upon waking, you will tell yourself that it is only a dream. It is said the world we live in is not a bit different than this." - Yamamoto Tsunemoto
I shot out of the building at 11:50. I had to pick up some shoes my buddy was having repaired, grab the latest issue of 2600 and hopefully still have time for a burger. I had to be back on the 28th floor for a meeting at 13:00 sharp.

The shoe shop was out of my way by 4 blocks. That's enough to really pinch me on time, but not enough that grabbing a cab during lunch hour traffic would improve matters. I owed the guy some favors so I figured if I had to skip lunch or eat somewhere besides my favorite burger joint, I could live with that. I ran.

The shoe shop guy was really on the ball. It took him like 12 seconds to pop the shoes into a bag and pop them onto the counter. He even rigged a cool handle out of duct tape so I could carry the bag while running without tearing the bag up. I would remember this place. Definitely the place to get your shoes fixed. If you ever need shoes fixed in Dallas, let me know.

Even with my buddy's shoes taking less time than anticipated, I still wasn't going to have time to grab 2600 and still make it 9 blocks over to grab the best baconcheesemushroom burger on this planet. If you ever need a great burger in Dallas, let me know. And I wasn't going to skip grabbing 2600 either. I always bought 2600 on the day before it hit the news stands because the other two hackers in our office had subscriptions and actually got it a day later than me because I new this guy at Borders who posted a copy in a secret place on the shelves two days before he was supposed to. If you ever need a hard to find book or you want a magazine like a day before its supposed to hit the racks, let me know. I can fix you up.

So I grabbed the mag and palmed my buddy at borders a fat joint and figured I'd try this lunch place I passed every day on my way to my regular place. It looked okay. It didn't look like some trendy health food place that kept you healthy by serving you tiny servings and charging you $18 for it, anyways. That's when I saw the Black Haired Girl. She was walking in front of me as I approached this okay looking lunch place.

Her hair was just above the collar of her leather coat and it was the shiniest, prettiest hair you've ever seen. Her hair was so cool I didn't even look at her butt. I looked at her butt later though and it was a great butt! That was after the rest of this stuff happened, though, so I'm sorta getting ahead of myself. As we got to the okay looking lunch place with me walking about 6 feet behind this girl and wondering what perfume she was wearing that was giving me wood, she stopped and stared into the window of the okay looking lunch place. I almost ran into her because I wasn't paying attention. Well, I was paying attention to her, but I wasn't paying attention to walking. She looked at me. She had these eyes that went with her hair, which means that there's no way I'm going to be able to describe them to you without lots of hand waving and loud talking. Maybe not even then. She looked worried though.

"Don't go in there", she said.

"Ummmmmm... ", was all I could say without just blurting out that I loved her and shit.

"If you go in there, you'll never come out. Look at those people. They can't act like it or they'll be killed, but they're in there against their will."

I looked at the people in the okay lunch place. They didn't look afraid or anything, but they didn't seem to be doing much talking or smiling either. Still, I knew she was joking..

"So these people have been in there for how long?"

I tried to smile like I was going along with the joke but I think I just kinda stood there with my mouth open because of how incredible this girl looked.

"I don't know. Some of them, a long long time. Years. I'm not joking. How many times have you walked by this place?"

I thought about it. It was every day since I went to work in Dallas. Two years or so. Every day besides weekends and sometimes even then, because I lived downtown.

"Hundreds", I said.

"Have you ever seen anybody *come out* of there? Think about it. I'll wait", like she knew it was something I was going to have to think about.

I did. I thought about it. I thought about it as much as I could in between thinking about what it would be like to kiss her. I realized I had never seen anybody come out of the okay looking lunch place. Not that I could remember. But hey, why would I remember that anyway. It isn't the sort of thing you keep track of. I figured she was just trying to impress me by being different but that was fine with me. Impress away! She had blue lipstick, too. I didn't mention that before. And no jewelry. None. Nothing pierced, either. Not even her ears, like there was no way to improve on this girl and she knew it.

"Well, now you know. I saved you. You owe me, buster", and she poked me in the ribs where it sorta tickled and smiled at me. Then she turned and just started walking away. That's when I looked at her butt.

I didn't say anything. I just stood there watching her walk away until I couldn't even catch glimpses of her jacket or her hair through the gaps between the other people on the sidewalk. She must have been two blocks away when I saw the last of her and me just standing there mouth breathing. Well, now I didn't have time to eat anywhere so I ran back to the office.

Every lunch hour since then, for about three months now, I've quit going to the place with the great baconcheesemushroom burgers. I just sit on a stone bench across from the okay looking lunch place and look for the Black Haired Girl. I've never seen her again anywhere in Dallas and all I do wherever I go downtown is look for her. And I've never seen anybody come out of the okay looking lunch place, either.

If you ever see this incredible looking Black Haired Girl in Dallas, let me know. And don't go into this okay looking lunch place. You'll never come out. I'm serious.

[This message was edited by Trogdor on July 21, 2003 at 05:13 PM.]
A long time ago, when you were deciding who you wanted to be, you drew lines in the ground; in the wet concrete of your childhood haunts; and you vowed never to cross them.

Well, you were young and full of ideals.

Then, as you walked further from your childhood beliefs and idealism, you start to wonder; what's so great about the other side of that line? What did it feel like, is the air sweeter? The world brighter? More exciting?

See, you were young and brimming with curiosity.

So you stepped across to the other side, you grew with the perspective you gained from stepping across, you've learnt from the experiences, you learned about yourself, some of the lessons were enlightening, some were painful, but you learned. When you look back to the boundaries of your childhood ideals, you find that the line you drew had been corroded away by the neat and ever efficient hands of Time. It's nowhere to be seen.

But you remember the shape of it and so you draw another line. This time in the dirt of experience, matriculated by insights that was beyond the naive idealism of your childhood.

You were still young, and you thought you'd gained some wisdom in your travels.

From the other side of this line you can see all the world on the other side. This time, you know exactly what's on the other side. It's not brighter, nor is it wiser, but still something of that world, that world from which you're estranged from, is tugging at your desire. Remember the tastes? Remember the contentment you felt? The pain of hard lessons, they were ephemeral. They can be washed away.

This time, keeping your eye firmly on the line you've drawn in the dirt, you cross with the intention of stepping back over quickly. You don't intend to stay long.

When you look back, the line is washed away by tears. By the waters of regret. Again there's no going back.

So you draw the next line in the mud. And each time you cross that line, the earth beneath you is washed away, little by little, until finally you're drawing lines in the water.

You look around and you're no longer young, and you no longer recognise your surroundings. You're stranded far from home, lost in the ocean of time. Fearing the edge of the world.

...


ahem...
gee. that was cheerful.
I'm ok. really.
I just need ice cream, an ocean of ice cream.

mmm...ice cream.

I am Otaku Lite™

[This message was edited by wraith on July 22, 2003 at 03:56 AM.]
Hey. I'm thinking of doing The Black Haired Girl as a short film and entering it one place or another. It's not all that great as a written piece, but I think I can get it to work pretty good as a short film.

I'll have the main character narrate all but the few short chunks of dialog and maybe even them... with the voices of BHG and the shoe repair shop guy quieted in the background. I'm thinking quasi-camera-verde for the moving around the city scenes. I'll have to pick a different city besides Dallas, because I live nowhere near there and a young man to play the main character because I'm an old guy who might have gotten lucky writing like a young guy.

Did that make any sense whatsoever?
I'd say the casting problem isn't going to be the young man.

I beseech you, if you must have narration, only use it at the very beginning and the very end. But I'm telling you straight, this film (hell, most any film) will be better without narration. Don't tell us, show us.
Yeah! I have to find an amazing looking Black Haired Girl, right? I didn't think of that. And one without pierced ears? Maybe I can raid some Quaker community or something. It's a problem.

I'll think about the narration. In the way I'm envisioning it, I still think it might work... pretty much the guy just saying what I wrote (with notable exceptions) with action going on visually to support that. Sorta like when Ray Liotta is narrating parts of the action toward the end of GOODFELLAS. Like he's sitting on the stone bench explaining to someone why he's there... telling the story.

Finding the right voice and phrasing to where it doesn't turn out like crap? Odds are that makes your comment 100% correct. I ain't no Scorsese. I've actually thought of how to do it either way. But, I might as well not plan anything unless I find that girl first.

And I wondered why good short films are so rare.
I did something bad.

I detoured from the noble and glorious concept of spontaneous writing, to the dark, scummy, devious and unoriginal area of short films. Shame on me. I mean that.

Never again on this thread. I'm going to do some storyboards and scout a few locations in Salt Lake City, (maybe Denver too) and keep my eyes open for that Black Haired Girl, but if there's any progress worth talking about... I'll start another thread. This one is sacred. I'm sorry I befouled it.
It was like Mother Nature was PMSing. Her emotional instability reflected in moments of meditative calmness, to salty winds that kicked your eyeballs back in their sockets if you looked at the shore the wrong way. Spanish explorers named it, "Pacific" - Peaceful. Another trusted first impression.

Sporting a slate gray Lost brand hoodie, Sam crept through the washed up seaweed that by noontime would smell like fish piss and swarm with fleas, with 'Cosmo' her metal detector. A few months back she would share this sort of a morning with him, and listen to him attack the surf as much as he did the seagulls swarming the edge for their breakfast. He was 13 years young when she had to put him down. Over a gin and tonic, she likes to think he had a happy life.

"Miss You", the previously unreleased track from Aaliyah, velvetly sings through her mind from the minidisk player tucked within her pouch. She barely hears someone call her from a disembodied place somewhere outside of her headphones. Turning, Sam flashes her smile while tucking a few bleached strands of hair behind a hood covered ear.

"Sammy-cat. I thought I'd find you here." Eric tromps up, giving a blinking acknowledgement to a picked at, bodyless, salmon skull buried between kelp. He's wearing that flanel jacket she hasn't figured out if she likes or not.

"It's my vacation." She reminds him, smile fading, while carefully noting the office-badge still pinned to his colar. It's against policy to wear it outside of the facility. It makes you a target. "And it's 7am."

"6:47am, actually, and I know. That's why I'm out here. I need you to take a look at something."

"What?"

"TCP headers."

Sam turns, adjusting Cosmo across a patch of oceanic mucous, "I do HCI." Human Computer Interfaces, "I don't do low level, Eric."

"Oh, first-name. I must have hit a nerve. But, I wouldn't be out here if I didn't think it was important. Especially since it is your vacation. Breakfast is on me."

She hears him walk off, back towards the her property, the beach front house she bought after making three real-estate turns, painfully aware of the fact he still had the keys. The locksmith is coming tomorrow. As she follows the man-sized footprints he leaves in the sand, Sam wonders, idly, if she should remind him just how 'broke up' they are.

~Fehu, pauses
I've been a fool. A drunk, of course. But I'm not always a fool. I think I've finally made the one mistake that can't be undone.

Amontillado. The bastard. Offer me a drink, does he?

Irons. If I weren't fastened down, I could scrape away the mortar between the bricks. I can smell it. It would ooze under my fingers like soft cheese, and I would be free.

The wine in my veins is turning back into blood, and pounding in my head. If only I could let it out. I'd spare myself the indiginity.

He added one last item of humiliation. The cap. The bells.

"Ring the bells softly," he whispered, as the trowel scraped over the rough face of the brick.

This is the worst hangover ever.

***
Poe fan-fic. Now you've seen everything.

Well, maybe not. Slash fic from Paradise Lost, anyone? (I know I'm not going to write it.)

-------------------
There is no sig.
She was our driver.

"Take over if you have to", she said while she leaned across the front seat and leafed through her magazine.

The curve came.

"Turn turn", I shouted from the back seat.

She looked surprised as she raised her head slightly before returning her focus to what she was reading.

Bill stood up, leaned over and steered us back into our lane. As he jumped into the driver's seat and pushed her aside, she collapsed and started snoring.
He awoke from his dream of him and Nikki embracing each other, naked, to the white glow of his comp-glasses. "Motherfuck" he said. "Left the goddamn thing on all night" he said to himself. He checked the battery display meter on the lower right-hand corner of the lens; he had about five more minutes until it completely ran out of power. He decided that it would be enough time to check his e-mail. He moved his eyes up to the e-mail icon on the lens and it opened up to him. He had received four messages while he was sleeping, one from Nikki, and the other three were e-mail advertisements for various commercial products. He opened Nikki's e-mail first.

*URGENT*
You must meet me at Jules Verne Cafe immediately. I need your help. Love, Nikki


After he read this he swiftly rose from his chair, that he had fallen asleep in last night, put on his black leather coat he had put over the back of the chair last night, and went out his door at a half run.

He ran through the empty three o'clock streets of New York. He was a handsome man, but not incredibly, he hadn't shaven yet so there was a shadow of a beard on his face, his hair was stuck together in clumps with the grime of not having showered, his eyes had dark rings under them showing that he had not slept for a long time.

Muscles in his legs tightening, he pressed on as fast as he could move. Wind whispering her name in his ears over and over again, Nikki, Nikki, Nikki. Two men he could hardly make out in the darkness came out of an alley to mug him. 'No' he thought. 'No, I can't let them stop me. Have to get to Nikki'. Suddenly his run of desperation changed immediately into what looked like a starving Lion spotting two meaty Gazelles.
Anger and fear mixed together to produce a man about to kill.

He screamed as he approached them. He dreaded what was about to happen, but he knew the outcome couldn't be any other way. He pulled out the 9mm he bought in a dark and wet alley last night.

Five seconds later he woke up from the white light that had engulfed his brain. He looked down. There they were, the two muggers turned out to be simple tourists lost in the wrong part of New York. "Fucking tourists...fucking tourists..." he said. They were a man and woman, Japanese, they looked completely harmless, especially now.

He knew he shouldn't have done it, but he used a payphone to call an ambulance anyway. He knew he shouldn't make her wait any longer.

And he was running again, running for Nikki's life.

Six minutes later he arrived at the Jules Verne Cafe. Nikki was there, waiting for him. She was a Caucasian Russian girl with short, unnaturally red hair, and about 5' 5" tall.
She was beautiful.

Later, the next day they were on an intercity bus to Chicago. That was their strategy. Move through the cities with the countless masses and they wouldn't be able to find them. For a while.

[This message was edited by NCGuy on July 25, 2003 at 11:32 PM.]
"So, anyway, I took it to mean he was pretty into me, y'know? The sort of, 'Hey, let's you and me, like, experience comitment together.' That sort of into. And, um, I guess I thought that because he's always checking me out? That's a sign of attraction, right?"

The grass is green here. But it's sharp, jagged. Shards of broken glass shooting out of the earth's root-rotted soil. Freshly mowed. The stench of allergies heavy, causing the bees to swarm around from pursed petal to petal in some hightened orgasmic glee. Ringged butts pirkily shot into the air. Amanda looks up and around the iSight cam pinching the lip of her laptop, squinting at the local gangers low-riding their bicycles through the park, jeering at eachother with prepubecent taunts.

Flicking back, she gazes back into the screen, to where approximatly-digital-Sam's relaxing into a cup of hoji-cha tea, bare feet propped onto a quilted pillow she got from a guy she met over the 'net who worked in Singapore. ~Sam looks up, chapped lips mouthing above the taught surface of tea settled in the ceramic, "Sure. He seems interested."

"That's what I thought. So I kept, ah, talking to him. Y'know. A call here. And invite to go there. That sort of stuff. Problem was, I got to realize that I was the one instigating all this stuff. But, when we would meet up, he'd do all the talking. Do you know how many times I've had to listen to him bitch about how his roomate's Buddhist and how he believes the 'Right' religion by being Catholic? Not that I'm into religious war or anything, but I think he's got to get off his high horse. I mean, he also rants about the Baptists shoving their religion down his throat, but he goes and does it to his roomate. Saying his is the 'first' and 'true' one. Not to get into details, or anything, but it was Catholism that split from the Orthodox church thousand some-odd years ago. Turn the other cheek, right? Anyway...I'm just wondering when he'll understand my needs in this relationship. Do you know how many times he's asked me how my day was? How I was feeling? Never. I've always volunteered it. I swear, men. They're so confusing. If he's interested in me, he should just say it. If he's not, he should say that, too. Not, 'Oh, I think you're really interesting. I'm just not sure if you're my type yet. I think we're going too fast.' What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Ugh."

Eric's still asleep, Sam notices, as she glances to the futon halfhazardly unfolded two steps outside of camera shot. She can partly see the leaf-shape ear of the Elf he's got tatooed on his right arm. A trophy from a game of D&D they were in a few years back. Apparently his fighter was possessed by the soul of some necromancer once he dispatched her. Sam'll agree, it was some intense role-play. But, Eric, always being almost too into his characters took it far, and got the picture. A tribute to the perversion his character must endure.

Dork, Sam thinks to herself, head sliding into fingertips holding her skull up by the eyesockets. Dully aware of Amanda's whimpering 2,000 miles east of here, she murmurs a advice, "Don't talk to him for a few weeks. See if he calls. If not, date his best friend."
Imagine that "Run Lola Run" girl, except her hair is a bit shorter and not as poofy in my imagination. Also she's dressed more like a New Yorker. Also, also she's Russian. or Russian/American. Or Russo/American. Or whatever you like to call it.
An office, 17 macs on a shelf loop around the observer. The sound of the more than 17 mac-fans is giving the observer a tempo to think on. Two young adults, a boldy-wise-wannabe and a good-boy-turned-lucky are discussing instead of finishing the work that is going take them long into the night. The boldy was planning his trip to a remote beautifull place this morning. The lad has resigned to his no-more vacations fate. The lad is surprisingly lucky with women these past weeks, had several encounters turn intimate... Boldy is now saying how inadmissible the lad's behaviour is (going from flower to flower even though he states his intentions) because he is missing out on the most important experiences of love and sharing regardless of the fact that boldy would visit many more flowers given the opportunity. And he calls to names meaningfull to none but the two of them, uses big words in the worse possible way, and still his jelousy is the only speaker and obvious to all but him...
What is his reaction going to be when his beatifull plans for romantic moments will become dreams of things that could have been? Because boldy is the only one that can do the observer's tasks and the observer is going to be history by next week.

The observer smiles and thinks "How can a calm and nice guy like me be so nasty?...what you reap, grows and bites you back in the..."

[This message was edited by Bluhomie on July 26, 2003 at 08:21 AM.]
I am a black cat. I know how to type. I speak three human and two animal languages. Now that you are reading my story you know that I can write. Actually, I hate technology yet it gives me fun. I prefer face to face and non-verbal communication. I devoted my existence to the asthetics of communication. I suffer from human egoism. Nothing surprises me.

I am an 666 years old black cat. I cursed the humanity. I installed black holes in the spirits of human beings.They live in 'de ja vu'. They are amused by the Matrix.Their faces are white as corpses. They like blood.

I am a sleepy black cat. I will have a nap and dream of bloodred surprises.

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