The first meeting was a blast. Next meeting may be in the morning, and is still up for negotiation.
We did a prompt, which I am sharing:
Prompt--
A ne'er-do-well singer goes shopping in a whorehouse.
---ooo---
The gilded doors swung shut behind him, his spurred foot steps clanking against the fancy wood of the floor. He smiled widely in a genteel fashion at all the girls lined up along the bannister above, all of them dressed in finery that displayed their bodily wares well. He tilted his broad rimmed hat to them all, and regarded the woman in charge.
His pockets were entirely empty of any kind of coinage, but the madam, a rather plump woman with ample cleavage and hair done up an a magnificent coif, didn't have to know that.
He approached her, and her overly painted lips thinned. "Well, sir." She said breathily. "See anything you like?"
"I don't rightly know.. They are all so lovely." He said, and sucked in his cheek."Got any ..ah.. free samples?"
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
celloists stop a robbery in 1930 ohio
Although it was a safehouse, they were supposed to have the place all to themselves for the night. Something wasn't right in the house.. There was a creaking of footsteps that shouldn't be there.
"Hank", he with the dark short hair, slipped out of bed and crept along in silence to the source of the intrusive sound.
"Joe", now a blond, shushed and gave a wave silently to the others.. "Bob", weirdly bald, silently pointed to the door that lead to the office.. The floorboards creaked as a weight shifted, somewhere beyond their sight. Footsteps..? "Hank" gave a quick glance in.
There was a tiny window high in the wall which barely helped chase away the gloom; It was latched open to let in what breeze there was on this hot summer night of Ohio. Not unusual, but he frowned: It was plenty big enough to let anyone in.
They each knew the office. It was barely a crawl space hidden behind an wooden door; it held a tiny desk, behind which usually sat a tiny old man called "Jeb". He often wore a transparent green brimmed hat, set low over his bushy white brows. The thing barely held his unruly white hair at bay as he bent his wrinkled head over splayed papers.
Only they had just buried "Jeb" that morning, ancient body found cold in the night. The old man had died a peaceful death, one which "Hank" found he envied at times.
"Hank" looked back at the others, and gave a short nod to "Bob". "Bob" turned to the innocently propped up cello case set in the corner of the hall, and eased it to the ground.
He looked over and smirked. Later he would make a jibe at "Bob's" odd musical tastes, for the case was certainly not filled with gilded wood and singing string.
"Bob" had instead his packed his case with gunpowder and lead.
"Hank", he with the dark short hair, slipped out of bed and crept along in silence to the source of the intrusive sound.
"Joe", now a blond, shushed and gave a wave silently to the others.. "Bob", weirdly bald, silently pointed to the door that lead to the office.. The floorboards creaked as a weight shifted, somewhere beyond their sight. Footsteps..? "Hank" gave a quick glance in.
There was a tiny window high in the wall which barely helped chase away the gloom; It was latched open to let in what breeze there was on this hot summer night of Ohio. Not unusual, but he frowned: It was plenty big enough to let anyone in.
They each knew the office. It was barely a crawl space hidden behind an wooden door; it held a tiny desk, behind which usually sat a tiny old man called "Jeb". He often wore a transparent green brimmed hat, set low over his bushy white brows. The thing barely held his unruly white hair at bay as he bent his wrinkled head over splayed papers.
Only they had just buried "Jeb" that morning, ancient body found cold in the night. The old man had died a peaceful death, one which "Hank" found he envied at times.
"Hank" looked back at the others, and gave a short nod to "Bob". "Bob" turned to the innocently propped up cello case set in the corner of the hall, and eased it to the ground.
He looked over and smirked. Later he would make a jibe at "Bob's" odd musical tastes, for the case was certainly not filled with gilded wood and singing string.
"Bob" had instead his packed his case with gunpowder and lead.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Random Ideas..
It is friday, and I am, once again, delving into the Random Idea Generator:
http://www.lifeformz.com/cgi-bin/idea/idea.fcgi
One must be honest and actually use the first thing the random idea generator comes up with.
Fortunately, today's looks like another fun one for me.
The prompt:
In 1930 s Iowa, celloists stop a burglary in a small office.
I know nothing about what it takes to be a celloist, other than a lot of muscles to tote the durn bulky things about. Not do I know much of Iowa...
Annnnnd..
The prompt doesn't say just how many should be involved.. I could make it absolutely ridiculous..
Stay tuned...
----ooooo-----
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
http://www.lifeformz.com/cgi-bin/idea/idea.fcgi
One must be honest and actually use the first thing the random idea generator comes up with.
Fortunately, today's looks like another fun one for me.
The prompt:
In 1930 s Iowa, celloists stop a burglary in a small office.
I know nothing about what it takes to be a celloist, other than a lot of muscles to tote the durn bulky things about. Not do I know much of Iowa...
Annnnnd..
The prompt doesn't say just how many should be involved.. I could make it absolutely ridiculous..
Stay tuned...
----ooooo-----
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Thursday, January 27, 2011
horde of murderers fight for custody(Mostly) Completed prompt..
Prompt:
"Horde of murders fight for custody of child"
While the dark haired woman in the hospital bed stared dazedly at the ceiling, the young woman stood in the doorway and carefully filled out the required checklist.
Her name tag, clipped prominently to her leather belt, declared her authority: "Brianna Knight, Department as a Child Protection Service Worker Class 3". Long wavy brown hair carefully arranged in a high pony tail, she was determined to prove, without a doubt to her superiors, that she had taken all the appropriate steps before being forced into action in this case.
She glanced across the room. Resting peacefully in the corner, laying beneath special lights in a special container, like a tiny precious bauble, was the reason she was here: a baby, cut from the womb only three days ago.
Noting no ring on either of the prone woman's hands, she checked the martial status as "single", which meant that there was no responsible father to care for the child to be found.
She looked to the glassy eyes and nearly disrobed state of the mother; To the bags filled with fluids that lead to the woman's arms.
The questions: "Have you ever taken drugs", and "Are you currently taking drugs" were obvious-- the woman before her had veins full of the things. Those two facts made the next step simple as could be, and guaranteed that she was completely justified in her decision.
There was no way that woman, with a torn body pumped full of drugs, could be remotely capable of taking care of an infant. She knew that quite well from all her months of training in the Department employee, and she was certainly eager to impress her superiors with excellent performance of duties.
Brianna strode over to the lighted container, scooped up the child, then, simply left the room.
"...Biggest mistake of my life.." She muttered under her breath and sucked in her breath in the panic that she had actually spoken the thought aloud.
She heard a crashing noise in the darkness, and it was close.. far too close. She held her breath, prayed the loud thundering she heard was only her heart, and oh dear oh no what if they could somehow hear it and find me...?
Another crash she jumped back, scraping her back painfully against something unforgiving and rough. Some heavy thump rattled the ground, and the sudden appearance of a rusted heap narrowly missed crushing her toes. She froze, heard rocks falling all about, and somehow found the presence of mind to wonder if the dust cloud around her was immense, impressive -- only she knew it was as lost in the dark as she was.
Before her, unseen, a deep, moronic voice growled,
"Mongo hear sumptin'.."
Many many scrapes against bare earth approached.
She panicked and bolted to her feet. By the time she heard the loud bang atop the car corpse, she was fleeing blindly through the dry..and very noisy.. neglected grass. She heard many gleeful whistles, and glanced behind her.
Her shins struck something solid, and she cursed and bit her lip as she fell from the sudden agony. She made it to her elbows when she felt the heavy boot settle on her upper back. She panted, surprised she could still breathe beneath the immense weight as many lurid catcalls, soo-wies! And wh--oops! filled the night.
"Good gravy Mongo..!"
"Thadda boy..!"
"Flushed her out goooood..!"
She kicked and swung her arms mightily, for all the good it did: she knew she was pinned. Whiteness filled her vision, and she screwed her eyes shut against the sudden brightness. This was not the first time they had caught her in this sick game of theirs; She knew it shined from a large flashlight, a great yellow one shaped much like a gun.
She took a breath, and said the first thing that was in her mind.
"You'll never get away with this!! Assaulting a public official..!"
Her voice was drowned out by a roar of laughter.. Many many voices. Just how many are there, she wondered, and cracked her eyes open a tiny fraction.
"Oh, I think assault is the least of what you deserve, missy." An angry face said, "Now tell me.. Where is my child?"
"Somewhere safe..!"
"Tell me where..." The man hissed. "Little thief.. Stole her right away from my WIFE, you did."
Beyond him she saw many wicked..huge.. very sharp blades glinting in the light..
"Thief of children.." The man spat. "You do know what we in this family do to such vile creatures as yourself..?"
"I-i'm not.."
"MAKE JUSTICE." The man said with finality, and gave a nod over his shoulder.
She cried out. She could only watch as a body flopped over into the dust beside her. The bloody mess of a face was unrecognizable, but the name tag pinned to the breast pocket read:
"Ned Hope, Supervisor, Child Protection Service"
She squinched her eyes shut and wished she was somewhere else. The tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes.
"Now...Where..?"
The question was hissed so quietly, she almost didn't hear it. For a few heartbeats, she said nothing...
As the knives descended upon her as well, that did not last long at all.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
"Horde of murders fight for custody of child"
While the dark haired woman in the hospital bed stared dazedly at the ceiling, the young woman stood in the doorway and carefully filled out the required checklist.
Her name tag, clipped prominently to her leather belt, declared her authority: "Brianna Knight, Department as a Child Protection Service Worker Class 3". Long wavy brown hair carefully arranged in a high pony tail, she was determined to prove, without a doubt to her superiors, that she had taken all the appropriate steps before being forced into action in this case.
She glanced across the room. Resting peacefully in the corner, laying beneath special lights in a special container, like a tiny precious bauble, was the reason she was here: a baby, cut from the womb only three days ago.
Noting no ring on either of the prone woman's hands, she checked the martial status as "single", which meant that there was no responsible father to care for the child to be found.
She looked to the glassy eyes and nearly disrobed state of the mother; To the bags filled with fluids that lead to the woman's arms.
The questions: "Have you ever taken drugs", and "Are you currently taking drugs" were obvious-- the woman before her had veins full of the things. Those two facts made the next step simple as could be, and guaranteed that she was completely justified in her decision.
There was no way that woman, with a torn body pumped full of drugs, could be remotely capable of taking care of an infant. She knew that quite well from all her months of training in the Department employee, and she was certainly eager to impress her superiors with excellent performance of duties.
Brianna strode over to the lighted container, scooped up the child, then, simply left the room.
"...Biggest mistake of my life.." She muttered under her breath and sucked in her breath in the panic that she had actually spoken the thought aloud.
She heard a crashing noise in the darkness, and it was close.. far too close. She held her breath, prayed the loud thundering she heard was only her heart, and oh dear oh no what if they could somehow hear it and find me...?
Another crash she jumped back, scraping her back painfully against something unforgiving and rough. Some heavy thump rattled the ground, and the sudden appearance of a rusted heap narrowly missed crushing her toes. She froze, heard rocks falling all about, and somehow found the presence of mind to wonder if the dust cloud around her was immense, impressive -- only she knew it was as lost in the dark as she was.
Before her, unseen, a deep, moronic voice growled,
"Mongo hear sumptin'.."
Many many scrapes against bare earth approached.
She panicked and bolted to her feet. By the time she heard the loud bang atop the car corpse, she was fleeing blindly through the dry..and very noisy.. neglected grass. She heard many gleeful whistles, and glanced behind her.
Her shins struck something solid, and she cursed and bit her lip as she fell from the sudden agony. She made it to her elbows when she felt the heavy boot settle on her upper back. She panted, surprised she could still breathe beneath the immense weight as many lurid catcalls, soo-wies! And wh--oops! filled the night.
"Good gravy Mongo..!"
"Thadda boy..!"
"Flushed her out goooood..!"
She kicked and swung her arms mightily, for all the good it did: she knew she was pinned. Whiteness filled her vision, and she screwed her eyes shut against the sudden brightness. This was not the first time they had caught her in this sick game of theirs; She knew it shined from a large flashlight, a great yellow one shaped much like a gun.
She took a breath, and said the first thing that was in her mind.
"You'll never get away with this!! Assaulting a public official..!"
Her voice was drowned out by a roar of laughter.. Many many voices. Just how many are there, she wondered, and cracked her eyes open a tiny fraction.
"Oh, I think assault is the least of what you deserve, missy." An angry face said, "Now tell me.. Where is my child?"
"Somewhere safe..!"
"Tell me where..." The man hissed. "Little thief.. Stole her right away from my WIFE, you did."
Beyond him she saw many wicked..huge.. very sharp blades glinting in the light..
"Thief of children.." The man spat. "You do know what we in this family do to such vile creatures as yourself..?"
"I-i'm not.."
"MAKE JUSTICE." The man said with finality, and gave a nod over his shoulder.
She cried out. She could only watch as a body flopped over into the dust beside her. The bloody mess of a face was unrecognizable, but the name tag pinned to the breast pocket read:
"Ned Hope, Supervisor, Child Protection Service"
She squinched her eyes shut and wished she was somewhere else. The tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes.
"Now...Where..?"
The question was hissed so quietly, she almost didn't hear it. For a few heartbeats, she said nothing...
As the knives descended upon her as well, that did not last long at all.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Random idea story..WIP
A/N: As it so happens, I have some unique life experience that would nicely fit within this particular prompt. It is not fair to those involved, nor is it nice to the government agency in question, but I do find it a comforting way to vent my frustrations.
In Riverside, California, CPS is not your friend.
A friend of mine really did get her very first child taken from her, three days after a c-section. She is married, no criminal record, and no drugs. The father is the same. Although the agency could have given the child to the father if there really was an issue with the mother, they instead took the child. They did not inform either parent that they were doing so, and the paperwork is flat-out wrong.
My friends are in court to get their daughter back.
----oooooo----
Prompt:
"Horde of murders fight for custody of child"
While the dark haired woman stared dazedly at the ceiling, she carefully filled out the required checklist of the Department bureau, proving without a doubt to her superiors, who would likely only glance at the inane form anyway, that she had taken all the appropriate steps before being forced into action.
Noting no ring on either of the prone woman's hands, she checked the martial status as "single", which meant that there was no responsible father to care for the child anywhere around.
She glanced across the room. Resting peacefully in the corner, laying beneath special lights in a special container, like a tiny precious bauble, was the reason she, Brianna Knight, was here: a baby, just cut from the womb only three days ago. She looked to the glassy eyes and nearly disrobed state of the mother; To the bags filled with fluids that lead to the woman's arms, which guaranteed that she was completely justified in her decision.
There was no way that woman, with a torn body pumped full of drugs, could be remotely capable of taking care of an infant. She knew that quite well from all her months of training in the Department as a Child Protection Service employee, and she was certainly eager to impress her superiors with excellent performance of duties.
The final questions: "Have you ever taken drugs", and "Are you currently taking drugs" were obvious-- the woman before her had veins full of the things. Those facts alone made the next step simple as could be.
Brianna strode over to the lighted container, scooped up the child, then, simply left the room.
How was she to know that would be the biggest mistake of her life?
"However little I have left.." She muttered under her breath and sucked in her breath in the panic that she had actually spoken the thought aloud. She heard a crashing noise in the darkness, and it was close.. far too close.
Eyes wide, she crouched low, and desperately scrambled behind the broken down car, hoping that would work as a barrier. She held her breath, prayed the loud thundering she heard was only her heart, and oh dear oh no what if they could somehow hear it and find me...?
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
In Riverside, California, CPS is not your friend.
A friend of mine really did get her very first child taken from her, three days after a c-section. She is married, no criminal record, and no drugs. The father is the same. Although the agency could have given the child to the father if there really was an issue with the mother, they instead took the child. They did not inform either parent that they were doing so, and the paperwork is flat-out wrong.
My friends are in court to get their daughter back.
----oooooo----
Prompt:
"Horde of murders fight for custody of child"
While the dark haired woman stared dazedly at the ceiling, she carefully filled out the required checklist of the Department bureau, proving without a doubt to her superiors, who would likely only glance at the inane form anyway, that she had taken all the appropriate steps before being forced into action.
Noting no ring on either of the prone woman's hands, she checked the martial status as "single", which meant that there was no responsible father to care for the child anywhere around.
She glanced across the room. Resting peacefully in the corner, laying beneath special lights in a special container, like a tiny precious bauble, was the reason she, Brianna Knight, was here: a baby, just cut from the womb only three days ago. She looked to the glassy eyes and nearly disrobed state of the mother; To the bags filled with fluids that lead to the woman's arms, which guaranteed that she was completely justified in her decision.
There was no way that woman, with a torn body pumped full of drugs, could be remotely capable of taking care of an infant. She knew that quite well from all her months of training in the Department as a Child Protection Service employee, and she was certainly eager to impress her superiors with excellent performance of duties.
The final questions: "Have you ever taken drugs", and "Are you currently taking drugs" were obvious-- the woman before her had veins full of the things. Those facts alone made the next step simple as could be.
Brianna strode over to the lighted container, scooped up the child, then, simply left the room.
How was she to know that would be the biggest mistake of her life?
"However little I have left.." She muttered under her breath and sucked in her breath in the panic that she had actually spoken the thought aloud. She heard a crashing noise in the darkness, and it was close.. far too close.
Eyes wide, she crouched low, and desperately scrambled behind the broken down car, hoping that would work as a barrier. She held her breath, prayed the loud thundering she heard was only her heart, and oh dear oh no what if they could somehow hear it and find me...?
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Monday, January 24, 2011
Today's random item..
Since I need to write a bit of a story everyday in order to achieve my new year's resolution, I am falling back onto that random idea generator I posted. Now, to be honest, the idea is to use whatever pops up on the first try as the basis for a story.
This is my result for today:
"A horde of murderers fights for child's custody"
This will take some careful planning.. But it IS an intriquing premise.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
This is my result for today:
"A horde of murderers fights for child's custody"
This will take some careful planning.. But it IS an intriquing premise.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Critiques...! They're more important than you think..
I have some serious misgivings in my gut whenever I consider the writing workshop that I have been participating I here in the Inland Empire. So much so, that I fully support another writer-participant in her rebellion, and have no further plans to participate in the workshop itself. We both wish create another writing group, which, I hope, will form soon in the local library.
The problem at the core of this Inlandia group is the lack of any sort of truly good critique, which one does need if one is going to improve as a creative. In that particular workshop, politics have come to the fore, rather than the very writing that participants have actually done. The reason for the group's existence is almost--no, I must be honest-- Has been completely misplaced.
The group's existence now completely revolves about the group's leader's obsession of the state of the virgin deserts here in California, rather than simply... writing.
It is because it is she who is the editor-in-chief of the tiny chap book that Inlandia plans to produce.
My friends have heard me whine and complain about this often. And one even provided a solution for my critiquing problem: an online critiquing community. It is not a perfect solution, but it is better than what I have. I have not explored it completely, but it is, indeed, a good idea.
The address is:
http://www.critters.org/
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
The problem at the core of this Inlandia group is the lack of any sort of truly good critique, which one does need if one is going to improve as a creative. In that particular workshop, politics have come to the fore, rather than the very writing that participants have actually done. The reason for the group's existence is almost--no, I must be honest-- Has been completely misplaced.
The group's existence now completely revolves about the group's leader's obsession of the state of the virgin deserts here in California, rather than simply... writing.
It is because it is she who is the editor-in-chief of the tiny chap book that Inlandia plans to produce.
My friends have heard me whine and complain about this often. And one even provided a solution for my critiquing problem: an online critiquing community. It is not a perfect solution, but it is better than what I have. I have not explored it completely, but it is, indeed, a good idea.
The address is:
http://www.critters.org/
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Small adjustments to the general structure..
..More of that drabble. I managed to fixed the glaring awfulness that I just noticed. Made some sentence structures much more simple.
---break---
Jayson made his way up the flights of the spiral grand staircase; No one stopped his eager progression. He was swimming with equal amounts colorful balloons and innumerable cheerful people; the deafening throbbing of the base echoing up his feet and settling into his bones.
Jayson made his escape from the crowd largely unnoticed; The DJ far below coaxed his favorite song from the boxy turntable, vibrating the very walls in loud celebration. He deftly slipped under the bright warning tape strung across the halls on the third level and soon found the particular, shabby door.
He closed his hand on the ancient doorknob and felt the creak through his entire body as he reluctantly closed it behind him. Only the slightly muffled end of the bouncing thrum of Daft Punk wafted through the chipped paint. Another familiar rhythm soon skillfully faded in, and he grinned.
By the unforgettable base line..it had to be.. He could hear the chorus carried on that mournful Morrison voice, barely a whisper through the bare wood that remained of the wall..People are strange...when you're the stranger...
He looked about the room he entered, and his smile fading slightly. There, right across from him, was the open balcony. The decorative wrought iron did nothing to hide the view; the dizzying height, even from this distance, made him instinctively press his back against the wall. A slight breeze billowed the curtains towards him, almost as if they were welcoming arms.
He shook his head slightly, and forced his eyes away from the beckoning threat before him.
"Cho..?" He called hopefully, voice stupidly a whisper in his own ears, and not likely to be heard by much of anyone over the din.
He could not be alone in this darkened room of broken lights.. Filled as it was with rotted bits of wood, whole chunks missing from the floor, and that dead drop looming before him.
Helped along by the glint of a broken mirror on the far wall, he barely managed picking out a vaguely person-shaped darkness amongst the gloom of the far end.
"Cho..?" He called again, louder this time. "Why'd you want here of all.."
The was a loud metallic click, followed by the sudden brightness. He blinked quickly.
"If you're the one going with my daughter..." He heard a deep gravelly voice say. He watched as the man nursed a curl of smoke from the cigarette at his lips, and couldn't help but notice the crossed legs cradling the shot gun with an ease that spoke of much practice. "You and me...We need to have words..."
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
---break---
Jayson made his way up the flights of the spiral grand staircase; No one stopped his eager progression. He was swimming with equal amounts colorful balloons and innumerable cheerful people; the deafening throbbing of the base echoing up his feet and settling into his bones.
Jayson made his escape from the crowd largely unnoticed; The DJ far below coaxed his favorite song from the boxy turntable, vibrating the very walls in loud celebration. He deftly slipped under the bright warning tape strung across the halls on the third level and soon found the particular, shabby door.
He closed his hand on the ancient doorknob and felt the creak through his entire body as he reluctantly closed it behind him. Only the slightly muffled end of the bouncing thrum of Daft Punk wafted through the chipped paint. Another familiar rhythm soon skillfully faded in, and he grinned.
By the unforgettable base line..it had to be.. He could hear the chorus carried on that mournful Morrison voice, barely a whisper through the bare wood that remained of the wall..People are strange...when you're the stranger...
He looked about the room he entered, and his smile fading slightly. There, right across from him, was the open balcony. The decorative wrought iron did nothing to hide the view; the dizzying height, even from this distance, made him instinctively press his back against the wall. A slight breeze billowed the curtains towards him, almost as if they were welcoming arms.
He shook his head slightly, and forced his eyes away from the beckoning threat before him.
"Cho..?" He called hopefully, voice stupidly a whisper in his own ears, and not likely to be heard by much of anyone over the din.
He could not be alone in this darkened room of broken lights.. Filled as it was with rotted bits of wood, whole chunks missing from the floor, and that dead drop looming before him.
Helped along by the glint of a broken mirror on the far wall, he barely managed picking out a vaguely person-shaped darkness amongst the gloom of the far end.
"Cho..?" He called again, louder this time. "Why'd you want here of all.."
The was a loud metallic click, followed by the sudden brightness. He blinked quickly.
"If you're the one going with my daughter..." He heard a deep gravelly voice say. He watched as the man nursed a curl of smoke from the cigarette at his lips, and couldn't help but notice the crossed legs cradling the shot gun with an ease that spoke of much practice. "You and me...We need to have words..."
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Friday, January 7, 2011
Grammer is tough in english..
..Continuing my work on the drabble, and it's still a bit clunky to me..
---break---
The deafening throbbing of the base echoed up his feet. It was his favorite song the DJ cranked to vibrate the very walls, and it was all he could do to make his way up the three flights on the spiral grand staircase.
No one stopped his eager progression. One moment he was swimming with equal amounts colorful balloons and innumerable cheerful people. The next, he made his escape from the crowd. He deftly slipped under the bright warning tape strung across the halls and selected a particular, shabby door.
He closed his hand on the ancient doorknob and felt the creak through his entire body as he reluctantly closed it behind him. Only the slightly muffled end of the bouncing thrum of Daft Punk wafted through the chipped paint,. Another familiar rhythm skillfully faded in. And he grinned.
By the unforgettable base line..it had to be.. He could hear the chorus carried on that mournful Morrison voice, barely a whisper through the bare wood that remained of the wall..People are strange...
...when you're the stranger...
He looked about the room he entered, and immediately regretted it. He smile faded, but did not die;"The Doors" had the sound that always made him smile.
There, right across from him, was the open balcony. The decorative wrought iron did nothing to hide the view; the dizzying height, even from this distance, made him instinctively press his back against the wall. A slight breeze billowed the curtains towards him, almost as if they were welcoming arms.
He shook his head slightly, and swallowed his bile. Forced his eyes away from the beckoning threat before him, keenly aware of how alone he was.
"Cho..?" He called hopefully, voice stupidly a whisper in his own ears.
He could not be alone in this darkened room of broken lights.. Filled rotted bits of wood, whole chunks missing from the floor, and that dead drop looming before him just over there.
Helped along by the glint of a broken mirror on the far wall, he barely managed picking out a vaguely person-shaped darkness amongst the gloom of the far end.
"Cho..?" He called again, louder this time. "Why'd you want here of all.."
The was a loud metallic click, followed by the sudden brightness. He blinked quickly.
"If you're the one going with my daughter..." He heard a deep gravelly voice say. He watched as the man nursed a curl of smoke from the cigarette at his lips, and couldn't help but notice crossed legs cradling a shot gun with an ease that spoke of much use. "You and me...We need to talk."
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
---break---
The deafening throbbing of the base echoed up his feet. It was his favorite song the DJ cranked to vibrate the very walls, and it was all he could do to make his way up the three flights on the spiral grand staircase.
No one stopped his eager progression. One moment he was swimming with equal amounts colorful balloons and innumerable cheerful people. The next, he made his escape from the crowd. He deftly slipped under the bright warning tape strung across the halls and selected a particular, shabby door.
He closed his hand on the ancient doorknob and felt the creak through his entire body as he reluctantly closed it behind him. Only the slightly muffled end of the bouncing thrum of Daft Punk wafted through the chipped paint,. Another familiar rhythm skillfully faded in. And he grinned.
By the unforgettable base line..it had to be.. He could hear the chorus carried on that mournful Morrison voice, barely a whisper through the bare wood that remained of the wall..People are strange...
...when you're the stranger...
He looked about the room he entered, and immediately regretted it. He smile faded, but did not die;"The Doors" had the sound that always made him smile.
There, right across from him, was the open balcony. The decorative wrought iron did nothing to hide the view; the dizzying height, even from this distance, made him instinctively press his back against the wall. A slight breeze billowed the curtains towards him, almost as if they were welcoming arms.
He shook his head slightly, and swallowed his bile. Forced his eyes away from the beckoning threat before him, keenly aware of how alone he was.
"Cho..?" He called hopefully, voice stupidly a whisper in his own ears.
He could not be alone in this darkened room of broken lights.. Filled rotted bits of wood, whole chunks missing from the floor, and that dead drop looming before him just over there.
Helped along by the glint of a broken mirror on the far wall, he barely managed picking out a vaguely person-shaped darkness amongst the gloom of the far end.
"Cho..?" He called again, louder this time. "Why'd you want here of all.."
The was a loud metallic click, followed by the sudden brightness. He blinked quickly.
"If you're the one going with my daughter..." He heard a deep gravelly voice say. He watched as the man nursed a curl of smoke from the cigarette at his lips, and couldn't help but notice crossed legs cradling a shot gun with an ease that spoke of much use. "You and me...We need to talk."
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
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