AFO Continuing Story -- round 2
Wind River
man didn't drink, but felt he had to order something while he waited. It
wasn't clear why he was expected to meet someone in a dive like this,
but Molly had told him it was important. As he watched the bubbles, he
thought about how she had helped him elude "them". For years, "they"
had been after him, and because of Molly, this was the longest he'd
ever stayed in one place.
A slant of light crossed the room as the door opened, and a tall man
with stringy black hair and tattoos entered. He took a seat in the
opposite corner. Earl glanced at him and was sure this was the person
for whom he'd been waiting. He left his drink and walked over to stand
in front of the man.
"Are you Tony?" he asked.
Tony didn't say anything immediately; instead he found a seat at the
table Earl had just vacated. In prison that question came loaded and
the typical answer was, 'What's it to you.?' Still, the old man hardly
looked ready to attack him with a shiv.
"Yeah," he answered at length.
"Molly told me..." Earl started before Tony gestured him to silence.
"Did that guy just move over here?"
Earl's eyes twitched around the room nervously. "I uh... I wasn't
looking. Maybe?"
"Maybe, right, well talk quite OK? Maybe, he ain't listening and maybe
it don't matter if he hears, but I don't like eavesdroppers."
"Oh dear, I hope it's not one of Them. If They've found me, I'll have
to move again. I'm getting too old for that. I remember when I
first.... But I mustn't bore you with that. Molly sent you, you're that
Tony right?"
"Yeah.”
Tony sat quietly with an expression of great boredom staring at Earl.
Earl was glancing at his beer, Tony, back to his beer and occasionally
at the table. Finally he spoke.
"You know what you're here for right?"
"No, old man, what?"
"No, no, not like that Tony. I know you know what you're here for. I've
got the money. I've. . ."
Earl stared at his beer again, a pain dancing over his cheekbones,
pressing his eyebrows. Finally, he returned his attention to Tony,
recomposing himself.
"I've got it all set for you."
"Good."
"I've got keys, cards, tickets for you if you need them."
"I figure I won't."
"Well just in case, you know. Just in case." And Earl began stroking
the table, nibbling at a corner of his lip as if trying to find words of
encouragement for a child.
Tony remained quite although he was becoming impatient.
- - - - - - - -
Eugene couldn't take his eyes off the pretty bar maid. She had long,
blond hair tied into a ponytail, warm, friendly eyes, and a smile that
lit up Eugene's universe. Plus, she had big boobs. She hadn't so much
as glanced at him, and he doubted she ever would. No one ever looked at him.
He sighed, and went back to nursing his water. He hated alcohol, but he
loved the inspiration that a bar could provide. There were always things
happening, but not tonight it seemed, and he feared he would have to go
home, uninspired.
That is, until the man walked through the door, covered in tattoos. He
was certainly dark, certainly mysterious; one green snake coiled up his
arm. Eugene saw the man walk to a table, and then a few moments later,
an old man joined him. Eugene moved closer so he could hear.
"Come on, Muse," he muttered. "Strike." He crossed his fingers and
wished for drops of inspiration. Something. Anything.
He was disappointed. Though he'd moved closer to their table, they
talked in mumbles and whispers. The tattooed man had a rasp suggesting
he should pack in the cigarettes. Other than the occasional furtive
glance, the older man offered nothing. Just a strange couple, sat
together in the dimly lit corner of the bar.
"Another water?" The barmaid interrupted her glass-stacking duties long
enough to throw a vaguely sarcastic question Eugene's way. He nodded,
aware a verbal reply would stick in his throat.
The two men at the table shared a handshake, their business concluded.
The older man returned to the bar, looking straight through Eugene as he
passed. The trace of a smile glinted in his eyes. Good news for someone,
Eugene thought, nursing his fresh glass of water.
Eugene stared into his glass of water. The night was slipping through
his fingers and he had nothing. Not a single thing to spark his
imagination, it was normally easy to come up with an idea. They came
without much trouble but something about the older man threw him for a curve.
What was it? What about that man stuck in his mind like a popcorn kernel
in a cavity? He wondered until, he felt a cooling sensation. Eugene
looked down and saw the glass tipped on its side. Cool water ran down
the edge of the bar, wetting the front of his pants.
The barmaid scurried over. She had a rag in hand and a dirty look on her
tired face. "At least you didn't break the glass," she said.
He smiled awkwardly at her, and mumbled an apology as she leaned over to
wipe the bar. He tried not to stare at her breasts.
"Could you stare at the left one a bit, it's gettin' jealous," she
deadpanned. Her voice was loud enough for most of the bar to hear, and
he heard laughter behind him. Eugene wasn't even sure how to apologize,
so he excused himself and headed toward the bathroom.
He wasn't surprised that there were no paper towels. No clean ones
anyway; the floor was littered with them. He slipped into the last stall
and began drying his pants. The toilet paper stuck to his fingers and
left tiny white caterpillars on his pleats as he scrubbed at the water
stain. He sighed and sat down. A moment later, he heard the bathroom
door open. Eugene lifted his feet and placed them on the door in front
of him.
He could hear someone moving toward the stalls.
One door banged open and he recoiled, his feet moving from the door. He
froze, certain the man with the tattoos was now hunting him down in the
stall for reasons he couldn't fathom. A poem suddenly occurred to him:
"Here I am, waiting in the stall
paper towels on the floor and writing on the wall
sitting on the toilet, waiting to be caught
thought I was gonna number two, but I guess I better not."
The second door slammed open and he jumped, this time a slow whine
starting to brew from deep inside him and escaping through his nose.
The door to his stall, thankfully locked, began to rattle.
"Leave me alone! I've done nothing!"
A long silence, then, "Mister?"
A female's voice. The barmaid?
"Mister, you in there? Thought you might need a towel or something."
Eugene relaxed and let his breath out, the shaky whine still there. He
stood and opened the door, and took the towel from the barmaid. "Uhhh,
thank you."
"No problem. Remember me in the tip," She said then turned to go.
"Wait!"
"Yes?" said, the barmaid, impatiently, turning back.
"Would you mind telling me your name?"
"Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
"Look you're there with your pants saturated... Try me?"
"I write poetry," said Eugene, looking embarrassed disclosing it. "I
came tonight looking for inspiration. What you just did has given me a
great idea for a poem. I need your name for that."
"Well that's a line I ain't heard before. Are you any good at it?"
Eugene let a smile expand his face. He looked much better that way.
"They tell me I not too bad. I've won some prizes."
"Well, what do you know? A real artist? I always wanted to be a painter.
Fat chance."
Eugene finished drying his trousers and handed the towel back. "You
really should give it chance, you know. You could be terrific at it.
When I get really down I do charcoal sketches."
----------
"I expected them to talk in the toilet. It made sense they'd talk in the toilet."
Doe adjusted his glasses and sat back in his leather chair. "Mr. Frost,"
he said. "I hired you for your expertise and your knowledge of the town.
Is it too much to ask that you at least monitor the correct
conversation. I did not pay you so that I could listen to two people
barely out of adolescence discussing their frustrated wishes to be Ralph
Waldo Emerson and Mary fucking Cassatt."
"I like Cassatt," Frost replied. "Impressionist."
"You are not making much of an impression on me, Mr. Frost. And you are
not here for your general knowledge."
"I can't bug a whole bar. I had to make some guesses."
"Are you new at this, Kelvin? Am I your training case?"
"I'm the best private investigator in town."
"It's a small town."
Kelvin's dream had always been to become a PI, even if it meant putting
up with some jerk insulting him. Mr. Doe was a fool, Kelvin knew it, and
as soon as he made a name for himself, he planned on getting out from
under his thumb.
"You don't understand the workings of a small town," Kelvin said.
"People everywhere are the same."
"Not true. Hillary may act like an adolescent, but she's got the info we need."
"What makes you think so?"
"She knows every man in town -- intimately."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Mr. Doe said with a smirk.
"At one time, she was interested in me, or maybe I should say my money."
John Doe leaned forward. "Ah, now we're getting somewhere."
"What d'ya mean?"
"She likes money, and she's probably got dirt on everyone, either from
working the bar or from working the bedroom."
"What are you suggesting?"
"You really are in training, aren't you? We simply pay her off, unless
your connection with her affords you another method."
"I don't want her hurt."
"Still sweet on her, huh?"
"No." Kelvin looked away to avoid eye contact.
"Then get the scoop on every person who set foot in that bar last night.
I know he was there, and I'm damn tired of him eluding me all the time."
Patrick Null
The complete story is here, then my portion is at the bottom.
"Yeah."
"No, old man, what?"
"Good."
"Wait!"
"Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
----------
"What d'ya mean?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"Eluding"-what an ironic word. Kelvin has a recurring dream, and in it, he's
running toward something or someone. But no matter how fast he runs, he gets
no closer. And he always wakes up with the distinct impression that his goal
is unreachable.
What was eluding him exactly? A new job? A girlfriend? Financial freedom? He
had no idea, but he suspected it was bigger than that.
He needed to clear his thoughts of Doe, his dream, and so he went to the
High Note restaurant, half karaoke bar and half restaurant. When he walked
in, the sound of singing drew him to the bar. A woman was on stage, and she
was beautiful. Her voice was exceptional, melodic, and even though he had
pledged his heart to another woman long ago, he found himself being
mesmerized by her singing anyway. He ordered a drink while he waited. When
she finished, the few people in the audience applauded.
He approached her. "Good voice."
"Thanks. I usually cook next door in the restaurant, but when it's slow,
they let me come over here and sing." She looked down and sighed. "It seems
like it's always slow."
"Do you mind if I ask you a quick question?"
"No."
"Were you at the Empty Mug bar last night?"
"No."
"Oh. Then, you don't know an old man by the name of Earl?"
She suddenly looked up. Her eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?"
"Nobody. A friend."
"I see. Sorry, I don't know him."
It was to be expected. He bid her farewell, tipped his hat, and walked out.
She was lying. He knew it, could feel it.
"Mister! Hey, mister!"
He turned. The singer was running after him. "Hey, mister, you forgot to pay
for your--"
That's when the restaurant blew up.
Anopheles
"Patrick Null" wrote:
> Time to stir things up. I'm evil.
I hope your remember how the previous effort disintegrated, Patrick.
Patrick Null
"Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
news:bacfh2$ridba$1...@ID-34438.news.dfncis.de...
>
> "Patrick Null" wrote:
> > Time to stir things up. I'm evil.
>
> I hope your remember how the previous effort >disintegrated, Patrick.
How so?
Actually, never mind. Doesn't matter. I just realized that I'm not going
to have as near as much time as I thought. So, I'm dropping out. Michael,
you can take it from where Sue left off.
Anopheles
I hope this isn't because of me?
Alaric
--
"I said, "There is no justice," as they dragged me out the door,
Judge said, "This isn't a court of justice, son. This is a court of law."
Billy Bragg, "Rotting On Remand."
"Patrick Null" <whitew...@msn.com> wrote in message
news:bad8n8$s0rub$1...@ID-173005.news.dfncis.de...
michael
Alaric
--
"I said, "There is no justice," as they dragged me out the door,
Judge said, "This isn't a court of justice, son. This is a court of law."
Billy Bragg, "Rotting On Remand."
"michael" <michaelj...@ntlworld.com> wrote in message
news:Szvya.3056$9A3....@newsfep1-gui.server.ntli.net...
Joel Crum
@titan.btinternet.com:
>> > > Actually, never mind. Doesn't matter. I just realized that I'm not
>>
>> > > going to have as near as much time as I thought. So, I'm dropping
>> > > out.
>> > > Michael, you can take it from where Sue left off.
>> >
>> >
>> > I hope this isn't because of me?
>> >
>> >
>> Either way, I'm submitting nothing until this is resolved.
>
> Quite right, sir.
Me either! In fact I'm going to take words *off* my challenge entry until
I know what's going on.
(OK OK that *was* my only option anyway.)
- Joel C.
Bart Hopson
Sorry, unacceptable, Pat. You're in and there simply is no getting
out unless you have a note from your mother. I'm positive Barry was
kidding, so if this was a knee jerk reaction to Barry's joke, we'll
string HIM up (he likes that sort of thing).
My thoughts are that Michael should pick up where you left off and
let's keep this thing rolling, with the story and characters firmly in
mind.
Your character has become one of the main characters in the piece and
I don't think I'd like to continue if you're not a part of it.
Like I said, no excuses, where's your homework?
Michael, you're up.
Bart
Alaric
--
"I said, "There is no justice," as they dragged me out the door,
Judge said, "This isn't a court of justice, son. This is a court of law."
Billy Bragg, "Rotting On Remand."
"Bart Hopson" <bart_...@hotmail.com> wrote in message
news:14974d3e.03052...@posting.google.com...
Wind River
Bart's absolutely right, ya know.
Patrick stays.
Michael continues.
Barry starts adding southern hemisphere smiles. (:
Patrick Null
<sigh>
Such torture, having to write.
<G>
You're up, Michael.
Sorry for the mess, guys.
"Bart Hopson" <bart_...@hotmail.com> wrote in message
news:14974d3e.03052...@posting.google.com...
Alaric
Someone needed to shake the piece up a bit. I'm glad Patrick did. But we
don't want to turn this into a succession of cliffhanger endings. What Barry
was saying good-naturedly is that the last effort of this sort disintegrated
in oneupmanship. Everybody tried to leave the next writer in a difficult
position. I stress, though, that I think this particular jump is fine. Hey,
we're learning as we go and no rule is hard and fast.
--
"I said, "There is no justice," as they dragged me out the door,
Judge said, "This isn't a court of justice, son. This is a court of law."
Billy Bragg, "Rotting On Remand."
"Wind River" <wind...@voyager.net> wrote in message
news:3ECBC9D4...@voyager.net...
Patrick Null
"Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:bagiqd$m7p$1...@titan.btinternet.com...
> Just a thought in reference to Barry's point.
>
> Someone needed to shake the piece up a bit. I'm glad Patrick did. But we
> don't want to turn this into a succession of cliffhanger endings. What
Barry
> was saying good-naturedly is that the last effort of this sort
disintegrated
> in oneupmanship. Everybody tried to leave the next writer in a difficult
> position. I stress, though, that I think this particular jump is fine.
Hey,
> we're learning as we go and no rule is hard and fast.
See, now I wish I had had a reference point for this. I wasn't here for the
last collaborative story, so I had no idea what happened. If I had known
that, I might not have written that part to begin with because what this
story does NOT need is everyone trying to outdo each other with cliffhanger
endings.
That hadn't even occured to me that would happen when I posted. I was just
doing it because it was fun and I wanted to see what would happen.
My apologies, everyone, including to Barry.
Pat(who can get really hot headed sometimes, but is really a decent guy.
Sometimes.)
Alaric
> You guys are too kind. Well, I guess if I HAVE to stay, I will.
>
> <sigh>
>
> Such torture, having to write.
>
> <G>
>
> You're up, Michael.
>
> Sorry for the mess, guys.
Pat, you're worth your weight in gold around here. Have some faith in
yourself.
I OWN the self-doubt chair here anyway, and I'm not sharing it with ANYONE.
Huw Lyan Thomas
> I OWN the self-doubt chair here anyway, and I'm not sharing it with ANYONE.
You seem very sure of yourself on that point.
--
Huw
http://huw.hexlibris.com
Alaric
"Huw Lyan Thomas" <huwSp...@hexlibris.com> wrote in message
news:MPG.1935e9be...@192.168.0.1...
> alar...@btinternet.com wrote:
>
> > I OWN the self-doubt chair here anyway, and I'm not sharing it with
ANYONE.
>
> You seem very sure of yourself on that point.
Sorry. Didn't mean to offend. I'll move.
Patrick Null
>
> "Huw Lyan Thomas" <huwSp...@hexlibris.com> wrote in message
> news:MPG.1935e9be...@192.168.0.1...
> > alar...@btinternet.com wrote:
> >
> > > I OWN the self-doubt chair here anyway, and I'm >>>not sharing it with
> ANYONE.
> >
> > You seem very sure of yourself on that point.
>
>
> Sorry. Didn't mean to offend. I'll move.
Um....if you don't mind, Alaric, if it's not too much trouble....can I have
the chair now? Please? If it's not too much trouble, that is.
Wind River
>
> "Patrick Null" <whitew...@msn.com> wrote in message
> news:bagip2$sbnq3$1...@ID-173005.news.dfncis.de...
> > You guys are too kind. Well, I guess if I HAVE to stay, I will.
> >
> > <sigh>
> >
> > Such torture, having to write.
> >
> > <G>
> >
> > You're up, Michael.
> >
> > Sorry for the mess, guys.
>
> Pat, you're worth your weight in gold around here. Have some faith in
> yourself.
>
> I OWN the self-doubt chair here anyway, and I'm not sharing it with ANYONE.
You stole that chair from me. I want it back. That is unless you think I
have too much doubt for it or too much.
Wind River
>
> You guys are too kind. Well, I guess if I HAVE to stay, I will.
I guess we are. We should've used duck tape to keep you here instead of rope.
Patrick Null
I can chew through duck tape.
Wind River
>
> "Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
> news:bagiqd$m7p$1...@titan.btinternet.com...
> > Just a thought in reference to Barry's point.
> >
> > Someone needed to shake the piece up a bit. I'm glad Patrick did. But we
> > don't want to turn this into a succession of cliffhanger endings. What
> Barry
> > was saying good-naturedly is that the last effort of this sort
> disintegrated
> > in oneupmanship. Everybody tried to leave the next writer in a difficult
> > position. I stress, though, that I think this particular jump is fine.
> Hey,
> > we're learning as we go and no rule is hard and fast.
>
> See, now I wish I had had a reference point for this. I wasn't here for the
> last collaborative story, so I had no idea what happened. If I had known
> that, I might not have written that part to begin with because what this
> story does NOT need is everyone trying to outdo each other with cliffhanger
> endings.
I wasn't here for it, but I read it.
> That hadn't even occured to me that would happen when I posted. I was just
> doing it because it was fun and I wanted to see what would happen.
What you wrote isn't a problem!
> My apologies, everyone, including to Barry.
>
> Pat(who can get really hot headed sometimes, but is really a decent guy.
We know that! Tell us something new ... like, uh ... well, I guess we
shouldn't pry.
Patrick Null
> > Pat(who can get really hot headed sometimes, but is really a decent guy.
>
> We know that! Tell us something new ... like, uh ... >well, I guess we
> shouldn't pry.
I haven't changed my underwear in three days.
Is that too personal?
Alaric
I'm really sorry. I always cause so much trouble.
Alaric
Heh. It's duct tape.
Duck tape would be very small.
Wind River
You win the horror story challenge.
Wind River
>
> "Wind River" <wind...@voyager.net> wrote in message
> news:3ECBDD6C...@voyager.net...
> > Patrick Null wrote:
> > >
> > > You guys are too kind. Well, I guess if I HAVE to stay, I will.
> >
> > I guess we are. We should've used duck tape to keep you here instead of
> rope.
>
> Heh. It's duct tape.
>
> Duck tape would be very small.
Hey, the tape I buy has a picture of a goofy looking duck on the label,
and it's called Duck Tape. I know ... I should be calling it Duck Tape
brand duct tape.
Sue
Wind River
>
> "Wind River" <wind...@voyager.net> wrote in message
> news:3ECBDCE5...@voyager.net...
> > Alaric wrote:
> > >
> > > "Patrick Null" <whitew...@msn.com> wrote in message
> > > news:bagip2$sbnq3$1...@ID-173005.news.dfncis.de...
> > > > You guys are too kind. Well, I guess if I HAVE to stay, I will.
> > > >
> > > > <sigh>
> > > >
> > > > Such torture, having to write.
> > > >
> > > > <G>
> > > >
> > > > You're up, Michael.
> > > >
> > > > Sorry for the mess, guys.
> > >
> > > Pat, you're worth your weight in gold around here. Have some faith in
> > > yourself.
> > >
> > > I OWN the self-doubt chair here anyway, and I'm not sharing it with
> ANYONE.
> >
> > You stole that chair from me. I want it back. That is unless you think I
> > have too much doubt for it or too much.
>
> I'm really sorry. I always cause so much trouble.
No, it's all my fault. Here, I'll take the chair, and you can have the throne.
Alaric
I've already been today.
nativelaw
"Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:bagqjg$lur$1...@hercules.btinternet.com...
That's it! I'm taking all the damn furniture out of there. You're
going to have to stand for the duration of this story.
OK... not you, Sue <g>.
Anopheles
"Alaric" wrote:
> Just a thought in reference to Barry's point.
>
> Someone needed to shake the piece up a bit. I'm glad Patrick did. But we
> don't want to turn this into a succession of cliffhanger endings. What
Barry
> was saying good-naturedly is that the last effort of this sort
disintegrated
> in oneupmanship. Everybody tried to leave the next writer in a difficult
> position. I stress, though, that I think this particular jump is fine.
Hey,
> we're learning as we go and no rule is hard and fast.
Well, I came online today all ready to hand in my notice. I didn't intend to
cause offence but I do lack many things and tact is high on the list. Alaric
is correct in defining my message. I thought Patrick was here at that time
of the last AFO story. My mistake. I remember that one as a good thing
spoiled by sudden jumps and oneupmanship. I was as guilty then as anyone.
I did send an email apologising to Patrick and decided to jump ship when I
got no reply. Now, it seems to have resolved itself mainly because, I
suppose, I wasn't here to screw it up.
So, I apologise to everyone for doing what I do best.
Now that's the last grovelling you're getting out of me for another year.
OK?
Anopheles
nativelaw
"Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
news:bagv8f$st2t6$6...@ID-34438.news.dfncis.de...
hmm...not so fast. a girl could get to like this grovelling stuff.
Sarah
Alaric
----- Original Message -----
From: "Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au>
Newsgroups: alt.fiction.original
Sent: Wednesday, May 21, 2003 11:39 PM
Subject: Re: AFO Continuing Story -- round 2
> Now, it seems to have resolved itself mainly because, I
> suppose, I wasn't here to screw it up.
>
> So, I apologise to everyone for doing what I do best.
>
> Now that's the last grovelling you're getting out of me for another year.
> OK?
Two fine guys and pillocks... er... pillars of AFO are not PERMITTED to fall
out, particularly when neither one did a bloody thing wrong.
Alaric
--
"I said, "There is no justice," as they dragged me out the door,
Judge said, "This isn't a court of justice, son. This is a court of law."
Billy Bragg, "Rotting On Remand."
"Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
news:bagv8f$st2t6$6...@ID-34438.news.dfncis.de...
Anopheles
I told you, Sarah, hairy backs put me off... almost.
Anopheles
"Alaric" wrote:
> Oh, and Pat doesn't receive messages quite often, cause of his crap
server.
Ah, so desuka!
Now I understand.
My tennis game is the same.
Patrick Null
Barry, my friend, I never got your E-mail. If I had, I would have responded
quickly, I assure you. I can't hold grudges, man, especially for something
as trivial as this. It's just not in my nature. You didn't send it to my
webtv address, I suppose? I hardly ever check that anymore. If not, maybe
it got lost in all the spam I seem to get.
Anyway, it's all good.
Anopheles
Thanks, Pat. It was the white wolf thingy I sent it to.
No problem this end.
Wind River
>
> "Alaric" wrote:
> > Just a thought in reference to Barry's point.
> >
> > Someone needed to shake the piece up a bit. I'm glad Patrick did. But we
> > don't want to turn this into a succession of cliffhanger endings. What
> Barry
> > was saying good-naturedly is that the last effort of this sort
> disintegrated
> > in oneupmanship. Everybody tried to leave the next writer in a difficult
> > position. I stress, though, that I think this particular jump is fine.
> Hey,
> > we're learning as we go and no rule is hard and fast.
>
> Well, I came online today all ready to hand in my notice. I didn't intend to
You aren't allowed to hand in your notice any more than Patrick is. So there!
> cause offence but I do lack many things and tact is high on the list. Alaric
> is correct in defining my message. I thought Patrick was here at that time
> of the last AFO story. My mistake. I remember that one as a good thing
> spoiled by sudden jumps and oneupmanship. I was as guilty then as anyone.
> I did send an email apologising to Patrick and decided to jump ship when I
> got no reply. Now, it seems to have resolved itself mainly because, I
> suppose, I wasn't here to screw it up.
>
> So, I apologise to everyone for doing what I do best.
>
> Now that's the last grovelling you're getting out of me for another year.
> OK?
You do it so well though.
michael
What's going on? Is it me? And please can we have a repost up to now so I
can get me thinking whatsit on?
Patrick Null
"michael" <michaelj...@ntlworld.com> wrote in message
news:1x_ya.878$Y57....@newsfep1-win.server.ntli.net...
> AAGGGHHH!!!
>
> What's going on? Is it me? And please can we have a repost up to now so I
> can get me thinking whatsit on?
Sure, Michael, here it is, in all its unfinished glory:
"Patrick Null" <whitew...@msn.com> wrote in message
news:bace3s$rde7h$1...@ID-173005.news.dfncis.de...
Time to stir things up. I'm evil.
The complete story is here, then my portion is at the bottom.
Earl was watching tiny beer bubbles cling to the mug's sides. The old man
didn't drink, but felt he had to order something while he waited. It wasn't
clear why he was expected to meet someone in a dive like this, but Molly had
told him it was important. As he watched the bubbles, he thought about how
she had helped him elude "them". For years, "they" had been after him, and
because of Molly, this was the longest he'd ever stayed in one place.
A slant of light crossed the room as the door opened, and a tall man with
stringy black hair and tattoos entered. He took a seat in the opposite
corner. Earl glanced at him and was sure this was the person for whom he'd
been waiting. He left his drink and walked over to stand in front of the
man.
"Are you Tony?" he asked.
Tony didn't say anything immediately; instead he found a seat at the table
Earl had just vacated. In prison that question came loaded and the typical
answer was, 'What's it to you.?' Still, the old man hardly looked ready to
attack him with a shiv.
"Yeah," he answered at length.
"Molly told me..." Earl started before Tony gestured him to silence.
"Did that guy just move over here?"
Earl's eyes twitched around the room nervously. "I uh... I wasn't looking.
Maybe?"
"Maybe, right, well talk quite OK? Maybe, he ain't listening and maybe it
don't matter if he hears, but I don't like eavesdroppers."
"Oh dear, I hope it's not one of Them. If They've found me, I'll have to
move again. I'm getting too old for that. I remember when I first.... But
I mustn't bore you with that. Molly sent you, you're that Tony right?"
"Yeah."
Tony sat quietly with an expression of great boredom staring at Earl.
Earl was glancing at his beer, Tony, back to his beer and occasionally at
the table. Finally he spoke.
"You know what you're here for right?"
"No, old man, what?"
"No, no, not like that Tony. I know you know what you're here for. I've got
the money. I've. . ."
Earl stared at his beer again, a pain dancing over his cheekbones, pressing
his eyebrows. Finally, he returned his attention to Tony, recomposing
himself.
"I've got it all set for you."
"Good."
"I've got keys, cards, tickets for you if you need them."
"I figure I won't."
"Well just in case, you know. Just in case." And Earl began stroking the
table, nibbling at a corner of his lip as if trying to find words of
encouragement for a child.
Tony remained quite although he was becoming impatient.
- - - - - - - -
Eugene couldn't take his eyes off the pretty bar maid. She had long, blond
hair tied into a ponytail, warm, friendly eyes, and a smile that lit up
Eugene's universe. Plus, she had big boobs. She hadn't so much as glanced at
him, and he doubted she ever would. No one ever looked at him.
He sighed, and went back to nursing his water. He hated alcohol, but he
loved the inspiration that a bar could provide. There were always things
happening, but not tonight it seemed, and he feared he would have to go
home, uninspired.
That is, until the man walked through the door, covered in tattoos. He was
certainly dark, certainly mysterious; one green snake coiled up his arm.
Eugene saw the man walk to a table, and then a few moments later, an old man
joined him. Eugene moved closer so he could hear.
"Come on, Muse," he muttered. "Strike." He crossed his fingers and wished
for drops of inspiration. Something. Anything.
He was disappointed. Though he'd moved closer to their table, they talked in
mumbles and whispers. The tattooed man had a rasp suggesting he should pack
in the cigarettes. Other than the occasional furtive glance, the older man
offered nothing. Just a strange couple, sat together in the dimly lit corner
of the bar.
"Another water?" The barmaid interrupted her glass-stacking duties long
enough to throw a vaguely sarcastic question Eugene's way. He nodded, aware
a verbal reply would stick in his throat.
The two men at the table shared a handshake, their business concluded. The
older man returned to the bar, looking straight through Eugene as he passed.
The trace of a smile glinted in his eyes. Good news for someone, Eugene
thought, nursing his fresh glass of water.
Eugene stared into his glass of water. The night was slipping through his
fingers and he had nothing. Not a single thing to spark his imagination, it
was normally easy to come up with an idea. They came without much trouble
but something about the older man threw him for a curve.
What was it? What about that man stuck in his mind like a popcorn kernel in
a cavity? He wondered until, he felt a cooling sensation. Eugene looked down
and saw the glass tipped on its side. Cool water ran down the edge of the
bar, wetting the front of his pants.
The barmaid scurried over. She had a rag in hand and a dirty look on her
tired face. "At least you didn't break the glass," she said.
He smiled awkwardly at her, and mumbled an apology as she leaned over to
wipe the bar. He tried not to stare at her breasts.
"Could you stare at the left one a bit, it's gettin' jealous," she
deadpanned. Her voice was loud enough for most of the bar to hear, and he
heard laughter behind him. Eugene wasn't even sure how to apologize, so he
excused himself and headed toward the bathroom.
He wasn't surprised that there were no paper towels. No clean ones anyway;
the floor was littered with them. He slipped into the last stall and began
drying his pants. The toilet paper stuck to his fingers and left tiny white
caterpillars on his pleats as he scrubbed at the water stain. He sighed and
sat down. A moment later, he heard the bathroom door open. Eugene lifted his
feet and placed them on the door in front of him.
He could hear someone moving toward the stalls.
One door banged open and he recoiled, his feet moving from the door. He
froze, certain the man with the tattoos was now hunting him down in the
stall for reasons he couldn't fathom. A poem suddenly occurred to him:
"Here I am, waiting in the stall
paper towels on the floor and writing on the wall
sitting on the toilet, waiting to be caught
thought I was gonna number two, but I guess I better not."
The second door slammed open and he jumped, this time a slow whine starting
to brew from deep inside him and escaping through his nose.
The door to his stall, thankfully locked, began to rattle.
"Leave me alone! I've done nothing!"
A long silence, then, "Mister?"
A female's voice. The barmaid?
"Mister, you in there? Thought you might need a towel or something."
Eugene relaxed and let his breath out, the shaky whine still there. He
stood and opened the door, and took the towel from the barmaid. "Uhhh,
thank you."
"No problem. Remember me in the tip," She said then turned to go.
"Wait!"
"Yes?" said, the barmaid, impatiently, turning back.
"Would you mind telling me your name?"
"Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
"Look you're there with your pants saturated... Try me?"
"I write poetry," said Eugene, looking embarrassed disclosing it. "I came
tonight looking for inspiration. What you just did has given me a great idea
for a poem. I need your name for that."
"Well that's a line I ain't heard before. Are you any good at it?"
Eugene let a smile expand his face. He looked much better that way.
"They tell me I not too bad. I've won some prizes."
"Well, what do you know? A real artist? I always wanted to be a painter.
Fat chance."
Eugene finished drying his trousers and handed the towel back. "You really
should give it chance, you know. You could be terrific at it. When I get
really down I do charcoal sketches."
----------
"I expected them to talk in the toilet. It made sense they'd talk in the
toilet."
Doe adjusted his glasses and sat back in his leather chair. "Mr. Frost," he
said. "I hired you for your expertise and your knowledge of the town. Is it
too much to ask that you at least monitor the correct conversation. I did
not pay you so that I could listen to two people barely out of adolescence
discussing their frustrated wishes to be Ralph Waldo Emerson and Mary
fucking Cassatt."
"I like Cassatt," Frost replied. "Impressionist."
"You are not making much of an impression on me, Mr. Frost. And you are not
here for your general knowledge."
"I can't bug a whole bar. I had to make some guesses."
"Are you new at this, Kelvin? Am I your training case?"
"I'm the best private investigator in town."
"It's a small town."
Kelvin's dream had always been to become a PI, even if it meant putting up
with some jerk insulting him. Mr. Doe was a fool, Kelvin knew it, and as
soon as he made a name for himself, he planned on getting out from under his
thumb.
"You don't understand the workings of a small town," Kelvin said.
"People everywhere are the same."
"Not true. Hillary may act like an adolescent, but she's got the info we
need."
"What makes you think so?"
"She knows every man in town -- intimately."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Mr. Doe said with a smirk.
"At one time, she was interested in me, or maybe I should say my money."
John Doe leaned forward. "Ah, now we're getting somewhere."
"What d'ya mean?"
"She likes money, and she's probably got dirt on everyone, either from
working the bar or from working the bedroom."
"What are you suggesting?"
"You really are in training, aren't you? We simply pay her off, unless your
connection with her affords you another method."
"I don't want her hurt."
"Still sweet on her, huh?"
"No." Kelvin looked away to avoid eye contact.
"Then get the scoop on every person who set foot in that bar last night. I
know he was there, and I'm damn tired of him eluding me all the time."
"Eluding"-what an ironic word. Kelvin has a recurring dream, and in it, he's
running toward something or someone. But no matter how fast he runs, he gets
no closer. And he always wakes up with the distinct impression that his goal
is unreachable.
What was eluding him exactly? A new job? A girlfriend? Financial freedom? He
had no idea, but he suspected it was bigger than that.
He needed to clear his thoughts of Doe, his dream, and so he went to the
High Note restaurant, half karaoke bar and half restaurant. When he walked
in, the sound of singing drew him to the bar. A woman was on stage, and she
was beautiful. Her voice was exceptional, melodic, and even though he had
pledged his heart to another woman long ago, he found himself being
mesmerized by her singing anyway. He ordered a drink while he waited. When
she finished, the few people in the audience applauded.
He approached her. "Good voice."
"Thanks. I usually cook next door in the restaurant, but when it's slow,
they let me come over here and sing." She looked down and sighed. "It seems
like it's always slow."
"Do you mind if I ask you a quick question?"
"No."
"Were you at the Empty Mug bar last night?"
"No."
"Oh. Then, you don't know an old man by the name of Earl?"
She suddenly looked up. Her eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?"
"Nobody. A friend."
"I see. Sorry, I don't know him."
It was to be expected. He bid her farewell, tipped his hat, and walked out.
She was lying. He knew it, could feel it.
"Mister! Hey, mister!"
He turned. The singer was running after him. "Hey, mister, you forgot to pay
for your--"
That's when the restaurant blew up.
Patrick Null
"Bart Hopson" <bart_...@hotmail.com> wrote in message
news:14974d3e.03052...@posting.google.com...
> "Patrick Null" <whitew...@msn.com> wrote in message
news:<bad8n8$s0rub$1...@ID-173005.news.dfncis.de>...
> > "Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
> > news:bacfh2$ridba$1...@ID-34438.news.dfncis.de...
> > >
> > > "Patrick Null" wrote:
> > > > Time to stir things up. I'm evil.
> > >
> > > I hope your remember how the previous effort >disintegrated, Patrick.
> >
> > How so?
> >
> > Actually, never mind. Doesn't matter. I just realized that I'm not
going
> > to have as near as much time as I thought. So, I'm dropping out.
Michael,
> > you can take it from where Sue left off.
>
>
> Sorry, unacceptable, Pat. You're in and there simply is no getting
> out unless you have a note from your mother. I'm positive Barry was
> kidding, so if this was a knee jerk reaction to Barry's joke, we'll
> string HIM up (he likes that sort of thing).
>
> My thoughts are that Michael should pick up where you left off and
> let's keep this thing rolling, with the story and characters firmly in
> mind.
>
> Your character has become one of the main characters in the piece and
> I don't think I'd like to continue if you're not a part of it.
>
> Like I said, no excuses, where's your homework?
>
> Michael, you're up.
>
> Bart
michael
Not sure where to take this next, so I'll need a few hours to think about
it. Should have something up before the Weekend (relax, I'm talking about
the story, OK?)
Wind River
This sounds familiar. Have you been talking to Barry and Alaric?
michael
God, no! Why would I do a damn fool thing like that, eh?
300 words, right? OK then.
michael
*************************
"Yeah."
"No, old man, what?"
"Good."
"Wait!"
"Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
----------
"What d'ya mean?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"No."
"No."
"Nobody. A friend."
"Mister! Hey, mister!"
Had Shelley not believed that honesty was the best policy before, she needed
no further proof. Had she not pursued the blond stranger for the two whole
dollars he owed, she'd have been carted away dispassionately, a zip-up bag
on a trolley for dissection and analysis. As it was, she dabbed at the cuts
on her knees and elbows, sustained when the force of the blast threw her
horizontally to the sidewalk, and waited to give statement after statement
to the police officers that milled around with undeniable self-importance.
She could sense their eyes homing in on her breasts, her ass. Sunglasses
don't prevent us knowing what you're eyeing up, boys.
She looked at the smouldering shop front and the cavalcade of officials
darting here and there. Like flies around shit, she thought. Now all we
need's a TV crew.
The blond stranger was nowhere to be seen, lost in the gawping crowds.
Tourists and locals alike held whirring video cameras; flash bulbs blinked
bright against the ominous sky. Some stuffed fast food down their throats as
they watched, waiting for more evidence of carnage.
She shook her head and walked away, aware of the weakness in her legs and an
emptiness filling her stomach. All she wanted was to see her daughter. She
didn't look back to see if one of the many police were following her. Her
statement would be the same tomorrow as today. Right now, she needed Ela
tight against her chest.
She caught the #16 bus, light-headed and oblivious to the stares her wounds
attracted, and made for Molly Parker's house, hoping she'd be prepared to
wait a few days for the babysitting fee.
The tears; the shakes. Neither came until she left the bus.
Joel Crum
while. It's like telling a story and reading it at the same time!
I've tied off the Tony / Earl conversation. Nothing really shocking, it
seems Earl and Molly are stealing some files. Tony's doing the dirty
work but he's not in on all the details. I figure when we get around to
the files they'll be handy for introducing some plot detail. Alternately
the heist could be thwarted - that might draw Tony deeper in.
I whacked about five words out of my earlier contribution. They had the
characters moving in a way that conflicted with other sections. Derrick
is up next.
The story:
_________________________________________________________________________
Earl was watching tiny beer bubbles cling to the mug's sides. The old man
didn't drink, but felt he had to order something while he waited. It
wasn't clear why he was expected to meet someone in a dive like this,
but Molly had told him it was important. As he watched the bubbles, he
thought about how she had helped him elude "them". For years, "they" had
been after him, and because of Molly, this was the longest he'd ever
stayed in one place.
A slant of light crossed the room as the door opened, and a tall man with
stringy black hair and tattoos entered. He took a seat in the opposite
corner. Earl glanced at him and was sure this was the person for whom
he'd been waiting. He left his drink and walked over to stand in front
of the man.
"Are you Tony?" he asked.
Tony didn't say anything immediately. In prison that question came loaded
and the typical answer was, 'What's it to you?' Still, the old man hardly
"Yeah."
"No, old man, what?"
"Good."
Tony remained quite although he was becoming impatient. Earl had some
demons. Tony would've said it was just age except here he was with the
old geezer finally, furtively, pulling a fat envelope out of his pocket.
The package made a whispery hiss against the polished surface of the
table as Earl slid it to him. Tony examined the contents silently.
Earl filled in a few details. "The bigger key is to an old blue Ford
parked around the block. The smaller one's for the office. Don't use it
until you've swiped the security card; there's an alarm. Get in; grab
the files labeled 'Project Hemmingway' and 'Bartlet'. Get out; lose the
Ford.
"If anything goes wrong, and I mean anything, use those plane tickets and
the fake ID to lose yourself. If you do the job at midnight you could
drive directly to the airport. If you don't use those burn them. Got
it?"
Tony finished counting the cash. There was more than this should have
been worth, but Molly had seemed unusually keen on getting him for this
job. Something to do with the time he'd done. Tony wondered what she'd
think if she knew that was a bad rap. "Of course I do, Molly went over
most of this. Listen, those files are practically in the mail already.
Nobody's going to be watching a small CPA office in the business district
at midnight. This'll be a piece of cake."
Earl smiled weakly and shook his hand. "Here's hoping you're right, and,
if you'll forgive the potentially insulting sentiment, that we never see
one another again."
Tony nodded politely then left, still smiling over his unexpected payday.
Earl watched him for a moment, then returned to his seat at the bar -
they shouldn't be seen leaving together. Anyway, perhaps he could use a
beer after all.
"Wait!"
"Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
----------
"What d'ya mean?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"No."
"No."
"Nobody. A friend."
"Mister! Hey, mister!"
--
- Joel C.
"If your going to mess with the stuff of Greek tragedy you'd better be
prepared for the consequences" - Tadpole
Patrick Null
> Thanks, Patrick. And thanks for the exploding >restaurant!
You should see what I'm going to do for my next part.
I'm thinking about an earthquake next.
Kidding!
Sheesh, people!
Patrick Null
> Bart - brought your character in.
>
> *************************
Michael, I just want to say that you did a fantastic job. I know it wasn't
easy to deal with an exploding restaurant, but you passed with flying
colors.
michael
narrative to deal with, after all - but I couldn't see another way round it.
Hopefully, it'll hang together OK when a few more rounds pass.
Decaying Atheist
Having a busy week here. I'll try to get my section in by tomorrow
afternoon. Sorry for the waiting game.
Joel Crum
news:p0Gza.41$OP4...@newsfep1-gui.server.ntli.net:
Well you would have if I had ever left the bar. But I didn't. And I'm
not gonna!
Another pint please?
Hagbar
OF STUFF I LIKE illuminatus, fnord, y2k and popcorn, jalapeno jelly bellies"
But, I'm jet lagged as all hell, and reading with the private consideration
that a reader has at times.
Um, yes.
so
my contribution will come WHEN?
not tonight, but undoubtedly tomorrow if allowed. I've no concept of the
order of submission, nor where or when I belong.
Tis a trifle bit of work. ..THIS.
but then again.
We've got the beginnings of a book if we take it seriously boys and girls.
IT THAT IS TO BE ABSENT FROM TIME TO TIME.
"michael" <michaelj...@ntlworld.com> wrote in message
news:w%7za.2758$Xb4...@newsfep1-gui.server.ntli.net...
Patrick Null
"Hagbar" <cole...@onlinehome.de> wrote in message
news:bap62f$jub$1...@online.de...
Hagbar
Awesome.
so Derrick etal.
When me rally's up
I'll be ready.
"Patrick Null" <whitew...@msn.com> wrote in message
news:bap69h$26mb3$1...@ID-173005.news.dfncis.de...
Decaying Atheist
"Joel Crum" <yeah> wrote in message
news:Xns9383D34AB9D88...@129.250.170.100...
Molly’s house was only a block from the stop. Shelley moved quickly, knowing
that it was only a matter of moments before she could see Ela again.
----
Molly looked in on the little girl. Ela cooed slowly in her
sleep. Molly liked Ela. She liked most small children. When she looked at
Ela, the regret would surface. Molly never had a child of her own. Her
husband came home wounded. She never had another chance to have a child. Her
life wasted away in caring for her husband. She could only hope to enjoy the
joys of raising a child by offering her services as a babysitter.
“You sleep well Ela. You’re mother will be here soon.”
Molly pulled the crib into the living room. The small wheels
squeaked roughly against the carpet, but Molly was gentle enough to avoid
waking Ela. She turned on the television, kept the volume low, and she froze
in place.
Red lights flashed across the television screen. “This was the
scene the parking lot of the Whispering Pine’s diner just a few hours ago.
As you can see now the only things remaining are the smoking embers and the
hollowed out remains of the once award winning restaurant. Police are
baffled, and Firefighters are still unable to provide an idea about the
cause. According to several eyewitnesses, the diner just erupted into a ball
of orange flame right after the five o’clock dinner rush. We will bring you
more details when they become available.”
--
Decaying Atheist ICQ: 161624095
Current Project: N/A
10:24:19 PM ---- Sunday, May 25, 2003
Wit levels low. Attempting to compensate.
Hagbar
Sorry about the wait, Mine should be in soon. Latest tomorrow for me (which
for some of you would be bright in the morning I guess.)
Cole.
"michael" <michaelj...@ntlworld.com> wrote in message
news:w%7za.2758$Xb4...@newsfep1-gui.server.ntli.net...
michael
Hagbar
Earl was watching tiny beer bubbles cling to the mug's sides. The old man
> didn't drink, but felt he had to order something while he waited. It
> wasn't clear why he was expected to meet someone in a dive like this,
> but Molly had told him it was important. As he watched the bubbles, he
> thought about how she had helped him elude "them". For years, "they" had
> been after him, and because of Molly, this was the longest he'd ever
> stayed in one place.
>
> A slant of light crossed the room as the door opened, and a tall man with
> stringy black hair and tattoos entered. He took a seat in the opposite
> corner. Earl glanced at him and was sure this was the person for whom
> he'd been waiting. He left his drink and walked over to stand in front
> of the man.
>
> "Are you Tony?" he asked.
>
> Tony didn't say anything immediately. In prison that question came loaded
> and the typical answer was, 'What's it to you?' Still, the old man hardly
Molly's house was only a block from the stop. Shelley moved quickly, knowing
that it was only a matter of moments before she could see Ela again.
----
Molly looked in on the little girl. Ela cooed slowly in her
sleep. Molly liked Ela. She liked most small children. When she looked at
Ela, the regret would surface. Molly never had a child of her own. Her
husband came home wounded. She never had another chance to have a child. Her
life wasted away in caring for her husband. She could only hope to enjoy the
joys of raising a child by offering her services as a babysitter.
"You sleep well Ela. You're mother will be here soon."
Molly pulled the crib into the living room. The small wheels
squeaked roughly against the carpet, but Molly was gentle enough to avoid
waking Ela. She turned on the television, kept the volume low, and she froze
in place.
Red lights flashed across the television screen. "This was the
scene the parking lot of the Whispering Pine's diner just a few hours ago.
As you can see now the only things remaining are the smoking embers and the
hollowed out remains of the once award winning restaurant. Police are
baffled, and Firefighters are still unable to provide an idea about the
cause. According to several eyewitnesses, the diner just erupted into a ball
of orange flame right after the five o'clock dinner rush. We will bring you
more details when they become available."
--------
This is the quiet house that Earl would never want to leave, though he did,
and that most often.
This is the quiet bed where Earl would seldom dream but only see.
And See the signs like dark mad dangling mobiles above him telling him the
"NOT INSANE" telling him "THEY WONT CATCH UP" telling him the things needed
to cool his breathing to a steady pace.
And his breathing would cool, and he could sleep, even now, knowing what was
in progress. What he had initiated.
Dreams: a paradox of lines attached to the acknowledged notion of a
matriculation through time, second to second; a regurgitation of the
juxtaposition of images that are life. Thusly Earl's dreams are a
cornucopia.
At once the silky image of a wooden horse on springs, mingled with the
feeling of a million tons driving in on him hotly followed shortly by Bulls
head, Hawks head, Mans head, then twirls. Earl panting in his sleep wanting
above all else to wake up because in the background, probably above him, is
they.
He is in a panic, sweat driving down from his eyebrows to his ass crack,
fear constricting him; when in his sleeping eyes he sees a carriage.
The child's gurgling wakes him.
Molly has become brain dead, staring at the TV wide eyed, rocking Ela back
and forth at a fairly steady pace.
A knock at the door, and she bolts to answer.
"Oh my God Shelly. . .Oh my God are you. . ."
"Where's my baby."
"Oh my god." And Molly stopped talking, knowing she could form no other
statement.
Shelly walked directly to her daughter and lifted her up, inadvertently
crying.
"I just realized. . .she almost lost me. Or I almost lost her. . .Molly do
you have any brandy."
Hagbar
Did I ruin it?
If you need a re write, I'll most gladly post one.
Cole.
"michael" <michaelj...@ntlworld.com> wrote in message
news:w%7za.2758$Xb4...@newsfep1-gui.server.ntli.net...
Hagbar
dreams and signs like dark mad dangling mobiles above him telling him the
> "NOT INSANE" telling him "THEY WONT CATCH UP" telling him the things
needed
> to cool his breathing to a steady pace.
> And his breathing would cool, and he could sleep, even now, knowing what
was
> in progress. What he had initiated.
> matriculation through time, second to second; a regurgitation of the
Bart Hopson
> Hmm,
> Did I ruin it?
> If you need a re write, I'll most gladly post one.
> Cole.
Don't think you ruined it, Cole. Charles is next, right? Looks like
he may be otherwise occupied.
Did we ever make any decision on how long we will wait before we just
move on? Someone should likely ping Charles. I'm after him and would
have no problem picking up where you left off, Cole. Just let me
know.
Bart
Hagbar
schedules are.
I travel alot and am liable to be absent for weeks on end. . .so I
personally wouldn't want to hold anyone up.
I'd say a good course of action would be wait three days, email the person
that's up, and inlieu of a non response just keep going.
that's just me.
Hey, Bart, go off of my edited version. The last thing I posted, as that has
the least typos.
Cole.
Joel Crum
news:14974d3e.03052...@posting.google.com:
Looks like he said to do this round without him. FWIW it seems
reasonable to set a time limit on participation. I'd hate to see the
whole story derailed because someone was called away from Usenet.
--
- Joel C.
"Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for
the things we did not do that is inconsolable." Sydney J. Harris
michael
"Joel Crum" <cru...@my-deja.com> wrote in message
news:Xns938A850EE9213...@129.250.170.81...
> bart_...@hotmail.com (Bart Hopson) wrote in
> news:14974d3e.03052...@posting.google.com:
>
> > "Hagbar" <cole...@onlinehome.de> wrote in message
> > news:<bb0em0$9me$1...@online.de>...
> >> Hmm,
> >> Did I ruin it?
> >> If you need a re write, I'll most gladly post one.
> >> Cole.
> >
> > Don't think you ruined it, Cole. Charles is next, right? Looks like
> > he may be otherwise occupied.
> >
> > Did we ever make any decision on how long we will wait before we just
> > move on? Someone should likely ping Charles. I'm after him and would
> > have no problem picking up where you left off, Cole. Just let me
> > know.
>
> Looks like he said to do this round without him. FWIW it seems
> reasonable to set a time limit on participation. I'd hate to see the
> whole story derailed because someone was called away from Usenet.
>
> --
> - Joel C.
>
that, but it sounds suitably Dickensian.)
Wind River
Run with it Bart.
Do you think it might be helpful to put something at the beginning of
each post that continues the story, so it doesn't get so lost among the
administrative posts? Something like "Story Continuation" or "Next Section"?
-Sue
Bart Hopson
like, but it was painful, and formatting will just get more screwed up
if we don't each try to keep up with it instead of replying and adding
our section. But, I'm a bit anal and hate reading the story over and
over with all them little arrow thingies in front that stack up each
time we reply.
I've taken some liberties with the text as a result, and used some of
my three hundred words to add to the final scene in and amongst where
Cole left off wihtout deleting a single word, but adding some words in
the middle of sentences and the like. Hope no one minds me meddling
slightly with their constructions. Hope the story carries.
Also, a bit of bad news for me. My trip back to the states has been
moved up due to a family emergency so I leave Monday. I hope to have
some time to myself while I'm there to keep up with the stories and
the like, but can't make any promises, so if you don't hear from me by
the time it's my turn again, please pass me by. Hopefully things
aren't as serious at home as they seem to be from so far away.
Anyway, here's the story:
Earl was watching tiny beer bubbles cling to the mug's sides. The old
man
didn't drink, but felt he had to order something while he waited. It
wasn't clear why he was expected to meet someone in a dive like this,
but Molly had told him it was important. As he watched the bubbles,
he
thought about how she had helped him elude Them. For years, They
had been after him, and because of Molly, this was the longest he'd
ever
stayed in one place.
A slant of light crossed the room as the door opened, and a tall man
with stringy black hair and tattoos entered. He took a seat in the
opposite
corner. Earl glanced at him and was sure this was the person for whom
he'd been waiting. He left his drink and walked over to stand in
front
of the man.
"Are you Tony?" he asked.
Tony didn't say anything immediately. In prison that question came
loaded and the typical answer was, 'What's it to you?' Still, the old
man
hardly looked ready to attack him with a shiv.
"Yeah," he answered at length.
"Molly told me..." Earl started before Tony gestured him to silence.
"Did that guy just move over here?"
Earl's eyes twitched around the room nervously. "I uh... I wasn't
looking. Maybe?"
"Maybe, right, well, talk quiet, OK? Maybe, he ain't listening and
maybe
it don't matter if he hears, but I don't like eavesdroppers."
"Oh dear, I hope it's not one of Them. If They've found me, I'll have
to
move again. I'm getting too old for that. I remember when I first....
But, I mustn't bore you with that. Molly sent you, you're that Tony
right?"
"Yeah."
Tony sat quietly with an expression of great boredom staring at Earl.
Earl was glancing at his beer, Tony, back to his beer and occasionally
at the table. Finally he spoke.
"You know what you're here for right?"
"No, old man, what?"
"No, no, not like that Tony. I know you know what you're here for.
I've
got the money. I've. . ."
Earl stared at his beer again, a pain dancing over his cheekbones,
pressing his eyebrows. Finally, he returned his attention to Tony,
recomposing himself.
"I've got it all set for you."
"Good."
"I've got keys, cards, tickets for you if you need them."
"I figure I won't."
"Well just in case, you know. Just in case." And Earl began stroking
the
table, nibbling at a corner of his lip as if trying to find words of
encouragement for a child.
Tony remained quiet although he was becoming impatient. Earl had some
stall for reasons he couldn't fathom. The second door slammed open
and he jumped, this time a slow whine starting to brew from deep
inside him and escaping through his nose.
The door to his stall, thankfully locked, began to rattle.
"Leave me alone! I've done nothing!"
A long silence, then, "Mister?"
A female's voice. The barmaid?
"Mister, you in there? Thought you might need a towel or something."
Eugene relaxed and let his breath out, the shaky whine still there. He
stood and opened the door, and took the towel from the barmaid. "Uhhh,
thank you."
"No problem. Remember me in the tip," She said then turned to go.
"Wait!"
"Yes?" said, the barmaid, impatiently, turning back.
"Would you mind telling me your name?"
"Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
"Look you're there with your pants saturated... Try me?"
"I write poetry," said Eugene, looking embarrassed disclosing it. "I
came tonight looking for inspiration. What you just did has given me a
great
idea for a poem. I need your name for that."
"Well that's a line I ain't heard before. Are you any good at it?"
Eugene let a smile expand his face. He looked much better that way.
"They tell me I'm not too bad. I've won some prizes."
----------
"What d'ya mean?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"No."
"No."
"Nobody. A friend."
"Mister! Hey, mister!"
----
--------
probably above him, is They.
He is in a panic, sweat driving down from his eyebrows to his ass
crack, fear constricting him; when in his sleeping eyes he sees a
carriage.
The child's gurgling wakes him.
He bolts up in the bed, shaking the images from his head. He gets up
and moves to the wall that Molly had allowed him to poke pinholes in
so he could watch TV from the safety of his room. He pushes his face
slowly to one of the holes. He sees Molly, on the floor in front of
the television, rocking the child.
-----
Molly has become brain dead, staring at the TV wide eyed, rocking Ela
back and forth at a fairly steady pace. The child has begun to cry,
but Molly doesn't even notice.
A knock at the door almost sends Molly out of her housedress. She
puts the child back in the small crib and bolts to answer.
Shelley stood there, wide eyed, with mascara running down her cheeks.
Her clothes were soiled and cuts formed criss-cross patterns across
her face and neck.
"Oh my God Shelly. . .Oh my God are you. . ."
"Where's my baby?"
"Oh my god." And Molly stopped talking, knowing she could form no
other statement.
Shelly walked directly to her daughter and lifted her up,
inadvertently matching the child's crying. She brought the child to
her chest and placed a loving hand behind her head. She rocked back
and forth, the beat of the crying forming the rythm for their
desperate little dance.
"I just realized. . .she almost lost me. Or, I almost lost her. .
.Molly do you have any brandy?"
Molly was still at the door, frozen with the doorknob still in her
hand. The night chill was flowing into the room through the opening
and she shivered a bit, composing herself, then closed the door.
"Of course, child." She moved across the room toward the kitchen. "I
suppose we could both use a little." She was in the kitchen no longer
than a few seconds then returned with two small glasses. She handed
one to Shelley and set the other on the small coffee table. "Now, let
me put Ela back to sleep and you sit."
Shelly took the glass and reluctantly let Molly take the child. She
stood there for a moment, and then collapsed on to the couch, nearly
spilling her drink.
As soon as the crying from both of them was quieted, Molly said, "Tell
this old woman what in the world happened. I was so worried."
Earl heard the whole story through the wall.
Bart Hopson
Hope this looks better:
AFO Continuing Story
Copyright AFO
2003
Earl was watching tiny beer bubbles cling to the mug's sides. The old
man didn't drink, but felt he had to order something while he waited.
It wasn't clear why he was expected to meet someone in a dive like
this, but Molly had told him it was important. As he watched the
bubbles, he thought about how she had helped him elude Them. For
years, They had been after him, and because of Molly, this was the
longest he'd ever stayed in one place.
A slant of light crossed the room as the door opened, and a tall man
with stringy black hair and tattoos entered. He took a seat in the
opposite corner. Earl glanced at him and was sure this was the person
for whom he'd been waiting. He left his drink and walked over to
stand in front of the man.
"Are you Tony?" he asked.
Tony didn't say anything immediately. In prison that question came
loaded and the typical answer was, 'What's it to you?' Still, the old
man hardly looked ready to attack him with a shiv.
"Yeah," he answered at length.
"Molly told me..." Earl started before Tony gestured him to silence.
"Did that guy just move over here?"
Earl's eyes twitched around the room nervously. "I uh... I wasn't
looking. Maybe?"
"Maybe, right, well, talk quiet, OK? Maybe, he ain't listening and
maybe it don't matter if he hears, but I don't like eavesdroppers."
"Oh dear, I hope it's not one of Them. If They've found me, I'll have
to move again. I'm getting too old for that. I remember when I
first.... But, I mustn't bore you with that. Molly sent you, you're
that Tony right?"
"Yeah."
Tony sat quietly with an expression of great boredom staring at Earl.
Earl was glancing at his beer, Tony, back to his beer and occasionally
at the table. Finally he spoke.
"You know what you're here for right?"
"No, old man, what?"
"No, no, not like that Tony. I know you know what you're here for.
I've got the money. I've. . ."
Earl stared at his beer again, a pain dancing over his cheekbones,
pressing his eyebrows. Finally, he returned his attention to Tony,
recomposing himself.
"I've got it all set for you."
"Good."
"I've got keys, cards, tickets for you if you need them."
"I figure I won't."
"Well just in case, you know. Just in case." And Earl began stroking
the table, nibbling at a corner of his lip as if trying to find words
of encouragement for a child.
Tony remained quiet although he was becoming impatient. Earl had some
the stall for reasons he couldn't fathom. The second door slammed
open and he jumped, this time a slow whine starting to brew from deep
inside him and escaping through his nose.
The door to his stall, thankfully locked, began to rattle.
"Leave me alone! I've done nothing!"
A long silence, then, "Mister?"
A female's voice. The barmaid?
"Mister, you in there? Thought you might need a towel or something."
Eugene relaxed and let his breath out, the shaky whine still there.
He stood and opened the door, and took the towel from the barmaid.
"Uhhh, thank you."
"No problem. Remember me in the tip," She said then turned to go.
"Wait!"
"Yes?" said, the barmaid, impatiently, turning back.
"Would you mind telling me your name?"
"Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
"Look you're there with your pants saturated... Try me?"
"I write poetry," said Eugene, looking embarrassed disclosing it. "I
came tonight looking for inspiration. What you just did has given me
a great idea for a poem. I need your name for that."
"Well that's a line I ain't heard before. Are you any good at it?"
Eugene let a smile expand his face. He looked much better that way.
"They tell me I'm not too bad. I've won some prizes."
----------
"What d'ya mean?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"No."
"No."
"Nobody. A friend."
"Mister! Hey, mister!"
----
--------
the background, probably above him, is They.
He is in a panic, sweat driving down from his eyebrows to his ass
crack, fear constricting him; when in his sleeping eyes he sees a
carriage.
The child's gurgling wakes him.
He bolts up in the bed, shaking the images from his head. He gets up
and moves to the wall that Molly had allowed him to poke pinholes in
so he could watch TV from the safety of his room. He pushes his face
slowly to one of the holes. He sees Molly, on the floor in front of
the television, rocking the child.
-----
Molly has become brain dead, staring at the TV wide eyed, rocking Ela
back and forth at a fairly steady pace. The child has begun to cry,
but Molly doesn't even notice.
A knock at the door almost sends Molly out of her housedress. She
puts the child back in the small crib and bolts to answer.
Shelley stood there, wide eyed, with mascara running down her cheeks.
Her clothes were soiled and cuts formed criss-cross patterns across
her face and neck.
"Oh my God Shelly. . .Oh my God are you. . ."
"Where's my baby?"
"Oh my god." And Molly stopped talking, knowing she could form no
other statement.
Shelly walked directly to her daughter and lifted her up,
inadvertently matching the child's crying. She brought the child to
her chest and placed a loving hand behind her head. She rocked back
and forth, the beat of the crying forming the rythm for their
desperate little dance.
"I just realized. . .she almost lost me. Or, I almost lost her. .
Wind River
>
> Also, a bit of bad news for me. My trip back to the states has been
> moved up due to a family emergency so I leave Monday. I hope to have
> some time to myself while I'm there to keep up with the stories and
> the like, but can't make any promises, so if you don't hear from me by
> the time it's my turn again, please pass me by. Hopefully things
> aren't as serious at home as they seem to be from so far away.
Bart, my thoughts are with you. Have a safe trip, and I hope everything
will be okay.
-Sue
Anopheles
"Yeah."
"No, old man, what?"
"No, no, not like that, Tony. I know you know what you're here for.
I've got the money. I've. . ."
Earl stared at his beer again, a pain dancing over his cheekbones,
pressing his eyebrows. Finally, he returned his attention to Tony,
recomposing himself.
"I've got it all set for you."
"Good."
"I've got keys, cards, tickets for you if you need them."
"I figure I won't."
"Well just in case, you know. Just in case." And Earl began stroking
the table, nibbling at a corner of his lip as if trying to find words
of encouragement for a child.
Tony remained quiet although he was becoming impatient. Earl had some
demons. Tony would've said it was just age except here he was with
the old geezer finally, furtively, pulling a fat envelope out of his
pocket. The package made a whispery hiss against the polished surface
of the table as Earl slid it to him. Tony examined the contents
silently.
Earl filled in a few details. "The bigger key is to an old blue Ford
parked around the block. The smaller one's for the office. Don't use
it until you've swiped the security card; there's an alarm. Get in;
grab the files labeled 'Project Hemmingway' and 'Bartlet'. Get out;
lose the Ford.
"If anything goes wrong, and I mean anything, use those plane tickets
and the fake ID to lose yourself. If you do the job at midnight you
could drive directly to the airport. If you don't use those, burn
them. Got it?"
"Wait!"
"Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
----------
"What d'ya mean?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"No."
"No."
"Nobody. A friend."
"Mister! Hey, mister!"
----
"You sleep well, Ela. You're mother will be here soon."
Molly pulled the crib into the living room. The small wheels squeaked
roughly against the carpet, but Molly was gentle enough to avoid
waking Ela. She turned on the television, kept the volume low, and
she froze in place.
Red lights flashed across the television screen. "This was the scene
at the parking lot of the Whispering Pine's diner just a few hours ago.
As you can see now the only things remaining are the smoking embers
and the hollowed out remains of the once award winning restaurant.
Police are baffled, and firefighters are still unable to provide an
idea about the cause. According to several eyewitnesses, the diner
just erupted into a ball of orange flame right after the five o'clock
dinner rush. We will bring you more details when they become
available."
--------
This is the quiet house that Earl would never want to leave, though he
did, and that most often.
This is the quiet bed where Earl would seldom find escape, harrased by
dreams and signs like dark mad dangling mobiles above him telling him
the "NOT INSANE", telling him "THEY WONT CATCH UP", telling him the
things needed to cool his breathing to a steady pace.
And his breathing would cool, and he could sleep, even now, knowing
what was in progress. What he had initiated.
Visions: a paradox of lines attached to the acknowledged notion of a
matriculation through time, second to second; a regurgitation of the
juxtaposition of images that are life. Thusly Earl's visions are a
cornucopia. At once the silky image of a wooden horse on springs,
mingled with the feeling of a million tons driving in on him hotly
followed shortly by bull's head, hawk's head, man's head, then twirls.
Earl panting in his sleep wanting above all else to wake up because in
the background, probably above him, is They.
He is in a panic, sweat driving down from his eyebrows to his ass
crack, fear constricting him; when in his sleeping eyes he sees a
carriage.
The child's gurgling wakes him.
He bolts up in the bed, shaking the images from his head. He gets up
and moves to the wall that Molly had allowed him to poke pinholes in
so he could watch TV from the safety of his room. He pushes his face
slowly to one of the holes. He sees Molly, on the floor in front of
the television, rocking the child.
-----
Molly has become brain dead, staring at the TV wide eyed, rocking Ela
back and forth at a fairly steady pace. The child has begun to cry,
but Molly doesn't even notice.
A knock at the door almost sends Molly out of her housedress. She
puts the child back in the small crib and bolts to answer.
Shelley stood there, wide eyed, with mascara running down her cheeks.
Her clothes were soiled and cuts formed crisscross patterns across
her face and neck.
"Oh my God Shelly. . .Oh my God are you. . ."
"Where's my baby?"
"Oh my God." And Molly stopped talking, knowing she could form no
other statement.
Shelly walked directly to her daughter and lifted her up,
inadvertently matching the child's crying. She brought the child to
her chest and placed a loving hand behind her head. She rocked back
and forth, the beat of the crying forming the rythm for their
desperate little dance.
"I just realized. . . she almost lost me. Or, I almost lost her. . . Molly
do you have any brandy?"
Molly was still at the door, frozen with the doorknob still in her
hand. The night chill was flowing into the room through the opening
and she shivered a bit, composing herself, then closed the door.
"Of course, child." She moved across the room toward the kitchen. "I
suppose we could both use a little." She was in the kitchen no longer
than a few seconds then returned with two small glasses. She handed
one to Shelley and set the other on the small coffee table. "Now, let
me put Ela back to sleep and you sit."
Shelly took the glass and reluctantly let Molly take the child. She
stood there for a moment, and then collapsed on to the couch, nearly
spilling her drink.
As soon as the crying from both of them was quieted, Molly said, "Tell
this old woman what in the world happened. I was so worried."
Earl heard the whole story through the wall.
- - - - - - - -
"I never expected to see you again," said Hillary, rearranging her hair,
nervously.
"You did say to stop by anytime," said Eugene. "I was in the area."
Hillary paused. Eugene had struck a chord last night and she had handed out
an invitation, perhaps a little hastily, but, under that unruly beard, he
wasn't all that unappealing.
"Come in," she said, her words slurring. "Did you ever hear of the
telephone?"
She led him into the old warehouse she called home. It was sparsely
furnished- a large unmade bed in one alcove and a small kitchenette on the
far side. Almost half the area was devoted to a covered easel and a table
loaded with used paints and bottles of brushes. Against the wall stood a
dozen of so half finished canvases stretched on frames. On the table was an
opened flagon of cheap Spanish sherry.
"I brought some of my poems," said Eugene, walking towards the frames that
had their backs to the wall.
"Don't touch those," said Hillary. "I'm not ready to exhibit my work. I
doubt I ever will."
She picked up the flagon, awkwardly and topped up a glass with the wine.
"Want one?"
"I don't drink! You should know that after the water incident." He smiled
shyly.
"Oh, yes, the water incident," she said, before sending a good third of the
contents of the glass down her throat. "Okay, let's see the poems. or
better, read them to me."
"Well, okay, but don't expect T. S. Eliot," he said.
He moved aside some art books from a chair and sat opposite Hillary. As he
looked up, before he started, she was looking at him through half shut eyes,
a wry smile on her lips.
"What are you like in bed?" she said.
"Beg your pardon!"
Alaric
Neither me.
--
"If people were cars I'd be covered with scars."
Shivaree - Bossa Nova
Alaric
up due to a family emergency so I leave Monday. I hope to have some time to
myself while I'm there to keep up with the stories and the like, but can't
make any promises, so if you don't hear from me by the time it's my turn
again, please pass me by. Hopefully things aren't as serious at home as
they seem to be from so far away.
Bart, very concerned. Hope things are okay.
Alaric
you won't see, but there was a big tense issue halfway through which I've
ironed out. I've also added a coupla tags where I thought they were needed,
reparagraphed where necessary, and covered off spelling and grammar. In the
main, though, I've tried to build a flow through the story and I've used
half my words on that. No fundamental changes, but Hank shouldn't have to
edit for anything other than plot. I think I've covered off the elementary
stuff.
You will need to read all the way through though, because (sorry) the other
half of my words have gone into extending the three main conversations a
little (Earl and Tony, Eugene and Hillary (in the washroom), Kelvin and Doe.
Key things - I've given "Them" a name - the pack. Eugene now has a purpose
for his poem. Tony doesn't want to leave town, but Earl might. All this in
the first half.
As I say, the key though is flow. I hope I've helped that a little bit.
I did have a good idea to carry on from Barry but ran out of words <sad>.
AFO Continuing Story
Copyright AFO
2003
Earl was watching tiny beer bubbles cling to the mug's sides. The old man
didn't drink, but felt he had to order something while he waited. It wasn't
clear why he was expected to meet someone in a dive like this, but Molly had
told him it was important. As he watched the bubbles, he thought about how
she had helped him elude them. The pack. For years, they'd been after him,
and because of Molly, this was the longest he'd ever stayed in one place.
A slant of light crossed the room as the door opened, and a tall man with
stringy black hair and tattoos entered. He took a seat in the opposite
corner. Earl glanced at him and was sure this was the person for whom he'd
been waiting. He left his drink and walked over to stand in front of the
man.
"Are you Tony?" he asked.
Tony didn't say anything immediately. In prison that question came loaded
and the typical answer was, 'What's it to you?' Still, the old man hardly
looked ready to attack him with a shiv.
"Yeah," he answered at length.
"Molly told me..." Earl started.
Tony gestured him to silence. "Did that guy just move over here?"
Earl's eyes twitched around the room nervously. "I uh... I wasn't looking.
Maybe."
"Maybe. Right. Maybe's worrying enough for me. We'll talk quietly, OK?
Maybe, he ain't listening and maybe it don't matter if he hears, but I don't
like eavesdroppers."
"Oh dear God, I hope it's not one of them. If they've found me, I'll have to
move again. And I really am getting too old for that. I remember when I
first.... But, I won't. . . I mustn't bore you with that. Time's too damned
short. So. Molly sent you. You're that Tony, right?"
"Yeah." Tony sat quietly with an expression of great boredom, staring at
Earl. Earl was glancing at his beer. Finally he spoke.
"You know what you're here for, right?"
"No, old man. What? You want me to kill somebody? Is that it? Because if it
is, you got the wrong guy."
"No, no, it's not like that at all, Tony. I know you know what you're here
for. I've got the money. I've. . ."
"I said I don't know. Some drop off job. That's all she said."
Earl stared at his beer again, a pain dancing over his cheekbones, pressing
his eyebrows. Finally, he returned his attention to Tony, recomposing
himself.
"I've got it all set for you."
"Good. What's it?"
"I've got keys, cards, tickets for you if you need them."
"Tickets?"
"Airline tickets."
"I figure I won't. I've no plans to leave town."
"You might have to."
"I said I've no plans to leave town."
"Well just in case, you know. Just in case." And Earl began stroking the
table, nibbling at a corner of his lip as if trying to find words of
encouragement for a child.
Tony remained quiet although he was becoming impatient. Earl had some
demons, it seemed. Tony would've said it was just age except for the fact
that he knew fear, and Earl was afraid. He wished now he'd turned Molly
down, despite what he owed her, but instead here he was with the old geezer
finally, furtively, pulling a fat envelope out of his pocket.
The package made a whispery hiss against the polished surface of the table
as Earl slid it to him. Tony examined the contents silently as Earl
explained the scope of the job.
Then the old man filled in a few operational details. "The bigger key is to
an old blue Ford parked around the block. The smaller one's for the office.
Don't use it until you've swiped the security card - there's an alarm. Get
in; grab the files labeled 'Project Hemingway' and 'Bartlett'. Get out; lose
the Ford.
"If anything goes wrong, and I mean anything, use those plane tickets and
the fake ID to lose yourself. If you do the job at midnight you could drive
directly to the airport. If you don't use those, burn them. Got it?"
"I'm not leaving town."
Earl shrugged.
Tony finished counting the cash. There was more than this should have been
worth, but Molly had seemed unusually keen on getting him for this job.
Something to do with the time he'd done, he thought at first, but maybe that
was unfair. She trusted him, to be fair. As far as the jail time was
concerned, Tony wondered what she'd think if she knew that was a bad rap.
"You understand how important this is?" Earl said.
"Of course I do, Molly went over most of that. Listen, those files are
practically in
the mail already. Nobody's going to be watching a small CPA office in the
business district at midnight. This'll be a piece of cake."
Earl smiled weakly and shook his hand. "Here's hoping you're right, and, if
you'll forgive the potentially insulting sentiment, that we never see one
another again."
"Must mean you're leaving town."
"It's possible."
Tony nodded politely then left, still smiling over his unexpected payday.
Earl watched him for a moment, then returned to his seat at the bar - they
shouldn't be seen leaving together.
He decided that perhaps he could use a beer after all.
- - - - - - - -
Eugene couldn't take his eyes off the pretty bar maid. She had long, blond
hair tied into a ponytail, warm, friendly eyes, and a smile that lit up
Eugene's universe. Plus, she had big boobs. She hadn't so much as glanced at
him, and he doubted she ever would. No one ever looked at him.
He sighed, and went back to nursing his water. He hated alcohol, but he
loved the inspiration that a bar could provide. There were always things
happening, but not tonight it seemed, and he feared he would have to go home
uninspired.
That is, until the man walked through the door, covered in tattoos. He was
certainly dark, certainly mysterious; one green snake coiled up his arm.
Eugene saw the man walk to a table, and then a few moments later, an old man
joined him. Eugene moved closer so he could hear.
"Come on, Muse," he muttered. "Time to strike, baby." He crossed his fingers
and wished for drops of inspiration. Something. Anything.
He was disappointed. Though he'd moved closer to their table, they talked in
mumbles and whispers. The tattooed man had a rasp suggesting he should pack
in the cigarettes. Other than the occasional furtive glance, the older man
offered nothing. Just a strange couple, sat together in the dimly lit corner
of the bar.
"Another water?" The barmaid interrupted her glass-stacking duties long
enough to throw a vaguely sarcastic question Eugene's way. He nodded, aware
a verbal reply would stick in his throat.
After quite some time, the two men at the table shared a handshake, their
business concluded. The older man returned to the bar, looking straight
through Eugene as he passed. The trace of a smile glinted in his eyes. Good
news for someone, Eugene thought, nursing his fresh glass of water.
Eugene stared into his glass of water. The night was slipping through his
fingers and he had nothing. Not a single thing to spark his imagination. It
was normally easy to come up with an idea - they came without much trouble -
but something about the older man threw him for a curve.
There was a US$3,000 prize for the winning entry in the Arkansas Poetry
Competition. Eugene had just a few days to get his entry in. Again, he
glanced at the old man. A poem about age and loneliness, maybe. But no -
Eugene had to look away again.
What was it? What about that man stuck in his mind like a popcorn kernel in
a cavity? He wondered and pondered until he felt a cooling sensation.
Eugene looked down and saw the glass tipped on its side. Cool water ran down
the edge of the bar, wetting the front of his pants.
The barmaid scurried over. She had a rag in hand and a dirty look on her
tired face. "At least you didn't break the glass," she said.
He smiled awkwardly at her and mumbled an apology as she leaned over to wipe
the bar. He tried not to stare at her breasts.
"Could you stare at the left one a bit, it's gettin' jealous," she
deadpanned. Her voice was loud enough for most of the bar to hear, and he
heard laughter behind him. Eugene wasn't even sure how to apologize, so he
excused himself and headed toward the bathroom.
He wasn't surprised to find that there were no paper towels. No clean ones
anyway; the floor was littered with dirty ones. He slipped into the last
stall and began drying his pants. The toilet paper stuck to his fingers and
left tiny white caterpillars on his pleats as he scrubbed at the water
stain. He sighed and sat down. A moment later, he heard the bathroom door
open.
Eugene lifted his feet and placed them on the door in front of him.
He could hear someone moving toward the stalls.
One door banged open and he recoiled, his feet moving from the door. He
froze, certain the man with the tattoos was now hunting him down in the
stall for reasons he couldn't fathom.
The second door slammed open and he jumped. This time a slow whine starting
to brew from deep inside him and escaping through his nose.
The door to his stall, thankfully locked, began to rattle.
"Leave me alone! I've done nothing!"
A long silence, then, "Mister?"
A female's voice. The barmaid?
"Mister, you in there? Thought you might need a towel or something."
Eugene relaxed and let his breath out, the shaky whine still there. He stood
and opened the door, and took the towel from the barmaid. "Uhhh, thank you."
"No problem. Look, I followed you in to say sorry about that comment. Didn't
know everyone could hear me."
"It's fine. Really."
"Well, remember me in the tip," she said, then turned to go.
"Wait! Please."
"Yes?" said the barmaid, turning back.
"Would you mind telling me your name?"
"I dunno. Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
"Look, you're there with your pants saturated... Try me?"
"I write poetry," said Eugene, looking embarrassed at disclosing it. "I came
tonight looking for inspiration. For a competition. And what you just did
has given me a great idea for a poem. So I need your name for that. Poetry
has to be. well, it has to be the truth."
"Well, that's a line I ain't heard before. Are you any good at it? The
poetry, I mean." She grinned.
Eugene let a smile expand his face. The girl thought he looked much better
that way.
"They tell me I'm not too bad. I've won some prizes before."
----------
John Doe leaned forward. "Ah, now we might be getting somewhere."
"What d'ya mean?"
"She likes money, you say, and she's probably got dirt on everyone - either
from working the bar or from working the bedroom."
"What are you suggesting?"
"You really are in training, aren't you? We simply pay her off, unless your
connection with her affords you another method."
"I don't want her hurt."
"Still sweet on her, huh?"
"No." Kelvin looked away to avoid eye contact.
"Then get the scoop on every person who set foot in that bar last night. I
know he was there, and I'm damn tired of him eluding me all the time."
Eluding, Kelvin thought. What an ironic word.
He'd spent half the day thinking about his recurring dream, which he'd
suffered again last night. In it, he was running toward something or
someone. But no matter how fast he ran, he got no closer. And he always woke
up with the distinct impression that his goal was not only unreachable, but
also not his to claim.
What was eluding him exactly? A new job? A girlfriend? Financial freedom? He
had no idea, but he suspected it was something bigger, something rather more
fundamental than that.
"I'll do my best," he told Doe.
"That's what worries me," Doe replied.
----------
Kelvin needed to clear his thoughts of Doe, his dream, and so he went to the
High Note restaurant, half karaoke bar and half restaurant. When he walked
in, the sound of singing drew him to the bar. A woman was on stage, and she
was beautiful. Her voice was exceptional, melodic, and even though he had
pledged his heart to another woman long ago, he found himself being
mesmerized by her singing anyway.
He ordered a drink while he waited. When she finished, the few people in the
audience applauded.
He approached her. "Good voice."
"Thanks. I usually cook next door in the restaurant, but when it's slow,
they let me come over here and sing." She looked down and sighed. "It seems
like it's always slow."
"Do you mind if I ask you a quick question?"
"No."
"Were you at the Empty Mug bar last night?"
"No."
"Do you know an old man by the name of Earl?"
She suddenly looked up. Her eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?"
"Nobody. A friend."
"I see. Sorry, no. I don't know him."
It was to be expected. He bid her farewell, tipped his hat, and walked out.
She was lying. He knew it, could feel it.
"Mister! Hey, mister!"
He turned. The singer was running after him. "Hey, mister, you forgot to pay
for your--"
That's when the restaurant blew up.
- - - - - - - -
Had Shelley not believed that honesty was the best policy before, she needed
no further proof. Had she not pursued the blond stranger for the two whole
dollars he owed, she'd have been carted away dispassionately, a zip-up bag
on a trolley for dissection and analysis. As it was, she dabbed at the cuts
on her knees and elbows, sustained when the force of the blast threw her
horizontally to the sidewalk, and waited to give statement after statement
to the police officers that milled around with undeniable self-importance.
She could sense their eyes homing in on her breasts, her ass. Sunglasses
don't prevent us knowing what you're eyeing up boys, she thought.
She looked at the smouldering shop front and the cavalcade of officials
darting here and there like flies around shit.
"Now all we need's a TV crew," she muttered under her breath.
The blond stranger was nowhere to be seen, lost in the gawping crowds.
Tourists and locals alike held whirring video cameras; flash bulbs blinked
bright against the ominous sky. Some onlookers stuffed fast food down their
throats as they watched, waiting for more evidence of carnage.
She shook her head and walked away, aware of the weakness in her legs and an
emptiness filling her stomach. All she wanted was to see her daughter. She
didn't look back to see if one of the many police were following her. Her
statement would be the same tomorrow as today. Right now, she needed Ela
tight against her chest.
She caught the #16 bus, light-headed and oblivious to the stares her wounds
attracted, and made for Molly Parker's house, hoping she'd be prepared to
wait a few days for the babysitting fee.
The tears; the shakes. Neither came until she left the bus.
Molly's house was only a block from the stop. Shelley moved quickly, knowing
that it was only a matter of moments before she could see Ela again.
----
Molly looked in on the little girl. Ela cooed slowly in her sleep. Molly
liked Ela. She liked most small children. When she looked at Ela, the regret
would surface.
Molly never had a child of her own. Her husband had come home wounded. She'd
never had another chance to have a child. Her life had wasted away in caring
for her husband. She could only hope to enjoy the joys of raising a child by
offering her services as a babysitter.
"You sleep well, Ela. You're mother will be here soon."
She pulled the crib into the living room. The small wheels squeaked roughly
against the carpet, but Molly was gentle enough to avoid waking Ela. She
turned on the television, kept the volume low. Then she froze in place.
Red lights flashed across the television screen. "This was the scene at the
parking lot of the Whispering Pine's diner just a few hours ago," the
voiceover declared. "As you can see now the only things remaining are the
smoking embers and the hollowed out remains of the once award winning
restaurant. Police are baffled, and firefighters are still unable to provide
an idea about the cause. According to several eyewitnesses, the diner just
erupted into a ball of orange flame right after the five o'clock dinner
rush. We will bring you more details when they become available."
--------
This, Earl thought, is the quiet house that I never wanted to leave, though
I did, and that most often.
This is the quiet bed, he thought, where I seldom find escape, harrased by
dreams and signs like dark mad dangling mobiles above him telling me the
"NOT INSANE", telling me "THEY WONT CATCH UP", telling me the things I need
to cool my breathing to a steady pace.
And his breathing would cool, and he could sleep, even now, knowing what was
in progress. What he had initiated.
Visions came - a paradox of lines attached to the acknowledged notion of a
matriculation through time, second to second; a regurgitation of the
juxtaposition of images that are life. Thusly Earl's visions were a
cornucopia. At once the silky image of a wooden horse on springs, mingled
with the feeling of a million tons driving in on him hotly, followed shortly
by bull's head, hawk's head, man's head, then twirls. Earl panting in his
sleep wanting above all else to wake up because in the background, probably
above him, were They.
He was in a panic now, sweat driving down from his eyebrows to his ass
crack, fear constricting him; when in his sleeping eyes he saw a carriage.
The child's gurgling next door woke him.
He bolted up in the bed, shook the images from his head. He got up and moved
to the wall that Molly had allowed him to poke pinholes in so he could watch
TV from the safety of his room. He pushed his face slowly to one of the
holes.
He saw Molly, on the floor in front of the television, rocking the child.
-----
Molly had become brain dead, staring at the TV wide eyed, rocking Ela back
and forth at a fairly steady pace. The child had begun to cry, but Molly
didn't even notice.
A knock at the door almost sent Molly out of her housedress. She put the
child back in the small crib and bolted to answer.
Shelley stood there, wide eyed, with mascara running down her cheeks. Her
clothes were soiled and cuts formed crisscross patterns across her face and
neck.
"Oh my God Shelly. . ." Molly said. "Oh my God, are you. . .?"
Shelley pushed her way in. "Where's my baby?"
"Oh my God." And Molly stopped talking, knowing she could form no other
statement.
Shelley walked directly to her daughter and lifted her up, inadvertently
matching the child's crying. She brought the child to her chest and placed a
loving hand behind her head. She rocked back and forth, the beat of the
crying forming the rhythm for their desperate little dance.
"I just realized," she said. "She almost lost me. Or, I almost lost her. . .
Molly, do you have any brandy?"
Molly was still at the door, frozen with the doorknob still in her hand. The
night chill was flowing into the room through the opening and she shivered a
bit, composing herself, then closed the door.
"Of course, child." She moved across the room toward the kitchen. "I suppose
we could both use a little."
She was in the kitchen no longer than a few seconds then returned with two
small glasses. She handed one to Shelley. She set the other on the small
coffee table.
"Now," she said, "let me put Ela back to sleep and you sit."
Shelley took the glass and reluctantly let Molly take the child. She stood
there for a moment, and then collapsed on to the couch, nearly spilling her
drink.
As soon as the crying from both of them was quieted, Molly said, "Tell this
old woman what in the world happened. I was so worried."
Earl heard the whole story through the wall.
- - - - - - - -
"I never expected to see you again," said Hillary, rearranging her hair,
nervously.
"You did say to stop by anytime," said Eugene. "I was in the area."
Hillary paused. Eugene had struck a chord last night and she had handed out
an invitation, perhaps a little hastily, but under that unruly beard he
"Beg your pardon!"
--
They make the laws to chain us well. The clergy dazzle us with heaven or
they damn us into hell
We will not worship the God they serve. The God of greed who feeds the rich
while poor men starve
Leon Rosselson - World Turned Upside Down
Allegory60
>edit for anything other than plot. I think I've covered off the elementary
>stuff.
>
We'll see. I just got the story from Sue, so will look at it tonight and
tomorrow.
Hank