Story crossing


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Lucretia has posted this over in Carrotville, so I thought why the hell not. I haven't distinguished between the seperate parts here, as I think the interesting part of the challenge is in attempting to mirror someone else's style, to see how well it holds together. Feel free to continue the story on your blog, or in the comments, or to even continue from where Lucretia left off (though if you choose that option, please let her know on her blog). Like a good little nerd, I've sciencefictionalised her initial idea, so I won't be offended if you follow on her beginning, I'll just be left by the wayside, a shivering, sniveling reject, seeking solace from the rain.............. So if you'll ignore that last pathetic plea, let's begin: * * * * * * * * * * It was hot and sticky inside the club, the air hung thick with smoke. Overhead lights threw a sickly, seedy pink hue over everything. Mike was stoned. Way too stoned. And now he was drunk. Very drunk. He leant heavily against the grimy bar counter, the stench of stale urine from the nearby public toilet hung in the air and clung to the walls, insidiously working its way into his nostrils. He grimaced and attempted to focus on anything in his immediate vicinity, anything that wasn’t moving. It was hard. People crushed and crowded against him, all trying to catch the barmaid’s attention. Faces became distorted and stupid looking. He sniggered to himself at the grotesque images around him, he hated it here, he loved it here. The noise and heat engulfed him and for a few moments he felt almost happy, blanketed in the common bond he shared with all the other restless, lonely, souls. Then he remembered where he was and almost immediately, the blackness came rushing back into his head. He gave up trying to focus on the people and stared instead at the brown bottle in his hand. Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” throbbed suggestively from somewhere deeper in the club and a bunch of Goth chicks began gyrating in time to the beat, behind him. They were all drunk as skunks and teetering crazily all over the place. One of them lost her balance and crashed into the bulk of Mike’s slouching body, half rolling off his leather jacket. He wasn’t sure if it was deliberate on her part, he was past caring. He turned slowly and gave her an icy stare. “Oops, sorry!” She blurted, giggling at herself. “My mistake.” She stopped abruptly, taking in his violent gaze. “Chill, dude.’ She said casually. She looked about eighteen, so Mike reckoned she was probably fourteen or younger. Her face was plastered with thick white makeup; her eyes, heavily black from the Kohl eyeliner, looked like piss holes in the snow. She was wearing a black mesh top and no bra, her nipples poked through the strands of black string. He sneered at her. ”Fuck off.” He said in a menacing tone. He was so sick of adolescent girls. They were all so full of shit. Cock teasers and sluts. The last thing he needed tonight was a potential statutory rape probability “Fuck you too, shit head!” she spat at him and swaggered off unsteadily back to her mates. Her friends gasped in unison when she told them what he’d said to her. A chorus of “arsehole!” and “dickface!” assaulted his ears; they made gestures with their middle fingers. He shrugged and went back to his beer, glowering at the faces around him. The place was starting to close in, he felt claustrophobic. ‘Fucking bitches,’ he seethed inside. ‘I fucking hate them all. Only good for one thing.’ He continued to drink heavily and ordered another beer from the frazzled bar lady. ‘Geez, Mike,” she said, eyeing him warily. ‘You’re sure as hell putting them away tonight, hey? Slow down, dude.” She was fond of Mike, he was a regular patron at the club but she hadn’t ever seen him this tanked up, or as surly before. “Just give me a goddam beer, Claire and leave me the fuck alone with the lectures, okay?!” His voice was heavy with booze, yet even in his inebriated state, he managed to speak clearly. “I’m not lecturing you, Mike.” Claire said, uncapping the beer and slamming it down hard on the counter next to his outstretched hand. “Just take it easy, okay?” She tossed his loose change close to the beer bottle. “Give me any shit and I’ll get Bruce to throw you out.” She glared at him threateningly and then spun around, before he could say anything abusive. A crowd of people on the opposite side of the bar were clamouring for refills. She didn’t have time for arguments. Fatigue pulled at Mike, dragging him down. He tried to shake it off with a few gulps of the fresh, cold beer but it wasn’t helping. Bruce, the massive bouncer, had always been friendly but Mike knew that it wouldn’t be impossible to overstretch the boundaries and get turfed out into the street. Bruce didn’t take crap from anyone – friend or otherwise. Mike was getting sick of the place, sick of the babies, the endless parade of schoolgirls. ‘Why the fuck do I come here?’ He mulled to himself. ‘It’s not like I even enjoy it anymore. Always the same bunch of losers and wannabees. They all think they are so cool but they’re just a load of posers, trendies.’ Vivid images erupted in his head – he was striding through the crowded club, gun in hand, taking pot shots at whoever put a face in front of him. Graphic pictures of bloodied bodies and screaming teenagers, flooded through his mind. He was enjoying this day dream; a deep secret smile in his eyes, when he saw her standing across from him. His heart almost stopped beating. She'd been dead all of three years, but it was still a breathless fall to sobriety every time he saw her. Well, not dead three years, but died three years ago........shit, he couldn't even wrap his head around it in the cold, clear light of day, let alone with the fog that was currently loitering in his mind. He watched her walk toward the bar, a clinical stride that didn't seem to belong to her; or maybe it did, maybe the warmth he had always associated with that movement was the real illusion. As always, she was dressed plainly in a black garment that shifted unnaturally, almost as if the touch of her skin would leave some dread taint. "Michael." How could he bear to hear that voice speak his name, that as it had been stripped of any notion of intimacy, so was he stripped of the last vestiges of sanity every time he heard it. "You're looking well." She could have at least made an effort at candidness, but Mike reckoned once you'd been to the other side, sincerity was an expendable commodity. Who would have guessed that science would beat Christ to the resurrection? When they successfully brought that boy back 10 years ago, Mike had not an inkling of the impact it would have on his life. Why had she just not told him? He could understand the right of every individual to request the procedure, if it were possible, yet it angered him that she'd concealed her decision. She should've been mangled by a train, not that fucking pussy of an aneurysm that left her in such 'pristine' condition. R.E.S.C.O.R. He couldn't even think the word without feeling the bile rising in the back of his throat. You thinking of donating your organs when you kick it? Fuck that! Resurrection is the way to go, provided you have enough cash and have managed to keep yourself from splattering all over the pavement. Why no-one seemed to be bothered about the secrecy surrounding the procedure was beyond him. Could the joy of being re-united with a loved one truly blind you for so long? Surely they could see that what came back was like an image in a mirror, that something was lost in the transition? Perhaps that was why he hung out at the club so often; it was as close as he could get to the sheer desolation, the intoxicating loneliness of death. Here, he could worship at the feet of his beloved Mistress. He was sure that She would whisper to him Her design for vengeance against those who would dare defy Her will and encroach on Her domain. For a moment he again saw himself, gun in hand, blowing away these pathetic freaks. Rescor would have a bloody field day. He tried to straighten up, to stare the true freak in the eyes. "Kira, my darling wife." The sarcasm peeled from his voice like burnt skin. "What do you need this time?"


5 Responses to “Story crossing”

  1. Blogger Luke 

    Hey, I think we're onto something here laddio!! VERY COOL and thanks for your input on this project - I hope others do as well as you've done here.
    Specially considering the beginning was so grungy. :)
    I is dead chuffed (no pun intended)

  2. Blogger anne 

    So far, sooooo good.

  3. Blogger LiVEwiRe 

    Hey, great stuff here! I love to see how someone can take an idea and just run with it. Thanks for sharing whats up in the old noggin, eh?

  4. Blogger Nome 

    Wow. Bloody brilliant, mate.

    A clever combination of sci-fi and horror, and picks up really nicely from the writing of the original. We used to do these kinds of writing exercises in high school but people always came up with the most irritatingly unoriginal ideas. Good thing we're sort of grown up now.

    Brilliant last sentence: '"Kira, my darling wife." The sarcasm peeled from his voice like burnt skin. "What do you need this time?"' I can hear his voice in my head -- always a sign of great writing.

    Well done.

    Read my email!

  5. Blogger banzai cat 

    Excellent indeed.

    Nice atmosphere, great writing there. Also, I like the fact that it's an 'older' man having the gun fantasies in the bar instead of the younger set. And I can empathize.

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