Possibly part of something larger, we'll see.

Working title.

Aliens


“I know it’s not fucking Ridley Scott here.” Darren’s fingers fluttered in that arachnoid sign language from planet Film. “But I need more terror, more… Just imagine you’re out of weed, or the Salvia shadow-monster is coming after you again.”

“Uh, ok, man. It’s just kind of hard to be frightened without some scary shit like, ‘right there’, you know?” Joe’s glazed eyes, droopy with psychoactive, were obstacle enough to squeeze convincing fear out of, acting skills and motivation aside. Perhaps fear could be brushed on in After Effects. It seemed they could do anything in After Effects nowadays. Dump in a script and some Chinese kids, bake a few hours, out popped a DVD.
“Fuck, I told him not to burn before the shoot,” Darren made the coffee-grinder-in-the-throat sound, a sound he might make at misbehaving toddlers, if he’d had kids. Valerie, who’d been leaning against a cardboard-box version of the Nostromo, uncrossed her thin arms, and rolled her differently colored eyelashes in sympathy.

“Focus, Joe.” She applied some extra “action grime” charcoal make up with a Q-Tip to Joe’s cheek with the grace of a calligraphy artist polishing a turd, giving Joe’s soon to be eviscerated character whatever believability hand-up she could. Darren and Valerie had for a time been sort of going out, as much as two young Artists can be said to be dating. Most of the time it felt more like a co-invasion: exotic entities that happen to be tentatively occupying each other’s space, exchanging culture, sometimes bodily fluids.

“Action,” no zing in it. Darren had given up on the pretentious hand motions as well by that point. The big-auteur-idea filmmaking session had evaporated down to complete left brain level, pure technicality of just getting the damn thing to work.

Two more takes, a few hundred more gigs of less than award winning performance. Darren tried rubbing the fail of it all from his eyes, failed, “I think I need a smoke. Ok one more, what the hell, right?” Valerie crossed to the other side of the set, getting a bit closer to the radioactive expanse of the green screen.
“Watch the fill lights, Vic, don’t want to have to hand-strain Herr protagonist out of the footage. Ok, let’s go. Action.”

For the thirty-seventh time, Joe clutched his space marine-black spray painted AR-15 airsoft rifle like a teddy bear, erratically turning left and right.
“Sergeant? Sarge? Where the fuck is everyone?” Darren zoomed the camera in like the extending, saliva-drizzling tongue of some Bosch nightmare creature. Joe whipped around on the count of five. Counting out fucking loud. Fix it in post.

Darren awaited Joe’s look of stoned bedazzlement that was supposed to pass for raw deep-space horror. That retarded fucking “O” of the lips. That black hole. That zero that was Darren’s chance of making it into a film festival. That gaping perforation in the hull of this film that threatened to suck the cargo and the crew out, exhale it away like so much pot smoke into the vast emptiness of weed-space. Where no one can hear you scream but the blurry UFOs and little green men that inhabit that smoky void in the American consciousness.
Which was why Darren was sure there was a problem with the LCD screen when he saw something approximating real fear or at least shock happen on Joe’s face. Darren confirmed it with his own eyes then swallowed the exclamation of relief crawling up his throat. Sweat beaded on his lip as he willed his body to perfect stillness, the red eyed recording camera like a rare, infinitely valuable, and incredibly dangerous species.

“…And cut, holy Chris Cunningham’s nipples, cut!” Darren leapt several feet into the air, nearly knocking the tripod over.

“Mmm, nipples…” Joe seemed stuck in the scene, his eyeballs showing ivory all around, jaw snapped off its hinges or something.

“Nipples, for the win.” Darren, completely absorbed by Joe’s recent abduction by skill, turned in time to catch Valerie’s nipples; wine colored Martians perched atop modest twin arcologies on the lunar white surface. “Thank me by kindly driving us to the nearest Subway, I’m starving,” she pulled her clever-ass t-shirt down and gathered her make up paraphernalia back into a handbag made out of a piece of jump rope and stitched velvet.

“What- The fuck! Val, was that entirely necessary?” Darren mentally punched himself as question sputtered past his tongue, he could almost taste the stupid. Why did he say that? Joe was already packing green nuggets into his porto-pipe, pulling out a lighter, holding the weed out like an offering. A ritual welcome from weed-space. We come in peace. Darren ignored it, turned back to Valerie.

“Hey, ‘that’s a wrap’, right? Get over it, Queen Victoria.” She rolled her eyes and hop-tripped her way across cardboard props, a wind machine, and puddled costumes littering the floor.

“Yeah. Come on Joe, let’s go. Oh, good work there, man. Stellar.” Darren began unscrewing the camera so they could review the footage over dinner, but stopped halfway through. He told himself that it would just be too much ponderous trouble to bring it, but somewhere he knew that he didn’t really want to see the scene again. Afraid, even.

Nice, twi. And despite the derogatory tone toward the nugs it really got me jonesing. Lovely descriptors and comparators.

"I slipped away" the interrogator looked stern.

" You mean you stole a ship and travelled to an unknown planet, for personal reasons" he said.

"And returned before my disappearance was even noted" I countered.

He had the monobrow. He had the monomind. He would never understand me, how I was motivated. He had the ham fists. Not since the neanderthals had the human gene line split into such disparate entities. I hadn't been around a man of this species for decades...This was going to be hell.

"My cross" she said and leapt to my rescue. My attorney had my heart, which didn't help. I fall in love with all women. It's like a rule with me...

"could you tell the court a little about your background?" she asked...

"went to art school" I said. "nothing special...I studied the 20th century artist Cristo"

"wasn't he known for his earthworks? sculptures that stretched for miles across earth?" she said.

"ya, I suppose that's where I got the idea for the planet poem"


"ok, let's backtrack a little. What do you mean by the planet poem? " she asked.


"Xax 3, is really just a large asteroid... hardly a planet, but it has no wind. Not enough atmosphere...I got the idea that if I wrote a poem in the dust there, it would still be readable centuries later..."

" so like Cristo, you set out to make some harmless planetary scale art..." she said.

The beady eyed counselor jumped in: "I get the feeling you're trying to justify theft, absenteeism, and lying, under the heading of art..." he said.

...and that's when I knew I was living in the future. This was a time when over 50% of people followed the holy fire of their muse for their life's work. Weirdly the ham fisted, beady eyed lawyer was a noted painter in the impressionist style.

"You think I don't believe you, that I don't understand. No I get you, but I will still judge you. " he offered.

"Meritocracy" I said.

"You guessed it. You can go out on a limb, but only if the work is worth it. We aren't running a society where people can paint a mural on a library whenever they want. We're running a society where 9 out of 10 people who'd try such a crazy thing are sent away... "

"But the one in ten who can make it work?" said my counselor.

"They're the sacred" the man answered. "They're the goal"

The courtroom erupted in a weird chant...
"DEMO DEMO DEMO DEMO"

and so that was it. I would show the pictures I'd taken with my cellphone of the writing, and if the court was pleased with my words, I was sacred, if not I was ostracized.

My lawyer wished me luck as I walked to the overhead. A lot of thoughts rushed through my head, ways I could alter the writing in realtime to make it work better for this crowd...then I surrendered. It is what it is.

*******************

Travellers, arriving from distant lands, may come upon these etchings, and wonder about their origins. This dust was scratched by one Ethan Mondragon, youthful wanderer in a year you may not remember. It was a time when all young people had to do a year's service with the terraforming troops. Before the worlds all blossomed in green, before the time of plenty. When we still lived with strict limitations.. on oxygen, on water, on our dreams.

But dreams have a way of getting free. Spreading like a fire in atmosphere. While most dreams are written in green, a new O2 shunt for a stuggling world, this one is made of dust. It's the dream of a planet that is a poem...a world that is a message.

You are receiving my dream in your walk. And like the nation of farmers that plants seeds of hope, these words should grow into something new. Something not predicted by examining the seed... You are their host.

So carrying the virus of this world with you you must leave here. But what will you have learned? How does this place change you?

(There is nothing else written in this area, the next shot is on the other side of some small mountains we can see on the horizon)


In this place there are phrases spread about in random patterns.
"This is a rose" says one...
"This is a Wildbeest" says another.
" "A rainy morning, with clean fresh air"
"A windy mountaintop, with wildflowers and a scree"
"The surf at Makaha.."
"A giant Kaori tree from north of Aukland"
"A million daffodills growing by the roadside in Holland"
"A Komodo Dragon"


I walk behind another hill in my photographs...


It's not like I miss it. I wasn't even born there. I think I put these memories here because they need a place to live. True, we don't even know what became of earth. We are descendants of the escapists who watched so much of it crumble that it was time to leave. Blasting off with untested hardware, with no means to phone home, we have survived. My gradparents, and their parents before them built a future for us out of nothing. We are lucky, happy, and alive. Only the memories of things I will never see haunt me. To roll in the dirt, dive in the water. sail on the oceans...


And so I scratch these words into my new world. "This is a meerkat" in a strange hope that somehow the universe will remember. And in remembering the words of the planetary poem perhaps we will remember the true poetry we have lost forever....

*************

"hmm, says the interrogator "that it?"


"No, I covered over 300 kilometers with my text" I answer...

"But that was kind of an executive summary?" he asked.

"Kind of yeah, I tried to boil it down"

"So you walked all over the planet putting the names of things you wished exist? " he asked.

"Some of these items aren't even in the textbooks anymore.." I say.

"And you think that's wrong? "

"I think that a lot of stories are just ways to remember... " I say.

So you're trying to create a kind of historical monument...a planet that has a place for all the things that we no longer can accomodate.

"I think the groupthink is that remembering such things is just unproductive...that we shouldn't sentimentalize the past."

"better forgotten" he added. "over-specialized species that couldn't adapt to the changing world."

My lawyer jumped in.

"Do you think it's harmful to bring up these things we can never have again?"

"I think that beauty is the only thing worth remembering. "

"pfft you are a recipe for a generation of whiners..." said beady eyes.

"No, in fact I think it will take strength and courage for people to acknowledge the things we don't have, love them, and move on..."

"that's why you built your planet poem...to give the memories a place." said my lawyer.

The crowd was silent. Even old ham fists just looked at me with puzzlement.

"For remembering the things we forgot, and showing us we'll have to be brave to look back, I commend you. You're off the hook."

A cheer comes from the crowd. I'm not sure that they like the planet poem. But they're glad madmen like me exist....

inspired, to some degree, by this picture:
http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uXQc...re_dying+(Large).jpg


In the hazy hours around dawn the boundaries between worlds were at
their thinnest. An indication of the encroaching fabrics of reality
that the scientists talked about in the news. Day by day, year by
year, it would get worse. At the moment it was a novelty value, which
had limited real impact on life – shock value rather than momentary
sucking void and blinking out of existence, mostly. Lane stands by
the fence along the cliff edge and looks out to sea, watches the
glitter of colours between boundaries, the glimpses of people in the
next world. It was only an optical illusion that made them look
gigantic, some peculiar interfacial maths, at least that’s what they
were being told. No cause for alarm. She looks at the giant woman,
sleeping on the beach, naked but for a slight night dress. A
manifestation of this level of vividity is unusual, normally they are
hallucinatory glimpses of people that look as surprised as we do to be
encountering a threadbare point in reality. But the woman remains,
snoozing, her nose wrinkling momentarily as she breathes. Lane
decides to walk down the path, a little way down and she will be level
with the woman’s face. The tide is coming in, but what does that mean
for the sleeping woman? Is she enough a part of this reality that she
might drown? Or will it lap past her unnoticed? Lane doesn’t know.
One hand on the fence, she leans over, extending her umbrella reaching
out as a pointing pointy thing, and points it at the woman’s nose. She
doesn’t think she’ll reach it. But with an extra stretch, an extra
shove, she does, and the umbrella almost buckles with the doink that
she gives it. In some ways the fact that she has actually made contact
is surprising. The woman’s nose wrinkles again, not in a slight sleepy
fashion, more in I’ve been stung fashion. Her eyes open, and she sits
up, suddenly, towering over Lane. Lane steps back, unsure what
to do now. She waves the umbrella, its bright red material popping
open, and calls “coooeee!”. The woman leans forward, peering at
Lane. “um, the tide was coming in!” Lane calls pointing. The
woman looks down, parts of her night dress already damp from the
water, the flesh of her bare legs speckled with sand. The woman looks
confused, opens her mouth to say something, and the sun comes up that
last degree, and the woman is gone. Lane watches for another
moment, before turning round and heading back home – thinking, well,
that was different. Wonder if this means we’ll all collapse in on each
other sooner than expected?

They're getting closer. I can feel the ASAT pulses through the ground.
This is Splitcoil's territory. They say he can do things with a Floyd Rose that will make a man cry and scream and crap his pants just thinking about it. And MOM eats the leftovers. I think I hear them now.
I don't even remember why I came here, but I'm glad I did. I haven't felt this serene in decades. Maybe ever. It's almost like being in love.

They're here. I can see the hats.

Yes... bring him to me, my minions!

You ain't kiddin' about those ASAT pulses. I have never had a guitar more apt to woof out on you than this ASAT on the bridge pickup. On the one hand, it is shocking and unbalanced. On the other hand, it is marvelously shocking and unbalanced. It's like everything I'd have ever wanted in a tele bridge pickup, but multiplied by ten. I never dreamed anybody actually made such a thing. It's mad science. Gonzo engineering. If I could stay in town for more than five minutes straight, I'd get the action squared away and get to recording with the thing!

quote:

Originally posted by King Real:
inspired, to some degree, by this picture:
http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uXQc...re_dying+(Large).jpg


In the hazy hours around dawn the boundaries between worlds were at
their thinnest. An indication of the encroaching fabrics of reality
that the scientists talked about in the news. Day by day, year by
year, it would get worse. At the moment it was a novelty value, which
had limited real impact on life – shock value rather than momentary
sucking void and blinking out of existence, mostly. Lane stands by
the fence along the cliff edge and looks out to sea, watches the
glitter of colours between boundaries, the glimpses of people in the
next world. It was only an optical illusion that made them look
gigantic, some peculiar interfacial maths, at least that’s what they
were being told. No cause for alarm. She looks at the giant woman,
sleeping on the beach, naked but for a slight night dress. A
manifestation of this level of vividity is unusual, normally they are
hallucinatory glimpses of people that look as surprised as we do to be
encountering a threadbare point in reality. But the woman remains,
snoozing, her nose wrinkling momentarily as she breathes. Lane
decides to walk down the path, a little way down and she will be level
with the woman’s face. The tide is coming in, but what does that mean
for the sleeping woman? Is she enough a part of this reality that she
might drown? Or will it lap past her unnoticed? Lane doesn’t know.
One hand on the fence, she leans over, extending her umbrella reaching
out as a pointing pointy thing, and points it at the woman’s nose. She
doesn’t think she’ll reach it. But with an extra stretch, an extra
shove, she does, and the umbrella almost buckles with the doink that
she gives it. In some ways the fact that she has actually made contact
is surprising. The woman’s nose wrinkles again, not in a slight sleepy
fashion, more in I’ve been stung fashion. Her eyes open, and she sits
up, suddenly, towering over Lane. Lane steps back, unsure what
to do now. She waves the umbrella, its bright red material popping
open, and calls “coooeee!”. The woman leans forward, peering at
Lane. “um, the tide was coming in!” Lane calls pointing. The
woman looks down, parts of her night dress already damp from the
water, the flesh of her bare legs speckled with sand. The woman looks
confused, opens her mouth to say something, and the sun comes up that
last degree, and the woman is gone. Lane watches for another
moment, before turning round and heading back home – thinking, well,
that was different. Wonder if this means we’ll all collapse in on each
other sooner than expected?

I really liked this. Not long ago, I read an article about the possibility of something they're calling "Dark Flow" being the pull of gravity from another universe, so your piece ties into my thoughts on that nicely.

You know, I'd maybe cut off that last sentence. Or change it to something more like what our narrator feels about this imminent collapse.

She picked one, a middle aged man. The peak of his head stood out, bald and sharp as a pyramid. He was one of the few who looked to be in possession of more than a handful of marbles.

"What's your name?"

He looked up from her bare feet, startled. He was obviously surprised she would speak to him, and at the gentleness of her tone. "Hashar."

"Hashar, how did you get here?"

"God brought me here."

She sighed. "No, I mean literally. Here. Tonight. Did you ride a bus? A plane?"

He shook his head. "God brought me, in his car."

"Ah." She reached up to push the hair back from her eyes, then stopped the gesture when she caught herself doing it. She brought her hand back down, self-consciously. "Did God bring you all together?"

"Just me."

So, did they each bring people to die, like wine and cheese to a house-warming?

quote:

Originally posted by Infinity_Circuit:


I really liked this. Not long ago, I read an article about the possibility of something they're calling "Dark Flow" being the pull of gravity from another universe, so your piece ties into my thoughts on that nicely.

You know, I'd maybe cut off that last sentence. Or change it to something more like what our narrator feels about this imminent collapse.

thanks, glad you enjoyed.
its very much greg egan territory, he has written various pieces about various kinds of universes over lapping on each other.
and also rudy rucker's last couple of novels have had en element of giants and us, and overlaps. i saw the picture and thought of the rucker novel, and how to work and play with that.

It waves at me, the statue, beckons with a couple of fingers. Sat on its plinth like a great thinker. Its surface is pitted, discoloured. But in this darkness, with the rain of ash, everything is pitted, discoloured. I take a puff of the cigarette, release the smoke into the air. Nothing better to do, amongst the screaming, the running. Everything feels like a stop frame film of the end of the world, perhaps it is. I raise an eyebrow as I stand in front of this muscular stone figure, trying to puzzle out its intent. It points a finger at my cigarette, looks sad, looks like it’s got a craving. So I fish the pack out of my pocket. There is only one left. I look at the sky; I look at the black and white world. The statue regards me with an eagerness that is unseemly in someone made from stone. I shrug, a little; I was planning on quitting anyway. I tap the box and the end of the cigarette extends by about an inch. The statue takes it between his fingers, rolls it there as though lapping up the sensation. I wipe a piece of ash from my cheek, watching it crumple like a snowflake. I flick my lighter, the flame looks washed out, as though it can barely muster any heat. The statue leans forward, one end in its mouth, the other end being guided to the flame. It sucks. There is a flare and it lights, a moment of red, I swear, then it’s gone. It leans back against the column that marks the fronting of the building, takes a deep draw of smoke. I watch carefully, fascinated, the statue closes its eyes, seems to sigh with a certain contentment. Then I notice, a wisp at first, the smoke dispersing through its surface. Stone become porous; the statue somehow looks like it has become a supernatural creature, its surface smoking and hazy, against this back drop. It opens its eyes, looks at me and nods, then rises from the plinth where it has sat, no doubt for 100s of years, and it walks away. I stand there for a moment, bemused, watching as it disappears into the crowd. Again, I shrug, before punting myself up on to the plinth myself, might as well sit here and finish my own cigarette, watch the world go to hell.

friend sent me link to writing competition, they have a flash fiction category of only 100 words. so for fun, i decided to take yesterday's piece and see whether i could even reduce it to that scale. was tough, but here is the 99 words remix:

The pitted statue beckons. Ash discolours everything, feels like the end of the world. I take a puff from my cigarette, which it points at. I look in the pack - one left –the statue takes it. I flick my lighter, flame barely mustering heat, flash of red, then gone. It takes a draw, sighs with contentment, before smoke disperses through its surface. Stone become porous, statue become supernatural creature, surface smoking and hazy. It rises and walks away. I watch it go, punt myself on to the plinth, finish my own cigarette, watch the world go to hell.

Two men walked through a tree filled area below a large house. One of those men smiled.

"How did you steal a helicopter?", Travis said, clearly impressed.

The helicopter was relatively small but authentic. It looked like it worked.

"If the current government fails, you can escape across the border in this," Jeremy replied, matter of fact.

"Unbelievable."

Gesturing to a person coming down the hill behind them, Jeremy nodded. "Have a beer. There is more than enough time before things begin."

"I would greatly appreciate that."

"Our security person will be here in about an hour. He's going to barbecue hot dogs for everyone. Team stuff today."

"I actually like hot dogs a lot."

- - -

It was late at night when Chandles heard the knock on the dojo's door. At it stood a tall, older person with a laptop computer.

"I don't believe it. I love you, man," Chandles said.

"You owe me big time. In fact, I think you are going to be doing community service for me on weekends for a good part of your future. This baby will show the stream for the elimination. It should hold for about two hours before dying. Media connection. I need your computer open."

"Come on in. Sensei is gone. He doesn't need to know about this."

"Just holding down the fort, right?"

They walk through the very small, humble dojo to a back office room, filled with trophies and tournament pictures. The computer there is already on.

"This is passive, Chandles. You understand that?"

"I'm not playing. Just experience."

"Make sure to listen to the music closely. Don't fall in love with the graphics. Can you remember that?"

"Hold on, Scratches. I'm going to get some potato chips."

"Listen. This isn't about any one part of your brain being fast. It's about all the parts of your brain being fast together. It's for real. You got to see all the balls being juggled, you ever want to take part, you know?"

"I am so into this."

"Twelve years in jail, if nailed. But they just kill you, kid. Only innocent people go down for the time. Really there is no government anymore. The network is the only thing that's stable. The network is the government."

"Been like that for a while," Chandles replied.

- - -

The girl climbed out of her trailer, energy drink in hand. Her stomach was already feeling off this morning.

It was barely dawn. They were already starting to set up the carnival. The Ferris wheel declared their presence. It and the things around it were first, done in slow, intentional stages. The rest of the show would go up around.

She decided to walk over to the water. They weren't normally by water, so this time was nice.

Bryant Park

New York, in July, is best avoided. Everybody's sweaty, cranky, and in a hurry to get somewhere air-conditioned.

That's why it's a damned good place for a meet.

"Hello. Could I possibly get a Campari and soda from you, please?"

"Uh...yeah. Sure!" Ice cubes clonk into a plastic tumbler. "That'll be nine dollars, please."

New York City. I've just ordered a drink, at an outdoor bar, in a park. Served in a clean picnic cup. Civilised, maybe a bit over-civilised. And expensive. New York City.

I take my pink potion over to a little round stand-up table off to the side of the bar building, and keeping an eye on the 42nd Street side, I sip. So many of these meets start this way, I find myself thinking; with a strange drink in a strange bar at a strange little table, while I wait for a stranger. I've always been the first one there. Always planned it that way. It's always worked out. I sip, and look, and fiddle with my camera, and idly read my paperback. Just another damned tourist in the park on a hot day. Rich, bitter Italianate flavors gesture and grope at my tongue as I look for a sign of a Scotsman.

"You'll be Mister Oldman, then?" Y'ull bae Muster Ulldman, thunn? This, from a squarely-hewn Hebridean standing peasant-like in front of my table. Hands hanging at his sides. Not apelike, like a Sicilian wide boy's; like a farmhand's.

Fuck, he's quiet. He just... appeared.

"Possibly. Mister Push?"

"Aye. Push." Poosh. He rhymes it with douche.

"Pray take a stool." I put away my book. "May I offer you a drink?"

"Ta. Can they do a nice cuppa, ye think?"

Fuck. He doesn't seem to drink. Or speak English.

"Iced, here. An acquired taste, but suitable for the day, I assure you."

"Great! I'll have a bash at one." Greet! Ullavebash at 'un. "Tea's grand, all forms." He looks around. Jesus, he even sits with his arms at his sides.

I get up and make the tea arrangements. His head purrs like a Maginot Line turret, the muzzles of his eyes following me to the bar.

"Nae' tae mooch shoogurr!" The arms hang as before. He finally flips one of them up to accept the tall frosty carnival tumbler I offer him; it ends in a delicately-formed hand the width of a toilet seat. He sips at the glass, and smiles the smile of the surprised connoisseur.

"Fookin' smashin'! Goonpowder!" Bryant Park bar makes its iced teas with gunpowder. Who knew?

We get down to brass tacks.

"The Literate Motorman."

"Aye. The Redaction Engine. Did a job wi' him, once. By proxy."

"That's right. He'll be here tomorrow. Here, as in, here. This table. Twelve-thirty hours. Walk past, he'll follow you. You'll both go into the public restroom building."

"Eh? the one wi' the greet fookin' line-up o'er thar'--??"

"Yes. But note that the line is only made of women. No line-up for men."

"Aaaaahhhh...."

"The mark thinks he's meeting Motorman there at 1235. Meeting him alone. Thinks he is. You'll be here, though, to photograph the brush-pass."

"Pff. Yeah, I'm pretty used to tekkin' snaps in th' bogs. I can mekk it loo' natooral."

"And anyone seeing you with the camera in a public restroom will just think you're another freak."

"Eh'? Wanna unpack tha'?"

I shrug in reply.

"This is New York."

"Ah. Aye." The dangling hands come together; they are rubbed. Briefly.

"Questions?"

"Nah."

"Good. So go do your recce. I'll get you another tea."

"Grand."

He shambles off to the loo, and I get another cup of gunpowder in. I hail myself another Campari while I'm there. What the hell? I've got two hands.

And one's gotta toast a pro when one meets one.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: Mean Old Man,

Merci.

exccellent!

nice

so good to work with professionals

There is a center to your city, the oldest part. There is a part from which everything else grew, outward. That's where we want to go. Outward. But it must be outward on one of the five or six original streets in your city. A cross-street, yet. Go outward on the main drag and you'll quickly find yourself on some goddam highway, interstate, turnpike. There's no stories there. The stories there have moved on.

But follow one of the five or six original cross-streets in your city outward to the point where it is no longer that street anymore. You'll find a story there. A good one. Pick the right street and you won't even have to look for long. The story will jump into your car if you stop or slow down, because it is tired of being there.

Nice.

quote:

Originally posted by Trogdor:
There is a center to your city, the oldest part. There is a part from which everything else grew, outward. That's where we want to go. Outward. But it must be outward on one of the five or six original streets in your city. A cross-street, yet. Go outward on the main drag and you'll quickly find yourself on some goddam highway, interstate, turnpike. There's no stories there. The stories there have moved on.

But follow one of the five or six original cross-streets in your city outward to the point where it is no longer that street anymore. You'll find a story there. A good one. Pick the right street and you won't even have to look for long. The story will jump into your car if you stop or slow down, because it is tired of being there.

I'd almost forgotten what damn good writing sounds like. Thanks.

Particularly resonant as I've visited about six cities and a European country's worth of US and Canadian towns in the past week and a half.

Goddamn Gernsbeckian Northwest highways.