Only registered users may post messages
Want to register ?
forgot your password ?
or view all icons
[QUOTE] I can't tell if it's a series of dark city/emotional/romantic/drug metaphors or a terrifying hungry-ghost-meets-doppelganger moment, or both! Visceral and interesting. This is why I'm afraid of a lot of written fiction. I can tell when a film or a game is going to be unnerving, but there's never any telling where a written work is going to go... [/QUOTE] It's quite something, isn't it? Certainly check out the other stories of hers linked on that page! To be honest, though, such a powerful style of writing would probably be unpleasant to read in a novel-length treatment: I think it'd be like drinking an entire bottle of fish sauce. I love the stuff, but that's just too much, and it'd be too strong. I think part of the appeal of a slightly drier style aside from its novelty is that it's easier to drink a larger quantity of, as well as being easier to consume in a variety of moods/settings. Anyway, I've been sitting on the next installment for awhile now, so it's time to post it! [QUOTE][:jojo_tobecontinued:][/QUOTE] The streetcars grumbled along in a perpetual state of displeasure: displeasure at the tracks they were made to run at, displeasure at the loads of passengers they had to carry, displeasure at the stops and starts they had to make. They expressed their plight with the honesty that only machines possess, in utterances that could make them known even to children. Maou appreciated that about the streetcars, their genuineness, even as he suffered their grievances, whether the screech that cried of rust and poor lubrication, or the too-sharp bounce that told of the suspension’s neglect. Nobody was a straighter shooter than the Market Street trolleys, even if they only spoke for themselves. Even in the morning, Market Street was bustling: some five lanes of cars shuffled along shoulder-to-shoulder. All the gaudiness afforded by new technology, from the massive bulk needed for V-8 engines to the smooth unibody chassis that had become popular, strutted alongside more traditional looking vehicles that didn’t have seatbelts. Reaching the end of the line, Maou began the climb up Twin Peaks. The morning was cool, making the walk bearable. He’d walk along the roads laid down for the cars, but with how little traffic went through there, that was of no concern. Maou had great sympathy for this monument of chaparral that quietly watched the urban city. Surveyors were scattered around Twin Peaks along with construction workers, a small army of khaki-wearing men measuring and grading the twin hills with all manner of instruments in hand and on poles. They were marking the hills in preparation for them to be cut like diamonds, each face worth a fortune in real estate. Somewhere among these workers, Maou would find his new assignment. The staff were spread all over the vast slopes, but this wouldn’t be a problem for Maou. Indeed, this was exactly why Maou would be hired for these jobs. He was neither some kind of bloodhound nor a trained tracker, but with the trace of of his contact provided by his host, he knew he’d be drawn to the place or the person he needed. He could no more blind himself to the pull of that direction than he could deafen himself to the sound of his own pulse. Maou let his feet take him to where he needed to be. His path wound around both hills, cresting each hill in turn. His feet had decided that the path would not be a direct one, and soon the cool morning air bowed to the midday sun, its heat bearing down upon Maou oppressively. Still, he persisted, tracing a path that crossed over itself again and again around the scrub of the hills. In time, the sun grew weary of its place in the sky, and Maou was relieved by its retiring. It was evening when Maou found himself before a surveyor who stood facing the West, in a spot that would surely become prime real estate. Maou knew immediately that this was the man he was supposed to meet. The agents of his clients were universally bland-looking men and women: not ugly, not beautiful, not outstanding or interesting in the slightest. Maou could be staring them in the face and talking with them, and within moments of looking away, he’d be unable to recall what they looked like. They all spoke with a milk voice that seemed the same even when it sounded different, and they could no more be pointed out specifically than one could point out a drop of water in an ocean. Their blandness, their forgettableness, was not normal. A single ant in an entire colony had more presence than one of them. To an onlooker, Maou seemed like an ordinary man having a casual conversation with a surveyor, perhaps getting directions, or hearing about what was to come for this land. The interaction would seem utterly mundane, and would be utterly forgettable. The onlooker would not think it strange that they couldn’t remember the face of the surveyor, and they would not manage to notice the manila envelope that the surveyor handed to Maou. They would remember the beautiful view of San Francisco, the light of the sun, the gust of the wind, and the sound of the workers. They would probably not even remember Maou; just another detail that didn’t matter of a moment that was not worth remembering. Descending, Maou considered stopping at the grandiose Castro Theater that sat near the end of Market Street, to see a movie on his way back to the Cafe M. Meeting with the bland people always left a chalky-tasting spot in his mind, and the vivid reality of cinema usually helped clear that away. But the envelope today felt a little heavy, and that suggested a more involved job. He’d have to get started right away. The worlds that laid within that Castro basilica would have to wait. [:jojo_tobecontinued:]
Delete? To delete this post, check this box.
Delete subthread too ? To delete all replies to your message, check this box (currently disabled)
include your profile signature.
in this post.