[Chapter One]
Feral Beatings in a Coffee-Shop of Horrors
Alan Patchwork knew he was a cliche, and it bugged the hell out of him. But it couldn't be helped; some lucky souls were brilliant, vibrant characters, effortlessly bounding from one page to the next in the ever-unfolding story of life. Others were drab buggers the harshest of critics typically called 'a waste of space', or possibly just 'uninteresting', if they happened to be in a charitable mood. Alan, sadly, fit into the later category.
It wasn't for a lack of trying. He had many faults, from unkempt hair to crippling absentmindedness, but apathy wasn't one of them. Starving artists couldn't afford such a luxury. But that lofty label didn't quite fit; he was mostly just hungry. Not necessarily for a lack of trying, though that certainly contributed. It had more to do with a general forgetfulness, even at a club with cheap booze and food. When in public, Alan felt the overwhelming desire to take out his notebook and write until his pencil was but dust and fragments. Most of the words were embarrassingly unimportant, but every so often, on those rare golden days, he'd stumble upon a sentence worth saving. This was a far better way of passing the time then engaging in such trivial matters as eating and socializing. During sleepless nights, his stomach would growl and he would absentmindedly wonder what it'd be like to lay next to a woman, but it was a small price to pay; his novel was almost done! After three months of procrastination and self-doubt, he had written the first page.
The remaining few hundred would come quick and easy, a breath of air. He knew, after all, exactly where he was going, the kingdoms he would build, the lovers he'd unite, and the hearts he would break. All he had to do was get there, and the road was now lit by the wisps of inspiration. It was best to make the mad dash to the finish line before the darkness once more crept over; his was a fickle Muse. So, feeling the weight of his creativity's impeding deadline, he called in sick for the week and set up camp in a dark corner of the pub. The choice of lighting was merely for dramatic effect, but had the unforeseen benefit of keeping him safe from scrutinizing eyes. To be seen in such a state would be a fate worse than death; men in their early thirties didn't, shouldn't, waste time penning fantasy novels. But here he was, straining his eyes against the blankets of shadows, carefully scrawling out his first draft of Phantasmagoria.
He didn't have high hopes for it. Alan learned long ago that youthful enthusiasm was a poison most painful. In the early days, he figured his journey reached an end when the last word hit paper. Rejection slips proved him wrong time and time again. The monstrous pile, each one a shard to the heart, was packed away in a box heavier than a bowling ball. Alan learned of it's weight the hard way, by dropping it on his foot, shattering bones he never knew existed. It was still painful to walk around, though he never told people of the story behind his limp, if they ever asked. Thankfully, they never did. He had, however, several fantasies tucked away in his mind if ever someone did. One involved the Mafia.
It wasn't as though Alan lived entirely solitude. He had friends, and was well-liked by a good deal of them, in addition to a small number of female admirers, won over solely through lies. He only occasionally felt bad about this; he'd be a published author someday, and was, for now, merely referring to his accomplishments in the future tense. No, he wasn't a complete loner, he simply had the unique gift of letting others know, through means mostly likely mystical, when he'd rather be left alone, without ever saying a word. When his head was in the clouds, searching for a tale to call his own, he was never disturbed. Thus, he spent these excursions to the bar by his willing lonesome. But despite these antisocial tendencies, he needed the public. More accurately, he needed the noise they made. It was the richest soundtrack in the world, their laughter and clatter. He never quite managed to translate it to paper, but wasn't one to be discouraged by failures.
Today, the noise seemed a little off. The din was respectfully quiet, letting a melody take its place. Alan didn't mind; he found it beautiful. The fragile, feminine singing was coupled with the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar, inseparable in harmony. The words were blurred, the music taking center stage. It was better this way; there were no distracting phrases to distract Alan, and resulting aura drove his pencil to match something so flawless. Sadly, this feeling of tranquility was eventually interrupted, by which time the writer had completely forgotten that reality existed.
"Uhm. Excuse me. You. Hey. Hi. For fuck's sake. Lovecraft! I'm talking to you!"
Alan jerked his head upwards, instantly pulling a muscle in his neck. The colors and textures of the room surprised him, as he'd grown unaccustomed to what they looked like, but the people were truly shocking. They looking at him, each and every one, with faint amusement, even, especially, the redhead on stage. Manners cost nothing, so Alan put on his friendliest face and cleared his throat, which had grown stiff after such lengthy neglect, "Hello."
"Yeah, hi," she said mockingly, her smile condescending, "What's the point of coming to a show if you're not even going to pay attention?"
"Take it up with the managers," Alan returned the smile, "as they've clearly drawn in us crowds through false advertising. The sign outside says 'Happy Hour, Drinks Half-Priced'. Had it said 'Wine and Dine to the Screeching of an Egotistical Banshee', as it should, I'd have stayed the hell away."
Suppressed snickers and chuckles circulated the half-full pub, and Alan felt the dull flickers of pride. The woman on stage was less pleased, and her grin faltered, if only by a fraction. A mere moment passed before she regained her composure, and called out, "Ah, a comedian! I've always wanted to vary my act. Get up here, Chuckles."
Exhaling in a small gesture of rage, Alan stared at her in disbelief, silently hoping that sheer will alone could cause her to back down. Naturally, it didn't. Seconds later he was onstage, clutching his notebook as a reminder, both to himself and the crowd, that he was, truly, a very busy man. The small gathering of faces looked at him in amusement, egging him to speak. Biting the bullet, he gave in.
"Right. Hello everyone," he boomed in a Shakespearian tone, having given up on making sense of this surreal situation. Best to just go with it. "You may call me Alan Patchwork. And who are you, young lady?"
She laughed scornfully, "I said my name at the beginning of my set."
"Forgive me for not hanging onto your every word. That was wrong of me, wasn't it? Us mortals should be more courteous in the presence of a God."
"Lily Solace."
"Ah. Good name, well chosen. It fits your soothing, comforting personality."
Alan thought he could see traces of crimson creeping into Lily's features. Sadly, they didn't linger long enough to be savored, "So, do you have any experience on the stage, Mr. Poe? You've got the heart of a musician beating underneath that pale skin of yours, I just know it."
"I don't..." Alan sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose with a free hand, and said in a casual aside, "I was in a band with Eric Quillington once, but.."
At this, both the crowd and Lily laughed, in a manner not necessarily polite. If he had been joking, he didn't have to say it in such a genuine tone, "Of course you were. And what happened? Infinite too small for you, bigshot?"
"It was before Infinite," he mumbled, his checks burning in betrayal, "We were, uhm... ah. Friends. Sort of. His band needed lyrics, and I was kind of known as the... erm, school's goth. I dressed in black, y'see, and listened to the Cure. A lot. Apparently goths are known for being poets. Never knew why, but I digress. So he brought me on-board as the bassist for.. well, for about a month. Once he learned how to rhyme 'moon' with 'June', I was... kicked out, more or less. I dunno, I guess he was John Lennon, and I was Stuart Sutcliffe. His hunch was right, though; I did write poetry. And I still do. It's awful, damn near unlistenable, and far too long. Luckily, I have one with me. It's untitled, but I'm thinking of calling it 'Lily Solace, You Brought This On Yourself'."
He opened his notebook to the correct page, and took a quick look at the audience to make sure he had the attention of each and every poor soul in the pub. Most of them wore skeptical smirks, expecting this to be some kind of joke. Satisfied with this close scrutiny, Alan began, his voice instantly shifting to something more theatrical, sinister.
"Mary Sue was feeling blue.
Her neck was bound, tightly wound
by ropes uncaring, a noose constraining.
She pulled for a moment,
but only a moment,
giving up just as quickly,
and begun the day as if nothing was wrong.
She didn't last long.
Rising from bed, ignoring the choking,
she greeted the morning with outstretched arms,
and pushed the mourning past conscious thought.
Stupid, poor Mary thought to sing a song.
Her bound, mute neck soon proved her wrong."
The pub emptied out at an amazingly rapid pace, and Alan marveled at the power he found himself wielding. Only a select few remained in their seats, compelled by a morbid curiosity to see just how this twisted narrative would further unfold. He could feel, though he never met them, Lily's burning, rage-filled stare. But the intensity of this emotion rooted her firmly to the spot, leaving a perfect opening for the poet to finish his masterpiece. He spoke slowly, deliberately, savoring the words, and looked up every now and then to make sure the half-dozen souls were still with him. This molasses pace stretched the seconds to infinity, and it was a wonder the sun hadn't burnt out by the time he finished.
"She skipped down the stairs two at a time,
stomach churning with hunger.
She focused on this, not her neck;
hunger, at least, had a solution.
Her life inched forward to resolution.
Mary Sue prepared breakfast for one,
flipping the eggs and slicing the toast,
her face now flushed, her eyes now bulging.
It wasn't so, it wasn't so...
She refused to know.
The world turned white,
absence all she could see.
She stumbled and searched
to find plates for eating.
Her stomach needed feeding.
Mary fell dead, her stomach unfed.
Final moments are few, and, although she knew
she never fought against what the ropes brought."
Four of the six men still sitting stared dumbfounded, unsure how to react, while the kinder two clapped in an awkward pattern. Alan bowed, blew several kisses to the crowd, and winked at Lily before stepping off the stage. A part of him wanted nothing more than to resume his place in the corner of the pub, but he knew that to be an impossibility. Feeling a small sadness he could not bury, he quickly paid the bartender and left the building. A palpable silence filled the nearly-vacant room like a thick fog. Lily lifted her guitar, tried to hammer out a chord progression, and wound up smashing the instrument to the floor and storming offstage, a stream of obscenities flying freely from a mouth that had, only moments before, produced such a lovely melody. Meanwhile, several blocks away, a lanky, black-clad man waltzed home, laughing in fitful bursts of insanity. Passerby frequently stole glances, looking uneasy or suspicious, but Alan Patchwork didn't care; he was in his own world, and what a world it was.
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(OOC: Right. So. Hello, everyone! I'm back. Not sure how long. If the reception to these characters is decent, or if I simply start liking them, I'll probably stick around and continue being a nuisance, albeit with a new band. Otherwise, consider this to be a miniseries of sorts. I really do hope you like it!)
Edited by user 27 November 2012 12:15:31(UTC)
| Reason: Not specified
