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Wednesday, 13th o February 2002
So many things are going on I don't know where to start. Where should I start? At the beginning? Perhaps, but it is not always the most interesting part... word to potential writers out there.
Which of the following you lines grabs you the best:
- Billy Buckthorn was thrown violently down, straining as he fell to retrieve pieces of himself fluttering to the ground in the low gravity atmosphere. These were the things that kept him from becoming detached. From what he couldn't say. But he had been losing himself out here for a while now. He stared at a photo of early Elvis that lay scattered amongst his things. There it was, the coolest man who ever lived. Life was getting hot, really hot, and he could have used some of that coolness now.
- Pushy likes to get his way. Pushy has gotten you to pick up his magazine for years without you even thinking about it, using such tactics as: a bit of flesh, "Lingerie, What's in it for Women?" (mind you not a serious article, but one with MANY helpful diagrams and photos), a little fear, "Ebola, Coming to a Town Near You", or a good healthy dose of sensationalism, "Air Bags Can Kill." Or was that wind bags?
Pushy has elbowed his way to the top, kicking and grabbing like a school yard bully. He's had control for a long while, but now he sees something developing that he'd like to get his hands on.
The Internet.
You can steal lunch money just like on the playground, yes? So Pushy agrees and tries to make a buck. He ventures forth under various names, attempting to cash in on this whole new world. Now give Pushy credit, he's put a lot of effort into this. He's planned his attack well. Pushy has watched everyone else eating lunch, having a marvelous time, and he's decided that it's about time he had some too.
"Hey kid, gimmie yer money, or I'll pummel you into
electromagnetic radiation."
"Dude, ain't got none." And the lucky school yard
youngster turns his pockets inside out revealing nothing but lint, and with a smirk takes off to join the mirth and frivolity.
Pushy is a bit confused, but anyone can have a bad day. He decides to try again tomorrow, but tomorrow comes and goes without so much as a nickel. Again and again Pushy comes up empty handed, but he stubbornly resolves to continue trying.
- A room. A space. He could not decide which is was. Perhaps it was both. As a room, it did not invite itself to be consumed, breathed in and enjoyed. Its sharp edges and clean lines left nothing to be explored. There were no tricks of mathematics, architecture of angles and lines. There was no cleverness.
Maybe that was it... maybe he would let himself get caught up in the melancholic of all that nothingness. It was a romantic thought, a mental consumption of nothingness. Perhaps they would find his skeleton in peaceful repose, passing into oblivion as it had lived its last days. Here in this goddamned sensory deprivation chamber, he chuckled to himself.
Here in this place there were no complicated musings, torn and introspective, no discussions, no repartee between the floor and the fall. No distractions. There were no conversation pieces, artful flourishes of the baroque or otherwise...nothing to impress.
A leather couch, blue with spikey legs of polished chrome winked at him. He went to it. All around he saw nothing but sky from crystal clear windows. For as far as he could see, there was nothing but sky. High on the dry side of the mountain weeks would go by without even a cloud. He waited briefly, smiling to himself, looking at his watch.
Uncomfortable, he passed his hand over the smooth blond wood of the coffee table. The substance was heartening. He lifted his hand and frowned.
What the hell was he going to do with himself here?