Today I

Please contribute a chapter, title it, and make an entry. I see this as a fictional, collaborative diary. Stories can be continued through it, or different stories can be told. It begins with 'Today I' ....

Chapter one - Breakfast

Today I took the wrong turn, down a one way street:
an unatural highlight of shadow and a lack of sound.
The laces tied on both my feet, tightly looking at all the people around.
I wondered why there were people here in this dark urban twilight; I am Suddenly Bolted to this surface by gravity, a sense of irrational connection, connected by the alienating manifestation of all around me. Like the way you could compare and juxtapose the touch of a lovers hand to the feeling of the face on asphalt. How do they share so much?

Ten steps into the shade. Thirty steps into the haze, arrival. Downtown journey to purchase a bag of opiates. A business deal and uneasy clash of cultural mindsets which breafly underscores an otherwise straightforward interaction. To be struck with such self realisation, awarness of my own physicality, Awarness of that which nobody else is aware. The street again, greeting the faces of those who live here once again."Their viens must be itching seeing this brown paper bag!" The magazine cover stuck on the floor has an attractive model with little on her body.

Journey through time
Journey down the street
Step by step
I am a time machine
I make a smile
I can find my keep
I can watch over my shoulder
For someone.

Finding a park. Momentary visit to nature in a focused and artificial enviroment. Time flies when you force it out of your brain: empty brown bag again. Now it is lunchtime.

Today I finally realized that time is only a big collection of numbers we throw on the wall to give ourselves anxiety attacks. I glanced back and forth between my wrist and my cereal bowl, seeing that 1:49 was imprinted on my mind so stong that it had slid down my spine, through my arms, and onto the crevices with which I usually fear, for I always seem to be 5 minutes late. I look at my watch, the never moving clock, without hesitation because today is the day I finally realized that the only numbers a need are 1 & 49 because those are the numbers that made me think of you, and not time.

Of you.
Of you.

Today, I thought about you. It's been awhile, to say the least. Fragments of my past drift in and out of my consciousness like fragments of a hologram rose. I look at the brown paper bag, thought about the trip to the meth lab in Albany. I met you there, once upon a time. It was just a glance, a sliver of perception then back to bussiness. I thought about you as I touched the old .22 you bought me from that pawn shop. Protection, you said. I was glad to have it. I doubt it works, but a gun is always more than a gun. It's fear and pain and hatred personified into this square, black little box. It sends a jolt of adrenal chills down my spine touching the knurled grip.

Of you.
Of you.

I hope you're someplace better. I know why you left, deep down. I can forgive it. I know you want me to chase, to prove that I care. But standing here in my single room apartment, surrounded by tins and stray bullets and ounces of bagged relaxation, I realize that I can no more get you to come back than I can grow wings.

October 24

The phone rang, I picked it up, I heard your voice.

I remember everything about that moment. There was my denim jacket lying over the old desk chair I clipped from the dorm. The computer screen was buzzing with annoying pop ups, crowding the endless pages of text I had been researching in prepartaion of my next escapade. My closet door was open, exposing my perfectly matched clothes and perfectly arranged gun supplies. Planes Mistaken for Stars was playing on my stereo, having just belted out the last chorus of "Copper and Stars." The clock read...1:49. You said you loved me.

November 5

The phone rang, I picked it up, I heard your voice.

My denim jacket was lying on the floor, bloodstained. My chair had been toppled over, bullets covered the floor, the computer was disconnected, cables clipped. My closet door was open, but the clothes were not there. Planes Mistaken for Stars was ski-skip-skip-skip-skipping. The clock read...1:50. You said, -----------------------------------------. Dial tone.

Seven. Months. Today.

Today I thought about eating something, but I was too preoccupied with paper bags. Now, I know why you left, deep down. But this room is exactly the same. I'm exactly the same. I still don't have wings.

My jacket is still bloodstained, you know. Call it the price of doing bussiness, of peddling to people pleasures. But I'd suppose you know about that, don't you? Oh, I don't hold what you do against you. We're both just leeches, in the end, draining the life out of the poor downtrodden souls who needs us just as bad as we need them.

Somehow, it never changes. The streets, I mean. I go look out my window, and I see the same grey expanse I see everywhere I go. The fissures in the surface change, just like the hookers on the corner every night. I look out my window, and I see the same things. I watch the urban decay spread across the order they've tried to lay down. Blighted people, blighted buildings.

I know you never really had a chance. But sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder where I went wrong. Bloody denim that I still wear reminds me.

Today, I didn't sleep. The early morning hours crawled by slowly as the octagon of speed hit my system like a sledgehammer to the back. I prowled the apartment in the darkness, prowling like some long-extinct predator. Ealry morning memories of you couldn't be drowned out. My attenuated nerves stretched to their limits, I stepped over the piles of rot towards the fridge.

The light scorched my retinas into a carbon lump fused to the brightness of the single bulb. Beyond that, the darkness became something solid and unbreakable. There's barely anything in there anymore, except booze. Some soup, a cartoon of milk struggling to stay alive two days before the expiry date. I reached for the milk, struggling past the symptoms of my own addiction. I shook it, wondering when I had bought it and what I had been dosing. Or maybe it was you, a last reminder of the generic Good Times that everyone considers their past.

Today, I remembered the sight of you walking away as I drank a cup of milk and a forty in the darkness in the loneliness of my pitch-black home.

[edit on 12-7-2004 by DeusEx]

-Restless Mid-Morning Jan. 10

Today I woke from a daydream after another sleepless night , thinking of a family far away and the smell of the earth in New England . Hectic left coast living . The drain on the wallet , the spirit and the endless coastal fog in my mind . "Overcast with a chance of sedation" I hear in my head , again and again.

Picture window , pretty view . A beautiful earthly painting , canvas dulled by dissention and paper bags . All the while the fog is settling , hiding all traces of nature and beauty . "This must be what it is like to live in a cloud" I hear my mind saying as it tries to float away unsuccesfully , still confined to the flesh . But I am safe for now.....

The flesh needs rest , taking with it the fog . Time to lie awake and sleep , bloody denim for a blanket keeping me warm , daydreaming of a family and you , far away , and wings that fly me home . Restless-






[Edited on 12-7-2004 by oddtodd]

[ they are all great guys thank you/well done]

Chapter 8 - Holding


Today I measured the distance between my eye and my brain. Centimeters, millimeters, and yet such a distance between observation and perception.

Is that possible? On a spritual level sure. Feeling so seperated within myself, I can tell because I don't know what day or time it is. These four walls seperate me from day and night, I am holding the beams in place with my thoughts.

Through a corn field that is blood red. Through a window into the cold air. A message through the television confirms no beliefs of what lies beyond. So distorted and confused, consumption of rubbish. I make the the journey to the kitchen and boil my alarm clock.




[edit on 7/12/2004 by earthtone]

Along with it goes my social security card, my bank reciepts, my credit cards, my birth certificate, my death certificate, and my unholy diary. Today I went down to the market and bought another revelation. Lying here, covered in cheap wine after the bottle broke on my cracked tile, I'm reminded of motifs and metaphors. Do they exist, in reality? Or are these intertwining webs only spun in works of fiction, in works of pen and ink, bound by spines and felt covers? Because, lying here, tracing the outling of the spilled wine through the grout on my kitchen floor, I feel as if I am just another motif in someone's literature. It's as if I don't truly exist and I'm the simple fabrication of someone's artistic mind.

You are my antagonist, and your blood seeps through my spine, whether made of bone or paper.

Maybe that's something they don't teach you in school, maybe conspiracy theorists don't even know about it yet. We are all very real, very...alive. But writers are creating our hurdles and our demise. Writers, with their hyperboles and double entendres, are the aristocracy, they are that secret society that is sculpting every step and every stumble I pass through.

You are my author. From your articles in the Times to the words that drip out of my ballpoint pen, which can't be mine. You wrote those words, you. What will yo have next? My time? My identity? My...

Or maybe you already do. The Times...the Times...the time. It's 1:51.

[edit on 7-12-04 by Scat]

[from Happyk until she figures out how to get her writer status


Chapter 10 - Honest Denial

Today I have things to do

I shall find this shirt
I may throw away those letters
I might buy fruit to make that desert
I must look for a shoe box for these photographs

Tomorrow I shall not think of you

11 : Changes

Today I thought I might change . The momentary visions of sanity that seem to look alot like you are haunting me .

IcanchangeIcanchangeIcanchangeIcanchangeicanchangeicanicanican
I think as I pedal a bent frame with spokeless wheels back to the alley for more momentary omnicient dilusions .

I pedal faster , not concerned about braking in time to avoid the oncoming traffic down that same one way street , it misses me once again as I think of you and wonder .....
Are you thinking of me too ?

I wish I could remember your face as I walk home with my head down , not noticing the sky and the birds flying overhead .



[edit on 12-7-2004 by oddtodd]

Sidewalks don't feel as if they are made out of concrete when you aren't paying attention to them. I can change. If sidewalks can feel like crushed velvet under my uncalloused toes, than my mind can stop thinkg of you.

I can change. Ican change. Ican change. Icanchange. Icannechange.icannechangeicannechangeicannechange...

Today I see anne change. As gruesome and as morbid as a change can be. That's the change I saw in you. Are you thinking of me, Anne? How can you be. Do you still have amemory? Do you still have eyes? I do, but they seem to be concentrating more on what I saw back then instead of the sidewalks panels stepping out from under me. People always say you must confront your problem. I guess I should confront mine.

It started, or ended, with Anne, with you. At the Times.

[edit on 7-12-04 by Scat]

[edit on 7-12-04 by Scat]

I was sitting there with Alan, working out that hash deal gone wrong. The Times was lit by buzzing neon and the drunken smiles of carousing sararimen, all oblivious to us in that corner booth. You had your hand on his that night. It didn't matter back then, you were jsut eye candy, a razored delight to show his power. From the moment I met you that night, I knew things were going oh so right as I drove myself headlong into the ground. The hash deal fell through, but I walked away with Alan's girl and his wallet.

I remember buzzing neon as we caroused outside the Times. A few drunks stumbled around, hands twitching. I was ridding a brand new high, and you jsut walked along prettily as I staggered my way home. I woke up with a terrible hangover and your naked back pressed against mine.

Alan never did recover, by the way.

(ERGH! I just wrote the whole next chapter thingy, and then i pressed "post reply" and the big old "you dont have permission to post inthis forum" hit me in the face! erghhh my anger with collaborative fiction on bTS!)

The cycle continued for a long time after that night. I woke up, you were sleeping. I was stumbling, you were giggling. I was crashing while you were cashing in on another scheme that left me with nothing but a blood stained denim jacket. I carried on, oblivious, until one morning I woke up, you werne't sleeping. I was stills tumbling, but you weren't even there.

You were at the Times. The Times, a billboard for sin and illicit fantasy, is all boarded up now. It might as well still be open because its scars are still seen on ever corner, every sidewalk, every home. And you, Anne, you were sitting at the center of it all. It was a place you could go for anything. It was a supermarket for dealers, an outlet mall for prostitutes, a department store for failures, and the all-purpose 1-800 number for the slums of the planet.You'd sit there behind your little bar and wait for bait. It came in the form of an underage boy with a fake ID, a college student who needed to loosen up, an executive out on "business." They all came to you, from far and wide.

You were gone, until, someone was knocking at the door.

[edit on 7-12-04 by Scat]

[edit on 12-7-2004 by oddtodd]

Todya, I helped a friend, and you weren't even there. The knocking at my door was Jase, edgy and wanting my help with a deal. So, I agreed. Nothing to lose, right? Life's worthless without you. So I took a few effies and snagged the twenty-two. Jase is a good buddy, and I'll back him on this play. Me in my bloody denim, him in his big coat, we huddle in deep against the cold and try to look like we're not criminals. Problem is, some people cna look right through whatever a person throws up to make themselves pretty for you. You're one of those people, Anne. You see right through me like you see right through yourself.

So I walk out the door, and it hits me.We walk past a tattoo parlour, and everything is a blur. The notes of a Children of Bodom song construct themselves in my brain, then fall apart as a bit of fluerence catches my attention. Damn, was I glad I went into the deal razored like that, because it was the only thing that saved my life.

Chapter 16 - The last day pt. 1

Today I lived out the last day of my life. Normal like any other, waking in the morning to the sound of traffic. Mad dash, coffee burn on the hand and ciggerette ash on my jacket. On the subway the faces all seem unsettlingly familiar, like a room full of grown up class mates from years past, but you cannot remember any of their names. This uneasy, passing moment is a reflection upon my emotional history: I am there yet I cannot connect.

Steps. More steps, and back into the light of the morning. I have to open the shop today and I have to do it on time otherwise the boss will be mad. I pass things I long for, some worthless objects, others are romantic jounreys that seem so unreal. Me and the girl from the bus stop cannot control our passion any longer, embracing and never letting go, happy forever.

Turn the key, hear the sound. I made it on time.

Chapter 17 Snake Pit

Today, I open shop as I always do, except a sense of impending doom is nagging me like a dysthymic harridan. The chimes from the old grandfather clock sound as I enter the door. I walk quickly to the alarm system and disarm it. I raise the blinds in the front window and pull the chain on the "open" sign. I walk to the back room, grab my time card from its slot next to the door and walk quickly to the time clock before it clicks over to the next minute. I make it by only a few seconds. I don't know why the old man keeps the time cards so far from the clock. I guess he's afraid some one will pull a fast one on him if the rack is not two feet from his desk. I mean it's not like we have that many employees. There's only me, the weekend girl and the clean-up lady who comes in each night.

It's an interesting world, the pawn business. I've been in it for five years and everyday it seems, someone comes in with family treasures to trade for a few measly bucks and it's a rare sight to ever see one return to claim the merchandise. We keep good records and the detective, Silas, comes in each week to check our inventory against his list of stolen items. Sometimes he gets a hit, but mostly the items are just pawned by some desperate soul who wants to take a few bucks to the casino. Sad really, you only get maybe ten percent of the value of anything, usually a lot less. It's a lucrative business. I hate it. I hate myself.

A lady came in yesterday with a diamond ring--an engagement ring. Was it hers? I don't know. I just fill out the paperwork, pay out the cash, tag the merchandise and take it to the vault. She was sweaty and nervous, but she had her ID and signed all the waivers. Who am I to care.

But I do care. Every night I go home haunted by these lives, the stories that can be implied from the items pawned and the faces and mannerisms of the people who darken our doors. I get home, remove my pistol from my belt, grab a beer and sit down just as the news comes on. I can't help but be riveted by every news item that mentions a burglary or an armed robbery. It's rare, you know, but sometimes they mention the Rolex watch or the tool chest I paid out on that very day. I feel dirty. I feel sick.

It's like a dark cloud following me everywhere. I feel like Satan. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see Satan. And I hear his laugh--that stupid maniacal laugh you hear in those old Ed Wood movies. I hear it and it scares me silly. I look around everywhere--around my apartment or the shop, but no one's there. It happens on the trolley. It happens at the movies. I just don't know who to tell. I know I'm not crazy. In fact, of all the people I know, I'm the only one who's really sane. Only I know the things I know. Only I can hear their voices.

They tell me things that that no one else could know. They often go for days just commenting on my every move. Sometimes they criticize me and I get mad, but I need them because they tell me what I have to do to keep the fabric of time and space intact. And that's my real job, you know. It's not the pawn shop. That only pays my expenses.

I wish I knew why they picked me. I never used to even know what the time-space continuum is. I didn't even care. To me, time was always just the time of day, the chimes from the grandfather clock, the egg timer, the time clock, my Omega Seamaster--the watch for those with the ocean at heart. Time was important, but it wasn't life and death. It didn't depend on me. The universe didn't depend on me.

I've only seen them once. They came to me early one morning, standing at the end of my bed. I could see and hear, but I couldn't move or speak. They stood there in their flowing robes, their golden flowing hair and speaking to me in those deep voices which seemed to come from everywhere--beautiful voices, so clear, so strong, so perfect. It's like music, even when it scares me senseless, even when it makes me angry. I love them and I hate them. They ruined my life and they're saving mankind. Why did it have to be me?

I can't sleep. I haven't slept for days. I watch TV. I pace. I clean my weapon--my stainless Ruger P-89DC with the Hogue Coco bolo grips and the Trijicon sights--and I listen to the voices. It's a full time job. I don't think I can hold up much longer. The strain is just too much. Why do they expect so much of me? I wasn't even smart until they came here. Now, I know more than I ever wanted. I didn't want to be the little boy with his finger in the cosmic dike. I'm a barber's son and I could have been a barber, if I didn't have these duties. If I didn't have the voices.

It's getting late. I have to close up shop and head home. I have a mission tonight. I have to save the world once again. I got my orders this afternoon, while I was eating my lunch. It's not that big a deal. It should only take a few hours and I'll walk you through it. You'll only have to watch and listen. You won't have to get your hands dirty. You won't have to bathe in the blood. You'll only have to hear the screams. I'm used to it. I've done it dozens of times before. It comes so naturally now. It never makes me sick anymore. It's for the best. It saves the world--for me, for you. It"s for the best. You'll see.

I keep up with my duties during the day. It only takes me a few minutes to close the shop. I"m smart now. I have the routine down pat. I could do it in my sleep, if I ever slept anymore. I think of Alan and Jase. I think about how they always think they're smarter than me. They laugh because I have more important things on my mind. They wonder why the football games aren't important to me anymore. They wonder why I don't hang out at Garcia's anymore. They wonder now, but they won't wonder after tonight. They won't do anything after tonight, but it's for the best. It will keep the fabric of space and time intact. You'll be safe. You don't have to worry. I've got it all worked out.

I'm glad you're here. I like you. You make me feel warm. I only wish I could see you. You must look as good as you make me feel. I'm glad you're on my side. I really needed someone to confide in. You're my only real friend. I love you. Follow me. I have to lock up now. Let's go! The alarm's set. We have work to do. Time and space, you know.

Wait! Here come those two men. They've been following me for weeks. Okay. Don't panic. We'll just lock the door and cross the street nonchalantly and head over to the deli. We'll get some sliced ham and Swiss cheese and some bread. I hope the special is onion bread today. It's so good when it's fresh out of the oven. I probably should have gotten it this morning. It's okay. We'll just duck in there to check these two out. Maybe they aren't following us, after all. We'll see.

I lock the door and turn to cross the street and they're in my face. I don't like people in my face. I take a step back. I calm myself. Everything is okay.

"Hi! I'm sorry. I just closed the shop. I hope it's not too important. I'd reopen, but the alarm system doesn't allow it. The boss you know." I'm sweating.

"Are you Stan Marx," the tall one asked.

"Yes. I'm Stanford Darwin Marx, III. What can I do for you?" My hands are sweating.

"I'm Detective Bennett. This is my associate, Dr. Burton. We need to ask you some questions."

I smile. I extend my hand and shake Bennett's hand and then Burton's. I've seen Bennett before, but Burton is new. A white van pulls up across the street. Two men in hospital scrubs get out and start moving toward us. They're big. They're standing behind me before I can react. I'm trapped. The voices will help me out of this. They always do. They always have. Dr. Burton addresses me in a patronizing voice. He makes me sick.

"Stan, I'm William Burton, MD. I'm with the DA's office. These gentlemen behind you are going to take you to the Public Hospital. Your friends have been concerned about your behavior. We want to help you. You'll be well taken care of. We want you to come peacefully. It's for the best."

A police car pulls up across the street. Two uniforms get out. They're big and they're armed. I'm out-numbered. I have no choice. I have to go with them. The voices will help me. Everything will be fine. It always is.


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

They put me in a pit of snakes
To make me pay for past mistakes
And when I told them what I'd done
They put me in the broiling sun
To see if I would then come clean
About the things that I had seen.
And as I lay with burning brow
Thinking of the where and how
Of things that are and things that were
My thoughts began to fade and blur.
And then they beat me with a whip
Until the blood began to drip
Upon the ground and glisten there
And then they gave me chains to wear.
But, then the angels came to sing
About the peace that they would bring
If only I would kiss the ring
Upon the finger of the King.


[edit on 2005/7/8 by GradyPhilpott]

Today I must have been missing things... Man, time is flying! It's 6 already and I've done nothing. Well just a working day... I need to rush to the shop because it's closing at 6.30. I know the guy, and he closed the door right before me at times. I need to hurry again. Always. I'd have liked to go to that place you work in but... I'm going to my car and I'm going to get me something to eat then... Anyway...

***

I'm taking some frozen pizza from the fridge, and I'm going to pay that man. Just in time. He gives me back my change and I go to the door, back to that familiar street... It's just another ending day now, and I'm going home at last. I don't even know why, because no one's waiting for me there. The city is filled with people but they're all lonely. My cat's waiting. I need to feed her, poor little thingie...

A few steps and I see the door. No mail today. That's OK. No bills then. A turn of the key, I'm in the corridor. My door, and my corridor.
"Meowwww"...
"I'm there"
I'm thinking how a cat can know when you'll be back? They sleep all day and then just when you're in the corridor they're awake. They must feel it.

***

The pizza was not too bad. The TV's on now, but it shows nothing good. I'm like... bored. What now? It is late and I have to work tomorrow. I don't wanna do anything anyway. The cat's sleeping next to the sofa. I wish I'd sleep already. Then it would be OK, the night would just go on and I'd wake up tomorrow for the same day.

I'm just there, sat, bored. And I'm thinking about you. What are you doing now? Do you think of me too? I wonder if I'll see you tomorrow. I 'll go to work anyway. I have to, but well... Oh I don't know. Why is it always the same? It looks like life isn't always good. I've done my job, I fed the cat, I ate, I even sorted some papers that were lying here and there. It's time for sleep now, after this day too full of things, but there is still something missing. I'm going to the window, and I look outside. There are still a lot of people on the street, a lot of cars. I can see mine over there, just beneath the street lamp.

And then suddenly... My phone rings! I rush to the table and grab it... I see your name on the screen and I smile... I know I'll sleep well...

"Hi dear..."

***

[EDIT]
Some typos

[edit on 19-8-2004 by SpookyVince]