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Underground > Creation >

The never ending story: Memento style

17:25 / 07.11.01

Was reading the Memento thread, and decided to be experimental.

Let's write a never ending story, the catch being that it runs backwards.

Someone else start it.

17:33 / 07.11.01

And so we return to begin again.

17:46 / 07.11.01

The city looked beautiful from up here. Lights tracing its shape like pins in dress fabric.
"All this time spent trying to make life here bearable... and all I had to do was go on a fucking roof..."
He took his final slug of peach schnapps from his father's now dented flask. He rubbed his bandaged hand.
The ledge was only a step away.

Lost in CyberSpace

10:42 / 08.11.01

How can it be a never ending story if it begins at the end? Isn't that an oxymoron?

It should be a never-starting story.

15:24 / 08.11.01

Well if no-one bothers to follow on it definitely will be. tsk.

Regrettable Juvenilia

18:13 / 08.11.01

His legs felt like lead as he dragged them painfully up the stairs. Every step was a world of hurt.

"Damn you, Dad", he muttered through gritted teeth, "Damn you to hell!"

Finally he reached the access door that led out to the roof. He had to lean his whole weight against it to get the door open, but that was okay - he was on the verge of collapsing anyway. He stumbled out onto the roof as the door swung open.

Throwing aside the gun, useless and empty now, he looked out at the city.

The Return Of Rothkoid

18:59 / 08.11.01

He squeezed the trigger, and the water flowed out of the blue pistol. It leaked across his trousers, dripped onto his shoes; a mockery of straight aim. Never mind - it was done now. Just like the dame had predicted.

12:36 / 09.11.01

It was a comically bizarre situation - the kind of thing only he could get involved in, he thought to himself.

Standing at the top of the water treatment plant, terrified of what, a kid's toy.

A kid's toy with the power to end everything.

It was ridiculous, that the city, that his father -- that his conscience -- should come to this. But in the end, he had to admit, it wasn't a surprise.

He tightened the gauze over his fingers, reached gingerly into his coat pocket, and drew out the loaded squirt-gun.

He laughed once, without joy, took aim at the center of the whirling processing tank below him, and imagined his father's face in the middle of the vortex, gasping once again for undeserved mercy.

12:36 / 09.11.01

[ 28-12-2001: Message edited by: grant ]

09:45 / 10.11.01

He wanted to go to McDonalds, but not as much as he wanted to go to the water treatment plant. There was something about the water treatment plant that he couldn't quite place his finger on. Something special. "My Big Mac can wait until Tuesday," he said to himself.

On his way to the water treatment plant, he thought about his father. His father. The man who sodomized him with curling irons every second Friday of the month. Oh, how he hated his old man. Oh, how he hated that curling iron freak.

To the top of the water treatment plant he marched, images of bloody curling irons invading his mind, body, and soul.

19:42 / 08.12.01

The streets of the city stretched out in a line that reminded him of a circle. Once you stopped reading the signs, they were all just coloured lights, devoid of meaning, or perhaps more meaningful. Divorce them from their corporate slogans or empty promises and at least they stimulated some deep urban aesthetic sense that all city-dwellers must possess. The weight in his pocket felt wet. It was the same sticky wetness he would always feel on his hands now, the same wetness he could never understand that guy from the scottish play having felt. What was the name of it? Mac-something. The failure to remember amplified the anger he felt a thousand fold. Mac-something. Mac-something. If only childhood had not been so terrible, he might have held on to that name, and the names of all the other beautiful things tarnished by his life. Mac-something. The city mocked him with it's horns and sirens and laughter. Was he the only angry one. He needed to leave. He needed to go somewhere else.

03:02 / 22.12.01

" FUCK!" he exclaimed, "I've got to get out of this city!"

14:29 / 27.12.01

He threw the whisky bottle down on the sidewalk, glittering shards gleaming like the tears in his father's eyes, stinging his ankles and staining his socks with alcohol and blood.
The fuckers had drugged him. But that didn't matter any more.

09:53 / 29.12.01

Everything seemed to be swimming. The cars moved in ever more erratic lines, filling him wiht the fear that they might jump the undulating curbs and squash him. People's faces swam and morphed into terrifying and beautiful creatures. He looked down at himself, realizing he too was liquid.

Liquid?

His hand seemed to coalesce.