City of Souls I

Here's a new quest, prosers. The central idea is Creative and Fictious writing.

What do we do?

It is kind of like "Round Robin" but on a broader scale. One noder creates a character in one city (it doesn't have a name). The noder's character has a short story which has certain elements and different people in it, then the next noder creates their own character, but in the same city and they take certain elements from the last noder (or noders) story/ies. The more nodes, the more elements to draw from. One thing I recommend doing is putting in bold characters or elements that are used in the next story. It will help the reader out.

The first write-up is written by myself and will kind of be like an example. It will be the launching pad for the Quest. Now that mine has been posted, the next noder will take off from my story.

Got it? Good

Ground rules

1. Stay inside the city. Do not wander outside of the city or drift the story outside of it, rural areas included. Sub-divisions may be welcome.
2. Take at least one obscure character out of the previous stories and implement into your story. Make the story revolve around this character. This seems limiting now, but actually it will challenge you to be more diverse in your writing.
3. Animals are welcome. Node about any imaginary city pets.
4. /Msg other noders if needed to help you understand what elements might be best to take and what may not. Side note: We have created a room called City of Souls where you can easily discuss with others what is going on, exchange and share your ideas and what is going on with your stories.
5. The format is Walking Man style, in that each node is like a chapter, so that a noder will be able to node more then one story. That is why this node is entitled City of Souls I. So when you got to post up your first story post up on City of Souls II, because this node is locked. If you are mad that you aren't able to write more, we have City of Souls II and then, eventually, City of Souls III
6. Here's the tricky part. Chronology. The stories must be in synch with each other so the time period will be present time and the season is spring. I see the city as resembling New York or Chicago, so snow is involved. However, the weather can change and the snow can melt, just be consistent. Also, I want everything to go in order and I want more people to draw from the previous noder then the first story written, so I will let you know if you should wait for a little bit and then start writing. Believe me it will be worth it.
7. You don't have to keep it private, but if you want to do it without the risk, there's this little box that says, "Don't display in New Write-ups", click it.
8. Please notify me FIRST before you even start writing. I know who is writing what, so we won't get the stories entangled and details mixed-up. I can tell you what character has not been written about and where you can take off from.
9. Move forward! One problem I am consistently seeing is that we are tending to keep things in the same neighborhood. Let's move this puppy around, people!
10. If your story or writing isn't satisfactory, I or a god may come to you and tell you to try again. I want to keep the standards somewhat high on this quest.

Finally, If you wait, something better may come along

I admit, I'm not a good creative writer, but this may help me learn more as well as others who struggle in this area.

Runtime: As long as we can go.

People who are waiting to post
Izubachi
icicle
Simulacron3
Chiisuta
Andromache01
bane221
fondue
Infinite_Burn
mauler
Stealth Munchkin
vandewal
Andrew Aguecheek
00100
bookw56
Proguar
zgirll
Vos
kowalski
Lastwords
momo
Chad Reasco
waterhouse
TanisNikana
Note: This has gotten bigger then I expected, so don't be surprised if I say wait.

City of Souls I is now closed for new write-ups, but City of Souls II is now open for new write-ups.

Snowstorm

It was midday and a dark cloud hung over the city making it look like evening at lunchtime. Sam's Deli decided to close up early, because of the impending blizzard. Sam Parizzi, a tired looking man, with a thinning hair line and a truly Italian looking face; decided it would be best to go back to his place at Sun Vista apartments rather than face driving home in the snow. Sam fumbled for his keys in his coat pocket as the soft falling of snow coated the outside sidewalk.

Michael Callahan came burling down the street, bundled up from head to toe. Michael was a young man in his mid-twenties with brown hair and a seemingly permanent five o'clock shadow.

"You need any help Sam?"
"Naw, I'm fine. Just locking her up early before I get snowed in there."
"Shoot! I was looking to get a sandwich after work!" Michael said with a grin.
"I'll make ya a knuckle sandwich! Hows about that!" Sam said with a smile.
Michael laughed. "Oh well, you need a ride home?"
"Well, I don't live too far from here..."
"Oh come on! My car's just parked on the other side of Main street. Come on, I'll give you a ride back to the apartments."
"Oh. OK" Sam replied.

Michael took Sam's arm and they walked over to Michael's car. A few young gangbanger types were outside checking all the cars for goods.
"Isn't a little cold outside for you kids to be outside. You should be shoveling sidewalks for money or something." Sam said.
"Isn't it about time for you to die, ol' man?" One of the gangbanger kids said with a heckling voice.
"Just ignore them Sam." Michael said.

Michael helped Sam into the car and they drove off. They had a little trouble at first because at this time the snow had accumulated just enough to make the roads slick.

Sun Vista apartments had the marks of what used to be a respectable and expensive place to live, but now, the gangs had moved in, the foundation was rugged and cracked. There was a fountain in the little courtyard in the middle of the buildings, but vandals had though it would make a good trick to steal it. The beauty had faded from Sun Vista. As Michael and Sam walked down the hall with the wooden floor creaking and aching at every step, screams of babies and a married couple resonated from the paper thin walls. At the end of the dimly lit hall slumped a drunk old man with a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.

"Here it is." Sam said as he fumbled for his keys. "You wanna come in? I'll make you a sandwich" Sam said with a grin.
"Nah, as good as that sounds, I better get back to Valerie. She told me if I'm not home by 7, I'll be sleeping on the couch."
"Ooh. That hurts! Who's wearing the pants in this relationship eh?", heckled Sam.
Michael replied with a grin, "I dunno, but I'll let you know as soon as I find 'em. Hey, you have a good night Sam" Michael then waved goodbye and made his way down the hall.
"Bye Michael. See ya later."

Sam stepped into the apartment. For a single, male adult his apartment was surprisingly clean. Sam was a man of order and he made sure everything had a place. Dolores, his deceased wife, always told him he was a perfectionist, but he never thought he was. He just liked things to be where he put them the next day.

The apartment was small, but big enough for Sam. The carpet was an ugly, greyish brown and the walls were white once but had now become a pale yellow. He had one TV and one couch. Both had survived the 70's and 80's, but had a little trouble during the 90's.

Sam put his coat in the closet and went to the fridge to pull out a TV dinner. After he put the dinner in the microwave he then sat down...and cried. Just like every night, with his face in his hands, the tears came down the weathered and lonely face. He remembered her and how she always knew the right things to say, how she enunciated her words, and how whenever she held his hand, he knew they were still in love. After she died of cancer, Sam didn't think he could go on, but he kept the shop going and he kept living. But now, he felt as though the life had been drained out of him. Everybody saw him fade and breakdown, just like and the apartment he lived in.

Ms. Myers, the landlady, said he could keep living at Sun Vista for free if he kept up the maintenance. So he stayed and watched everything change. The neighborhood and the city changed, but he stayed the same. His shop reflected it too. Nothing in the Deli was updated. Donny, a regular, used to call the Deli "the last living relic in the city".

The microwave beeped. Sam slowly stopped weeping, got out of his chair and took his meal out of the microwave...his last meal. He knew it was time. He could feel it in his bones.

Take a fork and spoon. Use a napkin? Why? It's not like I'll be cleaning up afterwards.

He sat down on the couch with the TV tray on his lap, then turned on the TV with his remote.

What should I watch? The news? No. I don't want to hear about anything bad before I die. (click) "The Jerry Springer Show"? No way. If I'm gonna die it's not while watching that tripe. (click) Ah, here we go. "Jeopardy". The one thing I always watch I can't miss. Not even this time.

So he sat, and ate, and watched.

After his meal he set his utensils down and closed his eyes.
One final sleep and he wouldn't be waking up.

Please take from this elements that you see that can fit into your story. Have fun!

Shelter from the Storm

While Pat Sajak was spinning his big Wheel, and Alex Trebek was finished shaking hands, a slightly quivering Michael Callahan was having some free-wheeling problems of his own --each time he took off when the lights turned green. Michael could not wait to get home out of this "Winter Wonderland" mess, which just a few years ago would have been a white ticket out of school. He was stressed-out enough at work, let alone driving in this crap, trying to please so many bosses with his foot-in-the-door job as "Administrative Office Assistant." "Let's face it," he thought, even though the pay here was better than he would have received in Maple Grove, "he was really just an Office Boy!"

Finally, the Zietgeist Building was looming ahead between the worsening flecks of the blinding onslaught, like some lighthouse beckoning him to comfort and safety. His mind then raced to what one secretary had told him earlier, "Mike, sometimes you have to get out of your comfort zone, if you ever want an epiphany in your life."

"Mind your own friggin' business!" he would have liked to have said, but he knew hitting the pavement again for employment would be a torture zone.

He was helpless to retort to their joking, especially the mocking last words of one of the vice-presidents, "The Five O'Clock Shadow knows!" He felt more like Marilyn Manson on a bender. But, a hot dinner, a good book, and hitting the sack early sounded like a plan, as he pulled into the underground parking garage.

"Hi Frank! He said to the attendant, as he flashed his permit out of habit, "Good thing you live where you work, ya don't wanna be out in this slick-as-eel-manure night." He parked and walked to the elevator, which still continued to amaze Michael in its Art Nouveau brass and pewter framing. He thought of Bob Dylan's song, "She belongs to Me," and the line "...you are a walking antique." Well, riding, maybe.

Just about all his paycheck went to paying the rent on this place, but, when he opened the heavy metal door to his apartment, he was reminded how cool it was to have one big room (save the bathroom) with all hardwood floors in this converted industrial building. The stories these plastered walls could tell. The 15th floor afforded a pretty good view, if watching a satellite's eye of the alley was your thing. He locked his door behind him as he stepped into the sparsely, but tastefully decorated loft, throwing his coat, a dripping bundle of London Fog, onto the tile of his roomy bathroom. He knew what water did to wood, his father, "Big" Hank Callahan, was a furniture restorer back in Stockton County. He headed straight for the fridge, and was dismayed to see that something had caused the freezer door not to close completely, and once again, he had to play the role of Nanook, chipping crusty, hard, cold stuff again, just to get to his "Hearty, Healthy Hunk" meal to cook it in the most important invention of the past century: his forty dollar microwave. Potato chips from Sam's would have made his meal a balanced one.

Life was pretty good, so far. "Chicks," he mused stoicly, "would all be there for him after he made the big-time." He knew that old girlfriend, Valerie, leeching on him back in small-town America, would love to know where he was, and what he was doing. Though he had more open sky back home, he felt less suffocated even in the foreboding canyons of the metropolis. Sitting at his fake rosewood table to eat his kilo of mystery meat, he was not lonely, or sad, just frustrated that his vision of success was too much in slow motion. Slo-Mo was fine for freezing the action in football games, though he preferred to read now; and these were books written by those guys who climbed financially to the pinnacle. That Mick Jagger song popped into his head at that very moment, "I'm gonna make it to the top, baby."

But, something started invading the edges of his mind -- it was Sam --his face had taken on a strange visage, unexplanable, really, when those 'hoods,' as his Dad used to call them, threatened him. He shouldn't have made up that story about a waiting roomate of the female variety; but refusing Sam's hospitality for the excuse of coming back to a true bachelor pad, not even he would dare to use. Something could be wrong for an old guy like Parizzi, stuck in a decaying part of the world. Now he experienced something relatively rare, he began to feel guilty.

Twinned Storms

He was the sort of person who lathered, rinsed and lathered again - just because it said to on the bottle. She, on the other hand, often crossed at the traffic lights when the red man said not to cross. It was inevitable that things would eventually explode, but both ignored - or were ignorant of - this fact until they were so far into things that it was too late to change.

"Yes?" he said. The word hung in the air, impregnating it with impatience.
She paused, searching for a suitably delicate way to say what needed to be said. "There's been a... misunderstanding."
He looked up from the newspaper, fixing his intently-grey eyes on her face. He said nothing. Waited.
She hunted through her mind once more for another non-incriminating phrase, but her words failed her - he was the crossword one, not she. "Listen, Damien, about the rent... Ms. Myers says there's been a problem... says she didn't get paid." Although she didn't say anything more, the accusation was in her doe-brown eyes.
"You know as well as I do that money's tight right now," Damien said, although if money was tight, it had nothing compared to the tension in his voice. "Can't you just bake her some muffins or whatever. Get some extra time." He looked away from Sarah as he pulled the tab of another beer, pushing five empty tins aside as he did so.
"No, Damien, I want to know. Where's the money gone? Don't sit there with your beer and tell me there isn't any." This was the first time in ages that the petite brunette had attempted to contradict her husband, and although she held her chin high, her fingers nervously twisted a button on her jeans.

Damien slammed a fist on the plywood table, trying to a justifiably indignant expression. "Sarah, don't start with me. I've been working all day to try to get us out of this dump, and I don't even get to enjoy a cold one when I get back?" By the time he had finished, the cups on the table had settled back into their saucers.
But it's not just one, Sarah thought. "Well, what do we do?"
In the next apartment they heard their neighbour begin his daily sobbing, and it only infuriated Damien further. "Sarah, I don't need this. I-don't-fucking-need-this. I come home looking for peace and quiet, and all I find are more problems!"
The table shuddered as he got up, almost as if it mirrored Sarah's desire to get away. She drew back slightly, her timidity the last straw for Damien. "Don't wait up," he snapped, striding across the apartment and slamming his way out the door.

Even as her eyes misted - Damn the man! - Sarah still listened to her husband, simply by habit. His angry tread in the hallway, his curse - "Get out. Bloody drunkard." - his retreating footsteps on the stairs. And even as she collapsed against the thin wall to join the widower next door in his sobs, letting out several month's worth of bottled stress, all she could think about was that it was cold outside, and that he hadn't taken his coat. Maybe they shouldn't have married so young. Maybe they weren't even that compatible. Maybe. They'd had arguments before, of course, but this one was worse than usual - he'd sworn. "Last refuge of the person with a limited lexicon," he'd always said. An impending storm outside. Another in Sun Vista.

Damien, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his camel-coloured pants to keep the air from biting them. The air was almost electric with a storm to come, almost as if the city held its breath. Damien, kicking a tin can off the pavement and into the gutter as he walked along, mood as dark as the sky above. A city, holding its breath, Damien breathing heavily through his nose, muttering angrily inside his head. Has no right to tell me what to do, he snarled, but was rebutted by his conscience: She is your partner in all things. Stupid conscience, always having to be bloody right, always correcting. So, the money was gone, not all of it. They'd scrape through the month, as long as they cut a few costs here and there. I earn the money around here. Mine to spend. What does she do to help? Conscience: Holds you at night. Holds you whenever you hurt, even when she is not actually there. Complements you through her differences. Door clicks behind Damien. Friday night, and the regular crowd is in the half-lit bar, 925. Nine-to-five, if you will, and the bad name reflects the clientele it attracts, tired workers who only wish to commune with a drink, and the like-souls in the room.
"Usual, Damien?" It's the barkeep, John. It's always amused Damien, somewhat: John the Publican. Like something from the middle ages, but instead of laughing at John, who's also known as Big John, and never even needs to employ a bouncer, he simply nods.
"On the tab, John. Cheers," he adds, as a wet glass of beer is placed before him. John has the perfect tap style, when it comes to filling a glass, always achieving the perfect ratio between liquid and head, but somehow the glass always gets covered in the drink. Little matter.
"'Bout the tab..." John says, leaning forward on the bar to speak conspiratorially with Damien, or at least attempt to do so. No such luck.
"Yeah, I know." Damien's shrug is far more eloquent than his words, and John gives and understanding smile in return.
"I know you're good for it," the giant of a barkeep says, never one to aim for conflict, not that he's ever needed to, "So just when you can, yes?" He doesn't even wait for the nod he knows will be coming, but turns to serve the next worker.

Damien stays in 925 for an hour, not speaking to the other patrons, and quietly nursing his beer in the knowledge that Sarah was right - they can't really afford too many right now. She was a French teacher, although out of work right now, and his perfectionistic leaning had led to a job at the bank on Main Street. It had been a wonderful building in its day, white columns and imposing, but now it was being renovated, like most of the city. "It's the twenty-first century now, can't stay in the past forever," or so the council kept saying. By the time that the clock ticks over to seven pm, Damien's bad mood has evaporated, despite the rising wind and dropping temperature outside.

Catching Big John's eye and tipping his head in a nod of thanks, Damien slid off the barstool, wishing that he had taken a jersey with him. Stepping back out into the pewter-skied evening, Damien suppressed an anticipatory shiver as dead leaves blew around him in eddies. Storm's a-comin'. Even though he had told her not to wait up, assuming that he would be back late, Damien decided to return to Sarah, to tell her the truth about the money, about how the small debts he had created everywhere kept adding up. 925 being no exception. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets once more, Damien tucked his chin down into his collar, trying to trap what little warmth his body had created, and swept along the pavement in a long-legged stride. Past the bank where he worked, and an old delicatessen nearby... past clothing stores, cafés and restaurants. Home. To Sun Vista. To Sarah.

She sat at the kitchen table, elbows pressed against the wood, hands pressing into her closed eyes. Sarah didn't want to look around her, at the depressing sight of the home that she and Damien had forged in this part of town. Oh Damien, why? I don't understand. They were so different, maybe this whole thing had been one big mistake...

Click.

Sarah didn't look up as the door moved, nor when gentle fingers trailed across her drooped shoulders. It was only when they continued on their path, finishing under her chin and tilting her head up, that she opened her eyes. He's back.
"Sarah..." For once, Damien's usual eloquence failed him. He wasn't very good at apologising, didn't do it very often. "Listen. I'm sorry..." He glanced away, buying time to think, and took the seat opposite her, catching her hands in his own. A pair of brown eyes and a pair of grey eyes, magnetically pulled towards each other. Sarah didn't try to pull away, and nor did Damien.
"No, I understand," she replied softly, pressing her smaller fingers against his palm. "It's just- I can't handle this place much longer. And I need something to do during the day. I can't stand living here, the bubblegum blue walls, knowing the private lives of the neighbours through sound." She indicated a hole in the wall near the door, one that almost went the whole way through. "I'm sorry," she finished weakly, knowing she sounded like a child. She wanted to work, to contribute, but she hadn't yet found a position, and they had only just moved here. Damien's job was a starter salary, barely enough to cover the rent and necessities of the week.
"No, no, don't apologise. I'm the one who's sorry," Damien replied, a wry smile flickering to life on his lips. How very like you, Sarah.
The woman on the other side of the table gave a watery laugh, then stood to begin cooking.

11pm. No animals make noise; people in the corridors walk faster than usual. The wind has dropped in intensity, but grown colder, more deadly. Snowstorm.

Damien's eyes were open and unmoving in the dark room, shining in the light of the bedside clock. Red digits, burning in the cold night. Sarah shifted against his side, snuggling in further, seeming to seek protection from the cold. Neither of them could sleep - too much noise from next door.
"It's not like him," Damien said softly.
"No," Sarah agreed, just as quietly. "Do you think something's wrong?"
The old man next door was a considerate neighbour, always making sure that his television was turned off by nine o'clock, knowing how well sound travelled between the walls. And now... eleven pm, and still the couple could hear canned laughter, clapping, musical advertisements.
"I'll go check," Damien said, slipping his arm out from around Sarah, and sitting up in bed. Cold air hit his bare chest, and he sucked in his breath, reaching blindly for the nearby chair where he knew he had left a jersey. Padding softly out of the room, Damien made his way through the night-time gauntlet that was the apartment, and out the door. He suppressed a smile at the quiet snores emanating from nearer the stairwell - drunkard had made himself at home, it seemed.

Stopping at the neighbouring door, Damien ran a hand through his dark hair, neatening it slightly, then knocked. Three times, exactly.
No reply.

Knocked again, twice.
Still no reply.

Hand hovering momentarily over the doorhandle, Damien made up his mind to open the door, just a crack. "Hello? Are you alright?" The television laughed at him in return, but there was no other sign of life from the apartment. Pushing the door open further, Damien navigated his way into the room, following the light emitted by the screen. A flopped hand, almost on the ground. Eyes drawn towards the hand, knuckles scraping the carpet - asleep? Damien approached cautiously, one foot in front of the other, and cleared his throat so that the old man didn't get a heart attack when he realised that another person was in here, since the back of the chair faced the door. "Sir?"

It only took one look at the older man's face to realise that there would be no reply.

"You're cold," Sarah said, running a hand across Damien's goosebumped chest, and wrapping her arms around him to share her warmth.
"I didn't even know his name," her husband replied, pulling her even closer, saddened at the night's discovery. He let out a sigh, then placed his chin above Sarah's head so that she could tuck into his neck. Neither of them spoke, but lay still, listening to the storm outside.

What the hell am I doing here? I'm such an incredible idiot. I don't even know where I'm going. What if he won't see me? How will I ever live this down? God Valerie, you are such a dumbass...

Valerie looked at her watch. After five, no chance of catching him on his way out of work. Damn. She had tried to keep in touch with Michael, but he was being an jerk, as usual. Valerie couldn't understand the allure of the city. She had always aspired to live out her life in Maple Grove as Mrs. Michael Callahan, having a passel of dark-haired children, and making lunches for the kids and her husband. Instead she was here, freezing her butt off on this snowy street corner, and trying to figure out what to do next.

She wasn't quite sure that Michael would even be happy to see her. When he left, they had fought about it, one of those good, long, in your face screaming matches. Valerie had said something to the effect of "I'll be glad if I never see your face again," and Michael had warned her never to darken his doorway again. It probably hadn't happened quite like that, but imagination has a tendency to embellish old stories. Time also has a knack for softening old arguments, which was why Valerie was here.

Valerie knew from the old ladies in the salon where she worked (as stereotypical as this sounds, the old ladies gossip network was the best source of information in Maple Grove) that Michael was working as an Administrative Office Assistant in some place with a weird name. It started with a Z, she remembered that much. Valerie wanted to surprise Michael, to remind him of how much he was missing back home. But now, having thought about this for more than thirty seconds at any given time, she was getting cold feet.

Valerie stood on the street corner outside the bus station, her duffel bag sitting next to her, rubbing her hands together. She knew that she had to make a decision, whether it was to get back on a Greyhound and head home or to go on with what now seemed to be a fool's errand. She picked up her duffel, hailed a taxi, and asked to be taken to the nearest Motel 6.

Katie came to with an unsettling red apparition before her eyes. Blinking frantically and pulsing back her eye sockets, she noticed that this annoyance was but the mere alarm clock she kept by her bedside drawer. It must have fallen during Leyton's somewhat out of line behavior. Still lying on her side she focused her eyes on the blinking red display. It was flashing 3:03. She'd probably hit the dodgy socket as she fell and reset the clock. Had she really been out for three hours? And what about Leyton? He'd bugged her times before, but this had certainly been a novel turn of events. He hadn't knocked her out. No. She'd stayed put, resigned herself to the moment, and just dozed off.

She brought her free arm around to adjust her glasses which, remarkably, were undamaged. Straightening up slowly she felt a stinging pain shoot up her leg. There was blood. Blood from the nail torn off her little toe. There was also blood, by now clotted up, which had streamed from her nose and ran, in her horizontal predicament, all the way into her ear. She scratched at the crust of the somber pattern and, as one does, tasted her misplaced essence. Taking in the metallic taste for some odd minutes she began to shudder at the sharp breeze weaving itself intermittently around the corner of the bed. She peered up and saw that the window had also been broken, among other things. Her discovery of bruises she'd sustained were abounding.

Slowly but surely, she got to her feet and saw the room in shambles, herself none the better. She had no trouble walking, but a rib had most certainly cracked. As the breeze invited itself in once more, she noticed that she wasn't wearing any underwear. She reached down, terrified, and let out a sigh of relief as her prodding fingers revealed no trace of Leyton's charged demeanor. Hearing a noise behind her, she spun back toward the doorway and gasped as she saw a head peering in. It was Alex, the custodian's son. Alex was retarded, and didn't speak any English. Alex was currently looking straight at Katie's crotch. Katie immediately grabbed a towel to cover herself up. "Err, hello", she managed.

Alex, grinning from ear to ear retorted with "uallow!".

Ten minutes later, Katie was sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of coffee, nodding absently at Alex's Serbian chatter, intermixed with English where possible. She more or less ascertained that Leyton had shot and killed four people on his way out. She counted herself ridiculously lucky when the nice lady from the police department informed her that they had all been point blank shots to the head.

Katie had transferred from the west coast to continue her flailing academic career. Five months in this new environment had yielded no social environment, no extra-curricular fun, and no close ties to anyone of the opposite sex. This was exactly the way she'd wanted it. Perhaps it was being the hermit she was that had spared her. Who knew.

She'd been an orphan till the age of twelve when an affluent couple from the big city had snatched her up. On that fine day, Mr. and Mrs. Kluv had barely taken the grand tour when they saw Katie. They then saw, correction, furtively checked for, the small idiosyncratic tattoo, just above her collar bone, of a sickle going through a loop of snakes. To her dismay in later years, she was told that she had been adopted that day by the head of a shady Russian cult whose roots stretched all the way back to the Czar in old Russia. Life had dealt her a card she still hadn't peeped at. She'd keep it that way, although she most definitely reaped the few benefits, albeit with modest acceptance. This flat she occupied was most certainly far slighter than the abode she had been offered downtown. She had declined the offer, citing her disdain for silver spoons as she had done from the day she'd become a member of the Kluv household.

Minutes later Katie was sitting hunched over in the back of an ambulance, still staring into the distance, letting herself be dragged onward by the night's bustling events. The paramedics on site had insisted that she come along to the hospital to have her wounds checked. The red and blue flashes figuratively banging against the small back door window let it be known that the boys in blue followed close behind through the blizzard. Parts of the city were blacked out due to the inclement weather. The snow didn't look like it was going away any time soon.

Clarity

I was in the shower when he walked in. I could see him through that damn patterned glass they have on the shower doors, the kind that make you see things like you're not wearing your glasses, or you are, but they're someone else's. Fractal, repeating images of Joseph, his clothes looking like some sort of technicolor jeans-and-a-Hawaiian-shirt Dreamcoat.

"Get the hell out of here! I'm showering!"

"I just need to borrow some money. Boy are you in a bad mood!"

That's Joseph. I was always the family genius, but he was the smart one. He's my younger brother, and I can't really stay mad at him. And he's right. Or was, since It was probably just a lack of sleep, one that will be remedied in just minutes as that early coffee takes effect. I don't know what it is, but I really can't figure people out like that. Maybe I'm just too socially inept to pick up on all of those subtle clues he sees, like me yelling at him for doing something perfectly innocuous -"Sure, whatever you need, my wallet's in my pants over the chair in my bedroom."- or maybe I'm just too used to dealing with drunks, whose emotions are a slightly easier, if more mercurial, construct to understand.

I'm a publican. That means bartender.

You think that bartenders are just people that have nothing better to do than watch people get drunk, right? I mean, it's interesting and all, but i'm a more complex person than that. An idiot, but a complex one. I spent five years in college on full scholarship, but never got a degree; I got distracted by bartending while a philosophy major; Drunks are better philosophers than dead white men. In any case, I tend to wax regretful while showering. And it's 1:00 already. I need to be at the bar in half an hour to clear up from last night so I can be open by 2 for Sunday. Always a big day.

I guess I don't think the big decisions through at all, and the little ones I overanalyze until the answer is defaulted. I need to leave. Quickly, throw on a shirt, the ones in the drawers are clean, and so are these pants, right? Ok, head out the door. A blur of faces outlined in the snow as I bike to the bar, each the same, or not, it's unclear. The world passing by like life does, only the big things are noticed. The important things, like that rock that I hit last week, pass by unnoticed until they send us sprawling forward. And you never get to look at the scenery. Pessimistic, but I'm about to start giving meaning to people who feel that the best use of their time is to bypass consciousness, access their pain, happiness, and knowledge without the easy, deceptive intermediary of lying to themselves. I don't have a job for optimism.

The door is locked, and Barney is waiting outside. 4'10", 120lbs, wearing his favorite shirt: a pointillist eye that is unrecognizible from within 20 feet of him. He looks cold. My favorite customer, always there to drink a beer or five, whether I want to be open or not. I did send him home last night. With Sam, who was only a bit less drunk, but a more than a bit more reliable. Or was that the night before? "Not until 2," as I pull my keys out, eyeing the rusty lock, always jamming, but I already know that I'll let him in early, even if he doesn't yet. I'm in a good mood. Nancy said she'd stop by this afternoon.

The lock finally jiggles open, and the bar lies spread before me: Empty, but not clean. I grab the bottles off the bar that I was too tired to pick up yesterday night, and I grab the broom. Barney peeks in, silently asking whether I will flout the public policy of the bar once again, and let him in early. Not for the first time, I wonder why I wrote that into the rules in the first place. I motion Barney in, and Joey follows him in. Damn.

I don't dislike Joey. I tell myself I don't mind him at all. He's actually, when you think about it--

"When the hell can I get a drink around here" he whines. I hate Joey.

"I'm still cleaning up from last night." I reply "So can you hand me the mop?" Not mentioning that its unlawful to serve him for another 22 minutes.

Joey looks sullenly at the beer fountain, uncooperative even for his own benefit. Barney jumps up to grab the mop for me, displaying an agility that I rarely see. It is Sunday, however, and he hasn't had any Alcohol for almost 10 hours, the only stretch over his standard 3 day weekends that that statement is true. He's young, and unless he picks up a girl, he just hangs out getting drunk all weekend. Not that I mind, though it does seem a bit of a waste. Who else would I get to test my crazy theories on if he wasn't around, constantly just drunk enough to be able to understand my arguments, without being sober enough to refute them. Unlike Sam.

I mop the floor, not quite remembering what it used to look like: It's got this brown covering obscuring the pattern that should be clear. The pattern underlying everything in the room obscured by the use of the room. Ironic, yet fitting. Not that it matters what the pattern is, not that it will help me serve drinks, or talk to Nancy. Nancy. I finish cleaning up, and there's still 5 minutes until opening. I can start my boys off with a drink, but I decide to ask about the game instead.

"What was the score last night? We won, right?"

"Oh, crushed them. 6-0. It wasn't worth watching. They didn't even come close to scoring."

"Yea, 6-0, glad I didn't show up." So I could wallow in my misery here, with no-one here but Barney and Sam to keep me company. "It's opening time..."

"Beer"

"Beer"

"Yea," already filling up the two mugs, I pass 'em out.

Two and a half hours of watching Joey and Barney start on the road to beer-induced clarity later, Sam walks in. Sam is a occasional customer, a much steadier drunk that either of these two, and a much better drunk conversationalist. I sometimes wonder whether he's really getting drunk. It's already mid-afternoon, and no sign of anyone else. Don't get the wrong Idea - I run a more popular bar than that - there were eight or nine other people in the bar already, but no sign of Nancy. She was coming by four o'clock.

I poured myself a drink. Bad Idea, but I already said I'm an idiot. Bartenders can't drink on the Job. Ever. It's too easy a habit to fall into. And I was in a bad mood. Not a good time to start drinking. Oh well. Sam gave me a funny look, and motioned to the drink. I thought about dumping it. Not for long. I shrugged, and started drinking. Bad move. I can bartend while drunk. That's actually how it started out. I'm pretty quick with my hands, and I got the bartender at the bar near my old school to show me all those nifty tricks he did. Not that he knew many, but he showed me. Then got me to cover for him while he snuck out for a while. It was fun. More fun that classes, that's for sure. And there went five years of scholarship money... and the direction that my life was heading. I didn't graduate. I wound up as a bartender, sitting in this bar, thinking about how miserable I am. A bartender whose front glass window just had a rock thrown at it by some teenagers sitting outside. Oh Shit!

I ran out, but I was already tipsy, and didn't chase them more than fifty feet. Damnit, it's not funny. That glass is expensive. It's completely ruined, a big spiderweb running from where the rock hit all the way to the edges. The bar inside looked like a drugged out version of those stupid multiple TV screen displays showing the warts on some guy's face stretched out over a screen and a half. I walk back into the bar, feeling even worse, if possible, than I did 15 minutes earlier when I gave up on Nancy showing up. Sam tells me the police are on the way. I don't really care. I have a third, or is it fourth, beer. Then another.

The police showed up just when I was getting that beer-goggle effect really going. Everything was maving a bit slow, and these two blue people walk into the bar. "What'll it be?"

"Sorry, we can't drink on duty."

Comprehension slowly dawns. Police. Ok, I can deal with this.

"What seems to be the problem, officers?"

"Umm..." The first cop starts "We, uhhh..."

"I'm Deputy Kohn. That's Deputy Walters. There was a reported incident of vandalism by the proprietor of this establishment. May we speak with him."

"Oh! right." I said that it was dawning slowly, right? "That's me. Some punk kids threw somthing at my window." I point outside, just in time to see this pattern that looks familiar pass by the window. The first cop starts scribbling something on his notepad. I stopped. What is that? My brain's pattern recognition functions working overtime, the door opens and she walks in. Nancy. "Nancy! How are you?" I gush, a bit too excitedly. "I've been having a bit of a dad bay. I'll... I'll" I stopped, a bit confused. The cops stop writing on their little notepads, and look at each other.

It's a good thing Sam is such a good friend. He stopped the cops before they left, and explained, with what must have been enough credibility, given the insurance check I received, what had happened. Haven't seen him around for a while, though. In any case, I was a bit confused at this point. I stood up, just in time to see Nancy again. I stopped whatever it was I had been doing, and, remarkably cogent for one in my then advanced state of intoxication, I started talking to her. I was told later that It was something along the lines of:

"I'm really drunk, and maybe I should talk to you when I'm sober, because I'll probably tell you that I really like you, and that's a bad idea right now, since we haven't seen each other in two years, and I'll sound like a loser for not having done anything since then. Besides, You probably didn't even remember me until I looked you up." I collapsed onto the floor, and could barely see her walk by, first through my blurry impaired vision, then through the spiderwebbed glass as well.

I'm stupid. She probably hates me. For the first time, everything was clear.

This is the first fiction piece I've shown to others in years (since 10th grade,) so any feedback would be welcomed.

Ring....ring....ring....ring...

"This is Frank."

"Frankie! How's it goin', bro?"

Shit. "Hey, Earl. What do you need?"

"Whoa, Frankie! Can't a guy just call his favorit