Track 2

I guess what I said on Monday was a lie. But you know what? I do what I want! Catching up now....

------------------------------------------------------------

Aly slid back along the bed until she felt the wall touch in between her shoulders. She let herself simply slump into the wall, rocking from side to side a little until she felt comfortable. Headphones - check. Discman - check. She pressed play and waited to see what happened.

A slow guitar introduction began. It was cheesy and clichéd, but somehow still sent a chill of excitement up her spine. It was good. Sometimes she enjoyed something that didn't take itself too seriously. She had heard far too much music that took itself seriously - been with far too many people who bought into the hype, too. She didn't understand why people would build meaningless things into something so important. She had never met someone who didn't - as if challenging their personal opinions was somehow shattering their entire lives. Aly didn't work like that. She enjoyed things meant to be enjoyed and thought no more of it. Why make a big deal out of it?

The drums kicked in and the pace of the song quickened - became more exciting. She remembered those drums from two nights ago. She had been out with a few friends and was introduced to this white guy, John. He was one of those 'all-talk' kind of guys. Spent the whole night bragging about his band, talking about their recent gig, things like that. If he hadn't been talking about music specifically, Aly wouldn't have listened to a word that came out of his mouth. Music, though, was something they could bond over.

She steered the conversation all night. Every chance he had, he went back to talking about his kit, how long he had been playing, things like that. Boring stuff. She knew he was a drummer, he didn't need to keep banging on about it. So she asked him about their influences, bands they covered, things like that. He threw out a bunch of obvious band names - she'd heard them all before - but his favourite band... they were something new. Eagle something... something eagle... It didn't matter - she had a copy now anyway. She had never heard the name before, that was what really caught her attention. The rest of the conversation from there was just a formality.

She had him bring her to his place. That was important. She may have hundreds of albums back home, but right now she wanted to hear something new, and loading it up on YouTube or some other site just wasn't sexy at all. John was the epitome of every drummer-joke she ever heard. Trying too hard. Eager. He started kissing her as soon as they were inside the door. He hurriedly undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled it off, without separating his lips from hers for a second. That worried her - there was no way she was getting undressed if she wasn't going to be able to enjoy it.

He just looked confused. She had placed her hands gingerly on his chest and pushed him back. She looked him in the eye, trying not to betray her impatience, and said "How about a little music? I like to have something on, while we're in the middle of things." He looked flustered, but went over to a desktop computer in the corner of the room, nonetheless. "Whadd'ya want to listen to?" he said, turning it on.
"Something by that... eagle band. Your favourites?"
He typed in the password hurriedly.
"While you're at it, could you do me a favour?"
He was moving from flustered to plain frustrated. "What!?" He practically barked it, clearly worried that he wasn't getting any tonight. He definitely wasn't the ladies man that his lead-guitarist or whoever else in his band was.

"If you could burn me a copy..." she smiled, to relax him again -
"Just set it up to work while we're... you know..."
His eyes fixed on her breasts as she pulled her top up over her head.
"Whi... which album?" he muttered.
"Pick whichever one is best to have sex over."
That won him over. Lucky, she thought. She worried that the request would have been too much for him. Instead, he just seemed happy that things were moving forward. He crossed the room for a blank CD, crossed back and practically fell over himself trying to put it into the computer.
"Relax" she spoke softly, "I'm not going anywhere."
She slipped her jeans downwards, revealing pale white skin of her legs, and stood before him in only her underwear.

A few clicks later and the CD was copying. The album began with that slow guitar introduction, and a chill of excitement ran up Aly's spine. It was... good.

The second track began on her discman. It had a strange bass-line. Much to her annoyance, even when the other instruments kicked into full swing, the bass remained the focus of the track. She hoped track three was better. Just like Friday night.

The first song did everything she wanted it to. It thrilled her. By the end of its 6 minutes, they were both fully undressed, him exploring her body greedily. As Track 1 crossed into Track 2 though, that god-awful bass-line started up. It started to make her uncomfortable. Him too - he was rubbing against her while attempting to give her a hickey on the inside of her forearm. This wasn't good - he probably wouldn't be too happy if she asked him to skip to track three either.

Oh god - what if the whole album was like this? What if the first track was the only one that made her feel... anything? She tried to focus on the guitar lead that ran over the song, then the vocals; she even tried focussing on the banging of the drummer - both of them. It was to no avail though. The night ended something of a disappointment. Poor John was so confused.

The discman switched to Track 3. Then 4. Then 5. To her disappointment, the whole album was like this. One good - one incredible single at the beginning to get her hopes up, but the rest of the disc was frigid. John would probably defend them to the death, if he ever met her again. He was one of those people, who couldn't bear to have his tastes challenged. It would do no good, anyway. The album was useless to her.

She found an old favourite - something she had relied on for years now. Oddly enough, it was Grieg. She just found something about the music so sensual - it caressed her, teased her. It made love to her.

Why didn't people understand that music was just pleasure? Just an opinion - nothing worth fighting over. John's favourite band could do nothing to change how her synaesthesia made her feel.

This is not a Work!

As what was posted of yesterday's writings was in fact an excerpt from a larger project - which I would rather be first published by some professional group that can turn it into profit than be posted in its entirety on a free blog - it became suddenly and shockingly clear that I cannot be expected to write a wholly original 400 word piece every day before any other writing that I find myself doing. It would just be impractical, coming up with something new every day, while also jumping to some other on-going project immediately afterwards.

So with that, I'm afraid there is no update for today - BUT! the 400 word minimum is still being written and will continue to be written, daily! Today's efforts have in fact all gone into my forthcoming post on my other blog, (Dead Waterdeep) which will be visible on there before the end of the week.

I'll try to keep up a trend that even if I post nothing here some days, that there will be work visible from other sites/projects/etc. to make up the difference! Because I am determined!

With that, I promise that tomorrow, there will be another post of 400 words at least, same bat-channel; potentially different bat-time! (but still at some point during 23/08)

And now, Adieu!

Some Kind of Mistake (Excerpt)

Hey man, pokr game 2nite. Me mairead grace jerry stef & prob a few others will be in the pot. Wonder if ur interested? Were not playing 4 money ne more - not after wat happened at pauls last time. Wud b gud 2 c u.

Ryan stared at the screen and sighed. He never actually enjoyed Texas Hold'em, even when it wasn't sabotaging his wallet, yet these gatherings were becoming frustratingly common among the group. It wouldn't have been so bad if he could just casually turn down all of the invitations, but he was spending less and less time with Declan lately, and the guilt was piling up. People are supposed to spend time with their best friends, right? Even if it is just time playing a ridiculous card game.

"It's been your move for seventy-five seconds now and you still haven't put down your phone yet." The bored, monotone voice came from Cole, sitting on a hard-plastic stool at the opposite side of a table covered in miniatures, dice and hand-cut polystyrene. He was holding a short plastic ruler between finger and thumb, flipping it over and over again, impatiently. His fifteen bright red dice were pushed together into a triangle in front of him, every one of them showing a 6.

Ryan glanced down at one of his squads, sheltered among trees in the north-west corner, and picked up the measuring tape.
"Sorry, just checking that text. Was Declan - apparently they're holding another poker game. At his and Stef's place, this time."
"I don't like poker. It's just probability. Too easy."
"I wish I could say the same myself, but...."
Ryan's voice trailed off while he measured out the movements of his north-west squadron. It was a long-shot, but he was already on the back-foot and needed to try something drastic if he had any hope of turning the battle around. Getting a quick flank on Cole's berserkers before they could go on the offensive was probably his best-
"That won't work. Your archer's maximum range is 10 inches. That's enough to hit the near side of my battalion but the latter side reaches 11.65 inches away. Even with a roll of maximum damage, half my troops will be left standing."
The smugness made Ryan's teeth grind. It would have been less annoying if he wasn't always right, but numbers were basically Cole's 'thing.' There was no point in arguing with him. Ryan picked up a handful of his cut-bone dice and rolled anyway. They came up mostly 2s and 3s.

"Figure out the damage yourself - I should reply to Declan."
While Cole plucked models from the cluster that had just been ambushed, Ryan went back to his phone. At least he had a good excuse for not making the poker game. He hated not being there for Declan, but tonight he was spoken for. Nobody else was going to mind Cole, after all.

"Is Máiréad going to be there tonight?"
"Yeah, he mentioned her in the text."
Hey man - I'm sorry to say...
"When do you think he's going to stop being her cuckold?"
...I'm gonna have to give tonight a miss...
"Cole, I don't even know what that means."
"I know you don't. I mean the way he chases her around when she obviously isn't interested."
...but maybe we'll get together soon?
"He doesn't torture himself on purpose. He has feelings for her."
"What else is new."
Message sent.
"Just take your turn."

The berserkers, now only three-quarters of their original number, moved up to meet the archers. Scooping up his dice, Cole began the inevitable massacre. The tumbling cubes battered the terrain mat without even a hint of mercy.
"4, 8, 13, 18, 24..."
He took so much pleasure in announcing Ryan's destruction. It was sadistic.

1 New Message: Declan Gorman

"Take your time pulling my army's legs off there. I've got another text."
Cole leaned across the table and flicked one of the archers up off the map with his ruler. It hit the wood of the window ledge with a painful thud before landing on the floor. The ruler moved over to another archer.

Aw really? Wat u doing? No prob neway we can meet up l8r. Hav sumting I wanna talk 2 u about.

I'm spending time with Cole. He's slaughtering me, as usual. If you want to talk you can always come here and- Crack!
A third model collided with the back of the phone. He didn't even look apologetic - just moved on to model number four. Ryan glared at him, but the gesture was futile.
hang out for a while?
Pressing the 'send' button, he began retrieving his models from the floor. Only a single archer remained on the map.

"I think, just maybe, you've won this game."
"You've got to play it out to the very end."
The response snapped back before he had even finished his sentence. Cole was insistent that they never quit playing before the bitter end, even if he outnumbered the enemy 100 to 1. Just another way he could bring his sadistic streak out.
"Fine. But this is the last game of the evening, okay?"

He moved his single remaining archer onto elevated terrain, rather than back into the cover of the trees. Then, he measured out movements for his cavalry, over on the eastern side of the map. He settled for running them right along the floor of a small valley. Neither move would do anything to drag out the fate of his troops, but at this stage he wasn't interested in keeping them alive. He just wanted to pretend he was still trying, to keep Cole happy. Higher ground gave the archer a boosted damage roll. The cavalry could travel further if they didn't try to scale the valley wall. Too bad both were surrounded by Cole's berserkers.

"Your turn."
Cole cried out with malicious glee and began moving the berserkers down into the valley, surrounding the cavalry on all sides. Seconds later, he began his ritual of flicking the miniatures off the table once more.

1 New Message -
No tanks man. No offens but i dont think im up 4 hanging out with ur stepbro 2nite. U no he makes me feel weird.

Glancing at the mess of models now on the floor, Ryan muttered toward his phone "You and me both, mate...."
He picked up the model of the unfortunate last archer. The paint was chipped, from having been battered off the floor five times in as many hours.
"C'mon Cole. Let's go paint more miniatures or something. I'm done making bad decisions for the day."

The Fear

It was always a blank page, that was the problem. Marc would stare at it for hours on end. It wasn't that he lacked ideas - he always knew exactly what he wanted to say. Nor was it that he lacked the ability to say it. His problem was that he wasn't under pressure.

In school, Marc was a gifted student. Not much above average, but that he was above failing at all was a sure sign of his gift. He never put the slightest effort into learning. He graduated with just-above-average grades and went on to a university course in journalism, which is where things got harder. His lack of motivation caused him to struggle at first - that was when his gift really began to shine. Deciding that forcing himself to work was easier than failing, he bullied himself into actually studying sometimes, and despite the chasm that hung between his knowledge and the required material, he came out of each year with -typically- slightly above average results. His gift was an intellect that was wasted on him. In particular, his ability to write like a man who knew everything, even if in the conventional sense, he didn't know shit.

Marc understood people. That was why he was staring at a page, desperate to create some. Words were his way of exploring people. In education, he explored other people with his own pages - he wrote what they wanted, he mused about their questions in as many paragraphs as it took to reach a conclusion, or won them to his cause by stating their own beliefs with a conviction they couldn't help but give a C or a B grade to. But now it wasn't that simple. Now he had nobody to please and nobody whose ego would reward him should he aid in its inflation. He had only himself. And the blank page.

Its blankness was incessant. He tried writing any old words that came to mind, but they weren't the introduction he was hoping for, so he had to start over. Then he tried doodling, hoping that once the ink was flowing the words would run too, but he hated the idea of starting something special on a messy sheet, so he started a third time. This one remained blank. And remained blank. And remained blank. Eventually Marc got bored and put the page aside. It didn't need his help staying blank, after all.

Marc's problem wasn't that he lacked ideas or skills. It was that he knew he was gifted. He knew what he was capable of, and thus anything short of that was a failure in his heart. And it was easier to fail by choice than by bad luck, or worse - bad writing.