As I’m about to kick off Twittories #3, I thought it would be wise to throw the text from Twittories #2 up here for safekeeping. We didn’t get very far, but the story is pretty fascinating nonetheless. What always amazes me about Twittories is how some people stick with the story theme that was handed to them and some like to fuck with it, just to be plain evil. See the original text and contributions here.
Twittory #2: “Action”
OK stand there look at me now, smile, like you mean it, lean back, a little more, no don’t go there, watch out for Mark, oh and Mark, keep you head down love, you’re in shot. I know it’s cold, but pretend like it’s warm. Christ, someone get me a cuppa would ya? I can’t concentrate with all this noise and we have to get this done before Erika falls off her perch. Ok lean back so we get the falls in the shot. Swirling sexy mist beading on your hair and all that. Think cataract of love, babe. Watch the angry locals salivate for a touch of her glistening flesh. “Erika, hold on Mark will be here soon to save you from those silly dreams you have.” The ground shifted slightly, a deep resonance sounded in the distance. The horizon tilted, the falls fell, something was happening. In an instance, the temperature jumped 10 degrees, evaporating what was the sexy beading mist. Silence followed. Erika tensed. She saw it happen. Too scared to scream. Mark, the fool, stood up. In shot, again. God it’s hot. What is that sound? The thought rippled through the collective mind of the shoot, as the burgeoning rumble increased in fierceness. Even as Erika’s frozen gaze contorted into terror, a herd of buffalo headed straight for us. “Damn it, we’re meant to have clear zone for the shoot”. “Freeze!” yelled Erika, and the entire scene slammed to a halt, buffalo suspended mid-air. “This may only be a SIM but it will be done professionally dammit! And Mark, you lovely fool, I may be in love but I will not tolerate stupidity!” Sighing, Mark got dressed. Erika stormed off. “Don’t worry darling, she’s often a bit like that. You wait here, I’ll go and round up the buffalo”.
Ah, memories. That was last only just last month when life was easier, simpler. But was it? Erika reminisced. Now? Everything changes from time to time, but you wouldn’t think life could’ve changed so dramatically since March. Mark had never got over the awkwardness of trying to do the timewarp at Erika’s post-filming party. His legs and arms flailing about, he slapped her right in the face and demanded an explanation about what really happened on the shoot. Mark knew the truth but he wanted Erika’s version first before confessing. That way, he could fudge things if she thought it was totally his fault. If only he hadn’t downed the whole bottle. It was supposed to be a practical joke. Something to make loosen him up. As it turned out it wasn’t that funny. He held his liquor like an anemic 12 year old and apparently hit like one too. Erika had had enough. Neatly dodging his next wild accusation, she picked up a friand, hooked her arm around Antonio’s, and lead him out through the french doors to the balcony.
He was a friend & Mark was nowhere but she WANTED Antonio. On the balcony. Now! She turned with that wanton look hitched her skirt & said “That’s the last time I book this caterer. Friands at a wrap party, really!”. She brushed the crumbs from her skirt, realised that chocolate had dribbled down her chin, her neck and between the swollen orbs proffering themselves to his but too late! The orbs burst and hundreds of baby spiders crawled out, engulfing Antonio. He screamed, as Erika cackled in t …t. t.time to the music. “Dam this stutter’ said said to no one in particular. “Who would have thought the ballons would burst!” A blur of compression artifacts seals her split skin & reforms her breasts. Antoni deploys a cloud of spider wasps to devour them all the while keeping an eye on the chocolate that is still dribbling down her chin. He imagines licking it from her while ever so casually reaching behind and yanking her battery pack. So much better making love to a doll than a murderous bitch. “But I’m NOT a Doll!” Mark flinches away, “I pulled your plug, you can’t be… how did you know what I was thinking?” She opens her purse to reveal the state-of-the-art backup battery she was now relying on to function. Mark & Antonio pause & look at… each other. Antonio sighs, mutters the “exit simulation” command, and Erika and balcony whoosh into nothingness. “Spiders?” Mark are every where or am I back in the Matrix… oh for a real woman. Like in the 20th century when you could smell her flesh and hair pouring over lush verdant hillside; are those flowers I smell or is that her? No texting, a time of wandering and being, where chance and co-incidence ruled our every minute, not the “get whatever you want at the whisper of a command” world we so readily accept today. Did we just forget the purpose of a life and of love somewhere along the way? Could we ever have avoided the dawn of this wonderful terrible post-human future where nobody dies and nobody really lives? Who could have foreseen what lies in the heart of humankind, in even in this time of de-evolution. Not even a lone grasshopper on those virtual prairies, dormant and resilient, could have!
Mark, now a young 205 years old, reminisced about his first love – at 18, in the virgin past, before we destroyed the physical world beyond repair and had to move into Second Life permanently. Still, it could be worse. The world may have gone to hell in a handbasket but it still had pockets of hope, redemption and life. Mark wanted to go to the end of the Earth for that woman, truth be told. As hard as it was while 1s and 0s governed love, the stars and all between. And sure the 1′s and 0′s made loving someone tough, but love has always been tough, never easy. But this was a a necessary outcome of a post apocalyptic world. Besides, his island was an oasis. He just wished he could share it with her.
Little did he know, something was about to happen that would change everything. The solar panels that were used to power second Home, as this backwater colony on the forgettable end of the Perseus arm was known, had an operational life of around 280 years, but due to prolonged exposure, had been coated by salt accumulation. The apocalypse ensured that solar panel cleaning businesses was now the most important thing for maintaining Second Home, akin to a religion where every action was prayed for as the giver of life. Mark heard it before he saw it. A strange noise, one he had never encountered before; but somehow it was strangely familiar. The voices coming in waves, like a chant, slow and pulsating, leading him towards a disconnected consciousness. The promise of something salty, of something saltier than anyone had ever seen or even heard of. A mortal threat to Second Home, to Mark, and to all he’d ever known. Everything was slowing down. He wanted to stop but was being drawn by some irresisable force. His fingers were unbottoning his collar triggering his GregEgan. “Settle petal,” said the relative sanity agent as it incarnated, “time to hit the couch sunshine”
The blackness was all-encompassing. Not even a show in the shadows. Where was he? What had happened? Had the power finally failed for good….
THE END
