The Writing Thread - Post Shit You've Written (And Criticize What's Posted)

I'm driving to Walmart and there's not much light because the sun is shining on the other side of the planet as it always has in Tallahassee at midnight Eastern Time. Or at least as it has as long as I have existed and as long as those whose words I've read have existed, scientists and newscasters and what have you. There is some light: the sign I pass along the way advertising Bingo contains light bulbs which illuminate the sign and the night. Further along the road, closer to Walmart and further from my dorm room, are brighter signs near a cluster of car dealerships, each sign jockeying to be the most effective, like contestants on some game-show where the winner is one who sells the most of a product he or she designed. Further still, Walmart.

I arrive and park my car and remove my keys from my GEO Prizm's ignition and place them in my green hoodie pocket and open my car door and lock my car door and close my car door and do not smoke a cigarette because I don't smoke cigarettes yet and walk to the Walmart entrance and go inside.

Like Walmarts everywhere, the inside of this Walmart is the same as the inside of Walmarts everywhere. Even if I had not already been to this Walmart late at night when I was bored because I had no friends in this town, it would have been easy to find the section of the store that I was looking for. It would be near the televisions (not yet flatscreen) and cameras (already digital).

Familiar Melody
(Chapters 1 & 2)

Chapter 1


(2071 CE) These are the greatest accomplishments of my life, Fred thought to himself. With shaky hands, he waved to the side to scroll through the list of his works as if brushing away a pestering insect. I wonder which one is my masterpiece.
It wasn't a long list, but as he scrolled down through the waltzes and nocturnes and concertos, one stood out as being titled differently. "Raindrops." Not many of his songs had been given names outside of a simple listing of style and key. Gesturing toward himself with two fingers to activate the song, he allowed the musical rendition to permeate the comfortable underground apartment that was one of the few places he was allowed. A room which had been designed from the sturdy oak workdesk to the windows that lined the "southern" wall that were, at present, showing him a view of a harbor in Monte Carlo. All to create the optimal environment for creativity.
Restless, he stood up as the music began its gentle melody and silently moved his fingers in accordance with the notes that his accelerated education had taught him. At seventeen years old, the researchers that were in constant surveillance of Fred had deemed his level of development sufficient to introduce this volatile factor; the music that had made him one of the most acclaimed composers in history. Dindindindindindindindin- from the very start he noticed a single note played over and over again, his left hand rarely able to stray from that first position. Not a terribly difficult piece. His hands drooped as he became bored with the monotony of the song, but wandering over to a computing surface he allowed it to continue playing. An almost imperceptible, circular-shaped blur hovered quietly a few feet away, trailing him as he moved. Fred ignored the rippling movement of the invisible camera, as he was supposed to, and pulled up the corresponding sheet music onto the terminal. With a movement of his hand across the surface, the digital image flew across the room and stuck, enlarged, on the blank segment of wall facing the grand piano that had been installed for his use.
New elements were beginning to enter into the piece, but over everything was that perpetual note. Fred strained his shoulder blades back with an irritable groan as he walked slowly over to the window's control panel. The music was beginning to make him feel suffocated, as if the air in his living space was growing thick with the stale aroma of lingering illness. Reaching for the metallic knob, a small panel appeared on the base of the Monte Carlo scene which listed a variety of possible locations.
Used to his favorites, he twisted it to a familiar setting and gazed with mild distaste as the bright Mediterranean Sea faded from view to be replaced with the nightlife of downtown Chicago. From his new vantage on Monroe Street, Fred overlooked the brightly lit classic architecture of the Art Institute contrasted with the glistening, metallic Grant Park, lined with skyscrapers, Lake Michigan extending its black void beyond the horizon. He liked to be in cities, around people. Not too close, though. When he had first perused the available window locations he had stumbled upon a ground-floor view of a surging pedestrian plaza in London. The faces -the expressions- in such outstanding relief had been too much for Fred. Too personal. An observer he may be, but such intimate perspective turned it voyeuristic. Covetous eyes for the kinship of man that he knew he could never deserve.
Grown, not birthed, Fred's genetic composition had been cleared of the terminally condemning irregularities that had caused the early death of his ancient predecessor, Frederic Chopin. His wardens in white coats had speculated as to how great an effect that would have upon his music. Leaving his window to humanity, he sat down in front of the piano and started to play along with the music, his eyes following the projected sheet. -dindindindin BUMMM - His heart began pounding, painfully, his shoulders flexing in rhythm as the piece became louder and more complex. Here and there he made slight adjustments, pausing overlong, or flowing straight through where the audio track held for a breath. What pianist could play more truly than the composer? Closing his eyes, the music overwhelmed his being, its expression of helplessness and defiance against frailty intrinsically connecting him to that stranger upon whose greatness he was supposed to encroach. For what? For the propagandizing efforts of a government that faces not only the looming threat of foreign domination, but also the seemingly insurmountable depression of nihilism permeating Earth's population like a pandemic? He had seen it, that time in London. The businesslike briskness of passerby did little to veil the desperate yearning in their eyes, the too-thin set of their lips, so powerful it had made Fred retch as he tried to pound his way through the screen to join his own dismal existence with theirs. Did he owe this world whatever semblance of inspiration he could muster, which had ripped him mercilessly out of his time, held just out of touch beyond the calculated walls of his imprisonment?
As his song wound to a close, the perpetual, repeated note lasting all the way to the end as if his fingers could never stop, Fred slowly choked down his claustrophobia and became aware of a silence that had been growing beyond his piano for the last minute. Suspicion flashed through his mind as he threw a thin glance toward the hovering orb that had innocently positioned itself above the strumming chords of the grand. He supposed the audio program might have simply glitched and stopped the song itself, but the sentiment that anything here happened by accident was a degree of naivete that Fred had long since been disabused of.
With a sigh of resignation, he twirled his forefinger in front of him, urging the program to begin the song again. Instead of playing along this time, he moved the bench back and rested his forehead slowly onto the cool surface of the porcelain keys as he listened, eyes closed once more. The tension returned again, but faintly. He accepted the feeling as a compromise. Perhaps the scene that this music created -nearly a memory- of Frederic Chopin straining against his approaching death with a pen in his hand while the weather battered the spanish wooden roof of his eventual coffin, would be the closest Fred would ever get to the world. The disintegrating remains of his progenitor that the DNA had been extracted from had not wanted to die. Strange that they were now so grudging to be alive.

Chapter 2
(2080 CE) Fred tapped his fingers to an idle rhythm as he sat pondering. As he did so, his eyes followed the blurred camera as it sleuthed its way 'round the apartment. Sometime following his nineteenth birthday he had discarded his instructions to ignore it and now, nearing his twenty-seventh, he often spent hours staring down the symbol of captivity in a mockery of its attempted observation.
"They're near convinced you're having a mental break cause of that, you know." Fred cocked his head back with a sly smile so that he could watch as the owner of the voice traversed the open doorway between shower and body drier. Her pale skin and gleaming dark hair flashed away in a streak like an exposure photograph, a playful yelp escaping her lips as she caught his sideways glance.
"Would they let me go if I did? I've read they used to do that in the military, let the crazy ones go home." Fred returned his gaze to the camera, eyebrows uplifted, as if he were posing the question to it instead. Sable came back around the corner after a few moments of muffled struggling, that sounded like the unwilling fitting of a straight jacket, wearing the matted synthetic material that all of the staff wore underneath their lab coats. Natural fibers were illegal for commercial use, being a highly-valued commodity during wartime. The immediate exception to this were those fabrics used to provide appropriate atmosphere for the research facility's "Geniuses," such as the plaid pajama bottoms that were Fred's only current adornment, his muscular torso shown off in challenge of his frail past life. A series of studies had determined that synthetic clothing was not conducive to creativity.
"A madman with a gun is one thing," Sable said, as she flitted through the apartment collecting oddments that had been discarded in a chaotic flurry earlier that morning. "To be honest, they might welcome 'mad genius', though I might have something to say about that." She threw an affectionate smile at the back of his head, unnoticed. Threading her earrings into place, she bent to deliver a tender kiss on Fred's lips and headed toward the exit, her hand reaching for her lab coat. Real fabric to be used when in contact with a Genius.
"And what do they think?" Fred asked before she could remove the coat from the hanger, his eyes still following the camera that had stopped and was hovering at the other end of the room from the two lovers.
"I just told you-"
"Not about that, about us. Two weeks we've been at this, it's hardly as if they haven't noticed." He gestured in disdain toward the hovering orb. "Why haven't they ended it?"
Sable turned back and stared at him for several moments, the corner of her eye seeming to shiver when the camera moved slightly closer to Fred. Neither of them could see where the lense was pointed, but it had just clearly positioned itself for a clearer view of her face. Spine stiffening at her colleague's affront, she ignored the camera and walked back to where Fred sat, his eyes now full on her young, rebellious face. "You refuse to work for them. For years now you've been able to compose music, potentially on par with your origins, and yet they cannot squeeze that brilliance from you. Or else they might have. Civil rights activists are the only thing holding them back from the attempt." Sable glared at the camera in defiance.
"An experiment then."
"Not for me. I asked to be assigned to another genius to avoid a conflict of interest. If they derive anything from us it is-" A pause. "It is their experiment. Is it also your experiment?" After a lengthy pause in which Fred said nothing but continued his study of her face, she began to color, eyelashes lowering.
A touch on her arm brought her eyes back up to Fred's. "I know that you have read everything concerning my originator." He did not pose it as a question, and Sable blushed crimson again. "So you know that the love of his life was the novelist Madame Dudevant."
"She went under the pseudonym George Sand, yes."
"Indeed she did. So you see that you and I are fated, my beautiful Sable." He stood up and kissed her, then held their heads together as he locked her eyes to his. Looking unsure, but comforted, Sable finished her farewell and left, leaving Fred alone with his fabricated quarters, lavish with fabric. He stood silent for a moment and then went to take a well-worn seat in the corner of the room so that he could look out of his windows at such a degree that he could see all the way down the street. That same vantage in Chicago which had since become his favorite setting.
It had been this window, in this spot, where he had discovered two years ago that these false panoramas were connected to live cameras, as opposed to the recordings he might have assumed. It was through this window that he had discovered a scrolling text news broadcast wrapping its LED message across the front of the building adjacent to his perch. Normally out of sight, this vantage offered him a reflection off of the polished windows and steel of the skyscraper across the street. It had taken Fred a day to teach himself how to read the quick, backward capital letters which, amidst other messages, was still reporting the same announcement it had been for the last two weeks.
He sat and contemplated the implications of the young 41st Amendment in which clones had officially been classified as "subhuman," cementing the extravagant lifestyle to which they had become accustomed. Following the shocking revelation of the Genius Program, instead of the public outrage the whistleblowers had anticipated, it had been greeted with acceptance bordering on apathy. The states had voted unanimously, 14% voter turnout. Fred thought back nine years ago to that moment of connection he had experienced with his originator. They had played together, closing the gap of two hundred years, machinated by his jailers. Evidently they had remembered that fact. Sand, in french, is Sable.

Stevie

Stevie awoke slowly, feeling like he had been slugged by a million grainy pillows.
'Ahh', he thought, 'that will be the bottle of cheap supermarket vino from last night' as some memories started to filter through. 'Too many mornings like this lately', was his next thought which was quickly followed by an involuntary yelp as he looked at the clock by his bed.
"Time to get a move on ! It's nearly 10."
The people he was meeting this morning were not the type who liked to be kept waiting. As their displeasure was usually displayed in escalating levels of violence, it was certainly time to get himself moving. The good thing about meeting with the local ned gangsters was that they didn't place a premium on personal hygiene or a dress code. Thus, he could quickly pull on the clothes lying on the floor, grab his jacket and keys, and hit the street within 5 minutes.
A typical grey day here in Scotland's capital, exacerbated by his hangover and lack of caffeine, but there is no helping that. He jumps on the bus which is heading down Leith Walk and tries to review any possible strategy he may have thought up for getting out of this meeting with life and limb intact. Not that there is much to it when dealing with a bunch of drugged out numpties with impulse-control issues. Basically don't "soond like yer a smart yin" and make sure they get what they want. Which is, of course, the latest 'legal high' 'shrooms he had sequenced over the last few weeks. Its the same thing every few months, he tweaks the genes just enough to move ahead of the drug classification system and the local scum demand the right to distribute them for profit, only a small portion of which comes back to him. He could actually just sell them himself on the 'net but then these zoomers would visit some gbh on him. It's an irony of the modern world, where distribution can fit into a legal grey area, that the local criminal element evidence a deep conservatism and stick to selling drugs. Legal or not. Or to put it another way, despite a relative land of plenty, some people are only happy when they are taking from another.
As is customary in these parts he does his level best to pretend that there is absolutely no one else on the bus with him. To this end he pulls out his phone and checks his calendar in case he forgot any other important things in the next few days. A sigh, when he realises that his calendar is pretty clear, a clear calendar indicating a lack of earning opportunities.
At the Foot of the Walk he jumps out and heads down Constitution Street towards the docks. His 'business associates' have a flat they use as a general dosshouse and place to sell from. It's a stinking, roach-infested dive of a place but that's to be expected from this class of criminal. Mentally bracing himself for the smell, which will be bags of fun on top of the slight nausea from his hangover, he buzzes for entry.
His first clue something is wrong occurs when a clipped voice with a neutral accent comes over the intercom "Yes?" instead of the usual "Whit the fu you want then?".
Stevie clears his throat, "It's, err, Stevie Mason to see Big Shammy?"
"Ah yes, Mr Mason, we have been expecting you, please come up." and the door buzzes open.
His second clue that something is far from usual is when he doesn't have to climb over mutliple bin bags to get to the first floor flat.
The third clue is that when he knocks on the door, it is opened by a creature that looks like he came straight off the shelf from 'Bodyguards-R-Us'. Said creature indicating, in gestures made universal by too many bad movies, that he wished to search Stevie. The bodyguard pats Stevie down quickly then moves aside and gestures him inside.
The fourth clue that is that he doesn't smell any rotten chip fat. At all. At this point Stevie is becoming very worried as to what he is getting into.
He enters the main room to see that the rattty, smelly old furniture has been cleared away and the room has been re-modelled into something straight from an Ikea catalogue. Sitting in a chair is an older man, sipping from a cup of tea. Flanking him is a woman, Stevie barely spares her a glance as he recognises right away that the sitting man is in charge here.
"Mr. Mason" says the older man, "It's a pleasure to meet you. As you have no doubt surmised, you wont be meeting with Mr. McArthur today."
Stevie assumes he is referring to 'Big Shammy', although he has never heard the dirty ned bastard referred to as a mister before.
"Aye, I gathered" says Stevie "May I ask with whom, I am meeting then ?"
The older man grins and says, "You may address me as Mr White, my associate is Miss Black and Igor is here to ensure things run smoothly".
'Aye, very good' thinks Stevie, 'a real comedian here'. Of course he doesn't say this aloud, instead he says. "Fair enough, might I now ask why I am meeting with you people ?".
"It's simple enough, we are taking over Mr McArthur's arrangement with you and expanding it a little to suit our needs. We will buy your current crop as per the old arrangement, although I think you will find our price much more to your liking. Then, for your next crop, we will supply the specifications of the kind of modifications we would like to see carried out."
"What kind of modifications ?", asks Stevie although he recognises he is not going to like the answer.
The woman, Miss Black, speaks "You will find out in due course, suffice to say we want more from your home lab than a weak mood enhancer." She states this in a disinterested way, as if it is wasting her time explaining the obvious.
"Well, thanks for the offer but this sounds a bit heavier than I like to be involved in. So, if it is all the same I will just leave now and I hope you find another supplier", Stevie turns towards the door.
The older man sighs and Stevie hears the click as the teacup is put down on the saucer. "Mr. Mason, what leads you to believe this was an offer you could refuse ? You operate on the fringes of legality as it is, and you have no real friends or family. There is no one you can turn to for help. I won't do anything as vulgar as threatening you but I am sure you can join the dots here."
Stevie turns back to the older man who has dropped the avuncular act and is now giving him a cold appraising look. In his peripheral vision he can see the big bodyguard shift his weight.
Stevie is thinking furiously but he recognises that its probably best to just go along with these people for now and see if he can find out a way from under later on.
"So I see, Mr White. Ok, what is your price for my current crop ?"
"I believe Mr McArthur was planning to pay you about 1000 euros ? We will pay 10,000 and there will also be funds provided for some lab upgrades you will need. Miss Black has the details."
Stevie looks at the woman properly for the first time and realises how deeply unsettled by this whole experience he must have been. She's quite the looker and he never noticed. She opens a case she is carrying and hands him an envelope.
"The funds and a description of the new equipment you will need. Also, there is a phone that you will keep on you at all times and will not use unless it rings. I will need to arrange an inspection of your lab once you have the new equipment set up. Send a message to the number that is in the package giving a date and a time. If we haven't heard from you in a week then we will be forced to take action, do you understand?"
Stevie looks her straight in the eye, determined not to be cowed and says "Of course". She hands him the envelope with a sniff of disdain.
Mr White grins at the little byplay and says "I believe that concludes our business for today. You know the way out Mr Mason".
"What about delivery of my current crop ?", Stevie asks.
"Mr Mason, do we look like we really want your amateur hour mood enhancers ? Do as you please with them, burn them for all we care. Our information indicates you are not a user of your own products, make sure it stays that way please", Miss White barks at him. Stevie can't figure her out, she's going way beyond trying to intimidate him, there's some real dislike going on here.
Igor shifts his weight again and Stevie takes that as his cue to leave.

The Reservoir Dogs

As the door clicks behind Stevie, Miss Black looks haughtily down on Mr White.
"Are you sure about this? He seemed a little stupid to me.", she sniffs.
"My dear Miss Black. Either you are correct and he is a little stupid and as such he will provide the service of the useful idiot. Or, he isn't, and he can be run as the ferret. Sometimes, my dear, your prejudices show a worrying lack of imagination", grins Mr White.
Igor grunts his agreement. To what statement, it is not entirely clear.

Stevie

Stevie barrels quickly out of the close, thinking furiously. Obviously he recognises they have got the better of them at this point hence the tactical retreat conveying the impression that he was cowed and compliant. Inwardly he is seething. Nobody pays 10 times the going rate for cheap, home-made highs without expecting something pretty heavy in return. Stevie gets by in these times of reduced opportunity by staying well under the radar of any kind of enforcement. Police or otherwise.
It's 2018, Scotland is an independant nation, proud member of the EU and all that, but making an honest wage is nigh impossible. After the market chaos of the late noughties and the collapse of the financial sector brought about by it's own insatiable need to shit where it eats there just isn't really a middle class any more. Stevie did what he was supposed to. Good marks at school and then off to University to work hard for his brighter future. All that got him was a degree in biochemistry, too many nights spent online in computer games and an eye-watering amount of debt that, were he even paying it, he is not sure he could ever pay off in a lifetime of honest labour. Thing is, there's a million stories like that these days.
You either work at what used to be disparagingly called 'blue collar' jobs (these days referred to almost reverentially as 'paying work'), or become a criminal of some form. We can safely ignore the '1pc', they might be sitting on piles of money but there just aren't that many of them. Just about every job that used to be considered middle class is now part of the quasi-barter economy that grew out of the ruins of the financial collapse.
These days when a company or individual (who can afford it) needs some research done, medical care, legal advice etc they contract it out and (invariably) take the lowest priced bid. As the bids are always far below the actual cost of providing the service, those providing the services are forced to seek economies of scale and not be too picky about who they are working for. The eternal race for the bottom on cost gutted the middle class and caused the financial collapse when everyone woke up one day and realised the majority of people didn't have the money to buy anything.
Thus doctors and nurses started to bandage limbs and perform surgeries accepting solid goods in return or services rendered. No one used cash if they could avoid it because they didn't know when they were going to be able to get more.
Stevie is an experienced player in this economy. As a first order of business he needs to find out more about these shady fuckers who have decided to take over his life. He doesn't know who they are. His first thought was 'better class of gangster', but he can't quite bring himself to believe that. Something felt off. However, as a legacy of too many nights playing online computer games he knows many a hacker who owes him a favour or two.
He stands at the bus stop, which being at the bottom of Leith Walk has no plexiglass in it. Just the steel frame. As it starts to rain (of course), he pulls out his phone and quickly texts a random string of letters to a number he punches in from memory.
'Right, Mr Tarantino-fan and your merry band. Let's see if Spazzy has heard anything about who you might be', he thinks. The bus comes and he climbs on. The random message he just sent contains no meaningful data but in sending it he knows Spazzy will be the in the Regent Arms at some point this afternoon.