Underneath the Blanc Mansion

The platform was empty, dusty and full of cobwebs. It hadn't been used in a long, long time. The doors slid open and Max stepped out, stepping onto the dust covered platform, leaving a shoe imprint. He was like Neil Armstrong who set foot upon a strange world for the first time, but his speech wasn't as poetic and as grammatically messed up as Armstrong's was.

Max wasn't wearing an environmental protection suit, just his battle gear. A t-shirt with a tarot card of Death on it... and on the back of his shirt: Are You Prepared? 

"Time to boogie," Max said.

Suki followed him, the Godhammer powered up, her arm a radiant light of death, said, "Lead on, Boss."

Akimoto brought up the rear with a huge sword; also a battle scowl was on his face much akin to a mime.

Faux Blog

An excerpt from Cube_Squared journal at Ghostbloggers:

The temple of your gods smile upon me, showing no remorse. For I am the light, or am I the truth; I am a fragmented being with no true form. No form whatsoever, a coherent thought holds rationality.
Under the notion of a burning sun, like sand become glass over time. Unbreakable and not brittle, as strong as steel.
I move my fingers and each are in different realities that I haven't been to, but I can feel what they are like. The hair on my body are like antennas, receiving signals. Beckoning like a Fraudian slip showing me the way, but promising nothing at all.

Like a Puzzle Scattered on the Floor

He didn't know what his name was or where he came from. All he knew was that life for him began several months ago when he awoke and found himself on a beach somewhere. He wandered the surf for a few days, trying to figure out what he was doing there in the first place.

His nightmares over the months were a display of cinematic horror; winged beasts, explosions, an angel with flowing sentient hair, men in black and a cat that talked. And when he awoke each morning they would disappear; tucked away in his mind until he fell back to sleep.

There was the sound of a counter bell; DING.

"Order up, Joe," Shelly said, breaking him from his daydream. Shelly was still beautiful and it seemed that she had missed her true calling in life and stuck with the fast-food industry for the past 15 years.

Joe looked up at the order and nodded; the big E-Z breakfast. Like a good little solider he began to prepare the breakfast.

After pouring another round of coffee, Shelly went to the counter window and asked, "What's up, you seem to be distracted today?"

"I don't know," Joe replied as he broke 3 eggs on the grill alongside of the 3 strips of sausage and the 3 strips of bacon. "Just that I have this feeling, maybe a memory that's stirring."

"Well that's a good sign," Shelly said. She knew that when she had hired Joe four months ago that he had something about him. She just took pity on the stranger. "Maybe one day when I will open up the shop in the morning you will be gone."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that," Joe said; he was scrambling up the hashbrowns. He looked at her with a cocked-eyebrow, doing his best Rock look.

Shelly smiled and turned her attention to the front door as the chimes jingled, like hummingbirds in the spring.

Joe turned his attention to the grill and was amazed at the detail he in his cooking; he didn't think that he was a fast order chef or even a chef at all, before this wave of forgetfullness. All he knew was that he was skilled.

The Long Cab There

INT. CAB - NIGHT
 
MAGS sits in the back seat. A parcel by her side, it's wrapped in a black foil and tied with red ribbon. MAGS is dressed to the nine, in a sultry red dress, high heeled pumps, and her hair styled back like a 1949's movie starlet.

The cabbie, an overweight caucasian sits behind the wheel. Constantly glancing into the rear-view mirror and looking at MAGS.

CABBIE:
So you hooking up with someone special?

MAGS:
Yes. Someone very special.

CABBIE:
Must be.

MAGS:
He is one of a kind. (laughs) Well, at least this version is.