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.

Simple City: Population You

> Chantelle in Plureality 2

Confusing thoughts overlapping, trying to distract them. 

Nothing’s making sense, everything’s a mess. 

Not knowing why I feel this. Are these even feelings or just senseless thoughts running through my head? 

I can’t make them stop. 

Close my eyes and take a deep breath.  

Wanting to be alone, yet I don’t.  

This state of mind just isn’t natural; at least that’s what I’m told.

The Ghost Writer

INT. MAX'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

MAX CUBE sits at his computer. He is typing out a passage into a blog. A smoldering cigarette sits in an ashtray beside him. Several butts have been put out amongst them, so he's been here for a long while. A cup of coffee is on the other side of him. His fingers move about the keyboard as the scroll in the blog continues to grow. 

The Camera POV's to what he is typing on the screen:

INT. MAX'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

MAX CUBE sits at his computer. He is typing out a passage into a blog. A smoldering cigarette sits in an ashtray beside him. Several butts have been putt out amongst them, so he's been here for a long while. A cup of coffee is on the other side of him. His fingers move about the keyboard as the scroll in the blog continues to grow. 

The Camera POV's to what he is typing on the screen:

CUT To Max
As he reaches for the cigarette.

MAX:
Damn, that's intense!

The Chase Is On (Taken From: Mags' Day Out)

INT. SEDAN - NIGHT

There are three men and a woman in the car. JANKO and LOMAX are in the front, with JANKO behind the wheel. In the back sit ALICE and CARTER. They are all dressed in dark suits; ALICE is wearing a red tie. Lomax, Alice and Carter are making sure that  their guns are ready for combat.

LOMAX:
You think she spotted us?

ALICE:
With Janko driving she just put the mark on us.

JANKO:
Screw you.

ALICE:
I don't do apes.

INT/EXT. MAGS' CAR - NIGHT

MAGS glances back through her rearview mirror. She spots the car following her. She hits a speed button on her cellphone.

MAGS:
Yeah defenitely LEGACY.

VOICE:
Are they making a move yet?

MAGS:
No, they are still tailing. Trying to find out where I am going probably.

VOICE:
What you going to do about it?

MAGS:
Going to teach them a few manners about tailgating.

MAGS pulls the car to the curb.

And Now For Your Viewing Pleasure

He sits at his desk, shuffling through the data-films in front of him, finding the one he wants. He sets it down on top of the desk, taking a laser pen he begins to click on icons on the flimsy and they begin to open up. 

It's research that he's doing. While reading a passage he reaches for the ashtray.

He takes a lit cigar that is smoldering away, he puffs it back to the inferno it once was, blowing out the blue smoke into the room, the sweet smell of the deathbringer lingered for a bit.

Buzz.

Control leans forward and presses a button on the intercom.

"Yes."

"We have the feed coming in now, sir."

"Transfer it here,"

"Okay"

He swivels in his chair, he presses another button and the wall behind him begins to part like the red sea, revealing 13 television monitors. Images constantly playing out various scenes of life, death, love and boredom flood into the room. Control's eyes focus on screen 11. A frown appears on his face as the video feed comes in.

The Beginning (Of Sorts) - V.23

20 or less years ago:

"Prep him," a voice ordered.

"But..."

"No buts." The voice was cold and full of authority. "You do as I say or I find someone else who will."

"Right away, sir."

"And then send him back."

"What?"

"Did I stutter?" Control asked. "Your paid to do as you're told and do that."

"But the potential this..."

"Just do it!"

Control stood over the table and looked down upon the kid on the table; he had to be no more than 11 or 12 years old, but it was a successful trawl. He was the first experiment that they had pulled; Project Paperfold was a success. But there was one major side-effect, and it had been a simple flaw on the part of the scientist who had done it.

Control took the clipboard and scanned it. The test subject's name was: Max Cube, 11 years old. Taken during a lucid event in his sleep. Control smiled; the project was a success. Poor kid though, will probably never be the same....

Cheshire Dreams

The sun was bright and burning, Maggie sat in the shade of the rockface. Maggie scanned the area and could make out two dozen of them, hiding behind buildings, burnt out cars and other forgotten relics of the past.

"We're pinned," Trump said; he had tucked himself into a dark nook trying to keep cool in the heatwave.

"What do you mean we?" Maggie asked him. She shot him a glance and a wink.

"Well, you know," Trump replied.

"When they come, you stay hidden," she told the cat. "Don't do anything to let them know you exist."

Maggie reloaded the guns, preparing for the eventual assault that was inevitable. She stuck the katana in the ground beside her and knelt before it. She hadn't been in a good old-fashioned, no-holds-barred battle in a while. She feared that she was getting rusty.

"Why is that?" Trump wanted to know.

"Because you are a talking cat!"

Jared vs the Subway

"So what's the game plan?" Suki asked.

"Just go with the flow," Max told her. He folded the book he was reading and dropped it on the seat beside him. It was 'The Fly in The Ointment: 70 Fascinating Commentaries on the Science of Everyday Life by Dr. Joe Schwarcz'.

Max had found it left behind on one of the seats a few days ago and had started to read it; it was a fine read.

"Well, I could go for something to eat," Suki stated. She plopped herself down in the seat across from Max.

"Sounds like a good plan to me," he said. He had been feeling a tad peckish.

Suki seemed to be enjoying her new role in life, a guardian of sorts. She was confident in her newfound status as a Dragon. Though she was a tween, she had a good head on her shoulders.

Akimoto was sitting in the back of the car, looking out at the long darkness. He had been in deep thought, memories of a pleasant time when he was one with the universe, instead a universal pawn.

"You up for a burger, Ak-Ak?" Suki called back, breaking him from his trance.

"Sure thing, Maus... Suki," Akimoto corrected himself.

The Art of the Deal

Max was bunkered down for the night; he was sitting on his cot reading a comic book. Somewhere, someone had an AM radio tuned into some station that was playing some melancholy song from a world away. 

His boots were tucked underneath his bunk, and his socks were rolled up into a ball in them. Max's feet were free from their wretched prison for now. He had just came off a heavy shift and was eager to put it behind him.

The rain outside was coming down hard; it had been raining for three days steady. Max was glad to be in his cot, with feet up and reading anything that he could get his hands on.

Pretty George was lying on the cot beside Max; he was digging around in his foot locker. And he glanced up at Max, his eyes focused on the book that Max was reading. A devilish gleam emerged in his eyes.

"What are you going to do with that?" Pretty asked of Max.

Max looked over at him.

"The comic book," Pretty asked him. "What are you going to do with it afterwards?"

"Don't know," Max replied; he was in the middle of X-Men action. Marvel Girl was just about to show some evil mutant what the extent of her powers were.

"I'll trade you three packs of smokes for it once you're done," Pretty offered.

Which made Max pause and peer over the comic book. He countered, "Make it six."

Pretty smiled, "Four and that's final."

"It's a deal."

"I wouldn't kid about commodity," Pretty told him. "You just got to know what wheels to grease in order to make the machinery run smoother."

A dogface approached Pretty and traded a few razor blades for a pair of nylons, then Pretty turned his attention towards Max.

"I'm George," he said as he stuck out his hands. "As long as were going to be sharing the cost next to each other might as well get friendly."

"Max," said as he leaned over and shook Pretty's hand.

> Tamar in Plureality