Post by s on Jan 2, 2007 17:05:59 GMT -5
Characters: Akbar, Alice, Kimia, PJ. I'll need people to have cameo appearances, so if you want to be one of them, ask.
Genre: This started out as a mock crappy-sci-fi-romance. That's not really evident yet from this part. Sort of. I don't know how well I'll adhere to that, though, anyway.
Warnings: I'll probably never finish this, so if you like it, don't get your hopes up. Also, some profane and/or suggestive language. AND, if you're a character in this, I probably haven't painted you in a very positive light. I really do like you all, though, so don't get offended. Finally, this is probably very poorly written, as I haven't gone through and edited it or anything. You have been warned.
And now for the fic:
PJ hopefully looked up towards the heavens. And I don’t mean that he was praying for a Deus ex machina to descend from the skies or something of the sort. Just, I really hope he looked up. Because at that moment something very large and obtrusive was coming crashing down out of the sky, and if he didn’t look up, he’d be crushed.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t notice that anything was amiss. However, he spontaneously decided to go back inside. So he did, and the thing in the sky mysteriously disappeared.
The same thing happened thrice more that week, to both PJ and to others across the globe. Well, just three others. Alice Thompkins, USA. Kimia Etemadi, UK. Akbar Le Grey, Pakistan. And Philip Jucker, or PJ, Australia. These four were all targets, though they knew it not. Targets of something even more sinister than the suspicious-looking oatmeal that Monsieur Le Grey had recently consumed for breakfast…
***
Three weeks later, Akbar was traveling to New York on business matters. He was the editor of a prominent English-language news magazine, and had little time for vacationing and the like. The news never sleeps, after all. He loosened his tie and stared out the window of the airplane. Suddenly, he saw something large and metallic – very large and metallic – fly by. A UFO, he thought. He had just seen a UFO. He was about to exclaim this out loud when he realized what an absurd claim it was. He therefore attributed the incident to hallucinations induced by a lack of sleep, which, considering his work schedule, was not at all unlikely.
When he arrived in New York, a car was waiting for him. The driver greeted him: “Good evening, Monsieur Le Grey.” She was youngish – in her twenties, perhaps – and had rather pretty blonde hair. Akbar smiled at her. “Hello, Ms. ____?”
“Wilde,” she responded quickly. “Alice Wilde.” Then, she grinned apologetically, continuing, “Actually, that’s not strictly true. My name is Alice Thompkins.” She stopped abruptly, and Akbar was left inquiring.
“So why did you introduce yourself otherwise?”
“Oh,” she said hesitantly, “It’s just a passing fancy. After Oscar. My dead gay lover.” There was a pause, during which Akbar stared blankly at her and Alice tried frantically to back up. “That’s not strictly true either.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” Akbar looked at her wryly, then, opening the door, entered the back of the car. Alice placed his luggage in the trunk and ascended into the driver’s seat. She was still blushing scarlet at their previous conversation, and drove on silently for several minutes. Suddenly, when they were at a stoplight, she tried once more to clarify. “You know, Oscar Wilde. The novelist slash playwright.” She was going to say something like, “Haha, slash,” but thought better of it when she realized that M. Le Grey probably wouldn’t understand or appreciate the reference to homosexual fanfiction, in which she regularly dabbled but which was not, she feared, a prominent part of his magazine.
As his car continued towards the hotel in which Akbar would be staying, he stared at Alice through the rear-view mirror. What an interesting – if somewhat flummoxed – character, he thought. Perhaps he had judged her too harshly too hastily. He decided to try conversation once more.
“So, do you live in New York?” he asked. Stupid question. She was a potato ing cabbie in New York, what, would she commute from D.C.? Stupid, stupid question, he chided himself. However, her answer surprised him.
“Nope, Texas,” she replied, with a hint of a Texas drawl that he realized had been there all along.
“Oh.” Akbar was confused once more. This Alice – whatever her last name was – seemed to have a tendency to do that. “So, what brings you here?”
“Sightseeing and the like. You know, tourism. I decided to take a vacation.”
“And…you landed work as a cab driver here during your vacation.”
“Not quite.”
“Ah.” This was becoming a very convoluted conversation, and the jetlagged Akbar Le Grey wasn’t sure he could keep up with it. However, Alice continued.
“I figured if I sat in my car outside the airport long enough, someone would mistake me for a cab. Well. Not me. Mistake my car for a cab. And mistake me for its driver. I mean, I am my car’s driver. Mistake me for a cab driver, though.”
Upon hearing this, Akbar became rather angered. It was too much. “You’re a madwoman!” he exclaimed. “How dare you deceive me like this? I demand that you pull over and let me out of this car immediately. Seductress!”
At this, Alice burst out laughing, and, after a few seconds of glaring at her, Akbar did as well, slightly mollified. Her laugh was quite contagious. Akbar couldn’t help but note that she looked particularly attractive when she smiled. Nevertheless, his allegations of “seductress” were ridiculous, given the fact that she had not attempted anything of the sort. Akbar looked back at Alice through the mirror and realized she was no longer laughing. That was a shame, he thought. Then he remembered his accusations, only one of which had been completely outlandish, and grew more somber. “In all serious-” He was cut off by Alice.
“Look, sorry to have startled you. That last conversation was totally a joke. I moved here from Texas when I turned eighteen, over three years ago. Since then, I’ve been working as a taxiist. Yes, that’s a word. Or it will be once I popularize it. Anyway, like I said, I’ve been working as a taxiist while trying to get one novel published – well, it’s a novella, really – and another one written. Also, you’re not even on my list of people to seduce before I die, though I might just add you to it after your spectacular reaction to my previous story.”
“Um, thanks?” Akbar had been relieved by the first part of her monologue, if somewhat disconcerted by the last sentence. However, he decided to go along with it. She really was exceedingly pretty. And a writer!
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said. Then, “Who else is on the list?”
“Oh, you know, Jon Stewart. Stephen Colbert.” Akbar stared blankly. He didn’t know who these men were, or why she thought he should. However, Alice was still going. “…Bill Clinton, though that’s kind of a gimme, and he should have left his name as William, so much more dignified. John Edwards, could his hair be any sexier?”
“No,” replied Akbar without hesitation, “It really couldn’t be. I love him too. In, you know, a somewhat more platonic sense.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“No.”
“We should have a threesome.”
Thus their conversation ended, as they pulled up to the hotel in which Akbar was to stay. Alice parked the car and helped carry his luggage up to Akbar’s room, after which the two stood awkwardly in the doorway – he inside the room, she out – and shook hands for far longer than was necessary.
“Well,” said Akbar, to break the silence, “I desperately need a coffee.” Stroking his stubbled chin, he continued. “And a shave, and a nap, and to masturbate…”
Alice blinked. She had imagined the last one. Grinning, she quickly turned and left. He was cute, and had a sexy accent. Hopefully she’d see him again.
***
Kimia got into her car, making sure her scarf did too. The last thing she needed was to pull an Isadora Duncan and wind up dead: She was taking the Chunnel to France for the weekend. Glancing out the window, she spotted a UFO-shaped cloud. Bizarre, she thought. But then she thought no further, as she had reached the station. She grabbed her trunk from the boot (remember, she was in England, so her actions are described with English English) and began to walk. A little while later, she arrived in France, and, a little while later, Paris.
...yes, this ends in a weird place. I basically just got tired of writing. Sorry.
Genre: This started out as a mock crappy-sci-fi-romance. That's not really evident yet from this part. Sort of. I don't know how well I'll adhere to that, though, anyway.
Warnings: I'll probably never finish this, so if you like it, don't get your hopes up. Also, some profane and/or suggestive language. AND, if you're a character in this, I probably haven't painted you in a very positive light. I really do like you all, though, so don't get offended. Finally, this is probably very poorly written, as I haven't gone through and edited it or anything. You have been warned.
And now for the fic:
PJ hopefully looked up towards the heavens. And I don’t mean that he was praying for a Deus ex machina to descend from the skies or something of the sort. Just, I really hope he looked up. Because at that moment something very large and obtrusive was coming crashing down out of the sky, and if he didn’t look up, he’d be crushed.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t notice that anything was amiss. However, he spontaneously decided to go back inside. So he did, and the thing in the sky mysteriously disappeared.
The same thing happened thrice more that week, to both PJ and to others across the globe. Well, just three others. Alice Thompkins, USA. Kimia Etemadi, UK. Akbar Le Grey, Pakistan. And Philip Jucker, or PJ, Australia. These four were all targets, though they knew it not. Targets of something even more sinister than the suspicious-looking oatmeal that Monsieur Le Grey had recently consumed for breakfast…
***
Three weeks later, Akbar was traveling to New York on business matters. He was the editor of a prominent English-language news magazine, and had little time for vacationing and the like. The news never sleeps, after all. He loosened his tie and stared out the window of the airplane. Suddenly, he saw something large and metallic – very large and metallic – fly by. A UFO, he thought. He had just seen a UFO. He was about to exclaim this out loud when he realized what an absurd claim it was. He therefore attributed the incident to hallucinations induced by a lack of sleep, which, considering his work schedule, was not at all unlikely.
When he arrived in New York, a car was waiting for him. The driver greeted him: “Good evening, Monsieur Le Grey.” She was youngish – in her twenties, perhaps – and had rather pretty blonde hair. Akbar smiled at her. “Hello, Ms. ____?”
“Wilde,” she responded quickly. “Alice Wilde.” Then, she grinned apologetically, continuing, “Actually, that’s not strictly true. My name is Alice Thompkins.” She stopped abruptly, and Akbar was left inquiring.
“So why did you introduce yourself otherwise?”
“Oh,” she said hesitantly, “It’s just a passing fancy. After Oscar. My dead gay lover.” There was a pause, during which Akbar stared blankly at her and Alice tried frantically to back up. “That’s not strictly true either.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” Akbar looked at her wryly, then, opening the door, entered the back of the car. Alice placed his luggage in the trunk and ascended into the driver’s seat. She was still blushing scarlet at their previous conversation, and drove on silently for several minutes. Suddenly, when they were at a stoplight, she tried once more to clarify. “You know, Oscar Wilde. The novelist slash playwright.” She was going to say something like, “Haha, slash,” but thought better of it when she realized that M. Le Grey probably wouldn’t understand or appreciate the reference to homosexual fanfiction, in which she regularly dabbled but which was not, she feared, a prominent part of his magazine.
As his car continued towards the hotel in which Akbar would be staying, he stared at Alice through the rear-view mirror. What an interesting – if somewhat flummoxed – character, he thought. Perhaps he had judged her too harshly too hastily. He decided to try conversation once more.
“So, do you live in New York?” he asked. Stupid question. She was a potato ing cabbie in New York, what, would she commute from D.C.? Stupid, stupid question, he chided himself. However, her answer surprised him.
“Nope, Texas,” she replied, with a hint of a Texas drawl that he realized had been there all along.
“Oh.” Akbar was confused once more. This Alice – whatever her last name was – seemed to have a tendency to do that. “So, what brings you here?”
“Sightseeing and the like. You know, tourism. I decided to take a vacation.”
“And…you landed work as a cab driver here during your vacation.”
“Not quite.”
“Ah.” This was becoming a very convoluted conversation, and the jetlagged Akbar Le Grey wasn’t sure he could keep up with it. However, Alice continued.
“I figured if I sat in my car outside the airport long enough, someone would mistake me for a cab. Well. Not me. Mistake my car for a cab. And mistake me for its driver. I mean, I am my car’s driver. Mistake me for a cab driver, though.”
Upon hearing this, Akbar became rather angered. It was too much. “You’re a madwoman!” he exclaimed. “How dare you deceive me like this? I demand that you pull over and let me out of this car immediately. Seductress!”
At this, Alice burst out laughing, and, after a few seconds of glaring at her, Akbar did as well, slightly mollified. Her laugh was quite contagious. Akbar couldn’t help but note that she looked particularly attractive when she smiled. Nevertheless, his allegations of “seductress” were ridiculous, given the fact that she had not attempted anything of the sort. Akbar looked back at Alice through the mirror and realized she was no longer laughing. That was a shame, he thought. Then he remembered his accusations, only one of which had been completely outlandish, and grew more somber. “In all serious-” He was cut off by Alice.
“Look, sorry to have startled you. That last conversation was totally a joke. I moved here from Texas when I turned eighteen, over three years ago. Since then, I’ve been working as a taxiist. Yes, that’s a word. Or it will be once I popularize it. Anyway, like I said, I’ve been working as a taxiist while trying to get one novel published – well, it’s a novella, really – and another one written. Also, you’re not even on my list of people to seduce before I die, though I might just add you to it after your spectacular reaction to my previous story.”
“Um, thanks?” Akbar had been relieved by the first part of her monologue, if somewhat disconcerted by the last sentence. However, he decided to go along with it. She really was exceedingly pretty. And a writer!
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said. Then, “Who else is on the list?”
“Oh, you know, Jon Stewart. Stephen Colbert.” Akbar stared blankly. He didn’t know who these men were, or why she thought he should. However, Alice was still going. “…Bill Clinton, though that’s kind of a gimme, and he should have left his name as William, so much more dignified. John Edwards, could his hair be any sexier?”
“No,” replied Akbar without hesitation, “It really couldn’t be. I love him too. In, you know, a somewhat more platonic sense.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“No.”
“We should have a threesome.”
Thus their conversation ended, as they pulled up to the hotel in which Akbar was to stay. Alice parked the car and helped carry his luggage up to Akbar’s room, after which the two stood awkwardly in the doorway – he inside the room, she out – and shook hands for far longer than was necessary.
“Well,” said Akbar, to break the silence, “I desperately need a coffee.” Stroking his stubbled chin, he continued. “And a shave, and a nap, and to masturbate…”
Alice blinked. She had imagined the last one. Grinning, she quickly turned and left. He was cute, and had a sexy accent. Hopefully she’d see him again.
***
Kimia got into her car, making sure her scarf did too. The last thing she needed was to pull an Isadora Duncan and wind up dead: She was taking the Chunnel to France for the weekend. Glancing out the window, she spotted a UFO-shaped cloud. Bizarre, she thought. But then she thought no further, as she had reached the station. She grabbed her trunk from the boot (remember, she was in England, so her actions are described with English English) and began to walk. A little while later, she arrived in France, and, a little while later, Paris.
...yes, this ends in a weird place. I basically just got tired of writing. Sorry.