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The Neo-Comintern 155
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t h e n e o - c o m i n t e r n e l e c t r o n i c m a g z i n e
I n s t a l l m e n t N u m b e r 1 5 5
We Are the New International
May 27th, 2001
Editor: BMC
Writers:
BMC
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;P Featured in this installment .b
$ $
$ Waking Up - BMC $
`q p'
`nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'
EDITOR'S NOTE
(please do not read the following)
It's issue 155 and isn't it terriffic? The results of my poll have
come in and the surveved group has deemed this issue to be the hottest N-Com
issue yet, so jump on the bandwagon, thr gravy train and all that other
stuff! The critics have it, issue 155 is "world class"!
** NOTE ** I was the only person to respond to this poll.
d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
;P WAKING UP .b
`q by BMC p'
`nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'
The alarm went off again after two snoozes. "Oh my god, how could I have
let that happen?" thought he. "But then again, I'm so tired... I mean my
lungs are too expanded and my throat is too stuffy and my head is too hot.
I know that I have the physical capability to get out of bed, I just can't
remember HOW to do it."
But then an epiphany came (and pretty early in the story too, I think).
"Holy fuck! I've got no more than fifteen minutes!" Yeah, he remembered he
was in a hurry.
He rolled out of the bed twice as fast as usual and, without opening his
eyes at all, he fell on the floor chest first, winding himself. He also
scraped his chin a bit, but that is inconsequential to this story.
It hurt, but helped wake him up... a bit. He crawled off the ground in
pain, clutching his chest and wishing that he could also rub his chin at the
same time, but he couldn't. He clunked from his room to the hallway,
snagging his right pinky toe on the doorframe.
His feet hit the carpet outside of the bedroom as he staggered down the
hallway, with most of his weight on his left foot. He made his way to the
bathroom, bumping into every wall on the way there. He was in a hurry, but
it was bright in the hallway and his eyes hadn't adjusted, not allowing this
transition the time to occur naturally. He held his chest and wished he
could rub his chin and wished he could go faster, but he WAS going faster
and he didn't even know it. Still, would he have enough time? Would he???
At this point I am tempted to make you write the rest of this story
yourself, but I won't.
He got into the bathroom after hitting many walls, his sinuses stuffy and
his head like a bag of meat, shoulders sore from bumping into the walls and
all of the other attributes that I mentioned before like the sprained toe
and the sore chest. Actually, his chest wasn't sore anymore so he stopped
holding it and touched his chin. It was bleeding a bit, though not enough
to be a problem so don't worry because it was inconsequential. He got into
the shower "AAHH" too hot. He jumped out of the spray with eyes still
closed and sinuses still plugged and he didn't know what to do. The tap was
on the other side of the spray. He deliberated for about 15 valuable
seconds - yes he lost them and couldn't get them back. He hopped out of the
shower on the far side and reached his arm back under the rust-stained white
curtain on the side nearest to the tap. Ahh, he shut it off but now he had
to get back into the shower and turn it back on and wipe the sleep from his
eyes and humidify his sinuses.
As he went back into the bathtub he stepped into a patch of water, slipped,
and hit his head on the edge. It hurt more than the chest the chin and the
toe all put together, and he had a big bump there, but he just turned the
tap on, made sure the water was not too hot, and got under the spray. It
hurt where it hit his cuts on head and chin, but don't feel too sorry for
him. When he tried to shampoo his head it hurt pretty bad. It was a sharp
infection-like pain, one that he had only felt several times before, unlike
the feeling of being an incomplete failure, which he had felt many times
many times many times more before.
The lather rinsed away, his sinuses unplugged, and as his eyes became useful
they noticed that his head was emitting a fair amount of blood and the water
at his feet had grown so so red. It didn't matter. "Slap a cap on it," he
thought, getting out of the shower and looking for a towel, which (of
course) he couldn't find. He hobbled to his bedroom, ripped the sheets off
of the bed and dried his body with them. It felt better than a towel and he
wondered to himself why he didn't do this all the time. The secret reason
was that it was impractical, but at this point he had one thing to focus on,
and that was getting the hell out of that house and where he needed to be.
He put on a shirt that quickly became bloody, threw on some socks (ouch that
hurt his sprained toe), some underwear... wait, he couldn't find underwear.
He threw on some pants, zipped them up quickly and... ran to the door,
grabbed his jacket, and wait! He found a baseball cap that was a bit too
big for him and put it on and tucked in a sponge from under the sink in it
to absorb the blood. He ran outside.
Outside, he realized that he had forgotten his wallet. There was a quarter
in it and he needed that quarter. Also, he had forgotten his shoes and it
was raining and muddy on the side streets, so he had to go back inside to
get them and a jacket too while he was at it because his keys were in his
jacket and he would need them to get back in. Oops.
The kitchen window shattered as he threw a garbage can through it, garbage
and glass flying all over the place. There was plastic wrap on the floor, a
bit of styrofoam, some lids from tin cans (he recycled cans but not the
lids) some rice that had gone bad, a bunch of big sharp dangerous shards of
glass and the next thing through the window was him.
"No time for this bullshit," he said as he jumped in and cut his feet
through his socks on the glass, screaming in pain but not slowing down
because this matter was too urgent to consider other things. He found the
loose saddle shoes he had bought at a garage sale earlier that spring and
put them on (ouch ouch ouch). He always knew these would come in handy. He
looked for his jacket... his jacket... his jacket... where was that damned
jacket? Oh wait a second he had been wearing his jacket the whole time and
his wallet was in the right pocket and his keys were in the left.
Not wanting to open and close the door again, he leapt through the window,
scraping his hand again on the glass but this time not feeling pain. Now he
stopped. In which direction was he to head? He had forgotten. All he knew
was that he had to go and - WAIT - yeah, he had to go west down his street,
turn north at the lights, go two blocks and left about 20 feet. Oh of
course that was the way, he had taken it many times before. He began to
run - well... actually, he began to hobble.
Whap Whap Whap Whap
Actually it didn't really make that sound as he ran down the south-facing
driveway and turned a loose right as he hit the sidewalk. It was more like
tap (ouch) tap (ouch) tap (ouch) as he tried to step lightly but could not
manage to do so. He looked down at his poor feet and thought to himself
that it would not be much longer if he could just make it; he attempted in
vain to comfort them, saying, "It's ok, kids, we'll be home soon."
As he crossed the street he continued to look at and talk to his feet, and
that's when he got hit by a car for crossing against the light. At this
point it wasn't even affecting him anymore. He flew ten feet, rolled a few
more, got up and kept walking. He wasn't surprised that the car had hit
him. One might have even guessed that he was expecting it, but if that was
the case then why didn't he try to avoid it? But that's not for us to know,
because we can never really know what other people are thinking.
While our main character has been running through time, we have been running
faster and now we have finally caught up with him. Let's slow down and walk
with him now so that we don't have to start phrasing all of this in future
tense. I much prefer present tense for this kind of occasion.
He walks, at this point with the pain out of his mind. The car that hit him
continues to drive on its way to the metal factory where the driver is going
to work a twelve hour shift and spend the entire day wondering if our hero
is ok. Well he's not going to die, if that's what you mean... he won't be
that lucky. Hey, there's that future tense nonsense I promised I wouldn't
do.
Here he is, battered but transcendental and determined, one block away from
his destination, a payphone.
Here is the payphone he is heading to. There's a piece of gum stuck in the
coin return slot and someone has melted the plastic on the front of the box;
it looks like it was done with a lighter. There is someone on the phone
right now, it's a young woman and she is calling her boyfriend to tell him
that she will be over in an hour. She is actually a block away from his
apartment and is about to show up and surprise him. She will be surprised
when she sees her best friend there. Sorry, that's just some more
future-tense... it can be stricken out with your pen if you like.
She says to her boyfriend, "Goodbye," and, "I love you too," and hangs up
the phone. Looking in the other direction, we can see our hero
approaching. She sees him too and crosses the street to avoid him; he's a
mess. He notices what she does but doesn't care about anything but using
that phone.
He picks it up and presses a seven-button combination. Will it be the right
number? He won't find out quite yet because he forgot to put the quarter
in. He gets the quarter out of his jacket and puts it in the coin slot. He
hears the dial tone. He dials the phone, and just in time too. Just as he
dials, there is a
ring
In the middle of your page.
(I think it's for you.)
RING
Yes you, the reader.
** RING! **
Are you going to get that?
He knows you're there.
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| _ \ | | | \ | | / ___|
| |_| | | | | \| | | |
| _ / | | | |\ | | | _
| | \ \ | | | | \ | | |_| |
|_| \_\ |_| |_| \_| \_____/
Ok you coy fool, I'll pick up the phone for you but I'm not going to do the
talking!
_____ _ __ _
| _ \ | | | \ | |
| |_| | | | | \| | _____
| _ / | | | |\ | |_____|
| | \ \ | | | | \ |
|_| \_\ |_| |_| \_|
"Hello?
"Hello!
"I know you're there, answer me!
"Hey, this is important - fucking important! You have no idea what I've
been through! When I went to sleep I was a successful writer. I had a
large readership and my work was meaningful and I was in a constant state of
improvement, winning the respect of my peers and contemporaries on a daily
basis.
"Today I woke up and things were different. I mean, I was literally a
different person. I woke up in a shack (one that was even worse than my
usual shack) and my bed didn't feel right, my hallway wasn't where it was
supposed to be, and I was confused and disoriented and I didn't know what to
do. I looked in the mirror and goddammit, I even looked different! Then I
realized - and get this - I wasn't in my real world anymore, or should I say
I AM not in my real world anymore.
"Are you listening to this? I'm in a story! And it's not just any story,
it just happens to be a god damned half-finished story that I fucking
wrote! And it's a terrible story, too! I have no idea how this happened
and, well, it doesn't make any sense, but here I am.
"See, last night I started writing this story about a guy who wakes up and
gets out of bed and, although he is tired (and now I find out a bit
hung-over too), he has to run to this phone in order to make this phone
call, and that's where I left it.
"So this morning I wake up, get winded, can't open my eyes, scrape my chin
and all that other stuff and I'm realizing, "Hey, this is me I was writing
about." But god is this character ever a loser. I can't stand to live this
life and I would kill myself if I could, but that isn't written into the
story so I'm even fucked there.
"Can you imagine waking up one day and realizing you live somewhere in
Nowheretown, which is probably the worst place in the entire world and
beyond, through to the furthest boundaries of the universe? This place has
no flavour whatsoever, and although lots of people seem to enjoy it here
this is not the place for me. Being a former-non-conformist in a story that
doesn't allow variance from the rules is worse than any punishment
imaginable, and I'm going to have to go through this day after day until I
die. And who knows? Maybe there is no such thing as death in this
story-world. I don't have control over it anymore and I can't stand it, I
can't take it! I can't sacrifice my sensibility for security in this
small-time dystopia where order overrules individuality. I swear that I,
lacking the ability to change the story that I am in, would rather be
destroyed, taking this world and everything in it with me.
"So here is what you can do, and this is what I beg. Free me. Burn this
paper. Delete this file. Whatever you do, destroy it. Leave no trace of
this world, or of my existence, because I can only be free if every copy is
destroyed.
"I urge you, be cautious, end my life, don't let anyone know about it and
never think about me or my world again. Don't feel sorry for me, your
action will honour my purpose and ultimately allow me to be free from this
horrible place where no human being should be forced to live. When I die,
when this life is over, perhaps I will find myself typing at my computer, or
living in that place where space and time are in order, and if that is
possible then maybe you will be there too and I will see you and recognize
you and I will call you friend because you have brought me to the place
where there is no suffering.
"Yeah so, it's ok that you didn't say anything or anything. I realize now
that you never had that choice, because apparently I never planned it that
way in the first place.
"Talk to you later.
"Bye."
-dial tone-
Moral: Be careful about what you write about. Give your main character 30
minutes to get to the phone instead of 15. Just in case, always leave a gap
in the story where the character can make a daring leap from the fictional
world to the real world. Oh yeah, and be more conscious about the world you
put your characters into because otherwise it could turn out to be a really
terrible place even though you never planned it that way.
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___________________________________________________
|THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S |
|~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|
| TWILIGHT ZONE (905) 432-7667 |
| BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 |
| CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 |
| THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 |
|___________________________________________________|
| Website at: http://members.home.com/comintern |
| Email BMC at: thebmc@home.com |
|___________________________________________________|
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Copyright 2001 by The Neo-Comintern #155-05/27/01
All content is property of The Neo-Comintern.
You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the
content must not be altered or modified in any way. Unauthorized use of any
part of this document is prohibited. All rights reserved. Made in Canada.
