Forum Overview :: Cabaret Voltron

Here I am, rock you like a hurricane. (I really hate the 80's) by mrs. johnson 07/02/2003, 2:29pm PDT NOW WITH MORE PARAGRAPHS! Critique this please, as I am useless without improvement. The door opens. He walks in, wearing moccasins on unclothed feet, and trousers just an inch too long. The man who greets him might be the butler, or perhaps the owner of the home. He is careful to speak in a way that includes them all. The man who opened the door slowly walks backwards, and disappears into the nearest doorway. The hero, who is now barefoot, examines his surroundings. The carpets are foreign and expensive with designs that do not provoke the mind. Each of the four walls posses a screen, thin and pixilated, which displays a small Asian boy flawlessly playing the piano as his head nods faintly with every nomadic chord. The music seems to come from nowhere, yet fills the room. The ceiling is painted with four single toned elephants at each corner, with their trunks meeting in the center. Each crease in the lengthy appendage resembles wisps of smog, as if the creatures are accidental clouds, floating over an industrial sky. The furniture is blood red leather, looking much more comfortable than anything can possibly be, and completely uncreased. He stands, waiting. From the staircase, wearing a translucent gown which reveals black undergarments, descends Jenna, carrying a smile. Her breasts sway gently and her thighs audibly whisper into his years. He remains impassive, silently aroused, awaiting her first words. She comes to a stop in front of him and asks if he likes her hair. It is auburn and is strangely arranged above her head. He nods and gently places his hand on her hip. Her smile lengthens while she takes his hand in hers and begins to lead him from the doorway. This short procession enters the dining room, where two elderly men and women already sit, engaged in preplanned conversation. The table is set with lush silverware and minimalist appetizers, which resemble strange postmodern concoctions. Jenna speaks. “Here he is. These are my mother and father and their friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bowery.” He mumbles a greeting and both he and Jenna sit down. The lights overhead casually change color, affecting the mood of all in the room bringing temporary schizophrenia to all observers. The dinner proceeds without incident, as he answers question after question with a low voice. Jenna looks proudly on, primly refusing most of the food offered by the servants. When the dinner is complete, Jenna excuses herself, grabs him by the hand, and rushes to her room. She removes her clothes in front of him, always looking smilingly into his eyes. Her room is lacking in decoration, outside of the untailored stuffed animals and the mandatory posters of empty eyed hairless boys. Neutral in their beauty, their features speak of purposeless creation. Jenna sits next to him, nude, and lays her head in his lap. He silently waits, with his hands on her shoulder, endlessly aroused. After a minute, she gets back up and puts on a different set of clothes, suitable for the excursion of youth. They descend down the stair case and leave the house. He gets into his car, an aging blue Volvo, and opens the door for Jenna. She tells him where to go, and he obeys. Within minutes, they are parked outside of a Café, which seems to exude the confidence of its customers. They enter and Jenna rushes to the table which already contains a boy and a girl. She sits down and he follows. He watches as they begin to talk. Cautiously at first, then with more and more speed, asking him to participate once in a while. He nods or shakes his head as is appropriate, but mostly observes. The air around them is thick with smoker, and generic music plays just a notch too loudly for comfortable conversation. Jenna places her hand on his knee, but he does not notice. As he watches them talk, he begins to feel something that he never has before. Their mouths continue to radiate noise, but he can no longer discern its meaning. He tries, but still cannot. Slightly panicked, he attempts to say something, but his mouth does not open. He has not enough desire to stand and leave, and is afraid to do anything else. Slowly, he relaxes and waits, hoping for the ailments to pass. The meaningless noise around him has become like a prayer, endlessly begging a faceless deity for help and wisdom, but yielding naught but pain. Gripped in a verbal paralysis, he looks up at the ceiling and sees the row of fans that cool the youthful minds that attempt to structure the world around them. He closes his eyes and relishes the brief moment of complete loneliness. When he opens them again, he sees Jenna’s face, clear and empty. Her brown eyes, speckled with green revealing nothing. He almost believes that she has nothing to reveal and closes his eyes once again. The noise around him slowly subsides, and the silence that ensues periodically jumps in intensity until he can no longer bear it. He feels his body collapse, and hears questions. Losing consciousness, he laughs lightly remembering his birth. When he next awakes, he is in a hospital. “How are you feeling?” The doctor asks him, looking concerned. “OK.” He replies. “Listen, this may come as a bit of a shock, but when you came in here you were exhibiting signs of a brain tumor. We took an x-ray of your head and discovered something strange. It seems you have no brain. Your head is completely empty. I’m not sure how you’re alive and functioning. We are going to have to keep you here for examination, until science can explain you. Your parents have consented.” He does not reply, but chuckles and closes his eyes. He can hear the doctor’s voice, “Do you understand what I’ve just told you?” He does not reply. the mrs.

Here I am, rock you like a hurricane. (I really hate the 80's) by mrs. johnson 07/02/2003, 2:29pm PDT     Not to be whiny... by mrs. johnson 07/02/2003, 9:26pm PDT         Yes I am reading. Yes you are good. I don't have anything else to say, k? by Senor Barborito 07/02/2003, 10:30pm PDT             Hrau by mrs. johnson 07/03/2003, 3:08am PDT                 I'm not a writer. *shrug* NT by Senor Barborito 07/03/2003, 3:10am PDT                     Who says? Just start writing. Within a year or less you'll have a style. NT by mrs. johnson 07/03/2003, 3:12am PDT