# Lights Out - Chapter 2 (following on from 'Pending'. Language Warning/Sexual ref.)



## Jon Prosser (Mar 8, 2011)

This is the second chapter from my book, Lights Out. The first chapter is titled 'Pending' on the forum. 
This chapter changes tone quite dramatically in comparison, as the story will be following a sort of A, B, A, B pattern. Here, many of the main characters are introduced. The idea of this chapter was to convey a sense of normality, to establish the main character, Liam, and related characters, and to also provide some comic value. I am unsure about the latter half of the chapter in the pub. Please give thoughts, cheers for reading 


Chapter 2

It's been a slow day. Flimsy animated fireworks erupt lazily as I double click the last king - sarcastically celebrating my seventh solitaire victory today. And to be honest, I’ve lost a lot more games than I’ve won. There must be a dry shortage of mad people in town right about now because I haven’t taken a call all morning. I close the programme - _start another game?_ I ignore the question. There’s only one more hour to wait before I can go home. 

I kick back in my wheelie chair, stare around the office. Plant my hands behind my head and risk putting up my feet on the desk.
‘Brookes, get your feet off of my desk please.’ 
Damn. Caught in the act. First time I’ve tried to put up my feet all day and the one time I do I get caught. Sod’s law I guess.
            ‘Sorry, Miss Ingram,’ I say, bringing my feet down.
            ‘Doctor Ingram. Any calls?’ she says curtly. 
            ‘Nothing Doctor, been quiet all day,’ I say, absently starting up a fresh game of solitaire on the computer. 
            ‘I’m finishing early, not much point in you hanging around either. You can lock up. See you tomorrow,’ she says and, with that, leaves the room. 

Doctor Nichole C. Ingram. Private psychologist. As the door closes behind her I let out a long breath. When she walked into the office at 9a.m. sharp this morning my bollocks jumped up inside of my body and are only now just coming back out of hiding. That woman terrifies me. And being her receptionist makes me her stress ball unless I do everything by the letter. 

I’ve been working here for a decent while now, since I moved into the town. An easy job, decent pay. All I do is answer the phone to people with various problems, book them in and take their money afterwards. Sometimes there are some funny cases, sometimes some scary ones, sometimes tragic ones. But still it isn’t very interesting. Crazy people tend to go to the asylums, which are free as far as I know, instead of paying £30 an hour to tell someone their problems. How anyone can feel comfortable enough with Ingram’s icy presence in the room to talk is beyond me. How they can pay her that much money to tell her their intimate secrets and thoughts just goes to show that they belong here. 

Saying that though she must be professional about it because it works for her, and she pays me, so it works for me too. Shutting down the computer, I go around turning out lights, locking up, taking out the bins. I have a hard time figuring out that woman. Whether she genuinely doesn’t like me or whether she is like this with all of her colleagues I don’t know. It’s irrelevant anyway because I still have to put up with it. Despite all of this though I’m still oddly attracted to her. The woman gives off the impression of clinical sterility, like she has no scent. As if her body is no more than a mechanical extension of her mind. Every time I come face to face with her, as I have said, my bollocks jump up into my body, because under the scrutiny of her look, you feel more vulnerable than you have ever known. You think that she knows from one look, every single degrading thing about you, like how when you were 3 years old you put a Lego brick up your arse just to see what would happen, that the first time you had sex was with your best friends girlfriend and he doesn’t know to this day, that you’re so lonely you’ll sit on your hand for five minutes until it goes numb just so it feels like someone else tossing you off. And yet there is something about that cold sterility that just tells you she would be a demon in the sack. You would just lie there and take it while she had her wicked way with you...

I walk out onto the street and head towards the bus stop. Cars are expensive and I can’t afford one. To be honest, even if I could I would probably still take the bus. There’s something about cars that makes me uneasy. I would say that it was the fact that they are so dangerous but then if I was risking myself every time I drove somewhere, surely I’m nearly as likely to be killed by one crossing the road. Not that I’m a fan of J-walking. If there’s a pedestrian crossing, I’ll take it. Speaking in Freudian terms, we could deduce that my unease comes from a deep seated experience in my past... if I concentrate, a vague image can be procured of mauled metal and broken glass. Could this be the deep seated memory? Maybe I experienced a car accident as a child, whether I was involved or a bystander; these things could have a profound impact on a young child. But there is no more except a feeling I’d rather not know about. Imagine reaching deep into the dark, fingers outstretched, and touching something that sends a nauseating tingle into your chest cavity. This is how I feel when I concentrate on the ‘memory’. Thing is though, if you have a subject in mind, and you concentrate extremely hard, what’s to say that it isn’t your imagination filling in a gap that you can’t fill yourself? Ever been asked by someone “do you remember when ___ happened?” and despite producing no distinct or significant memory, you believe yourself when you answer “yes, vaguely”? Maybe that is all this is. I should write a book.                         


Bus stops. Where the bus does stop. Bus, where do you stop? At the bus stop, sir, please look out for the designated stop locations. Chewing gum, graffiti and odd people. Why stop here? Silly question really, I shall retract it. Because these odd people have places to be. Although I am the only person here right now. I scuff my moderately priced shoes on the dirty floor, blow up my cheeks and exhale a sigh – just so people can see that I am bored. Inspect the graffiti sprayed over the timetable with my hands behind my back as though I’m at an art gallery. Fascinating piece this, by an anonymous artist wouldn’t you know? Note the crude defining lines of the phallus? They represent the basic animalism of male sexual desire, despite the best efforts of social convention to obscure its true form. God help the bright spark that drew it if his cock looks anything like that. I wonder if it was worthwhile. 

Sitting back down on the bench in the bus shelter I find myself staring at the floor. When I think about it, I spend a lot of time looking at the floor; it’s a wonder I ever know where I’m going. People would think you miss out on a lot if you stare at the floor. Personally though I could ask you, have you ever wondered at the sheer amount of chewing gum on the floor? It’s an interesting thought. How often do you see people chewing gum? It can’t be that common a thing, yet the floor is plastered in it. Enough to play join the dots. Like liver spots. How many people – here’s the bus!

I don’t need to flag the bus, the driver knows me. He works the same route every day it seems, so much so that I know his name – Dave. Every day on the bus to and from work, he’s the driver. With a loud hiss the doors open and there he is regarding me modestly.
         “Surprised to see you here!” he says, as I pull out my pass for him to stamp. It’s a joke he likes to say every time he sees me.
         “Long time, no see, Dave,” I reply with a smile. 
       “Same as usual?” 
       “Aye, nowhere exotic today!” 
       He laughs routinely as he hands back my pass. I slump into a nearby seat. The bus is completely empty.
       “Slow day today, Dave?” I call over. In the thick rear-view mirror I see his bespectacled face look over at me. 
        “Aye, it’s early days yet!” he calls back. It isn’t rush hour yet. 
         I follow the progress of the bus through the town out of the window. Street after street, drab grey and exhaust fumes. It all looks the same really. I draw a blank.


“Here we are!” Dave calls, wakening me from the dull stare I’d adopted. Brain dead.
         “Cheers, Dave,” I say, exiting the bus. Glance over my shoulder, Dave is leaning over towards me, elbow on the till.
        “Same again tomorrow!” he grins.
        “Same again tomorrow!” I confirm. 
        Rattling my keys in my pocket, I make my way towards my small flat. The street I live on is long, wide, and relatively quiet. Flanking its sides are big old houses with elegant names like Chrysanthemums House and Hawthorne Ridge. My flat is in a house called Somnium Domus. Latin for something or other, house names never really seem to make sense anyway. The hallway is shady and cool, a smell of must and furniture polish greets me. I pick up my mail and head upstairs. Time to be sneaky. The guy who lives across the hall from me is not the kind of person you really want to come home to. 

I step lightly down the narrow corridor, feet soft on the wooden floor. Slip the key into my lock with minimal rattling. Let myself in and close the door quietly. I’m in. 

My flat is small and messy. Nothing special, quite typical. It’s the kind of flat that makes the most of what little space it has. It is essentially just one room. The middle is the living area with my sofa, laptop, coffee table. Off to one side is the tiny kitchen area with a fridge/freezer, oven and what not. On the other side is a massive platform that serves as a king sized bunk bed with a small wooden ladder leading up to it, and underneath it, divided by a flimsy sliding door is the toilet, bath and shower. Despite its small size, I like it. It’s cosy. Although admittedly I do tire of not having any different rooms to go to for a change of scenery. I flick through my mail, it’s all impersonal. I drop it again onto the coffee table. Pick up my dirty plates and dump them in the sink. I’ll wash them later. 

 I negotiate my way around the easel set up in the living area. There’s nowhere to put it that isn’t in the way. One day I aspire to be an artist. Problem is, it just takes too much time and I’m too impatient. There are half finished canvases lying around everywhere, most of them ideas that I started but then went off. That’s the problem with being an artist, you never really like the things you make, and the more you stare at them the more you hate them. At the moment there is a 10x6 canvas sitting on the easel waiting for me to get started. So far there is only an outline of an ancient locomotive surrounded by woods drawn on in pencil. I often paint my dreams, or try to at least, but they somehow never seem to come out the same. It’s difficult to capture an image in your head because the concept is there but the detail isn’t, it’s an elusive task that is extremely frustrating to complete. I stare at the canvas now, the brush tucked in against the frame, my paints waiting patiently on the floor nearby. I do love art, the ability to freely create something from nothing, to project your imagination for others to see and understand. It’s just effort. One day there will be a selection of my works on display in the Louvre with neat little plaques underneath with their titles and my name – Johnny Liam Brookes. Scrap that, just Liam Brookes. Or a nom de plume. Johnny makes me sound like a badass American jock from the 1950’s. The kind that slicks back his hair, wears leather jackets with studs, rides a Harley and dies in a tragic motorcycle accident on the Hell’s Pass mountain road, bringing a close to the musical while all the girls cry at my grave. Fuck that, what were my parents thinking? I’m not John Travolta. 

A knock on the door disturbs my thoughts. Not that I was onto anything good. Maybe if I don’t answer he’ll go away. It can only be my neighbour. I stand frozen, watching the door. More rapping. 
           “Johnny? I heard you come in!” a muffled voice comes through. Bollocks, he’s on to me. With an exasperated slouching movement, I lurch over to the door, straightening up before I open it. In the corridor my neighbour, Mike Smith, stands awkwardly. 
            “John-aaay! How is it hanging?” is what he comes out with. Not just that, but accompanied by some sort of arm movement like a rapper would use. He steps into my flat uninvited and then leans indecisively against my kitchen counter. After several different attempts, he settles for the posture of one hand on the counter, the other on his hip, and his legs crossed. He looks more like an angry father or teacher than the cool guy he so desperately wants to be. 
            “Alright Mike? Please don’t call me Johnny,” I say, swinging the door shut.
            “But it’s your name,” he says perplexed, scratching the end of his nose.
            “So is Liam. I hate my first name,” I reply.
             “Oh. Ok. So, what is up dog?” he asks enthusiastically bobbing his head and grinning. 
             “Why do you talk like that?” I ask.
             “Like what?”
             “Like MC Mike in da house.”
             “I... I don’t.” He blushes, and abandons his pose, opting to just stand like a normal but slightly awkward person. 
             “Just talk normally, mate. You don’t have to try and impress me,” I say, laughing because now I feel slightly bad for my bluntness. Mike takes it as a joke and laughs as well, and fiddles with his novelty tie. Today he’s wearing his Wallace & Gromit one. Every time I see him it seems he has a different tie on and it is always a novelty tie. 
             “What can I do for you then, Mike?” I ask.
             “Was just wondering if you wanted to come to the pub tonight? Go on the lash you know?” he suggests. Quickly, I scan through my head to look for excuses. They don’t come quick enough and he catches on to my hesitation. 
              “Go on, you can’t tell me you’re going to be doing your art again tonight!” he says.
              “Well actually there is a piece I wanted to get started on...” I begin lamely. I look over at him and he looks so innocent and eager to make friends. Like a puppy. I can’t say no.
              “Alright, I’ll come for a pint,” I give in. At least if I go out tonight with him, then I’ll be able to avoid it afterwards for a week or so. His face lights up.
             “Aces! I’ll go get ready!” and with that he runs out of the apartment. I sigh and pour myself a glass of schnapps. Looking into the liquid, I swill it around, down it and head off for a shower. 

When I meet Mike out in the corridor he has changed into a bright orange shirt with a clashing blue tie that turns out to be a depiction of the attack on the Death Star in Star Wars. I have a quick look at the rest of his chosen attire.  
            “Mike, are you wearing flares?” 
            “Yeah man! Retro!” he replies excitedly. 
             “Mate you have to go change,” I say exasperated by his gimpy appearance. 
             “Nah the ladies love it! Trust me,” he says as though he’s passing on a piece of valued advice to me. He struts towards the stairs, and I follow at a distance. 

We walk down the street and head for a nearby bar. Mike babbles excitedly about how battered we’re going to get but I pay little attention. The streets are quiet, it’s dark now. Few cars drive past, and there are fewer pedestrians. I lose track of days easily but it’s a week day and so there isn’t much going on. We reach a generic pub, The Kings Arms. I wonder how many pubs actually share that name. Mike leads the way and I’m happy for him to do so. Hopefully no one will pay too much attention to his dress style. Inside is as generic as the name suggests. Fruit machines. Random souvenirs and pictures adorning the walls. Grumbling locals nursing pints of bitter, hazily maintaining their personal bubbles by ignoring everything outside of it. That’s the way I like it. A jukebox mumbles tunes in the corner. The bored barman serves us two pints on Mike. Choose a table and sit down. Why Mike is so excited to be somewhere so standard I don’t know. He’s taking it all in like he’s never seen a pub before and never will again.
             “So, Mike. Do girls really love the retro look then?” I ask him. 
              “I reckon so yes!” he says.
              “Really though?” I ask, amused.
              “Yes!” he grins back. 
              “What, it’s worked for you?”
              “Why, yes, I can tell you it has,” he says, sheepish now. 
              “Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask. He blushes. I say blushes, patches of his face go red, blotchy. The rest of him remains pale. His beetle black eyes dart around and he plays with his tie. 
               “I do,” he mumbles proudly, not looking at me. “She’s called Stacey. Stacey596.”
               “Stacey596?” 
               “That’s right.” He looks at me. “It’s her screen name,” he adds.
               “Screen name?”
               Mike clicks his tongue at my ignorance.
               “She lives in Chicago. We met through playing WOW. There’s a chat log and her screen name on there is Stacey596. We met when I saved her character from being violated by a group of rogues. We got to talking online, and now we’re in love!” he explains. 
                “Oh right, as you do... what is WOW?” I ask, quite stunned. 
                “World of Warcraft. It’s what gamers call it.”
                “Dear God.”
                “What?” 
                “Nothing. And have you ever met Stacey... 596?” I ask, holding down a grin.
                “Oh no, not yet, no. We’re engaged so hopefully we will be meeting soon! When I get enough money I’m going to fly out and meet her!” 
                “Engaged?” I ask, laughing now. This doesn’t deter him, in fact he seems even more proud now. He nods enthusiastically but blushes further. Now the blotches have conjoined and his entire head looks beetroot red. 
                “And you’ve never met her? Do you even know what she looks like?” I continue. In reply he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet and from it he procures a neatly folded piece of paper. Smoothing it out, there are two pictures, connected one above the other. Webcam photos. Him on top, her on the bottom, both of them making heart shapes with their hands. Her picture is dark, illuminated by the computer screen. All I can make out is a round, pale face, glasses as thick as a dictionary, and braces. I didn’t think people actually conformed to stereotypes, but Mike fits right in. 
                 “Right, so you’re engaged to a girl that you’ve never met, through an internet game?” I enquire just to make sure I’ve got it straight.
                “It’s not just an internet game!” he says indignantly, and takes a gulp of his pint. I decide not to bring up the possibility that his fiancé is a man posing as a girl to either exploit him or mess with him – it does happen, and usually to people like Mike, but I don’t have the heart to tell him so. I take a long swig of my beer instead, and he does likewise. I notice that the way he is sitting and drinking his pint is an imitation of me.  

“Right, I’m going for a smoke,” I say, getting up and heading for the door. He follows. And when I light up, asks if he can have one. 
                 “You smoke?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
                 “Oh... yeah. I’m a social smoker... Smoke at parties and music concerts and things like that you know how it is,” he says, nodding unknowingly. 
                 “Here, have mine,” I pass him my already lit one and spark a fresh one for myself. He holds the cigarette awkwardly, and takes a drag as though sucking a drink through a straw. No sooner has he inhaled the smoke into his mouth than he blows it back out again, leaning back against the wall.
                  “Ooh yeah, that’s good stuff. I do love a good smoke,” he says.
                  “In that case you should probably try inhaling it,” I reply.
                  He does, tentatively, and throws a coughing fit instantaneously. I laugh out loud and pat him on the back. He straightens up and controls himself long enough to add:
                  “I like to cough because... it goes to your lungs quicker!” 
                   “Of course, Mike, of course,” I grin back. 
                   Back inside we finish our pints. Mike necks it back as if trying to regain lost ground for his smoking escapade and ends up finishing his before me. 
                   “You might want to slow down a bit mate,” I say nodding to his empty glass.
                    “Naaah! I drink like this all the time at... parties and music concerts and stuff. Yeah, I’m a regular drinker, love a good beer!”

I finish up and make to go to the bar. It’s my round and I assume he’s having the same again. When I return to the table the first pint has already hit Mike, he’s slouching and has a slightly glazed smile on his face. He giggles when I sit down, but when I ask what’s funny, he doesn’t know. A newcomer has entered the pub, and I watch as he approaches the bar and orders a glass of some amber coloured spirit. 
                   “So, Johnny! I mean, Liam! So you do art hmm?” Mike reels my attention back to him. He starts on his fresh pint.
                   “That’s right.”
                  “Ah! It’s therapeutic I gather!”
                  “It can be. Can frustrate the hell out of you too though. Takes a lot of patience and constant imagination.” 
                  “So why do you do it then?” he asks, suddenly surprised. I shrug.
                  “It’s an outlet, I guess. It’s something that ties you down but only to yourself.” 
                   “Pardon? You tie yourself to paintings?”
                   “What? No, I mean, like, it’s entirely yours. Once you start a painting, you feel like you have to finish it because it’ll nag at you otherwise. So it’s not something completely free like some people say. But the responsibility of that commitment belongs to you and only you because it comes from you. You know what I mean?” 
                  “Oh! No.” He sips his beer thoughtfully. “You know I have a hobby too.”
                  “What’s that then?” I ask. 
                  “I love trains. Have you ever heard of Hornby?”
                    I shake my head. He lets out an animated gasp of shock, slopping beer on himself in the process.
                   “They make train sets. I love them. I have fifty trains! Model ones. And... and ten different types of carriage. And limited edition trucks. I want to buy more though. I will.”
                   “Hmm, ok, so why trains?” I’m thinking about the dream I had, though I don’t intend to mention it. Mike taps his chin in an over-exaggerated, pantomime thoughtfulness.
                  “My dad collected them. He had a massive set in the attic...” he pauses to belch politely. “Pardon my flatulence! Yeah, I used to go up there. When I was little. Just loved the way they looked, how you could control them and send them on an endless little journeys. Make your own little world. Was so cool, he helped me to build my first set when I was... how old was I? Erm...” he drifts off.
                   “Mike?” I say after about thirty seconds. He snaps out of it.
                    “What was I saying?”
                   “Your dad helped you build your first train set?”
                   “Ooh! That’s right, yes, made a little forest of out paper mashie, little station and all that. I don’t know. Takes patience, a lot of patience Liam! To build up a little world to run. But once it’s built, you can live in it.” A distant smile crosses his face for a moment before he snaps back. “I need a wee.”

 He downs the rest of his pint, dripping it down his orange shirt, and then makes a beeline for the toilets. We’ve only been here about thirty minutes and two pints and he’s on his way to being plastered. This is why I don’t like going out with him. A few locals watch him go, laughing and then look over at me. I shrug my shoulders and go to the bar.

I nod a greeting at the newcomer. He wears a white hoody, peaked beanie cap, baggie jeans. Something about his manner is inviting, he does not seem like the other locals that keep their privacy closely guarded. Still, though I have the inclination to chat to him, it’s been a long while since I’ve had to initiate conversation. He nods a greeting, dipping his fuzzy chin into the multicoloured scarf around his neck. I judge that he is roughly the same age as me, in his early twenties. The surly bartender asks me what I’ll be having and I order a double of spiced dark rum. If I’m going to be dealing with Mike, I’ll need something stronger than lager. 
                 “Johnny! Hey... hey Johnny!”
                  Oh no. Mike is back from his excursion. He stumbles towards me, calling my name. He probably found the condom machine and wants to know what they are. The jukebox clunks and the song changes. 
                “John....” Mike pauses, and tilts his head. “OO! I love this song!”
                And with that, Mike is distracted, for the duration of the song at least. The guy next to me watches with amusement and then turns to me, regarding me with bluish green eyes. 
                “Your mates got some wicked moves,” he says, nodding in Mikes direction. I glance over at the gangly, badly dressed man bopping away with his eyes closed to Dancing Queen. He’s miming the words and everything.
                “My mate? No, never seen him before,” I dismiss instantly.
                “Wasn’t he calling you?” he asks, smiling at my response.
                “Nah, my names Liam. Don’t know who Johnny is...”
                 “I’m Andy,” he says. “Cheers,” he adds, tilting his glass to mine. We drink.

One hour later and we’ve established a basis for some sort of friendship. Conversation is easy and non-specific. It’s a relief, for a while I was thinking that my only friend would be Mike. After his song finished, Mike stumbled back to the bar where I bought him a double shot of whisky to keep him quiet. It worked spectacularly, and he passed out at our table for long enough. When we leave, I approach him to see that he’s face down on the table and sobbing quietly to Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone. 
                 “Mike, why are you crying?”
                  “Such a beautiful song! Liam?”
                 “Yes Mike?”
                  “I miss Stacey!”
                  I laugh and with Andy’s help, we hoist him to his feet and head for home.


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## Jack Penarron (Mar 8, 2011)

This is a good contrast to the first chapter, Jon.  I found myself wanting more.


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## Jon Prosser (Mar 8, 2011)

thanks! i've written up to the 6th chapter so i could post the next one if you like


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## bysharonnelson (Mar 8, 2011)

Aww poor lonely Mike. The train refrences are perfect, it really drives your curiosity. I am worried that something is going to happen to poor Mike. I love reading work from people from Europe. You all use some great slang that we don't often hear here. Like 'Go on the lash' and 'battered', I love it. Also , “Mike, are you wearing flares?”, what are flares?


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## Once_more (Mar 9, 2011)

Poor lonely Mike my arse.

The description of what I like to think of as the great danger of WOW/Evercrack is superb.  I worked with a girl who met her last 6 boyfriends off of one server or another and never understood why they didn't work out...it couldn't have had anything to do with the percentage that lived with their mothers and didn't have a job.  

Mike is an excellent example of the sort of you expect to play the online rpgs and his character is exemplified by the smoking scene where his neediness and low self esteem are even more apparent than his engagement to a girl he's never met and can't see clearly.

The start of this chapter is much different from the first one.  I can see the similarities to the dream world in the endless games of solitaire, waiting at the stop, and the gum on the ground (im not sure you intended this it is more than likely a personal inference).  

I saw where the dream nature of the previous paragraph is mentioned.  I'd really like to read the next chapter, but as this stands right now I'm not certain whether I think defining the dream sequence right now is a good move or if its too soon, whether it feels almost expected.  I exited off the first chapter into a waiting room with a guy whose bollax are trying to make an extreme exit.  The first feeling is Whoa, how did i get here from there.   Then i continue reading on and the story grabs my attention so that i don't really care all that much about when the next train is going to arrive.  When he's waiting for the bus; when Mike is talking about building worlds of train sets;  these are the times my mind draws back to the platform.  

Just because thrillers aren't my usual genre of choice doesn't mean i don't like a good suspense.

My only actual suggestion is to do with the way the first chapter ends and the second chapter begins.  As i understand it, one of your main goals between this chapter and the earlier one is to exemplify the dichotomy of the situation while highlighting points of sameness.  Based off of that it seems to me the shift from one chapter to the next is weak.  In order to make a statement the opening line of chapter 2 should be almost in direct opposition to the tonal quality found at the end of chapter 1.  One suggestion is to open by describing the fireworks on the screen and then shift into the empty feeling of elation.


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## Jon Prosser (Mar 9, 2011)

Bysharonnelson,
Thanks  Mike is the comedy value character of the story (amongst other purposes that I can't say without giving away the plot  ) so in my initial plans nothing is going to happen to him. haha yes, we have some very strange slang in this country. flares, you know the jeans that were the height of 70's fashion? they flare out at the bottom  Mike is a very stereotyped character, it will become clearer why as the story progresses.


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## Once_more (Mar 9, 2011)

Bell bottoms


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## Jon Prosser (Mar 9, 2011)

once_more,
          haha yes, we call them flares over here. i'm glad you enjoyed this chapter, i was worried the shift in tone and setting would seem too unconnected. mike was designed to be a stereotype for reasons that will become clearer as it goes on, and of course his train sets are to draw parallels with the dream and highlight its significance. they were intended, but also it is personal inference as well; on the one hand for significance, on the other to reflect the characters personality and add a bit of comic value. 
          my goal isn't to separate the two worlds entirely; the platform is not somewhere he is going to return to until the end. he will continue to have various dreams in the ABAB sort of pattern. i do see where you are coming from though, i will read over it a few times and see, but i don't want to open with too bold a statement because it may disrupt the portrayal of how bored he is. then again, the empty feeling of elation would serve to highlight this further, so i will have a think


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## Once_more (Mar 9, 2011)

It doesn't have to be a lot.  

"You have won. Digital fireworks in digital colors flash across the screen probably designed by someone who had nothing better to do and didn't want to do that.

I stare at the awkward colors and flashing pixels, realizing this is the 7th game I've won today."


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## Jon Prosser (Mar 9, 2011)

yes, i suppose. i will have a play around and see what i come up with!


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## bysharonnelson (Mar 9, 2011)

Bell bottoms. Duh!! LOL I think the first paragraph works well, though at first it is a little confusing because it seems as though it is still the dream. Maybe just taking out the first little sentence would make it more obvious. IMHO Its great.


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## Jon Prosser (Mar 10, 2011)

yes there is a link, everything in this story is connected  i have changed the opening paragraph a bit now. thanks


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## Once_more (Mar 10, 2011)

I like the change.  It's not particularly overt but the delineation between the first chapter and the second is clear.  I also have to say I like the continuation of the imagery - waiting for the pending train :: waiting for the end of the day - the first sentence "It's been a slow day" keeps the flow of tone and mood begun in the first chapter.  Curious though: Sarcastically implies an action and the sentence reads fine without it; were you planning on doing something else with the inference?


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## Jon Prosser (Mar 10, 2011)

thanks, me too, i think it's a much stronger start. yeah i didn't want to change it too much to keep the connection, lest the two chapters just seem like two different stories.
the action is the celebration, the sarcasm is a personification of the computer. a game of solitaire is a game of pure chance, and so whether you win or not has nothing to do with skill or intelligence, merely it just means the computer let you win. so by that train of thought, the celebration is sarcastic because the only thing you have really achieved in winning is wasting a lot of time. as i know the reality of the entire story as well, i suppose my input of the word holds more meaning, solitaire is yet another of the books motifs that holds purpose


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## outoftheblue (Mar 28, 2011)

Hey Jon - excellent 2nd chapter. I do like the interaction between Mike and Liam (not Johnny!), because it seems a complicated relationship, even if it isn't - if that makes sense? You get the sense that Liam is embarassed by Mike, but still I sense of fondness between them. Mike comes across as a bit of a mix of Del Boy and Rodney - not sure whether this is because part of the setting is in a pub or not, but I felt that comical, almost duo act with Liam and Mike.

Also, and as others have referred to, I enjoy the small references to the train - the painting in the flat, and then Mike's admission about trains. I'm guessing these are significant to the rest of the story, or maybe a slight red herring to make the audience believe something else? Anyways, it raises more questions. I, like another post, enjoy the contrast from the first chapter. It does feel like a completely different book, rather than a different chapter in the same book - but this is positive, because it really defines the dream and the reality, but still maintaining the train theme. Really good job, impressed - especially with the interaction between Liam and Mike.


I'm going to head off and find chapter 3 to read!


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## Jon Prosser (Mar 29, 2011)

heya  thank you, again, really glad you like it  i was initially worried that this chapter would be a bit dull. but yes you are right, while mike is a bit goofy and nerdy, there is a friendship there. liam is an imperfect character by design, so he thinks himself better than mike - sort of like he thinks he's too good for him. but at the same time, he knows mike is his (up until he meets andy) only friend. mikes purpose is more just to provide comic value because the story is going to get heavy. so i'm really pleased with the comparison you've made between del boy and rodney  

yeah the trains aren't so much directly involved in the plot, but they basically encompass what is going on. the story is full of little hints and symbols, and the trains are the biggest because they have a theme throughout. i'm really glad you like it, cheers for reading  much appreciated!


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