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Monday, November 03, 2003

notes - i have mixed feelings about posting my results online at the moment. the idea of nanowrimo of course isn't necesarily about quality it is about quantity. however i need to be happy, at least to some degree with the results i am getting. no doubt it is natural that i should have some doubts about quality - but on the other hand i am currently happy with the flow i am getting in terms of getting the writing done, but i am also happy that the gaps are starting to close to some degree. i now have some kind of ending, the reason why the big thing happens (kind of), triggers and consequences. so there is a lot going on in my head that can make this work.

thanks to starting at midnight on the first i got a decent amount written as a start - which is what i have already posted here. i kind of got the third chapter started on the first, but really didn't get much else done that day. the second was more productive, got the third chapter finished as well as a chunk of chapter four. i should finish chapter four this morning, though it could well be the longest so far. other than chapter four, i've been starting to write notes, written a dream sequence for later on, and made a start on the end. which is a little odd.

anyway. here is chapter three.

Chapter 3 – Your Mother Too



Gabriel is sitting in a café. With a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin on
the table in front of him. Relaxed, he sits back with his legs crossed
cradling a book on his knee. Portrait Of An Extraordinary Gentlemen, a book
which acts as a tribute to Alan Moore, one of the most influential and
challenging writers in comics and a self declared practitioner of magic. The
book was book was put together to mark Moore’s 50th birthday, a mix of
anecdotes and art works based on his characters. Gabriel takes a sip from
his cup and turns the page, he is currently engrossed in the in depth
interview with Moore that the book features. Gabriel loves times like this,
being able to hang out in the cinema café, with a book and a cup of tea,
relaxing before he goes into see a film. He looks up just as girl appears, a
Japanese girl, probably in her early 20’s, the colour of her eyes so dark
that he thinks that they are entirely black for a moment, her hair should
length and dark brown, with blonde streaks like flames licking up. She meets
his gaze and smiles, pulling back a chair and sitting herself at the table
without saying a word. Gabriel starts to feel that there is something weird
going on, something he should be remembering.
‘Hello Gabriel,’ the strange girl says, and that does it.


Gabriel sits up, the sheets sliding back off him. Damn. That is every day
this week that has happened. He sets his dream up so he can go and see a
showing of Y Tu Mama Tambien at the local cinema; it might not be from home,
but as a Mexican film it is at least close enough in this dreary little
country. But every time the dream is primed and started this strange girl
appears. Though this had been the first time that she had spoken – who was
she Gabriel wondered. How did she know him? What did she want? He looks
around the room, artificially darkened by the heavy shutters he had fitted,
glances at the clock – the blue alphanumeric display tell him that it is
2.30 in the afternoon. Gabriel decides that he will never get back to sleep
in time to catch she upcoming showing. Sighs, his knees bent, with his
elbows resting on the tent he has created. Ok, fair enough, it is time to
get up. He still has a few hours before he is to meet Dave, might as well
get on with it.

Gabriel switches on the TV, scrolls through the channels till he finds the
news. There is an update on the pulse blast that went off in Glasgow, how
the bomb brought down electronics in the city for days. Apparently no group
has claimed responsibility, though Gabriel has a fair idea. Despite the
police having been put on stand by with expectations that there would be
riots and looting there was a surprisingly subdued response to events. In
other news a sixty six year old man was beaten to death in the Partick area
of the city, after asking a child to pick up the rubbish that he had thrown
in the pavement. The man, who is yet to be named, was attacked by the
child’s father and left bleeding in the street – he later died in hospital.
Police are appealing for witnesses. Gabriel shakes his head, what is this
world coming to he wonders when people can be attacked and killed for the
simplest things? The next story is about some manufactured pop star who has
been given community service for assaulting a woman in a club. Gabriel
growls in despair, bloody celebrities, who do they think they are? Grabbing
the remote control he switches the TV off, the cult of celebrity and the
crap TV that results just makes him sick, especially with the bad things
that are really happening in the world.

Gabriel wipes the steamed up mirror so that he can see his face again. dips
the razor in the sink, before running it over his scalp again. Gabriel runs
his hands over his head, checking for those hard to reach bits, making sure
the shave is even. Before continuing on with his face, rinsing the blade in
the sink again, removing another strip of soaped up foam. As with his head
he runs his hands over his still slick face, round his chin, checking for
the bits that might catch or bristle. Satisfied he rinses his faces and head
off, drying himself, before applying handfuls of moisturiser. Massaging the
pink, viscous liquid in to the parts particularly likely to dry out, while
now feeling that he can bob his head along to the shifts in Alva Noto’s
Prototype album. The sound of pulses and bass filling the flat, which he
couldn’t let himself react to while he was running a blade across his skin –
don’t want to cut yourself to some killer beat after all. He smiles at the
thought, watching as the mirror vibrates to a particularly bass heavy track.
A quick burst of deodorant, and he pulls on the dark blue t-shirt that he
has sitting, the gold snow flake image flashing in the light as he adjusts
the fit till the t-shirt sits comfortably. Back into his living room,
Gabriel picks his beat up old record bag – the grinning skull and DNA cross
bones faded now – he roots through it – checking that he has everything he
needs. Satisfied he uses the stereo remote to kill the music, grabs the
heavy denim jacket from the hook on the wall and slides it on, before
slinging the bag over his shoulders.

The door to the block of the flats closes behind him, hearing the snib catch
as he tramps down the stairs to street level. Digging in his shoulder bag he
finds the box of rubber lab gloves that he has there, pulling them on to
each hand, he feels the tightness of the fit as they stretch over his skin.
The smear of white powder through the semi-opaque off white of the gloves,
caught up with the hairs on the back of his hands. With the gloves on he
removes the car keys as he walks towards the Freelander is parked by the
curb, a couple of spaces up from his front door. The record bag is slung
into the passenger seat as Gabriel climbs into the driver’s. Positioned in
front of the steering wheel, he pulls open the flap of the bag and roots
about inside for the couple of CDs he put in there earlier. There is it –
Subfried Traffic Perfection – opening the jewel case, he slides the CD
collaboration between I-Burn and Sshe Retina Stimulants into the player.
Turning the key in the ignition so that the roar of the engine mixes with
the first sounds of Club Orientated Mononucleosis, and he pulls away.



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