h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

I thought I should stop by the space of someone who agrees with me so much... Have a mufflewhump!

Funny coincidence--I joined on July 11 2001 too!

Hmm... I thought it was longer ago than 4 days that I posted last...

Anyway, hi again!

Hello?

Hi! Have a or . I'm sorry I didn't see you until now. What do you think of my story?

I like it

I'm writing a book that's a cross between The Great Gatsby (without Gatsby), The Martian Chronicles (without going to Mars), and with some characters from H P Lovecraft. I am writing dream sequences like the story you just read.

...

Today I wrote a chapter about playing a game of dominoes on a roof top just befor it snows. I wrote the whole thing in my day planner.

I'm repeating mysef, but oh, well, it's still true, and how much eloquence can be expected at just after 6 am, anyway?

...

"The older I get, the more I focus on the good and the beautiful."

That is actually around the time I do my best writing. Here's the begining of chapter seventeen. If you like it, Ill post the rest.

Ancient Sacred Crypts of Egypt
A Work of Fiction

It was a gray Sunday. The snow was prevalent on every side of the island and fell aimlessly, noticeably flecking the hoods of black cars with polyps white as ash. Jack walked east, irresolute of his destination. He carried with him only a deck of playing cards, Noah's silver lighter and his nearly empty wallet. The streets were wet. He felt dispirited at the thought of having to end his lifelong camaraderie with Noah for such an absurd reason. A passing car, unnoticed by Jack, sloshed water over the curb and wet the bottom of his jeans and sneakers. He turned up his collar so snow would not run down his neck. It did anyway.
Jack stopped on an overpass built to continue the avenue level without intersecting the sloping street below. The view Jack had was of a throng of dilapidated apartments that sprung up like bulbs in an overcrowded planter. Long abandoned, one rusted monolith stood minus its glass and guts, susceptible to pedestrians peering through the structure with the hope of seeing something beyond. A timely thunderclap raised a flock of birds that swarmed out of the building and channeled over Jack's head to the rooftop garden of the building behind him where a bare tree leaned over the brim.
Jack looked over the railing. Down at the gray streets his eyes floated-down at the old woman with the shopping cart, up at the Brown building circa 1944. He turned his head left towards busy Flatbush Avenue, right towards quieter Market, and then strait on, across the avenue from the dark alley with the twisted signpost to the vacant tenements slated for demolition. He paused, strained his vision, and leaned over the rail.
Steve was walking in the direction of one of the less foreboding yellow apartments whose upper floors were stained black with soot and resembled the temple of Horus. He had a recognizable strut.
Jack scampered in his squelching sneakers down the low wall to the rusted industrial stairs that put him on the lower street. He ran to Steve and panted, "I thought that was you. I'd know your face anywhere."

Ancient Sacred Crypts of Egypt
A Work of Fiction
PartII

This was true: Steve had a profile identical to John Lennon. He even wore little glasses that looked like cubes of ice in wire tongs set high on the bridge. Indeed now, as he paused and turned to Jack, he pushed the frames higher up his nose as he brushed his cinnamon hair aside.

"What are you doing here?" he said good-naturedly.

"I was taking a walk and spotted you from the bridge," Jack said, pointing to where he had been standing on the overpass. "What are you doing here?"

"Just visiting a friend. You want to come along?"

"Sure," said Jack.

"You think you're ready?"

"For what? Oh, oh yeah, sure. What the hell, I've got time now."

The first floor of the tenement had once been a restaurant. Now it was faded yellow tile and blotchy cream paint and built-in urns that held only cigarette butts and sand. The air was pungent with the smell of mildew. Steve pointed Jack towards the diner and told him to wait. Jack walked to the old lunch counter leaving a trail of wet prints. He sat on a stool and noticed that although the diner had gone, nobody had told the roaches to vacate. He sat there, next to the customary warped cardboard NO SMOKING sign, impatiently looking around until Steve tapped him on the shoulder and led him to a creaky elevator.

"Who are we going to meet?"

"A old buddy of mine."

"Who?"

"Kind of a business partner."

"Did he buzz us up?"

"Couldn't; the buzzer’s broken."

The noise from the ancient grinding cogs high in up the shaft had reached a piercing whine. Each floor they passed was a flash of lighted numbers on their way to uncertain destiny, or so Jack thought. Steve was eyeing him uneasily, regretting. Jack broke the tension by saying, "You can trust me."

Stay tuned for Part III