Pursuit (Challenge #3)

Do not.

Do so...

Shut up ass-wipe!

You do SOO like Darren...

"SHUT UP!!! I can't hear the fucking television!"

At this age kids, she mused in one of those parentally evil moments of reflection, really should be placed in a barrel and fed through the bung hole for the next 8 years.

The news anchor's slightly too anxious (and contrived) drone broke through the sudden silence brought upon by the use of the F-word, just as she was ready to receive the mental whipping that her good-mommy sense was poised to inflict.

...rything seems to be under control temporarily, though authorities can't quite figure out how to bring this eerily-reminiscent situation to a successful conclusion. Different vehicle, different city, different "person" in question, but...

"...it has June 1994 written all over it? No shit, sherlock."

What was going on here? This is all over the news, even the cable news channels have interrupted their mutual ignore-the-other-guy-and-yell-louder political profferings, but how can this actually be happening?

And why the hell am I so sucked into this?

Jamie, can you tell us what the police are saying about the situation?

Not a lot, as you can imagine, John, but unlike the scene that the nation watched back in 1994, the authorities are not wanting to limit the public to seeing this play out from overhead. The video feed you're getting right now is from the in-car camera of Sargeant James "Bulldog" Molineux, a lead car in this ... pursuit. If we can really even call it that.

That's pretty cool, seeing the video just as the cop sees it. Those cameras are pretty shitty, but when you're only travelling about 35 miles and hour down I-65, I guess you can get a pretty good view of the "pursuit".

"Pursuit"?! Alas - If for only one single moment, she had justified her time in front of the television, but no longer - that term just resonated a bit too loudly in her mind's BS meter. Sorry damn life, that's what it is ... I'm sitting here watching a damn green pickup drive off from Nashville with a friggin' chrome-domed Gorilla in the rear, made entirely of (duh) chrome truck bumpers you might add, all at about the speed of a slow hummingbird on downers. LIVE on TV no less, as experienced by all the tax-paid police officers in "red-hot" pursuit? Give me a friggin break - I need a life.

Janice picked up the phone and dialled. "Hello?" came the smarmy sweetness that you'd only receive from a born-n-raised southern belle. "Whatcha doing gal?!" Janice never had learned to return a hello properly in the rural, petroleum armpit that was southeastern Texas where she grew up, and she was damn well too old to change now.

"Janice! Have you seen the news darling?" came Ruby's acknowledgment. Ok, so I'm not the only sad sack trolling in Nowhereland, thought Janice as Ruby barged on past her rhetorical remark. "Well I ... just can't believe it. This is the kind of thing that just doesn't happen around here! It made sense years ago when it was that orange juice fella in that white Ford - damned F-word that is; Jake'd have my hide for uttering it you know - but these kind of things don't happen here!"

Poor Ruby - she never would make it out of her southern heritage. But she does provide a different persective upon things, but Janice wasn't always sure it was refreshing.

"Hon, there's all kinds of folks, all kinds. I'm just sitting here, though, thinking that there's gotta be something more to this situation than we're being told, don't you? We've got some fool in a green truck - REAL man Chevy truck too, dontcha know - who found his way into that filthy rich Cal Turner's back yard and picked up that who'd-a-thunk-it artsy-fartsy gift from the South African ambassador to the US. Now he's making tracks, at the speed of lite - beer that is - for gawd-knows-where trailing a passle of cops too worried about upsetting some political balance to force the car off the road and risk wrecking the bent-bumper-bauble? No, no, that don't make no damn sense, I don't care how critical South Africa's trade relationship with this state, or our country's political relationship, is, ain't no piece of art gonna get in the way of a Glock 9mm."

Ruby let out a short gasp at the brusque description. "Well, Janice, now that you put it that way, I guess there does got to be something more..."

---

The Sargeant had seen a lot in his days, but this was getting him pretty well steamed.

"Come on Lieutenant" he barked over the radio, "he's hardly moving. I can EASE him to the side without so much as a scratch. "

The response was cold. "You've got my orders, Bulldog. Maintain for now."

Shit. We look like keystone cops.

There's got to be more to this...

---

"Joe" had already lost 15 pounds in sweat alone, he was certain. His hands were so wet he had to consciously make sure they were solidly on the steering wheel.

His primary objective was sunk. This was an OJ deal and he was NOT going to get away. In fact, he wasn't sure why the tack-strips hadn't been used yet, he'd accelerate into them and run out of control, and that would be the end of it - that's at least what should have happened by now according to plan, but instead he'd slowed down to make sure they could "accost him", yet they'd entered into this slow pursuit chase. It was as if they knew, but that couldn't be. Could it?

If he'd taken just 30 seconds more, that tarp would've held. Damn Wal-Mart special. But the fall back in case of something crappy like this was simple - police force his hand, crash him off, and the impact is felt nonetheless, albeit weakened. But they weren't moving on him?

There's just got to be something more that he didn't know.

---

All of the arrangements had been made, they only needed delivery now. A space had been cleared, and in a day (or two at most) the latest in a series of African art gifted to the Israeli embassy in Washington would arrive. They'd been promised a real treat this time it was supposed to have been delivered months ago, but they'd been told of some kind of shipping mix up that was being corrected. It did seem a bit odd that there'd be a mix up like that for such an important destination.

There just ought to have been something more to this ... oh well, it'll be worth the wait they all thought.

---

The Lietenant was adamant. "This ain't no bungled CIA intelligence job, Senator, my people are the best and they KNOW their intel to be correct."

"It's just such a preposterous, and frankly unthinkable, scenario. Right under everyone's noses?!" The Senator sighed a deep, damning breath.

"I agree, but there's no way I'm risking any kind of upset to that gorilla with what we know to be true. We've got to buy time to figure out a safe exit to this scenario."

---

From within the belly of the chrome beast, the coundown timer ticked over to T-25 hours, impervious to radiation.

---

I'm telling MOM!!

You most certainly will NOT, bitch...

Challenge #3

I've been waiting for this day, when I win a contest and get to choose the next topic! (insert childishly giddy giggle here)

Ok, for this next challenge, we return to the form that brought us into this experience: the short story based upon an initial topic. Only this time, I'm presenting the topic in a rather non-standard form.

This is the topic. Start writing...

Ode to two computer dudes

Ghost Ex Machina, or The Para-damn-delle
by Shan Overton

“After we all emerged from the black ooze,
After we all emerged from the black ooze,
We all turned to making music, said he perspicuously.
We all turned to making music,” said he perspicuously.
“All music perspicuously emerged after making ooze all black;
we switched we from the to,” he said.

Then he turned to add a pleonastic line of code,
Then he turned to add a pleonastic line of code,
But the Dell went dark.
But the Dell went dark.
Dark code went then to line a Dell,
But the pleonastic add turned he of.

“Damn the humbug!” shouted he.
“Damn the humbug!” shouted he.
“You outside para-normal beasts in the machine!”
“You outside para-normal beasts in the machine!”
The damn beasts shouted, “He para-normal!
In! You humbug outside the machine!”

A procrustean silence inappositely pervaded the office.
A procrustean silence inappositely pervaded the office.
The other denizens were impelled to call bullshit on he.
The other denizens were impelled to call bullshit on he.
The bullshit office inappositely impelled procrustean denizens
to call a silence were he on the pervaded other.

The beasts (all were normal denizens of machine code) said,
“We went to call you, but he impelled a dark other to add all in making the pervaded he
switched on.”
After the silence, outside the office, he shouted,
“We inappositely turned from pleonastic humbug to procrustean bullshit!”
The line then emerged perspicuously to ooze a black music:
“Para-damn-Dell!”

Paradelle for O'Spense

In his dreams the music swells, unchanging
In his dreams the music swells, unchanging
But In his heart he cries "bullshit"
But in his heart he cries "bullshit"
Bullshit He cries in his dreams
But in his heart the unchanging music swells

Definitions procrustean he declares in full humbug
Definitions procrustean he declares in full humbug
"The tones, inapposite, do not impel"
"The tones, inapposite, do not impel"
"The full tones do impel humbug inapposite in definitions not procrustean"
He declares.

Elongated notes do not make pleasing music
Elongated notes do not make pleasing music
Any more than pleonastic phrases make perspicuous poetry
Any more than pleonastic phrases make perspicuous poetry
Pleasing perspicuous notes do make music,
Not elongated pleonastic phrases make any more than poetry.

In unchanging dreams, make bullshit definitions, humbug music,
In his heart pleasing music swells, the perspicuous tones impel,
His procrustean poetry cries phrases inapposite, pleonastic,
"More than any!" he declares in full
"But the elongated notes do not make!"
Do not.

Paradelle for O'Shan

To bullshit musing and a torturous verse,
To bullshit musing and a torturous verse,
For obfuscationists,
For obfuscationists,
For obfuscationists to musing
A torturous and bullshit verse

Procrustean music inapposite to writing
Procrustean music inapposite to writing
This assignment, I attend to cadence
This assignment, I attend to cadence
I attend to writing this assignment:
Procrustean cadence inapposite to music.

Storms of pleonastic humbug!
Storms of pleonastic humbug!
Resulting masses impelled!
Resulting masses impelled!
Humbug of pleonastic masses;
Impelled storms resulting.

Impelled I attend, this assignment procrustean,
To writing and musing of torturous storms,
Resulting humbug;
Pleonastic verse to cadence inapposite,
A music to obfuscationists,
Bullshit for masses.

Challenge #2--The Paradelle

Instead of a story, this time we will write the terrible paradelle, a poetic form created by former U.S. poet laureate, Billy Collins, as a parody on tight and restrictive forms such as the vilanelle. Although designed by Collins for the sake of poking fun at sonnets and the like, the paradelle has apparently taken on a life of its own and is now being written by numerous poets who seem to enjoy posting their (sometimes absurd and awful) efforts on the internet. For an example of the paradelle, see Collins' own "Paradelle for Susan" in his recent book, Sailing Alone Around the Room: New & Selected Poems (New York: Random House, 2001); the poem is also easily found online through Google.

The paradelle's form is as follows:
Four six-line stanzas: the first three follow the same pattern; the final stanza is slightly different
Stanzas 1-3: lines 1 & 2, 3 & 4 are identical; lines 5 & 6 use all the words from the previous four lines (and only those words)
Stanza 4: A six-line stanza which must use all of the words from the preceeding stanzas, and only those words. The lines do not have to repeat themselves.

For the sake of this exercise, I have taken the liberty of adding two extra rules. The intention here is not to thwart writerly progress but is to encourage frivolity! The additional rules are as follows:
1. Some aspect of the paradelle must contain the theme of music.
2. The paradelle which contains any of the following vocabulary words will be more highly regarded: perspicuous, procrustean, humbug, pleonastic, inapposite, impel, and bullshit.

I hope you enjoy adding your paradelle to the myriad attempts already floating out in cyberspace. And best of luck, especially to Spenser!
Shan

The Last Three Days

December 30th
Two days ago...

Some of us recognised his face. The rest recognised his voice as soon as he began to speak. After all,he had been a near-constant presence in our collective consciousness since most of us were children. And even though the words seemed odd coming from him, and the tone was a bit more plaintive than we remembered, there was no mistaking him for anyone else.

"Why didn't you listen when you had the chance?" he began. "I tried to do it differently this time. I came to you through the most popular medium that you had, and I tried to make my message more palatable to you. Every week i showed you a new morality play. I'll admit, I tried not to be obvious, but since you hadn't even payed attention to the miracles before, I thought maybe if I dumbed it down for you, brought my message to you in a language you could grasp, then maybe...

"But no, you went on just as before. Dismissed my parables as entertainment and didn't even try to glean the messages of hope and compassion and brotherhood they contained. Instead you looked simply at the fantastic elements, grabbed on to those, twisted them just like you did before when i sent you my son. I thought He was the most spectacular failure I had ever produced until I tried dealing with you directly, but now, now I know what he was up against. Now I know how crass you truly are, and that there really is no hope for you. And I know that i have no choice but to start over again. Destroy this world and what you have made it into, and try one more time to make a people that can truly understand my message.

"I'll give you a little more than 24 hours to get your affairs in order, then it will begin. At midnight tomorrow, I destroy what i once created!"

Then he disappeared in a blinding flash of light, just as he had appeared.

Like i said, we almost all recognised him, but I have no idea how many actually believed their eyes and ears. After all, who would believe that Rod Serling, the creator af the Twilight Zone, had come back from the grave, revealed himself to be God and then condemned the entire earth, apparently because we didn't like his show all that much?


December 31st
One day ago

You know how New Yorkers are. They simply cannot resist a party. Even with the supposedly imminent destruction of the human race, plans went on for the Big Celebration. The streets of Manhattan were jammed with partiers, and there wasn't an inch of Times Square that wasn't jammed with people. The big ball glowed above the city ready to make it's leisurely descent to mark the passage of another year. Of course, the celebration wasn't quite the same since Dick Clark had passed on a few years back, but not even HIS death could really stop time.

Still, in the midst of it all, there was a palpable sense of something being wrong. Most of the people, even those who had seen what had happened the day before with their own eyes, seemed not quite sure that they actually believed it. And of course, there were those who took the impending threat as a reason to just get that much more drunk. After all, if the world was going to go out in a blaze of glory, I suppose they figured they might as well, too.

It wasn't until about 11:50 that someone noticed that there really was something not right in the heart of the city. The official countdown hadn't begun, but the ball, the great ornate timepiece that became more elaborate with each passing year, the gatekeeper that seemed to bring the New Year to the entire country, even those whose clocks were set three hours later, was dropping faster then it should be. By 11:55 it was a mere 25 feet off the ground and at that point it began to swiftly plummet.

At 11:58 the ball hit the ground. Actually, "hit" is not the appropriate word at all. The sphere exploded with a flash of light and smoke that made those within miles of it believe that the end of the world really had come. But once the smoke cleared enough to reveal the figure in the midst of it all, we knew that somehow mankind had gotten a repreive, for He had returned. He looked younger than we remembered him, but then he had always looked too young for his age. Perhaps that, too, had been some minorly miraculous manifestation of his powers.

As he stepped out into the streaming spotlights which had been surveying the area, trying to make some sense of the choas, the man we had known as Dick Clark raised his fist to the sky and shouted "Father! I will not let you do this! I will not let you destroy all of these wonderful people because of your own petty feelings of rejection! Meet me! Now!"

January 1st
Today

It was quickly established that the battle between the two would be televised on pay-per-view and would be hosted by Oprah Winfrey and Geraldo Rivera. The all-news networks and even the non-news ones had gone "wall-to-wall" with coverage, bringing in everyone from theological experts to Las Vegas oddsmakers in an attempt to gain viewers and try to get a leg up on the competition. Even now, moments before the actual battle is scheduled to begin, they are making their analyses and predictions. Of course, the grand atmosphere surrounding the fight has been tainted slightly. In someways it seems like whatever the outcome it will be somewhat anti-climactic and only a prelude. After all, now that Rush Limbaugh has revealed that he really IS the
devil incarnate...

The Last Three Days

To: stallingsds@tennessee.gov
From: louise.walker@gmail.com
Date: 22 December 2005
Subject: Harrison Anders-personal inquiry

Dear Governor Stallings,

I don't know if you'll remember me, but we met once or twice when I was first married to your high school friend, Harrison Anders. I am writing to request your help because, for the past three days, my husband has gone missing, and I think you might be able to help me find him. Please bear with me while I figure out how to ask-and I feel I should explain how I thought of you so you will understand why I am contacting you, of all people.

Because of the current transit worker strike, I've been hiking back and forth across the Brooklyn Bridge on my way to my studio, moving in unison with the rabble despite the lack of transportation. I usually drive the car into the city, so I don't talk to strangers much, but it's tough to avoid conversation when you're walking side-by-side across the mile-long expanse and huddling together against the cold winter air; luckily, one such conversation helped me understand how to get in touch with you. When I look at the photographs of New Yorkers in the Times, I see that, during these early morning treks, even our breath combines to form one great, big fog above the bridge. It is this fog and that exchange with a fellow foot-traveler that led me to you, something I will explain more about in a moment. First, let me tell you about Harrison.

About three months ago, Harrison lost his job as a corporate attorney in unexpected layoffs that happened when his company was bought out by a much larger corporation. Since then, he has spiraled down into a fit of depression the likes of which I have never seen. At first, he tried to be positive, spending hours on the phone to old friends and business associates to see if he could land even a temporary gig. He sent out resumes around the country once his NYC contacts were exhausted. But as the weeks wore on without success, he became more despondent and quit showering or brushing his teeth, causing a horrific body odor and halitosis of the first order. He dropped into a malaise, a stupor the likes of which I have never seen. I have to tell you that this train of events leading to his transmogrification was especially troubling, given that Harrison is a man who prides himself on being urbane, diligent, and organized and has nearly flawless personal hygiene, character traits you will probably recall from your days in boarding school with him. I tell you all of this, so you will understand the magnitude of the problem he is dealing with at this time.

As you might imagine, I began to worry. I tried to talk with him about the situation-his and ours. I offered my wifely support, but he clearly felt emasculated. I think it was especially irksome to him that my career as a conceptual artist had begun to take off as his hit the wall. I have been having an exceptionally good 2005-shows in Hamburg, Oslo, and Copenhagen; lectures at Harvard and UCLA; and upcoming one-woman show at the Whitney. I am, finally, after all these years of struggle as a woman in a man's field, making a decent living, so, if there was any “good” time for Harrison to lose his job, this was it. But he could not take it and eventually stopped talking to me altogether. Then, three days ago, he took the car keys and walked out the door wearing only sweatpants, a grease-stained t-shirt, some nasty tennis shoes, and the scarf his younger sister sent him for his birthday (he turned 40 on December 1, in case you've forgotten). He did not take his wallet or a coat or anything else, as far as I can tell. And has not returned since.

So I have been trudging across the damned bridge for the last three days, racking my brain for scraps of information about where Harrison might be even as I exchange pleasantries with my fellow New Yorkers. I have called every number in his palm pilot, sent out emails to everyone in his address book, talked to our friends here and family down South, and I have had no luck. But, as I was looking at the fog of breath rising above my head this morning during my hike, I thought of his mention to me, early in our marriage, that, if anything ever happened to him, I was to call you because you would know what to do. I remembered him saying that you two made a pact while at school in Sewanee on one of those pea-soup winter nights when you'd snuck out of the dorm to smoke cigarettes, but I had no idea how to contact you. (To be truthful, I had no idea you'd just been elected governor in Tennessee; I guess the world is smaller for New Yorkers than we'd like to admit.)

Then, a fellow with whom I was walking on the bridge mentioned that he was from Tennessee and that, if the transit strike had happened in Nashville, the new governor, Samuel Smythe Stallings, would take control of the situation instead of letting the city work it out. Of course, the man's statement made no sense because Nashville has virtually no significant public transportation system despite its size; however, I was grateful for his comment when it occurred to me that not many people have a name such as yours and that you must be the governor. After that, it wasn't difficult to track down your contact information. Frankly, I was relieved to have found a new avenue through which I might find Harrison.

Samuel, I don't know if you remember the pact or will know how to help me find Harrison, but I hope you will respond to this email to let me know if you have any ideas about his whereabouts. Even though I feel sure he's alive somewhere because he's pretty resourceful, I am worried sick about him (more than I can express in words since I currently feel as if I have been sedated by a bromide). I truly am desperate for your help-please help me end the tremendous sadness I have felt for the last three days. My contact information follows the signature line.

Sincerely,
Louise Walker Anders