obélisque, page 424 by jmforceton

Note from Ingrid: Always a delight, jmforceton has graced us with a bonus piece this week! Enjoy! (And writers, please know that I’m thrilled if you are inspired. 🙂 Please do feel free to add bonus pieces any time.)
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The last page of Alfred Jameson’s novel ‘Obélisque’

Published in December of 2003

Obélisque Page 424

World famous, author, smuggler, bank robber, kidnaper, murderer, and bon vivant, Jacques Marat, is flying down Rue Royale in his Aston Martin DB7 approaching the Place de la Concorde. He feels an impact to the back of his seat as his rear window explodes, shattered by a high velocity armor-piecing bullet fired by a police sharpshooter on the roof of the Madeleine; glass shards cut his neck and fly into the windshield, accumulating on the dashboard. Two police cars enter from opposite side streets just behind him as he swerves to avoid a single police car straddling half of the street in front of him. His plan is to get through the Place and crash his car on the Champs Elysée, then escape on foot in the confusion. Suddenly, no barking, he thinks for an instant, remembers his pet poodle Andre in the backseat; as he enters the Place, another police car attempts to ram him and he swerves again, this time against the one-way traffic now in front of the Hotel Crillon going the wrong way. Immediately he sees the low-slung spaceship-like Peugeot directly in his path as the Aston Martin is launched over the top of the Peugeot, flips twice and crashes into the base of the Obélisque.

In the loaned Peugeot 4002 concept car, a tired Mary Mayville, thinking about dinner plans for the children, is crossing the Pont de la Concorde over the Seine coming into the Place from the Left Bank, where they have been shooting a television commercial for Peugeot in St. Germain des Pres district most of the day. Everyone is stopping to look at the futuristic, yet retro automobile, waving, pointing, cameras being brought to bear every time she slowed. Ahead, suddenly, sirens and horns, brake lights appear on every car as a Renault police car skids to a stop in traffic and officers jump out; an Aston Martin travelling incredibly fast avoids the police car and turns directly into Mary’s car tearing the roof of the car off, glass shards flying, and grazing Mary’s head with the spinning left front tire. Dozens of people are screaming, many running, some towards her car, some away. The first man to get to her car screams, “My God, she’s dead, she’s dead.”

There is chaos: more horns, from every direction more arriving sirens, screams, crying, cameras, more police cars. As five or six injured pedestrians are screaming in pain near the Obélisque, and next to Mary’s car, people moan and scream from inside another car with its roof destroyed, a man crawls out from under the Aston, and pulling a scarf around his neck, walks slowly into the gathering crowd, stands with everyone watching as police arrive to push the crowd back, then head down, appearing to be crying, casually walks across the street, and into the Gardens.

Link to more closely related episodes   Monolithic &  Number Talk

hello cranton creek by juleshg

“…and to re-cap our top story, actress Marcia Mayville was found dead in her home last night.  She was 28.”

Felicia hit the mute button on the television, grabbed her cordless phone and her fingers began dialling a familiar number before her brain could catch up.  It had been almost ten years since she last called Mike May but at this moment the time and distance seemed irrelevant.  She needed to talk to him and tell him how sorry she was to hear about Marcie.

“Hello?” the voice on the other side of the line sounded strangled and broken.

“Hi.  I hope this isn’t a bad time…  I just heard the news on television and I am in complete shock.  I am so, so sorry.”

“Felicia?  Is it really you?  How long has it been?  It’s gotta be at least ten years.  Are you coming home for the funeral?  It is the day after tomorrow and I know it would mean a lot to Mike to see you there.”

Mean a lot to Mike?  Wait, who was she talking to?  There were only a handful of numbers from Cranton Creek that could be stored in her brain.  Which one had she dialled?  The voice was one from her past and hauntingly familiar but who did it belong to…?

“Have you seen him today?” Felicia asked the man on the line hoping to pick up clues.

“The whole town has seen him.  You know Cranton Creek; people have been cooking up a storm since the news hit.  At last count there were fifteen casseroles and twelve pies in Mrs. May’s freezer and there is no sign that the deliveries will stop anytime soon.  There has been a steady stream of people in and out of that house all day,” the man on the line said with a chuckle.

“Sounds like nothing back home has changed.”

“Everything’s changed,” the voice said and Fiona was struck by the anger and remorse.

“Are you OK?”  Felicia still had not zeroed in on the man’s identity but it did not take a psychic to know he was hurting.

“I feel like I have just been punched in the gut. I haven’t cried since I was a kid but I have broken down about a dozen times since yesterday.”

“I know that feeling.”

“It is like I am going through the motions, you know?” he continued.  “I have been with Mike almost 24/7 since he heard and we drove back together yesterday.”

Felicia’s mind began to review a revised list of possibilities:  males around Mike’s age who had escaped Cranton Creek.  It narrowed the field considerably.

“We turned off the radio during the drive trying to avoid the radio reports.  The speculations are rumours are making me sick,” the man said with a bite in his tone.

“I totally understand.   I was watching the news re-cap and during the full three minutes of footage there was not one second where they showed the real Marcie,” Felicia agreed.  It did not matter who was on the telephone line, anyone in Cranton Creek was sure to feel the same.  “They showed her playing a druggie in a movie, they showed her playing a university student on television and that  horrible clip of her walking into rehab but not a second of that report showed her being Marcie.”

“I loved her you know,” the voice said quietly.  “After all of these years, I don’t know why I am telling you this but it’s true.  I have loved her since she was six years old.  It doesn’t matter that she never loved me back.”

“I know Quinn,” Felicia said quietly.  The confession was the only clue she ever would have needed.  Everyone knew that Quinn loved Marcie.   It was the worst-kept secret in Cranton Creek.  “I’ll catch a flight tomorrow. I promise.”

We first met Quinn last week in Troika.
Marcia Mayville made her first appearance in The Dailies.

troika by juleshg

Mike squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists.  He felt his cell phone drop out of his hand as his entire body began to shake.

“Mike, you OK man?”  Quinn looked up from his laptop but Mike stayed silent.  He looked over at his friend as if trying to respond but even as he tried to will his mouth to speak the words did not come.

“Mike…”  Quinn stood up slowly and took a cautious step towards forward.  “What is it man?  What did they say?”

“It’s Marcie…” he lowered himself down into a nearby chair and let his head fall into his hands.

Quinn closed his laptop and went to the kitchen to get some water.  As he filled the glass he felt helpless and confused.  Getting a glass of water in a situation like this was something his mother would do and in the absence of another strategy it seemed like a logical step.

He brought the glass into the living room, laid it down on the table beside Mike and sat down on the coffee table facing his oldest friend.  They had been inseparable since they were five years old and there was nothing Mike could say that would shock him or drive him away.

“What did she do this time?  Shit, is she in rehab again?  That fuckin’ industry is killing her.”  As he thought about the last few years he felt the anger rise in his belly.

Marcie Mae was Mike’s twin.  As an only child Quinn was often jealous of that bond that his best friend shared with his sister but the pair had always included him in their schemes.  Almost every fond memory from Quinn’s childhood involved the three of them riding around their small town on bicycles or tearing around the backwoods playing explorer.  Marcie always dreamed of finding something bigger… something more.

When she turned eighteen she picked up and left in order to follow her dreams.  Everyone in town seemed shocked but Mike and Quinn had seen it coming for years.  And now, little Marcie Mae had made good on her dreams:  she was a star with all of the fame and the heartache that came with it.

Mike had always been proud of her.  Hell, he and Quinn sat in the front row for every community theatre production and they took it upon themselves so start the standing ovation each time Marcie had a curtain call.  They collected movie posters, magazine articles and memorabilia from each of her shows but Quinn also knew that Mike had lost countless hours of sleep worrying about his other half.  First it was the drinking, then the disastrous relationship with the rock star and finally the stint in rehab.

Mike and Quinn had been hopeful at first and travelled to L.A. to greet her when she was released from the thirty-day program.  She looked like herself again and Quinn could not decide if he was happier to see her or the look of joy and relief that had returned to his best friend’s face.  On her first day home they rented a car and the three of them drove around Hollywood following a beat-up map of the stars’ homes.  For a few hours Quinn felt like a kid playing explorer again with his two best friends.

“Mike… talk to me man.  What happened?”

“She’s dead…”  Mike’s voice was so quiet Quinn barely heard the words.  He wanted to ask him to repeat it but he knew that uttering it even once had ripped his heart out.

“She tripped and hit her head.  My mom wanted to tell me before we heard it on the news.”

Quinn felt the air leave his lungs but could not summon the strength to draw in another breathe.  For a moment the world stood still.

Mike stood up suddenly and turned on the television before Quinn could stop him.  As the screen flickered a picture of Marcie Mae filled the screen.  Quinn tried to grab the remote from his hand but Mike jerked away transfixed by the image and the caption.  “Marcia Mayville:  Dead at 28 years of age”

We first met Marcie Mae/Marcia Mayville in The Dailies

mary mayville, obélisque, page 364 by jmforceton

Mary was on the corner of Royale elegantly dressed in silk blouse, tan riding pants, and boots, as required for this scene. She was about a hundred yards from the obelisk when she sensed someone watching her. It made her feel very uncomfortable, and she wasn’t about to put up with it. The presence didn’t feel evil, but perhaps, unscrupulous, crass. She stepped to the side of the sidewalk, then turned and looked down, as though she had dropped something. It was an unscripted move. She lifted her head and slowly focused on everyone near her one at a time, nothing. She patiently rummaged in her bag, found a pack of cigarettes, and took one out. She lit it slowly. She continued to look, now at those people in the distance around the plaza, and with more brazenness as she lifted her chin, daring someone to show themselves. Everything looked very normal, just another busy but beautiful April day in Paris.

There was no particular story development for another five or six pages, so what could this be about. She knew the car crash would not be for another sixty pages; the current scene she was in was on page 364. There were side notes about the accident hand written in the margin, however. She just had a strong sense, no, it was more than that, it was a presence, and it seemed to come from the left side of her brain, and up? She thought, “Very odd, really,” again unscripted. She looked up and watched six white swans flying overhead and then saw a 747. Sidetracked for a second, the aviatrix smiled and thought, “Looks like a 747-400 Extended Range. Probably headed for New York or Boston.”

Scanning the crowd one last time, she threw down the cigarette and started walking. “One thing I know, this time it’s not Alfred.”

*   *   *   *

They finished the scan of page 364.

“How much longer is this going to take? I really doubt this guy tried to hide anything in microdot format or special inks. I told you guys when I grabbed the book; the only new information is in the side notes. He did some fairly serious research.”

“That’s easy for you to say, now leave me alone. Go get something to eat. I saw a fresh roll of john ham in stall three.”

“Very funny, how many times you use that line today?”

“Look, just get lost. It’s my freaking job on the line if we miss anything, and I need to get this done. My wife will crucify me if I’m late for my kid’s last soccer game tonight.”

Link to earlier episodes

mary mayville; nobody made me who i am by jmforceton

Mary Mayville; Nobody Made Me Who I Am

“I’d like to dispel a few myths about death. The first being that it is not the end. Not that I am any great expert. I’ve only been dead a week. Let me explain it to you. The story begins now.”

“He says he is nobody, and again he is not. He is sometimes concerned that nobody cares. I think, not, why?”

“He is certain that nobody killed me. Not knowing? Not caring? I think, of course not, why? No, I know, he killed me. Was it necessary? Was it sufficient? Is nobody sorry? Would he do it again? Would he do it the same way? Would he have someone else do it? Is having 6 children a crime? That was not, and never my idea in the first place.”

“I keep asking him these questions, but still I’m dead. He keeps telling me, ‘You are dead. It is the end’. Again, I think why, not?”

     “It’s true. I saw the gentleman do some things nobody should have done, but many other things disturbed me. I tried to stop him many times. Sometimes I did. Sometimes I did, not. Sometimes, I don’t think he really knew who I was. There were times when nobody loved me, and, other times, he would let me do things, nobody really would like to have done. I played so many parts, whatever the script demanded. I was an actor, yet nobody knew who I truly was. No matter what the part, nobody knew when it was an act not created for me”

“The best fiends I had watched him do it. My children, my family, my friends, nobody has given them a second thought. Nobody knows they will always exist.”

“I think he did it so that people would remember nobody. It was always about him.”

Regardless, let me get back to my last story, my original statement here, although I know deep in my heart that nobody really cares.”

“I know some who have been dead over 3300 years.”

“Take pharaoh Ramesses II, his story is on the Obélisque here 50 feet from where, not, nobody, yes Alfred, arranged my death in ‘04 on page 424.”

“With certainty his story is on the twin Obélisque in Luxor, Egypt, known as Thebes in his day.”

“And on the cousin Obélisque in London, and the one in Central Park in New York City.”

“So here is my final thought. Hopefully you care. Nobody can be so cold.”
“What is death anyway? What is myth? Not, what is, the end, indeed? Such negativity, and, triply so, the story must go on.”

“Nobody thinks. You think. Therefore I am. That’s all I have to say. I hope it’s clear. And one last thing, I am just a part of nobody, and now a part of you.”

(The answer to the riddle to be posted here on Monday, if it’s not already known to everyone.)

Link to related characters

the dailies by juleshg

I’d like to dispel a few myths about death.  The first being that it is not the end. Not that I am any great expert. I’ve only been dead a week and I am not yet sure where I am.  I seem to be in a holding pattern waiting to move to the next phase but I am not scared.  Rather I feel a sense of excitement like I am waiting to embark on a huge adventure.

Last week when my head hit the cold, hard cement I knew immediately that my time on earth was over.  A tremendous explosion rocked me to my very core and suddenly I was free of my body, able to witness the action like a movie-goer watching a scene from my latest movie. 

When my agent arrived an hour later to find my empty corpse floating in the swimming pool chaos ensued.  Firefighters and ambulance attendants pulled me from the water trying to breathe life back into my lungs.  My loyal assistant sat on the ground huddled in a ball and sobbing quietly, ignored by the photographers snapping photos over the fence and by my agent who was cursing his cell phone battery for dying on the most important day of his career.

With my body empty and nothing left to see my spirit simply floated away and a week later I am still here – hovering in the in-between.  

I can still see glimpses of what I have left behind.  The director who never returned my telephone calls started working the talk-show circuit telling the world that he was devastated by my passing – by a career cut short and talent never realized.  The man who walked out on me and broke my heart now cries crocodile tears for the cameras bemoaning the love he has lost.   Magazines that criticized me as a hack with no fashion sense now feature my face on their front covers trying to capitalize on my death to garner subscriptions.  Celebrity bloggers wait with baited-breath for news of a failed tox-screen to titillate their followers.  

 In life I was an up-and-coming character actress.  In death I am a full-blown super-star.  Tripping on a pool noodle and cracking my skull was the best thing that ever happened to my career.

Before the accident I was known in the industry for being a serious actress.  I arrived early on days when I was filming and I always knew my lines when I showed up on set.  I never missed a screening of the “dailies” when the director the reviewed raw footage shot the day before to see where changes could be made.  I was a rarity but I learned a lot from the shots of other actors who shared my scenes trying to understand their reactions to my lines, the development of supporting characters in the same plot.

It is ironic that the after-life I now enjoy is much like the dailies.  As I wait to see where my spirit will end up I review scenes from the present and my past.  I can observe how other characters in my life have been affected by my actions and choices.

I have not been allowed to choose the reels I have been shown – rather they pop up in front of me at random.  I have been able to watch the images of my parents cry tears of joy when I came into the world 28 years ago juxtaposed with my mother’s sorrow when she was told of my passing.   I have seen my father’s worry as the Hollywood-machine cast his baby girl as a down-and-out drug addict and his pride when the industry recognized me with an award for that same role.  I have been thrilled to see the joy I brought my family as they celebrated my accomplishments and I have cringed to see their shame when the media blasted photos of a drunken fight with my ex on an L.A. street corner. 

I always expected that my life would flash before my eyes as I travelled from one world to the other.  What has surprised me is that I am not the star of that production: the truly compelling parts were the reactions to my drama.

jimmy’s world by jmforceton

James Edward Farrington – Central Afghanistan June 6, 2004

In the dusty early morning air, mountains rising to the north and south, they were waiting for elements of the 22^nd Marine Expeditionary unit to form up around them after two days in this remote village. Jimmy was at the wheel, and they were relaxing, M16 assault rifles at their sides, a Milky Way wrapper on the seat. Jimmy, a lance corporal, and his platoon leader, Jack Dennison, were in the front seat of Light Horse 1-1, a battle ready, 6.2 liter, V8, diesel Humvee with machine gun mount and anti-tank missiles.

Jack had his eye on two robed Afghan men walking through the assembling convoy, at the same time, swatting at a horse fly that had flown in, past his head. “Jimmy my man, that was a hell of a firefight we up’n walked into night before last. Haven’t seen that much ordinance thrown around, that up close and personal, since I got here.”

“Yea, I was thinking about that last night. Those three Taliban guys must have known they had no chance, but, instead of giving up, they decide to die.” He shoke his head and swatted at another fly that had come in his window. “Shit really hit the fan. One minute I’m driving up behind them, looking like they were strolling into the hills, maybe heading home. Next thing, they’re running hard. I knew we had a problem, even before they turned on us and pulled those damned AK-47’s out of nowhere. By the time that helo got here, my M16 was empty, and all I had left was my 9 mm Beretta and my last grenade. Man, did that come down fast? I mean real fast. That trench they dove into couldn’t have been more than 15 yards in front of us.”

“I know one of your grenades got one of’em. Nice arm by the way. I must’a put fifty rounds into the trench myself, before the Huey’s door gunner finished it. Must’a been, minimum, a hundred round sustained burst. Pure hell fire. That bird must’a been on the other side of the hill when they heard we had contact.” Jack opened his canteen and drank some water. In their rearview they saw that another Humvee was getting in position behind them. “Alrighty then, ’nough shop talk; I was goin’ to ask you, how was that leave I hear you were on in Paris? Joey tells me you were goin’ to meet that gal you met in Berlin?”

Jimmy put the transmission in gear, and black smoke poured out of the dual exhausts as the formation slowly left the village on a dirt road. “Yea, Lisa, I did spend time with her there, but you know it got complicated. She’s smart, beautiful; in Berlin, I thought she was the one. Then out of nowhere, first day in Paris, my cab crashes into some tourists, I meet another girl, Amy, standing in the middle of traffic, and now things are, like I said, complicated. Funny thing is, it’s like Lisa knew before I did. Something changed with her, and here we were – springtime in Paris. I think I was more at home in that dust up. At least I knew what to do. So then…”

“Affirmative to that. Well Toto, you ain’t in Paris anymore. Know what’chu mean though, back home I had three gals, same time, once. Tell you what, I’d rather be caught naked in a minefield. Come to think of it, that’s prity much what happened.” Jack was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “By the time it was over I couldn’t get a date anywhere for 20 miles.”

Jimmy smiled, “You Texans are a piece of work.” Still thinking about Lisa, he gave the Humvee gas as they climbed a short hill. “One night we had dinner. I was decked out, and she was in this red gown. I’m talking spectacular. We had great food, violins, great conversation, but she just wasn’t really there like she was in Berlin.” Downshifting into second, “Another day, we took a bus out to the palace at Versailles. She liked it, but, even more, she loved Marie Antoinette’s hamlet in the garden. Picture a small French country farm and cottage, flowers blooming everywhere, and then you walk in and it’s furnished like a palace. They say no one, including the King, visited without an invitation. She loved the story and everything about the place. Then, next thing I know she’s tearing up? On the bus back she handed me the pamphlet she’d picked up, and there’s the rest of the story. Marie went to the guillotine on the spot where the Obelisk is, in front of her hotel, back in Paris.” They were both quiet for a moment.

 “Anyway, by the end of the week we were getting along fine, but I’m thinking there must be another guy. I think…”

“She find out about this gal, Amy?”

Jimmy decided to change the subject. The convoy had picked up speed now, and the dust was thick enough to taste, the temperature already 80 degrees. “That’s another story. So tell me, where is home for you anyway? I don’t remember you saying.” The truck hit a large pothole.

”Born and bread in Amarillo, Texas. How ‘bout you?”

“Actually born in Egypt, town called Luxor, my mother was a nurse in the hospital there. I…”

“Egypt, I never known anybody born there.”

“Yea, My father was a grad student visiting the Valley of Kings, you know the Sphinx and that stuff, and broke his leg one day. Luxor is close by on the other side of the Nile River, so they met in the emergency room. Long story short, I grew up in Gloucester, Massachusetts, north of Boston.”

Jimmy was on the brakes, downshifting again as they slowed for foot traffic.

“Spend much time there? Egypt, I mean.”

Jimmy realized he’d made a mistake. He really didn’t need to talk about that right now. He’d only met Jack a few days ago. He loved his mom, and, for him, it was only natural that her side of the family was Muslim. It made his situation in Afghanistan a lot more personal.

Fortunately the radio crackled, “Light Horse 1-1 this is Light Horse 1-6 we have possible contact 8 clicks north of your position.”

Jack answered immediately, “Copy Light Horse 1-6, Light Horse 1-1 ETA 2 minutes.” Jimmy had the Humvee up to 50 as they topped the hill, excited and trying to be ready for anything. The candy wrapper flew out the window.

Link to Related Characters