Not always as they seem...

In the works..I'm not sure I like this one, so I might redo it. Have an opinion? Let me know, I'd love to hear it!

Inspired by:
Old Software Re-imagined by PHerbert


Walking from the sunny sidewalks into the alley way, it took a few seconds for Mark's eyes to adjust, but it didn't matter, he knew exactly where he was going. About seventeen feet in, past the dumpster and the old car there was a dark hollow in the side of the old Caberet Hotel. A dark hole just wide enough for a man and not quite as tall. Waiting just beyond the alley view, a heavy steel door guarded the unknown. Mark knocked four times on the solid black door and stood just to the side as it squeaked open.
"Good evening Mr. Castro, sir. It's a pleasure to have you back in town."
"Yes. Are they here?"
"Upstairs, sir."
"Good"
Mark stalked around the corner with an air of ownership, not bothering to remove his designer sunglasses. The elevator was lit only with a bare bulb, dangling from the car ceiling. Mark strode in and turned around. Centering his weight as he looked straight ahead, Mark tapped the last button in the elevator-Penthouse. The folding frame doors closed noisily as the service elevator began to rise, faster than most do. Mark liked things fast.
On the streets, Mark was Sir Castro, a tycoon of sorts. He owned New York in a way much more powerful than any stupid piece of paper could enable. He owned the people. They came to him, begging sometimes. He was never one to turn away a street boy, simply because he didn't have to. Mark rarely had to worry about enforcing his position as boss. He gave directions, and everybody followed. No questions. No problems. Everyone knew that if they ever were to mess up, the large man they called "sir" would see to it they never spoke again. Or, at least, everyone felt that way. Mark had never had to do anything of the sort, but he knew the intimidation helped his employees. Whenever he heard a rumor about his own temper; Mark would simply look straight at the speaker through his black shades, smiling through his dark lips to expose the gold caps. The speaker usually shut up pretty fast.
Stepping out into a dark hallway, Mark gave a swift hand motion and another man came out of the shadows.
"Clear them out. All of them. I want it empty tonight."
"Yes, my lord, exactly as you desire." The man answered with a devilish grin that said he knew what Mark was after. Or at least he thought he knew. A few scroungy looking twenty-somethings slinked out of the door down the hallway. That door hid the apartment where his people stayed. Not that any of them ever needed to. In the few weeks since Mark had been in the city, he had realized that all of the black men in his corner of town had two "places". One was for the girls. the other was simply a meeting house, a place for them to gather, to do their work. Or feel as though they were. These rooms were the latter kind. No one ever slept there, but sometimes they would stay late into the early morning. Talking, mostly.
His suite did not open into theirs, but he knew that when he was around, they expected a certain atmosphere, and he was not ready to keep up the dangerous pretense tonight. He needed his world to be empty.
"Tell Martin he can go home."
"Yes sir."
"You too."
"Yes, sir"
Completely empty. When the hallway was dark once more, Mark strode to the door on the other end. He stood for a moment in front of the door. Producing a key from his pocket, Mark opened the heavy door and stepped inside. Closing it behind him, he leaned against the frame and sighed. Glad to have this night alone, he was quick to remove his glasses and jacket.
He walked to the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk, then sat on the couch in front of the computer and opened his email. Mark's story was not what they thought it was. Mark was, as they knew, the son of Tyronne Castro, lord of the Cuban drug rings. It was Tyronne who owned people. They did everything for him. Mark's father had once lived in this New York suite. People had made it available to him. He had created a following. A scandal, a circle, a web of people. All working for the name of Tyronne Castro. Most of them had never met Tyronne. A few of them had now met Mark.
Mark was not a drug dealer. He never had been into that. When he was little, his dad was never around. He knew what he did, everyone did. But Tyronne never came home to visit. Somehow, he was always there anyway. When Mark was 19, his father had shipped him out to New York, to take care of business. But Mark knew what his father was, and he knew what he didn't want to become. When Mark arrived in New York, he cleaned out the suite, stripping it down to the bare, clean lines that existed long before Tyronne filled it with his garbage. Under a new name, Mark applied for school and was working in the subway. Not that he needed the money. The money came from everywhere.
Mark didn't take the money. He kept it in bunches around the apartment, to keep up his look. He sent thousands home to his father, once a month or so. He needed to wait only a few more months. Until he could get his feet really under himself. Then, he would go missing. Not from the city, but from his father's life. He was making arrangements now, to make his father think he was fine for a while, but it would not be him sending home the checks.
He had the power to do it too, he could do anything. He knew that. Tyronne knew that. Tyronne had made that. But Tyronne's version of "anything" was not the same as Mark's. Mark wanted the good 'anything'. Tyronne wanted the fun. Mark would use Tyronne's 'anything' to protect him from his father's anger, when he found out that Mark was no longer leading his rings. But that would be a few years. Mark had a few years. To live his life before he could forget the past. And he would.
Mark walked to the bank of windows, leaning against the metal frames and looking out into the city. His city. New York. Soon he would be free, and never have to look through these cursed windows again.
He was Tyronne Castro's son. But he was not Mark Castro. Not as he seemed. Soon, not at all. Soon, he would be someone else. Someone new and free and right. Someone ready to do things. He was that someone now. Just not to the others. He must remain not as he seemed, in order to survive. 'But this is alright', he thought to himself. 'Everyone has a mask. It's just time I take mine off'. Almost.

Metamorphosis...

This is another one of those "collection of moments" songs. I will try my best to do this one justice, but its a sensitive subject in a way. Don't take it too seriously.

Metamorphic by PHerbert

Running through the dark; sprinting, tripping. Breathing: hard and fast, loud-too loud. Heartbeat, silent and yet louder than anything. (.01) Filling the space between ragged, frantic breaths-there is the pounding of the heart. Running, but towards what? The light, of course. (.18) And then you're over it. That magical line that separates the living and the dead. You've crossed it and you can't go back. (.23) At first it's cold and bright. So bright, you can't see anything. Lying on your back, you lean up on one arm and shield your still-human eyes with the other. It is so blindingly white. You see people, but not the people you thought you knew. (.35) More people now, but not many seem to notice you lying there on the ground, bewildered and empty. You stand and take a step. In any direction, you just hope it is the right one. (.57) Suddenly, you hear your name. Again and again it sounds. The voice is happy, almost relieved....and familiar. (1.14) You look up into the face you love, the face you haven't seen in such a long while. You are surrounded by family now and you know that it is all ok. Better than ok. (1.30) That thing that men call death? It is merely genesis. And, looking down fondly into that world you once held as the only thing you had, (1.34) you know you have begun.

All aboard the CloudTown Express!

Have you ever been on one of those tour buses? Where an overly excited, underpaid tour guide drives you around the city spouting off random facts and bad jokes as you taste the finest scenes offered? Well, I haven't either, but if I ever were to be a driver on one of those notoriously over-priced buses, this is the song I would have playing much too loudly over the scratchy intercom system.

Welcome to the great city of Cumulus, would you like a tour?


Geometri by Geocranium


Hey there you look like a mighty fine group; would ya like to take a tour of this fine city here? Of course you would! Step right up and get comfortable I really recommend the upstairs for your ride today it's excellent weather today in Cumulus and you wouldn't want to miss that!
You smile a sneaky grin at the tour guide, a man in his late twenties who needs a shave. He smiles back as you take his advice, climbing to the top of the stairs and taking a seat on a red vinyl bench. You drop your backpack on the floor between your shoes and wait just a few minutes as the bus fills up. What an interesting time for a bus tour, who wants to be up at 7:00 on vacation anyway? Well, I guess I do, because here I am. The bus growls to a start and the tour guide turns to face the passengers as they begin the noisy trip through the city. Pulling away from the curb on the outskirts of Cumulus, one can hear a buzz that can only be the stirrings of a city as it awakes to a new day. (.07)

Now right here folks is what we call the market section of town. We got all kinds of shops in here makin' e'erything from breakfast to y'er clothin to the bus we'a ridin' on! Now it may be early f'er you folk bein' on a holiday and all, but we here in Cumulus are up before the sun and there is a lots to be goin' on today! (.12) The city was indeed waking up to a beautiful day and every cloud person seemed to know it, bouncing around the street corners with a lightness that just didn't seem right for being headed to work. (.24)
We're now a drivin' through the governmental section of this town and right here on the right hand side would be the capital. Beautiful white buildin' ain't it? Smartly dressed cloudsmen were hurrying up the stone steps into the adjacent courthouse, their shoes clicking on the white marble as the bus roars on through the streets. (.31) This right here be our town sanctuary, the Cirrus Circle; anda many of our cloudsmen worship here. We'a mighty proud of this building. Itsa been right here on this hill for over a million years and it has the most beautiful of all the gardens in Cumulus. (.41) A few of the city's citizens were slowly climbing the long walkway to the sanctuary, some carrying bundles or boxes. An older cloudsman stood solemnly at the circular entrance, his head bowed to show off a pure white head of thin hair.
On ya left hand side yu'll see a group of our finest workers startin to put up the latest of the cloudhouses on this here new neighborhood of White Bluffs. (1.05) This is Stratus Square, where all the most important of the cloudcompanies have their offices. Some of these buildings reach into the jet stream! And as we roll on by towards the farmin area we can see that the markets here are abustlin. Just look at all that green stuff yuh can buy! (1.23) This here is Cumulonimbus College, our very own university and we'a mighty proud of our graduates, Go Foggers!" (1.55) Thank yuh for takin this tour of Cumulous City, we hope you had a sun shinning good time, come back now, ya hear?

the GOOD ol' ragTIMEs

This "bit" really is a "bit", rather than a story. To me, Ragtime perfectly captures a moment; one that is actually a collection of glimpses into an experience that we have all, at least in part, enjoyed. 

Good Ol' Ragtime by Geocranium


The sun has set and all around you, bright lights call your eyes while your nose traces scents of the sweet and salty from all over the boardwalk. The Ferris wheel lights up the sky and somewhere under the sycamore tree, a barbershop quartet serenades the fireflies and people passing by. From close by, you hear a young woman's squeal above the laughter and voices and music. Children race each other to the best ride or the game with the biggest prizes, cotton candy and admission tickets trailing behind. You look down at your own eleven year old hand to see the happy fingers of the cutest ten year old girl on the block around yours, and for one noisy, sticky moment, it feels like the summer will never end. 

Clocks and Volcanoes

This next one has a bit of a story with the name. Often times I download the songs to my mp3 player where I listen to them for a while before I decide I want to write about them. The download track name is not always the same as the given name on the website, which is what I assume the artist would rather have their piece be called. The download name, the name by which I knew this track, was "clock", so keeping that in mind, I titled this little story bit "Clocks and Volcanoes". It turns out that Gooseworx named this track "Stuck In Time", and it is actually part of  a set designed for a video game. Oops..my bad. Oh well, here is "Stuck In Time" and my imaginative (or maybe not so much) interpretation of the music, "Clocks and Volcanoes". Enjoy!


Edaline Iktacide- Stuck in Time by Gooseworx



     "I wonder where they are taking me..", thought little Tommy Gunderson to himself as he stared at the red rocky ceiling far above him. Leaning back in his woven throne, Tommy swayed slightly to the beat of a tribal drum somewhere far away inside the cavern. (.12)
     How Tommy got there, he didn't know. All he could remember was peering through the lush tree tops, gunny sac in hand as his torn and dirty shorts hugged the rough trunk. He remembered reaching for a piece of fruit just beyond his grasp when a sudden quiet whistle flew past his arm. He remembered the slight sting in his shoulder and he remembered turning his head to see the feathered dart stuck in his deltoid, where a tiny drop of blood oozed out.
     What Tommy didn't remember was falling from the tree. or the virtually silent approach of several short and deeply tanned men. He didn't remember being put into the chair or decorated with a feather headband and bracelets, (.31) but boy was he paying attention now!
    Six of the tiny men carried his roughly hewn chair along a smooth stone pathway and he could see over their brown heads the seemingly endless lines of similar men who lined the unimaginably long path to somewhere. Just beyond the wall of little creatures, the stone (.40) seemed to drop off a few feet. Tommy couldn't see what was down there, for the torchlight did little for his vision. (.47) Tommy could, however, hear the ominously thick bubbling noise and feel the intense heat that made his brow drip with sweat. He could smell the sulfur, and though he didn't know what sulfur was, he knew it smelled bad. Bad enough for the little boy's imagination to take over and compile every adventure story he had ever read into one gruesome, but true, picture. He knew enough to be anxious about what was surely a bubbling vat of molten lava just a few feet from his floating throne, creeping up on the path inside what must surely be a huge volcanic crater.
     Boom Boom Boom Boom (1.06) went the drum from somewhere a bit closer than before. His chair swayed from side to side as the little men walked with the beat. It was getting lighter and the heat more intense, and he began to make out the outlines of a group of people some distance away. Wood smoke filled his nostrils and he shuddered as his imagination quickly conjured up a few hundred ways to torture a captive by fire, all of which ended in a feast for those remaining. He hoped desperately that he would be one of the ones eating rather than the one...gulp...being eaten.
     Sitting back in his chair, he took a few breaths (1.22). They were nearing the circle now, and where simple curiosity had started, his apprehension was quickly growing into fear. Tommy whispered loudly to the man on his left, "Um, excuse me, where are we going?" The man turned his painted face and grinned with maniacal laughter as his large black eyes looked straight into Tommy's terrified face. (1.43)
     Closer and closer now, Tommy's breathing grew rapid as the large fire came into view, surrounded by hundreds of little men marching off smaller paths and into the large inter-volcanic island. Smoke and steam seemed to shoot up from everywhere and just before they (1.52) entered the ring of tribal people and faced his certain impending doom, they took a sharp right turn on an empty and narrow path. The six little men marched Tommy into the darkness of a tunnel, away from the fire, still swaying to the tribal beat. (2.01)