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  1. #1
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    Draft: Murasaki Days

    This story was originally meant to be a keitai shousetsu, but I gave up on that idea and decided to just write a regular novel. Hence why the first few chapters are rather brief and fragmented. I have decided to incorporate some traits of my favorite authors in my desire to write experimentally. I'm planning on it being a magical realist story, a la Haruki Murakami, with some Modernist stream-of-consciousness sections included, a la Joyce, as well as some philosophical themes and dialogue.

    I'll make each chapter a post, if that's ok with all of you. Please let me know what you think. In particular, I'd love suggestions or recommendations for what to do or where to take the story.

    Without further ado, here is Murasaki Days:

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    I:
    I stared out the window and let out a sigh of boredom. Nothing to do today. No customers, no phone calls, nothing. Just the usual menial tasks of cleaning and polishing the items on display.

    I let my eyes wander through the air until I was staring blankly at the clear blue sky....

    Over my head
    go all the dreams
    that one can dream
    when nothing else comes to mind....

    The tree I have to thank
    for protesting the sun
    and battling the breeze.

    Finally! In a gust of wind
    he comes, the smooth-skinned boy
    I longed for. He kisses my neck
    and I melt against his lips and tongue,
    dripping and heavy, into the ground....

    I sink deeper under the currents of lust and love
    filling my lungs, overpowering me,
    so that I can not feel anything
    but the hands roaming my torso
    and the wind against my bare chest....

    At last I feel his kisses bringing me closer....
    I can't make a sound or move a muscle
    as he has me in his grasp....

    I love his kisses, his soft, soft kisses
    raining down on me from two lips
    set in a face of ecstasy....

    The doorbell woke me up from my daydream. I saw someone approaching the counter, where I was supposed to be. I scrambled over from the chair in the back room through the open door to the front desk, which I had neglected to fully tidy up despite having finished everything else.

    I turned around, shut my eyes, and took a couple deep breaths. Hopefully this time I wouldn't embarrass myself in front of the customer. (I have a bit of a history of doing that.)

    "Uh, hello? Could you help me out?"

    I turned back around expecting the ire of the customer. But I couldn't find any hints of ire in this voice. I opened my eyes after a decidedly awkward pause, and faced the customer.

    Holy hell.

    God damn.

    Sweet sister Gertrude was he cute. Jet-black longish curly hair, dark eyes, milky skin--it was all there. Tall and skinny, too. I stood there, taking all of it in.
    A boy has the right to dream. There are endless possibilities stretched out before him....

  2. #2
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    II:
    Before I go on, allow me to properly introduce myself.

    I'm Jean Eustace McCloud-Saint-Barthelemy, but nobody ever calls me that. Nor would I want them to, personally; it's a mouthful. Thankfully, I am called just Jean by about everyone.

    I'm five and a half feet in height, I have reddish hair, and I have bluish eyes. I can't stand warm weather, other people my age, or that culture that is generally referred to as "mainstream." No, I'm not some kind of smug hipster elitist who revels in decrying everything that is popular; I just never took interest in a lot of popular stuff. I'm not into team sports (I prefer exercising alone), and I'm big on science fiction and fantasy. Video games were never a hobby of mine till recently, and I have within me an insatiable bloodlust that can only be propitiated by a long session of Risk.

    If that sounds the least bit eccentric to you, dear Reader, then buckle up because this little story will only get weirder and crazier as it goes on.

    Anywho....back to the tale at hand!

    After yet another awkward pause estimated to have lasted a solid minute, I cleared the nonexistent phlegm in my throat and cautiously asked:

    "Y-yes, I can help you. What d-do you need helping with exactly?"

    The hunk in front of me grinned devilishly and replied:

    "I need a little help with the pain in my heart. It's a pain that only you can cure, honey. Will you be the doctor to my patient? Or will you let me pass away from heartache?"

    Were I endowed with such a capacity you're damn right I would have shot up like a rocket on Chinese New Year's. I felt myself turning red and growing warm. I chuckled nervously, trying to prove I wasn't a mute.

    Then, he did it. He reached over the counter and planted to softest of kisses on my lips.

    In a moment, I was his. I groaned,
    breath caught in my throat,
    his lips sealing off
    any sign of avalanche
    as he claimed me with that kiss.
    I didn't put up a fight.
    This doesn't happen everyday, you know....

    All I could recall after that--
    a cold gust of wind
    blowing through my window....

    My alarm went off:
    7:15 AM
    A boy has the right to dream. There are endless possibilities stretched out before him....

  3. #3
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    III:
    I tumbled out of bed--literally. I rolled to one side and sunk my fist into my alarm clock, then rolled the other way and fell out of bed.

    I groaned and wished I could stay in bed all day, but I remembered I had to work, so by degrees I shifted my way to the bathroom to begin my routine.

    I forced myself into the shower. I didn't have to be at work till eight-thirty, so I figured I could luxuriate for a while. I shut my eyes and let the hot water cover me.

    My thoughts drifted towards that guy I saw in my dreams. It's said that people forget most of their dreams within minutes of waking up, but this guy's face was still crystal clear in my mind's eye. Same jet-black hair, same milky skin, same piercing, roving eyes....I could feel them looking me over, sizing me up, perhaps.

    His lips hovered just above mind, as in my dream. I leaned up to meet them. I felt so close.

    And then I slipped and fell in the shower. My eyes snapped open and I grabbed on to the curtain to keep myself from banging some part of my head on the bottom of the tub. I took a second to stabilize, then finished up my shower as quick as I could before finishing up the rest of my morning routine and starting my walk to the bus station.

    Per my usual poor sleep habits, I started nodding my head on the bus.

    My thoughts kept drifting back to that guy....

    Roving along the beach--
    Two sandpipers
    Tempting the waters.

    Water grabs at my legs
    But you pull me back,
    Holding me, caressing me
    With your warm, soft hands
    And your skin kissed by the sun’s
    Erotic rays
    Drifting down and carried by the wind
    To kiss you and hold you as you kiss and hold me….
    A boy has the right to dream. There are endless possibilities stretched out before him....

  4. #4
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    [Here's where the stream-of-consciousness and suchlike begins.]

    Chapter IV:

    I got off the bus and slid through the front door of the antique store, and slumped into position at the front desk.

    “Jean!”

    I turned to face my employer. Mr Nixon was a good boss, all things considered; he paid me well and didn’t put me in physical danger of any sort. Just made me sit behind the front desk and show customers what we had on sale. He was a short man, shaped rather like a barrel, and very fit for his age (last I checked he was 78.) His hair was always a wild mess of white tufts, and his clothes were always wrinkled, as if ironing to him were some anathema.

    “Yes, Mr Nixon?”

    “You’re late again to work by fifteen minutes!”

    I glanced at the wall clock. It was indeed eight-forty-five. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.” I went through the usual formalities before Mr Nixon went on:

    “What’s the matter, Jean? You’re generally very punctual, but this last week you’ve been slacking. Something wrong?”

    I didn’t respond. Mr Nixon didn’t need to know about my man-centered dreams or my chronic inability to find a man, two things that invariably kept me up or kept me oversleeping.

    “Something wrong in your bowels, perhaps?”

    I shook my head. “It’s a personal issue. Don’t worry about it, sir. I’ll do my best to overcome it.” My usual spiel.

    “Alright,” he responded, and walked back to his office and locked the door behind him.

    I stayed slumped in my position. I predicted another boring day, another boring morning, another boring afternoon, and another boring bus ride back to my boring home, where I would eat dinner and watch whatever boring garbage was on TV, and probably fall asleep in bed with the TV still on. As the hours passed, I went around fulfilling my quotidian regimen of sorting the money in the register, polishing the countertops and the shelves, sweeping up the linoleum floor, and checking the refrigerator in the back room to see if it had anything in it. Upon seeing that it was bare, I made a mental note to get some groceries on my lunch break.

    Time passed at tortoise speed. The store seemed to be clouded over with an intangible force that made people unwilling to enter. What few potential customers appeared only hurried by the door on their way to bigger, better, and more profitable things. And more interesting things, as well, I would presume. It was on days like today that I preferred to sit and ruminate, philosophize in silence about the world, about myself, about others, and a multitude of other things.Most of my life was spent in more pessimistic channels of thought, due in large part to my less-than-stellar family history and the lens which it crafted with which I see the world. I was raised in an Evangelical household but I am no Christian. All the major faiths have some sort of flaw with them. Except for Buddhism, mostly. Buddhism is more of a philosophy than a faith, since it doesn’t require you to pledge blindly your faith to an unseen Creator. Some people have just tacked gods on to it to make it more palatable to the masses over the millennia, but they’re not necessary. Still, I remain atheistic in the simplest sense. I just don’t believe in a god or an afterlife. Hell, I don’t even think that humans have souls, by and large. Some might think of this outlook as cynical, and I am inclined to agree with them, but only in part. I used to be convinced that people were naturally evil and bloodthirsty; but I have gradually accepted that there is an inherent good side to mankind, though man’s mind is filled with a constant struggle between the bestial and the divine, as Sallust puts it.

    (And here I am rambling. I need to stop going off on tangents if I’m going to fully relate this story.)

    Anyway, my day was progressing slowly as usual. I was almost on the verge of falling asleep, so deeply sunken in boredom I was. The only sound was that of the grandfather clock in the corner, each second reverberating as noon slowly drew nearer and nearer.

    The door opened. I raised one eye, then the other, then sat up straight with a puzzled grin on my face.

    It was him: the man from my dreams. The man who had filled my sleep with bliss and made me trip in the shower. Here he was, jet black hair and piercing eyes and everything. And he was coming towards me. He stepped closer and closer, but I remained stock-still, not knowing what to do or how to react. I was frozen with a silly grin on my face that refused to correct itself.

    "Good morning." The words fell effortlessly from his sumptuous lips. "What's up?"

    My mind melted. His voice was how I had heard it in my dreams. Or was I still dreaming? Had this all been but a dream within a dream? Inception? A parallel dimension where by the caprice of the stars which reigned at my nativity I am bound to cross paths with the future love of my life in a lowly antique store? Or just dumb luck? I don't know and I don't care and I don't know how to react in this moment when I'm just staring, simple-minded-like, into his dark eyes, never-ending brooding-pools cascading down into the depths of some divine despair only to rise again on wings of gossamer and moonbeams into an Elysium of Eros and I'm going off on a tangent and I really ought to stop and get back on track but the memory of this scene is making my eyes blush a bit and it's so great and all I can recall is reaching out and almost kissing him except I did and pulled back like a schoolgirl, a blushing schoolgirl and he didn't flinch or slap me or anything and I felt myself turning crimson as he loomed over me like an insurmountable cliff looms over the quivering waves and I counted three heartbeats and three seconds before he kissed me again and I think I passed out with a sigh of "Yestakemei'myours" on my lips.
    A boy has the right to dream. There are endless possibilities stretched out before him....

  5. #5
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    Interlude

    I must apologize for this sudden Joycean departure from conventional narration. I sometimes tend to get caught up in the recollection of the moment and so drift off into a rambling monologue. I ask that you please excuse any further stream-of-consciousness excursions; although, after further reflection, I think it adds a bit to the personal story. However, as I don't wish to belabor you with mindless tangents, I'll try to keep the effluvium of passions to a minimum. This story is already quite fantastical as it is.
    A boy has the right to dream. There are endless possibilities stretched out before him....

  6. #6
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    This is really nice so far. Jean seems like a nice guy, and I like how the story has progressed. Looking forward to reading more!

    https://www.twitch.tv/hippieharris<--My friend's Twitch channel (I'm usually there with other friends)
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