future media darling
18 November 2012 @ 02:28 pm
start: 1 January 2014
end: 28 September 2016

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note: goal not accomplished if less than 70% of the goal was finished, or a singular goal was not accomplished.
Current Mood: energeticenergetic
future media darling
22 August 2014 @ 07:44 pm
The deal with him...no, that wasn't right. The thing about him...the thing about him. There were many things about him. Long skinny arms, tapered fingers and flat nails. Dark pink nipples that sort of matched the flush of his neck (because he never wore a shirt). His neck, hair sticking to it—-that was another thing.

He was tricky, especially when he was drunk. Those tapered fingers reaching for her wrist and those lips...fuck, those lips. Pink like the inside of a dog's ear, pink like her new favourite shirt. Anyway, the thing about him is that she was never sure what he meant by those fingers reaching for her wrist, by those lips pressed against the soft bit of her jaw, back near her ear.

He could fit wherever he was, tucked away like a foldaway bed or hotel ironing boards. His new favourite place was between her and a wall, his knees somehow up against his sternum. He would wrap an arm around those irrational knees, his elbow pressed into her shoulder blade until she turned toward him (clever ruse). So there was no doubt as to their proximity, he would crane his neck towards her, his lips hovering near her ear. She always felt warm, heat creeping up her neck, like there was a fire deep in her belly and he was stoking the flames.

He spoke in short, declarative statements when he was plastered.

"Your voice is magic."

"You smell good."

"It's hot in here."

"Come back to my flat."

It was difficult to figure out which one he meant, so she just nodded, maybe shrugged. She was used to her awkwardness, but he threw it in sharp relief, like a fire suddenly started in a fireplace, flames licking along the bricks.
future media darling
On the Quentulus Quazgar Mountains in the land of Sevorbeupstry on the planet of Preliumtarn, which orbited the star Zarss, which was located in the Grey Binding Fiefdoms of Saxaquine, stood God's Final Message to his Creation.

After the Earth was destroyed for presumably the final time, Arthur Dent was once again the last living Earth male in the entire universe. He had become decidedly fed up with his lot in life, as most immortal creatures do (see Guide entry for Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged for more information). And having lost everyone he could ever possibly even slightly have the notion of caring about, he was feeling reckless.

So, armed with nothing more than the Guide, Mark I (the new one terrified Arthur), the late Ford Prefect's Sub-Etha Sensomatic, some Altarian dollars and a black M&S towel (to hide any stains), Arthur set out to view God's Final Message to His Creation once more.

He was less impressed the second time around, but this time, there was someone standing there who maybe knew a thing or two about Messages from a Creator.

First of all, he had wings. Great white wings with some ridiculous wingspan. They were currently tucked against his back, but they were blindingly white, reflecting the fires of God's Final Message quite dramatically

Second, he had a sign that said I am the Metatron. Arthur sort of recalled that the Metatron was supposed to be the Voice of God, since humans would either explode, become impotent or sprout furry tails if they heard the actual voice of God. Arthur never had a head for fairy stories.

And third, the Voice looked at Arthur and said, "You seem to have come a long way just to be disppointed."

"This is my second time here. The first time I came with someone I loved very much, and very soon after, I lost her." Arthur cleared his throat. "You mind if I sit down? I'm a little tired."


Arthur spread out his towel and sat on it. The Metatron joined him on the ground, and Arthur unwrapped his sandwich of Perfectly Normal Beast and took out a bottle of wine from Frogstar World A, a country with the same temperate climate of Napa Valley, California, with the same penchant for decent, if mediocre, wine. He offered the bottle to the Metatron, who conjured two glasses for the both of them.

"So, as I was saying," Arthur said as he finished chewing, "I lost the woman I loved, my daughter, the mother of my daughter and someone who may have been the only true friend I ever had, and was saved. Again." He frowned at his sandwich. "In fact, it seems that every time it looks as though I am about to be well and truly dead, something comes along and says Oh, no, that won't be necessary."

"So you came to see if the Message had changed?"

Arthur shrugged. "Or something. I don't have the knack for suicide."

The wings of the Voice fluttered. "Did you believe in God on Earth?"

"I didn't even have the first inkling of believing in God," Arthur said. He was speaking to the Metatron, it wouldn't do any good to lie. If there was any good to be done, anyway, which Arthur doubted.

"She does exist."

"Well, she's doing a piss poor job--" Arthur looked up sharply. "Sorry, did you just say 'she'?"

"You're going to quibble about a choice of pronouns when you're sat here, trying to determine what your life means whilst speaking with the Voice of God?" The Metatron sighed. "The last time I had to discuss theology with an un-believer, she ended up saving humanity and bearing the next possible Christ child." He eyed Arthur. "And now you're the last of humankind."

Arthur continued eating his sandwich in what he hoped was a pointed silence. "So did God only exist on Earth?"

"That's like asking if alcohol only existed in Australia," the Metatron replied, reclining on his elbows and looking towards the message. "God will cease to exist when faith ceases to exist."

Arthur finished eating his sandwich. "I've stopped believing in faith as well."

"Then you have your answer, and this Message means nothing to you." The Metatron looked at Arthur again. "But don't blame God."

Arthur sort of remembered something someone had told him a long time ago, but he had always had a bad memory for important statements.
future media darling
10 August 2014 @ 09:27 pm
Nobody had ever asked her why she was so unhappy, and she didn't think she could articulate it even if someone did ask. All she knew is that her brain was too old for her body and her body too young to handle her brain.

She clutched at the broken watch, fingers trembling on her gun. There was her father, stood with hands loose at his side. She could hear her mother, or perhaps it was the woman who just looked like her mother would look without all the time and space hopping.

She could hear them, and the wild screaming of the panicked patrons of the club. She could see a man waving his arms. She didn't much like that man, but her father did.

She had killed a man once before, and all that was left was a broken watch, her father looking at her as if she were a curiosity, and this: the sound of screams, the bright flashing green lights of lasers tearing up the city around them, and soon enough, the club, and her heart, beating loudly in her ears.

She held the gun up, training it on each person in turn: father, mother, her mother's opposite, and her father's best friend.

Who would she miss, who would cry if she were dead?

She flung down the watch, finger tightening on the trigger.

And then the world exploded, and it didn't matter so much any more, did it?
future media darling

--transmission started--

Choosing funeral music isn't much like choosing music for a wedding, not that I've ever done the latter, and I'm only doing the former because it looks like the Earth is finally about to end for good.

What does one usually have at a funeral, anyway? Is there a processional march for the body? I've never actually been to a funeral, embarrassingly enough. No time for funerals when the Earth is exploded in two minutes or when the green lasers come (and isn't that finally how it happens?).

If it's to set the mood of the thing, perhaps something quiet and peaceful? I never had much of a head for classical music, but perhaps some Schubert? I remember seeing his Impromptu Number 3 in G flat major in school.

If that seems too heavy, and it might, please don't hesitate to play The Beatles, Let it Be or Eleanor Rigby. (And by the way, Arthur, my favourite will always be Ringo.)

This is getting more difficult to write, as I think of all the things I should have done, and perhaps all the things I should have said, especially to my daughter. Arthur, keep her close. May she never know pain after the last time. And don't let her cry too much, as I never cried for for her.

I don't set much store by emotions, and I don't have much time now to be emotional, so I should say choose what you wish, but I feel like this is an important moment, so I must dash it off--

One more toast to greet the morn
The wine and dine have danced till dawn

-- transmission failed--

lyrics from the song 'The Grand Hotel' by Procol Harum