ok lets do it!
EDIT: Zero editing, so there will be typos or grammatical errors. I jst took the theme and run with it (as per the idea?). I'm acually quite happy with it.
And guess what? It was FUN ##############################################
I grew up in the most shady part of town. Some people used ocean tapes to sleep, or white noise machines, but I regularly fell asleep to the sound of sirens. Every now and then i'd hear what could only be a gunshot. It was unremarkable to me though. That was where i lived, where i always lived, and where i'd live for a quarter of my life.
Like any other kid i'd wander around after school, or f*cking about during the holidays. There was this street - Hunter street, just off the main road, by the old pier that jutted out into the river like a broken finger, unmoving, forever malleted by abuse. There was an amusement park - just a small one - but that shut down. People died there, or so i heard.
But what sticks in my mind was the hotel. That old building, a product of the prohibition era, they say. Al capone visited it, they say. Some say he still visits, once a year.
I dont know what happened there. It closed, and had been all my life. I got the creeps driving past it. It always felt like night, even in the middle of the day. The hotel was the moon, albeit emittin no light, and the only tide it had control over was the one on which my fear rode. Trepidation? Temptation.
Inevitabley, we went inside, me and Mark. The paint was faded on the outside - no one knew what colour it had been - but inside was even worse. I remember once finding damp on my window - that horrible green/black sludge that comes from moisture. Mould. The lobby - i assume it was a lobby - was covered in it. The floor - once... I don't know - was eroded by time. Whatever compound held up the visitors' feet was now crunchy. Like walking on stale biscuits.
It stunk too. Like an old river. Perhaps the smell was
the old river. I don't know. We began moving through the dark, forboding building. Today, now living a hundred and thirty three miles from that place, I'm a composer for the film industry. I make music for films. For games - well, one game. Jesus, when i was a kid the only game out was Pong. Now they're virtual life simulators. I can't tell the difference between life and games....
But, looking back, one of my works always springs to mind. MY life is spent now thinking of songs to go with scenes. My memory is tied to a piece i called 'Walking'. It starts with a slow walk through the C Minor chord on a Grand Piano. Strings play the role that bass guitars do these days, and a muted trumpet plays a slow harmony, quiet.
My memory's couple with that score. The dark, dismal corpse of a once proudly standing hotel, now scared by storms, but dust and by damp - that and any druggies or hobos that sought shelther there.
Mark led me upstairs. We were scared but we were kids. We had
to explore it. We rounded a corner into one of the room and Mark just disappeared. I heard him yell, i heard a crack
. In my mind A guitar also joins the mix and chellos take the low note responcibility, the song getting louder. An ominous drum sounds as a crash echoes throughout time.
Mark's crying. Where the f*ck is he?!
I remember turning and running downstairs.
I never saw Mark again, and I never returned to the Hotel. No body was found and to this day I ask myself what happened. Why didn't i stay and help him - or find him?
They tore the hotel down last month. Or was it last year? It was around Christmas. I remember watching.
Then the newspaper offerend me chills, which my spine accepted. They were fitting a new foundation on that site where, buried under where the hotel stood, as a body.
I found out yesterday that it was Mark's. The curious thing? It was buried underneath
where the hotel was. Battlefield