Preface:
This is a short pilot for a new story written by two young men about apartment buildings and character development. Characters are like flowers. At this point in time the characters in each story are only saplings but are growing quickly/germinating. When they blossom into beautiful chrysanthemum or hydrangea the will be wed and meet and greeted and we will have ourselves a done good garden.

STORY ONE

CHAPTER ONE

As the beautiful melodies of savage garden vibrated harmoniously through the air, Harp chewed casually on his menthol ciggarette. its sweet taste filled his mouth and he could taste the sickly sweet taste on his lips. Harp had lightish grey hair with uncompromising streaks of white. As he chewed passionately on the cigarette he sat cross legged on the floor, the carpet felt scratchy against his bare legs. He was naked from the waist down. Stretched across his forearms was a pair of black satin elbow length gloves. They felt smooth agaist his black skin. Thats right he was african american (nigger). He gazed blankly past some faded magazines resting of a small coffee table directly in front of him. He couldnt read. He was deaf and blind. He could sort of make some noises and say a few words. If he could hear the beautiful beautiful music coming from the apartment below he would surely have cried tears of joy. Below him was another person of african american (nigger) descent. His name was Diabet. Diabet had long ribs and a paltry smile. He was listening to savage garden while writing the entire bible backwards. Doing this game him significance. Not much gave harp significance. He couldnt do much. He sometimes made soft cooing noises and he sometimes had thoughts. Or at least, semblances of thoughts. Downstairs diabet took a break from his arduous task and resolved to make a batch of freshly cooked muffins. He didnt have any ingredients. He was also slightly mentally handicapped. His existence was quite normal though. After hurriedly brushing his louscious WHITE hair he picked up a pen and wrote down a list of things to do for the day. it looked like this: [insert awesome drawing by bligh] 1. leave house 2. catch 108 bus to Hannel street (dont forget to signal driver) 3. goto internet cafe, research method and ingredients for making fresh muffins. 4. Walk to Markettown 5. Buy ingredients 6. Walk back to Hannel 7. Catch 108 home 8. Bake muffins 9. kill that fucking son of a bitch upstairs As he carefully finished writing the last curve of the 's' from upstairs Diabets smiled cautiously and examined himself in the mirrow. His prominent forehead gave him an imposing ambience(ambulance) and his thick lips looked like two fat grubs slapped together. He hurriedly brushed his luscious WHITE hair again. Then he left his apartment. He closed the door quietly behind him. He lived on the fourth floor. As Diabet emphatically signalled the driver, five stories above Harp was softly cooing to himself. He didnt know that he was cooing. He also didnt know that he was black, or that he was wearing elbow length black satin gloves. Harp had black eyes with large, dialated pupils. A young junkie with glazed eyes lay sprawled on the seat in front of diabet. His wallet and hat lay on the ground. Diabet thought he could softly hear hum murmering, but he wasn't very sure about it. The junkie had pale (black skinnn (nigger)). His eyelids fluttered magestically as the trance of his herion dream unfolded in his head like hundreds of little spiders weaving a giant, glistening web. Each strand like solidified sugar. Sweet sugar. Diabet inspected the junkies arms. There was a single purple dot which lay directly on the vien on his inner arm. He followed the vien with his eyes as it trickled down to his wrist and dissapeared behind his sweaty palms. Diabet pondered cautiously: 'maybe he just gave blood, and now he is really tired'. then he suddenly slapped down the remark in the coversation which was taking place inside his head: 'of course not, hes a dirty fucking junkie and you know it. stop fucking lieing to yourself.' As this thought raced through diabets head a stout man in front turned round and gave a sort of smile towards diabet. He wore a black teeshirt and had a stern face. THe junkie continously dropped his wallet on the floor and then picked it up again. "fucking sad isnt it?" remarked he diabet smiled nervously before replying. "yes" His affirmative response seemed to bring an amound of joy to the stout man in front. Diabet now noticed that his shirt wasn't so black. It was more dark navy blue. The stout man smiled and then kicked the junkie in the head. His smile then widened. "wake up dopey" said he. THe junkie grimaced and murmered something along the lines of 'fuck you'. The stout man in front smiled dispassionately and turned away. Diabet pressed the button. Then he stood up and exited the bus. At the internet cafe he looked up asian porn and then found a recipe for baking fresh muffins. 'By gosh' though diabet, 'i sure cant wait to get these delcicious muffins into the oven, and then into my mouth.' Then he looked up more asian porn. As lurid images of asians flashed in front of diabets eyes, Harp only saw blackness. Harp gently plucked at the delicate strings which were his ribs. A harmonious noise reverberated throughout the entire room. The note he played was F sharp. It was the most beautiful noise to ever be made. Except perhaps, for what was about to come. Harp heard only silence. His satin gloves still retained their black sheen.

CHAPTER TWO

Rain began to fall softly against Diabets' skin as he walked towards markettown. A light breeze stroked his cheek. His grey Khaki pants felt damp from the rain. He felt cold but as he pressed his hand to his ribs his body was warm. Rather warm in fact. He entered the store. There were security cameras fucking everywhere. Diabet disliked that fact. No one else seemed to notice them. Every time he went somewhere he saw at least ten. They were concealed ever so nicely in little black hemispheres attatched to the roof. It dismayed him that no one else ever seemed to notice. He didn’t like the fact that he didn’t have the freedom to steal if he wanted to. He didn’t intend to. He would just have felt reassured if he could know that he wouldn’t be constantly filmed if he perchance happened to slip a piece of red paper from the shelves into his jacket pocket. His jacket was worn and its colour was darn grey. Almost black. It looked strangely incongruous with his grey khaki pants. He found his ingredients. Then he left. And walked back to catch the bus. The bus driver was a woman. She had a vindictive expression. She was black. The stone steps at the front of the apartment were slippery from the rain noticed Diabet. Four floors above Harp lay on his back. One arm outstretched. His left arm no longer had a black satin glove on it. If anyone else was in the room they would have noticed harps magnificently elegant fingers. Small white lines crisscrossed across his knuckles and contrasted with his handsome black skin. Four floors below and two blocks away, the junkie imagined he was in a giant spiders' web and he tasted sweet candy. Then he imagined he was in a cocoon. Two blocks away and four floors above harp played a chord on the strings which were his ribs. It was an A minor chord. If anyone was in the room they would have imploded from the intense beauty of the sounds produced. It was like eleven swans all swimming in formation. Like camembert cheese and sunsets. Like bliss.

STORY TWO

CHAPTER ONE

“I think Camembert is mutton dressed as lamb and Brie, which is much cheaper, surpasses it in taste,” said Richard to the long legged Alabamian with an air of antagonism that could be likened to Porphious Petrovitch. The Southern girl to his south itched from across the table. Dimly lit by an over hanging chandelier, which hung haphazardly with but one bulb intact. Her gentle features were countered by her rough and patchy shin. A vague look smeared across her face. She was toast and margarine disinterest. “I should perhaps from this moment on in my life convert from Camembert.” “Sounds good. Thurs nothing likes a change.” “Other than,” Richard stopped to think, a habit that he had. “Other than consistency.” “Consistency ain’t like change.” “Yes it is, if you think about it as a change from variety.” “I suppose so.” “I’m sorry is this to enigmatic?” A new song lyric pumped through his head after speaking “autocratic enigmatic mutha fukas unite.” He started to tap the table like it was a snare and symbol and wished for a double kick. “Pardon” said deep South startled at the sounding of a word she didn’t know” “Like how I said why do you use Palatino Linotype?” a few moments passed “it's to confusing to understand the meaning, the motive,the underlying purpose of my comment” “I’ll just let it float on over mah head” “It’s bad enough when things can be taken a right way and a wrong way but when something is said so out of place as that. There can be even more ways for it to be taken. It can even become confusing for the instigator of the comment. You know?” “I do not,” said the Alabamian fiercely. Not out of confusion but more so as protest to the child like feeling of superiority that was overcoming Richard because of his capability to confuse her. She picked up her waistcoat and her last match and stormed out of the room. It was a short and passing storm due to the length of her legs and the size of the minimalist apartment, Richard remarked. He started a faint rhythmic humming which became a audible rhythmic chanting. It went like this; “autocratic enigmatic mutha fukas unite.”

CHAPTER TWO

Snow was falling along the sidewalk as icing sugar on a cake. It covered the dull concrete and made the Alabamian feel blessed as her footsteps sunk into the fresh powder on her escape from the clutches of bad conversation. She pulled her woollen beanie down over her ears and remarked at the beauty of the terrace style apartment blocks as she passed. Ahead in the now deeper snow she saw a tuft of brown fur motionless and buried. She wept at the thought it was a poor lost dog. Frozen to death in the harsh cold. She ran ahead tears streaming down her face so full of bream. She poked the fur and received no response. She wailed as she pushed the snow from the hairy and saddening summit. A feline smile spread from ear to ear as she shifted the snow to the side. The hair was not that of a dog but of a man. She shovelled away yet more snow and found buried not a pooch but a dead Russian. The Hair visible had been this Kosak’s Beard. She giggled at her gullibility and kicked the snow back into the Russian's face. And skipped away whistling through her teeth and stealing people’s mail from their post boxes. Passing the letters through her Chris Cringle embroidered snow jumper and into her chemise.

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Back at home the Alabamian lit a fire in the place and watched from the window the wisps of smoke flutter from her chimney stack and upwards to choke the already gasping ozone layer. She flicked her auburn hair, pulled up a chair by the fire and retrieved the wad of stamped letters from her undergarments. She proceeded to smell them and then turned to finda pen knife she usually kept on the ready on a small dressing table with a large mirror erected in it's center but found only another match head, she had used her last in lighting the fireplace and the mouve table cloth. However frustrated she was she found time to run her finders along the felt fabric and purr.

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Richard was beginning to regret losing the Alabamian so soon and ran out to the street near naked in the falling snow just minutes after she left he thought he could make out her figure crouching and weeping in the distance. Assuming she was crying for him he tried to run to her side. The bitter cold and his poor physical fitness impeded his efforts however and he started to wheeze. He lost site of the Alabamian in a coughing fit. He kept running or if you had observed it slow jogging that is until he tripped over what he could of sworn in his last conscious seconds a dead Russian.


Chapter < Three

As the light rain outside manifested itself into an uproarious downpour Diabet pulled a fresh batch of HOme COoked muffins from the furnace in his kitchen known as an oven. They looked delicious. Their sweet aroma filled the entire room, everything in it seemed to become crystallised and bright, the knives on the kitchen table smiled invitingly at Diabet. He smiled cautiously before taking a bite of his fresh cooked home baked muffin. Images of exploited Asians flashed through his mind momentarily. The rain pattered heavily against the window panes. Diabet placed his half eaten muffin carefully on the table. A large knife with a glistening blade smiled broadly at him. He smiled back, with a hint of caution. One floor above, Harp closed his eyes and saw nothing. The A minor chord could still be heard to softly resonate, bringing euphoria to no-one. One floor below Diabet emerged from his apartment for the second time today and closed the door with a CAT-LIKE smile. He climbed the stairs. After taking several paces he came to the door of Harp's apartment. It was number 11. The door was unlocked. Diabet already knew this. The broad knife was poised precariously in Diabets left hand, it shimmered as iridescent light from an opened window touched it. Harp was gently cooing to himself. Diabet opened the door and observed the room and the handsome black man who sat in its centre. The walls were painted a sickly sweet violet. Magazines were splayed across the floor. Harp was softly cooing. On his right arm was a black satin glove which stretched to his elbow. "how could I stab such a beautiful creature?" said Diabet allowed. Diabet was completely oblivious to this. "friends?" Diabet asked cautiously. Harp smiled congenially. Then he smiled again with a hint of feline malice. With a desultory movement of his delicate left arm, Harp played B minor diminished 7th chord on the strings which were his ribs. Then he played C major. Sweet sweet vibrations filled the air. It was gorgeousness and gorgeousity made flesh. It was beautiful. It was like a heroin dream. It a perfect moment. Diabet fell to the floor. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. He melted into harp like a block of moist camembert cheese. DiabetHarp opened their eyes. Now they could see. And hear. DiabetHarp would really have liked to play a D minor chord but they knew that the pleasure would surely be too much. They would implode. The room started to fade as the walls transformed into giant white CRYXANTHEMUMS. In front of DiabetHarp sat Richard and Alabama. Around Richard's neck was a chain of flowers. With a momentous gesture Richard got down on his knees. On the ground was a layer of fine, white snow. He pressed Alabamas hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed her once gently. DiabetHarp clapped uproariously for several minutes. The sky was crystal blue. Each moment was ecstasy. Everything was suddenly encased in bubblegum flavoured fairy floss. Bliss.