Conspiracy Theory 21/01/2010 [Quique]

My writing-on-the-spot exercise came out like this:

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'You know how the European Commission is just an institution created by different governments to centralize control on the population?' - said the foul-smelling guy that was sitting next to me at Café Central.
'Hm-hmm' - I said, not paying him much attention. I had other things in my mind, like how I fucked up that mind-control experiment last week.
I took a sip from my now cold coffee and went over the events in my mind one more time.
There were seven subjects in that experiment, two women and five men. No, it wasn't discrimination, it's just that the female mind is harder to control.
We lost a man the second day, because his mind was overcrowded and finally his sinaptic connections couldn't hold and his brain shut off. Just like that.
None of the others died, but both women and three of the men became idiots. No mind to control means no interest to us, so the agency made them disappear.
There was one man left and our hope laid in his shoulders. We were beginning to make things he didn't want to, the final objective of every mind-control program.
But now he has escaped.
And we don't know how.

*****

The man with the hat looked across the Grand Place. It was summer in Brussels and the square was vibrating with visitors and inhabitants from the most varied countries.
He spotted the man quite easily. He was wearing a black suit and sunglasses, the uniform from all the secret agencies all over the globe. How do they expect to remain secret if they all dress the same way? It's stupid!
He turned around to his companion and pointed to the man in black.
'It's that guy, Viktor.' - he said.
'How can you be so sure?' - Viktor replied - 'Has he been following you?'
'I can't be sure if it was him, but I've seen other suits on my way here' - the man answered.
'I saw no-one after I rescued you from the underground levels of the Berlaymont building.'
'That doesn't mean they weren't there.'
'I think you're just being paranoid.' - Viktor said, rolling his eyes upwards.
The man with no name swore under his breath. Then grabbed Viktor by the shoulders and started shouting almost soundlessly.
'How can I make you understand?! They are conducting experiments! They kept us in cells! A man died and five people became effectively brainless!'
'And how can you prove that?' - Viktor asked calmly.
'I saw it with my own eyes!' - The man was visibly excited and his voice was becoming louder.
'That's no proof' - Viktor said - 'You may be crazy.'
'AAAARH!' - shouted the man in desperation.

When the man in black was handcuffing Subject 4, Viktor had already vanished.

*****

We finally have found and recovered Subject 4. He's in a cell, but we haven't resumed the tests yet. We are trying to find out if he has talked to anyone about all this. But he refuses to talk.
I go out to the Schuman rond-point and, once in the little garden in the middle of it, I take out the recently bought disposable mobile phone.
I book the services of a professional interrogator. He should be here in about half an hour.
The sun is reflecting on the Berlaymont building, but this time it doesn't give me hope.
I'm worried.
Has he talked?
Who with?

The Devil Inside.

Thirteen years have passed

And his hair is now grey.

Thirteen years in a cell

Was what he had to pay.

Murder was not easy on his mind

But the burden was not his alone:

Half was taken by the devil

That lived inside his own.

He was granted a small house

After his release back to the street.

Rehabilitation had been assumed

But the devil was back on his feet.

He fought it with all his might

As its hold on him was strong;

He gathered all his will although

He knew he couldn't resist long.

They found him in the bath

Water, blood and porcelain white

Open veins and pale his face:

The devil inside had lost the fight.

Writing exercise: our character at a family event

In a previous writing exercice, we developped a character going through a quarter-of-life crisis. Mine was called Anne-Laure, 27, and worked as a consultant in Brussels. This exercice shows this character in a family gathering.

"So, Anne, what have you done this week?" her mother asked.
"Just the usual" Anne-Laure replied.
"Did you try the recipe I gave you?"
"No, but Louise did". Louise was Anne-Laure's flatmate; her mother's eyes suddenly woke up.
"Oh, wonderful! How did she managed the thing - with the stuffing - did she...?"
But Anne-Laure interrupted her mother.
"I don't know. She did something else. She only got inspired from the recipe. You know I hate mushrooms... She did something else."
"Oh really? What did she replace the mushrooms with?"
"I don't know. I didn't look."
Her mother made her famous irritated look and accompanied it with a disapproving silence. Everyone seemed hung to the words that were not spoken. Until Anne-Laure said:
"Look. I don't like cooking, ok? There is no big deal. It's not like if I could love everything. Dad doesn't like gardening. You don't like ironing."
"As if you liked ironing" Arthur said, but nobody seemed to notice. Her mother continued.
"And you, Arthur, have you cleaned your room?"
He replied, "no. Have you cleaned yours?"
Anne-Laure and Arthur exchanged a mischievious look and their mother laughed.
Proper parents would not laugh, their father thought. In fact, proper parents would scold them. But he didn't speak a word. Instead, he pretented to be absorbed by his plate: he still couldn't identify what he was eating. He didn't mind her wife to be a cordon-bleu, but did she have to make things so complicated? It took her hours to get this meal together, and he was hungry. He would have been satisfied with a sandwich.
But it didn't matter what he thought, because in the meantime his children had started a conversation about a new TV show. His wife attempted to follow, when really she didn't know a thing about it.
Yet on this latter point, he was wrong. In fact, his wife wasn't even listening to what her children were saying. She was thinking about the recipe her daughter didn't use. What was it with Anne-Laure that made her hate cooking? And what was it with herself that made her feel more connected to her daughter's flatmate than to her daughter herself?
On the other side of the table, Anne-Laure was still talking to Arthur with animation, except that the conversation had switched from a new TV show to TV shows they had discussed before. She was not really thinking about the TV shows either. She was rather thinking about the circumstances that made her watch them. She hated being alone in her flat, she truly hated it. So she watched the television. It made the time run faster. Was it how she would end up? Alone, and watching the television to distract her from the emptiness?
Perhaps she would, but Arthur didn't seem to think so.
In fact, at that precise moment, he was not thinking at all.

A Christmas scene

“Susan, this is for you. Merry Christmas”. Their Mum lifted a small package, too small to attract the interest of the others, but neither Ben nor Susan were fooled. They couldn’t really miss the luxurious wrapping and the Yves Saint Laurent tag. And apparently, they were the only ones to care. Their elder brothers looked numb. They had received their gifts already – by order of age, as it always happened in their family. For the 33rd year in a row, Edward was the first to unwrap his present. Thomas followed him closely. Susan was the third, and Ben was the fourth. Ben had always been the last and the least. He had always hated Christmas, and every Christmas looked as hateful as the other.
Could it have been done otherwise? Could the presents be distributed by order of preference? None of them even imagined such a thing to be possible. It would disrupt the family’s habit to the point of chaos. Similarly, Ben’s two elder brothers couldn’t really receive things that were not in pairs. It had always been that way. When they were children...
Read the full text here.

Writing on Edina's roof

If you happen to speak French...

Here is the link to few stories I am writing in French - hopefully a book. It's the story of three friends going through a quarter of life crisis. Claire is struggling to come to terms with her dissertation; her boyfriend Alban has underestimated the impact of Claire moving in with him; and her best friend, Lucie, is finding out that her dream job is not what she wants to do with her life. Hopefully it ends well; all I can tell is, no one dies.
Though I could kill them all in a car crash in order to save me from the trouble of finding a proper ending...

Brussels arrival

A little square, with me in the middle. None of the surrounding buildings seemed to fit together. The orange house, with its optimistic façade, cheered at me with open windows and flowers in the window-sills. Then the grey flat, sadly glancing at his neighbour. All he had to offer were the satellites of its inhabitants. But at least he was useful, people had their home in him. When I looked behind me I could see a structure of what once must have been an office, but had clearly been abandoned years ago. I could see the building’s frustration about this. Its shadow was so strong that I suddenly felt chilly.

I stood up and ran into a tall building with dark red curtains. The windows were so dusty that I would no longer be able to feel the intimidating tension of the little square. A café, it seemed. A narrow entrance hall where I could hear noises from the room next-door.

A person – was it human? – welcomed me. Where I came from, he asked. Good question, did it matter?
- Of course it matters! he roared, in Portuguese, it is the only identity you have in this city!

It was like I had to pass an exam and had just lost my crib note. Where did I come from? My lips tried hard to spell it out but my brains opposed. The person, who rather looked like a horse, stared at me so violently that I had to come up with something.

Belgian, I whispered.
- BELGIAN?! the horse neighed. WRONG! – in Hungarian this time.
How can that be wrong? I am in Brussels, which is the capital of…
- No-one is Belgian here, and you certainly aren’t!! - Was it Polish that he spoke now?
…well, then, Danish? I brought up.
The angry horse gave me a suspicious look, but said ‘fine’. I followed him into the noisy bar area.

Walking behind him I could see that his bottom – or was it his back? – was striped like a zebra. He directed me through a chaos of loudly talking entities to an empty chair, placed around a big round table. The smoke was so think that I could only define my neighbours’ silhouettes. The clouds hang just around the entities’ heads so I could only see their hands on the table, holding all kinds of glasses with strangely coloured beers. I followed their arms up to their shoulders and necks, but could I not see their heads. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate, it was not possible to define the language that was spoken.

I will bring you a Duvel, the horsezebra said, and disappeared.

Before I could think of something to say to join the conversation a sheep’s nose bumped into my ear.
- New here?
Si, I said, as I thought it was speaking Spanish.
- Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.
Just when I tried to find an answer the sheep turned back from me to take sip from its beer.