(see ABOUT and HELP for more information about the game)
The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and
takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to
grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you dont wanna blow
your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules.Rob
Gordon, High Fidelity
*** PRESS PLAY TO BEGIN ***
Track 1.
Ben Folds Five Smoke
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Out here you can forget everything else. With the tangle of scrub behind you,
craggy cliffs below you and a vast, churning sea beyond, the only life here is
that which you bring along. You duck under the last thin claw of branches, and
follow Peter into the clearing. The clearing is only a few metres wide,
covered in a weary dirt broken up with spindly tufts of grass. In the middle
lies a small pile of dead ash sheltering behind a clump of rocks. Peter drops
his satchel beside the rocks and moves towards the cliff edge, silently looking
out.
He didnt say anything on the hike up, so youre a little worried what this is
all about. In fact, asking you to come here was the only thing hes said to
you ever since he decided to break up with you. The only reason you came was
the possibility, however faint, of a second chance.
The Cliff Top
Between the ragged divide separating the scrub and the sea is a small dirt
clearing atop a cliff face where you find yourself. Three rocks form a small
wall, protecting a dead campfire from the southerly winds. Above you a grey
sky drifts wearily north, towards the city and people you left behind.
A thin dirt path wends its way through the scrabble of trees, following the
clouds.
Peter stands on the cliff edge, staring out over the churning grey sea, lost in
thought.
>hi
Um, Peter? you ask.
He quietly turns to face you, and nods, letting you speak further.
(You could ask him why you are here.)
>ask him why you are here
You dread asking. He shattered your heart before and youre not tough enough
to face it again. But you still love him and have trust in him.
You shield your eyes from the winds whipping about and ask, Peter, why did
you... Why did you bring me here?
For a whole beat, Peter stands motionless at the edge of the cliff. Anxiety
bubbles deep inside your stomach and you open your mouth to ask again. Peter
suddenly turns to face you, his glasses perfectly mirroring the grey skies, but
hiding his eyes. He hunches his shoulders and takes a few steps towards you.
Val, about that letter... After I sent it, and when I heard about... well, I
felt really bad. It wasnt right. He steps even closer and puts his hand on
your shoulder. Val, I still love you. Your heart aches and you smile. With
his face still solemn, he drops his hand from your shoulder. But I cant be
with you. Its complicated. I feel like I betrayed you. So I wanted to do it
right.
Your heart, your spirit, everything falls. It slips down, away from you, and
over the edge of the cliff. Your hands tremble.
Peter grabs your arm and you almost pull away. Valentine, no wait. Listen.
You narrow your eyes at him. Val, believe me. I love you but this is the
only... the best way.
He reaches into your satchel and pulls out the scrapbook that he asked you to
bring. The scrapbook you kept of your relationship. All the memories, photos,
and poems, he takes from your bag and presses it gently into your chest.
He looks into your eyes. I know you dont believe me, but I know with all my
heart, we need to do this. We need to burn your scrapbook. We need to free
the memories, and start again. I still care for you, and I think we can have a
stronger friendship if this... the scrapbook is sacrificed. Pay it the respect
it deserves, but start anew.
Valentine, do you understand? Do you understand what we need to do?
(You could say yes or no, or ask him about the scrapbook.)
>yes
You shrink into yourself and nod, eyes closed.
You sure, Val? You know Im doing this for you... for us... That its the
right thing and I still care for you?
You swallow hard and nod more definitely.
Okay... Okay. Lets find some kindling, he says, turning away.
>get kindling
You slowly gather up the kindling, still unsure about all this.
>give kindling to peter
You walk over to Peter and silently show him the bundle of sticks you gathered.
He takes them and nods. Thanks.
You follow him to the campfire shallow, and sit down on a rock. The wind sighs
above you, but you are sheltered now. Peter drops the sticks into a roughly
tight pile. He doesnt look up at you as he searches his back pocket,
eventually removing a fistful of tattered paper and a lighter. With quiet
care, he lights the campfire. Still not looking at you, he drags a small piece
of log onto the fire. The burning kindling licks the log, gradually igniting
the edges and starting the fire properly.
Peter sits down on the rock opposite you, and finally looks you in the eye. He
smiles weakly. Okay, Val. Do you want to begin?
>yes
Yes, Im ready, you say, a little unsure.
Peter nods and says, Good. Tear out a page when youre ready.
>tear out page
You stare at the scrapbook for the longest time. There are so many good
memories here. So many fun times. So much love. Sorta. This was the closest
you and Peter had to having a baby. Moreover, the scrapbook was your idea, and
the result of your hard work collecting, gluing and decorating. Tearing the
scrapbook apart seems like sacrilege... like murder. You look over at Peter.
He stares back, his face supportive, but you can see his heart is broken. This
will hurt him as much as itll hurt you.
If you cant trust the ones you love, there is no point to anything. And so,
you take a deep breath and open the scrapbook. The thick pages flick over,
flashes of colours, faces and words.
The page before you is not as decorated as the happier pages that lay before
it, but it does have a CD glued in the middle. Around the perimeter are the
words, A mix for my Baby Blue. Memories whistle past on the wind, spinning
around you. With a grim determination, you grab the page and rip it out,
throwing it on top of the crackling fire...Track 2.
Little Birdy Baby Blue
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You bounce up the cool concrete stairs that criss-cross Peters apartment
block. The fluorescent lights swarming with creepy flying bugs and the lime
smoothie paint on the walls dont sour your mood; youve visited him countless
times and time with Peter is well worth the two minutes of headache-inducing
exterior. (And hey, if it does give you a headache, its always good to have
an excuse if Petes frisky and youre not.)
A grumpy old toad of a man shuffles your way, muttering to himself. You pull
your handbag close to your side and squeeze between him and the wall. He
continues shuffling along the balcony and you just smirk at him. You spin and
twirl past a string of lifeless, duplicate doors and stop at Petes. The
lights are on so he should be in.
Outside Peters Apartment
Soothingly familiar ol number 18. Outside: a still night air, fluorescent
lights glaring off pale lime walls, and about forty jillion creepy bugs
crawling and buzzing about. Oh, and you, watching the bugs warily. Inside:
warm, warm Pete and his servicable little apartment filled with enough CDs,
records and tapes to give one to each bug out here and still have enough to
listen to over dinner. His door stands before you as listlessly as the others
along the balcony that stretches to either side of you.
The grumpy old man is shuffling along the balcony.
(Your score has just increased by ten points.)
(If youd prefer not to be notified about score changes in the future, type
NOTIFY OFF.)
>knock on door
You knock on the door and wait. There is movement inside and you see Peter
peer out his window. He smiles and gestures, Just one second.
>spray yourself with perfume
You spritz a little of your perfume around your neck and breathe in the
delicious fragrance.
You hear Peter juggling his keys inside.
>wait
Time passes...
Peter opens the door and invites you in with a smooth wave of his hand.
>go in
Peters lounge
Peters lounge reflects Peters tastes: density rather than intensity.
Although he has a good few splatterings of decorative memorabilia around, the
whole point of his lounge is for his vast, vast music collection, and the
equipment to enjoy it. Its certainly cosy, but its all Pete. With anyone
else, youd complain, but you rarely get such a concentrated form of someone in
one room, especially if they are someone that you love. Every nook and cranny
is a subtle splash of Peter, and you love it. The concentration of him dilutes
beyond this room, though. The small dining room and kitchen to the north, and
his bedroom to the east could be anyones. But this room, its definitely his.
Peters west wall is almost floor-to-ceiling with albums and singles of all
sorts, all kept together in a sturdy set of shelves. A catalogue to the
collection hangs to the side of a bookcase.
Next to the doorway to the dining room is Petes gigantic stereo system, with
his favourite bean bag sitting right in front of it. Across the other side of
the room, underneath the window, is Peters ratty tan couch.
Peter is standing by the door. He looks a little out of it, but pleased to see
you.
As he closes the door behind you, Peter brushes his hand through his hair and
says, Hey, dude. How are you?
Peter perks up and sniffs the air. Hey, is that a new perfume?
Its an old perfume, actually, but you just smile sweetly.
He smiles back. You smell nice.
Thanks, babe.
(You could tell him about your day.)
>kiss peter
You lean in and kiss Peter tenderly on the lips. He smiles, though his eyes
look tired.
>tell him about your day
You sigh theatrically and say, Oh, Im going okay. Work was the usual office
politics, bitch sessions around the water cooler you know how they are and
all the usual tomfoolery. But, anyway, hows my PJ?
Peter stares blankly at you for a second and suddenly catches up with the
conversation. Yeah, um, good. Sorry, this CD has really... I dunno, caught
me. Im in the reviewing groove and my brain is having trouble changing gears.
Sorry.
You shrug and smile at him.
(You could ask him about his review, or his day.)
>ask him about his review
So, hows the review going?
Peter shrugs and looks at the stereo. Um, good. Its hard getting the right
description for these guys. Theyre... different. But yeah, its going okay.
(You could ask him about his day.)
>again
Whats the CD like?
Peter looks up at the ceiling for a second, probably deciding upon very fine
distinctions before he said anything. Its... its good. Real good. Theyve
got a really inventive new sound, but they could have been around in the mid-
nineties.
You crinkle your forehead and say, Huh?
Peter strokes his chin and frowns seriously. Hmm, these guys are half Janes
Addiction, half Sonic Youth... but with a JPop twist. You know, a little
gritty, a little glittery? You should listen to them once Im done.
You nod politely, not understanding at all. Youve gotta humour boyfriends
every so often.
(You could ask him about his day.)
>again
Whats the name of the band youre reviewing?
Peter waves dismissively, Oh, you wouldnt know them. Theyre new.
Okay then.
(You could ask him about his day.)
>again
So the reviews going along okay?
Peter nods, still a little zoned out. Yeah. I should have it done soonish.
>ask about dinner
So Pete, do you want dinner?
Peters face lights up. Yeah, thatd be cool. Thanks.
You try to clarify that you werent volunteering, but hes already collapsed
into his beanbag and returned to his CD before you have a chance to respond.
Darn.
>north
Dining area
The dining room is almost spartan, in stark contrast to Peters lounge to the
south. In fact, if it werent for the large dining table taking up most of
this room, itd basically be a short connecting room to the kitchen to the
east. In other words, Peters done nothing for this room except put a large
table in it. All his energy goes into his lounge, and not just in a Feng Shui
way.
Boys are goofy like that sometimes.
Peter is in the lounge, sitting on the velvet beanbag.
>east
Kitchen
Its too big to be a kitchen nook, but too small to be a proper kitchen. Oh
the complications of twenty-somethings living arrangements.
Peter seems not to mind so much, but he lives pretty basically as far as food
goes. Peters refrigerator tries to fit into the kitchen area like a grizzly
bear in an elevator would. Installed right next to it (well, actually, its
the other way around, but whatever) is a generic brand oven.
A set of oven mitts lie on the bench.
>open fridge
Opening the refrigerator reveals an instant lasagna and some condiments.
>take lasagna
Taken.
>cook lasagna
You peer at the instructions. 200 degrees Celsius for ten minutes. You set
the oven controls to the appropriate settings and turn it on. The oven door
opens with a clang and you slide the lasagna in, and close the door again. T
minus ten minutes until deliciousness...
The oven timer ticks down steadily.
The refrigerator door automatically closes with a kiss.
>z.z.z.z.z.z.z.z.z.
Time passes...
Time passes...
Time passes...
Time passes...
Time passes...
Time passes...
Time passes...
Time passes...
Time passes...
>x lasagna
Pre-made lasagna combines the best of both worlds: yummy food and no actual
cooking to worry about. This one is still cold.
There are cooking instructions on the box.
>x lasagna
Pre-made lasagna combines the best of both worlds: yummy food and no actual
cooking to worry about. This one is still cold.
There are cooking instructions on the box.
>x lasagna
Pre-made lasagna combines the best of both worlds: yummy food and no actual
cooking to worry about.
This fine specimen looks cooked.
>take lasagna
(first taking the oven mitts, wearing them, then opening the oven)
Taken.
>west
Dining area
The dining room is almost spartan, in stark contrast to Peters lounge to the
south. In fact, if it werent for the large dining table taking up most of
this room, itd basically be a short connecting room to the kitchen to the
east. In other words, Peters done nothing for this room except put a large
table in it. All his energy goes into his lounge, and not just in a Feng Shui
way.
Boys are goofy like that sometimes.
Peter is in the lounge, sitting on the velvet beanbag.
The oven timer ticks down steadily.
>serve dinner
You serve up the lasagna. Peter, dinners ready.
He sighs and rolls out of his beanbag, begrudgingly leaving his review behind.
As he flops into his chair, you serve up steaming plates of lasagna.
Mmm, smells good, you say. Peter mumbles some thanks for cooking and begins
chowing down.
You eat together, in silence. You try to make conversation. So how is work
going?
Mm? Yeah, okay. You know, the same.
You frown.
What? Nothing special happened. Am I supposed to have a prepared speech or a
great story to entertain you?
You sit back in your chair, reeling a little. Sorry?
I mean, you come over here, expecting me to fool around with you, completely
forgetting I had this review due.
Hey, you say, setting down your fork. Im your girlfriend. Were supposed
to hang out, right?
Peter gives you an annoyed look. But Im busy!
Too busy to love your girlfriend?
Yes, because Im...
Yes? You kick your chair back from the table. So youre saying that your
silly little review, that you can do any time, is more important than me?
Hey, no. I didnt mean... Wait, my review isnt stupid!
Your blood boils. I said it was silly. But obviously if its more important
to you, then thats fine! You stamp your feet and rush out into the lounge
room. You grab your handbag and fumble with the lock of the door. From the
dining room, Peter calls out, Hey, wait! Dont... I mean, wait up!
Too late, Peter, you shout over your shoulder. You fling the front door open
and storm out into the cool night air. As you barge your way along the
balcony, away from that ungrateful bastard, you can hear him groaning loudly.
You reach the stairs and look back at his door. Hes standing in his doorway,
exasperated. You catch eyes, trading fury. FINE! he yells, slamming the
door.
Yeah, fine. Keep working on your stupid review. You dont need the girl that
loves you. Nooo... Shes just an annoyance. But just keep her phone number
if you need dinner cooked for you.
Jerk.
You both stare at the fire, watching the page crackle and curl, and the CD
glaze over and blacken. The wind sighs through the trees. The ocean crashes
and hisses below.
It wasnt really about the lasagna, was it? Peter asks.
You pull your knees up to your chin and peek over the scrapbook. You mumble,
No.
Peter says nothing. He doesnt encourage you to continue burning the book. He
doesnt seem lost in thought. He just waits, still as a rock, and stares into
the fire. The reflection of the burning CD covers his eyes. You watch it
crack, bubble and melt into the ashes.
He doesnt say sorry. He doesnt explain himself. He doesnt ask for your
side of the story. He just watches the fire. Your heart is on that bed of
flames and he doesnt say anything. A long time ago, he said he loved you. He
was such a liar.
You look down at the scrapbook. Smiling faces and tokens of your relationship
stare back at you. Each posed photo, each impromptu poem scribbled down, each
journal entry is a slap in the face.
And still, he says nothing. Well, to hell with you, Peter. You want to burn
our scrapbook? You say you love me? Well get on the pyre with me.
You grit your teeth and flip to the last page. Glued there is a torn piece of
paper riddled with Peters writing, and a torn picture of him. Completing the
trinity, you grab the page in your fist and tear it out. You throw it on the
fire and it lands flat, in front of Peter. His eyes remain hidden by reflected
flames, but nothing hides his frown. The crackling doesnt drown out his sigh.
Join me, Peter.
Track 3.
No Doubt Dont Speak
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The bus doors sigh and clatter shut behind you as you heft your shopping bag
closer to your shoulder. You wipe a loose bang off your face as the bus
rumbles down the road, leaving you alone on the corner. Theres just one final
stretch before you get home. Youll be glad to get there; these new loafers of
yours grip your feet like vices and your eyes are all puffy from staring at a
computer screen all day.
A whisper of wind hisses through the trees. The sun is slowly rolling over the
horizon. Time to go home.
Street corner
Soft, rich, orange sunlight bleeds between the silhouettes of suburbia. Trees,
cars and houses have their shadows stretched far down the street towards you.
The shadows reach over you, cutting through the gentle warmth of the sun.
Frankly, you want to get your aching bones home, and into a hot bath.
Your place is only half a block down to the south, but with your aching feet,
it looks like half a mile.
A street sign points down the road, to home.
Track 3.
No Doubt Dont Speak
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The bus doors sigh and clatter shut behind you as you heft your shopping bag
closer to your shoulder. You wipe a loose bang off your face as the bus
rumbles down the road, leaving you alone on the corner. Theres just one final
stretch before you get home. Youll be glad to get there; these new loafers of
yours grip your feet like vices and your eyes are all puffy from staring at a
computer screen all day.
A whisper of wind hisses through the trees. The sun is slowly rolling over the
horizon. Time to go home.
Street corner
Soft, rich, orange sunlight bleeds between the silhouettes of suburbia. Trees,
cars and houses have their shadows stretched far down the street towards you.
The shadows reach over you, cutting through the gentle warmth of the sun.
Frankly, you want to get your aching bones home, and into a hot bath.
Your place is only half a block down to the south, but with your aching feet,
it looks like half a mile.
A street sign points down the road, to home.
(Your score has just increased by ten points.)
>south
Outside your place
Your street glows like melted butter in the dusk sunlight. The shadows are
just beginning to harden, in preparation for a cool night ahead. The road
slides down the hill to an intersection and onto more of suburbia.
Your front door hides under an alcove to the west.
Your mailbox sits solidly by the footpath.
>check mail
Leaning your groceries against the top of the mailbox, you lean down and open
the mailbox. You grab the thick bundle of mail, tuck it under your chin and
lock the mailbox again.
>west
Wedging the groceries between your shoulder and the wall, you use your free
hand to fish around in your handbag for your keys. You finally grab them and
jam them into the keyhole. The door opens and you stumble into your apartment,
closing the door behind you.
Your Living Room
Although your bedroom at your parents house is about the same size as the
entirety of this apartment, you feel more at home here. Its all you, and its
just you. No snooping parents and their little oddities. And although its a
bit of a real estate euphemism, this place feels cosier.
Your red couch sits near the door, inviting you to lie on it.
>put groceries in pantry
(first opening the pantry)
Although you are pretty tired, you find the energy to put away your groceries
and store your environmentally friendly shopping bags for next week.
You smile. Theres few things nicer than a freshly-stocked pantry.
>remove shoes
You gladly kick off your loafers. A wave of relief washes up your body from
your throbbing feet.
>look through mail
You flick through the mail, skipping over the glossy but useless ads, the
dreaded assortment of bills... Theres a letter here. From Peter! You pull
it out from the middle of the bundle. On the front it says simply To
Valentine with just his name on the back. Strange.
You separate the note from the rest of the mail and bundle it back together.
>open envelope
Opening the envelope from Peter reveals a note from Peter. The envelope is
sealed only at the bottom of the flap, so you dig your finger underneath and
break the seal. There is nothing inside but a plain, folded piece of paper.
No presents, no pressed flowers, no CDs. A feeling of unease creeps up your
spine and you remove the letter, discarding the envelope. Your fingertips grow
cold and youre very reluctant to read it.
>read note
You take a deep breath and read. Peters handwriting is strong and deliberate.
It reads:
Dear Valentine,
This may be a little sudden for you but Ive been thinking about this for some
time. Im sorry but I just cant do this any more. I cant go out with you
any more.
Im so sorry,
Peter.
For one long second, everything is quiet. The world slips away into shadow.
You are just a bead of disbelief.
You gasp.
Your heart thumps like a cannon, and the world rips back around you. Through
shivering breaths and a pounding heartbeat, you choke. Your eyes well up with
tears. The blood in your hands turn icy, and you become too weak to hold the
letter. A squeak escapes your mouth before you have time to clamp your hand
over it. The letter drops from your other hand and flutters to the floor. You
stand, weak and alone.
Your throat tightens... How could he?
>take photo from purse
Taken.
You almost burst out crying, but hold yourself together. For now.
>tear photo
You stare at the picture of Peter. He stares back, an unerring smile on his
face. Your lips snarl and you grab the photo with both hands. You rip and rip
and rip until it is just crushed up fragments of colours scattered over your
fingers.
You nervously rub your hand through your hair, your eyes welling with tears.
>examine me
You are still reeling in shock. Your skin is ash-grey and your hands tremble.
At any moment, you could collapse in a cloud of sadness and be swept away.
You want to crawl up inside yourself, away from all this. The now-lonely
world.
A tear rolls down your cheek.
>cry
You fight it back. Be strong, girl. Be strong. You choke and the tears flow.
The world swirls around you and you drop into darkness. Into oblivion. Into
the chasm formed by your broken heart.
Tears stream down your face. Across the fire, Peter drops his head. You sniff
and wipe tears and mucus from your face. The scrapbook trembles in your hands
and you may just jerk and throw it all in the fire.
Peter sighs. Hey, come on. Dont cry, Val.
You glare at him with tear-reddened eyes.
We shouldnt dwell on this... the bad stuff. Im really sorry I hurt you like
that... like this. Here, he says, carefully taking the scrapbook from you.
Ill help.
You pull your knees up to your chin and hug them. Why are you still here? Why
do you keep enduring this for him?
Peter flicks to the start of the scrapbook. For a moment, he is enthralled.
Pictures and poems, long dead for you, dance on his glasses.
Val, let me tell you about this... He carefully tears out the first few
pages and shows them to you. On the first page is a single receipt from Music
Mania. Scrawled on the bottom is Peters phone number. You breathe deeply.
You know exactly what that was.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You know, Val, that was my first month at Music Mania. I was just out of
university and had nothing better to do. They had employed me not for my
amazing university degree, but because I was a preferred customer. But I
wasnt complaining. It was a cruisy job and the guys I worked with were cool.
Of course, none of them would admit that Rufus Wainwrights version of
Hallelujah kicked the butt of all other versions, but I let that slide.
I remember the first day you came in. I was restocking the Top 40 shelves,
trying to ignore the new Avril CD the other guys had put on to annoy me. For
no reason, Ive looked up and I saw you over in alternative. You werent
wearing anything special, just a blouse and you had your hair back. You had
more hair then. You bopped along to the store music. You were absolutely
beautiful.
Everything had paused, and it was just you, looking at a They Might Be Giants
CD, and just me, looking at you. Im no longer stacking CDs. Im soaking you
in. All I can taste is that moment, and all I can breathe is your life. I
said to myself, Theres no way shes leaving here, without meeting me. It
was silly, but I was awestruck. I had to talk to you. Out of the corner of my
eye I can see Warren has spotted you and is trying to roll his big belly
towards you. I thought to myself, Not today. No way.
I dont know if I dropped the CDs or threw them over my shoulder, but I know
that where I was and where they were, were completely different places. I was
quicksilver sliding through the aisles. My consciousness was trailing a few
steps behind, but it didnt matter. It was like I was on a Mission From God
all Jake and Elwood.
I came to a stop a few steps away from you. Far down the other end of the
aisle, Warren shook his fist at me. I smiled and composed myself. In my
friendliest voice, I asked, Can I help you?
You said, No, Im okay and I almost died. But in desperation I flicked out
some comment on the CD in your hands. At first you looked at me uneasily, but
I pushed on. I told you about Dial-A-Song, about Apollo 18. Lincoln.
Flood... While I drew you to Fountains of Wayne, you began nodding and asking
questions. While I pointed out Reel Big Fish, you smiled and I almost died if
it were not for my momentum. You followed me up and down the aisle, from The
Aquabats to The Flaming Lips, through Jon Spencer Blues Explosion to Weezer,
listening to every word of my Musical History According To They Might Be
Giants. You laughed at my jokes and made suggestions. We clicked. By the end
of it, I was selling you a handful of CDs and promising to make you mix tapes.
When I handed over the receipt, my heart stopped. Would I ever see you again?
Would I be just a Oh youll never believe what happened to me today story? I
froze, holding out your receipt. You tried to take it, but I couldnt let go.
I came to my senses and let go. Instead of being annoyed, you smiled at me
again. You looked at the receipt for a second and then handed it back. You
said, Can I get your number?
That, Val, was the best day of my life. I absolutely loved you. Everything
else was background noise to your full symphonic beauty. I know I said it, and
I know Im not good with words, but you were beautiful and I loved you.
You snap to, and youre no longer curled up. Youre sitting up, looking deep
into Peters eyes. You feel guilty and awful, but theres a smile on your
face.
Peter slowly flicks through the rest of the scrapbook. Val, youre still
beautiful. I still love you. But the relationship, no. And here is why I
think so...
He passes the book over to you. The page is a poem surrounded by a picture.
In the corner is a coffee stain that you turned into a sunflower. Pink, green
and blue vines wrap around the poem. Its been so long since that morning...Track 5.
Jewel Near You Always
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Your eyelids slowly slide open. Pale, white light. Its morning and youre in
Peters bedroom. More aptly, youre in his bed. You roll over, but your hand
rests on an empty patch of bedsheet. You turn and find Peter gone. He must
have gone to work, but let you sleep in. The darling.
You sit up and stretch. You sigh contentedly. Your whole body glows with a
warm serenity. A fuzziness. Some feeling that your sleepy mind cant quite
sort out just yet. But you feel happier than you have in a very long time.
Peters bedroom (sitting on the bed)
Morning light floats through the window, covering everything in a light, white
glow. The room has signs of last nights... fun. You can also see that Peter
has already gotten up and left for work without disturbing you.
On the far side of the dresser lies your scrapbook.
Peters dirty clothes lie discarded about the room.
Peter has left you a note on the dresser.
(Your score has just increased by twenty points.)
>read note
Peters left you a little note. It reads: Please lock up before you go-go!Aww,
so cute.
You sigh and smile at the sunshine.
>read scrapbook
This page has you and Peter posing with baguettes, with the caption: Pierre et
Valenteen.
For some reason, being in Peters room, in his bed, makes you giggle.
>read scrapbook
The Award for the Most Boring Caption Ever goes to this page. Peter is sick,
eating a bowl of pumpkin soup. You captioned it: Peter, Peter, Pumpkin
Eater.
>read scrapbook
You and Peter smile out from a photo taken at the mall somewhere. The caption
reads: One quarter of The Who and one fifth of The Go-Gos
Something is slowly floating its way towards the front of your mind. Whatever
it is, it feels good.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You stare at the campfire, blinking in disbelief. You had gone on for so long
pretending, and only that morning did you really love him. No... Surely not.
Peter nods at you. Later that day I caught up with you and you were a changed
woman. You were positively glowing.
You smile to yourself.
Peter looks down at his hands and pokes at the fire with a stick. But you
know, the saddest thing was that it was too late. All that time I loved you
and loved you but I could feel it wasnt the same for you. You seemed to like
me, but... I dunno... There wasnt that extra magic. Maybe Im a boring, old
romantic, but I needed that. And when you finally came around, I just couldnt
meet you there.
You raise an eyebrow at him.
I mean, I wasnt bored with you. I wasnt broken after so many failed
attempts of true love... I just knew that I couldnt give you the love that
you needed. Its complex, but in a weird, weird way, I think the missed
opportunities explained it.
It makes no sense, but somehow, you understand. Somewhere, way in the back of
your mind, there was that indescribable feeling constantly begging for
attention. You couldnt evoke it correctly in your scrapbook, and Peter
couldnt find it in his music. You both kept searching everywhere, but you
couldnt find it and couldnt deal with it, and then, you couldnt find the
love to replace it.
Peter looks deep into your eyes. Do you understand, Val?
You look back at him and smile. Without a word, you tear off a page and drop
it into the fire. He grabs the next page and drops it on top of the ashes of
your page. You both grin.
Page after page, memory after memory, burns and flakes and crumbles. There
goes the time when you waited in line for Star Wars. There goes the time
Peters car broke down. There goes the fight over the lost Franz Ferdinand
tickets. There goes the mix tape Peter gave you for your birthday. There goes
the morning where you drew all over Pete with a sharpie. Love, hurt, fun,
boredom... It all becomes ashes and floats away. The freed souls tumble
through the air, over the ocean, scattering and fluttering.
And then, there is no more pages. The book is completely empty. You smile,
sigh, and drop the cover on the fire.
Peter stands up and offers you his hand. Val, Im so sorry I hurt you.
You pull yourself to your feet and look up at him. Its okay.
On the horizon, the clouds part and a beam of sunlight dances on the ocean.
Far below, a wave crashes.
Val?
Peter?
Thanks.
You hug him. And it feels different this time. Youre still feeling a bit
bumpy, but you can see smoother waters ahead.
So do you want a lift back, Val?
Sure, you say. But I choose the music.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Track 6.
U2 Everlasting Love
*** GAME OVER ***
Would you like to RESTORE a saved position, RESTART the story, see the CREDITS,
see some AMUSING things to try, or QUIT?
Would you like to RESTORE a saved position, RESTART the story, see the CREDITS,
see some AMUSING things to try, or QUIT?
>amusing
Have you:
found the various references to the following bands/artists (CDs in Peters
collection and the track titles dont count):
Jimi Hendrix, Modest Mouse, Gerry Raffety, Pearl Jam, Rolling Stones, Spoon,
They Might Be Giants, Janes Addiction, Sonic Youth, Cibo Matto, The Clash, The
Go-Gos, Sonic Youth, Darren Hanlon, The Who, and Wham!.
have you tried to KISS THE SKY in the Smoke sections?
hung around at the start of Baby Blue and watched the old man amble down the
stairs? tried to walk straight into Peters apartment in Baby Blue instead of
knocking on the door? examined the green walls outside Peters apartment?
examined Peters Pearl Jam poster? Tried to write on it? knocked on Peters
door, from the inside? asked Peter about the old man in Baby Blue? told
Peter about office politics in Baby Blue? found the various ways you can end
Baby Blue? (You can undercook or burn the lasagna, or get into an argument
with Peter) looked under Peters bed? tried to HAVE AN EXISTENTIAL CRISIS?
Would you like to RESTORE a saved position, RESTART the story, see the CREDITS,
see some AMUSING things to try, or QUIT?
