Date: Mon, 8 Jan 2001 22:39:19 +0100 From: kayen <an@altavista.net> Subject: Heaven Without You (boy-bands) Hellooo everyone, Well, I haven't written any boy-band fiction since Ghosts Of Christmas.....Christmas 1999.. Let's see if I can make it through a short story today. :) general-disclaimers-apply oh, don't know what disclaimers? Here, let me tell ya: I do not know 'N Sync (hey, I know enough weird people). I am not trying to imply that they are straight or have any other sexual preference like having sex with purple penguins or something similar. This is not a funny story so I'm using the disclaimers for terribly un-funny comic relief. Did I miss anything? Oh, yeah. I probably didn't properly activate my brain today either. Then again, have I ever? On with the story. ------------------ Heaven Without You by Andreas K N Wiping sweat from his forehead, he fears what lies ahead. As much as he would want to change his mind and leave the studio, he cannot. It has all been decided. The gears are in motion. Beside him sits the love of his life, Joshua Scott Chasez. He glances at the pale face of his lover. He too is sweating. The air feels dense, suffocating, warm, and terribly humid. When did they move Larry King Live to a tropical rainforest? Just as he is about to leave the sofa and go backstage to bitch about CNN's uncomfortable re-location strategies, King turns his attention to his persona and the ghostlike but oh-so-lovely appearance next to him. "To include at least one teeny-bopperish question here.... what is your dating status these days?" The host is following the script to the dot. The object of the question should perhaps have studied the document more closely. The studio grows silent as he merely stares back at the host. Stares. Stares. What the hell are we doing in Africa?! Can't think. "Mr. Bass?" The gorilla is talking to him. Extraordinary. He just wants to get out of Africa and go back home to that wonderful voice... yes, that voice. The trembling voice which speaks up next to him. "We-- we're dating--" "Anyone in particular?" Chatterbox monkey. Didn't that wonderful albeit pale apparition just say that they are dating? "Uhm.." Looks to his side, at James Lance Bass who is clearly off in his own world, "actually, we're dating.. each other--" GASP. The audience holds its collective breath. Is this a joke? Or is it, could it be, true? The Internet quivers at the prospect of the flood of e-mails which it is about to be subjected to. "Well. That is news." No it's in the script. Furthermore, the Industry has known for quite some time. No news here. No, that's not entirely correct. To the vast majority of fans this is indeed news. Shocking, scary, appalling, exciting, highly anticipated, barely comprehendible news. He turns his eyes to Josh. Those eyes. Oh, those eyes. Like the deep blue sea meets the green hills of Ireland, Josh draws closer to his shaking angel, soft lips crashing together in an urgent, moist kiss, salty tears flowing down the cheeks of these two newly exposed lovers. The roar of the ocean providing the perfect backdrop. No, not the ocean. It is the roar of the masses of teenage fans gathered on the street outside the studio. A terrifying, horrific mix of murmuring awe and outright screaming of obscenities and what is generally referred to as derogatory terms. The rest of the interview passes by in a blur for Lance Bass of 'N Sync fame. The roar of the ocean, the ocean of upset fans outside the building, is relentless. The furious waves are hitting the Cape of Good Hope. He just wants to leave the African heat and go home to his own bed and lay down and cry but the bongo drums inside his head won't let him. Beating continuously they are giving him a splitting headache, paralyzing him. It's over. The interview is over. Lovers hand in hand, they are preparing to leave for home, leave the tropical heat and beating drums. Moving down the treacherous cliffs, the press circling around like mad hyenas, flashes of light all around. The fireflies feel like a bad sign. A bad sign. Night is descending on the Cape of Good Hope. Hope is loosing its footing on the slippery rocks. Goodness shines only in the eyes of his ever-supportive band-mates, his fellow seamen. The roar is increasing. Suddenly face to face with the dark, frothing, billowing sea, he feels his stomach running amok. Wrong, wrong, this is wrong. Tightens his grip of Joshua's hand. The huge armed apes following them around to protect them from the wrath of the waves yell something about their need to sail across the roaring sea. How did he end up here? Doesn't even remember going to Africa. Doesn't matter. He just wants to get out. Now. Without summoning any greater Power, the bodyguards make the ocean split in two, forming a path to the other side. Maybe it will be all right after all. Moving through the mass of fans, keeping close to his lovely Joshua. "How could you?! You're MINE!" a girl shrieks out. Another one bellows "FAGS!!" "What did ya just call them you little BITCH?!" *slap* Oh no. No, not that. Wrong, wrong, wrong. A ferocious sea-witch bursts through the barriers, pulling his beloved into the depths. "NO!" This can't be happening. As he dives into the crashing sea to fight for his man, the scene turns into a brawl of towering proportions. The bigots against the anti-bigots. Security against everyone but themselves and their clients. The artists themselves against the screaming, clawing mass of fans gone insane. "YOU LIED TO US!!" He fights the currents, tries to spot his beloved. A shark takes a jab at his abdomen, an unseen object rams into his crotch. He screams. Benevolent mermaids try to come to his rescue, piercingly chanting "Lance! Lance! Lance!". Barely registering their valiant efforts he keeps looking for that body he knows so well, the black-haired boy he would give his life for. There he is! Bravely fighting to stay afloat. Just out of reach. No, not quite out of reach. The green-eyed sailor reaches out to touch his lovers fingertips. Joshua mouths 'I love you!', not even attempting to make himself heard above the roar around them. They smile at each other. A gunshot. A shot to scare the mob to silence. It does not work. All it does is create even more panic. And so the wave hits. The connection between the two lovers is broken. "JAAAMES!!!" He falls, staggers to his feet, the current dragging him backwards, falls again, rises slowly only to see another surge heading straight towards him. He tries to escape but fails miserably. He stumbles to the ground. People all around. Feet. He is being trampled. This can't be happening. Sirens are shrieking. What is it they say about Sirens? Oh yes, their song will lead you into destruction. Don't listen to the Sirens. They are coming closer. The Sirens are calling. Hurting all over, he tries to reach the light, crawling through a jungle of moving legs. There is the edge of the jungle. Must reach it. He bursts out into the open, onto the shilling asphalt. The Sirens are near. He stands up, hearing the screech of tires added to the Sirens' song. He turns. The world is moving slowly, way too slowly. There they are, the Sirens, two flashing, blazing blue eyes rushing towards him. Don't listen to the song of the Sirens, they say. Lance Bass has no option. They are all he can hear and see before his body flies through the air. It feels like it is being torn into a million tiny pieces but as he lands on the asphalt again he is still intact. Or at least he supposes so. More or less. As a dissonant chorus of terrified screams comes floating from a distance, someone rushes to his side. He can only guess who it is as the beating drums has once again rendered him deaf. Feeling drops of salty liquid on his lips and a cradle of quivering flesh and bone enveloping him, he sinks into the brutally cold darkness of the ocean off the Cape of Good Hope. A hope forever lost. A hope lost but perhaps a new hope gained, a hope that tragedy will clear the waters of muddy minds and remind humanity of the dangers of an unforgiving ocean of opinions and prejudice. On a personal level, it is a hope forever lost, a damage that cannot be repaired, a darkness which cannot be made light. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. He moves towards it, serene but sad. So very sad. Reflecting. 'Could it be heaven? No. No place can be heaven Without you' THE END ------------------ Hmm. Stream-of-consciousness writing. Good or bad? I don't know. What I do know is, I don't do it often and when I do, it always turns out strange. Perhaps strange in a good way, perhaps not. The final lines are from a song of mine called 'Heaven Without You'. The Society For Useless Knowledge, take notes. :) Further notes: English is not my first language which may account for irregularities. Not revised. No rewrites. For me, not revising and rewriting is highly irregular, which is why I tried another approach this time. Have never seen Larry King. Don't have CNN. No mermaids were injured during the production of this insanity. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. *wink-wink* :-) ........... ahem, in case yer wondering, you can reach me at an@altavista.net , hehe Oh, in case you're finding it hard to navigate the jungle that is the Nifty boy-bands section, here are some great stories (imho): My Surprise Romance Search and Rescue Brian and Me Nick and The Altos Intimate Stranger The One Bad Boy B-Rok Justin's Dark Angel My New Life The Sound Of Your Voice There are of course tons of other great stories out there, these are just some that popped into mind.. :) Have a really, really nicey-nice day! :D / kayen