Frank's Story Thread

[Frank Cox]

So about a year or so back I decided to write a story. Just one little story about a detective recovering a city's stolen Christmas cheer.

Which led to writing a story about a lounge piano player. Which then led to another story. And another.

Story writing turned into a more engaging activity than I had originally thought it would be. That hardboiled writing style is something that I've always enjoyed reading and now I've discovered that it's great fun to write and play with as well.

I'll post my stories in this thread and anyone of you folks who have any comments, questions or virtual tomatoes can feel free to add them here as well.

Also, in response to a couple of requests, I have started a small mailing list for these stories. If you would like to get my new stories by email, let me know and I'll add you to the list.

*ahem*
Alright, mate. I ain't no factory churning out stories like a assembly line. I write when the ink flows, and when the muse whispers in my ear. But don't you worry, I'll keep the hardboiled, gritty tales coming when they're ready. Just remember, it's a wild world out there. So, keep your eyes peeled and your ears to the ground. I'll be back with more stories when the time is right.

[Frank Cox]

The Sign
by Frank Cox Nov 11 2024

In the heart of the city where the shadows of skyscrapers stretch like long, dark fingers, a beacon of hope or ruin flickers. A hulking titan of neon, the sign towers in the evening mist, a symbol of the seedy underbelly that thrives beneath the polished veneer of the metropolis.

As the sun dips below the horizon the old neon sign springs to life, casting a flickering, pulsating glow onto the desolate street. The once vibrant tubes, worn and frayed like the dreams of forgotten souls, buzz and crackle with electricity.

The sign's frame, a twisted skeleton of rusted metal, groans and creaks with each pulse of electricity that courses through its veins. The neon tubes, once a symbol of life and promise, now flare erratically, casting a dance of shadows on the cold concrete walls.

The faded tubes emit a dim, flickering light that seems to dance and shimmer, as if the spirits of the past are trying to communicate through the cracked and fogged glass. A buzzing and crackling echoes through the empty streets, a symphony of decay that's both unsettling and captivating.

The sound is a chilling reminder of the city's secrets and the dangers that lurk just beyond the glow of the sign's light.

And yet, despite its menacing tone, the buzzing sound of the sign has a strange, hypnotic quality to it. It's a sound that seems to call out to those who seek adventure, mystery. Perhaps their own doom.

As the light spills out onto the street it illuminates the grime and decay, casting jagged shadows that seem to stretch on forever. The pavement, slick with rain and dirt, reflects the light, creating a mosaic of colours that seems to change with every step.

The nearby buildings, worn and weathered, seem to come alive under the glow of the sign's light. The brick and stone facades shimmer as if they're covered in a thin layer of ice. The windows, long shattered and broken, seem to tremble and dance.

The light from the sign penetrates the darkness, casting a ghostly luminescence on the city. It's a reminder of the passage of time, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, and a symbol of hope that's as elusive as it is enticing.

The sign is a haunting spectacle that's as much a part of the city's soul as the people who call it home.

For some, it's a symbol of fear and dread, a reminder of the city's dark underbelly and the doom that awaits those who venture too close. As they walk down the empty streets, the buzzing and crackling of the neon sign echoes in their ears, a chilling reminder of the city's secrets and the dangers that lurk just beyond the glow of the sign's light. They quicken their pace, their hearts pounding with fear. Many shudder and turn away, their imaginations running wild with nightmarish visions.

But for others, the sign is a beacon of hope, a symbol of a brighter future that lies beyond the city's grime and decay. They see the sign not as a harbinger of doom, but as a signpost leading them to a new beginning, a chance to start anew and escape the crushing weight of their past.

For these hopeful souls, the sign's flickering, pulsating glow is a source of comfort and inspiration, a reminder that even in the darkest of places there's always a flicker of light, a glimmer of hope. And as they step closer, drawn by the promise of a better future, they feel a strange sense of exhilaration.

A young boy stands on the grimy sidewalk, his eyes wide with wonder as he gazes up at the old neon sign. The flickering, pulsating glow casts a kaleidoscope of colours across his face, making him seem almost otherworldly.

The boy, with his ragged clothes and unkempt hair, is a stark contrast to the glowing sign that looms over him. Yet there's a look of determination in his eyes, a fierce resolve that belies his small stature. His mind races with dreams and wonders, as he contemplates the mysteries of the sign and the city it represents.

As he stands there, the buzzing and crackling of the neon tubes echoes in his ears, a symphony of sounds that speaks to him. The weight of the city presses down on him - the echoes of the past, the dreams of the forgotten, and the shadows of the lost.

He's just a small boy, lost in a big city, but he dreams of something more, something greater. As he steps closer, drawn by the promise of a brighter future, he feels the burden of hope that only a young dreamer can bear. An exaltation, a thrill of danger that only adds to his anticipation. Drawn by the promise of a better future, the city's pulse beats in his chest, the rhythm guiding him towards his destiny.

The neon sign creaks and groans like a weary traveller reaching the end of his journey, its tubing a whiskey-soaked nerve, struggling and straining to keep the visions bright. The letters, like the promises of a three-card monte con, flicker and dance in the dimly lit alleyway, a siren's call to the down-and-out and the down-on-their-luck.

Like a femme fatale, the sign is a vision of loveliness, a spectral glow that seems to pulse with a slow beat, a heavy heart, a rhythm that says "Come on in kid, we won't bother you much".

The colours, like the memories of a worn-out rose, are muted, subdued, and worn thin by the patina of a thousand nights - a promise of warmth, of comfort, of a place to lay your weary head and forget the world.

The sign's message, a cryptic riddle, seems to change with the wind, whispering promises of fortune, love, and escape. Yet those who venture near find only silence, the cold embrace of the abandoned building, and the lingering scent of decay.

The neon sign, a bewitching seductress, draws in the lost, the desperate, and the curious. Some, drawn by the promise of salvation, find only regret. Others, enticed by the mystery, are never seen again. But the sign stands, a testament to a time long past, a reminder of dreams unfulfilled, and a warning of the doom that awaits those who dare to enter its embrace.

Don't be fooled, pal - this ain't no welcome mat. This is a last-chance saloon, a one-last-shot joint, a place where the lost and the lonely come to forget their troubles and find their way back to the edge.

So roll up, friend. Step inside, but don't say I didn't warn you.