Inside the Book: 1983 by Bridget Chase: A Science Fiction Short Story
Sylvester Stallone finds himself burdened by the task of writing the screenplay, ‘Stayin’ Alive’. A dark figure appears that claims to be able to help him create a masterpiece. Sly questions his sanity, but something larger seems to be invested in the future of the movie.
John Travolta, while waiting for the script to be finished, becomes infatuated with a women from his dreams. Every night while he sleeps, he sees her at a train station, but is unable to get close to her. During the day, to combat the growing heart ache, John loses himself to the pleasures of a Virtual Reality world.
Yvonne Strahovski works as an actress. ‘Neural Recorder’s have left her feeling empty in her work. Worse off, she nightly dreams about a man at a train station that she can never quite reach.
‘Stayin’ Alive’ premiered at American Theaters in 1983, but the real story behind its creation is ‘one’ hidden in the Hollywood shadows.
Sample:
Chapter 1
CLAKKKK-KKKK! SHIK-KA-BOOOOM!
John Travolta tipped his head back with a laugh. Evil spilled from his lips in heavy breaths. He swiveled the heavy turret gun that pressed against his chest. A police car exploded in tight flames, flipped, and smashed into two police cars behind in pursuit.
John squeezed the triggers. The huge gun pounded in deep reverberations. His arms shook. Rows of sparks came alive on the metal bodies of police cars chasing him. His heart sang in destructive glory.
The modified military jeep drove the underground ‘Tulsa Superhighway’. The tunnel was lit-up by flashing sparks birthed from hot bullets eating metal. Passenger and commercial vehicles raced towards them at over one hundred and fifty miles per hour. The ‘self-driving AI program’ was being put to the test; having to quickly group and move cars away from the violence being dished out by Travolta.
John’s crime partner Gabriel Shear, an AI digital program- fashioned after Travolta’s future role in the movie ‘Swordfish’, steered the jeep through the underground tunnel.
Gabriel Shear didn’t need to worry about a wreck. With the automated programs, everything got out of their way. The other cars on the road were fixed to AI controlled sleds that governed their movements.
John barred his teeth and fired.
Police cars crashed together. Metal bent and windows shattered. The blaring horns cried for mercy at destruction’s grip on the world.
A savvy police officer slipped past his comrades and tried to gain position at the side off the jeep.
Travolta was having none of it. CLAKKK-KKKK!
He shot the tires out. The police car swerved, smashing, BOOOM! Into the tunnel wall and flipped. Flames engulfed the wreckage.
CRASH! It blocked the road. The coming police cars piled up.
The AI program in charge of the underground superhighway, diverted vehicles back to the surface- avoiding a blockage.
John climbed down into the cab from the jeep’s roof turret. The road was clear. Gabriel put a cigarette between his lips. He steered the car with one hand and sparked a lighter with the other. “Where to now?”
John thought for a moment. Monday mornings were the worst. He needed something exciting. “Fuck it. Let’s get waisted.”
“You got it boss,” Gabriel said. He removed the cigarette from his lips and blew dancing tendrils of overlapping quantum fields into the air.
The highway’s lights played neon streaks across the jeep’s black glossy surface. Synthwave music played in its interior.
Ahead, the sun shone down through regularly spaced rectangular segments where vehicles were lifted to the surface.
∞
He turned off the TV. Sylvester Stallone walked over to his desk that stood next to blacked out windows. An old school typewriter was on his desk. Just the kind of machine he liked using for typing screen plays.
Sly’s eyes were bloodshot. The lack of sleep abused him.
With the windows painted black, the noon sun was eliminated. Darkness crawled through his apartment.
Stallone sat. He looked at the curled paper on the typewriter. ‘Stayin’ Alive by Sylvester Stallone’ was all he had written.
With the cover page done, he pulled it out, and put in a fresh white sheet.
The blank page taunted his creativity. Stallone got up and moved to his couch. A warm knitted blanket lay over its back.
He wrapped the soft woven fabric around his shoulders and curled up. The perfect screen play- it was an elusive beast. Stallone wanted to make a movie that found new places in the human heart. Something that reflected the ‘true ember’ of humanity. He wanted it to burn in people’s souls- licked by the dancing flames of perfection.
Books lay piled up on his coffee table. Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was at the top of the stack. It was a small book, but something inside himself said to pick it up.
Sly lifted it and opened the cover.
“Two households, both alike in dignity,” Stallone began to read.
His cat, Kurt Wussels, walked casually across the back of the couch. It stepped on Stallone’s shoulder and rubbed its cheek against him. Kurt Wussels laid down and napped against Stallone’s neck.
∞
She looked down at herself. The blue dress floated ‘as if’ she were in water.
Yvonne Strahovski had been here before. Almost nightly now she dreamt the same dream. She didn’t know why.
Yvonne stood at the center of a moving mass of people in what felt like a train station. Colors slipped in languid threads. Her attention twisted to sudden oscillating planes of focus.
Yvonne tried to stay asleep. She wanted to find answers to what this meant. Over the course of the past two weeks, she had come here nightly, and every night, there was a mysterious man.
She never quite saw him but the narrative directing the dream made this man central to the dialog.
People passed and pressed by her. Yvonne moved forward. Her eyes searched the crowd for him. She knew he would be here, and tonight she would finally get close to him.
Her dream always ended in the same way- frustration. She would see the mysterious man in the distance. He would wave, and they would move towards one other. The ironic storyteller in all its subconscious perplexities, wove the dream so the closer she tried to get, the further she moved away.
The blue dress slipped around Yvonne’s slim legs. Her blonde hair bounced, kissing her shoulders with each step.
Magic of differentiated time moved the people in a chaotic, unstable maze.
In the space between people’s murky profiles, she caught a glimpse of the man. His dark eyes found her. A smile stole his chiseled jaw.
Following the next step, space became her enemy. With every movement towards him, the ‘rubix cube’ dream space became distorted and twisted.
Now the man was further away. She turned. He was looking for her. They caught eyes and a train whistle sliced through the moment.
Space was sheered and Yvonne saw him on the far side of the tracks. Shit, she could feel the covers draping her body in bed.
The crowd of people weren’t people anymore but instead a light drifting sound. The murmurs and ‘whispered words’ melted down to a single slow breath.
All the noise wove itself to a quiet snore. Yvonne awoke. Her dog lay in bed next to her. Its light breathing held all the pieces of the forgotten world.
Chapter 2
John Travolta woke up. Lemon rays of the sun spilt across his white bed sheets. He sat up and stretched. Lean lines traced the contours of his muscles.
He walked to the bathroom. John toyed with his disheveled black hair.
Looking in the mirror, he thought about the woman in the blue dress. Why could he not stop dreaming of her? The memory of her flowery hair birthed sharp barbs of longing desire.
After getting out of the shower, he decided it was silly to be so love struck over an imaginary woman. She wasn’t even real. Besides, he had a bank to rob today.
John threw on his favorite robe. It was a little grungy from old food stains and sweat. He climbed into his favorite chair. With touch of the power button, a low hum emanated from the compact virtual reality platform. John slipped on the neural contacts, and then sat back, letting the sleep like paralysis take over.
A soft wind stole the world away and replaced it with a bustling city.
John took out his phone and called Gabriel.
“Yeah Boss?” Gabriel picked up.
“You ready for that bank robbery today?” John asked. He strutted down the 1970’s New York City sidewalk.
“I’ve been ready since you were last here.”
“Good,” John said, “And bring lots of guns. I’m feeling bad today.”
∞
The script became a growing irritation. Digesting festering emotions, Sylvester Stallone walked the streets of New York. His hands were buried in the tight pockets of his acid wash jeans. An oversized black leather jacket hid his shredded physique.
Thus far, the script called for Tony Manero, the lead character from ‘Saturday Night Fever’, to be a drug addict, and for his girlfriend to be a prostitute. Sequels were a bitch to write.
Sly didn’t like this angle. He loved disco and the club life. Dancing was an art that spun webs of sugary delights in his heart. Besides, this was Travolta playing Tony, he couldn’t be a loser drug addict.
Maybe it was reading Romeo and Juliet that had hindered his creative writing talent.
Sylvester Stallone entered Hanger National Bank. A rigid line stood before the tellers. He joined the other nondescript people waiting.
Sly didn’t worried over how much money was left in his bank account. ‘Stayin’ Alive’ held the weight of Hollywood on its shoulders.
Dear god, he just needed to write a good script. But how? Stallone closed his eyes and imagined the dance choreography.
“I will help you,” a woman’s voice broke through his mind.
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