The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition. This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, in order that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.
All references to other works, which remain copyright of their respective rights-holders, are meant for the sake of affectionate parody only.
Author’s note: I guess it was time to update this blog sooner than later. This is something I’d been working on for a while, and is basically “what it says on the tin”: largely a parody of my inability to get stories finished, as well as perhaps some sort of character-buliding exercise. Or maybe just an excuse for the usual silliness.
“I could have sworn she said the third exit,” exclaimed Laura, trying hard not to admit that she had precisely no idea how she had managed to reach the mysterious, dimly lit, uninspiring looking grey concrete building standing before them.
“It was definitely fourth,” replied Mike, matter-of-factedly.
“I distinctly remember hearing third. Third exit from Jaina Mycarina’s Roundabout onto Mission Street then…”
“Mission Street’s the other way, going south towards Litmen, though, I should know, that’s where the Saviour’s Mission that Mama goes to every Sun-“
“Oh, why is it always you who has to be right, eh?”
Mike said nothing. She was clearly in one of those moods, and it would do no good to contradict. Silence reigned, and as Uncle George would have said when he was still alive, they all got wet. Or at least they would have, but Mensen 134s, unusually stylish as they were for Lyniezian cars, lacked a convertible option. Notwithstanding, the actual weather outside, as he observed when idly looking out of the window until the woman by his side had finally cooled off somewhat, showed no signs of raining.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going in there to ask for directions,” Laura eventually insisted. “There must be someone still working or whatever they do in there. Truth be told, what is this place, anyway?”
It was, indeed, not at all clear what function the building served. One might assume some kind of office block, or special school, or maybe a telephone exchange, or even flats, but its presence was entirely unexplainable. Neither of them, despite living in the city all their lives, had any recollection of it ever having been there- though that was hardly unusual. It was a maze of streets, which came and went as the next phase of redevelopment bulldozed through, leaving the familiar patterns of childhood changed beyond recognition. What was for sure, the surroundings- an un-Lynieizianly large, even more dimly lit car park, surrounded on all sides by a shadowy, impenetrable thicket, rustling ominously in the breeze, was no help in discerning where they were.
Laura pushed the driver’s-side door open against the still-blowing wind and got out of the car, ready to brave the elements once more. Mike soon followed her as she clomped with determination across the worn, chipped tarmac over to what appeared to be the front entrance to the building, preceded by several concrete steps with a metal handrail attached. Next to the door lay a small brass plaque in which the English words “WRITER’S BLOCK” could be just about made out when Laura had shifted her body to one side enough to allow the dim glow of the car headlights to illuminate them. (The lack of a Lyniezian translation was slightly jarring.) Something that looked like an entrance lobby and reception desk lay beyond, but it was dark and empty. Nevertheless, she proceeded to rap on the door and shout “Is anyone there?”
“You might want to try the bell,” piped up Mike’s voice from behind, as he attempted to motion to a laminated note with “For attention, please ring” written on it just above a doorbell-button.
“As if I hadn’t thought of that,” Laura scolded back, once more unwilling to admit her error. Proceeding to do what had been suggested, however, yielded no further result. The lobby was as dark and empty as it was before.
“Well, that’s that out,” she went on, and with hand thrust back into her coat pockets, she pivotted on her heels and made back for the car.
No sooner had she began to do so than light appeared from behind and a dozen locks clicked open. Turning back, she noticed a small, blue-haired girl, probably about eighteen or nineteen years old, wearing a bizarre assortment of clothing in colours so bright and clashing that even in this light, Laura thought her eyes might bleed. Orange T-shirt, purple jacket, green skirt, purple and yellow striped hose… turquoise lipstick? She wasn’t quite sure this was what the hip-and-happening youth of today were wearing right now (which was certainly not much worse) but what she was sure about was that that girl lacked any sense of colour co-ordination whatsoever. As crazy as she might have got in her roughly week-long punk rocker phase back in the day…
“Eh… are you Laura Mycarina and Mike Moheden?” asked the girl in a heavy Tymena-sounding accent, interrupting Laura’s thoughts.
“Excuse me?” asked Laura, not sure what the hell to make of the situation.
“How do you know who we are? I mean, if you’re a fan…” said Mike.
“Maybe you should let me do the talking,” interjected Laura who seemed determined to do things her way tonight. Turning back to the girl she insisted: “I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding, min tansa, we only came to ask for directions back to-“
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said the girl.
“Why not? I suppose you don’t know the city, right?” replied Laura, getting somewhat annoyed.
“It’s… not quite like that?” said the girl.
“Which means what, exactly?”
“There… well… isn’t any city?”
“What do you mean, isn’t any city? We’ve just been driving round it for the past half hour! Now either you stop playing this silly game missy, and actually help me out here, or I’m leaving…”
“You can’t.”
“And who’s going to stop me? You? I’ve had a very long and awkward day and all I really want now is to relax at home with a glass of wine and the late movie on TV2. And by the gods am I going to…”
“Well you can try…” interrupted the girl, surpressing a giggle.
“How’d you mean?”
“I mean drive all the way down there,” the girl went on, gesturing down the driveway, “and you’ll just end up back where you started. Once you get in, you can’t get out.”
“That’s impossible!” shouted Laura. “You tell her, Mike!”
“Oh, now I’m allowed to say some-” Mike tried to scold before Laura gave him The Look. The one you didn’t argue with. So he tried his best with the girl:
“Well I mean surely if we came in one way we should at least be able to come back, right?” What goes in must come out…”
“Not round here it doesn’t, not unless The Author wills it, cursed be His Name.”
“The Author? You mean, like God? I’m not sure I believe in God anymore, Miss…”
“Makie. Well, Marieka if you must. Not exactly God, I mean, we’re more like characters in a story. The Author built this place with his mind to send all the characters from stories he hasn’t bothered to finish yet. Hence the Writer’s Block. Kind of funny if you say it in English…” Makie released her suppressed giggle into fits of laughter.
“I suppose you think this is all one big joke do you, Miss Makie?” asked Laura, still in no mood to believe anything that contradicted the normal order of reality, let alone hindered her ardent desire to salvage some sort of enjoyment from her ruined evening. “Excuse me if some of us aren’t laughing.”
Trying hard to control herself, Makie eventually went on:
“I think you’d better come inside for a bit and have something to drink, come and meet the others, and we can discuss stuff in there. I’d rather not stand out here in this weather.”
“Might as well,” said Mike. “I mean now we’re here…”
“Oh, go on then,” said a resigned Laura. “Maybe we can get some sense out of somebody.”
The three walked through the door, which Makie closed and locked behind them, an elaborate procedure involving two keyholes, several bolts and a chain, “just to stop the door from rattling as that’s kinda annoying,” as she explained it. The entrance lobby which greeted them, a utilitarian but vaguely seventies-style affair with wood-panelled walls and dark grey carpet underfoot, housing a plain wooden desk atop which sat little more than a telephone at one end (one of those modern push-button affairs), a bell with accompanying “Please ring for attention” (again, oddly, just in English) at the other and an open visitor’s book with accompanying pen which Makie gestured to.
“Don’t forget to sign in,” she told them. “Doesn’t really matter but Her Highness insists on it.”
“Her what? I thought you were Lyniezian?” asked Mike, whose turn it was to be annoyed. “You shouldn’t have to bow and scrape before royalty you know…”
“Don’t ask,” was all the reply. “Oh, and you don’t need to put the time down, it has no meaning in here. If you don’t mind I have to make the damned call upstairs…” Makie picked up the phone and began to dial.
“You first or me?” asked Mike.
“I don’t see why we’re even doing this but since we’re here… well, I don’t know who ‘Her Highness’ is but if this were my work I’d be insisting on nothing less from our receptionist. Can’t have the Safety Office coming down on us like a ten ton truck next audit…” Laura said as she printed her name, scrawled her signature and, as if to echo her point, checked her brand new digital watch and noted the precise time, contrary to suggestion. Mike quickly scrawled in a signature whilst Makie finished talking to whatever person was on the other end of the phone.
“All done?” she asked. The others nodded. “Don’t forget you can check out any time, but you can never leave.” Looking at Mike, she added, “Loved the cover by the way. That guitar solo was a-ma-zing.”
“Thought you were a fan.”
“For real! Both of you, actually… well, the other you. Starship Trooper was one of the best ’80s bands out there…”
“But we’ve never been in a band together since high school!” insisted Laura. “And I mean we were only called that for a couple of months, when was it…”
“Around that time we took the trip to England? The one with no waterfalls and the kissing gate…”
“Could have sworn it was before then. You and your brother and that damned Yes song… and… Makie? Your world? Don’t tell me we’ve not just gone on some magical trip but we’re into parallel universes as well? Have I stepped into a sci-fi magazine?”
“Not exactly, but yeah. I’ll explain it when we’ve got upstairs.” Before going anywhere, Makie reached into a drawer under the desk and pulled out some booklets. Handing them to Mike and Laura, she told them, “Don’t forget to take a guidebook. It’ll help make sense of this madhouse.” Laura was unsure it would, and besides, she didn’t plan on staying long enough to read it. If she wasn’t back in her own bed by midnight, sleeping alone or not, she’d be damned.
“So,” Mike asked as the two followed Makie’s lead through a set of double doors and up a flight of stairs, “you said we were an ’80s band in your world… does that mean time travel too? How successful will we have been?”
“Don’t encourage her,” muttered Laura through clenched teeth.
Neither of them had bothered to care less that Makie had not bothered to turn any additional lights on and was lighting the way with a torch.
“Time travel, parallel universes, you name it. She’s right. I mean we’ve got a space princess, an amazon warrior, and a pan-dimensional being who wears goggles and a scarf for starters. And the actual, honest-to-gods Santa Claus…”
“Whatever Santa Claus is,” muttered Laura, largely to herself.
“And for real, you guys were huge. Well, will… have… would… you know. it’s actually weird to see you two when you’re still so young. Didn’t know Laura was so pretty in real life too…”
Laura was a bit confused as to why that kind of attention was somehow foisted upon her. She recalled back in her youth the girl fans of their band were mostly giving that kind of attention to Mike (not that he paid attention) or more likely, his brother. If anything, in the already awkward circumstances, it made her a little creeped out and ready to say such rash things as:
“Please, please don’t tell me you’re a…”
“What, lesbian? Yeah. Forgot you lot were all trogs back in the ’80s as well,” Makie retorted with more than a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Oh, don’t mention it in front of the others, either, Mejie might not be too happy…”
“It’s alright, I mean… I don’t mind,” insisted Laura, trying to save face. “Whatever turns you on…”
Trying not to be fazed by Laura’s casual bigotry, Makie went on trying to explain things. “We’ll be going up to the top floor, left and down the corridor. Just before we do, don’t argue with the space princess, don’t piss off the amazon, and whatever you do stay out of room 33.”
“What’s so bad about room 33?” asked Laura.
“More like who. Come on.”
“Just don’t expect me to be obsequious,” insisted Mike.
“You could try putting the revolution on hold just for half an hour, you know,” Laura cut back, trying to lighten the mood.
“The revolution doesn’t take tea breaks,” Mike replied.
With such banter provoking a twinge of nostalgia for happier times, it seemed to Laura, in spite of everything else, there might just be hope yet.
“Oi! Hearts are trumps if you don’t mind! I win this one!” yelled Jenny.
“Actually, I think you’ll find that wands are trumps,” replied Princess Lucidity in regal tone, well-trimmed red fingernails tapping rhythmically on a silver bejewelled rod placed before her on the table. None of them particularly needed to be reminded of its function.
“I’ll bet my friends Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson would remind you we’re playing German whist, not tarot,” retorted Jenny, her casual tone belying the obvious threat.
“Oh, Holy Zarquon’s singing bloody fish!” yelled an exasperated Santa. “Perhaps I should fetch some cowboy hats from my sack, if you want to pretend you’re in a smegging Western movie!”
“Keep your heads on Zaphod,” said Jenny. “Just trying to remind Her High and Mightyness there she doesn’t have a monopoly on violence.”
“She hardly needs reminding of that,” Marieka of the Clan Renavam pointed out nonchalantly, before taking a hearty swig of ale and wiping the excess from her chin. “One well aimed javelin will see to that.”
Princess Lucidity scowled at her haughtily. “Never mind that! Where is that girl? Are three flights of stairs too much for you primitives?”
“What the fuck Lucidity?” Megan yelled at the Princess, holding back sudden tears of rage. “Call our Makie primitive one more time and-” A gentle nudge by Jenny quietened her down.
Arty, looking intently at his cards, pretended to ignore the commotion. “I fold,” he said, laying his hand face up on the table.
“As if I need reminding we are playing whist, and not poker,” Lucidity pointed out. “Since you don’t even know how to play cards, boy, go fetch,” she commanded.
Arty at once got up and made for the door, not wanting 10,000 volts of extra encouragement. He closed it behind him and fumbled for the light switch. One by one, the geriatric flourescent lights buzzed and sputtered to what passed for life along the length of the corridor, startling the three figures making their way along it who had been content with Makie’s torchlight augmenting whatever ambient light came through from the glass in the doors of assorted darkened rooms. Makie, in particular, made a small jump and muttered “Not again” half to herself.
“Oh, you’re here,” Arty told them. “Name’s Arty… Arthur Michaelson,” he said, proffering a hand to Mike, not being prepared for the strength of the handshake with which he was returned. “Mike Moheden, right? Heard all about you. Musician, right?”
“Right,” Mike replied, just noticing this was the first time he’d spoken English all night, hoping his faint twinge of a Clochan accent wasn’t too much for the posh-voiced, lanky-looking English fellow who’d made his aquaintance. “I don’t suppose you want my autograph do you? Seeing as I was a bit well known round these parts, once upon a time…”
“Before his differences with the record company,” noted Laura.
“A true artist needs creative freedom,” Mike explained. “Especially from the bourgeois money-grubbing pigs at Teledai.” He made a face at Laura, so as to say ‘so there’.
“The revolution doesn’t take tea breaks, you see,” Laura added. “Nor does Mike’s inner child.”
“Anyway, old boy… Madam, er, Miss, er min y-“
“Laura will do,” was Laura’s curt response.
“…Laura,” Arty went on, “the others are getting impatient. Especially…” (a note of trepidation arose in his voice) “…the other half.”
“That’s the space princess,” Makie whispered to Mike and Laura. “Her name’s Lucidity. Try to humour her but don’t let her scare you, ‘right? The revolution can, y’know, at least take a beer break can’t it? There’s plenty in the fridge by the way…”
“I don’t plan to drink and drive, you know,” said Laura. “Got any Samson’s? Could do with a good strong cuppa.”
Tales of Lyniezia 