Sinking (5/13)
Title: Sinking, Part 5
Series: TCR (real, not fake)
Rating: PG-13 for spookiness and language.
Warnings: Violence and mental instability.
Summary: Producing a television show is no easy feat, but it's fulfilling work-- until a strange presence begins to break everything down.
Author's Note: Is it normal to really enjoy writing arguments? Because I do.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual. IN SHORT: None of this is real. I just like scary stories.
(Jump to: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13)
On Monday morning, Stephen noticed a list posted outside the office. It was a list of lost items. There were about twenty things on the paper, including CDs, keys, and jewelry. Allison's name was beside "toy car," something he remembered that her niece had given her. He gritted his teeth. Fantastic. It looked like there was a thief among them.
He didn't feel much better when two interns colluding over papers down the hall spotted him and hurried off. It didn't look like the supernatural theories would end any time soon.
Of course, could he blame them? First Katie, then the window, then the fallen light, then Roddy... Hell, even the sudden surge of missing possessions. Wasn't that something ghosts did?
He couldn't help but bring it up to Jon on the phone later.
“It's just a string of... of incredibly bad luck,” Jon said. “I mean, ghosts? Come on. Barring the legitimacy of ghosts in the first place, nothing happened when The Daily Show was still over there. Why would a ghost just suddenly appear?”
“I know, but...” Stephen sighed. “All this happening at once. It really is strange...”
“Don't start,” Jon warned. “You're letting it get to you. That's the last thing you need. What you do need is to reinforce a little common sense. Things will get back to normal once everyone stops looking for Casper.”
“Yeah, you're right,” Stephen said. “You're right.”
\\\\\\\\\\\\
The worst thing that could have happened was that the ghost, whether it existed or not, began to affect everyone's work. All the enthusiasm and energy, it seemed, had drained that day. The interns screwed up on their errands, getting the wrong things or getting lost. The stage crew fumbled throughout rehearsal, missing cues and blocking. The writers had a comedy block the size of Central Park, and though they chiseled at it up until the taping started, they didn't turn out material that reflected their efforts.
If he were being kind to himself, Stephen would have given the show that night just a barely passing mark. “Sometimes” was not an appropriate measurement for how often the audience laughed. He went over all the failed jokes in his mind while he took off his make-up, scrutinizing the wording, the delivery, the concepts themselves. It was wrench-to-the-head bad. He should have just stopped, apologized, and told the audience to leave. He should have kissed the hand of each man and woman as they exited the studio. He should have slipped a twenty into each pocket.
He had to force himself to go to the editing room, to relive it all again. Jimmy and Tom (the assistant editor) seemed to know-- they didn't chat and joke as they usually did. They went through the tape, tightening up spots here and there, and Stephen tried to ignore the near-silence that assailed his on-screen self.
Enjoy the bomb, he tried to tell himself. Don't you remember?
Failure was a status-shift. He was a comedian. He aimed to have the audience so caught up in guffaws they could barely stay in their seats. Instead he got a few chuckles and more polite laughter than he ever wanted to hear again. It knocked him down a peg. Okay, a few dozen pegs, but it shouldn't make it less funny.
He glared at his visage on the TV, waiting for the next abomination of a joke. Ah, he remembered this one well. It was a reference to the Ents from The Lord of the Rings that would have greatly benefited from a visual aid. How much of the general population really gave enough of a shit about the anthropomorphic trees to remember what they were? They could add a photo in now, he supposed, and maybe the home audience would get it, but the lack of response from the studio audience would still be embarrassingly apparent. Stephen cringed as he listened to the joke and waited for the silence.
Instead he heard a strange, low sound. Stephen snapped out of his self-pity and looked over at Jimmy. Jimmy's eyebrows were raised as well. Tom rewound the tape and played it again.
Stephen listened closely. First his failed joke, then the sound, a rumbling with a slight echo. A laugh that Stephen didn't remember hearing in person. Not even a matter of memory. A laugh that didn't happen. A low chuckle that lasted perhaps a second.
“That joke bombed,” Stephen said.
Jimmy rewound it again. “I know.” Played it again. “There's probably just something up with the sound.”
“That's a laugh,” Stephen insisted.
“No, it sounds kind've like it, sure, but--”
“That's a laugh.”
“Then the camera man chuckled or something. Fuck, I dunno. You wanna call them up and ask them?”
Tom shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “That doesn't... sound like a person,” he said quietly.
Stephen and Jimmy didn't respond. Stephen tapped his fingers on the table in front of the monitor. Then he asked, “Can we take it out?”
Jimmy and Tom exchanged glances. “We can work with the audio, probably get it out for the most part, yeah,” Jimmy said.
“It's distracting. Take it out.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it's still a laugh.”
“It's distracting. We'll have to check the mikes tomorrow too. We shouldn't be getting sound out of proportion like that.”
Jimmy nodded and turned back to the editing machine, adjusting knobs. Tom stared at Stephen. Stephen shot an impatient look back at him, but Tom wasn't easily swayed. “That doesn't sound like a person,” he said again.
“Don't be ridiculous,” Stephen said harshly. “What else would it be?”
“Hey,” Jimmy snapped, turning abruptly to face Stephen. “Relax.”
Stephen felt his face get hot. “I'm just getting really tired of these supernatural fantasies. Things have been stressful enough lately, especially today.”
“Well, don't bite the kid's head off for making an observation, 'cause he's right. It doesn't sound fucking human to me either, frankly. But that doesn't mean I think this place is haunted. I'm just making an observation.”
Stephen's smile was overly enthusiastic. “Congratulations! Can we get on with this, please?”
Overheated environments had been a theme for the day, and that moment wasn't any different. With the deathly looks he and Jimmy were exchanging, and Tom shrinking into the background, it suddenly occurred to Stephen that it wouldn't be at all surprising if Jimmy walked out right then.
And why shouldn't he? You're overreacting. Completely.
Stephen's hands swept over his face and through his hair. He bent over in his seat, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he sat up again, he still felt tense, but managed to focus his sheepishness. “I'm sorry, guys. It's been a rough day.”
Tom visibly exhaled. Some of the hardness left Jimmy's eyes. “Yeah,” Jimmy said, “I know what you mean. Let's just get this done and go home, right?”
Stephen nodded. “Right.” He wanted to smile, but it would've been so false that he couldn't bring himself to do it. At the moment, going home was all he cared about. Hell, he wanted to leave right then.
But he couldn't leave. He had a responsibility to the studio and the people in it. No matter how bad things got, he was in charge.
The captain goes down with the ship. Yo ho.
He pulled at his hair again. God, he was thinking as if things would never get better.
When editing was finished and Stephen left that night, he noticed that over half a dozen more items had been added to the Lost list, including “my mind.”
Series: TCR (real, not fake)
Rating: PG-13 for spookiness and language.
Warnings: Violence and mental instability.
Summary: Producing a television show is no easy feat, but it's fulfilling work-- until a strange presence begins to break everything down.
Author's Note: Is it normal to really enjoy writing arguments? Because I do.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual. IN SHORT: None of this is real. I just like scary stories.
(Jump to: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13)
On Monday morning, Stephen noticed a list posted outside the office. It was a list of lost items. There were about twenty things on the paper, including CDs, keys, and jewelry. Allison's name was beside "toy car," something he remembered that her niece had given her. He gritted his teeth. Fantastic. It looked like there was a thief among them.
He didn't feel much better when two interns colluding over papers down the hall spotted him and hurried off. It didn't look like the supernatural theories would end any time soon.
Of course, could he blame them? First Katie, then the window, then the fallen light, then Roddy... Hell, even the sudden surge of missing possessions. Wasn't that something ghosts did?
He couldn't help but bring it up to Jon on the phone later.
“It's just a string of... of incredibly bad luck,” Jon said. “I mean, ghosts? Come on. Barring the legitimacy of ghosts in the first place, nothing happened when The Daily Show was still over there. Why would a ghost just suddenly appear?”
“I know, but...” Stephen sighed. “All this happening at once. It really is strange...”
“Don't start,” Jon warned. “You're letting it get to you. That's the last thing you need. What you do need is to reinforce a little common sense. Things will get back to normal once everyone stops looking for Casper.”
“Yeah, you're right,” Stephen said. “You're right.”
\\\\\\\\\\\\
The worst thing that could have happened was that the ghost, whether it existed or not, began to affect everyone's work. All the enthusiasm and energy, it seemed, had drained that day. The interns screwed up on their errands, getting the wrong things or getting lost. The stage crew fumbled throughout rehearsal, missing cues and blocking. The writers had a comedy block the size of Central Park, and though they chiseled at it up until the taping started, they didn't turn out material that reflected their efforts.
If he were being kind to himself, Stephen would have given the show that night just a barely passing mark. “Sometimes” was not an appropriate measurement for how often the audience laughed. He went over all the failed jokes in his mind while he took off his make-up, scrutinizing the wording, the delivery, the concepts themselves. It was wrench-to-the-head bad. He should have just stopped, apologized, and told the audience to leave. He should have kissed the hand of each man and woman as they exited the studio. He should have slipped a twenty into each pocket.
He had to force himself to go to the editing room, to relive it all again. Jimmy and Tom (the assistant editor) seemed to know-- they didn't chat and joke as they usually did. They went through the tape, tightening up spots here and there, and Stephen tried to ignore the near-silence that assailed his on-screen self.
Enjoy the bomb, he tried to tell himself. Don't you remember?
Failure was a status-shift. He was a comedian. He aimed to have the audience so caught up in guffaws they could barely stay in their seats. Instead he got a few chuckles and more polite laughter than he ever wanted to hear again. It knocked him down a peg. Okay, a few dozen pegs, but it shouldn't make it less funny.
He glared at his visage on the TV, waiting for the next abomination of a joke. Ah, he remembered this one well. It was a reference to the Ents from The Lord of the Rings that would have greatly benefited from a visual aid. How much of the general population really gave enough of a shit about the anthropomorphic trees to remember what they were? They could add a photo in now, he supposed, and maybe the home audience would get it, but the lack of response from the studio audience would still be embarrassingly apparent. Stephen cringed as he listened to the joke and waited for the silence.
Instead he heard a strange, low sound. Stephen snapped out of his self-pity and looked over at Jimmy. Jimmy's eyebrows were raised as well. Tom rewound the tape and played it again.
Stephen listened closely. First his failed joke, then the sound, a rumbling with a slight echo. A laugh that Stephen didn't remember hearing in person. Not even a matter of memory. A laugh that didn't happen. A low chuckle that lasted perhaps a second.
“That joke bombed,” Stephen said.
Jimmy rewound it again. “I know.” Played it again. “There's probably just something up with the sound.”
“That's a laugh,” Stephen insisted.
“No, it sounds kind've like it, sure, but--”
“That's a laugh.”
“Then the camera man chuckled or something. Fuck, I dunno. You wanna call them up and ask them?”
Tom shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “That doesn't... sound like a person,” he said quietly.
Stephen and Jimmy didn't respond. Stephen tapped his fingers on the table in front of the monitor. Then he asked, “Can we take it out?”
Jimmy and Tom exchanged glances. “We can work with the audio, probably get it out for the most part, yeah,” Jimmy said.
“It's distracting. Take it out.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it's still a laugh.”
“It's distracting. We'll have to check the mikes tomorrow too. We shouldn't be getting sound out of proportion like that.”
Jimmy nodded and turned back to the editing machine, adjusting knobs. Tom stared at Stephen. Stephen shot an impatient look back at him, but Tom wasn't easily swayed. “That doesn't sound like a person,” he said again.
“Don't be ridiculous,” Stephen said harshly. “What else would it be?”
“Hey,” Jimmy snapped, turning abruptly to face Stephen. “Relax.”
Stephen felt his face get hot. “I'm just getting really tired of these supernatural fantasies. Things have been stressful enough lately, especially today.”
“Well, don't bite the kid's head off for making an observation, 'cause he's right. It doesn't sound fucking human to me either, frankly. But that doesn't mean I think this place is haunted. I'm just making an observation.”
Stephen's smile was overly enthusiastic. “Congratulations! Can we get on with this, please?”
Overheated environments had been a theme for the day, and that moment wasn't any different. With the deathly looks he and Jimmy were exchanging, and Tom shrinking into the background, it suddenly occurred to Stephen that it wouldn't be at all surprising if Jimmy walked out right then.
And why shouldn't he? You're overreacting. Completely.
Stephen's hands swept over his face and through his hair. He bent over in his seat, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he sat up again, he still felt tense, but managed to focus his sheepishness. “I'm sorry, guys. It's been a rough day.”
Tom visibly exhaled. Some of the hardness left Jimmy's eyes. “Yeah,” Jimmy said, “I know what you mean. Let's just get this done and go home, right?”
Stephen nodded. “Right.” He wanted to smile, but it would've been so false that he couldn't bring himself to do it. At the moment, going home was all he cared about. Hell, he wanted to leave right then.
But he couldn't leave. He had a responsibility to the studio and the people in it. No matter how bad things got, he was in charge.
The captain goes down with the ship. Yo ho.
He pulled at his hair again. God, he was thinking as if things would never get better.
When editing was finished and Stephen left that night, he noticed that over half a dozen more items had been added to the Lost list, including “my mind.”