Frank's Story Thread

[Frank Cox]

Note to Mike: This isn't your Roxy.

The Roxy
By Frank Cox

A faded relic of a bygone era, the theatre was a ghostly silhouette against the backdrop of the city skyline, its grandeur faded like an old photograph left out in the sun. The once-bustling theatre had become a silent spectator to a world that had moved on, a hollowed-out cathedral of celluloid dreams.

The sign above the theatre read "Roxy" in bold, neon letters, but the once-vibrant colours had faded to a dull, lifeless hue. The letters were cracked and broken, some of them missing entirely, and the neon glow that had once illuminated the night now flickered faintly, casting a feeble light on the crumbling building.

The marquee below the sign was a sad shadow of its former self. The once-bright lights that had announced the latest films and performances now lay broken and shattered, their shards of glass scattered across the ground. The posters that had once advertised the glamour and excitement of Hollywood now hung tattered and torn, their colours faded and their edges frayed.

The ticket window, once a crowded hub of activity, now lay covered in a thick layer of dust. The cracked glass reflected the deterioration of the building, the shattered remnants of a bygone era when dreams came true and the impossible became possible.

The once-grand entrance, adorned with ornate molding and intricate carvings, now stood as a testament to the passage of time. The faded paint peeled away from the walls, revealing the weathered bricks beneath, and the once-lush gardens that surrounded the theatre were now overgrown with weeds and littered with trash.

A ghostly mausoleum of silver screens and popcorn shadows, the abandoned theatre stood like a solitary sentinel on the desolate street corner, an obsolete and outdated reminder of a past that can never be recaptured.

Amidst the desolation, there was a flicker of life. An old man, his once-dapper attire now frayed and worn, shuffled into the theatre, his arthritic hands clutching a battered cane. His eyes, once bright with the fire of youth, now held the somber wisdom of a thousand sunsets, and the lines on his weathered face told tales of a life lived hard.

He made his way to a worn-out seat, the faded red velvet groaning beneath his weight and a cloud of dust rising into the air. He settled back into the chair, his worn-out boots scraping against the cracked tile floor, and closed his eyes.

As the sun set and the moon ascended its celestial throne, the old man sat in the faded seat, his eyes locked on the vacant screen.

In that moment, the theatre held its breath and as the sun dipped below the horizon, the ghostly whispers of the past seemed to swirl around him, weaving a tapestry of memories that only he could see. The theatre, once witness to the stories it housed, now became a stage for the old man's own tale, a narrative that refused to be silenced in the face of the ravages of time.

The auditorium thrummed with the mournful cries of forgotten films and the whispers of memories long past. Dust danced like spectral wraiths in the feeble rays of light that filtered through the cracked and peeling curtains, casting a pall of gloom over the decaying seats that lined the cavernous expanse.

The screen flickered to life, casting a spectral glow over the crumbling auditorium. The old man's eyes widened as the ghosts of the characters that had once graced the silver screen came to life, their ethereal forms shimmering in the moonlight.

He could feel the ghostly presence of Humphrey Bogart, his voice smooth and seductive, whispering in his ear. The ghost of Marilyn Monroe, her smile as radiant as ever, beckoned to him, her hand outstretched. The old man took a deep breath, rose from his seat and stepped forward, his boots echoing in the emptiness of the theatre.

The walls seemed to hum with the music of a thousand forgotten scores, and the weight of the years slipped away.

The old man was transported to another world. He danced, twirled and spun with the ghostly characters, his laughter echoing through the empty theatre. And as he danced, he felt alive, his spirit rejuvenated by the magic of the silver screen.

As the sun began to rise, the old man grew tired. He stumbled and fell, his body crumpling to the floor.

The ghostly characters began to fade away, their ethereal forms dissolving into the mist.

A single ray of sunlight found its mark on the old man in the dimly lit auditorium. His shadow on the cracked screen was a specter of the past. The wind wafted through the broken balcony, carrying with it the scent of memory, as it shimmered with the dust motes that drift around the old man.

The air was thick with the weight of a thousand stories, each one as silent and as heavy as a lead pipe.

And the old man waited for the final curtain to fall, for the last reel to spin, for the credits to roll and the story to come to a stop.

[Frank Cox]

Kangaroo Glue
by Frank Cox

In the gritty heart of the city, where the sun hangs low and the shadows dance like demons on a hot summer night, there was a man known as Slate. A hard-bitten gumshoe, a knight errant of the asphalt jungle, a lone wolf in a city of wolves. Slate was the kind of man who carried his resolve like a rusty knife in his back, and his humour like a loaded revolver in his holster, just waiting to be used.

One sweltering afternoon, Slate found himself in the creaky confines of a hardware store, a place where the air was thick with the scent of sawdust and oil, and the walls were lined with rusty relics of a bygone era. He was there for a simple task, to order a can of glue to mend a broken chair, a scarred wooden rocker that had seen better days.

"Give me a can of carpenter's glue, Mac," Slate grumbled, his voice as gravelly as a desert road. The old man behind the counter, a grizzled relic himself, scratched his chin and peered over his glasses.

"I'm afraid we don't carry that particular item, friend. But I got me a mighty fine glue right here," he said, holding up a can with a picture of a kangaroo on it. "It's Australian, imported. Strong as a bull, they say."

Slate scratched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the can. "What the hell's a kangaroo got to do with glue, Mac?"

The old man chuckled, a sound like sandpaper on glass. "Well, that's the question of the day, ain't it? But if it's strong glue you want, then this here's your ticket."

With a sigh, Slate handed over his money, his curiosity piqued. As he left the store, the heat seemed to close in around him like a vice. He shook his head, muttering under his breath about the strange ways of the world.

Back at his office, a cramped room filled with the clutter of a thousand cases, Slate opened the can of kangaroo glue. The smell was unlike anything he'd ever encountered, a mix of something sweet and something wild. He dabbed a bit on his finger and pressed it to the broken chair. To his surprise, it held tight, stronger than any glue he'd ever used.

The rest of the day was a blur of case files and cigarette smoke, but Slate couldn't help but notice the odd smell of the glue that still hung in the air.

Slate fell asleep at his desk that that night, the heat and the city's symphony of sounds lulling him to sleep, and he wondered if the strange glue was a sign of things to come.

The next morning, as the sun rose like a blood-red eye over the city, there was a knock at Slate's door. He opened it to find a kangaroo standing there, its eyes wide and curious, a band of brightly coloured ribbons around its neck.

Slate stared at the creature, wondering if he was actually awake. "What the hell..." he muttered, his voice rusty as an old saw. The kangaroo hopped forward into the room, its tail swishing like a whip.

"I thought you might like a pet," a voice said from behind him. Slate whirled around, his hand on his gun, to find the old man from the hardware store standing in his doorway, a devilish grin on his face.

"What the hell's going on, Mac?" Slate demanded, his voice shaking with anger.

"I figured you could use a friend, Slate." the old man said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Besides, the glue's pretty good, ain't it?"

Slate looked back at the kangaroo, now hopping around his office, its ribbons flapping in the wind from the open window. He sighed, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "I guess you're right, Mac. I guess you're right."

And so, the kangaroo became Slate's new partner, a strange and unlikely companion in the dark underworld of the city streets. And as they fought crime together, Slate began to realize that sometimes, the strangest things could turn out to be the best. The city was still a hellhole, but with a kangaroo by his side, it seemed just a little less so.

[Frank Cox]

Fire!
by Frank Cox

In the dark heart of a city that never sleeps, where shadows dance in hidden corners and the moon plays hide-and-seek behind the skyscrapers, there resides a lone wolf named Jack "Rain" Rainsford. A hardboiled detective, as gritty as a worn-out boot and as sharp as a switchblade's edge, Jack was a man who knew the streets better than the backs of his own hands.

On this particular night, the city was shrouded in a blanket of fog and drizzling rain, the only light coming from the neon signs of the dives and dive bars that lined the streets. A chill wind was blowing off the river, carrying with it the stench of rot and the whispers of secrets long buried. It was the kind of night that made even the bravest souls think twice about stepping out their front doors.

But Jack wasn't one to be deterred by a little bad weather. He was sitting in his office, a small, cramped space filled with the scent of stale coffee and the memories of a million cases, when the phone rang. It was a call he couldn't ignore, a voice filled with fear and urgency.

"Jack, it's me, Daisy. Please, you've got to come. Something's wrong at my place. I think there's a fire..."

Jack was instantly on his feet, grabbing his coat and heading for the door. He didn't need to be told twice. He knew that time was of the essence, that every second counts when it came to a fire.

As he hit the street, the thunderous rumble of iron horses echoed down the asphalt canyons as a huge beast of a fire truck barrelled past him through the urban jungle like a torpedo on a collision course. Flashing lights cut through the veil of twilight and the rain, casting an eerie, strobing dance upon the concrete and brick facades, a spectral ballet of red and blue.

The siren's wail, a mournful dirge of warning, wailed loud enough to make the very walls shake, a clarion call to all who heard it that danger was nigh.

The fire truck roared down the street like a ravenous beast on the hunt. The firemen inside were the brave knights of the inferno, fearless champions of the people, their axes and hoses the instruments of their courage. The flames on the horizon only served to fuel their urgency, and they knew that every second counted, every mile was a battle, and they had to win if they were to save the day.

Tires screeched in protest and equipment rattled as the truck rounded the corner, a defiant scream that drowned out everything on the dark city streets, a symphony of chaos and urgency that demanded attention.

Jack raced down the street, the wind tearing at his coat and the rain pelting down on him like a thousand tiny daggers. He could see the flames in the distance, their flickering tongues of fire casting a sinister glow over the city. The air was thick with the smell of dirty smoke, the stench of burning wood and the taste of fear.

Jack didn't have time to think. He didn't have time to hesitate. All he cared about, all that existed was the need to get to the burning building and rescue Daisy.

Running down the street like a man possessed he could feel the rain pounding against his coat, the wind tearing at his hat. There was nothing in the world but Daisy, getting her to safety.

As he ran, Jack could feel the flames getting closer, the heat like a furnace before him. He could hear the sound of crackling wood and the roar of the fire, a malevolent presence that seemed to be taunting him.

But Jack didn't waver. He didn't falter. He kept running, his mind focused solely on Daisy and the danger she was in.

He could see a sea of fire trucks and emergency vehicles converging on the scene, their flashing lights cutting through the darkness like a thousand tiny beacons. The fire department was working frantically to contain the blaze.

As Jack approached the burning building, he could hear the cacophony of sirens and blasting horns growing louder and louder. The air was thick with black smoke and the sound of crackling flames.

When he arrived, he could see the flames leaping and snarling from the windows, like a pack of wild animals on the prowl.

He was nearly run over by a roaring fire truck just pulling up to the scene. But he didn't care. All he could think about was Daisy, there was nothing else in the world that mattered.

The scene was chaos. Firetrucks with flashing lights were scattered throughout the street. Hoses formed a tangled web of steel and rubber, their coiled bodies writhing and thrashing in the frenzy of the moment. Firemen in heavy coats and helmets were running back and forth carrying axes and crowbars, their breathing masks obscuring their features.

Police officers were manning barricades, keeping the onlookers at a safe distance. The crowd of spectators was large, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames and the glare of the lights from the firetrucks. They stood around watching the fire, some with a sense of awe and excitement, others in sadness and despair.

The smoke billowed and swirled, a choking, suffocating cloud that hung heavy in the air. The flames leaped and roared, their tongues of fire dancing and twisting in the night.

Jack pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers, his eyes fixed on the burning building before him. Some policemen and firemen tried to stop him, their voices raised in warning.

"It's too dangerous, mister! You can't go in there!" they shouted.

But Jack didn't listen. He just bulled his way through. A burly fireman stood in front of him but Jack shoved him aside, barely noticing he was there.

He raced to the front door and stepped into the inferno, the heat and smoke nearly overwhelming him. He could feel the flames licking at his skin, their tongues of fire snaking around him like hungry demons. But he pressed on, driven by a fierce determination that would not be denied.

He ran up the stairs, his lungs burning from the smoke. It was impossible to see. He could feel the heat bearing down on him like a wall, the weight of it pressing against his chest.

He choked and gasped. He stumbled, barely able to stay on his feet in the narrow stairwell. He kept going, his eyes stinging and his vision blurred.

Finally, he reached the top of the stairs and burst into a room at the back of the building. The flames were roaring all around him, but he didn't care. All he could see was Daisy, huddled in the corner, her face streaked with soot and tears, and her eyes wide with terror.

Smoke rose between the floorboards and the fire raged right below his feet.

Daisy bounded out of the corner and leapt toward him, saying words that were lost in the roar of the fire.

Jack bellowed as loudly as he could. "We're getting out of here, Daisy. I've got you. Lets move!"

Daisy nodded her understanding and together they fought their way through the smoke and flames back to the door of the room, Jack's arm was wrapped protectively around Daisy's waist. The fire raged around them like a malevolent spirit trying to hold them back, trying to drive them to their deaths in the flames.

They stepped out of the room and had just started to move toward the front when the building groaned and the staircase suddenly gave way, collapsing into the conflagration below in an explosion of heat and black smoke.

The roar of the flames below them was a deafening tumult, a wall of sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, a relentless, unstoppable scream of heat and pain.

"Is there another way out?" Jack shouted.

"There might be a back stairway," Daisy cried, barely audible over the sound of cracking wood and furniture shattering as it fell through the burning floorboards.

continued...

[Frank Cox]

They made their way through the choking smoke, coughing and gagging as they went. When they reached the back stairway, Jack tried the door, but it was locked.

He reared back and smashed his boot into the center of the door with all of his strength. The door flew open, slamming against the wall behind before tearing off its hinges and clattering down the stairs into the smoke-filled depths below.

There was a series of loud bangs and the floor shook as something below them exploded in the flames.

They rushed down the stairs, heat and smoke battering down on them like a wall. As they neared the bottom, Jack could hear the sound of the building groaning and creaking, as if it was ready to cave in at any moment.

"Come on, we've got to run faster!" he shouted, and they sprinted down the last of the stairs, their hearts pounding in their chests.

Daisy tripped and fell with a sharp scream of pain. Jack dropped to his knees and scooped her up into his arms, barely missing a step in his race toward the exit, cradling her against his chest.

He could feel the heat of the flames at his back, scorching his coat and the hair on the back of his head. But he didn't care. All he could think about was getting Daisy out of the building and to safety.

The smoke was thick and heavy, and he could barely see the exit ahead of him. But Jack kept going, his legs aching and his lungs burning.

Jack burst out onto the street, the fresh air hitting him like a refreshing breeze.

Suddenly a loud amplified announcement boomed from the fire trucks in front. "Get back. Everyone get back. It's coming down. Back up now!"

Jack ran down the alley as quickly as he could with Daisy in his arms, the heat of the flames at his back and the smoke stinging his eyes. He could see a crowd of onlookers who had gathered to watch the fire disperse in a panic on the street in front of him, running in every direction.

The ground shook beneath his feet as the building groaned and creaked, the weight of the fire beating it down with an irresistible force. The walls crackled and crumbled, the windows shattering and exploding outward onto the street in showers of glass.

The roof collapsed first, a thunderous crash that echoed through the night. The walls followed soon after, the entire structure coming down in a heap of rubble and smoke.

Jack and Daisy reached the safety of the street just in time, the building breaking up behind them in a shower of dust and debris.

"Can you stand if I put you down, Daisy?"

"I... I think so."

Jack set Daisy on her feet and they stood there in the rain, catching their breath and watching as the flames consumed what was now nothing more than a pile of wreckage.

"We made it," Daisy said.

Jack just nodded, his gaze fixed on the remains of the burning building and the firemen still spraying water in a relentless deluge. "Yeah," he said. "We did."

***

The next day, Jack stood in front of the ruin that was once a thriving apartment house. The smoke had long since dissipated, and the flames had been extinguished. But the remnants of the building still smouldered, a grim reminder of the destruction that had occurred.

Jack stared at the rubble, his mind filled with memories of all that had taken place within those walls. He thought about the laughter and the joy, the love and the heartache. He thought about the lives that had been lived, the stories that had been told.

But as he walked away down the street, his heart filled with a renewed sense of optimism and he couldn't help but believe that there was still a little bit of hope left in this hard, cold world. After all, even in the darkest night, everyone has a shining star.