Friday, 24 June 2011

Found Pages #6: Stalin and Khrushchev Investigate by Sidach

No seriously, this is a real online novel. Read the whole thing at

Here's the opening chapter...

Fifties style downtown L.A.

The air is filled with the sleazy sound of a trumpet. Outside our block the road dips, starting a downward slope towards its ultimate descent. The front door is held open by a tatty, battered old brown loafer. The stairs and floor are cracked, dusty and all old wood that fills the romantic dreams of all those who never lived here. Rising up two flights of stairs it becomes apparent that the first two floors have no doors. No one else lives here. The base only exists for the purpose of housing those who reside behind the door on the top floor. Our view rising up the final flight of stairs and peaking through the gap left as the door swings slightly, creaking infuriatingly, finds one of our inhabitants.

From the entrance looking in, the window fills the back wall, covered by blinds, currently open brightening the room. On the left and the right of the room stand opposing desks, whilst a small television with rusty indoor aerial sits atop an orange crate, placed deliberately nearer to the left desk than the right. In the centre of this office, sat cross legged on the floor sits an industrious little buddha in the personage of Nikita Khrushchev.

Papers fly around the surrounding atmosphere, as Khrushchev sits as the chaotic centre of this mini system, throwing these satelites into the air chaotically. His blotchy bald crown and cheeks shine a bright red, whilst the pale white shins shown by the chasm between his grey creased socks and brown slacks reveal his natural tone. A short sleeved white cotton shirt, top button undone in concession to the heat fortunately conceals the undoubted sweat patches. Sensible black lace up shoes complete the ensemble, their scuffs revealing his haphazard, darting nature.

Khrushchev leans over, up on his knees, to reach to his desk and grab a pair of scissors. Upon relanding on the floor his shirt thankfully rides down again and recovers his flabby botched mid-driff, exposed during his recent excursion. He cack handedly holds his scissors at an odd angle as he stabs and separates sections of a newspaper. Then with a highlighter our rotund hero scribbles over key portions of the text in his hand like a child with his first crayon set.

Then a darkness sweeps through our visage. The sunny exterior is negated. The blinds slam shut of their own accord. Khrushchev nervously scrambles together his pile of papers, and hides his pair of scissors behind his back. A series of loud reverberating footsteps give a nightmarish premonition of what is ascending. As these sound stop a solid tension fills the office, like an arm over to slats of wood, quivering in the seconds before it gives and breaks. A dark monstrous shadow slips under the door, enveloping Khrushchev and freezing the sweat droplets immediately to his forehead. The door opens, then swings creaking to reveal a giant at the door. Khrushchev looks up from the floor and gulps. The owner of this office is revealed out of the darkness,

'Hello Nikita Sereyevich'

'Hello Koba.'

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