Hey Guys,
Time for a concept for me. I've wanted to get into a "series" kind of story for awhile. It'll have a soap-opera kind of feel, with several characters and several story lines, but I'll hopefully keep it exciting and steamy for you guys! These first five chapters just introduce a couple of the main characters, but the next post will delve more into some story lines. Comments are MUCH appreciated. Thanks!
The fluorescent pink paper caught Mark’s attention as he wandered down the main hallways of the University, past the notice board. A restaurant job application at a new nightclub in town, yet to be named. He knew as soon as he saw that the application required a head shot that he was taking a leap, but after twenty-two years in Hennington, he was ready to jump. The same old restaurants, the same old bars, it was something fresh, interesting, and above all else, paid an even twenty dollars an hour, nearly double what he was making at the local pool. ‘Hiring servers, bartenders, hosts, cooks. Head shot required.’ The works stuck out bold on the page, robbing his focus as he ripped a phone number from the bottom.
Mark Gilson had worked as a model in the past, doing some commercials and some background work in a couple movies that came into town seeking Hennington’s lush forest to the north. Six feet tall, a slim one-sixty-two, brown and blue; all American. He was a good looking man, but despite the attention that his features had earned him in the past, he was a humble man. And a single one. He hadn’t dated since high school, and at twenty-two was beginning to worry his parents. His excuses of ‘waiting to get out of the city for a new crowd’ started to wear more and more transparent, and hiding his sexuality began to wane on his sanity.
He’d had a head shot left over from a year ago when he scored some work on a Paul Brandon flick that came through the town. A single staple at the top of the page attached his resume, and sealed his fate. He picked up the phone and dialed the number. The man on the other end sounded friendly, but the mysterious nature of the advertisement still dwelt in the back of his mind. Mr. Oliver Kirk.
- With the place still under construction, we don’t have a permanent address yet. What you can do is fax me your head shot and resume, and I can give you more information on orientation day if you get the job.
The passing of Oliver’s father was a gray area for the forty-five year old. He never really got along with him, and when his mother died of breast cancer when he was twelve, he was brought up by his older sister. Absent, Martin Kirk made up for his lack of family relations with customer relations. His ability to please a client made him a fortune as a commercial real estate agent in Hennington, and his mix of intelligent and lucky stock trades only multiplied his earnings. His heart attack last year brought Oliver and his sister Abigail back to Hennington for his funeral, and earned them each a quick seven million each of his fortune. Abby brought it back to her family out East, and Oliver became inspired at what Hennington had become. Since the University had been built there, a new student population had brought a newfound and much needed vitality to the aging suburbs. His dream of opening a restaurant started when he was in college, but now had evolved and taken new shape with his apparent “mid-life” hitting. This latest evolution of Oliver brought with it a fascination with pop culture, new music, and clubbing that was very much unexpected by Oliver’s wife, Penny. A devout Christian, she was skeptical of her husband’s intentions from the get-go, but a certain twinkle in his eye, the same one that resulted in their two kids, kept her mouth shut. She trusted him to spend the money how it would best benefit him and his family. If nothing else, it was perhaps a more fruitful and fiscal mid-life investment than a motorcycle or a hummer.
After looking around the city for a place to renovate, Oliver realized that if his dream were to come to his mind’s exact fruition, he was going to need to build. One million turned to two million, then to three-point-five. Land was the next problem; too close to the University, too far away, too close to residential, not enough parking. On his drive back home from one of his failed trips to Hennington, he spotted it. The location for “The Bar”. An old quarry on the outskirts of town, completely abandoned and falling apart at the bottom of an enormous coulée. The murky river at the bottom of the coulée still ran towards the town, and was surrounded by a deep covering of thick brush on either side. It was eerie, but it was removed, and just possibly eccentric enough to draw the right crowd. Penny would shit herself. But Penny lacked a certain creativity that thrived in her aging husband. And he knew as soon as he saw it, that it was his.
Donovan pulled up the parking break on his old Buick, and pulled open his door with a loud snap. He had been counting down the days until this orientation, and his heart was a brick in his chest. He was a good cook, and was always looking for an adventure. New to the town, he had trouble breaking into the music scene that he had been king of his hometown. But now he’d found a band to front again, found a place to call his own, and started to carve out his existence in Hennington. All that was left was a job. A head shot for a cooking job? He didn’t understand it, but the ambiguity of the job offer was exactly what drew him to it. It was something he could make his own, just like his poster adorned walls, just like his tattooed skin, just like his zero gage black earrings. He was a nice guy with a mean look, and whose confidence had gotten him everywhere in life. But his mind raced as he shakily walked towards the coulée, and a large stone archway at the furthest end of the parking lot. Carved in enormous bold lettering at the top, ‘Apollo’.
From the top of the quarry, Apollo stood like a giant over the river. The enormous stone structure was a simple rectangle, three stories, with huge pane windows that were currently covered. The stair path, starting at the archway, led down the steep coulée, and eventually settled onto an open platform just before the river. When Donovan reached the bottom, he was met by a brick house of a man in a black button-down shirt, with a clipboard. His voice should have been lower than it was.
- Name?
- Powell. Donovan.
- Donovan Powell. Nice to meet you, I’m Craig. You can go on in.
Ahead was a bridge that crossed the river to the grand recessed archway into Apollo. It was lit by huge pillar lights, and there were benches every couple of yards. Donovan became more and more impressed with every step towards the building that towered over him. This was only the outside. As he walked under the recessed entryway, and onto dark grey slate tiles, he couldn’t help but be intimidated for once in a long time. He pulled on the silver handle of an enormous glass door two times his size.
She sat at the bar already, the first to arrive, as she watched people enter, sipping on her cosmopolitan delicately, trying to ease her nerves and excitement. First, a slim guy who looked barely old enough to even be in here, short brown hair, a perfect smile, and the deepest dimples she had seen. He introduced himself as Curtis Beaumont, and proceeded to find himself a spot at another table, not the best conversationalist. Margot was a confident woman. She’d learned to be from her mother, having grown up with her after her parents split up when she was quite young. She was a fighter, and was often defensive around men. This attribute, although detrimental to her dating history, opened up a series of supremely successful serving and hosting jobs around the city. Guys loved her, not only for her dark straight black hair and beautiful body, but her rebellious and untamed personality kept them on the edge of the seat, wallets open and ready to tip.
The second guy to enter was Mark Gilson, and she put up her wall. This was the kind of guy who had hurt her in the past. A stunning man, who she recognized for some reason she couldn’t put her finger on. He couldn’t be from television, could he? She began to melt from the moment he introduced himself, and sat next to her at the bar. He offered her a second drink which she politely refused, and they continued waiting in anxious silence, a one sided relationship if Curtis had ever seen one. He curiously examined them from the corner of his eye.
The rest seemed to arrive in a pack. A bald man with a thick neck, and two lines shaved into his left eyebrow. A blond bombshell who wore her hair up, and seemed to know Mark quite well. A redhead woman, a curly haired man, another brunette, competition. Twenty people gathered in the bar, and thank god for satellite radio, or the silence would have been deafening. What to say to a pack of strangers that were so randomly brought together. They only thing they shared in common was good looks, and a sense of reckless adventure. Margot looked up when the music turned down, and a click of a microphone turning on caught everyone’s attention. Above them on the second story dance floor stood their boss, Oliver Kirk. His wife flanked his right side, her hands behind her back.
- Hello everyone, and welcome to Apollo.
The floor plans read like a Roald Dahl novel, sharp angles, luscious curves, and impossible themes that Oliver had dreamed up long ago and jotted down in his day planner. Much to Oliver’s surprise, the equally eccentric contractor, Steve, didn’t shun many of his wild ideas (and so he shouldn’t, given the paycheck he was to receive). Much of the structure was typical of a high end nightclub, large stone slabs, tiling, glass, leather, everything black, grey, heavy, huge. Oliver stood proud on the dance floor of his new building, looking down at his new employees, and he began to recognize some of the faces that he’d only spoken to on the phone so far. These were the first, and most important eyes to see Apollo, and he wanted to make their experience a memorable one.
- My name is Oliver Kirk; I’ve spoken to all of you over the phone. This is my wife Penny. Now I’m sure many of you are wondering exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into here. I’ll be frank, sometimes I ask myself that. Four contractors, thirty seven building crew, seven months, and nearly four million dollars have gone into this establishment so far. And now phase one is complete. You people are the best of the best in the service industry, and you’ve each been hired for your individual talents and unique experience that will bring life to Apollo. Our goal is to become the nightclub destination for all of Hennington. I’m sure you all have many questions about the job, and I’ll answer them for you at the end of a tour. But for now, I’d like you to all get to know each other a bit over some drinks, on the house of course. I’ll meet you downstairs in a half hour.
A grin from ear to ear on his face, Oliver then pointed up to a skylight at the very centre of the roof. It was a huge glass structure that housed all of the DJ equipment, and looked onto the dance floor. A man standing in the booth pointed back to Oliver, and pressed a series of buttons on one of the black boards.
One of the major ideas that Oliver presented to the contractor was something that originated with the inception of the abandoned quarry; water. Outside of the building, water was drawn up through an immense pump from the riverbed, all the way up three stories, and down through an initial waterfall along the wall that lined the dance floor. From here, the water cascaded horizontally along the Plexiglas floor, on the river rocks below the dancers who could seemingly walk on water while they drank. The water then took another fall onto the first floor bar, a huge concrete basin above the bartenders that created a cylinder where the bottles of booze were lit. The water was funneled to either side of the concrete bar, where it flowed under people’s drinks that chose to rest them on the glass bar-top. This river bar-top surrounded the first floor, where the water eventually made its way out to the entryway and into an enormous architectural fountain that spilled back into the river. The crowd applauded, the music began thumping, and the voices rose to meet it.
Apollo was alive.
Time for a concept for me. I've wanted to get into a "series" kind of story for awhile. It'll have a soap-opera kind of feel, with several characters and several story lines, but I'll hopefully keep it exciting and steamy for you guys! These first five chapters just introduce a couple of the main characters, but the next post will delve more into some story lines. Comments are MUCH appreciated. Thanks!
____________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 1: Mark Gilson
The fluorescent pink paper caught Mark’s attention as he wandered down the main hallways of the University, past the notice board. A restaurant job application at a new nightclub in town, yet to be named. He knew as soon as he saw that the application required a head shot that he was taking a leap, but after twenty-two years in Hennington, he was ready to jump. The same old restaurants, the same old bars, it was something fresh, interesting, and above all else, paid an even twenty dollars an hour, nearly double what he was making at the local pool. ‘Hiring servers, bartenders, hosts, cooks. Head shot required.’ The works stuck out bold on the page, robbing his focus as he ripped a phone number from the bottom.
Mark Gilson had worked as a model in the past, doing some commercials and some background work in a couple movies that came into town seeking Hennington’s lush forest to the north. Six feet tall, a slim one-sixty-two, brown and blue; all American. He was a good looking man, but despite the attention that his features had earned him in the past, he was a humble man. And a single one. He hadn’t dated since high school, and at twenty-two was beginning to worry his parents. His excuses of ‘waiting to get out of the city for a new crowd’ started to wear more and more transparent, and hiding his sexuality began to wane on his sanity.
He’d had a head shot left over from a year ago when he scored some work on a Paul Brandon flick that came through the town. A single staple at the top of the page attached his resume, and sealed his fate. He picked up the phone and dialed the number. The man on the other end sounded friendly, but the mysterious nature of the advertisement still dwelt in the back of his mind. Mr. Oliver Kirk.
- With the place still under construction, we don’t have a permanent address yet. What you can do is fax me your head shot and resume, and I can give you more information on orientation day if you get the job.
Chapter 2: Oliver Kirk
The passing of Oliver’s father was a gray area for the forty-five year old. He never really got along with him, and when his mother died of breast cancer when he was twelve, he was brought up by his older sister. Absent, Martin Kirk made up for his lack of family relations with customer relations. His ability to please a client made him a fortune as a commercial real estate agent in Hennington, and his mix of intelligent and lucky stock trades only multiplied his earnings. His heart attack last year brought Oliver and his sister Abigail back to Hennington for his funeral, and earned them each a quick seven million each of his fortune. Abby brought it back to her family out East, and Oliver became inspired at what Hennington had become. Since the University had been built there, a new student population had brought a newfound and much needed vitality to the aging suburbs. His dream of opening a restaurant started when he was in college, but now had evolved and taken new shape with his apparent “mid-life” hitting. This latest evolution of Oliver brought with it a fascination with pop culture, new music, and clubbing that was very much unexpected by Oliver’s wife, Penny. A devout Christian, she was skeptical of her husband’s intentions from the get-go, but a certain twinkle in his eye, the same one that resulted in their two kids, kept her mouth shut. She trusted him to spend the money how it would best benefit him and his family. If nothing else, it was perhaps a more fruitful and fiscal mid-life investment than a motorcycle or a hummer.
After looking around the city for a place to renovate, Oliver realized that if his dream were to come to his mind’s exact fruition, he was going to need to build. One million turned to two million, then to three-point-five. Land was the next problem; too close to the University, too far away, too close to residential, not enough parking. On his drive back home from one of his failed trips to Hennington, he spotted it. The location for “The Bar”. An old quarry on the outskirts of town, completely abandoned and falling apart at the bottom of an enormous coulée. The murky river at the bottom of the coulée still ran towards the town, and was surrounded by a deep covering of thick brush on either side. It was eerie, but it was removed, and just possibly eccentric enough to draw the right crowd. Penny would shit herself. But Penny lacked a certain creativity that thrived in her aging husband. And he knew as soon as he saw it, that it was his.
Chapter 3: Donovan Powell
Donovan pulled up the parking break on his old Buick, and pulled open his door with a loud snap. He had been counting down the days until this orientation, and his heart was a brick in his chest. He was a good cook, and was always looking for an adventure. New to the town, he had trouble breaking into the music scene that he had been king of his hometown. But now he’d found a band to front again, found a place to call his own, and started to carve out his existence in Hennington. All that was left was a job. A head shot for a cooking job? He didn’t understand it, but the ambiguity of the job offer was exactly what drew him to it. It was something he could make his own, just like his poster adorned walls, just like his tattooed skin, just like his zero gage black earrings. He was a nice guy with a mean look, and whose confidence had gotten him everywhere in life. But his mind raced as he shakily walked towards the coulée, and a large stone archway at the furthest end of the parking lot. Carved in enormous bold lettering at the top, ‘Apollo’.
From the top of the quarry, Apollo stood like a giant over the river. The enormous stone structure was a simple rectangle, three stories, with huge pane windows that were currently covered. The stair path, starting at the archway, led down the steep coulée, and eventually settled onto an open platform just before the river. When Donovan reached the bottom, he was met by a brick house of a man in a black button-down shirt, with a clipboard. His voice should have been lower than it was.
- Name?
- Powell. Donovan.
- Donovan Powell. Nice to meet you, I’m Craig. You can go on in.
Ahead was a bridge that crossed the river to the grand recessed archway into Apollo. It was lit by huge pillar lights, and there were benches every couple of yards. Donovan became more and more impressed with every step towards the building that towered over him. This was only the outside. As he walked under the recessed entryway, and onto dark grey slate tiles, he couldn’t help but be intimidated for once in a long time. He pulled on the silver handle of an enormous glass door two times his size.
Chapter 4: Margot Perrier
She sat at the bar already, the first to arrive, as she watched people enter, sipping on her cosmopolitan delicately, trying to ease her nerves and excitement. First, a slim guy who looked barely old enough to even be in here, short brown hair, a perfect smile, and the deepest dimples she had seen. He introduced himself as Curtis Beaumont, and proceeded to find himself a spot at another table, not the best conversationalist. Margot was a confident woman. She’d learned to be from her mother, having grown up with her after her parents split up when she was quite young. She was a fighter, and was often defensive around men. This attribute, although detrimental to her dating history, opened up a series of supremely successful serving and hosting jobs around the city. Guys loved her, not only for her dark straight black hair and beautiful body, but her rebellious and untamed personality kept them on the edge of the seat, wallets open and ready to tip.
The second guy to enter was Mark Gilson, and she put up her wall. This was the kind of guy who had hurt her in the past. A stunning man, who she recognized for some reason she couldn’t put her finger on. He couldn’t be from television, could he? She began to melt from the moment he introduced himself, and sat next to her at the bar. He offered her a second drink which she politely refused, and they continued waiting in anxious silence, a one sided relationship if Curtis had ever seen one. He curiously examined them from the corner of his eye.
The rest seemed to arrive in a pack. A bald man with a thick neck, and two lines shaved into his left eyebrow. A blond bombshell who wore her hair up, and seemed to know Mark quite well. A redhead woman, a curly haired man, another brunette, competition. Twenty people gathered in the bar, and thank god for satellite radio, or the silence would have been deafening. What to say to a pack of strangers that were so randomly brought together. They only thing they shared in common was good looks, and a sense of reckless adventure. Margot looked up when the music turned down, and a click of a microphone turning on caught everyone’s attention. Above them on the second story dance floor stood their boss, Oliver Kirk. His wife flanked his right side, her hands behind her back.
- Hello everyone, and welcome to Apollo.
Chapter 5: Apollo
The floor plans read like a Roald Dahl novel, sharp angles, luscious curves, and impossible themes that Oliver had dreamed up long ago and jotted down in his day planner. Much to Oliver’s surprise, the equally eccentric contractor, Steve, didn’t shun many of his wild ideas (and so he shouldn’t, given the paycheck he was to receive). Much of the structure was typical of a high end nightclub, large stone slabs, tiling, glass, leather, everything black, grey, heavy, huge. Oliver stood proud on the dance floor of his new building, looking down at his new employees, and he began to recognize some of the faces that he’d only spoken to on the phone so far. These were the first, and most important eyes to see Apollo, and he wanted to make their experience a memorable one.
- My name is Oliver Kirk; I’ve spoken to all of you over the phone. This is my wife Penny. Now I’m sure many of you are wondering exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into here. I’ll be frank, sometimes I ask myself that. Four contractors, thirty seven building crew, seven months, and nearly four million dollars have gone into this establishment so far. And now phase one is complete. You people are the best of the best in the service industry, and you’ve each been hired for your individual talents and unique experience that will bring life to Apollo. Our goal is to become the nightclub destination for all of Hennington. I’m sure you all have many questions about the job, and I’ll answer them for you at the end of a tour. But for now, I’d like you to all get to know each other a bit over some drinks, on the house of course. I’ll meet you downstairs in a half hour.
A grin from ear to ear on his face, Oliver then pointed up to a skylight at the very centre of the roof. It was a huge glass structure that housed all of the DJ equipment, and looked onto the dance floor. A man standing in the booth pointed back to Oliver, and pressed a series of buttons on one of the black boards.
One of the major ideas that Oliver presented to the contractor was something that originated with the inception of the abandoned quarry; water. Outside of the building, water was drawn up through an immense pump from the riverbed, all the way up three stories, and down through an initial waterfall along the wall that lined the dance floor. From here, the water cascaded horizontally along the Plexiglas floor, on the river rocks below the dancers who could seemingly walk on water while they drank. The water then took another fall onto the first floor bar, a huge concrete basin above the bartenders that created a cylinder where the bottles of booze were lit. The water was funneled to either side of the concrete bar, where it flowed under people’s drinks that chose to rest them on the glass bar-top. This river bar-top surrounded the first floor, where the water eventually made its way out to the entryway and into an enormous architectural fountain that spilled back into the river. The crowd applauded, the music began thumping, and the voices rose to meet it.
Apollo was alive.
