It was a flicker upon the screen, an out of place occurrence that caught the youth's eye. A sudden flash of gray that caused him to glance back with a startled perception. He turned his head and met the face that should not have been starring out into the isles. The face grinned, pale skin captured by the grainy black and white of the screen. It was a smile that should not have happened, an expression that was surreal. The youth stood stunned and watched as the movie played, the actor of long ago twisting his face back into his forlorn visage and returned to his destined place. The unexpected movement was gone just as fast as it appeared. A flicker upon the screen, a roll of the shaking film that obscured the flurry of hands as the two lovers embraced upon the 1950's movie theater screen. The boy starred and in the back of his mind heard the words the old man had spoken from behind the dusty counter," Not all movies follow the same script. After so many years the players get tired of doing the same routine over and over again... Its not surprising if you catch something that wasn't there before, that's when the real magic of theater begins."
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Blue was his opposite
His solution to the raging heat of the color red
Blue was his insanity, his vice, and his final solution
It was his burden
Blue surrounded him,
It was in the walls,
Running down streets
And splashing the sky with its forlorning essence
It was depression, Subtle sweetness
Perfect softness
And complete destitute
Blue was his enigma,
His source of absurdity.
Contemplated depth
Its shimmering surface and its layers of deceit
Blue was pure insanity,
It lacked the strange allure of blushing red
It deprived itself of passion so fiery
Completely dependent on his swaying mood
Forget romance,
Deny smoldering embrace,
And completely ignore the stigma of rushing hatred.
Blue wouldn't submit itself to such passions
Blue was her color,
Her song
Her name
and worst her alluring eyes
It wasn't until he was wasted
Wrapped in a veil of depression
Struggling to comprehend the colors before his starry eyes
That he realized it
Black Lace On Blue Down
Secret places,
A fringe upon skin so soft
An arms dealer of life
Black Lace On Blue Down
The magic of the sureal
The god damn race to survive
with lies that were all around
Black Lace On Blue Dawn
Oh what thing
So miserable, prettier and younger
But still forever Black Lace on a girl named Dawn
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The screen flickered alive, the old elevator music dimming into the darkness as the lights ebbed into a dull glow. The screen was illuminated, it's redolent shine a hazy flame. Commercials rolled upon the iridescent screen like waves, relics from long ago. An advertisement for soft drinks and lemon drops that danced in sync with bags of popcorn shuddered to life with stuttering steps. It was magical, the appeal from long ago that snared him. He sat in the dark movie theater, a landmark of a dilapidated building, and watched the opening credits of a sub classic film. The isles were littered with cob webs, broken bottles, corrosive lollipop stems, oily stains from discarded popcorn kernels, black swirls soiled with real, decade old butter, garnished with a layer of dust that was slabbed onto the polyester tweed chairs. The air was thick, a fog that refused to leave. The pungent smell borne from thousands of bodies packed into the broken chairs, dirty hands, and fingers swooning dollops of popcorn into sour red gullets had seeped into the walls of the theater. Refusing to vacate, refusing to disperse, refusing to slink into the woodwork the smell still lingered. It was like breathing in the smell of pumping gas or the aroma produced by a marker top, noxious but comforting.
That was what he thought anyway.
The previews were done, the final dancing soda disappearing as that sad ballad of classical music that he longed to hear roared upon the screen. A string quartet of violins, lazy saxophones, soothing trumpets, deep voiced cellos, and thumping drums cascaded down the isles and played among his ear drums. He was in heaven, trapped in a movie that would never end. The title, cursive and swirled, flashed upon the screen: Black Lace On Blue Dawn. His film, the reason he had arrived at such a dead end place. The credits began, names and extra add ons that made a movie a movie. The list of people that had labored over Black Lace On Blue Dawn fluttered onto the screen and he mouthed them like he was screaming into the audience.
Produced by Aizen Tsubasa,
Directed by Uma Hiroka
Screenplay by Urahara Kisuke.
It was his favorite movie, a classic black in white. Black Lace On Blue Dawn. A meaningful title, a movie about a woman named Dawn. He was drawn to this film, its subtle grasping at the illusionary, it vision of yester years. It had premiered in 1929, and at the time was Black Lace On Blue Dawn was a rare treasure in an age when movies were majority silent. It starred no named actors and created soft buzz among the pages of advertisement. It had ran for little more than two weeks, enumerating mixed reviews. Still, Black Lace On Blue Dawn was a revolutionary film, a first in its time and the only film starring his favorite actor. The movie was a fantasy, a story written upon the pages of time.
That was what he thought anyway.
The screen dulled once again, the names fading away. He slouched back in his broken seat and was lost in the opening scene. A snowy mountain hill, barren of trees and isolated from all life. There, nestle in the blanket of white was a small, homely cottage. An object that was out of place of the giant sheet of white. He waited, the words that would be spoken ready on is tongue. He counted the seconds, watching as the camera changed views and zoomed in through a window.
Soon the heroine of the film would appear. Shimmering in a black, laced dress, hair curled into a short crop she would saunter onto the screen, bitter, head thrown back in angst. She would fix a cup of tea in a cheap, chipped mug. Her nails painted, the lacquer polish shinning as she would grasp the cup. She would whimper, tears rolling down her moonlight cheeks as a flashback would show upon the screen and the audience would grasp. The memory of the fallen heiress, a grieving daughter, would reveal the film's hero.
It was the reason he watched the film, occupied the small deserted theater that in year 2007 was approaching the state of complete destruction. Until that day, however, he would continue mouth the words he had memorized. He would continue to watch the black, laced woman sulk in the cold, cottage kitchen. He would always dream of the actor that he loved.
For the Oasis, and its never ending showing of classic films, would continue to air and he would be there to watch the film. The theater he was occupying was beyond old. The Oasis had opened its doors in 1949 in the small town of KaraKura hoping to bring in revenue to the slowly, dying town. The owner Toshiro Kaien had established the theater with the dream of making the town a glittering suburb of comfort. With hopes of saving the town and securing a small fortune for himself, Toshiro Kaien opened the Oasis and began to show only the most worthy of movies.
With polished cheery red oak door and a grand chandelier, the Oasis boasted refinement and offered a sense of hope from the world's haggards. For years the theater was revered, praised upon the covers of magazines, newspapers, and treated like a luxury resort. World War II had taken its toll on the small town and any form of distraction was instantly raved. The place had slinked into the spot of fame and made stakes at staying in the limelight. With amazing service and the first non silent films, the theater surpassed the other entertainment establishments that had resided in KaraKura Town. The Oasis was composed of two viewing rooms, beating both the Angelica and The Pan theaters. These theaters had been the first in Karakura and only possessed one large screen each. The viewing room themselves of the Oasis however were small, the theater only showings two films a day in its grand two screened building. It had done well despite its lack of showing. The Oasis had drawn in the much needed country tourists who poured into the theater every Saturday night. It seemed like Toshiro Kaien had succeeded, the town was prospering, and the owner of Oasis housed a small fortune. Then, it all went away.
"Another sun, soaked season fades away" The heiress whispered to the snowy mountains and sneezed her eyes shut. Her cup of tea crashing to the floor. The warm liquid escaped fro the shattered cup, seeping into the carpet and causing the heiress to remember another memory. Her shining tears flicking into the flashback. A party, a ball, a man without a name.
The cutomers stopped coming, the theater would only show black and whites. By the time 1954 black and white films had lost their novelty. They had become outdated and suffered the same death as silents. Color had been born, and black and white with shades of grey had become useless for entertaining. Knowing this, the owner refused to play anything other than black whites. Soon another theater was opened, The Bara, that drew in the customers that were seeking the razzle dazzle of colored films. The theater sunk into debt and despair. Its doors wearing away with time, its grand chandellier cracking and buring out, its viewing rooms becoming distorted and marred from the cruel touches of time. Workers quit, ignored their duties to keep the Oasis clean, as The Bara offered them better wages and a union contract. The viewing rooms became overcrowded with filth and left over debre. The chairs began to fall apart, the fabric ripping at the seems. The Oasis's owner, Toshiro Kaien eventually became a recluse, taking up resident inside the Oasis itself. Still, the Oasis refused to close. It had suffered through the decades, still playing the classics. Now in the year 2007 it had only one continuous customer.
That was why he was sitting there, staring at the hazy screen and dreaming about Jackal, the main hero that swoops the grieving heiress off her feet, only to betray her. The movie was a genre of romance and tragedy, an expression of the human mind. Love was not cut and paste and Jackal, with his desires for the ultimate lover, showed that through each line.
That was what he thought anyway.
For he had nothing better to do than lose himself in the past and the black eyes of a man than was alive only on the screen.
He never came to know the full name of the actor that portrayed Jackal. The credit had only shown a single name, Renji. He didn't know if this was actual name of the actor perhaps just a pen name. Either way the man was a ghost.
He had scavenged through the old movie programs looking for the debut of the actor only to turn up cold. All that there was, was dust. Where had the actor come from? Some distant land or some small country town thriving in rural poverty? Had he arrived in Seireitei, the county's film capital, hopping to make his fortune? The film was not foreign, it had been produced and directed in that notorious city. He knew that, the caretaker of the Oasis had shared his flimsy knowledge of the film. From under that worn, seam split sandal hat he had been given the production date and the film's origin. Nothing more, nothing revealing, nothing helpful.
He needed to know, he needed to know more about Jackal. Had he wanted to acted, or was it all just a dream? Where had Renji the Jackal disappeared to?
This was what he thought about as he watched the movie. Black Lace on Blue Dawn. Jackal was a lover's dream.
That was what he thought anyway.
Still he wondered about the depth of the man. The only color he had ever seen him in was black and white. What was the actor's eye color, eye color, skin color? Was he as pale as Dawn? Was his hair black as the screen projected or was it sultry brown or smoking red? What color lingered among those black orbs of the screen. What was the man's name.
He needed to know, he needed to know more about Jackal. Had he wanted to acted, or was it all just a dream? Where had Renji the Jackal disappeared to?
That was what he though about, day after day, credit after credit, gray kiss and gray kiss. That was what he thought about two hours later when the screen dimmed and the shaky credits rolled upon the screen. He stood up, slowly, his hands moving to clap. He would strike them together, listen to the sound of his solo applause and what if they could hear. If he could hear it. That was what he always did. It was his routine.
He would leave the theater, throwing away his trash in old metal trash can. He would linger though, his feet stopping in confusion, his mind twisting between the action of staying or leaving. Everytime he would do it. Everytime he would stay waiting, staying to stare one more time and the screen. He would do it, just like he was doing now. He was staring, hoping, and thinking. Who was that man?
He shook his head, forcing his feet to stop their confusion and continue their trek. He passed through the swinging doors, remembering to duck under the broken rafter of the Oasis's hall way. Every time he had to remember to duck or the beam would strike his head. The first time he had visited the Oasis it had struck him. Now the thought vibrated through his mind and he tilted his head to side.
The hallway of the Oasis was the decaying mirror image of the screening room. The wall paper was pealing, the carpet ripped in places, the wood warped. Still, it was a classic.
That was what he thought anyway.
He marched through the weakly lit hallway staring at the old movie posters: The Red Shoes, Valley of the Dolls, Seven Samurai. He had seen them all. He entered the concession room where the old man sat staring at the passing cars through the yellow glass. He striped hat would be tipped to th side, his eyes hidden from view. H would be watching, just as he knew he would always be.
He looked at the old man and turned his head to watch the passing cars. It had started to rain. Steam from the hot side walk drifted into the air, mixing with the falling water. He turned his head back and watched to the old man who stood watching him. He smiled, and turned to leave, knowing the voice that would carry him through the door.
"Goodbye Ichigo. I'll see you tomorrow."
He stopped at the door, his hand holding the rusted doorknob. He needed to know, he needed to know more about Jackal. He would always come.
"Hai. Same time everyday old man." Hes aid and left the Oasis. He was Kurosaki Ichigo and he had just watched his favorite film Black Lace on Blue Dawn. He would keep watching and keep wondering. He would keep starring at the never changing screen.
That was what he though anyway.
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A short prelude. hope someone likes it. this is just a pilot chapter