WRITE. YES INDEED. CAN BE DIFFICULT, CAN BE EASY, CAN BE FUN, CAN BE A PAIN IN THE ASS.
But... I want to read it ^^)
So it's time to dig around in your drawers or files, I wanna read everything you've ever written! (Well, that is a slightly exaggerated but I bet you guys are clever enough to not take it literally)
But really, it can be something you wrote yesterday, it can be something you wrote when you were 7, just WRITE.
(Poetry, Short Stories, A chapter of something, A song, Or just some thoughts scrabbled down. No worries if it's just a sentence.)
I couldn't come out and say beer or cigarettes, because it was for a writing contest on the neopets writing forums and they're censored all to heck. I liked how it came out. Wanted to write something about beer flavored kisses.
"I can cure any ill except for that of the mind." The old man said as he lead a considerably younger woman into his kitchen. The place was a hot mess but a comforting one. The counters and table were littered with everything imaginable that a wizard would keep in his kitchen and everything was in abundance.
The modern age was kind to wizards, though, so he had several miniature iron cauldrons, (now called Dutch ovens) resting on hot plates and four on the burners of the stove. The room seemed to shimmer with the vapor of his various potions. His hand found a switch by the door and the overhead light came on. He crossed the room and flicked another switch and the ventilation hood above his range came on pulling the steam from his concoctions away.
"As I was saying though, what exactly is it you're looking for?" He said, picking up a pair of wooden spoons that had seen some better days and stirring two of the pots on the stove for a moment. "I need to know what it is I'm curing. I'm not peddling snake oil as a cure for all that ails you. Good herbal medicine is as good as anything those pharmacies can synthesize."
The woman watched him, for a while. He was nothing but movement and energy. So very well practiced he hardly looked up as he set one pair of spoons and picked up another to continue going through the potions he was brewing. Each got a precise number of stirs a precise way and he seemed content to do two at once though they seemed so very different.
"My daughter, I'm not quite sure what is wrong with her. She seems very sick and she won't tell me what's going on. Do you think that you could help me?" She stepped out of his way as he moved on to his hot plates. "Should I bring her here so you can see?"
The man laughed for a moment. "Won't tell you what's wrong, eh? Bring her to me and I'll get to the bottom of it. I'm sure to have her right as rain in no time. How old is the girl?"
"She's sixteen. Mr. Warlick, what are all these potions for?" The woman said looking around. She felt a bit overwhelmed in his kitchen workshop.
"Well in the corner is my dinner, it can sit for a bit." He laughed again. "And please, just call me Alistair, everyone else does. The four on the stove are all for colds, each cold is unique and so is each type of potion. These here on the hot plates are for the flu, poison ivy rashes, stomach bugs, and this one's a love potion."
"That was a joke, this is the base for some carrot soup for tomorrow. Mrs. Finnley, I'm sure your little girl is just fine. What symptoms does she have? I'm sure I could whip up a little something for her from what I've got here." He walked over to his pantry and opened the door.
Alaya was absoulutely sure of three things. That her life was about as prosaic as fruit, she was a super-human, and that something interesting was about to happen. She wasn't sure what exactly will get interesting but she knew it would. Her visions were a little blurry.
You see, Alaya wasn't like the other girls at her school, or in the world for that matter. She didn't like anybody and regular life was not exactly enthralling to her. She was something different from other people. She was part of a super-human race, and that was about all she knew on the subject.
She rarely thought to broach it with her parents because they would not talk about it. It was their decision to have their daughter marred for the rest of her life by the haunting scar on her forehead. When people dubiously looked at her, they chose to avert their eyes a moment later to "be polite". Well, it annoyed Alaya.
Besides the scar she was amazingly beautiful. Her hair was long and red brown. Her sinister eyes a haunting red. On her face was constantly a look of resolution. People were afraid of her, to put it simply. There really was nothing to be afraid of except that she could crush you without trying, and probably wouldn't care.
When they inserted the nano into her cerebellum, they had to add extra tissue and it just so happened that it made her super strong. This was not a normal characteristic of super humans.
One day, Alaya went to school and got the shock of her life. She watched a fellow classmate rip off the door of his locker, without even trying. She watched furtively as he put it back on and walked placidly away.
After the little fiasco, Alaya went to her locker and opened it gently. She placed her books on the top shelf and out floated a note. It had her name written in ornate script on the front. It read:
I know what you are. I am one too. My parents just recently told me. They told me about you. I would like to talk about what to do. I'm not exactly sure where to go from here. Please return you reply to locker 507. Thank you,
Alaya had no idea what to do. She could barely deal with herself, let alone another person!
The festivities were about to begin for both courts of Subconscious. In the dark fathoms of Nightmare, crowds of grotesque and scared figured surged toward the blackened stone castle of their faerie queen, Malevolence. She finished preparing herself in her deep obsidian mirror and donned her most embellished and garish gown.
Placing her wrought iron crown upon her crimson curls she seated herself at her throne for a rest before closing her eyes and willing herself to the castle of her future husband, King Industrious. She bit her lip walking over the polished silver of his castle’s clean and spotless floors. Looking at him she couldn’t help but smile.
Industrious was the king of Dream, the longtime rivaling land of Nightmare. The two lands, much like King Industrious and Queen Malevolence were opposites in all regards. Where Dream was bright, pleasant and clean, Nightmare was dark, brutal and filthy. Queen Malevolence looked quite out of place in her red and black, tattered ball gown with her iron crown. She might as well have been a mirage before the king’s very eyes.
King Industrious looked studious as ever in his gold and white tunic with a silver crown on his chestnut curls. He looked like a porcelain doll with his vibrantly green eyes looking over his bride to be. He rose from his throne and pulled the queen into a fond embrace that sent both their hearts racing in lust and love.
“My dark darling, you’re a vision to be sure.” He said, his voice full and deep showing caring and compassion.
“Such things might be said of you, my dear. Are you sure you wish me to meet your nobles first. The Nightmare courts are quite accommodating.” She spoke in a low, scratchy whisper. Her voice held all the power she knew of and spoke of cruelty. “It isn’t too late to change our plans now.”
The king chuckled at his bride and kissed her pale forehead. “My love, the plans are set in stone. I know you are…nervous, but this is going to be fine. There is nothing to worry of.”
“There is everything to worry of.” She sighed, hoping her betrothed wouldn’t hear.
There are some things that we were never meant to see. That is why they’re invisible. Angels, demons, God (or whatever deity that rules) are all invisible for our own good. But what if we did see what they were not meant to see? What if we had the “privilege” to see a holy being with our own two eyes? What would they look like, smell like, or even feel like?
I’m one of those “lucky few.” I didn’t see an angel or a demon.
I saw evil.
The day started like any other. 7:35AM, I woke up to the sweet siren song that is my alarm clock. After eating a healthy breakfast consisting of a granola bar, I was ready for school. As I brushed my teeth, thoughts were coming and going through my head. Maybe I’d skip Math. Maybe I’d go see my girlfriend. Maybe this, maybe that. After I washed my face, I looked at my reflection. I couldn’t even tell what I was seeing at first. My hair was snowy white, my skin was gray and cracked in various spots, as though lava had flooded over me and cooled. My eyes were black, so black that the whites of my eyes were black as well.
At first, I didn’t move. I thought I was having a bad dream, so I just ignored it. I reached for the mouthwash, but my reflection didn’t move. I started getting anxious. I turned on the faucet. My reflection was emotionless. I looked down at the running water. It wasn’t water. Black ooze poured out of the faucet. I quickly turned it off, but it was too late. The sink was clogged. The ooze sat there, and it smelled like raw sewage and dead vermin. I backed away and held my shirt over my nose. I shot a look at my reflection. It leaned forward on the counter, then put it’s hand on it’s side of the mirror. It stayed like that for a few seconds, then pushed. It pushed through the mirror, and I could see it’s hand reaching for me. It didn’t come close; thanks to my large bathroom. It didn’t stop. It used the edge of the mirror as a grip and pulled itself through. I was face-to-face with evil.
It didn’t do anything. It just stared at me. I didn’t move, and all of a sudden I couldn’t smell the black ooze. I subtly felt around for something to hit it with. I didn’t know if it would work, but it was worth a shot. I felt something cool and rectangular. It was my sister’s smaller mirror. I grabbed the handle and swung with all my might. I hit the evil right in the face. It tilted it’s head a bit, and didn’t move. I hit it again, and again, and again, over and over until suddenly…
Right before I hit it one more time, it disappeared. I almost fell over because of all the momentum I put into that swing. I looked back at the mirror. It was me again. I looked in the sink; It was crystal clear. I returned the mirror and sat on the floor.
I didn’t get long to think, though, because my watch beeped. 8 AM. I had about 15 minutes to take a shower, shave, get dressed and leave. I decided to put all this in the back of my mind and worry about it later.
The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. Actually, it was a pretty good day. Math was easy, I gave a good speech in Speech class, and I had chicken pot pie for dinner. It was at 6:24 PM that day that something weird happened. I know what time it was because I always fed the dogs at 6:24 PM.
I went outside to get the food, but the dogs weren’t there. I didn’t think twice about it, though. The dogs are usually outside running around, and as soon as they heard the food being poured, they’d come rushing in. So I got the food and poured it into their bowls. Still nothing. I opened the door to the backyard and called for them. I didn’t hear anything. I walked out onto the back porch and looked around. I called for the dogs again. Finally, they came and ran inside to go eat. I made my way back in as well, but I noticed something else. Bloody paw prints. One of the dogs was either bleeding or stepped in something. They weren’t whining, so it had to be the latter.
I started following the paw prints. It wasn’t long before I felt really tired, like there was a huge weight on my shoulders. My curiosity got the best of me, though, and I kept going. Wherever the blood was, the grass around it was dead. That made it pretty easy to follow, but I had a bad feeling about it as well. A couple more steps and my vision started to blur. I could hardly make out my own hand. I knew I shouldn’t go any further, but I still went on. To this day, I wish I hadn’t. Maybe things would’ve been different if I had turned back.
I followed the dead grass to a spot behind the pool. By now, I felt terrible. I could barely breathe, my vision was blurred, and it had gotten darker. I couldn’t tell, but it was as though the sun just blacked out all of a sudden. That was the least of my worries, though.
All of a sudden, I heard a roar in the distance. It came from in front of me. Then, despite my vision problems, I saw something crawling along the ground. I called out to it. It stopped, looked at me, hissed, and crawled away. The familiar yet revolting smell of raw sewage and dead rats came again. I took another step forward. I heard a splash. I looked down. I had stepped into a puddle of blood. A deep puddle of blood.
I heard the hissing again, this time from behind me. I quickly turned around, but I slipped and fell into the blood. I looked at my hand. Even blurred, I got sick to my stomach. Then there was the hiss again, right in front of me, and all of a sudden I could see again.
What I saw was terrifying and disgusting at the same time. It had a human head and body. But it was covered in the black ooze. It had eyes, but no pupils, and it had a large mouth and very sharp looking teeth, dripping with blood and ooze. It made a sound that sounded like an inhale, then grabbed me by the neck. In panic, I punched it as hard as I could. It exploded in black ooze. Some of it got in my mouth. It tasted much, much worse than it smelled.
I turned around and carefully stood up. I was in my backyard, just behind my pool. I looked at my hands. Clean. I didn’t taste anything foul anymore. I looked at the ground. All the grass was lush and green. The sky was clear and the sun was shining.
I wondered if this event had anything to do with my reflection.
That question was soon to be answered. Throughout the week, weird things were happening. My cell phone would ring at odd times of the day, and if I answered it, the only thing I heard was static, the hissing noise, or a cryptic message, such as “It’ll all be over soon,” or “Succumb to it.” One time there was a more detailed voicemail. It was a guy with a deep voice who said, “You don’t know me, but I am you. I am the real you, and I am what you truly want to be. You will see me again, and again, and again, until you finally realize.”
I told some people what was going on, but they didn’t take me seriously. Even after the voicemail, their only answer was “It’s only a joke. Don’t get so caught up in it.”
This went on for a month. I started to have dreams of death and despair. I woke up in a cold sweat every night, running to turn my light on, only after grabbing the knife under my pillow and wildly slashing through the dark. My ears would suddenly start ringing and not stop for hours. I would hear voices whispering about me, telling each other all the bad things I had done. I wouldn’t answer the phone unless I was certain I knew who it was. Sometimes, my vision blurred, even while I was driving. Other times, my vision would “jump.” Have you ever tried to tune a really old TV, and watch how the image jumps all over the screen? That’s exactly what I would see sometimes. Toward the end of the month, the blurriness was replaced by jumps. My vision jumped every few minutes, and lasted for what seemed like hours. Sharp pains would shoot through my body, then leave me sore all day. Pretty soon, my nights consisted of ten minutes of light sleep full of nightmares, followed by sitting in my bed holding a knife close to me, and my days consisted of jumping vision, voices talking about me, and invisible swords ripping through me.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of suffering, I broke. I couldn’t take it anymore. Last week was when I admitted myself to an insane asylum. But it wasn’t that easy. That was the worst day of my life.
It started out with a nightmare. I was tied up, and it was dark. I heard someone moving around, and a light turned on over me. I blinked at the brightness, and when my eyes had adjusted, I looked to my side. Sure enough, there was my evil side, looking back at me with it’s expressionless face. It didn’t say anything, neither did I. I knew it was a nightmare, so I told myself to wake up.
“It’s not going to work.” A voice said. I looked around. The evil side hadn’t said it. In fact, I just noticed that it didn’t even have a mouth. “You’re not getting out of this one.” The voice said. “Not yet.” Just then, a machine started up, and I was lifted into the air. My evil side walked in front of me and looked at me. I kicked it in the face, but as I expected it didn’t react. Instead, it walked into the dark corner of the room, and came back with a blowtorch. My stomach sank as it lit the torch. I was lowered back down to the ground as it grabbed my neck. It slowly put the torch on my face. It didn’t feel hot, but ice cold. Ice cold and painful. I screamed and tried to pull away, but it had me in control. I could feel my skin burning away, and I kept screaming and trying to do anything to get away. I heard a voice in the background, but I didn’t care about whatever it was saying. By now, my evil side had begun work on my chest. I could feel my heart come into contact with the flame. I looked down and saw it beating. I stopped screaming for a second and heard a phrase that rang in my ears.
“….until you finally realize.”
I opened my eyes. I was back in my room. I didn’t move, let alone breathe, for the first hour. After that, I grabbed my knife and ran to turn on the light. When I flipped the switch, though, I backed against the wall. All around my room was those strange hissing creatures. There were 3 on the ceiling, 2 on each wall, and even one on the foot of my bed. They all hissed at the light and attacked it. They broke the bulb, but one got his finger caught in the circuit and shocked himself. The black ooze lit on fire. The creature let out a blood-curdling scream as it went up in flames. The others followed, and pretty soon my room had become an inferno. I could feel my skin start to boil, just like in the nightmare. I reached for my door and pulled. It didn’t open. I pulled and pulled as hard as I could, but it didn’t budge. I called for help and started banging on the door. The combination of the smoke and fire made me collapse. I hit the door one last time.
My door burst open, my parents ready for anything. “What’s wrong?! Why are you on the floor?!” My mom asked.
I opened my eyes. My room was normal. There was no fire or creatures, or was there? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t answer my mom, I just stood up and went back to bed. My parents shut the light off and closed the door only halfway. I figured they’d want to keep watch on me that night, so I pretended to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw something else gruesome, but I had no choice but to deal with it.
When my alarm finally went off, I staggered over to it and shut it off. I tried to go about my morning routine, despite my vision jumping and the tremendous weight on my shoulders. My parents were waiting for me in the kitchen.
“We think it’s time you see a therapist.” My dad said as I opened the fridge.
I slammed the door shut. “It’s about time!” I yelled. I turned to look at my parents. They winced. I hadn’t talked to them in a couple of weeks, and now I started yelling at them. Plus, I bet I looked like death. “I’ve only been asking to go see one for a month now!”
“We know, but we just thought it was a phase you were going through.”
“A phase?!” I yelled. “I have been living in hell for the past eternity and call it a phase?!” I gritted my teeth. These two had no idea what I was going through, and now they decided to help me? It was already much too late.
There was silence for a moment before my mom said, “You’re appointment is in a couple hours, with a….”
That’s all I heard, because my ears started ringing again. I leaned against the fridge and started rubbing my head, but to no avail. Soon, the ringing would get worse, and I would start to see things that weren’t there, provided my vision didn’t jump.
“Take me into the asylum.” I muttered.
My dad replied, but I didn’t hear a word he said. “I said, take me to the asylum. Now.” Both my parents seemed to disagree, but I wasn’t going to have it. I punched my dad in the face. “Take…me…now…” I said. It was getting harder to breathe, and the room got dark. I remember falling on back, and my vision coming and going. I saw my parents over me. I saw the black creatures tearing at my insides. I saw my evil side staring down at me. I could’ve swore it looked happy.
I heard a voice say, “This is what we do. This is why you can’t see us. Are you happy now?” My reply was holding up my middle finger, before finally blacking out.
I woke up here, in this padded room, wearing this strait jacket. I’ve been deemed legally insane. I’ve been told that my brain waves are unlike anyone’s ever seen, so it’ll be a while to see what’s wrong with me and what the cure is. But, I already know what’s wrong with me. That story I just told you? All true. I did not exaggerate once. I couldn’t lie about things like that. I wish I had looked away when I had the chance, or turned away when I had the chance.
No one believes me, though. They think I just have a severe form of schizophrenia or something. But I know. I know what’s wrong with me. I saw evil, and my body and mind couldn’t handle it, so now I’m stuck here for who knows how long.
There are some things that humans were never meant to see. That is why they’re invisible.
This was the prologue of a story I started once. Of course, it's not very interesting since... well nothing has happened in the prologue ^^) Just thought I'd post it and maybe I'll post other chapters later..
Forewords of an angel
Once I saw a little girl sit at the kitchen table with her mother. Her name was Dian Emilia Peterson, and was only seven years old at that particular moment. The questions she was about to ask had been thought an innumerably many times, but I’d never really realized that they really were before this. I’d watched the family rather closely the last couple of years and had even chosen Dian as my mind for the century. (Every beginning of a century all angels choose a mind that they are able to read until that person dies.) I almost thought I’d felt a twinge of… something in my chest. But never mind that.
Let’s get back to Dian Emilia Petersons questions.
- Mom, are there angels? Where do they live? Do they watch over us? What do they think of us? Will I ever meet one?
These questions are quite deep for a seven year old girl. And the answer was quite too deep for the 29 year old mother.
She was a bit worried about what to say, and I heard her mind work feverishly to find something fitting. When it didn’t, she decided to just laugh and say;
- That’s enough questions for today. Come on now, you’ll be late for school.”
Sometimes I think parents have a fairly easy job.
The response of course made me disappointed, but it wasn’t as if I could expect anything else. It did give me a thought though. No, not a thought; A resolution. To write a story - from the viewpoint of an angel. From my viewpoint.
The story of Dian Emilia Peterson. Of course, at that moment that I’d made up my mind to do it, I had no clue at all that the story would become a whole lot more interesting than I’d ever imagined.
So here’s to you, Dian. Your very own story.
On the very shores of the land where beaches met the ocean, a bundle of veils, dresses and binding silks lay just below the high tide line on the sandy shore. A girl, no older than fifteen, coughing and sputtering she tried to shake herself of the thoughts of her long journey. Her black hair was tangled with sea plants in it and she’s drenched from head to foot. Her eyes glazed as if in delirium, and she clutched to only one belonging, a leather-bound diary.
Dal-Semin coughed and looked around. This was a strange new land, not made of rings, but not sinking into the sea either. She couldn’t see any of the other survivors. Bijan, Bayard, Xi-Quang… they weren’t here. She couldn’t remember getting separated from them. She looked at her diary, Hadn’t Bayard been carrying it? She sat up, her muscles feeling solid as rocks as she tried to move.
It was all she could do to drag herself all the way up the shore to one of the sand dunes that had salt smelling sea-grass growing from it. There she sat, her diary still clutched in her hands. She wanted to scream for help but She didn’t know if any would come. Were the people in this strange land kind? Or were they savages as the stories of El-Shien told her?
She lay, cradled in the firm sand and sea-grass of the dune. Trying not to get lost in her own thoughts, she had to get away from the sea, she didn’t know if she was safe this close to the crashing waves. But she couldn’t bring herself to move, it was too painful. She gasped for breath again, feeling the bindings on her waist twisted to the point of discomfort. Wincing with the effort, she untied the silk and loosened it so she could breath before she collapsed back onto the sand, exhausted. Dal-Semin was still delirious; she coughed and sputtered, her body shuddering with each breath.
She closed her eyes from the sun and lay her head back gently on the sad as her hands traced the cover of her journal lovingly. It was her only link to the home she’d known. She was ill form the sea, and her head seemed to spin and whirl to and fro. She felt sick, but she couldn’t do anything about it. She didn’t know the herbs of this land, and even if she did she wouldn’t be able to find them in time. Bayard, I wish you were here to care for me. She though sullenly as she rolled on her side, waiting for the vomit to come.
Ok I actually need help with this one: I'm submitting it to be potentially in an anthology at my uni. So, please criticize what I have so far, tell me what impression you get from the character, if can pick out a theme yet, thats sort of thing. Uh this story is rated R I guess for language. Just a heads up because personally I don't really care.
Youngest Child Syndrome
I hate my mother. I hate my mother so much that its gets to the point where her manner of being compels me to verbally abuse her to the point of tears. And if I’m not doing that, I address her condescendingly, scoffing replies, rolling my eyes. My friend likes to console my chronic guilt by saying that it’s normal and that all children make their mothers cry at one time or another. To which I retort that though that maybe true but most children make their mothers cry inadvertently. They become nothing more than disappointments, crushing any potential hope said offspring has of making some of themselves in their parents’ eyes. But I haven't really accomplished that yet, or at least it hasn’t made itself evident to my parent. The pain I put my mother through is intentional, and calculated. No, I've disappointed my mother by denying her the only thing she asks me for: my unconditional love.
Resentment, that would be one the ever cumulative reasons why my mother I don’t get along. From her side, my side. Oh and the normal tensions between this generation and that generation; the gap. But I guess the unique circumstance that is accountable for the overall bitter air that I consistently seem to be in whenever I talk to her is resentment.
The original source of my spiralling antipathy? Let’s flashback twenty-three years past, my twin brother and I are incubating blissfully in the molten plasma of awaiting life. The minute hand slides over the twelve on a standard back and white clock against the antiseptic wall in a waiting room: Ring-a-fucking ding, it’s a new year. The red second hand glides over the seven and at that precise moment my brother’s slippery purple head squeezes out of my mom like a wet bar of soap. Everyone can be heard celebrating just down the hallway right after the countdown. That’s right two special New Years babies. Oh you think the other baby girl is me. Well, as you can now guess, it’s not. In another building five kilometres away an identical second hand moves past the in between area of the nine and ten. Out being shoved out of a birth canal is a soon to be christened Idella Hampson, whose name I’ve retrieved from a yellowing piece of newsprint pressed behind cellophane. Time of birth? Asks a muffled voice behind a mask, 12:00. Ranjit Ramerine in a nearby suburb 12:04 and that’s all worth mentioning in the customary article taking up half a page. I being born sixteen minutes was then only referred to in city paper as “his twin sister” followed by a name not emphasized. I look at the three and quarter newborn faces in grey. I’m on the far left of the row of photos, appropriately cropped, my head turn, unpronounced brow bone brushing against my brother’s skull. I flip the page to move on to the rest album, but I’m not really focusing on anything else for the next four pages. So I just close the old cream album with Peter Rabbit on it and put it back on the shelf in my basement.
Another phone call from my brother, checking up on me as usual. He’s says I should call him more often, I know his schedule. For I twin I never call much, I must not be suffering from separation anxiety as much as he is. You’re just home sick, I say. You did the moving so you’re feeling the guilt, you’re doing the more intense missing. He misses everyone and everything. That’s what I just said. He insists he misses me the most, I tell him that he knows that I miss him just as much. He’s asks how it’s been with just my mom and I. I say it’s the same and that he ought to be relieved to have been able to escape from the constant bickering, if anyone should’ve left the nest earlier, it should have been me. He says he kind of misses that as well. Ha-ha. He insists he’s has been longing for any type of human noise alone in his flat. I snort and plead him to not develop a fake a British accent like Madonna. I have the receiver press in between my ear and my shoulder, as I fix the stuff placed on the front counter. I explain that I’m usually at school or a work when he’s free and I usually don’t do much dialling from work since it’s a rotary, also the little finger holes are gunk-up with dirt and dust. Excuses, excuses. He knows that I might avoid making phone calls from a dirty phone if it were in another, fresher, location but the whole bookstore is kind of enveloped in a fine layer of dust that is displaced on occasion, but never quite leaves the vicinity, so if I was bothered by the phone I probably wouldn’t be able to work at the store.
It’s a lull period, so I don’t mind as much when my brother goes into his usual spiel about how unsatisfied he is with his job, it’s not like I have anything else to do. He’s never satisfied, that’s a symptom of ambition. I ring up a customer, mmhmming and uh-huh’ing my way through both of the interactions. Ding, the register opens. That’s my brother a real mover and shaker. I smile the young customer away and twirl around the old phone cord. I lean over pressing my stomach unto the counter. He’s so stressed, his job keeps him so busy, but he kind of likes that about the job, the variety of work. It’s not that he isn’t happy with his job, he loves it there it’s just that, you know, doesn’t want to get stuck. He always is looking for a way to move up. I tell him not to worry, that he has this uncanny ability to get what he wants. It lies within a combination of the hard work he puts into his life and his undeniable charm.
And as far as the rest of the story goes all I have this intersprinkled in different places in the story, but its in order chronologically, and I know that at the end, in going to go all Cohenesque Beautiful Loser-ish and she going to end up doing the Idella chick unknowingly:
James, Nida and I are sitting outside underneath giant oak, laptops out, switching subculture information we find on blogs. That’s when I noticed Frances approaching us. This is the girl whose comment upon finding out that our friend James was the youngest of four boys replied: “Your poor mum, surrounded by dicks and only one she gets to fuck.” Pleasant girl. I suppose she assumes she has that charismatically crass quality of one those edgy female protagonists in a Chuck Palahniuk novel.
You can make the assumption that I hate my father as well. Not too fond of the man. However, I do believe it hard to develop any kind of affection for people you don’t know much about. His overall absence in my life just ends up contributing to the ever-cumulative tension between my mother and I: She loves to live in the past and blame it for her misery, as will I.
Anthony mumbles a curt thanks for the batteries as he slips them into the camera. Are they still good? I ask stepping in between him and Frances. He casts a look over Frances and then switches his cold pairs of blue back to me. I can tell he doesn't like how Frances has been seeking my company very frequently as of late. My lips part slightly in a quizzical way as I return his glare. Just because I’m lesbian doesn’t mean I want to finger-bang your girlfriend.
Well this is humiliating, I haven’t cried in a bathroom stall since I was six. Well maybe that one time in middle school. I don’t know, I can’t even remember in this state. A welcoming sense of calm enters me as I roll the damp tissue in between my fingers.
Ba-dum, thats it. I'm le screwed. This is due tomorrow.