Thread: The Weird One's Writings

Paranoid.

That’s how most people would sum up Rachel.

Sure, she was beautiful with her dark, pensive eyes, her long, wispy dirty blonde hair. Pale glowing skin, but still…this lonesome teen was more of odd than first impressions left behind. She jumped at shadows. She believed that cars would run her over (even in a car). She flinched when people tapped her on the shoulders, regardless of whether it be friend or foe.

Cautiously, the ‘paranoid’ Rachel walked across a deserted street, right hand clung firmly to her white purse.

Destination?

The Coffee Shop.

Its glass walls allowed outsiders to view its innards through a clean, gleaming surface. The black and white checkered tiles went with the charcoal granite table tops and monochromatic photos on the chestnut walls.

That was her paradise.

The teen froze, shrill bells rang overhead as she entered paradise.

“Hey Rachel,” greeted the barista who was currently cleaning the granite bar (where the cash register was).

“Erm…hi,” Rachel murmured uncertainly. He was always there, working, when she came on the evenings after school, and on weekends.

He grinned, unnerving her as he did so. “The usual I presume,” it was more of a statement than a question.

With a nervous nod and a minute, almost mute, sigh, Rachel waltzed towards him. Her left hand fished for a five dollar bill as the other one held onto the wallet.

‘Gawd,’ she thought as she searched for a Lincoln, ‘talking to him reminds me of all the times Uncle’s told me to be more social and get a guy, I wonder why.’

She had to admit though, he was handsome, and kind of cute. Those bronze eyes, short mahogany hair, and a silver piercing, not to mention his clothing that only complimented his looks. Most teenage girls would have flirted with him or at least gaped at him, then again, Rachel wasn’t anything like them.

‘I still don’t trust him,’ she thought as he gave her the coffee and handed her the change. It was just a natural precaution, trust no one. Even a guy she’s seen almost everyday for the past three years.

“Thanks,” she muttered. Rachel grabbed the hot latte and moved to her usual seat next to the window underneath a fan.

She pulled out a scratched up MP3 player, sat down, jammed the earpieces into her ears, and lost herself in the wordless song’s beat.

What kind of paradise is that?

A cute guy, all alone together, and here she is, the attractive and timid Rachel, avoiding him like a plague. Zoning out the rest of the world via music and caffeine. But that’s how she kept her sanity. The music rid her of paranoia. The caffeine soothed those antsy nerves. Some might say she’s suffering from caffeinism, but even that kind of person isn’t this introversive. It used to be different though, she used to be normal until…

Ring! Ring!

Thud.

Rachel found herself out of her chair and on the ground in an instant. Luckily for her the coffee didn’t go with her, regardless...

That was rather unexpected.

She fumbled for her purse on the ground as it vibrated and screamed for Rachel to answer.

“Hello,” she said, the barista stared at her. The racket she made distracted him from work.

“Rachel? Is something wrong,” asked the voice on the phone line.

“Yeah…I mean no. I’m fine Uncle, you just scared me, that’s all.”

‘And that’s anything new?’ her Uncle thought. “Where are you?”

“The Coffee Shop, why?”

“I’ll tell you later…” Pause. “Just stay there okay? I’ll take you home.”

“Bu-” He hung up. Rachel released an exasperated sigh. ‘We live less than five minutes away from here, so why bother picking me up?’

“You okay,” questioned the barista who had yet to get back to work.

“Fine…” she trailed off.

“Need help getting up,” he offered.

Her face flushed, still on the ground, purse next to her, MP3 player still on, quietly playing music.

“No thanks,” Rachel quickly declined, forcing herself up.

With a shake of his head and a sigh, he returned to work.

Rachel spent the rest of her time at The Coffee Shop sipping her coffee, casting fevered glances out the window in search of her Uncle’s car.

‘Please don’t forget me… Please don’t forget me,’ she mentally repeated that mantra, waiting for him.

The barista didn’t bother her anymore, but he did observe her for a second or two every now and then.

Rachel’s Uncle came about ten minutes later, killing her mantra and putting her at ease. She stood up, tucked away her MP3 player, and threw out her empty coffee cup.

“Bye,” the barista softly called out to her.

She responded with a quick wave and left her sheltered world to enter her Uncle’s car.

“What’s up,” he said, smiling.

Now, when it comes to Rachel’s ‘trust no one’ belief, there came exceptions to her rule, close friends and family members. Uncle Nate was under both categories. They’ve known each other since her birth and he was actually the only person Rachel really trusted. And trust meant that she’d be less paranoid around that person since she wouldn’t have to ponder every action they made or word they spoke.

Funny how she trusted him of all people, he was the complete opposite of her. He demanded and attracted attention. Rachel avoided it. He was popular, funny, and friendly. She was a nobody who was serious and anti-social.

“Nothing much,” she replied, smiling. “So, what’d you want to tell me?”

He pressed on the gas and chuckled. “Since when were you the eager type? I said I’d tell you later and I will.”

Rachel crossed her arms and grumbled, “So annoying…”

~~~

Rachel sat on their couch in their apartment Nate paid for every month. It always amazed her how a 22 year old bachelor could afford to take care of the two of them, work, go to school, and still have a social life. She knew that her mother sent money every month along with a letter written to her half-heartedly, but that couldn’t cover for the bills and other expenses too.

“So… what’d you want to tell me,” she persisted as Uncle Nate sat down across from her.

His face was serious. “Rachel,” he sighed. “I have something important to break to you. I didn’t want to tell you on the phone, I didn’t want you to make a scene.”

He paused as she grasped how grave what he needed to say was.

“It’s you mom…” he paused. “She’s dead.” His eyes glimmered, reflecting the melancholy in his heart.

Silence.

“How,” Rachel numbly asked.

His voice trembled, not over his sister’s death, but over Rachel’s predicted reaction.

“Suicide.”

‘That selfish woman,’ she inwardly screamed, unwanted tears falling freely. ‘She didn’t even think of me, she just wanted to be with Dad. She always blamed me for his death.’

The room went quiet, thick with gloom to the point of suffocation.

Rachel remembered that tragic day, three years ago. The one event that changed her forever.

~~~

It was 5 o’ clock and her parents had yet to pick her up from school. A classmate of hers was there, waiting to be picked up after just leaving Art Club, unlike Rachel, who had been at the car ramp since three today.

“Hey Niki,” Rachel said, “You have a cell phone, right?”

“Yeah, need it,” Niki responded, automatically handing the phone to the jovial 13 year old.

“Ah! Yes, you’re the best Niki,” she squealed, hugging her friend.

“Anytime,” Niki muttered, Rachel already pounding away at the keys.

“Hey mom,” Rachel greeted. “Did you forget to pick me up?”

“Oh, hey Rach, what time is it?” Pause. “My goodness, it’s so late! I’ll call Dad and get him to pick you up okay? He’s out at the grocery store right now.”

With that, Rachel tossed the phone to her departing pal and hummed to herself happily.

Everything else happened almost too fast to see. Unfortunately for Rachel, she witnessed it all.

The drunk driver charging at 70+ MPH. Her father’s car turning to enter the school’s parking lot. The sickening sound of metal crunching away at metal.

Rachel witnessed the one thing that ruined her happy life.

The death of a loved one.

Being the key witness, Rachel had to retell the dreadful death of her father countless times over. She lost the love of her mother who tossed Rachel to her half-brother that she held no sibling bonds to.

She moved to a new school that had no clue of traumatic things she saw. She was bullied for being shy around others which only fueled her growing paranoia. Paranoia that no one would love her. No one would care about her. It had already happened once. Rachel believed that it would happen again.

~~~

Rachel had shut down since then. School went from bad to worse. Her grades were fine but the bullying became severe.

“You stupid bitch,” shrieked one of the popular girls in the hallway, tripping Rachel. “You just stepped on my new shoes.”

A blank stare greeted the cheerleader, pissing her off. The late bell had already rung and both Rachel and the small group of cheerleaders remained.

“You think you’re so great don’t you,” the cheerleader went on. “Just because you’re pretty!”

Slap.

With that, Rachel snapped. She was tired of the world going against her, and though it was futile and even stupid, she fought them.

Nate had to drive her home after that, Rachel was suspended from school for three weeks while the cheerleaders only one. Scratch marks covered her head to toe, a few cuts and bruises, but nothing nearly as bad as she did to the cheerleaders. One left school with a broken nose, the other a sprained wrist, and one came out unscathed, she ran as soon as Rachel punched their leader and instigator.

~~~

“I’m going out,” Rachel called out to Nate after changing out of her bloodied clothes. It was tainted from that cheerleader.

He didn’t ask where and he didn’t mind that she left home unpunished. He knew where she was headed to. He knew what caused her to harm another being. He could have predicted both answers. Both, in this case (and in his opinion), justifiable.

“Hey Rachel,” the barista welcomed, giving her the same old smile. She only stared back numbly, nodding as a response.

“The usual, right?”

She strolled to the seat at the coffee bar, right next to where he was. The paranoia in her was incapacitated by her state of indifference, a result from her mother’s suicide and recent fight.

“I’ll have a triple shot café latte….” She trailed off, trying to recall his name.

“Jake,” he finished for her. He grinned, knowing that something had to be up but glad that she wasn’t acting so jittery.

He handed her the drink, his hand lightly touching hers. She stopped fishing for the money and looked up at him.

“It’s on me,” he stated. She took her hand out of her purse and gazed at him.

Jake smiled again. Maybe that last smile overdid it or his generosity overwhelmed her, because before he knew it, her walls of ice crumbled and she burst out crying. Thank goodness it was only the two of them in there.

He froze, unsure of what to do. After a few long minutes, her wails and cries slowly came to a halt.

“I’m I’m, sorry about that,” her voice was quaky. “You’ve always been so t-tolerant of me and here I am, sp-spilling out my tears on you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Jake soothingly said. “Now, if you’re going to cry on me, you should at least tell me what’s wrong.”

And so, for the first time ever, Rachel told someone of her inner most feelings, being much more social than Nate would have ever hoped for. Jake stood there, listening to her story from the beginning. The death of her father, the feelings of neglect, the paranoia, her Uncle’s forceful shoves to be extroversive, everything up till now.

“Wow,” Jake gaped. This chick sure had one heck of a past.

“I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t bug you with these sort of things… but… at least my Uncle can’t complain now,” she gave a sad laugh. She appeared as if she’d start crying again at any moment.

“Hey,” Jake interjected, preventing the water works from going off again. “If you like, I could, well, be like a shoulder for you to cry on or something. So, you know, if you want a friend or something, I’ll be there.” A faint flush of red graced his cheeks, he tended to rant when he was nervous.

“I’d… I’d really like that,” her eyes lit up, feeling better than she had in years after the talking to him.

For the first time in forever, Rachel had a friend. Certainly her Uncle would be happy, but shockingly, Rachel was happy too. With a minuscule smile and a small grin from Jake, bonds were formed. Life may become worse for her now that she was suspended from school, but this paranoid teen actually had a genuine friend.

And to her, that was more than enough to get her by.

~~~
I, personally, am not a fan of how this one turned out. The build up of the plot was too slow, and the ending was too... incomplete... But this one isn't a recent story, I had to do it last year for English... My teacher wanted a weird story and he got one... Dang, my writing style is long...

[I felt like I had to put something up today since my topic post didn't contain anything in it. I'll edit in indents to the paragraphs... I don't like the looks of this on the post... it looks like a wall of words instead of a story.]

[EDIT- I can't win with indents so I'll just leave it as it's weird self.]

Originally Posted by Lucidbulbs

I've decided to try to improve on my writing. I know my style isn't a linguists nor grammar teacher's favorite, but it's mine and I want to make it better. I think my main issue that I know of is tenses... which is odd since most others can do that right.

So, that said, I implore you to give me as much feedback as possible on comments and critiques to whatever garbage I post

Don't think of your writings as garbage. If you think their not good, then that means they can only get better. Out of many stories I have written, I've found that I wasn't happy with the plot or concept. I would continuously reread over and over again, until I found something that stuck out to me, a new idea for the story. "What doesn't seem right, could seem right in a different setting." I don't know, I guess that's a little advice from me to you, I also have some troubles with tenses, so don't worry. =)

Awww, you're kind. I'm glad, that advice doesn't sound bad, but the only issue is, when you're so set on writing a story, the setting kind of sticks to it until you're done and see another possible revenue... or at least, it goes that way for me, and by then I'm inspired-out of doing it again.

Thanks for the advice and encouragement though, I'll definitely put it to good use sometime [maybe soon even].

Man, I get cheerleaders slapping me all the time. I can totally relate to this story.

...ish. You have a nice style. And I have an unnatural craving for American teen drama. Hmm.

O.O You found it already... Meep, then maybe I should post another not-so new story. [Amazingly, the one I'm referring to is actually short.]

The story I mentioned earlier... It's my only genuine short story. I need to write something new that's short.

Quiet. Cold. That’s how Mia felt. Her chocolate eyes swam to and fro, dark long hair following suit.

White coat, white Uggs, white mittens to match. Even the little bunny she held hands with went with the attire. Though, unlike Mia, its eyes stared ahead, dark and empty.

For the first time in months the six year old could wander outside without anyone around. No butlers, no maids, no party guest, but Mia didn’t want to be alone. She wanted to see him. He was her neighbor living in the Gothic mansion closest to her parents’ own abode. He treated her like a girl and not as a princess, he could tell how she felt.

Crimson orbs that pierced her own curious ones. Black hair (Her parents said they were “Japoneeze” and from Russia) longer than most other guys she had seen, tied into a low, mid-length, ponytail. A face neither too bony nor too soft and baby-like, making her believe all “Japoneeze” had to be beautiful people. The dark aura around him attracted her to him, a dark light that called out to the pure.

She turned around quickly, the black twigs against fresh snow crunched. Was she really alone? Was she? Mia pushed the thought away. Sounds were not dangerous, logic told her, sounds were for ears, not for fears. The cloudy sky puffed out fluffs of snow from above now. Mia, distracted by the snow, smiled and waved around her free hand to catch the icy bright gifts. The bunny swung around and Mia danced. Winter was a favorite to those who spent springs and summers with tutors and teachers, went to boring parties, and spent little time alone with the servants bustling around and about her.

It’s true, sweet little Mia, simple and sweet, had forgotten about her search of him. Crunch. Mia froze. The bunny fell to her side. A black boot flashed starch against silver snow. A fancy trench coat followed it. Hope welled up with Mia, could it be he came?

“Kiyoshi,” Mia smiled. He came, he came, she mentally sung.

He greeted her with the typical penetrating stare. His irises were lighter and brighter than usual, his eyes shone with an almost lethally blasé air. The teen watched her prance to him. How naïve…he mentally scoffed. Clad in black, one might have mistaken him for a spawn of Death.

“Kiyoshi, I was looking for you,” said Mia softly. A flicker of emotion swept in and out of Kiyoshi’s scarlet spheres.

He turned and walked away in long strides. Mia bounced in quick steps to keep up. Her head bobbed in and out of his peripheral vision.

“Kiyoshi, where are we off to today? To your house finally?” He ignored her.

“Too trusting,” he quietly muttered. He knew what they were doing today, but he wouldn’t tell her. Mia really wanted to know, really, really, really badly.

She followed him off her family’s land and into the outskirts of the woods nearby. She bumped into him when they stopped walking.

“I’m sorry Mia.”

“For what Kiyoshi?” Giggle. “If it’s about cleaning my cut at the last party, it’s okay, Mom and Dad were only shocked by it a bit.”

It’s true, of all things for parents to fret over it was a teen cleaning a finger wound. Not the fact that his family brought over two bottles of wine every time. Not Kiyoshi’s unusual eyes. They could accept these truths. And yet… they deny that same luxury to a mere cut?

“You trust me still?” He arched a brow. She was in the middle of nowhere, away from her safe-hold and yet… Yet she still was blind to the truth?

Mia nodded. “Why not?”

Kiyoshi didn’t answer. He had to secure his blood-born rites. He turned away... Mia worriedly approached him, did she do something wrong?

“Too innocent,” she heard him breathe. He turned around. His eyes, a bloody bright scarlet mesmerized her. His teeth appeared longer than usual.

“I have no other options,” he sighed.

A flash of black. A glimmer of red. The drop of a bunny.

All too innocent. There was no other choice. Three tears rested on her cheek. Where they his or hers?

Dead or alive, it would look no different. A figure kneeled. Blood flowed, he drank passionately.

How true it is: twisted is the fate of man.

[QUOTE=Lucidbulbs;656161]Clad in black, one might have mistaken him for a spawn of Death.

I get that alot.

How delightfully morbid-ish.
I can't do short stories, I get all...urgh...about them. But you've done it very nicely.

...he killed her right? Just checking.

Acutally... I'm still not sure... I kind of left that in the open. I suppose a guy like him would have killed her. Especially with fate added in... usually that means things are set in stone and can rot off so sure, whatever floats your boat. [I think it heavily implies it though since you're the fourth person I know who either asked me that or complained that death occurred]

Awww.... *hugs* A miracle of coffee. One short story... I have a few other finished stuff... old [like, a few months to maybe 3/4 a year old] but I guess I'll post those too.

I have people who want me to add on more stories of Nur, especially since the ending wasn't really a well made one. Oh, and if you haven't noticed... I like black hair and colorful eyes.

Is too long for me to really say short story.

Everyday it’s the same thing. I awake from my home far below the Earth, just like all the other plebeians of this world. Those like me get ready for the day. We make coffee, we curse when it’s done wrong, and we sluggishly change and wash while the toast browns and coffee liquefies. Goggles slide onto my forehead. Leather strips form a band that sit on my right wrist. My profession apparent, my rank secured.

I go through with everything else just as listlessly, warming up to the passionately wild fire turned liquid. Black hair is thrown aside to read the schedule. Pomegranate eyes squint, the kitchen light was dim.

“Horticulture in the mornings… Sand-Worm Digging at noon. Lunch. Then angling. Ugh, nothing at all to help change my band,” I groan. I jiggle my right arm, still the same brown bands I’ve been lugging around for the past year. I wanted to be a Hero Traveler, a valiant person, famous and rich, those who do all the cool jobs on the Surface Land of Earth, the wonderful desert only the rich live upon.

After World War III, the nuclear weapons had taken its toll on the land. Wild life began to rot away, fast. Cities were evacuated. Society was reorganized underground and the world ran under one immense, unified government. Housing was provided by the government, but rent and taxes were to be paid. Trees and plants grew underground where precisely calculated holes were carved to allow light to penetrate our world. Precision was a must if one didn’t wish to suffer from the radiation above.

Colorful fruits and flowers decorated many of the plants, to provide the poor or homeless with food so no one could deny the government the right to taxes.

This world is far from perfect; I can only hope it’ll soon recover enough so that even the poor like me can move up in the world. The only benefit of being a Traveler, even a low ranked one like myself [Brown is Level 3, Black Level 10 of 10], is the government provides us with shots in the ‘Sand Ocean’ branch of the government to prevent radiation from affecting us as bad so we can work on the Surface Land without wasting paper masks. “Preserve and persevere,” that is the way of the modern world. Even paper, a Pre-War casual item is a rare treat, many use electronic pens and tablets to write everything from a world-shattering ‘tome’ to a shopping list. Even I am extremely dependent on the industrial goods, since this era lacks natural ones available to poverty.

Sigh. It’s time to go. Better to head and work on the surface now than later, shudder. How I hate the tanned look it showers upon me.


“Maya Maya, nganong nalipay ka?
Nalipay ko, kay ting ani na.
Kinsa may olili malipay.
Pula puti ang manga humay,” I sang as I tilled the earth and heaved water to and fro. A moon swam in the water, the sand dunes hummed with the wind. It was our song, the song of our ancestors. The song of our being. Well, to you guys, it’s merely a song to pass the time, but for me, it was the last thing my family left me. We were poor and couldn’t afford much more than words and games to comfort one another.

I drizzled the last of the water onto an apple tree. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to take care of these things above the grounds. Coax the earth into giving up the healthy soil deep down below (Which usually equals carrying it from the city to the Surface), root it all down into the sand so that it doesn’t blow away. Water it more than just the time the Sand Ocean tells you to, well at least I do. I sneak back here between jobs to manually draw life giving liquids into a clay pot to shower these poor things.

Waiting for something. Waiting for nothing.

It’s my fault I make it hard on myself, I could be like everyone else and do the minimalists work… But, doesn’t it hurt to neglect something you’ve worked so hard to sprout? Doesn’t it hurt to know it can’t live without the extra care? Maybe I’m a sap, but it hurts me to even think that way… and so I persevere. I plop down under the tree. The sun was coming up. The golden streaks beating back the darkness pierced the cloudless sky.

“Do you mind?” I ask the tree, for as childish as it may seem, it felt rude not to ask a tree if it would spare me some water. And it did… sort of. The clay pot I first assumed I had drained onto these plants, the figs, apples, carrots, and potatoes, had at least a cups worth of water left. My hands, caked in dried mud, picked up the earthen vessel, and savored the slightly sandy water. T‘is the life of the poor and hard working. Start the day eager, and you don’t even manage to make it to lunch before you’re drained… I really, really need a promotion. But alas, that too must wait ‘til after lunch.

“Nur! Get over here,” Barlow shouted. He was a teammate for some of our jobs. It’s amazing how light blonde his hair was; how cheery those azure orbs are; and how dark and tan his skin is, did he ever get burnt? He’s not much older than me, maybe by a year or two, but he acts like a teenager. “Isn’t it great? It’s the third time this week we’ve gotten to fight something.”

I waltzed after swallowing the fig he caught me snacking on, I tossed the fruit away hastily. “Might I remind you that they’ve all been Sandworms? That means they’ve been breeding again in between tunneling jobs,” I grumbled. Sandworms were good practice for future Traveler jobs. The higher the rank, the more extermination work you did.

Barlow tossed a spare sword to me, he knew I could never afford one so he lent me one of his. It felt heavy and old in my hands but, who was I to complain? Barlow on the other hand, had more muscles than me, (I’m merely a toned figure who’s lucky enough to be able to know sword fighting, or even have a job) some people have all the luck.

Sandworms were ugly things, chimeras on technical terms. Genetically altered to grow be the size of whales, tamed by man to tunnel. The only benefit of having so many, even vicious wild ones, is that they absorbed fair amounts of radiation, shortening their life spans and cleansing the world. It’s sad what we’ve done to the world, really. They used to be called lugworms, but their adaptations to desert life and ferocious nature from the genetic changes made the name obsolete. Rings of razors to chomp away the earth. Six red eyes for Surface Land and normal use. They were far worse compared to their harmless ancestors.

The earth shook from a slight tremor. Barlow had been whistling while I was zoned out. I tensed up. Ever here of the myth; “Don’t whistle at night or the sandworms will eat you?” Well, that’s not really a myth… not at all.

The giant red worm slid out from below. Its giant mouth gasped, ivory blades flashed. Off to work we go. Barlow moved to the right and I stayed put. It was the typical routine. One distracts for a bit, the other side swoops. Decoy jumps right before-
“Shit!”

“Nur! Stay focused. That thing could have taken a foot with that,” he growled.
It ate my shoe. My shoe! Does it know how much that thing cost me? I averted from the plan. After my supposed jump up (instead I dodged right), I ran to the back, the sword tilted at an angle to cleanly slice up open tender, sand coated flesh. Goopy puke hued pus oozed out. It turned in my direction. No time to think. I thrust the sword forward hoping Barlow knew my plan. I half-expected the worm and its split and sagging lower mouth ring to devour me.

Thank goodness Barlow knew me. He didn’t do exactly as I had hoped, but the results were the same. A crumpled, oozing corpse lay before my feet. Its mouth, split cleanly in two. Barlow chopped through on top while I took care of the bottom half, and just in the nick of time. All in a typical day’s work… Whew…

I sliced up the Sandworm up, searching for my shoe. I probed and prodded freely with the tip of my blade. To my luck, aside from the slime and slight reek that permeated from it, the shoe was as good as new…

“Olor de mierda.Lovely,” I commented. Barlow only laughed until he caught wind of the foul shoe.

“Augh! More like a dump from Hell,” he nasally groaned, his fingers pinched his nose, eyes watered away. He threw a bar of soap and canteen of water at me. I was only too happy to accept. Though, to catch the items and clean the shoe I did have to endure the lurid stench.

Lunch could be considered blah. My shoe slightly reeked but we did have a tasteful lunch of vegetable soup, croissants, and strawberry and crème filled sandwiches. It wasn’t fancy, but fairly good, especially from Brown rank.

(To all those who are so curious of Traveler foods per rank, I shall divulge into this simple system. White [Level1] receives bread, butter, water, and a ham sandwich for a typical meal. Gray ranks can scarf down the two sandwiches they receive along with juice and gelatin. Normally, us Brown ranks get soup, sandwiches, and some random, decent morsel. And whatever common drinks we wish. Level 4s, Purple, enjoy three sandwiches, soup, a fruit of some sort, and another random edible good.

Now, all those 5 and up indulge on the good foods and good pay, as well as the option of a couple of studs marking the end/beginning of their strap. I’ve heard of how they partake of properly made meals with desserts and delicacies, like meat and goat cheese. The higher up and more famous you are the better quality and more variation in your meals presented to you. Of course, at Barlow’s and my rate, we’ll be eating sandwiches for the rest of our lives… or at least two years if lucky.)


“You can keep the sword,” Barlow insisted.

“I’ve told you, no freebies for me!”

“Nur, it’s a gift, consider it a sign of our friendship getting to that sort of level of in sync-ness,” he argued tossing a fat, 15 foot pole my way.

“I have to earn these things, and if you were to give me anything, it should be a recommendation to move up in this world, not sit here and fish.” I baited the rod.

“Well, I can’t do that and you know it. But, if you want to be this great Traveler guys and girls will admire/envy then you need to practice your fighting more than just field work.”

Silence. Point taken. I sighed and stopped hassling him.

“What the-” I jumped. I had only just sat down when I was being jerked away.

“Looks like you already got a catch,” he semi-reminded me. We were fishing, it’s not talk time. The rod’s line had sunk in without my knowledge.

It tugged again, I reeled it in slowly. The tugs transformed into violent jerks and something dark could be seen below. Barlow merely watched in awe, never had a shadow of a fish been that big that far down before…

On my feet, I dug into the wooden dock which kept us out of the ocean’s water. The pole was bent in two. My arms ached from effort and Barlow couldn’t help me, he kept luring in 5 feet length salmon, he already chucked three into his basket. Violent splashes were heard as I continued my struggle with this beast of a fish. I, as insensible as it was, closed my eyes to concentrate on the reel work in which my arms suffered so much for.


“Nur… that… that thing…” he trailed off. He couldn’t get over it. By the end of the day I not only had more fish than Barlow, but I managed to win this magnificent, enormous red snapper, at least the size of a Pre-WWIII car. Not only were red snapper rare to fish up during this ‘season’ of the year, but it had to be at least two feet larger than regular sized snapper. Hey, no one said this environmental change didn’t affect the fish, they were all large compared to the 21st century’s fish. It’s such a miracle, with all my non-existent muscles, I wrestled up this mongrel.

“Do you think this will land us a promotion?”

“Maybe you,” Barlow pouted.

“Come on, they don’t split up teams like that. They only merge into bigger, four person ones later on so cheer up,” I knew he was jealous.

He had all the luck in the world, not me. He wasn’t poor, he owned a lot, I didn’t. He also never needed to pay the bills. He could eat almost whatever he wanted and not the cheapest thing on the menu. See? Comparatively, Barlow’s the luckiest person in the world, while I’m… I’m just me.

And yet, somehow I managed to score a fish that took both of us to carry, with the help of one large blanket.

We took a back tunnel into the city, one led straight to the alley between ‘Sand Ocean’ and Town hall. Barlow kicked open the kitchen door entrance.

“Hey, no one but kitchen staff…” the chef’s voice faded away. For any man like him, a cooking fanatic, the dream of their lives just entered the room.

“It’s for a job, if you want it talk to the Boss,” Barlow barked. The whole kitchen watched in silence as the fish was hauled away. A true funeral procession to those who longed to be with it more than they already had.

“Nur and Barlow here to report,” I stated after we pushed our way through the swinging door. Our fellow members only gaped. A few assistants began spreading the word as we headed to a salary clerk. Pen marks and tablet shakes echoed throughout the beryl sanded glass walls (A theme to go with the name to outsiders, an inside joke to us).

“Nu-Nur,” he stammered. “What the hell did you bring in here? A demon in disguise?!?”

Barlow rolled his eyes, though Nite worked with indifference and always awed over my work, Barlow always hated his melodramatic moments. Note to self; avoid Nite and Barlow getting together during next month’s picnic. Wine and tempers probably don’t mix.

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call someone’s future dinner then go ahead.”

Nite shook off his shock and went to work. He accessed our data off of his tablet and read today’s info. “Barlow, for you I have a commendation for the silver vein you found along with the 30 pounds worth you managed to mine out today. Nur, you did the typical horticulture work load but they do wonder why yours are the only crops growing…” Nite arched an eyebrow my way and continued. Smirk. “You both killed one family of Sandworms today. Though, I need to remind you I can’t pay you for the overtime done on that. So, what other fish do you have here?”

Barlow and I thrust the colossal fish onto his table near his desk, it sunk in at least an inch. Barlow heaved up his basket, but not before a pouty glance. Guilt. Ouch.

“Seven salmon, one bass, all good size and of fine quality,” He rattled off. “I can pay you in yen or onyx coins, which do you want?” Yen was cotton money, paper money had been recycled long ago, and was light to carry, though was at constant risk of moths and bugs ingesting it. Onyx coins, or Ox for short (Though most called it Oxy since yen and Ox were accepted everywhere and everyone was too lazy to put down Ox/Y), were heavy but were unlikely to be devoured by creatures… With the exception of Sandworms and a few other oddities who would quite enjoy the added crunch of a wallet (And person).

“How much is it first,” Barlow requested.

“153 Oxy, that includes a 45 Oxy bonus from your mine work.”

“I’ll take Ox,” he decided.

“Would you like it put into your bank account?” Nite was in standard protocol mode now.

“Nah, I hate having to enter all those codes in all the time and not every place takes digital Oxy codes.”

Finally my turn, how I hated to wait.

Fish were counted, albeit the snapper, which would be saved for last, horticulture and Sandworm payments were calculated and Nite finally spoke up.

“199 Oxy, pretty good for one normal day’s work Nur,” complimented Nite. From the side of my eyes, Barlow rolled his eyes. Still jealous? Probably… though, to say the least, I couldn’t deny the heavy lethargic emotions he passed onto me.

I almost pocketed my Oxy wallet (Though it’s nothing more than a simple beige bag the size of Pre-War wallets and a much cheaper one compared to Barlow’s leather one), when Nite suddenly stood up.

“Boss!”

“Eh?” I turned and Barlow paled. Here she stood, her burnt sienna curls wrapped around her face, her topaz eyes stared straight at us.

“Nur, Barlow, Nite,” she huffed. Her emerald tunic top flowed with her movements.
“Who caught this fish?”

“It was-” Nite started.

“I’m asking team Rank 3, Standing 5. As far as I know, the Economic Department has nothing to do with the Environmental Section,” she cut him off. Her technical terms and dominance over him plastered his mouth shut. Barlow shot me another look…

Damn, not the puppy dog eyes.

“It was I,” I sighed. “But Barlow helped me get it up and out of the water.” There happy Barlow? You get some glory too now.

A wide smile crept up upon the Boss’ face… it was rather scary. “Thank God,” she exclaimed. “If it were you I couldn’t do anything! But now,” she beamed. “Now, I can do something wonderful.”

She beckoned us to follow her with a turn of the heel. In the quiet beryl office, she took her position on one side of the desk; we were stuck on the other.

“Here,” something dangerous and crimson was thrown our way. I caught one, only to be subjected to piercing pains.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I’ve been waiting forever for you to do something commendable.” She stared at Barlow.

“Both of you are better than Level 3s and you know it, but rules were rules so I had to comply. But since you’ve both done great deeds now,” she paused. “I can promote you to Crimsons.”

I examined the thing in my right hand… indeed; it was a studded bloody crimson band.

“Not-not Purple,” Barlow mused. How rare, seldom is it mentioned that someone skipped a Rank. What a lucky day for both of us.

“Well, Nur’s had promotion in the bag for quite awhile, but you still needed some more mentions before I could do it so here’s the reward for the commendations.”

We left the office giddy and excited. Better pay, better hours, and less junk work. I can only wait to see what’ll become next of this new life. But enough about me and my boring life, as it should be Carpe diem! Live for now and no other!

Hmmm...Chelly, in your first story I was a bit confused with the sequencing. The slightly asyncronous style creates a creates a great effect, but a little clarification would be lovely <3

It's very well written and your imagery is absolutely decadent (the good kind, like chocolate).

Oh, and, get some Inentity up here. I MUST read more. I'm feeling Inentity-withdrawal. There are little parts of my brain that need constant doses of Chelle writing. The addiction is almost too much to bear.

-sob-

Inevitable thought this was "thoughtful" so I thought I might as well put it up on my very un-updated thread:

An artist who never draws, an author that never writes. Who knows of their talent? Their gifts? A draught of pity no one can see. Are they worthy?
Let it rot, for man knows naught of what they miss. Of what the would have received.