EQUALSGAMER
Proud user of Garbodor
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- St.Louis
- Seen Aug 3, 2016
I love to write, but I can never finish a story that would be long enough to be a short novel, so, I decided I wanted to make an anthology with me and my friend. So over the last week, I've been working on this one. I would REALLY LOVE feedback, especially since I don't know if I want this to be the ending for the story or not, it's a very nice place to stop, but there are still a couple things I'd like to address first. So feedback concerning this being the "end", is appreciated even more. I just want to give fair warning one more time, that "inappropriate language" is used frequently in this, almost excessively, though I've been reading Catcher In The Rye and Harlan Ellison lately, so that might have had an impact on me. So, without further ado, I present, currently title-less short-story!
Cohen was an oval. Just like everyone else he knew. He had two legs, and two large rectangular eyes to match. Just like everyone else he knew. Cohen lived in a fairly average sized city, filled with fairly average oval people like himself. "Dammit!" Cried the boy. He was a smaller boy, for his age. He looked as if he was 13 or 14 years of age, despite being 16. This infuriated him to no end. He sat for a while on his windowsill, gazing out at the snow-covered landscape before him.
"So beautiful." He thought. "So many possible metaphors." Dozens of metaphors, analygies, and symbols involving snow crossed his mind, he would never put any of these to paper. "I should write a story about snow." He'd never do that, either. Cohen had nearly suffered the same fate, but he had taken a certain liking to him; in the same way one takes a liking to their own shadow.
The boy, who had no name as far as he could remember, loved to write, well, he loved to tell stories and writing was the easiest way for him to do that since he had no one to talk to. But what he loved even more than telling stories was creating characters. He had friends this way, better yet, any kind of friend. Big, small, nice, mean, boy, girl, whatever. If he desired anyone, he created them, if he wanted something, he gave it to them so he could derive enjoyment for himself from their own.
He wasn't sure why he wrote stories. He enjoyed the process that went into making them, yes, but that was hardly reason enough to collect and compile all of his stories. Maybe this would be his way out. He'd get together enough of his stories so that he could publish an anthology and become rich and famous, eventually. He'd buy a nice small house in California, walking distance from the beach. He'd have a beautiful wife all his own, maybe squeeze out a couple kiddies, two or three, ideally. The ocean, he longed for it, he needed it, it was his passion; he'd spend his life trying to get to it, and he would die in it. It was inevitable. He didn't know when, he didn't know how, all he knew was that it would be impossible to avoid.
He looked back down at his current writing project. He couldn't believe he had made such a stupid mistake. Not everyone Cohen knew was an oval, in fact, ovals were supposed to be the minority, only being a short-lived phase in one's life. He didn't have anymore erasers, and paper was expensive. He got down from his windowsill, pulled up a loose plank of wood from his floor and brought out the last of his money, it wasn't much. He put the plank back into it's place and counted out his money, ending on thirty, all in ones. He always had to hide his money, so his father wouldn't find it. Reluctantly, he decided to go buy an eraser or two. He slid his wad of cash into his glove, his father would no doubt check his pockets, maybe his underwear too, but not his gloves. Lastly, he grabbed his gray spiral notebook, the edges frayed from age, so he could take note of anything that interested him.
The boy pulled open his brown wooden door and slid into the hallway, proceeded down the trembling staircase, and walked up to the front door. Before he made his way outside he glanced into the kitchen and saw his drunk father sprawled out on the cracked tile kitchen floor wearing nothing except a white t-shirt and socks.
"Disgusting bastard." Whispered the boy under his breath. He pulled open the heavy black door and felt a sharp chill come over his body, starting at his hands, arms, chest; back and down his spine over the rest of his body. He groaned, shook for a moment, and finally went outside.
He took his first step outside onto his small concrete porch and- slipped on a rather large patch of ice. He flew over the two small steps and went headlong into his snow-covered lawn. Instead of getting up right away, he decided to stay there for a while. For how long he would stay there, he did not know; probably until his fingers and or face became frost-bitten. But that didn't matter, as almost immediately after landing in the snow he heard a giggle, followed by a voice asking:
"Need some help?" She was 17, a year older than the boy, certainly much taller than him. She had brown hair, a darker shade of it at times, and other times a lighter, creamy brown. Sometimes she wore it in pig-tails, sometimes she curled it, sometimes she just let it lay down her back, draped over one shoulder, usually. Today it was pig-tails. She was wearing a gray short-sleeve shirt, with pale red designs. The designs didn't interest him very much. Along with the gray shirt, she was wearing what he perceived to be bell-bottoms, denim, blue, lighter than normal, clearly worn. Then the voice called out again:
"Well? Do you?" This last question brought the boy out of his trance and made him fully aware of the significantly large amount of time he had just spent silently staring up at her. He picked himself up off the ground and dusted the front of his clothes off.
"No, no. I'm fine." He walked casually towards her, brushing off the last of the snow from his legs. He had talked to her before, but never very long, or often. He could tell from the way that she walked that she wasn't interested in having a friendly conversation with him while they walked to wherever it was she was going. But he didn't give a damn, if she was too lazy to outright tell him to leave, then why should he make the effort to leave. "Bit too cold to be wearing that, wouldn't you say?"
"You're one to talk; wearing shorts." She replied. He looked down and confirmed that he was indeed wearing shorts. Gray shorts and a black hoodie far too big for him.
"At least I'm wearing a hoodie."
"You still look ridiculous. Say, what was your name again? Brandon?"
He didn't remember his name, but not wanting to look any more like an idiot than he already did, he went along with Brandon.
"Yeah," He didn't give a damn what she called him; she could have called him ♥♥♥♥ for all he cared. "What was your name again?"
"Maggie." She definitely had a look of a Maggie. The name seemed to have stirred a memory inside him, but he couldn't think of what exactly this memory was of. Then she hit him like a ton of bricks; with that goddamn face of hers. Not literally, of course. It was partly, her eyes. They were larger than most, and seemed more circular too. They were each filled with a smaller black circle, showing two smaller Brandons, each mimicking all of his motions. The bastards. They seemed like windows into her, the real her, not the her she showed to the world. He liked the real her better, so he always told himself. Also partly her lips. Exceptionally large, plump, filled as much as one could fill a pair of lips, the perfect shade of pink-red. But mainly the eyes.
"So where are we heading?"
" We're heading nowhere. I'm going out."
"You're quite the romantic, I must say." She chuckled a bit and gave a small smile. He couldn't tell if it was genuine or not, he never could. "Where exactly are you going?"
"I don't know yet. Wandering, I guess."
"Is that why you brought that bag with you?" They both looked down at the her messenger bag.
"Maybe."
"Care if I join you?"
"Just a bit. Don't you have somewhere to be?"
"Nope. But-♥♥♥♥!" He finally noticed he had got his notebook soaked when he fell. Maggie chuckled at his immaturity.
"Sounds wonderful, don't let me keep you." Well, he'd tried his best. He decided to give up, for now at least.
"See ya around." Brandon said as she turned right onto a different road. He didn't know why he'd said bye, she never did. It only further cemented just how one-sided their "relationship" was.
"Goodbye." She called back to him. He stopped in his tracks. "Don't change your clothes, I like it; they're cute."
At that moment, he wanted to run up to her and embrace her. They'd walk together, down that road, then the next, then the next, and the next, and they'd walk all the way to California, and live out the rest of their days together. Happy. So, very happy.
"Do you like California?" Brandon asked her, without turning around.
"I don't know. I've never been. But I'd love to one day."
He smiled. She was gorgeous, a goddamn knockout. And she made damn sure that you knew it. And he started walking once again.
Alone
ALONE
Walking alone.
Cohen was an oval. Just like everyone else he knew. He had two legs, and two large rectangular eyes to match. Just like everyone else he knew. Cohen lived in a fairly average sized city, filled with fairly average oval people like himself. "Dammit!" Cried the boy. He was a smaller boy, for his age. He looked as if he was 13 or 14 years of age, despite being 16. This infuriated him to no end. He sat for a while on his windowsill, gazing out at the snow-covered landscape before him.
"So beautiful." He thought. "So many possible metaphors." Dozens of metaphors, analygies, and symbols involving snow crossed his mind, he would never put any of these to paper. "I should write a story about snow." He'd never do that, either. Cohen had nearly suffered the same fate, but he had taken a certain liking to him; in the same way one takes a liking to their own shadow.
The boy, who had no name as far as he could remember, loved to write, well, he loved to tell stories and writing was the easiest way for him to do that since he had no one to talk to. But what he loved even more than telling stories was creating characters. He had friends this way, better yet, any kind of friend. Big, small, nice, mean, boy, girl, whatever. If he desired anyone, he created them, if he wanted something, he gave it to them so he could derive enjoyment for himself from their own.
He wasn't sure why he wrote stories. He enjoyed the process that went into making them, yes, but that was hardly reason enough to collect and compile all of his stories. Maybe this would be his way out. He'd get together enough of his stories so that he could publish an anthology and become rich and famous, eventually. He'd buy a nice small house in California, walking distance from the beach. He'd have a beautiful wife all his own, maybe squeeze out a couple kiddies, two or three, ideally. The ocean, he longed for it, he needed it, it was his passion; he'd spend his life trying to get to it, and he would die in it. It was inevitable. He didn't know when, he didn't know how, all he knew was that it would be impossible to avoid.
He looked back down at his current writing project. He couldn't believe he had made such a stupid mistake. Not everyone Cohen knew was an oval, in fact, ovals were supposed to be the minority, only being a short-lived phase in one's life. He didn't have anymore erasers, and paper was expensive. He got down from his windowsill, pulled up a loose plank of wood from his floor and brought out the last of his money, it wasn't much. He put the plank back into it's place and counted out his money, ending on thirty, all in ones. He always had to hide his money, so his father wouldn't find it. Reluctantly, he decided to go buy an eraser or two. He slid his wad of cash into his glove, his father would no doubt check his pockets, maybe his underwear too, but not his gloves. Lastly, he grabbed his gray spiral notebook, the edges frayed from age, so he could take note of anything that interested him.
The boy pulled open his brown wooden door and slid into the hallway, proceeded down the trembling staircase, and walked up to the front door. Before he made his way outside he glanced into the kitchen and saw his drunk father sprawled out on the cracked tile kitchen floor wearing nothing except a white t-shirt and socks.
"Disgusting bastard." Whispered the boy under his breath. He pulled open the heavy black door and felt a sharp chill come over his body, starting at his hands, arms, chest; back and down his spine over the rest of his body. He groaned, shook for a moment, and finally went outside.
He took his first step outside onto his small concrete porch and- slipped on a rather large patch of ice. He flew over the two small steps and went headlong into his snow-covered lawn. Instead of getting up right away, he decided to stay there for a while. For how long he would stay there, he did not know; probably until his fingers and or face became frost-bitten. But that didn't matter, as almost immediately after landing in the snow he heard a giggle, followed by a voice asking:
"Need some help?" She was 17, a year older than the boy, certainly much taller than him. She had brown hair, a darker shade of it at times, and other times a lighter, creamy brown. Sometimes she wore it in pig-tails, sometimes she curled it, sometimes she just let it lay down her back, draped over one shoulder, usually. Today it was pig-tails. She was wearing a gray short-sleeve shirt, with pale red designs. The designs didn't interest him very much. Along with the gray shirt, she was wearing what he perceived to be bell-bottoms, denim, blue, lighter than normal, clearly worn. Then the voice called out again:
"Well? Do you?" This last question brought the boy out of his trance and made him fully aware of the significantly large amount of time he had just spent silently staring up at her. He picked himself up off the ground and dusted the front of his clothes off.
"No, no. I'm fine." He walked casually towards her, brushing off the last of the snow from his legs. He had talked to her before, but never very long, or often. He could tell from the way that she walked that she wasn't interested in having a friendly conversation with him while they walked to wherever it was she was going. But he didn't give a damn, if she was too lazy to outright tell him to leave, then why should he make the effort to leave. "Bit too cold to be wearing that, wouldn't you say?"
"You're one to talk; wearing shorts." She replied. He looked down and confirmed that he was indeed wearing shorts. Gray shorts and a black hoodie far too big for him.
"At least I'm wearing a hoodie."
"You still look ridiculous. Say, what was your name again? Brandon?"
He didn't remember his name, but not wanting to look any more like an idiot than he already did, he went along with Brandon.
"Yeah," He didn't give a damn what she called him; she could have called him ♥♥♥♥ for all he cared. "What was your name again?"
"Maggie." She definitely had a look of a Maggie. The name seemed to have stirred a memory inside him, but he couldn't think of what exactly this memory was of. Then she hit him like a ton of bricks; with that goddamn face of hers. Not literally, of course. It was partly, her eyes. They were larger than most, and seemed more circular too. They were each filled with a smaller black circle, showing two smaller Brandons, each mimicking all of his motions. The bastards. They seemed like windows into her, the real her, not the her she showed to the world. He liked the real her better, so he always told himself. Also partly her lips. Exceptionally large, plump, filled as much as one could fill a pair of lips, the perfect shade of pink-red. But mainly the eyes.
"So where are we heading?"
" We're heading nowhere. I'm going out."
"You're quite the romantic, I must say." She chuckled a bit and gave a small smile. He couldn't tell if it was genuine or not, he never could. "Where exactly are you going?"
"I don't know yet. Wandering, I guess."
"Is that why you brought that bag with you?" They both looked down at the her messenger bag.
"Maybe."
"Care if I join you?"
"Just a bit. Don't you have somewhere to be?"
"Nope. But-♥♥♥♥!" He finally noticed he had got his notebook soaked when he fell. Maggie chuckled at his immaturity.
"Sounds wonderful, don't let me keep you." Well, he'd tried his best. He decided to give up, for now at least.
"See ya around." Brandon said as she turned right onto a different road. He didn't know why he'd said bye, she never did. It only further cemented just how one-sided their "relationship" was.
"Goodbye." She called back to him. He stopped in his tracks. "Don't change your clothes, I like it; they're cute."
At that moment, he wanted to run up to her and embrace her. They'd walk together, down that road, then the next, then the next, and the next, and they'd walk all the way to California, and live out the rest of their days together. Happy. So, very happy.
"Do you like California?" Brandon asked her, without turning around.
"I don't know. I've never been. But I'd love to one day."
He smiled. She was gorgeous, a goddamn knockout. And she made damn sure that you knew it. And he started walking once again.
Alone
ALONE
Walking alone.
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