I had my 17th birthday on Tuesday last week, and it was awesome :D I got some money, an awesome satchel (I'm refusing to call it a manbag) and a great headset :)
Other than my birthday I've just been enjoying the holidays and not doing so much. I finished the Gone series, which was, woah, an awesome ending XD I also got Uglies by Scott Westerfield for my birthday, and I'm just starting to read that. I've been told by a lot of people it's a great dystopian series and it has this really cool theme running through the whole thing. I'm sure it'll be worth the read.
Next on my list to read is TFIOS, even if I'm late by like 6 months .__. I'm just gonna buy it with my birthday money so I can finally understand what all the fuss is about.
In other news, I'm now fully up-to-date with Homestuck and I've forced my older brother to get into it just so I can have someone to talk to about it.
Oh, and I've been writing a bit more. Can someone poke Mar and tell her that she never wrote an AU OC story? ;_; I had to go ahead and write a bit about it just cos the backstories were so interesting. So no, I don't have any idea how far this could go or if it's a once-off thing, but here's some story that should be mildly interesting and capture your attention for a couple of minutes.
Right now I've only written about Skyril and Kal's characters, and then I'll write a bit about mine and try hopelessly to tie it all together. I was just looking at the history of the characters and then I had to sit there and work out all the birth dates of everyone and change the story idea a tiny bit- it doesn't matter, it won't become relevant until much later, if at all xD
So here's the links to the OC's and then here's the story.
“Dammit,” the nervous teenager said, kicking his locker in frustration. The code for the padlock wasn’t working. Again. Five hundred lockers for five hundred kids in this school, and they just had to give him the only faulty one. The bell had gone five minutes ago, the hallways were empty, and there was no way he’d survive a double biology prac without his gear. He had a sudden and terrifying image of himself standing at the bench in front of the class with no experiment to show them, while the teacher shook his head in the corner, marking him down one grade for each minute he stood around doing jack shi…
“You must be joking me,” said a voice from down the corridor. “This has got to be the fourth, no, fifth time in two days that you’ve broken your locker, Isaac.”
He gave a sigh of relief as he turned to face her. “I didn’t break it, and you know it. Come on, I’m already five minutes late, Scar.”
“I told you not to call me that in public, Isaac,” she tutted. “To every teacher and every student, my name is just Sally.” She didn’t mind the name, but it wasn’t hers, and therefore it annoyed her.
He sighed again, this time in exasperation, and gestured to the multitudes of students currently not crowding the hallway.
“Hang on, let me just get my pickpocketing equipment,” Scarlet Sky Hope said sarcastically as she reached inside her school blazer pocket, rummaged around, and pulled out her hand again, this time with the middle finger pointing straight up. He rolled his eyes and she laughed as she flexed her fingers and took hold of the padlock. “Who am I kidding- I’ve never needed lockpicks before and I don’t need them now. Abracadabra!”
The padlock glowed faintly indigo underneath her palms, there was the tell-tale ka-click sound of success, and Isaac could have hugged her if he wasn’t already focused on snatching up all the biology-related contents of his locker.
“OhmyGodthankyouheapsScaryou’rethebestcyalater!” he managed before sprinting down the hallway. Scarlet shook her head with a smile and closed his locker for him, keeping the padlock undone in case he came back.
She then wandered to her own class; Art. The teacher airily greeted her and then drifted back to her place at the window, humming as she went. Half a dozen other students filled the large room, all working on their own pieces with a laid-back focus. That’s what Scar liked so much about Art; there was barely a curriculum. Just express yourself, and have fun while you’re at it.
Scarlet reached the drying rack and pulled out her own artwork. The teacher paused her humming and noticed that Scar was about to set up and continue painting.
“I’ve observed your work over the past few weeks,” she said as Scarlet placed the canvas on an easel and readied her paintbrush. “You’re definitely improving. I’ve wanted to know- what’s the subject matter? The theme? All I see is the obvious, but what lies beyond it?”
Scarlet cocked her head and scrutinized her own work. The door she had painted in her artwork was simple enough; a dark green, wooden door without a doorknob. It was old and weathered, even though the lock appeared to be shiny new brass. Roughly cut into the door were the words “KEEP OUT” and the initials “J.S” underneath the warning.
“The theme?” Scarlet repeated, to herself more than anything. “Mystery, I guess. A secret.”
The teacher smiled. “Well then- what’s the secret? What lies behind the door?”
“Honestly, Miss Sherwood,” Scarlet said, dipping her brush into the green paint again. “When I find out, you’ll be the first one to know.”
Behind a green wooden door in a cold house, a man gritted his teeth in pain and applied more pressure to his bleeding leg.
“Jesus,” he breathed, struggling not to panic. He couldn’t panic; not just yet. So he gave himself a short list of instructions.
“Get more bandages.” He reached a hand onto his desk from the position he was in on the floor and grasped around until his fingers clasped a fresh roll of bandages.
“Healing salve.” Come on, where was it. The drawer? No, no, no. His black satchel.
His black satchel, which was on the other side of the room.
Somewhere in the house, the front door opened and shut. “Hello? I’m home. John?”
Shit. Shit and damn. She’d be a couple of minutes though. She wouldn’t come up here straight away, right?
“Looksss like you have sssome company, Mr Sssmith…”
The Target whispered with his forked tongue on the other side of the door. Well, he had been the Target an hour ago. Then the tables turned when John Smith, professional assassin and hitman for hire, had tried to snap his neck and found out the creature didn’t seem to care which way his head was facing. He wasn’t so much a Target anymore as an evil Snake-Man-Thing.
Then came the leg wound and the hobbling back to safety, the inevitable chase up the stairs and finally the part that John was living through now- facing off a murderous snake-man on the other side of the green, wooden door. The hunter had become the hunted, with only one flimsy door between him and death. And then the snake-man would go to his younger sister.
He was half-way across the floor towards the satchel.
“John? Are you upstairs? God, are you in that room again? You spend all your time up there. At least you could say hello to me.” John wasn’t paying attention. He was in range of the bag. Where the hell was the healing salve?
His sister grew impatient. “Right, I’m coming up there. You said you were gonna fix the TV today anyways, and if you’re not doing that then I swear to God…”
“Ssshe’s coming thisss way, Mr Sssmith. Better open thisss door, sssoon. Wouldn’t want her to sssee me, would you…?” The whispering snake-man was messing with him, but he was right. But he had to get the healing salve applied properly. Ok, that was good enough. Then the bandages. Come on, John. Hurry the hell up!
Footsteps on the stairs. It was dark in the house, so she wouldn’t see the snake-man until she was right behind him. And then he would turn, snake eyes gleaming, wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze…
He eyed the shotgun grip protruding from his satchel as he tightened the bandages and tied them off. His bag was full of extra clothing for emergencies. Perfect. He might make it. He might actually make it.
“You want in, you serpentine bastard?” he stood on unsteady feet and picked up his shotgun, muzzle still stuffed in the clothes-filled bag. He flung open the door and the creature lunged forward, forked tongue flicking crazily. John sidestepped, pushed the satchel into the back of the snake-man’s head, and pulled the trigger.
The explosion of borrowed human skin, scales, and slimy green blood slapped wetly upon the wall above John’s desk. The satchel full of clothes did its job of muffling the gunshot and only letting a soft whump sound escape the room.
His sister was at the top of the stairs.
John dropped the gun and staggered back across the room to the door. He slipped outside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click and turning to bump straight into his sister.
“John! For God’s sake, could you answer me the first time I call you?” Scarlet frowned and leaned to the side, peering around him and at the green door he blocked with his tall frame. She sighed. “You haven’t been fixing the TV, have you? I bet- oh my God, what happened to your leg?”
“It’s nothing,” John grunted, limping down the stairs. “Just fell over at work today. Hospital didn’t release me till an hour ago. That’s why I haven’t touched the TV yet. Could you get me some water? I’ve had a long day.”
He had said it all so fast, Scarlet barely had time to ask him what the whump sound had been. And she swore he had been talking to someone. “Yeah, sure,” she replied, eyes lingering on the green door for only a second longer before she turned and followed him down the stairs.
And all the while, John Smith thanked the heavens in silent relief.
1936, somewhere in Romania.
It’s a tedious business, organizing your own death.
The funeral itself was relatively easy, Raphael Pendragon thought to himself as he climbed to the top of the treacherous waterfall overseeing the town he lived in. It was the death that often caused all the problems.
Most importantly, of course- how to go. Raphael- or Raff, as he was used to being called, had only recently begun to think the possibilities through. Rope? Too stereotypical. So was going using a rifle. And the problem with those was that they were all up close and personal. He had to do something flashy, something that wouldn’t leave anything behind for loved ones to mourn over.
Raff whistled while he climbed.
Now, he had originally thought about using fireworks- he still had a friend over in China who could give him more than enough fireworks to leave nothing but ashes and his scuffed shoes. But that just seemed a bit too silly. Fireworks, really? He’d be making them laugh with joy before they realized he was gone.
The next obvious choice now rushed before him; the waterfall.
It was high, he knew that much. He drew a pocket watch from his jacket and threw a stone over the edge, counting the seconds before the splash. Six seconds. Well, at least he’d have a long six seconds to think about how stupid this probably all was. Hang on, though, he was heavier than a stone. So wouldn’t he fall quicker? He might only get three seconds.
Raff shook his head to get rid of the thoughts. It didn’t really matter.
He turned to the cloth-wrapped item he had brought with him for the climb. By the faint light of a cold dawn, Raphael unwrapped the painting and marvelled for a second at his own artwork. He wasn’t all that self-absorbed, but even he couldn’t help smiling.
The painting depicted the basement area of an old property he owned, a room he had secured without anyone knowing. Most of the picture was taken up by a large bed with a comfortable mattress and all the pillows he owned. He had been very thorough in his preparation for this day. He had spent all week diving into a secluded lake, trying his hardest to hit the water in the same precise spot every time.
The sun was rising. The town would be waking soon, and gather in the town square as they usually did on a Sunday. He would miss that particular part of his everyday life, as well as the mortals who had given him company. But there was no other option. He had to start anew. They’d get over him, in time.
Raphael held the painting in front of him and dropped it straight down. By magic or sheer luck, the painting stayed the right up as it descended, landing on the surface of the water and sinking slowly to the bottom. It was relatively shallow where he had dropped the painting, he knew that. It was the kind of place people didn’t expect you to jump, unless you were stupid. Or you had a deathwish. To be honest, Raff was neither.
Raff looked on as the sun rose, and all the little figures from the town slowly trickled to the square. One by one, they noticed him, pointing and alerting the other members of the small town. Before they could say a word to him, Raff did a casual salute and said his goodbyes. They were quick, and quite frankly, unheard, due to the loud sound of rushing water. A few members of the town were just about to tell him this, when he smiled and leapt over the edge.
Three seconds, he thought as his body arced not-so-gracefully through the air and began to angle towards the water and rocks below. This really was a stupid idea.
I wonder if I’ll miss the painting.
I bet I’ll miss it.
Oh God please don’t let me miss-
And then he hit the water.
His arms were outstretched, and the moment they touched the painting below, they simply slipped through. His body followed suit until he was completely through the painting and out the other side. He flew through the air for a frightening second before landing softly onto the pillow-ridden bed in his basement.
“Oof,” he grunted. His suit was soaked, and soon the bed would be too. Despite this, he couldn’t help grinning a little after pulling his little prank.
It was a tedious business, organizing your own death. But he had managed, and now he was free from being drawn into arguments from his parents, free from his slightly boring life with the mortals… No one would bother him again.
Raphael Pendragon was dead, yet only now could he really start living.
Alright. Hope you guys enjoyed that :) More to come soon, I suppose.