|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sat Sep 05, 2009 11:32 am
WARNING!
This story contains swearing, minor adult situations, will contain blood, death, and gore, magic, internet relationships, references to Qabalah, magic, references to Middle Eastern legends, smoking, self-destructive behavior, a very harsh look at mental institutions and how mental health is treated in North America, and what may be taken as racism (but is actually generally meant to be humorous, I'm not a racist, but I'm trying to write from ones point of view).
May contain: drug use, lesbianism, radical thinking, polytheism, references to my own lifestyle, references to being goth, references to being punk, references to being a rivet head, and a harsh and twisted sense of humor.
This chapter isn't really made to do much more than give you an idea of what kind of person the main character is. She's a hateful b***h.
That being said, I present to you the First Chapter of Maroque.
-------
Our ‘heroine’, if she can be called such, is at work in Kerry’s Book Store, nestled in downtown Barrie. The Dunlop St. Store has been there quite a while - when a lot of the stores downtown fizzled, this one still stood. The men who owned it hadn’t sold, but they’d hired her the previous year, just a few months after Anianka’s eighteenth birthday in May of 2022. It was July 19th, 2023 now and she was out back, across from the Salvation Army store in her biker boots, a leather skirt that zipped up the sides, and a button-up blouse that was tied at her waist, and buttoned most of the way up from there. The Salvation Army and this parking lot behind the bookstore was where the poor and homeless would congregate for supper later on. It was located just across from the nucleus of the city, the Barrie Bus Terminal. She watched people go to and from the Terminal while smoking a cheap Native cigarette. They didn’t always taste the best, but they were affordable.
Tweakers, losers, assholes... Anianka’s thoughts were of all the people she saw, niggers. Useless ********, obese retards who do nothing but eat and ******** themselves to their graves. By no means was she a racist; Anianka hated all races equally, including her own. If you asked her, and she was feeling particularly nice, she’d tell you she just hated humanity. “No one special,” she might say, running her fingers through her long, dark brown hair, “just all the people on Earth.”
She found it sickening that the whole town basically spider webbed from the Terminal, and Kepmenfelt Bay, not more than an eight minute walk from where she stood now. The city never did fix the Sunday and nighttime bus service to meet the demands of the growing population, either. A population which had been growing fairly steady since about nineteen ninety-five or so. It still only ran once an hour from seven pm on week- and Saturday nights, and once and hour from ten am to about six or seven pm on Sundays. At least during the week it was on the half hour.
She snuffed out her smoke with the toe of her Harley Davidson boot and went back in. She’d had three customers since her shift started at nine in the morning. And old woman and two young adults, probably no more than twenty fives years old each. The old woman had bought a romance novel; the young adults had gone for the fantasy and science fiction. Anianka preferred murder mysteries herself, but no one knew that except her and her bosses. And they were both drunks, so who cared?
Anianka working cash was more of her form of a joke. “Watch me fool people into thinking I’m somewhat normal!” she might have told a friend, if she had one. Besides, she needed the money for food, smokes, and shelter - and in that order, too.
About the only memories Anianka had were bad; her father beating her purple for not cleaning her room; the other kids teasing her in fifth grade for her home-pierced nose; the teachers telling her to take it out and her blunt refusal because she had the right to express herself. And OH! How furious those morons had been with her! How exquisitely pissed off they got when she told them NO! Had she ever been quite so happy since that day? Not that she could remember, but maybe...
A man, possibly in his mid-thirties, came into the store. They smiled at each other and he went to browsing the shelves near the back. He was almost an attractive man in Anianka’s mind, but for the most part she hated him before he even walked into the building. If he was feeling talkative she might slip him her number; she wasn’t adverse to sleeping with someone every now and again, even if she hated human kind. She was promiscuous, but she was safe about it.
She fixed her shirt to show a bit more cleavage and unzipped the sides of her skirt, upwards, to show more thigh. When she felt her appearance was ‘slutty’ enough she went out from behind the counter to fix some of the shelves a bit. He came back to the counter with a Stephen Davis novel, she likes his books, and when he looked at her she heard his breath catch in his throat. She turned, playing the innocent flirt, and she giggled on her way back to the counter.
“Hello,” she said, a tone in her voice that seemed to drip sugar. “Will that be all?”
He stuttered a bit before he got the reply of “all for the books, yeah.”
Real smooth, dude, she thought, then said “for the books?” and giggled.
After five minutes of poor flirting on his part, and gentle pressing on hers, she gave him her number and his book.
Another casualty of war, she mused to herself, slipping back to her usual morbid demeanor, zipping her skirt back down and re-readjusting her shirt.
She liked to people watch in her spare time, looking into human behavior, and reading up on it every chance she got. It was manipulation she was really learning, and OH! Was she ever getting GOOD at it! Just for shits and giggles, to see how easy she would bend the rest of the world to her will. It was nothing to her, and it was oh-so-fun. But the main reason was the power; she had power over people. That was what was important, that was what turned her on. He would probably call later tonight, or tomorrow evening.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Sep 15, 2009 6:32 pm
This is pretty intriguing, because it's always nice to have a character that's not nice and to still want them to succeed. You have some passive voice ("it was") and some incorrect semicolon usage, but otherwise, good job!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 27, 2009 2:51 pm
Thank you. I'm about to put up chapter two.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 27, 2009 2:59 pm
Dreams The previous few nights she’d dreamed of trekking through black mountains under a blood red sky. She had been alone, but felt watched. It hadn’t been like she was dreaming. Falling hurt and she’d woken up sore. She’d seen strange tracks and heard weird animal and bird calls, and just before she’d woken up the first time a strange creature had lunged at her. It had looked like a cross between a wolf and a bird - the grey fur giving way to red-brown feathered wings; the padded paws giving way to blood-covered claws. It had been beautiful and terrible at the same time, and she was both glad and a little but sorry she woke up when she did, with only her inherited house to keep her company. She kind of wanted to see it more clearly than she had. The second dream had seen her in almost the same place as the previous had left her, but the creature was not there. It had been much the same, walking away from the large red-coloured sun, hearing strange calls, seeing tracks, the shadows growing in front of her, etc. It was a good workout, but it was hot and tedious after what felt like hours. The mountains had been on a steady downslope into almost tropical weather, and Anianka felt that she wouldn’t be able to stand the heat. Then the gentle rain began, and she was very grateful. When she woke up this time she’d been sitting on what appeared to be a rough stone couch or bench - in all honesty it was probably neither - in utter ecstasy as the warm rain fell on her like mist. It had been a particularly hot July night, so she was not surprised to wake up damp. But these dreams... They made no sense to her. She’d always hated hiking, so why was she dreaming of such an arduous journey in the mountains? It confused and amazed her, and she would do some research on dreams when she had a change to go online. Her friends - the few she had - were all online. Everyone else were ‘acquaintances’ or ‘undesirables’. She liked those words because they were so much better than the rest. She had no real enemies or nemeses to speak of, just people with whom she shared a mutual dislike. And there was no one in the pissant little ******** of a city that she would ever consider calling a friend. It was that simple; they were all below her - her intelligence, her beauty, her grace, her abilities - totally below her. Or, at least, everyone she’d met, anyways. Her friends, though, online or not, were intelligent, they were on her level, and they could probably help her figure out the dreams. One in particular, and Italian man in his late thirties, was into parapsychology and dream studies. It fascinated her, which was why they got along so well at first. They’d been talking for six years, sent each other letters, cards, trinkets... And spoke every chance they got. He was as close to a real partner as she’d ever gotten, and since she was of Italian heritage herself, she figured she might go see him, and see if it was the same in person... If the dreams didn’t drive her insane first. It wasn’t so much the origin as it was the possible meaning that she really wanted to know - not the why but the what which was confusing her so badly. It was recurring, so it must mean something. What she liked the most was the clarity of everything - the air, the stone, the red on crimson contrast of the sky, the sounds - and how she felt everything, including both rain and pain - even wind. It wasn’t like a dream in any way until she woke up. Oh, but she still felt scrapes, had bruises, felt stiff, sore - in fact, she’d lost about ten pounds these past few days, but hadn’t changed her routine a single bit! And that made her laugh, when she really stopped to think about it. In the dreams she knew who she was, but she had no memories of how long she’d been trekking, only that she’d finally left Barrie - Oh! How happy that made her - and she couldn’t wait to dream again, to visit - ( Maroque ) - that magical place once again, and be gone from Barrie, if only for the night, and... And... Wouldn’t if be grand if she could sleep forever? Ah, such silly little thoughts - not so much wishes as fleeting ideas. Anianka had PLANS, and ASPIRATIONS - real goals in the waking life... What did she have in the dreams? A weird desire to travel West (or what she thought was West) as the red-orange sun coursed its way behind her. What would she find at the bottom of the mountain path? What importance was it, really? But the dreams had to be some sort of metaphor for something that her sub-conscious cooked up to make her really think - what did they mean? She wished she could talk to Italo right this moment, but tomorrow was her off day, and so tomorrow it would have to be. She had a lot to do, and he was only normally online in the early morning until about one in the afternoon. By the time she got home he would be gone, probably asleep. But she could wait one more night. Of course she could; she was patient.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
