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*Rips Grix off*
This is a story that I'm writing. Unlike Grix, this hasn't been in my mind for ages - in fact, I've not really got a clue what is going to happen. I'm writing it to move away from my 'pet project', as one of you suggested that I do. Anyway - read if you want. I don't think I'm going to need a seperate topic for comments, because I'm not Grix.
If you do fancy reading, then I'd appriciate criticism more than praise. Really, this is just training. You lot are Yoda to my Luke - I'm at the stage where I can't even lift the X-Wing out of the swamp.
And finish your story, damn you Grix.
This is a story that I'm writing. Unlike Grix, this hasn't been in my mind for ages - in fact, I've not really got a clue what is going to happen. I'm writing it to move away from my 'pet project', as one of you suggested that I do. Anyway - read if you want. I don't think I'm going to need a seperate topic for comments, because I'm not Grix.
If you do fancy reading, then I'd appriciate criticism more than praise. Really, this is just training. You lot are Yoda to my Luke - I'm at the stage where I can't even lift the X-Wing out of the swamp.
And finish your story, damn you Grix.
Holiday?? Who goes on holiday in August??
None of you can kill me.
There won't be any more to this until I get back from holiday. So neh.
There won't be any more to this until I get back from holiday. So neh.
so when do we get to kill you ?
A
Kill me.
Go on. You know you want to.
I step onto the train, and sit next to a girl. She looks kinda dangerous, green spiked hair, dog collar around her neck, nose pierced like a farmyard animal. She's wearing a torn white shirt with 'Pop Sux' scrawled over it in smudged lipstick. She's slumped down on the seat - back bent, as though she's trying to touch her toes. Very unhinged, very dangerous, very sexy. She looks like the kind of girl that would be up for a bit of mercy killing.
I stare at her hair for a minute. It's an electric green - the kind of the green that you expect to find on felt-tip marker pens. At home, most of my copied CDs have their names scribbled across the front in a similar colour. Maybe that's how she had it done - she got one of her mates to colour her hair in for her. Perhaps her little sister. Perhaps she liquefied it somehow and dunked her head in a big vat of it. That would explain the black toward the roots - she just didn't want to risk dyeing her forehead bright green.
The black looks great anyway. Contrasts with the green, the way the bulb of a lamppost contrasts with the night sky.
Pop Sux.
That’s what I should be wearing. That pretty much defines my philosophy. Pop Sux. I assume it's supposed to refer to pop music, but if I take it literally then it just about defines me. Pop sux.
Popular sux. Things that everyone likes, they suck. They're boring. Even if they were the Best Thing Ever before they got popular, they suck as soon as they become a household name. Pop sux.
See, I can ridicule myself like this, prove beyond doubt that this way of thinking is stupid, and yet I cannot change. I've been conditioned to be like this, like a Nazi. Pop sux.
The girl and me are the only ones in the carriage. It's the 2.45 train from London Paddington to Reading, and so it's not too unlikely that we're the only ones on the whole train. So, rightly, she gives me a suspicious look when I sit down on the seat next to her when I have a whole carriage, possibly a whole train, to choose from.
It occurs to me that she is by far the most dangerous looking person that I've encountered since I started my search. She looks unbalanced - a sulky teenage rebel without a cause. She may just be going through a phase, but it’s a dangerous phase when taken to the extreme. Like when kids go through a gothic phase and end up killing their neighbors and drinking their blood. There's always the chance that they'll overdo it, believe in their phase too strongly.
Believing in anything is the most dangerous thing you can do.
Now that I've evaluated her, I realize that my next few actions could very well be the most important of my life. If I fudge this up, I may never get another chance like this again. After a few minutes of intense brain activity, I decide on the simple direct approach.
I match her posture. I read an article in one of my sisters magazines once, and it said that people are more comfortable with you if you match their posture. There we are, side by side; both slumped down, both with our chins being propped up by our hands. No one else in the carriage. Hey - maybe we could even do the deed here and now. Leave the police to puzzle over it.
Kill me.
She doesn't respond. She just sits there in that same pose, and I start worrying about just how punk this girl is. Maybe she's actually a rich kid from Oxford whose personality doesn't match her appearance. Maybe she isn't as old as she looks - that’s another thing about teenagers, is that they always try to look older than they are. She could be anywhere from 12 to 18. I thought 15. Always go for the midpoint. That way you can never do outrageously wrong. Noticeably wrong.
Maybe she didn't even hear me. I'm about to repeat myself, when she slowly turns her head to meet mine and says
"OK".
She has stunning eyes. Or, at least, a stunning eye. Her right eye is a pale blue, but the bottom left of it is brown, as though someone dropped a drip of food colouring into it. A brown smudge on perfect blue eyes.
Again, contrast.
"On one condition"
This is a startling response. But I keep my cool - I've rehearsed this moment thousands of times in my mind. I tell her, anything she likes. As long as it doesn't involve sexual favours. You see, when I rehearsed, I always imagined that it would be a big hairy biker that would grant me my wish.
"The condition is this: You come do something with me. I'm not going to tell you what it is - I'm just going to say that it isn't too dangerous. Do that for me, and I'll kill you". She talks with an intense furiously - her voice is sharp and precise, spitting out the words in Queens English. It's quiet, but in a good way - quiet in the way that you have to really listen to hear what she is saying, and so you have to give her your full attention. That should be the first thing they teach in teacher training school. Volume control.
This….this is an offer than I cannot refuse. In fact, this is an offer that I do not refuse. To refuse this offer would be suicide. (Actually, to accept this offer would be suicide as well. What a nice piece of mental chewing gum). I still stare into her eyes, at that brown smudge, and I tell her that I accept her condition.
She moves her left hand from her chin, and offers it to me. I mirror her actions, and we shake on it. I have no idea what I'm getting myself into, but, quite frankly, I don't care.
She says
"We have to wait for the train to get somewhere".
I say
Kill me.
Go on. You know you want to.
I step onto the train, and sit next to a girl. She looks kinda dangerous, green spiked hair, dog collar around her neck, nose pierced like a farmyard animal. She's wearing a torn white shirt with 'Pop Sux' scrawled over it in smudged lipstick. She's slumped down on the seat - back bent, as though she's trying to touch her toes. Very unhinged, very dangerous, very sexy. She looks like the kind of girl that would be up for a bit of mercy killing.
I stare at her hair for a minute. It's an electric green - the kind of the green that you expect to find on felt-tip marker pens. At home, most of my copied CDs have their names scribbled across the front in a similar colour. Maybe that's how she had it done - she got one of her mates to colour her hair in for her. Perhaps her little sister. Perhaps she liquefied it somehow and dunked her head in a big vat of it. That would explain the black toward the roots - she just didn't want to risk dyeing her forehead bright green.
The black looks great anyway. Contrasts with the green, the way the bulb of a lamppost contrasts with the night sky.
Pop Sux.
That’s what I should be wearing. That pretty much defines my philosophy. Pop Sux. I assume it's supposed to refer to pop music, but if I take it literally then it just about defines me. Pop sux.
Popular sux. Things that everyone likes, they suck. They're boring. Even if they were the Best Thing Ever before they got popular, they suck as soon as they become a household name. Pop sux.
See, I can ridicule myself like this, prove beyond doubt that this way of thinking is stupid, and yet I cannot change. I've been conditioned to be like this, like a Nazi. Pop sux.
The girl and me are the only ones in the carriage. It's the 2.45 train from London Paddington to Reading, and so it's not too unlikely that we're the only ones on the whole train. So, rightly, she gives me a suspicious look when I sit down on the seat next to her when I have a whole carriage, possibly a whole train, to choose from.
It occurs to me that she is by far the most dangerous looking person that I've encountered since I started my search. She looks unbalanced - a sulky teenage rebel without a cause. She may just be going through a phase, but it’s a dangerous phase when taken to the extreme. Like when kids go through a gothic phase and end up killing their neighbors and drinking their blood. There's always the chance that they'll overdo it, believe in their phase too strongly.
Believing in anything is the most dangerous thing you can do.
Now that I've evaluated her, I realize that my next few actions could very well be the most important of my life. If I fudge this up, I may never get another chance like this again. After a few minutes of intense brain activity, I decide on the simple direct approach.
I match her posture. I read an article in one of my sisters magazines once, and it said that people are more comfortable with you if you match their posture. There we are, side by side; both slumped down, both with our chins being propped up by our hands. No one else in the carriage. Hey - maybe we could even do the deed here and now. Leave the police to puzzle over it.
Kill me.
She doesn't respond. She just sits there in that same pose, and I start worrying about just how punk this girl is. Maybe she's actually a rich kid from Oxford whose personality doesn't match her appearance. Maybe she isn't as old as she looks - that’s another thing about teenagers, is that they always try to look older than they are. She could be anywhere from 12 to 18. I thought 15. Always go for the midpoint. That way you can never do outrageously wrong. Noticeably wrong.
Maybe she didn't even hear me. I'm about to repeat myself, when she slowly turns her head to meet mine and says
"OK".
She has stunning eyes. Or, at least, a stunning eye. Her right eye is a pale blue, but the bottom left of it is brown, as though someone dropped a drip of food colouring into it. A brown smudge on perfect blue eyes.
Again, contrast.
"On one condition"
This is a startling response. But I keep my cool - I've rehearsed this moment thousands of times in my mind. I tell her, anything she likes. As long as it doesn't involve sexual favours. You see, when I rehearsed, I always imagined that it would be a big hairy biker that would grant me my wish.
"The condition is this: You come do something with me. I'm not going to tell you what it is - I'm just going to say that it isn't too dangerous. Do that for me, and I'll kill you". She talks with an intense furiously - her voice is sharp and precise, spitting out the words in Queens English. It's quiet, but in a good way - quiet in the way that you have to really listen to hear what she is saying, and so you have to give her your full attention. That should be the first thing they teach in teacher training school. Volume control.
This….this is an offer than I cannot refuse. In fact, this is an offer that I do not refuse. To refuse this offer would be suicide. (Actually, to accept this offer would be suicide as well. What a nice piece of mental chewing gum). I still stare into her eyes, at that brown smudge, and I tell her that I accept her condition.
She moves her left hand from her chin, and offers it to me. I mirror her actions, and we shake on it. I have no idea what I'm getting myself into, but, quite frankly, I don't care.
She says
"We have to wait for the train to get somewhere".
I say
*Rips Grix off*
This is a story that I'm writing. Unlike Grix, this hasn't been in my mind for ages - in fact, I've not really got a clue what is going to happen. I'm writing it to move away from my 'pet project', as one of you suggested that I do. Anyway - read if you want. I don't think I'm going to need a seperate topic for comments, because I'm not Grix.
If you do fancy reading, then I'd appriciate criticism more than praise. Really, this is just training. You lot are Yoda to my Luke - I'm at the stage where I can't even lift the X-Wing out of the swamp.
And finish your story, damn you Grix.
This is a story that I'm writing. Unlike Grix, this hasn't been in my mind for ages - in fact, I've not really got a clue what is going to happen. I'm writing it to move away from my 'pet project', as one of you suggested that I do. Anyway - read if you want. I don't think I'm going to need a seperate topic for comments, because I'm not Grix.
If you do fancy reading, then I'd appriciate criticism more than praise. Really, this is just training. You lot are Yoda to my Luke - I'm at the stage where I can't even lift the X-Wing out of the swamp.
And finish your story, damn you Grix.