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lol I was pulling out old backup CDs looking for something and found… - The Pen Is Mightier [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever

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[Aug. 1st, 2008|05:33 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever

seriouscw

[kova]
lol I was pulling out old backup CDs looking for something and found this. It's the beginning of a story that I wrote in 2002 when I was 15.

PRECURSOR

PROLOGUE: to slit wrists with stars

A relatively quiet city has its ups and downs, mostly in a balance of public outcry and submissiveness, and sometimes in the blurring line between feeling and thinking. Granted, there was little to worry about in terms of, say, crime and chaos and riots, but everyone always has something to complain about. It was average, very average, and people liked it, or rather they didn’t mind it. Cars drove by, people paid little attention to what was inside. They were, to us, yet another passenger in the ride of society, and another to stand in line to be something greater. And that was fine.

In any case, too much or too little suspicion was what killed things nowadays. It didn’t matter if you were wrong as long as you didn’t sound ridiculous, if you for some reason and somehow were forced to explain it to someone (or, in the minds of those who are self-conscious, themselves alone).

That’s not to say any of us had that problem. We all but ignored it, really, and if we couldn’t, we found excuses to tide us over. If one of us managed to hurt someone we cared about by accident, it would be like slitting our wrists with stars. No one minded, but in the end, we were all stuck and struck down in our own little worlds anyway, no one else’s. Everything we did was our own undoing, and no one else’s. For all we know, at the end of our lives, we’ll ask, “Is it okay?” Who are we to ask?

We can’t help it, having individual judgments and ideas and morals and the like. Most of us base it off of others’, just to sound sane and reasonable, to be able to portray pure emotion without getting ridiculed. God forbid those terms and standards never existed. The barriers of the ego are shattered without them, but again, what’s to worry about? It all works out in the end. That’s the way it goes. Even if it doesn’t, well… that’s our choice, to decide what works out and what doesn’t work out. Life is just a mixture of scrambled information, nothing being absolute truth or absolute lie, all up for judgment of one’s self and others around to hear it. One man’s heaven is another’s hell, so the old proverb goes.

It’s worth saying that not a lot truly happens, but the papers and televisions and radios don’t talk about those kinds of things often.


CHAPTER ONE – the altogether

Mmf.

The gentle, soothing sound of cars on the highway at 6 in the morning broke his fall back into dreamland. A cop car passed by, further aiding. After a minute he rose to meet the light, cool morning air. Blinking sleepily and turning to watch the window of raindrops dropping out of sight, he waited for the snooze alarm to go off before he hit the button and straightened himself up. Tilting his head to relieve the stiffness in his neck, he quietly walked out the door, shutting it behind him.

The walk to the warehouse was peaceful enough. Rain persisted in putting weight on his raincoat, and the occasional car driving by, lights beaming, was enough to keep him standing. Still there was an aura of infallibility about the whole world he was in at the moment. Catching himself and trying to do something about his fixed expression, he yawned up at the sky occasionally, and another car always blew its horn after he was done. Everything fit together this morning, and he couldn’t help but smile.

Two sliding doors and a security guard with a newspaper covering his face, the first piece of life he had seen in hours, seeped into him. “Yo, Edward,” he put his card in his hand and returned it to his pocket just as quickly. Edward gestured, and he spoke, “Chris Redfield.” With the go-ahead sign, Chris stepped through another pair of sliding doors as the sound of rain and his own footsteps subsided under the sound of heavy machinery. Peering around for a moment, he took out a slip of a card, finely tuned with neat writing and a cardboard lining, and read it, “Block 2.”
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