new story idea
So I am new to the forum, but not to Christopher Moore or the field of literature. I have been writing a majority of my life and when I get a good idea I try to type it up. Here is a first draft of a chapter I just wrote for a story Im starting: I was a teenage angel of death.
He lay in his bed. Slightly unnerved and frustrated at what the clock beside his bed told him. Five-twenty-nine, again he had woken only a minute before his alarm clock would have. It had been going on for a while now, school had him pushed to the brink, he thought he would explode. He thought that it was the caffeine, and he thought about cutting down on it, but the simple fact was that it wasn’t feasible under the everyday conditions of an honor student, an employed honor student, an employed honor student, who never saw his friends anymore. He had forgotten what it was like to truly be a kid. He wouldn’t even say that kid was a good definition anymore. He seemed to work more than most of the adults around him, definitely was under more pressure than them, or at least it seemed that way to him.
The fact he woke up a minute earlier than the alarm clock left him feeling robbed. That one minute of sleep would have made all the difference. Maybe he could have cut down on the caffeine today, but that one minute, that goddamn minute made it physically and pragmatically impossible. He couldn’t risk falling asleep in any of classes, what if he got kicked out, what if he missed test material. Then he’d be screwed. Right?
So he sat there, waiting and anticipating that infuriating buzz. It was coming any second now. To mock him, to tell him that he missed a minute of sleep, to tell him that he was screwed for the rest of the day, to tell him he would have to suffer one more day in his own personal hell.
The clock ignited and set off an explosion of sound. He flinched at first, he hated the noise. He wanted to break the clock against the wall. The machine needed to be destroyed, it was killing him he was sure, but as much as he loathed the clock and the sound it made, he needed it. Plain and simple: it was a necessary evil. Without it he might lose time, he might lose opportunity, he might lose out, he might fail a test, he might flunk a class, he might flunk out of school, he might end up one of those guys who pound on paint buckets on the city streets.
The buzzer kept ringing in his ear, forcing him off out of the comfort of his bed and into the harsh and dark realm of his room. Leaving the bed was the hardest part of the day. Its warm and inviting covers always coaxing him to stay put, to forget his life and live comfortably. If he had the choice, he would have, but let’s be honest, he wasn’t sure that he would have the rhythm to be an effective street drummer.
So he stumbled out of his dark void of a room and into the bathroom. Turning on the shower head, he kept a safe distance so as to not be sprayed by the initial cold water. After deciding he had waited long enough the he skittishly eased into the stream of water. He quickly rushed through his process and shut off the water. Feeling cold and vulnerable he quickly grabbed a towel and dried off.
He hurried into his room, freezing all the way there. He shut the door for privacy and dressed in his clothes for school: polo shirt with school emblem, khaki dress pants, and black socks. The clothing he wore wasn’t a required uniform, it just made things easier. It was as simple as that; it saved time, it saved life, it saved him from banging paint bucket for the rest of his life.
Sufficiently clothed and warm, he went back into the bathroom for the necessities, hair, teeth, and eyes. His hair never needed anything more than a drying; it always fell in the same place, something he greatly appreciated. Brushing his teeth was somewhat of a bother to him; it seemed like a whole lot of a waste to brush when they hadn’t touched food or drink. To finish his routine he placed his contacts into their respective green eyes.
He gazed with disgust into the bathroom mirror. Sixteen years had not been all that great to him. His body was as far from youthful as possible without crossing over into the other side; he was skinny to the point that he looked like nothing more than a premature cadaver. His mom claimed that he had not yet grown into the body God gave him. He didn’t buy it. He was by all means done maturing, even if God did exist, he was sure that this was all he was truly meant to have.
That was all he could stand. He shut off the light, walked out of the bathroom, and headed down the stairs. He grabbed his keys to his Buick off the kitchen counter, and his book bag out of the laundry room. He considered breakfast, then considered the time it would take, considered the repercussions, and considered that he wasn’t sure how he would get his hands on a paint bucket to bang on. Like everything else, breakfast was a waste of time, something he was hard pressed to grab and hold on to. He wanted to relax, eat, and think, but there wasn’t time. He needed to review for his classes, what if every class had a pop quiz, what if he forgot to do some homework, what about tests? Had he studied for them all? He thought so. His panic built. His stomach lurched. He turned around and headed for the door.
He opened his front door and looked back with regret; he hadn’t had breakfast in ages, or at least his stomach thought so. He walked outside into the cold early November air, forcing his every step toward what was important: success and comfort earned through trial and torture. If he didn’t push now, he would grow to regret later. One had to push himself earlier on, or he’d be screwed. Right?
So he continued out into the cold and opened his car door, a crummy tank of a Buick. It was yet another representation of his cautious personality, another symbol of his withdrawn characteristics. He climbed into his shell and started the ignition. He took every single step to insure his safety: seatbelt, mirrors, the works. He pulled out slowly onto the streets, incase any other people happened to be awake at this hour.
Driving through the sleeping town of Hunterslow brought comfort to him, all the places which marked life events for him. There was the football field where he attempted to be an athlete, a failure. There was where she had broke his heart and told him that she just really didn’t feel anything anymore, he had changed, as if that was possible for a fourteen year old to do in the matter of four weeks. There was the parking lot where he had fallen down riding his bike numerous times, all decent failures in their own right which worked together to eclipse his eventual success.
The familiar air of failure is what drove him to school, or rather it drove him away to school, he wanted to be as far away from failure as possible, away from the pain. Driving as fast as the speed limit would allow, he made his way along Vaughn Street, and pulled into the parking lot of St. Michaels High School.
He drove into his parking space and got out of his car, lugging his huge sixty some pound book bag. He made sure to lock his car so that no one could steal any of his valuables, although he could not really think of any.
He walked through the cold and realized he had forgotten his jacket. He was angry with himself, how could he forget something so simple. He rushed the rest of the way into school, he couldn’t get himself sick now could he? If he got sick, he could miss school, he could fail, he could end up banging on a paint can. I think four times is enough to drive the point home.
He entered into the schools cafeteria and walked past all of the empty cafeteria tables until he reached the one that was safe to sit at. His spot, after all, he couldn’t dare to disturb the fragile atmosphere of the high school cafeteria. What could happen? He wasn’t sure on the details, but he assumed it would involve pain, and he chose to avoid anything which could possibly hurt himself.
He opened a physics book, he reviewed what he had done for homework the day before, he reviewed the notes, he repeated this with calculus, English, Latin, American history, and morality. It took him no longer than about twenty minutes in the vastly empty cafeteria to accomplish the task. It left some time to relax while the other people began to fill into the cafeteria.
He watched as the future Bill Gates and Steve Wozniak took their small table at the far end of the cafeteria.
He saw some of the band people file in, walking in a relative uniformity, they seemed to be in step together. Behind the band filed in the rest of the musicians, who claimed to be individuals, who claimed to be different, who claimed to be artists, but in reality they were the same as any other student at the school. They hid behind a lie, and the lie shielded pain and shielded them from life.
Then came the clique girls, you know the ones that gossip, giggle and plot the social demise of everyone. The girls that deep down you know are total soulless bitches, but you still want to either be one of them, to be a member of the socially accepted.
Interspersed were the jocks, who either sat at their table, laughing obnoxiously while tossing around food, or among their clique girlfriends. Too him they seemed a perfect match. Two groups who hadn’t really looked deep inside at their emotional problems. Two groups who were most likely to intermarry. Two groups who were most likely to buy that sweet little white townhouse in the vast suburban sea. Two groups who were most likely to have far too many kids. Two groups whose kids would most likely lead them to the bottle or harder drugs.
Which serves as a perfect lead in for the next group which ambled into the slowly growing cafeteria: the stoners. Some had just made a drug deal, some had just done drugs, and some were barely coherent enough to deal with the school day. While stoners came in several differently wrapped packages, they were brought together by their defining characteristics: the dark circles underneath their eyes, the glazed looks on their faces, and their perpetual disdain for society in its current form. At their table they tried to carry on vastly philosophic conversations about nothing.
Up next on the schedule of cafeteria entrances were the drama enthusiast. He felt as though he could understand these people. They regularly hid behind various personas in order to ignore their own. Immersed in someone else’s character, they would never have to deal with their own very real problems. What a wonderful way to avoid life. What a wonderful way to avoid pain.
He looked around at the appropriately separated high school students. They were all separated into the groups which fit them the best. Not a single person was in a place he did not belong. This was the way it worked the best. No one bothered the balance. No one caused any pain that was not necessary. Although there was deep seated worry among all of them, the worry never manifested and never was dealt with for more than a fleeting second.
He looked out into the crowd and wished he belonged in one of them. That he could drown his own self doubts by fitting into one of the perfectly manicured social quotients. He wished that for not only himself, but for the four others that sat around him.
Each one was spurned by one group or another. They did not fit in and so they had to suffer the consequences. Social ambiguities will not be tolerated.
They were trying to get his attention.
The other four that was.
“Joe, awe you thewe Joe?”
And then he felt a cold hard pinch on the ass.
His name was Joseph Quietus.
any and all comments and criticism welcome. THANKS!
I don't wanna end up having to be one of those guys who bang on paint buckets outside of stadiums... Who even knows if I could afford one?