Friday, December 2, 2005
|Wow. Haven't updated in a LONG time. I'm finally getting around to it! |
Anyways, because I live in Southern California by L.A. and Hollywood and Orange County, we have plenty of convention centers. also because of this, we have many conventions. One convention we're having next year is a Sci-fi convention. They're having a short story contest, and I obviously want to join in! I wrote the first 3 pages of the story, and I'm kinda stuck on what o do next. I'm currently also waiting on my teacher for it, but perhaps you all could help me?
Here's what I got:
The morning was brisk; a choppy wind passing by without much care for people’s hair styles and opinions. To some, the sparks of the wind were unnatural, and perhaps they were correct. For others, the wind was just a weather condition that hadn’t been announced by the supreme advisors.
For an understanding girl, the wind was simply her toy. She allowed it to flutter under her wrap-around skirt that was held only by an arduous black button. It was hard to see the gleam in her obscured eyes as she donned a large purple mask over her face; no one knew what to think of her. Her floral pink lips were uninterrupted as she spoke the same chants over and over.
Abruptly the wind stopped, and the girl’s lips became immobile. Her arms folded and she frowned with an unconcerned look in her eye. She stood, her soft black hair that was layered in the front the only piece of her that was moving before it calmed itself as she became completely still. She was motionless beyond the fact that her eyes darted around the small town.
The wind picked up again, and she was gone.
His eyes closed in a small sigh, his upper body retaining once more to the sluggish shoulders and arched back that was his usual pose. Having not received any offers--or payments--he could only do so much. Sitting around and waiting by the bar was the only real interest for him anymore.
His drink was a simple tonic, but it was only half-full--or perhaps half-empty-- and the markings from his moist lips were becoming dry from the lack of movement. The ice was melting fairly quickly, and the young adult could only watch as the frozen water dulled into the drink.
His attire was a connection to his situation. The red shirt with the large collar and the carelessly ripped off sleeves allowed his arm muscles to show, and for him to hide his unwashed neck. Barely covering his stomach and allowing only some of his belly button to show, the shirt was undeniably in the worst condition then it had ever been. His long black cargo pants with silver threading and his metal boots hid under the outstretched counter. His thick bag filled with random junk adjusted itself against the wall as everything finally fell into its own place.
He pulled his chin-length black greasy hair behind his overly-pierced right ear with his right hand. The metal gleamed from the lights overhead, and he couldn’t help but place his gloved right hand over the metal eye patch, which connected to his skull underneath his wild mass of hair. He allowed himself to then finger the red headband that went around his head, stopping only when it too went right into his skull.
He couldn’t help but remember the incident that let him lose his entire right side of his skull. It went all the way down to the neck in the back and to just below where his eye was in the front. It hadn’t been painful, and he had slept away a good five years of his life in suspended animation, having gone comatose during the life-threatening surgery. The dreams he had weren’t always peaceful, but allowed him to have his own adventures and training sequences to help him when he awoke to the new world.
The footsteps approached him, catching him off guard and bringing him from his reverie. His eyes opened slowly, his limit just above the standard drunk level. He fought against slurring his words, thus not saying anything. His only awareness of the other was to blink his eyes.
“Holy Hunter.” The short middle-aged man inquired from beneath his raised collar. “Mercenary fe’r hire?”
A short raise of an eyebrow seem to be no way to reply, so Holy allowed his combo-reply. He raised his left eyebrow and then nodded slowly.
“They’re demons plaguing me village. They go after me farm more then they use to, too.” the man explained. His accent was thick, and Holy had to go past his drunken logic to understand. The old man took his cowboy hat off, setting it down on the bar counter and took a seat next to Holy. “Usually they o’ly came to me farm.”
“What kind of demons?” Holy asked, bringing his tonic to his lips. The drink wasn’t refreshing, as the ice had already melted. The mercenary had to resist the urge to cringe from the taste.
“They got themselves some blue hair,” the man explained. He scratched his mustache. “And they got themselves wheat faces. Bunch o’ fur.”
Thzeses, the name came to the young mercenary quickly. Wait…Thzeses? He watched the old man from the corner of his eye as he thought on the matter. But they only go for the Angels. Humans aren’t of any interest to them…and they’re straight carnivores. Why would a private town be plagued by Thzeses stealing crops?
The thought came to Holy before he had even gotten around to processing it. “Sir…you’re an Angel,” he slowly allowed his face to meet the man’s, and his eyes were narrowed only so far to accuse. “Aren’t you?”
The man stiffened, and the reason for the trench coat became obvious. They let silence linger over them, neither wanting to disrupt the dramatic scene.
“Your entire village is made of Angels.” Holy continued his accusation. He seemed almost disgusted by the thought that he was being asked by an Angel to help him kill Demons. “Look, I don’t interrupt the flow of this war. Humans are the neutral party. Coming between a battle betweens Demons and Angels is suicide for me. Heck, just talking to you can mean my head!”
“Ya dun understand, sir!” The Angel said sharply under his breath. “I can pay ya wha’ever ya want! And it’s o’ly a couple o’ Demons!” The money was pulled from his pocket in one swift motion and set in front of Holy. “I’m beggin’ ya!”
The sight in front of him was a pathetic mess, and the young mercenary shut his eyes. A large sigh came out with an attached groan, and he shrugged nonchalantly. “…Alright. But that’s only because I need the money.” He let himself hum with indecisiveness as he studied the other. “…A Miar, hmm?” he asked the Angel, who’s eyes widened.
The Angel swallowed hard, desperate for the help. He couldn’t help but stutter, “Y-Yes, sir.”
“Give me one of your feathers.” Holy insisted. “The money, the feather, and some of your crops. I’ll do the job only for that amount, no less, and possibly more depending on what I’m really thrown into.” Experiences had taught him that people usually only give him money that was less then the deserved price for killing the victim. He was aware more then what the other realized.
The Angel hesitantly nodded. A Miar Angel had only one real precious thing in their lives, and that was their feathers. For a Miar to be so caring for their family and friends, Holy had to test him to see how much he was willing to pay.
The young mercenary stood up, stretching out his bones and allowing his metal eye patch to become exposed. “By the way…“ he asked slowly, choosing his words carefully, “is there an Angel there named Futility?”
“F-Fu-Futility?” The Miar asked. “O’ly Miar live in me village. Wha’ kind o’ Angel is she?”
Holy just let his face turn into a melancholy expression with a small smile on his lips. “No…never mind.” he responded. He turned to the Miar Angel. “Payments up front. ...Except for the crops, of course.”
The Angel sighed as he reached into his trench coat. His hand connected with a feather and he pulled at it with all his strength. He hissed in extreme pain, feeling his pure blood rushing for the open wound. The blood dripped from the tip of the feather as he extended it towards Holy. The young mercenary didn’t seem to mind for it and crouched to his bag, placing the feather in there to keep it safe. After placing all the stuff that had fallen out back into the bag, he picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. “See ya around.” he said before walking out of the bar, leaving the Miar Angel with his puddle of blood coming from his trench coat.
ALSO, (long post, ne?) I've uploaded a few fanarts. Please, check them out!