To Inspiration and Beyond! Prologue
Prologue
“And Riku set off to the sunset with Goku, and they lived happily ever after,” I ended, lowering the script from my hand.
He lowered his head, and lifted a stamp, dripping an ominous red ink-
He pulled the script out of my hands, and stamped on it “Rejected.”
“What do you mean, rejected?!” I shouted wildly, cradling the ink-splattered script he tossed at me in my arms weakly.
“Exactly what the fine ink says, Mrs. Alison! Your description is under par, your characters are flat, and your ‘plot’ is all over the place!” He said, and then straightened his glasses, and his eyes hid again behind the reflection. “You have neither Objective nor Obstacle, the villain is dumb as a rock, and the protagonist is a whiny, angst-y Sue, and this whole crap-fest is nothing worthy of being published!”
“But-” I stuttered. “Christopher Paolini did it!”
“Eragon is a joke!” he shouted, before he said, clenching his fist and turning at a fading photograph of a very similar-looking person, but female, “Mother…writers aren’t what they used to be like…now, children dare name their heroes stupid names like Riku or any other Japanese-sounding name, following the trend of pop foreign comics and shows…”
“T-that IS my name,” I shouted at him. “I chose it because-”
“And even imprint themselves as their heroes…such self-loving amateurs---” He whispered, his eyes gleaming. “Leave my glorious dimension, and never come back!”
“W-- …Bastard,” I whispered under my breath as I left the office.
“And your prose sucks! Just look at the wording! ‘clenching his fist and turning to a fading photograph’?! And I heard that!”
Leaving his office, I ran into many similar-looking creatures…half-cat-half-dragon-with-great-mysterious-destiny imprints, all clutching their scripts/stories with worried figures after they heard the Great Critic shout.
I sighed as I left the whole building, still holding on to the script.
“Oh well…at least it can’t get any worse…” I said, hopefully.
Thunder rumbled, before rain thundered above me, soaking me completely in an instant.
“Curses…”
I tossed aside my scrambled eggs lazily, my cheek flat on a breakfast table.
“Why do depressed? Is it a writer’s block?” I heard a familiar male voice ask. “Or is it a consistency error, characterization fault or what?
I didn’t even turn, but said, “I’m angry, frustrated, and pissed off…all at once.”
“Astonishing…you just said one word three different ways, I applaud you,” the sarcastic voice responded. I turned, and saw Mark look at me. I thinned my eyes, and waved my hand on him, as if batting him away, and said, “Off with you…I still didn’t forgive you for your words.”
Mark smiled, sitting down opposite of me, and asked, “Rejected? I can smell it.”
“Beat it,” I said, frowning. “It’s not like you can do any better.”
“Maybe not,” he said, ruffling his hand through his red hair. I lifted an eyebrow. “The Great Critic is the toughest trial we can go through…he is our way to success.”
“The Great Breaker should be his title…he never accepts anything…when was the last time he let anyone get paid for their work?” I asked, tossing my food around.
The eggs… The eggs… The battlefield erupted, as both sides fought for entrance to the lands beyond. It was nothing short of pain, as the recognized red liquid seeped like rivers through the ridden battlefield...One stood out from the rest…the most complete of them rose to the challenge, but fell, his life flowing to add to the newly born river of--
“Riku… What the hell are you doing?” Mark asked lazily, before the plate of eggs returned to what it originally was. “Why are you spilling ketchup everywhere?”
“Damn that critic!” I shouted, before I stood up, choking. “I worked so hard on that story, and he obliterates everything in a few words! Even mocks me before the ghost of his manly mother!”
“We aren’t here for nothing, Riku…maybe you should have gotten a name change…it definitely discourages serious readers to see a common name…albeit foreign for no real reason” he said.
“What, did Alex come?” I asked, without turning as I saw his face light up.
“Time for the daily comedy stand…” He said, rubbing his hands comically. “I prepared a new prank…it’s called Pin the Tail on the -…No, that’ll get ratings up…Why did I sign that no vulgarity agreement?” He asked himself.
“Give it another name,” I suggested. “Something like ‘Markish Torture’ will ‘discourage serious watchers’, you know…so chose wisely.” I said.
For a moment, he actually considered it, but Alex wasn’t in the mood to be physically and mentally abused; I have a knack to figure these things out.
He threw himself on a nearby chair, and smashed his head against the table.
“Haha, rejected too?” Mark asked, and then I figured that mocking him would be equally distressing as his new ‘Pin the Tail on the’ technique. He’s going to go through a rough time.
“Not really,” The black-haired teenager said. “It’s just been a long night yesterday and I’m stressed out…”
“Haha, I knew you couldn’t handle my new Hangover Deluxe prank!” Mark shouted, nudging me.
“What are you talking about?” Alex asked, before an incredibly agitated, miserable looking girl stumbled from the nearby door.
“Uh…Wrong target?” I asked Mark, who was completely red. “Oh, and it was Katherine, of all people.”
The brown-haired, thin girl stumbled to our place, before she, too, dropped her head on the table with a slam.
“Katherine? You ok?” Alex asked, horrified. The hunched girl shook, before she vomited all over Mark.
He fell still, before throwing up himself.
“Argh…Disgusting,” I shouted, before jumping back, avoiding the fit that would probably catch me as well.
The cafeteria was thankfully empty, save for the workers, who knocked their heads, realizing that they had more gruesome work to do.
The effects lasted for about ten minutes of distilled awkward.
“How epic…” I heard the voice behind me. I turned, and saw Saif, who had a sympathetic smile on his face. “Backfire isn’t enough; time for a new word.”
He turned to me, before asking, “Why are you here so early?”
“Saif, you bastard!” Mark shouted hoarsely after a ten-minute torture round of puke. “WATER! STOP CHATTING, AND WATER!!”
“I’ll give Katherine water. You got what you deserved,” Saif said, grinning slightly.
“I’ll get the water,” Alex offered, before zooming out.
“I got rejected,” I told him, trying not to put up a sad face.
“Why?” He asked, frantically. “The dude got pissed? I told you, you need to--well…smooch him up!”
“I wasn’t ready for reciting his ‘glories’! He didn’t even give me a chance!” I said, clenching my fists to my chest. “He scrolled over it, and then he said that he hated the heroine’s name, and then he said that the story is stupid, and then he said that-”
“Alright, cool down. We’ll discuss this in a better place,” He said, putting a hand on my shoulder, before turning to Katherine, whose face was in a small puddle of puke. “I need to lend a hand to this helpless victim of Mark’s wrath first.”
I nodded, before he lifted Katherine up, and headed out the cafeteria. I waited for a moment, before leaving as well.
“Mark, where did everyone go?” Alex came later, holding a glass of water.
“GIVE ME WATER!” Mark shouted, before snatching it.
After the mess was cleaned up, and Katherine and Mark were in the showers, I followed Saif out to a balcony. He stood, leaning on the marble railing, and I pulled a seat, and crossed my arms.
“So, what did you want to tell me?” I asked.
His voice fell into a loud whisper, and he said, “You remember how my story ended abruptly because the author ‘grew out of’ Pokémon?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered. Forgotten Paths was a complex story and ended abruptly. It had all elements of success.
“No, it didn’t,” Saif said. “I felt angst for no real reason, and the prose was riddled with broken concepts and pointless flashbacks. It was ‘sad and confusing in a good way’, yes, but it wasn’t something real,” he ended, reading my thoughts. “The point to be made here is that my author is still out there, and although he might not like how I ended up, he didn’t stop writing.”
“He’s banished.”
“That he is, but you can seek him out. He’s a rough, humorless critic, but he can jerk tears and warm one’s heart,” Saif sighed. “That is one option. The others are to enter a writing university, or self-publish yourself, and preserve your name in the never-ending list of mocked authors.”
“I don’t want that!”
“Then forget writing.”
“I don’t want that, either!”
“Then seek him out,” Saif said simply. His voice fell lower, “Either that or drop it. You’ll tire yourself.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I see promise in you, Riku!” He exclaimed. “Don’t let your dreams be silenced, but make them grow, or hide them.”
I didn’t reply. He turned to face the sea, and then said after a while, “Forget I spoke of this.”
“I will.”
Evening came while I was sitting by the window.
The sun set upon me on my window.
My window peered out against the city.
It was evening when I sat by the window.
I need help.
I left the house.
I headed to the door.
I lifted my face to the door.
I set my sights to the door.
DAMN IT!
I picked a pack filled with canned food, a pot, and a pack of firewood and a lighter, and left the house.
I returned to pick up a golden pen-inherit from my dead mother-
I turned back home to retrieve my golden pen-my only left relic from my grandfather.
I forgot to bring a pen.
I got the pen.
I whistled for a taxi.
I lifted my fingers to my lips and whistled for a taxi.
I was never like the cool kids at school. I waited for a taxi and jumped in front of it.
“What the hell is your problem?!” The driver shouted, head poking from his window.
“I’m sorry! I need a ride to the countryside!”
“You didn’t have to make me a criminal for that!” he muttered as I entered the taxi. “So where to?”
The taxi was warm inside, and the seats were made of comfortable black leather, like a Limousine. The door handle was glossy and cool, and I withdrew into the taxi with a sigh. Lights from the streets illuminated the city, which
“Done with the description yet?” He drawled.
“I’m supposed to describe!” I shrieked.
“Integrate it with action!” The young driver muttered. He had black hair and blue eyes, and his skin was tanned and smooth. He wore a long black jacket from the cold autumn air, and rough blue pants. “And why are you looking at me like that?”
“No reason. I need a trip to Route 13, and I’ll stop by the Taxi station in the middle of the road.”
“Sure you don’t want train stations? Those open roads to mystical realms every few years.”
“No, that’s in British novels; we’re in America,” I replied.
“Good point,” he muttered, as he drove away.
I couldn’t feel bad for leaving Togkyio. It was known to be the place where all new authors began, and sadly, it was associated with the Fanfiction Principality, and every graduate from its universities had low credibility. It was my home, and home was home. The taxi passed quickly out of the city, and I couldn’t help hold my heart and my breath, hoping that it would slow down. I’m doing this for my heroes. Every abandoned character sought jobs in Togkyio, and I hated to see my characters remain there.
“Bla blah bla,” the driver exclaimed.
“What?” I asked.
“Here is where you make me say erringly insightful things about how you feel to channel your writing into the screen,” he said. “Things like, ‘You really miss it, don’t you?’ or anything else no real Taxi driver would say so you can tear sympathy out of the reader.”
“Not in the mood.”
“Bla, blah bla, bla blah bla,” he grumbled, lowering his hat.