(no subject)
Okay guys, I have an idea, and if its popular I'm going to run with it. I'm thinking of writing a chapter by chapter story called Andy, which I will go into later in detail. But for now, I will present you with chapter one and if you like it, please respond so I know whether to continue or whether to quit while I'm ahead. I have a good idea for the plot which is a little outlandish but I like it and so I'm going to try. Cara and Amanda know it because I thought of it today in school, but I'm too lazy to write it right now. Again, PLEASE COMMENT IF YOU LIKE OR DISLIKE, OR HAVE ANY SUGGESTIONS. Thankyou:0)
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Andy
A day out of college, barely out of the box, Roz had burst into the world in a whirl of excitement. This was immediately quashed, as the bills poured in, the boyfriends walked out, and her friends found other friends in the many days after the “best years of her life.” In her small, cramped 4th floor apartment in Los Angeles, she had begun to pick up her straw and her paper, her leaves and her twigs and construct her first nest. It wasn’t much to look at, with its homemade furnishings and paintings, its shabby red couch and a peeling kitchen countertop, but it was home. It was the only thing constant in her new world, and she would have hugged it if it hadn’t been an inanimate object. Her neighbors included the wily, perverted sculptor and eccentric old woman with four identical tabby cats and both provided even more problems for Roz. Her job was a stressful piece of work. She was starting as a journalist, and it was going to be a bumpy ride.
--
“Mrs. Adella, I promise you, I swear to you, I didn’t open your door and let Chucky out. I really didn’t. I was in here the whole time and I really need to get to work…”
“You, young lady, Miss Ross, are not going anywhere until you find Chucky. It’s time for his 9 o’clock liver and lamb.”
“Mrs. Adella, its Roz, not Ross, and I didn’t let Chucky out. If he is out, he’s probably behind the ice machine anyway. That’s where he was last time, and the time before that, and the time before that.”
“Don’t get smart, you little hoochy!”
“Mrs. Adella, for the last time…I am NOT a hoochy and I don’t want you calling me that anymore. I’ll go look behind the ice machine for you, but for the record, I did NOT let him out.
Irked, curling and uncurling her fingers with their half-washed off nail polish, Roz walked quickly over to the large ice machine at then end of the 4th floor hallway and bent down to a squatting position. Contently, in his customary, evil position lay Chucky nestled far under the machine, purring loudly.
“Come here you stupid cat.”
Chucky drew back his feline lips and hissed, with the long, delicate whiskers lifting up with the movement making him look like a dinosaur displaying his giant frill before spitting acid into a predator’s eyes.
“Ohhhh no no. Get out here now before I pull you out by your furry, little hind legs.”
The cat shimmied further backwards, placing its rump against the mint colored wallpaper under the machine.
“Need any help?”
Roz didn’t even have to look up to know who had spoken. The perverted sculptor, king of sleeze and pornography, grinned down at her with his clay-spattered face and bright green apron.
“What?” she asked, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “No.”
“Are you sure? I’ve had a lot of practice getting cats out from under ice machines…”
“Alex…not now-okay, sure, fine, have fun.”
Pushing herself up from the gray carpet, she hustled past the sculptor and Mrs. Adella and vaulted into the elevator, bag swinging against her leg.
“Alex will get him for you, Mrs Adella!” she called anxiously, as the elevator began its descent.
Once on the street, Roz was able to breath. The street was busy; a rushing frenzy of people, and cabs, and cars and beeping and bird droppings. Two mangy morning doves alighted from a nearby power line and twirled ceremoniously about each other in the air. A blue sedan swerved violently to avoid a biker who unknowingly wheeled into the street as he head banged to his headphone music. A plastic-looking girl with ridiculously tanned skin and platinum blonde hair pranced by, holding the hand of an identically colored boy with an Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt pressed tightly to his body. They reminded her of wannabe lions.
And the boy reminded her of Todd. Snobby, rich, fake. Todd was a young-sounding name, but it belonged to the oldest-souled person she had ever met. He was brilliant; a stunning youth with a keen talent for writing poetry. But she never truly could get to know any more of him than the intricate curves of his body. He was too secretive, too closed off and too jaded. His talent made him crazy, his knowledge made him itch. It was too much for her, but he had walked out before she had. Another poet from his writing seminar had caught his eye, and his lips. It was a jab to be dumped by someone only a day away from being dumped themselves.
She had had similar luck with the others. Winslow, Bobby, Will, Jared. Winslow turned out to be gay. Bobby was as dull as a marble. Will was too busy to have a girlfriend (but not too busy for the next-week waitress), and Jared…Jared was something. She still wasn’t sure if she had severed that web, or cut that line. The fish was still pulling on the connection, still swimming with the hook it in its mouth. She was the mackerel in that situation, and he had her…line and sinker.
Roz wasn’t sure when she could forget those ocean-colored eyes; blue with a haze like an incoming storm…those strong arms, unmarked and soft, his high cheekbones, naturally shaped eyebrows, firm abdomen, enticing smile and chocolate hair…
Glancing about, embarrassed, Roz noticed that she had her mouth hanging open and she closed it as the other bus passengers pretended not to have been looking.
“Is she mentally retarded, mommy?” asked one short stump of a girl, with half of a jelly donut smeared on her face and the other half mutilated in her hand. Leave it to kids to say what everyone else is thinking.
The mother hushed the girl and went back to reading the paper, a sideways glance now and then at tree stump with legs.
Roz fell back into her lulled silence, her mouth now closed, thinking back to those fleeting days with Jared. She felt sickened by her sudden weakness and likeness to a corny soap opera heroine, and rummaged through a weathered briefcase for her pen. In small, crooked letters she scrawled on her palm,
‘Get over Jared. Signed, Yourself…you big loser.’
---
Andy
A day out of college, barely out of the box, Roz had burst into the world in a whirl of excitement. This was immediately quashed, as the bills poured in, the boyfriends walked out, and her friends found other friends in the many days after the “best years of her life.” In her small, cramped 4th floor apartment in Los Angeles, she had begun to pick up her straw and her paper, her leaves and her twigs and construct her first nest. It wasn’t much to look at, with its homemade furnishings and paintings, its shabby red couch and a peeling kitchen countertop, but it was home. It was the only thing constant in her new world, and she would have hugged it if it hadn’t been an inanimate object. Her neighbors included the wily, perverted sculptor and eccentric old woman with four identical tabby cats and both provided even more problems for Roz. Her job was a stressful piece of work. She was starting as a journalist, and it was going to be a bumpy ride.
--
“Mrs. Adella, I promise you, I swear to you, I didn’t open your door and let Chucky out. I really didn’t. I was in here the whole time and I really need to get to work…”
“You, young lady, Miss Ross, are not going anywhere until you find Chucky. It’s time for his 9 o’clock liver and lamb.”
“Mrs. Adella, its Roz, not Ross, and I didn’t let Chucky out. If he is out, he’s probably behind the ice machine anyway. That’s where he was last time, and the time before that, and the time before that.”
“Don’t get smart, you little hoochy!”
“Mrs. Adella, for the last time…I am NOT a hoochy and I don’t want you calling me that anymore. I’ll go look behind the ice machine for you, but for the record, I did NOT let him out.
Irked, curling and uncurling her fingers with their half-washed off nail polish, Roz walked quickly over to the large ice machine at then end of the 4th floor hallway and bent down to a squatting position. Contently, in his customary, evil position lay Chucky nestled far under the machine, purring loudly.
“Come here you stupid cat.”
Chucky drew back his feline lips and hissed, with the long, delicate whiskers lifting up with the movement making him look like a dinosaur displaying his giant frill before spitting acid into a predator’s eyes.
“Ohhhh no no. Get out here now before I pull you out by your furry, little hind legs.”
The cat shimmied further backwards, placing its rump against the mint colored wallpaper under the machine.
“Need any help?”
Roz didn’t even have to look up to know who had spoken. The perverted sculptor, king of sleeze and pornography, grinned down at her with his clay-spattered face and bright green apron.
“What?” she asked, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “No.”
“Are you sure? I’ve had a lot of practice getting cats out from under ice machines…”
“Alex…not now-okay, sure, fine, have fun.”
Pushing herself up from the gray carpet, she hustled past the sculptor and Mrs. Adella and vaulted into the elevator, bag swinging against her leg.
“Alex will get him for you, Mrs Adella!” she called anxiously, as the elevator began its descent.
Once on the street, Roz was able to breath. The street was busy; a rushing frenzy of people, and cabs, and cars and beeping and bird droppings. Two mangy morning doves alighted from a nearby power line and twirled ceremoniously about each other in the air. A blue sedan swerved violently to avoid a biker who unknowingly wheeled into the street as he head banged to his headphone music. A plastic-looking girl with ridiculously tanned skin and platinum blonde hair pranced by, holding the hand of an identically colored boy with an Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt pressed tightly to his body. They reminded her of wannabe lions.
And the boy reminded her of Todd. Snobby, rich, fake. Todd was a young-sounding name, but it belonged to the oldest-souled person she had ever met. He was brilliant; a stunning youth with a keen talent for writing poetry. But she never truly could get to know any more of him than the intricate curves of his body. He was too secretive, too closed off and too jaded. His talent made him crazy, his knowledge made him itch. It was too much for her, but he had walked out before she had. Another poet from his writing seminar had caught his eye, and his lips. It was a jab to be dumped by someone only a day away from being dumped themselves.
She had had similar luck with the others. Winslow, Bobby, Will, Jared. Winslow turned out to be gay. Bobby was as dull as a marble. Will was too busy to have a girlfriend (but not too busy for the next-week waitress), and Jared…Jared was something. She still wasn’t sure if she had severed that web, or cut that line. The fish was still pulling on the connection, still swimming with the hook it in its mouth. She was the mackerel in that situation, and he had her…line and sinker.
Roz wasn’t sure when she could forget those ocean-colored eyes; blue with a haze like an incoming storm…those strong arms, unmarked and soft, his high cheekbones, naturally shaped eyebrows, firm abdomen, enticing smile and chocolate hair…
Glancing about, embarrassed, Roz noticed that she had her mouth hanging open and she closed it as the other bus passengers pretended not to have been looking.
“Is she mentally retarded, mommy?” asked one short stump of a girl, with half of a jelly donut smeared on her face and the other half mutilated in her hand. Leave it to kids to say what everyone else is thinking.
The mother hushed the girl and went back to reading the paper, a sideways glance now and then at tree stump with legs.
Roz fell back into her lulled silence, her mouth now closed, thinking back to those fleeting days with Jared. She felt sickened by her sudden weakness and likeness to a corny soap opera heroine, and rummaged through a weathered briefcase for her pen. In small, crooked letters she scrawled on her palm,
‘Get over Jared. Signed, Yourself…you big loser.’