"Time wait's for no one..."
There's not much to tell about myself, except the absolute basic: I'm an aspiring writer with dreams of publishing my own work and a wild imagination to match. :)
I'll be using my journal to post the first few chapters of my fiction story (I have yet to come up with a title loyal to stay), so while anyone who visits my profile has the privilege to read my work, plagiarism would be considered a bitch slap, groin kick, and gut-wrencher to my very existence, so I better not catch you, you better not even dare consider pilfering my chapters. Or else. Karma will bite you in the ass someday. I guarantee it.
Otherwise, enjoy and leave comments to let me know what you think. :3
Genre: Mystery, Fantasy, Slice-of-life
Warning: Designated for readers of all ages
Summary: Noami, a typical lonely girl, lives in a town trapped in a mysterious regression, isolated and cut out from the rest of the world, supposedly the last human civilization left and governed by communist rule. Befriended by the likes of Lysander and Akiel, fellow classmates in the Adolescent Division, both boys whimsical by nature and loyal to their loved ones, Noami learns to enjoy life again as she confronts the daily obstacles of her dreary days. Meanwhile, a serial killer stalks the streets unseen, blending invisibly with the oblivious crowd...
Scene I
tick tock tick
I won't stop looking at the clock. Stealing glances at it every now and again, wishing for the second hand to hit the twelve, my patience runs the slowest marathon of my life. I want to go home, away from this place.
tick tock tick tock
The school windows, grimy and a glassy grey, are the ghosts of mirrors. Images reflecting possess no clarity, no peace of mind, for all the students seen are busy. Busy daydreaming, tick tock, busy doodling, tick tock, heads are nodding, absent-minded and sleepy, tick tock, pictures are born, emboldened and bleeding. The real studious learners are taking notes, playing the responsible card, scribbling away at their tedious demise.
tick tock tick
Concealed behind the sequin wall of their purses, the open arms of their standing textbooks, or the deep cavern of their pockets, the "cool" kids try to be slick with their cell phones. Fingertips tap away on the mini buttons, mashing the portable keyboards, as if their lives depended on it. The true horror of Tourettes Text Syndrome; when a person has the sudden urge to text inconsequential stuff to another; in reality, they have all the time in the world to see each other and talk about anything and everything in the universe, and yet they waste it all.
There goes my shadow, staring right back at me; a river of black ink for hair, a gothic picture frame that encompasses a perpetual forlorn face, sable irises trapped in the other side of the window, and rainfall her moving background. pit pat pit pat Tears from the sky mingle with Time's signature sound, along with its steadfast line of dancers, of rustic wood and mechanical pencils, and pens of many races. An inanimate orchestra belonging to this modern day and age.
tick tock pit pat tick pit tock pat
"Do your work, please." Physical contact, it jolts me from my miserable musings. Long, warm fingers unwrap from my shoulder, and I glance up to acknowledge my teacher's serious smile. I give a blank, stupid, and helpless look without thinking, the apology late in arriving when Mr. Merritt moves further down the row, traveling the entire seating chart of his classroom. Arms hover with open guidance, his presence lingering beside each respective student, supervising their progress, or lack thereof for some, offering a word or two of advice to whoever seeks private answers to their whispery questions, granting soft admonishments to the listless souls on the wayward path.
The downpour of rain falls heavier and with furious speed, swallowing up the crisp clicks of the clock like a black hole. Disregarding Mr. Merritt's firm suggestion, too absorbed in my own hazardous teenage dejection, I return my attention to the clock. I watch its third hand move in countless revolutions, the fastest red marker that passes the stationary lines of seconds, hoping the distance between now and later disappears to shed a new present.
tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock...
The sound of a synthetic heartbeat echoes in the vast hollow of disappointment...