(no subject)
"This is my response to the Survivor Island sixth challenge. If you like my story, respond. The player with the most responses will win this challenge."
Thomas’ copy of The Catcher in the Rye was well worn; each page had a rich fabric texture, thoroughly dog-eared, and broken spined. It smelled musty, faint and familiar, as he thumbed to his favorite passage. He tromped his size-twelve’s on the floor as he sat, elbows on knees, reading on the train station bench.
Holden, man, he had it right-right about girls, right about posers, about sex, death, families, school... everything. He had become a trusty companion on Tom’s own bildungsroman, and as the world twisted in her own bitter self-involved cacophony he could gaze out from the comfort of those pages and sneer sarcastically at the perverts, phoneys and morons. Thomas could fall half in love with a girl in an instant and know that Holden would have understood…could hate her just as quickly and still be in good company.
Shit.
The train was late. His mother would have realized by now that he wasn’t coming home tonight; and rather than speeding along the rails towards the city as he had planned, he was sitting on a bench, book and duffle bag in hand, ready to be found. The station was empty- What if he had the wrong time? Thomas put the book down and went to check the schedule. As he disappeard beneath the vaulted arch, a disheveled man stumbled out of the public restroom.
Jason had fallen into the bottom of a bottle-hard. He had the reek of vomit and vodka on what was once a neatly pressed shirt to prove it. It was his brother’s fault, really, that stupid shit. Invited him out here to East Ass Fuck, then kicked him out of the house for playing a game with his nephew.
“It’s called ‘Hide and Shit’ seek-head, look it up some time!” Drunk and yelling at no one in particular Jason felt like the floor was coming up to meet him. He tried to ease himself to the ground but slipped, banging his head loudly. His eyes blurred and his vision doubled before focusing on a bench a few feet away.
Resting on the bench was a pea green duffle, stuffed to bursting and frayed. Jason wormed his way over to the bench and pulled the soft bag down on top of him, easing it under his throbbing head. He struggled to position the bag, but the strap was caught between the bench slats.
Giving the bag a final tug the strap came flying free, bringing with it a tattered novel; a flurry of pages that landed beside him. Turning a bloodshot eye toward the book, Jason saw the title and frowned.
“You had it all wrong, Holden,” He moaned “You lied to me… you lied to yourself.”
Once an island of sanity in a sea of misunderstanding, an appealing portrait of teenaged angst, Jason had been confronted with the truth as he grew older; the story teller was a hypocrite, an unreliable narrator, and a self-confessed liar. Jason pulled himself upright and thumbed through the pages, looking for a familiar passage.
“I’m the lying narrator of my own story!” Sobbed the dirty man who sat pouring over Thomas’ favorite book, the duffle bag nestled behind him. “Hide and Seek? I locked my nephew in a closet so I wouldn’t have to watch him…I- Scott was right, Scott…”
Thomas had been watching the man since he hit his head a few minutes ago; and he had changed his mind. Thomas no longer intended to go to New York… he just wanted to go home, eat a warm meal and erase the image of this sad, frightening man.
But he needed his bag.
A scrawny kid with too long limbs came hurling around the corner. He tried to skid to a stop by the bench, but slipped on the pool of blood slidding the dufflebag with a muffled thud. Jason barely had time to turn around before the kid was on his feet, peeling out the door, bag over his shoulder.
“Hey kid!” Jason called “You forgot your book… ah skrew it.” He tossed the book haphazardly, not caring where it landed, then fell asleep.
Shit.
Viola had a run in her stocking, and a very important interview only a train ride away. Bright morning sun streamed in though the windows on the second story. She sat down on a wood and metal bench, placing her purse beside her. As she riffled through the bag praying she had some clear nailpolish to stop the run from spreading, she saw the corner of a well worn book sticking out beneath the bench. Viola sighed, wishing people would treat books better, and reached down to pick it up.
‘hu,’ she though, noticing the title ‘I’ve never read The Catcher in the Rye…’
Thomas’ copy of The Catcher in the Rye was well worn; each page had a rich fabric texture, thoroughly dog-eared, and broken spined. It smelled musty, faint and familiar, as he thumbed to his favorite passage. He tromped his size-twelve’s on the floor as he sat, elbows on knees, reading on the train station bench.
Holden, man, he had it right-right about girls, right about posers, about sex, death, families, school... everything. He had become a trusty companion on Tom’s own bildungsroman, and as the world twisted in her own bitter self-involved cacophony he could gaze out from the comfort of those pages and sneer sarcastically at the perverts, phoneys and morons. Thomas could fall half in love with a girl in an instant and know that Holden would have understood…could hate her just as quickly and still be in good company.
Shit.
The train was late. His mother would have realized by now that he wasn’t coming home tonight; and rather than speeding along the rails towards the city as he had planned, he was sitting on a bench, book and duffle bag in hand, ready to be found. The station was empty- What if he had the wrong time? Thomas put the book down and went to check the schedule. As he disappeard beneath the vaulted arch, a disheveled man stumbled out of the public restroom.
Jason had fallen into the bottom of a bottle-hard. He had the reek of vomit and vodka on what was once a neatly pressed shirt to prove it. It was his brother’s fault, really, that stupid shit. Invited him out here to East Ass Fuck, then kicked him out of the house for playing a game with his nephew.
“It’s called ‘Hide and Shit’ seek-head, look it up some time!” Drunk and yelling at no one in particular Jason felt like the floor was coming up to meet him. He tried to ease himself to the ground but slipped, banging his head loudly. His eyes blurred and his vision doubled before focusing on a bench a few feet away.
Resting on the bench was a pea green duffle, stuffed to bursting and frayed. Jason wormed his way over to the bench and pulled the soft bag down on top of him, easing it under his throbbing head. He struggled to position the bag, but the strap was caught between the bench slats.
Giving the bag a final tug the strap came flying free, bringing with it a tattered novel; a flurry of pages that landed beside him. Turning a bloodshot eye toward the book, Jason saw the title and frowned.
“You had it all wrong, Holden,” He moaned “You lied to me… you lied to yourself.”
Once an island of sanity in a sea of misunderstanding, an appealing portrait of teenaged angst, Jason had been confronted with the truth as he grew older; the story teller was a hypocrite, an unreliable narrator, and a self-confessed liar. Jason pulled himself upright and thumbed through the pages, looking for a familiar passage.
“I’m the lying narrator of my own story!” Sobbed the dirty man who sat pouring over Thomas’ favorite book, the duffle bag nestled behind him. “Hide and Seek? I locked my nephew in a closet so I wouldn’t have to watch him…I- Scott was right, Scott…”
Thomas had been watching the man since he hit his head a few minutes ago; and he had changed his mind. Thomas no longer intended to go to New York… he just wanted to go home, eat a warm meal and erase the image of this sad, frightening man.
But he needed his bag.
A scrawny kid with too long limbs came hurling around the corner. He tried to skid to a stop by the bench, but slipped on the pool of blood slidding the dufflebag with a muffled thud. Jason barely had time to turn around before the kid was on his feet, peeling out the door, bag over his shoulder.
“Hey kid!” Jason called “You forgot your book… ah skrew it.” He tossed the book haphazardly, not caring where it landed, then fell asleep.
Shit.
Viola had a run in her stocking, and a very important interview only a train ride away. Bright morning sun streamed in though the windows on the second story. She sat down on a wood and metal bench, placing her purse beside her. As she riffled through the bag praying she had some clear nailpolish to stop the run from spreading, she saw the corner of a well worn book sticking out beneath the bench. Viola sighed, wishing people would treat books better, and reached down to pick it up.
‘hu,’ she though, noticing the title ‘I’ve never read The Catcher in the Rye…’