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It's (drumroll) another lame attempt at some post apocalyptic fiction. Looking around the guild and seeing everyone else with their eloquent sentence structure and meaningful plotlines, I feel somewhat ashamed of myself. I think my problem might be a lack of a clear mental picture before I start writing, so... yeah I'll try and work on it. Anyway, enjoy this totally stupid, mostly unrealistic intro.
One of three interesting individuals around whom this little tale centers, Samuel walks south, eyes to the ground. One observing from distance would likely mistake the expression on his face for one of anger and distress. In truth he is entirely passive, that’s just the way he looks.
“Sam!” A female voice calls from behind him. He stops and looks over his shoulder. The shrill cry of a banshee erupts once more from that offensive hole in her face, despite how obvious it is that she has his attention. He takes a half step and turns the rest of the way around.
“What?” He asks pleasantly enough as soon as she is within earshot. Her name is Samantha; they have shared classes since the first grade, never on familiar terms. Or so he thought.
“Well, you know the dance is coming up soon…” She says as she folds her hands together into what Sam amusingly thinks of as a super fist. Said super fist is reversed and forced downward as she leans forward. It is painfully obvious that she is trying to be cute. “And I was wondering if you’d like to go with me.” She says with what might be a forced smile.
“I’ll pass.” He says flatly, turning around to continue the trek home. For just a moment he was surprised to hear the question, but that passed without even registering as a change in his facial expression.
“Aw, C’mon!” She exclaims, stepping forward and grabbing his arm with the crook of her elbow. “I like you! And I mean it’s not like I haven’t seen you looking at me in the halls. Plus I mean, we’re both named Sam! See what I mean?! Just go with me!”
He shakes her off, stifling the urge to shove her off the curb and into the street. They face each other for just a few seconds while he forms his response.
“I seem to recall, when was it, the sixth grade?” Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly “How old were we then? Eleven, twelve? I don’t really remember.” He inhales, trying to quell the nervousness that always invades when he has something important or long-winded like this to say. “Everyone was pointing and laughing at a little girl running topless through the halls, just barely covering herself with a towel. Two or three others followed her with a training bra just stuffed to bursting with tissue paper; poor girl was crying her eyes out. Children can be so cruel sometimes can’t they?” His voice is coming dangerously close to quivering as adrenaline floods his system. If he could just control it a few more seconds, the effect would be perfect.
“Heh, yeah,” She answers weakly. Her eyes have become mysteriously damp.
“I never did find out just who that little girl was. I just wanted to let the poor thing cry on my shoulder.” He says and watches her visibly relax.
“I-I’m sure sh-“ He cuts her off.
“It was you.” He says, looking her straight in the eye. A single tear rolls down her cheek. Now to bring it home, just a single word. “Stuffer.” He tries to infuse the word with as much gravity as he can. Tears flow almost freely now.
“You-“ She starts but he interrupts her again.
“Stuffer.”
Half expecting another attempt at a rebuttal, he is vaguely surprised and pleased to see her turn and flee the way she came, wiping tears from her eyes. He, in turn, faces south again and continues on his way. He makes it all of twelve yards before erupting into uncontrollable laughter.
It would have made his day had he not heard her laughing right along
with him. He literally spins around, balanced on the heel of his left sneaker. There she is, walking back towards him with nary a tear in her eye and an overjoyed smile dominating her features. She could have recently won the lottery for the look on her face.
Completely thrown off his game, he struggles to think of an adequate response; anything to take control of the situation back. “You harpy.” A word completely out of left field, and certainly not one he had ever used in conversation before.
“Ha! Nice one.” She says just as she breeches the five-foot personal space barrier. He tries to think of something else to say, something not involving petty, if somewhat unusual, insults.
“I said I’ll pass,” Conversationally, as if the trip down memory lane had never happened.
“Stuffer,” She says, deepening her voice into a ridiculous caricature of his, punctuating it with a laugh. He can feel his cheeks reddening with embarrassment. “Aw, did I hurt your feelings?” She asks mockingly. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, I just know how you work.” She just wont shut up. “Anyway, about the dance, I’ll pick you up at eight, y’know since you don’t have a car.” She notices him drawing back his fist just as she starts the next sentence, unknowingly turning her head into the punch. This transforms what would have been a bruised cheek into a broken nose as the punch sends her sprawling into the street. A red Jeep swerves sharply to avoid running her over, and in the process, comes dangerously close to having a head on collision with a small, blue sports car. By the time both cars come to a complete stop, their bumpers just inches from each other, Samuel is already headed south again.
The driver of the blue car, a teenager not more than a year older than Sam (either one), gets out, angry and confused. Samantha tenderly covers her nose, blood running down the front of her pink sweater. What she feels, other than pain, is an odd combination of outrage, anger, and lust. The initial drive behind asking that particular boy out had, after all, been masochism. The unfortunate woman behind the wheel of the red jeep practically leaps out, overcome with the fear that she might have squashed that poor girl’s head.
“What the ******** is your problem?!” She yells, after seeing that the only damage done isn’t her fault.
Sam is, of course, in too foul a mood to dignify that old harpy (he is coming to appreciate that word a tad more) with a response. So, he continues on his way, trying to reclaim the peaceful mood that he started out in.
The attempt is in vain, and unnecessary, as his house is less than a block and a half away. Inside, he won’t have to deal with any clingy teenyboppers or ancient, jeep-driving crones. As close to peace as can be hoped for, and yet something is amiss. He looks back over his shoulder to see the jeep-hag helping Samantha up; the other teenager is already behind the wheel of his car. Chivalry is, without a doubt, de-
The realization that going into his house now would show the female Sam it’s location cuts off the prior train of thought. He briefly considers passing it by and circling the block until he can go in unnoticed, but rejects it almost as fast. She knew his route home after all, so it’s not much of a stretch to assume she knows where he lives. If she decides to get crazy with this business he’ll just call the cops… or hit her again. Not his typical response to problem, but effective.
So thinking, he enters his home and passes by the second of the three individuals.
“As far as any girl that may attempt to contact me is concerned, I left.” Sam says, lowering his backpack from his shoulder as he crosses the room. His younger-by-a-decade brother, Zack, merely nods in acknowledgement.
As with his brother, a neutral observer might, at first, mistake the natural arrangement of the boy’s face for an expression. Though, in this case it is mild, intrigued surprise, a sharp contrast to Sam’s perpetual scowl.
As soon as it becomes apparent that Sam has no intention of saying anything else, something he signifies by leaving the room entirely, Zack goes back to the homework he has been assigned for the evening.
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