Everest's Extraneous Stories (feedback much appreciated)

Here's a thread where I will have non-Writing a Discordant History things I've written as of February 13, 2011. It's pretty much going to consist of me putting to word any ideas that pop into my head and merit retelling. Very few of them will get preference, as far as continuation goes, but I will post whatever I have in sections, mostly looking for any possible critiques, with the hopes of improving my prose and my ability to tell stories that make sense. If you want to read these story bits, keep in mind that these stories lack any sort of outline at first (assuming I plan to further develop them) and can only be consumed in their current state, and I'm not exactly big on infodumping, so they're not very fleshed-out yet. Here goes the first portion of a story:

Black and red silk tapestries on the hallway walls of Castle Flainbrit told an unsettling amount of sordid tales: tales of caverns where Joyce’s ancestors toiled in the service of their owners; tales of bloody days and chill, lonely nights and damp, heavy mornings; tales upon tales of frail, shit-stained peasants being stricken down with rattling whips, presumably for someone’s amusement, be it the tapestries‘ artist, or the striker. The tapestries were aesthetically masterful, consisting of a mere two colors but still entirely sufficient to tell their stories; the material that comprised the red in the pictures reflected light almost too well, so that in the dark, when candlelight was the only navigational aid one had while walking through the castle, the red tales engulfed the entire hallway and gave one the impression of watching these spectacles overhead. Joyce had walked these halls dozens and hundreds of times, and he still kept his head in constant rotation, so as to confirm that no giant punishment beasts would drag him into a red, splotchy hell.

A small set of arms wrapped around Joyce’s torso while he was walking. He had not heard anything, and he had even taken extra care to look out for anyone else who might be walking the halls, as he hated surprises. He was scared as hell to find himself in someone’s embrace at that point in time; scared enough that he almost wet his pants. He calmed down after feeling the warmth of these arms, the height where they grabbed him (a little above his chest), and the modest scent of garden flowers. There was no pulling force behind the hug; only the tightness that comes with affection.

Joyce jolted a tiny bit and then spun around, hoping to playfully shake off the girl who surprised him. She clung to him even as he spun three times in a row. The imagery filling his eyes threatened to make him nauseous, and he was jittery from his need of the bathroom. Joyce laughed. The girl laughed. Joyce stopped spinning after a while and laid the front of his body against a wall while he waited for the dizziness to pass. The girl threw herself against a tapestry as well, giggling even though the fun had ended. Dark as it was, Joyce looked at the girl and could make out her perfect face, her red ponytail, and her red, low-cut, oriental dress; it was his fiancée, Daniella Bozword.

“Look, Daniella,” he whispered in his unfortunately high-pitched voice. “I would love to fool around with you right now, but I really need to get to the bathroom now, please.” Joyce made a strained effort to wrench himself free of Daniella’s arms, but he only succeeded in spinning a bit more and nearly knocking a candle out of its sconce; Daniella was inhumanly strong.

“Oh, fine.” Daniella pouted and let go of him, her bare feet making no sound as they landed on the castle floor. “But please be quick about it, okay?” Daniella was as impatient as she was brutish in a fight. Joyce had a feeling that five minutes would probably not suffice, and he also knew for a fact that she would follow him as far as possible and stand waiting for him, tiny foot tapping audibly the whole time.

“I’ll try, dear. I’ll try.” With that, he walked into the bathroom.

Seven minutes later, he reemerged, to see that Daniella was no longer there; even in the barely-candlelit darkness, he could have told where she was, if she were there. He was alone with the tapestries again. Perfect.

Figures she would get bored and leave, Joyce thought to himself. I’ll never get why she does that. Why is patience so tough to accept? He walked back the way he came, choosing to navigate by the light of the candles, rather than using the light reflected from the bloodlike shapes that had haunted his childhood dreams. The trip back to his bedchamber was silent, save for his footsteps. Nothing could be heard from any of the other rooms, not even snoring, and . . .

Actually, upon closer inspection, he noticed that there were clothing items sprawled along the floor, near the other doorways before his room.

There was a trail of clothing and other possessions that led from these rooms to the lower levels of the castle. He walked towards the stairs slowly at first, and then at a brisk walking pace, and then at a hearty jog. When he reached the stairs, he was bolting down four steps at a time.

The trail had stopped long before he had reached the stairs, but he pressed on downwards anyway. Joyce’s legs felt nothing but the wind flowing between them, and his breathing was still normal. He retained his dispassion while processing everything that he had come across.

At the foot of the steps, he spotted a castle servant and asked him, “Have you seen anyone come down these stairs in the last couple of minutes?”

“Haven’t you heard, Joyce? Sir Clinton has returned to the castle at last.”

Also, if I don't respond to people's comments/criticisms right away, it's because I don't want to clog the thread with my posts, so I'll respond to everyone at the same time as I post the next bit of stuff that I've written. Thanks to the two who have already posted, though.

edited 15th Feb '11 9:06:29 PM by Everest

Huh.

The descriptions are a little flowery, but your dialogue flowed well, and the imagery was quite evocative.

Maybe you could work on the names a little, though.

I like it.

So, after about a week and half, I finally have a draft of the prologue of a story I've been tihnking of. The full story will be much longer, and, as with everything else I've written, I don't know much about where it's going yet. Also, this one has not been too thoroughly checked, mostly because I want to see how well I can do with being consistent from about eleven days' worth of story; I feel like there shouldn't be any glaring errors, but I'll go back and find them myself if it comes to that.

The story's prologue is written from the point of view of a gossiping student who only has, for the most part, secondhand accounts of the occurrences (though that's not to say that they didn't happen; this person is just retelling the occurrences of that day with their own storyteller's flair). I say that because there is more than a fair bit of telling, not showing, and because there's a fourth wall break at one point.

Also, thanks to Cygan Angel and QQQQQ for their responses to my first story. It's much appreciated.

Just a heads-up: The story below contains subject matter that, while not exactly explicit, is still sexual in nature and (depending on your opinion on these sorts of things) makes for rather uncomfortable, even creepy reading.

The day seemed like it would be all right. The cafeteria food was cafeteria food, and the walks to each class were too long, but otherwise, Cassandra Levie’s first day at her new school went remarkably well. It seemed that all of her classes were full of kind, fairly intelligent students, and all of her teachers seemed at least competent at their jobs. And yet there was one teacher that completely baffled her, but she did not meet him until last block that day.

Cassandra’s new friends were highly promising. Michelle Kasworth, a junior in her band class, made friends with her right away after asking if her black hair was naturally colored that way (yes, it was) and where she got her white pants and blue jacket (she couldn‘t recall), and she also complimented Cassandra‘s glasses, saying that the thin, black rims went with her hair quite nicely. They both played trumpet, and Michelle was seated above her, so they sat next to each other. Michelle was quick to ask Cassandra about her favorite music, since it was only fitting, what with this being a music class and all. Cassandra preferred jazz music, while Michelle professed a deep love for orchestral compositions. By the end of the class, Michelle was calling Cassandra “Cassie.”

Michelle was a tall, buxom, perky girl, with blonde hair done down in princess-curled pigtails. Her outfit consisted of a yellow blouse over a blue long-sleeved shirt and a small black skirt that accentuated her womanly hips. She walked with a sort of feminine swagger that one could pick up on if they paid enough attention to the subtleties of her movements; a sway in her hips that fluttered her skirt about her thighs while leaving enough fabric to cover her underwear.

The only thing about Michelle that Cassandra found to be odd was her fascination with one of their teachers, Mr. Stone. The way that Michelle told it, Mr. Stone was a god among men, and the sweetest person she had ever met. The subject came up when they discussed their schedules after band ended for the day.

“Michelle,” Cassandra said after band. “who do you have for Algebra III?”

“I have Mr. Stone, thank God,” she said. “He’s the best teacher ever, bar none.”

“Really? I have him too. Fourth block?”

“We’re in the same class, Cassie? Yay! Even better!”

“You’ve had him before, I take it?”

“I had him last year for Algebra II,” Michelle said. “You’ll love him, trust me. Though almost certainly not as much as I do . . .” With that, Michelle stuck her tongue out at Cassandra and hugged her back.

“Uhh, is he really that great?” Cassandra found it difficult to walk and talk with Michelle latched onto her school bag.

“He absolutely is, Cassie.” Michelle rested her head on Cassandra’s shoulder and sniffed her hair. Cassandra was not entirely sure whether or not she was comfortable being this intimate with anyone, as she had never had someone so close as a friend (which she thought was pathetic, since she had only met this girl an hour and a half ago), but Michelle was dreamy and seemed light-headed and harmless at the time, so Cassandra said nothing of it.

“Well, what does he do that makes him so great?”

“Oh, everything. First and foremost, he’s the sexiest guy I’ve ever met. He blows all of those celebrity “heartthrobs” out of the dust, and certainly any other guy at this school.”

“Really?” Cassandra said.

“I’m completely serious. When you see him, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

“And he plays his guitar in class when we’re studying, and he’s so good. He’s really smart, and he’s the nicest guy I’ve met, too. He always has that warm smile on his face that I just can’t forget. Everyone who’s had him loves him, just about. Especially the girls.” Whoa. Slow down, girl, jeez, Cassandra thought. She felt like Michelle was writing a love letter to Mr. Stone, and she was both anxious and impressed. She couldn’t wait to see him.

The second class, English, held two more girls who took a liking to Cassandra. The English class’s desks were all filled by the time Cassandra sat down, and even after that two more students showed up, one of them being Haley Kristiansen, a petite girl with dark blonde hair down to her shoulders and a bright pink dress. She walked over to Cassandra upon sighting her. Just like Michelle, she asked Cassandra if her hair was natural (“yes”), and then said that Cassandra was sexy. Cassandra once again felt uncomfortable, and then Haley looked around the room.

“Hey, Cassie,” Haley said. “Why don’t I just sit on your lap instead? I don’t think the teacher will mind all that much.” Cassandra flinched, though not very visibly, but she wanted to make a good first impression on Haley, so she said, “Sure, go ahead.” She flinched again when Haley sat on her leg. Haley wasn’t even very heavy—she could not have stood higher than five foot two or weighed more than ninety pounds—and yet Cassandra was not used to someone’s weight bearing down on her like that, especially not their butt. Haley was quite warm, and her bottom was very soft, especially with her dress, and when she laid back against Cassandra and yawned, arms extended to either side of Cassandra’s head, the pleasant smell of flowery shampoo came off of her. “Are you new here, Cassie? If you had been here before, I certainly would have noticed you by now.” Haley bent down to get to her backpack, and Cassandra could not help but to notice her butt moving with her as she shook her hand through the contents of her bag and pulled out a couple of pencils.

“You want a pencil, Cassie?” she asked. “I have plenty more.”

“No, thanks, Haley. I have a pencil.” Another new friend walked in at that moment; another blonde girl, this time wearing black leggings and a gray sweater on her body, and wearing long hair on her head. This girl had a beauty mark on the corner of her bottom lip and vibrant blue eyes. She came to the desk that Haley and Cassandra were sitting in when she saw how full the room was.

Her voice was rather adult, fitting her more mature figure, but she was still playful, apparently; after congratulating Haley on making a new friend and introducing herself to Cassandra, she threw her arms around them both and slipped, pulling her weight down on them. Haley fell back, pulling the new girl, and her body pressed against Cassandra again, this time crushing her breast. The other girl managed to put one of her feet on the floor for balance before being yanked forward and slamming her hip against the desk. All the while Cassandra worried that her leg would go numb from the weight of two people bearing down on it. Haley and the new girl laughed it off until they noticed that Cassandra was in some pain. “Oh, I’m sorry,” said the new girl. “Haley, why don’t you get up, too?”

“Aw, but her lap’s so comfortable.” Haley pouted and got up, but this time she simply sat on Cassandra’s other leg. “There, how does your leg feel now?” In answer, Cassandra let out an involuntary sigh of relief as the pressure on her leg was relieved.

“Ah, that feels much better,” said Cassandra. “Thanks, Haley. Uh, by the way, what’s your name?”

“Lass Mulkern, but everyone calls me Lassie. Hey, can I sit on your lap too? It looks comfy.” Rather than wait for an answer, Lass sat on Cassandra’s leg. She was much heavier than Haley, standing over half a foot taller and being more filled out, in the breasts and hips especially. The two of them got right to talking about private things, talking just loudly enough so that Cassandra could hear them, but quietly enough to not be heard over the din of the classroom. They mostly shared vulgar sexual jokes with each other and bounced with laughter. The smell of the two together was not overwhelming, but it made it hard for Cassandra to focus. When the teacher, a middle-aged woman with boring, modest clothes, came into the classroom, Lass stopped moving, but Haley fidgeted in her seat while waiting for the teacher to speak. She leaned against Lass, and Lass, in turn, leaned against Cassandra.

“Good morning, cla—Oh, my!” The teacher had barely started before noticing three heads looking as if they were connected. “Are you girls really going to be comfortable like that? That doesn‘t leave much room for you to work with.”

Cassandra saw a chance to speak up, but Haley said, “No, we’re perfectly fine,” despite the desk’s wood digging into her belly. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have work today, actually. It’s the first day of school, after all.” Lass laid her head against Haley’s shoulder, evidently quite exhausted.

“Well, if you girls think you’ll be okay like that, I don’t mind, though I’ll try to get more desks in here as soon as possible, how does that sound?”

“No thanks,” said Lass. “It’s pretty comfy in Cassie’s lap.” Why do they keep calling me Cassie? Cassandra thought. The class laughed at Lass’s answer, and Cassandra decided that that was a good time to look around and see her classmates. There were two groups of boys who were staring at the girls, one unsightly, pasty, fat boy covering his crotch with the subtlety of a fire hose. Lass was all too happy to make a joke at his expense.

The rest of the class was not noteworthy but for one detail:

“I hear that Mr. Stone still hasn’t had any complaints filed against him. Want some gum, you two?” Haley took out a pack of Trident and offered it to her friends.

“Uh, what was that about Mr. Stone?” Cassandra, having no knowledge of Mr. Stone save for Michelle’s biased praise, perked up at the quip about Mr. Stone. “Complaints?”

Haley sat still for a second, trying to think of an answer, but Lass said, “Oh, that’s right. You’re new here, so you don’t know about Mr. Stone, do you?” At that, she patted Cassandra’s head, causing her to blink her eyes closed and reel back.

“Well, I know what Michelle Kastworth told me.” Lass and Haley both burst into giggly laughter, as did a boy next to them who heard Cassandra. She felt embarrassed, though she knew not why she should feel that way; after all, she was new here, so what was she supposed to know? “What? Well, I’ll admit that Michelle . . . idolized him a bit much, perhaps, but he sounds pretty cool.”

“Oh, he’s cool, alright,” said Haley. “Cool enough to be fucking about a dozen students a year.” Cassandra’s jaw hit the floor at that. Haley just chuckled again. “Guess who’s one of ‘em?”

Cassandra was frozen for a few seconds, mouth agape, before Lass chimed in, saying, “He actually is pretty cool, hence the lack of complaints filed against him. It’s not like he does anything without consent.” But all Cassandra could run through her head was: Not again not again not again not again . . . Her head hit the desk, once, two times, three times, and almost a fourth before Haley caught her by the forehead.

“What’s wrong, Cassie?”

“This . . . My last school had this exact same problem. I had to leave because one of my teachers kept asking me to sleep with him.” Cassandra could only slap her face in disbelief.

“Aw. I’m sorry to hear that, Cassie,” said Haley. “But Mr. Stone isn’t like that. He doesn’t come onto anyone; the girls flock to him. And he actually is a really good teacher, too. Most of his students pass his classes with at least a B+, unless they‘re hoodrats or something, in which case they shouldn‘t be in honors classes anyway.”

“I don’t believe that. This can’t be happening again, shit.” The class ended, and Cassandra had a boring workshop, followed by the class she was dreading and anticipating at the same time: Honors Algebra III with Mr. Cassius Stone.

Mr. Stone was sitting on his desk when Cassandra and Michelle entered (Cassandra had not had time to , fingering the strings of a nice-looking electric guitar absentmindedly, grinning with a genuine warmth, and not at all in the creepy way that Cassandra had expected. The first thought that hit Cassandra’s mind upon seeing him was: holy crap, this man’s a god. The second was: he has a guitar? (she had, evidently, forgotten that Michelle pointed that out). The third, and last, for that moment in time, was: is this guy really the creep that Haley said he was (forgetting, also, that Haley did not express a negative opinion of him)?

“Oh, hi, Michelle. Good morning. And I take it that the girl next to you is the new student I heard about?” How has he heard about me already? Cassandra thought. Am I really that notable? I’ve only been here for a day, jeez. I hope this guy doesn’t take a liking to me like Mr. Polanski did. This is . . . a little unnerving. He’s about as attractive as Michelle said he was, too.

Mr. Stone was easily the sexiest man she had ever laid eyes on; rugged even without any facial hair, wearing black hair with bangs down to the rims of his glasses, which complimented his tan skin tone, his lucid eyes, and his Olympian face to an unmatched degree. He looked no older than a college student. He held his guitar with a loose, relaxed grip, and he was casually, quietly playing a pop-punk riff (Cassandra could have sworn she had heard it before; it might have been My Chemical Romance), while addressing her and Michelle, no less. His outfit was about as stylish as a teacher could make it, a black overcoat over a white dress shirt, black pants, and a black tie; he was color-coordinated. Most of all, his smile was (or seemed, Cassandra had to remind herself, in light of what Haley and Lass said) innocent; to take a single look at him, one might guess that he was the kindest, most passionate, most adventurous person alive.

The classroom was about as normal as that of a regular teacher, save for the amplifier in the corner with a potted plant. The guitar was not plugged in at the moment, so the song that Mr. Stone played was quite inaudible, and Cassandra could only pick it out in that brief moment of silence at the doorway before the rest of the class walked in, jocks, emos, and band geeks (or what would have seemed to be such, going solely from first impressions) all making noise in equal proportions.

The noise died down as soon as Mr. Stone stood up from his desk, which Cassandra thought was good, because she suspected he might have plugged the guitar in and gave everyone a shock had they not stopped chatting. “Good day, everyone,” he said. “My name is Cassius Stone—” holy shit even his name is hot. Cassandra zoned out after he said this, taking an even better look at him, missing the rest of that sentence and part of the next one. She heard the rest of his sentence somewhat—it was something generic that teachers usually said as an opening statement—but then turned to look at Michelle, who—no surprise—was entranced. She did a decent job of hiding her feelings, looking almost sleepy, more than anything, but the fact that she just happened to be facing Mr. Stone was enough of an indication for Cassandra. He went through attendance somehow getting every person’s full name correct as he spoke them aloud. His voice was very clear, mid-ranged but distinct in its volume, emphasis, and enunciation. He asked the class if anyone had nicknames that they wanted to go by, but the only one who chose to go by anything different was Cassandra, after Michelle spoke up and told Mr. Stone that she would just go by “Cassie.”

“Give me one second while I find worksheets for you guys to complete,” Mr. Stone said. He pulled a stack of papers from under his desk and handed them out to everyone individually, going through all of the rows of desks and formally introducing himself to every student in the class. When he reached Cassandra and Michelle, he merely nodded to Michelle, so lightly that Cassandra did not notice, and then said to Cassandra, “I hope you have a good time at this school, Cassie.” She could only thank him as he said that; it would have been completely stupid to ask him about that one rumor to his face, especially as nice as he seemed. As he returned to the chalkboard and began writing, back turned to the class, Cassandra thought to herself that Mr. Stone’s outfit was quite modest, for a guy with that reputation; he was wearing more than the usual teacher, and he seemed a fair bit nicer.

“So, I take it I won’t need to do too much refreshing? You guys probably remember enough of what you learned last year to finish the sheet. Right?” He grinned after saying that; he probably knew how they would all answer. Most of the class let out a resounding “no,” but, sure enough, Mr. Stone laughed and set to work on filling the chalkboard with equations and mathematically relevant shapes. Cassandra tried to look only at the chalkboard, and away from Mr. Stone, but somehow he injected his presence into her mind, and she could not help but stare at him as he moved his arms to trace shapes on the board. Michelle was completely lost in his coat and his legs. Now there’s an unhealthily obsessed girl, Cassandra thought. Not me, nuh-uh. Not at all.

“Will that do, everyone?” It had been ten minutes since he started drawing and talking. Cassandra had actually caught every word of it; usually she began to doze off during math, but something about Mr. Stone made it . . . interesting, again. Another notable thing was that the entire class, love-struck girls and envious and/or jealous boys alike, were hanging off of his every word and actually listening; no one was leaning their heads against their hands, or chatting, or texting their friends in other classes. All was silent, save for Mr. Stone.

While the students were at work on the worksheet that had been handed out, Mr. Stone whipped out his guitar and played a heavy metal instrumental, with the amp set to minimum volume; the sound was just present enough to set a motivational tone for the class to do work with. After a while the song found an ending point, and Mr. Stone looped the song back to the beginning a few times before switching songs, but it was hard to tell where the song ended with the volume so low, and doing work was easy enough for most of the class.

When there was someone who needed help, he would put his shredding on hold and spend up to ten minutes helping the student through the assignment. Cassandra finished the assignment with twenty minutes to spare, so she caught a glimpse of Mr. Stone sitting next to a pretty girl who was blushing and embarrassed. His smile never let up, and he pointed to spots on the girl’s papers very slowly and talked her through it with the practiced expertise that comes with teaching. She nodded at his every word, but was not so flustered that she would laugh like an idiot. When Mr. Stone was done helping, that girl held her gaze on him, still blushing. Cassandra could not hear a word they had said, but she hoped that nothing lewd had occurred. And how could something happen? she thought. It’s the middle of class; there’s no way he could get away with that sort of thing right now.

Cassandra’s overall impression of that first class: Mr. Stone was an incredibly generous, patient individual, and the material was probably nothing to fret over (the worksheet certainly wasn’t). Should be an enjoyable class, she thought. I just hope those rumors aren’t true, I really do.

After class, Michelle asked if she could walk home with Cassandra to get help on homework for English, and Cassandra agreed to it in a flash, jubilant that she had a friend who would go to her house; she had only had one such friend at her old school, for reasons she did not care to dwell on. Cassandra was very excited, though that had some time to die down when Michelle asked if she could go get some help from Mr. Stone on the material they had just worked on. She said that she knew the material and could make sense of it , but didn’t understand why it made sense. Cassandra, in turn, couldn’t wrap her head around that, but she said, “fair enough,” and went to the bathroom, giving Michelle time to get help, while at the same time bringing herself to a private place where she could think about the supposed . . . situation with Mr. Stone. What am I worried about? Guy seems as nice as he looks. No problem. Though I find it odd that more people than Haley laughed in English . . .

Cassandra decided that she would peek into Mr. Stone’s classroom while “waiting” for Michelle, to see what they might actually be up to. If nothing was happening, no harm done, and Cassandra could say that she was just curious. If she did find that illicit sexual activities were occurring, she . . . she actually did not know what she would do, if it should come to that. Michelle was her friend, and she hoped Mr. Stone would be, too, but people in such a relationship were, in Cassandra’s mind, only harming each other (or at least, the younger member involved) by becoming so . . . she decided that the euphemism “involved with each other” would suffice.

The walk back to the classroom seemed to come too slowly. Dragging. But her heart was furious in her chest, as if it wanted to carry her legs faster but could not. Cassandra had built herself up for a great shock, and she wanted to put the discovery off as long as possible. But the classroom was only one flight of stairs away. With each step, the apparent heaviness of Cassandra’s body became more apparent, until she snapped out of her funk and bolted up the rest of the steps.

The door to Mr. Stone’s room was adjacent to the stairwell, so she only had to bank right as she took her last step and carefully pry two curtain folds open. Looking into the room at that moment, Cassandra’s life became at least ten times more complicated. Perhaps twelve; she could not tell, and by all rights one should not be able to tell for sure, as twelve is an arbitrary number in this circumstance.

. . . My apologies. Back to the story. In that room, Michelle was seated on Mr. Stone’s desk, but not in the chair. Some papers were neatly placed aside, and Michelle was directly facing the chalkboard. That was the first thing that Cassandra had noticed. The second was that Michelle was actually staring directly into Mr. Stone’s eyes. Before she could process the positions of Michelle and her teacher, the two embraced. It looked as if Michelle were taking the affirmative, but Cassandra couldn’t tell if that was true. Michelle had one arm around Mr. Stone’s neck, pulling him closer, and she had her other running through his hair, drawing her fingers back and forth with the care and slowness that only a lover had any right to give. His hands were on her hips when Cassandra looked down, but not for long; one hand soon moved to the small of Michelle’s back and pulled her—no, him—no, her, maybe (Cassandra eventually noticed that Michelle’s bottom was further off the edge of the desk after his hand moved, so apparently he was doing the pulling). When she attempted to look back up at their mouths, her eyes stopped on Michelle’s chest, which was being caressed by Mr. Stone’s other hand. Cassandra’s eyes returned to their faces when Michelle began to moan; Mr. Stone was now chewing on Michelle’s ear.

Some words that were, ultimately, indecipherable, were spoken by Michelle—the words were quickly uttered and desperate. That could only mean one thing. Mr. Stone put a hand under Michelle’s skirt and moved his arm slightly to the side. Instead of unzipping his fly, as Cassandra would have guessed, he brought his head under the skirt. A second later, a scream. Cassandra’s eyes slammed shut. What the fuck what the FUCK? This isn’t supposed to be happening AGAIN! Even as those thoughts surfaced, Cassandra’s eyes twitched, and she eventually gave in to her curiosity and reopened them. Michelle was lying on her back, on the desk, and Mr. Stone had a hand on each thigh. He didn’t seem to be moving much, but Michelle’s chest and stomach were visibly and rapidly jerking up and down, sometimes matching her cries. Cassandra filled in the material that was left to the imagination—somewhat against her will, as she noticed her thoughts and looked away again. Cassandra was shaking, and her heart was beating much too fast. She didn’t think she had it in her to move; she felt much more like crying. A much louder scream altered her perspective, and she looked into the room once more. This time, Mr. Stone and Michelle had moved on to the more “traditional” stance, with him holding her legs apart and moving carefully. How long was I just sitting there? Cassandra thought. When did that happen? A few more seconds of watching, and she thought, why should I care? Why am I watching them, for fuck’s sake? I ought to be reporting him for this . . . this . . . Cassandra was confused; she had no words to describe what she was seeing, or at least, no emotionally-charged adjectives.

The mix of emotions, of ambivalent curiosity and abhorrence, of envy and contempt, and of her own repressed lust and painful past experiences, was too much. She threw up. Lightly, and not very painfully, until she threw up the second time. After the third purging, the door opened. She looked up, regurgitation still dripping from the corner of her lip, to see Mr. Stone and Michelle looking down on her. Michelle’s eyes were wide with shock, and perhaps regret, but Mr. Stone seemed to be honestly worried. His eyes were still kind. She had seen him in a different light, but the warmth was still there, and certainly his charm and physical appeal had not diminished.

Mr. Stone asked, “Y-you . . . you were watching us, weren’t you, Cassandra?” Cassandra couldn’t answer; she could only throw up again. Mr. Stone hopped back, so as not to soil his fancy shoes with vomit, but Michelle started bawling;

“I’m sorry, Cassie, I am!” Her eyes and mouth were buried in her hands, and the crying had become silent within a few seconds, but Mr. Stone said, “The nurse should still be here. Do you need her here? I can go get some paper towels for you in the meantime. I’d help you to the bathroom, but—”

“I’m fine, just SHUT THE FUCK UP!” To prove her point and make a bold statement, Cassandra shoved herself back onto her legs. They shook like rubber bands just twanged, and she staggered away from that room, groping lockers for balance, and returned to her knees. Then her whole body was on the ground, her head tucked away under her arms. She heard strong feet hammering the stairs, and so she just laid there, desolate and hopelessly lost.

“D-don’t you think we’re both overreacting, Cassie?” Michelle was done with crying, but kept her distance from Cassandra, just to be safe. “Most of the students here know about what we’re doing. I would have said something, but . . . not in public. I . . . “ Hesitation. Cassandra looked back to Michelle, into her eyes, searching for . . . something. “. . . Please don’t report him! Please!” With that, the tears returned, and Cassandra put her head back down.

In a minute or two, the nurse was there, done up modestly; the nurse‘s beauty stood out, even through the tears that were now crawling down her cheeks. She brought Cassandra plenty of paper towels. The nurse asked if she knew why she had thrown up like that, but after a moment of brainless silence, she said, “N-no. I’ve probably just got the flu.” Cassandra was worried the nurse might ask about why Michelle was crying, but instead the nurse called her mother, and within minutes she had a ride back to her house, where she could rest more comfortably.

New story excerpt time! This is a shorter one, merely a battle where the context has purposely not been filled in. If the story continues, it should hopefully have somewhat of a Shōnen feel to it.

When Lancer saw the bulky, literally-horse-faced man before her, twice her height and holding a fighter’s stance, she tensed up, ready for a fight, and lifted her greatbear-bone greatclub, named Colossus, in front of her body, digging her icy greave into the dirt. “I wasn’t expecting the admissions officer to look quite like this,” she said. “For some reason, I was expecting someone human.” She wasn’t scared, but she had never seen a creature such as him before. Nor even anything that wasn’t fundamentally, completely human or animal.

He was bigger than her, sure, but he was also just barely bigger than her club. He was also without a weapon of his own; that wasn‘t to say that he wouldn‘t be hitting quite hard with his fists, but he was against someone with a blunter weapon, and in Lancer‘s experience, that always worked in favor of the armed man, however big the other person was. It would surely help that the man wore priestly robes and a wire with bulbs in place of anything that might shield him. Plus, she felt . . . powerful. She did not know how to justify that feeling yet, but she felt it there. There was something about this dream that was giving her much greater power. Since it was a dream, she might also be able to tap into this new energy.

“How old are you, girl?” asked the horse-faced man. His voice was too deep to be that of a horse or any human she had heard. His voice was also too unaffected to give anything away. “You don’t look to be much older than sixteen.”

“I’m fourteen, actually, Mr. Horseface.” Lancer was tall for her age, and much, much stronger (which was not evident from her physical structure), but her clear face, visible under her frozen helm, her little nose, red from the cold, and her frame, which was slight and visible through her clear armor, gave her away. “What’s it to you? Don‘t you know anything about proper etiquette? You‘re not supposed to ask a lady‘s age.”

“My apologies. I was merely curious as to how a child knows the process for admissions. As well as how you can hold that club of yours and wear that ice as if it were lukewarm. Fourteen, huh? Sheesh. Well, let‘s get this over with. I don‘t enjoy whaling on children, especially since they so rarely take this test.” With that, he leapt toward Lancer, arcing ever so slightly in the air. She placed one end of Colossus on the ground, pressed down and back, and glided forward across the dirt like a boulder of snow rolling downhill, Colossus held behind her and knocking up dust in her wake. The white maple trees at the edges of the field they were fighting in became a blur as she advanced. She skated to keep her speed, and she crouched down near the end to increase it further and ready a jump.

Lancer leapt and met the man in the air with a thunderous downward swing of Colossus, and he countered by lightly tapping the club and spinning off of it, flying at her again, his abnormal, hoof-hard fingers clenched. He slammed down, now above her in the air, and sent her to the ground with a crash. He fell towards her, balled up, with his feet facing her, and stamped as hard as he could. Colossus met his feet, and his attack was neutralized. Lancer got up from under him and took another behemoth swing, striking his hands as they protected his ribs from a blow made to shatter. He was thrown back, and Lancer skated after him again. This time she held Colossus at its center, a much more careful stance to take.

The man-beast was on his feet and in his boxing stance again when Lancer struck at him. This time her first strike was followed up by a second, made mostly on momentum, but with just a bit of extra spin, and the opponent only just had time to figure out this new fighting style before he was fending off a barrage. His hands and feet served him well, deflecting each attack that came at him for a while. This girl did not give in, and in the end he was forced to step out of the way for a time. It was then that he made a new move, hurling a shocking ray at her from a couple of feet away. She was hit dead-on, and her arctic armor shrunk as a result of this new energy, doing nothing to shield her from its full force. The man immediately followed up, seeing that she was merely stunned, and punched her helm with an electrified fist, throwing her a hundred feet back. She held onto Colossus, even as her arms and legs bounced off of the dirt and as her head smoked. She finished her flight on her feet, placing Colossus down as a support beam

Her first words upon regaining her cognizance were, “You bastard, you knocked my teeth out! They had better still be there when I wake up.” She spat blood and three teeth, wiping her face with a sopping, steaming gauntlet. This is ridiculous, thought the admissions officer. How can a human, let alone a little girl, still be up after such an attack? Dream or no, that should have killed her. This one is . . . promising, so I probably ought to stop complaining and hope she wins. He put his fists up again and awaited her.

“What’s your name, Mr. Admissions Officer? I probably ought to know it, if we’re gonna be allies.”

“My name is Kedjerow. I’ll ask you your name if you win: it would do me little good to have to remember a name I would never hear again.” At that, Lancer puffed out her chest and breathed a gale of icy wind at Kedjerow. The size of it made it unavoidable. He crouched down and toughed out the brief wind storm as best he could, but by the end of it he was shivering and effectively frozen in place. A dozen trees behind him, and the patch of land beneath, were coated with ice on impact. Lancer followed on the tail of her conjured storm and smashed his head with Colossus, following up with an upward swing that hopped him into the air and knocked some teeth out, to match hers. She finished her assault with a swing that cracked ribs and sent him towards the trees at the edge of the field, slipping and sliding along he newly iced field the whole way, ensuring that he would not regain his balance.

After colliding with a tree, Kedjerow dashed across the new ice in spots that weren’t cracked from his falling weight and sent a spear of lightning at Lancer. She jumped clean out of the way of this one with the aid of a magical wind beneath her to augment her jump. Lancer threw Colossus like a boomerang down at him, and as he leapt away from it, it corrected its course and flew at him again. He kept it away for a few seconds, but after avoiding its blow a fifth time, he found Lancer striking him in the face with a frigid, spiked gauntlet. She latched onto his front, and Colossus rammed his back. He was then thrown over her shoulder and slammed in the chest by something hard. It was, in fact, Colossus that had hit him, but Kedjerow could barely keep his eyes open to tell. Lancer readied another attack when he discharged a copious amount of electricity from his body, throwing her back for long enough to regain his composure. He uncoiled the black, bulbous rope around his shoulders, revealing a whip with those twenty nodes in perfect intervals.

Lancer was almost unfazed by the brief discharge, and she was ready to have at him again soon enough, not expecting this whip. Colossus countered the whip without effort. Kedjerow drew the whip down across Colossus’s length, and a detonation rang in Lancer’s ears and reduced her armor’s thickness. Her face showed some burns for it, and she shook on her feet. Kedjerow swung again, this time striking Lancer in the side with a bulb. Another explosion took her full-on, and a hole of sand was left beneath where she was before her rag doll flight. Before she got up, a streak of flames consumed her, melting her armor as well as everything within twenty feet of her. Were it not a dream, there would have been nothing left of her after that assault, but after a few seconds Kedjerow noticed that the dream still had not ended. Good, he thought.

Lancer was up again, soon enough, covered only in charred leather that had been worn under the ice. Colossus was tinged with a film of black dust, which, if anything, served to make it even more fearsome. Kedjerow could see that Lancer was wobbling on her feet, using Colossus for support, but her vitality was nearly palpable, and her life force could still be felt, even stronger than ever. Somehow, she had survived dread fire attacks. That was enough for Kedjerow to see what she could do.

“Girl . . . What is your name?”

“. . . Damn it, no. I’ll win this fight properly, and then I’ll give my name. I have to earn it, damn you!” She ran with more speed, perhaps due to the lack of armor, or perhaps because she knew that victory was within reach. When she was ten feet from Kedjerow, Lancer projected an aura as profoundly cold as the ice deep within an ancient glacier. With a thrust of Colossus, a bear spirit, made from nothing more than biting wind, clawed at Kedjerow. He swung his whip at the beast again and again, but the nodes on the whip could not strike against anything to cause an explosion, so the bear was free to freeze him. Lancer’s arm glowed white as the bear mauled Kedjerow, and at the end of the barrage Kedjerow was frozen in place, with no strength left to extricate himself. His mouth could still move. Convenient.

“The name’s Lancer. I take it you won’t be forgetting that?”

After a minute, Kedjerow said, “N-no. . . . Of course not.” With that, Lancer woke up.

edited 2nd Mar '11 6:17:51 PM by Everest