The embarrassing teenage fiction topic
- Thread starter The Wooster
- Start date
Recommended Videos
Thing is, it's a lot closer for me in terms of time, and I have ego-boost material on here to compare it to.NewClassic post=18.72730.771681 said:
I know... isn't it cringeworthy?Amnestic post=18.72730.771682 said:You even put the x's bordering your nameLabyrinth post=18.72730.771678 said:
I think this was pretty good but anyway:
The Dentist
Hi. My name is John Ronson. Your average 24 year old bloke, I live in a pokey flat with an annoying flatmate called Mark who drinks far too much and works far too little. I have an average office job at an average firm making average vehicle parts with an average boss. Everything about me is average.
Sunday morning, ahhhh, lazy day. I realise I’m wearing last night’s jeans and think, almost, about changing them. Nah, I’ll just keep these on. Ah! Dentist! Dentist at two thirty, better get ready. Hmm what’s the time? I glance at the clock: two fifteen. Uh Oh. I quickly throw on a shirt and some shoes and bolt out the door. Without my keys. I turn around, hoping perhaps that the door will stay open until I reach it. Almost in slow motion I rush back up the stairs to the door, hands outstretched, as though it will somehow prevent the door from closing, I can see it slowly, almost cruelly, shutting. I leap at the door hoping that perhaps I can reach it. But as usual fate isn’t on my side and I fall flat on my face with my hand clamped firmly in the now shut door. I let out a silent scream; you know the type when you open your mouth as though you’re going to yell reeeaally loudly but then you just end up standing/sitting/lying there like an idiot clutching your leg or something with your mouth open.
Okay, I’ve got my hand stuck in the door and I just fell flat on my face, I can’t shout because the only person that can hear me is Mrs. Traff upstairs, who will probably throw one of her millions of cats at me, and My flatmate Mark, Who hasn’t woken up before three in twenty years, except when Match Of The Day or possibly a repeat of last night’s Wife Swap is on the telly. I can’t reach the door handle so I decide to call someone. I manage to dial my girlfriend Sarah’s number but all I get is that annoying female voice saying “Welcome to the Vodafone voicemail service. The person you have called is not available at the moment and- beeeeeep”. I try my Mum next; the conversation goes something like this:
Me: Hi, Hi Mum?
Mum: Hello John, How are you?
Me: Mum I’m fine, well not really because I’ve-
Mum: Oh is something wrong Johnny? Well you come round and I’ll see what I can do.
Me: Well that’s the problem Mum, you see I can’t because I-
Mum: Oh you can’t come and see me? Well I’ll give you the doctor’s number and I’m sure he’ll sort it out.
Me: But Mum, it’s not like-
Mum: Bye dearie.
Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Oh great. Perfect. Suddenly I have a burst of genius, I’ll call Mary.
It is then when I drop my phone down the stairs.
This time I really shout, a cry of anger only reserved for the times of utter desperation in a man’s life like when you’re on the Tube, you’re running late for a very important interview which could get you a good job and a good salary. You’re at the station and you can see the train, it’s a bit packed but you can just about fit on. You’re just about to get on when a stupid businessman with a ridiculous comb-over and a briefcase rushes past you with a mumbled “Sorry” before barging your shoulder and taking up the last available space on the train. It is a primal scream.
“AAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!” I almost sob before collapsing on the floor in defeat. And then, for reasons unknown I start to laugh. It starts of as a little chuckle at the stupidity of my dilemma before slowly growing louder and louder until it becomes a hearty laugh, a crazy laugh, the sort that evil guys do in bad horror films or Dr. Evil from the Austin Powers series. This actually worries me because it indicates the fact that my problem is so pathetic that I can laugh at it. There’s only one thing for it.
I take my shoe off, and, like an Olympian readying himself for the final throw of the javelin, the throw that could see him either knocked out of the Olympics or see him standing up there on that podium, I aim at the handle of the door, and threw. Just as I hope I hit my hand which finally comes loose. I feel on top of the world. The Olympian has thrown the javelin and he has thrown it better than anyone. And standing on that podium, in front of all those people, he has got what he wanted, a gold medal. While jumping for joy I notice that my shoe had in fact lodged in the door, keeping it open, things just get better and better. I race inside my flat and, creeping so as not to wake the sleeping tramp-like figure on the sofa named Mark I grab my keys and my shoe and head out the door.
As I stand, waiting, in the rain for a bus I suddenly become aware of something. My pockets have seemed extremely light since I had burst out of the block of flats into the cold, industrial, London air. I flick through my imaginary book of things I should ALWAYS have in my pocket. Keys, Wallet, Phone, Spare Change. Phone! I left it at the bottom of the stairs in my hurry to get out! I bolt back to my flat where I could make out a small gang of scally looking kids huddled around the bottom of the stairs. I push open the wooden door and try to see what all the kids are looking at. When I see I almost have a nervous breakdown, a heart attack, and a panic attack at the same time. They are admiring their new free phone. My phone. I don’t want to try and grab it off me as they might try to stab me or something. Suddenly an idea strikes, I could pretend to be the fuzz! Oh John Ronson, the levels you sink to. I prepare my best policeman’s accent and yell.
“Oi! You! John Ronson, Police! Is that your phone?” Brilliant I think, perhaps I should be an actor. Not asking for ID, like most teenagers with stolen goods being chased by the police would do, they proceed to run away, phone in hand. Not the desired result but it gets me somewhere. I run after them, trying to my best policeman’s run, you know, the type where they keep their back and legs perfectly straight but still carry on running, like some kind of superhuman or robot, while shouting at the same time. As they round the corner, I unfortunately fail to see the passing white van, which consequently sends me flying about five metres and gives the stupid chavvy kids a chance to make off with my phone. I can hear the white van man in the white van that had just sent me on a mystery tour five metres across the road swearing in a stream, not stopping, even for breath. I’m worried that he might suffocate himself. Not wanting to face the wrath of the White Van Man I hurriedly pick myself up and hobble to the nearest bus stop where I have to once more stand in the rain with the knowledge that some kids were happily playing around with my phone.
It has been a long day. Or at least it seems like it, it’s only three O’clock. As I sit on the bus staring out the window I actually find myself looking forward to the dentist, a place where no hands can be slammed in doors, where no phones can be stolen, where everything is normal. I notice that my stop is getting gradually closer and hobble to the front of the bus, and limp off. I can see the huge white building with the words McArthur Medical and Dental Clinic engraved on it. I rush over to the door, eager to get in, away from this big, bad world. As I reach the door a smiling woman opens it for me.
“Welcome sir, would you like to take a seat in the waiting room? The Doctor will be ready any moment.” Ahhhhh, bliss, I think as I sit in my waiting room sipping free tap water. Pure, unadulterated bliss.
The Dentist
Hi. My name is John Ronson. Your average 24 year old bloke, I live in a pokey flat with an annoying flatmate called Mark who drinks far too much and works far too little. I have an average office job at an average firm making average vehicle parts with an average boss. Everything about me is average.
Sunday morning, ahhhh, lazy day. I realise I’m wearing last night’s jeans and think, almost, about changing them. Nah, I’ll just keep these on. Ah! Dentist! Dentist at two thirty, better get ready. Hmm what’s the time? I glance at the clock: two fifteen. Uh Oh. I quickly throw on a shirt and some shoes and bolt out the door. Without my keys. I turn around, hoping perhaps that the door will stay open until I reach it. Almost in slow motion I rush back up the stairs to the door, hands outstretched, as though it will somehow prevent the door from closing, I can see it slowly, almost cruelly, shutting. I leap at the door hoping that perhaps I can reach it. But as usual fate isn’t on my side and I fall flat on my face with my hand clamped firmly in the now shut door. I let out a silent scream; you know the type when you open your mouth as though you’re going to yell reeeaally loudly but then you just end up standing/sitting/lying there like an idiot clutching your leg or something with your mouth open.
Okay, I’ve got my hand stuck in the door and I just fell flat on my face, I can’t shout because the only person that can hear me is Mrs. Traff upstairs, who will probably throw one of her millions of cats at me, and My flatmate Mark, Who hasn’t woken up before three in twenty years, except when Match Of The Day or possibly a repeat of last night’s Wife Swap is on the telly. I can’t reach the door handle so I decide to call someone. I manage to dial my girlfriend Sarah’s number but all I get is that annoying female voice saying “Welcome to the Vodafone voicemail service. The person you have called is not available at the moment and- beeeeeep”. I try my Mum next; the conversation goes something like this:
Me: Hi, Hi Mum?
Mum: Hello John, How are you?
Me: Mum I’m fine, well not really because I’ve-
Mum: Oh is something wrong Johnny? Well you come round and I’ll see what I can do.
Me: Well that’s the problem Mum, you see I can’t because I-
Mum: Oh you can’t come and see me? Well I’ll give you the doctor’s number and I’m sure he’ll sort it out.
Me: But Mum, it’s not like-
Mum: Bye dearie.
Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Oh great. Perfect. Suddenly I have a burst of genius, I’ll call Mary.
It is then when I drop my phone down the stairs.
This time I really shout, a cry of anger only reserved for the times of utter desperation in a man’s life like when you’re on the Tube, you’re running late for a very important interview which could get you a good job and a good salary. You’re at the station and you can see the train, it’s a bit packed but you can just about fit on. You’re just about to get on when a stupid businessman with a ridiculous comb-over and a briefcase rushes past you with a mumbled “Sorry” before barging your shoulder and taking up the last available space on the train. It is a primal scream.
“AAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!” I almost sob before collapsing on the floor in defeat. And then, for reasons unknown I start to laugh. It starts of as a little chuckle at the stupidity of my dilemma before slowly growing louder and louder until it becomes a hearty laugh, a crazy laugh, the sort that evil guys do in bad horror films or Dr. Evil from the Austin Powers series. This actually worries me because it indicates the fact that my problem is so pathetic that I can laugh at it. There’s only one thing for it.
I take my shoe off, and, like an Olympian readying himself for the final throw of the javelin, the throw that could see him either knocked out of the Olympics or see him standing up there on that podium, I aim at the handle of the door, and threw. Just as I hope I hit my hand which finally comes loose. I feel on top of the world. The Olympian has thrown the javelin and he has thrown it better than anyone. And standing on that podium, in front of all those people, he has got what he wanted, a gold medal. While jumping for joy I notice that my shoe had in fact lodged in the door, keeping it open, things just get better and better. I race inside my flat and, creeping so as not to wake the sleeping tramp-like figure on the sofa named Mark I grab my keys and my shoe and head out the door.
As I stand, waiting, in the rain for a bus I suddenly become aware of something. My pockets have seemed extremely light since I had burst out of the block of flats into the cold, industrial, London air. I flick through my imaginary book of things I should ALWAYS have in my pocket. Keys, Wallet, Phone, Spare Change. Phone! I left it at the bottom of the stairs in my hurry to get out! I bolt back to my flat where I could make out a small gang of scally looking kids huddled around the bottom of the stairs. I push open the wooden door and try to see what all the kids are looking at. When I see I almost have a nervous breakdown, a heart attack, and a panic attack at the same time. They are admiring their new free phone. My phone. I don’t want to try and grab it off me as they might try to stab me or something. Suddenly an idea strikes, I could pretend to be the fuzz! Oh John Ronson, the levels you sink to. I prepare my best policeman’s accent and yell.
“Oi! You! John Ronson, Police! Is that your phone?” Brilliant I think, perhaps I should be an actor. Not asking for ID, like most teenagers with stolen goods being chased by the police would do, they proceed to run away, phone in hand. Not the desired result but it gets me somewhere. I run after them, trying to my best policeman’s run, you know, the type where they keep their back and legs perfectly straight but still carry on running, like some kind of superhuman or robot, while shouting at the same time. As they round the corner, I unfortunately fail to see the passing white van, which consequently sends me flying about five metres and gives the stupid chavvy kids a chance to make off with my phone. I can hear the white van man in the white van that had just sent me on a mystery tour five metres across the road swearing in a stream, not stopping, even for breath. I’m worried that he might suffocate himself. Not wanting to face the wrath of the White Van Man I hurriedly pick myself up and hobble to the nearest bus stop where I have to once more stand in the rain with the knowledge that some kids were happily playing around with my phone.
It has been a long day. Or at least it seems like it, it’s only three O’clock. As I sit on the bus staring out the window I actually find myself looking forward to the dentist, a place where no hands can be slammed in doors, where no phones can be stolen, where everything is normal. I notice that my stop is getting gradually closer and hobble to the front of the bus, and limp off. I can see the huge white building with the words McArthur Medical and Dental Clinic engraved on it. I rush over to the door, eager to get in, away from this big, bad world. As I reach the door a smiling woman opens it for me.
“Welcome sir, would you like to take a seat in the waiting room? The Doctor will be ready any moment.” Ahhhhh, bliss, I think as I sit in my waiting room sipping free tap water. Pure, unadulterated bliss.
embarassing? 3 years aog i wrote a 40 page book about my 3rd form french teacher, Madame Adams. It's too long to post here- but it came in 5 installments, which gradually got longer each time. It also had a hand drawn poster, lists of quotes, photos and cartoons, and a cover for each of the 5 stories.
This thread rules. I have an entire blog of embarassment. My memories of how high school was and what the blog implies are two different things entirely. I'll try to dig up some of my old awful writing, but for now, an example:
"Well, my future at AHS looks like it will be determined by how much work I get done this week. Which doesn't bode well for me since I haven't beaten Tactics yet."
Yes, I was the kid who almost failed out of high school because he couldn't put down a Game Boy. I really do want to firebomb my past.
"Well, my future at AHS looks like it will be determined by how much work I get done this week. Which doesn't bode well for me since I haven't beaten Tactics yet."
Yes, I was the kid who almost failed out of high school because he couldn't put down a Game Boy. I really do want to firebomb my past.
Well I'm not going to bother actually writing any of it here, but if you want to read my work (I'm more of a poet but I've written a bit of prose in my time), you can go here:
http://jobz.deviantart.com/
Some of it is pretty awful, and to me some of it is great. If you're not a DevArt member you won't be able to read the stuff with mature content...which is quite a lot of it. But anyway, read it if you like, tell me what you think. A LOT of the older stuff will seem angsty and emo, but what do you want from me? I was 13 or something.
http://jobz.deviantart.com/
Some of it is pretty awful, and to me some of it is great. If you're not a DevArt member you won't be able to read the stuff with mature content...which is quite a lot of it. But anyway, read it if you like, tell me what you think. A LOT of the older stuff will seem angsty and emo, but what do you want from me? I was 13 or something.
Oh god, my creations were absolustly horrible. Well there were a few that were ok, they were mostly storyes abotu nothing and written in past tensed third person narroration.
I have them saved on an old jump drive labeld "the memory stick". Ill pos them as sone as i can fidn the balsted thing.
I have them saved on an old jump drive labeld "the memory stick". Ill pos them as sone as i can fidn the balsted thing.
Where is it, oh man where is it....
*goes to search files on hard drive*
Found it!
Know that I wrote this when I was a sophomore in High School, and did so as a parody-thing, not as serious writings. Our teacher told us to write a short story, so I did.
I got a B+. The teacher said it was confusing.
*goes to search files on hard drive*
Found it!
Know that I wrote this when I was a sophomore in High School, and did so as a parody-thing, not as serious writings. Our teacher told us to write a short story, so I did.
I got a B+. The teacher said it was confusing.
The Group of Four goes on a Mission-Quest: A Short Story Mocking 16-bit RPGs
"Hey, wake up! You're going to miss the fair," yelled your mother. You didn't know where she was, because you hadn't opened your eyes yet. You shook your head twice, then jumped out of bed victoriously, ready for action and already fully dressed. You were about to head out the door, when your mother reminded you to pick up your allowance from the chest at the foot of your bed. You stopped a moment, and wondered why you put this money in a large chest, especially due to the currency, which was small gold coins called something other than coins. Finally, you leave for the fair, and meet your best friend and a few of his stereotypical cohorts near the bridge your mother mentioned they would be waiting at.
"Man, we've been waiting forever," said everyone in unison, and you say nothing. You're the quiet type, apparently. However, you are indeed psychic, and can project your thoughts into the minds of others, triggering creepily paralleled responses. Nobody seems to give any heed to this awesome ability, so it's never mentioned. The nerd wants to get candy, the girl wants to ride the ferris wheel, the funny one wants to see the sights, and the ridiculously-dashing-yet-somewhat-reserved-knight-like-noble-minded-blond-haired-fellow wishes to protect females. You say nothing. Your friends depart, and you follow, but only after they've completely disappeared.
Later that day, after you've experienced what you deemed to be important, you run into the funny one. He makes a funny joke. He then tells you to gather up the troupe, and gives you vague-yet-obvious hints as to where they are in the form of riddles. You find them very, very easily. You all meet up at the main attraction, which is conveniently just beginning. After the robe-wearing old story-telly man tells a story, the dancing and partying begins. You wander throughout the townsfolk, who all seem very happy and repetitive. They really don't tire of telling you how much they love the fair over, and over, and over again.
Bandits attack. The town is caught completely unawares, and several small fires start, seemingly raging but surprisingly contained and rectangular. You enter the only house that is not on fire and right in front of you. The previously mentioned robe-wearing old story-telly man is inside, and gives you a starter sword from inside his cupboard. He then tells you a story about his generic sentimentally valuable trinket that just happened to be the only thing that the bandits stole. Apparently, bandits don't like money. He asks you to retrieve the aforementioned item, which you agree to do. You like this guy. But more than that, he says he'll tell more about the trinket once you retrieve it. You decide that you'd like some companionship, because you might run into some giant rats and bees along the way to the bandit's camp - a conveniently well known location - about a mile from your village. It looks really far away, in fact, you can't even see it. But once you leave town, it's about two steps away. How awesome. You gather up your friends, and find out they have talents they and you never knew about before, such as magic and incredible swordsmanship. However, these abilities come at the price of speed. Your friends can only do one thing every five seconds. Tedious, but somehow balanced.
Oh no! A caterpillar and a giant rat attack your group, which the funny one has been referring to as a party. Who knows why. Parties are fun. This isn't fun. The dynamic duo of large rodent and furry insect decide to wait courteously for your "party" to make the first move. Defending seems ridiculous, so you attack. So do your comrades. The giant rat and caterpillar take fatal damage, and fade away. Dancing time!
Fortunately, the bandit camp ends up being a few guys sitting around a fire, wielding rudimentary weaponry, mostly daggers. There's one with a sword, and he seems to be protected by the rest. After a few cowardly threats from the funny one, the bandits decide that they want to kill you, and surround you, leaping upon you simultaneously. Another fortunate experience: the bandits end up all on the right side of you, in a nice semi-staggered line. You reside in an equally staggered line, ready for action. There's some cool music in the background, too. Somehow, this song sounds like a "Bandit Theme". After intense battle, you vanquish the lesser bandits, leaving the apparent leader standing alone. He shouts, "Triple Sword Attack!", and makes his triple sword attack. After the triple sword attack, the funny one is wounded and kneeling, due to the force of the triple sword attack. Fortunately, the ridiculously-dashing-yet-somewhat-reserved-knight-like-noble-minded-blond-haired-fellow has a potion in his belt pouch, where he also keeps his sword, shield, canoe, breastplate, tent, axe, hammer, magical fairy, helm, flying ship, books, maps, bracers, boots, money, cat, and various other items that can be sold for money. He forces the funny one's mouth open and pours the potion down it, while the girl provides cover via a very elaborate ice attack, involving cool looking poses and yelling. You are stronger than the more experienced and five-hundred-percent larger bandit leader, and defeat him. Your biceps grow, and this scares you. But of course, bigger biceps are always cool. Your friends get stronger too, even though they didn't do anything important. The bandit leader was carrying the robe-wearing old story-telly man's sentimentally valuable trinket, and you pick it up and put it in the ridiculously-dashing-yet-somewhat-reserved-knight-like-noble-minded-blond-haired-fellow's belt pouch.
After your view fades away, you somehow find yourself back in town. Cool. You don't remember traveling back, but you were probably drunk. You're not complaining. The robe-wearing story-telly man greets you at the door, knowing that you have the sentimentally valuable trinket. He tells you to come back to his house, because what he needs to communicate cannot be said out of doors. Apparently, this item has something to do with an incredibly intricate and diabolical scheme to conquer something, by a generically named threatening enemy and his evil army, full of minions of increasing difficulty. You must say goodbye to your mother and other friends, and then robe-wearing old story-telly man sends you four off on an adventure. After bidding your farewells, you head off into the sunset, while the whole town waves goodbye.
"Hey, wake up! You're going to miss the fair," yelled your mother. You didn't know where she was, because you hadn't opened your eyes yet. You shook your head twice, then jumped out of bed victoriously, ready for action and already fully dressed. You were about to head out the door, when your mother reminded you to pick up your allowance from the chest at the foot of your bed. You stopped a moment, and wondered why you put this money in a large chest, especially due to the currency, which was small gold coins called something other than coins. Finally, you leave for the fair, and meet your best friend and a few of his stereotypical cohorts near the bridge your mother mentioned they would be waiting at.
"Man, we've been waiting forever," said everyone in unison, and you say nothing. You're the quiet type, apparently. However, you are indeed psychic, and can project your thoughts into the minds of others, triggering creepily paralleled responses. Nobody seems to give any heed to this awesome ability, so it's never mentioned. The nerd wants to get candy, the girl wants to ride the ferris wheel, the funny one wants to see the sights, and the ridiculously-dashing-yet-somewhat-reserved-knight-like-noble-minded-blond-haired-fellow wishes to protect females. You say nothing. Your friends depart, and you follow, but only after they've completely disappeared.
Later that day, after you've experienced what you deemed to be important, you run into the funny one. He makes a funny joke. He then tells you to gather up the troupe, and gives you vague-yet-obvious hints as to where they are in the form of riddles. You find them very, very easily. You all meet up at the main attraction, which is conveniently just beginning. After the robe-wearing old story-telly man tells a story, the dancing and partying begins. You wander throughout the townsfolk, who all seem very happy and repetitive. They really don't tire of telling you how much they love the fair over, and over, and over again.
Bandits attack. The town is caught completely unawares, and several small fires start, seemingly raging but surprisingly contained and rectangular. You enter the only house that is not on fire and right in front of you. The previously mentioned robe-wearing old story-telly man is inside, and gives you a starter sword from inside his cupboard. He then tells you a story about his generic sentimentally valuable trinket that just happened to be the only thing that the bandits stole. Apparently, bandits don't like money. He asks you to retrieve the aforementioned item, which you agree to do. You like this guy. But more than that, he says he'll tell more about the trinket once you retrieve it. You decide that you'd like some companionship, because you might run into some giant rats and bees along the way to the bandit's camp - a conveniently well known location - about a mile from your village. It looks really far away, in fact, you can't even see it. But once you leave town, it's about two steps away. How awesome. You gather up your friends, and find out they have talents they and you never knew about before, such as magic and incredible swordsmanship. However, these abilities come at the price of speed. Your friends can only do one thing every five seconds. Tedious, but somehow balanced.
Oh no! A caterpillar and a giant rat attack your group, which the funny one has been referring to as a party. Who knows why. Parties are fun. This isn't fun. The dynamic duo of large rodent and furry insect decide to wait courteously for your "party" to make the first move. Defending seems ridiculous, so you attack. So do your comrades. The giant rat and caterpillar take fatal damage, and fade away. Dancing time!
Fortunately, the bandit camp ends up being a few guys sitting around a fire, wielding rudimentary weaponry, mostly daggers. There's one with a sword, and he seems to be protected by the rest. After a few cowardly threats from the funny one, the bandits decide that they want to kill you, and surround you, leaping upon you simultaneously. Another fortunate experience: the bandits end up all on the right side of you, in a nice semi-staggered line. You reside in an equally staggered line, ready for action. There's some cool music in the background, too. Somehow, this song sounds like a "Bandit Theme". After intense battle, you vanquish the lesser bandits, leaving the apparent leader standing alone. He shouts, "Triple Sword Attack!", and makes his triple sword attack. After the triple sword attack, the funny one is wounded and kneeling, due to the force of the triple sword attack. Fortunately, the ridiculously-dashing-yet-somewhat-reserved-knight-like-noble-minded-blond-haired-fellow has a potion in his belt pouch, where he also keeps his sword, shield, canoe, breastplate, tent, axe, hammer, magical fairy, helm, flying ship, books, maps, bracers, boots, money, cat, and various other items that can be sold for money. He forces the funny one's mouth open and pours the potion down it, while the girl provides cover via a very elaborate ice attack, involving cool looking poses and yelling. You are stronger than the more experienced and five-hundred-percent larger bandit leader, and defeat him. Your biceps grow, and this scares you. But of course, bigger biceps are always cool. Your friends get stronger too, even though they didn't do anything important. The bandit leader was carrying the robe-wearing old story-telly man's sentimentally valuable trinket, and you pick it up and put it in the ridiculously-dashing-yet-somewhat-reserved-knight-like-noble-minded-blond-haired-fellow's belt pouch.
After your view fades away, you somehow find yourself back in town. Cool. You don't remember traveling back, but you were probably drunk. You're not complaining. The robe-wearing story-telly man greets you at the door, knowing that you have the sentimentally valuable trinket. He tells you to come back to his house, because what he needs to communicate cannot be said out of doors. Apparently, this item has something to do with an incredibly intricate and diabolical scheme to conquer something, by a generically named threatening enemy and his evil army, full of minions of increasing difficulty. You must say goodbye to your mother and other friends, and then robe-wearing old story-telly man sends you four off on an adventure. After bidding your farewells, you head off into the sunset, while the whole town waves goodbye.
I didn't write fiction as a teenager. I feel pretty good about my recent stuff, and my earlier stuff is...not something I could post here.
Do it.mshcherbatskaya post=18.72730.773629 said:
Also, see my posts in some of the earlier RP's here on the escapist... ugh...
I've never been a narrative writer (poetry, now that i have always dabbled in) but i can see what's horrible ad what's not. I had an ellipsis addiction.