1/365 - First Encounter.
Author's notes: May this serve as a challenge. Three hundred, sixty, and five bits of writing. May be come a series, or independent stories. I present to you a short story, written less than an hour. Roughly about a thousand and twenty words in totality.
What's this bit, you might ask? It's one hundred per cent fiction. It's a fair bit of flash. Flash fiction, as it were.
Of course, it doesn't make much sense. But there's more to come. This is only to exercise my writing, more on a slow, but steady rate. Each day, I will try to write. To complete a year of shorts. Small, healthy doses of writing exercises. Let's see if it helps, in any way.
Okay, without further ado, here's the first:
- First Encounter.
"Just what the fuck do you plan to do with your life?"
It was just as I envisioned it, after the past few months. I can't really remember the number of times we gone through this, my father and I. But before anything else, here's the skinny.
My name is Lev, and I just turned twenty not so long ago. I eat my father's sermon for breakfast, and I regurgitate everything before I go to bed. I swear with all things he approves of, there's none left in my list of things to do.
So I'm a perfectly healthy lion in senior year, kind of suffered from a mild case of ADHD. My mother has the same thing, but really, I have the better end of the stick. I do have friends, but I'd rather be left alone. They say I get too rough. But playtime is playtime, isn't it?
Back to the story.
"Didn't I say I want you to be a lawyer?"
"But dad, I..."
"Want to be a game developer? A software engineer? A typical unemployed-computer-geek-next-door?"
Okay, so he has a point. I don't really like the crocodile next door. He's borderline obese, but that's because he seats his scaly ass in front of the computer, all day. There's nothing admirable about his general lack of hygiene.
Earlier this morning, while we were in health class, we were talking about some fair amount of psychology. There's this thing about it that was interesting, but then I just had to play with my cellphone. Mind you, these small packets of technology aren't really allowed in class, but I kept it, anyway. I can't leave it in my locker now, can I?
I guess I have an excuse for it. I record all my lectures so I can sit down and listen to them with my dad. He has a way of making me learn the things I do not need. At least, not when I had hoped to develop my own game. Wait, I think it's possible, but my dad isn't really going to approve of it. But one can hope, right?
Where was I?
Oh, yes. The phone was vibrating against my thigh. Why I strapped it between my legs, I do not know. I go to a private school, so that means I have a uniform I need to wear, and slacks aren't really my thing. It's okay, though. I have a vibrating phone between my legs, and my crotch doubled in size.
Thank goodness for these desks. And I'm on the far end of the room. We follow this sort of buddy system. Very much like grade school. Jesus Christ, we're inseparable. Like split a coconut open, and you get two halves. This time, we're only talking about two desks placed together.
The relief is not in knowing I have a desk buddy. I'm particularly fond of my empty seat beside me. I knocked the squirrel out (and probably a few teeth in the process). No one really saw what I did, but she looked like she had been hit by a truck. Not that it's important, though. She's on her way to recovery, but I don't think she'd be going to school for a while.
Anyway, health class is like for children. In a Christian school. I'd kill for a college anatomy class, but it's only a few months away. Yeah, whatever.
"Are you listening, Lev?"
"Ch... Yeah."
"What was the last thing--?"
"You asked if I were listening."
"Before tha--"
"I'm not going to be a computer programmer?"
"That was twenty -fucking- minutes ag--!"
"...go. Oh..."
So anyway, health class. It was being taught by my favorite coach, a black panther. Mr. Palgrave used to take me out on excursions. Whenever I find myself out of class, it's because he's making me trod, gallop, and neigh like a horse. Like, literally. Our school doesn't really have a cheetah around. They are really pulled out fast, and move to better states. Better education, really.
As for me, I'm this school's second best runner. Second best. Only next to Mr. Palgrave.
I'm not sure many people would agree with him when he said I'm battery-operated. I mean, come on. Whenever I tuck my head to my stomach, I can't hear what I hear when I do the same to my favorite Jurassic Park T-Rex. Which reminds me, I need to replace his batteries.
OK, back to my class. Everyone's laughing. I don't know why.
"Coach?"
"Yes, Mr. Ivanov?"
"What's so funny? I mean I don't get it."
"We were only talking about neurotransmitters."
"Oh."
He didn't mind me much. Neither did I. Actually, I minded my own business, but I really want to just open my pants and take a look at my phone. I did just that.
Tiger around a ten-foot radius to me raised a paw. Everyone looked. I snagged my phone.
"Is there something wrong with Lev's chemicals in his brain?"
***
The next thing I knew, it was dismissal time. I got home after beating Albert up. He cried and begged. I knew my knuckles were also sore, but I found it so difficult pulling away from him. I liked the way I straddled his chest. And pounded his face to mash.
They said it took four other seniors to get me off him. I was surprised I didn't get in trouble.
Maybe it's because numb nuts like Clive should just keep his comments to himself. Or above the belt. I have feelings too, you know?
My dad looks really angry at me, now. And as for me, I'm just looking at my bruised paws. What's between me and my life is this: Insert your generic pre-law degree, and law. That adds to how many years of education? Uh, I can only count ten digits with my pawfingers, and add a few with my pawtoes when I have to repeat a few years. I just want to hop on World of Warcraft already.
"Dad?"
"What is it, Lev?"
"I want to be a wrestler."