Black and White – Chapter 1: Explanation.
Author's notes: This will be a series. Contains homosexuality, fancy bright lights, a smelly old book, and make-believe year 12 teachers. As with my other stories, don't be afraid to show me some love. Exercise this with the usual rate-comment protocol. You know the drill. I send you all my thanks. Oh, there's no yiff yet, but there will surely be some in the future.
My first attempt at a chaptered work.
Black and White - Chapter 1: Explanation.
Science, they say, has an explanation to everything. Everything. Every single thing in this world. Maybe a few exceptions to the rule. But who knows, really?
It is science that stated this: Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. I beg to differ. There are many things, physical and beyond, that still need to be explained.
So who am I compared to these people who held calibrated intellect? I am no one, really. Until I came across a small worn-out tome. When I say it's small, it's small. It's like your typical school notebook, but when you flip through the pages, you could swear a small tome like that could not contain that many. It does smell a bit funny. Kind of an odd, old smell.
I'd probably tell you about how it came into my possession.
"Where's your calculus homework?" Spotted hyena, Ms. Vale, spotted me.
"Doug ate it."
"Douglas? Is this true?"
Behind me was Doug, a black Labrador. Between his teeth was my homework. And not only that, but a twenty bill tucked in his pocket. We set ourselves up.
We were sent out. I was sent out so I can do the homework I ate. And he followed after a good scolding. It seemed like he was sent out so he could watch me do my homework, again, and eat it in case we wanted out. I'm sure Ms. Vale lost track of the number of times she'd sent us out. It had been the eighth this month.
How I'd manage to pass my courses is a mystery. No, I didn't pay a calculus professor to do my homework; I know I'd make excuses to go out of class, but I'd always turn everything in. I just don't need to be in a class I won't benefit from, but that doesn't mean I'd flunk because of something stupid like that. I'd bring myself closer to the Tradition.
I come from a family of relatively prominent people. The Tradition. One of the contemporary Traditions you'd remember will definitely my uncle. His name was Isaac, who is a part of the Tradition. As for me, I'm really close to the Tradition. Our favorite pastime was visiting the library. Either to read or to write. And that was what's expected of me.
So I went to the school library. Obviously, that's where one would find books of all sorts. It's on top of my list of ten places to visit when bored. I find it a sad fact people hardly take the time to read what it offers. Oh well, more books for me.
Vacant, as always. My best friend was seated on a bean bag couch. Typical of him to laze around. I liked the process of selection. Which to read - this or that - and how to read? Here, Doug, read Les Miserables first. He flipped through the pages. I don't know if he's reading, or pretending to read, but he seemed to like it.
I'd gotten all the books I wanted. One's an international law book. Two detective novels. And oh, I also got myself a Twilight book. I examined the law book. It was old, dusty, and incredibly light. I let my fingers rub the spine. 'Oh, goody,' I thought to myself. 'What sort of obsolete law will I read first?' Douglas looked over to me. He always laughed with me when I started laughing upon reading the opening lines of a book.
"Well?" He looked at me with hopeful eyes.
"Well what?"
"What do you think?"
I showed him what I found. The book was carved, hollowed out. No wonder it was light. You know how agent double-oh-seven would lug around a not-so-suspicious book that has a pistol inside? Same principle, different content.
To address his inquiry, I muttered "oh, nothing, just a book within a book."
I was about to shelf it when Douglas took my paw. He asked if we could read that instead of Les Miserables. I agreed. We later discovered there was nothing to read. The pages were empty, and looked like it needed a lot of work.
Evan Asimov, I signed the spine. I made it my mission to write my fresh ideas onto an aged, empty, unruled, notebook. Gross, but I already liked the notebook. I spent the remaining math-cum-library period writing prose and poetry. The bell rang, and Douglas and I rocketed to our English class.
Okay, so I liked English class. Today, we were to share a bit of creative writing. I dug out my newfound notebook, and wondered where all the words I wrote minutes ago had gone. Nada. I cleared my throat, and squinted my eyes from behind the black, plastic frame of my spectacles. I began.
"Killing the habit. Has never been. Easy for an old dog." This cued soft laughter in the background.
"I am nineteen. When I was younger, I went to a baseball camp. My coach was particularly fond of the progress I made as a pitcher." Well, to splice the rest of the story, it ended with "... remains to be a violation I occasionally relive by stuffing a cold hotdog inside my tight pucker. Occasionally."
When I was done 'reading,' I shut my notebook, and made my way back to my seat. Applause filled my ears. Mr. Flighter asked for the title of my creative piece. I said it's called 'Confessions of a Troubled Hound." His face lit up as he marked an A-minus on his record. He said it'll appear on that month's school paper, but I wasn't really happy.
One reason was because I knew I had written something better before coming to class. Another because I really knew that boy from baseball camp.
But don't you worry. That hound sat well. He was strong, and now, stronger than ever. This distant memory remained to be a nothing more than just that. Some stories you never tell, because you really should not. Some stories are never told, even when they deserve to be heard. It must be the way of things.
Thank god storytelling was over. I was sweating. I was sweating profusely by the time I got back to my seat. I honestly knew the hound in my story.
And I'm glad he wasn't me -
Grove was his name -
Douglas Grove.
That night, Doug called me. I automatically told him I was sorry, but he dismissed it. Somehow, I knew I'd make it up to him by taking him out to our favorite, local, ice cream parlor. But before we said our good-byes, I asked him.
"Doug, buddy, you saw me write at the library, didn't you?"
"Wasn't that a story about the possibility of bright lights at night being extra-terrestrial abduction of sorts?"
"It is. Or was. You can look at it tomorrow. Good night, Doug."
"Night, Evan. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you."
The dial tone busied itself. I could feel myself heave a sigh. I was relieved that someone else recalled me writing - and I wasn't losing it just yet. And I felt hopelessly helpless being told I am loved. But that's because I could not reciprocate the feeling.
At the end of it all, I felt sad. Sad for Doug, because he was molested. I mean, if he weren't, he'd probably straight like me. I felt sad for myself, too. Because of all the many friends I could have made, it had to be that foolish, black Labrador.