The Dark Side of the Moon
#15 of Writing Challenges
Hello all! Here is another writing group story for your viewing pleasure. We decided to do things a little different this time around and do more a challenge than a prompt. The challenge for this week is:write a story as if your audience has no concept of what a furry or anthro is. Or that you're the first person to ever write or draw such creatures. Get your descriptive pens ready.
Had a lot of fun with this one. it's important to review the basics from time to time so you don't fall into traps. It's easy to take details and public knowledge for granted for ease of speed and writing. If you would like to check out the group, click here: Telegram Group: Writing Corner (18+ members only) Readers and writers are welcome!
Happy reading.
The Dark Side of the Moon
By Evan Drake
© 2019, Evan Drake, All Rights Reserved
Carter stared at his home computer screen, tapping one long, bony, scaly finger on the desk in an uneven rhythm while chewing on his finger nails. Taking up a large portion of the screen was one of his old pictures. Standing up straight at five-eleven, Picture Carter stared back, a half-smile on his face accentuating his short, square muzzle and bright yellow snake-like eyes. His brown, short-cut hair was brushed and well-trimmed. He still had his striking facial features, nothing could take that away. Carter grumbled under his breath and flicked his forked tongue across his lips as he ran a hand through his hair which now better resembled a dust mop. His smile was not what it once was. Carter ran a finger down the jagged-pink scar on his left cheek which stood out even more thanks to the mud-brown scales covering every inch of his body. It was worse whenever he tried to flash his once award-winning smile. There was a time when he could've gotten anything he wanted just looking at someone. Now, he was lucky if he could convince someone to tell him what time it was.
Picture Him stood there, smiling with his friends and wearing a sweater he had received one Christmas by some designer whose name he couldn't remember. Carter looked down at his current outfit: the plain grey t-shirt he now wore was a size too large and covered in mustard stains, and the edges of the sleeves were beginning to show years worth of wear and tear. His bottoms weren't much better. Instead of being covered in stains from yesterday's lunch, it was dingy and worn with a hole just above the right knee. Carter stuck a finger in the hole wondering when it appeared and if it truly mattered. He gave his picture one last look, wondering if instead of posting things on social media, should he clean up and try to put his life back together.
He sighed and typed the words "Out celebrating my new job!" in bold font and clicked the post button at the bottom of the screen. People didn't need to know he was actually fired, and then dumped. They didn't need to know that instead of celebrating with his friends, he was wasting away at home reminiscing about how good he used to look.
Carter was sure he wasn't the only one who felt that way. He often saw the posts of his friends on social media talking about how good their lives were and how they loved life only to receive a phone call from not even two hours later from them cursing, screaming, and crying about the life they so proudly flaunted for random strangers.
The computer's notification tone rang, breaking the stagnant silence of the room. He turned to the screen and saw the picture already had 10 likes and a comment. His thick tail shaking slightly with annoyance beneath him, he clicked the comment notification. The comment came from a user he didn't recognize and contained only the single word "congrats!" followed by a half-dozen smiling emojis.
He snorted at the comment. A random stranger contacted him more than his own brother. With a heavy sigh, he stood up from the computer chair and walked toward the kitchen, scratching his slightly pudgy stomach as he walked, his three-toed claws clicking on the wooden floor in desperate need of a good mopping. I'm gaining weight again, he thought. If he cared, he would start working out again, but he stopped caring a long time ago.
Perhaps he would make a game of it. Let everything about himself go, stop washing, cutting his hair, and maintaining his figure. Then post pictures of himself surrounded by the detritus of the life he once had and see how many people would maintain their facade of cheerful bullshit before someone finally said what they were really thinking. Perhaps they would try to blandish him into fitting their supposed image with soft, comforting words. Or maybe, realizing the hideous truth, they would leave him alone.
He didn't bother turning on the light in the kitchen, resolving to maunder about in the only source of light coming from the computer screen. He grabbed a can of beer from the refrigerator and a box of crackers from the cabinet and shuffled back to the computer.
"It's five-'o-clock somewhere, right?" he asked the silence then chuckled at his joke. The funny part was he didn't even like alcohol. He drank because that was what people did when they felt like battered shit.
That thought made his mind wander. He imagined himself having a conversation with his mind.
"Why can't I mope the way I want to?"
"Because that's not how it's done. You're supposed to show obvious depressive symptoms, drink yourself into a hole, and be an unfeeling asshole to everyone who bothered to learn your name."
"But why?"
"It's the only way people will believe you."
"Again, why? Why do I care if people believe me? Since when do I need validation to feel lower than dirt? Am I supposed to get a permission slip, too?"
"Hey, buddy, you're preaching to the choir. I'm just telling you how it is?"
With that, he downed the rest of the beer in two long gulps then crushed the can in his fist and tossed it over his shoulder. He knew he would pay for that later when the alcohol was absorbed into his system, but so what? He would rot his way, how he wanted, and forget what other people thought.
Starting tomorrow, he would poor out the beer. It tasted like dirt, and he hated the resulting hangover anyway. If other people wanted to drink it, that was their business. Next, he would start showering again and wearing clean clothes. On a few occasions he caught of a whiff of his stench and didn't care for it much. Why submit to olfactory torture when he was already feeling sorry for himself? Why did he need to fit some pre-conceived notion of what he should feel and how he should behave for feeling it? He had no one to impress besides some random strangers who viewed his life from beyond a digital screen and, thinking about it, didn't care what they thought of him.
Carter picked up the crumpled beer can and threw it in the trash bin. Then he deleted the fake post of himself at his "new job".
Thank you so much for reading my story. If you like what you read and want to show your support, you can find me on Patreon. Patrons can get early access to future chapters, exclusive stories, and behind-the-scenes content: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=23432275