Waluigi911
Smash Lord
Today is the day in which we live. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Planning for the future and deciding from the past leads to a life, but you can only live it in today. Why would you worry about any other day?
I never know how to begin a story.
Somehow, I never could worry about anything to do with any day once I opened a book. There was nothing more intoxicating to me than a story. My young life was deeply impacted by the magic of literature, fiction that came to life not from the necessity of living today, but from imagination shared between someone who lived thousands of miles away who scratched a pen into paper and a reader who cared about nothing but what these scratchings interpreted. This was a strong and personal link, unrealized by many because they hold the magic to themselves, but shared by those who would reach out and exclaim to the author what feelings they elicited. I was the lazy sort who kept the magic to himself, absorbing it page by page, book after book, from short stories to series. I never wished to praise the writer, for I did not know them, though I was witness to what could spring from their mind. How could I not know them after all?
The years drifted by, I aged, and I became forced to face what I had ignored until then: tomorrow is an attention-*****. The past is but the wise, old man whose ramblings we will dismiss until the sharp sting of consequences reminds us that we are not wise without him. The present is a needy child who has to be looked after. Yes, I am aware of the old saying: you should never use a preposition to end a sentence with.
What always perplexes me is that very rarely do I remember how most stories begin. How do you begin a story? With action, drawing in the audience through descriptions of some high-adrenaline occurrence that involves people you'll soon get to know? Would it be worth it to throw your characters into a scene of action before letting the reader get to know that person? Maybe you should start organically, beginning with the setting of nature and its condition in your first scene, leading up to a description of your main character before any sort of action unfolds. Then again, wouldn't that be a droll way to introduce people to something from your mind? I suppose with colorful verbiage, it would be a treat to the eyes, but I was never one for illustrious words. One would think, with all I have read, I would have learned a thing or two about drawing in a reader, but I'm not one to study. The only beginning line I can remember is “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” which just beckons to your soul. We all have some personal “times” that were both the best and the worst. It's relatable, and it's classic. It's also oft-quoted, which definitely helps cement it in your mind, which is how I remember it. I cannot even be certain that I've read that book; I have no recollection of the story. I just remember thinking of how much I could not understand what was happening.
And I am the least likely protagonist. I am the very definition of unassuming. In fact, you could say that I always find the wrong thing to say. After all, sometimes my stubborn side wants to stand up for my opinion, regardless of whether or not it was asked of me. You'll see.
With such a rich history of having my head buried in books, I felt like such an alien to the world around me. This was evident by my demeanor as I walked. My shoulders were slumped, my hands were in my pockets, and my eyes were cast upon the ground. A psychoanalyst making a profile about your average, white introvert wouldn't have even noticed me. I blended in well with the masses, much as I hated being surrounded by people.
I say all this, and begin on a day wherein I was doing my best blending-in to date, to tell you that listening to the attention-***** and the wise, old man really doesn't help, even if you take the good things to heart. That needy child will run up behind you and goose the **** out of you.
“Fred?”
I stopped in my tracks and brought my eyes up to this foreign angle of looking forward.
“Uh, your name is Fred, right?”
“No,” I shook my head. I was lying out of my ass.
“Oh,” she looked confused.
Dear God, she was way too beautiful to be looking for me. She just had me mistaken for somebody else named Fred, the fact that we were both named Fred had to be a coincidence. I was saving her the embarrassment of telling fake Fred whatever she needed to tell the real Fred before I stopped her and told her she had the wrong Fred. I don't know if you're aware of this, but my name is Fred. Hello.
“I'm sorry,” she said, nervously running a stray red strand of hair behind her ear. “I was supposed to, uh... I just...”
Was she about to start crying?
“Have a good day,” she turned to leave.
And that would've been the end of it.
It was summer in August, a good time where it wasn't blisteringly hot, but still warm enough to invite girls to come out in their shorts and thin shirts. I always thought summertime was very pleasing to the eyes. Of course, it was very displeasing to the nose. I had terrible body odor, that I worked hard to keep covered up. I applied under-arm deodorant every time I had the chance throughout the day, and carried a small bottle of Axe body spray with me whenever possible. Since I hauled a heavy backpack around, it was handy for carrying the body spray, but my back was a vertical swampland. Yes, I was going to school, and for what? Nothing. I was undecided. My advisor told me I could spend the first year concentrating on core classes, but I needed to decide on a major. The only subject I could cite as interest was English, but essays were so uninspired and forced, I hated writing them.
She had dropped a piece of paper; it had slipped from the pages of the books she held to her chest.
I picked it up and looked at it. It was a doodle. My best guess was that it was a liger. It's expression was forlorn, so much so I was starting to feel lonely.
I noticed that she rounded the far corner of the Ditko Hall. I debated whether or not I should bother trying to catch her just to return a doodle, but I felt weird holding on to it. A compromise: I would just walk over to the corner, and if I didn't see her, I would just throw it away. She could doodle another liger, no problem. Maybe make another one that's happy, or draw him a bunch of liger friends.
When I rounded the corner, and a shrub, to my dismay, she was sitting on a bench by herself, nursing her tears. I made her cry? Impossible. ****, I needed to turn around and get out of there. I took a step back and stumbled over the shrub, falling flat on my clumsy ass, and she saw me.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” she ran over.
“You dropped this,” I pushed the doodle into her hands, trying to ignore that I just tripped myself up.
“Thank you,” she said with a tear-stained smile. “Do you need some help up?”
“No, no, I'm just going to lie here on this sidewalk for a while and hope that nobody notices me.”
“A little late for that, isn't it?” she said as she stuffed her doodle inside a book.
“I guess,” I uttered back. She nodded politely and quickly looked off to the side. Just before an awkward silence could descend over us, I obeyed an impulse for curiosity. “Did I make you cry?”
“Oh, gosh,” she quivered. “No, no, no. I just... I'm just on my period.”
I nodded understandably, and she blinked in my direction. “That. Was a lie.”
“Oh,” I said.
“The truth is, I have this letter that I've had for three years,” she dug into another book. Something told me these books were her makeshift folders. “That said I would meet somebody today at 5:26 P.M. who would change my life, as long as I stopped him.”
“That's really specific,” I said. “And... Strange. Three years ago? And... what, you thought that was me?”
“Well, yeah,” she said, producing a crumpled, yellowed envelope. “You fit the description, and your name was supposed to be Fred Bux.”
I took the envelope and gently opened the worn lip, removing a letter with a coffee ring on it. I glanced at her, and she stared at me anxiously.
“Let me get this straight,” I stated, still seated on the ground. “You got a letter a few years ago, telling you to be here at this time, and you had to look for someone like me and call me Fred. Do you even go to school here?”
She cast her eyes down. It was a no. “Listen, I didn't believe it at first. I thought Fred Bux was made-up. But you're not the only thing in the letter. It's said a few different things that have been guiding me my whole life. This letter... it's... it's magic.”
“I'm sorry, did you say it was tragic?”
“No... it's magic. Like, not natural. No explanation. It just changes... Magically.”
“What?!”
“It's a letter that tells me the future. Or... it tells everyone the future.”
I didn't know what to say, so I just said the first thing that popped in my head. “Everyone?”
“Yeah. I would read it and see it telling me about you. My mom would read it, and it told her she would have another child. After her pregnancy, it was blank.”
“I see,” I nodded along like I was buying it.
“But the letter told my uncle the future. He was traveling, and a mix-up at the airport took his luggage to Rome. He had to go there to get his stuff back, and the letter said he would go to Rome long before he left. My best friend was valedictorian, and the letter told her so! My boyfriend got a baseball scholarship.”
I don't know why my heart sank when she mentioned a boyfriend.
“My dad was on TV! My cousin bought a new car. Some stranger I showed it to outside the mall went on to become famous. The letter told each of them this. And more.”
“Why would he go to Rome?”
“Sorry?”
“Your uncle. He went to Rome to get his luggage? Why wouldn't he wait for them to bring it on another flight?”
“He was already in Italy. It was a two-hour drive.”
“Oh,” I was thoughtful for a moment. “This all sounds well and good, but honestly, how could this letter have really predicted all that? It all sounds like they just kind of made this stuff happen themselves.”
“It goes blank whenever it happens. It tells them one thing about the future, and that's it.”
“This is one mysterious letter,” I decided.
“And I would love to hear what it's telling you.”
I looked down and I read the letter. I looked up at her, and laughed. She was confused.
“This is a joke!” I hollered. “This is all a big joke! You're good, honestly, you're so convincing. But there are holes in your story. Your uncle went to Italy after this magic letter told him he would go to Rome? Your cousin bought a car? Your dad got himself on TV? Somebody famous got that because of you?! It's ****in' clever. Are you filming a prank Youtube video? Where's the camera?”
I looked around. I looked back at her, expecting her to drop the charade and start laughing. She was solemn.
“My dad was on TV,” she said. “When the local news station interviewed him after he was in an accident.”
She looked down.
“Now you're just trying to guilt me,” I said. “Listen, I'm sorry if this is serious to you, but this ain't for real.”
“Please,” she looked up at me with puppy eyes. “What does it say? I've waited three years to meet you, and now I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”
I furrowed my brows in concern, but I obliged.
Dear Mr. Fredrick Bux,
Or shall I call you James Bond? After all, that is how you introduced yourself the first time we met. I still remember that with such joy. Your timely wit is outdone only by your magnanimity. I believe that character is a tree with reputation its shadow. The shadow is what we think of it, whilst the tree is the real thing. You, my grand friend, are a strong oak.
I hope this letter receives you well and gay. I understand that this word means something different to you, but you shall come to know that this matters not to me, for I am stubborn in my speech. I do not govern others the way they speak, and I trust you shall do me the same courtesy. In fact, I know of it.
You are about to experience many trials, and your very life will be demanded from you. For this, I apologize, but you will welcome them, eventually. You shall discover that which we all need to find, and you shall harness it to obey your will. Indeed, the many people you shall meet and the many worlds you shall see will cause you to question your cognition, but trust me when I inform you that everything is indeed real and effective.
I shall not know you when we first meet. Take solace in my words, and receive them as evidence to suggest that I will grow to accept you as someone I can trust. Please remember this, and do not forsake me. We all have to learn, including myself.
Now, take heed to the urgent words I bring you, for you may yet read them for a limited amount of time. You are in danger. You and Mary both. Pack what you can and leave in haste. If you will take on her protection as your goal, you shall succeed.
Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other.
You told me that.
Regards,
Abraham Lincoln
I looked at her, and her jaw had dropped.
“Well, we have to leave! Now! We have to pack up and go!”
“Go where?”
“I... I don't know.”
“Listen, this has been fun and all,” I said, finally standing to my feet. “But it's gone on way too long. I've got a quiz in ten minutes, and I've wasted my brush-up time with you.”
“But, Fred!”
“Good-bye,” I said as I shoved the letter into her hands, walking past her.
“Listen,” she ran after me. “This is serious. I am for real!”
“If you're for real, then that just tells me how crazy you are,” I blurted out.
She stopped, and I felt a pang of regret well up inside me, but I had already said the words. And besides, I was speaking the truth.
She sobbed into the blank letter.
I never know how to begin a story.
Somehow, I never could worry about anything to do with any day once I opened a book. There was nothing more intoxicating to me than a story. My young life was deeply impacted by the magic of literature, fiction that came to life not from the necessity of living today, but from imagination shared between someone who lived thousands of miles away who scratched a pen into paper and a reader who cared about nothing but what these scratchings interpreted. This was a strong and personal link, unrealized by many because they hold the magic to themselves, but shared by those who would reach out and exclaim to the author what feelings they elicited. I was the lazy sort who kept the magic to himself, absorbing it page by page, book after book, from short stories to series. I never wished to praise the writer, for I did not know them, though I was witness to what could spring from their mind. How could I not know them after all?
The years drifted by, I aged, and I became forced to face what I had ignored until then: tomorrow is an attention-*****. The past is but the wise, old man whose ramblings we will dismiss until the sharp sting of consequences reminds us that we are not wise without him. The present is a needy child who has to be looked after. Yes, I am aware of the old saying: you should never use a preposition to end a sentence with.
What always perplexes me is that very rarely do I remember how most stories begin. How do you begin a story? With action, drawing in the audience through descriptions of some high-adrenaline occurrence that involves people you'll soon get to know? Would it be worth it to throw your characters into a scene of action before letting the reader get to know that person? Maybe you should start organically, beginning with the setting of nature and its condition in your first scene, leading up to a description of your main character before any sort of action unfolds. Then again, wouldn't that be a droll way to introduce people to something from your mind? I suppose with colorful verbiage, it would be a treat to the eyes, but I was never one for illustrious words. One would think, with all I have read, I would have learned a thing or two about drawing in a reader, but I'm not one to study. The only beginning line I can remember is “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” which just beckons to your soul. We all have some personal “times” that were both the best and the worst. It's relatable, and it's classic. It's also oft-quoted, which definitely helps cement it in your mind, which is how I remember it. I cannot even be certain that I've read that book; I have no recollection of the story. I just remember thinking of how much I could not understand what was happening.
And I am the least likely protagonist. I am the very definition of unassuming. In fact, you could say that I always find the wrong thing to say. After all, sometimes my stubborn side wants to stand up for my opinion, regardless of whether or not it was asked of me. You'll see.
With such a rich history of having my head buried in books, I felt like such an alien to the world around me. This was evident by my demeanor as I walked. My shoulders were slumped, my hands were in my pockets, and my eyes were cast upon the ground. A psychoanalyst making a profile about your average, white introvert wouldn't have even noticed me. I blended in well with the masses, much as I hated being surrounded by people.
I say all this, and begin on a day wherein I was doing my best blending-in to date, to tell you that listening to the attention-***** and the wise, old man really doesn't help, even if you take the good things to heart. That needy child will run up behind you and goose the **** out of you.
“Fred?”
I stopped in my tracks and brought my eyes up to this foreign angle of looking forward.
“Uh, your name is Fred, right?”
“No,” I shook my head. I was lying out of my ass.
“Oh,” she looked confused.
Dear God, she was way too beautiful to be looking for me. She just had me mistaken for somebody else named Fred, the fact that we were both named Fred had to be a coincidence. I was saving her the embarrassment of telling fake Fred whatever she needed to tell the real Fred before I stopped her and told her she had the wrong Fred. I don't know if you're aware of this, but my name is Fred. Hello.
“I'm sorry,” she said, nervously running a stray red strand of hair behind her ear. “I was supposed to, uh... I just...”
Was she about to start crying?
“Have a good day,” she turned to leave.
And that would've been the end of it.
It was summer in August, a good time where it wasn't blisteringly hot, but still warm enough to invite girls to come out in their shorts and thin shirts. I always thought summertime was very pleasing to the eyes. Of course, it was very displeasing to the nose. I had terrible body odor, that I worked hard to keep covered up. I applied under-arm deodorant every time I had the chance throughout the day, and carried a small bottle of Axe body spray with me whenever possible. Since I hauled a heavy backpack around, it was handy for carrying the body spray, but my back was a vertical swampland. Yes, I was going to school, and for what? Nothing. I was undecided. My advisor told me I could spend the first year concentrating on core classes, but I needed to decide on a major. The only subject I could cite as interest was English, but essays were so uninspired and forced, I hated writing them.
She had dropped a piece of paper; it had slipped from the pages of the books she held to her chest.
I picked it up and looked at it. It was a doodle. My best guess was that it was a liger. It's expression was forlorn, so much so I was starting to feel lonely.
I noticed that she rounded the far corner of the Ditko Hall. I debated whether or not I should bother trying to catch her just to return a doodle, but I felt weird holding on to it. A compromise: I would just walk over to the corner, and if I didn't see her, I would just throw it away. She could doodle another liger, no problem. Maybe make another one that's happy, or draw him a bunch of liger friends.
When I rounded the corner, and a shrub, to my dismay, she was sitting on a bench by herself, nursing her tears. I made her cry? Impossible. ****, I needed to turn around and get out of there. I took a step back and stumbled over the shrub, falling flat on my clumsy ass, and she saw me.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” she ran over.
“You dropped this,” I pushed the doodle into her hands, trying to ignore that I just tripped myself up.
“Thank you,” she said with a tear-stained smile. “Do you need some help up?”
“No, no, I'm just going to lie here on this sidewalk for a while and hope that nobody notices me.”
“A little late for that, isn't it?” she said as she stuffed her doodle inside a book.
“I guess,” I uttered back. She nodded politely and quickly looked off to the side. Just before an awkward silence could descend over us, I obeyed an impulse for curiosity. “Did I make you cry?”
“Oh, gosh,” she quivered. “No, no, no. I just... I'm just on my period.”
I nodded understandably, and she blinked in my direction. “That. Was a lie.”
“Oh,” I said.
“The truth is, I have this letter that I've had for three years,” she dug into another book. Something told me these books were her makeshift folders. “That said I would meet somebody today at 5:26 P.M. who would change my life, as long as I stopped him.”
“That's really specific,” I said. “And... Strange. Three years ago? And... what, you thought that was me?”
“Well, yeah,” she said, producing a crumpled, yellowed envelope. “You fit the description, and your name was supposed to be Fred Bux.”
I took the envelope and gently opened the worn lip, removing a letter with a coffee ring on it. I glanced at her, and she stared at me anxiously.
“Let me get this straight,” I stated, still seated on the ground. “You got a letter a few years ago, telling you to be here at this time, and you had to look for someone like me and call me Fred. Do you even go to school here?”
She cast her eyes down. It was a no. “Listen, I didn't believe it at first. I thought Fred Bux was made-up. But you're not the only thing in the letter. It's said a few different things that have been guiding me my whole life. This letter... it's... it's magic.”
“I'm sorry, did you say it was tragic?”
“No... it's magic. Like, not natural. No explanation. It just changes... Magically.”
“What?!”
“It's a letter that tells me the future. Or... it tells everyone the future.”
I didn't know what to say, so I just said the first thing that popped in my head. “Everyone?”
“Yeah. I would read it and see it telling me about you. My mom would read it, and it told her she would have another child. After her pregnancy, it was blank.”
“I see,” I nodded along like I was buying it.
“But the letter told my uncle the future. He was traveling, and a mix-up at the airport took his luggage to Rome. He had to go there to get his stuff back, and the letter said he would go to Rome long before he left. My best friend was valedictorian, and the letter told her so! My boyfriend got a baseball scholarship.”
I don't know why my heart sank when she mentioned a boyfriend.
“My dad was on TV! My cousin bought a new car. Some stranger I showed it to outside the mall went on to become famous. The letter told each of them this. And more.”
“Why would he go to Rome?”
“Sorry?”
“Your uncle. He went to Rome to get his luggage? Why wouldn't he wait for them to bring it on another flight?”
“He was already in Italy. It was a two-hour drive.”
“Oh,” I was thoughtful for a moment. “This all sounds well and good, but honestly, how could this letter have really predicted all that? It all sounds like they just kind of made this stuff happen themselves.”
“It goes blank whenever it happens. It tells them one thing about the future, and that's it.”
“This is one mysterious letter,” I decided.
“And I would love to hear what it's telling you.”
I looked down and I read the letter. I looked up at her, and laughed. She was confused.
“This is a joke!” I hollered. “This is all a big joke! You're good, honestly, you're so convincing. But there are holes in your story. Your uncle went to Italy after this magic letter told him he would go to Rome? Your cousin bought a car? Your dad got himself on TV? Somebody famous got that because of you?! It's ****in' clever. Are you filming a prank Youtube video? Where's the camera?”
I looked around. I looked back at her, expecting her to drop the charade and start laughing. She was solemn.
“My dad was on TV,” she said. “When the local news station interviewed him after he was in an accident.”
She looked down.
“Now you're just trying to guilt me,” I said. “Listen, I'm sorry if this is serious to you, but this ain't for real.”
“Please,” she looked up at me with puppy eyes. “What does it say? I've waited three years to meet you, and now I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”
I furrowed my brows in concern, but I obliged.
Dear Mr. Fredrick Bux,
Or shall I call you James Bond? After all, that is how you introduced yourself the first time we met. I still remember that with such joy. Your timely wit is outdone only by your magnanimity. I believe that character is a tree with reputation its shadow. The shadow is what we think of it, whilst the tree is the real thing. You, my grand friend, are a strong oak.
I hope this letter receives you well and gay. I understand that this word means something different to you, but you shall come to know that this matters not to me, for I am stubborn in my speech. I do not govern others the way they speak, and I trust you shall do me the same courtesy. In fact, I know of it.
You are about to experience many trials, and your very life will be demanded from you. For this, I apologize, but you will welcome them, eventually. You shall discover that which we all need to find, and you shall harness it to obey your will. Indeed, the many people you shall meet and the many worlds you shall see will cause you to question your cognition, but trust me when I inform you that everything is indeed real and effective.
I shall not know you when we first meet. Take solace in my words, and receive them as evidence to suggest that I will grow to accept you as someone I can trust. Please remember this, and do not forsake me. We all have to learn, including myself.
Now, take heed to the urgent words I bring you, for you may yet read them for a limited amount of time. You are in danger. You and Mary both. Pack what you can and leave in haste. If you will take on her protection as your goal, you shall succeed.
Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other.
You told me that.
Regards,
Abraham Lincoln
I looked at her, and her jaw had dropped.
“Well, we have to leave! Now! We have to pack up and go!”
“Go where?”
“I... I don't know.”
“Listen, this has been fun and all,” I said, finally standing to my feet. “But it's gone on way too long. I've got a quiz in ten minutes, and I've wasted my brush-up time with you.”
“But, Fred!”
“Good-bye,” I said as I shoved the letter into her hands, walking past her.
“Listen,” she ran after me. “This is serious. I am for real!”
“If you're for real, then that just tells me how crazy you are,” I blurted out.
She stopped, and I felt a pang of regret well up inside me, but I had already said the words. And besides, I was speaking the truth.
She sobbed into the blank letter.
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