Scratch

You realize if I posted everything I'm writing I would give you 7816 posts of content and then some?

soupoftomato wrote:

You realize if I posted everything I'm writing I would give you 7816 posts of content and then some?

Something like that
I juggle 3+ ideas at a time and have unaccounted for hundreds of stories I've started and neglected... I am so responsible

But anyway
I posted a topic for that *another* scifi thing I was working on

Thing I made the topic for and yeah

Chapter One: 13

It seemed to Will that that number, 13, had followed him around like a curse for bad luck as long as he could remember. It was said, of course, that there was no need for any sort of fear anymore, but old superstitions never did seem to fade. Everyone had a number, that was the way of things; they were so much simpler and more structured than cumbersome names. He himself was not actually called Will, but 13--if anybody besides Eyre talked to him. Names were not forbidden, but discouraged, so he kept his own borrowed name, William, hidden. He had to keep many things hidden, including his pale blue eyes, an unlucky and unwanted defect, beneath the brim of an old gray cap.

The morning was rainy and dark. A pale orange glow from the streetlights spilled down the wet cobblestone pavement. Arcade, read the dull red flickering letters on the sign of the building. Even in the downpour, none of the group waiting outside left; they jabbered incessantly and waited impatiently to be let inside. Will only watched them, lingering near the long-forgotten library.

To the casual observer, it would seem that this group was a mishmash of cultures, their clothing a jumble of coats and shoes of all sorts. People wore Victorian top hats, neon t-shirts, battered sneakers and vintage trench coats all at once. But if one looked closer, they would see only young faces, vapid brown eyes of the same shade and expression, the same pale complexions, brown hair of about the same length, and the same accents. For everybody was exactly alike.

In the distance the Bell tolled six times, signifying that it was six o'clock, and the doors to the Arcade opened, allowing the group to shove inside, still laughing and exchanging conversation with increasing rapidity.

When they had all filed into the Arcade, Will was joined by a girl whose hair and eyes were concealed by an aviator's cap and goggles.

"Hello, Eyre," said Will.

"Hi, Will." She wiped away the fog and rainwater smearing her goggles. "Let's go inside, then."

They pushed through the doors and walked in, their wet shoes clicking on the old hardwood floor. Dripping water from Eyre's soaked duffle coat collected a puddle on the ground. Inside, the library smelled strongly of dust and old paper. It was hard to believe that a little over half a century ago, many people had gone to libraries almost as frequently as they did.

Those books were the only window they had into how life used to be, before the disaster. Recalling his own old life was to Will like recalling the vaguest memories of somebody else's life. He couldn't remember anything past the age of eleven, or even if he had once been older than eleven, and his memories even then were very limited. Books were important; their names and knowledge came from books; but a book did not live forever, and Will and Eyre were careful to preserve them.

All of the books were important. Will liked Shakespeare's writing, and Eyre, Charlotte Bronte's, but they read them all. Sometimes they helped Will remember things from his old life. Strange, alien-sounding words, phrases, descriptions of both familiar and unfamiliar somehow connected in his mind. He had never in his current memory, for example, smelled cigarette smoke, but the word stirred something in his brain and allowed the ghost of a burning sensation to enter his nostrils. While reading a thick little brown volume by Jack London, another, more pleasant smell resurfaced: pine trees. It was associated with what he supposed was a happy day, mentioned in several books--a day called Christmas.

Even the dictionaries and encyclopedia had to be read; though they were considerably duller than most of the books, they contained by far the most knowledge. At the moment, Eyre was poring over a copy of the dictionary, and commented aloud occasionally about strange words starting with the letter q. She had unfastened her aviator's cap and goggles, and her close-cropped red hair stuck up haphazardly in all directions. Anybody could plainly see that her eyes were green.

Will didn't bother to warn her about being more careful. Besides them, nobody had entered the library for half a century. And why should they? Next to the Arcade, with all of its gleaming brilliance inside, a library was nothing. The Arcade was a paradise. You would play incredible games all day and there was no work or school to care about.

Being Unusuals, as was the popular, uncomplicated term, Will and Eyre were not allowed in the Arcade. In the beginning, when it wasn't such a big deal, they used to sneak in anyway with caps and sunglasses, but a third Unusual with whom they did not associate--his number was 16--was caught and turned in to the Sovereign's Administration. He was never seen again. After that they were more cautious.

They did not know where the other Unusuals went, or even if there were any other Unusuals. There had been at least ten others to begin with, but they had all gradually vanished throughout the years. Unusuals had simply been turned in for the crime of a strange eye color, without violating any other rule. Will and Eyre had gone unnoticed by the carefree Usual people, who did not know or care why the two of them no longer visited the Arcade. 13 and 29 were not missed.

Will found it funny, even after all this time, that everyone remembered everybody else's number. He knew that before, people must have remembered others' names, which, said the Administration, was very confusing. Some people had the same names. Names were dull and used; a number was unique. A number only applied to you.

That was true, thought Will, but somehow names seemed better and different in a way he couldn't explain. The characters and authors in books never had numbers instead of names.

He settled himself into a musty, sloped chair with a copy of Hamlet and began to read. The words were magic in that old library. He was limited to the physical, emotional and mental capacity of an eleven-year-old, even one who lived in the library, and stumbled over a few gnarled, complicated sentences, but gradually was swept up in the story. He barely cared about the confusing parts; the story caught him within its pages like only the best authors could do. It allowed him to forget, for the time being, that the Sovereign had ever existed.

"Quid pro quo," Eyre called out, interrupting Will's reading.

"Interesting," said Will, though he felt a slight jab of frustration with her for cutting Hamlet short. "What's it mean?"

" 'One thing in return for another.' Cool."

"Yeah...," he said absentmindedly. Try as he might, he couldn't quite return to Shakespeare's play afterwards.

Pale light was seeping in through the shuttered windows, but the rain still fell thick and fast. Eyre extinguished the candle she had been reading by and shoved the remaining stub of wax deep into the pocket off her duffle coat. "It'll be eight o'clock soon. We should go."

"All right." Will closed his book and returned it to its proper place, a lonely shelf where paperback copies of Shakespeare's works rested. By accident he bumped the book against the back panel, which caved in too far and revealed a dark space behind. He froze. "Eyre?"

"What?" she said, glancing up.

"Look at this." He pushed on the panel with his finger. It fell down. Lying down inside were big flat glossy pages stapled together, like magazines but too big, like picture books but too thin. He pulled one out. "What's Franz Liszt?"

Eyre stepped closer to look at the booklets. "I don't know."

Will gingerly lifted a stack of them and flipped through one of them. He was greeted by a rustle of crackly yellow pages and rising dust. The pages were covered with interesting titles, lines and odd symbols. He didn't completely recognize them, but...

"Beethoven," said Eyre, reading aloud from the books. "Mozart."

The words struck him as familiar. Will thumbed through more pages. Once, Eyre had found another panel with old maps inside, but they hadn't discovered anything new for several years. He scrutinized the pages further and had a sudden mental image of long fingers--his own?--flying across black-and-white keys. Disjointed soft sounds floated through his mind. They were part of the same song, but he only remembered bits and pieces. Piano, he realized.

"It's sheet music."

^^That's not the end of the chapter btw
But if someone has the time to go through it that'd be great 

I like writing, occasionally.
Mostly reports though.

Wickimen wrote:

soupoftomato wrote:

13 is a cliche number for bad luck.
Anything not 6, 7, or 13 would probably be better.
You might want to avoid important "ages" as well, such as getting a permit at 16 or driving at 18. (Ages where I live, will vary or whatever)

Unless of course you want his unlucky number to be the overly cliche one.

due to the absurd and bizarre concept of the whole thing 

Using ages to signify coming of ages is rather silly.

Make them all 98, mentally.

Wickimen wrote:

He's 11 mentally, as I mentioned beforehand
As well as physically and the lot

What can an 11 year old do impressively?

I mean a 98 doesn't do much either but perhaps a less silly age for what I assume will involve SOME sort of heroism.

He's not exactly 11 though
Like a bit but...
Hard to explain
I can't really say without just giving out basically everything
I was trying to sort of ease the reader into the very absurd and possibly unscientific concept but if you don't care about spoilers then:
Kk so like you know how lizards regrow their tails? People have basically been getting their DNA modified so that all cells can act as stem cells or whatever and can regenerate at the tip and fix all injuries, making them /nearly/ immortal. They're basically eleven to thirteen years old forever, but a lot of them used to be adults. They retain some memories of their lives before the disaster and the Sovereign's takeover and introduction of this sort of DNA modification, but not a lot--hence, Will's strange disconnected memories et cetera. A lot of their memories of their normal lives even before the age of eleven are gone. Will actually used to be around thirty, and keeps some of that intelligence, but not all.
That's about it

soupoftomato wrote:

What can an 11 year old do impressively?

My eleven-year-old cousin is going on to his state's spelling bee, having won against all the middle-schoolers in his region.  I call that impressive.

@topic - I love to write!  I'll post some of my stuff later.

Andres-Vander wrote:

What's with all of the writing topics lately?

Hmm... possibly because this is the 'Things I'm making and creating' forum. And all the stories are made by the users. Also people may like writing.
But i'm probably wrong.

Andres-Vander wrote:

slinger wrote:

Andres-Vander wrote:

What's with all of the writing topics lately?

Hmm... possibly because this is the 'Things I'm making and creating' forum. And all the stories are made by the users. Also people may like writing.
But i'm probably wrong.

There's been a surge of them lately though

So?  What's wrong with writing?

Andres-Vander wrote:

PlutoIsHades wrote:

Andres-Vander wrote:

There's been a surge of them lately though

So?  What's wrong with writing?

Well nothing, if they're well written

Okay, so why are you bringing it up?