heishere
03-27-2010, 09:14 PM
It's as smiple as it sounds - you vote on which option to go with at the end of each section. They may be completely pointless, they may be hugely plot-changing - you won't be sure until the next section gets posted. Now, without further hemming and hawing, here's the story with no effing name!
Cracked pavement, towering buildings, the smell of salt and fish, starving artists scrounging for enough money to maybe eat this week, aristocrats and politicians who pass them by like they were some sort of unsightly insect – welcome to Seattle. Sure, you say to yourself, this is just the bad side, the nasty underbelly of Seattle. Although it may have been the least lovely bits of the city, this is where Darin Parson was from.
When people passed by Darin, they couldn’t see his face it was so covered in the muck and grime of his home and stature. His hair lay straight against his head, large knots formed out of a lack of necessity. To Darin, there were only four necessities – food, water, shelter, and human contact. Now it was time to go out, time to make his living his way. Darin pulled out a guitar, the only memory he had of his mother, Noreen, and played the way she had taught him. His fingers flew, caressing the beautiful, classical notes off of the strings and into the hearts of the surrounding people. The only problem was that something had eaten the hearts of these people, something that Darin had managed to avoid. Fear had eaten away at the compassion and love that these people had once held, the fear that they would run out of money, the fear of what people would think if they gave money to someone so filthy, the fear that they would get drawn into that world. One little girl stopped by, swaying with the music, and Darin gave her a smile, happy that someone in this city understood.
A hand came down against his cheek, several weighty rings puncturing the skin. The owner of the hand was a rather large woman, someone who definitely shouldn’t have been wearing so many furs as she was, “How dare you! Leave my daughter out of your underworld you – you – you filthy mongrel!” she kicked over what meager funds he had collected thus far, throwing them into a drain on the edge of the sidewalk, “Perhaps you should consider getting a real job instead of looking for good, hard-working people to pave the road of life in gold!”
He’d heard it for the last time, no longer able to stand being told that he didn’t want a job. Placing his guitar back in his case he flung the woman against one of the pillars, her body now paralyzed by fear, “What would you know about hard-work, you bitch?” her shock was more than enough to convince Darin to continue with her thrashing, “Perhaps I should get a real job? Do you understand life at all? Life, my dear, is designed to aid those who have, those who, like yourself, live on the work of others. Because of meddlesome wenches like you, I can’t get a job. No one will give me twenty minutes to wipe off the most deeply offending layer of dirt or throw me a pair of scissors to chop down my hair to a manageable length, yet they always tell me that I should get a job to pay for that. It doesn’t work that way, you bitch.”
A police officer was now running to him and he released the woman, but apparently not soon enough for the man, who slammed his head into the same stone pillar, “Alright, officer, I’ll leave now.”
His foot connected with Darin’s stomach a few times until he nearly blacked out, and then he was raised up and held, face first, against the stone pillar, smelling his own blood as it dried, “I don’t think so. I think you’ll come with me,” he then slammed his head into the stone once more, “That’s what you get for laying those unworthy hands on my wife.”
The cell, it seemed was the oldest and most miserable the officer could find. With a bit of clever talking from his arresting officer, the judge had sentenced Darin to a year in jail with bail set at ten thousand dollars – Darin didn’t even have ten. Admittedly, this was far better than where he had been, but Darin would much rather have been suffering and innocent on the streets than guilty and comfortable in here. Everything he did, Darin was treated like a criminal, and by law he was. The judge had found him guilty, which did make him a legal criminal. He was well aware of this and the thought gave him no comfort – any other officer would have sent him back to the streets and kept him out of that area for a week or so before forgetting who he was – now the system was being cruel. Ten thousand dollars – it may as well have been one million – either way, Darin had no chance of getting it.
“Prisoner, get up, you have visitors, though I couldn’t imagine why,” the large officer who kept watch over the all-important reception area came in, escorting two very different and very unfamiliar people.
To his right was an old man, his suit woven of thick, grey wool. A handful of hairs lay haphazardly upon his head, but other than that he was nothing terribly spectacular.
Opposite this fellow was a young woman her body flowing voluptuously like wine. Her hair was short, spiked, and an unnaturally bright shade of blue.
The officer left the three of them alone to talk and the woman took no time in breaking the silence, a voice of a rather high timbre pulsating out with energy, “Well hey there love,” she had a cockney accent. All of the aspects of her voice and her appearance made her rather endearing, “Name of Lydia. I heard you were in need of a little, oh, monetary assistance in here, love, and thought I could offer you something. I’ll pay your bail and all that, give you a place to live, three square meals a day, a job, a haircut – all you have to do is say yes, love. What do you say?”
The man jumped in…well, more like hobbled. He maintained a low voice, almost fading into nothingness, and his throat rasping away at the syllables, “Well, oddly enough, we seem to both have the same purpose here then. I’m Ira and I am more than happy and willing to give you the exact same offer, oddly enough, albeit without such appealing visuals.”
Darin was in shock. Here he had two perfect strangers, both of them offering him a free job, bail, a home, and food. He only had one question,” What do both of you do?”
“Oh, love, that’s not to discuss here.”
“Yes, but I have the same offer from two people – I may not have known much of professional life before, but I may as well choose the most appealing option.”
Ira chuckled, “You see, dear boy, we both run a business of the same sort, so it doesn’t make any real difference which way you go with your decision.”
“Well, what do you say, love? Would you rather spend time with the corpse over her, or with me?”
“Don’t doubt the knowledge of an old man, Lydia,” Ira was obviously not willing to give up, “I’ve been doing this much longer you have and I know how to get around the…challenges better than you do.”
“Oh, blah, old codger. I bring in twice as much revenue as you do any day.”
“So say you.”
Cracked pavement, towering buildings, the smell of salt and fish, starving artists scrounging for enough money to maybe eat this week, aristocrats and politicians who pass them by like they were some sort of unsightly insect – welcome to Seattle. Sure, you say to yourself, this is just the bad side, the nasty underbelly of Seattle. Although it may have been the least lovely bits of the city, this is where Darin Parson was from.
When people passed by Darin, they couldn’t see his face it was so covered in the muck and grime of his home and stature. His hair lay straight against his head, large knots formed out of a lack of necessity. To Darin, there were only four necessities – food, water, shelter, and human contact. Now it was time to go out, time to make his living his way. Darin pulled out a guitar, the only memory he had of his mother, Noreen, and played the way she had taught him. His fingers flew, caressing the beautiful, classical notes off of the strings and into the hearts of the surrounding people. The only problem was that something had eaten the hearts of these people, something that Darin had managed to avoid. Fear had eaten away at the compassion and love that these people had once held, the fear that they would run out of money, the fear of what people would think if they gave money to someone so filthy, the fear that they would get drawn into that world. One little girl stopped by, swaying with the music, and Darin gave her a smile, happy that someone in this city understood.
A hand came down against his cheek, several weighty rings puncturing the skin. The owner of the hand was a rather large woman, someone who definitely shouldn’t have been wearing so many furs as she was, “How dare you! Leave my daughter out of your underworld you – you – you filthy mongrel!” she kicked over what meager funds he had collected thus far, throwing them into a drain on the edge of the sidewalk, “Perhaps you should consider getting a real job instead of looking for good, hard-working people to pave the road of life in gold!”
He’d heard it for the last time, no longer able to stand being told that he didn’t want a job. Placing his guitar back in his case he flung the woman against one of the pillars, her body now paralyzed by fear, “What would you know about hard-work, you bitch?” her shock was more than enough to convince Darin to continue with her thrashing, “Perhaps I should get a real job? Do you understand life at all? Life, my dear, is designed to aid those who have, those who, like yourself, live on the work of others. Because of meddlesome wenches like you, I can’t get a job. No one will give me twenty minutes to wipe off the most deeply offending layer of dirt or throw me a pair of scissors to chop down my hair to a manageable length, yet they always tell me that I should get a job to pay for that. It doesn’t work that way, you bitch.”
A police officer was now running to him and he released the woman, but apparently not soon enough for the man, who slammed his head into the same stone pillar, “Alright, officer, I’ll leave now.”
His foot connected with Darin’s stomach a few times until he nearly blacked out, and then he was raised up and held, face first, against the stone pillar, smelling his own blood as it dried, “I don’t think so. I think you’ll come with me,” he then slammed his head into the stone once more, “That’s what you get for laying those unworthy hands on my wife.”
The cell, it seemed was the oldest and most miserable the officer could find. With a bit of clever talking from his arresting officer, the judge had sentenced Darin to a year in jail with bail set at ten thousand dollars – Darin didn’t even have ten. Admittedly, this was far better than where he had been, but Darin would much rather have been suffering and innocent on the streets than guilty and comfortable in here. Everything he did, Darin was treated like a criminal, and by law he was. The judge had found him guilty, which did make him a legal criminal. He was well aware of this and the thought gave him no comfort – any other officer would have sent him back to the streets and kept him out of that area for a week or so before forgetting who he was – now the system was being cruel. Ten thousand dollars – it may as well have been one million – either way, Darin had no chance of getting it.
“Prisoner, get up, you have visitors, though I couldn’t imagine why,” the large officer who kept watch over the all-important reception area came in, escorting two very different and very unfamiliar people.
To his right was an old man, his suit woven of thick, grey wool. A handful of hairs lay haphazardly upon his head, but other than that he was nothing terribly spectacular.
Opposite this fellow was a young woman her body flowing voluptuously like wine. Her hair was short, spiked, and an unnaturally bright shade of blue.
The officer left the three of them alone to talk and the woman took no time in breaking the silence, a voice of a rather high timbre pulsating out with energy, “Well hey there love,” she had a cockney accent. All of the aspects of her voice and her appearance made her rather endearing, “Name of Lydia. I heard you were in need of a little, oh, monetary assistance in here, love, and thought I could offer you something. I’ll pay your bail and all that, give you a place to live, three square meals a day, a job, a haircut – all you have to do is say yes, love. What do you say?”
The man jumped in…well, more like hobbled. He maintained a low voice, almost fading into nothingness, and his throat rasping away at the syllables, “Well, oddly enough, we seem to both have the same purpose here then. I’m Ira and I am more than happy and willing to give you the exact same offer, oddly enough, albeit without such appealing visuals.”
Darin was in shock. Here he had two perfect strangers, both of them offering him a free job, bail, a home, and food. He only had one question,” What do both of you do?”
“Oh, love, that’s not to discuss here.”
“Yes, but I have the same offer from two people – I may not have known much of professional life before, but I may as well choose the most appealing option.”
Ira chuckled, “You see, dear boy, we both run a business of the same sort, so it doesn’t make any real difference which way you go with your decision.”
“Well, what do you say, love? Would you rather spend time with the corpse over her, or with me?”
“Don’t doubt the knowledge of an old man, Lydia,” Ira was obviously not willing to give up, “I’ve been doing this much longer you have and I know how to get around the…challenges better than you do.”
“Oh, blah, old codger. I bring in twice as much revenue as you do any day.”
“So say you.”