GryffonDurime
2008-05-19, 10:25 PM
So, the aim is simple: I want to write. Every. Single. Day. To try and shame myself into keeping up with this, I'm going to post every day. Some of it may not be good. Some of it may be long, some short. I just hope that having something visible will help motivate me not to quit.
Without further ado, I present Rumors from Bexley:
Leaf I: Train, Trunk, and Candle
Simon Bromley had just arrived in Bexley, and as he stepped off the train he could already smell the pervasive smell of a city by the seaside: salt-laced wind and vague illness. It was hotter in Bexley than it had been in Figg, Simon’s home, and it felt more like summer. Simon attributed that in large part to the seagulls begging noisily at his feet.
Bexley was a big city, but not too big—that was why Simon had chosen it.
He’d never left Figg before, and he hadn’t really wanted to, but Figg lacked many things, a respectable college foremost among them. Yes, Figg had a fine old chapel and the world’s largest tea kettle (if one measured the spout; there was contention on that point) and a fine bowling alley, but the University of Bexley was famous.
Famous for being a place where half of this new total practiced flunking for five to seven years until they’d perfected it while the other half would ritually flagellate themselves for anything less than perfection. Simon hoped for a place between these two extremes, but failing that he sided more with the Cult of Academia. His mother had packed a ceremonial flail, just in case.
The train had taken three days to reach Bexley, traveling through no less than two different mountains. They’d passed by three lakes, a forest, and a canyon. The first day had gone well enough, but by the second the sheer scope of the distance he’d traveled galled Simon and he ended up spending the rest of the afternoon in the dining cart breathing into a paper bag.
But now he was here, and as strange as Bexley seemed to him, Simon was sure that he seemed stranger to Bexley. Both his hearts were racing, twinned thrub-dubs, thrub-dubs. One heart beat, the first of each, was natural, normal human. The second was strange, like a deep bassoon of a frog pretending it was a heart.
Simon sent the gulls flying with a swift little kick, collected his trunk, and then left.
Bexley was a maze, if a bad maze at that: there were too many exits and not enough dead ends. At the off-center of the city—the center itself being occupied by an old municipal park bought up by a local eccentric during a financial crunch—there was a very hodgepodge sort of open-air market. Old women sitting under beach umbrellas or dusty blue tarps let Simon pass unmolested; he didn’t seem the type to have money anyway.
Simon was, in fact, unremarkably medium in most respects: height, weight, bearing. He had to constantly fuss with his hair to keep it from standing on ends, and his fingers kind of blossomed at the ends just a little, the ends were slightly puffed and flared out.
As Simon adjusted his thick-framed glasses, he passed an old man’s stall where watermelons were sold. He couldn’t help but think that watermelons everywhere were sold solely by old men who looked like their fingers would break under the weight of just one.
An Indian woman who smelled pink and floral beckoned Simon over with a respectful gesture like a soft prayer, and he spent fifteen minutes haggling with her about the price of a jarred candle. They settled on three notes and a handful of little, curled yellow coins called peels.
Simon’s new candle was violently, newborn bamboo green and smelled like apples and mint sprigs. As he packed it in his trunk, he asked for her name.
“Anita,” she said, and Simon noticed that she didn’t have an accent.
“Simon,” he replied, offering her his hand. She shook it grudgingly and rolled her eyes.
“Why are you here?” she asked, bluntly but not impolitely.
“To buy a candle, I suppose.”
“I meant in Bexley,” she said, and rolled again.
“And I said to buy a candle,” he said, blushing a little. “Isn’t that good enough reason if that candle is quality?”
“Oh, you’re a dangerous one, you charmer. University, then?”
He nodded, and she clucked her tongue.
“They don’t allow candles in their halls, I’m afraid.”
“And I suppose all sales are final?” he asked.
She smiled, and it was a beautiful smile: wide and just crooked enough to look natural.
“Well, then, I suppose I’d have to start flouting the rules sooner or later,”
Simon said, and she cocked her head to the side and shot up an eyebrow.
“Musn’t let the safety of the city get to me.”
“No,” she said, “you wouldn’t want that.”
Without further ado, I present Rumors from Bexley:
Leaf I: Train, Trunk, and Candle
Simon Bromley had just arrived in Bexley, and as he stepped off the train he could already smell the pervasive smell of a city by the seaside: salt-laced wind and vague illness. It was hotter in Bexley than it had been in Figg, Simon’s home, and it felt more like summer. Simon attributed that in large part to the seagulls begging noisily at his feet.
Bexley was a big city, but not too big—that was why Simon had chosen it.
He’d never left Figg before, and he hadn’t really wanted to, but Figg lacked many things, a respectable college foremost among them. Yes, Figg had a fine old chapel and the world’s largest tea kettle (if one measured the spout; there was contention on that point) and a fine bowling alley, but the University of Bexley was famous.
Famous for being a place where half of this new total practiced flunking for five to seven years until they’d perfected it while the other half would ritually flagellate themselves for anything less than perfection. Simon hoped for a place between these two extremes, but failing that he sided more with the Cult of Academia. His mother had packed a ceremonial flail, just in case.
The train had taken three days to reach Bexley, traveling through no less than two different mountains. They’d passed by three lakes, a forest, and a canyon. The first day had gone well enough, but by the second the sheer scope of the distance he’d traveled galled Simon and he ended up spending the rest of the afternoon in the dining cart breathing into a paper bag.
But now he was here, and as strange as Bexley seemed to him, Simon was sure that he seemed stranger to Bexley. Both his hearts were racing, twinned thrub-dubs, thrub-dubs. One heart beat, the first of each, was natural, normal human. The second was strange, like a deep bassoon of a frog pretending it was a heart.
Simon sent the gulls flying with a swift little kick, collected his trunk, and then left.
Bexley was a maze, if a bad maze at that: there were too many exits and not enough dead ends. At the off-center of the city—the center itself being occupied by an old municipal park bought up by a local eccentric during a financial crunch—there was a very hodgepodge sort of open-air market. Old women sitting under beach umbrellas or dusty blue tarps let Simon pass unmolested; he didn’t seem the type to have money anyway.
Simon was, in fact, unremarkably medium in most respects: height, weight, bearing. He had to constantly fuss with his hair to keep it from standing on ends, and his fingers kind of blossomed at the ends just a little, the ends were slightly puffed and flared out.
As Simon adjusted his thick-framed glasses, he passed an old man’s stall where watermelons were sold. He couldn’t help but think that watermelons everywhere were sold solely by old men who looked like their fingers would break under the weight of just one.
An Indian woman who smelled pink and floral beckoned Simon over with a respectful gesture like a soft prayer, and he spent fifteen minutes haggling with her about the price of a jarred candle. They settled on three notes and a handful of little, curled yellow coins called peels.
Simon’s new candle was violently, newborn bamboo green and smelled like apples and mint sprigs. As he packed it in his trunk, he asked for her name.
“Anita,” she said, and Simon noticed that she didn’t have an accent.
“Simon,” he replied, offering her his hand. She shook it grudgingly and rolled her eyes.
“Why are you here?” she asked, bluntly but not impolitely.
“To buy a candle, I suppose.”
“I meant in Bexley,” she said, and rolled again.
“And I said to buy a candle,” he said, blushing a little. “Isn’t that good enough reason if that candle is quality?”
“Oh, you’re a dangerous one, you charmer. University, then?”
He nodded, and she clucked her tongue.
“They don’t allow candles in their halls, I’m afraid.”
“And I suppose all sales are final?” he asked.
She smiled, and it was a beautiful smile: wide and just crooked enough to look natural.
“Well, then, I suppose I’d have to start flouting the rules sooner or later,”
Simon said, and she cocked her head to the side and shot up an eyebrow.
“Musn’t let the safety of the city get to me.”
“No,” she said, “you wouldn’t want that.”