The Chosen

[Sid87]

Hey there, everybody! I just this week found this section of the forums, and it seems right up my alley. I am both a huge fan of Pokemon and of writing. However, I have not ever attempted a Pokemon fan-fiction. I'm not actually a big fan of fan-fiction in general, though I have certainly dabbled and done some writing crossover-style story tournaments at other forums I have frequented.

I have, however, been working on two original different stories for literally over a decade. One is a finite fantasy series and the other is an on-going "comic book" style story (minus, you know, ART). I have worked on both of these at length, but I constantly keep updating them and doing them over. I am at the point in my life where I want to start steadily writing one or both of them, so I thought I would share one of them with you here.

It is unusual in that it is written in the first-person, present-tense. I'm still working on what I'll do with this when I have more characters involved whom I want to be in the heads of, but for now, I think it has given me the best version of the story.

Hopefully you enjoy!

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Title: The Chosen
Author: Sid87, a/k/a Rob
Rating: PG-15

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In a more perfect world--or a cooler one, anyway--in this first, and hopefully only, time in my life that I actually looking down the barrel of a gun, I’d be able to point out the make and style of the gun, then launch into a thought of what the gun could do to me and exactly what kind of round it would be firing into my skull. But as I look at it, just inches away from my face, all I know is that it is, in fact a gun. It’s a handgun. Or a pistol or whatever. And if it shoots me in the head, I stand an excellent chance of dying. Probably beyond excellent. Like…a billion percent. Bullet in my head; game over. No more Vinny.

If I had known I was ever going to be involved in a bank heist, I’d have imagined it to be a huge metropolitan bank in, like, New York or something. With sophisticated British criminals threatening to lock me and the rest of the innocent bank customers in a big vault (do banks have customers? I’m not really here to buy anything. What am I then? A patron? I have a gun pointed at me; I really should focus). There would probably be a handful of notorious criminal masterminds in clever disguises and some fancy stuff like a machine making smoke to fool the SWAT team outside and a bomb rigged to the bank door.

But as it stands, I’m just in a suburban Pennsylvania bank. Just a few miles from where I go to high school. There’s just one sweaty, bald guy with two of those guns I can’t identify, masked in a confederate flag bandana. There’s me, him, two tellers, a bank manager guy, and three other customers. One is really hot, actually. I was staring at her butt in those jeans while I was waiting in line, but she looks like she’d be in college, so…looking is all I got. My heart belongs to another, anyway. I’m still not focusing. But that’s okay, because I know something Guns McGee here doesn’t.

“You aren’t going to shoot me.”

“If you don’t shut up,” he turns away from me and barks at the terrified teller, an older lady with a red beehive; the kind of lady I imagined would have some kind of television character-style sass to give a bank robber. Another youthful myth destroyed. “And you don’t hurry up with the money from your drawer, then I damn sure will be shooting somebody.”

“Yeah, but…”

He cuts me off. Rude. “If you think you’re going to give me some crap about how ‘oh, this is just a hostage situation right now. You don’t want to add murder to the charges’, then you can shut the hell up right now. I’ve already got a murder charge against me.” He turns back to the teller, whose teeth are actually chattering. “You hear that? I need this money, and I need to get out of the country. Hurry the hell up!”

On top of, I guess, being a killer and a bank robber, this guy is kind of a douche. The teller is too frightened to move, and he already threatened the manager against helping her. I guess he assumes that Mr. Thirty Year Old Bank Manager has some kind of special crime-thwarting, cop-summoning ability that his teller does not. Right as I think of that, he opens his mouth to say he’ll get this guy the money, and again, he is shouted down.

Like I said, this guy is a douche. I take a look around the room. Cute Jeans is up against the wall, and really…just looking annoyed. Wow, I guess she really has to get on with her day or something. Sorry that this gun being pointed at my face is inconvenient to you, sweetie. I think she’s actually shaking her head! Wow, and to think, I thought you had such a nice ass a few minutes ago. The other teller is another older lady who seems to be handling this only slightly better than Beehive is--you’d think they would train bank tellers better on this topic. It’s, like, the cliché of the universe--having to adjust her little square glasses every few seconds to keep them from shaking off her face.

“Hey, kid!”

Again with the rude. I wasn’t done looking around.

“You wanna make google eyes at the blonde in the jeans over there…”

“I don’t think ‘google’ means what you think it--”

“…you better do it on your own time. I’m about six seconds away from blowing your head off to show this bitch that I’m not screwing around.”

Bitch, now? And was I really being that obvious? Wow. I just nod my head in reply to his demand; I actually wanted to say something back to him, but it all just kind of hit me. He actually is pointing a gun at me. I had thought it wasn’t such a terrible thing, but I’d like to re-decide that matter. It really, really is.

He turns his head back to the teller, who has finally started loading up the briefcase this guy pushed at her earlier, and suddenly, it hits me. He’s not looking at me anymore. I steal a glance at the gun, then back up to the back of his head. I can totally disarm him; it happens in the movies all the time! I just wrap my arms around his wrist, point his arm away, and, like, flick it out of his hand. Seems easy enough.

I lunge at him, and, at first, everything works out flawlessly. I get my arms wrapped around his hand and push the gun away from me; it actually worked! I’m just about to try to flick it out of his hand, when he brings the other gun around.

I totally forgot about that one. I could get out of the way; I could save myself.

But the other two bank customers are behind me. I…aw, damn it. This is going to really suck.

And it really does. After he shoots me in my stomach, I linger on my feet. I don’t actually have the strength to stand, but my body doesn’t seem to understand it should be falling. I finally topple over onto my back, with my hands on my mid-section for no real reason. Am I trying to hold in the blood? Will the bullet out into my hands? I have no idea. Guns is yelling at everyone again, and the teller seems frozen in place just like before. Yet these are all suddenly much less relevant to me now.

I can’t believe I tried to do that. Did I really think I was some kind of big-time superhero? What the hell is wrong with me? As I lie here, the past week comes back to me in startling clarity. I hope it’s not my life flashing before my eyes…that would be so stereotypical.

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Ah, hm. I'm not really sure what to do with the asterisk censorship up there. I try to write realistic dialogue, but I also don't overdue the vulgarity. I can't decide whether the silly asterisks look worse than, say, changing the words to something silly that would be unrealistic.

[Sid87]

Nine days earlier…

She’s not going to mind. She won’t. She’s working on those Geometry problems, and she’ll think you’re just leaning in to check on how she’s doing. It won’t even be, like….no. Nothing. Just put your arm around her. It’s just like…hey, are my muscles not listening to my brain? Come on, arm. Lift up, move over, go back down. It’s about the easiest thing in the world.

Hm, okay. Not working.

I’m helping Becky Stern study for Geometry; alone with her in her study. Becky Stern, the girl I’ve been in love with since 6th grade. Maybe 7th grade. Did I like girls yet in 6th grade? I can’t recall. Regardless, I liked her. Tiny little sixty-four inch frame and that straight blonde hair lying on her shoulders. Soft cheeks…come on, arm. We can reach out and stroke those cheeks; they look like they’re made out of cotton. Damn, can’t bring that to happen, either. Stupid arm, I hate you so much…

“Vinny? Hello?”

“Hello? What? Yes! I mean, yes? Hi?”

She cracks a tiny smile at my stammering. She taps her pencil against a page in her Geometry book, “This problem?”

“Oh! Right. Let’s see…” I guess I missed my chance. I’m surprised I’m even here, though. I mean, Becky and I have never not been…cordial, I guess, but we’ve never been great friends. We’ve had a couple of classes together over the years, and she’s just always been so…something. She laughs at my jokes; she smiles when I wave to her. We both have single parents, so we have even discussed what that is like. One time we joked about hooking them up, her dad and my mom, though obviously, I’d never want that to happen. She came up to me a few days ago asking me to start tutoring her, though, and really…who am I to turn down a chance to help out someone in need? I’m helping her sort out the problem, but I’m not even sure what words are coming out of my mouth; she’s just so cute. I think I’m talking something about multiplying radii…does that even make sense? I really want to smell her hair, and that makes me feel like Captain Skeevy of the universe.

“Oh! My phone! I’ll be right back, Vinny.”

I didn’t even hear her phone ringing, but after she shocks me out of my not-quite-laser-like math focus, I hear Kelly Clarkson emanating from her cell. She fumbles through her purse, and I push my hand through my hair before it flops right back down, parting off onto each direction. It really is getting long. I should have gotten a haircut before I came over here. I should have gotten a cut and style. I can’t believe I came here with this overgrown mess on my hair, almost covering up my ears and my forehead. How could I possibly get her to notice me like this?

“Oh hey, baby!” I hear her coo as she answers her Motorola. Great, it’s Aaron.

Aaron Burke and I are…incompatible, to put it one way, I guess. Even if we are to somehow forget that he just started dating Becky a few weeks ago, right before our senior year started, he and I just don’t amount to much civility. He’s probably calling because he knows I’m here, and he wants me to know he’s talking to her. Is that terribly self-centered of me to think that?

Aaron and Becky are, like, the most stereotypical high school couple ever. Aaron is the football team’s standout player with colleges lining up around the block to scout him at our games, and Becky is a senior cheerleader. So of course they are together. Of course. They are, like, both in the top ten of Buchanan High School. They go to all the parties; they have nice cars; they dress better than the rest of us. I mean, their jeans and polos and tops have names. They come from stores people recognize. My khakis and T-shirts come from, well, my family. At Christmas. They drive to school. I take the bus. They are featured in every issue of the school newspaper for sports or feature stories. I’d need a cover story just so people’d know who I am. So of course she’s with him. I’m just the jackass she invites over to help her study. And I do it because…she’s perfect to me.

“All right, babe. I have to get back to studying. Yes, you can pick me up tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning. Bye-ee!”

“How is Aaron doing?” I have a hard time manipulating my voice to make it seem like I care. If she notices this, she doesn’t let on.

“He’s good. He got home late from practice, so he was, you know, letting me know he was safe.”

“That’s nice of him.” Again, I hope she thinks I sound like I mean it more than I think I do. It’s not a very fulfilling conversation, but I don’t want to talk about him; I want to talk about us. But I can’t really just say ‘So how does he treat you opposed to how I would treat you? Worse, right? I totally knew it’. Yeah, that won’t fly. So I go back to explaining the problems in her book. My arm not draped around her shoulder, my mouth not saying anything interesting.



And that was how it ended. Just she and I talking Geometry the rest of the night, trying to power through her homework. I don’t know what it is about Aaron that did that to me, just with a phone call. I would hope that he gets hit by a subway car falling from the sky tomorrow, but then it’d probably happen. Well, okay, I guess that wouldn’t happen, but something. Something… And then the school would probably have a whole thing! Aaron Burke Memorial Everything All The Time Day Because He Was The Greatest Football Player Ever Even Though He Got C’s. Probably rename the school for him. ‘Sure, we were named after the only President to come from our home state of Pennsylvania, but by god, this kid played a mean football’. Stupid. I could play football. I do sometimes, for fun. They’d make us all wear Aaron masks or something. All right, calm down, Vinny; Aaron’s not going to have a subway car dropped on him. Just…forget it. Ugh! But god, all he did was call, and I completely--ugh! What a tool. Me or him? Pick one; we both are.

By the time I get home, I must have slammed my fist off the steering wheel of my mom’s Blazer, like, a hundred times. At this point, I’m not sure which I’m more annoyed about: what happened at Becky’s, or the prospect of being home.

I get inside, and I can already smell the booze. Jeez, that’s just…well, it is what it is. I turn into the living room after getting through the doors, and mom’s already passed out on the couch. So…you take the good with the bad. At least she’s already out.

I head upstairs for my room, and I see all the pictures on the wall as you walk up; me, her, my dad. But it’s just the two of us now, and…well…

Damn, I just need to sack out. I can’t even bring myself to care about that. It’s just been a whole crappy day. Crappy first week of classes. Crappy having to deal with Aaron calling Becky while I was there. Crappy homelife. I know what Nate would say: some kind of zen-shit like ‘it’s all in your perspective’. Change your mind and the world changes with it. Something like that.

Fine then. I’m going to go to sleep tonight, but that’s it. Tomorrow, everything’s going to change.

[Sid87]

I love that Nate rides the bus with me, even though he has a car. I’d be bored as crap on here everyday if I didn’t have anyone to ride with. Dude, all the freshman seem cooler than I do; they all talk and joke around. When Nate is absent, I got nothing.

Nate gets on the bus and adjust the black-rimmed glasses on his face. “Suzanne asked about you last night. How senior year is treating us. She said ‘us’, but she meant ‘you’. ‘How is it treating Vinny? Is he still adorable? Oh-Em-Gee, I love him so much!’ You know how it is”.

Nate’s little sister Suzanne is just in 8th grade this year--she’d never even be in high school at the same time as us, wow--and he jokes that she has a huge crush on me. I like to tease him back.

“Well isn’t that how it is when you ask others about me?”

“Dude, you’re not my type. I don’t get why this is so hard for you to take.”

“That’s what she said. Or, in some people’s cases,” I stop and stare at him, “he said.”

“How’s that going to feel?”

“What feel?”

“You hitting the moving pavement when I throw you out of this bus, I wonder.”

“You and what gay-straight alliance?”

Actually, not having a crush on me--and, I guess, being…well…sexual preference-y--are hardly the only things Nate and Suzanne don’t have in common. It’s hard to believe they are even related sometimes. Nate’s hair is so blonde, it’s almost white; Suzanne’s hair is black like…like…I’m not very good at similes. It’s black like a…cow? What else is black? Oh! Crows! That’s what I was thinking of. Suzanne’s got the whole Mediterranean skin tone thing going on, poor Nate looks like whitebread. Oh, that reminds me of my other favorite thing to rib him about…

“I guess you would have different tastes in men, anyway. You have different daddies.”

“Oh, that again. Mr. Witty has entered the school bus.”

“Well I don’t think Jack Frost and Cleopatra had the same parents, either.”

“I can’t wait to go home and tell her that you’d love to take her out this weekend.”

“Uh, wait…”

“Take her out to some romantic restaurant. Kiss her when it’s all over.”

“That’s not…”

“Nope. It’s on. I’m telling her when I get home. Or I’ll just text her once I get away from you.”

“Maybe when she’s older. When she’ll…uh, never mind.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “No. You’re gonna finish that thought.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Finish it.”

“Well, I just meant…when she,” I move my hands up to my chest, “gets older, you know?”

He bites his lower lip and pauses. “Yes, please do let’s talk about,” his voice raises, “my middle school-aged sister’s chest.”

“Nope. I’d like to…do the…not that.”

“You think?”

“Pretty sure, yes.”

[Sid87]

The bus ride is one of the better parts of the day; I mean…it is school, after all. While I might mind the classes themselves less than most people, I find that I mind the camaraderie somewhat more. And third period is the absolute worst.

Third period is gym.

Gym class to the unathletic and clumsy is like bull-fighting, but the bullfighter doesn’t get spears or swords or whatever: we all look pretty gay out there, and eventually, one of the big, strong idiots is going to stab us in the chest. I think it’s terribly unjust; I have to take gym with the apes and the athletes and everybody, but no one forces them into, like, AP Chemistry to compete with me. If they let me pri….princi….[what the heck? Principal…one who…princips?]…whatever. If I was in charge of school in this country, the fatties would have their own gym class where they can all wear their shirts in the pool, the partier kids can all have their own shiftless lay-about gym class, the string bean nerds would have our own gym class of, like, ping-pong, and everyone else can have theirs. Either that, or everyone has to take AP classes. Department of Education, here I come.

And of course--of course!, because God doesn’t hate me enough as it is--Aaron ended up in my third-period gym class this year. And, of course, Mr. Smilinski teaches…”teaches”…gym class. The same Mr. Smilinski who is the something-or-another coordinator of the football team. So it’s all a big football player stroke fest with whatever they want, like pick-up basketball games.

Or dodge ball. Like today.

Seriously, I thought they outlawed this joke of an activity. Isn’t this like the desensitization of society or something? ‘Here, commit violence against arbitrary other people in a means to eliminate them. Don’t carry this over to the real world, though!’. Ridiculous. What real life function does dodge ball hone? Aiming a spherical object at skulls? Where does one apply this?

I’m not actually picked last. Fourth-to-last, as it is. Fortunately, there are some girls in my gym class who neither have any athletic aptitude, nor are cute enough that the guys care if picking them makes them like them for it. I could have gone fifth-to-last, but I saw Aaron say something to Chuck--today’s Team A captain--and then he picked Gina Turret. Gina is one of those aforementioned girls. She is nice enough, I mean. I’m not trying to…I dunno. She’s just…whatever.

The game is just ludicrous. Dodge ball is just quasi-organized mayhem. I spend most of the class just running around like the spaz that I am, trying not to get hit. At the end of class, my running has earned me a dubious reward. I’m the only one left on my side, and Aaron and two of his buddies from the team, James and Warren, are left on the other side. All three of them have a ball. This is going to be a YouTube quality massacre. If I get concussed, I wonder if they’ll ever make me take gym class again. It’ll make the news. Concussed Teen Eradicates Gym Class Nationwide; Idiots Mourn Loss.

“Hey, Mansfield!” Aaron yells over to me, juggling the rubber ball in his hands, “How was Becky’s last night?”

“Not as good as when I went to your mom’s place afterwards.” I’m a genius. Not only was that line not worth it, but I’m riling him up.

“Oh!” He grins a doofy grin. “You made fun of my mom! You’re so clever, idiot.”

I want to tell him to shut up, but I catch Warren winding up southpaw; Aaron is just trying to get under my skin. Like always, damn it. Warren pitches the ball from my left, and it’s the craziest thing…the ball looks like it’s fighting its way through a breeze to get to me; I see it the whole way in. I throw out my arms, and snatch it right out of the air.

“Wow!” Mr. Smilinski exclaims from across the gym. “Losing your touch, Mr. White? Mansfield nabbed the bullet right out of the air. You’re out!”

Bullet? It looked like a throw pillow! Unless he’s just making fun of me. Whatever. At least that is one less ball to get creamed with.

From my other side, I see James throw his ball, too, and damned if it’s not the same thing; it’s a dying bird in the air. I flick out my open hand and pull it right into my body. What the hell is going on? Those were both cotton candy, man.

“Hol-ee! You’re out, too, James. Damn, Mansfield! Where’d you get those reflexes? He’s going to take your job on the field, Burke!”

Aaron’s nose scrunches up against his brow at the words. I expect him to finally bring some heat after the previous two softballs--to really try and knock Becky’s name out of my brain--but he just drops his ball on the ground and stares at me. “Big catches. Big deal. Whatchya got, Vinny? You still can’t touch me.”

I have no idea what’s going on. Everyone seems way more impressed with those catches than I am, but whatever. Something’s going on, and I’m damn sure about to knock this prick’s block off. I let the ball fall harmlessly out of my left hand, then double-palm the other ball, spinning it around for dramatic effect. I really don’t think the ball will fly any better if I twirl it around a bit before pitching, but damn I bet I look cool. I pull back with everything I have and blast the damn thing at him; I hope it knocks him out of the gym.

And then he just palms my weak-ass little throw right out of the air. I don’t even think he ever took his eyes off of me to do it. I…damn. I really thought something was…damn.
“Get the hell off my gym floor, boy. Don’t bring that girl throw to my house.” He beats his chest like a god damn retarded gorilla. But I don’t even care, I’m just looking down at my hands, then over to the ball on the ground. What the hell just happened for a few seconds there?




After gym, I have a study hall in Mr. Shuta’s room. I’ve never actually had Mr. Shuta; he teaches, like, remedial remediating or something. I hear he’s a really fun teacher, but when you are just teaching the school morons and slackers, you might as well have a kick with it. I guess that’s not really fair; I’m still being a moody little girl since Aaron made me look like a punk. Again! Like he always does!

The talk of the study hall seems to be about some recent, like, bombings or something that happened at a few Miami nightclubs. I know it’s serious stuff, but I can’t seem to really focus on it.

“Dude, I’m telling you. It was like the Matrix. The balls were all,” I move my left hand slowly through the space between our faces, “and I was all ‘oh! grab!’,” I snatched my slow-moving left hand suddenly with my right. “It wasn’t that dramatic or anything. And not that slow, either. But man, I’m telling you. It was something.”

Nate stares back at me like I just told him I could spin straw into gold--not that I even know what the hell that means. “They were probably just messing with you. Those guys all defer to Aaron; they were probably lobbing softballs so Aaron could make you look like an idiot mano-a-mano.”

“No! I’m telling you. I thought that, too. But, like, check it; Mr. Smilinksi seemed to think the balls were bullets!”

“I can get a dictionary. Sarcasm. It’s under S.”

I raise my pencil to his forehead, “I’ll file you under S.” Then, an idea. “Wait, no! Here! Throw this pencil at me.”

“I’m not…”

“Throw it!”

“This is…”

“Right at me!”

“Not happening.”

“Look. Just throw the pencil at me. Nothing’s going to happen; I’ll see it coming a mile away, and then I’ll…”

He flicks his wrist, and the pencils flips into my cheek. I never saw it coming.

“Oh yeah. Good work, Houdini.”

“Houdini?”

“I couldn’t come up with any other magicians.”

“Why didn’t that work?”

“Because you’re an idiot?”

“Yeah, but that’s not why. Maybe we’re too close. Maybe if you back up a bit and fling it harder…”

“So we’re just playing the hospital game?”

I hold the pencil up to my eyes and check it over. I really should have seen it coming. I thought I would, anyway. I don’t get it. I really thought I had something there.

“What are you guys on about now?”

“Ah!”

I never saw Jeannette Hart coming, jeez. She just dropped her head from over my shoulder, he red-brown hair tickling my ear, as she laughs off my spastic reaction.

“Hey, Jean. Nothing big. Just…Vinny being an idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

Jean leans back away, giggling a bit as she straightens out. “I know what it is. You guys are going to finally start dating.”

“I can’t; I’m promising him to my sister.”

“That’s not…”

“Isn’t she in, like, seventh grade?” She asks.

“Eighth.”

“See how he defends her?” Nate nods to Jeannette.

I start shooting him with hate rays from my eyes, but nothing happens. Just like with the pencil. Nothing… At this point, the two of them are just chatting (probably about our buddy Smith; she’s always asking about him), but I can’t take my eyes off the pencil lying on my desk. I’m probably not going crazy. Probably.

[Sid87]

I’m heading home on the bus at the end of the day, and I’d pretty much forgotten about the whole thing until now. Nate was probably right; they were probably all just dicking with me. I don’t know, though... It felt right, didn’t it? That was probably the point. And you know what? I hate this part. That he did such a brilliant job messing with my head, I’m still thinking about it, like, a jillion hours later. Nate’s talking to me on the bus, and I think my mouth is replying with customary ‘uh-huh’s, but my brain is all over the place. I really thought that something was up with those dodge balls. I really thought so… I didn’t see Warren or James all day after gym, not that I usually do. But even if I did, what was I going to do? Ask them ‘So in gym class today…I was pretty awesome, right? And totally not falling for some overly-elaborate prank designed to make me feel like a fool? Right?’. And then they would laugh and guffaw right in front of my face and tell everyone in the surrounding area what a tool I am. Did I really just think the word “guffaw”? Do people even still do that? Is it 1950 still? See, Vinny, this is why you get picked on.

By the time we get to my stop, Nate has gone quiet. I’m unsure whether he’s been like that for a few minutes or just shut up. I guess the mere fact that I was keeping so little track of what he was saying is why he is no longer saying it. When those senior superlative things come out, I’m going to win Best Listener. I can feel it.

We exchange our goodbye pleasantries (really brain? First “guffaw”, and now that?), and I head up the street to my house. I can already feel the dice shuffling in my brain as I grasp the doorknob. Is it going to be a good day or a bad day?

“Vinny!” I hear from the living room. Good day or bad day?

My mom emerges from around the corner into our entranceway. “How was school today, little man?”

As much as I could do without ‘”little man”, the answer to my question is apparently good day. “Weird, I guess,” is my truthful answer.

“That’s high school for you, yeah. Do you have any plans this weekend?”

This feels like a trap. “Not really. Why?”

“Well, we haven’t had a mother-son date in a while. I thought we could go see a movie and go out to eat. You pick the movie, I’ll pick the restaurant?”

She’ll pick the restaurant so it can be fast-food and cheap. It’s not nice of me to be so cynical, but I’m used to having to be on the defensive about stuff as soon as I walk through the door. I think I nod a response before mumbling something about needing to do homework and heading up to my room.

Now, obviously, my mom wanting to have a friendly date night with me isn’t so bad. So why the “good day/bad day” preponderance? Ever since my dad left, she’s just lost it. I think she’s, like, schizophrenic and undiagnosed. Some parents lose their partner to unfortunate death or divorce and man-up and become an awesome single parent. That’s not quite what happened with her. But ah well.

I’m already tired of thinking about that, though. I know I should be appreciative that today is going well and go back down there and take advantage of that, but it’s been such a long day. Mentally trying, as it were. I figure I’ll go for a jog instead.

“Are you going out, honey?”

“Yeah,” I reply to my mom as I open up the front door. “I’m going for a run.” I pound my fist into my stomach. “Hard work keeping all this up, you know?”

She laughs, and I again feel bad. When she’s on, she’s pretty awesome. “Keep a burger warm for me, all right?”




Within a few minutes, I’m a couple blocks away. No real relevant thoughts at this point; just wondering how the Eagles are going to do this season with their new offensive coordinator. Dodgeball, Nate, and my mom have all faded into the background of the music coming from my MP3 player. I’ve always liked jogging. Something about getting out and moving and seeing all the houses; I’ve never been much of a stationary person. Our neighborhood is good for it, too. It could use more sidewalks on some of the roads, I guess, but there are some hills and some quiet areas to go around, too. I’m on my way to run the course of the cemetery when I hear it.

A car horn is blaring behind me as I’ve wandered off the side of the road. My first thought is naturally to blame the idiots who designed these streets without ample sidewalks or shoulders rather than my own stupidity. My second thought is something along the lines of “AGH! CRAP!” as I lose my ground turning in shock of the horn’s noise. Just like that, I’m down, right in front of this car that’s about 2 feet from my face. I wonder what my mom will be like now that I’m gone, too.

And then I’m in my room.

I’m in my room and I’m naked.

If it weren’t for the naked part, I might almost think that I just crashed into a nap when I got home from school and imagined the whole thing. But naked is not really a common state-of-being for me. My brain suddenly screams at me as my eyes adjust to seeing my own room, and the arms that were propping me up collapse. My face smacks off my carpet. When I regain my bearings, I’m really happy I don’t have hardwood floors, but my head still hurts like I just had an aneurysm or something (because as a seventeen year old in good health, I totally know what that would feel like). The inside of my skull is all warm like after you get a pinched nerve in your neck, and my eyes fade out a bit, but it does pass after a few seconds, at least. I’m suddenly full of about a hundred questions. Why am I in my room? …naked? What just happened in my head? Why did it go away so fast? Did I imagine the car bit? Or am I dead and this is the afterlife? Naked and nerve-pinched. I miss that chapter in the Bible.

I can’t find the clothes I was wearing today in my laundry basket, so I just throw on the stuff I was wearing yesterday on a whim. As I’m flying out the front door, I think I hear my mom call out something about thinking I already left, but my mind isn’t focused on her even a little bit. I make much better time in a full-out sprint than I did in my light jog, and I’m so caught up in the moment, I don’t even feel the stinging in my lungs as I run all the way to where I just thought I was.

Holy crap. Holy crap! Right in the middle of the road are my clothes. Right where I just thought I had seen the car. The clothes I was wearing are right there! Oh, and so is my MP3 player, all busted up. That sucks. But it’s here! Where I was until I wasn’t! What the hell, man? Before I know it, I’m looking around like I’m going to find a camera crew or something, but there’s nothing. Just me, some laundry, and a cracked music player. This is something, right? And it’s not some kid I don’t like screwing around with me. This is legit.

[TeamRocketGrunt]

Don't stop this! It rocks!

[Sid87]

Don't stop this! It rocks!

Well, at least one person is reading/enjoying it. Better than zero. I might keep going with it, but if I do, it's going to be longer between chapters. I had most of the previous stuff all written from a few months ago; I just needed to re-reat/edit it. Anything else forthcoming is brand new.

[Kutie Pie]

Interesting. The concept feels a little simple when it comes to the short posts (this is probably all one chapter you just broke into pieces, which is a good idea here, it’s easy to read), and it’s a story of a high school boy just going about his boring life until he discovers these things happening. Oh, and he got shot at the beginning, so this is all flashback at the moment. Yeah, totally not normal at all.

I’m guessing “Vinny” is a nickname for Vincent, as I don’t think a normal high school student would accept that as a name around other students, but it looks like that is his actually name (unless it really is just a nickname everyone’s given him). And from what I see, he has the same feelings about it, but as he’s awkward enough as he is, it fits him. So if that is really his name, the stars seemed to have been aligned for a good long while. And I like it. I like how he’s awkward, but wants to be normal. He does have friends and they tease and poke fun of each other like high school buddies do (which is where most of the humor comes in), but it looks like he has his bullies as well.

I have to point out the inner dialogue he has, because no matter how much he reminds us he’s a high school student, the narrative feels like the stereotypical thoughts of a middle school kid. It could be because Vinny might be a geek, and geeks have an odd thought process (speaking from experience), but it feels natural. I still don’t know a whole lot about him, and I don’t know the thoughts of an average high school boy (my brothers don’t count), yet he’s captivating. He is a very interesting character, and I can understand and see well enough the problems he goes through. It has only been a couple of years since I graduated from high school, but I can relate. The scene in the gym was when I connected with him, because I know how it feels to be one of the last people picked. I know how it feels to go to P.E. and feel like nothing is happening. I know how the social concept of dodgeball feels. (I loved the game, I’m just not very athletic, so I didn’t exactly kick butt near the very end.)

Now the slow reveal of what looks to be a temporal power sounds cliché, because I have heard this story numerous times before. It’s been done almost to death. And yet, you made it awesome at the dodgeball scene (and his explanation to Nate was great, I would have said stuff like that, too, at his age), and you made it rather astonishing when he tripped in front of a car and found himself back in his room in the nude without a logical explanation (I actually thought thugs kidnapped him xD). This is so damn cliché, but I am loving it. I really want to know what the heck is going on like he does. And it’s such a shame there isn’t more, even though I’m half-expecting a school of superheroes like those from the 2005 movie Sky High to pick him up and take him there to learn to harness his newfound skill.

I hope you return to this now that my interest has been snagged. You actually thinking about publishing this as an actual story one day? I say keep it up, it’s really enjoyable thus far, even if it’s rather reminiscing for me minus the super powers.