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!
Title: The Chosen
Author: Sid87, a/k/a Rob
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.”
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.
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.
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.