Young Writers Society

A/N: Just a quick heads up. I know this appears to be a horribly long post, but I decided it would be best to keep my chapters in full chapter posts for this one, so hopefully this isn't too... much? Either way, rip it apart if you have the time. If not, just tell me if you like it or not! I can take a hit ;D

Chapter 1: A Beginning's End

I'm sure you're all wondering what this story is about and from what angle does it start or how long it will take for the punch line to sink it. Even I ask these questions sometimes and, needless to say, it hardly involves any sort of answers. Merely that I'm telling you what has occurred in the past few months which has come to change everything I believed. Everything that had made any kind of sense at all.

And a beginning to this lovely adventure would be at hand. Something to start off this charming little fantasy with a bang. Well, if I can come up with one, I'll definitely let you know.

More or less, it’s rather a nuisance to try and explain this in any other way than something of fiction. Something unreal and completely against anything that could possibly happen. What would a girl of eighteen have to do with bright-eyed assassins and empires beyond imagine? I'm sure it would seem illogical in any day and age such as now with flat screened televisions and iPod headphones hanging out of the ears of any and every person. I'll be shocked if anyone even knows how to read by the time this little ditty is complete. Of course, that’s an over exaggeration and nothing against anyone who may or may not be holding this book as we speak.

A thought, I suppose. A mere rendering of what my silly imagination dreamed up. If it were I who had picked this up, I’m sure I would have to agree with the aforementioned statement.

So believe what you will. I'm not asking for complete attention nor am I wishing for this to be taken as gospel truth. If you just want a gentle fairytale read, go ahead. You might be severely disturbed or quite satiated. I would be glad with either of those outcomes. Frankly, I would be glad if there’s any outcome at all when it comes to this horrid little rant of mine.

Just know, as it comes to mind, I really do feel the need to speak. To voice what has yet to part from my lips and, as there’s rarely much to do around here as it is seeing as television and iPods don’t necessarily exist in this strange place I have come to reside. My tales are for your eyes and whoever else’s decides to pick it up. I would be much honored.

But, as the saying goes, seems we should be on with the show.

As I said before, I'm eighteen though seventeen when this story came alive. A senior student I was, and artsy also as I spent most of my days with a hard-covered sketchbook in hand.

I never really lived anywhere that had meant anything to me, and as much as I tried to enjoy the idea of moving in with my father, it was not as exciting an idea as what you may or may not have guessed.

Father, a callous man of forty-six with dark hair and heavy-set brown eyes wasn’t what you would call a hospitable man, though it did suit me just fine. He worked from six in the morning till seven-thirty at night, no more no less, and sat to watch his beloved football games whenever he was home. The most we ever spoke to each other in the first few weeks I lived with him was "Are you getting used to living here?" and a quiet response of 'yes'.

This does not mean I don’t love my father. I very much do. In fact, I highly respect my father; just that sometimes it was nice to have a female figure around. One that understood and let me be as open as possible.

Mom handed me over to dad as a sign that I should really get to know him. That living in Toronto might not have been such a good place for a teenage girl. No loud sirens or city buses. Lots of grass... though I really can’t complain. I like grass.

Either way, when I was with mum, things were a lot more... mutual.

Now that I'm here, the change of scenery has done tremendous to change my ill-tempered mood that came with the change of address. I loved the trees, especially the corkscrew willow situated in the backyard. Beautiful, really, and oddly foreboding.

The house itself was tattered to say the least. The piping was constantly on the fritz and there was always some door creaking open from a horrible draft. Cleaning never looked like it did much good in that place, though clean I did and very much so.

Even still, the dirty little house became somewhat of a home. More home than the trendy apartment’s mom was constantly changing between.

But that’s another story for another time, if that other time ever comes. It’s rarely important. Nothing of severe coincidence.

What I'm really trying to get at is that I had not wanted to leave Toronto in the first place. The bustling city with pedestrians ever rampantly chatting on cellphones and the sidewalks nearly as dangerous as walking on the street. The cold winter was something I rather enjoyed in Toronto as I would huddle under my grey pea-coat and silky, colored scarves. The black, leather gloves were by far my favorite piece of winter clothing, but I digress.

As I said before, my love for the city was very strong, and my apprehension towards the country even stronger. To be from one place to the next seemed absolutely ludicrous.

I did go, though. A risk I'm glad I was forced into taking as a risk taker I definitely am not. Much rather be in a situation of solidity than ever-changing. Jordan was just about as ever-changing as I was at the time. So deeply lifeless and as beautifully boring as any other scenic place such as Camden or Vineland further on.

The last week of summer came and went in that sort of way as if time stood still and it had not, in fact, lead to the end. That spurred on my first bought of love for such a place as it, and secondly the privacy in which I obtained. It was only ever me and father and, as I said prior, father was very rarely home so often enough the house was my playground to do whatever I wished.

That week was pure bliss either or as I had the chance to do whatever I pleased. I practiced the guitar for hours, which was my usual routine, and I had spent a lot of my time polishing up whatever needed to be polished. I also found myself sketching the corkscrew willow frequently, filling large ivory pages with its surreptitious leaves and strong, spiraling trunk. Such a beautiful tree.

The week that school came around was one I did not take much pleasure in reliving as high school was my own personal breeding ground of disdain. Teenagers were the one thing that very rarely made sense to me and I hardly liked a situation in which something did not make sense or add up. Nothing ever adds up in high school.

I kept my head down that first day, trying at large to stay away from as many people as possible. This achieved nothing in retrospect as the hallways were near filled to the brim with ridiculous amounts of students and I one of the masses.

Yes, a number. How truly interesting it had felt the first day of high school, to know now that I was one of the many numbers and that when the teachers looked at me it was not a person they saw. More or less a subject to be taught as everyone else and not to be treated biasedly. No amount of temptation would ever change that fact.

My first class had been art. After fighting through the hallways near all morning, bag crunched tight against my side and uniforms still rather stiff and starchy from being purchased none too long ago, I crept into class as a cat might. Slinky and wholly uninterested. Though I loved art, don’t get me wrong, I just could hardly stand adolescence and this room had been filled to the brim with chatting, overly perfumed teenagers, their voices filled with the angst and melodrama of such a young age. Everything always felt like it was the end of the world… at least to the young.

And truly that’s what I felt now, sighing heavily as I took a seat near the back. Fortunately, the room had been wider than most of the scrunched little classrooms in Denis Morris. The ceiling tiles were covered in thick applications of paint revealing replicas of the master’s work. Nothing grand, obviously, but some showed promise. A little skill highly unnoticed most likely, even by them.

The teacher was a shy thing, and fragile looking with her wire-rimmed glasses and her fair, long hair cut in a bland style as not to draw too much attention to herself. Her voice was sweet but faltering as if teenagers scared her just about as much as they did me. When the bell signaled the start of class, her voice had been barely heard over the mass of voices screeching about their summer vacations. Stupid children.

Finally the class came to a relative quiet, papers handed out accordingly and time elapsing so very slowly it was almost unbearable.

"The syllabus for this year is as follows," the woman murmured, her eyes staring down at the sheet of paper in her hands than back up, teeth chattering rather seamlessly. "First month shall be art history, second, water colors..."

How utterly dull. I turned my head towards the scratched surface of the desk.

"Late on the first day, Mister Bailey," the teacher’s voice suddenly boomed. Odd for her vocal propriety. I looked up, pleasantly surprised at the boy who walked in with a careless smirk across his face. Pretty, I thought. Very pretty.

Tall and slender he was with blond locks and hazel eyes. His skin was deeply tanned from a summer at the beach, I was sure and his lips were a smooth, rosy color. Everything about him was rather demure and laid back but oddly attuned with his natural pose as if he knew what movement perfectly suited his body-type. Strange to see someone of his youthfulness completely incapable of tripping over his own feet.

Unfortunately, the only seat empty in the classroom was next to me and he seemed quite earnest to comply

with sitting exactly there. He swung his backpack down, brushed his hair back with his free hand than sat, facing more towards my direction than was comfortable. The teacher went on with her list of expectations.

"You’re new here?" the boy whispered next to me, teeth flashing in my direction. Such a pretty shade of white it seemed.

At first I didn’t answer him. I wasn’t here for chit-chat. In fact, I rarely knew why I was here in the first place. High school seemed so completely pointless.

When he did not turn away I decided to reply. A quick, nonchalant mess of words. "Yes... what’s it to you?"

"Curiosity," he shrugged, though he still did not turn away. "There's not many people here I don’t know."

"Well then, it seems you've found someone," I huffed. Couldn't he see I’d much rather not talk to him? Wasn't it blatantly obvious the disdain I showed? My complete abhorrence?

"Oh, but now I do know you," he chuckled. A velvety sound. Very light and youthful sounding.

I could feel my anger emanating within me. "I guarantee you know absolutely nothing about me and that will never change."

"Hasty, hasty," he voiced, the sound almost whimsical. "No need to be such a downer. I was only trying to be nice."

Then the terrible awkward silence. How long would it last this time before he turned his head and resumed a conversation with another one of this vigilant cesspool join-ee’s?

"Well, downer, my names Warren," he said. Oh the nerve.

"And I suppose you want to know my name now?"

"Oh, but I don’t," he raised his finger in front of his eyes as if such a thing was so completely simple. "Because I know if I asked, I would get another snarky response from an already petulant girl with a complete disregard for socioeconomics."

I smirked. Interesting. "Is that right?

"Like I said, I was only trying to be nice before."

"Well, such a fine person you are using big words and hardly knowing the meaning behind them."

His smile only grew, now resting on his elbows. "I guarantee you, miss, that I know every word I speak."

"And I guarantee you, sir, that you are wasting your time." I liked the way that sounded. The way it fell from my lips. It was nice to come up with such a... rebuttal. In fact, it was nice merely talking. I hadn't expected such conversation with anyone of my own age.

"Oh but if I learn even just your first name, than I haven’t wasted my time, now have I?"

"Who says you'll even learn that?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. "I thought you didn't want to know."

"Not that I didn't want to know," he shrugged, shaking his head to the side so his hair wouldn't fall in his eyes as it seemed to do. "Just that I rather not ask knowing that you wouldn't give me the answer I wanted. In fact, I would really love to know your name, if you would be so bold as to tell me."

Well worded. Again, he surprised me.

"What are you?" I sighed, resting against the back of the chair. The teacher’s eyes glanced in my direction, her finger in front of her mouth to signal me away from talking so abruptly during her explanations. I instantly quieted my tone. "You can’t possibly be human."

"And why's that?" He turned now fully towards me, his eyes filled with playful amusement.

"Cause teenagers don’t talk," I said, nose scrunched. "They whine."

"And I talk?"

"Relatively."

This seemed to please him greatly; a chuckle sounding from his rosy lips. I did quite like the sound of such a wholesome laugh. It was warm and soothing unlike most laughter which tended to be outrageous and overly dramatic. He seemed none of these things.

"Then tell me, oh malicious one," he mused. "What is it that you think I am?"

This sort of took me off guard. A rather silly question, so to speak. Something I wasn't really sure how to answer. "An alien?"

"An alien?" He quoted my words mockingly. "Don’t you think you’ve been watching a bit too much Battle-Star Galactica?"

"Warren, please," the teacher sighed, cutting away from her explanations again. "If I have to ask you again you'll be serving a lovely lunch detention scraping gum off the bottoms of these tables."

"Sorry, Miss Mozzoni," he replied, bowing his head a little bit as if to show some form of regret. After a few seconds silence, he turned back to me but this time in a more hushed manner. "May I have you cell number?"

I took a chance to glance at him, obviously perturbed. Not that I didn't want to give him it, just that I wasn't used to being asked for such a thing. I reached into my pocket feeling the cool plastic against my fingers. Did it really matter if I gave it to him?

"Fine," I said, after a few short moments of deliberation, handing him the phone. "Add your number and I'll text you mine."

He smirked, obviously excited by this little allowance.

"Well how terribly thoughtful of you," he said, flipping the phone open underneath the desk, his eyes darting across this small, glowing screen. "Athira?"

I could feel my anger boil.

"Oh, that’s your angle," I grumbled, reaching out to grab the phone away from him, though to none avail. "Go ahead. Make fun."

He seemed shocked by this statement as his brow furrowed in confusion. "Make fun?"

"Yeah, make fun." The anger only seemed to further itself with his act of playing dumb. Such things didn’t fool me anymore. "I'm sure you think my names silly. Most people do."

"Silly? No," he said, his tone absolutely serious. "Interesting? Absolutely."

He then turned back towards the phone, typed something in, and passed it back.

"I really did just want to get your number," he said before returning his attention to the teacher and the lesson she seemed to have started in our lack of interest. "And anyways, I like your name. Suits you just fine."

* * *

I guess you could kind of say Warren was my first friend. As much as I'm sure, at the time I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him, the idea that he was smart enough to keep up with me absolutely enthralled me and, as it went, I ended up texting him a lot more than I would have wanted myself to.

He was easy company. A good person to whisper things that most would have a hard time understanding. Our favorite types of literature were one of those things such as the love we both seemed to have towards Emily Bronte and Charles Dickens.

The first few weeks of school went by in that manner. Absolutely easy. I enjoyed the times spent with him and the time so easily wasted in our senior year. Things such as prom seemed not such a far off stretch for activities in which I may have partaken in. When I was with Warren, I feared not the horrible social activity days. Life was fairly, shall we

say, interesting.

But, as all things come to an end at some point in time, so did that friendship. Not that it was a solid reason that it ended for it truly wasn’t. We never fought nor did we find ourselves going in separate ways. Just that sometimes you must adapt with what hand you're given and, as sad as it turned out to be, he was not in that hand for me. A memory I loved was him. The last good memory I ever had from earth.

To continue on into the story, though, I really must finish off. Give the reason as to why our friendship is no more.