Young Writers Society

Sorry I've been gone! I was on holiday for two weeks. Here is all that I've written in that time. Some of it needs a lot of work, I know, so please help me out. I realise it's super long, so don't feel pressured to review the whole thing. If you do, let me know of something I can review in return. Also, this picks up from the 4th installment so you mighhht wanna scan that over if you don't remember everything that was going on. Mahalo! (I was in Hawaii, okay?)

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*

Brian’s idea of “other plans” was one that had been presented to Lester before. He did not like these ideas, as they usually meant copious amounts of drinking and dancing. This time was not very different—at least not at first.

“Brian, I have a meeting at eight tomorrow. We are not going out.”

“Shut up, Lester. I swear to God, you’re the most boring ass in the world. And this is going to be great. I have a plan.”

“That plan involves a club.”

“Psychic. I’m picking you up in ten minutes. I have to go buy some… stuff. Put on a shirt that is not a relic from your childhood.”

Lester got out of Brian’s jeep as it screeched to a stop in front of his dorm building.

“Brian, can you please just listen to me? I seriously do not feel like going out. At all.”

Brian dropped the ‘charming’ mask he had been wearing since the library. “Look, Les, I know I’m usually just the guy who goes to parties, alright? You’re the one who likes class and is a terrible wingman. But I really do have an idea, okay? Just trust me, for once.”

The two stared at each other for a moment. “The last time you had an idea, we got arrested for public indecency. Can you promise me this one will actually go somewhere?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Often.”

“Then get yourself ready, my friend. We are going out. Put on your Sunday shoes!”

“It’s Friday.”

“Ten minutes!”

Brian sped away, leaving Lester feeling very, very alone. He walked into the building and waited for the elevator, which remained blissfully empty on the ride to the sixth floor. He passed a few freshmen in the hallway.

“Hey, you’re the book guy!”

“Yup.”

“Aw, that’s fucking rad.”

Lester had not heard the word ‘rad’ used since 1997, in the third grade. He nodded and continued to the end room on the hall, where he rattled his key in the old lock and entered. A quick change of shirt; a trip to the bathroom jointed to the adjacent room that was usually occupied by Brian. He splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror. “Rad.” Was that what his life was? Rad? Writing a book while high off your mind was rad? Making money off of that was rad? Lester had never really wanted to be a writer. Apparently he had no choice any longer. The week before, the campus therapist had approached him and asked him if he wanted to talk.

“Some of the content of your book was really very highly disturbing, Lester. It didn’t stem from anything personal?”

“No, sir.” Just a lot of LSD.

Lester realised that he was, in fact, unhappy.

Look, dad, first place in the science fair! Look, an A plus in AP Bio! A scholarship to UMASS! And now what? A really crappy book, dad! That’s what they’ll be remembering me for. A really, really, rad book.

He heard honking outside, consistent with Brian’s Jeep. He opened the window in his room.

“Shut the fuck up! I’m coming!”

Back past the freshmen. Back down the elevator, this time filled with drunk seniors. Out to the car. Out to Brian’s great idea.

*

Class ended. “Hey,” Sara called out to Nerezza in the hallway. “Are you too dense to remember that I’m supposed to give you a tour?” She asked, even though Nerezza would only get a tour over her dead body. Nerezza’s head snapped up to acknowledge that she had heard, but she said nothing. Sara looked her up and down. Black tee, black jeans, and black Converses, oddly contrasting with her rosy complexion. “Goth much? God, your clothes are ugly.” Sara threw out, hoping to get a reaction. This was where most geeks said something like, “No, they’re not!” and started crying. Nerezza’s face didn’t change. “What, you’re too dumb to talk?” Sara chided.

“I… prefer silence.” Nerezza said softly. “Now if you would be so kind as to grant me passage.” She said without emotion. Sara realized that she was blocking her way.

“Freak.” Sara said, brushing past and shouldering her hard. She glanced back to see Nerezza fingering a necklace that she hadn’t seen before. It must have been under her shirt. Sara squinted at the stone. It was black, so dark that it seemed to absorb the light. Sara shivered and kept walking.

This one was different. Normally, they would cower before me by now, and give up. Realize that I was anomalous. At this time, I am too powerful, less in control. If she does not realize my abnormality soon, a painful end for her will ensue.

Sara was scared. This girl, Nerezza wasn’t normal. She was mysterious, unreadable. She spoke like someone from long ago. However, this only made Sara want to hurt her more. But before she could continue thinking, her vision swam, and she blacked out.

Sara dreamed. She was in a room, pressed against a wall. Hiding. From what? She asked herself. The room was dark. No light penetrated the velvet black, and it seemed alive. The dark was alive. A cold laugh echoed in her ears and something brushed her face. She ran aimlessly, trying to get away. But a part of her knew that no matter how fast she ran, she would never get anywhere.

The dream changed. Sara was in a room lit only by a dusty bulb. The walls were concrete, the floor metal. A small wooden table sat in the middle, with a girl, about Sara’s age, seated at the head. She hummed a soft tune and poured tea into chipped cups for several filthy, decapitated porcelain dolls. The girl looked up, and Sara noticed her white hair and shocking black eyes. The girl smiled. “Oh, good! You’re just in time to join our tea party!” She said, motioning for Sara to sit. She did so timidly. The girl pushed her hair out of her eyes. My hair. Sara thought. Mine? The girl laughed, as if she could hear what Sara was thinking and found it amusing. She fingered the deep black stone on her necklace as she laughed.

“I-I have to go.” Sara whispered, standing up.

“Go ahead. You’ll join me soon enough. And then we’re going to play forever.” The girl replied. Sara tried to run, but there was no door. The shadows reached out and pushed her back, back. The cold laugh returned, mixed with the maniacal chortle of the girl. Sara screamed, and woke up.

She was back in the hallway, staring at Nerezza’s necklace, as if no time had passed at all. She had a feeling that none had. She stared for a moment.

“Have you not another insult?” Nerezza finally asked, snapping Sara back to reality.

“You… You’re…” She spluttered.

“At last.” Breathed Nerezza, her eyes widening. She walked off, leaving Sara standing in the now empty hallway.

*

The Jeep, Lester decided, was a terrible, terrible vehicle. Brian’s was a Wrangler from 1991, and the fact that it was still running was something of a small miracle. It lacked padding on the seats after an unfortunate mould incident, so some folded blankets covered with mysterious stains and tears acted as upholstery. The door to the glovebox had been torn off, and the Radio antenna had somehow made its way from the hood of the car and into the tape player, which was fairly obsolete anyway. The CD player worked, but the volume would not go any lower than an ear-shattering level, so it was rarely worth it. The entire vehicle bounced its occupants like a small trampoline, and the brakes were infamous for deciding on their own when to stop. As such, the hazards were nearly constantly on.

“So, if we make any money off of this, are you going to buy a new car?” Lester asked.

“What’s wrong with this baby? Nineteen years and going strong.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No shit. What’s wrong? The last time you made car talk was… never.”

Lester sighed. “It’s nothing.”

They approached the club, a fluorescence and hair dye sort of place. The Jeep petered to a stop.

“You sure?” Brian asked.

“Yeah. It’s just… do you ever wonder if… you’re living a life that’s just… wrong?”

“Wrong in what way? Like, morally? Or just not the way you want to be living it?”

“Not the way you want to be living it.”

“All the time, bro. But then I get ideas that I think can change that. And so far, they’ve been working really well.”

Lester ran his hands through his hair.

“Sure. Okay. So what are we doing here?”

Brian’s grin reappeared.

“Let’s go.”

They walked into the black light, and Lester did not feel any happier.

*

The man is tapping his pen quickly, which bothers me. He is not a man who I like or dislike, because I have just met him. He is staring at me and his eyes are big because of the glasses in front of them, which are also very big.

“Jimmy?” He is saying my name. No, he is asking it. I say back to him, very nicely,

“Yes?” And he is not tapping his pen any more. He is leaning forward in his chair and I can see up his nose. I do not like his nose either and I think maybe I do not like him at all, because he has a lot of things about him that are too big.

“This session has revealed very little about you that could be considered abnormal or unhealthy. You’re a very smart young man, in fact. Maybe a regular therapist would suit you better. Perhaps these ‘problems’ you’re having with your emotions are stemming from a lack of activity, not an illness. I see you’re unemployed?”

I am scratching at a stain in my pants, a stain that is blue and I am not sure where it came from. I am scratching and scratching and now the man is staring at the stain too.

“Jimmy? Are you alright?”

I am scratching more and more because I am feeling very upset, and very angry, and I do not like this man who cannot help me. I do not like his nose or the little hairs that are sticking out of it like spider legs or his glasses and I do not like that he is staring at me.

“Jimmy? Mr. Hockman. Please.”

I tear through the stain and now it is split in four and I am breathing very hard. Now the man is writing something down and he is shaking his head.

“Okay, okay. I’ve miscalculated. There is something rooted in your psyche.”

I am thinking, damn right there is something rooted in my psyche.

“Would you respond, please, Jimmy?”

I realise I do not feel angry anymore, and I am standing up so I can say that I am sorry.

“I am very sorry, Dr. Meisner.” I say. “I am fine, but I would really like to look further into what is wrong with me. Perhaps we can reach some conclusions together.”

I have answered in a way that is making the man, who is Dr. Meisner, nod very slowly.

“We’ll meet again next week, Jimmy. Is that good with you? This time next week?”

I nod very slowly back at Dr. Meisner. He smiles and his teeth are very yellow. I will never let my teeth look like that, because I brush them every day with Dent-O-Mint. I will not buy Dent-O-Mint again, however. I will buy Colgate, because when I brushed my teeth this morning the sink was very red because my gums were bleeding, and this happened because of the Dent-O-Mint because I am a very good brusher. I hope very much that when Dr. Meisner bushes his teeth his gums will bleed and they will not stop bleeding, because…

“Jimmy, are you sure there’s nothing wrong? Nothing you want to tell me?” He is no longer smiling. He is writing on his little pad again.

“No, I am sorry. I will go now.”

“Alright. Be safe. Same time next week.”

I am not smiling at him. I am walking out of his office which smells a lot like carpet cleaner. I am sticking my head back in.

“You should try Dent-O-Mint, sir. It’s a wonderful brand.”

I am leaving and I can hear him writing on his pad like a mad little man. Like a crazy person.

*

The music, if you could call it that, was impossibly loud. Lester disliked being deaf to all but a constantly dropping bass and electric squealing. A strobe kept everything in slow motion, and he was effectively disabled. A deer in headlights.

In the punctuated light, Brian appeared, yelling something unintelligible and motioning with his hands. Lester followed. He always followed. They pushed through the grinding mob of glitter-coated ravers and through the door of a back room, which seemed strangely familiar to Lester in a way he couldn’t quite place. Inside was dark, but blissfully quiet. The pounding beat of the club made its way in, but muffled to a tolerable point.

“Brian? What the fuck?”

“This is gonna be awesome.”

“What? What’s gonna be awesome?”

Lester could hear someone, presumably Brian, moving things around. Something slid across the floor, something like a table or heavy chair.

A small halo of light flickered to life from a candle. The room swallowed most of it, but the surface of a table was visible with something large and rectangular on it. Brian’s face suddenly appeared before him, making him shout.

“Calm down. You ready?”

“For what? What the actual fuck, Brian?”

Brian sighed. “We’re going to write the script, Les. Right now. All of it. Tonight.”

Lester turned around.

“Absolutely not. Where’s the door?”

“Good luck finding that. You are not going anywhere. You’ll thank me later.”

Brian’s face disappeared and Lester found himself being pushed into a chair.

“You suck. You absolutely suck.”

“Look, Lester, you have some sort of weird opposition to doing anything with your book. You’ve got the royalties fucking piling up in what? A savings fund? You haven’t even paid off your debts. You’re just not touching it. What is so wrong about being famous? About having something you worked on published?”

Lester pillowed his head in his hands. “You don’t understand. I don’t even expect you to. Just… stop. Okay?”

“Hell no. If you had had any idea that we were gonna write the script you would never have even come out. I knew you didn’t actually want to write it. You’re a terrible fucking liar. I had to set this all up, and we’re not going back until it’s done. Or they kick us out. We’re probably not supposed to be here. Either way, we’re not leaving until then. And I probably would understand, if you’d just stop being a prick and tell me. Believe it or not, asshole, you’re my best friend.”

Lester stared at the candle until his vision was reduced to swirling blue and pink dots. He ran his hands through his hair. He started to speak.

“Fine, Brian. Fine. The reason I hate my stupid book is because it’s the end of everything I ever wanted. I grew up wanting to be a scientist. I got to here on a fucking biology scholarship. I’m not a writer. The only time I’ve ever been creative was when I was high off my ass. Okay? And that’s not me. Instead of doing what I want, I will always be Lester Medinsky, author of the infamously terrible Death and other Diplomats. I will never get a job in science, because I’m a joke. I don’t care how rich of a joke I am. I will never, ever do what I want. And I will never have another success, because I don’t plan on dropping acid again anytime soon. And I wouldn’t want to. And I’m sick of everything.

You know where the book gets weirdly dark? Like, suicidal, and bloody, and weird as hell? That’s what I wrote as I got more and more sober. Closer to reality. Because I hate life, Brian. And I try not to think about it, but every time somebody brings up that fucking book I remember. I never tell anybody that shit. Sure, maybe it just seems like Lester’s the little science nerd, but inside he has no fucking idea how to be happy. That’s not shit you tell people. So I’m fucked up, and I’m depressed, and now I have to live the rest of my life as a failure. Do you get it, Brian? Am I being clear? Do you get it now?”

There was silence.

“Lester…”

“Fuck. Shit.” In the dark, Lester cried. He cried harder than he ever had in his life, because nobody could see him. Brian was helpless.

“Lester, com—”

“Stop. For once… in your life… stop talking.” Lester gasped for air. “I can’t write a script, okay, because that’s just the final nail in the coffin. It’ll be a great movie. It’ll be fucking great. And I’ll never live it down for the rest… of my life.”

There was a small flare of light as a match sparked to life. It dwindled and extinguished, leaving the red glow of the end of a cigarette in its place.

“Here. You need this more than I do.”

The paper cylinder made its way into Lester’s hand. He cleared his throat noisily and took a long drag. Weed, not tobacco.

They waited.

“I’m sorry, Brian.”

“Jesus, don’t apologise. Look, I’ll stop pushing this on you. I had no idea. Let’s just smoke this and then we’ll go back to the dorm.”

Lester passed it back, and they smoked in silence until there was nothing left of the blunt but a burning stub on the table. Lester stared at the glowing pile of ash. He cleared his throat. He changed his mind.

“I’ll stay.”

“Les, I’m not going to make you do that. We’ll forget about it.”

“No. I’ve got to stop hiding. I’m a fucking success, and I better get used to it. Let’s write.”

Brian’s grin was almost audible. The mysterious rectangle on the table opened. A laptop.

“Then let’s go. The opening. Sara’s bedroom, a wide shot of the vanity.”

The click of keys filled the room, mixing comfortably with the bass that leaked through the foundation of the walls and slithered through the crack under the door. The blue light of the screen illuminated two sets of eyes, two faces.

In the back room of a discotheque, two writers were born.

*

Sara ran, trying to find somewhere to be safe. Closet, there. Inside, safe. She collapsed on the floor, shivering. She covered her face with her clammy hands. No, be strong, She thought. She sat up abruptly. Nothing was wrong. Nothing had happened. She had been going to bed too late; recently. That, and maybe food poisoning from breakfast, had caused her to have an illusion, which would also explain the migraine in class. After a good night’s sleep, she would work on getting Nerezza to crack. She sighed and stood up. Everything was okay, even if her gut screamed otherwise. A chipped mirror hung on the wall. Sara checked to make sure that she still looked good. And saw that a few strands of her hair had turned white.

Resilience is not a trait I admire. Of course, it can only be expected of humans with strong souls. So while this Saraphina will persist in her attempts to ‘crack’ me, she may even prove useful in the end.

Sara glanced at the mirror on the wall beside her bed. There was no mistaking the scattered white hairs mingled with the blond. Maybe it’s a natural change, she hoped. Her instincts, though, knew it was not. Her parents had both left on business trips earlier that day, so the only ones who knew about her hair were Blanca, the housekeeper, and Darryl, the chauffer. Blanca spoke very little English, though, and both she and Darryl knew better than to comment on their employers’ daughter’s appearance. Sara pulled out some dye from her dresser drawer. She was horrible at dyeing her own hair, but, she thought, drastic times call for drastic measures.

Ashley hung up with a hysterical Sara on the phone. Somehow, Sara had managed to give herself brown highlights in an attempt to cover up some odd-colored hair. Ashley looked at her own long hair in the mirror. She and Sara were best friends, but polar opposites. Sara was blond, now with messy brown highlights, and Ashley was brunette with blond highlights. Sara had brown eyes and twenty-twenty vision, whereas Ashley’s eyes were green and she wore contacts. They both agreed on one thing though: Nerezza’s shell would have to be broken.

A week went by, and Sara avoided Nerezza at all costs. It wasn’t very hard, as Nerezza did everything alone. She even sat by herself behind the school at lunch, under the overhang to keep out of the rain. It hadn’t stopped pouring since the day she had come. Sara also noted that Nerezza never ate. For a slightly overweight girl, Sara found that unusual. Sara wondered if Nerezza ever slept, either. Her intense eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and she seemed to always be in pain.

Saraphina. Quite a nice name. It means heavenly or winged angel. The opposite of what the girl is. She watches me carefully, thinking that I do not know she is there. But I feel her presence and hear her thoughts, and she will continue in her quest to upset me soon. The strain of controlling myself is becoming too great, and I begin to fear for the girl and her friends as well. And Saraphina just may be the one I will need most in the end.

Where does she live? Sara wondered. Nerezza had never said anything about a home or a family (she had said a total of 18 words her entire time at the school.)But Sara assumed she had one. So here I am, she thought, at the address the school secretary gave me and nothing’s here. She looked again at the address scrawled on the sticky note in her hand: 163 Moonstone Street. There was a 162 and a 164, but no 163; just an empty lot where a house should have been. And what about her parents? Sara wondered. Who fills out her forms and signs her math tests? Who buys her clothes and school supplies? Sara intended to find out.

Getting into these schools require bending many minds. One must have an address, certification of birth, and numerous other forms, all to be filled out by one’s parents. Conjuring certificates is easy enough, but many people need…convincing. I do hope the school board members do not suffer from brain damage.

“I’m breaking up with you.” Sara was outside her boyfriend Mike’s house.

“What!?” She half yelled.

“I’m sorry. But you’ve been acting so weird lately. Freaking out about this new girl. She is a freak, but you’re making a big deal out of nothing. Then you dye your hair a crazy color, and cover it up badly, just to impress me. We can still be friends.” Mike said from his bedroom window.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Sara cried. “I wasn’t trying to impress you. My hair turned white on its own, so I tried to cover it up with blond, but did brown by mistake. AND IT’S ALL NEREZZA’S FAULT!” She finished hysterically.

“Sure, right.” Mike said, and closed the window.

That night, Sara washed out all the cheap hair dye, and noticed that more of her hair had turned white underneath.

*

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I'm too tired to format Death and other Diplomats differently from the rest, so you'll have to just assume what it is by the asterisk breaks and tone. Sorry. This jet lag will kill me.