Chapter 01 - In the Beginning
The story begins, as so many do, with an awakening. Not an awakening in spirit, but simply the transition from unconscious to conscious.
As awakenings go, it was none too impressive. The clock-radio by the bed buzzed for several seconds before an arm snaked out of the lump of coverings on the bed and turned the alarm off. A few more seconds passed, and the lump quivered and twitched before discharging a boy onto the floor.
The boy is called Timmy.
He was named Timothy, but no matter how carefully he introduced himself, or how much he insisted otherwise, anyone, within five minutes of meeting him, began calling him Timmy. There was something about him that seemed to require it. The “Little” was an honorific in reverse.
Timmy pulled himself from the floor and changed into his clothes for the day. He stumbled into the bathroom, splashed water in his face, and glared at himself in the mirror. He left the bathroom, went downstairs, and burned some toast for breakfast. While scraping the butter on, Timmy glanced out the window.
It was raining.
Timmy was fourteen. It’s never an easy age for anybody and recently it had seemed like it was always raining. Timmy had used to like the rain. It seemed to freshen things. Everything always seemed so new after it had stopped. But when it doesn’t stop, things just get wet and rot. The rain also meant that Timmy’s bus to school would be late.
He finished his toast and pulled on his rain jacket. It was too small for him and was only waterproof on the inside; once water got in, which it did quickly, it couldn’t escape. Timmy looked for an umbrella, found one, grabbed his backpack, and was out the door. He splashed through his yard and down the sidewalk to his bus stop, where he waited.
After a few minutes the bus came and picked Timmy up. He found an empty seat near the back, sat down, and dripped. He looked out the window in time to see lightning flash and light up the sodden world.
“It’s beautiful out there, isn’t it?”
Timmy looked across the aisle to the boy who had spoken.
“Excuse me?”
“Beautiful weather, I mean.”
Timmy considered this.
“No. Not really.”
Timmy turned away and resumed staring out the window. A gust of wind hit the side of the bus, making it rock slightly. A couple of the more excitable girls screamed and Timmy rolled his eyes. The bus was in far more danger of being driven off the road by their maniac driver than by being blown on its side.
A few more stops and the bus arrived at Timmy’s school, Gerald Ford High School. The name said everything. The shoe-box-like outline of the building squatted on the horizon like a toad, occasionally illuminated by lightning. It looked like a Brutalist Castle Frankenstein. The unsettling curves and odd irregularities in its form made one imagine it was a nightmare of non-Euclidean geometry. It wasn’t, but was still pretty unpleasant to look at.
The bus stopped and kids flowed out of it like water leaking out of a dam. Timmy was the last one off the bus. He opened his umbrella and began trudging up the walkway towards the front entrance. The wind nearly pulled the umbrella out of his hands but he held on and fought for control as he approached salvation.
He was almost there. Just a few more steps. Then he’d be safe and dry and warm. But it was not meant to be. A gust of wind nearly lifted Timmy off his feet and sent him tumbling. He managed to get to his feet, only to be blown backwards again. Blinded by water and mud, Timmy flailed to keep his balance. One of his hands hit something and he grabbed on tight. As he waited for the wind to die down and his nerves to calm, a question imposed itself on him.
What had he grabbed onto?
Timmy’s hands examined it. A concrete base. Some sort of rope going to a pulley-like arrangement. Then a metal pole.
Timmy had grabbed onto the flagpole. The thought occurred to him that maybe holding onto the tallest metallic object around in a lightning storm was not a naturally tenable position, but it was too late, too late.
Lightning struck.
Timmy’s heart stopped.
As awakenings go, it was none too impressive. The clock-radio by the bed buzzed for several seconds before an arm snaked out of the lump of coverings on the bed and turned the alarm off. A few more seconds passed, and the lump quivered and twitched before discharging a boy onto the floor.
The boy is called Timmy.
He was named Timothy, but no matter how carefully he introduced himself, or how much he insisted otherwise, anyone, within five minutes of meeting him, began calling him Timmy. There was something about him that seemed to require it. The “Little” was an honorific in reverse.
Timmy pulled himself from the floor and changed into his clothes for the day. He stumbled into the bathroom, splashed water in his face, and glared at himself in the mirror. He left the bathroom, went downstairs, and burned some toast for breakfast. While scraping the butter on, Timmy glanced out the window.
It was raining.
Timmy was fourteen. It’s never an easy age for anybody and recently it had seemed like it was always raining. Timmy had used to like the rain. It seemed to freshen things. Everything always seemed so new after it had stopped. But when it doesn’t stop, things just get wet and rot. The rain also meant that Timmy’s bus to school would be late.
He finished his toast and pulled on his rain jacket. It was too small for him and was only waterproof on the inside; once water got in, which it did quickly, it couldn’t escape. Timmy looked for an umbrella, found one, grabbed his backpack, and was out the door. He splashed through his yard and down the sidewalk to his bus stop, where he waited.
After a few minutes the bus came and picked Timmy up. He found an empty seat near the back, sat down, and dripped. He looked out the window in time to see lightning flash and light up the sodden world.
“It’s beautiful out there, isn’t it?”
Timmy looked across the aisle to the boy who had spoken.
“Excuse me?”
“Beautiful weather, I mean.”
Timmy considered this.
“No. Not really.”
Timmy turned away and resumed staring out the window. A gust of wind hit the side of the bus, making it rock slightly. A couple of the more excitable girls screamed and Timmy rolled his eyes. The bus was in far more danger of being driven off the road by their maniac driver than by being blown on its side.
A few more stops and the bus arrived at Timmy’s school, Gerald Ford High School. The name said everything. The shoe-box-like outline of the building squatted on the horizon like a toad, occasionally illuminated by lightning. It looked like a Brutalist Castle Frankenstein. The unsettling curves and odd irregularities in its form made one imagine it was a nightmare of non-Euclidean geometry. It wasn’t, but was still pretty unpleasant to look at.
The bus stopped and kids flowed out of it like water leaking out of a dam. Timmy was the last one off the bus. He opened his umbrella and began trudging up the walkway towards the front entrance. The wind nearly pulled the umbrella out of his hands but he held on and fought for control as he approached salvation.
He was almost there. Just a few more steps. Then he’d be safe and dry and warm. But it was not meant to be. A gust of wind nearly lifted Timmy off his feet and sent him tumbling. He managed to get to his feet, only to be blown backwards again. Blinded by water and mud, Timmy flailed to keep his balance. One of his hands hit something and he grabbed on tight. As he waited for the wind to die down and his nerves to calm, a question imposed itself on him.
What had he grabbed onto?
Timmy’s hands examined it. A concrete base. Some sort of rope going to a pulley-like arrangement. Then a metal pole.
Timmy had grabbed onto the flagpole. The thought occurred to him that maybe holding onto the tallest metallic object around in a lightning storm was not a naturally tenable position, but it was too late, too late.
Lightning struck.
Timmy’s heart stopped.
3 Comments:
A solid start to the story, getting the character down and then going completely elsewhere from the mundane.
I'm looking forward to more!
you say "too late, too late"
i am either going to assume you meant "too little, too late" or that you have forgotten "..."
Sadly, both those assumptions are wrong. I meant "Too late, too late."
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