Friday, September 30, 2011

Riddle 16

The light of the shining sun was streaming through the open window, and, as if designed to, hit the side of my face perfectly. I stirred, before opening my eyes to see a sleeping angel. Except that this angel had no wings... and short black hair instead of long flowing blonde hair... So I guess she wasn't an angel, but I liked my hyperbole, so no complaints from the peanut gallery. I looked down and was surprised, relieved, and disappointed, all in that order; surprised that we were both still clothed, relieved that I wasn't naked, and disappointed that she wasn't. Nonetheless I decided to enjoy the feeling of us being incredibly snug together, and closed my eyes in order to feign sleep. Moments later I felt her move, and with a yawn escaping her lips I made the miraculous conclusion that she was leaving her sleep-like state to a rather more alert existence. Or she was just waking up. Potato, tomato, they're both still food. In order to awake me from my false state of rest, I received a sharp poke to the cheek.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Riddle 15

The bedroom door was flung open as if it had been kicked down by federal agents. Milliseconds after three vaguely humanoid bodies collapsed on the bed, clearly exhausted. Hyperventilating was the only sound heard throughout the room for a while. Eventually I decided to voice my opinion. "That wasn't a very pleasant walk." A kick to the leg from our resident Probi gave me a clear view of his opinion on the matter. Another kick from Cheri reinforced this, though from the sound of it she also kicked Nazo, so all was good.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Riddle 14

There were five customers who went to the bathroom around the time of the murder, three men and two women. The bathrooms were unisex, as having only one set of a bathrooms save a lot of money and space. We got them all to sit down at a table so we could quickly answer their questions. Cheri and Nazo were standing off to the distance, close enough that they could hear us yet far enough that they wouldn't be easily heard if they wanted to talk. First Dave and I started off with their names. There was Angie Fleming, the tall blonde who exuded an almost cheerleader-like aura. Laura Howard, an office worker with brown hair tied up in a bun, wire framed glasses adorned her tan face. Mike Coulter, a book author who spent a lot of his time at the bakery, apparently trying to write the next great American novel. He was a good friend of mine, often asked me what I thought of a recent chapter. His editor, Tony Flynn, a strict glasses wearing man whose head was middle of its goal to become completely bald. Finally there was a Mr. Andrew Killmeyer, the perfect personification of a business man, the type of guy I always saw on the news as the banks were collapsing. We then began to ask more... probing questions, which they responded to in the order of introduction.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Riddle 13

Questions and answers fired past me in a way almost perfectly mimicking bullets. Except you couldn't dodge these bullets, you could only hope that they missed their intended target. I wasn't able to return fire, as only Cheri had a conveniently metaphorical gun and she wasn't aiming to kill. Then I kinda forgot where I was going with this metaphor and glanced over at my partners. Nazo had that same deadpan expression on his face, while Cheri was answering the cops current question. I decided that I should perhaps pay attention to this, lets face it, rather important dialogue. And as always my timing was impeccable.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Riddle 12

I could hear someone calling the police, probably Cheri if the sound of the voice was any consideration. There was a pair of arms around me trying to comfort me. Sara. I could feel tears falling onto my neck, and while I also felt tears on my face, I knew the weren't hers. But none of that mattered. All that matter was the man lying down on ground dead. Memories of him flashed before my eyes; my first day coming here, my first heavenly roll, meeting Sara, working the register, the celebration of my first day of work, my first tip, every one of my birthday parties since I was seven. And it was all gone, never going to happen again, never another bearlike hug or huge smile. Gone. I felt a tug on my sleeve that snapped me out of my memories. I jerked my head up savagely to meet my challenger. It was Cheri. I glared into her eyes, and was surprised by what I saw. Sympathy, understanding, sorrow, and most importantly I saw reason in her eyes. I looked around at what I saw. Somehow the police had arrived without me noticing, and then there was a certain girl with a parasitic attachment to me. I stood up with conviction, while my parasite fell off surprised.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Riddle 11

The bell on the entrance jingled as the door flew open. I walked in and took a deep breath of the air I had grown to love over the years. I looked over to the counter to see one of my two favorite people in the world, Robin Gordon, my substitute father figure. Upon my arrival I was greeted by a large shout. A huge smile grew on my face and I ran back behind the counter and was hugged by the gigantic ginger named Robin.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Riddle 10

When I arrived downstairs I heard the tell tale signs of boiling water. Upon further investigation I discover three cups of instant ramen noodles near said boiling water. Since Cheri was preparing the ramen, I plopped down beside Nazo at the, of course, black, breakfast table. Thirty seconds later we each had a hot steaming bowl of processed calories, my personal favorite, in front of us. We dug in with a vigor that would disgust most vultures. Good thing they were extra large cups, otherwise we would be out almost instantly. Broth spilled everywhere, except on ourselves of course, it wouldn't be right for us to appear unprofessional. After a bit Nazo suddenly looked up with a blank expression on his face.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Riddle 09

I woke to the sound of loud beeping. I automatically hit the snooze button, despite this being the first time in months I had even used an alarm. I looked over at my temporary sleeping partner to find her in the middle of waking up. I noticed that her state of dress was... actually she had all of her clothes on, odd. Cheri was in mid stretch when glanced at me, and froze. She remained that way for a good 15 seconds, a blush that could make a tomato commit murder in jealousy on her face. Just as I was about to move to see if she was alright, she turned away at a superhuman speed.

"L-look down..."

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Riddle 08

"You heard me."
Nazo looked at Cheri for a bit before switching back to me. He seemed to be considering his options. While he was doing that Cheri walked up to me and leaned against me. The action made me raise an eyebrow, but other than that I remained motionless. Eventually Nazo came to a decision and sighed.
"I don't suppose there is anything else I can do... Alright, you got yourselves a partner."
Cheri smiled and drew the boy into a hug, burying his face in her... more feminine parts.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Riddle 07

We burst into the room in an intentionally over dramatic fashion. Cheri immediately went over to her laptop and booted it up. I stood behind her, observing. She began to search the word Nazo on the internet. Various results came up, but nothing that would be of use. There were some Japanese translation sites, in which I could see that Nazo translated to riddle. There was also appeared to be a... questionable type of site. Cheri cocked her head at the screen.
", a place for all your desires to be fulfilled..."
She turned to look at me
"Should we click on it?"
"Sure, whats the worst that could happen?"

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Riddle 06

The sound of pouring was all that he could be heard in Cheri's kitchen. Steam rose up from the liquid, which happened to be a cheap brand of tea. The only ones in the room were Cheri and I, the boy who we found at the hospital was up in Cheri's room; handcuffed.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Riddle 05

I flopped on the ground, completely exhausted. My body wasn't meant to handle 15 miles of biking, not with the extra person sized weight on the handlebars. Though we did stop for a quick breather, it wasn't enough. Cheri let me lay on the ground for what felt like an hour, though actually three minutes.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Riddle 04

My eyes cracked open, leaving me with quite a feast for my eyes. I looked away from the beautiful sight.

I didn't know it was possible to wriggle out your clothes like that when you were asleep. I got up and put the covers over her, shielding her from my gaze. I looked down to see that I was still wearing my dark red t-shirt and my black track pants. Then I stretched and yawn, then walked over to pick up my bag from the ground. I did inventory, and as usual everything was there. I heard a yawn from behind me, so I turned around to find a rather awake girl. Her glasses were crooked on her face, and she looked completely out of it.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Riddle 03

She held me for a while, in a way that I could feel her heartbeat. Dun dun, dun dun, dun dun. Of course I also felt something much more interesting to the teenage mind. I thought about coping a feel, but decided against it. She had complete control over me after all, pissing her off would not be the wisest thing to do. Time passed, and after a while I had gotten annoyed at my 'master'. Then she started snoring. I rolled my eyes in exasperation. I then decided to do something incredibly daring/stupid. A poke, to be precise, in a rather awkward place. I whispered into her ear.

"Oi, time to wake up."

Friday, September 16, 2011

Riddle 02

I looked at the room I was in, but at the same time I didn't real look. I was trying to wrap my head around what had happened. My first loss. The contract. Her presenting the contract. That stupid contract. Me signing the contract. Her underwear. THAT GOD DAMN CONTRACT. I hung my head in shame for a moment. I need to get my emotions under control. I actually started doing deep breathing exercises.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Riddle 01

A drop of sweat ran down my neck. It wasn't a tired sweat, nor the sweat that you get when its hot outside. It was a cold sweat, a sweat of nervousness. I had a good reason for this sweat on my neck, a very damn good reason. The game of chess laid out in front of me was that reason. To the normal observer, there was a decently tall man with black/silver/white/blonde/with even a few strands of pink hair, me, and a black haired girl with glasses sitting on the other side of the board. Even a beginner at chess could tell that the girl, Cheri, was absolutely dominating the game. I could only watch in horror as she moved her queen. The single word she said rang in my ears. It made me flashback to the events that played out earlier, in a way that I can only assume is similar to when a persons life flashes before their eyes right before they die.


Daily Update (Temporary)

I have been a bit lax on weekly update schedule, mainly because of school, as it is a very important year for me. Fortunately, I have a project I wrote a year ago that I shall upload at a pace of a chapter a day until I am finished. This will also give me time to work on a few things, school included. As a note, this project represents my writing skill a year ago, and I like to think that I have improved since then.

Friday, September 9, 2011

What Happens in Vegas, Rarely Stays There

A lot of people asked me what my problem was, at which point I either punch them in the face for annoying me, or if they actually cared, I told them, with a slap instead of a punch.

I did not have a normal childhood. Well, I did, until I turned ten, at which point it went not so much downhill, as much as falling face first into the earth with the speed and velocity of a Peregrine falcon.

Remember when your parents made a big deal out of you turning the big one oh, and tried to make your tenth birthday the best possible. I don't. I remember my parents, who were a little tipsy at the time, deciding that I was going to 'become a man', and that we need to celebrate my birthday in an adult place.

This turned out to be Vegas. Only God knows how they made that connection.

So anyway, we took a train to Vegas, whose state was only a few states away from our own proud Oklahoma, and fortunately that went smoothly. We got to our hotel, if you could call it that, as the more accurate description was "What would happen if the architect only figured out he was building a seedy motel halfway through construction", but I didn't care. Hell, I was ten, and I thought I was here to have the greatest birthday party ever.

This did not prove to be the case, when my parents imprisoned me in our room with a pair of furry handcuffs that were not only surprisingly effective, but also provided to every couple in the hotel. I really don't want to think about implications of that.

There I stayed, for what felt like a dozen days. Of course, as a child, time feels longer than it actually is, so I was exaggerating. It was only a half dozen.

Eventually one of the hotel staff decided that maybe they should clean their rooms for a change, and I was found. At this point people usually ask where my parents went, and honestly, I have no idea. It is not something I have ever asked them, and it's going to stay that way.

So the hotel staff found me, and that's how I got drafted into the day to day lives of those living in Vegas. I suppose you could call them Vegans.

I started out working as a poker dealer, because they had an opening after the last guy "Got into a pharmaceutical incident", whatever that meant. Well, turns out that if you can't cheat, or spot others cheating, you can't really work as a dealer in Vegas, at least, not that kind. After the seventh time a guy five aces, my employer decided to move me to another industry. By which he meant the sketchy bar down the street, which his friend owned.

After showing up there, I was immediately taught the basics of bartending and given the job of daytime bartender. This was actually a nice gig, as it meant I worked from 7 to 12 in the morning, then slept, only to be woken up at 3 to clean the place.

This continued on for a few months until I was woken out of my slumber at 5 in the afternoon, something unprecedented. My employer told me that one of his girls was sick, and threw a pile of clothing at me, which I dutifully put on because I was such a good worker.

Needless to say, I wasn't prepared when I walked out of the bathroom only to be pushed into one of the "special rooms" that only the dancers used, and told to strip.

At the risk of damaging my already destroyed reputation, I will refrain from saying what went on there. All I can say is, I did not know that could do that there!

Anyway, that never happened again, mainly because I adamantly refused it, so my employer kept me at my bartending job.

A few weeks later, I was minding my own business, searching under the counter for a particular brand of beer, when a loud drunk slammed his hand onto the table and started yelling about me giving him the hardest stuff I had. I really hope he was talking about drinks.

I looked up and saw, here's a shocker, my dad, and thankfully that woman that he was fondling was my mom, unlike future incidents…

He then proceeded to give a performance that wouldn't fool a five year old, spouting nonsense about how he thought he and mom lost me and looked endlessly for me. He then took me from my home, back to mom, who cried for a good 12 seconds, before giving the slots another go. Later that week, we headed back to Oklahoma, away from all the drugs and hookers I had become accustomed to.

That, ladies and gents, is how I spent my sixth grade year.

Author's Note

After nearly two months of writing nothing but Finite Life, many things have happened. I wrote my second over 15,000 story. I started PenSoulFingers. And other things. But now, it is time for a break. I will undoubtedly return someday to Finite Life. But chapter seven was a legitimate stopping point, and continuing without complete love and devotion to this story. I know that this isn't a very professional thing to do, but in all honesty, I do not care. I wrote this story for myself, and the fact that anyone else would read and like this story is completely baffling and extremely pleasing. Alas, this story has not turned out as I would have liked; however, my child is my child, and I will never completely ignore this story. And because I do love this story, I will never stop updating it, but it might not be as on schedule as it previous was. New children are being born, and they need love as well.

Thank you for bothering to read this, or any of The Finite Life of a Dating Sim Heroine. I cannot express my gratitude in any way whatsoever, but to say this. There is nothing more  fulfilling in the world than exploring the infinite possibilities of a finite life.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Finite Life Chapter Eight: Experiencing Your First Time, Again

I looked around to confirm that, yes, I was in my room. The pink walls and ceiling were oddly comforting, mainly because I had been quite cross at all of the pink for the past six weeks. Or is it technically the next six weeks? No matter, it didn't matter in the end.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Evened Out (A failed old story)

There was a pretty woman in London. Not exactly a groundbreaking statement, as there has been a large number of women, and decent amount of them were pretty enough to warrant the compliment. London has had a great multitude of pretty girls, which would probably explain why people tend to flock there and not, for example, Abingdon, a town that unfortunately did not have as high of a pretty woman to people ratio that London had. It was a darn shame, really, as not many people know that the lack of a plethora of these woman that had led to the closing railway station, a feature that has not been truly replaced. Too many faults in life can be traced back to the pretty women in London. This pretty woman was absolutely not an exception to that tendency to trouble others, and may be used as an example of why good Samaritans are more likely to get shot in the back nowadays, after being drained of money and medical supplies of course.

Woman may come in all shapes and sizes, unless she is considered to be beautiful by many; at that point she is almost certainly one specific size. This woman, who shall hence be known as Mabel Kipling, was, all things considered, quite a good person at heart. She was kind and courteous, and never stepped out of line. Actually it is more correct to say that she never stepped out of line publically, but that is inconsequential. If Mabel had worked a day in her life, she would have probably gotten a helpful job to benefit the community, like putting her flower arranging skills to work by setting up the most exquisite little gardens on the balconies and porches of London for the sole purpose of making the commoner's day just a smidgen more pleasant. Instead she had settled for the common upper class hobby; searching for a husband.

Today she was doing just that, and was minutes away from a marvelous visit from a man her father knew. Mabel 's father, who is so barely involved with the series of incidents soon to follow that he is only referred to as Mabel's Father. Same for her mother of course, except she is called Mabel's Mother and not Mabel's Father, as calling her Mabel's Father is only done by the foolish, the nearsighted, and the obscenely drunk. Together the two had the creative title of Mabel's Parents. The nice young man she would soon be introduced to was ever so slightly more important than Mabel's Parents, so he gets a name, which shall be Charles.

Charles was in that odd time in between being fashionably late and being annoyingly late, and time dictated that his position would be slowly shifting to the latter while Mabel sat patiently. It is important to note the difference between normal patience and forced patience. Normal patience was usually a sign of good character, as they would have to have a degree of sympathy that would allow them to overlook an error in punctuality. Forced patience was when someone would rather like to be angry at the latecomer, but is inhibited from doing so by a malevolent force; a rather revolting and distasteful example would be an Ugly Stepmother, who is better know by her other name, Mabel's Mother.

Given that Mabel's Mother had won her previous hobby, if you consider winning to be finding an upper middle class husband willing to marry you, she had since turned her time to a most horrendous activity; talking.

"I know that you father said that they would be there at six, however I'm sure that there is a perfectly good reason for his tardiness." Mabel's Mother spoke in a lofty tone, as If she were speculating to the winds and expecting them to carry her words over to her step daughter. These words, taken out of context, would point to Mabel possessing forced patience, a statement that is both right and wrong. She was being forced to be patient, though it was her own self that was exerting the force. Her good half wanted to be patient, and was making her private, more snarky half agree to her terms. The snarky half had of course acquiesced to the terms, as if there was something that both halves wanted, it was a husband. That was why the good half remained in control, as her more interesting half talked far too many words than what was culturally acceptable, as everyone knew that a husband did not want a chatterbox for a wife, because no man wanted to go to his wedding bed the night he tied the knot and get down to the more physical pursuits of marriage while listening to an audio soundtrack.

"I know mother." Mabel spoke in a voice that suggested that she was tired, but perfectly willing to carry on. So it was an accurate summarization of how she felt at that moment. "I just wished that father would be a bit more accurate when he gives us his estimated time of arrival. I wouldn't mind him showing up latter, as long as I am not sitting here waiting as if he were to arrive any second now."

'Any second' turned into 'this second', for the sound of a heavy front door closing was heard throughout the house. The common father would have announced his presence, run up the stairs and taken a sharp right turn next to the tea stain that had be so tastefully covered up by one of Mabel's flower pots, and apologized to his family why he had been so late. This goes to show the majestic difference between the common father, and an upper class one like Mabel's Father. He instead opted to send the housemaid, who shall never be mentioned by name or given a wondrous title like Mabel's Parents, as her main purpose was to send messages in the comfort and safety of someone else's home.

The women of the house, or at least, the Kipling women, walked out of the sitting room and down the stairs. It was there that Mabel greeted her father, and, in her eyes, the most important person on the planet, her potential husband. Charles was a rather well dressed man, if well dressed meant he knew how to put a bowtie on the right way. The bowtie test was the simplest test that the men of London used to reveal a man's dressing ability. It was also the most complex test, for getting a bowtie on is considered far beyond the skills of any non-Londoner.

Charles also had a few other attributes, none of them worth mentioning. What was worth mentioning was the eagerness inscribed on his eyes as they run up and down Mabel's body; examining every twist and turn of her body.

"I absolutely adore your dress Mabel, haven't seen anything quite like it before." Charles spoke as if his words were falling out his mouth like a waterfall, only his teeth stopping him from speaking what was truly on his mind. That was the real primary purpose of the teeth; otherwise anyone would go around saying anything they thought, and that meager clerk down on Bank Street who constantly attempts to get one to follow up on their interest payments, but is always to meek to pose any sort of authority would be hanged for treasonous and verbose remarks against Her Majesty and one of her rather voluptuous feather dusters.

"Thank you, though it would be difficult for one to see it again, as I am the only one in all of London who owns such a dress." Mabel spoke in a somewhat boisterous, yet partially subdued voice.

"That just means I will have to visit you again." Charles then flashed a smile so charming that everyone in the room, nay, the house, had to look away for fear of being blinded by its uncanny nature. It was a smile that he practiced in one mirror everyone morning; in fact he had even patented it, "The Smile that Sings", because like a song it expressed his emotions with the same grace and fervor that existed in that drunk man attempting to sing along to the orchestra located in the party that he crashed. The wonders of song are truly inexplicable. The reason it was only one was that his maids had expressed a slight displeasure over finding multiple replacement mirrors every day, so he was forced to resign himself to one mirror a day.

"I will certainly look forward to it." Mabel curtseyed before remembering that not only were her parents blatantly listening to her rather deep and complex dialogue, but her father was making grunts similar to a drug induced bulldog that were obviously intended to get her attention.

"Well I would certainly look forward to all of us going up to the drawing room, and I would be quite disappointed if we didn't." Mabel's Father mumbled under his breath just barely loud enough for Mabel.

"Ah yes!" Mabel exclaimed before following her father up the stairs to the aforementioned drawing room. She stole quick glances back at Charles, who seemed to be rather preoccupied with the folds of her dress.

The drawing room is the most important room in the whole house, and is usually a vast chamber meant to entertain. Many historians and English folk believed the term to come from the phrase, "Withdrawing Room", which was a place that the owner of the house, his wife, and one distinguished guest may go to for more privacy. This is a completely untrue statement, as the actual beginnings of the word-phrase were far simpler than that. The drawing room was called that only by the residents of the house, and its purpose was only to entertain. The owner and his guest would go into the room, and they would immediately begin the rapid consumption of alcoholic beverages commonly referred to as a 'binge'. Little did the guest know that only his drinks were actually alcoholic, and that the owner was merely drinking water. Once the guest had passed out, the owner would take out his quill and ink and begin to artistically draw on the poor man's face. Then he had a sketch artist, a thing that can be picked up off the street for anywhere from two to two and a half pence, sketch the face down on a piece of parchment. Then the guests face was rubbed off and he was sent on his merry way in the morning, albeit with a horrible hangover and the distinct feeling of having needles stabbed into their face. The sketch would be both a souvenir of the good times, and also excellent blackmail material.

Alas, that was not the case for this particular incident, for the blackmail strategy had already been tried by countless women, and had a limited success rate, including but not limited to Mabel's Mother.