Prologue part C

[Someone have the decency to check my French, please; it is not a language that I speak. I may be missing something horribly even if I'm using less than five words in that language.]

“Oui, mama, I’ll be careful.” Nicolas smiled and waved a goodbye to his family. "Au Revoir!"

He was miserable. He was happy. He was excited. He was hopeful. He was apprehensive. He felt a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t keep track of what he was feeling anymore because of the sheer variety and speed the emotions flashed by and decided, finally, that it would be useless for him to try to decide what he should be feeling.

Well, he was never that great at being decisive anyway and there was no reason for a sudden change now. Unless the physical change in his global location could somehow miraculously make him more decisive. It didn't seem likely. He was sure everyone could see how petrified he'd been when he'd said goodbye. At least the terrified feeling, like all his other current feelings, lasted no more than a split second.

He checked the contents of his backpack again, just because it gave him something to do while waiting in line besides thinking himself into a paranoid frenzy. Passport? Check. Wallet? Check. Papers about student visa? Check. A book for the long-and-tedious-over-the-Atlantic-flight? Che—

He stopped. Then flipped through his backpack again. He waited another five seconds before doing it again just in case he had somehow overlooked something the time before. The five-second delay was to give the book a chance to show up. The book didn't.

He forgot to bring a book to read.

Oops.

It was going to be a very long plane ride.

Misery took a detour and led the next procession of feelings through his head.

Nicolas tried to think about something else. He thought about his little sister, Adeline, and discovered with a pang that he was starting to feel homesick already. That wouldn't do. He tried to strum up some optimism, some excitement, something—anything—positive.

He was going to the USA! Les États-Unis d'Amérique!

"Mon Dieu," he muttered as the plane lift off.

Prologue part B

Ordered by age. Cheerios:

Getting ready to live somewhere else involved a rather lot of boxes.

It involved a lot of dragging and hauling and cleaning too, none of which Gabriel, known to friends as Zach, liked.

The idea was that all of his possessions were to be dragged out onto his floor and divided into three groups: the get-rid-ofs, the storages, and the bring-alongs. So far no three neat piles have materialized in the middle of his room. Instead there was what could be described as a wobbly, cardboard and plastic version of Manhattan—without the glitter and the lights.

Zach wandered around among his miniature Manhattan, dispiritedly straightening a few of the buildings, waving around the vacuum cleaner, talking on the cell phone and at the same time keeping an wary eye on his computer, which he’d left on doing a self-diagnostic scan.

“Uh-huh,” he answered to the phone loudly (due to the vacuum cleaner), crossing carefully into what should be the equivalent of Times Square and attempting a smile at his mother, who was just passing by his door. His mother shook her head in mock despair and went into the living room. “Yes, I think so.”

The computer started beeping. Zach stifled a groan, leaned the vacuum cleaner against what might be called the World Trades Center, stepped over the East Side, and went to start the scanning for his storage disk D. “Yeah, I’ve seen it,” his voice slipped back into its native accent as it always did when he was distracted. “I guess so. It was blood—”

His mother cleared her throat loudly from the living room. Zach sighed. “I mean, it was pretty awesome.” All of his accents have departed with that reminder from his mother. “No, can’t make it, sorry. Hm? Oh, this weekend. Yeah. Right. Later!” He looked around and then tossed the phone into the only empty spot that could be found in his room.

“Gabriel! Don’t throw your phone!”

“Yes mother!” He turned around just in time to see the phone slipped from its spot on top of his computer and hit the table with a resounding ‘thwack.’

“GAB--!”

“That wasn’t me!” He shouted back, then added under his breath. “Directly, anyway.”

Just then the vacuum cleaner had proved itself too much for the cardboards and the World Trades Center was sent toppling. The box second from the top bounced off of his foot and spilt its contents all over the floor.

Zach hated packing.

Yes Anna, let us know when you're back. =p

to ANNA!

Hi, Anna! When (if) you see this, post or email or im or call or something to let me (us) know you're back! =) Hope you had fun in Italy!! See you on Saturday.

p.s. Yay Susan for starting the story!

Prologue part A

Since no one is using this blog right now...
Stop me if this bothers you.

Unusual for the time of the year, the day was a picture of gloomy misery--which was fine, just fine--it matched his mood anyway. The footrest was broken, his seat was right before the restroom, and the man on the seat in front of him was snoring.

This is such a pleasant trip, thought Michael sarcastically, it's a wonder why people don't travel by bus more often.

His CD player whirled as it reached the end of the CD, he simply hit "play" again. He'd been listening to the same CD over the plane ride and for the past two hours of the bus trip. The music throbbing through the earphones helped him relax. That was, if one could be said to relax at all under the conditions that one was currently under.

The old lady two seats to the left of him squirmed. Michael smirked. He knew that his music, or at least its tempo, could be heard from that distance. He also knew exactly how he came across with his oversized black sweater, beaten backpack, and earphones blasting loud music stuffed into his ears. He had a feeling that if he leaned over, widened his eyes, and said 'boo' the grandma-looking old lady might die from a heart attack. But he wasn't that sadistic. Instead he contented himself by slouching even more in his seat and pulling his hood over his head

Such a nice beginning to such a nice load of crap, though Michael, as the bus made a left turn and he was pressed against the window by the centrifuged inertia of a heavy bus going at eighty-something miles per hour. He liked how that felt and left his head leaning against the glass.

If he was very lucky his stuff would've arrived before he did, and if he was very, very, lucky all of his stuff would have arrived but, as that luck had never been a prime factor in his life, Michael could not very well see it taking a part now. In other words, his things were still being shipped from Minnesota, he wouldn't see them for another week at least, and some of the things that he'd packed he probably would never see again.

Great, thought Michael, just great.

Not.

An snippet of what you might be seeing. Consider it fair warning.