The Beginning of a Story

[Faceless Mist-Wraith he/him]

I am actually interested in becoming an author. Here is the beginning of a story I've been working on. It is meant to be a humorous take on the "Chosen Ones save the world" story. The footnotes have been moved to the bottom as a result of the format. Let me know what you think! 

(Spoilered for size)

Spoiler

Prologue

 

 

 

 

     Life is a joke. No one knows this better than the omnipresent deities who watch over the world. Every day they see hundreds of thousands of people doing ridiculous things despite all of the deities’ attempts to dissuade or otherwise warn them. This constant foolishness in the face of godly wisdom led to much frustration within the immortal community, until the Foolish Mortal was born. The Foolish Mortal was the godly equivalent of a mortal pub or comedy bar. It allowed divinities to gather and laugh at the collective idiocy of mortal kind while also allowing them to scratch the itch that made them want to appear next to the man who had touched the third rail or the kid who tried out his home-made wings and say, “I told you it was a bad idea. But did you listen? Noooooo, because no body ever listens to the all-knowing supreme being. You just haaad to do things your own way didn’t you? You’re just like my mother. I wanted to take karate, but she signed me up for cotillion. You put your elbows on the table one time and all of a sudden you have to go to manners school. Well you know what Mother? I’m going to switch your salad fork with your dinner fork! So there!”

     “Excuse me-”

      “What is it? I’m in the middle of… oh. Sorry. Ahem; Steve, use your common sense, your bike wasn’t going to make that jump. That is all…bye.”

     A doorway opened into The Space Between Here and There[1] to reveal a cloaked figure. The cloaked figure paused for a moment, taking in its surroundings. It stood in a vast expanse of endless nothing. Or, at least nearly endless nothing, as there was very clearly a something just in front him. That something was a building. The cloaked figure contemplated the building in front of it for a moment. As somethings that interrupt nearly endless nothings tend to do, it stuck out, and its appearance did nothing to lessen this. The structure looked barely stable, with some of the walls seeming to lean in a worrisome manner.  A flickering neon sign above the door proclaimed the establishment as ‘The Foolish Mortal, (and in smaller lettering: Mortals Tolerated But Unwelcome). Over the door hung a sign that depicted a man poking a lion. In truth, the bar seemed nothing more than a shack, yet lights and laughter shone out from inside. The figure approached the entrance, pausing only to flip back its hood, and with a final amused glance at the bar’s sign, opened the door.

     The Old Man walked into the Foolish Mortal. He was greeted by nods of respect from many of the assorted beings gathered there, as well as some quizzical once-overs from some of the newer immortals. This was understandable, as at first glance The Old Man did not appear to be that impressive or deific. With his gray robe, gnarled cane, and flowing white beard, he seemed to be nothing more than an ordinary, if eccentric, senior citizen. His eyes however, told the true story. They shone with a spark of mischief, their depths held an eternity. The Old Man paused for a moment at the entrance, as if in thought, then with an almost giddy grin headed towards the back of the Foolish Mortal, where the sound of godly laughter echoed as the Lord of Crustaceans told his “Watch me shake hands with this crab” story.

     “Old Man! Welcome! Try one of my subjects! The mortals call this delicacy ‘crab cake’. It is most deliciously savory!” The Lord of Crustaceans said through a mouthful of crab.

     “No thank you, Crusty, I just came for the stories.”

     “Are you sure?”

     “Yes, Crusty.”

     “How about a shrimp platter?”

     “I’m fine, Crusty.”

     “Surely you would like to try some of this lobster sou-“

     “I had a big lunch” the Old Man said hurriedly.

     “Well okay then,” The Lord of Crustaceans said somewhat reproachfully. “Would you like to hear the story of the questionable seafood leftovers?”

     “Actually,” the Old Man said with a mischievous glint in his eye, “I have a story of my own.” The assembled immortals huddled in more closely, eager to amuse themselves. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one. A pig in a bowler hat and a bowtie walks into a hat shop. He looks around for a moment before turning to the store clerk and asks ‘have you got any top hats?’” The Old Man sat back smiling, while the collected divinities simply stared at him, baffled.

     “I don’t get it,” mumbled the Lord of Crustaceans, voice muffled by crab cakes. The Old Man simply smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

     The story begins in a little brick building at the corner of Dawson St. The brick building was a quaint little bakery called the Friendly Muffin. The Friendly Muffin, despite its small size and unremarkable appearance, was one of the most respected bakeries in all of Htrae. Its fame could be attributed 3 main reasons: The bread was the best in the world, the cakes were beautifully made masterpieces, and the owner was considered one of the most frightening people to have ever been born. Yet, despite the Friendly Muffin’s renown, it was a place of relatively little consequence in the grand scheme of the universe. Or at least, it was until one of the Chosen Ones decided to take a job there as an apprentice baker. His name was Sam. This Chosen One, as is normally the case, had no idea that he was one of the Chosen Ones or that the Forces of Darkness were desperately trying to find him. To be fair, he had been one of the Chosen Ones for a little more than a day, and no one had seen fit to let him know of the fact.

     Sam was busy taking a customer’s order when there was a sudden ‘CLANG’ as one of the people waiting accidentally knocked over one of the side shelves holding bread. Silence fell throughout the Friendly Muffin as everyone took notice of the shambles that had once been a beautiful display of bread. Then, as in an almost synchronized wave, all the experienced customers (of which the shelf toppler was not) tried to blend in with the bakery walls and appear as inconspicuous as humanly possible.

     The shelf toppler, who being new to The Friendly Muffin and as a result had no such survival instincts, had only enough time to look around in a puzzled manner and ask “Where did everybody go?” before a sudden unearthly screech reverberated throughout the bakery.

     “WHO DESTROYED THE BANANA BREAD ARRANGEMENT?!!”

Put simply, Mrs. Putch did not appreciate when someone messed with her displays and she took baking very seriously.

    Mrs. Putch burst from her office, the door of which shattered from the force it was opened with. The shopper, somehow oblivious to Mrs. Putch’s fury, did the monumentally stupid thing and owned up to the deed (there were many deities who pulled their hair out in frustration).

     “I’m so sorry madam I-“

     “YOU WHAT? DESTROYED THE DISPLAY THAT I PAINSTAKINGLY PUT TOGETHER THIS MORNING?! RUINED A WHOLE MORNINGS WORK?! MADE MOCKERY OF MY ART!!?”

     While Mrs. Putch traumatized the hapless customer[2], Sam hid in the stockroom. That was close, he thought with a sigh of relief. Sam had been scolded by Mrs. Putch once and had no wish to repeat the experience. Turning away from the stockroom door he was surprised to find that he was not alone. A man clad in a black hooded robe stood before him. Before Sam could get a word out, the man shoved him against the stockroom wall, a rather sharp-looking knife appearing in his hand.

     “Where is Sam Filders?” the hooded man growled.

For a moment Sam struggled to speak as his brain and immediate survival instincts wrestled with each other. Sam’s brain argued that this scary man had knife, and it was very likely he intended to use said knife on Sam. Sam’s instincts however, did not care about this little fact and wanted to answer the man’s question as quickly as possible in order to avoid displeasing him. One quick mental sucker punch later, and Sam’s immediate survival instincts seized control of Sam’s vocal cords.

     “It’s me! I’m Sam Filders! OhgodpleaseImbeggingyoupleasedontkillme!” blurted Sam. The man dropped Sam, his face recoiling in bewilderment.

     “You are Sam Filders?” asked the man incredulously.

      “Y-yes?”

     “Short for Samuel Dagin Filders?”

     “Yes?”

     “Currently-employed-at the-Friendly-Muffin Sam Filders?”

     “Yes?”

     “And you’re not just Sam Filder’s scrawnier, less impressive, younger brother who happens to go by the same name?”

     “…Yes?”

The man looked at him for a moment in astonishment before shrugging his shoulders.

     “Alright then, I suppose it doesn’t matter whether or not you are an actual threat,” and so saying, he raised his knife.

     “W-wait minute,” Sam cried, realizing he had just missed four second chances. “I might not be the right Sam! Please don’t-“

     There was a knock at the stockroom door. Before either Sam or the hooded man could react, the door was opened and a pig in a tweed jacket with a tuft-like beard, poked its head inside.

     “Are either of you Sam Filders?” the pig asked.

Sam and the hooded man stared at the pig. They weren’t surprised that the pig could talk, after all anthropomorphic animals were a part of every day Thrae life. More it was the pig’s disarming smile, which was much like that of a young child promising to be on their best behavior, right before they dash away with the moon rock from the exhibit and get you banned from your favorite museum. Sam, unsure on whether or not he should answer this question, due to what happened the last time, shrugged his shoulders.

     “Maybe?” he said, doubt resounding in each syllable such that his own mother would have conceded the possibility that he may in fact not be Sam Filders.

     “Wonderful!” the pig exclaimed, seemingly oblivious to the undertones in Sam’s response. And so saying, he grabbed Sam by his shirt and yanked him out of the storeroom.

     “That was easy,” remarked the pig, cutting off the hooded man’s cry by slamming and bolting the door. He turned towards Sam and appraised him as the stockroom door continually shuddered and a roar of outrage reverberated from inside. Upon finishing his inspection, he muttered to himself “thought you’d be taller” before holding out his hoof. “Hello Sam, my name is Kelger Statley, but you can call me Grandpa Kelger,” he said beaming. There was a moment of relative silence while Sam stared at him in bewilderment and the pig kept his arm steadily out, grinning his maniacal smile as the door beside them continuing to boom with its occupant’s angry blows. Finally, snapping out of his stupor, Sam hesitantly took the pig’s hoof and shook it.

     “Good!” the pig said excitedly. The stockroom door gave an ominous groan, cracking slightly. “We should probably get going before that man breaks out of there and kills you,” said the pig cheerfully, as he dragged Sam away from the door and into the kitchen.

     “Wait a minute,” Sam sputtered as the pig pulled him towards the front of the shop. “Why does that man want to kill me? For that matter, who are you? Where are you taking me?” He shook himself free. “Answer my questions or I won’t take another step!” declared Sam.

Grandpa Kelger stopped and looked at Sam with bemusement.

     “Really? You won’t move another step?”

      “No! Not one!” Sam asserted. There was a sharp crack from the back of the bakery as the door shook on its hinges. Grandpa Kelger thought to himself a moment before shrugging his shoulders.

     “ Alright then, I was going to do this later when we weren’t in immediate mortal danger, but since you’re being so insistent, I might as well get it done now,” he said indifferently.

     “Well maybe we should escape fir-“ Sam hurriedly conceded, but Grandpa Kelger continued on as if he hadn’t spoken.

    “In the order that you asked: That man is trying to kill you because you are one of the Chosen Ones and he is an agent of the Forces of Darkness trying to kill you, I am your guardian sent to protect you, and I am taking you to meet up with the other Chosen Ones,” he stated, in the same tone one would use to say “your shoelace is untied”.

     Sam stared at the pig to see if he was joking. Grandpa Kelger looked back at him wondering if he could steal a bread roll without the chef noticing.

     “I’m one of the Chosen Ones?” Sam asked incredulously.

     “Yes.”

     “As in the big ‘c’ and big ‘o’ Chosen Ones?”

     “Yes.”

     “And I’m supposed to fight the Forces of Darkness?”

     “More likely you’ll be working to foil their plans to end the world, but yes, you’re probably going to end up fighting them some time or another,” Grandpa Kelger said amiably.

     “But I’m just a baker’s apprentice! I haven’t even been that for more than two days! How could I have been a Chosen One all this time and not know it?”

     “Well, technically you haven’t been a Chosen One until rather recently,” Grandpa Kelger said defensively.

     “How recently?” Sam asked, suspiciously. Grandpa Kelger checked his watch.

     “Since about three hours ago!” he said, flippantly.

     “Three hours?! How did I become a Chosen One in thre-“ Sam’s protest was cut off as with a final splitting crack the door to the stockroom finally broke open, and the man in black burst through with an enraged bellow.

     “We should talk about this later,” the pig said hurriedly, grabbing Sam’s arm and pulling him into the front of the shop as the man saw them and charged.

     Grandpa Kelger dashed over to one of the displays as the man in black plowed out of the kitchen towards them. Then, to the astonishment and horror of everyone in the bakery, he took a loaf of banana bread off of the newly rebuilt display, took a bite out of it, and threw it at the man in black. Out of reflex the man caught the loaf, an expression of pure terror came across his face as the pig turned towards the shattered remains of Mrs. Putch’s office and bellowed at the top of his lungs.

     “MY WORD! DID THAT MAN JUST TAKE A BITE OUT OF THAT BREAD WITHOUT PAYING FOR IT?,” Grandpa Kelger yelled turning towards the would-be-assassin. “OH WHAT’S THAT?” Grandpa Kelger shouted as he noticed the man’s desperate pleading gestures. “HE SAYS DOESN’T LIKE IT?” Quickly yanking Sam’s shoulder, he pulled him under a nearby table as the stunned customers realized what was coming and threw themselves behind counters and out of windows in order to get to cover.

     Mrs. Putch was famous for falling into rage at the smallest insult, and subsequently everyone tried to be on his or her best behavior when they entered the Friendly Muffin. Even small children managed to harness their boundless energy while inside. For a person could spit, fight, rearrange the furniture, or even murder* (if you truly wanted to push your luck, these things weren’t legal, they were just a lower priority) within the Friendly Muffin’s walls, but so much as scuff the bread*, and you might as well alert your next of kin. As a result, never in their wildest dreams had anyone ever considered the idea of throwing Mrs. Putch’s bread. And for good reason.

     There was a moment of near silence while the man in black tried to escape out the front door. Then, without warning, there was an inhuman shriek of pure rage and fury. The lights of the bakery flickered, there was a sound of rushed feet, a brief blur of what looked like a kindly old lady with hellfire for eyes, and where the man in black had been, there was only a man shaped outline in flour. It looked vaguely terrified.

     And with that, Grandpa Kelger crawled out from under the table where he and Sam had taken shelter. Brushing himself off, he turned to Sam.

     “I think that went rather well,” he declared jauntily. He then strolled out of the Friendly Muffin whistling a carefree tune as Sam trailed hesitantly behind him.

[1] This terminology was for practical reasons shortened to “The InBetween”, though “NoPlace”, “WhereIsIt”, and “Big Empty Void Space” were close contenders.

[2] Customers who ended up on the receiving end of Mrs. Putch’s wrath often ended up with severe mental trauma. Dr. Crutch, a prominent psychologist, capitalized on this fact by opening a clinic directly next to The Friendly Muffin.

 

(Edit)

For those who are wondering about the weird joke at the end of the prologue, it's a mystery that's meant to be revealed at the end of the book. I'm structuring the book so there are small hints throughout, but it's meant to make no sense at first.

Edited December 13, 2016 by Faceless Mist-Wraith
Clarification