This is a whole new ball of whatever for me.

Much like the polygamist sects of Mormonism constantly feel as though they are going to be outed and arrested, I have grown up fearing the internet’s ability to steal the very thoughts out of your head.  I always believed that posting works-in-progress online was similar to screaming “HERE! TAKE THIS!” with your arms full of money on a crowded street.  From what I’ve been reading, however, copyright laws protect what you write the second its posted, which allays my paranoid fear quite a bit.  I spent the night trying to figure out what to put on here first, as I have a very convoluted and twisty style of writing and keeping track of my progress.  It goes a little something like this.

Step one: Write about something.

Step two: Title it “Story __” (Whatever number I happen to be on)

Step three:  When I feel like writing, I double click on a random story and continue, or at least try to, where I left off.  Piecing together my thought process from anywhere from a few days ago to a year ago or more can be difficult, but I like the spontaneity of starting a story again without knowing which one its going to be.  Its always a surprise, and it helps keep the story fresh and new.

I get bored easily, so I need to keep doing this so I don’t end up fizzling out and giving up on a story.

Last I checked, I had about 37 different ideas saved on my hard drive.  So I decided to pick a random one and go with it.  At some point, I’ll throw in a title, but right now, its just raw words.  I don’t even know where I’m going with it yet.  So let me know what you think, and if there is anything I can do to improve.  Ideas on where to push it would be nice too.  I’m going to call this Story One, to make things less complicated.  Let me take a deep breath and prepare myself for this.  Did I mention I also have a few of people reading what I write.  Silly, I know, considering my dreams of becoming a published author, but I digress.

STORY ONE:

Aaron leaned his shoulder against the fancy intricate woodwork of the door frame, sighing loud enough for his mom to temporarily stop ignoring him. She looked at him, the beginning of a good solid buzz visible in the glaze across her bright blue eyes, and scowled in a way that almost made her look ugly.

“What is it now?” She asked him, looking over his shoulder and motioning for the server to refill her empty wine glass.

“Are we going to be here much longer?” He asked her, sounding so much like a little boy that it hurt his teenage ego in a way he never thought possible.

“Look,” she grumbled, exasperated, giving big crazy eyes to the server, who clearly thought she was too drunk already for a refill. “We’re already here, and I’m not leaving just to take you home, so you’re going to need to man up and deal with it. It’s not like I forced you to come.

“You told me you’d let me have the car tonight. All I had to do was drop you off here,” he said to her back as she began walking away from him. “Can I go now?” He screamed down the long hallway filled with rich party goers.

“I lost the keys!” She screamed back in a mocking singsong kind of voice, waving her hand dramatically as she turned the corner into the ballroom.

Aaron stood in the foyer for a few minutes longer, wondering how much trouble he’d get into if he just called himself a cab and booked. As another pompous looking server passed with brightly colored beverages in fancy glasses, however, he decided that getting drunk was a much more viable option. Despite Aaron only being 16, and not looking a day over it, the server stopped and held the tray still when he motioned that he wanted to take a glass. Apparently, the more these tuxedo clad men are paid, the less they care about keeping up with the law.

He downed the drink, trying not to cringe at how surprisingly bitter it was, and found a fancy marble end table to place the empty glass on. Having never had a drink of anything before, within minutes he already felt a little unsteady on his feet. He decided to wander around the party for a bit and silently make fun of all of the ritzy folk in attendance.

He always considered his mom more of an art gallery owner than a parent, as she had very little patience for her son and spent the majority of the weekends that he was with her at her own gallery or at these kinds of artist parties, hunting down new work for herself. She made a ton of money doing it, and decided that traveling the world, tanning while flying across the ocean on her speed boat, and adding to her never ending Prada purse/shoes/sunglasses collection was far more important than paying for a decent education and new tennis shoes for her kid. She ran off to be rich in the Palisades and only bothered to fly Aaron out on the weekends when she could show off how much better she was without him.

Aaron didn’t even know why taking the car excited him so much. Aside from stealing money from his mom and wasting it on typical teenage boy indulgences; video games, fast food and the like, he really had nothing to do there. No self respecting trust fund child would be caught dead in his company, and no self respecting middle class child would be caught dead at a yacht club or Mercedes Benz dealership, either.

Well, it’s over.  Allow me to sit back and cringe.

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