S-so I sort of want to do an art trade or collab with someone—?
Writing Practice #4
The alarm clock went off, and he rolled over to turn it off. Just as he felt like he was finally drifting back to sleep, it went off again. With a grumble, Paden pushed himself off the mattress, silently cursing whoever invited the nine-minute snooze button. Wait… when did he even fall asleep? He remembered going out yesterday evening but then after that… it was all a blur. Did he really drink that much?!
Slamming one hand down on the alarm, he used the other to attempt to comb his hair into a semblance of submission. He glanced around the room with tired eyes, though returning to sleep was out of the question at this point. With a groan, he forced himself to stand up, wavered in his spot, and dropped back down onto the mattress. Maybe he really did drink that much…
Using slow and steady movements, Paden attempted to rise to his feet once more. The world tilted and whirled for a moment, but the cool wooden floor remained beneath his bare feat and so he just waited until the vertigo passed. The first thing he did was shuffle out of his room and into the kitchen, passing a pile of mail that lay abandonned under the slot on his door.
He paused, backed up a few paces, and used the door to steady himself as he leaned over to scoop up the envelopes. He shuffled through them, frowning when he noticed that most of them were addressed to a man who didn’t live there—but, seeing as they were from people that he knew, he decided to open them anyways. The first ones he opened, however, were the ones addressed to himself: Paden Rose.
Obediently sorting his mail, he picked up the ones addressed to Arden Calloway and frowned. He couldn’t remember having the problem of someone else’s mail delivered to his house before. It annoyed him even more to find that the mail addressed to Mister Calloway were regarding situations that he was involved in. Did the name suddenly slip in the registry?
Another wave of diziness set upon Paden and he pressed one hand to his head and closed his eyes. For the first time since waking up, he realised that he felt a bit empty in once place, and overly full in another. Just where those places were, he couldn’t quite tell. The full spaces were filled with strange memories—they must have been dreams from the night before. But just what was missing?
Writing Practice #2
He walked up the staircase.
No, ‘walk’ was too mild a verb for his action. Dashed? Rushed? Sprinted ran flew—no, all too frantic.
He walked. Despite how badly he wanted to just sprint up the light flight. His legs were twitching with anticipation, waiting to be used for that purpose. His heart was beating too rapidly for the rest of his body to be content with the stately walk it was forced into. It took effort to control his breathing. For all intents and purposes, he really felt like he was dashing even though he was only walking.
He crossed the landing in three quick strides, flinging up the door to the office that waited at the top of the stairs. Several pairs of eyes turned in response to his intrusion.
“Will!” a young man gushed, jumping to his feet. The eyes turned towards him, and he sunk back down onto the bench with his head lowered. Then, deciding that he really couldn’t take it anymore, he leapt back up to his feet a second time. “Mister Trafford, what’s going on?”
He ignored the question, noting even sparing a glance to that side of the room. “My name is William Trafford,” he said to the man behind the desk. “I’m that boy’s guardian while he is here in London.”
The man gave him a long, suspicious stare. “How so?”
“I’m a reporter for Daily View. Luigi Lucas de Greco—that boy over there—is my assistant. I am responsible for him.” Will pointed across the room, directing his attention to the young man for the first time. But he only spared him a look that read be patient before looking back at the man at the desk.
Lucas wavered where he stood, not dropping back onto the bench, but not daring to run forward just yet.
The man behind the desk exchanged a look with a few other important looking men in the room but not a word was said. Finally he shrugged and gave a careless wave of his hand. “Go ahead.”
Without waiting for Will’s signal, Lucas snatched up his jacket and hat from where they had been resting on the bench and scampered across the room. “What about Olivia—?”
Will clamped a hand down on Lucas’ arm, dragging the boy with him out of the room in a reserved a manner as possible. “Your cousin is fine. Connor is taking her to the train station. We’re to meet her there.”
The young man squirmed for a moment, only causing the hand grabbing his arm to grip harder. Then he fell limp and let himself be lead. “What is happening? I didn’t do anything wrong, you know that, right?”
He didn’t answer as they descended the stairs, his legs now more than ever wanting to just break out into a sprint. “This is all my fault,” he managed to mutter, pushing open the glass doors and dragging Lucas out onto the sidewalk with him.
“Will, can’t you just answer me? I’m your assistant, right? And Olivia, she’s your partner too.” Lucas cast a glance at the building they had just vacated over his shoulder. Nothing really stood out about it. For all intents and purposes, it looked like just another of the office buildings that lined the street. It didn’t even have a sign. Still, it was where he had been taken; nothing had happened, but nothing really needed to happen.
The action in itself was a powerful warning to the three of them.
Lucas jumped in surprise as Will yanked the cap from his hand and shoved it onto his head. He fussed over it for a moment, forgetting the fact that his questions hadn’t been answered.
“It was Cain’s way of showing that he still has the upper hand,” Will said. He was rubbing a hand over his forehead, trying to think about what move he wanted to do next.
“Olivia—” Lucas started, and Will jerked to attention.
“You’re right. We have to meet Olivia at the station. I’m half afraid what that stupid Irish lout will end up saying to her if we leave them alone too long.” That, of course, wasn’t the largest concern of his at the moment. He just had to say it instead of what he was really thinking, to try and fool himself from the truth. “It’s three blocks from here. Do you think you can make it if we run?”
Lucas hesitated, then gave a curt nod of his head.
They made it to the station in twenty-minutes, both of them out of breath and silently cursing how out of shape they were getting with too much desk work.
“Sir William!” Connor boomed, giving the panting man a hearty slap on the back.
Will’s knees nearly buckled under the force, but he managed to keep himself standing. “Don’t call me that,” he managed before a second force collided against him.
Olivia threw one arm around Will’s chest, catching Lucas around the shoulders with the other arm. She pulled them into a tight but swift hug before releasing both of them. “Luigi, just what happened? Your mother would be worried sick about you if she only knew the kind of trouble you two were getting into.” At this, she gave her boss a pointed look.
Her cousin turned an awkward shade of pink as he tugged the brim of his hat over his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
But Will wasn’t listening. His attention had been claimed by a tall, well-dressed man standing before them with an easy smile. “Abel.”
“I hear my older brother has been causing some trouble for you,” the man said, offering a small bow of his head as an apology.
“That seems to be the only thing he is good at,” Will grumbled.
Abel looked to the side, studying the train that was eagerly swallowing up some passengers while spitting out others. “Running away?”
Unable to check himself, Will reached out and grabbed onto the lapel of the man’s suit. “When I signed up to take this case surrounding these mysterious Cain Murders, I didn’t expect that my assistants and I would be wrapped up in the mess.”
Abel gave a calm and cool smile, easily pulling the hand away from his suit and smoothing out the wrinkles. “You are a reporter, Mister Trafford. My brother likes to eliminate all that get too involved—and isn’t it your job to get too involved?”
“He agreed to leave us alone!” Olivia argued back, pushing past Will.
“He did,” Abel acknowledged with a nod of his head. “And he has done quite well so far, for him.”
“That’s not leaving us alone!” Lucas said.
“That’s not him who is after you.”
Will was about to reach out again, but Connor grabbed onto his arm and pulled him back into place. “Now, I’m not too sure just what is doing on between you and William here, Sir,” the Irishman said, keeping one hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But it does seem that you are not really understanding the role of the reporter.”
Abel’s eyes narrowed just slightly, an action that looked more like a twitch than annoyance. “I think Mister Trafford can agree with me when I say that you seem to be the one misunderstanding here. The role that Mister Trafford took on in agreement with Cain goes a little beyond the simple job of a reporter. Both Cain and Mister Trafford know that one wrong step by either of them can result in all of this coming to a premature end.”
Olivia glanced back at Will. “Is this true?”
He kept his eyes glued to the station platform under his feet. “I took this case before I took you both on as assistants. This case is mine alone, and the fact that he as mixed the two of you up in it is where I went wrong.”
The train whistle blew, and Lucas, Olivia, and Connor all turned their heads to stare. Abel kept his gaze on Will, who continued to watch the platform.
“I’m not running away,” he said as the whistle blew again—his voice so low that it was almost lost in the ruckus of the train station. “I am taking these two to safety before I finish this case.”
“They’ll still follow you,” Abel said. Whether he was referring to the two assistants or the men who worked under Cain, he didn’t specify.
“We’re done here, Abel,” Will replied, putting one hand on both Lucas’ and Olivia’s backs. “Don’t let them clean out my office while I’m gone, Connor. I haven’t quit that bloody paper just yet.”
“Aye aye, Sir William!” The Irishman mocked a salute as he watched them make their way across the platform.
“William Trafford!”
He turned around at the sound of his name, halting just before stepping onto the train.
Abel was watching him, the smile on his face more genuine than it had been before. “God bless,” he said.
Will smirked and shrugged. “We’ll see.”
Writing Practice #1
He was running the vacuum cleaner when the telephone rang. He ignored it at first, forumlating the excuse as to why he didn’t answer it. Sory, I as vacuuming. Didn’t hear it go off.
The answering machine picked up, but after his voice recited the usual, bored spiel of “Hello, you have reached Simon. Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I’ll return your call as soon as I can,” the line went dead.
Just as well I didn’t bother then, he thought, not even phased in his vacuuming.
Barely a minute later, the phone rang again. Automatically, the excuse returned to his mind as his answering machine picked up. “Hello, you have reached—”
This time, the caller didn’t hang up. Instead, a long silence leaked from the speaker. Then, she started talking.
“Damit, Simon. I know you’re there.”
“Hello, Carly,” he said, moving into the den to continue with the vacuuming.
“Pick up the phone. I know you can hear me. I won’t take Sorry I was vacuuming as an excuse. Yeah, that’s right, I know you.”
It was always the same. Simon sighed, turning off the piece of equipment so he could shift his desk chair out of the way.
“You’re probably wearing that stupid apron again, aren’ you? This is why no one ever calls you, Simon. You walk around your apartment wearing fancy suits—the same ones you wear to work. And you’re always cleaning, so you have that stupid apron to cover your suit.”
This time, her taunt drew a frown from Simon. While, yes, his partner was ever the only person to call him—with the rare occasion of his boss-she always got more and more obnoxious.
