Just some shit I wrote the other day during some free time. I might continue with it as a little story later on, I might not. I have a couple of different ideas for this, just not entirely sure in which direction I intend to take it. Sorry if its written a bit strangely at some points...not exactly my best work, to be honest. Oh, and there is some strong language and there will probably be violence later on, if I decide to continue it. If you're not mature enough to handle it, please don't read it.
This will serve as a prologue.
~~
“I hear your novel is doing very well, Traun.”
Two men sat across from each other upon a wooden, circular table, which was about five feet in diameter. They were both having beer—a large pitcher sitting directly in the middle of the table, filled with the liquid, waiting to be consumed. The words the first man had spoken, Strey, seemed to have immediately disappeared—forgotten, as though the silence between them had been far too powerful for any set of words to overcome. Smoke slowly rose from a cigar, being smoked by the other man, known as Traun, his expression showing a disinterest in Strey’s comment. The smoke continued to rise until it hit the ceiling, scattering and going their separate ways, slowly becoming invisible to the naked eye as it escaped through small cracks in the poorly designed room.
The entire room was lit by a single light bulb, hanging from a thick piece of wire, which hung from the ceiling, swaying back and forth steadily like some sort of pendulum. Every now and then, it would hastily flicker on and off, as though clinging onto something, but struggling to keep it within its grasp. Everything seemed to be made up of wood, save for a few things, like some sort of cabin in the middle of the woods. The reality of it was it was simply a poor apartment in a poor neighborhood.
“Yea,” Traun finally replied to the comment, quite flatly and with little enthusiasm. He never seemed to look directly at Strey, but always at something else that just so happened to be in his direction. Right now, he was staring at the window.
“It has been a really long time since we’ve seen each other… How come you never called me?” Strey inquired, looking right into his eyes, seeking some sort of eye contact, but it was never given to him. “You ran from your home several years ago…nobody knew why, where you ran off to, or what you were going to do. I don’t understand. You simply left everything and everybody you knew behind and isolated yourself.”
“I needed to be alone to work on my project.”
“You mean the novel?”
“No, but it was a part of it. A step, if you will.”
“I see…You know, you never struck me as a smoker,” Strey said to him. “Shouldn’t you have a lot of money from your novel? What are you doing in this shit hole?”
“Money and a more sophisticated place isn’t required,” Traun replied, smoke escaping his lips as he spoke.
“Required for what?”
“My plan…or project, or whatever the hell you want to call it.”
“And, what exactly is required?”
There was a pause, as though Traun had to think it through before actually answering the question. “What is required is my writing, memory, and whatever is in that box,” he replied, gesturing to a locked tin box upon a small desk.
“What is in the box?”
“The final step...Well, not really, but it serves as a trigger, in a way.”
“Right…” Strey paused to take a sip from his beer, thinking everything through and wondering what exactly Traun had in mind for this project of his. “Excuse me, Traun, but…what in the fuck happened to you?” he asked suddenly, “You’re not even the Traun I once knew. You’re some sort of… robot calling itself Traun. ‘Required’—what the hell is this shit that I hear spewing from your mouth? Are you saying you drop out of the academy and left all your friends and family years ago because they were not required? What in the hell kind of game are you playing here and who the hell are you, because I know you’re not Traun”
The sudden outburst from Strey finally compelled Traun to make direct eye contact with him, stopping whatever he had been doing in order to do so. “No…family is only required until one is able to take care of oneself on his or her own. Friends were never required. And I’m not playing a game, this is…an accomplishment. And as for who I am…” he cut himself off there, his eyes lingering to the side and setting themselves upon the locked tin box behind Strey, before looking back at him to continue. “Actually…you can ask me that again any time you get the chance after today.”
“So can I assume smoking that shit is a requirement?”
“Actually, this is an experiment,” Traun replied, gesturing to the cigar, his eyes lighting up slightly, suddenly interested. “I wanted to see what compels people to want to smoke this thing, but all I can really come up with is that they want to quicken the pace of their inevitable d--…end, but…” he paused and turned his head, casting the cigar aside and onto the floor, “but that doesn’t apply to me.”
“Well, let me know when my company is required,” Strey muttered sarcastically as he got up from his seat and made his way to the door to leave. “By the way,” he began, turning to look back at him, “tell Traun that Kristy said hi.”
The door to Traun’s room slammed shut and the single light bulb that illuminated the room flickered out, enveloping the entire room in darkness. For several hours, he sat there in the same position, as though frozen in time or simply unable to move, as though the darkness had weighed him down so the point of complete immobility. Suddenly, at around three in the morning, he finally got up from his seat, walking straight to a drawer in the pitch blackness, knowing exactly where everything was. He pulled out a piece of paper and pen from it and wrote down a couple of words, before setting them down on the circular table he had been at the entire time.
Afterward, he walked over to the tin box, unlocking it, and pulling an object out. Traun stared at it for a long time before walking over to the window, the street lights barely giving life to his face as it shined upon him. He pressed the object against his skull, a grin immediately appearing upon his apathetic face for the first time. An attempted laugh escaped his lips just before a loud explosion had erupted from the object, silencing him and causing his body to fall flat on the floor and with a loud thud. A thin thread of smoke began to rise from the object, until it struck the ceiling, scattering the separating as it had always done--scattering from the larger mass of smoke and into smaller ones, only to seemingly evaporate into nothingness in a matter of moments.
But they all escaped into little cracks in the walls. They all had their own path, as though individuals, who had upon some point in time, been the same being, but was met with an obstacle that could not be beaten as one. So they went their separate ways, fading away quicker than they could have ever imagined as smaller, and weaker threads.
They were individuals.
This will serve as a prologue.
~~
“I hear your novel is doing very well, Traun.”
Two men sat across from each other upon a wooden, circular table, which was about five feet in diameter. They were both having beer—a large pitcher sitting directly in the middle of the table, filled with the liquid, waiting to be consumed. The words the first man had spoken, Strey, seemed to have immediately disappeared—forgotten, as though the silence between them had been far too powerful for any set of words to overcome. Smoke slowly rose from a cigar, being smoked by the other man, known as Traun, his expression showing a disinterest in Strey’s comment. The smoke continued to rise until it hit the ceiling, scattering and going their separate ways, slowly becoming invisible to the naked eye as it escaped through small cracks in the poorly designed room.
The entire room was lit by a single light bulb, hanging from a thick piece of wire, which hung from the ceiling, swaying back and forth steadily like some sort of pendulum. Every now and then, it would hastily flicker on and off, as though clinging onto something, but struggling to keep it within its grasp. Everything seemed to be made up of wood, save for a few things, like some sort of cabin in the middle of the woods. The reality of it was it was simply a poor apartment in a poor neighborhood.
“Yea,” Traun finally replied to the comment, quite flatly and with little enthusiasm. He never seemed to look directly at Strey, but always at something else that just so happened to be in his direction. Right now, he was staring at the window.
“It has been a really long time since we’ve seen each other… How come you never called me?” Strey inquired, looking right into his eyes, seeking some sort of eye contact, but it was never given to him. “You ran from your home several years ago…nobody knew why, where you ran off to, or what you were going to do. I don’t understand. You simply left everything and everybody you knew behind and isolated yourself.”
“I needed to be alone to work on my project.”
“You mean the novel?”
“No, but it was a part of it. A step, if you will.”
“I see…You know, you never struck me as a smoker,” Strey said to him. “Shouldn’t you have a lot of money from your novel? What are you doing in this shit hole?”
“Money and a more sophisticated place isn’t required,” Traun replied, smoke escaping his lips as he spoke.
“Required for what?”
“My plan…or project, or whatever the hell you want to call it.”
“And, what exactly is required?”
There was a pause, as though Traun had to think it through before actually answering the question. “What is required is my writing, memory, and whatever is in that box,” he replied, gesturing to a locked tin box upon a small desk.
“What is in the box?”
“The final step...Well, not really, but it serves as a trigger, in a way.”
“Right…” Strey paused to take a sip from his beer, thinking everything through and wondering what exactly Traun had in mind for this project of his. “Excuse me, Traun, but…what in the fuck happened to you?” he asked suddenly, “You’re not even the Traun I once knew. You’re some sort of… robot calling itself Traun. ‘Required’—what the hell is this shit that I hear spewing from your mouth? Are you saying you drop out of the academy and left all your friends and family years ago because they were not required? What in the hell kind of game are you playing here and who the hell are you, because I know you’re not Traun”
The sudden outburst from Strey finally compelled Traun to make direct eye contact with him, stopping whatever he had been doing in order to do so. “No…family is only required until one is able to take care of oneself on his or her own. Friends were never required. And I’m not playing a game, this is…an accomplishment. And as for who I am…” he cut himself off there, his eyes lingering to the side and setting themselves upon the locked tin box behind Strey, before looking back at him to continue. “Actually…you can ask me that again any time you get the chance after today.”
“So can I assume smoking that shit is a requirement?”
“Actually, this is an experiment,” Traun replied, gesturing to the cigar, his eyes lighting up slightly, suddenly interested. “I wanted to see what compels people to want to smoke this thing, but all I can really come up with is that they want to quicken the pace of their inevitable d--…end, but…” he paused and turned his head, casting the cigar aside and onto the floor, “but that doesn’t apply to me.”
“Well, let me know when my company is required,” Strey muttered sarcastically as he got up from his seat and made his way to the door to leave. “By the way,” he began, turning to look back at him, “tell Traun that Kristy said hi.”
The door to Traun’s room slammed shut and the single light bulb that illuminated the room flickered out, enveloping the entire room in darkness. For several hours, he sat there in the same position, as though frozen in time or simply unable to move, as though the darkness had weighed him down so the point of complete immobility. Suddenly, at around three in the morning, he finally got up from his seat, walking straight to a drawer in the pitch blackness, knowing exactly where everything was. He pulled out a piece of paper and pen from it and wrote down a couple of words, before setting them down on the circular table he had been at the entire time.
Afterward, he walked over to the tin box, unlocking it, and pulling an object out. Traun stared at it for a long time before walking over to the window, the street lights barely giving life to his face as it shined upon him. He pressed the object against his skull, a grin immediately appearing upon his apathetic face for the first time. An attempted laugh escaped his lips just before a loud explosion had erupted from the object, silencing him and causing his body to fall flat on the floor and with a loud thud. A thin thread of smoke began to rise from the object, until it struck the ceiling, scattering the separating as it had always done--scattering from the larger mass of smoke and into smaller ones, only to seemingly evaporate into nothingness in a matter of moments.
But they all escaped into little cracks in the walls. They all had their own path, as though individuals, who had upon some point in time, been the same being, but was met with an obstacle that could not be beaten as one. So they went their separate ways, fading away quicker than they could have ever imagined as smaller, and weaker threads.
They were individuals.