Text proto dump: writing edition

[Protoman 1,974]

i have a class for the stuff so my writing will get better so heres my writing

 

It started on a cold evening.  One too cold to lollygag outside as I normally did on such an evening.  My jacket was soaked, my bones were chilled, and my legs felt as if they had simply dissapeared out from under me.  I rushed into a very familiar building--my favorite bar--and hastily took a seat next to a distraught looking young man.

"You alright?" No responce, at first. He seemed a little out of it so I asked again.

"I can't do it anymore."

"You sure?"

"Lost my job, my wife left me, and I have no place to go." 

"I've heard that story before."  I shifted my wet jacket onto the back of the chair, the water in my clothing underneath dripping into a shallow puddle.  "Went through it all myself."

"Really?"

"Really." I noticed I was unable to get the bartenders attention, so I simply stopped trying.  My clothes continued to drip and drop into the infinate stream accumulating underneath my chair.  I simply wouldn't dry off.

"One suggestion." I said

"What?"

"Don't drown yourself."

Vulnerable.  Thanks to a couple of drinks and smokes, he was feeling just vulnerable.  Sure, he was in good company--a few friends gathering around the table to enjoy themselves--but he was just downright depressed.  Hopeless, loveless, full of woe and self pity; he was feeling downright pathetic.  His girlfriend of four months, four long months, just went up and left him.  For another man.  Who she was cheating on him with.  It was a bit shocking to him, as he was a fairly dense boy who took to the ignore-the-obvious approach to run from all his problems.  Even if everyone else could see what she was doing to him, he just wouldn’t accept it.  He was in constant denial the whole relationship; even though the girl was practically wanting to get caught, she was the one who had to break it off with HIM.  

    You could understand why he felt vulnerable.

    His friends were good to him, taking him out on a nice trip to a restaurant to cheer the poor man up.  Good food, good alcohol, but they just couldn’t get him out of his funk.  So instead, they went and ducked around to the bathroom.  All of them.  Heartbroken boy wouldn’t even bat an eye as they all left simultaneously to the men’s restroom.  In there, they concocted a plan; get him a new girl and get him back on his feet.  Easier said than done, though, but they were rather well suited for the task.  One particularly good looking friend of his went up to a particularly good looking female and waltzed her right on over to their table with a bit of convincing.  She sat down right beside the distraught young man and asked what his name was.

    “Johnny.  You can call me John.”  He perked up a little, because good lord, she was simply stunning.  At least to him.  Smooth skin, glossy hair, bright eyes--what a catch!  “You look lovely this evening, might I ask you what your name is?”

    She giggled.  “Molly.”

    “Never met a Molly, guess you’re my first then.”

    She giggled again.

    It wasn’t all too long until they started chatting along to each other and the men congratulated themselves on their success of hooking him up.  On the first try, at that!  She really was nice looking though, but she seemed a bit stiff and lifeless.  Even in the area of someone she appeared to be enjoying, she looked rather tense.  Maybe she was just shy, after all, they did just meet.  Maybe she doesn’t like public places or she felt uncomfortable around the other men sitting around the table and watching them.  It wasn’t much any longer until Molly and Johnny went out, leaving the company behind.  

    Her hands were cold.  Of course it was a cold day outside, and on a cold day peoples hands are normally cold.  They were an unusual type of cold though, more like a cold chair than a hand.  It was the same with her cheeks, and with her arm.  Johnny shrugged it off, blaming it on his own cold hands and the slight buzz he still had now.  Her hair bounced every step she made, wonderfully falling onto her shoulders and tapering off into a nice curl.  Blonde and beautiful strands leaving and flowing with the wind, taking their final resting place behind her ears.  Her skin was soft, smooth, flawless.  Her figure was perfect.  She was perfect, and he damn well meant it.  She was sweet to him too, sweet in general.  Sweet like sugar, sweet like strawberries and chocolate and pie.  He was really just in a state of awe by her as a whole.  At this moment, Johnny was a very happy man.

    They were going to her house, which was a rather exciting thing for him anyhow.  She also seemed happy with his company, and didn’t seem to mind a little fun.  They walked on up the stairs and into her apartment, locking the door behind them as she was not expecting any more visitors that evening, of course.  The decor was not something he expected out of her.  Plain, white walls and boring basic furniture, it was almost as if she just moved right on in a week ago.  The apartment was cold.  The furniture was cold.  The place almost had some sort of mechanical atmosphere to it, like some sort of place straight out of a magazine.  It was a bit unnerving, but he brushed that off too.  He could give her tips on the place later, now wasn’t exactly the time to go on ranting about her poor design decisions.

    They started out fairly slow, a movie on and just sitting down on the couch.  They started holding hands.  Then they started cuddling.  Then he massaged her back.  Finally then, they kissed. 

    Even her lips were cold.  It was very off.  It felt forceful.  It wasn’t the soft smooth feeling he expected out of her, but rather a sort of rubbery feeling.  It was more than that though, her mouth tasted metallic.  Not like alcohol, more like a tin can.  He jerked back and stared into her eyes.

    Then it hit him.

    Good lord, he is in love with a robot.

ANOTHER ONE with characters

Name:  Rick “The Red”

Age: 13 (build 13 years ago)

Appearance:  Built piece by piece, bolt by bolt, Rick stands as a tall and sturdy piece of work.  The robots metallic face is very strong and well defined, with a smooth surface.  His circular eyes slightly glow, a green light shining through the sockets. He has an average build, as Rick was modeled after the structure of a younger adult male, therefore making him look similar to a human in their mid 20s.  His movement is very smooth and polished, not having the normal jerky actions as most others expect of mechanical creations.  Due to ricks line of work, his clothing is rather top-end and eye catching.  He is usually sporting very bold colors and accessories so the audience’s eyes are always on him.  A good looking robot as your opening act is key to keeping a healthy flow of tourists in the building.

Bio:  Thirteen years ago, Rick was customized for a very specific purpose - entertainment.  shoved out of the science lab and into the world of fashion, gambling, and reality television, he landed up in a very large and critically acclaimed restaurant.  He was built to serve them, and naturally he did not question his actions at first.  He did as he was told and was told to love what he does.  He can dance, sing, play, preform, do stand up, and right around anything the people ask of him, no matter the request.  They would make him do humiliating things and at first he could only laugh at himself.  Day after day, he had to work long hours and was forced to stay in the building.  They treated him terribly, but he did not know the difference between kindness and their demeaning orders he had to follow through with.  He worked with plenty of humans and waiter-robots, but never laughed or cried with them.  It wasn’t too long after until people would come up and ask him how he could stand his treatment.  They wondered how and why he would take the constant humiliation and pain the audience had put him through.  They would continue to question him, asking if Rick had ever dreamt of freedom and equality.  One in particular would start ranting about the unethical activities he was forced to follow through with. Rick would simply nod his head, slowly taking in all the information he was given.  More and more he resented his owners, and his attitude behind the scenes became a little more hateful towards his coworkers.  Thirteen years passed, and he hates his job.  

Personality:  On stage, Rick’s a star; he’s loud, funny, appreciative, charming, all the things you would look for in a guy.  His smile is wide, his eyes bright, his attitude perky, and he simply appears like he enjoys what he does.  One thing people would tell you though, is that he’s also a wonderful liar.  A real drama queen, others would say.  A real weirdo.  A real psycho.  Outside of his shows he doesn’t talk much to others.  He doesn’t look all bright-eyed after the show, he looks more like some half-broken machine that forgot how to run.  A shell of his stage personality.  People try to make up a lot about him because of his odd actions and the odd books he reads and the odd way he glares at all of his coworkers.  I mean, it’s just scary to them.  He’s frightening.  Rick always looks like he’s going to plan something, or worse, even if his programming doesn’t allow it.  He follows orders though, very efficiently.  Faster than anyone else in the building, so most people go to him for errands.  They exchange no words with him, and he says nothing back.  However helpful he is, Rick just appears generally hateful, so they stay weary of him.  After all, no one should trust an android.

Likes:  Learning.  Not much else.

Dislikes:  His job, his life, and humans especially.

 

Name:  Flynn

Age:  32

Gender:  Male

Appearance:  Flynn is a simple man.  He wears very simple clothing, jackets, jeans, whatever is in style, whatever he can fit in.  He stands very tall at a height somewhat over six foot, and he stands in a very confident manner: upright, intimidating, and strong most importantly.  He has the very common brown-eyes-brown-hair combination,  sporting a great looking pair of sideburns and a simplistic hair style.  He has a bit of a beard when he forgets to shave it, meaning he normally has with him a slight bit of stubble on his chin.  He has tanned skin, obviously someone who spends his time out in the sun.  Not quite a noticeable person, nothing really standing out much about him in particular.  His jaw is square, his nose is rounded, his eyebrows average and his lips without much volume.  He is a very, very simple man.

Bio:  Once in the army, Flynn now spends his time around near The Red Lounge, taking advantage of the high quality and imported alcohol so close to his home.  It also helps that he’s somewhat of a critic, as he is a journalist for the local newspaper that reviews all kinds of places.  That on it’s own usually gets him inside nice and quickly.  The entertainment though, it’s incredible to him.  He loves it.  Everyone seems so lively and quick to please.  However, he finds it rather... questionable.  Flynn feels a little conflicted about the robots.  They’re great of course just... odd.  It’s awfully odd to see them waltz around on stage like real people.  Do they really mean the things they say?  Are they really as nice as they act like they are?  Can they think like everyone else can?  It interests him.  He’s no scientist, but there’s got to be something more to these guys.  Last time he tried to get an interview with them was a hell of a long time ago, and not much came out of that one.  Just a simple nod from the front man and not a lot of responses out of any of them.  He’s got to find out what’s with these people.

Personality:  Relaxed, knowledgeable, and curious.  Yeah, he likes to find out about things.  He likes to ramble on about things.  He likes to spend a whole night just talking and talking and talking about what’s really eating him.  Flynn loves to ask questions, he loves to respond to questions, and he loves to find out what’s going on.  He’s a great guy, really caring about how people are feeling and how their job is going, or how’s the wife doing.  As for himself, he isn’t much of a guy who tries to put himself in the spotlight.  Of course, his job kind of has people always trying to act nice around him, but he doesn’t really ask for it of people.  Flynn is great at stating the facts, stating his opinions, and not being so pissy about it.  He talks with a lot of different women, but prefers not to settle down himself, because he’s always trying to push his luck.

Likes:  Drinks, ladies, and a relaxing conversation.  Finds interest in very exciting and unusual things.  Writing, ranting.

Dislikes:  Cleaning, taking a lot of time in his wardrobe, people telling him to cut his hair, hangovers.  The really crappy kinds of beer you find in the grocery store.

 

    “Heeeello there audience!  Isn’t today a wonderful one?”

    The crowd lit up at the words.  Cheering, laughing, clapping, all of it came form the mass of people gathered around the stage.  The mess of noise and movement was comparable to a herd of animals.  On top of all that, they all stared at me like dumb, mindless sheep.  It was disgusting when you think about it.  Some of them you could sense the alcohol on their breath, some of them you could see kissing in the back of the room as they were already drunk, even if it’s only been 30 minutes into the show.  Classy.  I had to wait for them to stop slapping their hands together, some lagging behind either purposefully or due to being practically brain-dead.  When they did, it was time to start my every day routine of humiliation.

    It was not a wonderful day, but that’s how I always have to start mine.

    After the show of course, it was only a matter of time before another condescending meatbag came to ask me how I was or congratulate me on a show well done.  They’re too stupid to realize when someone is lying to them so of course I give them a wide, full-toothed smile.  The arrogant bastards will just start going on and on about themselves, leaving me to drown out their pathetic self-worship by thinking about something a bit more... enjoyable.  There is one that always seems to come around and give me a good thing or two to think about.

    “Why do you do it.”

    “What?”

    “Every day.  The same things, over and over.  How do you do it?”

    The one asking was of course a very often visitor.  A critic from the local newspaper--the name of escaping me--always likes to ask me the same questions.  I humor him by giving him a different answer each time he asks.

    “For the kids, they always give us the best smiles when we walk by.”

    “You said you hated kids.”

    “Did I really?”  I acted surprised, but then cut the act and gave him a nice smirk.  “Please, you know I have to do it.  Is there a reason you keep asking me the same repetitive questions?”

    “I guess I’d like to get a straight answer for once.”

    “Keep dreaming.”

 

AND ANOTHER

“Get up, kid.”

    The kid was not in the mood for this.  Get in a fight.  Lose.  Get in a fight. Lose.  Get in a fight.  Have some old man yell at you after losing.  Have the old man tell you to get off the ground.  Have the old man tell you to pull yourself together.  He looked away from his gaze and sputtered “Whatzit matter to you, grandpa?  Get outta my hair for once, will ya?”

    “I’ll call the cops if you don’t stop gettin’ into all these fights like a goddamn punk in my goddamn parking lot!”

    “Like ya haven’t said that before, grandpa.  An’ what did you end up doin last time?  Nothing.”  The kid hastily shot off the ground, picking himself up in an attempt to intimidate the man yelling at him.

    “I like you kid, but you gotta have some restraint.”  He did not waver from his spot, feet planted firmly on the ground, gaze intact.

    “Hell, what do you know ‘bout restraint?  I say you’re full o’ bull!  You get mad at someone in your store you pull outta shotgun to prove ya point!  Tellin’ me you know a think or two about restraint, I say you’re full o’ it!  You’re just a goddamn hypocrite, Mr. Jones!”  He walked closer to Jones, pointing a finger straight at his face and spitting on the ground.

    Looking as if he was about to swing, Jones took a second to breathe deeply inwards and stop himself.  “Listen, kid.  I care about you.  More than you probably expect.  I’m concerned, is all.  Commin’ around these parts and picking a fight or two is gonna get you killed one day, as much as I like seeing your face planted on the sidewalk every other week.  I don’t want you to end up like a buncha other guys I used to know like you, back when I was your age...” He paused, his eyes glancing upwards as if trying to remember something back in the old, dusty cabinet of his mind.  

    The kid lowered his hand and sighed, getting ready for the usual back-in-my-day lecture that was all just ringing in his ears by now.  He grumbled, rolling up the sleeves on his bomber jacket and placing his glance back onto the asphalt.

    “Basically, the jist of it is that they got in a tonna trouble, you know.  Causin’ a lot of ruckus in the town just like you were.”

    “Me, ruckus?  Nah, not at all.”

  “Difference was,” He ignored the interruption, “The guys that they fought didn’t really beat around the bush at all.  One day, guy brought the knife to the fist fight, stabbed a good friend of mine right in the chest and he kicked the bucket.”

    “Christ, did the guy run from you all?  I wouldn’t of let ‘em get away, if I was you.”

    “We tried to get back at him, but before you could he went and offed himself. “

    “Oh, I see.”  He rolled his head to his left and right, taking a moment to think to himself.  “What happened next?”

    “Everyone--and I mean everyone--was real upset in the town for a while.  Shook us all up, you know?  Everyone was off pointin’ fingers at everyone else, lotta people got in jail an’ well, it’s safe to say I learned my lesson.  I care about you kid, and not because I see a whole lotta you in me.”

    The kid scoffed, “Like hell we’re any similar to each other.”

    “Hell, I’d say that we get on each others nerves more than we agree with each other.  I just don’t want you to go through the same thing, you know?”  He stopped, looked at the boy and put a hand on his shoulder, giving him a nice pat-pat before looking back up in the sky in some sort of sentimental manner.

    “I get it old man, I get it.”  Still a little stubborn and fired up, the kid crossed his arms and glared towards the side.

    “Aww, stop acting like such a punk, James.”

    “Hah, who you calling punk, ol’ geezer?”  A playful smirk faded onto his face as he looked back over at Jones.  James threw a friendly punch right at his arm, his hands afterwards falling back towards his sides in a relaxed position.

    “Who you calling ol’ geezer, bub?”  Jones gently slapped him right upside the head,  “Come on, I’ll give you some pop if you stop acting like sucha punk.”

    “As long as it’s free and you don’t talk my ears off again.”

    “I said if you stopped acting like a punk!”

    “Whatchya wanna hear, a yessir?”

    “It would be nice, you know.”

    “Yessir.  Is that better, geezer?”

all just superdy duperdy short stories