Craving

Wonderful Banne By Leminnes.

Thankyou to everyone who is taking their time to read this! It is highly appreciated. Enjoy!

Prologue

The wind whipped through her soft brown hair, sending it into a swirling frenzy. Her storm-gray eyes were fixed coldly on the young man standing ten feet away from her, grinning smugly, and casually leaning against the railing of the old stone bridge. His gaze was locked onto her face, yet averting her stone-cold gaze.

“I won’t do it.”

His eyes flared, sensing a challenge. Shifting his weight, he peered beyond the storm-eyed girl and beckoned a flock of smirking young women over to him. Their strides radiated their magnitude—that they were important, and the storm-eyed girl was not. They shouldered past the girl and I, me being a simple passer-by transfixed by the situation. They took no notice of me, and I shuffled my feet.

“What do you think, girls?” he inquired slyly, slicking back his wiry dark hair with his pale hands. A few of them giggled, and an obnoxious blonde spoke up. “I think she’s scared, Lukas,” she smirked, directing the comment to the dark-haired boy.

The dark-haired boy’s, or Lukas’s, eyes perked up and he stared straight at the storm-eyed girl. “Demi, I think that you’re correct. She seems a tad bit…petrified. Afraid.”
He rambled off as many words he found suitable that he could think of, while reaching sideways towards the blonde, Demi. He placed his arm awkwardly around her.

The storm-eyed girl interjected his collection of words. “I’m not scared,” she stated calmly yet firmly. Her gaze never left Lukas. “I’m just not…a very good swimmer.”

As she spoke those words, I edged over to one side of the bridge and looked down into the thrashing murky-gray water. At my best guess, the drop was somewhere around thirty feet. It was below freezing that day, windy and foggy. Not a good day to fall into a river, despite the cruel dare that Lukas had set upon the storm-eyed girl. “Walk the railing of the old stone bridge,” he had said, “Don’t be scared, we have a rope.”

The girl had refused. A good decision.

“We already told you, we have a rope,” Lukas said. I could sense the annoyance in his tone. The girl glared at him again.

“Prove it.”

A young woman from the back of the crowd, who I could not see properly, tossed a coiled rope above and over Lukas’s head, landing it right in front of the storm-eyed girl. The girl bent down warily and grazed the rope with her fingertips before standing up, rope in hand. She pulled hard on it. It didn’t break.

The rope slid out of her grasp and landed with a thud, carelessly.

“Why are you so intent on me doing this?” she persisted. Her eyes fixed boldly on his.

“So you can prove yourself.”

She stared at him, a hint of utter disbelief on her face. “Why do I need to prove myself? To you?” the girl drawled out.

That apparently struck a nerve somewhere within Lukas. Lukas let go of Demi and lashed forward violently, finger pointed, and anger in his eyes. They blazed like a pair of uncontrollable wildfires. “Do it!” he roared, voice ricocheting off of the stone-built bridge.

The storm-eyed girl tried not to flinch. “No.”

Lukas let loose a menacing shout as he leaped forwards, hand outstretched. He pummeled into the girl, knocking the wind out of her, as his hand wrapped itself around her smooth neck like a snake. “You do as I say!” boomed Lukas.

Her storm-eyes were immediately wide with fear as her hands clawed and raked at the hand he was suffocating her with.

It was a gruesome sight.

“Fine,” she croaked, finally giving into Lukas’s cruelty, while gasping for air. Her eyes were getting wider and fat salty tears were seeping out the edges.

“Louder,” he sneered in her face.

“I’ll do it!” she bellowed, voice ripping through the air as easily as a knife can cut through cloth. Her voice cracked.

Lukas’s hand released. The girl collapsed on the ground, thirsty for air. Lukas laughed demonically, kicking her hard in the gut. She attempted to stifle the cry, but was unsuccessful.

Whipping around, Lukas shouted, “Demi! Bring me the rope, now!”

Demi didn’t hesitate, briskly walking forward and scooping it up off the cobblestone. Wrapping a loose end around her index finger casually, she commanded, “Girl. Here. Now.”

It was the tone of voice that made me want to strangle someone. The storm-eyed girl didn’t deserve what was happening to her. Yet I stood stock-still…watching, not helping. Useless.

The storm-eyed girl wrenched herself free from Lukas, avoiding his gaze, and stepped hesitantly towards Demi. Her jaw was tight, and hands were balled into fists.

Demi ordered her to raise her arms, and when she did, the pawn-of-Lukas tied the rope in a knot that would untie itself, or tighten, if pulled a certain way. She left a loop in the rope and slid it over the storm-eyed girl’s head, and under her underarms. Demi pulled it tight.

“All done!” she cried gleefully. Demi grinned at Lukas, a hint of excitement in her eyes.

Lukas nodded as a reply, and gestured for her to toss the end of the rope to him.
The limp rope end landed swiftly in Lukas’s hand as the dark-haired boy made his way across the bridge to a thick stone post in the railing. He tied a special knot as Demi did, looping it over the top. As he did so, I eyed him fumbling with something reflective in his pocket. He pulled it out quickly and studied the rope for a moment before putting whatever it was away. I didn’t see it.

“Done and done.” He stepped back to admire his handiwork, then waved the storm-eyed girl over.

“Ready, girl?”

---

Please tell me what I can improve, and hypothesize what is going to happen next.

I have written more, but I'm not going to type it up unless someone shows interest in this.

It's cause it's too short, so far, methinks. If you posted more I might have comments, but there's too little content to really make any kind of judgment so far--since this obviously isn't a short story.

The storm-eyed girl nodded, gulping. “I am.” She began to tread towards the side of the bridge, as I watched in horror. What if she fell? What if they left her there to drown? What if—

“Hurry up, girl!” Lukas called.

The girl did not pick up her pace. I switched my gaze to Lukas, Demi, and the group of girls. Worry began to creep over some of their faces—they backed away and left the scene. I did not.

Her foot rose and she placed her toe on the half-a-foot wide stone wall of the bridge. Her palms grasped onto the small pillar and pulled herself up, breathing heavily. She wobbled at first, nervous because of the danger and because the dead silence meant all eyes were on her.

Taking her fist step, she stared at her feet, arms extended for balance, she began to walk.

Her steps were slow, cautious. One faulty step could send her off the side. Taking that fact into consideration, she slowed down even more, creating a steady rhythm.

Someone interrupted the silence, voice cracking, “Lukas, I’m going.”

It was enough to startle the girl. Her foot slipped. Her arms flailed. Screamed. Help.

Everyone began to scatter. Everyone but me. Me, just watching her fall. My eyes trailed to the post where the rope had been. It snapped.

That fool! Lukas had loosened the strength of the string! He—

She would drown if I didn’t act. I lunged forward as the rope whipped around, a second from plummeting in to the water with the girl. My fingers barely grasped onto it, but using that small miracle I was able to wrap both of my hands around it. There was a splash, and I peered over the edge. She was flailing. In the water. Going under. Drowning.

I pulled with all of my might. The coarse texture of the rope made it feel as if giant knives were slicing open my palms. I ignored it as my blood began to coat the rope.

I gritted my teeth and the girl began to rise. Slowly but surely.

Her hair was plastered to her cheeks and neck, an effect from the water. The eyes…afraid. Stony, not stormy. Drenched clothes hanging loose and limp.

I pulled harder until she was almost to the top, and instructed her to grab the railing. She did as I said, hands clasping the walls, white at the knuckle. I released the rope and quickly grabbed her shoulders, hauling her up and over. She practically rolled over the railing.

I sat her up and waited for her to say something.

“You…not with…Lukas…” she mumbled. It was barely understandable because her teeth were chattering so much.

I nodded and slid off my beige jacket, trying not to get blood on it and placed it on her shoulders.

“Who are you?” I inquired. She looked up at me with her eyes.

“Me? Sadria.”

Chapter One

“Father, I’m home,” I called dryly, stepping inside my home. It was cold—my careless father always left the heater off, never caring for any type of personal care. He was always in his study, reading, ignoring me, and forcing me to do everything. At times I could really hate him.

I heard a small grunt from him, down the hall and to the left. That was usually how he acknowledged my entrance to our home, caring to say neither “How do you do?” or “Did you have a good day, son?” I was simply require to tell him I was home, so he would ‘know if he was alone in the house or not’. At other times, when he was less busy, he would actually tell me to go do something, like pick his dirty clothes off of the floor of his bedroom, or wash the lunch dishes. And rarely would he be out of the study to actually greet me with a gesture. A day when he was not in the study was always a good day, for me, at least.

I ran my fingertip against my left palm, sliced open from pulling the girl up. The girl. The one who had almost drowned, the one who I had saved. The one who father would care to hear nothing of. I scoffed and spat into my hand, rubbed it in, and strode into the kitchen.

The kitchen was a disaster, pots and pans everywhere, cabinets and drawers open. I began to put these things away, knowing that leaving them out would somehow get me blamed and punished.

---

“Oliver,” my father called to me from the study, “I’m going out to a café to get a bite to eat with a…colleague of mine. Please, clean the house, it’s a mess. And don’t go in my study. I’ll be back in an hour or so, and I expect everything done by then. When I get back I’ll have you go to the groceries so make sure you’re prepared.” And with that, he stroked his rough gray beard, snapped his fingers, and briskly left the house with the slam of a door.

I was too stunned to say much of anything before Father left. He rarely ever went out, resulting in his unnaturally pale skin. And a colleague? Since when did he work with anyone? And if he ever decided to get something fro m a café, it was me doing the traveling and ordering. I sighed, stashing a stack of bowls in the cupboard and fishing out the duster fro m the adjacent one.

I proceeded to my bedroom, my father’s bedroom, the dining room, and the den. I was satisfied, but something was bothering me slightly. My father had specifically asked that I not go in the study—what a fool! No one should ever tell a child not to do something. Children are naturally rebellious. Then again, Father never really spent enough time around me to know…

I quickly rushed to the kitchen, checking the time. I had ten minutes to look at everything that was off-limits to me, always.

Everything.

I dashed towards the study, a gleam in my eye. Pulling open the intricately carved oak doors, a room full of beautiful and polished oak shelves, filled with books to the rim, presented itself to me. I had never seen the room in great detail before, and actually, never had been in it at all. It smelled of old books, the kind that seems a bit too old to exist. I ignored it, and went looking through the number of books on his shelves, mouth half open in awe. It all seemed a little to unreal, and struck me as funny that most of the books on my father’s shelves were about mythical beings. I figured that my father was strictly non-fictional…but of course…if he considered these non-fictions…

I pushed the thought out of my mind, and continued to browse the shelves until I looked up and saw that I had, at the minimum, two minutes left. I was unaware that I was still walking, and cursed lightly to myself as I bumped into his desk, half covered by a swarm of papers.

A neat drawing from an old and yellowed book, which happened to be open, caught my eye. It looked slightly like what Da Vinci’s drawing of a man looked like, except, it wasn’t really…a man. It had fur, which was colored gray with pencil, and something more like a snout than a nose. I flipped through some pages, utterly intrigued, and stopped dead in my tracks when I heard the slamming of the front door. I hastily flipped back to the page it had been on, and stupidly ran, and tripped, over a pile of papers on the floor. The sound of the collision was sickeningly loud as my forehead connected with the floor. I attempted to ignore the pain and scrambled up and out the door, dragging it shut behind me and crumpling into a ball on the floor. My head throbbed.

“Oliver, what is the meaning of this?”

I looked up to see my father standing above me, a menacing look in his eye. “What was that thump I heard?” he pressed.

Dazed, I tried to sound as sensible as possible. “I, uh…was just walking down the hallway and I tripped, slamming my head into this door, here…” I lied, gesturing towards the door and pointing to the newly-formed welt on my forehead.

He stared at me sternly, before giving me a hard kick in the head. “Alright. And that’s for doing whatever you did wrong while I was gone, whatever it was. And I will find out, sooner or later.”

---

Chapter One remains unfinished.

Hee hee, then finish it.

It's well-written, except for one tiny bit. "She looked up at me with her eyes." It's worded quite redundantly. And at the very end of a chapter, it stands out even more. There are also a few grammar points, such as singulars where there should be plurals, but reread it and you should find them quickly. I especially liked the part where the character:"[Has] ten minutes to look at everything that ever was off-limits. Everything."

Of course, I see the Storm-Eyed Girl, but have no idea how she's going to play a major role, based on what I've seen so far.

Oh, don't you worry, it'll get there. Thats why the first part was a prologue, not a chapter.

Thanks for the comments.

You know Drewey, I was your BA teacher and could claim some credit... but I won't.

Not bad. I didn't read anything that seemed... noticably bad. In fact, I dodn't really see problems at all. But then again, I'm half asleep. I did enjoy it, however. Great job and keep it up.

Chapter One Cont.

My head ached horridly from its encounter with my father’s boot. I unknowingly scratched it and flinched as I strode down the street, thoughts swarming through my head. …And these were thoughts I hadn’t thought in a very long time. Like…what if Mother hadn’t died? Would we still have the perfect family? And if Mother was alive, we’d have my brother who died inside her—well, at least we assumed it was a boy. Mum just said she had the funny feeling that it was, and had already picked out his name—Jared King, King being the middle name. Jared King Ross.

What would my life have been like with Jared? Would we have loved each other? Would we have hated? Would I have even been there earlier today when I saved the girl? Would my father not ignore me? Would he have gone the café? Would…

Would I have seen what was in that book on the desk? Okay, I couldn’t deny it. That was all I could think about, and it was getting kind of hard with my head constantly pounding. The arms and legs were fanning out, jagged fur spiking out of human flesh, slavering jaws…bloodshot eyes, pounding heart…ravenous… The images plagued my mind, and I lost all sense of where I was. Everything was black except for the image of this…thing…coming at me. I ran, unaware of what was happening until I slammed into a man who had been, until a moment ago when I had crashed into him, peacefully walking through town. Next thing I knew I was on the ground, confused, bewildered, and staring up at the man I had angered. For a second I had déjà vu, thinking that he was my father, because the man looked down on me just as Father had.

“What do you think you’re doing child?” he asked good-naturedly, stern facing erupting into a smile. He held out his hand and I grabbed onto it, letting him pull me up. I dusted off my pants, and told him that I was just daydreaming and that I had been daydreaming, and he sent me off on my way.

I wished my father would have been like that. I sighed, knowing that trying to change any of that would have been a wasted of my efforts. Figuring I better go to the groceries before it got too late and I was, once again, kicked in the head, and walked off with my back straight to the nearest store.

---

I kicked the front door in an attempt to knock, arms full of the groceries my father had ‘ordered’. It felt as if the handles were slicing through my arms, and I grimaced as I shifted position and waited. No answer. I kicked again.

Obviously my father was too lazy to even answer the door. Disgruntled, I let all the groceries slip out of my hands and tried to open the door myself. When I turned the handle and it didn’t budge, I cursed under my breath, and sank down to sit in the rough stairs leading up to my door. I was locked out. That careless father of mine had locked the door and was too lazy to get me. I sat there for a few minutes, before deciding to check the back door.

I grumbled, working myself through the alleyway between the house adjacent to ours. Scoffing in disgust as I stepped in a rotting banana, I shook it off and approached the back door, tried the handle, and got even angrier. “Father!” I shouted, pounding on the door with my fists, “Let me in! I’m back with groceries!”

No answer, yet again. I kicked the railing hard in rage, and at that moment, my father swung open the door. “Why are you at the back door, boy?”

I coughed, and then rubbed my nose. “You locked the door, and wouldn’t answer. I’ve been back with the groceries for a good five minutes.”

“Bring them in, then, you lazy fool.”

He slammed the door in my face, leaving me to presume he was going to unlock the front door and not make me haul the groceries to the back.

I lumbered back out front, crossing my fingers that the door was unlocked. I reached tentatively towards the knob, turned…and it opened.

Looked like Lazy got off of his butt.

Dragging the bags inside, I dumped the contents out, carefully, and began to sort them out and place them in the cabinets.

“Oliver.”

I turned around to face my father who had somehow gotten into the kitchen without me noticing. He stood tall in his casual black slacks and brown vest, with his not-so-tall top hat. “Would you happen to know why there are papers strewn all over my study floor?”

My heart froze, and I hoped my father didn’t notice my bobbing Adam’s apple.

“No…did…did you have the window open? Because I certainly do not go in there, sir,” I said as evenly as I could manage. I knew it was a lame thing to say, and he would probably figure me out. I mean…had the windows been open? If they were, I didn’t notice. But I did know that my father liked cold places, and it was a cold day, so if the window had been open…the study would be cold.

He thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe they were.” Then he looked at a second welt I had on my head, which I discovered I had that moment. It must have been from my collision with the nice man.

“Did you fall over your feet? Because you have another ugly welt on your head,” he grinned devilishly, chuckling. I knew it was supposed to be a taunting laugh, one that mocked me. I simply nodded, and replied.

“I collided with another man, and he was actually nice enough to help me up…” I stopped myself there, trying to restrain myself instead of adding ‘unlike you’ to my explanation.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” he commented, and I knew he didn’t believe it.

---

Please, if anyone finds any mistakes POINT THEM OUT! (Note I'm not editing them on ZU, but instead though MSWord. [Yeah, I know I'm lazy.])

Chapter Two

“Blah! This toast tastes horrible,” my father commented, pushing his eggs around with his fork. I closed my eyes for a moment and rolled them, which I did so he wouldn’t notice.

“I’m sorry, Father, I should have cooked them better.”

“You got that right!”

He stood up abruptly, shoving the table slightly. “You know what, forget this breakfast. I’m going to the café again, to have breakfast with my friend.”

I arched my eyebrow. “Does your friend…work there? How else would he know to be
there? I mean, unless you already had plans…which I don’t get, because you had me make you the eggs.”

“Mind your own business,” he retorted, and stomped out of the room and out of the house.

It was then that it dawned on me I was all alone in the house. Though, that only lasted for a second or two. He came bursting back in.

“By the way, the bookstore four blocks over got an order of mine. There should be two thick books in the package. Bring them back, set them on the stairs. And don’t even think about opening them.”

He was out again. …So much for the ‘nothing-to-do’.

I stood up wearily, grabbed my coat and hat, and strode out the door. It was warmer than yesterday, but not by much. I was at least thankful the sun was out. And of course, while walking and doing nothing, the thoughts that I didn’t necessarily want to think came. Like…why was my father going to this ‘café’ all of the sudden? He was baffling me. Could it be…a woman? A date? I didn’t know.

I tipped my hat politely to all of the passersby, went on my way to the only bookstore I knew of that was four blocks away—Aysel Bookers. It was a strange bookshop, out of the ordinary. Its residency was not nearly as nice as many of the other store, and the smell of it wasn’t the most pleasant. Some of their books were old, and yellowed, and of no value. Father had sent me there before to pick things up, maybe ten times or so. From what I knew, there were only four people running it. Gisli Aysel was an elderly woman in her eighty’s or so, with coarse white hair and deeply wrinkled skin. Her eyes shone knowledge more than anyone else I had ever met, and seemed to radiate they golden-honey color everywhere she went. She was kind, and short. She had a shuffling gait, but it never seemed to stop her.

Her daughter in law, Marisol Aysel, was also there most of the time. Grandma Aysel, or rather, Gisli, always said that Mari had hair to die for. It was honey-brown, and flowed like a stream in a forest. It had a silky feel, and never seemed to have an imperfection. Her deep blue eyes showed care, and I always seemed to feel better around her.

Marisol had a son and a daughter, two years apart. Both are from different fathers, and the oldest, the boy, was born out of wedlock. His father scampered off as soon as he found out he was to have a child, leaving Mari to fend for herself. Mari named him Kieran, and he grew up to be a dark-haired boy with dashing blue-gray eyes. I don’t know much about him, only that he is now seventeen, like me, and works at his family bookstore.

His sister, however, was born under wedlock. Marisol had married a cunning young man named Dayton Aysel, who was the son of Gisli. Sadly, Dayton died a few years back in a terrible accident. No one will ever tell me how, though.

The girl was named Eve. She is quite reserved, in some ways like her mother. Her hair is jet black and straight, as Gisli claimed Dayton’s to be. And her eyes do not show caring or knowing—they show secrets. I don’t know why, but those wispy and secretive eyes of hers always kind of scared me.

I arrived at Aysel Bookers, hoping that Kieran and Gisli would be in today. Gisli always told me all kinds of funny stories, and Kieran told lots of jokes and made an effort to talk. They were the kind of people I wished that I could spend more time around, but of course, Father would never have allowed it. Sighing, I pushed open the half-decomposed wooden door, and listened to the shop bell tingle as I entered.

The shop looked exactly as I had remembered it. Incenses were burning, and bookshelves were bulging and stuffed. The whole place had the scent of trees, or the forest, which I found odd but refreshing. I took a deep whiff of the air, savoring it.

“Why ‘ello, Oliver!” cried the croaky voice of Gisli, greeting me. She was sitting the corner on her favorite chair, behind the counter, reading a book. She flipped through the page aimlessly, and I got the feeling that she wasn’t even reading. I raised my hand in greeting, as she was now looking up. “How do you do, Gisli?”

She smiled happily, slightly yellowed teeth beaming. “Fine, thank ye. Come to pick up those orders of yours?”

“Of my father’s, yes,” I nodded in agreement.

“Alrighty, then. Just go to the back ‘o the store and find Kieran. He was takin’ stock,
but he can get the books for ye.”

She went back to reading the book, if she even was. I walked with unexpected happiness to the back of the store—I definitely need to get out more.

Something moved in the corner of my eye, sliding behind the bookshelf I was standing next to. I didn’t take much notice of it and slid through the curtain and to the back of the store, calling Kieran as I did.

“Hey! Oliver!” He was delighted to see me, and gave me a warm pat on the back. “Here to pick up those orders?”

I nodded, and waited as he rummaged though piles of things, mumbling inaudibly to himself. It was definitely beyond me how the Aysels found anything in that store.

“Ahh, here we go!” he beamed happily, handing a large package to me. It was heavier than I expected, and I could tell it was going to be a nuisance when he got back. I absently fumbled with the brown packaging paper, and replied.

“Thanks, Kieran. Well…I better get going, ya know, before Father gets home, and I get yelled at.”

He patted me on the back, sympathetically. “Really, it’s okay. I do feel sorry for ya
though, knowing your pops is like that and all. Must be real torture.”

“You have to remind me?” I remarked, shoving him off playfully.

“Course I do, what are friends for?” He punched my arm lightly.

“Um…not reminding me of things like that?” I chuckled softly to myself. “Ah, well, no big deal. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? See if I can get my father to let me come over here more often.” That was odd, how Kieran had never referred to me as a friend until now. Actually…I never had referred to him, even in my mind, as a friend before now. It was nice to actually have one, however, after years of being cooped up with Lazy.

Kieran nodded, and let me on my way to leave. “Seeya later, buddy.”

Staring at the package as I left the store, a thought crept into my mind. I kept telling it to go away, but it just wouldn’t. Oh, why to parents have to tell you not to do things? It was so downright frustrating—just because he told me I couldn’t meant I was going to.

I would open the package, in other words.

Now out of the sight of the bookstore, I carefully undid the ribbon tie, noting exactly how it was tied. For all I knew, Father would recognize the way they tied things and bust me. Unfolding the brown paper, careful not to damage it, I turned over the first book.

It was written in a completely different language. However, I flipped through some of the pages and found some strange pictures. One was of a man—not exactly a man, more like the one I had seen in my father’s book—being tied to something along the lines of a torture wheel. It was gruesome. The villagers, or at least I assumed they were, were ripping off his flesh, and others were breaking his arms and legs. A more prominent individual had an ax raised above the creature’s head. To the left of that, more were preparing a deadly fire.

Underneath the picture, it said two things: Peter Stubbe, 1589.

I shivered, utterly frightened. Why had I ever looked at the book? I did not need to see these frightening images. They were disgusting, disturbing. They were—

They were my father’s books. Why in the world would he have books like these? I shook off the thought and quickly closed the book, putting it back to the way I had picked it up from Aysel Bookers. I didn’t even want to see the other.

I could feel the images I had had before I ran into the nice man coming back. I didn’t want to see them, not one bit. The blood and flesh on its jaws, moving with a passion to eat, to devour, to kill, it launched at me.

Screaming, I jumped backwards and slammed into the brick wall, with the breath knocked out of me. The books flew out of my hands, landing in grate to the sewers not to far away. I cursed at myself and tried to stand up, but felt dizzy. I sat back down again.

I hoped to God that it wasn’t wet under the grate. How was I supposed to explain getting the books wet? I knew that I’d very well get myself grounded. I forced myself to crawl over and peer down.

About three feet down was the package, lying on a damp ground. Wonderful, I thought helplessly. I slumped backwards, and collapsed in the street.

---

“Hey, kid. Get up.”

“Ungh?” I mumbled, obviously having fainted. My head ached unpleasantly, and I sat up to rub yet another bump. “Who are you?”

“No one you need to know. Just thought that you might want to know that you’re laying in the middle of the street, in horse s***”

“What!?”

I bolted upright, and I immediately felt the gooey resistance between my head and the ground. Almost puking in disgust, I shook my head violently as some of it flung off.

“Please refrain from getting it on me,” the man smiled, holding his hand out to help me up. I took his hand and he pulled, holding me in place until I had regained my balance. I nodded in thanks.

“No problemo, kiddo. The least I could do!” he beamed at me, while tipping his hat. In a brief moment his was gone, leaving me standing on the edge of the street with horse dung in my hair. Once again, I realized I had been helped by a mysterious man. Could it have been the same one? Was fate averting me from seeing who he was? I shrugged it off, because at that moment, I remembered the books.

There they were, three feet down, just as I had accidentally left them. I tested the grate to see if I could stick my arm between the bars, and I could—but just barely.

I extended my fingers as far as I could, fingers brushing against the package. Shoving my whole arm between the bars, now, I winced in pain and managed to get a good enough grasp on the book to pin it to the wall, loosen my arm, and bring it back up.

Wrenching my arm free, I rubbed it with my other hand and grabbed the package, sliding it out from underneath the grate.

I definitely wasn’t getting paid enough for this.

Well... that was an interesting chapter. It wasn't bad, but it was by far the most interesting part of the story so far.

Craving is a first-rate work of fiction Awbri, one of the most interesting pieces by you that I've read so far! I'm curious to know more about the stormy-eyed girl , and how she fits in to the story of Oliver, Oliver's father, and the father's rather gruesome studies. Character portrayal and description is top-notch, and as always, your first person narrative is capital. You delve into the character of Oliver well. His voice is genuine, as are his actions, and his father is a well-conceived opposite. The only negative point regarding the first person POV is that I had the impression, in the Prologue, that this story was in third-person, as you begin with a description of the stormy-eyed girl that's more or less objective, without any sense of the first POV. It's a negligible point, however, as you mention soon after Oliver, through "I". ^^

I didn't spot many errors that would interrupt the flow of the reading. Great! There was this sentence:

Figuring I better go to the groceries before it got too late and I was, once again, kicked in the head, and walked off with my back straight to the nearest store.

I think the word "and", preceding "walked off..." throws the sentence off:

Figuring I better go to the groceries before it got too late and I was, once again, kicked in the head, I walked off with my back straight to the nearest store.

Its residency was not nearly as nice as many of the other store [stores], and the smell of it wasn’t the most pleasant.

Gisli Aysel was an elderly woman in her eighty’s [eighties] or so, with coarse white hair and deeply wrinkled skin. Her eyes shone knowledge more than anyone else I had ever met, and seemed to radiate they [a]golden-honey color everywhere she went.

She was sitting in the corner on her favorite chair, behind the counter, reading a book.

I couldn't point out a chapter that I liked the best, because they were all engaging and fit well together. A line in the prologue that caught my attention:

Their strides radiated their magnitude—that they were important, and the storm-eyed girl was not.

It's a magnificent depiction, very accurate in every facet - not only describing the girls, but Sadria and Lukas (if one is to interpret his character by looking at his following). The father's studies stir anticipation: what are these gruesome scenes Oliver stumbles upon, and why are they in his father's possession? This is a great story, and I hope you continue it. I look forward to the next installment!

- Selah

Thanks for all the wonderful comments. ^^ I hope you all keep reading!

Chapter Three

“I asked you to get a book, Oliver, and you end up in horse dung with a soggy package. You’re hopeless.”

“Father, it’s only slightly damp. I’m sure no harm has come to these books!”

Father snorted at me in disgust, turning on his heel and striding into his study, slamming the door behind him.

I sighed, throwing my hands up in the air once he was out of sight. The package maybe had a drop of water on it. It wasn’t going to kill the books. But the fact that he was this worried about the books…made me wonder why they were so special. And if they were so special…then what was that important about the gruesome picture I had seen before passing out? All I knew was that I didn’t want it to have a significant impact on my life…at all.

Looking down at my hands, I noticed that they were shaking. What the heck?

Gulping, I brought my hand to my face, staring at it intently. An immense feeling of terror was swept over me, hand shaking harder. What was going on? My jaw was involuntarily clenching, and it was as if I couldn’t move…

All of the sudden, a hideous yelp and an urgent cry in agony ripped though the house, largely disturbing my thoughts. It was distinctly Father’s voice—I dropped my hand, and sped out of the room, down the hallway, and to his study. He was moaning.

My hand reached out slowly for the doorknob—would he yell at me for coming in, even in pain? Knowing him, it was entirely possible, and—

“Oliver!” he screamed helplessly.

Without hesitation I seized the knob and flung open the door.

My father was lying on the ground, shards of glass embedded everywhere in his skin. Blood leaked out from the wounds, dripping onto the carpet. The large golden chandelier lay on top of him, all bulbs and glass ornaments shattered into my father’s skin. The carpet soaked up the blood greedily, like a starving predator, and I almost vomited in disgust.

Father was looking up at me, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. There was a large gash from his left temple to cheekbone, and a slit in his nose. He looked at me pleadingly, and mouthed ‘help’, coughing.

I hurried to throw the chandelier off of him, pushing it to the side. It was heavy—it could have really damaged my father. The whole time, I was whispering that it was going to be okay. He appeared to be in a heavy state of shock. Had the drop surprised him? …Of course it had. If he knew it was going to fall, it would have been an attempted suicide.

Glass was everywhere. Some pieces were lightly embedded in his shirt, especially the smaller ones, and I knew that it would hurt like hell if he stood up with those there. I tore over to his desk, hastily shuffling through a load of things to look for scissors.

No scissors…but a pocket knife.

I released the blade, bending down beside Father, and roughly cut a line down the back of his shirt. Carefully peeling it off, the bloody mess of his back was revealed. Red splotches were everywhere—but not too much liquid, which was a good sign.

“Come on, Dad, you’ll be fine.”

I almost dropped the knife on him when I realized I had said Dad. Long ago, he had told me not to call him that, and to only call him ‘sir’ and ‘Father’. I had always stuck to it, and didn’t know why I had just said it.

I wasn’t brave enough to cut away his pants, so I grabbed a few papers from his desk, closed my eyes, and swept it over him, brushing off the smallest shards. He groaned slightly when I did so.

“You’ll be fine. You’ll be A-OK. Just stand up, now, and I’ll take you upstairs and get you fixed up.”

It looked like he was trying to move, but couldn’t really, because it hurt too much. Instructing him to push up with his hands, he got about an inch off before almost collapsing again. I grabbed him under the arm and helped him all the way up.

He was a mess…and a mess was an understatement.

Coughing, he splattered a tiny bit of blood on his hand.

“Here, let me get that.”

I peeled off the front of his shirt. The front of him was a lot cleaner, but still, not unharmed. I tossed it to the side and tentatively put my arm around his back, helping him out of the room. He had a heavy limp, and dragged me down with his weight. But I withheld—he needed me.

It took me a long time to get him upstairs, and by the time he was in his room, on his bed, it seemed as if it had already been ten minutes or so since he was up.

Father was lying on his stomach, back facing upwards. I wasn’t really that attuned to first-aid kind of stuff, but I went with my first instinct. I wetted a cloth heavily, and spread it out over his back. He let out a funny noise I had never heard before—I assumed, and hoped, that it was a sigh of relief.

Just about the only other thing I knew was that you had to clean out cuts, or they could get infected.

Boy, was I going to have a lot of cuts to clean!

I took a bar of soap and ran it gently over his back, and the whole time he was twitching and moaning. I guessed it hurt a lot. Trying to soothe him, I sang a little song, but I think it may have just aggravated him more.

Taking the cool cloth, once I had finished soaping, I gently scrubbed the cuts clean. I didn’t really want to do it, because he was constantly yelping, but I did it anyways.

Instructing him to roll over, I did the same for his chest.

His face was a different story. There were a few minor cuts, but largest one was a monster to clean. He screamed in agony every time the soap even got a centimeter from his face, and tried to push me off when I actually touched it to the cut. Eventually it was all soaped up, and I cleaned it out with the cloth, taking the care to be extra gentle.

Most of the cuts were clean, now, though the blood still leaked from a few. I placed small pieces of cloth over them to soak the rest up, then rummaged through the closet and pulled out an old musty blanket. I threw it over top of him, giving him a chance to rest. He would have to clean his legs when he woke up, later on, because he was already asleep.

---

I dunno if Chap. 3 is finished yet or not. Depends on what I think of to happen next.

Intense!

I love the balance of suspense ("My hand reached out slowly for the doorknob...") and action ("Without hesitation I seized the knob and flung open the door."). Such a peculiar accident has heightened my already tall degree of interest - why did the chandelier fall? Does it have anything to do with the father's studies? Or is it pure coincidence? Oliver's rush to help and care for his father also leaves me sanguine - perhaps his actions will be marked, and provide the remedy to the rift between father and son. And why were Oliver's hands shaking? Fear, or something else? I looked forward to the further development of Craving!

Originally Posted by Selah

Intense!

I love the balance of suspense ("My hand reached out slowly for the doorknob...") and action ("Without hesitation I seized the knob and flung open the door."). Such a peculiar accident has heightened my already tall degree of interest - why did the chandelier fall? Does it have anything to do with the father's studies? Or is it pure coincidence? Oliver's rush to help and care for his father also leaves me sanguine - perhaps his actions will be marked, and provide the remedy to the rift between father and son. And why were Oliver's hands shaking? Fear, or something else? I looked forward to the further development of Craving!

Thanks for the comment. ^^ I have yet to decide if it was a coincidence, but Oliver's hands were shaking because he has somewhat of a sixth sense--he can detect 'feelings' through the atmosphere, and right before the chandelier fell, he felt dread. I think this ability will some how connect to the monsters he keep seeing.

“Oliver…”

I sat up groggily, scratching the back of my head and yawning. Had I fallen asleep? I rubbed my eyes, and the little sand between the creases came out on my fingers. Guess I had.

“Oliver!”

It was then that I realized my father was calling me, with his croaking voice, to him. Covering my mouth as I yawned again, I stood up and looked around. From what I could tell, Father hadn’t moved at all and had been sitting the bed since I put him there.

“Yes, Father?”

“Th—” He was cut off as he coughed violently, mucus and everything nastier spitting up into his hand.

“One moment…” I mumbled, shuffling to the bathroom while cracking my knuckles. I pulled out a roll of paper towels, tore off a bundle, and hobbled back. I was always like this after waking up. Placing the bundle in his hands, I sat on the very edge of the bed and waited for him to continue.

He wiped his hands thoroughly. “Thank you, son.”

I’m sure that if it was humanly possible my jaw would have dropped open and my head would have rolled off my neck. Looking down at my hands, I realized they were shaking and I hastily stuffed them behind me. I didn’t know how long it had been since he called me son, but it caught me by surprise. “You’re…you’re welcome, Father.”

“I thought I was going to die back there—you could have very well left me there to bleed to death. But you didn’t.”

“No, I suppose I did not…” He was making me nervous. He never gave me these kinds of talks. Usually, he yelled at me.

“I have one question for you.”

I turned to face him, and I don’t know how I brought myself to do it…but I looked him in the eye. “Yes?”

“Why did you help me? Was it from the goodness in your heart? Or…?”

I strained to remember everything that had been flying through my mind when I found Father like that. Is he dead? Will he die? Where will I go if he dies? I don’t want to leave here, even if it’s terrible. And what if I go in there? Will he just yell at me? I don’t know, I don’t know! Please, tell me what to do! I could be rid of his cruelty if I left him…but then…then…where would I go? Would I have to live on the streets? Would…

“Honestly, Father?”

“Honestly.”

Looking at the bedcover nervously, I spoke. “I…I guess…I was selfish. All I thought about was…where I would go if you died, and if I should go in the study because if I did, I might’ve been yelled at. Nothing…I don’t think….I don’t think anything at all had to do with kindness. I feel…terrible.”

There was an awkward moment of silence, and he looked up at me sincerely. I averted my eyes once again, and my father began to murmur my name softly. “Oliver…Oliver, Oliver, Oliver…oh…Oliver…”

I was getting nervous.

“Son…I am not angry with you. I suppose…I suppose that for most of this…I am to blame. I should not have…ignored you. I was not a good father. And do not argue with that, I will not deny what I have been.”

Nodding, I gulped, my Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a fruit about to fall off a tree. And then, I had the courage to say it.

“Father…all those years…why…why did you do it?”

He sighed, closing his eyes. “I suppose it is time I tell you, now.”

And the doorbell rang. I looked at him questioningly.

“Go, go get it.”

Nodding, I ran downstairs.

----

Whoo! Chapter Four to come soon.

More suspense! The brevity of the piece heightened the poignant beauty of reconciliation, while its conclusion animated all anticipation. Questions fill my mind, all regarding Oliver ans his father's varied conditions - and of course, who is at the door! I look eagerly forward to reading chapter four!

You don't know how much I appreciate the fact that you are actually reading this. I suppose I must persist...people will read in time, I hope. I'm going to try starting chapter four tonight...and it will have lots of dialogue.

First part of Chapter Four- Lots of Dialogue to come.

---

Chapter Four

The last person I ever expected to be standing at my doorstep was…well…standing at my doorstep. Her hair flowed easily through the wind, jacket pulled tightly around her torso. Her storm-gray eyes pierced mine…and my jacket lay draped across her arms.

“Sadria,” I said softly. I continued standing at the doorway, taken by complete surprise, unmoving. She smiled lightly.

“I brought your jacket back…you know…I just thought you might want it.” She shuffled her feet uneasily.

I nodded and smiled, tucking it under my arm after she handed it to me. There was an awkward silence, and she looked up. “You know…would you like to go for something to eat, or to the park? I’ve…I’ve got a few things I’d like to explain to you about the…you know…incident.”

Smiling softly, I nodded promptly. “One moment…let me go ask my…dad.”

I lumbered up the steps, leaving her to stand in the doorway, excitement flowing through me. I had never done anything like what Sadria had just asked of me. Opening the door to my father’s room quietly, I stepped in.

“Uh…Father? A…friend of mine is standing at the front door…and…she wants me to go to the park with her, for a walk. To explain something.”

Sometimes the truth is the best excuse.

He nodded, smiling. “Sure, son.” I could see that he was trying his best not to question too much of what I was doing. “Just make sure that you…take care, okay?”

“Yessir!” I grinned, suddenly happy. I began to rush out of the room, but I was stopped.

“Oliver?”

Turning around slowly, I faced him. Braced myself.

“I love you.”

Gulping in uneasiness, I nodded.

--

Sadria and I walked side by side on the sidewalk, my coat pulled tightly around myself like hers. It didn’t smell like it had before the fall…and now that I thought about it, it smelled strongly of…well, Sadria. She had a distinct smell, one of peaches and cats. Don’t ask me how I knew it was cats, but I just had this gut instinct. I pulled my collar up over my nose, using ‘my nose is cold’ as an excuse to smell it.

Shoving my hands deep into my pockets, I stared straight at the cracks in the sidewalk, swaying for a minute or two before gathering the courage to ask a question.

“Uhm…how…how did you find me? You know, that was a bit odd, how you were just…there…and…”

Sadria chuckled, sighing. “Yesterday I was at Aysel Bookers…I go in there sometimes, just to browse. The books are interesting. But, that’s beside the point. Anyways, I was browsing the shelves when I saw you. And as you can probably tell, I’m shy. So I ducked out of the way…and when you left, I asked Gisli where you lived, and told her that I needed to return your jacket because I had ‘found it’ in the streets.

“So she gave me your address, because she thought it was real sweet of me to return it. I’ve been working up the courage all last night to give this to you…as I said, I’m shy. And giving it too you wasn’t necessarily all I wanted to do.”

I nodded, understanding the situation. “I’m glad you could get it back…and, I kind of wanted to talk to you to. I have more questions than what I just asked.”

“Shoot.”

New chapter! And what's this? Sadria returns! Oliver and his father have drawn to a pause, now, to make room for Sadria, inquiries, and explanations - though I wonder if what she tells Oliver may in some way tie into or elucidate the situation of the ghastly images and falling chandelier. A wild plunge, I suppose, but what reader can tell what will happen next? This gets better each chapter, and each partial chapter, Awbri, and I look eagerly forward to its continuation.

Originally Posted by Awbri

I suppose I must persist...people will read in time, I hope.

They'll come. They always do.

Wow, Awbri, you've really surprised me. I found just these four chapters to be compelling and grasping; they had me in till the end.

Your dialogue is pretty darn good, but it pales in comparison to your characterization skills. I had such a devious hatred for Oliver's father, and then when he started acting all nice, I really liked the turn of events. The characterization you had build up made the transition from "HOLY BALLS YOU FAG YOU GOT MY BOOKS WET" to "I love you, son" actually quite smooth.

Again, very well done. Just clean up the few typos, and you're rearin' to go.