OOC: My Application essay is based on fact, and therefore may not appeal to some. As a result I jotted down a quick overview of what happens when a demon decides to apply to the pen. Feel free to read one, or the other.. or both if your that bored. The essay itself is not complete, but I’ve sat on it long enough. I will finish it up at a later date.
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Rune pats her tummy.
“Down bugglies (butterflies), down I say.” She scowls at her own stomach and sits down on her bed. Looking out into the empty room she attempts to reassure herself that everything will be ok. Fumbling with the pieces of paper in her hand she rips one slightly.
“Oh my goodness, oh my goodness.” The demon child stammers to herself and quickly jumps up to work to confine the tear so that it does not ruin the paper. Treating it as though it were more valuable than gold she lays the three sheets on top of one another and them separates them out to recount them once again.
“Ok, good. All three of them are here.” She says to herself before stacking them up again.
Turning her back on the paper she stomps her foot and gets a determined look on her face. She begins her pep talk by first point out how childish she is for fearing the process, and then continues by smacking herself around for not having done it sooner, and ends by congratulating herself on how nicely she had written the words and how straight her W’s were. With a nod of her head she leaves the room and heads toward the Recruiter’s office.
She reaches the massive wooden door that is the final protective barrier between what will make her simple piece of paper become an application. She reaches for the handle, and realizes that its slightly too high. Grunting to herself she stands on her tiptoes and manages to get her tiny hands around the door handle. Pulling with all her might she tries to pry open the heavy door, but alas its sturdy (and heavy) craftsmanship is just too much for her to handle. She pouts and sits down on the ground, Her elbows resting on her knees.
“No one mentioned anything about there being ‘bigger than me’ doors in the way.” She mumbles. A gold plate in the bottom left hand corner of the door catches her eye. Peering at it closely she runs her fingers over the words as she reads them aloud. “Almost Dragonic Productions. Hmm, Sounds like a nice company, maybe I can call them and ask them to open the door for me.”
“Would you like to come in?” A grainy voice booms out of nowhere.
“who? What?” Rune jumps up from the ground, spinning on her heels in an attempt to find whoever just addressed her.
“Up here” the voice continues, matter-of-factly. “Would you like to come inside?” Peering up towards the handle, Rune realizes that the door is speaking to her. She giggles in delight at the concept, having never met a door in the past. “Yes, I would very much like to come inside. But before I go, could you introduce yourself? I’ve never met a door, and I bet it would be something I’d very much like to remember.”
“Well of course.” The door responds. “I used to be the door to a very influential wizard’s main chamber. But after the wizard zapped himself a few too many times he sold me rather cheaply to some dragon fellow. Actually, I am not sure if he was a dragon or not, but he brought me here. I was a bit insulted at being bought so cheaply, after all I am a very intelligent and sharp door, not at all dull in the slightest.” The door shook in its frame, obviously upset at the thought of being considered cheap. The clock rang out from the main courtyard, signaling lunchtime within the pen keep.
“Oh my goodness, its already lunchtime. I really must go Master door, could you let me inside?” Rune urged.
“Why of course, do have fun and come back and visit sometime!” The door swung open allowing her passage. “Thank you” she curtsied and then passed through the entrance. The distraction of the door having calmed her nerves, she placed her application on the massive desk inside and turned to leave. Several hours later Wyvern returns to his office. Pushing on the door he finds that it will not budge.
“Not this again” He mumbles. All that can be heard from the door is a muffled “humph” as it remains sturdy in its frame.
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OOC: And this is the actual essay part.
Untitled at the moment.
The track appeared to slice the countryside in half. On one side there was a field full of flowers for as far as the eye could see. The other side appeared vast and limitless as the ocean framed the picture perfect setting, casting a backdrop of intertwined blues and golds as the sun reflected off of the water's surface. The locomotive’s whistle could be heard in the distance. The soft sound was carried on the sun soaked wind. As the sound reached the shore of the beach it vanished, leaving only a ghostly symphony of waves and seagulls in it's wake.
This tranquil setting appeared to be untouched as the sun started to set after it's journey from one sea to another. The train's whistle appeared to fit in perfectly, causing little harm to the native creatures and setting. Even the tracks were camouflaged by overgrown vegetation. The strength of the steel that could support all the weight of the train appeared frail when covered by the green foliage. Smaller avian citizens picked through the roots and grass of the track searching for dinner for their young. As the day wore on, the sun's rays turned amber as it sank into the quenching sea.
The train grew closer. A solitary figure could be seen standing by the track. The posture and stance made it obvious this was not a man, but a child. His lanky arms supported hands that showed days of labor even though his face earned him little more than 15 years. His black hair framed his listless expression as he peered towards the direction of the whistle. The train loomed closer, it’s sound amplified as it rushed towards him. Birds of every variety turned towards the direction of the train. Motionless they watched for the beast to approach. The boy became fixated on the black shadow that had come into view. The whistle grew louder as the train approached. It's wheels furiously chewed up the vegetation that once covered the track as it roared through the peaceful setting. The boy remained motionless, unaffected by the approaching rage. The ground shook violently as the locomotive stormed into full view. The birds that had been motionless fled from the scene in a fury of angry squawks. The train ripped past, Its fury causing the wind to whip the boy's hair against his face. He mumbled to himself but the words were unheard. As quick and violently as it has approached it departed. The sun set as though it too fled the impending doom of the train. The boy turned his back on the beach and headed home. His arms hung lethargically by his side as though he was carrying more weight than his lanky frame could handle.
As he passed through the outskirts of town and onto the main street, memories of the past flooded his senses. Focusing on the ground he trudged forward. He was exhausted after having worked all day and knew he would be in for a lecture for getting home so late. He passed a couple on the street corner who greeted him with snarls of disgust and comments of no particular fact. He brushed them off and continued forward, too tired to even turn and glance in their direction. The street lamps overhead brought a particular memory to mind. As he passed underneath their concentrated light and then back into darkness the internal images took on a moving picture feel. The light penetrated his heavy eyelids and caused him to feel slightly dizzy as he awkwardly made his way down the sidewalk.
The movie playing in his head was of his family. It reminded him of an old black and white movie his grandfather had showed him once when he was younger. The light from the street lamps provided the strobe effect that was often common with that particular style of old movies. He saw his mother sitting on a rock with flowers in her hair. The same beach he had just visited provided the backdrop as the wind stroked the light layers of fabric that made up her spring dress. His youngest brother ran around her, picking flowers and bringing them to her one by one. His father was tossing a baseball to another boy, the middle child of the three, and laughing as the child scrambled to catch the ball but always seemed to miss. Then he saw himself, standing by the train tracks. He realized that he was alone even then, perhaps because his father had respected his need to be a man and had given him the truth when he asked for it, even though he had not been ready for the responsibility. A car zipped past, tearing him from his dream world with a loud horn blast. He stopped at the gate to his home, surveying the scene before going further. The yard was a mess, toys were scattered everywhere. The house needed to be painted, the fence mended, and the shrubs had overgrown the windows. He sighed to himself and pushed on the gate.
He entered the small two bedroom house through the kitchen door. His father was sitting at the table, drinking coffee that had long since cooled and looking worried. He glanced at the boy as he entered the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Father.” The child apologized. He looked as if he were trying his best to report to an Army General.
He allowed his gaze to drop to the floor. The silence grew to be unbearable under his father's stony stare. He stammered on, “They needed the final load done by this evening, sir. I had to stay to help.. but they are going to pay me for the overtime.” He looked up hopefully with his last words. Maybe the concept of monetary reimbursement would smooth over the fact he was so late.
Hope faded into fear as his father's gaze remained fixed on his face. Emotionless, he rose and moved slowly towards his son. The boy flinched in anticipation of an attack, only to discover himself being taken into the older man's arms in an embrace. His unbelieving body held stiff for a moment then relaxed as his father stroked his hair gently, his powerful arms hugging the teenager as though the boy had been missing for days instead of hours. Moments later he released him and stepped back into his habitual rigid posture. The boy stumbled slightly on release, trying to regain his composure and balance after the unexpected affection. The two men locked on one another's faces.
“Are you ok?” His Father inquired.
“Of course, Father. Why wouldn’t I be?” The boy looked completely confused by the entire conversation.
“You have school tomorrow. I agreed to let you have a job only if you promised not to over work yourself. I am concerned that you are trying to do too much.” The man turned on his heels. His back now faced his oldest son. His face reflected the horror of his own past and it is obvious that the man had this same situation filed away in his own reservoir of memories.
“But we need the money, ” the boy began to protest. His father cut his outburst short as he turned to face him. “Robert. I will not have this argument with you. I want you to get cleaned up and I want you to go to bed. If you come home this late again, then you will not be allowed to go back.” The boy scowled at his father, all composure lost, before storming out of the kitchen and retreating to the small dark room where his brothers lay sleeping.
He pried his shoes off his feet and sat down hard on the bed, shaking his younger brother out of his slumber as the mattress reacted to his weight.
“W-w-what’s going on?” his brother asked sleepily.
“Nothing! Go back to sleep” Robert snapped.
“What time is it?” His brother responded.
“Listen John, Go to sleep!” Robert threw a pillow towards his brother angrily and then got up to go to the washroom. John mumbled something before turning over and quickly falling back to sleep. He was unaware when the older brother finally crawled into the small bed an hour later.
The following day at school went by in a blur as Robert barely paid attention to his courses. When the final bell rang he rushed to meet John outside his classroom.
“Let’s go” the teenager urged his brother to hurry. “We are running late and Ms. Omerkov is going to charge Dad extra again.”
He grabbed John’s backpack strap and pulled to try and get him to quicken the pace. The added strain on the old backpack caused it to rip and his books tumbled to the floor. The other children started to laugh and point at his misfortune as he tried to gather his papers and books. His face seemed to mimic his stance among the children, symbolic of his separation as an equal among them, since the crimson tone of his cheeks was a complete contrast to his light blue shirt. A drawing he had completed in class fell into view and a schoolmate picked it up.
“Who is this?” the bully teased, “Your girlfriend?”
John snatched the paper and shouted at him to assure him that his conclusion was negative. The bully snickered and started chanting a rhyme to spur the other children into a unified chorus of teasing. John was flustered as they laughed at his embarrassment. Robert, fueled by exhaustion and anger, lost his temper. Since he was several years older Robert’s attack appeared unfair and vicious to the other children. They reacted in a panic as the bully heroically became the victim in the situation he had created just moments before. The children erupted, their cries creating an artificial intensity that hovered over the situation. By the time a teacher arrived to investigate most of the children were convinced that Robert was trying to murder the boy. The brothers were labeled the instigators and quickly taken to the principal’s office to await the school system’s judgment.
Robert sighed as the door was closed behind them. He was certain that his irresponsibility would cause his father more grief. A sudden realization that every attempt to prove himself in his father’s eyes had inevitably turned negative flooded his senses. They sat facing forward in the cold and stale office.
“Why did you have to go and pull on my backpack” John complained. “I was trying to hurry.” Robert rolled his eyes at the comment. John shot him a vicious scowl and folded up the wrinkled and torn paper the bully earlier had spotted.
“Give me that” Robert said as he snatched the paper from his hands. “Who is this suppose to be anyways?” His eyes scanned the drawing of a young woman. Her hair was pinned up, in as elegant a style as a 7 year old child could muster, with a red crayon. Her stick arms and legs were outlined with a dress which was also covered in large crayon flowers.
“No one” John snapped back before grabbing the paper from his brother. He gingerly folded the drawing into a square and slipped it into his history book. Robert shook his head and mumbled something about how childish he was acting. The stick figure was John's attempt to bring the memories of his mother back to life in the only way he knew how. “A real man moved on. Only babies clung to the past like that.” Robert thought to himself.
The principal opened the door and rushed inside, panting slightly. His dress shirt was pulled tight around his stomach area, which swelled suspiciously like a beer belly. The crème-colored shirt was stained slightly from sweat in certain places and although it was clean the color resembled something that had not been washed in days. His breath was in short raspy strokes as he attempted to settle into his chair. His hands trembled as he reached for a lesson book from the desk drawer. With the book in place as an emergency distraction if needed, he addressed the two boys directly.
“Alright, I want to let you know that there will be no fighting in my school…” he began before locking eyes on Robert. He stood up and moved closer to the boy before grabbing him by the arm and twisting it slightly.
“Ouch, sir that hurts.” Robert responded as his arm was turned outward causing him to wretch forward.
“Where did this bruise come from?” the principle asked, referring to a large injury he had obtained yesterday while loading a box at the factory.
“What.. what bruise?” Robert stammered. He was faced with a loaded question. Telling the man the truth would cost him his job since he was too young to be working for the factory in the first place.
“You mean to tell me you don’t know how you got this bruise?” the teacher eyed him suspiciously.
“Has he been fighting?” The man turned his gaze on John who panicked slightly and stammered
“No.. no.. no sir! He doesn’t ever fight anyone.” A gleam entered the man’s eye as he let go and left the room without saying another word. You could barely make out his voice in the other room. It sounded as though he was talking on the telephone.
