(Note: this is a story less about the fantasy, and more about the development of people, as most of my stories are. Excuse the fact that the French written in here is sans... meaning without... accents. Oh, what is the F Lock on my keyboard *presses*... it didn't do OH its for the f1 f2 thing isn't it? Oh well, ADD sorry. Well, critique fairly to this piece, and I'll critique one of yours. Enjoy!)
Listen, my love, I have a story to tell.
One with bloodthirsty creatures from hell.
With war, with famine, with destruction of peace,
especially the ones that come out in your sleep.
It all started one dreary afternoon.
It was all so fast, and ended so soon.
There was a mistake (as all stories begin),
a little bit of lust, of love, of sin.
No one remembered her name. She didn't even remember her name some days. She knew that she wasn't always in this line of employment, but she didn't remember what preceded it. She knew it was wrong, but she knew nothing else.
One day, she was called into her boss's office.
"Ah, mademoiselle, vene ici. Como ca va, ma petite ange? Tu es tres belle, comme tout les fois."
She cringed. "If you please monsieur, I'm trying not to speak my native tongue. This job is hard as it is."
She spoke these words with a french accent.
"Je m'excuse, I'm sorry," he said apologetically "would you sit down?"
He gestured towards one of the seats next to the window.
"Would you like something to drink? Tea? Cappuccino? Wine?"
"A cappuccino would be lovely, monsieur."
She replied, sitting down in the chair.
Her boss watched her for a moment. Outside the window, the day was dreary. You could see the grey fog, and the rain on the window. Each drop clung to the window with all its might, until too many drops combined, causing gravity to pull it down viciously.
She was a beauty, a jeune belle, and he couldn't imagine anyone better for the job.
To him she had long, curly, blond hair. She was tall and slender, and was very soft. Her eyes were crystal blue, and had a look as if she knew him inside and out. She had a slight tan, and her legs seemed to go on for eternity.
Of course, she didn't look like that to everyone else.
His assistant brought in two cappucinos, and left. Her boss brought over and placed the cup in her hands. "Now, ma chere, I have another assignment for you."
She nodded, and asked for details.
"Here's the kid's of the story," he handed her one manila envelope "and this is the girl's. Decide how your going to approach this. You'll be in the United States for this project, and it shouldn't take longer than a month."
"Merci, monsieur," She said, falling back into the habit of her first language "I will try my best, oui?"
"Oui ma chere. If you would excuse me, I have a lot of paperwork to do."
"Of course." She stood up, shook hands with her boss, and walked out of the office, closing the door gently behind her.
She decided she would walk to the cafe down the street, get a blueberry muffin, and read over the stories. This time she'll read the girl's side of the story first, then the boy's.
She got to the cafe, and walked up to the counter. The barista there was barely eighteen, and knew her well. She was in here almost every week.
"Hello, Angie," the young barista dubbed her by one of her many false names "blueberry muffin, yes?"
"Of course, the usual." She smiled at him and batted her eyelashes. She knew to him, she was a medium build redhead with emerald eyes. When he came back, she looked through her purse, pretending to look for her wallet. She knew that said item was, in fact, laying on her coffee table.
She made herself blush. "Oh shit, I think I left it at home, I guess I won't have that muffin." She said feigning embarrassment.
The barista waved his hand at her and told her not to worry about it. "On the house, babe."
"Are you sure?" She said with a slight smile.
"On my tab, of course." He said with a sunny disposition.
"Well, thanks ma chere."
"Anytime, Angie."
She took her muffin, and walked to her usual table. She was a creature of habit. She crossed her legs, tore off a piece of muffin and put it in her mouth. She felt the barista's eyes on her and sighed. This never got any easier, and she detested the attention.
Sighing again, as if saying "oh well", she reached for the manila enveloping reading "the Girl's". She ran her finger across the envelope, feeling every emotion this girl had. The bastard. She opened the envelope carefully, and slipped out the information. There was a survey about the girl, her story, a couple of photos, and her myspace. Of course, this generation was obsessed with this phenomenon.
Ignoring the rest, she picked up the story, and began to read.
