At Dia's request...

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Archmage144
 

At Dia's request...

Unread postby Archmage144 » Sun Sep 21, 2003 9:10 pm

This story is a modern work of prose in the style of the Canterbury Tales' Prologue, an assignment I did for English class. The story details four characters in an airport in the same manner that Chaucer details the characters on the pilgrimage.





The scene panned out like any other typical Monday morning in the concourse. Gates A1 through Z33 were packed with travelers, bursting to the proverbial gills with busy men and women each convinced that their business was more important than that of everyone else in the airport. Loudspeakers blared, alerting all passengers to the hazards of allowing strange and unidentified persons to hold their luggage or present them with surprise gifts, and the colorful marquees detailing the flight times and delay information flashily proclaimed that flight 8178 to Phoenix (with a layover in Detroit) was going to be approximately three hours and thirty-seven minutes behind schedule. Naturally, some of the departing ladies and gentlemen crowded around gate B33 were more than a little distraught.

An aged televangelist loitered in the lobby, agitated that anything or anyone dared interfere with his holy mission. Dressed in the garb of his profession, a business suit and tie adorned with gold cufflinks and a diamond-studded Rolex, he stood alone among the frequent flyers littering the gate. With no soapbox to preach from, his feet twitched idly in his patent-leather shoes, the word of the Lord preparing to burst from his mouth at any moment until he realized that he would be receiving no paycheck for his impromptu sermon on the mount. But he was a good man, educated in the verses of the books, and able to recite any of the psalms at a moment’s notice, should the need arise, flaunting the scripture with the authority of a ruler-equipped schoolteacher. It could not be said that he was not a generous man, for indeed, he had given much to charity and those in need, and of course, he was always willing to devote his resources so the endeavors of local schools—so long as they put his name on a plaque out in front of the building.

Isolated in the corner, hunched over a business terminal and armed with a cup of cappuccino, a young stock broker gazed intently at a constantly refreshing bonanza of scrolling numbers. These were the numbers by which he made his lot in life, armed with the powerfully diverse vocabulary of “buy!” and “sell!” accompanied by his keen eye for all matters financial. He knew, instinctively, whether tech stocks were going to rise, mutual funds were going to fall, or soybean futures were going to bust. Wall Street was his territory, and the bull-market his livelihood. This was a man who thrived on details and chances, gambling with the odds yet making certain his success—risks without risk—knowing that his life depended on his predictions and advice. Early morning flights across the country to meet with clients were routine, almost more common than his consumption of Starbucks mocha lattes. Red-eyed, he sipped at his coffee, glancing at the clock like a frenzied wolverine trapped in a cage—time was money, and his time was being sapped away. His heart pounded, partly from the caffeine, partly from the fantastic news that client’s shares in Intel had just risen a tenth of a point, but he had no one to share his excitement with except a cellular phone set to vibrate and clipped to his hip.

Seated in a foam-padded chair in the midst of the chaos was a grandmother, fifty-eight years old and counting, but convinced she was still in the prime of her thirties. Anyone who studied her for more than an instant would rapidly come to understand the zeal with which she lived her life, the passion she poured into her family and her grandchildren, her most magnificent source of joy. Her graying hair and knit sweater gave the world around her distinct impressions of warmth and cheerful enthusiasm, and her face, while lined with wrinkles, was surely wrinkled from a lifetime of broad smiles. Despite her age, her vitality shone through as her defining characteristic, and she brought a special sort of light into every situation.

Shaking hands and kissing babies was routine for an ambitious politician waiting for his flight. A long day of whirlwind touring, including speeches at college campuses and United Auto Workers gatherings, had worn him down yesterday, and he had not yet fully recovered. In one hand he held a black attaché case that matched his suit, filled with important documents regarding the EPA, statistics about murders committed with guns, and a Penthouse magazine (for those idle moments when he wasn’t giving speeches), the mark of a very important man. The political rat race was a competition he was convinced he had the personal charisma to win, and he knew no limits—if he made governor, perhaps he could try for president! He had the support of his party, his hometown, his family, and the Yale Chess Club, surely indicating that he was a qualified man. No one could debate the fact that he was well-spoken and well educated, and his slate was as clean as that of a sleeping schoolboy. Those who suspected his involvement in scandals and corrupt dealings had no proof, and without proof, even the most plausible accusations have no merit.

They were all drawn together here, in the simplest and most unassuming of places, all desiring the same thing for different reasons. And as the next few hours ticked by, the loiterers in the concourse came together, each with a story to share. What else was there to do, after all, waiting for a delayed flight to Phoenix (flight 8178 no less, with a layover in Detroit)? Overwhelmed with anxiety and impatience, and uncertain as to how to spend their time, they drew coffee stirrers to determine who might tell the first tale, and the televangelist’s came up short—a story he began to spin as a true man of the cloth would.
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pd Rydia
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Re: At Dia's request...

Unread postby pd Rydia » Sun Sep 21, 2003 9:18 pm

Grooviness. Will you be making any further installments, do you think? <p>
<small><center><font color=navy>Take these broken wings
And learn to fly again, learn to live so free
And when we hear the voices sing
The book of love will open up and let us in</font>

{RPGWW -- an RPing community} -- {Rydia's Pocket Dragon Encyclopedia} -- {StarDragon Oekaki}</small></center></p>

Archmage144
 

Re: At Dia's request...

Unread postby Archmage144 » Sun Sep 21, 2003 9:35 pm

Not likely. ^^;; <p>
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pd Rydia
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Re: At Dia's request...

Unread postby pd Rydia » Sun Sep 21, 2003 9:38 pm

Shame. :{ <p>
<small><center><font color=navy>Take these broken wings
And learn to fly again, learn to live so free
And when we hear the voices sing
The book of love will open up and let us in</font>

{RPGWW -- an RPing community} -- {Rydia's Pocket Dragon Encyclopedia} -- {StarDragon Oekaki}</small></center></p>

Archmage144
 

Re: At Dia's request...

Unread postby Archmage144 » Sun Sep 21, 2003 10:06 pm

I doubt I could make it terribly interesting--and furthermore, I don't have the time to write for pleasure. This is crunch week. o_o;; <p>
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Uncle Pervy
 

Re: At Dia's request...

Unread postby Uncle Pervy » Fri Sep 26, 2003 2:51 pm

Interesting set up. I likes it. :D

But one question comes to mind.

WHERE'S THE GOTH!?!?!?! <p>------------------
Greetings, large black person. Let us not forget to form a team up together and go into the country to inflict the pain of our karate feets on some ass of the giant lizard person.
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Archmage144
 

Re: At Dia's request...

Unread postby Archmage144 » Fri Sep 26, 2003 11:25 pm

Fuck, I wish I'd thought of that. <p>
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