'This, my jealous enemy, is Dennis, Dennis Raveley.' Raymond replies before Dennis can open his mouth to comment that a fourteen year old girl can not legally drive an automobile.
'Raveley? What kind of a name is that? I've never heard of it.' The Girl crosses her arms, skeptical.
'Good question!' Raymond brings a hand up to his chin, 'I've never thought about that.'
'Of course you've never thought about that. I have relatively low expectations for inept, stupid morons such as you, Raymond.' The Girl replies.
'Excuse me, an IQ of 115 is considered near genius. I would respect that number if I were you, and I do shudder at the mere thought of taking your place.' Raymond counters, with a devilish grin on his face. Clearly, he believes age is at his advantage in this sparring.
'And divide that number by two is the amount of IQ you actually use,' says the Girl, 'on the bright side, you're just at borderline deficiency, at least you're not a total retard by professional standard.'
'Well, I'll have you know that I can -' Raymond is unable to finish his thought, or rather, the Girl does not let him finish it, she picks up the bazooka leaning against Addy wheelchair, strides up to Raymond and Dennis in an astonishingly quick manner, and drops the bazooka onto Raymond's foot, which do happen to be unprotected, in sandals.
'Yeooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh!' Raymond screeches, like a cat who got bitten on the tail by a dog. He has thought, of all things, that the last thing the Girl would do is come over and drop the bazooka on his foot. He has guessed wrong that age is at his advantage in this sparring. Dennis winces, equally caught by surprise, and would hate to be in Raymond's shoes at that moment, literally.
Raymond, with his face flushed as a ripe tomato, stumbles off, hopping on one foot back into the mansion.
'So, I've found out your name through that neanderthal and I've wasted enough time on the doormat, I'm Karla Simone by the way, French descent. Karla shakes Dennis' hand. 'By the way, what kind of surname is Raveley? I've never heard of it, and I don't think it connects to any name off the bat either.'
'Well, my grandparents were called Raven and Connelley, and they refused to settle in term of my dad's name by a coin toss or the gender, so they created a portmanteau surname, and it became Raveley.'
'Ah, a portmanteau, and what were the ancestries of your grandparents?'
'I don't know.'
'What do you think?'
'I admit, I don't put too much thought into that.'
'Hum, disappointing, I'd have thought someone who look as striking as you do would actually be as intelligent. Your hair is dark brown, and your eyes, wow, I don't think I've seen eyes quite as gray as yours, I 'd say you're part Irish, it matches the skin and the looks too.' Karla keeps his gaze locked on Dennis during this assessment, who returns the gaze unperturbed.
'Is this a staring contest?' Karla declares, not bothered by Dennis' stare, she has the intellect to match Dennis' dark grayish eyes. Dennis decides to withdraw from the challenge, he shifts gaze.
'Looks like I won. Listen, since you're at the house of the Wyatt family, especially under the same roof as my dear friend Addy, I do hope you have good reason to be here.'
'Good reason? I don't quite know why I'm here myself.' Dennis is beginning to find the inquisitive questions a bit too invasive.
'Another great disappointment, you seem lacking somewhat, are you aware of that?'
'Am I? Am I really? You know something, I don't quite understand you either, I thought underage people aren't supposed to be driving a car.'
'Oh? Are you really so dull? I am perfectly trained well to drive, ask the driver. Driver!' Karla shouts.
The Driver, the very same who has driven Dennis here, steps out of the car.
'Am I a capable driver?' Karla says to the Driver.
The Driver nods, gets back in, and drives the car away towards the garages.
'There you go, and don't say anything about what the law says, I know perfectly well and I know to whom it applies to. Oh, and what's that you're holding?' Karla reaches over and grabs a thick volume Dennis does not realize he is holding, 'ah, War and Peace is it? How many times have you read it?'
'Once.' Dennis says dryly.
Karla looks at him in a way that communicates serious disappointment, suddenly she raises the book with both hands, and whacks Dennis on the head, who falls down upon impact.
'I've read it three times.' Karla says, and walks off into the mansion, pushing Addy's wheelchair along.
Dennis is very not ready to get back up from the pavement, he lies there, and realizes that Karla took the book too. 'What's the point of reading it three times?' He says to himself mournfully, rubbing his head.
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
Saturday, 14 April 2012
Dennis Raveley - chapter 6
Dennis is in the library on the main floor, a room the size of half a basketball court minus the bleachers, looking over the library's worth of books, there are entries of renowned fiction authors Charles Dickens, Leo Tolstoy, William Faulkner, Jane Austen, and any other must-own authors of all books collected, though not necessarily read from volume to volume. There is also a fenced off collection of movies, filling as many bookshelves as the novels, and equally impressive. Addy explains that the movies section is off limits to all members of the Wyatt family, because it is the private sanctuary of Kendrick Wyatt, one of the world's biggest film bluff, who loves films so much to the extent of setting traps on the aisle. The section is armed with dangerous tripwires engineered by himself, and ever since Raymond had almost had his heart fried by electrocution trying to infiltrate Kenny's aisle, nobody has dared or bothered to venture there to do mess to his treasure, not that anyone other than Raymond would care to try again anytime.
Addy has left Dennis in the library, with the foreknowledge that he is a lover of books, and went on her way to find Raymond to drop the bazooka on his foot, after she has decided that a greater satisfaction will be gained if she is to violate him personally as to having Dennis do it.
'The Storm has arrived, oh the horror! The Storm has arrived!' Raymond's voice suddenly erupts from the hallway outside with heavy exaggeration and drama.
This startles Dennis to the point that he drops a hard copy of War and Peace, missing his left foot by two millimeters. He stares at the open doorway, where Raymond has just ran past, a moment ago, running in the direction of the main entrance. Dennis runs out of the library, and follows Raymond to the front of the mansion, where a solid stone fountain resides in the middle of the large pebbled pavement of the courtyard, and coming up the driveway through the woods where Dennis has also arrived from is a polished black car, driven with wobble, as if the driver is rather inexperienced behind the wheel. Addy is also in the courtyard, with the bazooka still at her side. She seems to have prepared for this arrival after leaving Dennis in the library. Raymond is now wild as an ape, jumping up and down, flapping his arms, running in circles, and laughing thoroughly, enjoying every minute of his own act. Dennis can do no better that observe befuddled as the car pulls to a halt, nearly crashing into the fountain, and the new arrival exits from the driver's door.
'Duh-duh-duh-DUH! The Storm arrives! Oh! The horror! Run, hide, take shelter, here comes the storm, oh how it terrifies me! It's the apocalypse! It's coming! Oh, the Horror!' Raymond utters a final scream, drops to his knees, then to the ground, and begins to laugh and roll.
The new arrival is a girl of fourteen, dressed in black, a pair of sunglasses perched atop a face of coolly defined features, black hair matching that of Addy's, and an air of sharp maturity exits the car with her. Addy holds up her left hand in a welcome gesture, and the girl returns the greeting in the same silent fashion. The girl walks up to Addy and they embrace; the girl almost lifts Addy out of her wheelchair, and she responds with such action as if she will actually get up.
Raymond quips another declaration, 'Oh the horror! The Storm has arrived, yes, it is so, ah my friend (to Dennis), so you have not taken my warning to heart and sought shelter? That is blatant misfortune, as you can see here, it is now too late, the Storm has arrived. Yes, Simone the Storm has arrived.' Raymond face-palms in a dramatic sulk.
'Oh shut up, Raymond!' The girl shouts. In sign language, she speaks to Addy for a moment, and Addy replies. She turns to look back at Raymond, standing next to Dennis, whom until that instant she did not notice. 'And just who are you?'
Dennis Raveley - chapter 5
'Look, what do you see?' Addy says through the talkie, coming to a halt at the railings of a patio overlooking the scenery of the back of the mansion. For as far as their eyes can travel, lush, dense pines cover the valley in a blanket, and in the distance, a thick line of suspended cable can be observed stretching across the horizon.
'It looks nicer when the sun's out.' Raymond says. On their way to the back, Raymond climbed through a window into a room that would most likely be a pantry and took a selection of breads before climbing back out. He is now munching on a croissant. Dennis has not started on his croissant yet; he is no longer hungry.
'I see...land.' Dennis says, not sure why Addy would ask him such a broad question.
'And this land you see is mine,' Addy replies, 'It also belongs to my brother Raymond (Raymond nods with claim to this statement while stuffing another croissant into his mouth), and the large extended family that I am a part of.' Addy finishes, scanning the landscape. 'This land, until those cable lines fifty acres away, is also yours.'
Dennis is taken by surprise.
'You see, your father is a very close friend of my family's. He has been employed by my family for several decades, and my family, as all good families should, honors the work of such a loyal man. Sharing is, simply put, caring. I understand that he's probably never told you about my family, and I don't wish to explain either, as it is an inconvenience, but my family does not withhold secrets to our next of kin, therefore if you do desire the such secrets, I won't withhold them from you.'
Dennis does not respond, he considers his position, which feels to be no position at all, and nods in agreement.
'Geez, have you gone mute like my sister? Raymond mused, 'You know, your lawyer impression scares me sometimes too.' He adds, directing a wink to Addy, who looks at him curtly.
'And you're the older sibling whose been to University.' She states in a matter-of-fact with heavy sarcasm, in sigh language.
'Yes, yes, so you're eight years junior but eight decades smarter, so you should go to university, that'll teach you to have a social life.' Raymond retorts.
'Did I ever tell you that I found fifty-seven errors in a university level mathematics textbook that was written by not one, but three, professors with PhD in calculus? I don't learn from education, education learns from me. And as for a social life, it is a rather harmful practice to braincells, so I am more than happy to refrain from taking such risks, not that it would resonate with you anyhow.'
'I thought Kenny found the textbook errors.'
'He found fifty, I checked and unearthed the additional seven.'
'Well, not that it would resonate with you, little sister, but the less of a supreme-prodigy you act like, the better chance you have hooking up with our man Dennis here. Who knows? You might even become a woman one day.'
Addy gives him the finger.
'Okay, okay, maybe I'm overextending my hypothesis, you probably won't make it that far, we'll see, but I'm starving, and I'm going back to the pantry, I'll see you, and you (points to Dennis and winks) after you get up to date on our family business, and Dennis, from the bottom of my heart, don't make moves on my dear sister yet just because you feel sorry for her, okay?' Raymond wanders off, laughing.
'If anyone can wander around all day, do nothing, and call himself king, that would have to be Ray.' Addy's voice says through the talkie, observing the valley. 'Your father helped my grandfather make quite a fortune in the trading business, and he's asked my family to take care of you for now, as he's currently on a long trip overseas with my father, I don't suppose you know his destinations.'
'Indeed I don't.' Dennis feels like speaking for the first time in his entire life.
'Me either, as you can clearly imagine from this emptiness of our mansion, my family won't be taking care of you any time soon, it's only going to be you, me, and Raymond. Looks to be that we shall be taking care of each other.'
'Sure, I suppose.' Dennis says with uncertainty, 'Is that it?'
'An explanation? Yes, that is all.'
'Was that so inconvenient?'
'You'll see.' Addy begins to steer her wheelchair away from the railings, towards the back main entrance of the mansion, 'And look, Ray has forgotten his bazooka here, let us remind him, and don't forget to drop it on his foot when you give it to him.'
Dennis is about to pick up the bazooka, when he remembers the croissant still clutched in his hand, just so happens, a gray pigeon lands on the railing and Dennis can guess what it is desiring, he tosses the croissant onto the pavement, and sure enough, the pigeon swoops down and begins to feast on its prize. Dennis picks up the bazooka, exhales under the weight, and walks after Addy.
'It looks nicer when the sun's out.' Raymond says. On their way to the back, Raymond climbed through a window into a room that would most likely be a pantry and took a selection of breads before climbing back out. He is now munching on a croissant. Dennis has not started on his croissant yet; he is no longer hungry.
'I see...land.' Dennis says, not sure why Addy would ask him such a broad question.
'And this land you see is mine,' Addy replies, 'It also belongs to my brother Raymond (Raymond nods with claim to this statement while stuffing another croissant into his mouth), and the large extended family that I am a part of.' Addy finishes, scanning the landscape. 'This land, until those cable lines fifty acres away, is also yours.'
Dennis is taken by surprise.
'You see, your father is a very close friend of my family's. He has been employed by my family for several decades, and my family, as all good families should, honors the work of such a loyal man. Sharing is, simply put, caring. I understand that he's probably never told you about my family, and I don't wish to explain either, as it is an inconvenience, but my family does not withhold secrets to our next of kin, therefore if you do desire the such secrets, I won't withhold them from you.'
Dennis does not respond, he considers his position, which feels to be no position at all, and nods in agreement.
'Geez, have you gone mute like my sister? Raymond mused, 'You know, your lawyer impression scares me sometimes too.' He adds, directing a wink to Addy, who looks at him curtly.
'And you're the older sibling whose been to University.' She states in a matter-of-fact with heavy sarcasm, in sigh language.
'Yes, yes, so you're eight years junior but eight decades smarter, so you should go to university, that'll teach you to have a social life.' Raymond retorts.
'Did I ever tell you that I found fifty-seven errors in a university level mathematics textbook that was written by not one, but three, professors with PhD in calculus? I don't learn from education, education learns from me. And as for a social life, it is a rather harmful practice to braincells, so I am more than happy to refrain from taking such risks, not that it would resonate with you anyhow.'
'I thought Kenny found the textbook errors.'
'He found fifty, I checked and unearthed the additional seven.'
'Well, not that it would resonate with you, little sister, but the less of a supreme-prodigy you act like, the better chance you have hooking up with our man Dennis here. Who knows? You might even become a woman one day.'
Addy gives him the finger.
'Okay, okay, maybe I'm overextending my hypothesis, you probably won't make it that far, we'll see, but I'm starving, and I'm going back to the pantry, I'll see you, and you (points to Dennis and winks) after you get up to date on our family business, and Dennis, from the bottom of my heart, don't make moves on my dear sister yet just because you feel sorry for her, okay?' Raymond wanders off, laughing.
'If anyone can wander around all day, do nothing, and call himself king, that would have to be Ray.' Addy's voice says through the talkie, observing the valley. 'Your father helped my grandfather make quite a fortune in the trading business, and he's asked my family to take care of you for now, as he's currently on a long trip overseas with my father, I don't suppose you know his destinations.'
'Indeed I don't.' Dennis feels like speaking for the first time in his entire life.
'Me either, as you can clearly imagine from this emptiness of our mansion, my family won't be taking care of you any time soon, it's only going to be you, me, and Raymond. Looks to be that we shall be taking care of each other.'
'Sure, I suppose.' Dennis says with uncertainty, 'Is that it?'
'An explanation? Yes, that is all.'
'Was that so inconvenient?'
'You'll see.' Addy begins to steer her wheelchair away from the railings, towards the back main entrance of the mansion, 'And look, Ray has forgotten his bazooka here, let us remind him, and don't forget to drop it on his foot when you give it to him.'
Dennis is about to pick up the bazooka, when he remembers the croissant still clutched in his hand, just so happens, a gray pigeon lands on the railing and Dennis can guess what it is desiring, he tosses the croissant onto the pavement, and sure enough, the pigeon swoops down and begins to feast on its prize. Dennis picks up the bazooka, exhales under the weight, and walks after Addy.
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Dennis Raveley - chapter 4
This second time, Dennis is not so lucky to avoid falling in surprise; he tumbles down an incline he thought wasn't there and rolls quite a while before coming to a stop on his bum. The lower ground Dennis finds himself sitting on rises a short distance towards the mansion, which is built on a low hill, and he is at the bottom of it.
'Did I surprise him that much?' The deeper voice speaks. Dennis does not rise to his feet, he sits there, letting the damp morning dew in the grass soak into his pants, and stares at the bazooka carried on the shoulder of the new arrival, a young man near his twenties. Though the expression he wears speaks otherwise of a much younger and less mature age; an expression of a mixture of bemusement and malice, topped with an air of arrogance found prevalent in upper class preps.
Addy motions with her hand to the rocket launcher perched on his shoulder, which until then he seems to take no notice of and has forgotten it is still there.
'Oh, this thing. I didn't know I carried it with me.'
Addy gives him a looks that asks, 'has your brain capacity reached a new low?'
'Just kidding, this thing is actually pretty heavy, I can't forget two sacks of flour on my shoulder right? I'm not that insensitive.'
Addy makes several rapid gestures with one hand. The young man nods in understanding. A grin split his face as if Addy had told him a joke that is particularly funny.
'Okay, okay, so I'm getting there, but I really have to show you this,' he refers to the bazooka, now holding it with two hands gripping each end, 'I found this in the dungeon, and believe it or not, I think it still works. It looks old but I bet it can take down president's car no problem.'
Addy points to Dennis, who has sat through the conversation without interrupting.
'Oh! Hey buddy, forgot you for a second there, sorry I startled you and all.' Saying this, the young man drops the bazooka which makes a clink upon contacting the pavement, he makes his way down in the incline and pulls Dennis to his feet without a moment of hesitation, he shakes Dennis' hand without letting go of it. 'I'm Raymond, you can call me Raymond Francis Allen Jackson Miles Wyatt.'
Dennis has a befuddled look on his face, even his gray eyes have lost their cool.
'Just kidding,' Raymond says with a wink, 'you can call me Ray or Mon, or Raymond, I have many names and I accept all of them.'
'I'm Dennis.' Dennis says.
'Ah, so that's your name! You know, I've been trying to recall it since this morning, Addy told me last night, but I soon forgot since I was busy indulging within myself.' Raymond walks Dennis back up the incline, and to the side entrance from where he had exited. Without an indication, Addy begins to propel her wheelchair forward, parallel to the wall, towards the back of the mansion. It is at this instant when Dennis realizes that Addy is in a wheelchair.
'Are you a cripple?' Dennis exclaims, forgetting that Addy is deaf, but she hears him anyways, for the laptop never closed on her lap, and he never did drop the talkie either, miraculously rather.
Addy takes the chair to a halt (Raymond and Dennis stop in their tracks also behind her), she types into the laptop. 'Is it too great a tragedy to be handicapped in two ways?' The supposed voice of Addy speaks.
'Believe me, I've tried many times to point that out to her. It does nothing for discouragement.' Raymond counsels solemnly.
'Wait,' Dennis turns to face Raymond, 'when I asked where am I, I thought I wasn't going to get an honest answer and it looks like you confirmed that when you surprised me down the hill.'
'That's correct, now we're talking business I see,' Raymond says, looking down on Dennis, who is a good head shorter than he.
'Yes, and I think if I can't know where I am, I deserve to know one thing.'
'And that is?' Raymond says, expecting the question.
'Do you people work for my father?'
'No,' the voice is not Raymond's, it comes from the talkie. Both Raymond and Dennis stares after the wheelchair, which has stopped again. Without turning back to look at Dennis, Addy types, 'on the contrary, he works for us.'
Dennis does not say a word.
'Come, Dennis, there is a lot to tell.' Addy's voice says. 'And Ray, you've forgotten your bazooka, if you will.'
'Did I surprise him that much?' The deeper voice speaks. Dennis does not rise to his feet, he sits there, letting the damp morning dew in the grass soak into his pants, and stares at the bazooka carried on the shoulder of the new arrival, a young man near his twenties. Though the expression he wears speaks otherwise of a much younger and less mature age; an expression of a mixture of bemusement and malice, topped with an air of arrogance found prevalent in upper class preps.
Addy motions with her hand to the rocket launcher perched on his shoulder, which until then he seems to take no notice of and has forgotten it is still there.
'Oh, this thing. I didn't know I carried it with me.'
Addy gives him a looks that asks, 'has your brain capacity reached a new low?'
'Just kidding, this thing is actually pretty heavy, I can't forget two sacks of flour on my shoulder right? I'm not that insensitive.'
Addy makes several rapid gestures with one hand. The young man nods in understanding. A grin split his face as if Addy had told him a joke that is particularly funny.
'Okay, okay, so I'm getting there, but I really have to show you this,' he refers to the bazooka, now holding it with two hands gripping each end, 'I found this in the dungeon, and believe it or not, I think it still works. It looks old but I bet it can take down president's car no problem.'
Addy points to Dennis, who has sat through the conversation without interrupting.
'Oh! Hey buddy, forgot you for a second there, sorry I startled you and all.' Saying this, the young man drops the bazooka which makes a clink upon contacting the pavement, he makes his way down in the incline and pulls Dennis to his feet without a moment of hesitation, he shakes Dennis' hand without letting go of it. 'I'm Raymond, you can call me Raymond Francis Allen Jackson Miles Wyatt.'
Dennis has a befuddled look on his face, even his gray eyes have lost their cool.
'Just kidding,' Raymond says with a wink, 'you can call me Ray or Mon, or Raymond, I have many names and I accept all of them.'
'I'm Dennis.' Dennis says.
'Ah, so that's your name! You know, I've been trying to recall it since this morning, Addy told me last night, but I soon forgot since I was busy indulging within myself.' Raymond walks Dennis back up the incline, and to the side entrance from where he had exited. Without an indication, Addy begins to propel her wheelchair forward, parallel to the wall, towards the back of the mansion. It is at this instant when Dennis realizes that Addy is in a wheelchair.
'Are you a cripple?' Dennis exclaims, forgetting that Addy is deaf, but she hears him anyways, for the laptop never closed on her lap, and he never did drop the talkie either, miraculously rather.
Addy takes the chair to a halt (Raymond and Dennis stop in their tracks also behind her), she types into the laptop. 'Is it too great a tragedy to be handicapped in two ways?' The supposed voice of Addy speaks.
'Believe me, I've tried many times to point that out to her. It does nothing for discouragement.' Raymond counsels solemnly.
'Wait,' Dennis turns to face Raymond, 'when I asked where am I, I thought I wasn't going to get an honest answer and it looks like you confirmed that when you surprised me down the hill.'
'That's correct, now we're talking business I see,' Raymond says, looking down on Dennis, who is a good head shorter than he.
'Yes, and I think if I can't know where I am, I deserve to know one thing.'
'And that is?' Raymond says, expecting the question.
'Do you people work for my father?'
'No,' the voice is not Raymond's, it comes from the talkie. Both Raymond and Dennis stares after the wheelchair, which has stopped again. Without turning back to look at Dennis, Addy types, 'on the contrary, he works for us.'
Dennis does not say a word.
'Come, Dennis, there is a lot to tell.' Addy's voice says. 'And Ray, you've forgotten your bazooka, if you will.'
Monday, 2 April 2012
Dennis Raveley - chapter 3
Dennis rights himself before falling on his bum just in time. In front of the doorway he had just exited from, there sits a girl of about eleven or twelve years of age, with black, curly hair tied in a bundle, a face to rival the color of a whitewashed wall, wearing what appears to be baggy pajamas, and sitting in a wheelchair.
'I know what you are thinking, but please refrain from saying it.' The voice speaks from the talkie. Dennis looks at it and them at the girl, and then back at the talkie. He continues to do so between these two subjects, not knowing which to focus on.
'Are you - how - is this you speaking?' Dennis finally manages to coax out, incoherently. The strangeness of this situation is much too odd for someone who has confined to the capacity of his own mind for the duration of his existence.
'Yes, but I am not speaking, I am typing, see this laptop?' Dennis notices the laptop in the girl's lap, into which she is typing at breakneck speed. 'It's all technicalities, what I type into this laptop transcribes into audio sound, and it's sent to the talkie you are holding.'
'You don't speak?'
The girl does not respond verbally, she raises her left hand and in rapid succession performed several gestures that spells I. A.M. D.E.A.F. S.O. I. C.A.N. N.O.T. T.A.L.K. This is of course all lost on Dennis, who does not understand sigh language. The girl repeats her sentence in the laptop, and Dennis hears it through the talkie. He nods to show his understanding, vaguely.
'Then how do you hear me?'
'Technicalities once again. The laptop transcribes your audio voice into word phrases, it's a bit more difficult with accented people, but it's a fortune that you are not one of them.' The voice says.
'I've never heard of such technologies.'
'And I've never heard of anyone who does, anyone outside my family.'
'And who is that family?' Dennis feels his suspicion retreating. The effect of a conversation in an empty setting - one that Dennis is thrust into so very abruptly - has a certain calming effect on Dennis, one such feeling he is familiar with.
'There are few names, and most don't know them.'
'What is your name? You know mine...and my credit card number, I should hope to know yours.'
'My name is Adelaide, Adelaide A.J. Wyatt, though I prefer Addy. Adelaide is a name I'll accept once I'm old and aged, and that won't be for a long time. You should call me just Addy.' The voice says.
'Um, you're still using a man's voice...'
'Very well, I shall change it.' A rapid click on the laptop, and a new voice spoke. 'Now does the voice sound any more adaptable to for you?' The voice is now high pitched, lyrical even, and in Dennis' unspoken opinion most fitting for Addy. Dennis lets out a spontaneous bit of smile
'Kenny designed this voice, to what he imagined my voice would be if I have a voice. I'll never hear it, but I trust him it's adequate.'
'And who's Kenny?'
'My repressed, fearful, and very miserable brother.'
'These are strong adjectives.'
'Not strong enough here.'
'Where is here? Though I won't hear a truthful answer I suspect.' Dennis says, confronting his gut instinct and half joking too.
'Your suspicion confirmed.' A deep voice speaks. Dennis turns around, and is startled to the point of falling, for the second time in a single morning.
'I know what you are thinking, but please refrain from saying it.' The voice speaks from the talkie. Dennis looks at it and them at the girl, and then back at the talkie. He continues to do so between these two subjects, not knowing which to focus on.
'Are you - how - is this you speaking?' Dennis finally manages to coax out, incoherently. The strangeness of this situation is much too odd for someone who has confined to the capacity of his own mind for the duration of his existence.
'Yes, but I am not speaking, I am typing, see this laptop?' Dennis notices the laptop in the girl's lap, into which she is typing at breakneck speed. 'It's all technicalities, what I type into this laptop transcribes into audio sound, and it's sent to the talkie you are holding.'
'You don't speak?'
The girl does not respond verbally, she raises her left hand and in rapid succession performed several gestures that spells I. A.M. D.E.A.F. S.O. I. C.A.N. N.O.T. T.A.L.K. This is of course all lost on Dennis, who does not understand sigh language. The girl repeats her sentence in the laptop, and Dennis hears it through the talkie. He nods to show his understanding, vaguely.
'Then how do you hear me?'
'Technicalities once again. The laptop transcribes your audio voice into word phrases, it's a bit more difficult with accented people, but it's a fortune that you are not one of them.' The voice says.
'I've never heard of such technologies.'
'And I've never heard of anyone who does, anyone outside my family.'
'And who is that family?' Dennis feels his suspicion retreating. The effect of a conversation in an empty setting - one that Dennis is thrust into so very abruptly - has a certain calming effect on Dennis, one such feeling he is familiar with.
'There are few names, and most don't know them.'
'What is your name? You know mine...and my credit card number, I should hope to know yours.'
'My name is Adelaide, Adelaide A.J. Wyatt, though I prefer Addy. Adelaide is a name I'll accept once I'm old and aged, and that won't be for a long time. You should call me just Addy.' The voice says.
'Um, you're still using a man's voice...'
'Very well, I shall change it.' A rapid click on the laptop, and a new voice spoke. 'Now does the voice sound any more adaptable to for you?' The voice is now high pitched, lyrical even, and in Dennis' unspoken opinion most fitting for Addy. Dennis lets out a spontaneous bit of smile
'Kenny designed this voice, to what he imagined my voice would be if I have a voice. I'll never hear it, but I trust him it's adequate.'
'And who's Kenny?'
'My repressed, fearful, and very miserable brother.'
'These are strong adjectives.'
'Not strong enough here.'
'Where is here? Though I won't hear a truthful answer I suspect.' Dennis says, confronting his gut instinct and half joking too.
'Your suspicion confirmed.' A deep voice speaks. Dennis turns around, and is startled to the point of falling, for the second time in a single morning.
Dennis Raveley - chapter 2
'Take off your blindfold, it's no longer necessary.' The voice says.
'Was it ever necessary in the first place?' Dennis muses.
'You have a very dangerous sense of humor, my friend.' The voice emits a chuckle.
'I'm your friend? Figures, I don't know your name. Do you know me?'
'You are Dennis Raveley, son of Harold Raveley, businessman, ex-mercenary, and trading manager for the company ETC. You are fifteen years of age, you are an only child, and the password of your bank account is 1984, which also happens to be your favorite novel. So it happens, I do know you.'
Dennis is taken aback. 'You...do...indeed, and I'm supposed to know you?' He quickly shakes off the now overwhelming feeling of paranoid suspicion growing inside him. Until that point, he does not know the quivering sense of chilliness in his gut; he has found the correct term.
'You can start, take off that blindfold, you don't need it.'
Dennis takes off the blindfold and takes a look around the room. His eyes does not need to adjust to the light in the room, for the light comes only from a dimly lit twenty watt lamp situated on the large oak desk which his chair is directly facing. The desk is bare except for the small lamp, and behind the desk is a huge red, leather backrest, the backrest of a swivel chair, its occupant concealed.
'Are you sitting there?'
'I am. Come and see.'
'Why don't you turn around?'
'My capability prevents me from doing so.'
'Are you a cripple?'
'Come and see.'
Dennis starts for the chair, slowing down when he reaches the desk, he pauses.
'Come forward, come on, you're not going to find the demented Tom Riddle seated in this chair, so hurry up."
Dennis chuckles, and reached over to turn the seat around. The backrest is bare.
He blinks, surprised. He looks down, and seated in the center of the chair is, sure enough, a walkie-talkie. The communicator is aged, gray in color, and resembles a brick. Surprisingly, it emits the sound of a voice with amazing clarity. Dennis picks it up.
'Hello?'
'Yes, I'm right here.' The voice chimes in from the speaker.
'How - I don't get it.' Dennis stammers; rather uncommon of him.
'Nothing but technicalities, this is a high definition talkie, very ideal for a convincing voice projection.'
'You're not actually in the room.' Dennis states, having not much else to think of to say.
'I'm not. You should know, revealing oneself too quickly to the guest establishes no trust, I would rather trust you to trust me instead.'
'What does that mean? You doped me just now.'
'Let's leave that to interpretation some other time. I have a series of instructions for you, if you choose to abide, follow them and we shall meet soon enough. If not, I won't stop you.'
'Alright, so what if I don't want to meet you? I changed my mind just now.'
'As I've said, I won't stop you, but I do not speak for any third party involved.'
'Third party?' Dennis repeats, considering his options, which seem very few.
'Do you wish to hear the instructions?'
'Yes, but just one more question, do you work for my father?'
'We'll find out soon enough, here's what you will do. Exit the room.'
Dennis exits the room and looks down both sides of the hall as though crossing traffic; he waits.
'Now, turn left and descend the main staircase, shouldn't be too hard to find.'
Dennis walks slowly down the left hall, glancing at the bare oak walls. The corridor has many doors indented on either side, he does not try the knobs of any; they all look to be locked. He arrives at the grand staircase.
'Go to the ground floor, and turn right. Go down that main hallway until you reach a door to the outside.'
Dennis follows these instructions, and soon find himself outside. His view is of a large field of weeds, ending where a tree line of dense growth begins. The entire field is the size of a football stadium. It gives off the exactly same feeling of emptiness in the mansion. Dennis has been here no more than a quarter hour, and he already feels isolated.
'Now, walk a few paces out into the field.' Dennis complies to this request.
'You've arrived, bravo.'
Dennis continues to star ahead, he sees no other human life.
'Are you here in person?' Dennis asks, skeptical.
'I am now.' The voice speaks. 'Turn around.' Dennis turns around, and nearly falls down in surprise.
'Was it ever necessary in the first place?' Dennis muses.
'You have a very dangerous sense of humor, my friend.' The voice emits a chuckle.
'I'm your friend? Figures, I don't know your name. Do you know me?'
'You are Dennis Raveley, son of Harold Raveley, businessman, ex-mercenary, and trading manager for the company ETC. You are fifteen years of age, you are an only child, and the password of your bank account is 1984, which also happens to be your favorite novel. So it happens, I do know you.'
Dennis is taken aback. 'You...do...indeed, and I'm supposed to know you?' He quickly shakes off the now overwhelming feeling of paranoid suspicion growing inside him. Until that point, he does not know the quivering sense of chilliness in his gut; he has found the correct term.
'You can start, take off that blindfold, you don't need it.'
Dennis takes off the blindfold and takes a look around the room. His eyes does not need to adjust to the light in the room, for the light comes only from a dimly lit twenty watt lamp situated on the large oak desk which his chair is directly facing. The desk is bare except for the small lamp, and behind the desk is a huge red, leather backrest, the backrest of a swivel chair, its occupant concealed.
'Are you sitting there?'
'I am. Come and see.'
'Why don't you turn around?'
'My capability prevents me from doing so.'
'Are you a cripple?'
'Come and see.'
Dennis starts for the chair, slowing down when he reaches the desk, he pauses.
'Come forward, come on, you're not going to find the demented Tom Riddle seated in this chair, so hurry up."
Dennis chuckles, and reached over to turn the seat around. The backrest is bare.
He blinks, surprised. He looks down, and seated in the center of the chair is, sure enough, a walkie-talkie. The communicator is aged, gray in color, and resembles a brick. Surprisingly, it emits the sound of a voice with amazing clarity. Dennis picks it up.
'Hello?'
'Yes, I'm right here.' The voice chimes in from the speaker.
'How - I don't get it.' Dennis stammers; rather uncommon of him.
'Nothing but technicalities, this is a high definition talkie, very ideal for a convincing voice projection.'
'You're not actually in the room.' Dennis states, having not much else to think of to say.
'I'm not. You should know, revealing oneself too quickly to the guest establishes no trust, I would rather trust you to trust me instead.'
'What does that mean? You doped me just now.'
'Let's leave that to interpretation some other time. I have a series of instructions for you, if you choose to abide, follow them and we shall meet soon enough. If not, I won't stop you.'
'Alright, so what if I don't want to meet you? I changed my mind just now.'
'As I've said, I won't stop you, but I do not speak for any third party involved.'
'Third party?' Dennis repeats, considering his options, which seem very few.
'Do you wish to hear the instructions?'
'Yes, but just one more question, do you work for my father?'
'We'll find out soon enough, here's what you will do. Exit the room.'
Dennis exits the room and looks down both sides of the hall as though crossing traffic; he waits.
'Now, turn left and descend the main staircase, shouldn't be too hard to find.'
Dennis walks slowly down the left hall, glancing at the bare oak walls. The corridor has many doors indented on either side, he does not try the knobs of any; they all look to be locked. He arrives at the grand staircase.
'Go to the ground floor, and turn right. Go down that main hallway until you reach a door to the outside.'
Dennis follows these instructions, and soon find himself outside. His view is of a large field of weeds, ending where a tree line of dense growth begins. The entire field is the size of a football stadium. It gives off the exactly same feeling of emptiness in the mansion. Dennis has been here no more than a quarter hour, and he already feels isolated.
'Now, walk a few paces out into the field.' Dennis complies to this request.
'You've arrived, bravo.'
Dennis continues to star ahead, he sees no other human life.
'Are you here in person?' Dennis asks, skeptical.
'I am now.' The voice speaks. 'Turn around.' Dennis turns around, and nearly falls down in surprise.
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Dennis Raveley - chapter 1
I posted a bit of Wilby Lake a while back, and then suddenly something about the Hunger Games, and now this, to make a sincere confession, I'm rather disorganized when it comes to my imagination; an idea would occur, and the next day I would have no inspiration for that idea, but an inspiration for another idea. So I end up with more ideas than stories...well, I guess I'll be juggling a few stories all at once.
Anyways, beside the point. Onwards with the story!
The eyes of Dennis Raveley are a dark grayish color, they display an air of coolness; of forbidding; of calculating venom few humans in the world possess, it is a gift from nature, or perhaps a gift of the devil. Either way, those dark grayish eyes have emerged him the victor in numerous staring contests, against the bully of a new neighborhood, teachers, principals, cranky elderly citizens, police officers, and just about many more who crossed paths with him. This winning streak trained him not to look away when eyes lock; he may have never achieved such results intentionally, but he learned to use it to his advantage, he knows, the eyes speak the first word, if he looks long enough.
Behind those dark grayish eyes is a version of himself few are familiar with. He has yet to find himself reflected fully in those dark grayish eyes, like a swordsman who has yet to master his weapon. Somewhere in himself protected by those dark grayish eyes is a bemused youth who possess less seriousness than one would perceive upon sight; a lack of complete certainty and control; a sense for humor where least appropriate. He is in no hurry to adapt to the version of himself put forth by his looks, however, he may be ushered to confront his outside self much sooner than he envisioned.
Dennis can see himself reflected in the rear mirror of the slick black car gliding silently on the country road, the outside scenery nothing but a blur of heavy blue, indigo and pitch darkness with an occasional burst of yellow, distorted by the misty downpour smearing diagonally down the windows, drumming the windshield in a low hum. The driver, hunched over, wearing a dirt coloured trench coat steers the four-wheel drive without dialogue, as silent as the surrounding countryside in the wee hours of morning. Dennis does not want to make conversation, he is depraved of sleep and has been so since several hours prior, when he was woken up and put into this car, but there is much to ask and no one except the driver to propose these questions. So far, the inquisitions proved fruitless; the driver is either deaf or is trained so well to ignore his passengers, and only hit men of the mob receive such training.
'For the thirteenth time, where are we going?' Dennis asks, regarding his reflection in the rear view mirror, directing his dark grayish eyes at the driver, who does not meet his stare. He admires such people who ignores or answers at will, or on orders? They are disciplined, organic machinery. Dennis does not wish to be in the shoes of one such men, but he finds their composure impressive nevertheless.
'We are passing the third county, are you taking me to my father?' Only his father would arrange for a reunion as arcane as this, and Dennis has never gotten to figure out why, or cared enough to investigate deeply into the matter. He is content in his own thoughts, and now he is being depraved of them as his mind is occupied by the situation unravelling before him.
The car stops, and the driver exits the car as swiftly as the wind, he opens the back door at Dennis' side. Dennis only gazes for a moment, shrugs, and exits the car. As soon as Dennis is standing, the driver takes out a band of cloth from somewhere within his coat, and as suddenly, Dennis' vision is overlapped by darkness. The rain is pouring lightly, and the night is without disturbance, something tells Dennis that they are soon to arrive at their destination. With his sight now gone, the driver arranges Dennis carefully back into the backseat, gets in, and the car is off once again.
Dennis finds it very surprising that sleep comes to him sooner with a blindfold across his vision, listening to the light hum of the rain against metal and glass, and all this while he does not say a word. He dozes off soon enough.
When he wakes, he finds a hand on his shoulder, the hand of the driver, without doubt. He is led off the car, onto a ground of pebbles, and marches into the loom of a ceiling with the guidance of the hand. The floor is carpet, the light is dim but none reaches beneath his blindfold. Dennis marches with the driver, turning several bends, up several cases of stair, and through several doors. At his best guess, he would say that he is in the third level of the building, in the east wing of what feels to be an old, grand mansion.
Through one last door, and he is pressed into a cold, smooth leather seat, situated with back turned towards the entrance, in a study.
The driver leaves, and shuts the door quietly behind his departure.
'Have I arrived?' Dennis declares, he imagines what it would feel like to sit at this seat in fear, and not dry amusement; what he is feeling.
'Of course you've arrived. I'd tell you to take off that blindfold, but that would ruin many surprises. I hope you do like surprises.' The voice in reply is deep, masculine, yet not quite natural, as if spoken by an actor.
'Not much opinion on that.'
'Not much? Your journey here was pleasant? If I may assume.' The question is interrogative.
'It wasn't eventful.' A beat. 'Was the driver a deaf?'
'No, he isn't.'
'He didn't speak a word to me.'
'I believe you'd like to know why.'
'Exactly.'
'People such as that driver, they are paid to drive, not to speak.'
'Oh, I see...or rather, I hear.' Dennis gives sound a small hoot within himself, it appears his father is finally unveiling the curtain.
Anyways, beside the point. Onwards with the story!
The eyes of Dennis Raveley are a dark grayish color, they display an air of coolness; of forbidding; of calculating venom few humans in the world possess, it is a gift from nature, or perhaps a gift of the devil. Either way, those dark grayish eyes have emerged him the victor in numerous staring contests, against the bully of a new neighborhood, teachers, principals, cranky elderly citizens, police officers, and just about many more who crossed paths with him. This winning streak trained him not to look away when eyes lock; he may have never achieved such results intentionally, but he learned to use it to his advantage, he knows, the eyes speak the first word, if he looks long enough.
Behind those dark grayish eyes is a version of himself few are familiar with. He has yet to find himself reflected fully in those dark grayish eyes, like a swordsman who has yet to master his weapon. Somewhere in himself protected by those dark grayish eyes is a bemused youth who possess less seriousness than one would perceive upon sight; a lack of complete certainty and control; a sense for humor where least appropriate. He is in no hurry to adapt to the version of himself put forth by his looks, however, he may be ushered to confront his outside self much sooner than he envisioned.
Dennis can see himself reflected in the rear mirror of the slick black car gliding silently on the country road, the outside scenery nothing but a blur of heavy blue, indigo and pitch darkness with an occasional burst of yellow, distorted by the misty downpour smearing diagonally down the windows, drumming the windshield in a low hum. The driver, hunched over, wearing a dirt coloured trench coat steers the four-wheel drive without dialogue, as silent as the surrounding countryside in the wee hours of morning. Dennis does not want to make conversation, he is depraved of sleep and has been so since several hours prior, when he was woken up and put into this car, but there is much to ask and no one except the driver to propose these questions. So far, the inquisitions proved fruitless; the driver is either deaf or is trained so well to ignore his passengers, and only hit men of the mob receive such training.
'For the thirteenth time, where are we going?' Dennis asks, regarding his reflection in the rear view mirror, directing his dark grayish eyes at the driver, who does not meet his stare. He admires such people who ignores or answers at will, or on orders? They are disciplined, organic machinery. Dennis does not wish to be in the shoes of one such men, but he finds their composure impressive nevertheless.
'We are passing the third county, are you taking me to my father?' Only his father would arrange for a reunion as arcane as this, and Dennis has never gotten to figure out why, or cared enough to investigate deeply into the matter. He is content in his own thoughts, and now he is being depraved of them as his mind is occupied by the situation unravelling before him.
The car stops, and the driver exits the car as swiftly as the wind, he opens the back door at Dennis' side. Dennis only gazes for a moment, shrugs, and exits the car. As soon as Dennis is standing, the driver takes out a band of cloth from somewhere within his coat, and as suddenly, Dennis' vision is overlapped by darkness. The rain is pouring lightly, and the night is without disturbance, something tells Dennis that they are soon to arrive at their destination. With his sight now gone, the driver arranges Dennis carefully back into the backseat, gets in, and the car is off once again.
Dennis finds it very surprising that sleep comes to him sooner with a blindfold across his vision, listening to the light hum of the rain against metal and glass, and all this while he does not say a word. He dozes off soon enough.
When he wakes, he finds a hand on his shoulder, the hand of the driver, without doubt. He is led off the car, onto a ground of pebbles, and marches into the loom of a ceiling with the guidance of the hand. The floor is carpet, the light is dim but none reaches beneath his blindfold. Dennis marches with the driver, turning several bends, up several cases of stair, and through several doors. At his best guess, he would say that he is in the third level of the building, in the east wing of what feels to be an old, grand mansion.
Through one last door, and he is pressed into a cold, smooth leather seat, situated with back turned towards the entrance, in a study.
The driver leaves, and shuts the door quietly behind his departure.
'Have I arrived?' Dennis declares, he imagines what it would feel like to sit at this seat in fear, and not dry amusement; what he is feeling.
'Of course you've arrived. I'd tell you to take off that blindfold, but that would ruin many surprises. I hope you do like surprises.' The voice in reply is deep, masculine, yet not quite natural, as if spoken by an actor.
'Not much opinion on that.'
'Not much? Your journey here was pleasant? If I may assume.' The question is interrogative.
'It wasn't eventful.' A beat. 'Was the driver a deaf?'
'No, he isn't.'
'He didn't speak a word to me.'
'I believe you'd like to know why.'
'Exactly.'
'People such as that driver, they are paid to drive, not to speak.'
'Oh, I see...or rather, I hear.' Dennis gives sound a small hoot within himself, it appears his father is finally unveiling the curtain.
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