literature

Puck V.41

Deviation Actions

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Literature Text

Should you be reading this, it means that I wrote it. And probably finished it. Probably. Well, I should start by introducing myself. I'm known as Puck. My name is Craig, but most people call me Puck. I adopted the name for myself from Bill Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. I am devious and am known to make mistakes, intentional and just sheer klutz-ism.
I live in the basement of a foster home. The family I live with has a mother, father, and 4 children. The 2 boys and the 2 girls. Each has a younger set of twins and an older. The eldest boy is a twin of the eldest girl, both the same ages. The youngest boy is a twin of the youngest girl, also both the same ages. This gets annoying very fast. I'm 3 months younger than the eldest and 3 years older than the youngest. The parents treat me as a pet more than a foster child. They even have a card table down in the basement so I don't have to eat at their table. They don't even feed me the same food the family is having. They feed me leftovers from nights before.
When I'm not being harassed by my 'parents', my personal space is being invaded by the children. The older wish to read everything I write and dig into my personal life, the youngest wish to play with everything I own until it breaks.
My room has but one naked bulb in the center of the room for electric light, and natural light is not an option.    Because the only window I have is a foot-tall stained glass basement window. No light passes through it. My bed is a single mattress on the floor with a zebra-striped bedspread. I have a computer, but it is older than I am, and I have to pay for every hour of Internet I use. My television is very small and is meant to be portable. It has a built-in VCR, but I am forbidden from using the family's movies. I rent my own, or play my few hidden DVDs on my very hidden X-box that I bought last summer.
I spend a lot of money because I make a lot of money. I have a job. My job is to sell items wholesale via Ebay and online providers. I get much free stuff from this, as I can request one or two of the item to test it and see if it will sell. The idea is that it costs these overseas companies all of 30 cents to make an item, such as a brand new top of the line computer, and so they have no problem sending me one or two for the price of shipping. My foster family takes them all as 'payment' for my staying there. I've been saving up as of late to rent out someone else's basement, but no one is willing to let me stay there.
I own but 3 pairs of clothes and must do my own laundry. I cannot use the washer and dryer, so I must hand-wash my clothes and put them on a clothesline that I rigged up from old string I found in a box in my room. I used to have more clothes, but the family golden retriever ate some of them. Of course this was all blamed on me. The family dog is apparently so well behaved that it would never do anything, even if I caught it with a shirt halfway down its throat. I have a pet that I bought and care for myself, but I have to hide him in a hole I dug in my cement floor under the single rug at the foot of my bed. He is an extremely vicious chameleon. Yes, they can be vicious, but he is only vicious to intruders of his home. He took off a finger from the eldest boy, but I did not get caught. Set, my chameleon, kept himself hidden so Charlie, the eldest boy, thought he merely sliced it off on a sharp object. I named him Set after the Egyptian god of Death. Whenever I have some privacy, I let him crawl around my room. I chose to buy a chameleon because he will nearly instantly blend to whatever he is on, usually my cement or my very zebra blanket, when someone else enters the room. I feed him a lot of different things; mostly bugs I catch on my high windowsill.
I met a girl a few days ago. Her name is Grace, or something like that, but she likes to be called 'The Deuce'. I really like her, plus she said she might be able to convince her parents into letting me stay in their basement. I'm going to switch into more of a story mode now, If that is alright with you.
It was Tuesday, and I hadn't slept all night. The night before I had nothing to eat, and was at the school working, so I was very tired. I sat down in the cafeteria and watched my plan unfold. People were walking in and sitting down, when the ventilation system finally kicked in. Hundreds of promotional papers shot out of every air duct in the school. Every one proclaimed: “Vote Sharpton!” People were bombarded with images of a black priest flying at them from every direction. My prank had worked perfectly. After the flow of papers had stopped, Deuce walked over, holding an umbrella.
“Was that you again?” She asked.
“I'm sorry, but yes.” I replied. After an awkward moment of silence, we both burst out laughing. We both knew full well that I was not sorry.
Up until this day, Deuce had only heard the horror that was my home life. Today, however, she would be riding home with me to see it firsthand. I, unfortunately, was not allowed to drive because my foster parents told the DOL that I had been wrecking cars since I was twelve. Deuce, however, was allowed to drive, and so I was planning on getting a ride from her. It beat riding the bus. Erm... back to the cafeteria.. We sat around talking for that half hour, about nothing in particular. Eventually, we got bored and said our goodbyes.
We each went to our respective classes, then met again during lunch, halfway through second period. Her schedule was odd though, because she had 4 periods contrary to the standard 3. While I had 2nd period, she had 2nd and 3rd. Lunch was her switch so she had to carry a backpack around at lunch. I beat her to a table, and got us each a chair. She came a few minutes later with some chicken strips. I would usually eat lunch, something out of the vending machine that was sealed, but I had left my money at home. This, of course meant that I would never see my money again. Stupid 'family'.
She offered me some food, but I never accept/trust school food. They use grade B meat. This means that the school has people who grind the meat from the bone, but not carefully. These are Mexicans who think 2 dollars an hour is a lot of money. They bring along chunks of bone and such, because the tool used to take meat from a bone is very powerful. Not to mention that this isn't a fresh chicken or beef we're talking about. This is whatever wasn't used in Spam. That would be my reasoning behind not eating it.
I sat around and talked at her while she ate. She finished fairly fast, and we left to the library. We each had homework to do for the class we were going to after lunch. “So, what kinda assignment you got?” I asked her. She replied with a painful explanation of her mythology assignment. I enjoy mythology, but this assignment was hell born unto paper. “Kinda homework you got?” She asked me. I turned around the political article I was writing for Social Studies. Mostly it was five pages of pure president-bashing. C'mon, he deserves it. If you happen to be reading this after George Dubya Bush is out of office, then your president probably deserves it too. Liar, I burn your house down.
Anyway, When the lunch bell rang I saved all my crap and got up. I told The Deuce goodbye and turned to leave. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and when I turned around a pair of warm, comforting arms wrapped around me in the most loving way. When Deuce finally let go, both our faces were bright red, but smiling, and we left without another word.
I thought the event over in my head a million times during the last 2 classes of the day. I tried to think of it as just a friendly gesture, but that bit of desperation kept making me want to think it was more. I pondered this and flipped it around and twisted and pulled, but in my mind it came coming to the same very jumpy conclusion. She liked me more than I thought she did.
After school got out, I met the Deuce in the parking lot. We went to her car, a restored Chevy Nova. Awesome car. I got in and we were mostly silent, except for my directions. When we got to my house, I slipped us in through my window, as to not alert my 'parents' of my arrival. If they hadn't noticed the roaring car dig a hole in the lawn.
“Oh my god! Is this really your room?” She looked surprised. Apparently I had not described it in enough detail. “Yeah, it is. I take it I should fire my interior decorator?” She missed the joke. I just about forgot the joke when she gave a nice warm hug again. “Thanks.” I said, “But it's okay, really. Besides, you haven't met Set.” She looked at me with a very puzzled expression. “Why would I want to meet the god of Death?” She asked. I had let it slip my mind that she is a mythology buff. I picked Set out of his hole and plopped him on her shoulder. “Deuce, Set, Set, Deuce.” I introduced mockingly. She put her opposite hand up to set as to invite for a handshake, but hesitated. “He isn't going to eat my hand, is he?” She asked. I assured her it wouldn't happen, and she shook with Set.
For the rest of the day, we spoke as though we weren't in the crap-hole that was my room. We spoke of the morons that had our classes and our techniques for dealing with them. Not a whole lot progressed out of this, but it was fun anyway.

THE END
No, just joking. The story is long from over.

The next day at school, I couldn't seem to find Deuce anywhere. It was Wednesday, which meant we had some time before school started. Half an hour, exactly. After ten minutes, I gave up searching and went over to bother Keenan. Keenan is the black kid I hang out with so I won't get sued for discrimination. Hah, I beat the system.
Keenan is odd. He has only one outfit, which he wears every single day of his life. Green jogging pants that may have fit him four years ago, but now barely make it to his ankles. These match a green jogging sweatshirt, hooded. I've seen him once, in the entire time I've known him, once without his jogging suit on, and that was at a dance. He wore a suit. And sneakers. That guy is screwed up.
I followed him around for a while, calling him “Brudda” and “Soul-Bro” and other such variations of brother. Eventually, he told me to piss off or he'd inform the security officer of my behavior. I don't like Dick, so I left him alone. Dick is our security officer, he wants to be called Richard, but I call him Dick because he can't do anything about it. He's a jerk, so I try to avoid him as much as possible. If that means not harassing Keenan, so be it.
Besides, tutorial was almost over. I headed towards my classroom, deciding that Deuce was sick or just skipping. Waiting in my classroom, was Chad. He is a character, that one. Chad is a genius, and I'm not kidding about this. He disproved all of modern math last year. “Unlimitedism” he called it. This guy has been on the dangerous students list in every science class he's ever set foot in. Just my luck that he'd be in my science class.
We're friends, though, so its okay. It just means that I get to set things on fire too. I sat down in my seat, and Chad sat down at the other side of the table. I started to doodle while my science teacher explained the experiment for the day. I knew already that we were going to set magnesium on fire and determine what happens to it.
Chad had already explained to me his logical theory, which was that the magnesium would combine with the oxygen in the air to create a slightly larger substance (magnesium oxide). From a 1 gram sample we should get a 1.66666666 gram result of magnesium oxide. When the teacher finally let us use the Bunsen burners, Chad tried to create a torch out of ours. He got a decent flame shooting out, like 3 feet, but our teacher threatened to take away any flammable items, so he turned it down to the proper amount. We got our experiment done, and it resulted exactly as we predicted it would. For the rest of the class, Chad was trying to convince Mr. Morely to let us have some sodium and water. Of course he didn’t, but that was okay.
When class ended, I headed through the halls, weaving in and out of the people in my way. After class, everyone else feels that the best way to get to the next class is not a straight line. Its not even a curved path. The best way to get to the next class is to stand still and do nothing. Nothing at all. I used to forcefully shove my way through, but Dick said if I kept it up he’d help the students file an assault charge on me. Now I just dodge people. I get where I’m going.
Today I was headed towards the language and math wing. I wanted to talk to Deuce, but again she never showed. I jogged back to Social Studies just in time to get a tardy slip. Mr. Watiar was very strict on his students being on time or not.
I’d like to interrupt your previously scheduled story to bring you an important message. Yes, I do realize that my story is as of now just a string of random humorous happenings for the purpose of self-amusement. I don’t care. No, YOU’RE crazy. Back to the story.
I sat down in my desk and prepared for the fight that was Social Studies. I am, in a class of 30, the sole liberal. The rest are fully conservative and/or five IQ points from needing a helmet. This makes class… “fun”.  Any time someone makes a comment, I feel it necessary to make the comment what it is. Stupid. “Sometimes the news only points out the bad aspects of war and such. Like the war in Iraq. They never show the good things that happen!” I ask the person to name ONE good thing that has happened in the war, and give some proof. They are instantly degraded socially. So am I, though. Every one of the 29 people wants me to simply shut up and let them converse amongst themselves for the time we are together.
It doesn’t bother me too much. It is one of the only classes I’m passing. Actually, since last semester I have brought every grade up significantly.

Science :   1st semester – D (64%) 2nd semester – A (98%)
Social Studies:  1st semester – D (67%) 2nd semester – C (75%)
English: 1st semester – F (47.8%) 2nd semester – D (65%)
PE: 1st semester – C (70%) 2nd semester – B (85%)
Computers: 1st semester – A (100%) 2nd semester – A (105%)
Math:  1st semester – D (65%) 2nd semester – C (78%)

The only one that had a decent grade was computers. Otherwise first semester sucked horribly. Now I’m doing pretty well.
This is a work in progress, just a humor story I'm writing. Not for a class. I do this kind of thing when bored.
© 2004 - 2024 h-owens
Comments19
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Gilokee's avatar
This is very good, but you go off topic a lot. Not a bad thing, I just think you could organize your thoughts a bit better.
This made me laugh a lot, so good job. :)