When I was about thirteen, I wrote a Mummy fanfic. I read it today, and it was so terrible I was ashamed of myself! xD So I thought, why don't I try writing one properly? I had no plan for that story, but I have a vague idea for this one, so hopefully it'll be a little better! I'm not very experienced in the writer field, and I'm only young, but I love the Mummy movies so much I couldn't help but write one up!
I really hope my 'OC' isn't too 'Mary-Sue'. I tried to make her like the women of the times! And because this is mostly a Jon fic, I've tried to get his character as accurate as I could too - I don't know whether I succeeded, but we'll see. This chapter is awful in my opinion, so I might change things here and there if it's that bad! Considering how this starts, I don't think it'll be a very romantic story . but if It turns out that way...well.. who knows!
Anyway, enough of me or I'll put you right off. I'd love some feedback on whether to continue or whether to give up!
The Mummy isn't mine, but I wish it was Oo The character of Lerri is though, not that she's anything special. Onwards! ;D
"He's not a hero. He's more of a… sidekick without the guidance of that hero. He's…clumsy…bumbling even, and digs so many holes for himself he keeps a metaphorical shovel on his person at all times. Um… he's cowardly, rather useless with women and the worst fighter you could imagine. No, no, no…"
The click of her heel was as sharp as the ting of the typewriter. She paced her little hotel room with a terrific sense of panic and the irrepressible urge to plagiarise. She tapped a pencil absent-mindedly to her bottom lip, the faintest of frown lines twitching between her eyes. With a defeated growl and a swirl of her dress, the frustrated writer rapidly took a seat before the typewriter. Every key was a rolling eye, a biting tooth. The blank paper was settled comfortably, knowing it was to be there a long time. The writer folded over an edge idly, running her finger down the sheet, watching her nail crease it ever so slightly. "Oh this is ridiculous, girl! Why can't you craft a simple, shallow character for you silly little story? How much did you spend on this typewriter? Exactly, don't let it become another object to heft about, another possible life that you could have led. You can do this, you daft woman!"
Oddly, the sound of her own voice, frighteningly similar to her mother's now she thought about it, gave her a little strength. She ran her hands down her face and leaned back in an extremely unladylike pose. That frown line became a little deeper as she pursed her lips and tilted her head. That blasted typewriter would do nothing but simply keep her up all night. Wouldn't it just be lovely to have someone else slave over the keys, tapping madly, for her?
No. Scarlett King was going to find herself the hit of the twentieth century; she was going to be the talk of the town. Well, possibly not this one, because this town would only slander her name of what she'd seen of it. She stumbled tiredly toward the little window her hotel room's wall had had knocked into it, it appeared, and drew back the threadbare curtain. She shielded her eyes with a slim wrist and hand from the harsh Egyptian sunlight that seemed gladdened it had discovered another dark hiding place to flood with its glare. "Oh for goodness sake." She uttered to herself as the sound of the bustling city of Cairo entered her room. It was apparent to her now, that sunshine and racket accompanied each other wherever they went, much like a pair of swarthy criminals.
She had burned a rather awful hole in her already holey pockets to take an excursion out to Egypt. She had come here in search of inspiration, enlightenment, and a plot worthy of her debut novel. With a disappointed grunt she sat down once more, a cloud of dust, or sand, spiralling through the dry air and dancing merrily through the sun beams briefly before settling on the moth-eaten throw across her bed. "You're not Scarlett King at all, are you, Lerri? You're just a naïve slip of a girl who can't do a thing besides think up more and more outrageous ways to try and live you life, only to fail miserably at in the process!" she muttered between shaky breaths. Folding her arms, she cursed her long drab dress that had somehow transformed into a searing stove. Her entire room was like a stuffy oven in fact.
It was that cursed typewriter, relishing in her blank mind and her blank paper, lapping up her inability to type even a letter upon that greasy page. Lerri ran her fingers through her hair, massaging her burning scalp, and breathed out slowly through her nose a sigh of sorts. She narrowed her heat-ringed eyes at the dark shape of the typewriter and ran them along its edges, its steep slopes and sharp corners, the lettered islands sitting side by side in the slippery-surfaced sea…
"Dear me, no. I can't think like this! Come on Lerri, if you're going to get into the habit of speaking to yourself on a regular basis, at least find something encouraging to say!" Lerri tried again, but her mindset was dark, her enthusiasm fading. She had once thought Egypt to be the place, her place, where she could find something wonderful and exciting and adventurous to write all about. What she would give to write something along the lines of 'The Prisoner of Zenda.' What a swashbuckling tale that story was! She could only dream of obtaining the same talented success. In a fit of defiance and irritation, Lerri stood up abruptly and heaved the typewriter from the worn, wobbly desk. "Right, if you're going to be like this, then I shan't type on you at all! In fact, I'll throw you out of this window! See how you like that!" she scolded the machine, tucking it awkwardly and painfully under one arm and throwing open the window. A blast of heat hit her, and she nearly stumbled back, gasping. She stood her ground, however, and balanced the typewriter on the windowsill. Lerri gave it a smart smirk and then pouted; an unbecoming look on anyone. "Don't look at me like that. You provoked me, and I will stand by that statement. Goodbye, you infernal machine!"
And with that, she tipped the typewriter over the edge and it silently fell away. Satisfied with her actions, she pulled the pencil from behind her ear and slipped a new piece of paper across the grimy desk, prepared to write as they did in the old days. She spent several seconds, a grin akin to a pained grimace plastered across her features, staring at the paper, before giving a yelp and rushing to the door.
She had never thought it would come to this – chasing after typewriters in Cairo.
"Can I just say something?" A distinctive English accent rang through a narrow, crowded street. It belonged to a fellow who certainly wasn't enjoying his dynamic surroundings.
"If it really is the word 'something' then by all means, go ahead. A syllable more and it'll be the last thing you ever do say." Came the American retort. The Englishman rolled his eyes and curled a nostril. Jonathan Carnahan was about to jolly well say something back, when the voice of his sister, of reason too in this case, interrupted him and caused him to forget his clever remark.
"Boys, let's not start, shall we?" Evelyn O'Connell sighed, punching her husband lightly on the arm as a playful warning. Rick shrugged, irked but calmed. Jonathan stopped to glare at the back of his brother-in-law's head, when suddenly he found he could no longer see it. He couldn't see his sister either, in fact. In a panic he rushed forward, pushing through the throng of people and elbowing whomever got in his way. He was shoved back by one barrel-chested chap and his arm connected with a vase of some sort standing on a vendor's stall. Upon hearing the shattering of good clay, both Jonathan and the vendor looked down in unified silence. The vendor lifted his head, his expression one of extreme rage. Jonathan's hands were already raised in surrender.
The vendor spoke in Arabic, but Jonathan shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't speak Arabic!" he stated pathetically.
"Are you going to pay for that?" repeated the vendor in perfect English.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak English either!" Jonathan replied hastily.
Just at that moment, something caught Jonathan's eye. It was a typewriter hurtling towards him. It caught in the canopy that shaded the vendor's stall from the heat. The vendor spotted its shadow upon the taut material and his eyes widened. All of a sudden, a woman materialised next to the Englishman, her hand clapped to her chest and her gaping mouth heaving in breath. She gulped down some air and straightened up, pointing and gasping at the typewriter sitting on the canopy.
"I think you'll find that's mine."
The vendor peered up at the typewriter-shaped silhouette and raised an eyebrow.
"No, it is mine."
"What? No, no, I'm afraid you're very much mistaken! It's mine, I threw it out of my window!" she argued, waving a flustered hand.
"No. It is on my stall, so that makes it mine. You must buy it if you want it." The vendor answered, a sly grin now crawling across his sharp features. He clambered onto his stall and reached over the canopy to retrieve the typewriter. He leapt down and with a ching the thing was next to the rest of his wares. He drummed his fingers on it, his mouth twisted into a lewd smirk.
"You slimy creature! You complete and utter—I won't stand for this! I'm taking it back!" the woman exclaimed, and before anyone could react she had gripped the typewriter firmly and tugged it to her, while the vendor yanked at it right back. Jonathan looked on, more shocked at the madness than concerned for himself as they struggled. It was unfortunate for the Englishman then that the typewriter flew out of the vendor's hands, swung about with the force at which the woman was tugging it, and glanced off his chin, sending him to the ground.
While he tasted the familiar combination of dirt and blood, Jonathan's hearing just about permitted him to make out the woman drawing in a gasp and the vendor give out a piercing laugh…