A/N:Thanks much for the great feedback! I'm much inspired to keep going. The last chapter was pure background, so that I don't have to go back and explain everything later in the story. The rest of the chapters should follow standard-story format, unless I absolutly need to clarify something. Don't see that happening, though. Sorry it took so long to get this out, I had to take my chapter to a revision group and stuff... I'll try to be more prompt in the future.
Lord of the Rings was written by J.R.R. Tolkien. The plot and characters are mine.
"Faces of the Future"
Chapter 2
Why Does it Rain on Sundays?
I hate to say that it was an ordinary day, but it was. The sky above only shone through in patches, bright cyan bleeding through the dense clouds, giving off an eerie gray-blue color.
My beat-up Nissan Stanza didn't like the rain. It leaked through the cracked window seal onto my hand, poised at the ten o'clock position. My wipers barely pushed the beading water around the windshield, creating patterns that looked a bit like islands in a strange sea.
I glanced down at the AAA road map sprawled across the passenger seat. One finger traced the highway toward a star marked in green ball-point-pen. Next to the star was a number, which matched that of the next exit.
I turned my car into the offramp, opting to downshift rather than brake, as the roads were very slippery. I pulled to a rather jerky stop at the light. I had two choices at this point. Go left and become hopelessly lost in downtown Chicago, or take a right and go the long way around.
I chose the long route.
Fifteen right and three wrong turns later, I pulled to a stop outside a moderately-sized building. It was only three stories high and home to a lesser-known magazine. A monthly periodical that specialized in "local bands" from around the country. It was simply titled, "Homegrown."
I climbed out of my car and locked the door with my keys. I dropped them into my purse, producing a muffled clatter. I allowed myself to stretch my arms and legs. It had been about four hours since I had last stopped. I had plenty of time to kill at that moment, the moving van wasn't scheduled to arrive at my new apartment for another three hours.
So, I decided to check out my new office. I was offered a job as a photographer for the magazine after the owner saw some of my work at an Albuquerque art show. I had been an independent photographer at the time, doing a few professional sessions on the side, weddings, graduations, and the like.
I peered at myself in the car windows. My short brown hair, once long and gracefully curled, was a mess. Feathered strands stood up at odd angles where tired fingers had raked through on empty highways, itching to stretch.
I pushed the fuzz down with my fingers. It took me four tries, but I finally managed to cover my ears.
My ears have always been a problem. Gracefully pointed at the tips, like all of my kind, they frequently stir questions among outsiders. Before recent breakthroughs in medical science, I blamed them on a childhood accident. Later in my life, I explain them as a genetic defect.
I walked slowly towards the glass doors, limping slightly as my left foot continued to tingle as it woke up.
The rain, which had nearly slowed to a stop, spilled over the green vinyl awning, tapping the top of my head as I passed under.
I pulled the door open and stepped into the building. For an air-conditioned space, it certainly felt warm compared to the outside. The room was small, furnished only by three chairs and a desk. Behind the desk, hidden by a large plastic palm-tree, sat a young looking woman with a pale face.
As the door chimed when it shut, she glanced up at me from what I only could assume was a book. Her eyes were a shocking blue, probably enhanced by contact lenses. She snapped her gum and smiled at me in a way that was far too sweet for her dark clothing and purple hair.
"Can I help you?" Behind the desk, she moved, as if marking her place and closing whatever she was reading. She brushed back her hair and smiled again.
"Yes." I was a bit taken aback by this girl. I walked to the desk and laid my elbows on the surface. Leaning in, I crossed one ankle over the other. "I'm looking for Mr. Branson. My name is Carmen Moore." For that was the name I was going by at the time.
One pierced eyebrow lifted and she nodded, pressing a button on the phone and picking up the receiver. She spoke softly into the mouthpiece and hung up the phone. She gestured towards one of the chairs against the far wall. "Please have a seat, Mr. Branson will be out momentarily."
I seated myself in the folding chair, glancing about the room for a better look. Old magazine covers adorned the walls, featuring boys with mohawks and piercings. Across from me there was a water-cooler, bubbling quietly as it settled. I stood and walked up to it, pulling a cone-shaped cup from the dispenser nailed to the faded yellow wall.
I filled the cup with cold water and raised it to my lips just as a door in the back of the room swung open. I glanced over at the man in the doorway. He was middle-aged, with brown hair speckled with pepper. He was dressed in jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt. He grinned and crossed the room to shake my hand.
"Ms. Moore," he said, "I'm so happy to see you again. A bit earlier than I expected, though."
I nodded and drained the cup, dropping the crumbled remains in the garbage can. "I had some time left over before my apartment was ready."
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me. This way, please." He smiled again and guided me into the back room, which turned out to be his office.
The office was a good deal smaller than the lobby, with only one window in the back wall. His desk was in the middle, made of metal. Bookshelves of vinyl records, tapes, and CD's lined the walls. The occasional book was amid the media.
I took the seat I was offered, in front of the desk. Mr. Branson sat opposite me and picked up a folder of some of my work that he had purchased in New Mexico.
"Well, you met Judy, she'll be handling all your calls and such." So much for exciting introductions. "There are a few other photographers and a reporter or two, I'm not sure anymore. You'll meet them next weekend at the staff meeting. Nine o'clock Saturday at the Starbucks down on Fort Street."
Gray eyes scanned a calendar on his desktop. "The first thing I want you to do is go down and get some shots at a concert downtown. I'm starting you off local, just until you get settled. Then, maybe, I'll be sending you to more remote locations. Don't worry about talking to any of the band, my reporters are taking care of that. I expect your final prints on Saturday. See you then." He smiled at me and nodded towards the door.
Not exactly a man of many words, but he got his point across. I smiled and walked out of the room, exited the building, and walked back out into the Sunday rain.
Lord of the Rings was written by J.R.R. Tolkien. The plot and characters are mine.
Chapter 2
Why Does it Rain on Sundays?
I hate to say that it was an ordinary day, but it was. The sky above only shone through in patches, bright cyan bleeding through the dense clouds, giving off an eerie gray-blue color.
My beat-up Nissan Stanza didn't like the rain. It leaked through the cracked window seal onto my hand, poised at the ten o'clock position. My wipers barely pushed the beading water around the windshield, creating patterns that looked a bit like islands in a strange sea.
I glanced down at the AAA road map sprawled across the passenger seat. One finger traced the highway toward a star marked in green ball-point-pen. Next to the star was a number, which matched that of the next exit.
I turned my car into the offramp, opting to downshift rather than brake, as the roads were very slippery. I pulled to a rather jerky stop at the light. I had two choices at this point. Go left and become hopelessly lost in downtown Chicago, or take a right and go the long way around.
I chose the long route.
Fifteen right and three wrong turns later, I pulled to a stop outside a moderately-sized building. It was only three stories high and home to a lesser-known magazine. A monthly periodical that specialized in "local bands" from around the country. It was simply titled, "Homegrown."
I climbed out of my car and locked the door with my keys. I dropped them into my purse, producing a muffled clatter. I allowed myself to stretch my arms and legs. It had been about four hours since I had last stopped. I had plenty of time to kill at that moment, the moving van wasn't scheduled to arrive at my new apartment for another three hours.
So, I decided to check out my new office. I was offered a job as a photographer for the magazine after the owner saw some of my work at an Albuquerque art show. I had been an independent photographer at the time, doing a few professional sessions on the side, weddings, graduations, and the like.
I peered at myself in the car windows. My short brown hair, once long and gracefully curled, was a mess. Feathered strands stood up at odd angles where tired fingers had raked through on empty highways, itching to stretch.
I pushed the fuzz down with my fingers. It took me four tries, but I finally managed to cover my ears.
My ears have always been a problem. Gracefully pointed at the tips, like all of my kind, they frequently stir questions among outsiders. Before recent breakthroughs in medical science, I blamed them on a childhood accident. Later in my life, I explain them as a genetic defect.
I walked slowly towards the glass doors, limping slightly as my left foot continued to tingle as it woke up.
The rain, which had nearly slowed to a stop, spilled over the green vinyl awning, tapping the top of my head as I passed under.
I pulled the door open and stepped into the building. For an air-conditioned space, it certainly felt warm compared to the outside. The room was small, furnished only by three chairs and a desk. Behind the desk, hidden by a large plastic palm-tree, sat a young looking woman with a pale face.
As the door chimed when it shut, she glanced up at me from what I only could assume was a book. Her eyes were a shocking blue, probably enhanced by contact lenses. She snapped her gum and smiled at me in a way that was far too sweet for her dark clothing and purple hair.
"Can I help you?" Behind the desk, she moved, as if marking her place and closing whatever she was reading. She brushed back her hair and smiled again.
"Yes." I was a bit taken aback by this girl. I walked to the desk and laid my elbows on the surface. Leaning in, I crossed one ankle over the other. "I'm looking for Mr. Branson. My name is Carmen Moore." For that was the name I was going by at the time.
One pierced eyebrow lifted and she nodded, pressing a button on the phone and picking up the receiver. She spoke softly into the mouthpiece and hung up the phone. She gestured towards one of the chairs against the far wall. "Please have a seat, Mr. Branson will be out momentarily."
I seated myself in the folding chair, glancing about the room for a better look. Old magazine covers adorned the walls, featuring boys with mohawks and piercings. Across from me there was a water-cooler, bubbling quietly as it settled. I stood and walked up to it, pulling a cone-shaped cup from the dispenser nailed to the faded yellow wall.
I filled the cup with cold water and raised it to my lips just as a door in the back of the room swung open. I glanced over at the man in the doorway. He was middle-aged, with brown hair speckled with pepper. He was dressed in jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt. He grinned and crossed the room to shake my hand.
"Ms. Moore," he said, "I'm so happy to see you again. A bit earlier than I expected, though."
I nodded and drained the cup, dropping the crumbled remains in the garbage can. "I had some time left over before my apartment was ready."
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me. This way, please." He smiled again and guided me into the back room, which turned out to be his office.
The office was a good deal smaller than the lobby, with only one window in the back wall. His desk was in the middle, made of metal. Bookshelves of vinyl records, tapes, and CD's lined the walls. The occasional book was amid the media.
I took the seat I was offered, in front of the desk. Mr. Branson sat opposite me and picked up a folder of some of my work that he had purchased in New Mexico.
"Well, you met Judy, she'll be handling all your calls and such." So much for exciting introductions. "There are a few other photographers and a reporter or two, I'm not sure anymore. You'll meet them next weekend at the staff meeting. Nine o'clock Saturday at the Starbucks down on Fort Street."
Gray eyes scanned a calendar on his desktop. "The first thing I want you to do is go down and get some shots at a concert downtown. I'm starting you off local, just until you get settled. Then, maybe, I'll be sending you to more remote locations. Don't worry about talking to any of the band, my reporters are taking care of that. I expect your final prints on Saturday. See you then." He smiled at me and nodded towards the door.
Not exactly a man of many words, but he got his point across. I smiled and walked out of the room, exited the building, and walked back out into the Sunday rain.