I'd like to use this story to catch a Machop. Recommended character count is 5-10K. Actual character count is about 12k.
Feel free to comment. I love feedback!
Geoffrey Elliot: A Poketale
Most stories start with the sea.
Unfortunately, this isn't one of them. I wanted to go on this big rant on how the sea is forever changing, and unknowable, and uncontrollable, etc. And then how mountains are constant and reliable, but in their own way as uncaring of your existence as the sea. You can live, and die, and throughout the ages the mountains will stay the same. No matter what you do, that mountain that you see outside your window everyday will be waiting there when your great, great, great grandson wakes up so many years from now.
However, I'm not good enough at writing for that. Or ranting. I'm not good at much of anything, come to think of it.
Especially writing, though. I mean, I've heard tell that, within your first paragraph, you should establish a character, setting, and problem to draw your readers in and here I am, four paragraphs in and you still have no idea who I am, where I am, or what my issue is.
So here you go. My name is Geoffrey Elliot, I live in a small village in the foothills of a huge mountain range, and my mom just kicked me out of the house.
In her own way, my mom's a lot like the sea. She's unknowable, uncontrollable, and can often be described as 'roaring.'
I guess that makes me a mountain. If left on my own, I'd be perfectly content to sit still and watch the world go past me, and I don't much care what anyone else does.
Also, I'd like to point out that when you get a mountain right by the sea, the waves beat on it, over and over again throughout the millennia. At first it seems like it's pointless. The cliffs just stand there, taking it. Sooner or later, though, the sea always wins.
"What do you think you are doing?" the ocean roared. "You sit on your lazy butt all day and leave me to do all the chores."
I sighed and looked down through the branches of the trees to where my mother was standing, hands on her hips. I got my blonde hair and thin build from her, but my height and green eyes from my dad. He wasn't around anymore. "I've milked the miltanks," my mom said, counting on her fingers, "Weeded the garden, started bread baking for dinner, swept out the house, and what have you done?"
"Um. . . Invented a metaphor for the constant battle between the ocean and the mountains," I replied, "Also, compared and contrasted their attitudes towards the human race, if one could say they have attitudes at all, which is arguable."
My mother just stared at me, foot tapping.
"But of course that was all because I'm hiding in this tree from Mr. Jensen, who's mad at me for dying his chickens' feathers green and making him think they were sick."
"I knew it!" she said, "I knew you were behind that. Now get down here. I have something I need to talk to you about."
I slipped down from my perch in the tree, following my mother inside. It was futile trying to fight with her when she got like this. Mountains don't fight anyway, they just let themselves get worn down.
I followed Mom into our kitchen, which was decorated about how you would expect for a cottage-in-the-mountain kitchen. Wooden table, simple counter, blue-and-white china decorations scattered about around the doilies.
And, today, something I never expected to see, sitting in the middle of the table.
"I had Professor Yew bring this over," she said. "You spend your days either sitting in trees or pulling pranks on the neighbors. I just don't know what to do with you anymore."
"So, what? You're just kicking me out?" I asked. "I act just a little bit lazy and you kick me out of the house?"
"I've tried everything else!" Mom shouted, slamming her hand on the table. "Maybe being a Pokemon trainer will teach you a bit of responsibility. You'll see how hard it is to take care of another living thing, and maybe it will teach you a bit of respect, too."
I stared at the ball on the table. It just sat there.
"Do you at least know what pokemon it is?" I picked it up.
"I didn't ask," said my Mom. She walked around the table and gave me a hug. "Good luck," she said. "Come back when you've learned your lesson."
"I might." I said, gripping the pokeball harder. This whole thing was injecting far too much angst into my otherwise upbeat narrative, and with stories (especially written by teenagers) being infamous for being overly dramatic, I knew I couldn't stick around much longer.
"This is for your journey," my mom said, handing me a backpack full of supplies. "I just know you're going to be the very best, like no one ever was."
"Yeah, Mom, sure." I said, taking the pack and leaving through the kitchen door, off to adventures untold.
Like I said, sooner or later, the ocean always wins.