“Story Sunday” is a series I’ve had on my blog for a while that I’ve not done much with. I have ideas for stories, and then I get nervous about publishing them — or they get to be too long for my liking for a blog post and/or I want to save them for when I finally write/publish a book.
Since I participate in two forum-based role playing groups, I do spend time developing my characters, but it’s never much in the day-to-day development; instead, I mostly answer character development questions.
I’m going to start introducing my characters over time through little tidbits of their lives similar to this day in Wesley’s life, and I hope you enjoy them. Some, you may hate. Others, you may love. Not all characters are meant to be loved, and the ones that make you hate/love them aren’t always what they seem.
This is a rough draft/dabbling.
‘Twas a day in a cafe that didn’t make Wesley’s tea just right, but instead offered the ability to eavesdrop on others with great delight. In a world where people chose to feed their need to procreate and desire children, Wesley had chosen an alternative route for himself, but it offered companionship of some sort nevertheless. Outside he sat, enjoying the fresh air as he contemplated sipping more of the tea—there were floaties, and Wesley didn’t do floaties. He did not enjoy seeing grass in his tea, and it was a shame this cafe had not received the memo.
He would not return to this cafe again, and he would have his person confront their CEO about it—lies. Wesley would leave horrendous reviews online about them. He didn’t do confrontations, and he didn’t have the time to have someone else call and complain. The CEO would want to talk to him, possibly even apologize and not truly do anything to guarantee a future experience would most definitely be better.
Wesley was neither in the mood, nor had the time to, deal with idiots—peasants, honestly.
Seventeen minutes into contemplating continuing his tea and reading the local news from the newspaper, a group of schoolgirls chatted away behind him, giggling about coitus and cellular devices. Wesley adjusted his eyeglasses and focused more steadily on the paper, though he couldn’t help but overhear just what the young adults were discussing with each other.
“Seriously, guys love it when you send them dirty pics. It’s how I keep Will’s attention on me all the time,” one said.
“It’s true. Take the dirtiest picture you can think of, and they’ll basically devote all their attention to you,” said another.
Wesley folded the newspaper and set it on the table, then placed the teacup right beside it.
There was nothing more to hear at the cafe; schoolgirls in short skirts that blew up with the wind when it breezed by gossiped and giggled Wesley’s ears off; he didn’t want to hear them anymore.
On his way home, he kicked a rock as he walked.
Did guys like dirty pictures?
Wesley pondered it.
Cold and brutal on the outside, Wes was jealous and hurt on the inside—he was possessive; care to share his significant other he did not, and if this was the way to make his partner stay, then it was what he had to do.
When Wesley arrived home, he dismissed his butler for the day with a wave of his wrist and walked upstairs to his room. He paused before the mirror and gave himself a once-over, then removed his shoes and placed his wallet on the dresser.
Out from his pocket Wesley pulled his phone, and he walked back downstairs and headed to the kitchen.
“It would be best to take it in here,” he thought to himself, “but I do suppose I shall make it as dirty as I can.”
In his refrigerator was a container of leftover spaghetti; he pulled it out and heated it in the microwave, then left the dishes in the sink once he’d finished eating it—the glass container with sides nearly tattooed with spaghetti sauce, the glass container’s corresponding lid, the fork he’d used to eat the leftover spaghetti, and the bowl he’d used to heat the spaghetti in and eat the spaghetti from… with a few noodles and pieces of beef hanging on the sides.
Realizing he’d dropped some spaghetti onto his nice button-up shirt, Wesley unbuttoned and removed it from his body, then dropped it into the laundry basket. On his phone, he prepared a text message for Evan as he traveled back into the kitchen.
Wesley raised his phone over the sink and snapped a shot of the dirty dishes, then added a winking face emoticon—and sent it, quite proud of himself.