This is something I wrote a year or two ago, I believe the idea has a lot of potential, but i really have no plot or anything for this story to continue on.
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My room was a mess. Xbox on the ground, Playsation on the other side of the room, and various cords constricted whatever was in between, which included socks, dirty clothes, shoes, papers, bags, and at the end of the Indiana Jones’esc temple of Doom that was my room, was my bed. Normally, to traverse the landmines of my room would be easy, it was in my muscle memory, and I could do it in my sleep. But my eyes were swollen and my legs were aching today. I could barley lift the sketchbook in my hands, let alone make it to my bed. This morning I had such hope. But today the bullies at school beat me, the art crowd mentally humiliated me, and even the techies didn’t want me. I hadn’t the will to get in bed and do my homework either. My embarrassment and pain, and the sight of my room, reminded me of a thought that had plagued my whole existence the past few months.
What was I going to do with my life? I was bad at everything I tried to work for. This thought angered me for some reason, and it would not go away. Probably because I get angry when I am afraid. I left my room before I even took a step inside. I had to clear my head. I needed to find something to inspire me.
My inspiration would be fire, an incarnation of mans intelligence, his power, and his anger. To bad I was a bad writer, I could have used that line. I went to the back yard and started a fire in the pit far from the house with that night homework being the kindling. It was dark outside. The sun had just set, but my parents would not mind. They were probably asleep or too tired from their jobs to care if their son was playing with matches. They were usually too busy to even cook diner for me. I smiled grimly in humor, I couldn’t even cook worth a damn among the many other talents I did not posses.
Once the fire was burning well enough, rain started to drizzle on it… the light rain did not pose a threat to the great fire, but it started to soak me nonetheless. And it would get my sketchbook wet. I growled to myself, and sounded pathetic. The drizzle was light, it would not damage my sketches. But it made me angry. It was god pissing on me.
I opened my book to the first page… it showed a creation of mine. I called her Steam-punk Sally. The drawing was not too great, moderate I guess. I had made better, but it was the character I liked about her. I wrote in little details around her, like the steam powered Gatling gun instead of a hook on her hand, and the captain’s hat that belonged to her brother… she was a character, with a story. A story I was not skilled enough to write, and I did not do justice to her body when I drew her. I sighed and turned the page. I tried to think of something else to draw… something good, something that would impress the art crowd at school, or the bullies, or the teachers…
I would make a foil character, a character to oppose Sally. We were talking about that in class. All right, good start. I didn’t try for very good details. I usually failed at that. So I would make a cartoonish character. I made a round head with an Internet smiley type theme, and a coat, to clash with the rag tag cloth I used to cover the girl on the previous page. No, it would be thick, leather, and down to his feet… there. Good. Now his hands… I just drew lines in there for now, four little lines for fingers, and the rest of him was a stick figure… I could not think of any details… I wrote down the words, “sneaky” and “devious”. Then, for good measure, I outright said, “Opposite of Steam punk Sally” And stopped… what else was Steam punk Sally not? I wrote, “modest,” and “Ninja”. And then I hit a block. I stared into the fire, then at my work. Then the fire and I growled again at myself pathetically. This was worthless, just a stick figure. Maybe I just needed to think of a name? Maybe that will get the juices flowing. I wrote at the top, “Stick-man Smiley.”
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I balled up the paper in anger and threw it into the fire. I covered my head in my hands. It was no use. Even if I did have inspiration, I got no better at anything. I failed at everything.
I heard a panting noise. Like some dog after a run, and looked up. There was a bald boy, beyond the fire, in a black cloak. He was coughing and wheezing. I stood up quickly, and the boy looked up, but I saw it was a man… no, his hands, they were nothing but outlines, and his head was yellow. I recognized him the second I saw him, but I could not believe it. His face that showed his emotions was cartoonlike expressions, he was scared… as soon as he saw me he grabbed the sides of his coat with his skinny fingers and ran off to the end of my back yard. He must have only been three feet tall. Before I could utter a sound, he jumped over my fence, and was gone.
I could not even curse. I was so shocked. I looked into the fire and saw no remains of the paper I had balled up and thrown in. No logical explanation came to mind… but I something from mythology did.
Man, given life through fire…
It was one of the most common archetypes in literature. I looked down at my sketchpad, and flipped to Steam punk Sally. Could I do it again? Could I give life to paper? If nothing happened, I could draw her again… no, this was ludicrous! There had to be another explanation.
I had to try. I wrote down on the paper one last trait “Will protect me, and be my friend.” I folded it up nicely and delicately placed it over the fire. The corner started to burn… nothing happened. It slowly became red and black and fell, ash by ash, into the fire until I was forced to drop the last corner piece of the page.
I sighed. The fire was about to die, and so did my hope at that moment. That must have been some kid who snuck into my yard. I miss saw him in the darkness, an easy mistake. His hands looked like outlines because it was dark, his face looked yellow because of the fire. I got up, off the ground and turned away from the dyeing embers, hanging my head in despair.
I got a mouthful of flesh, all around my face, and I recoiled and fell to the ground. I looked up and saw a pirate woman, with a metal gun for an arm, and various cords and hoses around her. She was more beautiful then I had ever imagined. Young, shapely, strong minded and strong willed expression, much better then my drawing. She raised an eyebrow at me.
“Surprised” she said in a delightfully British accent that I had imagined her with after watching Monty python sketches in my childhood. I could not form any words. It had worked. It had actually worked! The girl of my dreams was here!
No one could stop me now. I was a god. No bullies, no teachers, and no haughty art students could put me down anymore.
Cold, scared, hungry, and alone. This was the fate of Stickman Smiley. He ran from the face of his creator, ran from his fear and confusion, and had finally stopped running in front of a bar. It was the only building open at this hour of the night, or at least, the only light on this road for miles. He ran inside, hiding his monstrous face under a hood and keeping his hands inside of his coat sleeves. He was a monster, a freak. Cursed by his creator with hateful glee.
He walked in slowly, making sure that only one of his huge eyes showed, so that he could get to the bar. This was someplace to sit, to keep calm, to keep warm. Only the barkeep was there, they were alone.
“No kids allowed.” He heard the barman say. Smiley opened his mouth, but hesitated, afraid of what his voice may sound like.
Then he said, gathering up his courage “I’m not a kid.” And did not sound like child. He had cartoonish voice, but an adult one. It was not high, nor low-pitched, it was very versatile. Quirky and comical, but he was sure he could speak like a normal person given enough training.
“Oh, sorry.” The man said apologetically. “I know you midgets are sensitive about that. Oh, I mean, dwarves? What’s the right term for it? Oh, never mind. I’ll have to see some ID anyways. We have a lot of pranksters around here.”
Smiley rummaged around his coat and found a license with his name on it; he passed it to the barkeep, who laughed when he saw it. While he was distracted, Smiley lifted his hood and showed his face.
“Looks like someone put a wallmart sticker over where your face should be… Oh my god!” he recoiled when he saw the mans face in real life, yellow, with huge features. He was afraid; Smiley saw fear in his eyes. He might scream.
Smiley quickly dived at the barkeep and used his arm like fishing wire around the barkeeps neck to keep him quiet. He didn’t need the whole world hearing the cry. He didn’t want the world to see his face.
“Don’t scream.” Smiley said. He didn’t want to kill this man, but he would if he had to.
“What do you want?” the barkeep squeaked. It was a peculiar question that needed an answer. And it made Smiley think. What did he want? He searched his mind… his very being… and found something wrong with the world, something very wrong. He found a seed of discontent in his mind. Something he had to change, something he was built to do.
He was an antagonist. A nemesis. That was it. It was in his coding, his character. He felt it. Someone… someone protected that boy who made him. He must defile that purpose. He must destroy the one who created him. He had to kill the boy who gave him life. That was his purpose.
He released the barkeep as soon as the man started to leave this world, he would not kill the barman just yet.
Smiley… well, he smiled. The smile took over more the half of his huge face. Then he kneeled to the barkeeps level. “Thank you.”
Subject: Stickman Smiley 
Sun May 20, 2012 11:51 pm