This choice: You awaken outside, discarded to die atop a barrel of garbage. • Go Back...Chapter #4Like So Much Rubbish by: Unknown Alright, that was certainly not your most expertly played hand, but upon seeing sunshowered skies you realize you are still very much alive and very much in this game, no matter the disadvantaged position you find yourself in. "Where am I?" you ask the warm, stale air rising from all around you. Your arms feel by your sides, one splashing something wet, the other something of mush. "Agh, what is this?"
Turning your still spinning head, you observe the matter of a freshly discarded banana on your right, while a raining drip of water puddles on your cardboard bed from a half open lid overhead. "A waste bin in an alleyway?" You wipe your hands clean on a nearby cloth, the final sweep by your own handkerchief. "I've been discarded like so much rubbish." You get to your feet on this sheet of brown paper earth, looking to the sun above with a palm visor. Laughing with vigor, "Haha! Halstead, you boastful buffoon, you cannot dispose of me so easily! This is but a minor setback!"
You then consider the scale of this setback for the first time, but choose not to alter your original assessment. Being only a centimeter tall atop a heap of boxed refuse as high as any modest office tower and at least as foul to the optical and olfactory senses, is, honestly, not the best of situations, but there is always confident courage where there is Jack Sterling. As far as your mind functions, you are already well on your way.
"I need," you reach into your pocket, but pull out nothing. You catch sight of your wrist, void of watch. Even your cufflinks, tie, and pens are gone. "Drat! They are thorough." Without means of communication, you need rely on resourcefulness and charm from here onward. "Ah," you recall the cloth from earlier moment, "this just might do. It just might do well." It takes a few strong tugs, but you sure enough free it into your hands, though remaining unsure from what this strip of lightweight cloth came. Improvisation seems to be, "Who's out there!?" You call out to faint echo of a cough.
There's a strange stirring nearby, like the rough clack of shoes shuffling clumsily against concrete, but its source goes unseen in this long and narrow alley. You prepare yourself for flight, opening the makeshift parachute to full unfurling and taking firm hold of it. Hopping from the cardboard field to the exceedingly scarce width of runway, you overhear a stifled gasp nearby. You dismiss this second interruption and leap from your perch like a square-winged falcon. You glide without fear or fault to the cragged ground, landing safely and taking to a new kind of flight with fast feet.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
| Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
<<-- Previous · Outline  · Recent Additions © Copyright 2025. All rights reserved.
Doom has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work within this interactive story. Poster accepts all responsibility, legal and otherwise, for the content uploaded, submitted to and posted on Writing.Com. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
