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The Lost Island
Chatterbox: Inkwell
The Lost Island
The Lost Island
The man was wearing a black jacket; a size or two too big. The wrinkles of fabric along the back of rectangular body were easy to see, but the rest of him came together in patches and blips, like the pixelated screen of a faulty c-com. His face was all blurry, except for a traingular, pointed nose. He was wearing fingerless gloves in an odd color. Green, maybe. His hands were doing something, but it was too difficult to make out. There must have been something there. Anything at all. Some loud thought pulsing in his mind; some displacement around him that would garuntee a location. Some connection...it was getting closer, closer now. It had a sound, a shape. A letter? No, a word, a—
"Kennedy? We found the—"
"Shhhh," the sudden interuption was cut off by another voice, but it was too late. The word was gone.
Kennedy banged his fist on his desk. The handmade wooden carvings of circles, squares, traingles, rhobmuses, and countless other geometrical shapes that lined his desk jumped.
"Is five minutes of silence really that hard? Does every second of every day have to be filled with so much noise? I think that the world would be a better place if NO ONE talked at all!" He swatted a rectangle off of the table, which hit the floor near the doorway where his two friends were standing.
"For the record. It's been twenty minutes," piped up Laura.
"And you were just sitting there at your desk. You didn't look very busy," chimed in Justin.
"For the record," Kennedy retorted, "I was VERY busy. Where's Nadia?"
"I'm here! I'm here." Nadia Erdilaya's low, soothing voice dominated the room as she slipped into Kennedy's "office." Her petit form made her the shortest of the group, but she was the only one everyone listened to. Laura and Justin jokingly called her "Mom" behind her back. Nadia only dressed in one color at a time, and today, it was pale pink. There were pink lotuses flowering across her pants, and a matching headband tied back her short, dark hair.
"I'm sorry, I tried to stop them," she continued her fingers straying up to her head to adjust a short, wide ringlet, "but they just wanted to tell you they found the man who was stealing from the dockworker's district."
"Yeah, he was exactly where you said he would be. How did you even know about—"
Kennedy cut Justin off.
"That's not important. What's important is absolute silence. Why don't you two go home and we can meet again tomorrow?" He looked at Nadia, who easily took over.
"That's a good idea. Laura, are you okay sailing home alone? It's getting dark. Maybe Justin could go with you."
"No way! I'm good to go," Laura replied, shaking her chin-length hair out of her face to reveal two bandaids crossed over her chin.
"If we got into trouble, I'd probably be more help than Justin. No offence," she said, giving a sideways smirk to her friend.
"None taken," Justin replied. But he rolled his eyes nevertheless as walked out of the room and tramped down the creaking stairs of the rickety house. Nadia softly closed the door behind them. Kennedy sat back heavily in his chair, playing with the edge of his white button-up shirt.
"I was so close this time," he sighed.
"To what, the island?" Nadia asked.
"A clue," he clarified, "something about the island, something about where to find it. It was some sort of—" he gasped and clenched his fist to the bridge of his nose, knuckles driving into the lines of pain around his eyebrows.
"I went too deep that time...but I was so close," he repeated.
"Kennedy, what if they're gone? What if the island really was destroyed?" Nadia had asked the question countless times. She asked it on the orphan's ship as days were filled with endless sea. She'd asked on dark nights while they moved from home to home, on the ferry boats, the long bus rides, or by windowsills in the moonlight. How many times had she asked in this very office, while staring at decrepid copies of the poems of Horace and the diagrams and shapes straight out of a Geometry text book that filled the room?
Kennedy never answered. And as long as he didn't have an answer, Nadia promised to believe him until he did.
"Tell me about the island," she said suddenly.
"No. I can't."
"Don't tell me about that day," she replied, "just tell me something about your island. About the school. About the things you did there."
He was silent, and for a second Nadia wondered if she'd gone too far.
But then he spoke, slowly, without looking at her.
"We had a group...a club of sorts, my friends and I. A writer's club. We called ourselves The Chatterboxers."
submitted by The Inscriptor
(October 10, 2019 - 2:41 pm)
(October 10, 2019 - 2:41 pm)
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(January 29, 2020 - 1:50 pm)
Greetings Inscriptor, this solo write looks very intriguing so I'm hoping to join, though their allready apears to be quite a few members allready.
If it's not possible I understand cause mutiple characters are somtimes difficult to juggle, at least in my opinion. Especailly presuming your busy as your absence of three months implies, which again probably makes writing difficult.
Anway here's hoping for a reply from your eminence or whichevere term of adress you prefer?
Then I'll post my CBer discription/something about my personaly demending on what you have to say.
Also I have some notions that Peter Pan might be involved with this whole mysterous island afair, as Nerverland it'self was an island and The Chatterboxers are a littuary oriented club. Not sure, this might be an idea you could add to the story if it fits in somehow?
(January 29, 2020 - 3:13 pm)
John F.Q.! Haven't see you around in forever!
I'd like to jump in as well, if only to observe, speculate, and maybe earn a brief mention. I love what you've written to far! It's very suspenseful.
My name is Possibly Wiser (Possibly for short) but I've gone by a few others. Wiseowl, and unsuspectingstrytllr being the most well known amoung them. I've even been multiple people at once, as evidence when I went by red tailed panda and Spring Flower.
I am very imaginative and a bit of a space cadet. I like to read and write and draw. I try to be nice and polite to everyone, but sometimes I'll say something I didn't mean to. I can also get very frustrated and emotional at times, although I try to hide it.
Physically speaking I am not very short or very tall. I have long dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. Stylistically, you never know. I try to look nice but my sense of style is a bit odd. I like to wear demure floral skirts and cardigans but I also like bright shirts and overalls. My hair is almost kept out of my face with a headband or tied up with a ribbon.
I hope you post again soon!
(January 30, 2020 - 4:59 pm)
Appolgies for the delayed response Possibly Wiser, but believe you to recognize me as being of some importance and in truth your name does seem familiar. Unfortunetly I don't recall from where specifically? Because as you alluded to I post rarely on the CB.
If I was to assertaning why, it's mostly because my paricipation in the Chatterbox has aways been more of a perusal; what with the stifling effort I put into my education or believe my education requires of me. I've only found time to participate in SoloWrites and rarely RPs, though through the ages there are many of the latter that I have considered joining.
If recollection proves correct that last RP I was in was Dr Who themed and the last SoloWrite before this was D&D theme; but those were ages ago (makes be feel like the Portrait Of Dorain Grey which I believe is a book by Oscar Wilde about a younge gentleman who remains ageless; except I would be the painting that ages for him.)
Though, as mentioned below (rather too lenghty if truth be told, perhapes my AE is Over Excessive Eloquence) I do have a plan for a SoloWrite of my very own though, perhaps it might be appealing to you? Or I had given thought to a Dr Who RP and somthing that would be like an amagamation of different RPs I neglected to join?
Any suggestions for a means to write more what with the quarentine.
(April 11, 2020 - 3:50 pm)
John F.Q.! How is it that you always seem to pop up whenever I write a new solo write?
I have a feeling you know exactly which CB I am no matter how much I change my identity. Must be your Decepmythian powers.
I thought this was dead, but if you'd like to see more, I will certainly continue to write!
(February 14, 2020 - 9:08 am)
Well, I'm not sure who you are, but I'd love to see more of this!
(February 24, 2020 - 4:36 pm)
Well, truth be told, until now I'd not surmised that The Inscriptor had anything to do with a land that is the whole of Myth and first part of Deception. Though admittedly, upon first reading, their was something oddly familiar about the prose and style of this Solowrite.
As to retaining powers from aforementioned land, that's not to far off as I joined impart because I was doing research on the history of The Chatterbox. Of whose lore many countervailing things have been suggested by many individuals including yourself. Or, at the very least, an individual who you are associated with that is someone made from the first part of illusion and the last part of mist.
Admittedly the project is still in development, with the personage doing the chronicling only part way through a timeline and three short installments. But hope withal, afore mentioned research might be compiled into something resembling cannon and presented for the edification of the Chatterbox's denizens. Though I've been told it would look more like a pie launcher with extra Brussel sprouts than an actual cannon. I've also been told this character chronicling isn't one to jest.
Yet it's likewise possible that this account might not be viable; due to the absence of those CBers involved in such affairs, since their permission must doubtless be attaned before characterization, and since newer CBers might not be interested in references to long dead RPs like Character Cafe & Chatterbox City.
Anyway apologies for the tangential sentences, hopefully that answers your inquiry and sparks some suggestions from others (in which case I do apologies for inside references) or yourself.
As to the latter inquiry, I would certainly like to read more but only provided you have the time to write?
If not, then your autopsy is indeed be accurate and I can, with much sadness, offer to call a coroner.
If yes, I shall post my CBer description soon.
It must also be noted that a Disorienting Express, though not on time, is still set to make an installment sometime soon. Many apologies, The Ominous's miasmas have been delayed insofar as adding names to the next day. While I haven't finished editing/posting a longer explanation of the wait, due the acuresed education system and my own hapless time management.
Despite this I shall post that explanition, rightly due, as soon as possible.
(March 2, 2020 - 6:51 pm)
(February 24, 2020 - 6:40 pm)
Yesh! Inscriptor, write more, write more!
(February 25, 2020 - 9:33 am)
Yes, please do!
(February 25, 2020 - 1:02 pm)
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(March 1, 2020 - 10:08 pm)
Nadia walked carefully down the stairs to the rickety house Kennedy had chosen to base his quiet empire out of. She hated this part. Every creak and tremble of the steep, slender stairs made her feel like her foot would break through, or she would pitch forward and go careening into darkness at any moment. She would hold onto the railing, but once she'd run her fingers along something strange and sticky, and hadn't touched it since.
She lept over the last two stairs. The ground floor of the house had been deemed "unlivable." Thick, black tape x-ed out empty doorways that lead to what might have been a dining room, a kitchen, a foyer.
Nadia passed through quickly, without giving the slanting shadows and ghosts of old furniture hovering in her peripheral vision time to leap out at her.
As she closed her fingers over the chilly, silver door handle, she gave a quick glance over her shoulder, up the demonically slanted stairs. A light had flickered on upstairs. The friendly hallway above looked peaceful compared to the surrounding gloominess.
Only Kennedy could live in such a strange and spooky place unphased. Nadia was sure she'd be terrified every time she heard the slightest noise at night.
"I like it's shapes." He'd reasoned. It was the highest praise Kennedy could give.
Nadia paused for a second at the door, then let the easy breeze sweep her right off the porch.
As she walked home, she looked at the sky; at the pointed jagged rocks that caged her in on an island that grew smaller every day. Beautiful nights like these made her want to raise her arms and fly into the misty trails of dusk. A restless itching spread over her skin.
She tried to keep her mind clear of thoughts that might somehow leak out and whisper their way through Kennedy's secret network of knowledge. But they fluttered inside anyways, like a tired but desperate bird. Her mind turned to her empty mailbox, which she had checked tirelessly every day, just barely daring to hope. What would it be like to leave the islands?
But she couldn't, of course. She always had to be the one who stayed. The one who was always there, no matter the time or the weight of the worries. She was the one who stayed up at night, remembering to pray for each and every unknown soul who couldn't speak their own words; holding the worries of the world so no one else would have to.
But what if she wasn't there? What if she left? What
Don't indulge in silly what-ifs, Nadia told herself, as she approached the long, low, building lined with dorm-room windows. Still, as she went in, she put an absent-minded hand in her mail cubby anyways, expecting to feel the same emptiness as always.
She didn't.
Her hands closed around something thick and rectangular. Please. Please.
She thought, carefully drawing out the package with curled, tentative fingers.
She looked up. The sky was calling.
(March 4, 2020 - 10:43 pm)
Woah dude, this is awesome! I'm so glad you could take the time to write again, for us. Good stuff, Inscriptor.
(March 6, 2020 - 10:03 am)
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(March 6, 2020 - 9:59 pm)
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(March 9, 2020 - 3:12 pm)