Chereads / Where Are You, My Author? / Chapter 8 - The Winter Writer's Festival

Chapter 8 - The Winter Writer's Festival

I woke to the blaring siren of my phone alarm. Groggy, I raised my head to look at the computer screen I slept in front of.

Thank god, it wasn't blank. Somehow I managed to survive the night. Though as my luck would have it, there was a high probability that the majority of what I wrote was utter bullshit. With a dismayed groan, I realized I would have to check it over again, just to be sure.

But before that, I needed to do something about myself. In my haste to finish my work, I had yet to take my daily shower, brush my teeth, and a variety of other things required to keep up my hygiene. I was still wearing my uniform from class, too.

My legs creaked as I stood to undress. No doubt they were protesting the uncomfortable sleeping position I assumed at my desk. The cramped leg space underneath the old wooden thing was unforgiving to any and all appendages inserted, so no wonder my legs were making such a fuss.

Off went the uniform. Off went everything else. With a towel wrapped around my waist, I made my way out of my room to the bathroom.

There's something euphoric about showers, especially scalding-hot ones where your skin screams for mercy. It seems counter to everything one would believe to be common sense, and rightfully so. Perhaps it's the pain that does it, but wouldn't that imply that I enjoyed pain? I didn't appreciate the thought of believing myself to be a masochist, but then again, it always refreshed my creative flow whenever it ground to a halt, so... maybe that's ample justification?

The rain of water ceased as I turned the valve off.

Towel in hand, I dried my hair as I walked back to my room. Inside, I soon discovered my cellphone, which vibrated on my desk. Its siren blared once more.

I only set one alarm, so it wasn't that. Could it be...

Hastily, I snatched the phone up, and read the message on the screen. It was from Victor.

"Hey Travis, long time no talk. Things have been busy lately, so I haven't had the time to tell you about what's coming up this winter."

"There's going to be a writing festival this December hosted by the academy, from the 5th to the 10th. It's going to be fun, so why not try writing that fanfic you were going to do for Judgement of Fantasia? If you win, you'll be quite the popular guy!"

So that's what he mistook my sticky notes for. Though I didn't need to be any more popular than I was now, the sheer amount of attention I've been getting these days was lethal enough. I tapped out my reply.

"I don't think I'll participate..." I began, but before I could finish, I was startled by another of Victor's messages.

"I was thinking of getting Melissa and a couple of friends together to brainstorm ideas for the competition, so why not join us? It'll be over at my place."

I stared at the sudden revelation for several seconds. So... yeah, I was about to reply, "Sure, I'll join you, just tell me when."

The days were starting to get colder. When the incident at the gym occurred, it was the latter half of October. The month was nearly over. That gave us a little less than two months until the festival started.

I slumped onto my bed. Overlooking my tight schedule, it wasn't that bad of a deadline. On top of it all, I could see Melissa, which was, in all honesty, my main motivation for accepting the invitation in the first place.

Suddenly, the dour face of my editor came to mind. I'm sure she would be livid about me skipping some workdays, but, what can you do.

And so, the next day, I found myself in front of Victor's house. I never expected it to be so close to mine. It was only a block away, a single turn down my street. Convenient for commuting on foot, at least.

The building was a similar model to mine, though it seemed a little older. It was a maroon brown, with a black, shingled roof accented by white gutters all around its perimeter. Like many of the houses in the area, it had an ornamental iron fence enclosing the property's minuscule front yard, with a brick arch and gate for entry positioned at the fore.

I tapped on the intercom button embedded into the red brick of the arch.

"Hello, this is Travis Moore, anyone home?" I spoke clearly into the intercom's mic.

Stepping back, I watched for a sign of response from the house. To my surprise, the gate sprang open. Fancy, it must be custom, considering mine didn't do that.

The gate opened up to a stone walkway, which led from the gate and up to the front door of the building. The inner door was open, and in its frame, I saw a squat, elderly woman peering out at me through the glass outer door.

The woman was scowling at me. How nostalgic, it looked just like Victor's.

I trudged my way up the path to the door. At the steps leading up to it, I nodded my head respectfully towards the old woman. She opened the glass door to allow me entry. Her scowl never once left her wrinkled countenance. Perhaps she didn't appreciate visitors?

Again, I nodded my head, acquiescent of the woman's somewhat lackluster greeting, and proceeded inside.

The scent of baking confections wafted into my nostrils. It was a heavenly scent. Chocolate, with a hint of... ginger? An interesting ingredient for confections, to be sure. The citric scent of the ginger nearly, but not quite, overpowered the more demure, refined aroma of the chocolate. Their scents melded in perfect harmony.

This old woman knew her stuff, I thought to myself.

"Ahh, Travis, you're just in time! The cookies are almost done!" A familiar voice echoed through the house.

I glanced at the old woman. Her severe expression flickered. I swear I heard her faintly snicker at my surprise. So Victor was the one baking. Didn't see that one coming.

I kicked off my shoes and took my first look around Victor's home.

It was a little different than the houses on my street. Maybe a little larger in some respects. Perhaps it was because the ones on my block were built a decade or so later than the ones here. I wasn't too sure of the specifics of why though.

There wasn't much to see immediately after entry. The front door led to a small foyer, and directly ahead, a hallway that seemed to branch to the left and right. This must be the first divergence from what I was familiar with, structurally.

The old woman walked past me as I stood still, a little confused as to where I should go. I followed her lead.

The tantalizing aroma of baking cookies blasted my senses as we arrived at the kitchen. My mouth was watering, my tastebuds aflame with high expectations.

Though my eyes and nose were locked in violent conflict with one another. While the latter was enraptured by the scent of the baking confections, my eyes bled from the sight of Victor, who stood in front of the kitchen oven.

I wasn't perturbed by the fact that he was standing in front of an oven. No, I wasn't that close-minded. And it wasn't the fact that he was grinning widely as he held a sheet of piping hot cookies up in the air, even though his smile was somewhat disturbing, considering what I know of him.

Of these points of interest, I took no issue. Rather, it was the fact that he was wearing an apron. But that wasn't all. Or rather, that was all, because the apron was the only thing he wore, save a pair of pink, banana-themed boxers.

"Welcome, Travis, to my home!" He cried jubilantly.

"Yeah, thanks for having me," I replied, slightly disturbed by his appearance.

"You're a bit early, I wasn't expecting everyone to show up until around 7 o'clock or so."

"I got done with dinner early, so I didn't have much else to do."

"Well, in any case, why don't you take a seat in the living room. It's back the way you came, through the other door."

Taking his suggestion to heart, I quickly exited the kitchen. I didn't want to see that any longer than I had to.

The Nacelle living room was sparsely populated with an assortment of furniture. In the corner sat an old recliner and a nightstand set beside it, while against the wall was a television, set precariously upon a coffee table one size too small for its load.

A picture hung on the wall opposite the television. I recognized the old woman I met at the door immediately from the group photo. Her scowl hadn't changed at all, it seemed.

There were two other adults in the photo with Victor posed front and center, a middle-aged man with prematurely graying hair, and a young woman who I assumed to be Victor's older sister. She had blonde hair, and a face very similar to his.

It was a rather wholesome photo, though I thought it strange that there wasn't a mother anywhere in sight. Perhaps I shouldn't dig too deep into that.

I took a seat on the floor. I didn't dare presume to sit in the recliner since it was very plainly the old woman's. A pair of knobbly glasses lay on the nightstand, and a bottle of pills of unknown medicinal content complemented my assessment.

Minutes later, Victor entered the room, this time, fully dressed in a blue sweater and khakis. He perspired slightly, and let out a slightly exhausted sigh.

"I wanted to make things as cozy as possible for everyone when they arrived, but it seems I may have overdone things a little..." He said as he smiled faintly.

I slowly nodded, absentminded. There wasn't much that was cozy about the spartanly furnished room. I kept that sentiment to myself, of course.

"Looks like your cheek is back together again. Does it still hurt?" He asked, eyeing me closely.

I ran my hand across my left cheek. The swelling had long since vanished, and its purple tinge faded to light green, "Not anymore, though every once in a while I do feel a small twinge of pain."

"Ahh, that's good to hear."

We both fell silent after that. I scratched the back of my neck as I looked around the living room for the second time. Despite the second examination, there wasn't anything else to see in the sparsely furnished room. No surprise there.

"...Well, there's still another ten minutes left until everyone arrives," Victor commented, as he leveled his gaze on mine, "So, mister author, about Judgement of Fantasia... are you the one?"

My body tensed. Dumbfounded, I stared at Victor, who knowingly touched his nose.

"..."