If you've never heard of narrative prose before, then you're in luck.
I happen to have studied literature when I was younger─and was absorbed enough to properly impart you a neat story. As a disclaimer though, the influence I had was a bullshitter, meaning she tends to veer towards the unorthodox, so I would definitely adapt into a tongue which I'd enjoy rather than blast through the mainstream lyrical romance. If you've been alienated until now though, why would the style even matter?
In this story, you have A Scoundrel's Guide to Running an Orphanage.
It's the brand I imagine to entice readers in the scenario we'd be recorded to the archives. Also, I'd be proud to call the work a masterpiece, and take on the pen name: Vega. Although that's only food for thought.
Seance Miller is our main character and the titular Scoundrel.
However, him being under the derogatory spectrum is a false claim.
He would only be the singular Scoundrel because he was with us, the true Scoundrels.
One hilarious note out of the tracks, I've fixated myself more on his name rather than his status as a potential villain. "Why would his parents slap on his registration papers something as odd as séance?" I asked myself for the longest time, and kept it unanswered due to initial fright─until an anticlimactic stalemate.
"Huh?" Mister Miller hung his head. "Why do you ask?"
I'm a little curious, I told him.
Pretty sure the word is uncommon.
Type on your device's search engine the meaning and you'll get, "a meeting at which people attempt to make contact with the dead, especially through the agency of a medium." He said they sat through an Ouija board ritual before he was born, and they ultimately thought of the process as their newborn's name of fortune.
"I don't hate it."
It was a random conversation─from a carefree moment which said the world wasn't embroiled in chaos. We were eating cheeseburgers as he demanded we try them. Munch, munch, and exude all curiosities afterwards in the form of small conversations. Classic lifestyle in the city, a normal day in SoHo, basking in the smogged sunset sky atop a random apartment block.
Those weren't the best days of my life, per se, but looking back surely brings hatred towards the society who robbed us.
"Think of it this way. I alone can make contact with the dead, while the others take an ensemble cast."
Irksome did his metaphor crash, I understood him, decreed to a jokish reminder you where you wouldn't think there was a joke at all:
"Look what they need to mimic a fraction of our power!"
He wasn't born strong though, nor was he awakened to magical arts.
Unlike us, he was born human, truly and impeccably from the coupling of a human father and mother. His roots weren't connected to any supernatural entity nor did his clan experience anything unusual in their recorded track of life. He was just like what the humans were before the 1962 Celestial Rage event.
An ancient bone from when the border between the magic side and the human side hadn't yet opened.
4th of July, 1918.
He was born in a normal family leading normal lives in the city of Phoenix, Arizona.
His mother was a stereotypical housekeeper while his father was a pastor. He is the fourth child out of five siblings, all healthy and cheerful as they're equally loved and supported. Loved by God as their religion proclaimed them, and I won't argue with that given the presented circumstance.
Happiness laid down his path and all he needed to do was walk to the end.
I wonder what kind of evil entity set his precursor into the roller coaster, and he bucked down the protagonist trend. Yeah, I smiled─because I'm happy with people leading stories rather than safely sailing into a supposed harsh ocean. Suffering, for one, is an element in storytelling impossible for someone not to regard as a guilty pleasure.
And─I hope you'd drown as well.
Now, I've never been to Phoenix.
I know you've been there, and more than once in your life. Must have been rough on you, the metals and the flames.
It's a treasure trove of resources nowadays and has somehow been a scavenger paradise. Yeah, it doesn't take time to sense your filth─but I don't judge people because they need to satiate their hope and hunger. Believe it or not, Phoenix was once a proper civilization and not an excavated abomination.
Imagine the boroughs of Brooklyn, less the overtowering skyscrapers and blackened sky void of blueness and sunlight. Honestly, it's too much to explain in words so you'd either want to imagine or take a look at old pictures. I might have some in the data bank, and I would generously give you the access authority… So, while it changed to an unrecognizable barren domain, there's something about the place that didn't change.
Summer season remains searing to the skin, sweat drips profusely, and the average man lacking in exercise is prone to blame the industrial revolution for each and every unfried synapses in his brain.
Children, however, are entirely different beasts.
Behold, Seance Miller.
Midday playtime alone in a quiet streetball court in his neighborhood.
All the children left him behind as it was lunchtime, he chose to stay for more shots fired. Basketball in hand to bounce the floor, dribbling back and forth rhythmically matched to his childish groove. He'd run to the three-point line, and try to score himself little happiness from an achievement.
He repeatedly did so in lieu of mirth, looping his routine until he's hit by tiredness. He's a child though, a bomb of energy each and every adult has been envious for the longest time. He played under the scorching blaze of sun, practicing a sport he wasn't even eager to learn so he could play on the hard court.
Such an innocent child had this stretched smile as he played.
Each bounce it took, uncaring whether his shots hit or missed. He was fulfilled although he betrayed his growling stomach. He might as well have forgotten how lunchtime is vital for his growth towards adulthood.
Cute, for one, I would bask at him playing to the brim and not be tired in six trillion years.
If only there wasn't that beam of light catching him out of nowhere, dribbling that basketball as playful as he could deliver.
Seance Miller faced his first major dilemma─and the first road to his transcendence.
Hilariously, an alien abduction.