The Gods’ Training Camp

“Oh God, why me?”

NOTE:

This story is authored by Abraham Meislow and narrated by Jackson Hyde. It is being evaluated for validity to the cause of the individuals Becky and Clyde, and also searching for placement in the vault of exceptional literary works: accepting “general achievement” but aiming for the standard of “beautiful classic.” Please review this request before December the first 2020. Note commissioned by the authorities of fictional literarydom, tenth council, fifth chair, secretary to the Entry Manager.

So, this is of course a story, and there should be a little bit of background to explain what this actually entails. Most of the other works of fiction seem to have missed this part, and it has led to great confusion in the world of non-fiction. Now usually this would not matter since non-fiction is so absolutely repulsive—who in their right mind want to actually read about things currently transpiring in the world, or that did transpire in the world? This concept has brought about exceeding boredom to the poor spirits of children since the beginning of time, ending with a horribly decrepit mind arising by the time the children become adults. It is what such a filthy thing as non-fiction can do to the world—creating people who more resemble balls then bipedal organisms. But enough about the real world, already too much is said about it, now peer into the realm of fiction and follow this line of logic which clearly sets out what a story in its pure form is.

Firstly, an author only writes the story, no more. The ideas on the page should not be credited to the author, or more aptly titled “writer;” no this should certainly not be the case, because the ideas, the language, the presentation, the beauty, genius, perceptiveness of the human soul—all of this comes from the narrator, the true powerhouse behind all works of fiction. Narrators are so omnipotent and omniscient and omni- stuff that they actually nearly parallel God in his work in the… unfortunate non-fiction world.

Second, though these stories are fiction and abstain from excessive relation to the real, or boring facts of life, they still do often reveal deep and intellectual insights that can be reflected onto the life plaguing the basic individual from day to day. For this cause we ask all to keep an open mind to this story specifically, for it relates so closely to an actual occurrence on this fated world that it will surprise the reader how personally connected he feels. This may also occur because the narrator behind the words on these pages is quite intellectual and has a deep understanding of people all of his own. Which makes him quite the remarkable narrator, one the author should be excessively grateful to have.

Third (because there must always be a third point to allow for conclusion—it is a statement in the book of composing fiction with power, clause number fifty-eight, line four, beginning with the tenth word. It is really put in an interesting context in all reality, fitted in between the discussion of mammals and their inclinations to save other mammals through a deep rooted sense of agency that follows three basic principles. If there were time to expand the narrator would most graciously do so, but as it is, the main characters are waiting in the wings shouting rude words and making obscene gestures, so the introduction must soon come to a conclusion. Oh, and please pardon, those are actually the supporting characters with the gestures and words, the main characters are simply waiting in the back-corner massaging their temples) anyway, third a story is to be enjoyed like a beautiful ripe mango, sink the teeth in and let the fresh juice dribble down the chin, leaving a slight glistening golden path. And continue to bite, chew, and swallow, devour the word with a ferocity driven by the satisfaction it brings for the almost erotic passion for language. Titillating? It is a certain trick employed to get the blood pumping and the senses at maximum sensitivity, quite similar to the graceful dance carried on between the…

Please pardon, the narrator was just informed that sex should most certainly be kept out of the first one-thousand words, for if it appears so early it would be hard to classify this work as literary greatness, and it would rather become a hot erotica, which is something artists try to keep away from while flirting with the edge continually because with all artists, from painters, to sculptors, to writers and narrators alike there extends a heightened libido.

But, once more, please pardon, this story is not about artists, it is about the most unfortunate couple since Adam and Eve, and yes, Adam and Eve were quite the unfortunate couple for reasons that will not yet be analyzed in this first thousand words. This couple did not have similar reasons for being unfortunate, in fact the only thing that may connect their unfortunate circumstances is some fact that is currently held in the archive vaults of room forty two—a secret place with many a lock and many a key.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I will have to let you go now, my date is here to pick me up.”

Clyde blinked, and it would not be the last time he would have such a reaction when around this girl Becky, though it was the first. It was this unfortunate couple’s first date, and already the fortune was at least looking foul for one of the pair.

“No, it is nothing serious. My friend just said this guy was kind of a loser and needed someone to take him out for a night just to try and help him to grow out of wetting the bed or some other childish habit equally embarrassing.”

Clyde blinked (already the second time). He considered crying, but tears seemed impossible to muster through the shock while a gasp was as equally as difficult to summon through the pain, so he blinked. How did this girl know he wet the bed? Why was she making it known that she realized this was a pity date just as well as he did? It would be much easier if they just pretended the entire time that he did not know, and then she would be forced to at least smile, but now she was removing this impediment. And further more, who was Becky speaking with on the phone?

“Well, goodbye Josh,” (that answered the latter.) “I love you too babe. Yeah, sure, you can stop by later tonight.”

The giggle that followed this statement sickened Clyde—he was one of those guys who found that the giggle of a girl was equal if not worse than the horrific sound of nails scraping a chalkboard; that is to say, he was the only guy alive who was ridiculous enough not to appreciate the sweet and somewhat heavenly—yet oft times combined with vindictiveness—warbling of a young woman’s laughter. Try one might to forgive him for this folly, but to do so could possibly throw the earth out of an otherwise gentle and unassuming orbit that so kindly helps people ignore the idea of something bigger, because the human mind is obsessed with the close at hand, like a laugh of a nice young lady beginning to blossom.

“So, you’re Clyde?”

Clyde nodded.

“You aren’t quite as bad as I expected, this night may not be half-bad after all. I’m sorry I was rude, it was to reassure the guy who is currently hoping to be my boyfriend.”

Clyde nodded. (This boy will continue to repeat the same basest actions throughout the entire story, and there is nothing to do but to simply state the occurrence, delving into the reasoning would simply be excessive, much like reminding in-laws there will be as little contact as possible for the entirety of the visit.)

“Are you going to just stand there trying to seduce me with your sweater or actually escort me to the car.”

Now Clyde immediately moved to escort her to the car, but her statement about seducing with his sweater would remain with him throughout the rest of his life, and for every day of his life thereafter he would wear sweaters—no matter the temperature of his surroundings. There should be some credit given to him for this action; it proves there is masculinity to him, even if it is deeply hidden beneath an a-sexual covering. But because he takes hold to the idea of seducing a woman and holds to that, it gives him man points, setting him at two tenths of a point once those are subtracted for his unreasonable fashion sense that develops with his wearing of sweaters—matching colors and the such. Especially when he sinks to purchasing the diamond patterned sweaters in pink and green. Even god almost turned his back on him, but that would only be because he saw the same form of metro-sexuality in Lucifer. But what is there to say for him other than he looks good in a nice red leather suit, at least there is a nicely shaped body beneath it.

Needless to say, the first date for Becky and Clyde was not one of great romance, and they did not suddenly fall deeply in love, but each felt slightly inclined towards the other. With Clyde this would make perfect sense, for Becky was quite the attractive girl; beautiful golden curls falling gently about her shoulders—with the same volume and curves that could be attributed to her figure. It was enough to set off normal men, that is to say Clyde found himself partially attracted to this physical appearance, for his mind—stuffed as it was like the pages of an encyclopedia—had little space for the processing of beauty. As for how the bodacious blond could ever see anything in the frail, green-eyed, mousy-haired geek; that is a bit more confusing, perhaps it could be traced to the one full sentence Clyde spoke the entire first evening of the date (the fact he spoke so little would probably have proven detrimental if it were not for the fact this was a double date, and Becky and the other couple were great friends, and were discussing social things that did not concern the opinion of the geek.)

“I would like to thank you for acquiescing to this conjoining of our time and activity for a brief span of time this favorable evening; I found it quite enjoyable, and hope you found some pleasure in our time as well.”

It was Clyde’s luck that Becky had a thing for well-spoken young men, and when she had previously planned to have her re-entry to her abode be their final parting, this beautiful phrasing struck deep chords within her and she did what was previously unimaginable: she asked for a second date.