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Post by Bun on Nov 11, 2019 15:29:59 GMT
The skid of tires against the rough path filled the evening air. Roscoe could faintly hear it through the music in his Walkman. Some old shopkeeper had told him to be careful, that the brakes didn't quite work on the 'old piece of junk' he so kindly called the second-hand bike he was basically handing out for nothing. A steal, lacking any paint. He didn't need that or brakes. He simply put down his feet, scraping the ground, almost losing his balance, slowing down and speeding up as fate saw fit. Miraculously, he had yet to hit anything or anybody. Getting away from town was all that really mattered right now. He pedaled on, down a path that ran parallel to the shore.
Hitting sand and spraying it everywhere with his front wheel, he almost tumbled to a stop, somehow still upright by the end of it. The shore stretched out before him, the water dark. He was late for longing gazes at the sunset. The sky was navy blue bleeding into orange at the horizon, but the sun was way gone at that point. It was still pretty. He dumped his bike on the sand and sat down near it. With his headphones off, all he had was the sound of the waves, rushing against the shore. Out of his canvas bag, he fetched a thermos filled with apple tea and sipped from it, watching the sea without much interest. A boat, somewhere far from the shore, turned its lights on for the night.
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Post by Jay on Nov 11, 2019 16:22:20 GMT
Ernest used to collect brochures back when he traveled, when we was fresh out of college and pledged to find himself in the hills of Kanto and Johto and so forth. He had to keep something, and they were in every city, their pages a colorful assault of ads: restaurants here, mini golf courses there. A forest path on which to safely hike and avoid Ursaring, a fenced mountain overpass revealing an unforgettable view. He would always use them as jumping points for something more dangerous, immensely stupid, a supplier for his adrenaline-hungry young brain. His hands still grew weak just thinking about the time he climbed that crag on Mount Silver and looked down at the treetops that watched him, a patient audience to what was sure to be a snuff performance. Only a few years later he became a dad, and the idea of risking his life for fun became hard to stomach.
He held a cigarette in one hand and tried to split the brochure with the other, throwing all the insults he could to a bundle of paper. It was one of many pamphlets he found in the lobby, and the first page told wonders of this beach at sunset. Ramona wasn't so interested, so here he was alone. There was a time when Ramona was eager to do even the most mundane things with him, when she was small and would tug on the end of his shirt and would greet any stranger that happened to make eye contact with her.
He sighed, pressing the cigarette to his lips. He claimed often that he only smoked when he was stoic, when something significant was happening and he didn't know how to deal with it. It was a wan effort to romanticize a bad habit. Ramona would slap it out of his hand if she spotted him right now.
What remained of the sun splayed its arms across the horizon, a wheel on some massive, invisible unicycle, and in its center was the silhouette of someone sitting on the beach. Perhaps it was a woman for him to start anew with, and this was the first page to one of those novels his mother used to read. He smirked to himself. All these years as a bachelor were really poisoning his brain.
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Post by Bun on Nov 11, 2019 18:59:16 GMT
Wind was blowing in from the sea, messing up his mess of brown hair. He squinted his eyes, fixing them haphazardly on the dimming line of the horizon, while he could still make it out. Being here was pointless, on this beach and on this island, he found himself feeling. It wasn't a particularly pleasant feeling. He shook it off with another sip of tea, setting the Walkman by his crossed feet and plugging out the old headphones from it. Another nice trinket he'd gotten while scouring for second-hand anythings. He had a bit of a thing for those.
He emptied out his bag on the sand - mostly tapes, with varying degrees of overtime damage. Probably too many of them for a normal person to carry around, somebody had once pointed out to him. He was trying not to think about that now. The titles, written in worn-out sharpie, were hard to make out. Not like he really wanted to read whatever his cheesy twenty year-old self would name any of these. Some of the titles were noticeably blacked out, a single word blotted out across all of time and all of music.
Roscoe picked one at random, one that didn't have that mark. He might (definitely) not be ready for one of those. The wind was picking up as he shoved the tape inside the Walkman and pressed 'play'. 'Do Nothing'. Good, casual. Didn't bring back any sour memories. Didn't have the age to. He threw his head back in the sand. There was nothing left in him to care if he got some in his hair. Soon the sky would be the same color as the sea, but that didn't really matter to him.
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Post by Jay on Nov 11, 2019 22:49:40 GMT
It became clearer as he walked forward that it wasn't some mermaid, that he was just some crazy sailor lost at sea. Still, he drew on, reached into the backpack he had slung over one shoulder. His coat tails flapped in the sporadic gusts, leaving plots of scattered sand across the fabric, compounded only as he sat next to the man.
"Another wayward soul, huh?" he asked. He withdrew a beer from his bag and presented it to the man. "I thought there were only kids on this island, to tell you the truth. Maybe only in that city." Without waiting for him to take it, he placed the beer between them and took out one of his own. "I hope you don't mind me intruding. I feel like I haven't interacted with anyone since I've gotten here. That's not in my blood, to be the odd man out."
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Post by Bun on Nov 13, 2019 19:25:52 GMT
Roscoe jolted when he heard footsteps nearby. He must've gotten too lost in his own head, musing over stuff that he didn't quite leave behind back home. He didn't protest when the stranger sat down besides him - didn't have much to say anyway. Taking another sip from his thermos, he stared down at the beer can and went through the entire list of promises he had made to himself since arriving. That he wasn't going to drink anymore. That he wasn't the same guy that left.
He screwed the cap back on the thermos and shoved it in his bag. One couldn't hurt. The label was unfamiliar, following the pattern of the past few days. "Cheers." he replied to all of it, casting the first real glance at who was besides him. Should he even try to recall the face later? The beer was bitter and he remembered just how badly the taste irked him, but that didn't stop him from drinking. "I'm an awful talker, mind you." he said, snorting without much humor, trying to focus his attention on the alcohol. "Either me or the sea, I suppose."
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Post by Jay on Nov 13, 2019 19:43:13 GMT
"You seem fine to me,"[/color] Ernest said, squinting at the horizon. The sun was pretty much entirely gone, leaving strands of orange and maroon and purple in the sky like ribbons, strung for giants the size of planets. How big was Arceus again? "Your accent sounds Unovan,"[/color] he said, his voice warped through the mouth of his bottle. "What brings you to this place?"
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Post by Bun on Nov 15, 2019 16:31:38 GMT
Did he seem fine? Huh. He nursed his free beer and tried to fix his eyes on something far away, listening to the music still playing with a straining intensity. "So do you. Does it matter?" Ross replied, not meaning to sound quite as cold or defensive as he had. Thoughts of home were threatening to come back and he tried to keep them at bay with more to drink. He'd sworn himself sober and just how little he was sticking to that promise made him dully anxious.
"It doesn't." he answered his own question, taking in a deep breath. Calming down. "Do you know why you're here?"
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Post by Jay on Nov 16, 2019 5:11:31 GMT
"My daughter wanted to go," Ernest said. As he finished his bottle, he pretended to aim it at the sun and contain it in the glass. "Truth be told, I did too. I never did any of that Pokemon adventure stuff. I am doing it now. Do you have a kid?" The question came so rapidly off the last one. He wasn't sure if he would relate with him better that way; truth be told, all the fathers in Unova were always more proper than he was, suited men in big city jobs. As Ramona's mother was. Ernest painted houses. Ramona used empty paint buckets as drums for an elementary school talent show.
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Post by Bun on Nov 18, 2019 20:08:01 GMT
Ross felt hollow for a moment. For somebody as tall as he was, he felt pathetic and small, shrinking in on himself bit by bit. He was slower with his drink, but not out of some desire to savor it. "Back in Unova." he said, with no particular emotion evident. "She just turned four. They grow up fucking fast." Hugging his knees to his chest like some overgrown, sad teenager, he took a long sip of beer. Preparing to say something meaningful. There was a time where putting words and feelings on paper was his whole thing, people even said he was good at it. "It's a lot. I'm not good at talking about the past."
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Post by Jay on Nov 19, 2019 17:23:17 GMT
Four. It was eons ago that Ramona was four. It didn't help that he had a child at just twenty two years old. "My daughter is fifteen," he said. "It makes me feel kind of old." Thirty seven wasn't old, right? No matter how often he'd been on the receiving end of low-blow jokes.
It was well dark now. What a long day it had been. "I think it's time for me to head back to Huanglu City," Ernest said with a stretch, stumbling to his feet on the volatile sand below his feet. Sand clung to his pants, even as he dusted it off. "I wish you well, ..." He paused for a name he didn't have.
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Post by Bun on Nov 26, 2019 20:19:22 GMT
The wind was picking up. He didn't know how much longer he would stay out, but the lack of light wasn't a problem. Going back to his new apartment in Kikokawa would have felt as homely as staying on the beach all night. He was beginning to regret taking the beer as the stranger sat up. Drinking alone reminded him of himself. For a moment, it was only him, that blasted wind blowing sand in his hair, and the sunless, moonless sky.
"Roscoe. Don't suppose I get one back?" he said, for the sake of being polite. And because he didn't know anybody.
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