Luppy story, i only wrote up to chap 5. this is chap 1 and 2 - Writers Forum

kkwriterchick · 08-24-2007, 11:58 AM

Chapter 1: Chuga-Chuga-Chuga
The endless repetition of the train echoed throughout my six-by-five roomette as I sat dreamily on the window seat, thoughts buzzing. Jet, my overly lazy feline (even for a cat), purred to the rhythm and beat of the train. I started humming in unison. Hum-hum-chuga-chuga-purr-purr. An unexpected grin escaped from my mouth, alighting the dreary room. “Come on, Jet,” I prompted, encouraged by my little musical moment. My thighs stuck momentarily to the sticky leather seat as I lifted a very unhappy cat into my arms.
I swung open the ancient wooden door as I chuckled to myself over how easy-going cats such as Jet could be at times. One cat treat would make everything all better for them. How I wish that same tactic worked for me. And believe you me, I’d certainly tried. (Obviously not with cat treats, but with something more suitable, such as a substance in the category of candy). Mostly the effect of stuffing Reese’s and Skittles down your throat when you’re upset is a little of a step backwards.
Just as I was making my way out into the hallway, something, or should I say someone, bumped abruptly into my side with the force of someone who was obviously aggravated about something or another. Turns out this afore mentioned “someone” happed to be a person, whose name I later found out, called Delilah. She had about three years against me, looking roughly eighteen years of age. I was fifteen; it had taken me the same amount of years to get there, but I was proud of finally being old enough to earn a little more freedom from my parents. Freedom that I no doubt would take advantage of as soon as the opportunity presented itself, but freedom nonetheless. “Oops, um, sorry,” I stuttered, my smile unfortunately coming to an end. The figure I had collided with was quite apparently preoccupied, complaining ruthlessly on her Razor cell phone that she was clutching to her ear. “My bad”, she muttered absently as she strode off. “No, not you!” she snapped at whoever was on the other end of her cell phone conversation. I shrugged good-naturedly; normally I would have been put in a sour mood by such an incident, but the aspect of escaping from my parents clutches, if only for a couple of weeks, was still fresh in my mind, affecting my disposition positively.
I looked down the isle at the rude stranger. She was wearing a pair of old, battered dark wash jeans that fitted her curvy figure nicely, and a plain gray hoodie sweatshirt. I found myself thinking that she must have been put in such an upside-down mood because of all of that clothing: she must be roasting under there. It was about 85 degrees outside, and the train’s clattering old-fashioned air-conditioning was amounting to nearly no affect. Her strawberry blonde hair was caught in a messy, falling-out bun on the back of her head. The sole thing that caught my attention was her distinguished American accent. She was a long way from home. But then again, so was I. When I wasn’t riding random trains with Jet (which happened to be most of the time, excluding now), I lived in Salem, Massachusetts, excluding the summer months, which I occasionally spent in my family’s vacation house in Maine. Just what was I doing standing about on the dusty wooden floor of some rattling train crossing the savannas of Africa, you ask? Even if you weren’t asking that particular question, I will conviently provide you with the answer. I was journeying on my way to a Wildlife preservation camp in Osogbo, Nigeria, for an internship and a “valuable, exciting experience”, or so says the pamphlet.
My parents say that they were willing to send me for the educational value, but I am quite aware of their ways; they plan on getting rid of me for the summer so that they can spent some valuable quality time together in Maine without the nuisance of me getting in the way. They’re ingenious plan was working so far. Personally, I am simply much too happy to be leaving. To be honest, I want to get away from the arguments with my parents that end with me grounded and both precipitants upset. Fights with my parents have been getting worse and worse lately; they can be so rude and closed-minded. This is only my first reason: I do have a more reasonable explanation to why I was so thrilled to be going to the camp. I’ve always been interested in animals, plants, and nature, ever since I was a little kid, and Jet was just a kitten. When I was educated on the matter of extinction, global warming, pollution, poaching, and the numerous other problems mankind has made for our beautiful earth, I was horrified. I resolved to do something about it. This was my chance. Also, exactly how many teenagers do you know who get the extraordinary chance to adventure to a foreign continent over summer vacation? Not many that I know, I assure you.
I strolled briskly down the isle to the baggage compartment that was located at the rear of the train, figuring that with my limited patience I would certainly burst if I didn’t get a chance to walk around and do at least something after all of those long hours of sitting and traveling. We, meaning the train and all of its contents, would soon arrive at the bus station, where I had strict instructions to board the appropriate bus that would give me a lift the few miles to Osogbo.
Spotting my translucent orange backpack with equally translucent pink flowers printed on it, I chucked it over my shoulder, momentarily upsetting Jet the cat, who was still enjoying relaxing in the nook of my opposite elbow. The employee that was currently stationed in the room was leaning against the wall, dozing and therefore failing to complete his task of making sure all passengers remain seated throughout the journey and to keep an eye on the luggage. The man had dark cocoa skin, implying that he was a native of the area. He looked a bit older than middle-aged, about fifty years old or so, dressed in a comical outfit made up of various mix-matched items of clothing, but he seemed at least moderately satisfied with life. I could tell this by the calm, peaceful look on his face and his stance in whole: I was normally at least somewhat talented in reading people, especially strangers. Sadly, this ability tended to wear off as I got to know the person, leaving me occasionally confused.
I smirked gently at the dear man and moved on towards the back of the room, lugging my stuff with me, to get a closer look at the environment through the dirt-stained window. When I peeked mildly out the window, I was surprised and enthralled at what I saw; the beautiful Niger River. The early afternoon sun shone brilliantly down on the vast body of water, making it shine as if it was on fire. I gasped openly, immediately scolding myself for doing so, lest the guard wake up and catch me in my mischievous doings of being out of my seat.
The river was still miles away, but it still beat any views I had from Massachusetts, that was for sure. I made a secret pact with myself to visit this glorious river as many times as possible during my stay at Osogbo, and as many other scenic places as possible along with that. If this trip was worth it, I would have a good many photos to show off to my friends back home. Figuring that the train ought to be arriving any minute now, I headed my to my seat, but not without a twinkle in my eye.

Chapter 2: An Evaporating Twinkle Replaced by

Jitters

If you happened to be standing on the platform of a train station, such as the one that had recently returned from crossing the northern part of Nigeria, on June twenty-seventh, two thousand and seven, you may have encountered a teenage girl (about fifteen) with shoulder length reddish-chestnut-brownish locks of hair pulled into a satisfactory ponytail. She is wearing slick, tight black capris paired with a moss green spaghetti-strap tank top and charcoal flip-flops, and looks somewhat flustered and befuddled after a long day of traveling.
This said girl would look somewhat like a deer, nervous and afraid to venture out to the unknown. Now look closer; do you see the obese black cat with yellow eyes she is cradling? Look closer yet; look deep into her forest green eyes. Is she just having first time jitters? Most likely that is the case. Nice work, detective. This girl is me. Charming outfit, eh? After all, first impressions are everything.
When the train first pulled into the station and I got out of the cart I realized that I didn’t know a single person for thousands of miles around. This is a bit of a soul crushing thought, as you would know if you have ever experienced this emotion. On the contrary, it was a magnificent chance to get a fresh start. I could be whoever I wanted to be; nobody knew a single detail about my personality at home. But still, would people like the old me? Would people like the new me? Would people like me if they found out the new me wasn’t really me? Or rather, the same as the old me?
I pondered these troublesome questions as I dragged along toward the exit, weary with unwelcome jetlag that seemed unavoidable at this point. I stopped stupidly right in the middle of all of the commotion of the train station, flexing the back muscles of my legs as I snatched a crumpled piece of notepad paper out of my pocket. Squinting at the bus number printed there, I tried to figure out where this bus could be found. It seemed nearly hopeless to find things here, with all of the signs in some un-identifiable language.
Through my mind’s eye I saw a book titled “Nigeria and its Culture” lying neglected on the buttermilk yellow patchwork quilt of my bed at home, tossed aside when I decided to skip out on getting some background information of the county I would be visiting in favor of going to the beach with my friends. In retrospect, maybe that was a bad idea.
I shook the image from my mind and decided that dwelling on the past wouldn’t help me in the future. So I mustered up a sizable amount of courage and took out my handy-dandy communicator booklet thingy I was handed on the train along with a couple of magazines and brochures. I bravely walked up to a lady who looked like she might work here (She was wearing a nametag that read “Suzanne” on her fancy blouse and a gray pencil skirt) and pointed to the picture of the bus stop sign on the booklet and then the numbers on my piece of paper, when I got her attention, hoping she would understand. At first she just gave me a quizzical look, but then she led me to a nearby sign that had the bus listings on it. “Thanks. Sorry to bother you.” I mumbled apologetically, feeling dumb for not noticing the sign before. “Your welcome.” the lady answered in broken English. I blushed madly as she walked away, wondering why I hadn’t used English to begin with. After all, English was the most widely spoken language in the world. Oh well, I thought, what’s done is done (again), and I had certainly learned my lesson.
I turned to face the sign, studying it until I found the correct bus. Triumphantly, I walked down the street to find the bus stop. Hopefully I wouldn’t mess this up, considering the bus stop was only a couple of short streets over.
Once I arrived I flopped down on the bench, sweating from the hot sun and the barely standable humid air. I dreaded the bus getting here, because if it were anything like the buses at home, which I guessed it would be, it would be even hotter in the bus than outside. I also noted that Jet, who despised hot weather more than any living thing should, was hissing for a drink.
I discreetly checked the time on my beaten-up cell phone, figuring that we had enough time for Jet and I to make a pit stop in the convience store directly across the street. Once in the store, I bought a cherry Popsicle for me and some bottled water for Jet. Out of the hazy glass window I spotted the large, boxy white bus rattling down the street. I smiled smugly, content that I had been correct about my predictions on how much time we had.
I had only been in the country for less than an hour, but already there were certain things that I couldn’t help but be impressed by in Nigeria; one being that pets were allowed in public places, such as trains and covience stores, without being in a carrier. Either that or the people here just weren’t as strict about it in general, I suppose. I sprinted across the dusty street, clinging jet to my side, my hair flopping around in the breeze, my backpack jostling about, my cherry Popsicle dripping sticky, bright red juice onto my hand. One way or another I managed to get onto the bus in one piece, sitting down with an exasperated huff.
I held the water bottle slightly at an angle for Jet to lap up, which turned out making a huge mess. Meanwhile my cherry Popsicle was melting down my other arm, making an even bigger, stickier mess. I used Jet’s water to clean off my arm. This obviously meant chaos for Jet; I had to give the water bottle back before he blew his top.
For the remainder of the short ride to Osogbo, a.k.a, the capital of Osun state, I gazed dreamily out the window, feeling my eyelids get heavy. In no time at all I could see the gigantic city coming into view, which made my jitters ten times worse. All of the usual symptoms of going to a new place were occurring; butterflies, lip biting, nervousness, anxiety, etcetera. I supposed that this happens to everyone, and I should just try to be myself, or a “new me”, or whatever. I figured that fretting would do me no good whatsoever, so I just tried to enjoy the view, which was easy enough with the looming skyscrapers and fantastic bridges and artistic sculptures of the city surrounding me. This place just seemed to keep on getting better and better.
We kept on driving past the entire city; it seemed we would never arrive. We drove down a long, dusty street until finally the bus squeaked to a halt in front of a concrete, official looking building on the very outskirts of Osogbo. I took a deep, calming breath. This was it. I took my sweet time gathering all of my stuff, trying to prolong actually going into the building. I knew that if I didn’t get this over with soon the driver, who was giving me dirty looks, would tell me to hurry up or he would drive away, so I stopped delaying and got off the bus. It zoomed speedily away and left me standing on the sidewalk.
I surveyed the building; it was massive, but only consisted of one floor. There was a thick, single blue stripe crossing the entire thing, with the words “Wildlife Preservation Center of Osogbo” printed neatly under a section of it. I wasn’t really all that impressed by this.
What did impress me was the huge garden blooming out around it. Or maybe the garden was there first and the building was built in the center of it? It certainly seemed quite possible, as the luscious garden seemed as natural as could be, containing several exotic trees.
Inspired, I briskly made my way towards the double doors before I could change my mind and flee. I swung open the double doors; only to see the rude stranger I had bumped into on the train typing wildly away on a Mac computer, which was sitting importantly on a modern desk in the exact center of the room.