mojo-oyedeji

[mojo-oyedeji]

A Really Hot Day.

The hallways of Evergreen Academy were bustling with life, except for the one that led straight to the greenhouse. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the completely glass atrium, heating up the ground to near unbearable levels, and making Cassius all the more annoyed with his companions to his botany class with Miss Delaney.

He could feel the sweat soaking into his uniform and melting the gel in his hair as he scanned the spacious hallway for an escape. There was zero reason for it to be so hot. English weather always got more drab and dreary during autumn, which was the season they unfortunately found themselves in, not happier.

The sun felt like it increased the intensity just to spite him. He felt like pulling out a bag of buttered popcorn to spite it back.

A deep, feminine voice with a Yorkshire accent brought him out of his annoyance.

“She’s sooo fit,” Gen Breckenridge said from beside him.

Gen had long, shiny brown hair that seemed to blow in the most cinematic way whenever the lightest breeze blew by. She also had some of the bluest eyes he had ever seen, only edged out by a mutual friend, Charles.

And Cassius had only ever met one other person who hated their full name like Gen did. Her full name was Genevieve, which was nowhere near as bad as ‘Edgar’, the second person he knew. She hated it anyways, and would sock anyone who called her that in the jaw, unless they were a teacher.

“Gen,” Cassius groaned, “sock it about Helena for a second.”

“Shhh!” She hissed. Her face cheeks were a light shade of red. “Don’t say her name out loud! What if someone else heard you!”

“No-one else is here, Gen,” Lisette Mistry said from beside Gen. “Relax.”

Lisette was Gen’s roommate. Even though it physically pained him to say so, Lissy was the George to Gen’s Cassius. Aside from a few differences in the thickness of their eyebrows, the bridges of their noses and their ears—Lissy had thicker eyebrows and a stronger bridge, while George had slightly bigger ears—Lissy and George looked very vaguely alike: short brown hair, brown eyes, fair skin, and long, long necks.

George even had a growth spurt recently, finally making him taller than Cassius and everyone else in their eight person friend group. So in revenge, Cassius took to calling him a giraffe.

He chuckled a little as he imagined George telling him to shut up in his Californian accent. Warmth spread through his chest as he then thought of George’s stupid little smirk that lit up Cassius’ day, and the sparkle of his eyes whenever Cassius said something that George found remotely funny, and the way his heart would flutter any time George laughed.

Even though he was a sweaty mess, the warmth he felt relaxed his muscles and brought a small and slightly dumb smile onto his face.

Thank goodness I have my next class with him, he thought. I get how Gen feels. Maybe I should stop saying Helena’s name…

“Cass!” Lissy yelled right in his ear. Her voice echoed around the atrium. “Were you listening to a word we were saying?”

“Huh?” Cassius replied. “Sorry, but no.”

“Cass!” Gen admonished, rather dramatically. “This is serious. What do I do?”

“What do you do about what?” Cassius asked. The next word he said left his mouth before he could even stop himself. “Helena?”

Cassius slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Shhh!” Lissy and Gen hissed. Gen managed to get even redder.

“Gen,” Cassius started, “I’m sorry—”

Gen held up a hand to stop him.

“Can’t you understand why I don’t want you yapping about her name everywhere?” Gen asked, exasperated. She shook her head and scoffed. “I don’t even know why I thought you would understand. You wouldn’t.”

Cassius did understand, even though he only reached that understanding right before he opened his mouth.

“Gen—” Cassius started. But she was on a roll.

“You never think, Cass,” Gen sneered. “It’s always about Cassius Grey. It’s always about you. You’re a real arse sometimes. Do you ever think about how the things you say affect people?”

Cassius frowned. “I said I was sorry—”

“Apologies won’t change anything.”

“But—”

Cassius’ frown deepened. Gen always did this. He agreed she had a right to be upset this time, but she never let people finish their apologies and would ice them out for weeks after. Then when asked why, she would say they didn’t apologise. And she acted this way even when she was in the wrong.

“She’s sort of right, y’know?” Lissy said. “Saying sorry won’t change it.”

Cassius rather angrily noted Lisette would make matters worse by always agreeing with Gen. He understood, because he would do the same for George, and George would do the same for him. He definitely understood that some arguments needed to be let go for the sake of cohabitation, but Lisette took it to another level. No matter what Gen said, she would nod or give a word of support. At least he and George had limits.

What he couldn’t was understand why.

“Exactly,” Gen said. A smug smile stretched over her lips. “But I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything different.”

“Look who’s talking,” Cassius snapped. “Clearly you’ve lost the plot since you think I’m the self-centred one here.”

“I haven't lost the plot,” Gen replied. Her accent got thicker. “I just see things for what they are.”

Cassius’ annoyance mounted. He grumbled and fanned himself furiously. The warmth from before had turned into a fire, and definitely not a good one.

“By gum,” Gen said, fanning herself. “It’s maftin’ in here.”

“Oh, you’re just noticing?” Cassius snapped. “I guess you’re not just self-centred, you’re also daft.”

“Cass!” Lissy admonished. “Now you’ve gone too far.”

“Really?” Cassius said incredulously. “I’ll show you too far.”

He glared at them both and imagined Gen’s expensive leather tote bag bursting into flame. He would have imagined it blowing up outright, but he decided to be nice and give her a chance to put out the flames.

Gen and Lissy screamed as flames erupted from the bottom of the bag. Gen threw it on the ground.

“Cass, stop!” Gen yelled. She pulled out a short stick—her wand—from her blazer pocket and aimed it at the bag.

Cass folded his arms. “No.”

Gen and Lissy glared at him.

“Cass,” Lissy warned.

Cassius raised an eyebrow. “D’you want me to do the same to your backpack?”

Lisette gave him a hurt look, but still shook her head. She offered to try and put out the flames with her foot, but Gen held up a hand with a fiercely defiant look on her face.

Gen stared hard at the bag, said two words in French and a powerful blast of water shot out from the tip of her wand, dousing the flames that left only a small column of smoke to show they were ever there.

Then, as soon as the smoke cleared, Gen aimed the jet of water at Cassius, and kept it aimed at him for a long time. He was soaked from head to toe by the time the water had stopped.

Lissy and Gen chuckled with their hands clasped over their mouths as Cassius wiped the water from his face with a completely neutral expression, but his internal thoughts raged like the fire he now wished he set on Gen’s head.

Lissy noticed. He hated her empathetic magic, mostly because it meant he couldn’t keep a secret or lie. It would have upset him, but he wasn’t necessarily trying to hide his emotions at that moment.

“Okay, Cass, calm down,” Lissy pleaded. “Gen, let’s calm down. Dry him off.”

“Why should I?” Gen hissed. “He’s the berk here, not me. And I’ll definitely not dry him off if my bag’s damaged.”

“That ugly thing?” Cassius asked. “I’d be doing you a favour.”

Gen glared at him and aimed her wand at him again. White sparks blossomed from the tip, like she was charging up a firecracker. Cassius kept his neutral expression and kept calm. Electricity was connected to fire, and fire was one thing Cassius knew how to control well.

“Stop!” Lissy yelled. “Gen, just check your bag.”

Gen gingerly picked up her bag and noticed there was no damage to the ridiculously expensive leather. Cassius wished he actually made it a damaging spell, but the poor animal that died to make that ugly, green, monstrosity of a bag didn’t deserve to be further disgraced.

“Oh,” Gen said, turning it over. “My bag is fine.”

“So what exactly were you trying to tell me about Helena, again?” Cassius asked. His tone dripped with so much annoyance and anger it could’ve drowned all three of them in the hallway.

Wait, hallway, Cassius thought. I forgot about class. Shoot.

Gen opened her mouth, no doubt to hiss at Cassius for daring to mention the untouchable Helena Wallis by name once again, as if saying her name three times would summon her right from the middle of her arithmetics class—and he only knew that because Gen just had to tell both Cassius and Lissy about Helena’s daily timetable.

But Lissy read his mind and spoke before the sound could even leave Gen’s lips.

“We’re late for class,” Lissy said, panicked. “Miss Delaney is going to bury us under the yarrows!”

The three teens stared at each other in turn, and bolted down the way they were walking before. Gen pushed Cassius, which would have normally tumbled him to the ground, but his body had gotten far more solid over the summer, and he barely stumbled.

As the rush of movement pushed Cassius’ tie and hair around and made them flap in the wind, he couldn’t help but think of two things.

First, hanging out at lunch would be extremely uncomfortable until Gen calmed down or decided she needed something from him. Second, the water may have cooled him down from the heat outside, but it washed away all of his hair gel. His hair had already started sticking up.

He vowed to get Gen back for that.

#my ocs #my writing #writing #cassius grey #george and cass take on the world #argument #evergreen academy

[mojo-oyedeji]

Boom!

BOOM!

George looked up from the wires of the disassembled phone that lay in front of him. He had concentrated to finally crack its hard, plastic outer shell, but now his focus had shattered like the glass of the screen.

He glared at the door of his dorm room.

“Dammit, Cass! What did you do?”

His roommate, Cassius, ran into the room with dirty grey spots all over his face. George noticed it looked suspiciously like ash. Some of it coated his hair, turning it from light brown to almost black. All the hair product he had put into it earlier in the morning for school to tame it was gone.

George thought he looked very much like a scarecrow. A spooked one.

“Something accidentally blew up,” Cassius said, slamming the door behind him. “It wasn’t me though.”

George crossed his arms. “Then who was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cass—”

“Who even says ‘dammit’?” Cassius wondered. He played up his London accent for this bit.

“You’re so American.”

George rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

A stern male voice echoed through the halls of their school house.

“Cassius Grey!” Their assistant house parent, Flint Lockhurst bellowed. “Get down to this kitchen at once!”

Cassius’ mouth went into a small ‘o’, before he swore and bolted towards his wardrobe and shut himself in.

“George, you have to hide me!” He said, his voice muffled by the thick oak wood the door was made out of.

George groaned and face-palmed.

“I hate you.”

Careful to be light on his toes, George kicked the phone pieces firmly under the heavy wooden desk and plucked a red leather-bound book off of his shelf. The name, written on the spine in gold letters, was Marceline. The cursive style reminded him of his aunt; a tall, airy and rich Englishwoman, who introduced him to classics like the one he just picked up.

He settled himself into bed right on top of his dark brown, fluffy duvet, and opened Marceline to about three-fourths of the way through. If the plan to make him look studious was to be believable, he had to pretend.

I’ll just read the rest later, he thought.

He waited in faux contemplative silence until Mr. Lockhurst’s heavy footsteps paused for a moment outside his dorm room. A loud crack sounded before the door was forced open.

“Evening, Mr. Lockhurst,” he said, calmly, as if Lockhurst hadn’t just kicked a hole in his door.

Lockhurst was not-so-affectionately called ‘the Ogre’ by three-fourths of the boys in his house, Pendleton. Lockhurst had a chest the length of two wooden barrels, a head the size of a massive basketball—it was also completely bald, and it reflected all the light wherever he went to blinding proportions. He had massive tree-trunk-like arms and legs, and he was six-foot-four.

He sneered at George, his eyes bulging, face red, and teeth yellow.

“Do you want me to tell you about my book?” he asked with a touch of fake innocence. “It’s a rather riveting tale of—"

“Where. Is. Cassius?” Mr. Lockhurst punctuated each word with a grunt.

“I don’t know.” George took a breath. “Sir.”

“You liar!” he yelled. For such a big man, Lockhurst moved fast. Before George knew it, his house wear, a black t-shirt with blue sleeves and the school crest sewn on the left of his chest, was bunched up in Lockhurst’s hand by the neck.

Lockhurst shook him like a ragdoll and yelled in his face once again. George winced as he felt the full force of Lockhurst’s hot garlic breath right in his face, and droplets of angry spittle landed on his cheeks.

“I’m not lying,” he said, calmly. “He ran in here first and then ran off.”

“To where!”

George took a deep breath and closed his eyes. A flash of annoyance went through him.

“I don’t know,” he forced out through his teeth. “Now let go.”

George gripped Mr. Lockhurst’s thick wrist and twisted. The older man yowled in pain and dropped George onto the ground. He landed with a loud ‘oof’, right on his bottom.

“You…” Mr. Lockhurst spat. His eyes bulged further. He looked like he was going to burst. “You… Reynolds! I’ll get you!”

Lockhurst lunged towards George again, but suddenly, Cassius burst out of his wardrobe with a loud war cry.

“Yah!”

He jumped on Lockhurst’s back and sent them both tumbling to the hard and unforgiving blue carpeted floor of the room, with Cassius sprawled on Lockhurst’s back. He reached back, grabbed Cassius by his shirt and threw him to the ground. Lockhurst rose his fist over Cassius’s head, but George gave him a heavy kick to the head before he could swing.

Lockhurst collapsed on his back in a heaving, wheezing mess. His skin was red, and his eyes bulged. Veins were visible underneath his skin.

He screamed, and then exploded into a ball of pink, flesh-coloured confetti. There was no blood, nor gore.

George groaned. “We broke Lockhurst again! Look what you did!”

“Relax, yeah?” Cassius said. “We can put him back together.”

“The whole house probably heard.”

“Yeah, and they’ll probably thank us. No Lockhurst for a week.”

“But we’ll still have to answer to Mr. Isely-Lyle.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Cassius drawled in his London accent. “We’ll be fine.”

“If you get me in trouble…”

“No trouble. I owe you.”

#my writing #writing #just two silly guys #my ocs #cassius grey #george reynolds #george and cass take on the world #evergreen academy

[mojo-oyedeji]

The Sundial Express

Tick.

I check my watch.

Tock.

The minute's hand moves steadily towards 12. All is well.

Tick.

My left arm aches. My briefcase has not gotten heavier—the effort is just finally being felt.

Tock.

My foot begins tapping against the platform in a slow but steady rhythm, much like the ticking of my watch.

Tick.

Which is really beginning to grate on my nerves, now that I think about it.

Tock.

The absurdity of my situation slowly dawns upon me.

Tick.

I mean, standing on a moldy wooden platform, staring at empty train tracks waiting for some mystery train.

Tock.

A train that nearby locals have never even reported hearing. Of course.

Tick.

I huff in annoyance.

Tock.

Maybe this is all a fluke—

Tick.

I turn to leave.

Screech!

I freeze. A large tank locomotive is suddenly barreling down the tracks. But it seemingly has no intention of stopping.

A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s 2 past midnight. The train is 2 minutes late. But according to the face of the train, which is a… massive clock, it is 12 on the dot.

I frown.

I valiantly wave my free hand in an attempt to flag down the operator. Maybe they can’t see me.

I knew I should have worn my high-visibility vest.

But the train still goes thundering past, so fast that I am knocked over, flat onto my bottom. But instead of landing on a suspiciously damp bit of wood, I instead land on a plush, carpeted floor.

Confusion fills my brain and my vision is purely dark. I try to listen for the steady tick of my watch again.

TickTockTickTockTickTickTick—

Well, that’s of no use.

I am now aware that while one of my hands is (thankfully) still clutching my briefcase, my other hand is being gripped, tightly. My vision is slowly restored as the first thing I see is my feet, and the second thing I hear is an apology.

“Terribly sorry about that, miss,” a voice says. “At least I think you’re a miss. You could be a missus, and then I would be completely wrong…”

The second thing I see is now a face. I wish it was my watch.

“Are you a miss or a missus?” the voice asks, with a strange accent. It sounds like it’s from every time and every place. The face has shifted at least twice since I first saw it.

I yank my hand away from its grip. “That shouldn’t be important.”

“Ah yes, I am terribly sorry,” the voice says. “You see, one of my last passengers was affronted that I didn’t ask. And the one before that was… something else.”

An uneasy smile crosses its features, which have settled into a face that looks distantly like my 3rd cousin.

I think.

“But I have to address you by something. Can I at least have your name, then?”

I eye him suspiciously.

“Aya.”

“Aya!” he exclaims, happily. Too happy. “Welcome aboard the Sundial Express! My name is…”

He stops and looks at me. I raise my eyebrows.

“Your name is…”

He spreads his arms.

“Let me introduce you to the other passengers! We still have some time before our destination.”

I scoff. “You’re going to ignore me?”

“Ah, my name is not important on this journey. I’m sure you have more important things to be thinking about, Aya,” he says, eyeing my briefcase.

I narrow my eyes and angle my briefcase. Whether to hide it from him or to hit him with it is yet to be determined.

He begins walking and talking. My brain takes a little bit of time to catch up, and by the time I have, he’s already gone through the entire history of the train and the destination we’re heading to.

I don’t really care about that though.

Well, the history part is cool, because I think history is cool, but I am far more interested in my watch. It seems to be working perfectly fine, but as soon as it hits two successive Tick-Tocks, it goes haywire for four beats and then resumes.

It must be the effects of time dilation. Or at least that’s what I gathered should happen from all of the research I did before buying my ticket.

He’s still talking. I wish he would stop talking.

“Why was the train late?” I blurt out.

He stops dead in his tracks and slowly turns to look at me. I angle my briefcase, but this time it’s definitely to hit him, just from the look on his face.

“We were not late,” he states matter-of-factly, accent again sounding like it was from everywhere. “We are never late.”

I almost believe him.

“No, my watch says twelve-o-two when I even heard the train was coming. You didn’t even slow down!”

He taps my watch. “You need to fix that.”

Accent gone. Strange.

He continues walking. I warily follow him.

He leads me into a proper train car. There are four tables wedged between two cushioned seats for two each. All space except for one is taken, and all 15 pairs of seated eyes turn to look at me standing in the doorway.

Awkwardly, might I add.

Only one person reacts: a friendly-looking woman who offers a small smile and a wave.

She is also next to the open seat.

I force my face into a smile that mirrors hers. Her outfit reminds me of my elementary school history teacher. My smile feels more genuine as the memory floods back into my brain.

From the corner of my eye, I see him shift. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s noticeable enough to me. Now he looks like Mrs. Wright.

‘Mrs. Wright’ extends an arm to the seat and I, uncomfortably, walk towards it.

The friendly-looking woman scoots down to make some more room for my briefcase. As soon as I touch down on the cushion, she offers her hand with her smile still plastered on. It looks more plastic now that I’m face-to-face.

Across the table from us are two men. Well, at least one of them is a man. He looks far older than me, and the one sitting next to him is a boy. The boy stares at me intently, while the man gazes out of the window.

The air vibrates with discomfort. I take her hand for a shake.

“Nice to meet you,” I say with a smile. “My name’s Aya. What’s yours?”

“Zaniyah,” she says, reciprocating the smile. Her eyes seem to hold relief.

“That’s a very pretty name.”

She smiles, more genuine than before. “Thank you. Yours is pretty as well.”

A cough comes from the boy across. He points at my watch.

“It’s broken,” he says with a frown on his face as if that personally offended him.

“Yeah, it is,” I say lightly. He reminds me of my little sister.

“Why are you wearing a broken watch?” he asks.

“It wasn’t always broken. It broke just as I was pulled on.”

The older man scoffs. I narrow my eyes at him.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

Zaniyah rolls her eyes from beside me.

“Ignore him.”

The man scoffs again.

“Why haven’t you taken it off?” the boy asks.

“It was a gift,” I say. It comes to me as second nature. “A gift from a friend.”

He scrunches his face in thought.

“Is that person a good friend?”

“Yes,” I say with a wistful smile. “She is.”

“Is?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Why ‘is’?”

I smile fully, the wideness of which holds memories of the past and basks in the present. He really does remind me of my sister. And myself, once. Full of questions and never ready to settle.

But I don’t answer his question. My smile distracts from the emotions in my eyes. I’m not ready to confront that pain.

Not right now, at least.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Parker,” he says, with narrowed eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I spread my arms, mimicking ‘Mrs. Wright’.

“Anyone know how long until our destination?”

Parker rolls his eyes. “No. We need the Conductor to come tell us.”

And the Conductor does. This time, he looks solidly like no one I have ever seen before. A thick beard covers the lower half of his face, his eyebrows are bushy and quite frankly overgrown, and his eyes are crinkled at the corners, but his brown irises are filled with mirth. He is dressed in a simple shirt and trousers and a long, flowing robe is clasped around his neck.

The clasp is shaped like a sundial.

“Attention passengers!” he calls, voice booming. His strange accent was back. “We are about to enter a place where some of your wildest dreams may come true.”

The old man across from me sits up. Zaniyah’s attention was fully on the Conductor. Parker looks bored.

“You have exactly one hour to enjoy all that our destination has to offer. But remember, no-one who comes in ever leaves the same.”

He claps his hands. “Rise!”

We barely have enough time to follow his order, because the train starts fading from behind the Conductor into white mist. We scramble to stand as our seats disappear from under us. We are still standing and moving but on air.

“Remember to stick with your seatmates,” he calls, eyes glittering. “You are together for a reason. You may call if you need me!”

He also fades into white smoke. We are no longer moving, but we stand on solid ground while white smoke pools around our feet. I make eye contact with each of my seatmates in turn: first Zaniyah, then Parker, and then the old man.

The Conductor’s voice rings out one last time.

“Good luck!”

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#first post #my writing #my ocs #short story #fantasy #surreal #not the first thing i've written but the first thing I've posted #please be gentle