Maxi BellclaireOnce Upon a Time
The widening of Maxi’s lips attempted to usher in the impression of approval. Satisfaction was rewarded for Dexter’s commentary, assumingly from the empathy he shared with him regarding the redhead’s opinion. If there was anything that the blue-haired boy enjoyed, it was a story written differently from most if not all others: uniquity; a painting utilizing the more unpopular colors and themes originally taboo or avoided by literary artists. Bonus points if it were an abstract that required the eyes of an advanced reader.
Maxi enveloped his works with themes and plots otherwise untouched because he found beauty in this difference that set one’s writing apart from another. It throws a reader into a situation they know nothing about, and as a result will be educated, entertained and left asking questions due to the plot’s unpredictability. This story, “Wired”, is one of few to introduce a plot in the eyes of who would traditionally be the antagonist: a serial killer, as the protagonist. It wasn’t that Maxi empathized with psychopathy- goodness no, never could he ever. The male’s intrigue in this story was the opportunity to delve, hopefully lacking stereotype and bias, into the mind of a killer plagued with a natural-borne ailment of the mind.
Thump, thump, thump. The cogs of his heart were turning and grinding, animatedly working a rigged hammer to his chest with eagerness to taste and savor the rest of this story’s plot. Maxi didn’t think he’d end up selecting a book that’d inspire such a powerful impatience; and in public no less. Maxi would rather feel such a way in private as to not be inflicted with hesitance from embarrassment. Unlike most people who exposed themselves to more taboo practices of releasing their daily dose of dopamine, Maxi only had to simply caress the surface of a good plot.
”That makes the both of us then. I’m glad to see another person who appreciates the less traditional and more original twists,” he praised the male’s tasteful culture in stories. ”It’s often difficult to find texts such as this among such a vast collection of cliché.” This note of his was made more apparent by the size of the library they found themselves in full of said material.
As engaged as the author was, the discussion was unable to distract his senses from the sound of footsteps and a gradually increasing presence. There was some company, however he was uncertain of who they were and doubted they had business with them. Likely, they were mere library goers seeking out a place to sit and enjoy a story of their own. Hopefully, whoever the sources of these footsteps were, they were less than inclined to read or sit in the presence of others. It would make their read and discussion process a little more challenging in terms of having to control their volume further. Mysteriously, sound was unable to travel very far throughout the library and couldn’t pass through bookshelves; almost as though each work area had their own sphere. However, one could undoubtedly hear another within these areas.
”The first chapter was graphically detailed… it was a bit difficult to stomach actually. The author did a wonderful job with a scene of such grotesque nature, and I can tell it vaguely suggests some sort of mental dysphoria occurring in the main character’s head. This will definitely turn out to be psychological,” he continued, choosing to ignore the approaching presence as their activities were none of his business; and his back was turned to the direction in which said party approached, so it’d be odd if he attempted to turn to observe.