I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that Jake offered us beer, though I wasn't so sure drinking while both underage and on school property was a wie idea. We were still potentially able to be found out by a staff member and it'd be one thing to explain why we're up here. It'd be another to explain why some of us were sipping beer. I shook my head at the offer. I'm sure those who enjoy it have their reasons, but anything that is made via hydrolysis and fermentation doesn't sound all that appealing to me. I don't eat a lot of cheese for similar reasons. Out of those of us on the roof, Jake is the one that still makes me a bit uneasy. I'm more or less fine with the others, though I still zone out when Sarah goes on about her games. His little display in the library earlier certain;y didn't help matters, dramatic as it was. I'm sure he's...fine, but I'm just a bit guarded when there's someone who is into books on the occult. I think I'd like this whole goth thing more if they were into Baudelaire or something.
I don't dislike Jake at all, I don't dislike any of us, I'm just not sure what to think about him. I guess I just don't understand that whole culture, much as how I don't understand Alena's love of athletics; I even went to a hockey game once to try and understand the appeal, but I had trouble following the match. But, that's probably one of the reasons why we're all here, or at least why we all come back. To understand life outside of our bubbles.
"Black leather and corsets? Sounds less like a dance and more like a way to get dermatitis...errr...a rash." I swear it's a reflex, using those pretentious bigger words. As if these guys are going to be impressed that I know a fancy way to say 'skin rash'. Not even doctors use dermatitis with patients. "And that's not even touching on the uncomfortable aspect." Comfort was a weird thing, everyone is comfortable in something else. For me, comfort was the navy blue sweater and jeans I was wearing today. Comfort was my stringy brown hair not being all dolled up. Sometimes I wish I had worse eyesight, just so I could go the whole nine yards with the brainiac cliche and walk around with glasses. Either way, this was comfortable, this sweater. Which was lacking in leather. "So...no thanks on that front, Jake."
I finished my cookie and moved on to the actual main part of my lunch. Yes, I like eating dessert first. There's no rule about when to eat certain meals or part of meals, it's why some places sell breakfast all day. Some students bring sandwiches or beer, some buy cafeteria food, but out of the lunchbox I carry around in my plain blue backpack I pull out a mesclun salad, which is really just a fancy way of saying a salad with a bunch of different leaves.
Midway through eating an arugula leaf, the door to the roof opens and for a moment I fear that the jig is up and the staff has come to confiscate the alcohol. Instead it was a girl; I'd never seen her around but then I'm not exactly familiar with a lot of the students; I'm not Ray or something. Alena and Jake were instantly welcoming, which honestly surprised me in regards to Jake.
"You're quick to invite her to the festivities, Alena. I wasn't aware this little circle was looking to expand." I didn't want to be overly rude to this new girl, but I was hesitant on inviting her to join us. I'm only now coming around to being comfortable in being myself around the group now, the last thing I needed was a potential interloper. God, that sounds so mean. I swear I'm not mean. "Plus isn't one red head bad enough?"
I think about giving a smile to indicate my joke, but I hate the way my incisors look, big and weird looking, so I don't smile, I just let the comment hang there in the air while I eat more of my salad.
Fabricant451
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STATUS: You'd think after like 15 years I'd stop feeling like a fraud when writing posts but I still do which is both a statement on my self confidence and a compliment to how good my partners are as writers 1 mo ago
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You'd think after like 15 years I'd stop feeling like a fraud when writing posts but I still do which is both a statement on my self confidence and a compliment to how good my partners are as writers
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Why are you talking about Final Fantasy 10 like that
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Final Fantasy 13 is a top five entry in the franchise but ya'll still ain't ready to have that conversation
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This Bears/Packers game is gonna make me believe in the power of Chicago Pope
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Look, I got lost on the way to getting some jajangmyeon and it'd be foolish to leave now.
Most Recent Posts
I went ahead and posted. Hopefully the terrible dialect I used won't cause problems.
Kaycee Barrow was staring into a mirror. Well, not a mirror exactly, but a portrait of herself given to her by another in a line of wannabe suitors. Of the portraits, the one she was currently staring at was far and away her favorite; it was the only one that, in her opinion, accentuated the emerald color in her eyes. Such a pity that the artist would forever be just a suitor. Silly repercussions. Back in the Barrowlands, it was required for Kaycee to lull the artists into obsessing over her; but here in this strange urban place, folks tend to get a tad angry when a corpse is discovered. From what she could tell, these people were in no short supply, but better to mingle as they say rather than consume. Even if the painter of this particular portrait was rather pleasant to look at.
Sighing, Kaycee turned to one of the small porcelain sculptures sitting on a desk in her room. The sculpture just so happened to also be of her. The scultptor was considerably harder on the eyes, but the work produced was worth it. Lining the walls and desktops of her room in the manor she now called home were various items all seemingly dedicated to herself, from caricatures to still lifes and everything inbetween. It'd be narcissistic if it wasn't a by-product of who she was. Or what she was, in this instance.
Yet, despite all the pieces of art, there was something sorely lacking. Kaycee couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she felt nothing from looking at replicas of herself, not any longer. Perhaps she needed new ones, new suitors. Or maybe she was growing tired of humans and their easily charmed brains.
A faint sound caused her pointed ears to prickle. A voice. Inside the manor, if her ears were to be trusted. That could prove to be slightly problematic. The gate and the door were locked, unless someone forgot, and a normal human wandering around was bad news. Such an intrusion had to be dealt with. It wasn't all bad, though. With any luck, Kaycee could have yet another devoted suitor to shower her with gifts.
Leaving her room, Kaycee headed for the stairs leading down to the main foyer. Adorned in a shimmering, flowing, emerald green dress, Kaycee stepped down the stairs, long red hair falling to just above her lower back; the hair was covering her sharp pointed ears. Her eyes saw a young-ish human. Woman.
"Ye cannae be here, childer," Kaycee spoke, her accent thick and sounding vaguely like a human Irish accent - though her accent was heavy her voice was considerably softer, non threatening, "Yer gonna make a right hames'a things if ye stay. Ye never came here, ye never saw inside, yer gonna go back rightways inta town and continue on with yer life. Understan, childer? Go on, then."
Kaycee descended the stairs, her steps slow and methodical, dress trailing along the ground behind her.
Sighing, Kaycee turned to one of the small porcelain sculptures sitting on a desk in her room. The sculpture just so happened to also be of her. The scultptor was considerably harder on the eyes, but the work produced was worth it. Lining the walls and desktops of her room in the manor she now called home were various items all seemingly dedicated to herself, from caricatures to still lifes and everything inbetween. It'd be narcissistic if it wasn't a by-product of who she was. Or what she was, in this instance.
Yet, despite all the pieces of art, there was something sorely lacking. Kaycee couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she felt nothing from looking at replicas of herself, not any longer. Perhaps she needed new ones, new suitors. Or maybe she was growing tired of humans and their easily charmed brains.
A faint sound caused her pointed ears to prickle. A voice. Inside the manor, if her ears were to be trusted. That could prove to be slightly problematic. The gate and the door were locked, unless someone forgot, and a normal human wandering around was bad news. Such an intrusion had to be dealt with. It wasn't all bad, though. With any luck, Kaycee could have yet another devoted suitor to shower her with gifts.
Leaving her room, Kaycee headed for the stairs leading down to the main foyer. Adorned in a shimmering, flowing, emerald green dress, Kaycee stepped down the stairs, long red hair falling to just above her lower back; the hair was covering her sharp pointed ears. Her eyes saw a young-ish human. Woman.
"Ye cannae be here, childer," Kaycee spoke, her accent thick and sounding vaguely like a human Irish accent - though her accent was heavy her voice was considerably softer, non threatening, "Yer gonna make a right hames'a things if ye stay. Ye never came here, ye never saw inside, yer gonna go back rightways inta town and continue on with yer life. Understan, childer? Go on, then."
Kaycee descended the stairs, her steps slow and methodical, dress trailing along the ground behind her.
I always preferred first person to third personally.
But now I gotta say I'm diggin ya'll's posts.
But now I gotta say I'm diggin ya'll's posts.
This sounds interesting. And I'll have to check out The Gamer too.
Man, I should've done a one sentence post. That would've been neat!
Today's word of the day is mimesis.
Worst gift I ever got, that stupid word of the day calendar; as if anyone is actually going to use those million dollar words and somehow manage to not make it sound like you're showing off. I used to try using the words on the librarians, but it only takes one instance of them smiling while staring dead-eyed towards you to realize when effort is being wasted. I normally have a fine rapport with the librarians, I think they're just grateful that a student actually helps out and handles some of the more...social aspects of the position. I'm on a first name basis with them and it always makes me sigh when I connect that fact with the thought that these aging school employees are, in all seriousness, probably the closest things I have to friends.
Though I guess that isn't exactly true in a technical sense.
Much like the idiom, I find myself at a crossroads. If I had to self identify I'd fall under the title of a brain, a poindexter, any number of synonyms; and while my academic record is certainly impressive, impressive enough to land me on the honor roll every semester thus far, I'm somehow not smart enough to hang with the smartest of the bunch. The problem is that though I'm an almost straight-A student (why I need to take an art class of all things to graduate is beyond me, thanks for tanking my grade point average, Monet), I am not in honors courses. A very selective lot, those courses and students. Because of this I find myself qualifying myself as the smartest person among the normals. And though I've never said that aloud, it comes across in my actions and so woe is me, too dumb for the geniuses and too smart for the averages. It only takes a week of eating alone in the cafeteria to realize you don't want to do that.
And so I found my way to the roof.
I didn't want to eat in the library office, listening to gossip heard on daytime talk shows, and I could do without the whispers behind my back, so the roof was practically my only option outside of going out of school bounds. I guess I lucked out since I wasn't the only one who sought the roof. While the librarians might be my closest friends, the so-called Cliqueless -not my first choice for a name but it'll do - make a decent case for themselves. Not including myself there are four others, each from a different walk of life. It's easy to get along with someone when you're not feeling obligated to prove how much more intelligent you are.
Today, like most days, I find myself on the roof with the other members, enjoying my grandma's baked sugar cookie when the final member, Madame Dork herself. I'm only half listening to her, the succulent taste and texture of my dessert holds more of my attention. Some crumbs fall onto the book I was reading, it's about anatomy, I've got a test at the end of the week, and quickly I brush them off before they fall into the center crease.
"I went to a dance once," I respond, catching the barest amount of what was being brought up, "But technically it was a wedding and I had to dance with my cousin because I wasn't allowed to just sit at the table. I've sworn off dancing ever since. Nothing against it, I just don't think gyrating around in close proximity to someone with a reliance on overpriced colognes while distorted sounds bounce around in a room with terrible acoustics counts as dancing." I stop to take a breath. That was a full few sentences. They must be rubbing off on me. I take another bite of my cookie before swiping away the crumbs and following my thought with another, this time with a mouthful of cookie. "Plus, my only understanding of dance comes from old musicals my grandma likes, and I'm not comfortable attempting that level of mimesis."
Take that, you stupid calendar.
Worst gift I ever got, that stupid word of the day calendar; as if anyone is actually going to use those million dollar words and somehow manage to not make it sound like you're showing off. I used to try using the words on the librarians, but it only takes one instance of them smiling while staring dead-eyed towards you to realize when effort is being wasted. I normally have a fine rapport with the librarians, I think they're just grateful that a student actually helps out and handles some of the more...social aspects of the position. I'm on a first name basis with them and it always makes me sigh when I connect that fact with the thought that these aging school employees are, in all seriousness, probably the closest things I have to friends.
Though I guess that isn't exactly true in a technical sense.
Much like the idiom, I find myself at a crossroads. If I had to self identify I'd fall under the title of a brain, a poindexter, any number of synonyms; and while my academic record is certainly impressive, impressive enough to land me on the honor roll every semester thus far, I'm somehow not smart enough to hang with the smartest of the bunch. The problem is that though I'm an almost straight-A student (why I need to take an art class of all things to graduate is beyond me, thanks for tanking my grade point average, Monet), I am not in honors courses. A very selective lot, those courses and students. Because of this I find myself qualifying myself as the smartest person among the normals. And though I've never said that aloud, it comes across in my actions and so woe is me, too dumb for the geniuses and too smart for the averages. It only takes a week of eating alone in the cafeteria to realize you don't want to do that.
And so I found my way to the roof.
I didn't want to eat in the library office, listening to gossip heard on daytime talk shows, and I could do without the whispers behind my back, so the roof was practically my only option outside of going out of school bounds. I guess I lucked out since I wasn't the only one who sought the roof. While the librarians might be my closest friends, the so-called Cliqueless -not my first choice for a name but it'll do - make a decent case for themselves. Not including myself there are four others, each from a different walk of life. It's easy to get along with someone when you're not feeling obligated to prove how much more intelligent you are.
Today, like most days, I find myself on the roof with the other members, enjoying my grandma's baked sugar cookie when the final member, Madame Dork herself. I'm only half listening to her, the succulent taste and texture of my dessert holds more of my attention. Some crumbs fall onto the book I was reading, it's about anatomy, I've got a test at the end of the week, and quickly I brush them off before they fall into the center crease.
"I went to a dance once," I respond, catching the barest amount of what was being brought up, "But technically it was a wedding and I had to dance with my cousin because I wasn't allowed to just sit at the table. I've sworn off dancing ever since. Nothing against it, I just don't think gyrating around in close proximity to someone with a reliance on overpriced colognes while distorted sounds bounce around in a room with terrible acoustics counts as dancing." I stop to take a breath. That was a full few sentences. They must be rubbing off on me. I take another bite of my cookie before swiping away the crumbs and following my thought with another, this time with a mouthful of cookie. "Plus, my only understanding of dance comes from old musicals my grandma likes, and I'm not comfortable attempting that level of mimesis."
Take that, you stupid calendar.
Seems neat
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