( imagined you saw me ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
imaginedyou) wrote2007-09-20 10:29 pm
imaginedyou) wrote2007-09-20 10:29 pm
Entry tags:
interlude; original (schoolgirls i.)
So, uhm. WIP, (two female) original characters (unnamed thus far). Just over 1000 words for this part. Second person POV, and I guess if you're interested I'd just like a bit of feedback on a (very) different style. It's been a long time since I tried to work with original characters :) No obligation of course!
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i. this road
Upon waking the moments seem to speed past you ever faster. From realising the clock is wrong - too late, too late, the time should not be so far ahead so fast, already! - to scrambling out of bed, tripping up amongst the sheets, tangled feet twistingspinningcatching, reaching for a hairbrush, toothbrush, a bra, a support to stop from falling down; in order of priority - you must get to school before the bell rings, you must youmust!
The mirror waves goodbye without so much as a glance in it to check the scarecrow's nest of hair; pieces sticking up out of place, shirt buttoned up incorrectly, under the school blazer, hidden indefinitely, shoelaces not tied and not to become tied until there is a spare moment, a spilt second in which you can find a chance to take an extra breath outside of time, to do the things that most mornings seem of the utmost importance to do and to tidy and keep right before walking out of the door - regular-pacing, short but quick, firm steps in shoes that are not scuffed and not a danger to oneself should you choose to break into an unnecessary run because the time is of no essence; the time, the time is fine as it should be, your watch ticking at normal speed. Unlike today when it seems to speed up, more like a bomb just waiting to go off and warn you of the danger, coming ever closer to that line, that number, that moment when you'll be officially late.
You don't notice you are breathing faster, harder, gripping the handles of the bike you would never normally use because you are never normally late, and especially not on the first day of school - what would mama say? - the bike that is not yours, that your brother may just throttle you for borrowing should he come home early from work before you are home from school and just maybe find out. But he shouldn't, he can't, he won't, because you'll be home on time, you won't get detention your first day back, because you'll be on time; you have the bike. One, two and three and you push off with your feet and the pedals circle round faster and faster with each revolution, the bumps in the road like small waking jolts to bring you to this time of morning when you would usually be that little bit more alert, pebbles, stones, nicking at the tyres on the wheels and making your skirt ripple in the gathering wind.
Down the road, down the hill, no need to pedal any longer as gravity does it work but your feet can't seem to stop moving, encouraging you ever-onwards, insisting you will not be late. No cars block the way and your bicycle edges it's way into the centre of the road, bump, bump, jolt, jolt, a hiccup here, a chunk, a part missing of the road just there. Your eyes are on the road, out ahead, down in front, checking for small things that may get caught up and throw you off course, checking for something slippery, or debris that may fly up and blind your way. You know you've been running on extra, super speed in order to catch up the day and start the right way but you don't realise just how hard and how fast and how high you are going-
A girl, this girl, some girl is standing in the middle of the road, arms outstretched, rucksack hanging over her arm by one measly strap, and she's wearing the same uniform as you, somewhat. The blazer is nowhere to be seen, the tie is loose around her neck and half-flung backwards (the strength of the wind, or is it 'loose like a noose'?), shirt untucked and skirt looking a lot higher than regulation will allow. You have your one blind moment of panic where you can't bring yourself to grip anything, grip the handlebars, reach for the brakes, put down your feet and use the damn ground to hold you back, but the moment passes and you swallow the lump in your throat as hard and as deep as you can and your fingers curl around the brake and pull gently, gently-gently until it's safe enough to squeeze. It's never safe enough to squeeze so hard your knuckles turn white, but you never notice them burning anyway.
"I wasn't looking to catch a ride, but if you're offering-" she says grinning, shrugs, tosses her bag over her shoulder and hops on behind.
Your mind splits into seventeen different pieces at once, all clambouring to make their own reaction. Your foot raises itself up back onto the pedal and pushes down.
"Uh," she says helpfully from behind, reaching around you to pluck your fingers from their death grip around the extended handlebar; your grip is death but her fingers are cold, "you can't really pedal and brake at the same time."
She doesn't seem the type to care about being late to school, not that you would make such an assumption as that based on a two second glance at her appearance, or her complete lack of mobility in any direction: especially in the direction leading to school even though when walking at a fast pace she would clearly now be admitted 'L', late. Not that you would even have a mind or a moment in which to think while attempting to get back up to the pace of before and make it into school in time.
It's moreso when you're locking up the bike with fumbling fingers and a padlock that won't click and a key that won't come away and stay in your pocket, when she stands not watching, not waiting, but not going anywhere either. Her back to you, her bag slipping down her arm until it thuds on the floor, accidentally, her fingers reaching insider her skirt pocket-
"Come on, we'll be late!" You cry, grabbing a handful of her fingers in yours, except it's more like two, or three, or maybe you take your other hand and fasten it around her wrist. With you running like a wildwoman she can't help but clutch for her bag and be dragged after. Your head echoes with the beat of two sets of footsteps pounding the concrete of the playground, smack and click and thud and stomp, until a ringing weaves it's way around your head and you have a moment of deathshockhorror that that's the bell and now that's it, you're officially late.
Until you realise it's not. It's just... She's laughing.
---
---
i. this road
Upon waking the moments seem to speed past you ever faster. From realising the clock is wrong - too late, too late, the time should not be so far ahead so fast, already! - to scrambling out of bed, tripping up amongst the sheets, tangled feet twistingspinningcatching, reaching for a hairbrush, toothbrush, a bra, a support to stop from falling down; in order of priority - you must get to school before the bell rings, you must youmust!
The mirror waves goodbye without so much as a glance in it to check the scarecrow's nest of hair; pieces sticking up out of place, shirt buttoned up incorrectly, under the school blazer, hidden indefinitely, shoelaces not tied and not to become tied until there is a spare moment, a spilt second in which you can find a chance to take an extra breath outside of time, to do the things that most mornings seem of the utmost importance to do and to tidy and keep right before walking out of the door - regular-pacing, short but quick, firm steps in shoes that are not scuffed and not a danger to oneself should you choose to break into an unnecessary run because the time is of no essence; the time, the time is fine as it should be, your watch ticking at normal speed. Unlike today when it seems to speed up, more like a bomb just waiting to go off and warn you of the danger, coming ever closer to that line, that number, that moment when you'll be officially late.
You don't notice you are breathing faster, harder, gripping the handles of the bike you would never normally use because you are never normally late, and especially not on the first day of school - what would mama say? - the bike that is not yours, that your brother may just throttle you for borrowing should he come home early from work before you are home from school and just maybe find out. But he shouldn't, he can't, he won't, because you'll be home on time, you won't get detention your first day back, because you'll be on time; you have the bike. One, two and three and you push off with your feet and the pedals circle round faster and faster with each revolution, the bumps in the road like small waking jolts to bring you to this time of morning when you would usually be that little bit more alert, pebbles, stones, nicking at the tyres on the wheels and making your skirt ripple in the gathering wind.
Down the road, down the hill, no need to pedal any longer as gravity does it work but your feet can't seem to stop moving, encouraging you ever-onwards, insisting you will not be late. No cars block the way and your bicycle edges it's way into the centre of the road, bump, bump, jolt, jolt, a hiccup here, a chunk, a part missing of the road just there. Your eyes are on the road, out ahead, down in front, checking for small things that may get caught up and throw you off course, checking for something slippery, or debris that may fly up and blind your way. You know you've been running on extra, super speed in order to catch up the day and start the right way but you don't realise just how hard and how fast and how high you are going-
A girl, this girl, some girl is standing in the middle of the road, arms outstretched, rucksack hanging over her arm by one measly strap, and she's wearing the same uniform as you, somewhat. The blazer is nowhere to be seen, the tie is loose around her neck and half-flung backwards (the strength of the wind, or is it 'loose like a noose'?), shirt untucked and skirt looking a lot higher than regulation will allow. You have your one blind moment of panic where you can't bring yourself to grip anything, grip the handlebars, reach for the brakes, put down your feet and use the damn ground to hold you back, but the moment passes and you swallow the lump in your throat as hard and as deep as you can and your fingers curl around the brake and pull gently, gently-gently until it's safe enough to squeeze. It's never safe enough to squeeze so hard your knuckles turn white, but you never notice them burning anyway.
"I wasn't looking to catch a ride, but if you're offering-" she says grinning, shrugs, tosses her bag over her shoulder and hops on behind.
Your mind splits into seventeen different pieces at once, all clambouring to make their own reaction. Your foot raises itself up back onto the pedal and pushes down.
"Uh," she says helpfully from behind, reaching around you to pluck your fingers from their death grip around the extended handlebar; your grip is death but her fingers are cold, "you can't really pedal and brake at the same time."
She doesn't seem the type to care about being late to school, not that you would make such an assumption as that based on a two second glance at her appearance, or her complete lack of mobility in any direction: especially in the direction leading to school even though when walking at a fast pace she would clearly now be admitted 'L', late. Not that you would even have a mind or a moment in which to think while attempting to get back up to the pace of before and make it into school in time.
It's moreso when you're locking up the bike with fumbling fingers and a padlock that won't click and a key that won't come away and stay in your pocket, when she stands not watching, not waiting, but not going anywhere either. Her back to you, her bag slipping down her arm until it thuds on the floor, accidentally, her fingers reaching insider her skirt pocket-
"Come on, we'll be late!" You cry, grabbing a handful of her fingers in yours, except it's more like two, or three, or maybe you take your other hand and fasten it around her wrist. With you running like a wildwoman she can't help but clutch for her bag and be dragged after. Your head echoes with the beat of two sets of footsteps pounding the concrete of the playground, smack and click and thud and stomp, until a ringing weaves it's way around your head and you have a moment of deathshockhorror that that's the bell and now that's it, you're officially late.
Until you realise it's not. It's just... She's laughing.
---
no subject
There were a few places where it felt jumbled, rushed, but I think that might have been something you were going for, just because of the nature of the piece so far.
It's so nice to read second person again; I absolutely love it (when it's used well!) and two girls, hehehehe. :D
Work on it more. :D
no subject
I think because it's me writing it I know how I would personally pace it when reading. And if it doesn't come across well enough, well I can adjust it in the future! :) That's why I like the opinion on things.
And I will work on it :P Shut up :P
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