Post by ZBerg2.0 on Mar 18, 2010 19:00:36 GMT -5
So, I want to be an author when I'm older, and this I consider one of my best pieces, in progress. Well, all my pieces are in progress...I haven't actually written any full books yet. xD
I also have some more to add on to the end written in a notebook...but it's at school. xD
I'll try to bring it home some time and write more on it. (;
So anyway, I present...
*drum roll*
THE UNTITLED STORY!
Chapter 1
Spring has come around early this year.
On only March 13, the air outside is balmy, and 68 degrees. The sun is shining, flower buds are peeking out from underneath dew drops, bees and other annoying bugs are buzzing and fluttering around. And so I’m sitting at Hudson Springs, at the outlook, (which, by the way, hardly even looks out over the lake-it’s mostly hidden by a thin layer of trees) admiring the way the sun glances off the water, which it hasn’t done since last summer, when what I’m totally not expecting happens.
Suddenly I’m completely drenched.
“April Fools!” David Tallerman shouts, leaping from a clump of bushes, the obvious culprit with a large, dripping bucket.
I shriek and wring my hands, the humid, warm air suddenly freezing. “David!” I screech. “I am so going to kill-“
Magically, he produces another water-filled container and flings the bucket in my direction, covering me in a fresh wave of ice-cold water. He laughs hysterically and dashes off back into the woods.
I scream once more in frustration, before yelling after his retreating form, “It’s not even April Fool’s Day!”
I happen to be wearing flip-flops today, which aren’t exactly the best type of running shoes. But, despite my shoes, I pursue David. I’m actually not far behind him, and definitely not too far to hear him laughing his head off. But apparently it’s contagious, because before long, I’m snickering, too. Quite loudly, I might mention.
Finally, when we’re back at the playground part of the park, we’re both panting heavily. David plops down on a swing and I follow suit. We both catch our breath for a while, before David says, “You’re a pretty good runner.”
I look up at him and smile. “You’re a pretty good runner too.”
He shakes his head and grins. “Nah.” Now I’ve just realized that when he shakes his head, his hazel locks whirl around with his head and then fall back into place slightly messed up, in a hard to explain way.
“You are!” I insist, raising my eyebrows and widening my eyes for emphasis.
He mimics me, only doubling the size of mine until he looks crazy. I giggle and claim, “No, seriously.”
“No, seeeeeeriously.” He’s imitating me again, and I realize that as he says this, I’m watching his lips, imagining what it would feel like to press them against mine-
Oh, my God. I do not like David Tallerman.
That was, um, using my imagination.
And by the way, when you hear “imagination” you have to picture Spongebob creating a rainbow with his hands and going, “Imaaaaaaaaagination.” If you know what I’m talking about, and are a complete dork for watching Spongebob, like me.
I push the thoughts from my mind and shove him. His swing rocks to the right and then bangs into mine, but with more deliberate force. “Hey!” I cry. I beget my swing to sway back towards his, until we have a little swing fight going on. He widens his eyes at me again, and in my mind I repeat persistently, We’re just friends, we’re just friends, we’re just friends, we’re just friends- Oh, God, why must his eyes be so blue?
Soon we stop and just sit staring at each other, first in a mocking, playful way, but soon the laughter dies and we are just plain, well, staring. I am staring intently at his blue eyes, and he carefully avoids my gaze. I notice his eyes keep flickering downward; I look down and am suddenly painfully aware of how visible my bra is, under my wet shirt, which is pink. Pink is very see-through when it gets wet.
My bra is white, but has little pink polka dots, which unfortunately are quite noticeable. I blush deeply and cross my arms over my chest.
My chest is not huge, but I have kind of budded since the beginning of 7th grade. My friends and others in my grade (not counting Andrea Relli, who is probably like, bigger than a C cup) can all barely fit into an A, whereas I am stuck in an awkward place between an A and a B. I have both, where I wear As set at the last hook at the end, to make it looser, and in Bs I hook the very first hook, to make it tighter.
Today I am wearing one of the As, which because it is a tad bit tight, makes my chest looks a little bigger than normal. This realization, of course, just embarrasses me even more, and I adjust my arms so they cover most of my chest.
Not that I would rather have a puny chest, but you know, bras are always just kind of awkward with guys. When they notice, and all. Not that they would expect you to not wear a bra, but I mean, they look kind of surprised when they see that you actually wear one. Or something. It’s not like I would know.
So anyway, now he is blushing, becoming conscious of the fact that I have caught him bra-staring. I actually have to stifle a laugh at this, which causes my face to go kind go kind of pink again. Great. Now he is probably under the impression that I am blushing because I caught him.
God, this is so complicated. And we’re not even talking.
I also have some more to add on to the end written in a notebook...but it's at school. xD
I'll try to bring it home some time and write more on it. (;
So anyway, I present...
*drum roll*
THE UNTITLED STORY!
Chapter 1
Spring has come around early this year.
On only March 13, the air outside is balmy, and 68 degrees. The sun is shining, flower buds are peeking out from underneath dew drops, bees and other annoying bugs are buzzing and fluttering around. And so I’m sitting at Hudson Springs, at the outlook, (which, by the way, hardly even looks out over the lake-it’s mostly hidden by a thin layer of trees) admiring the way the sun glances off the water, which it hasn’t done since last summer, when what I’m totally not expecting happens.
Suddenly I’m completely drenched.
“April Fools!” David Tallerman shouts, leaping from a clump of bushes, the obvious culprit with a large, dripping bucket.
I shriek and wring my hands, the humid, warm air suddenly freezing. “David!” I screech. “I am so going to kill-“
Magically, he produces another water-filled container and flings the bucket in my direction, covering me in a fresh wave of ice-cold water. He laughs hysterically and dashes off back into the woods.
I scream once more in frustration, before yelling after his retreating form, “It’s not even April Fool’s Day!”
I happen to be wearing flip-flops today, which aren’t exactly the best type of running shoes. But, despite my shoes, I pursue David. I’m actually not far behind him, and definitely not too far to hear him laughing his head off. But apparently it’s contagious, because before long, I’m snickering, too. Quite loudly, I might mention.
Finally, when we’re back at the playground part of the park, we’re both panting heavily. David plops down on a swing and I follow suit. We both catch our breath for a while, before David says, “You’re a pretty good runner.”
I look up at him and smile. “You’re a pretty good runner too.”
He shakes his head and grins. “Nah.” Now I’ve just realized that when he shakes his head, his hazel locks whirl around with his head and then fall back into place slightly messed up, in a hard to explain way.
“You are!” I insist, raising my eyebrows and widening my eyes for emphasis.
He mimics me, only doubling the size of mine until he looks crazy. I giggle and claim, “No, seriously.”
“No, seeeeeeriously.” He’s imitating me again, and I realize that as he says this, I’m watching his lips, imagining what it would feel like to press them against mine-
Oh, my God. I do not like David Tallerman.
That was, um, using my imagination.
And by the way, when you hear “imagination” you have to picture Spongebob creating a rainbow with his hands and going, “Imaaaaaaaaagination.” If you know what I’m talking about, and are a complete dork for watching Spongebob, like me.
I push the thoughts from my mind and shove him. His swing rocks to the right and then bangs into mine, but with more deliberate force. “Hey!” I cry. I beget my swing to sway back towards his, until we have a little swing fight going on. He widens his eyes at me again, and in my mind I repeat persistently, We’re just friends, we’re just friends, we’re just friends, we’re just friends- Oh, God, why must his eyes be so blue?
Soon we stop and just sit staring at each other, first in a mocking, playful way, but soon the laughter dies and we are just plain, well, staring. I am staring intently at his blue eyes, and he carefully avoids my gaze. I notice his eyes keep flickering downward; I look down and am suddenly painfully aware of how visible my bra is, under my wet shirt, which is pink. Pink is very see-through when it gets wet.
My bra is white, but has little pink polka dots, which unfortunately are quite noticeable. I blush deeply and cross my arms over my chest.
My chest is not huge, but I have kind of budded since the beginning of 7th grade. My friends and others in my grade (not counting Andrea Relli, who is probably like, bigger than a C cup) can all barely fit into an A, whereas I am stuck in an awkward place between an A and a B. I have both, where I wear As set at the last hook at the end, to make it looser, and in Bs I hook the very first hook, to make it tighter.
Today I am wearing one of the As, which because it is a tad bit tight, makes my chest looks a little bigger than normal. This realization, of course, just embarrasses me even more, and I adjust my arms so they cover most of my chest.
Not that I would rather have a puny chest, but you know, bras are always just kind of awkward with guys. When they notice, and all. Not that they would expect you to not wear a bra, but I mean, they look kind of surprised when they see that you actually wear one. Or something. It’s not like I would know.
So anyway, now he is blushing, becoming conscious of the fact that I have caught him bra-staring. I actually have to stifle a laugh at this, which causes my face to go kind go kind of pink again. Great. Now he is probably under the impression that I am blushing because I caught him.
God, this is so complicated. And we’re not even talking.
