I have no idea what this is, but I wrote it a few days ago
I've been trying to get back into original fiction. Since I'm so stuck with fan fiction stuff, the transition has been rough, mostly because I have no ideas, or if I do have ideas they're pretty short-lived and I have no idea what to do with them. To get back into the swing of things, I've been trying to remember specific parts of my day and writing them in annoying prose.
She leaves the building, feeling relieved. Her bag swings by her side, hand wrapped around the strap. She smiles, brushes past people climb up the steps, brushes stranger’s shoulders, apologizes halfheartedly, talking just to talk. A pointer finger slides under the bangs that hides her left eye, flicks them up. They fall down seconds later, splitting into two sections above and below her eye: a window, strands, hair strands, strands of light.
Earphones clatter together; she puts the right one in her ear and twirls the left one in her other hand. She’s a twirler in her mind. She listens, but she doesn’t know what she’s listening to. It is habit, a façade of distraction. She doesn’t know why. She listens to noises outside with her left ear, her right ear buzzing with heavy bass, drum beats, strums of guitar. They merge together; life is a soundtrack of misplaced music, ironic choices, and sometimes the right ones.
She’s like a moth. Groups are her light.
There’s a preacher in the quad. She stands on tippy-toe. He’s yelling, pounding his staff into the ground. The staff has a cross on top. She thinks of pimps. He wears a sign. Her eyes catch “feminists.” She can’t hear anything. She sees mouths moving, people yelling. Shouts of an indiscernible language. Angry language. Sneering language. A guy in front of her throws hand signs - hook ‘em horns.
There’s a girl standing next to him, hip popped, and exhaling cigarette smoke, and she lazily holds the butt between two fingers. She’s like a movie. A guy stands behind the preacher, holds up a book. Satan something. He points at it and laughs because it is so ironic, like life’s soundtrack.
She idly remembers that there was a table of hookahs set up in that area two hours before. She hazily thinks of the smoke again. She remembers a guy making smoke rings. Puff, puff, puff. There is music, filled with drums and cymbals and tambourines. Two ladies, scantily clad in costumes with bells and beads and pretty colors that stick apart from gray concrete, skies. She admires their shoes, gold and strung together at the ankles, like goddesses. There’s one guy dancing, too, and he is wearing jazz shoes.
The preacher points at someone, yells in agreement. Yes yes yes, Jesus is Lord, yes yes yes. Fear, yes yes yes. He is love, says someone else. Another stamp of the pimp cane. Disagreement. A turn of the head, a glare. A lady stands on a concrete bench opposite, stretches her arms up like two tree branches, and screams it again. People laugh. She wonders who is being serious or if this is all one big act, trying to one-up the other who is trying to one-up the other who knows the other is trying to one-up the other.
She smiles, breaks free, and leaves it all behind.
... I strangely like it, as jarring and random as it is. It's a fun experiment. I'll probably do more. You should try it too. ;P
(By the way if you want the full story, we always have some Fundamentalist Christian at our school with these huge signs proclaiming that we're all going to hell. My school is pretty good at ignoring them, though that might be because they're here at least once a week. Sometimes a person tries to argue back. It can get pretty heated; police are called quite often. Some schools rally on spirit; my school rallies on vitriol.
On this particular day, we had a hookah bar advertise their bar by bringing a whole bunch of hookahs to the quad and performing some dances. In between that and the "rally" I had a class. When I exited, all the hookahs were packed up and the guy was there with a huge group surrounding him. I had no idea who he was arguing with or why 'cause a bunch of people were yelling. The guy was there when the hookahs were there but everyone ignored him for the hookahs. Hookahs.)
She leaves the building, feeling relieved. Her bag swings by her side, hand wrapped around the strap. She smiles, brushes past people climb up the steps, brushes stranger’s shoulders, apologizes halfheartedly, talking just to talk. A pointer finger slides under the bangs that hides her left eye, flicks them up. They fall down seconds later, splitting into two sections above and below her eye: a window, strands, hair strands, strands of light.
Earphones clatter together; she puts the right one in her ear and twirls the left one in her other hand. She’s a twirler in her mind. She listens, but she doesn’t know what she’s listening to. It is habit, a façade of distraction. She doesn’t know why. She listens to noises outside with her left ear, her right ear buzzing with heavy bass, drum beats, strums of guitar. They merge together; life is a soundtrack of misplaced music, ironic choices, and sometimes the right ones.
She’s like a moth. Groups are her light.
There’s a preacher in the quad. She stands on tippy-toe. He’s yelling, pounding his staff into the ground. The staff has a cross on top. She thinks of pimps. He wears a sign. Her eyes catch “feminists.” She can’t hear anything. She sees mouths moving, people yelling. Shouts of an indiscernible language. Angry language. Sneering language. A guy in front of her throws hand signs - hook ‘em horns.
There’s a girl standing next to him, hip popped, and exhaling cigarette smoke, and she lazily holds the butt between two fingers. She’s like a movie. A guy stands behind the preacher, holds up a book. Satan something. He points at it and laughs because it is so ironic, like life’s soundtrack.
She idly remembers that there was a table of hookahs set up in that area two hours before. She hazily thinks of the smoke again. She remembers a guy making smoke rings. Puff, puff, puff. There is music, filled with drums and cymbals and tambourines. Two ladies, scantily clad in costumes with bells and beads and pretty colors that stick apart from gray concrete, skies. She admires their shoes, gold and strung together at the ankles, like goddesses. There’s one guy dancing, too, and he is wearing jazz shoes.
The preacher points at someone, yells in agreement. Yes yes yes, Jesus is Lord, yes yes yes. Fear, yes yes yes. He is love, says someone else. Another stamp of the pimp cane. Disagreement. A turn of the head, a glare. A lady stands on a concrete bench opposite, stretches her arms up like two tree branches, and screams it again. People laugh. She wonders who is being serious or if this is all one big act, trying to one-up the other who is trying to one-up the other who knows the other is trying to one-up the other.
She smiles, breaks free, and leaves it all behind.
... I strangely like it, as jarring and random as it is. It's a fun experiment. I'll probably do more. You should try it too. ;P
(By the way if you want the full story, we always have some Fundamentalist Christian at our school with these huge signs proclaiming that we're all going to hell. My school is pretty good at ignoring them, though that might be because they're here at least once a week. Sometimes a person tries to argue back. It can get pretty heated; police are called quite often. Some schools rally on spirit; my school rallies on vitriol.
On this particular day, we had a hookah bar advertise their bar by bringing a whole bunch of hookahs to the quad and performing some dances. In between that and the "rally" I had a class. When I exited, all the hookahs were packed up and the guy was there with a huge group surrounding him. I had no idea who he was arguing with or why 'cause a bunch of people were yelling. The guy was there when the hookahs were there but everyone ignored him for the hookahs. Hookahs.)