Drabble - Sunburn
Aaaaarghmph!! It's sooo hooot. I've thrown a virtual wobbley today and have *gasp* just written for the sake of writting. Not fanfiction but a kinda journalism of sorts. I'm posting it for me, this is my virtual me time (and yes I'm still virtually sulking, argh- hooot). This is written with 24 sleepless hours behind it, couldn't have done it with out you guys *thumbs up*- a quick ranty drabble which I call:
Sunburn.
“Everyone was up early today…”
“Yeah well, that implies we slept”
Hair lies limp; tangling it’s way down her shoulders in a sodden mess. Each strand trying to twist, weave and manipulate the others. With a sigh she glares at the girl in the mirror, red nose, baggy eyes, pallor under the holiday tan. Straggles with her bra straps, shit, one of those mornings. One of those hard days… not in any major way, just nothing going the way it should. The bra is secured and with another pitiful glance into the dirty mirror over goes the camisoles and singlets; black onto white, onto white again. The black denim skirt she was so pleased with last week slips on next, over slightly bigger hips then she would like, not fat exactly, or so she hopes. It doesn’t stay, tries to slip back down again as her hips sway to the kitchen. Internally she swears again, stupid size 12. Only brought it for her mother, because she *listened* to her mother tell her again and again in the swimwear shop she was a size 12. The skirt is obviously too big and she won’t feel comfortable in it, won’t feel comfortable, until she finds a belt. She doesn’t bother with the top, which should slide over her singlets, it’s too hot. She put it on later, when she leaves for lunch with Cath and Adj. Or perhaps the pink dress she wore on her birthday. Only worn once.
She thought the cold was being fought away with the cool facets of water, drumming on her back as she showers. Face turning up towards the water, smiling into the manufactured rain. In away, the cold has lessened, she’s no longer sneezing like a contagious ward (despite piles of clothing, papers and trash her own room is at least pollen free), but her face still burns, Her nose throbs and she has murky feelings in her throat and limbs. This is what happens, she is happy enough to remind herself, when you run through sprinklers at 3am and stalk gravesites with weary, adventure seeking minds. This cold is a product of your life and so… you must forbear. You can be cranky as you like right now in well-sustained privacy (Screams and shrieks of ‘get ouuut’ and ‘enter my room and I will break you’ have warded off all but the most fool hardy preadolescent). She types diligently at the keyboard, absorbing the monotony of the task to sooth her addled mind, no voices, and no thoughts. Just a computer. It’s times like this she wishes summer break would dwindle a little faster because it’s easier to sit sipping coke and listening to the soft hum of a teachers voice then dealing with the forever ‘what am I going to do today’. Not that there aren’t still things that need doing. Work experience forms entered, School supplies brought, a part time job would be nice. Still, she sits there, head in clouds as they say; thank god she’s a city gal. It irritates her, when she takes the time to think about it, that she would rather be writing (or thing about writing because strangely enough it’s always in her head) then planning and making things happen, it irritates other people she’s sure. Mum, Friends… Charlotte. But she tend to romanticize things; her long shaggy hair which hangs unruly from her shoulders she likes to believe has a wild mane like quality, edgily alternative to the fashionable straight bobs and pixie cuts. Her vagueness makes her a thinker, not an achiever but a thinker, a reader, a writer. Sure, soon she’ll send her letter to The Age, perhaps to late, but for now lets just think.
Sunburn.
“Everyone was up early today…”
“Yeah well, that implies we slept”
Hair lies limp; tangling it’s way down her shoulders in a sodden mess. Each strand trying to twist, weave and manipulate the others. With a sigh she glares at the girl in the mirror, red nose, baggy eyes, pallor under the holiday tan. Straggles with her bra straps, shit, one of those mornings. One of those hard days… not in any major way, just nothing going the way it should. The bra is secured and with another pitiful glance into the dirty mirror over goes the camisoles and singlets; black onto white, onto white again. The black denim skirt she was so pleased with last week slips on next, over slightly bigger hips then she would like, not fat exactly, or so she hopes. It doesn’t stay, tries to slip back down again as her hips sway to the kitchen. Internally she swears again, stupid size 12. Only brought it for her mother, because she *listened* to her mother tell her again and again in the swimwear shop she was a size 12. The skirt is obviously too big and she won’t feel comfortable in it, won’t feel comfortable, until she finds a belt. She doesn’t bother with the top, which should slide over her singlets, it’s too hot. She put it on later, when she leaves for lunch with Cath and Adj. Or perhaps the pink dress she wore on her birthday. Only worn once.
She thought the cold was being fought away with the cool facets of water, drumming on her back as she showers. Face turning up towards the water, smiling into the manufactured rain. In away, the cold has lessened, she’s no longer sneezing like a contagious ward (despite piles of clothing, papers and trash her own room is at least pollen free), but her face still burns, Her nose throbs and she has murky feelings in her throat and limbs. This is what happens, she is happy enough to remind herself, when you run through sprinklers at 3am and stalk gravesites with weary, adventure seeking minds. This cold is a product of your life and so… you must forbear. You can be cranky as you like right now in well-sustained privacy (Screams and shrieks of ‘get ouuut’ and ‘enter my room and I will break you’ have warded off all but the most fool hardy preadolescent). She types diligently at the keyboard, absorbing the monotony of the task to sooth her addled mind, no voices, and no thoughts. Just a computer. It’s times like this she wishes summer break would dwindle a little faster because it’s easier to sit sipping coke and listening to the soft hum of a teachers voice then dealing with the forever ‘what am I going to do today’. Not that there aren’t still things that need doing. Work experience forms entered, School supplies brought, a part time job would be nice. Still, she sits there, head in clouds as they say; thank god she’s a city gal. It irritates her, when she takes the time to think about it, that she would rather be writing (or thing about writing because strangely enough it’s always in her head) then planning and making things happen, it irritates other people she’s sure. Mum, Friends… Charlotte. But she tend to romanticize things; her long shaggy hair which hangs unruly from her shoulders she likes to believe has a wild mane like quality, edgily alternative to the fashionable straight bobs and pixie cuts. Her vagueness makes her a thinker, not an achiever but a thinker, a reader, a writer. Sure, soon she’ll send her letter to The Age, perhaps to late, but for now lets just think.