Testing, one,two,three
'Lo.
I was bored, surfing, and thought I was due to post here. This is actually just a scene from a story I was writing a while ago that I picked at random. I'd like feedback of all kinds, please. (Like it, confused, grammatically curious?) C'mon, guys anything. I like it but there is always room for improvements and I want to make said room before I go gushing--I left it mostly as it was the day I scribbled it.
from: Forgot Not To by: Vippler
It’s a Sunday and if either of them cared they might rethink the bottles in their hands.
She giggles around hiccups and he notes how unhappy they sound, how they are coming together, careening closer towards sobs; all he can do is sit there and swallow something salty that'd been sitting in his mouth. He’s not entirely sure if he’s more comforted thinking it’s blood or tears.
At first they are sitting on the curb of a dingy down town center, some town, and the sun isn’t up yet. She notices the bar and stands up, brushing the dust off her pants, smearing blood droplets into more noticeable slashes on her jeans. He sighs, follows.
It is obvious why she came here, but before he’ll give in he forces her into the bathroom. “Remus,” she sighs, watching him fret over the stains he can, ignore the others. Still, she washes up and zips her jacket up, puts her dagger in her boot, tries to fix her hair and settles for a messy pony tail.
It’s sad that he’s gotten used to looking at her and not worrying at her odd habits, of watching his friend gulp down another vodka, because if he doesn’t worry, who will? But it was the girl’s idea to come here and here they were.
Dingy men glance their way as they stumble to a booth that had been empty for a few minutes, tired of standing at the bar, and he glares at them. Divinity mumbles something he doesn’t catch over the music, something he takes as a ‘come here’ since she’s pulling his sleeve, dragging him into the booth. Her breath is warm and sweet, bronzy, like the drink in her hand. Somewhere in his head he’s wondering what kind of place they’re in that would let a teen get her hands on the stuff, what kind of place he’s taken her to?
“Happy New Year, Valentines day, Kwanza and all that crap,” she says in his ear before releasing him and scooting over. It’s her way of making up for lost time.
“Happy birthday.” He replies automatically.
Over her bottle, her eyes widen. When she sets it down he looks at her confused, puts his down as well. “What?” he asks, noting her shaking hands. Her eyes are dark, angry.
“I turn sixteen today.” Her voice is quiet and he wonders exactly whom she’s trying to convince.
Oh. “Really? Sixteen? I’d thought you were older than that.”
Bastard. What a thing to say. What a rotten friend you’ve become.
The bar is getting more full now that the sun has come up, kind of ironic he thinks, and it appears these people don’t care what day it is either.
*Cringe*
I was bored, surfing, and thought I was due to post here. This is actually just a scene from a story I was writing a while ago that I picked at random. I'd like feedback of all kinds, please. (Like it, confused, grammatically curious?) C'mon, guys anything. I like it but there is always room for improvements and I want to make said room before I go gushing--I left it mostly as it was the day I scribbled it.
from: Forgot Not To by: Vippler
It’s a Sunday and if either of them cared they might rethink the bottles in their hands.
She giggles around hiccups and he notes how unhappy they sound, how they are coming together, careening closer towards sobs; all he can do is sit there and swallow something salty that'd been sitting in his mouth. He’s not entirely sure if he’s more comforted thinking it’s blood or tears.
At first they are sitting on the curb of a dingy down town center, some town, and the sun isn’t up yet. She notices the bar and stands up, brushing the dust off her pants, smearing blood droplets into more noticeable slashes on her jeans. He sighs, follows.
It is obvious why she came here, but before he’ll give in he forces her into the bathroom. “Remus,” she sighs, watching him fret over the stains he can, ignore the others. Still, she washes up and zips her jacket up, puts her dagger in her boot, tries to fix her hair and settles for a messy pony tail.
It’s sad that he’s gotten used to looking at her and not worrying at her odd habits, of watching his friend gulp down another vodka, because if he doesn’t worry, who will? But it was the girl’s idea to come here and here they were.
Dingy men glance their way as they stumble to a booth that had been empty for a few minutes, tired of standing at the bar, and he glares at them. Divinity mumbles something he doesn’t catch over the music, something he takes as a ‘come here’ since she’s pulling his sleeve, dragging him into the booth. Her breath is warm and sweet, bronzy, like the drink in her hand. Somewhere in his head he’s wondering what kind of place they’re in that would let a teen get her hands on the stuff, what kind of place he’s taken her to?
“Happy New Year, Valentines day, Kwanza and all that crap,” she says in his ear before releasing him and scooting over. It’s her way of making up for lost time.
“Happy birthday.” He replies automatically.
Over her bottle, her eyes widen. When she sets it down he looks at her confused, puts his down as well. “What?” he asks, noting her shaking hands. Her eyes are dark, angry.
“I turn sixteen today.” Her voice is quiet and he wonders exactly whom she’s trying to convince.
Oh. “Really? Sixteen? I’d thought you were older than that.”
Bastard. What a thing to say. What a rotten friend you’ve become.
The bar is getting more full now that the sun has come up, kind of ironic he thinks, and it appears these people don’t care what day it is either.
*Cringe*