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tanderbolt Time is the substance I am made of
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6 mos ago
Stephen found it impossible to focus on the task at hand while the bell was ringing. Class had let out early and he was planning on using the time to rearrange his books, but that task required some focus and organization. He had reshelved a set theory textbook and was trying to find a place a book his father gave him. It had a title something like the power of productivity, and Stephen’s father had insisted he read it, because all the “thought leaders” and influential businessmen were reading it, it was written by some esteemed fellow from a management consulting practice, and it promised to show him a portait of how the world economy really worked. Stephen wasn’t all that interested in business, and found that it changed too much for him to keep up with it. Some people thrived on constant change, but Stephen liked stability.
The bell grew more irritating as he thought it over. He wanted to find a spot on the shelf for all of his books except one he found important enough to leave on his nightstand, one by Albert Camus, who he loved to quote in conversation and tried to encourage others to read. At this point he gave up sorting his bel’s sound had worn on him so much. He started thinking of a solution to this problem, and rummaged around his storage bin, which also was something he had to reorganize at some point. He found a box of tools he had last used when he was back home. One of his friends there was in to tinkering with electronics, Stephen didn’t know much but he at least had a basic wirecutter and screwdriver set.
Once he found his little toolkit he looked to see if there was anyone in the hallways of the boy’s dorm. It didn’t matter who it was, the job wouldn’t be complicated if anyone attempted it. Stephen didn’t know anything about how the bells were wired, but there was a near-universal truth that it will turn off if you just cut enough of the wires. The tricky part was finding someone willing to do it. Stephen himself wasn’t courageous enough, and so he was looking for someone bold or someone with the status to get out of any punishments the administration might hand out. As he peeked his head out of the door he said “If anyone wants to do something about that damn bell, I might be able to help you.” He had to yell a little bit to make himself heard.
The bell grew more irritating as he thought it over. He wanted to find a spot on the shelf for all of his books except one he found important enough to leave on his nightstand, one by Albert Camus, who he loved to quote in conversation and tried to encourage others to read. At this point he gave up sorting his bel’s sound had worn on him so much. He started thinking of a solution to this problem, and rummaged around his storage bin, which also was something he had to reorganize at some point. He found a box of tools he had last used when he was back home. One of his friends there was in to tinkering with electronics, Stephen didn’t know much but he at least had a basic wirecutter and screwdriver set.
Once he found his little toolkit he looked to see if there was anyone in the hallways of the boy’s dorm. It didn’t matter who it was, the job wouldn’t be complicated if anyone attempted it. Stephen didn’t know anything about how the bells were wired, but there was a near-universal truth that it will turn off if you just cut enough of the wires. The tricky part was finding someone willing to do it. Stephen himself wasn’t courageous enough, and so he was looking for someone bold or someone with the status to get out of any punishments the administration might hand out. As he peeked his head out of the door he said “If anyone wants to do something about that damn bell, I might be able to help you.” He had to yell a little bit to make himself heard.
HalfOfLancelot What's worse: being heartbroke or roachbit?
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3 yrs ago
...and I've officially had it. This bell's got it out for me; just yesterday it rang the exact moment I'd picked my pen up from under my desk. I still have a welt from the back of my head meeting the metal bar along the underside. I want it documented somewhere, anywhere, that this thing's gonna be the death of me. Murdered by a faulty school bell. Honestly, there's probably better ways to go, but Harmonia's not a very prolific town when it comes to untimely deaths.
Well, I guess that Jane Doe didn't get the memo...
The pen bled through the paper, paused on a dot out of silent curiosity from the owner. Archer found himself too enthralled with watching the students meander out of the classroom. His eyes fell on the teacher, fierce footsteps stomping against the tiling, though none fiercer than the frown stretching his lips. The bell never ceased, even in the finality of the door clicking shut - forgot amidst a wave of anger - while Archer's eyes followed the cracks against the wall, up to the ceiling, to stop along the starred spots splattered overhead. He hummed, the drowned out sound vibrating against his throat. Pen taps splattered ink against the pages of his journal before it slammed to fall into a ratted backpack at Archer's side.
High schools always smelled the same, regardless of prestige: weed, dashed dreams, and teen angst. Students passed by talking about the same, trite topics. The bell served as a backdrop - an every day reminder of the fruitless toils of everyday American teenagers. Archer never allowed himself the thought for more than a second. Nihilism twisted the tongue like ash; it made him taste cigarette smoke and piss-ridden bars.
"Bonfire at Beaumont Cove, fuckers! Don't be a queer - be there!"
Archer flinched (word choice, jeez), face swiped by the zipper of a varsity jacket. The same pestered stench of old-spice battered his nose, unable to hide the clinging, sweaty sock smell that accompanied every high school locker room. The only response came in gritted teeth, though Archer didn't let the mindless assholery take away from his comprehension. Bonfire "canceled" only meant bonfire "relocated" by any obvious standard. The thought nearly distracted him from the pulsing in his pocket.
If I see you on the news tonight, I'll kill you myself, kid.
No one could really fault Ms. Milton for being... crass, even if her kid didn't exactly inherit that gene. He happened to acquire the chattiness without the vulgarity, to many people's misfortune.
Archer's thumbs tapped against the screen, his feet already dragging him through the small crowd in the hallway.
The plan's to head to the cove. Don't be a snitch, ma. Eggshell and yolk isn't exactly a flattering paint for a house, yeah?
God forbid anyone know where to go the minute a serial killer comes to slaughter our children.
...
Be safe. Don't do anything stupid. And, for once, don't be a boy scout and willingly stay to get caught. The gossip mill would have a field day.
If anything, half the teachers down this hallway already knew about it. If they gave a shit about the personal safety of their students, they'd likely inform the police. Eventually, it'd end with a lynch mob coming to string up some white bread jock kid by his fingernails. Archer never got the gist of how important these social nightmares were to kids his age. Then again, he never understood a lot of things the individuals around him did. Perhaps it's the wiring of his own mind, or maybe the environment his mother raised him in. She took no shit, first of all, and secondly, she wasn't the pastel perfection of a suburban, van driving soccer mom.
Jostling jumped Archer out his thoughts to push him onto Graystone's campus. The distance from the main building to the boy's dorm settled his heartbeat, while creasing out the frown on his face before he entered. He paused for a moment, in the first floor lobby - if it could be called that, with all the shit lying around - to take in just what his mother called the "real high school experience."
"Doesn't really work for a high school," Archer muttered, adjusting his shoulder, "I mean, dorms designed for teenagers? Such a real experience. Visceral."
No use turning back like some kind of idiot. At least, some kind of quiet would help quiet his mind. Climbing the stairs felt mindless - it gave Archer time to reflect on certain thoughts. Like if he needed to catch dinner before catching a ride to the cove. Or what kind of week waited after this likely eventful weekend. Archer hummed, letting slam of the door handle wake him up, again. The bell still rang, incessant. If it went on for any longer, it might just send him into a meditative state of enlightenment. One could only hope.
Shoving through to the hallway meant a direct line down, from end to end, of the top floor. It also meant Archer caught sight of Stephen poking his head out from his room. He shook his head the moment he caught Stephen's attention, motioning to his ear. "Sorry, Steve," he yelled as he passed by, even if his normal voice could likely reach over the bell's volume, "can't hear. Can't read lips, either, pal."
Archer made toward his room, slipping inside and slamming the door shut. He fell face first into the ratty, hand-me-down sheets his ma gave him. For a second he just laid there, letting his breathing drift off into subconscious, yet deep breaths. He shimmied further up, until his face buried into the quilt covering his pillows. The smells brought him back to the days his mother brought him down to their little shanty cottage; his gran would always find a reason to let her anxiety thrust her into a baking marathon. It would could the entire house in the various aromas of cakes, pies, cookies, brownies - an assortment of various pastries - that usually matched the season.
He made a sound before inhaling deeply, squeezing his eyes close and burying his nose further into his pillows. A hint of cinnamon cookies left his tongue, just a figment, a shadow of his memory.
And the bell still fucking rang.
banjoanjo Still likes pistachios
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12 days ago
James Xiao
LOCATION: Main Building to Boys' Dorm
INTERACTING WITH: Stephen Rao @tanderbolt
What was even the point of Graystone’s ridiculously high tuition if they couldn’t fix one fucking bell system?
James Xiao glowered out the window of the Physics classroom, internally complaining about many other aspects of Graystone Academy while completely ignoring the teacher’s spiel about, fuck, helium spectrums or something? Sure, James felt a bit shitty about doing so; Mr Bone seemed like a decent person (if not a bit eccentric) who actually gave a shit about his students, a trait that seemed almost non-existent these days. The smart students, anyway. But honestly, if anyone expected him to concentrate on literally anything with that obnoxious, loud-ass piece of crap blaring for hours on end, then it was really their own fault. His shitty attention span wasn’t going to miraculously cure itself as some Pavlovian response to that infernal ringing. And so, James kept glowering and complaining. Internally, of course. He didn’t need to get another detention so early in the school year.
As if a generous deity had heard James’ pleas, the class was let out early. He was the first out of the room, neglecting the teacher’s homework reminder in the process. The sooner he got away from that ruckus, the better. He didn’t need a headache to add to his shitty mood.
The ringing only seemed to box his ears even more as he walked through the hallway. Or maybe it was just the excited chatter of people anticipating the night’s main event. One idiot in particular seemed to be incredibly hyped, shouting something about queers and being there at Beaumont Cove. James frowned at the nature of the guy’s announcement.
“Doesn’t even rhyme,” he muttered vacantly.
He couldn’t give less shits about the slur but if you were going to make a slogan, at least try to put some creative fucking effort into it. The salesman in question was a guy in a letterman jacket, one of the guys on James’ team in fact. Which meant that when the poor fellow accidentally bumped into the lacrosse ace in his fervor, he knew immediately to shut his loud mouth. James shot the bastard a smoldering glare for good measure and continued down the hall. That delinquent reputation, though not completely unjustly founded, had its perks after all. One less blaring nuisance to add to his soon-to-be headache.
His irritation was sated slightly by the sight of someone familiar in the dorm hallway. With a slight smile, James strode up to Stephen and ruffled his friend’s hair (Were they friends yet? Maybe close acquaintances?), as some strange, misguided attempt at a friendly greeting.
“Kill it with fire, Steve,” the taller boy shouted over the din, referring to the bell, “Or I’ll pull its fucking wires out myself.”
LOCATION: Main Building to Boys' Dorm
INTERACTING WITH: Stephen Rao @tanderbolt
What was even the point of Graystone’s ridiculously high tuition if they couldn’t fix one fucking bell system?
James Xiao glowered out the window of the Physics classroom, internally complaining about many other aspects of Graystone Academy while completely ignoring the teacher’s spiel about, fuck, helium spectrums or something? Sure, James felt a bit shitty about doing so; Mr Bone seemed like a decent person (if not a bit eccentric) who actually gave a shit about his students, a trait that seemed almost non-existent these days. The smart students, anyway. But honestly, if anyone expected him to concentrate on literally anything with that obnoxious, loud-ass piece of crap blaring for hours on end, then it was really their own fault. His shitty attention span wasn’t going to miraculously cure itself as some Pavlovian response to that infernal ringing. And so, James kept glowering and complaining. Internally, of course. He didn’t need to get another detention so early in the school year.
As if a generous deity had heard James’ pleas, the class was let out early. He was the first out of the room, neglecting the teacher’s homework reminder in the process. The sooner he got away from that ruckus, the better. He didn’t need a headache to add to his shitty mood.
The ringing only seemed to box his ears even more as he walked through the hallway. Or maybe it was just the excited chatter of people anticipating the night’s main event. One idiot in particular seemed to be incredibly hyped, shouting something about queers and being there at Beaumont Cove. James frowned at the nature of the guy’s announcement.
“Doesn’t even rhyme,” he muttered vacantly.
He couldn’t give less shits about the slur but if you were going to make a slogan, at least try to put some creative fucking effort into it. The salesman in question was a guy in a letterman jacket, one of the guys on James’ team in fact. Which meant that when the poor fellow accidentally bumped into the lacrosse ace in his fervor, he knew immediately to shut his loud mouth. James shot the bastard a smoldering glare for good measure and continued down the hall. That delinquent reputation, though not completely unjustly founded, had its perks after all. One less blaring nuisance to add to his soon-to-be headache.
His irritation was sated slightly by the sight of someone familiar in the dorm hallway. With a slight smile, James strode up to Stephen and ruffled his friend’s hair (Were they friends yet? Maybe close acquaintances?), as some strange, misguided attempt at a friendly greeting.
“Kill it with fire, Steve,” the taller boy shouted over the din, referring to the bell, “Or I’ll pull its fucking wires out myself.”
vFear monochrome boi
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4 yrs ago
Sonja Tiedeman
September 9th, 2016Whatever Mrs. whats-her-name had to say about characterizing in creative writing, it was a world away. Sonja, tucked away in the back corner of the classroom, tapped her foot along to the music in her ear and sketched the time away. This wasn't unusual - in fact this was quite normal, and the whole group in the back corner was killing time in some way or another. Nobody questioned that the back corner table was their sovereign territory and while nobody really did anything about it if anyone sat there, it was considered a crime to break the status quo.
With only so much left to do on Sonja's latest sketch - a sketch of a cartoon puppy - the bell began to ring. While most came to to abhor the unpredictable and ceaseless bell, Sonja and her friends, as they are effectively trademarked for, found some fun in it: they'd place bets - well, they barely classify as bets, more-or-less dares and IOU's for the canteen or the local cafe - for how many songs the bell would ring for, using a different persons phone each time.
"Six." Sonja bet, as she folded her books shut and loaded them into her bag. "I'm feeling like we're up for a six day today."
"Four.. I'm feeling four." came one of the others, standing straight up and hoisting her bag onto her back, having packed it up along ago.
"Y'know.. I'm going for eight." came yet another one as he stowed away his own things, taking his time like always.
"Eight? God, I hope not..."
And so, as Sonja tugged her bag into her back and put her guitar case over her shoulder by the sling, the chatter and banter carried on. At their own pace, the group filed out of the classroom and into the broader school.
The group, as is tradition for a Friday afternoon, made their way towards their usual spot: on the grass and under the tress, north of the pool and west of the boys dormitories. A few others met them there and a few others trickled in later, forming their usual little amalgamation of friendship circles. Whilst some would stay just long enough to see the bet through and others would stay with the group until they arrived at the bonfire tonight - I mean, it was no secret plenty of people were going. They just took their place and took the time with one another. Instruments came out and went away as they felt like it and music from phones would begin, stop and change as they saw fit. Life was good when you didn't sweat the small stuff.
Apokalipse AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Banned
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2 mos ago
“Mr. President! Mr. President! How do you feel about the bonfire being cancelled?”
The soles of Kingsley’s boots crunched on chalky rocks and the back of the heels scuffed against the dips in cracks, causing Kingsley to trip up multiple times in her excitement to keep up with her interviewee. The brunette’s calves burned beneath her brown skinny jeans from walking backwards for so long – well, three minutes wasn’t so long, but Kingsley swore off exercise at the ripe age of ten after tripping in front of the whole class during the mile run.
“Fuck off, Quinn.” Kingsley’s interviewee muttered, but the girl kept her video camera concentrated on his face regardless.
“Were you one of the seniors setting the party up?” She continued on, eyes wide as she stared at him through her camera. “What are you going to be doing on this wonderful Friday evening without the bonfire party?”
The guy – he wore a sloppy t-shirt with a ketchup stain and had unkempt blond hair – attempted to move her camera away with his hand, but Kingsley vaulted backwards to avoid the greasy thumb from semi-permanently leaving a mark on her lens. When the tall, muscular slob halted in his steps and gave Kingsley a deadpan look – that, thankfully, she caught on tape – Kingsley stopped too and gave a defiant stare at him over the black outline of her camera.
“The bonfire’s been relocated to Beaumont Cove, alright?” He huffed, running his fingers through his corn-stalk locks, unintentionally giving his worst impression of a L’Oréal commercial. Kingsley smirked at the thought, zooming in on the questionably black crumb entwined in the strands. “Now, will you leave me alone, bitch?”
Kingsley was too slow to react to his words, and by the time she turned around to follow after, he was already halfway down the path to the dormitories. Kingsley let out a long breath, her shoulders relaxing and her calves quivering from the emotional trauma exercise they just went through.
She wasn’t surprised in the least about the news – of course they would find a loophole around the rule, they always did. Kingsley can just imagine one of them, letterman on and a gross smirk on their face as they sneered, ‘Rules were meant to be broken.’ Meant to be my ass, Kingsley thinks bitterly. Kingsley Quinn hadn’t been planning to go – not at all – but the thought was more than a little tempting and it was her only chance to go to it. After this year, she’ll be a functioning member of the capitalistic scummy society that she would rather spit on, she might as well have fun while she can, right?
Kingsley slipped her iPhone from her pocket and flipped through her contacts – Davis, Penelope, Elizabeth, Lily, – ah, there she is. Kingsley tapped out a quick text – or two – and sent:
She waited a second, for a reply, but when it took longer than that, Kingsley reluctantly slid the device back into her pocket. Kingsley walked towards the entrance to the school, skipping up the steps, and entered the building, all the while glaring at the walls as if it was their fault for the obnoxious, ear-bleeding ringing in her ears. Which it was because god forbid this school have a normal bell system.
Kingsley stuffed her ears with her headphones, drowning the sound out with mellow music, ignoring the straggling students who haven’t left the building yet – despite the actual assault on their ears.
Mixtape Ghost N SOMETIMES EVЕN RICH NIGGAS GET LOST
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0-24 hrs ago
To Jasmine, each new day was beautiful. A chance to do something good. To show the world that, yes, Jasmine Woods is ready.
Though, today in particular was not particularly kind to Jasmine.
All because of the fucking bell had decided to go on the fritz tonight. Seriously? What's up with that stupid bullshit? She was merely lying down on her comfortable bed, listening to some soothing music for today, and then the bell goes off. While Jasmine didn't mind the extra soundtrack for a little bit, now it's getting annoying.
The girl slammed her fist onto the side of the bed as she grit her teeth rather roughly, tightly closing her eyes as she tried to find her happy place... and the fucking bell was in there, too. On the very night where the big bonefire - in other words, a big ass party planned by the incredible senors - as going to go down. Everyone was going to be there - probably even the weirdos that are dragged there by their much prettier friends and just sit there drinking.
Of course Jasmine Woods, the best athlete in the school, is going to be there. She has to keep up appearances, after all.
But, Jasmine wasn't going to do shit if she couldn't get this fucking bell to stop ringing. Like seriously? Has the entire school staff decided to shove their hands up their ass? Well, that just means Jasmine's gonna have to get off her own and solve the problem herself. What things were accomplished by people who don't, opposed to people who do?
Hopping up to her feet, Jasmine looked down to see if she was modest... she's the kind of girl who tends to dress rather liberally when no one is around. Fortunately, she was wearing jeans, and a T-shirt - just bits and pieces of a better outfit. Honestly, Jasmine was glad the school had a rather liberal dress code (Save for the girls that dress like total stanks, thank God the school has enough common sense to pick them off).
Going out the door, Jasmine just followed the sound of the ringing - and the closer she got, the more annoying it got. Well, she just hummed a song louder and louder trying to drown it out, only to get to the point where it was utterly impossible to do so. So, she just used her irritation as fuel to shut it up!
Eventually, arriving, apparently, she wasn't alone in thinking the bell was the most annoying thing ever; two other dudes (who were getting a little too close there for a second) were manning the bell. Stephen and James... she didn't know much about either of them, but she was hell bent on breaking that damn bell.
"Yo, just pull a wire, something!" Jasmine had to shout over the bell at Stephen. "Fuck, I'll run outside to get you a rock. I'll act like we weren't even here, but Jesus, turn that bell off."
Fabricant451 Queen of Hearts
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2 days ago
I really hate my name. Honestly I don't think I've ever forgiven my parents for cursing me with it. It's bad enough that they wanted to name me after the literary character - everyone knows the one - because of some sort of ancestral pride -I think someone in our family tree cranked Hawthorne under a tree or something - but it's worse that they somehow came to the conclusion that the name Eleanor was suitable for a child in a post-depression era. There's a reason Elanor's are dying out, it's Roosevelt's lame ass is dead and buried and his bitch of a wife with him. And her name was Anna anyway. I don't even pay attention in history and I know this. My parents have no excuse. Guess the joke is on them anyway since my middle name is Hester. I may as well be in a nursing home playing bingo and letting shit run down my leg.
There's a reason I go by Elle. Elle, at least, is a normal name for a young person. It's got a twinge of sophistication to it. People know to look out when they hear Elle's coming. As well they should. Everyone with a pulse knows that Elle Prynne is the undisputed queen of Graystone, no matter what some uppity ball chucking pretender says. There's practically a red carpet wherever I walk, and there's definitely a red sea. No one sits next to me at these assemblies without my approval and I don't even know the names of the two to either side of me. One has tried to pass off last season's earth tones as trendy, some manner of nu-retro chic and I can respect that level of mental gymnastics even though her outfit makes me want to kill myself. The other has two clashing scents going on and it's because she just got done banging her boyfriend's band mate behind the dorms. I can smell the post-coital glow on her legs, overpowering the Chance Eau Tendre and J'adore Eau de Parfum chemical disaster. No amount of fragrance can hide the shame of being a cheating degenerate. I respect that. She might be pregnant and I'm the one named after a scarlet fucking letter.
These assemblies are nothing other than a period long excuse to nap, and usually I have to wait for photography for that. The principal loves the sound of her own voice which is good since it means someone loves something about her. What is even the point of these things? Everyone just pretends to listen for five minutes then just find ways to flip through their phone or else find other ways to not pay attention. Hasn't anyone heard of a newsletter or a mailing list or something else people can refuse to opt into? The only reason people seem somewhat interested in this one is because they want to know who the dead girl is. That way they can pretend to have known her, pretend to give a shit when the truth is that it's probably some no one who got tired of being turned down by Johnny Footballhero and did the world a favor.
Why should I mind my words now? She's dead. I probably didn't know her and I definitely don't care now that she's a corpse.
Big Balls Martinez made an announcement that actually captivated the audience. Talk about cancelling a bonfire party and the vibe changes from disinterest to stewed fury. I could do nothing but glower, not at Martinez for trying to be some sort of responsible adult for a fucking change but because a fucking dead girl is ruining things for the living. Of course I was going to the party. I'm always at parties. It's not a party until I get there. I could see the looks of confusion and anger on people and I could see the look of disinterest in others - those disinterested sorts were just pretending to not care because they're too ugly or unpopular to even know about it. Fortunately the bell picked that time to ring, as annoying as it was it made for the charming dramatic irony. The punctuation on an otherwise shit sentence.
Fucking dead bitches. You're dead, the world doesn't care about you. I swear if she was alive I'd want to kill her all over again just for this bullshit.
Elle had seen the opportunity in the bell ringing nightmare. Rather, she had managed to get herself out of her last period writing class by claiming the constant ringing would be hard for her to focus on the prompt on the blackboard. She didn't even have to use her lilting, adorable girl voice - that one was reserved for the creeps who got into teaching to ogle underage school girls. Of course there was a bit of a struggle involved. The teacher, in what was damn near a case of assault, grabbed Elle's arm as she turned towards the door and asked where her late assignments were. In truth they were in crumbled up balls in the trash bin inside Elle's dorm room, but the simple answer of "Coming along..." would have to suffice. She was out of extensions on those assignments and she only had so many because she was good at playing the game, at using the right excuses and having people forge the right signatures. But eventually teachers stopped accepting blindly and started actually calling the number on the slips.
Fucking teachers. This was why teenagers had so many trust issues.
While other students suffered through their final period, Elle did a lap of victory towards her dorm room, with a cocky smirk on her resting bitch face as soon as the door to the classroom shut behind her. In the mostly empty halls no one could see her strut, but that didn't stop her from doing just that. There was much to strut about, or at least be happy about. For starters the dead girl only succeeded in moving the bonfire, for another the continuation of the bonfire meant an escape from the banality that was the day-to-day of this godforsaken school. Elle almost felt envious of the Jane Doe. At least she managed to escape the unceasing tedium. Getting out of this ass end of a coast was a goal for many people, Elle included. The only famous person from Maine was Stephen King; and Maine didn't need two famous authors.
Well...fledgling author. Floundering. Failing.
Elle shook her head, soft pink bangs bouncing along. No need for those sorts of thoughts now. What was important now was making the best of the time before the big bonfire and that meant making her way to the dorms for a little pre-party shenanigans.
Elle threw open the doors and stepped out onto the grounds, damn near forcing her hands to her ears. That damned bell really was nothing but a nuisance, wasn't it. It was enough to make her steps a bit more quick as she crossed the campus grounds. Graystone was supposedly some beautiful place, at least that's what the pamphlets said, but to Elle the place seemed more like a more open prison. She couldn't have been the only one to notice that many schools, even these private institutions that bred hipster filth, resembled prisons. The function of both were the same as well. Locking people inside for hours at a time and fostering communities that favored sticking with your own kind. The only difference is that the sex that went on in school was consensual. Hopefully.
Sure there was natural...beauty to be had, but anything with trees and flowers was pretty enough. It was hard to truly call Graystone beautiful when a number of its occupants were slovenly hipster types with shitty, scraggy facial hair that smelled of a month's worth of meals, poor fashion sense, and gaudy hair and accessories. Why was it that these clearly wealthy sorts (wealthy enough to come to Graystone, anyway) put so much care into looking like assholes. Elle's hair was pink, yes, but a month ago it was blue and before that it was red. Changing her hair color was something of a gimmick and she did it to prove a point: that no matter what color she could still clown on people. It wasn't some bullshit hipster mindset. Plus her natural hair was a platinum blonde and she didn't need all the cliche jokes again. Elle was making statements at Graystone. Those people were taking up space.
Fortunately the quad seemed devoid of them at the moment, probably too busy being plebeians in class. Still, Elle shuffled along towards the dorms to be indoors where at least the bell would be somewhat muffled. Though when she could hear her neighbor getting off at three in the morning as if she were in the room a shrill bell being muffled was about as worthwhile as a cafe with pumpkin spice.
Elle's room was free of clutter but still a bit busy. Her garbage can was filled to the brim with crumbled notebook paper...failed draft after failed draft, and buried in the wads of paper was a broken figure of a raven haired character from a somewhat known, but outdated cartoon from Japan. Next to her laptop was a series of toys from a popular kids cartoon series. Though they were out of box they were positioned in such a way so as to not be played with; not even the one with the projectile hands. There was a stack of books on a small shelf mounted on the wall. Fiction, mostly, just the assortment of her favorites - her collection was back at home and would have been too daunting a task to transfer to the academy. In the drawers at her workstation were countless notebooks, some filled and some empty, with handwritten notes and summaries and biographies. A stereo was placed near her bed, which was covered in fine sheets with a high thread count. The stereo was essential. Elle couldn't sleep without music to lull her off to dreamland; plus it was a way of drowning out the noise from Promiscuous next door. Posters lined the walls as well as pictures taken with her at various parties over the years. And her wardrobe was...well it was impressive, to say the least.
Elle felt secure in her room, as did many in their own surely, and as she stepped inside she practically collapsed herself in front of her laptop. The bell was still sounding. It was enough to give someone a headache.
With a bit of time to kill before the party prep began, Elle sighed and brushed aside her writing homework assignment in favor of booting up her laptop. As the machine booted up, Elle pressed a button on the remote next to the computer and the whir of the stereo came through. A bit of competition with the bell as some bass-heavy grooves began to play, the volume increased so as to drown out the bell. Who would complain now? No one. Probably. And if they did, fuck 'em.
Elle opened her word processor and set her fingers over the keys.
And kept them there. Hovering over the keys.
There was plenty of time.
Plenty of time.
tanderbolt Time is the substance I am made of
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6 mos ago
Interacting with @Mr Allen J,@banjoanjo
Stephen was glad to see James around. Getting his hair ruffled wasn’t his favorite thing but it was just James’s way of saying hello. He also saw Jasmine around in the hallway. She was more annoying, and Stephen had done his best avoid encounters with her. Fortunately they lived in separate buildings, but unfortunately she frequently found excuses to visit the boy’s dormitories. May she should spend more time practicing, but maybe she was good enough that she didn’t need it. Sometimes it struck him as odd that he got along with James and not Jasmine, both cared a lot about sports and very little about academics, unlike him. However, James had humility and an introspective nature that Stephen never saw in Jasmine. It made him much more pleasant to deal with.
As long as the bell was ringing, it was worth doing something about. That was something that they all could agree on. Who would take action was a matter that was up for debate. Stephen preferred that it be someone other than him. He got up from his chair and held out his tool kit to offer it to someone else, and said
“This toolkit has wire cutters and a screwdriver set. A lot of times they use weird screws on these covers, but this should be able to get by trying a couple and seeing if they fit. The wire cutters are simple, just use them to cut a wire without shocking yourself. And please, if you’re done with it I’d like you to put the tools back the way you found them.”
Stephen thought that if things went south and someone got caught, James would have a good chance of getting off scott-free. Familial wealth definitely had its benefits. He didn’t particularly care if Jasmine got caught, it might even teach her some discipline. He stepped stepped out of his dorm room, nudging a loose binder of schoolwork next to the door to a different section of his dorm room floor along his way. He felt small standing near James and Jasmine. Both of them could be intimidating when they wanted to, they were the sorts of people who would be great starting points if you wanted to find the genes to make a super-athlete. Stephen said
“I can show you where I think the wiring might be, but I won’t stick around. If anyone asks, it wasn’t my idea, and you didn’t tell me why you needed the toolkit.”
While talking he paid attention to James, but also giving the occasional glare to Jasmine, intimating that he wasn’t particularly happy to see her. After the matter of the bell was finished he could think about other things he was putting off, like his research paper or making up his mind about going to the cove tonight.
Stephen was glad to see James around. Getting his hair ruffled wasn’t his favorite thing but it was just James’s way of saying hello. He also saw Jasmine around in the hallway. She was more annoying, and Stephen had done his best avoid encounters with her. Fortunately they lived in separate buildings, but unfortunately she frequently found excuses to visit the boy’s dormitories. May she should spend more time practicing, but maybe she was good enough that she didn’t need it. Sometimes it struck him as odd that he got along with James and not Jasmine, both cared a lot about sports and very little about academics, unlike him. However, James had humility and an introspective nature that Stephen never saw in Jasmine. It made him much more pleasant to deal with.
As long as the bell was ringing, it was worth doing something about. That was something that they all could agree on. Who would take action was a matter that was up for debate. Stephen preferred that it be someone other than him. He got up from his chair and held out his tool kit to offer it to someone else, and said
“This toolkit has wire cutters and a screwdriver set. A lot of times they use weird screws on these covers, but this should be able to get by trying a couple and seeing if they fit. The wire cutters are simple, just use them to cut a wire without shocking yourself. And please, if you’re done with it I’d like you to put the tools back the way you found them.”
Stephen thought that if things went south and someone got caught, James would have a good chance of getting off scott-free. Familial wealth definitely had its benefits. He didn’t particularly care if Jasmine got caught, it might even teach her some discipline. He stepped stepped out of his dorm room, nudging a loose binder of schoolwork next to the door to a different section of his dorm room floor along his way. He felt small standing near James and Jasmine. Both of them could be intimidating when they wanted to, they were the sorts of people who would be great starting points if you wanted to find the genes to make a super-athlete. Stephen said
“I can show you where I think the wiring might be, but I won’t stick around. If anyone asks, it wasn’t my idea, and you didn’t tell me why you needed the toolkit.”
While talking he paid attention to James, but also giving the occasional glare to Jasmine, intimating that he wasn’t particularly happy to see her. After the matter of the bell was finished he could think about other things he was putting off, like his research paper or making up his mind about going to the cove tonight.
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