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the most popular guy at school? read how kenny smith manages to put up with his social status at high school. Wouldn't you just DIE to be like him...
Cont. on in 'popular part 2' please feel free to read.
16 year old BRITISH author. Study english at college.
|AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (1)
Popular? Part 2 (Short Stories) Cont. on from popular? Part 1 - A teenage party, drunken sex and upset parents ends with disturbing consequences. [2,530 words] [Teenage]
He stopped typing and looked at the screen, squinting at what he’d written he sighed and hit the backspace. It had been one of those days. Chewing on his bottom lip he methodically put away the various files and papers he’d been using before walking briskly out of the door to breathe. In computer room A 4 2 the air was as thick and heavy as the waiting room at the dentists. He could feel every ones eyes on him as he paused outside that room, deciding not to care, and glancing briefly towards the stairway he put his hands to his forehead and sank to the floor. The cool, dusty tiles did nothing for his body heat, which was now, he was sure, close to boiling point.
“Kenny are you alright? You don’t look well to me”
It was Miss Cuthbertson.
“I don’t feel good either”
He replied lifting his head.
“Well perhaps you should visit the med room”
He sighed, then slowly and painfully rose to his feet. Looking down now at the short, but pleasant teacher he managed a smile.
The truth was he thought as he trudged down the fire colored stairwell, that he didn’t know why everyone was staring. Sure, he was used to the envy filled looks of aspiration or admiration he received daily from the students at Valley High. But today…He didn’t know. Perhaps he wondered it was the long, bloody welt stretching from his left ear to his strong jawbone that attracted the quick, downcast glances – that sense of foreboding whenever he entered a room. It could even be, and he laughed at the thought, the two black bruises on his face – The only two imperfections on an otherwise flawless landscape.
Reaching the bottom now, he looked left toward the clinical, white door of the medical room and sat on the bottom step. He kicked at some dirt with one immaculate white tennis shoe, then dusted some imaginary lint off his khaki pants. Standing up again he flicked hair from his eyes, checked his pockets, wiped his nose, zipped his zipper higher. Anything to keep from passing thru that white door, the one that should be black like the truth, perhaps red, but definitely not white. He could feel his cheeks flaming with the monotony of this day. Nothing was right, and they knew it. Sometimes he felt as if someone was chasing him – like there was some whacko with an AKA 47 on a rooftop someplace. He sighed. Wanting his thoughts to give him a break sometimes, he checked his pockets one last time. Still empty. He breathed air out thru his nostrils in disgust, and then purposefully took the second left and breezed on out of the school gates into the summer.
It wasn’t like he was scared of that white door. He’d often sat on the inside of it pretending to have various ailments and charming the somewhat pretty nurse into letting him skip classes that way. No. It was the questions. The ones he knew someone would ask. Cruel questions, without intent. “How did he get that slash on his wrist?…”
And so on. Anyway, it didn’t matter now. The sun shone down on him making his skin the colour of rich, dark, golden honey and his flaxen hair bright, like sunlight, only with more white of the moon than that. Eyes, he thought, pausing in his relaxation, never change. No amount of sunlight could turn his blue eyes Green. Or Hazel, Brown, or even Grey. Then again, fire could make them flicker Orange, and passion made them Black. Wrong again then. And closing his (still Blue) eyes he lay down amongst the green blades of summer, warmed by the sounds of daytime (and the sunshine helping), thoughts of yellow blossoms and yellow beaches, and also with the knowledge that if he did open his eyes he would see the (still Blue) sky with a White jet trail drawn across it he fell asleep. Almost. Unfortunately the ‘almost’ was what prevented him from doing most things beautiful. Sleep being the least important of them. But, no. Surely it couldn’t last. He knew that, and soon they’d know it too
Skip to popular part 2 to find out what happens...!
|READER'S REVIEWS (3)
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"This story is so NOT!" -- The Contradiction.
"Hello Hezzy, since performing a critique upon the Storymania board is cumbersome, I placed my critique in HTML. I was unable to locate to locate an email address for you, I instead sent the critique to http://www.writersbbs.com/bbs3/forum.cgi?action=read&forum=general&message=3838-1 where you will be able to read it much more easily. If you have any comments feel free to post them here." -- JA St. George.
"Thankyou ga. st george,I thought your critique was very fair, but i think I'm going to delete the story simply because i don't know where its taking me - the only part that i actually think makes sense is part 3, so i might leave it (i dont know if you've read that yet) only one point about the critique - the part about my use parenthesis, i was intending to try and take the readers mind away from the story, and mention colours overly because this character is oviously not thinking straight, and therefore the story will not read in chronological order, just like human thoughts - i dont think i had chance to write enough to make that apparent just yet , guess i'll wait and see. But thankyou, i appreciated it!" -- hezzy.
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