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Post by arthur on Feb 11, 2012 10:51:35 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 350px; background-color: #ffffff; padding:20px; border-top: 10px #af9390 solid; border-bottom: 10px #af9390 solid;] deep one perfect morning ( WORDS ) 465 ( TAGGED ) OPEN Textbooks spilling out of the leather satchel cast carelessly over his left shoulder, Arthur hastened towards Jacksonville Prep's main building, the library doors swinging noisily shut in his wake. The bell had gone — he glanced at his watch — precisely seven and a half minutes ago, making him seven and a half minutes later than he had been to any class this school year. It was his fault that the book society meeting had overrun, admittedly. He had, as always, been at the centre of the contention about choosing the next step on the reading list; Arthur had argued rather too vehemently in favour of 'Bleak House' and had eventually been outvoted once again for yet another enforced reading of 'The Catcher in the Rye'. So much for celebrating Dickens' bicentenary. The more he aged, the less sympathy Arthur had for Holden Caulfield, and he gritted his teeth at the thought of spending another two hundred pages in his melancholy company.
Still, none of this would serve as an excuse for his dilatory attendance. As he turned down the corridor towards the history classroom, he could hear that the lesson had already begun in full. Well, okay: better start practising that public apology. He laid his hand on the doorknob and turned it.
It rattled.
Almost instantly, the class went silent. The teacher stood on the other side of the glass and grinned at him. Arthur, mystified, rattled the handle again. It was only when the first snickers broke out that he realised the obvious: the door was locked. Of course it was locked. That was Mr Wilkins' punctuality policy, and the first time that Arthur had fallen foul of it. He stared back at his teacher for a moment, blank and cold; shrugged his indifference; and strode away in the opposite direction.
Outside, the insubstantial first flakes of snow were falling, settling on the boughs of trees like the thinnest dusting of sugar; soon the ground would be coloured the same dull ermine as the sky. In the distance, the door of the janitor's utility shed had blown ajar and was slapping against the frame. Arthur made no move to pull his hood up. To cosy up to rusting spades and mowers wasn't his ideal free-time environment, but the structure's roof — draughty or not — would offer at least some protection from the elements until the start of the next period. He waited until he was out of sight of the school's windows to light the cigarette he'd pulled from his pocket.
A cobweb over the shed's low doorway was tensed and gleaming with little pearls of ice. Arthur brushed it aside without attention. Smoke bloomed from his mouth, a bitter mimicry of his breath against the cold, as he lifted the latch and stepped inside.
he only opened the door, so it's left open as to whether your character is already in there or not. |
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Post by patience marie smith on Feb 20, 2012 17:27:22 GMT -5
 The trouble with coming to America, Patience had learned, was the issue at keeping her national ties in England a secret. Sure, many of the students at Jackson Prep believed they came from esteemed families, and she was certain that some others certainly did, but she had no intentions in bragging about her connections. Especially her connections . . . It was one thing to be all ‘I met the queen of England once!’ and it was another thing altogether to admit, ‘Met? I share a home with the queen of England ever three or so months out of the year when I was growing up.’ Or the biggest one . . . ? ‘Queen of England? I’m the Princess of England.’ The idea that she’d ever have to share that tidbit of information was not one that pleased Patience Smith, not even on the slightest level. She had never been the sort to appreciate the bright, shining light of center stage. She never appreciated being paraded around, watched, and dawned over. No, in fact, it was quite the opposite for Patience. Where many girls would do anything to gain the center stage, that basked in the heat of what ever shining spotlight they’d found, Patience avoided it. She preferred standing on the edge of the crowd, watching others take center stage and become wide known. Sure, she liked attention as much as the next girl, but there was a difference between recognizing and accepting attention from those you consider friends, and gaining attention from standing in the spotlight letting the world bathe in your glory.
Patience would do just about anything to avoid having to be the center stage. To be the one that everyone was watching. Whether it was some huge ball her cousin had thrown in her honour, or whether it was walking into a class a few minutes later, or the stage she would be put on the moment her true heritage became public knowledge, she had no intentions to last long in the spotlight. She was sitting on the main lawn, reading a letter that had arrived just that morning from England, trying to skip all the political nonesence that she hadn’t a single care in the world for; and get to the reason behind the letter. She had finally reached the second page when the bell rang, marking the start of classes. Luckily, this was her free period, but she knew better than to remain out in the yard. Teachers made their rounds often enough, and free periods were expected to be spent in the library . . . Not that she had a problem with the library, the books were more than enough to keep her company. She stood slowly, gathering her coat tighter around her tiny form, attempting to protect herself from the cold. Keeping a face void of expression, and perfectly schooled, she headed towards the school’s door. A few flakes of snow becoming trapped in her voluminous blonde curls, as the flakes floated to the ground as she crossed the grass. She tilted her face up before sighing slightly, as the snow began to fall faster, chilling her more so then the cold winds already did. She’d give anything to be back into the warmth of the garden’s of England, or curled up in front of any of the fireplaces back in the castle. The comforts she missed greatly, the more she was forced to keep away from her beautiful England, the more homesick she grew. She knew from experience that it would all pass eventually, but it didn’t make it any easier.
She’d grown up in England, and had long ago grown accustomed to the way it was back home. In America now, there was still so much different, especially compared to her former, extremely secluded home. She closed her eyes for a moment, before pushing her curls back, and glanced at the flurries of snow falling down. By now, the snow was falling heavy, nearly blocking the view of the school from across the yard. Pulling her hood up, her blue eyes narrowed in concern. If she couldn’t even see the school, how was she suppose to make it to the doors? Sighing, she glanced around before finding a small shed set off to the side, about a dozen yards from where she stood. Brushing the snow from her shoulders, shivering slightly, as the cold turning the tips of her fingers a pale red color. She quickly began to move towards it, figuring it’d offer enough of a shelter. She had no intentions of going to any classes before she had finished reading the letter, and had a sufficient reply written up, regardless. Especially considering a large portion of it would be about the plans for the ‘celebration’ that would be held on her 18th birthday, not a celebration she was looking forward to, either.
With a sigh, she stepped up against the shed, pushing the door open, shivering lightly, and she practically dove into the slightly warmer interior. She’d barely stepped two steps in before she pulled short, startled to find another already hiding in the building. Regardless she closed the door to keep the cold out, before pushing her hood down, before slowly turning around, doing her best not to wrinkle her nose in distaste at the cigarette, “I’m dreadfully sorry, I hadn’t thought anyone would be using this shed as a shelter,” She started, her tone quiet, and a tad shy, “I’m just looking to stay out of the cold, I hope you do not mind sharing the space?” She asked, letting the bag she used as a backpack fall to the ground, before sitting down on it, careful not to touch the ground, as she turned towards the window of the shed, watching the snow fall, expecting the other student to speak if he so chose to, but figuring her part was done.
"Delicate Comments"
Sweet Imaginations
Status Completed
Reserved Arthur
Notes Hope this is okay? <3
Outfit here
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Post by arthur on Mar 3, 2012 13:56:39 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 350px; background-color: #ffffff; padding:20px; border-top: 10px #af9390 solid; border-bottom: 10px #af9390 solid;] deep one perfect morning ( WORDS ) 540 ( TAGGED ) PATIENCE The cracked wooden boards of the shed walls provided ample openings for the wind to whistle through: although still warmer than he would have been outside, Arthur was beginning to think that the library radiators would have been worth the risk of detection. Clearing enough free space to sit down in this warren of tarpaulins and rusting tools had generated a brief heat that he made a half-hearted effort to prolong, but it was little use. He leaned back against the wall and paused for a few moments – even alone, he felt self-conscious without something to occupy himself with – before taking a textbook out of his bag, flipping through it, thinking that even if he wasn’t in class he might as well get something done. But of course instead he ended up tapping the end of his pen against the page and writing nothing.
And perhaps it was the cold or perhaps it was a succession of late nights catching up with him, but instead of lapsing into introspection Arthur found his eyes drifting half-closed; his breathing beginning to slow; that light, falling sensation that sometimes precedes sleep. And perhaps he would have succumbed to it had the door not opened and the noise not startled him alert.
Without a beat, he jolted upright and closed the book on his lap, letting it slide onto the floor. By instinct Arthur moved to stand up at Patience’s entrance, but there wasn’t the space; never mind. She seemed a little taken aback by his presence, and before she turned away, he smiled.
The door was pushed to. Arthur saw her gaze drift to his cigarette and, after a brief look of mild displeasure, he stubbed it out. “Mind, Patience? More than that - I'm totally affronted. You had better go back out into the snow.” Her earnest way of speaking – oh, he knew it was terribly unkind of him, but he couldn’t resist a little deadpan sarcasm at her expense just here and there. He crushed the dead cigarette under his boot. “No, it’s quite all right. Although there’s not much space to share.”
He had previously been sitting knees apart, legs extended, back leaned against the wall, but now he drew his limbs in to accommodate his fellow trespasser. Outside of the window, the conditions showed no signs of improvement. “Ought I to be very British and comment on the weather? It seems rather redundant. Then again, not sure I’m really qualified: I’m only half-and-half, after all.” A nomadic childhood had prevented Arthur from much secure sense of roots in either country; whenever he was in one, he tended to play up to the stereotypes and accent of the other. He would doubtless be treated as slightly ‘foreign’ regardless of his habits: might as well have fun with it.
“So, what brings you in here: free period or skiving?” If his impressions from her previous behaviour were correct, it would be the former; but the janitor’s shed was a strange choice of haunt if one had nothing to hide. “As for myself – criminal, albeit a reluctant one.” He lowered his voice in mock-confidentiality, because the reason sounded so ridiculous: “I got locked out of history.”
sorry this is late, and not as long as yours! i can't really match 900 words right now, haha |
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Post by patience marie smith on Mar 3, 2012 15:43:18 GMT -5
The storm had hit so sudden, the soft, light snowflakes soon falling in a flurries. She had no other choice but to select the closest shelter, was that not true? It was moments like this that she wished she had agreed to her cousin’s suggestion of a guard to tail her. At least then she’d not be stuck out in the cold, isolated from the school . . . with Arthur. But, in her desire to feel at least sort of like all the other students attending Jackson Prep, she’d chosen to decline the offer, before setting out into this new country on her on. But regardless, she’d been stranded by the storm, unable to even see the school through the white vastness, and had just barely been able to see the shed, as it was. So naturally, as she entered, she was more than just a little surprised to see someone already there; particularly Arthur. She was clearly taken aback, and before she could turn to close the door, she lightly narrowed her eyes in response to his smile. Turning, and closing the door, she glanced back at him, relieved to see him stub the cigarette out, rarely pleased to see anyone with those disgusting habits. Mind, Patience? I’m rather affronted. You had better go back out into the snow. She paused, staring at him for a moment, not sure if she should trust his words, or if it had been sarcasm, still not very good at picking up on that attribute of speech, “Umm . . .” She rolled her eyes as he continued to speak, No, it’s quite all right. Although there’s not much space to share. She raised an eyebrow at him, “I’m sure I won’t take up too much space, I’m not that big.” She stated calmly, sitting down by the window.
She was definitely waiting, impatiently, for the storm to calm enough for her to leave this shed, and it’s inhabitant as well. She drew her legs close, lightly wrapping her arms around, before hearing him speak again. She bit back a sigh, hoping any conversation had been finished, or preferably had been finished with a simple ‘it’s alright.’ Rather than suffer through all the other . . . four sentences. It wasn’t even like she was in his company by choice. Ought I to be very British and comment on the weather? It seems rather redundant. Then again, not sure I’m really qualified: I’m only half-and-half, after all. She glanced back at him, her face carefully void, “In that case, please, feel free to not speak at all . . . I’d hate to make you suffer through uncomfortable conversations, because you’re not . . . how was it you put it . . . ‘qualified?’ But then again, I left England to get away from the British, so feel free to be ‘American.’ After all, are we not in America?” She stated, trying to keep her voice calm, but allowing a hint of almost annoyance at his behavior. It was no joke that Arthur was far from her favorite person, although, she really didn’t know much about him . . . al she knew was that he had a crude, sarcastic way about him. Well, not really crude, but he did seem a tad arrogant.
Arrogance was definitely something she was trying to get away from, desperately so. She’d suffered through seventeen years of being around arrogance – after all, it’s rare to find someone more arrogant then England’s Upper-Class. Dukes, Duchesses, Counts, even the royalty seemed so self-absorbed. Which was why she’d been so desperate to leave it all. Avoid the balls where it was literally a battle of ‘who’s better than who’. Every little thing in that world was a popularity contest, and Patience had hated it, absolutely hated it. So she had ran away to America, to be among more normal individuals. Sure, there was still a big popularity contest in nearly every aspect of this locale, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as back in England. So what brings you in here: free period or skiving? She shrugged slightly, “I was spending my free period on the lawn, reading; when the storm hit . . . I couldn’t exactly see the school, and was forced here instead.” She explained, hoping he didn’t make the connection that she was breaking the roles by being out on the lawn during her free period, but what ever. As for myself – criminal, albeit a reluctant one. she raised an eyebrow as his voice lowered, the tone a mock-confident sound, I got locked out of history.. She blinked, turning to look at him more directly, “Wait, locked . . . out of history? How do you get locked out of history. You mean, there really is a teacher that locks his door after the bell? I thought that was a rumor!” She stated, her expression startled. She watched him, before frowning, “And, why exactly where you locked out, aren’t students suppose to be on time for class?” She paused, before looking back out in the snow, “Though, it seems that you might be a tad late to any other classes too. This storm doesn’t look like it’s going to end any time soon.” Which mean she was stuck here, with Arthur, until it ends.
"Delicate Comments"
Sweet Imaginations
Status Completed
Reserved Arthur
Notes Here you go, hope you like it.
Outfit here
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