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I don't know if any of you ever read anything about my long story (which is nameless), but I won't even bother linking to it because I keep changing things anyway. But the following random scene is basically a glimpse of who Lanif is before he meets Timria. Mostly I'm just trying to get myself writing.
Lanif sat in a chair, sipping his drink. It was a nice chair. Leather.
The music was too loud and two girls screamed, “Turn it up!” at the same time and then giggled. Some people were dancing in the middle of the room, underneath a glittering chandelier. Lanif wasn’t sure it should be called dancing. People were rubbing against each other, pretending to keep time to the music. Sometimes they lifted their arms into the air. This was dancing.
Lanif marveled at how Charley always managed to clean everything up before his parents came home. They left a lot, on the weekends. And they stupidly left their son home alone. On these weekends, Charley hosted parties. His parties were only for the fun people, of course. Lanif knew that fun was really another word for cool. Lanif was cool. Lanif was cool because his parents were rich, so when he was a little boy, he played with other rich little boys whose parents were friends with his parents. Lanif’s friends were the ones who made fun of everyone else in the grade. They made fun of smart people, ugly people, and stupid people. They made fun of just about everyone who wasn’t at this party, pouring acidic drinks down their throats or finding people to rub against. But they didn’t look at it as making fun of people. When the cool people sat in classrooms together, they liked to amuse themselves. First, they were friends with the teacher. They raised their hands to give answers, or sometimes to tell about the fantastic trips they’d taken with their families. Sometimes they came in after school for help to really make it look like they were trying. And then, once the teacher was in their pockets, when they got bored, they made comments about other kids. Not to be mean. Just to pass the time. To be funny. It truly never occurred to the cool kids that they were burning scars on people's souls. They were the shit. And anyone who told them otherwise was definitely not cool, and therefore their opinion wasn’t valid.
Lanif had a new drink in his hand now, and he winced as he swallowed. But as the fire spread, tingling, he relaxed. There were girls next to him, drinking the same thing. “Oh, my God!” one of them yelled. “I think I’m buzzing, oh my God, this is like, so awesome!” Their skirts barely covered anything and Lanif wondered why they bothered wearing them. Their skin was dark from too much tanning.
Lanif never did much at these parties. He stood by the guys and he was quiet except for the occasional sarcastic quip. Sometimes, he drank. Not to get drunk. But because sometimes, the bitter fire made him feel alive.
Lanif hated these people. They masked their intelligence and personalities with materialism. But his mother loved their parents. She liked having a well-liked son. And he didn't really mind. He had yet to find anyone else worth having a conversation with anyway.
Lanif sat in a chair, sipping his drink. It was a nice chair. Leather.
The music was too loud and two girls screamed, “Turn it up!” at the same time and then giggled. Some people were dancing in the middle of the room, underneath a glittering chandelier. Lanif wasn’t sure it should be called dancing. People were rubbing against each other, pretending to keep time to the music. Sometimes they lifted their arms into the air. This was dancing.
Lanif marveled at how Charley always managed to clean everything up before his parents came home. They left a lot, on the weekends. And they stupidly left their son home alone. On these weekends, Charley hosted parties. His parties were only for the fun people, of course. Lanif knew that fun was really another word for cool. Lanif was cool. Lanif was cool because his parents were rich, so when he was a little boy, he played with other rich little boys whose parents were friends with his parents. Lanif’s friends were the ones who made fun of everyone else in the grade. They made fun of smart people, ugly people, and stupid people. They made fun of just about everyone who wasn’t at this party, pouring acidic drinks down their throats or finding people to rub against. But they didn’t look at it as making fun of people. When the cool people sat in classrooms together, they liked to amuse themselves. First, they were friends with the teacher. They raised their hands to give answers, or sometimes to tell about the fantastic trips they’d taken with their families. Sometimes they came in after school for help to really make it look like they were trying. And then, once the teacher was in their pockets, when they got bored, they made comments about other kids. Not to be mean. Just to pass the time. To be funny. It truly never occurred to the cool kids that they were burning scars on people's souls. They were the shit. And anyone who told them otherwise was definitely not cool, and therefore their opinion wasn’t valid.
Lanif had a new drink in his hand now, and he winced as he swallowed. But as the fire spread, tingling, he relaxed. There were girls next to him, drinking the same thing. “Oh, my God!” one of them yelled. “I think I’m buzzing, oh my God, this is like, so awesome!” Their skirts barely covered anything and Lanif wondered why they bothered wearing them. Their skin was dark from too much tanning.
Lanif never did much at these parties. He stood by the guys and he was quiet except for the occasional sarcastic quip. Sometimes, he drank. Not to get drunk. But because sometimes, the bitter fire made him feel alive.
Lanif hated these people. They masked their intelligence and personalities with materialism. But his mother loved their parents. She liked having a well-liked son. And he didn't really mind. He had yet to find anyone else worth having a conversation with anyway.
