Channing H. DeVallette is momentarily dead. She is not capable of anything except mindless disobedience. Her prescription: -Hours of loud, obnoxious typing at unheard of times during the night. May cause slight annoyances among residents of her current household. There is no need to worry; she will most likely be cured within a matter of days. Be forewarned, however, that this "mindless disobedience" could last for weeks, months, years, or even a lifetime. It is all just a matter of WHO SHE IS. Channing held the crumpled piece of notice paper between her sweaty fingers. It was addressed to her, and the date at the top was only yesterday. But the manner in which it was crumpled was no ordinary "I'll worry about this bit of nonsense tomorrow" crumpling. It was an aged yellowy color with a waxy covering of which was quickly peeling off. It looked as if it had been stuck between the cracks of an old abandoned building for a century at least. She would have believed this theory, too, if it hadn't have been for the date. Yesterday? It was impossible, and Channing was no slave to the unimaginable. She was a young woman of simple science, and simply science told her that the doctor's note was just some practical joke being played upon her. On top of that, she was a strong believer in the lawful rulings of her parents, her siblings, and her politicians. "Mindless disobedience" was just absurd.
I think I just fell in love with you... again. I was so sucked into that. It left me so mezmorized I'm not even going to say, "I'd hit it". (Even though it remains unspoken ) What happens next, damnit!?!?!?
You really like it? Okay, then here's another part... She took the pass and walked out of Geography. It was Friday and Mr. Cronin wouldn't mind. He would know that she would throw in a good few words of controversy when she got back. Channing would receive a weak Wednesday school detention for ridiculing a young boy's religion. So the cycle would always be until the end of the year, but neither Cronin or herself really minded much at all. As she stepped past the trash bin on the way to the girls' bathroom, Channing dropped the doctor's notice into the deep, dark abyss of the "round file". She would exchange a few words with Tracy about it, but all-in-all she decided it was completely irrelevant, and therefore easily forgettable... Channing arrived home at a quarter past 1. Her mother eyed her, and then she eyed the clock. The girl looked pale and emaciated, so her mother concluded it was best to just leave whatever was bothering her daughter alone. A note explaining her absence would be sufficient for the school the next Monday. That talk with Tracy...was unsettling. It haunted the very steps that Channing made as she climbed the stairs. Clinging to the guardrail, she pulled herself up to her room, shuffled away the mess that was under her bed, and pulled out an old friend of hers. A fire-breathing gadget in the shape of a dragon, her old pipe brought back memories of strumming guitars and campfire songs. If she had still been following her old ways, she would have found solace in the tiny piece of carven wood. That talk with Tracy...had been too unsettling...
Oh my god... TELL ME MORE!!!!! Ahaha... I was already so in love with you... but now you're a brilliant writer too?!?! It's almost too much. I really love it.
Well, dayummn, Katie. If this keeps going, I'll have a book by the end of the night. Aww, well thank you.
femme fatale...that movie rings the loudest bell! It was something i watched before the most ... brilliant moment in my entire life.
Ahaha... this is seriously good stuff, Krystin. 10 million bajillion times better than any prose I've ever written. You are officially the new definition of "Gorgeous". Have a cookie.
you should write a book..then get it published and all that then sell it at stores and make tons of money then buy nuclear arms and put them in george bush's room so when he saw them he'd wage war on himself..... or you could buy a house... but its good writing..peace
A little more. Channing's best friend, the one person in which she confided in for everything, the one person who knew her backwards and forwards, the good and the bad...Channing's best friend had seemed unmoved at mention of an ethereal note. "I know who did it," Tracy sighed apathetically. "What? What are you talking about? You mean you know who pulled this dirty little trick on me? Who?" "Well...Number one, it wasn't a joke. Number two, I don't think you'll remember him. You probably didn't even notice him at the Circle." "God, Tracy. You're not making a bit of sense. Not that you really ever do, but tell me what you're talking about!" Channing stared at her other half menacingly. "Last weekend. You have to remember last weekend. Girls night out...The thunderstorm...Becky Snowcremes on the Circle..." "Well, yeah. How could I forget? Good, clean fun is what it was." She mentioned this last part adamently. "Tracy, that's all fine to go reminiscing of good times, but I need to know how this relates to my...now I guess I would call it a situation...You're being too elusive, honey. It scares me." "Okay, do you remember Adam?" "Adam? I've never known anybody by the name of Adam." "Adam was the man who sat across from you outside the coffee shop. I guessed he was around 40, but he looked much older." Tracy was now beginning to acquire that far off, whispy voice she often used when she was in a pensive mood. "His name was Adam? How did you find that out?" "I asked." "You asked him?" "Well, yeah. Who else? Anyways, I remember how he looked at you. He held that cigarette between his callused hands, and he bore those deep California blue eyes into you." At that point it all came rushing back to Channing, like the piece of seaglass that 'Adam' had given her had finally been pulled away. She remembered the cigarette. He clung to it like it was his last resort to sanity. She could just faintly see the whisps of silver in his sandy blonde hair. He had worn an old ratty tye-dye t-shirt with cargoes that day at the beach. And when the storms came everybody rushed inside except for Adam and herself. She remembered seeing the rain splatter across his permanently sunburnt face. She remembered the crash of lightening not 20 yards from the shoreline. She remembered thinking how his creased, dusty cheeks could not stop from smiling. She remembered exactly the way in which Adam got up to retrieve the piece of seaglass from where the lightening had hit the sand. His feet had been bare on the wet beach. Her eyes had gotten that clouded over look. The kind you get when... "Channing? Would you like some privacy?" Tracy distastefully only half-joked, half expecting Channing to start moaning. "So, again. Relate this back to my weird voo-doo doctor's note." "Honey, I watched from the window, so don't give me that sarcasm. You hugged him goodbye without even knowing his name. You could feel his hand in your back pocket, you know you remember. But you didn't pull away. You knew there was nothing but innocense in that gesture." There was a long pause. Channing was obviously mulling it over in her mind. "You mean to say...that Adam wrote me that note?" "Believe what you want to believe." Tracy smiled mischeivously. And now Channing was at home, and Adam's warning or suggestion or whatever it was that he wanted her to get out of that note was swirling away into the fiery depths of a dumptruck.
