this is a story I started for a friend, I don't know if I'm going to continue it but I would like some feedback.
Crimson and Ivory
for Lady 'S'
Chapter One: The Artist meets the Goth
How we treasure (and admire) the people who acknowledge us!
- Julie Morgenstern
The pen scratched along cradled by expert fingers, the words upon the page illuminating
the ideals of the mind at work. Furiously the fingers dug, reaching into the crevices of the
malleable mind, to find the right word, for the right feeling and when it did, the pale fingers were
rewarded with reflection before delving back in.
She was a studious girl, one who sat away from others to entreat her imaginary friends
rather than her fellow students. Quiet, she was too, unless you got her on a subject she was
interested in such as the book she was reading or the last play she was in, and then she’d carry on
like you were her best friend in a comforting sort of way. In all reality, the girl in the corner was
an artist, not so much a Van Gogh or a Rembrant, but more of the line of a Shelley or Keats,
romantic, idealistic, full of prose and fantasied ideas. But she kept those traits inside, and cut
herself off to all but close friends.
In a common gesture, she pushed dark strands of hair back behind an ear and continued on
her masterpiece.
From across the room, blue eyes were drawn to The Artist, her pale figure, and the
seemingly dorky clothes that adorned her. The owner of the blue eyes, dearly hoped she would
not be caught, but stared anyway. She watched closely as the fingers moved across the virgin
paper, leaving dark footprints as it went.
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She was talking. Just talking pure nonsense, lying with her back against her bed, staring at
her blue ceiling. Her thoughts swerving towards the person she least likely thought they would --
the Goth girl from her Psych class. She was so utterly different that Patrice, felt drawn to her, at
first in a subconscious way. She wasn’t used to having people acknowledge her, at least as a
friend. But this girl, well she had friendly eyes, so contradictory to her appearance. Her light blue
eyes, were kohl rimmed against freckled skin, and dark makeup was smeared across her face,
while the crimson lipstick that matched her nail began to fade. Her deep red hair cascaded in
ringlet down her back, tousled a bit by the winds. Patrice distinctly remembered her height as
well, for she was tall and slender, with an hourglass shape, in where when she walked her hips
jutted out with each step. Decorating her figure with a maroon dress and a black strapless corset,
that had been laced with strapping up the middle of her chest, showed off her curves. Pale,
shapely legs were covered in fishnets, and thin black boots slid up her calf. All in all, this girl was
of great contrast to Patrice her self, who was contented to hide away in her oversized shirts and
straight legged jeans.
Patrice had a thing for polar opposites, especially in people and because of this for several
days she thought about this medusa. Though her shy visage kept her from striking out with the
olive branch.
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Allene, who much rather have been named Betrayal or Vendetta like her pet teddy,
frowned as she pasted the last picture in her sketchbook. It didn’t seem right, the romantic facade
of two lovers enjoying an evening, and in a rush of hatred ripping the her previous pasting job off
its page, she crumpled it and through it hastily in the trash.
“Down with romance! Stupid, stupid romance.” she grumbled to herself.
But then again Allene was always one for the dramatic.
Reaching for the play button on her CD player, System of the Down blaring from the
worn speakers.
Tapping her nails to the beat of Toxicity, she spread herself out on her carpeted floor.
Becoming very interested in her ceiling, she drifted off into the music, thinking of all the reasons
why her hatred of love and romance still blossomed.
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