Post by Rainbow on Oct 5, 2004 17:00:19 GMT -5
Genre: Teen Angst
Authors Note: A little bit different. It doesn’t involve Orlando in person but as a figure of the imagination, a hallucination and effectively the Muse.
Synopsis: A teenager, 15 to be exact; of intellect, it seems, greater than those around her. In possession of a distracted mother, nagging teachers, hormonal friends and a kaleidoscoping life, she has one thing that everyone else in her small part of the world lacks: Imagination.
“Breakfast!” My mother hollers in her usual frantic manner of the eight o’clock hour.
“You’re going to miss the bus!” She states the obvious.
“I can’t give you a lift. I’m meeting Jeanie to discuss shoes.” I’m so glad she has her priorities straight. Social activities before daughter’s education: Always! And even more so if it’s a social excursion that involves shoes! Mothers really are a rare bread.
I may seem cynical; this is because I am. It is a side effect of going through adolescence and heightened around the time of PMS. My teenage years are miserable, as I’m sure are those of many teenagers. The world turns it’s back on you during these years, if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky then it takes pleasure in throwing as many obstacles across your path as it can, thereby achieving maximum woe.
Oh yes. Woe is me…<br>
“You’ve got four minutes to get to the bus stop! What’s keeping you?” If she screams much louder she’ll give herself a hernia.
What is keeping me? Well a last glimpse at the one thing that keeps me hanging on, for one; checking my email for another; and jotting down last weeks homework, due in today, for a third. Take your pick really.
“Two minutes, you're going to miss it if you don’t get down right this second. You’ll be walking. It’s five miles and you’ll be walking it!” Oh gee, five miles. Big whoop!
“Coming!” I call back in a lame attempt to silence her. How I wish I had a sibling to share the parental hassle. How a wish I had a father, for that matter, to share in my torture of mature women! He left, unsurprisingly. Everyone seems to leave. It’s the world playing its games with my mind, but I’ve quit caring these days. There’s just me and my imagination: it’s my best friend, and most importantly it’s entirely dependable. Which is really all any teenager wants. Something constant in a world of change, something that’s not going to bitch behind your back, something that’s not going to go out of its way to disrupt your life. Yes, me and my imagination are quite happy on our own and long may that happiness last.
I missed the bus, of course. And as I wander down the country road that leads to some form of civilization I revel in the fact that I really don’t care. Quite the opposite really. It gives me a chance to think about that which I think of most, that which I write of and that which I draw in every waking hour:
Undying love: I think not.
Teen obsession: perhaps.
Escapism: most definitely.
And does this escapism have a name? Well yes, actually. It has many but mostly I just call him Orlando.
(To Reens: When I get around to writing something slightly more substantial, you still up for beta-ing? I know I have like a kazillion on the go now, lol. I'm feeling sporadic ;D)
Authors Note: A little bit different. It doesn’t involve Orlando in person but as a figure of the imagination, a hallucination and effectively the Muse.
Synopsis: A teenager, 15 to be exact; of intellect, it seems, greater than those around her. In possession of a distracted mother, nagging teachers, hormonal friends and a kaleidoscoping life, she has one thing that everyone else in her small part of the world lacks: Imagination.
The Making of a Muse
Hari T
Hari T
“Breakfast!” My mother hollers in her usual frantic manner of the eight o’clock hour.
“You’re going to miss the bus!” She states the obvious.
“I can’t give you a lift. I’m meeting Jeanie to discuss shoes.” I’m so glad she has her priorities straight. Social activities before daughter’s education: Always! And even more so if it’s a social excursion that involves shoes! Mothers really are a rare bread.
I may seem cynical; this is because I am. It is a side effect of going through adolescence and heightened around the time of PMS. My teenage years are miserable, as I’m sure are those of many teenagers. The world turns it’s back on you during these years, if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky then it takes pleasure in throwing as many obstacles across your path as it can, thereby achieving maximum woe.
Oh yes. Woe is me…<br>
“You’ve got four minutes to get to the bus stop! What’s keeping you?” If she screams much louder she’ll give herself a hernia.
What is keeping me? Well a last glimpse at the one thing that keeps me hanging on, for one; checking my email for another; and jotting down last weeks homework, due in today, for a third. Take your pick really.
“Two minutes, you're going to miss it if you don’t get down right this second. You’ll be walking. It’s five miles and you’ll be walking it!” Oh gee, five miles. Big whoop!
“Coming!” I call back in a lame attempt to silence her. How I wish I had a sibling to share the parental hassle. How a wish I had a father, for that matter, to share in my torture of mature women! He left, unsurprisingly. Everyone seems to leave. It’s the world playing its games with my mind, but I’ve quit caring these days. There’s just me and my imagination: it’s my best friend, and most importantly it’s entirely dependable. Which is really all any teenager wants. Something constant in a world of change, something that’s not going to bitch behind your back, something that’s not going to go out of its way to disrupt your life. Yes, me and my imagination are quite happy on our own and long may that happiness last.
I missed the bus, of course. And as I wander down the country road that leads to some form of civilization I revel in the fact that I really don’t care. Quite the opposite really. It gives me a chance to think about that which I think of most, that which I write of and that which I draw in every waking hour:
Undying love: I think not.
Teen obsession: perhaps.
Escapism: most definitely.
And does this escapism have a name? Well yes, actually. It has many but mostly I just call him Orlando.
(To Reens: When I get around to writing something slightly more substantial, you still up for beta-ing? I know I have like a kazillion on the go now, lol. I'm feeling sporadic ;D)
