Welcome To Fake Paradise!

This is the personal writing blog for Joana Hill, creative writing major extraordinaire! Here you'll find the random ramblings and occasional writings of a girl obsessed with gay romance and the yaoi manga FAKE. You've been warned.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Scene Sunday (Artistic License)

Been rewriting Artistic License's first chapter completely. I haven't gotten very far, but this is what I have so far. Enjoy :)

Laughing echoed around me as I stepped into the sunlight for the first time in three hours. I loved that I could spend my afternoons in studio class instead of being in the morning group, but I’d forgotten how boring it could be on the first day. That didn’t, of course, stop me from heading to the student studios to get some more drawing done. They were better set-up anyway, with large windows that let in the natural light instead of forcing us to use the harsh, fluorescent lights.

“Hey, Cameron!” someone called at me as they walked past, a video camera going. I waved but moved on before they could stop me for an extended amount of time. Despite popular opinion (or maybe mine) the camera does not and has never loved me. I was dressed in shabby clothing that I didn’t care if I got paint on, and there was, last time I checked, blue paint caked in my normally blond hair. It was some kind of record; I usually got covered in paint during the first major project at the earliest.

When I entered the main courtyard, I was greeted with most of those laughing people. There was something going on in every nook and cranny, from the actors on the grass to the poets up in the trees quoting Shakespeare. My attention was drawn to the fountain, though. Dance students, all females, stood on the ledges of it, socks and shoes kicked aside, some as far as at the feet of the actors on the grass. They had a boom box closer to them, which was currently blasting out salsa music.

“Cameron! Just the guy I wanted to see!” It was Miranda, of course. She was my closest friend, not for a lack of, you know, violence and horrible ideas that might persuade me otherwise. She was tall, not quite as tall as me, but only a couple inches short, and lean as a dancer often was. She also had dark features, from her native American-influenced skin, to her brown eyes and constantly shiny black hair. She was good-looking, as I had to admit to myself every time she complained about all she did in the morning to emerge looking perfect. I still preferred her brother in that respect. I may or may not have been biased.

Miranda’s friends continued their performance as she hopped down, not bothering to put her shoes back on. They were probably the flip flops hanging from one of the poem trees, anyway.

“What’s up?” I said, putting my easel down for the moment. Miranda may or may not have had an idea in her head, and these ideas were often long and convoluted. No use carrying bulky things around if I didn’t need to.

She had a serious look on her face, and my former happy mood began to dissolve. “I was… wondering what happened to you, those last few days of summer. I know you said it wasn’t a big deal, but you didn’t even call Michael. He’s kind of been moping.”

I flinched at that. Miranda liked skirting around the issue, but it was hard for me to. Still, I didn’t bother ruining the atmosphere any further than it needed to be. “Yeah, my mom kind of freaked out,” I said, folding my arms together and looking over at the actors. “She has my best interests in mind, supposedly. I guess that means banning my boyfriend from our house. Should’ve seen that one coming.”

Miranda sighed and slumped, letting the loose shoulders of her blouse fall down. Her shirt slipped down a bit without the support, but she adjusted it again before I could even mention it. She looked nervous. It was just one of ticks, I supposed; something I never questioned, because it seemed like she didn’t want me to.

“Anyway, Mom finally gave me back my cell phone. Not that it matters at this point.”

“I just don’t want to see you and Michael not work out because of this,” Miranda said, displaying her typical blunt honesty. “Okay?”

I smiled and picked up my canvas. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Miranda. I’ve grown attached to my penis and I know you’d rip it off if I ever dumped him.” She took a swing at me, which I easily blocked with my easel.

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