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 22, 2011

Scene Sunday (Artistic License)

Hah, I'm running out of new projects to post for this. Oh well. Maybe I should be trying to write more short stories while I edit my three finished novels. Anyway, another scene from Artistic License.

Miranda was beautiful; even I knew that. She was skinny like you’d expect a dancer to be, and her limbs were slender and easily flowed as she moved. She also had flawless skin; I’d never seen so much as an acne scar on her. When I asked her about it once, she said her face probably saw more chemicals regularly than an alcoholic’s liver.

I think the thing I most noticed about her, though, was her eyes. She had the same eyes as her brother: dark brown, almost black, and one look into them could make me freeze.

Of course, the difference between Michael and Miranda is that with Michael, I’d be fine with staring into those eyes for a long time. That’s just one sappy thought that goes through my mind. I’m sure I could think of plenty of others. He kind of has that effect on me sometimes.

But Miranda was my original point. And my point was that she was dancing for whoever would watch. Considering try-outs for Beauty and the Beast were long over, there were quite a lot of people staying.

“You’d think they’d never seen a girl dance before,” Michael said, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

I stared over at him. “…do you ever wash that thing?”

“What?” Michael said, sounding like he couldn’t believe I’d even bring it up. When I didn’t answer, he sighed and shook his head. “You’re the one that calls me a clean freak, Cam. You should know I do.”

There was suddenly the harsh sound of microphone feedback, and Michael and I winced.

“Attention!” came Tabby’s voice. I hadn’t even realized she was there. “THIS.IS.GOD!”

I shuddered, and Michael glanced at me. “What’s your problem? She’s just talking over loudspeakers from the tech booth,” he said.

“My mother would kill me if she thought I believed God was a woman,” I said.

“Fair enough.”

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