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Oddity may continue, blah blah
You need a plot, he thought, grimacing down at the page. How are you supposed to write without a plot? He yawned for the third time that morning and glanced up at the droning math teacher. People don't have plots. I don't. This, he mused, was completely true. People wandered trhough life with constantly changing goals that seldom were reached. That must be why people love TV- everything is wrapped up neatly in an half hour.
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He should get up. He really should. He should throw back the warm covers, walk across the cold floor, and open the curtains. It might be light out, but from what he could see from the small slit between curtain and window, it was dark. It was probably raining. Come on, he thought; get up. Eat something. Shower. Get dressed. He groaned, then rolled over and buried his head. Tomorrow. He'd do it tomorrow.
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The wall had a gritty texture that he was sure was imprinting itself onto his face. It was a flecked cement, gray in color and studded with small, dark pebbles. He hoped his agitator wouldn't slam his face into the wall - he was sure something would break.
The hands twisting his arms and holding him firmly against the building belonged to John Ryes, the variety of boy which wore leather jackets and smoked. Adam wasn't sure what he had done to inspire this friendly little after-school beating. Adam took pains to blend in - he wore the normal selection of jeans and hoodies, and kept his mouth shut. He was at a loss as to what he had done to enrage John.
John wrenched his victim's arm up a little more, and Adam decided that what the older boy wanted was noise, so he whimipered. "Little faggot," John whispered, his hot breath tickling Adam's ear. Adam frowned. This must just be a common insult. No one could know - this was a new school, damn it! Adam made a desperate play at escape, and caught John off gaurd, wiggling out of his grasp.
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He rifled through the freezer, looking for an ice pack. Placing the blue pack against his cheek, he smiled at a find of popsicles. They were the sort from childhood; brightly colored sugar-water and dye in a long plastic sleeve. Delectable and liberally doused in artificial flavors. Adam settled on a purple one and shut the fridge.
John Ryes was not as intelligent as some bullies - he hit in visible areas. Of course, Adam thought, pawing through a drawer for scissors to cut the popsicle's wrapper, John may have hit him in the face so that it was visible on purpose - so that everyone would know that the new boy had been "broken in". A sort of signature, Adam thought, raising the grape ice to his lips.
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"Part of your problem is that you're a new kid at the end of a school year," his brother explained. "It's almost summer." Adam ignored him completely, other than jealously eyeing the beer he was drinking. Like you didn't hit me when I was a kid, he thought bitterly. Don't pretend to be nice. Fuck you. You locked me in the dryer for two hours.
When his brother continued droning, Adam collected his book and headed upstairs, pausing in the kitchen to steal a few beers.
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Well? Worth continuing? Does the choppy style of jumping from scene to scene work? It was part laziness, lack of concentrating, and I thought it was interesting. Might be annoying; I dunno - which is why I'm asking you. La la la.
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