Writing

So I got to thinking today, about how this is a blog about a writer, but I haven't really blogged about my writing yet, except for that one dragon tears story. So here's the beginning of a story I planned out and haven't actually written yet except for this.

Life has a funny way of changing in ways you'd never expect. Like, everything's going fine, you're happy with the hand you've been dealt, and then you glance down at your cards and realize you were looking at them wrong: you have a totally different set than you'd originally thought. Sometimes it's a better hand, and sometimes it's not.

It was the first day of freshman year, and already things were not going as planned. My best friend, Delilah Richardson, had not shown up. This could mean one of three things: she was sick, she forgot, or, most likely, she talked her dad out of making her go. Kitty (her nickname, as she hated her real name) and I have been best friends since first grade. She's loud, bossy, controlling, and the best friend you'll ever meet. She's insanely funny and insanely crazy. We were like two parts of the same person, and we desparately needed each other.

Lunchtime rolled around, and I was cursing Kitty. We had both choiced into the school, her for the band and me for the academics program, and I didn't really know anybody there but her. I bought my lunch and spotted a table with only one other kid at it. He had his head buried in his arms and seemed to be sleeping, so I figured it was safe to sit there. I pulled out a chair across the table and a down a bit from him and sat down.

"What part of 'leave me alone' didn't you get?" he asked without lifting his head.

"I'm- I'm sorry?" I stammered.

He sat up and looked at me. "Oh. I thought you were someone else."

"Guess I should be glad I'm not, then," I remarked.

He smiled. "Definitely. So who are you?"

"Colbie Landon. You?"

"Nikolas."

"Just Nikolas?"

"Yeah. I don't think last names are important. You're a freshman, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, welcome to Olathe High. Finding everything alright?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to eat your lunch?"

"Oh. Yeah." I picked up my fork and stabbed a ravioli. "You're not going to buy lunch?"

He shook his head, but didn't offer any more information.

I studied him as I chewed. Normally I'd feel bad for staring at him, but he was staring right back, seeming to be doing the same thing I was. He had shaggy dark hair and eyes so blue they were startling. I felt like he was familiar, like I should know who he was, but I didn't. Maybe we'd gone to elementary school together. He had on a leather jacket with a black t-shirt underneath. He had a scar on his left cheek, starting in the corner of his eye and going down to his nostril. He had another on his neck. His hands, balled into fists and resting on the table, were also adorned.

"Clumsy kid?"

He followed my gaze and shrugged. "Something like that." He put his head back down, a sure sign of the end of our conversation.