Alexis Ashwood
March 05, 2010 2:49 PM
Just learning some things about my future by Alexis Ashwood
The fifth year looked out on the Pitch and sighed. It was the Quidditch Pitch again, the bane of her existence. She hated coming here, but the red head couldn’t stay away. The girls she shared a room with hated her. They would be in the Cascade Hall, Labyrinth Gardens, or the Library. To Alexis’ knowledge, the only place those proper pureblood girls wouldn’t go on a regular basis was the Quidditch Pitch. At least there she could do her homework without worry about being reminded what she had failed to become.Today, though, Alexis wasn’t holding a textbook in her hand, but a letter. It was a letter from her parents. She remembered being younger and awaiting the day when she would receive a letter telling her she was to be married. Now, Alexis wasn’t sure what to think. She was a social reject. She not only lacked pureblood friends, she didn’t even have relations with any halfbreeds or mudbloods. Her family thought she was a failure, knew she was an outcast…so why marry her off? Couldn’t they just forget about her? It would make things quite easier.
Justin Hawthorne sounded like a decent enough person; she had met him twice before. When she had met him, she hadn’t thought of him as someone she could marry. And…she didn’t want to marry him. Alexis was done with being a pureblood. She hated it. But…if marrying him was a way to get back into society, back where she belonged, and have her parents approve of her again, she would do it.
The wind picked up and blew the letter out of her hands. Alexis watched in disbelief as a person nearby caught it. She cleared her throat and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Excuse me, but I believe that letter belongs to me.” She said. “Thank you for catching it. Now may I please have it back?”
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Alexis Ashwood
Just learning some things about my future
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Alexis Ashwood
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Paul Tarwater
March 16, 2010 6:26 PM
While I'm dreaming about mine. by Paul Tarwater
This would be one of the last times he was ever on a Quidditch Pitch. Paul Tarwater, a boy so very resistant to change, was mourning, you would say. He didn’t even like the damn sport, really, it was just this resistance, this hatred of everything moving so fast. It was a good change, though, he told himself. He had waited seven years to be done with this school. He had waited seven years to go off on his own, do his own thing, live his own life, make his own damn money.And really, really that was what he looked forward to.
But, your schoolboy years were sometimes hard to forget. Especially when, after being the laughingstock of the Quidditch pitch for so long, he’d actually done something right. He’d done something right on his very last game. Granted, he didn’t actually consider it all, or even partially, him. But, he had “led” the team, he was there to oversee them, and he couldn’t help, as much as his misanthropic view on life tried to force it down, he couldn’t help but feel the tiniest light of pride at winning.
Its just as they say, he thinks to himself. He, the loser in everything in life. Poor boy, false pureblood. Its true what they say. Everyone likes to win, everyone likes to be at least a little liked. Even he, who thought he didn’t, who only pushed it down for so long…
Well, he wasn’t liked, but the other thing…
He supposed he could handle not being liked for a little longer. He supposed he could choose to try and be liked in the real world, rather than in his school. A place full of people he generally hated anyway.
Standing on the pitch, looking upwards, like he was looking for new hope, he wondered if things really would get better after this. He wondered… and then he stopped, head snapping to the side with surprise when something flew directly for him. Hand snapping up, he caught the paper in his hand, looking down with disbelief in his own eyes.
And then, like out of nowhere (not really, he just hadn’t been paying attention for a while) a girl appeared. One he knew as a Crotalus. Looking for the paper in his hands.
Masking everything else, he’d already decided before that he wouldn’t change his face, he turned blank and cold. “Sure, whatever,” holding it out without bothering to look. “It’s not my problem.” No news is good news, after all.
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Paul Tarwater
While I'm dreaming about mine.
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Paul Tarwater
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