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ROUND FOUR >> Rules post. Flat view. Updates Post (WIPs only) Fills Post (completed Fills only) damalur's
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Seriously though, Charles' depression and his resignation to it bleeds though every sentence, and the resultant atmosphere is so vivid that I'm left here looking at the screen going 'guh' at how perfect this is.
I can't wait for Erik to make an appearance : )
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This broke my heart. Beautiful story. :)
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He’s fourteen before he really connects that it’s probably not normal to think in the third person. Was there a point where he started thinking he instead of I? Because it’s all just a rambling thrum of narration, thoughts and memories and little snatches of things that might be memories or his memories of those memories. He can’t be sure what’s him, half the time ( ... )
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Thank you so much for writing and sharing.
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It's not something to be shoved and spit at over anymore. It's not showing off, or being wrong again, somehow. University is more cerebral--sure, there are still the rough-and-tumble rugby players who go out of their way to trip him in the halls, but now it seems juvenile. Childish. Charles isn't the freak quite as much as he was--now he's a quiet, somewhat shy boy trying to make his way though his classes, just like everyone else.
Well. Not like everyone else, necessarily, because he figures out very quickly that university is easy. School always has been, for him, but he refuses to feel like an outsider again just because he enjoys lectures and musty old science journals. ( ... )
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It's not something to be shoved and spit at over anymore. It's not showing off, or being wrong again, somehow. University is more cerebral--sure, there are still the rough-and-tumble rugby players who go out of their way to trip him in the halls, but now it seems juvenile. Childish. Charles isn't the freak quite as much as he was--now he's a quiet, somewhat shy boy trying to make his way though his classes, just like everyone else.
Well. Not like everyone else, necessarily, because he figures out very quickly that university is easy. School always has been, for him, but he refuses to feel like an outsider again just because he enjoys lectures and musty old science journals. ( ... )
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She sits down next to him, too close, her thigh bare and warm against the wool of his trousers. She's pretty, he thinks muzzily, in such a California way--none of that anaemic English pallor, just gold skin and white teeth and hair the colour of corn silk.
He realizes, abruptly, that it's the texture of corn silk, too. Which he knows, because he's touching it.
'Sorry, so sorry,' he murmurs, snatching his hand back. He's not that drunk, he's never that drunk. What the hell is he doing? Smiling doesn't mean she's okay with touching him, doesn't mean she wants him touching her and what if she thinks he's trying to pick her up, Christ, he can't exactly come out with ( ... )
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