Post by HELENA DANE WILLIAMS on Oct 23, 2009 18:16:53 GMT -6
You can't play on broken strings
You can't feel anything
That your heart don't want to feel
I can't tell you something that ain't real.
¤´¯`-´¯`¤ ¤´¯`-´¯`¤¤´¯`-´¯`¤ ¤´¯`-´¯`¤¤´¯`-´¯`¤ ¤´¯`-´¯`¤¤´¯`-´¯`¤
Helena Dane Williams.
"Lena, Lenny, Ames"
"Dorky glasses, ugly ducklin' turned fair princess when she takes 'em off. We know.
All stories start with the words “once upon a time” and Helena’s is no different. From the big city of Los Angeles, the girl was born into a family that was all wealth, all virtue and all glamorous hollywoodian sparkle. Above all, every single member of the William’s household tended to nearly vibrate with enthusiasm with any word with above four syllables – something that was both an inborn, acquired and well nourished quality. Sophia and Raze’s kids, pretty much like their literary award winning parents, grew up to be overly fond of late night reading marathons, explanatory lectures and twenty page long essays filled with pretty words, awfully intelligent contents and loads of witty comments skewering everything and nothing in general.
Helena, who was named after Helena of Troy - about whom her mother happened to be making her pHD about at the time – was no exception to the rule. After all, she had been raised on a house where books had nearly a god-like importance and where writing on the margins of a page was almost a felony punishable by law, and one doesn’t betray your origins as easily as that – especially not when you’re blonde, skimpy, have two elder brothers and want to preserve a bit of your childhood sanity. When all she saw around her were people she liked reading, she had the most natural reaction a child could possibly have – she desperately wished to know what the fuss was all about. In fact, she learned to read at an outrageously early age, being four and a couple of months, slowly starting by Peter Rabbit and the Flopsy Bunnies and developing onto harder things like C.S.Lewis and other children classics that were always handy in a house that irradiated book dust – and that her parents enjoyed almost as much as her.
The house where she grew up - along with the endless piles of books laying around in random places like the bathrooms or the clean bed sheets closet - was something rather indiscritive. Large though not overly, crowded but never noisy, quiet but bubbling with activity, it was a well of contradictions. A large garden filled with flowers - precisely the one that would groom her love for them later - a swing and loads of grassy scents. Simple, yet complicated. Life was like that, and sometimes she wished it had remained so. Her parents had a fairytale like relashionship, one that she would later dream for during her phase of reading countless romantic and incredibly mushy novels all at a time - and that she would afterwards skewer in search for some failure after being influenced by a couple of more daring literary works, like Kant and whatever. The sort that made you question everything and everyone, search a meaning for everything and nothing, and that made you wonder stuff you'd never asked yourself before. Thankfully, that one passed swiftly, along with the adolescent crisis that inevitably followed it.
Was it any wonder then that Helena’s tastes and abilities were so aloof from every single other child her age…? Obviously not. Of course there were significant differences, such as the fact that the girl excelled in anything that involved the presence of letters, like History and every single language and that she was never really able to do more than the very basics in math without a calculator – and even so very poorly, considering the fact that she didn’t really know how to use one. That she was much more mature in about everything than other kids her age but seemed to have a serious deficit in terms of giving herself fully to people without much time in the middle of the process. That sarcasm seemed to be the sole weapon of her choice – that or disdain - that she was extraordinarily incapable in anything that required physical action or that she seemed to deplore anything that implied the words “shopping”, “clothes”, “fashionable” or any of the same genre.
Nay, of course not.
Her whole life was built upon a very systematic scheme, one that functioned at all times, no matter what: she wrote, she passed highschool and college with flying marks – though barely being able to subtract a number with more than two digits from another one with the same amount. Writing was what she did right – who cared for all that rubbish when one clearly had a gift?!, that mixed the very concepts of elegance, art and brainpower all in one?! Therefore, she wanted to sell it – and she wanted to sell it so the very maximum number of people could see it – and so she could finally buy herself that house in Italy she’d been dreaming about for so long… She’d started low, writing spazzy columns for random newspapers and being payed rather miserably, though it was certainly enough for her to be able to have a small house of her own and a vague independence – her parents were still the ones to pay for her car, though.
She’d never really considered being a scriptwriter until that fatidic day when it actually… happened – her parents, major literary critics weren’t too happy either. About a year previously, through a vague turmoil of craziness and a hint of spicy and sheer insanity, Helena had finally found herself writing her Book – with double bold, italics, capital and underlined Bs. It was her masterpiece, the apple of her eyes, her life’s worth of nightly raving and dreaming, the very core of her being all splashed into white paper with pitch black ink. And some smart ass in her household – she was yet to find who it had been, though she was betting her elder brother had been the artist – had sent a sketch of it to a friend of his, who knew someone, who was friend of someone in Renegade.
After that… Well, book had become script, script had become award winning movie and she’d finally got her house in Italy. Not that she used it very often, but it was still there, with its breathtaking view, flourishing garden and comfortable woodsy doors. A place where she knew she could be in piece if need be, a place that was hers alone and no other’s, won with her effort alone – and a helping hand from God above.
Then there was, of course, Webb. Her best mate of all times, her highschool supporter, the guy who was always there for her. The one who knew how she liked her coffee – a rich Breva, in all its luscious glory – who knew her soul deep secrets – the fact that she still slept with her Peter Rabbit plush, and was terrified of anything that crawled or had more than four legs – and the one who’d followed her path, step by step. God knows how he’d endured her tantrums and femaleish awkward hormones for so long – not to mention being dragged to mushy chick flicks only to have her skewer the movie by the end because it-so-sucked-compared-to-the-book-even-though-the-actor-was-good-looking. Thing was, she 'dored him.
And her life had passed – twenty three years of it, to be more precise. Honestly, she wouldn’t take any of it back. Except mayhaps for her most recent flirt – one whom, sadly one must say, was about five years younger than her and happened to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the whole of Hollywood – something that made her feel pretty awkward, though it fed her ego to nearly monstrous proportions. Also to increase her misery, she wasn’t more than overly fond of him either – except for the obvious fact that, hello!, he was her ticket out of the shadows, and pretty damned hot for the matter. Few people even knew she was a woman. Hell!, the name “Williams” tended to be associated with a guy, not the disheveled, five feet eight blonde chick who used to be close to the movie set and who had the nerve to comment every once in a while generally to say that “it didn’t sound right”.
Because yes. She was as damnably assertive as a girl could possibly be. Along with a wish for a happy ending came the whole hopeless romantic factor that came with too many novels - a meek craving covered up with layers and layers of ambition, all of which she would sustain to infinity and beyond. A very poor artistic temper involving a very, very, very low tolerance for non-constructive criticism, a true wish to do good - as well as she may - and a pretty obscure sense of humour build Helena, the prophetically single woman for whom two guys butt-headed for a long time. Only in this case she'd probably just slap 'em both and tell them to get over themselves and to get a life. "
¤´¯`-´¯`¤ ¤´¯`-´¯`¤¤´¯`-´¯`¤ ¤´¯`-´¯`¤¤´¯`-´¯`¤ ¤´¯`-´¯`¤¤´¯`-´¯`¤
Helena Dane Williams.
"Lena, Lenny, Ames"
"Dorky glasses, ugly ducklin' turned fair princess when she takes 'em off. We know.
All stories start with the words “once upon a time” and Helena’s is no different. From the big city of Los Angeles, the girl was born into a family that was all wealth, all virtue and all glamorous hollywoodian sparkle. Above all, every single member of the William’s household tended to nearly vibrate with enthusiasm with any word with above four syllables – something that was both an inborn, acquired and well nourished quality. Sophia and Raze’s kids, pretty much like their literary award winning parents, grew up to be overly fond of late night reading marathons, explanatory lectures and twenty page long essays filled with pretty words, awfully intelligent contents and loads of witty comments skewering everything and nothing in general.
Helena, who was named after Helena of Troy - about whom her mother happened to be making her pHD about at the time – was no exception to the rule. After all, she had been raised on a house where books had nearly a god-like importance and where writing on the margins of a page was almost a felony punishable by law, and one doesn’t betray your origins as easily as that – especially not when you’re blonde, skimpy, have two elder brothers and want to preserve a bit of your childhood sanity. When all she saw around her were people she liked reading, she had the most natural reaction a child could possibly have – she desperately wished to know what the fuss was all about. In fact, she learned to read at an outrageously early age, being four and a couple of months, slowly starting by Peter Rabbit and the Flopsy Bunnies and developing onto harder things like C.S.Lewis and other children classics that were always handy in a house that irradiated book dust – and that her parents enjoyed almost as much as her.
The house where she grew up - along with the endless piles of books laying around in random places like the bathrooms or the clean bed sheets closet - was something rather indiscritive. Large though not overly, crowded but never noisy, quiet but bubbling with activity, it was a well of contradictions. A large garden filled with flowers - precisely the one that would groom her love for them later - a swing and loads of grassy scents. Simple, yet complicated. Life was like that, and sometimes she wished it had remained so. Her parents had a fairytale like relashionship, one that she would later dream for during her phase of reading countless romantic and incredibly mushy novels all at a time - and that she would afterwards skewer in search for some failure after being influenced by a couple of more daring literary works, like Kant and whatever. The sort that made you question everything and everyone, search a meaning for everything and nothing, and that made you wonder stuff you'd never asked yourself before. Thankfully, that one passed swiftly, along with the adolescent crisis that inevitably followed it.
Was it any wonder then that Helena’s tastes and abilities were so aloof from every single other child her age…? Obviously not. Of course there were significant differences, such as the fact that the girl excelled in anything that involved the presence of letters, like History and every single language and that she was never really able to do more than the very basics in math without a calculator – and even so very poorly, considering the fact that she didn’t really know how to use one. That she was much more mature in about everything than other kids her age but seemed to have a serious deficit in terms of giving herself fully to people without much time in the middle of the process. That sarcasm seemed to be the sole weapon of her choice – that or disdain - that she was extraordinarily incapable in anything that required physical action or that she seemed to deplore anything that implied the words “shopping”, “clothes”, “fashionable” or any of the same genre.
Nay, of course not.
Her whole life was built upon a very systematic scheme, one that functioned at all times, no matter what: she wrote, she passed highschool and college with flying marks – though barely being able to subtract a number with more than two digits from another one with the same amount. Writing was what she did right – who cared for all that rubbish when one clearly had a gift?!, that mixed the very concepts of elegance, art and brainpower all in one?! Therefore, she wanted to sell it – and she wanted to sell it so the very maximum number of people could see it – and so she could finally buy herself that house in Italy she’d been dreaming about for so long… She’d started low, writing spazzy columns for random newspapers and being payed rather miserably, though it was certainly enough for her to be able to have a small house of her own and a vague independence – her parents were still the ones to pay for her car, though.
She’d never really considered being a scriptwriter until that fatidic day when it actually… happened – her parents, major literary critics weren’t too happy either. About a year previously, through a vague turmoil of craziness and a hint of spicy and sheer insanity, Helena had finally found herself writing her Book – with double bold, italics, capital and underlined Bs. It was her masterpiece, the apple of her eyes, her life’s worth of nightly raving and dreaming, the very core of her being all splashed into white paper with pitch black ink. And some smart ass in her household – she was yet to find who it had been, though she was betting her elder brother had been the artist – had sent a sketch of it to a friend of his, who knew someone, who was friend of someone in Renegade.
After that… Well, book had become script, script had become award winning movie and she’d finally got her house in Italy. Not that she used it very often, but it was still there, with its breathtaking view, flourishing garden and comfortable woodsy doors. A place where she knew she could be in piece if need be, a place that was hers alone and no other’s, won with her effort alone – and a helping hand from God above.
Then there was, of course, Webb. Her best mate of all times, her highschool supporter, the guy who was always there for her. The one who knew how she liked her coffee – a rich Breva, in all its luscious glory – who knew her soul deep secrets – the fact that she still slept with her Peter Rabbit plush, and was terrified of anything that crawled or had more than four legs – and the one who’d followed her path, step by step. God knows how he’d endured her tantrums and femaleish awkward hormones for so long – not to mention being dragged to mushy chick flicks only to have her skewer the movie by the end because it-so-sucked-compared-to-the-book-even-though-the-actor-was-good-looking. Thing was, she 'dored him.
And her life had passed – twenty three years of it, to be more precise. Honestly, she wouldn’t take any of it back. Except mayhaps for her most recent flirt – one whom, sadly one must say, was about five years younger than her and happened to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the whole of Hollywood – something that made her feel pretty awkward, though it fed her ego to nearly monstrous proportions. Also to increase her misery, she wasn’t more than overly fond of him either – except for the obvious fact that, hello!, he was her ticket out of the shadows, and pretty damned hot for the matter. Few people even knew she was a woman. Hell!, the name “Williams” tended to be associated with a guy, not the disheveled, five feet eight blonde chick who used to be close to the movie set and who had the nerve to comment every once in a while generally to say that “it didn’t sound right”.
Because yes. She was as damnably assertive as a girl could possibly be. Along with a wish for a happy ending came the whole hopeless romantic factor that came with too many novels - a meek craving covered up with layers and layers of ambition, all of which she would sustain to infinity and beyond. A very poor artistic temper involving a very, very, very low tolerance for non-constructive criticism, a true wish to do good - as well as she may - and a pretty obscure sense of humour build Helena, the prophetically single woman for whom two guys butt-headed for a long time. Only in this case she'd probably just slap 'em both and tell them to get over themselves and to get a life. "
¤´¯`-´¯`¤ ¤´¯`-´¯`¤¤´¯`-´¯`¤ ¤´¯`-´¯`¤¤´¯`-´¯`¤ ¤´¯`-´¯`¤¤´¯`-´¯`¤
For some people, lunch time wasn’t a big deal – just the time when they, ya know, ate and stuff. To others, it was, well, important. To Skyler, however…? It was vital, and determinant not only of the rest of his day, but of his mood during it as well. It was one of the things that kept him going during the endless series of classes he had in his course. Not, mind you, that he disliked the said ones – it was just awfully hard to keep up with what teachers were saying when you had a stomach stridently begging for attention… And Skyler’s did, quite boisterously so. It was a fact that the boy, being as active as he was, had a high metabolism that required more than the usual regular doses one seems to need for survival - this being a nice way to say the boy ate like a horse.
He worked out, damn it!, and quite actively so.
T’was no wonder then that, at about half past one p.m., during one of Skyler’s favourite classes – history, since he just found it damnable funny what people seemed to think back then, and to reach the conclusion that it about as much as they did nowadays, meaning very little indeed. also, because, unlike when he was in highschool, he was giving world history for the first time. and the world, unlike America or Australia, happened to have a whole bunch of centuries to its name when things actually happened. it was quite damnable, really, how all those centuries the world had been able to survive without him when it was quite plain he was the best thing that had ever happened to it, really - he was reaching a nearly neurotic state of lack of nourishment. Not that he was dying from starvation – sure, he’d snacked a while before but, damn it, that had been two hours ago!!! – but the feeling he was getting was pretty close to what he imagined starvation to be. And every single second that passed only seemed to become longer and longer, standing between him and his lunch… making him just want to wring the Professor’s neck and get out of the darned place once and for all. Not that he even knew what the man had been talking about for the past ten minutes – his brain had kind of disconnected when his stomach had first started growling, reminding him of a more important appointment he had.
Namely with his lunch, really.
The boy’s blue gaze – so like his sister’s, really – kept impatiently glancing at his wristwatch, that kept reminding him that no it still wasn’t the time to leave. He could see more people other than him already showing signs of frustration. Some of the girls were brushing their hands through their hair – something Skyler knew for a fact they did when they were nervous – some were drumming their nails on the table, making an outrageously irritating noise that was only enhanced by his own accumulated tension. Man, he needed to chill a bit.
But fuck. He was hungry. It seemed like an excuse enough to him to be pissish and childish about it.
When his eyes finally landed on the clock – for what seemed the millionth time – Skyler let go off his breath with relief. Finally he thought, instantly grabbing his bag and hitting the door - no need to tidy his books or any of that crap, really – he’d done it long ago in hope it might just spent him some time and make those long minutes somehow just, well, grow faster. He was the first to reach it, showing a rather unusual amount of grace for one who happened to be so darned big – I mean, the guy was everything but small, at 6’1, really. Not to mention what playing football did to your shoulders. Nor the fact that karate also helped a bit. Whatever. He just wanted to leave, and so he did, nearly going into a couple of blonde freshmen girls who seemed to be parked in front of the room. What for, he had no idea. He didn’t give a damn at the moment either. He just wanted to get some food.
Soon – though not soon enough for Skyler – he was tracing the familiar path to the cafeteria area, from where the aromas of freshly cooked food reached his nostrils. Something that only seemed to increase his already frantic pace. That was probably the reason why his upper arm – more like his shoulder, really – connected onto someone. And it wasn’t exactly lightly either. The shock of the collision made him nearly twirl around himself, bringing him back from his food-smell-induced reverie… and back to reality. Reality in which he’d just knocked the breath out of some poor defenseless girl, as he later verified as he turned back to face the person he’d hit. And not on the good sense of the expression either. ”Oh- Fuck, I’m damnably sorry.” he shot, swiftly grabbing the girl by her arm before she fell flat on the ground and pulling her close to him, helping her regain her balance with a firm grasp. Thank heavens for all those darned sports practices of him, really.
LYRICS && NICKELBACK, THIS AFTERNOON
WORD COUNT && 860
OUTFIT && BLACK POLO SHIRT AND JEANS, TRAINERS
NOTES && MAN, I’VE EXCEEDED MYSELF. XD
Kem - Writer
