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a bunch of bullsh*t written by a bullsh*t teenager with a bullsh*t hobby. tho it's not like I update that often
She Had Flowers in Her Hair (1/?)
a/n -- minor short story project as I continue to struggle writing with that untitled sh*t. when I get better one day hopefully I'll rewrite this into the gritty, realistic thing I want it to be. however for now, it'll just be journal entries to fill up the void, and I guess as long as hey, I'm getting words on paper--!!!

on another note, every time I try to post or do something the gaia emoticons and other sh*t bump down in my typing box. it's really inconvenient. also like 90% of the time when I click something, a popup ad appears. I am led to believe this is because of my mom.

(groaning sounds)

also, probably a recent update to come-! I've actually written a bit more on this then this part below. I'm just a little unsure of how and where I want to take this, since I'm basically improvising on a spur-of-the-moment decision. If anybody is wondering, here are my sources of inspiration:

x x x x

aaand finally, the picture that started it all!

gomen for such a long author's note, LOL. OH WELL MY PERSONAL JOURNAL WHO CAAAARES 8)))))))

Something of a sigh passes through your lips as you step on grass too green and breathe in air too clean. Your judging, dark brown eyes meet the tiny screen of your professional camera, staring at the pictures with a critical eye as you inwardly cringe. It looks like the kind of nature sh*t teenagers put on their instagram. Typical stuff. sh*tty stuff. Stuff that would only look good with a filter.

You hate nature.

Well, that’s a bit of a stretch; you don’t necessarily hate nature, you just…don’t like taking photos of it. A city photographer is best in her element, taking gritty photos of blood and grime, not dreamy photos of a make-believe fantasy.

A city photographer does not belong hired by a small town newspaper, a city photographer does not belong in a small town.

But there you are, defying all basic laws of logic and sanity. You’ve found that breaking laws of sanity means your sanity is going to break. You aren’t looking forward to it. A bird chirps cheerily from it’s branch at you, and you give a little aggravated sigh before plopping down on the painted bench underneath the tree you just tried taking a picture of. A dark skinned hand reaches up to push through your buzzed undercut, lazily running through dark brown strands before it falls back on the wooden bench with a light ‘smack!’.

You muse checking your phone for messages, but the thought of the possible flood of messages makes you keep it nestled in your pocket. It’s been off for three months now.

Before you can sink back into old memories the appearance of honey-colored legs in sandals and a skirt makes you look up. Your eyebrows raise above your head at the sight of a pretty young woman standing in front of you, dressed neatly in a sundress and black hair done up in a braided bun. There are braids framing the sides of her face as well, but your eyes are mostly focused on the ridiculous amount of flowers littering the girl’s hair. It is literally ridiculous, and it takes you a moment to realize the girl standing in front of you is someone from the local newspaper you’ve been hired by.

“Um!” She starts off awkwardly when she realizes you’ve noticed her, and you arch an eyebrow at her social awkwardness. She fiddles with her fingers a bit more, giving a rather twisted smile that still seems blindingly bright despite her obvious nervous. “You’re the new girl, right?”

Your eyebrow twitches a little. Oh god, you’re not becoming ‘the new girl’. f*ck that noise. “It’s Chaitna.” By the way the girl winces you can tell your voice turned out sharper then intended. Well, you’d take intimidating people over being pegged ‘new girl’ any day. What the hell was this, a tween romance novel? All you needed now was an annoying younger brother and a pair of overenthusiastic parents.

Your eyes tug down at the small name card pinned to her blouse, and all at once you feel a bit regretful. This women is apparently a journalist – otherwise your coworker. You feel a little bit of wary dread as you force yourself to soften up and give a little sigh. “What’s your name?”

She seems to perk up at that, and a tiny flower tumbles out of her braided hair – is that a bun in the back, what the hell, how long does it take for this girl to do her hair – and she smiles at you. “Skylar!” She greets shyly, and you absentmindedly marvel at the rather ambiguously tomboyish name being tacked onto such a girlish woman. (You kind of feel like an asshole for marveling at that, and quickly berate yourself. Your previous company has obviously rubbed off on you, unfortunately.)

You don’t say anything and instead give a simple nod to show that you had been listening, so she furthers on the conversation by herself. “I…actually, I saw you pass by during your orientation and I heard a bit about you, and well, I was wondering…”

You raise an eyebrow. Skylar flushes in embarrassment and looks down, fiddling with her fingers. “If…If we could be friends…?”

You feel a smile bloom on your face for the first time since you've arrived.

( It’s out of disbelief. )

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