What the Summer Did to Us

27/03/12, Fields, Lunchtime,

The sunshine has plunged all but Victoria into a lazy haze. Cassie is sprawled on the grass with her head on her bag, hair shielding her face from the sun.

“Oh, sod the rest.” The last woman sitting gives into temptation and sinks down to mirror Cassie’s position.

Abbie sits opposite me, fiddling alternately with the grass, sparse in the patch we sit on, and her phone. She is practically radiating boredom - from what I remember of our years in the same form, she enters this state with ease and frequency.

“I feel like everyone’s dead,” she says, half laughing.

“I’m still alive!” Victoria protests. No one else argues the statement.

Stick

26/03/12, Fields,

As I write, Skunk is half lying on top of Lizbeth, pinning her to the ground. They discuss the weather while fighting over a stick Lizbeh had in her bag. Evee attempts to resolve the argument by snapping said stick in half. It does not work. I end it by tickling my slave into giving up the limb before throwing in Lizbeth’s direction. I am punished with an immediate wrestle to the ground but Skunk’s short attention span means I am released soon.

Later, when we leave I pick something up from the ground and hold it out to Skunk as a peace offering. She takes the stick. “It’s not straight.” she comments.

“Neither are you” I say.

Days of Tricycles Past

Playground, Lunchtime

After (un)sucessfully completing the cinnamon challenge, Abitha and Mushroom have gone inside, leaving Skunk, Lizbeth and myself out here. As I write, Skunk has Lizbeth in a bearhug - she’s given up struggling. Remember when I said this happens a lot? Yeah. That.

Ninety-nine red balloons is going on replay in my head, and Lizbeth observes that she should give up giving up for lent. Which is 30 days in. So far, I don’t think she’s doing a very good job. An apple sits on Skunk’s lunchbox, abandoned while she pursues her ambition of tormenting Lizbeth as much as she possibly can.

“I need to go put my stuff away” my slave announces, releasing Lizbeth immediately and returning to the bar in the ground. Lizbeth leans over to read my writing, which somehow leads to a joke about rape (which isn't funny, by the way). I sit back and look over to the mess of cinnamon powder on the floor.

“Such a waste” I say to no one in particular, and no one in particular responds. Today is one of those days. Still. Third wheels are great on tricycles.

Bonus Googizzle.net Post: A Productizzle Lesson

9:40am, English Coridoor

My fuckin slave sits next ta me, bustin strange noises as I write - tryin ta avoid tha pencil sharpenings strewn across tha table. There be a funky-ass bright yellow threadz peg attached ta tha back of mah headscarf, fo' what tha fuck reason biatch? I aint sure. Da word “porn” breaks tha fuck into mah writin bubble but I dismiss it wit a quick disapprovin look ta mah slave.
“Now, should I draw her up in underwear or...” I sigh. I pause ta say shit bout tha sketchy lines on Skunk’s paper, formin tha framework fo' another mildly suggestizzle manga panel yo. Her work has been gettin mo' betta n' mo' betta since I first saw dat shit. Or maybe I’m just payin mo' attention.
Sub-Zero’s tha only one on our  l-shaped table who’s muthafuckin bustin any work - I’m not even shizzle what tha fuck we’re supposed ta be bustin. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Skunk starts up a monotone hum, which shakes as it endz before bein reborn as another hum up in a higher note. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch seems ta be plannin ta do dis fo' as long as dat thugged-out biiiatch can. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It be formin a tune. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch is engrossed up in it, her pencil still fo' realz. And then she’s writing, finally startin on her work. I decizzle ta do tha same.

Needless ta say, I fail. Da buggin outom is too much. There is seven minutez of tha lesson left n' I can peep dat tha heat, along wit tha proximitizzle of a notebook n' pen will incapacitate mah concentration enough dat I will git no work done. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Skunk throws a piece of paper down on tha table, bustin tha aforementioned sharpenings flyin up in mah direction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I take a funky-ass break ta brush dem off tha surface area of tha table reserved fo' mah elbow.
Sub-Zero looks over n' snaps: “Skunk, what tha fuck is you drawing?!” It’s another sketchy design - guidelines fo' a ore screw panel of manga.
“It’s not what tha fuck it looks like!” protests Skunk. I peep Sub-Zero’s doubtful grill n' know our crazy asses is both thankin tha same stupid-ass thang.
“It’s probably worse.” her big-ass booty says.

Introducing the Brotherhood of the Innuendo

Lunchtime, Gym

         I am sitting in the gym, half on the browny orange floorboards and half on the green tarp that’s supposed to separate us from them. Skunk and Lisbeth, who have been wrestling for the best part of the last ten minutes spring up, having been told by a dinner lady in a red jacket, rather irritatedly, that they were in danger of knocking down one of the many stacks of green plastic chairs which line the back wall of the gymnasium. For a moment I imagine them toppling over, sending the next tower falling, and the next and the next... Like some strange furniture domino line. But they stay standing. Another dinner lady begins wheeling them out, soon joined by more Ladies in Red.

         I am hit in her left shoulder by a stray ball of tinfoil that has been being thrown around the small knot of people in the corner since about the same time as the wrestling started. This seems to happen a lot. A conversation has started up,our combined dirty minds and expressive eyebrows supply endless filthy jokes and innuendos. There is a small lull in the conversation.

“Well, we’re a cheery bunch.” observes Lisbeth. Buttons says something I don’t quite catch and they laugh again. Lisbeth moves next to Skunk and proceeds to put the shoes which she has been carrying in her hands back on her feet. She is still holding the piece of paper I ripped from this notebook a few weeks ago and gave to her mere minutes previously.

          And then we’re in the canteen, and Lisbeth is ripping off tiny flakes of the sheet and eating them. Buttons comes back from the queue, sitting down on my left before changing her mind and placing her tray (on which there is a plate of pasta among other, non-paper, edible things) on my right side, opposite Lisbeth, who is still slowly making her way through the paper. When I show them the pages I have written, Lisbeth says, with a hint of awe in her voice, “Your life seems so much funnier when you read it back”

“S’why I do it” I smile.