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.