Billy stood on the edge of the table, this nonsense had gone on too long. The people of the lunch room were segregated. Geeks, jesters, and even the beautiful separated like oil in water.
“Can this be?” Billy yelled grabbing the attention of no one, “I said CAN THIS BE?” now everyone was staring even the gladiators of the social food chain were quiet with tension between the soundless-ness, so Billy continued. “Is this what we have resorted to? Instead of judging an—“. What was he saying? he thought, why was this happening? This is ridiculous. “You know what who cares” he yelled making everyone giggle as he stepped down on to the dirty school tile, putting his hands into his pockets.
Billy had been undercover so long he forgot that none of this mattered to him, and apparently to no one else ether. He walked outside and the day had met its midlife, it was afternoon. Out of nowhere the beast he was hiding from came barreling out from the sky. This was it, Billy thought. He held his arms out letting his head drop closing his eyes. He didn’t care if this is how he died or what he still hadn’t done, he didn’t want to go back to school. He had a tests tomorrow anyways as well as several projects none of which he had done. Breathing in what was his last breath he slowly let it out enjoying the air that curled up so comforting in his lungs. Good bye.
The air was stale with the thick feeling of disappointment. He was writing for hours, days even. The cursor blinked mockingly at the blankness of his mind. He had ran out of ideas, mid-story. He read over the pages, what seemed before a work of genius, now had revealed its true self, hogwash. He took his glasses off with great esteem combing his hair back with the force of his young fingers. What was he thinking? A boy of his age being able to create a story, no, it was supposed to be a master peace. That in itself was hogwash. Sitting frustrated in his father’s study he leaned back in the leather chair, as he’s done before, thinking. “Inspiration!” he exclaimed that is what he needed. But he had been inspired before it took weeks! He didn’t have weeks, he barely had days. This called for extreme matters this called for him to live. And not just the life kind of living but the dyeing kind.
His name is Devly, Jimmy Devly. He lives on petruckevitch drive. His hair is usually spiraling out of control and unless he did something to it, which isn’t likely, it is blond. The kind of blond that should belong to a halo, but most things are deceiving. Mischief is a word that does not suffice for the type of genius he gets into. When people use the word genius in this town they mean Devly. Raising from the comfort of the leather, he spins to the left and with a second he jogged up the small mettle stair case, spiraling to a balcony creating access to yet another long set of book shelf’s. Taking the walk to the end he drags one hand across the spines of the books he passes as if to be consoling them in their years of waiting, till he found the section in which he came for. Stopping he stood facing it, one hand resting over his mouth as he searched for the single book out of the hundreds set before him.