jujuspice93
Member
BHM/FFA supernatural Romance - ???
Chapter One
The car door slamming was much louder than I intended and it earned me a couple of stares. Well who gives a rsat'sd ass; they’re used to me being the weird one. I guess you couldn’t blame them, considering I only speak when I want to and only am loud and funny when it suits me. On top of that, TLC would have a field day on trying to figure out my fashion sense. But hey, it’s senior year here, so I’m not too worried.
This is going to be one of those stories about a teenager in high school, but don’t worry, this isn’t a about bubbly blonde or an unattractive whiz kid who gets remodeled. Nope, this is about Jessica- Jess – Steinfold and her daily going-ons at Herdsons Senior High. I wonder if it’s comforting to know I’m ranting about ranting…. Oh well, I warned you.
Anyway, back to car door slamming. You see, every day I pull up in a used 1980 Volvo that can barely run anyways unless you know how to handle her. I pass the old playground that’s been converted into puffin’ territory and rednecks (although I can successfully claim I am a homegrown southerner) and enter to the picnic tables where the jocks, cheerleaders, posers, and “gangstas” sit… kind of. It’s more of "this is my side and that’s yours" with invisible chalk that can never get washed off by rain or smudged away by Four Square. Four Square of course being who can hurl the best insult across the block of identity without dropping the ball.
Then you get to the steps of the disillusioned hipsters who pull out a cigarette every thirty seconds and complain or have philosophical discussions about the world today. Or they just talk some sociological construct that should be put into place. However, if you’re looking for a group without a 7th grade mentality, go to them.
Then of course you pass the freaks, musicians, vamps, emos, goths, punks, rockers, wanna-bes, dweebs, geeks, nerds, theater troop (or circus clowns, it’s honestly only cool if you can’t fit in anywhere else, but they’ve always got a welcome mat down), delinquents, wanna be delinquents, and pot heads who are too far gone to be chilling on the playground. There’s probably more, but they don’t self regulate their systems enough to remember who’s who.
Then, there’s me. See, I’m not stupid enough to claim I’m cooler than those groups or people cause they have something I obviously don’t…. a group. I’m also equally clever enough to understand I probably won’t fit into them, which is all good really. Once you get used to the fact that you’re a loaner and learn how to fly your freak flag, you’re really all set.
So, today was unlike any other day when I walk past them and head to the first period and plop down in my desk, forty desks from the front. Now, I’m not so abnormal that I don’t take my phone out and start texting some friends out of school during English. Just as I get to the fourth text to my hetero-sexual, non-related sister, everyone walks in. It’s always fun to see the kids walk in with jugs of soda or coffee or some sort of new drug in this ever changing drug trend.
And then the teacher lectures…. Interesting how routines go. Only one problem, today was different. Mr. Milts didn’t come in right at the 8:00 tick and the door didn’t open. The PA still went on, but he wasn’t in. Maybe we didn’t have class and it was a joke? That theory would have worked until a new guy walked in…. but what a sight he was.
Now I’ve got more than a fair share of reasons to fly my freak flag high and true, but one thing that most didn’t understand and I didn’t explain past the abbreviation is: FFA. Female Fat Admirer. Not just any fat admirer either, I’m not a just chubby girl. If he aint jiggling, he won’t tickle my fancy. No, my dream lover has to be carry a massive amount of weight. Weird, I know, but take it or leave it. The only consolation I receive is I have the body of a cheerleader. Its good that I have the personality of a shark.
So when I say what a sight he was, and FFA’s out there be ready, he was really a sight. At least 6’3 with a body so big I wondered how he got through the door. His grey shirt, although deceitful to his size, couldn’t hide a belly that stuck out so far it hit things two steps before he did or hung so low I bet it hit his knees. You could tell he had a massive ass from the way those denim jeans hugged both cheeks so tightly and if he’s got an ass like that, you know his thighs are too big to handle. His arms were huge and seemed to be stuffed into his black zip up. He had a large neck and at least two chins, but his chubby face was framed by jet black hair that hung low on his face, but sadly, most of it was covered by a hat.
I had to look away for fear of jumping him. This was like giving a t-bone to a starving man, or in tis cae woman, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d jump him so hard and make him jiggle so bad we’d end up on the Richter scale. So, in typical control freak fashion, I took a deep breath and began to draw….. him. Yeah, way to go control freak. So I did the next best thing: bit my tongue. Thank goodness I have an older brother who used to beat me up, that’ll teach you how to keep quiet. No worries, we’re great together now, or I just kick his ass.
I can’t tell you how I got through English… it was hard but I did. I breathed in hard and closed my eyes, laying my head down against the desk and waited for the bell to ring. And boy, when it did I was out of there faster than a bullet on crack. I ran into the bathrooms and looked at myself in the mirror. My dark green eyes were big as saucers and my usually pale skin was flushed. I grabbed the sink and took a few breaths, I would make it, it was my job to be the one in control!. I looked back up and splashed water on my face, not giving a hoot if the black shadow or mascara ran. I wasn’t trying to be hot anyways. I combed through my straight, no matter what I do to it, auburn hair and took one more breath. There was one trick I had up my sleeve that conquered being hot and bothered as hell: fashion.
I stepped back and looked at my appearance. Fishnets with cute black-thigh boots, dark green skirt, black t-shirt, and dark green army jacket with buttons and various other collected things on it. The tan fake fur around the hood gave it a feminine touch I was proud of. My purple knapsack looked good on me and my dark lip ring still stood out against the dark lip gloss. My various other piercings still looked nice and my black bandanna was still okay. I told you, odd sense of fashion, but it’s all mine too. I’d call it kick-ass, but my mother tends to differ on that one.
I was right, I could breathe again and I looked at my black, huge watch. What can I say man, my broskies got nice fashion yo.
“Uh-oh,” I whispered. I missed second period….. I spent forty-five minutes in a freakin bathroom. Grandma say what? I shook my head and out of the corner of my right eye, say something. I sharply turned and let down my guard when I noticed it was Rochelle Hatchet, the queen bee of the social community.
We’d always hated each other. I stepped on her Barbie doll when she took mine and I might add, she asked for it and I said no. Great behavior right there. I know there’s something about serial killers and their behaviors as little kids. After that, however, we just couldn’t forgive. You don’t trash Barbie man, you just don’t.
“Can I help you?”
She stared at me with her frog-like black eyes and curly hair. Typical cheerleader preppy, you know the type. She simply stared back and finally said in her snarling way, “You do realize 1980 was about 20 years ago, right?”
I had to blink at the stupidity and randomness at her question. 1980? She really had to use that as a target? I blinked a couple times and muttered, “Okay… yeah.”
Honestly, I think she was just running out of ideas or trying to find new ways to strike me. Hey, if I wanted to look nice, I would have. I could pull of a cardigan and plaid mini better than her any day, but that would attract attention. Maybe I just hate people.
“Wow, I’ve made the witty and rhetorical Jess, queen of the nobodies and ruler of the misfits speechless.”
Some people just can’t read others either. So I did the next best thing.
“Roch –
-interjection of a life lesson: never call somebody roch if they have roch anywhere in their name, it brings up terrible memories.-
“Do you know what the Self-Fulfilling Prophecy is?”
She did her whole exasperated look and I smiled wickedly, oh evil is so much more fun.
“The theory states when a false rumor is believed, it becomes the social norm.”
-second interjection: never make an argument someone is stupid without formally stating it-
“Then, the norm becomes the reality.”
She popped her gum and leaned against the wall in her “oh so cool” attitude. Bitch pose please, I perfected that attitude. “And just what does this have to do with me.”
My favorite part.
“Rochelle, the only reason why you are popular, isn’t because you’re better looking or have a funnier laugh or flirt more with the boys or any of that other stereotypical stuff –“
“No kidding Sherlock, it’s cause I got good at it if you hadn’t noticed.”
I pointed a finger at her, “I was speaking.”
She rolled her eyes again… okay so she has perfected that.
“The only real reason why you’re popular is because you’ve made a false belief of what is a social norm therefore constructing an idea and social order which must be followed with you at the top. Which, although is pretty impressive… simply boils down to a backstabbing, power hungry, self-righteous, narcissistic, lonely little girl still looking for love.”
She huffed once again, not comprehending a word of my profound and superior wisdom, and moved her hair out of her eyes, “Oh you’re so freaking weird.”
Of course she wasn’t impressed, but hey, I’ve made my diagnosis for the day. One day she’ll realize, after thousands of dollars in therapy and couch talk, that I made the correct assumption.
Just as the bathroom door swung shut, my stomach protested loudly and I realized if I didn’t do some total carnage to some lunch food fast, I’d kill someone in fourth period. Then again… maybe there’s a way to get off on mental instability in court with extreme hunger.
The Cafeteria at our school is more like a slaughterhouse. You go through the gruel line, get what you want, eat until you’re stuffed or still hungry or don’t eat at all and then be shipped off to the massacre of bad public school teaching. At least at my school. So, like any great lemming in the American school system, I joined the line. I got a salad loaded with veggies and cheese and other assortments and sat down at my usual table. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a carnivore that could give the Raptors in Jurassic Park a run for their money, but some days you just don’t trust mystery meat - especially when the jocks three tables down can bounce it off their trays.
So I dug in with gusto and attacked my nearly half eaten salad when I felt a significant weight difference to one side of the table. Now… there are two reasons why that’s scientifically impossible: 1. When you get suspended for knocking a kid out and rumors go around you tore out his jugular with your fingernails, nobody wants to speak to you and 2. No lunch tray is that heavy. No one here eats enough of it. I’m certain we could feed rural China if the schools banned together and shipped their unwanted food there, but that would just be downright against the code of human treatment.
And furthermore, the sight beholding me was even more scientifically impossible considering I don’t have a gravitation pull to the other sex. There, standing in front of me, was the gorgeous ssbhm from earlier and from his tray, I realized he was fat through his own right. There were at least four meals on that tray. Boo yah; I hit the mother load with six strawberries. No cherries this time casino man.
I watched as he slowly sat down and I could hear at least two of the stools groan in protest. I seemed to have forgotten that I was staring because he looked at me with eyes that could kill and I realized something even more dangerous: he had a better death glare. I didn’t even realize I was whispering uner my breath until he asked if I had a problem.
“Umm… nope.”
“Then why you starring?”
Cause you’re hot. Cause you jiggled. Cause your ass is taking up two and a half stools. Cause your belly is resting between your knees and on the table. were some thoughts that ran through my mind.
“Because you have a better death glare than me and no one’s ever achieved that before.”
At least I told some of the truth.
(to be continued)
Howl If You Love Me
by Jujuspice93
by Jujuspice93
Chapter One
The car door slamming was much louder than I intended and it earned me a couple of stares. Well who gives a rsat'sd ass; they’re used to me being the weird one. I guess you couldn’t blame them, considering I only speak when I want to and only am loud and funny when it suits me. On top of that, TLC would have a field day on trying to figure out my fashion sense. But hey, it’s senior year here, so I’m not too worried.
This is going to be one of those stories about a teenager in high school, but don’t worry, this isn’t a about bubbly blonde or an unattractive whiz kid who gets remodeled. Nope, this is about Jessica- Jess – Steinfold and her daily going-ons at Herdsons Senior High. I wonder if it’s comforting to know I’m ranting about ranting…. Oh well, I warned you.
Anyway, back to car door slamming. You see, every day I pull up in a used 1980 Volvo that can barely run anyways unless you know how to handle her. I pass the old playground that’s been converted into puffin’ territory and rednecks (although I can successfully claim I am a homegrown southerner) and enter to the picnic tables where the jocks, cheerleaders, posers, and “gangstas” sit… kind of. It’s more of "this is my side and that’s yours" with invisible chalk that can never get washed off by rain or smudged away by Four Square. Four Square of course being who can hurl the best insult across the block of identity without dropping the ball.
Then you get to the steps of the disillusioned hipsters who pull out a cigarette every thirty seconds and complain or have philosophical discussions about the world today. Or they just talk some sociological construct that should be put into place. However, if you’re looking for a group without a 7th grade mentality, go to them.
Then of course you pass the freaks, musicians, vamps, emos, goths, punks, rockers, wanna-bes, dweebs, geeks, nerds, theater troop (or circus clowns, it’s honestly only cool if you can’t fit in anywhere else, but they’ve always got a welcome mat down), delinquents, wanna be delinquents, and pot heads who are too far gone to be chilling on the playground. There’s probably more, but they don’t self regulate their systems enough to remember who’s who.
Then, there’s me. See, I’m not stupid enough to claim I’m cooler than those groups or people cause they have something I obviously don’t…. a group. I’m also equally clever enough to understand I probably won’t fit into them, which is all good really. Once you get used to the fact that you’re a loaner and learn how to fly your freak flag, you’re really all set.
So, today was unlike any other day when I walk past them and head to the first period and plop down in my desk, forty desks from the front. Now, I’m not so abnormal that I don’t take my phone out and start texting some friends out of school during English. Just as I get to the fourth text to my hetero-sexual, non-related sister, everyone walks in. It’s always fun to see the kids walk in with jugs of soda or coffee or some sort of new drug in this ever changing drug trend.
And then the teacher lectures…. Interesting how routines go. Only one problem, today was different. Mr. Milts didn’t come in right at the 8:00 tick and the door didn’t open. The PA still went on, but he wasn’t in. Maybe we didn’t have class and it was a joke? That theory would have worked until a new guy walked in…. but what a sight he was.
Now I’ve got more than a fair share of reasons to fly my freak flag high and true, but one thing that most didn’t understand and I didn’t explain past the abbreviation is: FFA. Female Fat Admirer. Not just any fat admirer either, I’m not a just chubby girl. If he aint jiggling, he won’t tickle my fancy. No, my dream lover has to be carry a massive amount of weight. Weird, I know, but take it or leave it. The only consolation I receive is I have the body of a cheerleader. Its good that I have the personality of a shark.
So when I say what a sight he was, and FFA’s out there be ready, he was really a sight. At least 6’3 with a body so big I wondered how he got through the door. His grey shirt, although deceitful to his size, couldn’t hide a belly that stuck out so far it hit things two steps before he did or hung so low I bet it hit his knees. You could tell he had a massive ass from the way those denim jeans hugged both cheeks so tightly and if he’s got an ass like that, you know his thighs are too big to handle. His arms were huge and seemed to be stuffed into his black zip up. He had a large neck and at least two chins, but his chubby face was framed by jet black hair that hung low on his face, but sadly, most of it was covered by a hat.
I had to look away for fear of jumping him. This was like giving a t-bone to a starving man, or in tis cae woman, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d jump him so hard and make him jiggle so bad we’d end up on the Richter scale. So, in typical control freak fashion, I took a deep breath and began to draw….. him. Yeah, way to go control freak. So I did the next best thing: bit my tongue. Thank goodness I have an older brother who used to beat me up, that’ll teach you how to keep quiet. No worries, we’re great together now, or I just kick his ass.
I can’t tell you how I got through English… it was hard but I did. I breathed in hard and closed my eyes, laying my head down against the desk and waited for the bell to ring. And boy, when it did I was out of there faster than a bullet on crack. I ran into the bathrooms and looked at myself in the mirror. My dark green eyes were big as saucers and my usually pale skin was flushed. I grabbed the sink and took a few breaths, I would make it, it was my job to be the one in control!. I looked back up and splashed water on my face, not giving a hoot if the black shadow or mascara ran. I wasn’t trying to be hot anyways. I combed through my straight, no matter what I do to it, auburn hair and took one more breath. There was one trick I had up my sleeve that conquered being hot and bothered as hell: fashion.
I stepped back and looked at my appearance. Fishnets with cute black-thigh boots, dark green skirt, black t-shirt, and dark green army jacket with buttons and various other collected things on it. The tan fake fur around the hood gave it a feminine touch I was proud of. My purple knapsack looked good on me and my dark lip ring still stood out against the dark lip gloss. My various other piercings still looked nice and my black bandanna was still okay. I told you, odd sense of fashion, but it’s all mine too. I’d call it kick-ass, but my mother tends to differ on that one.
I was right, I could breathe again and I looked at my black, huge watch. What can I say man, my broskies got nice fashion yo.
“Uh-oh,” I whispered. I missed second period….. I spent forty-five minutes in a freakin bathroom. Grandma say what? I shook my head and out of the corner of my right eye, say something. I sharply turned and let down my guard when I noticed it was Rochelle Hatchet, the queen bee of the social community.
We’d always hated each other. I stepped on her Barbie doll when she took mine and I might add, she asked for it and I said no. Great behavior right there. I know there’s something about serial killers and their behaviors as little kids. After that, however, we just couldn’t forgive. You don’t trash Barbie man, you just don’t.
“Can I help you?”
She stared at me with her frog-like black eyes and curly hair. Typical cheerleader preppy, you know the type. She simply stared back and finally said in her snarling way, “You do realize 1980 was about 20 years ago, right?”
I had to blink at the stupidity and randomness at her question. 1980? She really had to use that as a target? I blinked a couple times and muttered, “Okay… yeah.”
Honestly, I think she was just running out of ideas or trying to find new ways to strike me. Hey, if I wanted to look nice, I would have. I could pull of a cardigan and plaid mini better than her any day, but that would attract attention. Maybe I just hate people.
“Wow, I’ve made the witty and rhetorical Jess, queen of the nobodies and ruler of the misfits speechless.”
Some people just can’t read others either. So I did the next best thing.
“Roch –
-interjection of a life lesson: never call somebody roch if they have roch anywhere in their name, it brings up terrible memories.-
“Do you know what the Self-Fulfilling Prophecy is?”
She did her whole exasperated look and I smiled wickedly, oh evil is so much more fun.
“The theory states when a false rumor is believed, it becomes the social norm.”
-second interjection: never make an argument someone is stupid without formally stating it-
“Then, the norm becomes the reality.”
She popped her gum and leaned against the wall in her “oh so cool” attitude. Bitch pose please, I perfected that attitude. “And just what does this have to do with me.”
My favorite part.
“Rochelle, the only reason why you are popular, isn’t because you’re better looking or have a funnier laugh or flirt more with the boys or any of that other stereotypical stuff –“
“No kidding Sherlock, it’s cause I got good at it if you hadn’t noticed.”
I pointed a finger at her, “I was speaking.”
She rolled her eyes again… okay so she has perfected that.
“The only real reason why you’re popular is because you’ve made a false belief of what is a social norm therefore constructing an idea and social order which must be followed with you at the top. Which, although is pretty impressive… simply boils down to a backstabbing, power hungry, self-righteous, narcissistic, lonely little girl still looking for love.”
She huffed once again, not comprehending a word of my profound and superior wisdom, and moved her hair out of her eyes, “Oh you’re so freaking weird.”
Of course she wasn’t impressed, but hey, I’ve made my diagnosis for the day. One day she’ll realize, after thousands of dollars in therapy and couch talk, that I made the correct assumption.
Just as the bathroom door swung shut, my stomach protested loudly and I realized if I didn’t do some total carnage to some lunch food fast, I’d kill someone in fourth period. Then again… maybe there’s a way to get off on mental instability in court with extreme hunger.
The Cafeteria at our school is more like a slaughterhouse. You go through the gruel line, get what you want, eat until you’re stuffed or still hungry or don’t eat at all and then be shipped off to the massacre of bad public school teaching. At least at my school. So, like any great lemming in the American school system, I joined the line. I got a salad loaded with veggies and cheese and other assortments and sat down at my usual table. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a carnivore that could give the Raptors in Jurassic Park a run for their money, but some days you just don’t trust mystery meat - especially when the jocks three tables down can bounce it off their trays.
So I dug in with gusto and attacked my nearly half eaten salad when I felt a significant weight difference to one side of the table. Now… there are two reasons why that’s scientifically impossible: 1. When you get suspended for knocking a kid out and rumors go around you tore out his jugular with your fingernails, nobody wants to speak to you and 2. No lunch tray is that heavy. No one here eats enough of it. I’m certain we could feed rural China if the schools banned together and shipped their unwanted food there, but that would just be downright against the code of human treatment.
And furthermore, the sight beholding me was even more scientifically impossible considering I don’t have a gravitation pull to the other sex. There, standing in front of me, was the gorgeous ssbhm from earlier and from his tray, I realized he was fat through his own right. There were at least four meals on that tray. Boo yah; I hit the mother load with six strawberries. No cherries this time casino man.
I watched as he slowly sat down and I could hear at least two of the stools groan in protest. I seemed to have forgotten that I was staring because he looked at me with eyes that could kill and I realized something even more dangerous: he had a better death glare. I didn’t even realize I was whispering uner my breath until he asked if I had a problem.
“Umm… nope.”
“Then why you starring?”
Cause you’re hot. Cause you jiggled. Cause your ass is taking up two and a half stools. Cause your belly is resting between your knees and on the table. were some thoughts that ran through my mind.
“Because you have a better death glare than me and no one’s ever achieved that before.”
At least I told some of the truth.
(to be continued)
