Romance Fan Fiction / Role Playing Fan Fiction / Realism Fan Fiction ❯ Banded ❯ Far away ( Prologue )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Runishie 
Nothing really to say.
Miscellaneous: Romance Fan Fiction / Role Playing Fan Fiction / Realism Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama / Comedy | Type: Self Insertion | Uploaded On: 02.19.2008 | Pages: 1 | Words: 613 | Visits: 1.1K | Status: Work In Progress
Nothing really to say.
Miscellaneous: Romance Fan Fiction / Role Playing Fan Fiction / Realism Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama / Comedy | Type: Self Insertion | Uploaded On: 02.19.2008 | Pages: 1 | Words: 613 | Visits: 1.1K | Status: Work In Progress
When she lies, she lies so well, you become addicted to her every sweet implication, even if it may seem unreal. She gets caught up in this endless story of mysterious advantages, and lawless bounty that she becomes the person she pretends to be, and I am addicted to her every last flavor, her every last flow of sentence structure, to where I am forced to follow her around like a pet asking, wondering, thinking, “Oh god what will happen next.”
This is a story about Dani.
Once when we were thirteen she asked me if I wanted to grow up, of course I did not answer, as usual, because whatever I would say would pale instantly in comparison from the story she would let fly from her lips. She also would not wait for me to respond at all, quietly she configured her thoughts in her head. “To grow up means we will forget what being happy feels like, grown ups pretend to smile, the don’t know what a real smile is anymore, and if growing up means forgetting to smile, forgetting to breathe, then we will become witches and stay this way forever, always forever.” She said, lavishing her nails in purple paint.
We were to become witches, while other children forgot what innocence was like, and day dreamed of nothing but becoming slow motion movie stars, in a place far off from reality. Yet she dreamed of things that would never be true, no matter what we did to come by them. We pretended to beg the spirits of the underworld for weeks, for eternal youth, and drew symbols from our text books on our bodies with un-washable ink.
A few months after that Dani said growing up looked like the color red, and it made you sick to your stomach for a week. She told me it was because she had just woken up to what growing up was like. I did not question this because she said that one day I would know about the terrible red week that made all girls become women and that men had no part of. I let her have my desert off my lunch plate after she told us the story.
Despite Dani’s constant eccentricity, she continued to bring visitors to our lunch table, at one point, even a teacher or two, because she was full of intellectual charm, and completely naïve ways of thinking. They wanted to study her.
Our English teacher had tried to embellish Dani’s story telling ability by forcing her to write. Dani never wrote more then she had to and was very serious about writing things down, in a way that made all of her writing look strangely professional, from the way thoughts flew from her mouth. She would stare at the blank paper with disgust and push it away as soon as it asked her for input, asking if she really had to. I knew this was because whatever was written down could be used later for evidence.
I knew she detested something solidly written because her sister was a journalist, but years before, while me and Dani were trying to grow coin trees in the backyard, we would run upstairs to read about her sister’s ‘daily adventures’ as Dani referred to them. Only one day her parents got to read the book and her sister had been punished and sent to counseling for her ‘problems.’ After that Dani’s sister stopped talking to her and everyone else in the family, all because of written words on a page. Dani felt like
This is a story about Dani.
Once when we were thirteen she asked me if I wanted to grow up, of course I did not answer, as usual, because whatever I would say would pale instantly in comparison from the story she would let fly from her lips. She also would not wait for me to respond at all, quietly she configured her thoughts in her head. “To grow up means we will forget what being happy feels like, grown ups pretend to smile, the don’t know what a real smile is anymore, and if growing up means forgetting to smile, forgetting to breathe, then we will become witches and stay this way forever, always forever.” She said, lavishing her nails in purple paint.
We were to become witches, while other children forgot what innocence was like, and day dreamed of nothing but becoming slow motion movie stars, in a place far off from reality. Yet she dreamed of things that would never be true, no matter what we did to come by them. We pretended to beg the spirits of the underworld for weeks, for eternal youth, and drew symbols from our text books on our bodies with un-washable ink.
A few months after that Dani said growing up looked like the color red, and it made you sick to your stomach for a week. She told me it was because she had just woken up to what growing up was like. I did not question this because she said that one day I would know about the terrible red week that made all girls become women and that men had no part of. I let her have my desert off my lunch plate after she told us the story.
Despite Dani’s constant eccentricity, she continued to bring visitors to our lunch table, at one point, even a teacher or two, because she was full of intellectual charm, and completely naïve ways of thinking. They wanted to study her.
Our English teacher had tried to embellish Dani’s story telling ability by forcing her to write. Dani never wrote more then she had to and was very serious about writing things down, in a way that made all of her writing look strangely professional, from the way thoughts flew from her mouth. She would stare at the blank paper with disgust and push it away as soon as it asked her for input, asking if she really had to. I knew this was because whatever was written down could be used later for evidence.
I knew she detested something solidly written because her sister was a journalist, but years before, while me and Dani were trying to grow coin trees in the backyard, we would run upstairs to read about her sister’s ‘daily adventures’ as Dani referred to them. Only one day her parents got to read the book and her sister had been punished and sent to counseling for her ‘problems.’ After that Dani’s sister stopped talking to her and everyone else in the family, all because of written words on a page. Dani felt like