bellaXedward_jacob
07-27-2008, 02:32 AM
INFO::::
Timmery: 17 year old girl, gorgeous in everyway visible. A ballerina, as seen fit for a girl of her standards. She only will speak to those worthy of her presence. Her facade ends when she returns to her home however, and no matter how perfect the outside is, it's hell on the in. Rich and popular, no boy is good enough for her.
Justin: 18 year old boy, handsome yet plays his cards so no girl even considers him. A rocker, and closed off from most the people he even could communicate with. From the wrong side of the tracks with a dad and stepmom who barely make ends meet. No girl would ever want him he's decided.
So, what happens?: Timmery is nearly mugged on the bus coming home from the studio, because her car wouldn't start. Justin comes to her rescue, and that's when the two try to forget one another, but can't help but end up near the other in school and they become like magnets, opposites attracting. Taking a walk through each other's world's, they realize they are only holding onto this life for one thing: love. The dark events play out, as is customary with these things, and you must always remember:
A bad boy can be the best thing for a good girl.
PROLOGUE::::
1-2, 3&4. 5-6-7-8. 1-2, 3&4. 5-6-7-8.
The count varies. The chords change. The steps are altered. The beat quickens. The poses are struck. The strings are plucked. The Dance Begins As The Song Ends.
Timmery leans against the bars, staring at the mirrors across the almost empty room. The CD player slowly whines as the song ends, and she sips water from a small bottle. Her slightly tan self gazes back, long eyelashes needing another dose of mascara. Her blond hair is beginning to escape the confines of her tight bun and she decides her rehearsal practice is over for the night. She thinks of all the Algebra 2 homework and groans at the mere thought. Flicking the lights off with a freshly manicured hand, she heads out to the locker room for a short shower and her clothes.
Justin's skilled fingers finish the last few notes as his stepmother sluggishly comes through the front door. She says nothing, as usual, and heads for her room, where his father is already asleep. Justin looks over at his little sister's play vanity, where she sat minutes before trying on make-up. He sees his shaggy brown hair covering his pale face, his eyes with the typical sleepless nights showing as dark circles. He then glances at his bookbag, full of homework he has to do. He stands and carefully seals his guitar back into it's case, and picks up his bookbag. He trudges back to his room, itching for the math website he found where he can just type in the problems and it spews out the answers. He flicks off the family room light with a slightly calloused, biker gloved hand.
Timmery slides into the front seat of her fancy BMW and heads down the street at a safe 45 mph. She turns on the radio and hears her favorite song. She begins to sing along silently, even though there is no one to criticize her. Timmery can't sing, because it is a poor way to fantasize a living. So, no one has ever told her she was good. But, she doesn't need to be told if her only freedom is up to the standards of everyone else. She's just fine with the way it is.
Justin flips on the second-hand computer and immediately pulls up his hard drive MP3 storage. He selects his favorite song and turns it on, loud enough to wake the neighbors. But, at least it'll keep the thieves away from his old Harley. He sings along as his dog groans from his bed. He is the only audience Justin has ever had. Justin dreams of playing for a stadium, or a cafe. He'd even take bypassers off the street. If only he had a garage. Or bandmates. Or someone to play for. But all he had was his dog, a guitar, and a silly dream. And that was okay with him. He never wanted much more than that. He never expected much more than that.
...So dance little tourniquet, spin around my veins. Fill my head with your moves, never feel ashamed. Sleep now my darling muse, singing your silly little songs. I will play on for you, where no one can tell us this is wrong...
Timmery: 17 year old girl, gorgeous in everyway visible. A ballerina, as seen fit for a girl of her standards. She only will speak to those worthy of her presence. Her facade ends when she returns to her home however, and no matter how perfect the outside is, it's hell on the in. Rich and popular, no boy is good enough for her.
Justin: 18 year old boy, handsome yet plays his cards so no girl even considers him. A rocker, and closed off from most the people he even could communicate with. From the wrong side of the tracks with a dad and stepmom who barely make ends meet. No girl would ever want him he's decided.
So, what happens?: Timmery is nearly mugged on the bus coming home from the studio, because her car wouldn't start. Justin comes to her rescue, and that's when the two try to forget one another, but can't help but end up near the other in school and they become like magnets, opposites attracting. Taking a walk through each other's world's, they realize they are only holding onto this life for one thing: love. The dark events play out, as is customary with these things, and you must always remember:
A bad boy can be the best thing for a good girl.
PROLOGUE::::
1-2, 3&4. 5-6-7-8. 1-2, 3&4. 5-6-7-8.
The count varies. The chords change. The steps are altered. The beat quickens. The poses are struck. The strings are plucked. The Dance Begins As The Song Ends.
Timmery leans against the bars, staring at the mirrors across the almost empty room. The CD player slowly whines as the song ends, and she sips water from a small bottle. Her slightly tan self gazes back, long eyelashes needing another dose of mascara. Her blond hair is beginning to escape the confines of her tight bun and she decides her rehearsal practice is over for the night. She thinks of all the Algebra 2 homework and groans at the mere thought. Flicking the lights off with a freshly manicured hand, she heads out to the locker room for a short shower and her clothes.
Justin's skilled fingers finish the last few notes as his stepmother sluggishly comes through the front door. She says nothing, as usual, and heads for her room, where his father is already asleep. Justin looks over at his little sister's play vanity, where she sat minutes before trying on make-up. He sees his shaggy brown hair covering his pale face, his eyes with the typical sleepless nights showing as dark circles. He then glances at his bookbag, full of homework he has to do. He stands and carefully seals his guitar back into it's case, and picks up his bookbag. He trudges back to his room, itching for the math website he found where he can just type in the problems and it spews out the answers. He flicks off the family room light with a slightly calloused, biker gloved hand.
Timmery slides into the front seat of her fancy BMW and heads down the street at a safe 45 mph. She turns on the radio and hears her favorite song. She begins to sing along silently, even though there is no one to criticize her. Timmery can't sing, because it is a poor way to fantasize a living. So, no one has ever told her she was good. But, she doesn't need to be told if her only freedom is up to the standards of everyone else. She's just fine with the way it is.
Justin flips on the second-hand computer and immediately pulls up his hard drive MP3 storage. He selects his favorite song and turns it on, loud enough to wake the neighbors. But, at least it'll keep the thieves away from his old Harley. He sings along as his dog groans from his bed. He is the only audience Justin has ever had. Justin dreams of playing for a stadium, or a cafe. He'd even take bypassers off the street. If only he had a garage. Or bandmates. Or someone to play for. But all he had was his dog, a guitar, and a silly dream. And that was okay with him. He never wanted much more than that. He never expected much more than that.
...So dance little tourniquet, spin around my veins. Fill my head with your moves, never feel ashamed. Sleep now my darling muse, singing your silly little songs. I will play on for you, where no one can tell us this is wrong...