Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Day Fashion Met Silent Green by Brandon Christopher (the two towers ebook .TXT) 📖
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- Author: Brandon Christopher
Book online «The Day Fashion Met Silent Green by Brandon Christopher (the two towers ebook .TXT) 📖». Author Brandon Christopher
that you ever told-”
“Maybe you should borrow some of dad’s cool shorts for tomorrow night!” Sean exclaimed and started laughing hysterically.
“What in the hell is wrong with my shorts, knuckle-head?”
“Honey, you can see your balls in those things!” My mom replied.
“Oh, Jesus, mom!” Sean sighed and turned his head away, “We’re eating here.”
The dinner conversation went from hanging testicles back to Rick Springfield and then on to one more attempt by Sean to get his Porsche. After dishes, I perused my dad’s closet and carefully studied his wardrobe while they all watched TV in the den. I was a fresh, clean canvas in need of paint, and the dozens of shirts and slacks ahead of me were the paint store that I would choose my colors from. I grabbed handfuls of shirts at a time and examined them under my chin in the parents’ bathroom mirror. There were cowboy themes and Dodger baseball themes and velvety themes. Next were pastel stripes, long-sleeved denim shirts, and sweaters advertising Universal Studios. There was a cream-colored blazer that I applauded, but it engulfed everything from my neck down to my knees. The pile of potentials grew on the floor in front of the bathroom door; I was overloading on possibilities to choose from.
My goal was to ‘wow’ everyone with what I could piece together and show them that I was a fashion force to be reckoned with. My mom, dad, and older brother would see this amazing outfit that I would create and be forever envious of the middle child, the mere 13-year-old with an inherent knack for couture, and stand back in awe. I envisioned future episodes where Sean would come to me before a date and ask, “Does this outfit look cool to you, mighty one?” and I would simply reply, “You need more red in the shirt department, but other than that you look okay, kid.” It would happen, and this outfit that I was creating would be the cause of it all.
After forty minutes of running from the closet to the bathroom mirror, I had completed what was to be my masterpiece. I coyly hid the pants, shirt and accessories inside the plastic wrap of a drycleaner’s cover and scuttled into my room and shut my cardboard door behind me. I placed the clothes onto hangers and displayed them inside my closet for only me to see. Tomorrow would be the unveiling, and not one second sooner. Tomorrow would be the greatest day of my life.
I woke up three times that night thinking that my fantasy outfit was just a dream, and each time I turned on the closet light just to make sure that they were still there. The next day at school dragged on and on, and I was only able to tolerate the wait by drawing my outfit several different times onto paper. I illustrated my outfit in several different action poses, one of which entailed it sword-fighting God almighty. The outfit was indeed ready, and as soon as 3:00 came and mom picked Colin and me up from school, I forced her to drive us straight home and made her style my hair within five minutes of arriving there.
“But, sweetie, the concert’s not for another four or five hours,” she commented.
“I need this, mom. I need it bad.”
“Well, okay, how do you want your hair styled then?”
“I was thinking, what would look real sharp with my outfit would be a side-part, preferably from the left…no, the right. Maybe kind-of slick back the sides a little and have this wave come down from the right, like Faceman.”
“Like who?”
“Faceman, from The A-Team.”
“I’m not quite sure what that is,” she said as she inverted the aerosol can of mousse and expelled an egg-shaped amount into her palm, “but what if we did this here, like this,” and she proceeded to run the mousse through my blond hair and slick back the top and sides. She then turned on the hair dryer and announced loudly over the noise, “From the right, you said?”
“Yea, a good right part.”
She finger-combed my hair with her long fingernails as the hairdryer sent blond locks swaying to and fro, until finally, after several minutes of this, she turned the hairdryer off, put her finger and thumb to her chin, and studied her work of art. “What do you think?”
My hair was indeed slicked back at the sides and puffy at the top, with just the most delicate of a right part dangling down onto my forehead. I glanced at my reflection from several different angles before looking at her and nodding my head. “Real nice, mom. Real nice work.”
“Just remember, mousse can be dangerous. If you don’t know what you’re doing before you start, the mousse will dry and you’ll end up with a hardened hairstyle that you’ll have to wash out. Always have a goal before you apply it.”
“Okay.”
“And when you look at yourself in a mirror, remember, no one ever looks at you straight on so you shouldn’t look at your reflection straight on. Always look at yourself at an angle. Like, see how you’re looking at me right now, it’s not straight on. Always look at yourself at an angle. You’ll see how other people see you.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to go start dinner now. We’ll eat early so we can all get ready for the concert.”
“Alright.”
After she left I stayed in the bathroom and used the new skills she had taught me for close to an hour. My left side had a handsome, charismatic and friendly feel to it. My right side seemed daring and dangerous, completely ready for a Rick Springfield concert. Sakes alive, I told my reflection, you are one charming-looking bastard. But just wait till everyone sees the outfit underneath this new hair of mine, then they’ll be truly astonished!
When dinner was ready, I brought my plate into my room, shut my cardboard door behind me, and sat and marveled at the outfit that I was going to be putting on in just a matter of minutes. After finishing the grilled cheese sandwich, I thoroughly cleaned my hands on my blanket and delicately pulled the outfit from the closet and laid it across the bed. Like an assassin inspecting his favorite weapons, I stood before these clothes scrutinizing every inch of them; from the shoes to the collar, the belt loops to the buttons. Everything was perfect. Slowly, I undressed from my school uniform and placed the obsolete clothes on the floor. Their time had passed.
I stood in front of the bed in just my briefs and socks and ran my bare fingers up and down their fabric. “It’s time.” I removed the two hangers and slowly unbuttoned and unzipped the pants. Each of my legs trembled as I carefully pulled the fabric over them and to my waist. The button fastened and the zipper rose like well-oiled machines. The shirt felt like Jesus himself was hugging my chest.
I had entered my bedroom a boy; I left my bedroom a fashion god. With my outfit completely on, I opened my flimsy door and walked down the hall with a stride. I was bitchen. I was Mr. Bitchen. I was so bitchen I spit on the carpet as I walked and never looked back. Sean, mom, dad and Colin were all in the den taking pictures of each other, and when I walked into that room, galvanizing every wall along my way, everyone stopped what they were doing and simply stared in awe at the outfit.
Starting from the bottom: Imagine sharp, black loafers that shined like sun ripples on a calm ocean. Then picture an inch or so of white socks showing. Above the white socks were pastel green pants with a thin bar of white piping rising up their sides. Holding up these ferociously oversized pants was a thick gold belt, which concealed, or attempted to, the six or seven rolled-over cuffs at the waist to help make the pants fit. And tucked into these green pants and gold belt was an equally-green short-sleeved LeTigre shirt, complete with flipped up collar and slightly rolled sleeves to the shoulder. As my family stood silent and simply gazed at me in amazement, I slowly turned to the side to reveal the flat, pink comb tucked into my back right pocket. And to complete the whole display of the package, I exhibited my new hairstyle for the admiring crowd by running my hands over my head, several inches above the hair.
“Good Lord!” My dad remarked.
“Can we get a picture of that?” Sean asked.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” Mom sighed.
“He looks like grandma,” Colin said.
I gave them the thumbs-up and nodded my head. My smile was as long as the right part in my hair. “I call her…I call her Silent Green.”
That concert turned out to be one of the most unforgettable moments in my life. And it wasn’t because I was so close to the stage that I caught Rick Springfield’s sunglasses when he threw them into the crowd, and it wasn’t because I made $50 by selling the sunglasses to the lady behind me. It actually had nothing to do with Rick Springfield at all. That night was remarkable because it was the first time in the three months of being thirteen that I owned my age. I owned who I was. I owned all thirteen years of my life. And no matter what seventh or eighth grade, or even high school, would bring my way, I would own that night and everything leading up to it. I was Silent Green.
Imprint
“Maybe you should borrow some of dad’s cool shorts for tomorrow night!” Sean exclaimed and started laughing hysterically.
“What in the hell is wrong with my shorts, knuckle-head?”
“Honey, you can see your balls in those things!” My mom replied.
“Oh, Jesus, mom!” Sean sighed and turned his head away, “We’re eating here.”
The dinner conversation went from hanging testicles back to Rick Springfield and then on to one more attempt by Sean to get his Porsche. After dishes, I perused my dad’s closet and carefully studied his wardrobe while they all watched TV in the den. I was a fresh, clean canvas in need of paint, and the dozens of shirts and slacks ahead of me were the paint store that I would choose my colors from. I grabbed handfuls of shirts at a time and examined them under my chin in the parents’ bathroom mirror. There were cowboy themes and Dodger baseball themes and velvety themes. Next were pastel stripes, long-sleeved denim shirts, and sweaters advertising Universal Studios. There was a cream-colored blazer that I applauded, but it engulfed everything from my neck down to my knees. The pile of potentials grew on the floor in front of the bathroom door; I was overloading on possibilities to choose from.
My goal was to ‘wow’ everyone with what I could piece together and show them that I was a fashion force to be reckoned with. My mom, dad, and older brother would see this amazing outfit that I would create and be forever envious of the middle child, the mere 13-year-old with an inherent knack for couture, and stand back in awe. I envisioned future episodes where Sean would come to me before a date and ask, “Does this outfit look cool to you, mighty one?” and I would simply reply, “You need more red in the shirt department, but other than that you look okay, kid.” It would happen, and this outfit that I was creating would be the cause of it all.
After forty minutes of running from the closet to the bathroom mirror, I had completed what was to be my masterpiece. I coyly hid the pants, shirt and accessories inside the plastic wrap of a drycleaner’s cover and scuttled into my room and shut my cardboard door behind me. I placed the clothes onto hangers and displayed them inside my closet for only me to see. Tomorrow would be the unveiling, and not one second sooner. Tomorrow would be the greatest day of my life.
I woke up three times that night thinking that my fantasy outfit was just a dream, and each time I turned on the closet light just to make sure that they were still there. The next day at school dragged on and on, and I was only able to tolerate the wait by drawing my outfit several different times onto paper. I illustrated my outfit in several different action poses, one of which entailed it sword-fighting God almighty. The outfit was indeed ready, and as soon as 3:00 came and mom picked Colin and me up from school, I forced her to drive us straight home and made her style my hair within five minutes of arriving there.
“But, sweetie, the concert’s not for another four or five hours,” she commented.
“I need this, mom. I need it bad.”
“Well, okay, how do you want your hair styled then?”
“I was thinking, what would look real sharp with my outfit would be a side-part, preferably from the left…no, the right. Maybe kind-of slick back the sides a little and have this wave come down from the right, like Faceman.”
“Like who?”
“Faceman, from The A-Team.”
“I’m not quite sure what that is,” she said as she inverted the aerosol can of mousse and expelled an egg-shaped amount into her palm, “but what if we did this here, like this,” and she proceeded to run the mousse through my blond hair and slick back the top and sides. She then turned on the hair dryer and announced loudly over the noise, “From the right, you said?”
“Yea, a good right part.”
She finger-combed my hair with her long fingernails as the hairdryer sent blond locks swaying to and fro, until finally, after several minutes of this, she turned the hairdryer off, put her finger and thumb to her chin, and studied her work of art. “What do you think?”
My hair was indeed slicked back at the sides and puffy at the top, with just the most delicate of a right part dangling down onto my forehead. I glanced at my reflection from several different angles before looking at her and nodding my head. “Real nice, mom. Real nice work.”
“Just remember, mousse can be dangerous. If you don’t know what you’re doing before you start, the mousse will dry and you’ll end up with a hardened hairstyle that you’ll have to wash out. Always have a goal before you apply it.”
“Okay.”
“And when you look at yourself in a mirror, remember, no one ever looks at you straight on so you shouldn’t look at your reflection straight on. Always look at yourself at an angle. Like, see how you’re looking at me right now, it’s not straight on. Always look at yourself at an angle. You’ll see how other people see you.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to go start dinner now. We’ll eat early so we can all get ready for the concert.”
“Alright.”
After she left I stayed in the bathroom and used the new skills she had taught me for close to an hour. My left side had a handsome, charismatic and friendly feel to it. My right side seemed daring and dangerous, completely ready for a Rick Springfield concert. Sakes alive, I told my reflection, you are one charming-looking bastard. But just wait till everyone sees the outfit underneath this new hair of mine, then they’ll be truly astonished!
When dinner was ready, I brought my plate into my room, shut my cardboard door behind me, and sat and marveled at the outfit that I was going to be putting on in just a matter of minutes. After finishing the grilled cheese sandwich, I thoroughly cleaned my hands on my blanket and delicately pulled the outfit from the closet and laid it across the bed. Like an assassin inspecting his favorite weapons, I stood before these clothes scrutinizing every inch of them; from the shoes to the collar, the belt loops to the buttons. Everything was perfect. Slowly, I undressed from my school uniform and placed the obsolete clothes on the floor. Their time had passed.
I stood in front of the bed in just my briefs and socks and ran my bare fingers up and down their fabric. “It’s time.” I removed the two hangers and slowly unbuttoned and unzipped the pants. Each of my legs trembled as I carefully pulled the fabric over them and to my waist. The button fastened and the zipper rose like well-oiled machines. The shirt felt like Jesus himself was hugging my chest.
I had entered my bedroom a boy; I left my bedroom a fashion god. With my outfit completely on, I opened my flimsy door and walked down the hall with a stride. I was bitchen. I was Mr. Bitchen. I was so bitchen I spit on the carpet as I walked and never looked back. Sean, mom, dad and Colin were all in the den taking pictures of each other, and when I walked into that room, galvanizing every wall along my way, everyone stopped what they were doing and simply stared in awe at the outfit.
Starting from the bottom: Imagine sharp, black loafers that shined like sun ripples on a calm ocean. Then picture an inch or so of white socks showing. Above the white socks were pastel green pants with a thin bar of white piping rising up their sides. Holding up these ferociously oversized pants was a thick gold belt, which concealed, or attempted to, the six or seven rolled-over cuffs at the waist to help make the pants fit. And tucked into these green pants and gold belt was an equally-green short-sleeved LeTigre shirt, complete with flipped up collar and slightly rolled sleeves to the shoulder. As my family stood silent and simply gazed at me in amazement, I slowly turned to the side to reveal the flat, pink comb tucked into my back right pocket. And to complete the whole display of the package, I exhibited my new hairstyle for the admiring crowd by running my hands over my head, several inches above the hair.
“Good Lord!” My dad remarked.
“Can we get a picture of that?” Sean asked.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” Mom sighed.
“He looks like grandma,” Colin said.
I gave them the thumbs-up and nodded my head. My smile was as long as the right part in my hair. “I call her…I call her Silent Green.”
That concert turned out to be one of the most unforgettable moments in my life. And it wasn’t because I was so close to the stage that I caught Rick Springfield’s sunglasses when he threw them into the crowd, and it wasn’t because I made $50 by selling the sunglasses to the lady behind me. It actually had nothing to do with Rick Springfield at all. That night was remarkable because it was the first time in the three months of being thirteen that I owned my age. I owned who I was. I owned all thirteen years of my life. And no matter what seventh or eighth grade, or even high school, would bring my way, I would own that night and everything leading up to it. I was Silent Green.
Imprint
Publication Date: 12-30-2009
All Rights Reserved
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