Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable "7th Heaven" characters. The
story uses the characters from the WB network show created by Brenda
Hampton, but are only loosely based on the actual program. Warning: Offensive language used- may not be suitable, or palatable for all readers.
-Simon
And so it was, the alarm rang. Just as it had yesterday, the day before that, and everyday for the next 7 months. He hated knowing that the school year was barely 2 months underway. "Five school days in a week", Simon thought, "4 weeks in a month. That's 20 days out of a 30 or 31 day month...". "Buzzz", the snooze button that Simon had pressed seven minutes ago had run its course, and that sound greeted him again. "...So 20 days a month multiplied by 7, the number of months left in the school year ", he continued, his still-cloudy mind being tested with math at this ungodly hour, "is uhh.um...a lot of fucking mornings liek this to go.". And with that scientific equation solved and out of Simon's way he pressed the snooze again, and closed his eyes once more. His mind drifted, his favorite fantasy played in his head.
A shiny guitar. So perfectly shaped and proportionate to his body it seemed to have been custom-made for only him, sat behind the drum riser. He heard the screams of his waiting audience. His roadie, and travel buddy Nigel ran to him and handed him a guitar pick.
"Is she tuned up?" Simon asked. "Tuned up, polished, and I put on a new set of strings. All that's left is to get his show on the road, Camden!" Simon donned his favorite sunglasses, gave Nigel a nod and rain to the microphone. The crowd erupts! "ROCK AND ROLLL!' He shouted into his Mic and swung his arm in a Pete Townshend-esque windmill motion. He felt the strings under his pick. Medium- heavy, just the gauge he likes. That unmistakable sound the sound that defines his very state of being blasted through his Marshall stack....
"Buzzz". The absolute opposite of the heavenly sound Simon dreamed the goddamn clock. There would be no putting it off again. Simon rose to his feet and made his way to the shower. After his shower he looked into the mirror and was pleased with what he saw. His hair was getting longer. He couldn't help but think what a bitch it had been to grow it out, and how long it might have been if he had never cut it in the first place. The chicks didn't really dig the new look, but what the hell did he care? They would be no more than a distant memory before long.
'I've...got...the looks that kill!" Simon said to his reflection, badly modifying a Motley Crue song. He flashed some metal 'horns' at himself and strode downstairs. For a brief time Simon had forgotten about the constant teasing he endured at school and was once again comfortable with who he was, and who he was destined to become in his mind. Simon Camden, rock god.
His sisters, Mary and Ruthie, tried in vain to keep his twin brothers' breakfasts on their plates and in their mouths. Of course Simon sort of enjoyed seeing Sam and David throw their food at one-another, and smear it into their hair. As far as he was concerned, that's what two-years-olds should do; enjoy themselves while they were still able to.
Mary had been home for a month or so, and had been living somewhere in Simon's backside all the while. She is a flight attendant for an airline, and a freelance disciplinarian in her spare time. She hit a rough patch during her teens and became a little bit wild. Now it seemed to Simon that she moved back home with the express purpose of spreading her knowledge and message of model-behavior to her siblings. While Simon did worry about her during her troubles, he was pretty well fed up with her grandstanding, and tales of triumph through her reformation. After all one preacher in the house was enough, thanks very much.
story uses the characters from the WB network show created by Brenda
Hampton, but are only loosely based on the actual program. Warning: Offensive language used- may not be suitable, or palatable for all readers.
-Simon
And so it was, the alarm rang. Just as it had yesterday, the day before that, and everyday for the next 7 months. He hated knowing that the school year was barely 2 months underway. "Five school days in a week", Simon thought, "4 weeks in a month. That's 20 days out of a 30 or 31 day month...". "Buzzz", the snooze button that Simon had pressed seven minutes ago had run its course, and that sound greeted him again. "...So 20 days a month multiplied by 7, the number of months left in the school year ", he continued, his still-cloudy mind being tested with math at this ungodly hour, "is uhh.um...a lot of fucking mornings liek this to go.". And with that scientific equation solved and out of Simon's way he pressed the snooze again, and closed his eyes once more. His mind drifted, his favorite fantasy played in his head.
A shiny guitar. So perfectly shaped and proportionate to his body it seemed to have been custom-made for only him, sat behind the drum riser. He heard the screams of his waiting audience. His roadie, and travel buddy Nigel ran to him and handed him a guitar pick.
"Is she tuned up?" Simon asked. "Tuned up, polished, and I put on a new set of strings. All that's left is to get his show on the road, Camden!" Simon donned his favorite sunglasses, gave Nigel a nod and rain to the microphone. The crowd erupts! "ROCK AND ROLLL!' He shouted into his Mic and swung his arm in a Pete Townshend-esque windmill motion. He felt the strings under his pick. Medium- heavy, just the gauge he likes. That unmistakable sound the sound that defines his very state of being blasted through his Marshall stack....
"Buzzz". The absolute opposite of the heavenly sound Simon dreamed the goddamn clock. There would be no putting it off again. Simon rose to his feet and made his way to the shower. After his shower he looked into the mirror and was pleased with what he saw. His hair was getting longer. He couldn't help but think what a bitch it had been to grow it out, and how long it might have been if he had never cut it in the first place. The chicks didn't really dig the new look, but what the hell did he care? They would be no more than a distant memory before long.
'I've...got...the looks that kill!" Simon said to his reflection, badly modifying a Motley Crue song. He flashed some metal 'horns' at himself and strode downstairs. For a brief time Simon had forgotten about the constant teasing he endured at school and was once again comfortable with who he was, and who he was destined to become in his mind. Simon Camden, rock god.
His sisters, Mary and Ruthie, tried in vain to keep his twin brothers' breakfasts on their plates and in their mouths. Of course Simon sort of enjoyed seeing Sam and David throw their food at one-another, and smear it into their hair. As far as he was concerned, that's what two-years-olds should do; enjoy themselves while they were still able to.
Mary had been home for a month or so, and had been living somewhere in Simon's backside all the while. She is a flight attendant for an airline, and a freelance disciplinarian in her spare time. She hit a rough patch during her teens and became a little bit wild. Now it seemed to Simon that she moved back home with the express purpose of spreading her knowledge and message of model-behavior to her siblings. While Simon did worry about her during her troubles, he was pretty well fed up with her grandstanding, and tales of triumph through her reformation. After all one preacher in the house was enough, thanks very much.