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Literature Text
Listen:
I used to go to the nearby campus coffee shop in the early evenings, armed with a pen, a blank notebook, and writer's block. The sense of loneliness was unspoken but well accounted for.
I always shared coffee-counterspace with the same boy, who never smiled or talked and who had a penchant for bedhead and argyle sweaters. He liked to lean back on his stool, balancing precariously as he read novels, and I liked to pretend I wasn't watching him watch me. We coexisted in quiet companionship, thrived quietly under fluorescent lighting which sometimes caught his thick-framed glasses.
His novels changed while my notebook remained the same; his dogeared copies of The sound and the Fury and Animal Farm distracted me as I doodled stars on blank pages, waiting for something that could not be explained.
Listen:
It was raining. I remember that. His glasses fogged up when he walked in, his tousled black hair dripped water on my elbow.
"Why don't you ever write in your notebook?" he asked, turning to me with a flourish. Caught unawares, I just gazed at him, slack-jawed. His voice was deeper than I had imagined.
"I don't have anything to write about, I guess."
He sighed and shook his head, spraying me with rainwater. "Sorry," he said with a soft, hiccupy laugh that left his serious demeanour unchanged. Then--"Did you used to write a lot?" He motioned to my notebook.
"Oh, you know. Tragedies, comedies," I told him. "Everything that passed became a story. Then life stopped happening to me." It sounded melodramatic, even to my ears, and I winced inwardly. Then--"Why don't you ever smile?"
His mouth quirked awkwardly into a half grimace and he closed his eyes briefly. "I guess I don't have anything to smile about." We paused, contemplating each other, embarrassed by the brief intimacy of the moment. He reached over slowly and took my pen, opened my notebook with a sort of reverence, and with great concentration printed "Slater" at the top of the first page.
"I think," he said quietly, "that I just happened to you."
Listen:
I went back there every evening for as long as we needed each other, and stopped when we didn't anymore.
Listen:
I saw him the other day. We were both sitting on sun-warmed stone benches, unaware of the other. I looked up and noticed a boy with sleep-ruffled hair, a copy of Ulysses in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other. He patted the seat next to him, and I sat down.
"Is it okay?" I asked. I didn't specify whether I was asking about the book, the coffee, or something else entirely. He cocked his head pensively, considering, and then nodded.
I opened my notebook and ripped this page out, folded it in two, and gave it to him. He took it and put it in his pocket without saying anything, the smallest of grins on his face.
Listen:
Slater has a beautiful smile, like crawling into bed after cold January. Like a secret. Like the beginning of a story.
I used to go to the nearby campus coffee shop in the early evenings, armed with a pen, a blank notebook, and writer's block. The sense of loneliness was unspoken but well accounted for.
I always shared coffee-counterspace with the same boy, who never smiled or talked and who had a penchant for bedhead and argyle sweaters. He liked to lean back on his stool, balancing precariously as he read novels, and I liked to pretend I wasn't watching him watch me. We coexisted in quiet companionship, thrived quietly under fluorescent lighting which sometimes caught his thick-framed glasses.
His novels changed while my notebook remained the same; his dogeared copies of The sound and the Fury and Animal Farm distracted me as I doodled stars on blank pages, waiting for something that could not be explained.
Listen:
It was raining. I remember that. His glasses fogged up when he walked in, his tousled black hair dripped water on my elbow.
"Why don't you ever write in your notebook?" he asked, turning to me with a flourish. Caught unawares, I just gazed at him, slack-jawed. His voice was deeper than I had imagined.
"I don't have anything to write about, I guess."
He sighed and shook his head, spraying me with rainwater. "Sorry," he said with a soft, hiccupy laugh that left his serious demeanour unchanged. Then--"Did you used to write a lot?" He motioned to my notebook.
"Oh, you know. Tragedies, comedies," I told him. "Everything that passed became a story. Then life stopped happening to me." It sounded melodramatic, even to my ears, and I winced inwardly. Then--"Why don't you ever smile?"
His mouth quirked awkwardly into a half grimace and he closed his eyes briefly. "I guess I don't have anything to smile about." We paused, contemplating each other, embarrassed by the brief intimacy of the moment. He reached over slowly and took my pen, opened my notebook with a sort of reverence, and with great concentration printed "Slater" at the top of the first page.
"I think," he said quietly, "that I just happened to you."
Listen:
I went back there every evening for as long as we needed each other, and stopped when we didn't anymore.
Listen:
I saw him the other day. We were both sitting on sun-warmed stone benches, unaware of the other. I looked up and noticed a boy with sleep-ruffled hair, a copy of Ulysses in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other. He patted the seat next to him, and I sat down.
"Is it okay?" I asked. I didn't specify whether I was asking about the book, the coffee, or something else entirely. He cocked his head pensively, considering, and then nodded.
I opened my notebook and ripped this page out, folded it in two, and gave it to him. He took it and put it in his pocket without saying anything, the smallest of grins on his face.
Listen:
Slater has a beautiful smile, like crawling into bed after cold January. Like a secret. Like the beginning of a story.
Literature
compulsive liar.
once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
-
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.
"why not?" i reply.
-
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someon
Literature
The Yellowiest December
She was atheist and
he was a painter who
believed in everything
and the world, the glories
it held, endless fountains of
knowledge to be obtained.
"It's an amazing situation,"
he mused, running his hands
through her red hair.
She believed in asbestos,
that it was her favorite
color and he believed that she
needed more things to believe in.
He ate cranberry sauce while she
read him poetry about cats and disciples
and classical compositions and the
relevance in it all. It
was all he could do to say, "Wow,"
staring at the sky, effusion of clouds
draining, pouring out before dispersing.
Her blue flower dress smelt of
chamo
Literature
a letter
dearest dear,
there is a butterfly breathing its way out of you. there is a red & blinking button pressed to bear releasing. I am ever so sorry, but still collecting your colors. In the midst of apologies, still pressing your fragile frame to pages; special focus on forever. tomorrow, I will visit you inside your house. shortly thereafter, I will hide underneath your bed; making a nest of your blankets. the following morning, I will infiltrate breakfast disguised as a warm sip of tea.
that will become my favorite section, in retrospect. the part when you learned to call me "honey", honey. the part where I whispered and tickled your chin.
I
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if you see him, tell him thanks.
© 2008 - 2024 Dibujando
Comments21
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Thank you, Slater. ♥