Ignorance To Be a Fact

This is my latest story. It didn't turn out as planned, but my stories never do, and in the end I like how this one went.

It was with inconceivable circumstances that I came to learn of things that are not meant to be heard. Whilst maybe the events did not end in light consequences, they were finalised with a lesson learnt by all. The situation all began with a call which woke my household of one at the late hour.

“Hello?” I said less spritely into the phone.

“Gregory. Someone’s been shot.”

I was speechless for a moment, unsure of what to say in reply to this outburst of a comment. “Richard, what do you say the problem is?”

The voice returned hurried and frantic. “Harry’s been shot.”

I did not know any by the name of Harry, and had never heard Richard speak of him. “Richard you have my deepest sympathy. But who is Harry?”

There was still no calming in his voice. “I don’t know, I don’t know, but someone shot him.”

It dawned on me suddenly what he had been doing.“Richard, have you been tuning into the police radio?”

There was silence, then a soft answer. “Yes.”

I had consulted with him many times about the radio he had that unwittingly could tune into the police radios. “Richard you shouldn’t listen to that, we’ve already discussed this matter.”

“I couldn’t help it. And now Harry’s been shot.”

“You didn’t know Harry. Turn the thing off and forget it.”

His tone had lessened in desperation but it still had not returned to normal. “I can’t forget it, someone just died.”

I sighed. “You don’t know he died, he may just have been shot in the arm.”

“He died Gregory, I know he did.”

He had told me often the things he heard on the radio; thefts, assaults, but it had never amounted to this.

“Forget it Richard. You did not know Harry, and you can’t do anything about it now. Forget it.”

There was no noise on the other side, and I knew he was contemplating.

“Richard I’ll come over in the morning, but for now you should go to bed.”

There was only a slow pause on the other end. “I suppose I’ll see you in the morning Gregory.”

“Good night Richard.”

“Good night.” I let there be a moment before he hung up.

It was with an easy mind that I returned to bed, as I was sure it would be with a heavy mind that Richard returned to bed. I had known the radio would not bring him any good and it had proven that just before. In the morning there would be a hefty conversation passed, and with all hope on my side, he would never touch the radio again.

The morning was brisk as I set off for the few blocks in which Richard lived. The sun had yet to entirely lift the winter fog, and I watched as my breath exhaled before smoothly dissipating into the air.

I rapped swiftly upon his door and he answered in an instance. Seeing his appearance I doubt he had slept; dark circles laid under his eyes and his clothes covered his body rumply.

“Gregory.” There was relief in his voice.

“Richard, it’s good to see you.”

He let me into the living room and we each took a seat. He sunk into his seat and for a moment his eyes fluttered. Then they rose and he turned his gaze on me.

“I’m going to throw the damned thing out.”

“That’s a very wise choice. I’ll take it if you want.”

He glanced at it and I saw it sitting on the table; a small black box.

“Richard you must remember that you didn’t know Harry. Do not be vexed about it, it’s just like something you hear on the news.”

He sunk again. “I won’t think on it for too long. Do you know what irritates me the most? That I was listening when he died. When the blue vests got there he was still breathing, they declared him dead three minutes later. Where was the point that he stopped in life and started in death. There must have been one moment, one millisecond where he was alive, and then the next he was dead. Why couldn’t that small moment of been dragged into just one millisecond more, and then so, why not an eternity of milliseconds more. I think of dying, and wonder whether I’ll beg for that millisecond again and again and wonder how I can’t have it, or just let it pass.”

I was struck with nothing to say. What I had thought was just a worry that a man had died had become more, and I knew not how to quell it. “Richard, you shouldn’t worry about these things. You have many years left in you; he died because he was shot, you are in great health.” I attempted to be as reassuring as I could, but I was not sure my words would soften him.

“I’m just a man, and death and time are like gods, just hovering over you, knowing when you will fall into its grasp. I’ll meet them both one day.”

“As will we all, but not for many years to come.”

“But it will come. Time is just waiting, always going at the same pace and always waiting. There is no way to stop time, and it waits knowingly. It smiles , there is evil in its smile, a crooked, harsh, knowing smile. And death, it stays with time, make deals with it, wanting to always take another into its hold. It finds ways to cut time, but never quicken its pace; always the same constant pace. Death doesn’t smile, but laughs; a laugh that cuts to the very core and shakes a person’s hold on life to its roots. They are both evil evil things.”

“Richard! What you think is not true, there is no need to think of these things now. You cannot change time, or death, just as you cannot change what happened yesterday. You must put all these things out of your mind, and never think of them again.” I was increasingly worried about my friend, he had never spoken in such a manner before and I did not know what it would lead to.

His eyes fluttered again and he sat up, as if spurred by a spritely attitude. He gave a sigh, a long sigh and then spoke. “Ah Gregory, the ignorant mind is the better is it not. We will not discuss it further then.”

“Then you will not think of these things further.”

“Once a mind has left ignorance it can not go back. But I will not bother you with these thoughts again.”

He smiled and I returned it, though I was still wary of the matter. It was not good for a man to think too much of things he can not control, and it would be better to forget such things and be surprised when they came upon one. I knew I would not dwell on any of these matters beyond the front door.

We moved to easy conversation, just as we always would. When midmorning came I left, the radio tucked within my hands.

“You won’t worry about these matters any longer will you Richard?” I put out as a leaving comment.

He smiled warmly. “Do not fear Gregory, I have found a way to forget these thoughts.”

“Good man, I will see you tomorrow then.”

He kept his smile up in reply.

It is now with a heavy heart that I relate all these matters. I did in fact see Gregory the next day, when I called on him after he had not called on me, but I did not talk to him. I wondered if they would relay the matters over their police radio, and an unwitting stranger would find that he could no longer be ignorant. I dared to hope not, lest they meet the same pondering that Richard felt, and ultimately, the same fate. For a long time I wondered if I could have said something to stop his actions, but as I considered his demise, I realised it had not been that at all. I was sure in his final moments he had smiled at time, and laughed at death, for taking things to himself. There had been a lesson for all, and it would be only mine that I could put to use. Ignorance can be easy, but knowledge allows one to understand how ease can be brought, and whilst I was not knowledgeable, I was neither ignorant, and in that, I found my ease.

Whose Story?

I recently wrote a choose-your-own-adventure story. I've always wanted to write one. It's quite short (I realised that because I didn't plan it out if I didn't finish writing it in one night then I would lose my track). I'm still not entirely sure if it fully works, and that is why I want other people to read it (wink wink). I'll just post the first chapter here, and you can find the rest at the link below.

Deep and dark, in the treacherest alley of the most deepest and darkest bog, there was a story taking place. This story was so deep and dark, that it could only occur in the deepest and darkest, most treacherest alley of the most deepest and darkest bog. It is not the story of a murder, though perhaps by the end you may feel you’re mind has been murdered. There will be tense changes, and there will be words that do not exist. Those who cannot stand the slaughter of grammar, the goriest of bad literature, please, cover your eyes for the sake of humanity. But for those who find it a liberation, a proud glory on earth, uncover the person’s eyes next to you and shout your anarchy!

Let us begin.

Down in this deepest, darkest, treacherest alley, of the most deepest, darkest bog there was a storyteller just sitting there. They had a tale in their mind, and words upon their heart. But there was no one to listen, no one to hear the beautiful tale they so longed to tell. A moment of silence please I must request, for this poor storyteller who has such a magnificent story to tell, but no one to tell it to.

Now that the world has stopped to pay respect to me, I can continue with the actual story in this. This storyteller now has someone who will listen to their magnificent story. Then again, maybe it ain’t so magnificent.

Gather round now, like any good storyteller would say. Warm up by the fire (we’re just waiting for it to spontaneously combust at any moment now).

 

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Archia/1048011/

The Dreams You Gotta Look For

It had always been my dream to be a writer. I was going to have my name on the front of a book, sell a few million and be a household name. Well I really just wanted the book, that would be enough for me. Writing has always been what I was going to do with my life. I was going to go to university, and do some writing degree which would make me a brilliant writer, and even if I didn't, I was going to enjoy it more than anything. But now, it's not my dream anymore. Oddly enough in all of it that hardest part to contemplate is that I may never walk through a university's gates. Going to uni was always something that I was going to definitely do, no matter what I did there. When I was younger I thought that people who didn't go to uni didn't go because they couldn't, and I didn't want to be one of those people. I've since realised that that isn't the case, but I still feel that if I don't have a uni degree to my name, then I won't be seen as someone who could do it. I'll be seen as one of them (I know who I'm talking about at least). I've spent too much time rambling about uni's. Even if I didn't study writing I would study business, or just anything really that make my life end up in an office. I wanted an office job. But now I want to go into theatre, not the acting part, every other part. I want it more than anything. I'd give up writing to do that. I've never wanted anything this much. Part of me wonders if this is just a spur of the moment thing, but I feel that it's not. It's gone from never even contemplating doing what's really spurred it, to it becoming more than the on-the-side thing, to me wanting to do it more than anything. But it's odd no longer wanting to be a great writer. If I died now my one regret would not be that I never got published, as it would've been six months ago. It's funny how thing's change. When there's something you've wanted for so long, it's hard to realise when you stop wanting it. 

Where does the World go?

This isn’t me, I’m losing myself and where I found it. I found it in her, in her writings. How I wish it were her words that sped from my fingers now, not mine. The day has danced it’s mystery upon my mind, clouding in a crippled confusion as I wander about the streets, no longer knowing who I am, or who I want to be. I barely know who I ever was. Why won’t they all just understand? Why won’t they just see me for who I am? Because I am afraid to show them, I know that is the answer.

The empty night lights the face of the wanderer with a speckled fascination, throwing shadows upon those that pass.

Why won’t they ask? If they did, I would lie, I always lie. Nothing’s wrong with me. Yet I want there to be. I’m just too afraid to tell them, to have them judging me.

The shadows are clicked into her, the wanderer steps over the pavement. They follow her, always following, always one step behind. In a rush of a moment she attempts to let them catch up, they’ve bent down to tie a shoe.

How could someone judge me? That would mean there was something wrong with my mind, and to admit a flaw… it would be to admit the way they brought me up. Oh how how how, and that one word is emphasised in its glory because I do not know any further way to place it.

There is a question on the smooth mouth of the wanderer, that sits in the air, waiting for a passer-by. There is none. Again it repulses into the soft night, and again it is left without remembrance. She cannot do anything but walk in the willows of the moon.

This all, this is both who I am, and who I want to be. There is no fantasy, only reality. There is truth, that can never be real. There is a life, that is waiting to be lived, and has already past. All that’s left, is everything that was there at the beginning, no answer gained. And that’s the way it shall always be, that’s the way she wants it, the way I want it.

What May Be a Trickle

I feel like it's been too long since I've sat down and written a story. It hasn't really been that long, only a couple of weeks actually. But when I was writing this I realised that I had missed it. I must start writing more often. Well anyway, here's the story:

There’s something trickling in the distance, she can hear it. It must be water, what else would it be? Blood. This isn’t a horror story though, and there is doubt in credibility when the writer squirms at their own words. So it must be water. That’s the magic of writing, the sheer possibility of it all. There’s no water in the distance; yet for you, at this very moment, there is. My mind is past the trickle though, already onto the future.

Someone must go see this trickle, find out what it really is. So she gets up, and leaves her spot on the grassy floor. There’s a blue dress dragging against the knees, she likes it since it covers her arms. By the time this story is over you may have forgotten that her eyes are green. There’s a park around her, and two trees at the edge. That is where she heads, she’s sure the trickle is coming from there. I can hear a trickle, but it may not be the same as yours. My trickle is soft and slow; melodic, hypnotic. Drip... Drip… Drip. Each drop is a new life. Your trickle may be different. It may be fast, persuasive. Drip. Drip. Drip. Or then again, it may be one continuous stream, bigger sounds coming when a rush overflows. Driiiidrrrrriiipppppdrrriiiddddddrrrriipp. Everyone’s trickle is different. I’m the writer, and you’re the reader, but no one’s trickle is wrong.

With all of this she reaches the trees. There’s no water, not a pond or a just a drop. There’s still a trickle somewhere, she can hear it. She’s been invented by me, created by you, but even her trickle is different.

It has to be known where this trickle is. As her curiosity grows, does yours? Mine does, and it should be thought that I already know where it is. Just as she is honest, I am when I say that I do not know.

She puts her hand upon a trunk, there was a root that she almost tripped on. She pokes her head through. And she stumbles.

Perhaps it was a mirror, or maybe just a dream. Maybe it was her yearning for treasure, a yearning for love?

She can see the trickle. You can’t, not yet. But she can, and what she sees is beautiful.

She asks a question,  and he gives her his name.

In a mountain, a trickle falling from the top can only be heard by those below. They cannot see it, the water too small for their eyes. One day someone will climb to the top, to see the trickle. She has, maybe one day you will. I never will, I prefer the suspense.

She’s still looking, listening for the sound is still coming. It’s emanating from him. She wonders what will happen if she passes back through the trees. Maybe she will lose this trickle, she never wants too. She hears on a whim, for this writer gives whims, that she cannot step back through the trees with him. This writer want this story to be a heartbreak, love that can never be. What is the reader thinking, what do you want?

She smiles whilst taking his hand, she knows what to do. They step together, the trees are right there. She passes them. But she doesn’t go through them, she goes around. Trickles can go anywhere when held by another. She’s defied the words wanted, broken the law of the writer. There shall be no tragedy.

She walks off with him, leaving the grass, and the trees, with a blue dress dragging against her knees. She prefers brown eyes.

Now all that’s left is for you to stumble through trees to find a trickle. There’s a trickle for me and a trickle for you, trickles of many things. Your trickle is different to my trickle, just as her trickle was different. Just remember to go around, not through, in case you lose your trickle to ease.

She’s happy that her curiosity took her to the trickle, and she’s happy that she saw a way around. This writer is happy that it wasn’t a horror, and can smile at what’s been created. Now all that’s left is for the reader to think, to decide if they are happy.

There’s a trickle out there for you; it could be water, it could be a horror. That’s up to you to find.

Anyone can create their own story.

She’s found her trickle, I’m looking for mine. And you, maybe you’re just beginning to hear the trickle. Or then again, maybe it’s already in your sight.

Free Kindle eBooks

I recently got a Kindle and I am all for buying the free eBooks and not too much else (I have about 40 books and have spent pretty must $3.00). But I do sometimes find it tedious having to scroll through page after page trying to find the one's that won't cost me a cent. So I've decided that a nice list of the free one's would be kinda handy. So I've created a list of a few of the books that I know can be gotten for free on the Kindle. If you type it in, it's not necessarily the first one that will come up, but it can be gotten for free.

The Pale Boy- Theresa Weir and Anne Frasier

A Good Clean, A Harsh Clean-Brian Martinez

The Seer- T. Scott McLeod

Dracula- Bram Stoker

Alice in Wonderland- Lewis Caroll*

The Blue Fairy Book- Andrew Lang

The Rich Man- Miroslav Halas

Inspired Creative Writing- Alexander Gordon Smith

Library of the World’s Best Mystery and Detective Stories

The Man Who Was Thursday A Nightmare- G.K. Chesterton*

Pride and Prejudice- Jane Austen*

Miho Amish- Mathew Ferguson

A Tale of Two Cities- Charles Dickens

Beowulf

A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur’s Court- Mark Twain*

*You can get many of their books free

Feel free to add to this list in the comments below. I'll put them up in the proper list to make it easier for people to see.

The more books the merrier.

The Fancy of Twins

The phenomenon of twins has always been something of a wonder to my like mind. How both can gain the same disease that only originates in the tropics when one resides halfway across the world can only remain a question of possibility. There must be that small etching of doubt when you hear on the phone, just after you have told them of your own sickness, that the symptoms there are comparable to yours. There is also that question of, as I have heard it called, twin telepathy. Do their thoughts really trail through your mind? Of course there may be the moments when one may be surprised at the likewise thoughts of their twin, but perhaps they have been around each other for so long that a similar answer would come to their mind. My favourite question though, asked on multiple occasions, with, I would suppose, an obvious answer; ‘when you look in the mirror, how do you know it’s you and not your twin?’ Well perhaps this may be able to delve into something philosophical that would extend to the whole human race, but in these situations, that is not the case. When I look in the mirror, I can be sure it is me. I know it is my hair, my eyes, all me. Granted I can't tell the difference between me and my sister in photos of when we were younger, but in the mirror there is no doubt. But still it makes me wonder why that is such a common question.

I doub we'll ever gain an obscure sickness at the same time; we rarely shared a cold at the same. I also doubt we'll ever really know what the other is thinking; no more than the slight coincidental spur. And what I will always be absolutely certain of is that whenever I look in a mirror it will be me, and not the one that looks so much alike.

Choices, Decisions, Options and any other word to mean the same thing

I could start this by stating that there are many decisions in one's everyday life. It's true really, but it's not everyday you have to come by a decision that really matters. In the end, when you're lying on your deathbed you're not going to remember whether you bought the two-inch or the three-inch heels, or if you had cheese or paid that extra dollar for beetroot. Pretty much likely you won't remember reading this, and I probably won't remember writing this. But then there comes the big decisions. There's living locations, careers, the people around you, those type of things, the biggies.
And then now it comes to my decision. A decision which I've been thinking over for the past couple of years, and have given many 'I don't knows' to the people who've asked. It's what I feel like everything has been leading up to, though I know it's not. And so, I do not know what to pick. I have my two options. One is what I always thought I was going to do. It was what, three years ago I felt I wanted to do, when I didn't understand things at all. But three years I didn't have to make this decision. And I still want to doing, partly. It's something I want to do because I've always wanted to do it. It's not a risk, I know I'll enjoy it and I'll be happy with it. And then there's the second decision. It's the one that if someone two years ago said I should consider it, I would laugh at them and wonder why they even bothered talking to me. But no one would say that to me, because no one would expect it off me. The basics of it started off as a, this might be a nice thing to try but there's better. And then it moved to an enjoyment of it. Then a fascination. And now, this. It's a risk, I don't actually think I'll be any good at it. But I think I'll enjoy it. And if I take that decision it means leaving here, and going off yonder.
So here's my question to you; which would you take, would you do what you know you'll enjoy, or would you take a risk for something that you might love?

A Bird's Dance

I was watching the birds today, out past the window. They were far off, a flock of them together. They were flying, seemingly going nowhere, just twisting and turning. Each time they turned a certain way, their bodies would catch in the sun, and they would erupt in a dazzle of shine, like a star exploding. Then they would turn again, and return to their normal bodies. They continued to twirl amongst the sky, almost like they were putting on a show, just for me. All of them together, a flock of birds going somewhere, but the purpose unknown. They wouldn’t have known I was watching them, I doubt they would have cared if they did. So they wouldn’t have known the smile that came across my face, as I watched their dance, and known that I was dancing mine.  

Wanna Do?

Isn't that a song name? I'm not sure, my music knowledge is so very limited. Oh well, that's not what I'm saying here.
What I'm asking for you to do this quick survey. You know how everyone claims their surveys to be quick but they take 3 hours. Well this one I can guarantee to be quick, it's only one question. It you do it, it will mean so so incredibly much, you really can't imagine how much.
http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/5RDYQHB
Thank you
Oh and it's anonymous and all that, so don't worry

Track Pants and Make-up

What sometimes amazes me is the things people, preferably girls, choose to wear out of the house. Sometimes close to nothing, other times you wonder if they owned a mirror or just used a photo of themselves from ten years ago to judge how they look. Now I want to seem patronizing, but the one thing that I can't get my head around is track pants. Not the track pants that actually look like you're about to go for a run, but the track pants that are baggy, faded and in my opinion, shouldn't go past the front fence. And then some decide to top it off with ugg boots. But what really amazes me, is that these girls demand that their faces be covered with power and gloss. It's like they spend so long on their faces, that they don't have any time to care about the rest of themselves. I wonder if they've realised that their body is fives times as big as their head (heightwise okay). I don't want to say that they look shoddy, but put together, it just makes me wonder. How can someone, who must obivously care about how they look, care so little about going out in clothes that look rundown? Either that or they think they look cool and I'm sure to their friends they do. But in the end, track pants is okay as long as you feel okay, but you don't need make up. If you have the confidence to wear track pants, you should have the confidence to show your face for the beauty it is. To me they don't, but hey, I'm just one person. So in my opinion, you can wear whatever you want, but if you wear track pants and ugg boots out, then you don't need make up.    

The Gravedigger's Skull

A skull will lie in the dust, no longer left to waiting. Sitting there, it’s remnants of memory are lost to life, all pieces of existence paid to death. What is there in a skull, to show the person that it used to inhabit? There is no hair, no lips, no eyes. A skull shows no gender.

To the gravedigger with his malice pick it is no different, each skull the same as the next. With a heavy trawl he pushes against the earth, defying the force of nature placed as a final barrier. There is no careful action as the wooden hand is prised upon the air. The gravedigger’s mind is not racing, he knows how he does not pause to stare, nor consider the life that once lived but thrives no longer. In the end it is not a persons’ body that will be remembered.

The skull is the first to be lifted from the bed of eternity, tossed in the hands of the gravedigger. Without gloves he feels the callouses, the spaces where there used to be eyes, lips, hair. He does not know its gender.

The body of bones he lets keep, rustling their frail limbs amongst the fickle linings. It is easy, a murmur comes, to claim the pieces left for their life beyond. The gravedigger slips what he gains into a small bag, slung to the side in an act of carelessness. Bag and bones alike.

The skull takes its rest upon the side, gathering cold that will not be felt. When done the gravedigger takes it to his hand, returns it to the head. The other bones do not show a form of order, left to continue their rest in the gravedigger’s careless choice. Air is once again left to the living.

The gravedigger leaves the grave, leaves the body, leaves the skull. He has taken his jewels, his diamonds of living. There is no more thought paid as he forgets the feeling of the skull in his hands. Soon he will catch another.

The gravedigger each time, will consider the skull, consider its wait, consider his own wait. When the future comes a skull will lie in its grave, no longer showing a remnant of memory. As the gravedigger now steals upon a skull, one day a man will come and steal upon his own. The new gravedigger then will think the same, and will only pause as he holds the skull in his hands. Never will he know the antics they shared, nor will he care just as his bag will lie careless in the dirt.

A skull will lie there, waiting without knowledge for the gravedigger to disrupt its settlement. The memory of its being will be indifferent to the act upon it.

Either way, it is just a skull. One that shows no traits of what used to be. No hair, no lips, no eyes. There is no gender. There is no life. There is no gravedigger.

Don't Fly Now

Through the skies it is a bird that flies. Not a plane, and certainly not Superman. Not at this hour at least, it is too dark for him to be out. So it must be a bird then. A large bird, it is seen from this depth; an eagle perhaps, or a hawk. Not an albatross, they don’t come by here. Pterodactyls only exist in stories. In the past they once were alive, but now stories is all that’s left for them. So a large, real bird. It does not matter really what type of bird, not to the person looking. So who is it that’s looking? Why it’s you, it is your eyes that see this bird high above. This bird it’s just diven down (fast fact diven is not a word, but when it is your mind anything can happen). It hasn’t gone for prey, if it had it's left empty, not reaching the ground before its wings are once again spilt out for flight. Soaring, cascading, find a word and put it to this bird, they all fit. What’s that you consider, there must be words that do not define this creature. Throw one to the air then, let in mull amongst the clouds and see what returns to the mind. It will fit. It is amongst these clouds that your word is thrown, that this bird flies. Dipping in, dipping out, swathing a vision of indecision. Much like that sentence wouldn’t you say. Where will this bird be tomorrow, it cannot fly forever. There will be a time, when the feathers settle beneath themselves, and the narrow eyes close to accept the dreams that wake. In the morning the bird will rise to join the sun’s waking song. But for now the birds flies.

Flies, a curious word, what can be made from it. Fly, flying, flight. A word to rise amongst the sky’s prison and set the world free. Flight. Take what you think of it, take what the dictionary says, and throw it. Throw it, as you did a word to describe the bird, to the clouds, but do not let it be like a boomerang, do not let it mull and return. Let it keep going, past the clouds, past the air, out into the stars. Let the moon consider what a bird is, whereas as you consider what a bird is. Such a difference wouldn’t you think.  It will however, be different to the person walking past on the sidewalk, you stand in the street. Flight. A bird lets its wings go to flight. A person, only wishes for it. But a person lets themselves be taken like the bird on a passage through the breeze of flight. Out they can go, out, up, down, sideways too. They will not be flying, but they will be in flight.

Ah this bird is growing further, vanishing more amongst the clouds. The time to watch is over, the time to think has come. So think, as the bird disappears, think. Of what, it is not named here, of what it does not matter. Just think. Perhaps the bird will be on your mind, perhaps the person on the sidewalk. And perhaps if you think, just let yourself think, you will be like the bird, and be taken on a passage through the breeze of flight.

The Story-Teller's Ballad

“Do you know when I write?” The wrinkled woman asked the child by her side.

“No.”

“I write when I feel nothing, when I want to feel.”

“We had an author come and he told us that he writes best when he’s emotional.”

“He would say that, he’s an author.”

“But you’re not an author.”

“No I’m not. I’m a story-teller.”

“What’s a story-teller?”

“A story-teller creates emotion with their words. They take something, an experience, a moment, and they twist it around in their hands. They turn it and flip it, and once done only then do they speak. They tell their story, they spread their magic.”

“Tell me a story then please.” The child moved closer to slide onto her lap, snuggling close.

Smiling, the old woman began. ...

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Archia/990982/

Survey

I have a dear friend, who is doing this big project thing, and she needs to collect some survey results. And as she is hoping for 1000 responses (she is very over ambitous), I thought I'd help her out. So if you could do the survey in the link below, it would mean so much to both me and her. It's about the seven deadly sins, and there's only 4 questions. Thank you.
http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/3GB8BLN

Worlds Apart

I was once lucky enough to go to Hong Kong, it's a wonderful country, it truly is. There was one moment though, that stood out amongst the rest.
I was on a bus, travelling where I can't remember. But on one side, there were, well I couldn't make out what they were at first. It was all this stuff, put together; wood, cardboard, all of that. And then someone announced them as slums. People lived in what I saw as hovels. It was dirty, I wonder how waterproof they were. I couldn't imagine spending a day in them. And then, on the otherside of the road, apartments rising high, neat on the facade. And, as is, McDonalds.
On one side of the road there was poverty, and on the other wealth. Just a road apart, yet so different. Two different worlds. And really, in both of them, is just people.
Until then I didn't realise how close different worlds could be. I always imagined them to be separated, nowhere near each other. But they were, and they still are.

Encompass Now

Slowly the moon rises
And pen to paper is put

A life of a shadow

Unveiled

Borne to all the world
Not to see
To find
Amongst the iridescent stars
And the sun that waits over the pull of gravity
Rests so softly
See it not, but find it aye
A shadow to slip between the worlds
To flit nigh on clouds
Taunting its strings
Slowly the moon rises
You rest

Did you Hear?

A story of sound and it's treacheries and beauty.
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Archia/950450/

Perfection

Perfection. What really is it? Perfection is having to ability to acclaim to the highest possible situation. But in this, does perfection really exist? It might be said that it does; that getting 100% on a test is perfection, or building a house to the safest standards is perfection. But really, that 100% could be surpassed, answers could be made better. But is the mark really the only important aspect of it, or could it mean nothing and the persons mind be the one deciding whether they feel they have perfected the test. By this there will always be a way for them to be happier and therefore they do not gain perfection. And with a house, the brick could be laid a different way, new technology is always coming around; perfection here is non-existent and near-perfection is short lived.

Everybody could always be more perfect, their cheeks could be that little more bigger, or their shoulders that little less broader. But then that raises the question of what defines perfection? Is it normality, which in its own right does not exist, for there are no rules to define what is normal or not. So then like the non-existence of normality there is also a non-existence of perfection.

Perfection is always growing, standards, wishes, are always increasing and so perfection is forever changing, creating it harder to aspire. As near-perfection is reached, perfection raises its level, making it impossible to reach.

Perfection is strived for, sought for; but it is all in vain. Perfection will never be accomplished, it is not something we can just come across, nor something we will obtain after years of senseless searching.

Perfection is non-existent, just like many things in our world today. So don’t stop to look at the things people could have, but look at the things they do have and know that for them that may be their near-perfection.

Catch a Daisy

Ask me to marry you and I’ll refuse, say that you love me and I’ll let you put a ring on my finger.

Brightest Eyes

When I was younger, a group of us would walk home from school. It was only a few blocks, down some streets. But on the way there was one house, with an old man and an apple tree. We’d always stop and he’d let us pick an apple. The sweetest, juiciest apple ever bitten. He was a nice old man. But then high school came, and I took a different route home. A year later I mussed the apple. So changed my way to walk by his house. Looking back now, I find at this age I would never have accepted an apple from him, Guilt is always expected before innocence. But I was young then, innocent myself. Three times a week I would pass his house, and he would always mile, nod at the tree. Sometimes comment on the weather. Two years later, when I cut down to twice a week, he began pointing out the best ones. He’d reach up and picked the brightest one, he’d call it, just like my eyes. We’d make a few minutes of conversation now. Another two years and he could no longer reach the brightest  apples. It’s the back, he’d say, like it wasn’t really a part of him. He'd point, that’s the one. And it always would be the sweetest and juiciest. I’d sit with him now, wand we’d talk. About anything really, this and that. I could sit there for an hour before I realised the time. I asked him once if children still passed on their way home. Kids are too cautious these days he sighed.

And now, after all that, I stand here, after coming for a week and finding no one. There’s a movers truck out front, man with red eyes shifting everyone around. Maybe he feels my gaze because he turns, and looks at me.

“You want an apple?” He nods towards the tree. It’s like a mimic almost, but too much effort to be right. Awkward really.

I look at the tree, the dull apples sitting there. “No thanks.” It wouldn’t be bright if he didn’t pick it. “Was it his back?” I asked, the question seeming dumb upon my lips.

He seemed confused. “There never was anything wrong with his back.”

“Oh.”

He had moved to stand before me, within reach. “It was his heart, just gave out finally.” He sniffed, I could tell he was sad. “Too much staring at pretty girls he always said. Never really made sense though, ain’t been able to stare at anything much for the past years.”

“Oh.” I said no more, and he slowly moved away. I went towards the apple tree, the fruit still seeming dull. I closed my eyes, reached up, picked an apple. It was the sweetest, juiciest apple. He was in that apple, smiling upon me finding his secret. It’s something you feel, he had once said. Eyes closed I could find the brightest apple. Except he hadn’t needs to close his eyes.

Pick Apart a Flower

 A person is like a flower. They start as a seed, then come into the world. They grow, until they bloom and shed colours and happiness on the world. Then they share their seeds and more flowers are born. All the while they are helped by the soil and sun. A flower cannot survive alone, just as a person cannot.

Chance

He lay against her sleeping bones, feeling the dirt caress his naked head. In his hand he could feel the small glass resting against his fingers, it smooth exterior judgement to what lay beneath. His escape. In his minds ecstasy of grief he saw her, golden air dancing along with the wind. The wind that even now embraced him, unlike her. He rose, coming to sit, facing the stone with the words that would never fade. Just like his love for her. A hand came across the stone and he felt the imprint that had long been etched into his mind. He swept his breath into his mind and brushed the bottle against his lips. It was empty. Confused he remained still, not knowing how this nothingness slipt down his throat. His escape had lain in there before.
“Excuse me.” He turned with a start, unsure, to find a woman standing before him. Brown hair flew across her face, shadows throwing themselves against her in the dark. “I’m lost, could you help me?”
In honest actions he rose, and a smile placed itself across his face. A smile long forgotten.
“Maybe some things aren’t meant to happen.” And the bottle lay to collect dirt on the ground.

Stealing Fate

It seems like only moments ago I was whisked away. Off into the reality of my past, the reality of my future. But not, the reality of my present. I left the present, stole it from my own grasp, gave it to someone else. A little boy it was, sitting on the street as they do, crying. They all cried. Why wouldn’t they when they knew they would never experience life like they we do. They would never get to slip into their life once they died. This was boy was one that would be born again, another life he would have to suffer on the many he had already bore. There was only one way to change it, to take this boy from his written fate. He needed a life. So I gave him mine. I took his hands in mine and smiled, he tried to protest, for my new fate would be worse than his. But I was firm, and grazingly I gave him my present. The present now he would live in, till his death came when he was let to wander the Otherlife. Where there was no bad. I would get no such sanctuary. Eternity would allow me to wander my past, and to wander to future I would have gained. It was for me to mourn what I had lost, to punish me for touching the book of fate. But I will not let myself mourn, when there is one less boy crying out there. That at least, is what I tell myself.

Stealing Fate

Dreams on a Trampoline

Dreams on a Trampoline


The trampoline has always seemed to revolve around things. I
remember how my sister had lain there with her boyfriend, and they had talked,
laughing without stealing glances around them. He had then treated her roughly,
not in a bad way, but like he didn’t see the need to protect her. The last time
they had lain there, he handled her with care, like a delicate porcelain vase
that need polishing. Three weeks later she announced that she was pregnant. And
now, I watch as my other sister lies there with her boyfriend, just like the
others that had been there before. And it makes me wonder, how will he treat
her?

One Day

One day.

Somewhere out there, there is a place for everyone. A world that everyone can call their own. Most will never discover it and the few that do will never really go there. Their minds will take them to the place they see but their bodies will stay away.

The few that discover their world are the unlucky ones though. They will spend their life longing for the place in which they believe. Some may search for it, but it can never be found.

So they must live with what they have. Their minds and their hearts.

These people never lose hope, they always believe.

So if you wish to be one of those people, you must start to see the world inside of you, let your heart guide you. You must believe.

One day.

By You this is Seen as Trival

We sit there, chatting aimlessly, talking of this and that. That new politician, they’re a real clincher. They won by three nil, fancy that. It was tight towards the end. That dress, does purple really suit. There’s a party this weekend. Beach tomorrow anyone? All these things, trifles really, no matter how important they are. Minds pass over and then leave as dessert is served. Tea and coffee will come. Decaf? There’s that new honey brand, only the best here. No less trivial than before. Each time a new start begins it is treated the same, nothing important, just for conversations sake. Cups empty, spoons clatter. Did you hear of those people? The bushwalkers. Got lost in the bush. Been drinking too much. Not serious bushwalkers, really. Who brings more than a beer on a bushwalk? Darn stupid really. Maybe not right in the head? Didn’t say that on the news. News lies. No more than stupid buggers, got ‘emselves killed. Too right. Really, probably better they skinted, who knows what people like that could do to our society. Just trifles, trivial things. Plates sitting in the sink. Still talking. Hasn’t passed from the trivial. Those bushwalkers. Wonder what they were thinking. Maybe wanted done for it. Drank themselves down. Not smart enough to think of that. Stupid them. Not fit for society. Not for us certainly. Oh boys. Stupid. Unfit. Dumb. Challenged. Stupid. Don’t you realise there’s people mourning for those men?

Everyone leaves.

Who Me Is

This is another story about a girl who contemplates the classic question, who am i? whilst sitting in detention.

Who am I?

The question lies solitary on the page, black ink shining with an old tinge. A constant tapping erupts from the pen, bringing forth no enlightenment. I sigh; I don’t know who I am. I am a girl, I am sixteen, but that’s not who I am, that’s just what I am. I glance up at the clock. Fifteen minutes till detentions over, and I have to have something written.

Am I me? The words fall over themselves, smudging on the page. The crisp sheet once filled with three subtle words, now spoiled.

I am not me. But then, who am I? I have to be someone. I looked around the room, at the silent figures hunched over their desks. A chewing could be heard from Erik, always having gum in his mouth. I found gum loathsome, food is there to be eaten, not suspended out to last as long as possible. As I watched, he took the gum from his mouth, wrapping it in his single sheet of paper.

I am not Erik.

In the far corner of the room, Maddy was applying her make-up. Layers and layers of it, glittered eyes and glossed lips. I found that the effort of make-up did nothing to hide my uneven complexion. Her sheet lay empty, no words imprinted to last. Powered flakes covered its once white side.

I am not Maddy.

A step away sat Hayley, head drooping over the desk. A quiet noise came from her, signalling her mind to already be whisked away into the journeys of sleep. I found my mind to afraid to be able to sleep when it was not allowed. A slight drop of drool slipped from her mouth, falling to expand on her crumpled page.

I am not Hayley.

Feet on the desk, Nathan lounged back, arms folded across his chest. He stared off into the near distance, shoes resting evenly on the table. The idea that someone’s feet had been placed on my table stopped me from ever wanting to do it to another. As he shuffled his feet, a slight encrust of dirt fell onto his blank sheet.

I am not Nathan.

Only one person remained in the room, sitting ever so quietly at their desk. That person, who had so examined the others sitting at their desks, found that each had left their mark, each had answered their question. Though it was with gum, powder, drool and dirt, it was all still who they were. And so what was it that the person had, that made them who they were? And as she looked at her page, covered with what she was not, she realised what she had. It was something that everyone had, that she just choose to use.

I am me.

Wonderful world

I now present to you the first two lines of a story I have written. It's not a long story, and if you want to read the rest you can find it at the link below:


The wonders of life are envisioned by those hoping to gain something. But for those who hope to gain nothing, they are the one who see the truths of life.





Wonderful world WritersCafe.org

Furby Attack

Have you ever seen a Furby on a plane?
Actually, let's start with a better question; do you know what a Furby is? Well if you don't, it's a toy that makes all these different noise (it sneezes, snores, says it name and many other things if I can recall). And the best part about them, they can communicate with other Furby's. It looks, like the one thing in the photo that you don't recognise.  And that is a Furby. I loved my Furby, looking back, wow they were annoying.
So, back to the first question; have you ever seen a Furby on a plane? Well I haven't, and I have been on a fair few planes. So some airline (I can't remember which) thinks it's necessary to include it in their safety card, admist radio, phones and what almost looks like a microwave. Maybe, when Furby's where more popular (I haven't seen one for years), it was more of a nuisance. Though Furby's really, were quite a nuisane; the only way to shut them up was take the batteries out (never, never get your child a Furby if you want sleep, and especially not two!).
Back to the plane; I can imagine after a serious crash the pilot pronouncing the cause. Let's set the scene. Hundreds of people watching, a serious but calm expression on the pilot's face. Cameras in every corner. They open their mouth to speak; "It was a Furby." Are these cuddly cute toys really dangerous. Well airlines say yes. I agree, they can easily annoy you till the cows come home.
So really, next time you're on a plane, don't forget tp put that Furby in your luggage and not your carry on. Or better yet, how about accidentally lose it in transit.

Those Coy Little Buggers

I'm sure we all know those birds, that hang round you whilst you're enjoying a nice picnic somewhere serene. Well, the best thing, in my opinion, is to throw a rock at them. Don't worry, they'll move you hit them, and maybe (if you're lucky) they won't come back. But these birds, they're actually quite smart.
People tend to want to feed birds that are injured (from personal experience- I know that I certainly feel sorry for those birds that seem injured). But some of these birds just seem to fake it (aren't they smart). They stand there, on one foot (or in some other guise) and make everyone feel sorry for them. Throw something at them, and out pops another foot, all fine as they walk away content.
So why is it that we feel sorry for these birds? And do we see the same with people? If you saw a person with one foot would you be hurriedly handing them your lunch (I know I wouldn't). But for some reason we feel sorry those these disadvantaged birds and spoil them with latherings of food.
But hey, maybe they deserve it for their smarts.

When you find it Tell me

So I'm writing what I would like to one day end up as a novel (there's a lot of things I'd like to happen that don't). And then I thought, well I'd love some feedback, so why not plug it here (even though right now, no one seems to be reading anything I say. You never know how things may change). So I'm going to put the first chapter up here (which will also tell you what the story's about), and if you so wish to read the rest (there's two more chapters up at this stage), then you can follow the link below. And now that I have had my ramble I will end with a please and sincere thank you.

I sat on the bus, shaking. Shaking with what? Happiness? Nerves? I knew not which. All I knew was that I had $43.70 in my pocket and a bus ticket to a new life. But was it a new life that I wanted? My old life, it was one to envy. I have two loving parents, a wonderful sister. We never fought. My house wasn't big, but it's perfect for us. I go to a good school, good friends who say I'm smart. My life is perfect. I'm wrong with what I said. I had two loving parents, a wonderful sister. We never fought. I had a house that wasn't big, it was perfect for us. I went to a good school, and had good friends who said I'm smart. My life was perfect. It's all still there, everything still in place. The only thing missing is me.
My parents will ask questions when they see the note on the table. They'll cry. The police will be called. But I don't want them to find me.
I want to leave it all behind. A want to start again. With $43.70 and a jumper. I don't plan on going back. My only plan to make a bench my home. It's not something that you talk with your parents about over dinner. I know that my parents will always welcome me back. But if I'm lucky, I won't be forced back.
So now I sit on the bus shaking. And I wonder, what others would wonder; why would you leave everything for nothing?

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2985979/1/When_You_Find_it_Tell_Me

Wish Amongst the Stars

Love story time...

I sat between the trees, heart still as I stared at the girl resting on the seat. A face so full of glory stared out with eyes deeper than the sky, lips so gentle like the lace that covered her. Silent wings lay folded on her back, ready to lift in the wind. A cool-drawn dress flitted silently down her body, layers of white falling over her legs. Sleeves covered arms so delicate that even dove's hid in jealousy, spreading beads down to her hands. I traced my eyes down the shining side, falling as it fell. My eyes paused their time as they came to rest on her hand, a single ring fitting over her finger. Compared to her beauty to ring stood out dull, though jewels covered it round. It had no magnificence, only the bleak lifeless look where emotion did not exist.
She moved suddenly, causing fear into me, making me shrink further into the shadows. I looked away, my mind thinking that if I didn't see her, she wouldn't see me. But I knew that my diverted gaze would not keep me from her eyes. Slowly I turned my head to once again gaze at her. Her movements before had only placed her bare feet on the mottled grass, her eyes still staring straight. I sighed, a deep long sigh that sounded of my fear and wonder. This girl so of grace, she sat without knowing of my desires, of my wishes. She knew not that I had spent every night praying amongst the stars for her to see me. That every wish I had found had been spent on her. I waited for the day when she would notice my yearning eyes, yet feared it more than death.
I could always feel him looking at me, his patient eyes straining to see through the night air. Sometimes, when I knew his eyes had been diverted, I would glance at him, pushing every moment of him to savour in my mind. And sometimes, when he continued to look another way, I would stare. Every time I would watch his smooth face, dappled skin running to eyes brighter than the sun. Silver plate grew around his body, shining to reflect the trees around him. It curved rigid around him, showing how beauty erupted underneath. He would rest so softly amongst the trees, as if he were a part of them. He moved suddenly, and those callous movements were as graceful as a dove's flight. And when he returned his gaze to me he would sigh. A beautiful sigh that came wistfully to my awaiting ears. When he sighed my heart would rise with his upturned voice, then fall as it disappeared with the wind. I would gaze to the stars, waiting for a wish to shoot across the sky. And when it did I would wish for him, the boy so filled with grace. I waited for the day when he would notice my glancing gaze upon his turned figure. And when it never came, I let another boy place a ring on my finger.
The boy sat silently in the shadows, staring at the face that was covered in perfections. On this last night of the girl's freedom she sat, staring into the stars, wishing beyond hope that her single wish would come true. A shooting star played across the sky, both eyes upturned to look as it made its way across the expanse above. But neither made a wish, for stars are but stars and do not hold anything but beauty. With a silent gaze the boy turned once again to the girl, and the girl had but time to turn away. Together they gazed at the one they had so wished for. The girl rose, her subtle dress breathing around her. The boy saw her move, but did not shrink to the shadows as he otherwise would. Silently they both paced their beautiful steps to the other, bare feet striking softly the ground. Neither noticed the ring slip silently off the girl's finger to lay hidden in the dirt. Nor did they notice the colours that sang as they walked. For the first time they saw each other as they truly were, the rags of the boy, the scars of the girl. But neither cared. For she was his angel, and him her knight in shining armour.

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2926319/1/Wish_Amongst_the_Stars

a pointless drabble directed at YOU

Below ye shall find a story. Well, not a story, more like a drabble. It is fictional, but does that make it a story?

I want to ask you a question. Why are you reading this? That's the wrong way to start. I was told it's never polite to start with a question, you have to let a person tell you about themselves before you start to pry. So, what's your life like? There I go again, asking another question. I can't even be bothered to stick around for the answer. Why did I even ask that question? Hey look, another question. But that one's for me, not you, so don't you dare answer that if you don't want to offend me. But I can answer it myself, as it was myself that asked the question. Two myself's except they're both the same person. They're both me. All me. Always me. Oh gosh, my mother always said I shouldn't talk too much about myself, I would bore anyone to death. So, what's your life like? I've already said that, haven't I? Don't answer that. Can you really be bothered to tell me anyway? And think, if someone don't wanna tell, and someone don't wanna hear, no one's gaining anything,are they? Unless it's a life or death situation, when there's a whole heap to gain. You're not dead are you? Sorry, that's just a question that I have to ask, I wouldn't want to be talking to a ghost now would I? Actually, I ain't really having a two-sided conversation am I? Hey, hey, hey; let me impress you with something. Hold your shirts on. Or is it meant to be hat? Or socks? Oh well, just get now will you, and stop listening to me. Here, I'll give a few mo's to get ready. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,9 ½, 9 ¾, 10. There you go, you should be ready now, whatever you're holding. Okay, here goes. I just need to get myself ready now. Three deep breaths. Or nine or ten. I'm ready now. You've had more than enough time, so you should be ready to. Okay here goes, again. The wind I am. Isn't that amazing? So poetic, so, so… inspirational. I've gotta look into the sky when I say that, just so it had effect. Look with me. That line, it says so much, don't it? And you can be honest with me. You have no need to tone down your amazement. I thought of it myself you know. I might be a poet one day. Famous for my one-liners. Or maybe I should just go into pick up lines; your hair looks amazing, but you know where it would look even more amazing? By a beige-green wall and a mahogany lamp. Just like my apartment. Hey, hey, isn't that a great pick-up line? I haven't tried it yet, but I will. Do you think it will work? You might as well use it, it better than some of that old crummy stuff. So I probably seem pretty impressive now don't I? Someone to look up to? A role model? Oh, I'm blushing now. Thank you so very much for the great honour that I know you will bestow me. How's the weather? I was told to always turn to the weather if I needed to make polite conversation. So, weather time. Bright and sunny with a hint of clouds. Do you think I could pass for one of those people that read the weather on T.V? I don't I could, I don't have the hair. Plus I couldn't pass off doing a nice jig in the middle of talking about the hurricane that raining sun. That would be my only problem though, I know heaps about the weather. I was told to always stop whilst I'm head. My mother said that would normally be after I've said one thing, and look at that, I've said quite a few! But it's always best to obey your dear old mother, so I'll stop now. I just want to ask you one more question. Why did you read this?

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2985074/1/a_pointless_drabble_directed_at_YOU

Coffee Mixed Perfume

Hey look, another story.

She came each day, bought the same magazine, with the same cup of coffee. He knew because he could smell it, mixed in with her perfume as she leant to take her change. She wouldn't even glance at him, instead at the headlines of the latest break-up. He would smile at her, which would then turn to a saddened gaze as he watched her pencil-skirt walk away. He could imagine her heels clicking long after she turned the corner. She always came at the same time. 7:43 exactly. And the one time she didn't, she didn't come at all.
He looked as far as his eyes could reach, yearning to smell that coffee mixed perfume. But as he closed the shutters of his little stall, he knew that she wasn't coming that day.
She appeared the next morning though, at 7:43. He smiled extra as he saw her approach. And it was that, which spurred him to speak to her.
"Didn't get your magazine yesterday, almost made me broke." He joked.
But she only raised her eyebrows to acknowledge him and walked away.
The next day, he gave her the wrong change, to see if she'd notice. But she didn't, and he was forced to call out to her. She only took it with another raised eyebrow.
He spent the day contemplating, trying to find a way for her to notice him. Yet he would always stare into the adjacent window, and eye the reflection bouncing back. A balding head, short stubby legs that matched the rest of him. The only thing he couldn't see was the eyes. The eyes that he was sure would captivate the woman's interest. If only she would look.
So each day he would try and hold her attention as he passed the changed to her hand. A few times he'd attempt to engage her. Commenting on the weather, asking how she was, pointing out the latest marriage. But she'd only just raise her eyebrows in acknowledgement, and walk away.
Then one day, she didn't appear in the morning. He began to doubt she ever would as the day wore on, but at lunchtime she appeared. Just like in the mornings, heels clicking, the cup of coffee the same.
"Can't miss out on the finest news?" He laughed a little as he said that.
She didn't raise her eyebrows though. "Why do you talk to me?" Her voice was covered in a harsh sweetness, one that she could not hide even in anger.
"I thought it might be nice."
"Well, it's not. All I want to do is come and buy my magazine. I don't like small talk." And she looked straight at him, right into his eyes. He knew her eyes were gazing at his, and he could nothing but gaze at hers. Then she broke the gaze and turned away, her heels clicking.
She didn't come the next morning, nor the day after. A week passed until she came again, heels clicking, coffee in hand. A different man stood at the counter. She asked where the other man was. Something about too many sleeping pills.
She came each day, bought the same magazine, with the same cup of coffee. He knew because he could smell it, mixed in with her perfume as she leant to take her change. She wouldn't even glance at him, instead at the headlines of the latest break-up. He would smile at her, which would then turn to a saddened gaze as he watched her pencil-skirt walk away. He could imagine her heels clicking long after she turned the corner. She always came at the same time. 7:43 exactly. And the one time she didn't, she didn't come at all.
He looked as far as his eyes could reach, yearning to smell that coffee mixed perfume. But as he closed the shutters of his little stall, he knew that she wasn't coming that day.
She appeared the next morning though, at 7:43. He smiled extra as he saw her approach. And it was that, which spurred him to speak to her.
"Didn't get your magazine yesterday, almost made me broke." He joked.
But she only raised her eyebrows to acknowledge him and walked away.
The next day, he gave her the wrong change, to see if she'd notice. But she didn't, and he was forced to call out to her. She only took it with another raised eyebrow.
He spent the day contemplating, trying to find a way for her to notice him. Yet he would always stare into the adjacent window, and eye the reflection bouncing back. A balding head, short stubby legs that matched the rest of him. The only thing he couldn't see was the eyes. The eyes that he was sure would captivate the woman's interest. If only she would look.
So each day he would try and hold her attention as he passed the changed to her hand. A few times he'd attempt to engage her. Commenting on the weather, asking how she was, pointing out the latest marriage. But she'd only just raise her eyebrows in acknowledgement, and walk away.
Then one day, she didn't appear in the morning. He began to doubt she ever would as the day wore on, but at lunchtime she appeared. Just like in the mornings, heels clicking, the cup of coffee the same.
"Can't miss out on the finest news?" He laughed a little as he said that.
She didn't raise her eyebrows though. "Why do you talk to me?" Her voice was covered in a harsh sweetness, one that she could not hide even in anger.
"I thought it might be nice."
"Well, it's not. All I want to do is come and buy my magazine. I don't like small talk." And she looked straight at him, right into his eyes. He knew her eyes were gazing at his, and he could nothing but gaze at hers. Then she broke the gaze and turned away, her heels clicking.
She didn't come the next morning, nor the day after. A week passed until she came again, heels clicking, coffee in hand. A different man stood at the counter. She asked where the other man was. Something about too many sleeping pills.

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2992175/1/Coffee_Mixed_Perfume