The Same Coin

Tap tap tap tap tap

Oh God. Creepy guy alert.
Ugh. You can see him checking me out.

I wish he would stop clicking his pen
Maybe if I say something…

“Please keep it down,” I say.

I briskly make my exit.

I’ll avoid that seat in the future,
obviously.

Tap de da tap tap de da

Sweet. Hot girl at 3 o’clock.
She is totally sneaking glances.

She’s got a booger on her nose
A gentleman would say something…

“Oh my god. Shut up!” she yelled.

She storms off.

Maybe I’ll see her tomorrow.
Ah, the exuberance of youth.

Nothing happened today.

Let me tell you all about it.

I had a flashback just now of a play I imagined in my tiny, tiny head during 7^th grade. Titled “I Desperately Need an Omelette,” my masterpiece featured a boy with a sudden urge for that fluffy blanket of eggs. However, to his eventual and comedic dismay, everyone he meets knows nothing about the concept of an omelette. Eggs exist, frying pans exist, PAM cooking spray exists, but no omelette. No omelette! In his desperation he gathers the ingredients himself…and makes an omelette.

This was the extent of my creativity. Frankly, I’m jealous.

Also, I'm surprised that I'm still gaining followers (a few) despite being inactive for months. School's out, so I might as well write a few things to thank the new members. Look forward to it, perhaps.

Butter?

Her silence dimmed the atmosphere, the colors around her were as muted as her voice. Her calm demeanor made his anything but. Her cool stare was directed not at him, but the opposite wall. He needed to know why.

“Hey, why are you so quiet? Is this some sort of punishment? Is it my fault? Oh, ho ho, it’s always my fault, isn’t it?

Her eyes twitched at this, a sign of weakness. He raised his voice.

“Tell me. Tell me! Why must I endure this treatment?”

“Shut up! Watch the movie you antelope’s ass!” She drenched him with popcorn.

You have to admit, it's cheaper than therapy

He had me pinned to the wall by the collar of my shirt. My left hand inched its way discreetly toward my pants pocket, and I pulled out the one thing that could save me. My lunch money.

It was only two dollars, I was used to it. The faster he left me, the better.

“What’s wrong? You seem out of it today.”

“I’m… being bullied.” I decided to be honest. He slackened his grip on my shirt. I gasped for air.

“Family troubles? Don’t worry, you can talk to me anytime.”

And he walked away with my lunch money.

Short Story #2

Every Friday, or on days when Dad went on fishing trips, Mom would pick me up from school during her break, and bring me to the Anchorage public library, where she worked at the checkout counters. I would always look forward to these visits to the library, because I was different. I had a superpower, one that only revealed itself within those heavily air conditioned walls. Only it’s gone now, and I know exactly who to blame.

Burnt

Something I wrote for my creative writing class. It's nothing special, just a first attempt at writing anything of decent length. I'm halfway through my next piece, so I'll post that as well once I'm done, yep yep.

When I was around 10 years old, a group of men in funny clothing kidnapped me and bluntly informed me that I had invented the pop up toaster. Or, more specifically, that I hadn’t invented the toaster yet, but due to anomalies in the space-time continuum, they had deemed it necessary to place me in a more desirable temporal plane. If this is confusing at all to anyone, then please sympathize with my feelings at the time, a poor boy without a clue as to what a toaster was. Being kidnapped, yeah, whatever, that too.

BenchWarMer

The man clung to the left armrest of a bench that comfortably seated two, or uncomfortably seated three. Currently, however, four torsos were waging war against the others in a struggle for neither wealth nor power nor a combination of the two, but for the excellent relaxation only a bench can provide. The man had arrived first, and refused to abdicate. The woman had just broken up with him, and could not leave in shame. The old woman’s back had gone out, and the young boy was merely bored.

A passerby, amused, watched this scene from the opposite bench, alone.

I'm back! Sort of. I'm taking a creative writing course this quarter, so I felt I should try and get back into the writing swing of things. As you can tell, I'm a bit rusty. 100 words are as cramped as a bench with four people on it.