Young Writers Society

It’s one of those cold nights when all you smell is smoke, and you can’t recall what day of the month it is, cause in your mind, it’s just one of those days during winter break. The fireplace is crackling and muttering questionable things under its breath, while your grandparents are peering into books, your grandmother’s glasses perched on her nose, your grandfather’s plaid shirt unsightly. The misshapen tree is in the corner, with all of the decorations displayed awkwardly, annoying gaps splayed throughout. You just can’t help but realize the terrible smell as your father tries to cook and your mother irons the tablecloth for your morning meal. And then there you are, curled on the couch reading another book on wizardry, hoping to find proof, but, as you expect, there’s nothing quite as realistic as your heart desires. The words on the page speak of only dragons and trolls, no fact.

At some point, your wire rim glasses get uncomfortable and you realize how small your little, fleece, penguin pajamas are on you. Only after that do you remind yourself that you’re eighteen, and lying on the couch in your little, fleece, penguin pajamas and baring your wire rim glasses isn’t going to get you anywhere in life. “Juliette?” your grandmother begins, her hazel eyes widening. Your response reacts with a glance, and she begins. “165 million cups of tea are consumed a day in England. How ‘bout that?” You glare at her closely, just now realizing how white her hair has become. Your grandfather shuffles in his seat and looks at her.

“Tea is a disgusting liquid.” You roll your eyes, and trail off into the kitchen, scuffing your slippers on the ground. Your father looks up and smiles his comforting smile that makes you feel all fuzzy inside. He looks a lot like your grandfather, you realize, moving over to pour yourself hot chocolate. It’s watery, and bland; you immediately assume your father prepared this. Although the weather forecast is clear, the snow continues to fall, colonizing into mounds. The teasing pile of Almond Joys has caught your attention; how could you resist? Just as you reach, you shake your head.

A small man has overruled your mind, and he’s not a happy man. This man stands beside your brain, quite formally. He observes your thoughts, and when he sees something he doesn’t like, he cracks his whip upon you, treating your creative mind like an animal. You are a good person at heart, obeying most and doing what you can to lead yourself in the right way, but sometimes, you must admit, you can get a little sidetracked. You sit at the table, angry at your mind, and remember what you said just the other day.

“Open me up, and you’ll see an attic. Cobwebs in the corner, dust like fresh snow. I hold a home for stray dust bunnies and spiders, but I hold secrets quite well. A wizard huddles in the corner, trying out many spells, unsure of what to do. Sparks shoot everywhere, I worry if I’ll catch on fire.” This was one of your few successes in writing class. Never, are you ever, good at being unique with ideas.

Sitting in the library is one of your strengths. The corner is where you hide, in the sex education corner, because it’s considered a nuisance and a beauty; you decided that’s where you’d be placed if you were a book. Besides, no one ever dares to venture through that section, not counting the few young mothers and lonely teenagers. And those are the people that wouldn’t judge you, so you’re happy. The carpet’s soft and new, unworn for as far as you can tell, and the wall color is fresh and clear. Because the library’s lighting focuses in the center, a dim lamp was placed on a small side table, which, be honest, you claimed for yourself. Your face is hovering above yet another book that you hope beholds some myth about medieval or sorcery, but only the story of a wizard is told.

But now you’re at home with a cat on your lap and a dog at your feet and you’re wishing it were summer. That hot day when you don’t have a care in the world and nothing you do has to be timed or scheduled. You’re free, and your mind is allowed to do what makes you, you. But for now, you’ll stay a deflated soul that waits on her couch hoping to meet new people this way.

That day comes along, when you finally get up. That day when you decide to try being someone special is the day that you once feared. This time you rose high, you put on your makeup, your extra skinny jeans, your boots, and your sweater, and you set on the roads seeking my love. After what seemed like forever is when you come home, and you found yourself with less than you left with.

So you’re back on the couch in your little, fleece, penguin pajamas, wishing that the world would leave you alone. Your hair that you thought was too thin is puffed with volume, and it gets in your way and you pull at it, only to hurt yourself. However, the pain doesn’t bother you at all, and you’re quite used to it, after your three miserable years in high school. The television continues to display its boring news with the boring reporters with the most boring monotones ever.

And there you are again, back to your depressing thoughts and your position that attracts no one at all, but me. I’m lying in my bed, every moment, a thought of you. You’re the sticky toy that got stuck to the ceiling, and I’m staring up at you, wishing you’d fall back into my arms every moment of time. Leigh Ette, your name sounds in my mind like jingle bells. My lips twitch when I imagine your face, and I shake as I remember your words, “Greg, I love you,” as I wait for your soul to come back home. I pick up my phone, the casing cold and untouched, as I punch in your familiar numbers that my fingers caught patterns in. “Hello?” you whisper, and I cringe with excitement. But just as I open my mouth, you hang up. Did it take me that long, or take you too short? Your face is still my background; from the time you struck happiness. With your hair in a braid, your glasses worn proudly, and your smile that’s still my sunlight. If only that girl didn’t bother you as much, we could be so much happier.

Except there was that year that finally dawned, where you forgot about her. I saw you amongst the crowds of New York, smiling and happy with a man. He was a man with dark hair, dark skin, and green eyes, with an average walk, a joyous voice, and a smile. He was a man, just like me. Your eyes met mine and you let go of his hand, you stopped right there. Tears flowed down your face, and you took out your phone, frantically dialing numbers. You put the phone to your ear and broke out in a laugh, as my phone danced in my pocket. “Hello?” I said, unsure of this moment. Your voice poured out in a giggle.

“Come with me,” you cried, taking off in a run, your boyfriend left too stunned to budge. I ran after you nervously, but I’m not sure why, after all you’ve done these past few years. We’re back at your apartment where you hold me close and apologize for everything there was too. Your words are soft spoken and sincere, there’s nothing that soothed me more. But that moment when your lips fell against mine and I responded the same was the most magical time. We were happy at last and I thought it was settled; I looked too deep into the love we’d just made. You rose up off the bed and looked into my eyes, then shortly escaped the room. I sat in the sea of flannel and cotton where I guess my ship lay afloat. You left me in the doldrums as you soared high into the sky that night. I think of our story as I look past the clouds to where I might catch a glimpse of your wings. But for all you’ve done, I want to leave it at that; I just wish you had told me sooner.