Story postponed til tomorrow

I'm going home for xmas in an hour and a half and it would stress me out too much to do a story today, so I'll do it tomorrow instead. :)

Then after tomorrow, there won't be another one for a week because I'll be seeing a friend for a week.

x

#73 - Forever Young

Today’s words: Gesture, Duchess, Eloquence, Vestigial

Word count: 435

Completion time: 42 minutes

Summary: People need to stop promoting the idea that looking older is bad...because why? 

--

Sam was a beauty. I don’t mean in the conventional sense...they just exuded this air of elegance and striking attractiveness that was difficult to explain; small things like the way the eyelids framed the eyes, the shape of their lips when they smiled, the smooth voice that Sam always complained was an octave out of place (with a vestigial hint of Irish), but fit them like Cinderella’s glass slipper. More than that, Sam’s demeanour, not to mention eloquence, was comparable to that of a duchess – polite, charming, and pleasant to be around; not to mention that Sam’s hair was usually curled in shoulder-length ringlets after a quick brush.

This was the sort of person who, upon waking, looked like they had spent a couple of hours getting ready. Sam could redefine the artificial ‘just got out of bed’ look and make it literal, something that only movie stars could get away with, but not them. There was no secret to it, Sam just had a face that looked good, no matter how ‘bad’ it was supposed to look.

Whilst you may think this a biased account, it’s not only me who holds this opinion. Often, Sam would be asked for beauty tips and bombarded with questions along the lines of, “How do you get your face to look so young, so fresh?” when in reality, Sam detested adverts that encouraged ‘anti-aging’.

“Why are people so scared of getting – not even that – looking older?” Sam asked out loud one day as we sat in front of the TV, one hand made to gesture towards their face. “There are people in their twenties fretting over wrinkles, getting Botox, praising their peers for looking so much younger than them, getting offended if they get asked for identification in bars...I don’t understand it, and it’s usually the women. People need to stop telling women that looking older is bad or unattractive.”

I piped up then. “When I was younger, we were under the impression that men always aged gracefully, getting handsome when they were in their 40s, 50s, maybe even 60s...but women reached their ‘expiry date’ after 40. We were just teenagers then, but as we were all very impressionable girls, we believed every word.”

Sam put one leg up on the sofa and faced me. “’Expiry date’,” Sam repeated, followed by a look of disgust. “Humans aren’t bits of food. I heard something similar, though...which, I’m ashamed to say, made me a little smug. Like, ‘Whoa, I’m still gonna be handsome even when I’m nearing retirement? Nice!’”

“You’re so lucky,” I teased.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

#72 - Finite Life

Today’s words: Passion, Abibliophobia, Monochrome, Independence

Word count: 717

Completion time:  52 minutes

Summary: Ever get worried about running out of things to experience, people to meet.......books to read?

Note: I have zero idea how abibliophobia feels, I just took a few ingredients from real-life experience, specifically why I - sometimes - don't like starting/finishing books because I know that they'll eventually end

Stockholm Public Library

 There was always a thick book resting on the top of her desk of drawers, right by the head of her bed. The bookmark was usually in the same position, the monochrome nondescript cover was sporting a film of dust, and next to it, a pile of other various-sized books were piled about a foot high, being held up by the wall. Not to mention the bookcase by the large window that already had six shelves filled with an array of books; some had even made their home on the floor in front of the bottom shelf.

I’d joke that her room was like a library, but she always disagreed. “Have you seen how many books are in some libraries?” she asked. I thought this question was rhetoric, so I only shrugged and continued to admire her collection. “I counted to three-thousand once before I gave up. The British Library Wikipedia page says they have thirteen million, nine-hundred and fifty thousand books.”

The number ‘13,950,000’ appeared in my head. I didn’t think that it was possible to have that many of anything.

“But that didn’t satisfy me,” she declared, shuffling onto her bed so that her back was against the wall. “There are a finite number of books in the biggest library in London, and there are a finite number of books in the biggest library in the world – the Library of Congress with over thirty million books.” She looked at me, eyes filled with so much passion that they began to tear up. “There is no library anywhere that has an infinite number of books, so at some point...the books are going to run out.”

She has what I recently found out is called Abibliophobia – the fear of running out of things to read; that’s why she finds it hard to finish books, and why she constantly needs a pile of books next to the one she’s in the middle of to assure her that there will always be something to replace the finished book.

“But,” I countered, “there will always be people publishing books, so there’s no possible way that you’re going to finish all of the books.”

She squinted her eyes, trying to ponder this.

“And imagine that you managed to finish all thirteen million books in The British Library...”

Her squint turned from curiosity to worry.

“When you’re done, there will probably be thirteen million more new books to read, and when you finish them, there will be millions more to read, and so on and so on forever!”

“Nothing lasts forever,” she resigned, lightly hitting the back of her head on the wall.

“And neither will you...someday you’re going to die, and while that can be difficult to think about, that means that even though there are a set number of books, there’s no way you’re going to read them all...even if publishers stop publishing and writers stop writing.”

She contorted her face into a ball of frustration. “It’s easy to say that from where you’re standing, and I know it’s stupid to think, but I do worry that I’m going to run out because all I see are the books in this room...and even when I go to big libraries, I’m under the impression that I could finish them all so fast that I’ll have to wait for publishers to publish and writers to write...and then what?”

I joined her on the bed and cupped her face in my hands. “You can do anything you want, that’s what’s so beautiful about independence.” Removing my hands from her face, I held her hands instead. “You can literally do anything – travel the world, drop out of school, quit your job, go vegan, cause a scene in public just for fun. You feel restricted, I understand that,” I squeezed her hands, “but try to think past it...realise that even if you do – I mean it’s a bagillion to one that you will – but if you do run out of books to read...at least you’ll have other things to occupy your time.”

Her eyelids lowered further before she looked at me and turned up one corner of her mouth. “Do you think that you could say all of that again, in that order, when I’m feeling down?”

I laughed and stroked her hair. “That’s impossible.”

#71 - Believe

Today's words: Starlight, Jellyfish, Bioluminescence, Agoraphobia

Word count: 434

Completion time: 38 minutes

Summary: Sometimes it’s comforting to keep on believing, even when the odds are stacked against you

Uhhhh, 'Believe' by Yellowcard just came on shuffle, what

The first time I made her laugh really hard was when I told her that I could see our future in the stars. “That’s impossible,” she said, “they’re just random stars.” No, I said, if they were just random stars, we wouldn’t have constellations or star signs (the fact that I don’t believe in star signs was irrelevant, I was trying to be romantic). And plus, I added, how would she know what I can and can’t see? I could swear blind that I saw a talking turquoise dinosaur next to me and no-one would be able to prove me wrong because my vision is my own.

The last time I made her cry was when I said, agoraphobia aside, that I would put oven gloves on and rearrange the stars in space to spell out her name. Okay, she didn’t cry, she cringed a bit and punched me in the arm whilst trying to hold back snorts, informing me that it was also impossible. I didn’t care.

I want to make the impossible possible.

When they told me that I couldn’t like boys and girls as a kid, instead of wondering why, I stung like a jellyfish and told them to go fuck themselves. I don’t know how I got those words together, but a suspension for a few days told me that it must have been a bad combination.

You see, whenever anyone gets in my way, instead of conforming, I fight back. I can eat dessert before dinner if I want, I can wear anything I like from Topman and rock it just like the men, I can rearrange space for the girl I kinda like, just give me the space suit, the rocket, and the gloves.

But one day there’ll be no starlight to reflect off her eyes, and just like the bioluminescence of a firefly, they’ll lose their light and die. Most of me wants to protest, wants to claim that no, they can burn until the end of time if it’s their will. When I’m up there in my space suit and I spot a dying star, I’ll give it CPR and make it live for another ten thousand years, you’ll see.

She says that I’m living in a fantasy, that one day I’ll be really disappointed and I know that, but just like a child willing for Father Christmas to be real (even though they recognise their dad’s face under the beard), I’ll keep on believing that I can do anything for as long as I can.

If nothing can last forever, at least give me that.

Tomorrow's story is postponed until Monday - uni work calls and tomorrow is the last day I have to do it!

#70 - Toenail

Today’s word: Toenail, Sausage, Bandana, Octopus

Word count: 619

Completion time: 34 minutes

Summary: There is none...I don’t know how this story happened. I blame ‘toenail’.

--

There it was, a lone toenail on the otherwise pristine red carpet. White, curved like a crescent moon, and slightly jagged where it had been ripped off. It seemed like Layton was the only one who had noticed that something was amiss because Oliver was still reading American Psycho, one leg brought up to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him as he leant against the armchair. Occasionally, his face would contort or he’d mutter a hushed ‘gross’ between laughter before turning more pages.

Oliver had long red hair that fell over his shoulders like the tentacles of an octopus, something that Layton had never failed to notice. He wondered how hair could sit like that naturally. He envied it a little.

Layton had been looking at the toenail for a good two minutes before he looked up at his best friend and said, “Do you mind?”

Oliver smiled, but Layton was sure that it was at the book, not at anything beyond the world of fiction. He blinked a few times before returning Layton’s gaze. “Sorry, did you...” his face was still recovering from some silent laughter as he closed the book, propping it open with his thumb, “...say something?”

“I said, ‘Would you mind not leaving your scummy toenails scattered around the place?’” he directed his eyes at the nail and back at him. “I know we need to decorate but...” He tried to conceal a titter by turning away, but he couldn’t stop his shoulders from shaking.

“I’m wearing socks...”

Layton turned back, putting on a serious expression. “And I’m wearing a t-shirt, that doesn’t mean I don’t have chest hair.”

“You don’t have chest hair,” he opened the book again, “and that is not my toenail.”

He gasped in mock offense. “I’ll have you know that I got my first hair when I was nine – had girls all over me.”

“You’re a dick sausage.”

Layton laughed hard, pushing his white and black bandana further into his head, exposing an unnaturally even hairline. “That’s not a thing.”

Oliver smiled with one corner of his mouth and tilted his head. “It could be. Like...a sausage in the shape of a dick?”

“How is that worse than being called a dick?”

He closed the book more definitely. “Because not only are you a dick, you’re a dick made from dead pig guts. And that’s grim.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

He put his hands up as if surrendering. “What can I say?”

“You could say, ‘Sorry for leaving my manky toenail in the middle of the living room floor, Layton.’”

Oliver made a face as if to ponder the situation before kneeling on both knees picking up the offending toenail, turning it over between his fingers. “You know...” he made a move towards one of Layton’s feet, pressing the nail against Layton’s big toe as if it were a puzzle piece, “...if the nail fits...” he stopped, squinting his eyes and pouting his lips in thought.

“Can’t think of a rhyme?”

“No,” he looked up at Layton, red curls framing his face like a beautiful picture frame. “This happens every time...”

“Quite an interesting position you’re in right now.”

He looked at the toenail he was still holding and dropped it, wiping his fingers on Layton’s jeans. Instead of pushing him away, Layton only looked down at him and smiled.

“Before the guys get back home, do you wanna...?” Layton hinted, flicking his eyes towards the stairs.

Oliver stood up, pulling Layton up when he was on his feet. “You’re still a dick sausage.”

Layton’s eyes rolled and he squeezed Oliver’s hand, walking towards the stairs. “Yeah, whatever you want.”

#69 - Girls Girls Girls

Today’s words: Copy, Riband, Distribute, Establish

Word count: 490

Completion time: 23 minutes

Summary: Sometimes the things you want to say can’t come out

--

At school, I always copy the other girls. I listen to music in the charts, gossip about celebrities I don’t know, and tell them all about some guy I liked.

That was the hard bit.

It was difficult to establish exactly what made the guy so special, why I chose him over the others. Was it the way he styled his hair? His smile? How friendly he was? Just exactly what was it about him that I was supposed to highlight? The other girls would go on about how ‘cute’ certain boys were, or how they were so ‘hot’ and which ones they wanted to kiss, but I found it hard to make that up without sounding like a bad actress in an equally rubbish film. That’s exactly it...it sounded like a performance.

Each girl would get her turn in the spotlight to drool over some guy and everyone would have to sit and listen, occasionally squealing or prodding for further information, a little like an animal at a zoo that they want to hear growl again. I didn’t have to do it, but if I didn’t, I was scared that they’d find out.

“Yeah, he’s nice, I really like him.”

I thought I could leave it at that, but apparently I had to expand, I had to distribute words for them like playing cards that they could hold between their fingers and analyse, or scrutinise.

“Why do you like him?? I heard he eats his own eye gunk.”

Well what made their guys so special? They were either dirty, vulgar, mean, unsympathetic, ugly, or all five at the same time. And the ones that weren’t felt like siblings, people I’d never want to go out with for fear of feeling morally unsound.

Then, of course, there was the question of why I didn’t make any moves on them, or why I never talked about them much afterwards. I said that I didn’t like them as much anymore, so they’d ask if I liked anyone else. Foolishly I said yes, but hastened to add that they didn’t know him, that he went to another school.

“What’s he like? Go on, tell us!”

He’s...he’s, beautiful, I suppose. He has long flowing hair and the way he smells always makes me hungry. He always wears a blue riband on his backpack from when he got second place in a cooking contest a few years ago. Sometimes, when we’re just sitting around, I’ll steal several glances at him and wonder how on earth anyone could look so good, so perfect. Oh and his laugh...it didn’t sound like a regular laugh, it sounded like the titter of a shy choir before a big performance at the Albert Hall, real sweet, you know?

“Wow, he sounds amazing!”

Well yeah, he is amazing. He’s better than that, he’s...incredible.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell them that he didn’t exist, but she did.