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Literature Text
it's eight oh eight, and you pick up the phone, dialing the numbers you have etched into the insides of your eyelids. you wait with baited breath as the phone rings. four jarring notes of nervous fear, and he picks up, with a mumbled [yet ohso clear] "hullo,"
you suck in your breath, silently, feeling your stomach go all funny. "hey, it's me," you say, then immediately hate yourself for it. it's not exactly the most beautiful way to start a conversation.
"oh, hi," he says, surprise and something else - nervousness? you smile somewhere deep inside... there's hope, maybe - lacing his voice. you can hear that voice in a crowd of babbling teenagers, always. there's something about it that stands out from the rest, and it always reaches your ears over the general hubbub of background noise.
"what's up?" he wants to know why you're calling - you don't do it often.
you remain silent for a while, flopping over onto your bed and gazing at the stars - the same ones that he sees? "i was thinking..." you say, but trail off. that's no way to say what you've been wanting to for the past year.
"uh-oh," you can hear the smile in his voice.
rolling your eyes, you s m i l e back into the phone, and say, "very funny. but really, i called so i can hear your voice again."
he chuckles, and you hear him lean back against that wonderfully creaky wooden chair of his. "what, this morning was too long ago?"
"well, i...i dunno. i miss you. it feels like we never talk anymore. you don't even tease me like you used to." you shut your mouth with vehemence towards yourself. there's no need to whine!
he's silent for a moment, and you think you hear something new in his voice when he says, "well, i've grown past that. but you're right. we don't talk enough. i miss hearing your voice too, and seeing that smile on your face when you realize that you've said something entirely different than what you meant, and the way your nose scrunches when i try to read some of that poetry you write all over yourself..." he trails off, and you think he said somethings he never meant to.
you're touched that he notices things like that, and you feel your face grow warm. "you're such a charmer," you say to him, but you know that he won't understand.
he chuckles again and tells you, "you know, i've always wished for an imagination like yours. in your world, it seems i'm a charmer. my imagination only shows the truth - you're living in my world, and you still play on that swingset across the street. i join you sometimes, but i never swing as high as you. and your hair [it's the nicest!] streams behind you like some beautiful flag." he laughs, a sound you've grown to love, and adds, "i think my imagination is part reality. you don't play on that swingset anymore, but you're still so happy and bubbly."
"i'm coming," you say suddenly, and you know that it's the right time - now or never.
"where?" he asks, and you know that he has been pacing his room, with his shoes on, working up the nerve to say something he doesn't quite have the courage to.
"your world," you say, and hang up. pulling on your own shoes, you run out to your car, but shake your head and change your mind. you run across the lawn and vault your neighbor's fence like you used to and keep running, even though you have that baleful rottweiler at your heels.
you runrunrun
across the streets separating you from that swingset across his street
across the space between your world and his
in all your runrunrunning, you know that your hair has flown loose from its ponytail and is becoming quickly knotted, and that leaves have made a home on your shoulders, but you know it doesn't matter.
you reach the park, and he's already there. you double up your speed, and suddenly you're in his arms, and he's smiling against your forehead.
"i love your world," you say, and you know it's enough - he understands.
you suck in your breath, silently, feeling your stomach go all funny. "hey, it's me," you say, then immediately hate yourself for it. it's not exactly the most beautiful way to start a conversation.
"oh, hi," he says, surprise and something else - nervousness? you smile somewhere deep inside... there's hope, maybe - lacing his voice. you can hear that voice in a crowd of babbling teenagers, always. there's something about it that stands out from the rest, and it always reaches your ears over the general hubbub of background noise.
"what's up?" he wants to know why you're calling - you don't do it often.
you remain silent for a while, flopping over onto your bed and gazing at the stars - the same ones that he sees? "i was thinking..." you say, but trail off. that's no way to say what you've been wanting to for the past year.
"uh-oh," you can hear the smile in his voice.
rolling your eyes, you s m i l e back into the phone, and say, "very funny. but really, i called so i can hear your voice again."
he chuckles, and you hear him lean back against that wonderfully creaky wooden chair of his. "what, this morning was too long ago?"
"well, i...i dunno. i miss you. it feels like we never talk anymore. you don't even tease me like you used to." you shut your mouth with vehemence towards yourself. there's no need to whine!
he's silent for a moment, and you think you hear something new in his voice when he says, "well, i've grown past that. but you're right. we don't talk enough. i miss hearing your voice too, and seeing that smile on your face when you realize that you've said something entirely different than what you meant, and the way your nose scrunches when i try to read some of that poetry you write all over yourself..." he trails off, and you think he said somethings he never meant to.
you're touched that he notices things like that, and you feel your face grow warm. "you're such a charmer," you say to him, but you know that he won't understand.
he chuckles again and tells you, "you know, i've always wished for an imagination like yours. in your world, it seems i'm a charmer. my imagination only shows the truth - you're living in my world, and you still play on that swingset across the street. i join you sometimes, but i never swing as high as you. and your hair [it's the nicest!] streams behind you like some beautiful flag." he laughs, a sound you've grown to love, and adds, "i think my imagination is part reality. you don't play on that swingset anymore, but you're still so happy and bubbly."
"i'm coming," you say suddenly, and you know that it's the right time - now or never.
"where?" he asks, and you know that he has been pacing his room, with his shoes on, working up the nerve to say something he doesn't quite have the courage to.
"your world," you say, and hang up. pulling on your own shoes, you run out to your car, but shake your head and change your mind. you run across the lawn and vault your neighbor's fence like you used to and keep running, even though you have that baleful rottweiler at your heels.
you runrunrun
across the streets separating you from that swingset across his street
across the space between your world and his
in all your runrunrunning, you know that your hair has flown loose from its ponytail and is becoming quickly knotted, and that leaves have made a home on your shoulders, but you know it doesn't matter.
you reach the park, and he's already there. you double up your speed, and suddenly you're in his arms, and he's smiling against your forehead.
"i love your world," you say, and you know it's enough - he understands.
cheers for the most random thing i've ever written!and cheers for prose!
do let me know what you think!
Comments33
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Overall
Vision Originality Technique ImpactI'd like to start by saying that I love this piece. It's almost as though you wrote poetry into prose. I enjoyed reading it immensely.
There were only a few things I noticed that could be improved upon.
In the first paragraph, between the oh and the so in the parentheses, there should be a space.
Try to remember that at the very beginning of anything in between quotation marks, there should be a capital letter, at least in prose. Poetry is more liberal, but this is a fairly steady rule in this style.
I wouldn't be so picky if you hadn't said yourself that it was prose. When I see prose, I think of strict guidelines, such as using the capital "I" instead of the lower case when it stands alone. In poetry, this can be used either way, however, in prose, it is often frowned upon.
As for the overall story, I really enjoyed it. It dragged me into the characters without me ever knowing their descriptions or names. The swingset being a constant theme really caught my eye in this case, making you think more about the signifigance of such a simple item in the case of this couple.
Really, overall, I did enjoy reading this, though I really would've been happier if I hadn't been distracted by the grammatical errors throughout it.
From my personal experience, this is more of a poetry piece than that of prose. I'm just saying. I really do hope this was helpful. I still loved the piece, though, keeping it as it is, I recommend placing it in the poetry section of Deviantart.