Eddie G.
04-08-2005, 10:29 PM
A little preface to this, I actually did write this almost right after the actual event that inspires the story happened. Everything in the story occurs as it happened with the exception the ending which was something I came up with when I was mentallty composing. Honestly this isn't the best short story in the world but I'm kind of messing around with some different styles and narrative and I'm interested in any comments on this. Once again it's just a short story I wrote in 1/2 hour one afternoon that's more experimental than anything, but I would like to have some opinions on it for my own needs.
We walked slowly through the halls in the crowded state of the third floor hallway of the high school I attend. God she’s cute, perky orbs covered pink, tickled by threads of gold. I wanted to ask her out, I wanted to propose to her, I wanted to make love to her. Why didn’t I?
As we walked down the hall she started talking about a class assignment, why were we talking about a class assignment? I’m talking to her about her assignment, our assignment, we’re in the same class. Why the hell am I talking to her about the assignment?
Because I’m her friend, but I don’t want to be her friend, I want to be the boyfriend, does that make me a bad friend?
We continued to walk down the hallway, talking about the assignment. I make some jokes, need to make some jokes. I’m a funny guy. Girls like funny guys, right?
We continued to walk down the hallways as I continued to make a few jokes (need to make jokes), then he comes. One of her friends, a guy, thankfully I’m pretty sure he’s gay.
He’s boring and indifferent towards to me, I think he may not like me. Why the **** doesn’t he like me? What’s his problem? Why did he have to come around? Now, I can’t even make my move. Wait, was I going to make my move?
She introduces me to him even though we’ve actually met, she introduces me as her “good friend”? Is that innuendo? Does she like me too? Is she perusing me?
I recall that she’s always the one who approaches me, never the other way around. Does she like me as much as I like her? Wait, if I want to go out with her shouldn’t I be working under the presumption of default that she likes me?
We approach the girl’s locker room and she slips in. I’m left alone. I didn’t ask her out. ****.
Later that day I…
****.
You know what? I’m sitting here writing this story. I’m reading over this emotastic level of love and disparity, and frankly I don’t give a ****. I don’t give a **** about my own life.
I’m sitting in my parents’ house because I’m still only seventeen years old. I’m sitting here listening to Less than Jake and the Ave. Q soundtrack while writing this sorry excuse for a short story. I’m writing a short story about a girl I like.
There is no love triangle, no lesson in morality, no conflict between good and evil. I’m writing a short story about a dear friend of mine who I’ve developed a small crush on, and there might be a small possibility that she has a crush on me. That’s it, the end.
So, I apologize that this short story didn’t add up to much. I realize that lingering on things like this is useless. So tomorrow I’ll return to writing fiction and tomorrow I’ll ask her out.
Maybe Friday.
Maybe next week.
Okay, tomorrow.
Eventually I’ll ask her out.
Promise.
We walked slowly through the halls in the crowded state of the third floor hallway of the high school I attend. God she’s cute, perky orbs covered pink, tickled by threads of gold. I wanted to ask her out, I wanted to propose to her, I wanted to make love to her. Why didn’t I?
As we walked down the hall she started talking about a class assignment, why were we talking about a class assignment? I’m talking to her about her assignment, our assignment, we’re in the same class. Why the hell am I talking to her about the assignment?
Because I’m her friend, but I don’t want to be her friend, I want to be the boyfriend, does that make me a bad friend?
We continued to walk down the hallway, talking about the assignment. I make some jokes, need to make some jokes. I’m a funny guy. Girls like funny guys, right?
We continued to walk down the hallways as I continued to make a few jokes (need to make jokes), then he comes. One of her friends, a guy, thankfully I’m pretty sure he’s gay.
He’s boring and indifferent towards to me, I think he may not like me. Why the **** doesn’t he like me? What’s his problem? Why did he have to come around? Now, I can’t even make my move. Wait, was I going to make my move?
She introduces me to him even though we’ve actually met, she introduces me as her “good friend”? Is that innuendo? Does she like me too? Is she perusing me?
I recall that she’s always the one who approaches me, never the other way around. Does she like me as much as I like her? Wait, if I want to go out with her shouldn’t I be working under the presumption of default that she likes me?
We approach the girl’s locker room and she slips in. I’m left alone. I didn’t ask her out. ****.
Later that day I…
****.
You know what? I’m sitting here writing this story. I’m reading over this emotastic level of love and disparity, and frankly I don’t give a ****. I don’t give a **** about my own life.
I’m sitting in my parents’ house because I’m still only seventeen years old. I’m sitting here listening to Less than Jake and the Ave. Q soundtrack while writing this sorry excuse for a short story. I’m writing a short story about a girl I like.
There is no love triangle, no lesson in morality, no conflict between good and evil. I’m writing a short story about a dear friend of mine who I’ve developed a small crush on, and there might be a small possibility that she has a crush on me. That’s it, the end.
So, I apologize that this short story didn’t add up to much. I realize that lingering on things like this is useless. So tomorrow I’ll return to writing fiction and tomorrow I’ll ask her out.
Maybe Friday.
Maybe next week.
Okay, tomorrow.
Eventually I’ll ask her out.
Promise.