allons-y, alli!

       After my last class, I dart out through the back corridor, my sneakers squeaking on the waxed floors. Nothing is going to keep me from getting out. I push the doors open and a breeze rushes into the stuffy school.The sunlight overwhelms my eyes momentarily, preventing me from skipping down the stairs. Shaking the daylight out, I make my way out to the sidewalk. My walk home is uneventful. I found a broken speckled bird’s egg, wondering whether the little chick survived or not. A tattered red Coca-Cola can crossed my path, so I kicked it about a block before it bored me. When I was less than two minutes from my house, I heard a jogger’s footsteps behind me. Thump-thump-thump-thump. SMACK. I stumble forward, bag falling off my shoulder. Obnoxiously bright pink sports bra and matching shorts girl runs straight into me and doesn’t say a word. It doesn’t even phase me anymore.

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(Source: allonsyalli)

An exercise in scripting. A short interaction between Roger Morgan, CEO of Desperado Publishing, and prospective employee, Jack Finkle. 

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(Source: allonsyalli)

        Spotting my best friends walking together, I start running awkwardly, holding my bag in one hand so it doesn’t slam into my hip repeatedly. I nearly plow into them as I come to a screeching halt. I can smell the rubber of my Chucks burned into the concrete. I have never been graceful. “Top o’ the marnin’ to ye, ol’ chaps!” They continue their deep conversation, not even stopping to nod at me. I can’t make out what they’re saying, hushed voices bouncing back and forth between them. It’s certain that they’re talking, but none of the words are coherent. I should have gotten my ears checked like my mother told me to. “Come on, guys! I’m not in the mood, ok?” Silence falls between them, but they continue walking, looking at their shoes as they near the school parking lot. I huff loudly, attempting to make my aggravation known. Neither of them flinch. 

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(Source: allonsyalli)

Nothing is ever different around here. This moderately sized suburban nightmare will suffocate me before I reach the ripe ol’ age of twenty. Every moderate house looks as ordinary as the one next to it. Taupe walls. Latte roof tiles. Eggshell doors. The real crazy neighbors have burgundy doors. Those people who are deep into their spirituality and think that feng shui actually means something. We have all encountered one of those people, if not more. They think they’re different. They’re not, just placed in another category with handfuls of similar people.

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(Source: allonsyalli)

My home city is bleak and grey. The cement labyrinth that surrounds me makes me feel like a test mouse looking for its cheese. I walk to work in a brown pin-striped suit, light blue button-down shirt, and a red tie. My dark hair is neatly and thoughtfully arranged into a mess, with the help of what my wife likes to call “product.” A brown leather briefcase hangs heavily in my left hand, laptop weighing it down. The air feels chilly as it brushes over my freshly shaved face. Scruff of the weekend long gone for the beginning of the work week. Most people hate Mondays. I am not one of those people. Productivity is my strong suit, I thrive on hectic deadlines and pressure. 

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(Source: allonsyalli)

The first time.

I need to hear his voice.

I clutch the phone tightly to my ear.

The dark is suffocating me.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The sound echos in my head.

Answer the phone, please.

The desperation in my head is pitiful.

Unsteady breathing makes my body shake.

It rings some more.

Voicemail.

I switch off the call and clasp the cell to my chest.

My head is drowning in incoherency. 

Every thought a jumbled fragmented sentence.

The seconds feel stretched.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Thank the sweet lord. 

Hello? he asks.

I beg him to sing for me. 

The sound of his voice lingers over the line.

It eases every muscle in my body.

Tears dry and eyes close. 

The last time. 

(Source: allonsyalli)