Adored By

; she wishes to be someone else. he has numbers on his hand. she lost her rose. he has nowhere to paint. all of them has nowhere to go.

I was sixteen and she was pretty.

      Luckily enough, I was early to the cozy bookstore and she was already there, sitting on a beige couch. Her butterscotch hair was flowing gently to her graceful shoulders.

      She was reading people as they read books, glancing at their faces like each one was a new chapter. Her green eyes spot me and she says my name, Allie. Even something as simple and mediocre as my name seems so special coming from her.

      Everything she did looked like a painting of poetry.

      I gave her a smile that would never match her glistening one. One would either be intimidated or in love with how beautiful she is. I settled with being in awe.

      Realizing I was staring, how rude of me, I quickly stuttered out a question. I think I asked her if she was reading anything.

      She told me she only read books with plain covers, saying that she felt like the covers already gave away too much. What point is reading a thick book if you already know the feeling it gives you?

      I almost argued that she was wrong. She already looked like an adventure waiting to happen. I imagined being with her would be taking part of that adventure.

      But then he walks in and my heart picks up its pace.

      And then it breaks when I see his gaze soften as it lands on her.

      I've known him for almost all my life and I've never seen him look at anyone like that. It's how I imagined he'd someday look at me. But looking at her, I don't blame him. She's absolutely so...real. She makes you feel so many things just by looking at her.

      He sat next to me and I'm trapped inside the box of seeing how close his hand is to mine and seeing how much it wanted to reach for hers.

     We all chatted a little but my words fell flat against her casual effortless poetry. More of our friends came and we got kicked out of the bookstore because it was inevitable that we'd get too loud.

      I tried suggesting going to a coffee shop. They said they'd kick us out for being too loud again.

      You don't understand, I thought, You don't need to make a sound while staring at the girl of your dreams. I honestly don't know if I was thinking for him or for me. 

      Someone suggested that if we began driving to the beach, we'd get there by sunset. Most agreed and saw how much sense this made, even if it didn't. Nothing ever made sense to us.

      We managed to fit our asses into an old Buick and he sat next me. It was a natural instinct. I asked him why, pointing out that she was sitting up front. If I was him I would have sat beside her. He told me that it was no big deal to him, he was worried about me. You look a little pale, Al. Just a little bit like s**t, he said.

      The laugh I forced out sounded like plastic daisies. I told him he was just going crazy from all the staring at her. I was fine, you big buffoon. I just needed a little lipstick.

      He gives me a little hug and I fall asleep. At least, in my dreams I can be as stupid and hopeful as if I was as pretty as the girl with the butterscotch hair.

Or the boy she has eyes for. 

©2016 W.Greene, All Rights Reserved

Author's Note

Every writer knows the struggle.

There are too many things to write about but your hands aren't fast enough and your brain easily comes up with a new idea, lighting quick. Your whole body is a confusing paradoxical thing. Mine was, and is, no exception.

This isn't the first book that I wanted to put out to the world. But I can never find myself struggling to finish what I've started writing, I only end up writing a completely new chapter, a completely new book. I couldn't stay completely idle either (there's this thing that stops me from being completely stupidly still—it's called a brain.)

The whole process burned me out.

Someone suggested I try this app that gave out creative suggestions, it was to fuel the artist. "Draw something beautiful from something tragic," it challenged me. I didn't get to screenshot it but my mind already did that for me.

One day I scrolling through youtube, I found a song so fucking beautiful that I hated how it broke my heart—it was a perfect fit. That's how I started writing these stories.

Each one is inspired by a song I would hear,

Every story takes me days to write because I wanted to make people feel what these songs make me feel. Creating a story is easy, making people interested is fairly easy too, but putting out stories that would make them feel exactly how you need to? That's the thing I struggled with, and god damn it, I did struggle. I hated writing without passion, and writing a whole book can really make you forget the whole emotion you're supposed to put out. A feeling is strong, it punches quick but it's the aftermath that breaks you—just like a short story.

So here they are, love.

Enjoy my writer's struggles and my human's emotions. I hope you feel the songs in these chapters.


W. Greene