“If you join a crowd because you like crowds, you add to the crowd…If you raise your voice to be heard, you add to the noise that other people are raising their voices to be heard above…”—Thomas Schelling
I had to do them in high school and I thought that no professor would ever assign them. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And so, I looked at my syllabus to see which chapter it was this week and it said “six or seven”. What the hell, I thought. That has to be a typo. She wants us to do both. (Because I’ve had to write two in one go before.) So with the determination to do both, I went to download the chapters. There is no fucking way I’m doing both. The chapters are 23 and 27 pages respectively. And so, there goes the determination to do well. I think it lasted a whole thirty seconds.
Before: "Really? Where did I mess up?" He curiously leaned over my shoulder, way too fucking close. Please, no actual contact, not after this morning. I pray nervously, knowing after only forty-five minutes that Coen has no concept of personal space. I point to problem five; briefly squinting at his small handwriting before explaining exactly where in the problem he started screwing up at.
After: “Where’d I mess up?” Curious, he leaned over my shoulder, way too fucking close. Please not so soon after this morning. I thought nervously, knowing after most of the class period that the new kid- I need to figure out his name- had no concept of personal space. Pointing at problem five, I briefly squint at his small handwriting, explaining exactly where he started screwing up.”
Somewhat better. Though still not John Green level or anything. I will rewrite this story and make it better.
She was sitting, arm out against the sofa, head tilted. Back, head back. Her eyes were closed, lashes brushing her cheeks, their shadows further darkening the marks of sleep denied. Neck outstretched, spine slightly curved in an arc. Pretend to be elegant, but this was better. Lips apart, just barely, the proper amount for exhalation. Arms and hands slide downward, coming to a rest on either side of her body. And then she opens her eyes into the sun. Charcoal rings the rims of irises, jagged bursts of gold surround pupils, pushing outward. Amber, the darkest that can be found, lies in her eyes in the in-between. Overlaying amber, splintered bits of polished mahogany. Briefly, bit of warmth fall around like embers scattered. She closes her eyes again, they burn out. And now I’m cold. Blue black brows and lashes held in the color, lying atop washed out skin. Closer to overheated parchment paper now. And her hair, bits of fire fell into some strands, metallic. That was only the sun’s strike. As her eyes closed, as the sun took cover behind the clouds, the fire no longer holding heat, her hair gathered strands of silken spider-webs. As she turned back to me, the skin over her mouth cracked, her smile stopped halfway.