cyndaquils: (Default)
one day I'm going to rewrite this. today is not that day.

(aka a story written for my ninth grade english class)

the story of a runaway girl and a bus ticket to Maine )
cyndaquils: (Default)
the message comes at half past six.

you are unaware of everything around you, from the sounds of crickets outside your bedroom window to the punk rock band your sister is playing in the room next door. your girlfriend is sitting next to you, and your best friend is sprawled across your bed. his history textbook is covering his face, his notebook thrown across the room.

"goddamn," your girlfriend says, "is it even possible for you to read two pages without throwing something?"

your best friend lifts the book off his head, blinking down at you. he struggles to pick himself up off the bed and grins.

"no," he says, "absolutely not."

she groans and you log into your laptop. you’ve given up about an hour ago, tucking your chemistry notes away neatly and leaving a stack of your other notebooks on the floor. terribly bored, you open your email.

the screen reads, one new message and you hesitate clicking because you’ve never seen the address before, but what’s there to lose? you click, and what you find in the message keeps your eyes locked on the screen, the black numbers dancing in front of your eyes.

"what’cha doing there buddy?" your best friend says, swinging himself off your bed. "hey, natalie, what’s she doing?"

she looks over your shoulder, resting her head there.

"it’s an email," she tells him. "hey, what’s it say?"

you pull your eyes off the screen and move over, and they peer over it to look. you watch as your best friend crinkles his nose, reading the subject out loud.

"goodbye," he reads.

the countdown ends.

October 2013

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oh, glory days
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