literature

Unfinished Pages

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Literature Text

"There’s something about the words you write."

I always knew I had a fairly talented hand at writing. Not that I was any kind of genius; I was skilled enough for all my teachers to always give me high grades and that was that. When you’re a kid, grades don’t mean you’re particularly gifted. Well, it sort of does... But mainly, it means the teacher thinks you learned properly. Because that’s the thing with a lot of teachers. Most of them don’t tell you when you’re good. They just give you a grade. Even when you never actually needed to learn the things they taught in the first place.

Talent wasn't alone inside me; I enjoyed writing. However, my friends couldn’t be bothered to read and my parents mostly looked at my report card. I’m not saying they were bad parents or anything. They were supportive in a whole bunch of ways. They just didn’t quite bother reading anything I wrote. On the few occasions they did, it was because the school printed it. Yet a parent saying “Oh, good job, I’ll read it later,” makes you think it doesn’t matter much what the "job" was like. The school decided it was "good" therefore it was, so parental opinion mattered little. End of story.

In my bitter, self-absorbed late teens, I stopped writing. I mean, I couldn’t have been that great to begin with if no one took notice. No harm done. Right? Wrong. After a few years, the words built a mountain inside of me so high that they had to burst out lest one day I explode where I stood. It hurt to keep them inside so I let the words flow from my fingers once more. Not that anyone around me really cared. "Oh, you’re writing again? That’s nice!" Yeah right. Whatever.

I didn’t attempt to dam the river this time around. Then again, I never finished much either. Nothing had changed, no one that mattered read anything of mine unless I made them, which wasn’t often. So when you showed up in front of me and sat down without saying a word in that packed Second Cup on the corner on Sainte-Catherine street and Guy, I was staring at yet another piece I was about to give up on. Again.

Pen in hand, I stared at you as you simply smiled. Grinned, as a matter of fact. Then you pulled out some textbook from your backpack, then a pen, then a highlighter, then an eraser which frankly didn’t make any sense to me. All the while, you smiled and smiled. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know who the hell you were.

Instead of opening your textbook, you asked what I was writing. You never waited for the answer because as I looked down to my pages, you pulled my notebook from beneath me. I think I squeaked something or other, embarrassing myself in the process. You started reading though, so I couldn’t bring myself to take my words away from your eyes.

It all went by so fast that in hindsight, I can’t tell if you actually read or just sort of skimmed over the page. But when you gave my book back, I realized that you had never stopped smiling. Your face just became… Softer.

"There’s something about the words you write."

I was still speechless when you looked at the time and swore before stuffing everything back into your bag to finally rush into the world the same way you had rushed into my life. And I couldn’t help staring at your empty seat. Especially after the way you touched my shoulder as you ran off.

"You write."
"There’s something."
"Something."
"Something about the words."
"About the words you write."
"Something about you."

It all got jumbled up inside my head, endlessly revolving around me. Me and my words. Mine. My writing, this stranger cared. It shouldn’t have mattered. It did to no end.

So as I looked down to my unfinished page, I lowered my pen to it. And wrote.
My submission for a short story contest.
© 2014 - 2024 laBaroque
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theoutcast15's avatar
Aren't you supposed to be relaxing in Paris? lol

I know, you can't stop an idea if it starts, no matter where you are.  That said, I like this a lot- for a second I thought it was non-fiction (except that wouldn't make sense as there is someone who reads everything you post/show- ME :p ), then I saw that it was for a short story contest. It's well done, title fits it perfectly, and it rings true to life (so maybe it is non-fiction). You, very much like the protagonist of this piece, have a talent and a way with words- been telling you that since you first sent me one of your works ;) - and it shows yet again in this piece.

Well done my friend, hope you win!