the story began
Prompt: Ball, Slippers, Jeans and a can drink wahhhhhhh this turned out so weird i cannot omg
The story began from a lavender wall. His lavender wall.
The familiar sound of a ball bouncing against the dusty surface of the corridor floor was the soundtrack of his days with the accompaniment of his light yet slightly slurred footsteps. He would walk with his usual zest, as his toned legs remained concealed by the loose denim of his jeans despite the heat. Perhaps he could not keep up his covered style for his feet were loosely clad with a pair of white slippers – funny isn’t it? He had the patience to stand before the mirror in the morning while swiping his hair in different directions carefully under the scrutiny of his relatively large brown eyes, spend a considerable amount of time before his open wardrobe finding a shirt matching with his mood and of course a second to grab his jeans hanging off the hook at the back of his hazel door, but he never had the patience to get the right pair of shoes in the morning. Then again, waking up late never provided the comfort of time allowance as he would find himself rushing through the door with a shoe bag in hand and his usual coffee mix.
His name was a conundrum, a little question he had always refused to answer. He was not ashamed of his name for he had loved how it had a certain rhythm to it when people called it. He liked the way certain people said it with their different variations, occasionally frustrating ones would make their appearances from time to time, but he liked them altogether if he was a close acquaintance or more. However, first time introductions were a pain. He knew very well that it had been the work of these annoying creatures that he had the circle of friends he had at the moment, but the numbers were dwindling. As time progressed and as he continued with his daily routines, friends fell under acquaintances and acquaintances fell into the huge division of strangers. Introductions involved the awkward silence between two faltering souls, the thorny utterance of each other’s names with cretinous disparities in pronunciation, and the tense nod when there was nothing left in his mind to say. Introductions were the doors to friendships, and the channel towards the buzzing motion picture – but if they were this hard, he would’ve chosen solitude and a little bit of peace and quiet.
He recalled the time teachers spoke of inner peace, oh the amusing times when his mentor had struggled with clenched fists to pronounce “peace” properly without ending the word with an unintended splash of droplets over the poor students sitting in the front row, momentarily wishing they had a valid reason to cover their heads with the protection of a bright vermillion umbrella. Inner peace, as his mentor had said, was found through different assortments of routes, some through sports and some through tranquility. There were contrasts, two ends of the spectrum and he believed, ironically, he belonged in both. But he was not in the middle, but rather he scurried between the two categories rapidly with angst and tinges of excitement – and this day, his godly inner peace lay in the quietude of his favourite lavender wall. Known as a school compound hobo by the several guards who had changed duties due to rotation, they were pretty much happy by the fact that they were leaving. He frequented the oddest of places where they would have to chase him away lest he caught a cold or got left behind for the entire night, frequently with the extra job of shaking this young boy out of his deepest slumbers. This day, he was full of thoughts, a haunting quote bringing pangs of anxiety and insecurity. Perhaps it had been his relatively sentimental personality which led him down the road of thoughts and never ending worries. That day he had fallen in love with the words, the way the sentence remained strung together amongst the sea of words and happenings, and with his handwriting doing it no justice, he kept the quote written on a piece of paper which he kept locked in his reddening knuckles. He trudged towards the lavender wall outside the empty classrooms. Securing his ball quietly on his empty bag, he leant against the wall and slid down to the ground with a silent thud. With a clink of his can of green tea, he read its packaging for a few moments before bringing the can to his parched lips. His hands trembled slightly as he lowered the can to the floor beside him, a little spillage caused by his forearm’s twitch. Quietly, he brought his hand up to his eyes and covered them with slight dejection before falling into light siesta as his other palm relaxed to allow his note to flutter in the wind, eventually taking its flight.
The story began from the fading polaroid lying on a white glossy table. Her white glossy table.
It lay in the comfort of a light cushion of a crisp piece of paper folded neatly with forceful creases, its insides revealing words written with extremely definite handwriting, the strength of the dark pearl ink causing indents in the thin sheet – “The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed.” Its origin was an enigma to her befuddled thoughts for that afternoon, she had trodded over its yellowing frame. The crackles of its spine replayed in her delicate ears as she bent over to retrieve it from the dusty ground as she peered over to the turquoise wall outside her classroom. Perhaps it had flown over from some other class, she was unaware but being her careful self, she shoved it into the side pocket of her dull orange bag. As she went her way towards the youthful zephyr, she took notice of the mundane sight of a weary leg outstretched from the side of the lavender wall.
The train ride back to her distant home was a pain. Submerging herself in the melancholic harmony of voices making its way through her headphones was a matter of routine as she grew oblivious of her surroundings as her lips stayed locked on the thin straw making its debut from the roundedness of her yoghurt bottle. She was a picture of serenity, yet her mind was a mess. Against the quiet façade she had pride in pulling off, she was a boisterous, attention-seeking rose. She had her thorns and her cravings for attention, though packaged between thick savoury layers of onion peels. She was an onion, and she never once attempted to expose her through self to anybody for she would be forcing piercing tears out of her lifeless eyes during the process, and fade into nothingness at the end.
Entering her room once again was a little taxing. Her memories had formed itself an asphyxiating aura of gloom as they lay their bony fingers on her slanted shoulders each time she returned to reality. Her hours in school were simply a wonderland, a little rest from her relentless flow of thoughts and considerations, and she felt carefree yet restricted in both venues. She picked up the polaroid lying on her table with care as she dropped her bag onto the parquet floor without a hoot given. She stroked the fading portrait with a certain amount of caution and pain as the waves of recollection rode past her. A deep breath was taken and she heaved a hefty sigh before putting it down. She reached into her bag pocket for her treasure found today and dusted it slightly before flipping it open. The groans of the hurt paper rushed through her mind as she read its messy organs. She shrugged a little at its beauty, the amount of substance and truth written within the lines, and most of all, the sincerity and despair she felt from the distinct impact made by the unknown soul who penned this down was the closest she had felt to her own thoughts. She was determined to find out who this phantom was, and perhaps the picture of the boy sleeping by the corridor flashed through her mind for a split second.
The story began from a moment at 4. Their thoughts & darkness.
The dense darkness that hid the benevolent stars behind a tinted veil was accompanied by the slight presence of faded clouds sauntering leisurely in the cold winds shrouded at that hour.
His hands twitched once again and he was awoken to the aches in his back, his hands numb from stiffening in the same position. His eyes opened to darkness and the all familiar doors of the classrooms against the pearl black sky looming above him. It was 4am, and he was still leaning on the lavender wall. The guard didn’t come that day. In a slight stupor, he picked himself up and dusted his jeans slightly as he reached into his bag for the wintry set of sepia tinted uniform and traipsed towards the restroom.
As usual, her eyes blinked open in a second mechanically. It had been odd, the same nightmare at the same time shook her awake from night to night as an overly effective alarm clock system. She was never late, neither was she on time. She had become an early riser thanks to his presence in her mumbled thoughts as she slipped into slumber on and off. She was exhausted but satisfied, her ice cold hands running through her velvety brown hair as she pulled herself off her bed. It was 4am, and she got up and clenched the polaroid tightly before letting it fall back into the mess. She sighed again, and fell back on her bed, wide awake.
The story began from a tinge of anxiety and the pounding strength of a wounded heart. Their little flutter.
Returning to his perch, he stared at his moist empty palms for a few moments before jolting slightly, searching fervently for his mislaid aide-mémoire. Flipping through his unkempt bag and notes, he found desperation once again – or rather wretchedness had found him once again, grabbing onto his shoulders with all its strength. His hair grew disheveled and he grew tired once again as he sat back down on the spot of undisturbed dust as he set his hand on the frigid drink can whose traces were long eradicated by the recklessness of seconds and minutes. In a daze, he sat there awaiting the arrival of the long awaited sunrise, his sole source of encouragement.
Stepping foot into the corridors, she pulled her pale peach cardigan tighter over her shivering frame, the note from yesterday imprinted carefully within the heart of her small palm. She looked down at her feet treading on the grey mess of a corridor, her heart fluttering. She had made a slightly wavering decision to return the note to whoever the owner was, her first guess being the boy who spent countless days dozing off into peaceful catnaps in the comfort of the lavender wall. A flash of a smile was seen as she spotted the usual sighting. Quietly, she approached his slender frame with fluttering anxiety, her hands quivering with each stride as her footsteps had turned into a tad reluctant dragging of feet as the distance between the two similar souls decreased. She heard a soft grunt as he squeezed his drink can flat within the clutches of his right hand, followed by the clanging of tin and cement for he threw the can far towards the walls before him.
“Um, excuse me.” Mustering some minute amount of strength, she coughed a little before speaking with a bare squeak. Despite her lack of volume, she had successfully drawn his attention for he looked up to face her with his lackluster eyes. He peered straight through her as though she was a transparent panel and for a moment she felt overwhelmed by uneasiness. His gaze was overly strong, and along with his shock he hid his slight hue of glee well from her similarly café au lait tone eyes.
“Yeah?” He pushed himself upwards and sat upright to meet her shy stare. She embraced the light yet deep texture of his voice, silently appreciating the sharp features he possessed. He was different from the cliché kind of charm, his beauty was unrivalled. For a second she choked on nothingness for she was stumped and simply perplexed by how well his features complemented each other.
“Uh. I found this yesterday around here and I saw you but you were asleep so I didn’t disturb… Does this belong to you?” In the fullness of time, she found the capability to speak within her sea of incredulity. She quailed at the sight of his eyes widening in an odd mixture of rage and happiness. He grabbed the paper with his fingers tensed, his fingernails caving into the fibres of the now grey paper. With a quick motion, he slipped it out of her weak fingers with a little too much vigor which jerked her a little. A few moments passed as she stared at his odd reaction, watching how he had opened the paper with the caution one would have when peeling the petals off a beauteous rose after hours of melancholia. He was silent, and his eyes closed for a few moments.
The story began to end at the classroom. Their exchange.
Her lessons ended with a flash, a little blurry stop motion video of nothing deposited in her enervated head. She would lean against the wall beside her and stare out of the window on the other side of the classroom, unreservedly distrait. Lessons and lecture did not interest her, the empty notes she left in their austere setting with her elbow mounted lightly onto its flat body. Studying never really had a meaning to her, simply something she had been drilled into doing and somehow enjoying since a young age. Perhaps she was just aimless for the past few weeks, unaware of what she was about to do and why she was even doing the things she did. It sounded trivial and it seemed like everyone was facing the same stumbling block at that period of time but other people weren’t her concern. She was, studying as an obligatory act and she was not finding the fun she used to espy in the rocky shores of this affair. If architecture was what she wished to pursue in her near future, studying the structure of plants did not seem to make much sense to her unless her imagination drove her far enough to design a building with a similar vascular system to transport humans through its colossal altitude. It was worth a try, worth a thought – she was always the same. The same girl who found a moral imperative to be tractable, the same girl who would peer up into the sky despite the sun shining its relentless rays into her strained eyes, the same simpleton who would forgo her own thoughts and abilities for others selectively, the same milksop who would incongruously rush into things she had not thought through thoroughly, explaining the mess in which her writing would be in despite the fact that she liked its peerless comeliness liken to a pure maiden in a summer’s evening. She was confusing, and at this moment rather confused by the cause of events that morning. The note contained one of the most heartfelt quotes she had read in her few years of life, the little bit of a comfort that perhaps someone felt the same as her – Yet his protection over the quote had been a little unknown statement.
“And we’re done for today.” The only phrase she would listen to as she stood up with the rest of the class and bowed with her utmost respect, a little apology for her insolence.
Flipping the note easily with his fingers, he considered the possibilities of how the note had fallen into her possession. The wind was working its way around his social awkwardness perhaps, he thought with subtle joviality. A soft chuckle, and the contrasting noise of chairs scratching against the bare skin of ceramic tiles – he turned back to see the same girl looking down on her table, quietly arranging her piles of notes while the rest of the class streamed off as an untroubled rivulet, their words childish and meaningless. For a second she looked up and met his eyes before turning back to the window behind her. Another awkward turtle had arisen, he picked himself up and sent himself towards the lockers, his arms propping himself up onto the dusty new perch. Noiselessly she had steered her way to her own locker, her eyes insentient and showed attempts of giving a wide berth to his companionship. Hurriedly, she shoved her items into her packed but neat compartment and hastily made her retreat into the empty classroom with a fast glance towards him. Such an unquiet figure, he rubbed his eyes and knocked on the class door before entering. Keeping a safe distance from her fretful gaze, he sat on the ground.
“Is awkwardness a hindrance or a solace to you?” He asked as he twirled the ball around on the floor beside him. He knew his answer to the question well enough in his mind to answer it within five seconds if it had been shot towards his direction but this girl spent a minute staring back on the floor before her lips parted in a quiet attempt to speak.
“A little bit of both.”
“Ah we’re the same then. You enjoyed the quote didn’t you?”
In the silence which prevailed for a few more minutes, they both sat separated by molecules of agitated air, their minds bent on finding out who each other was, a wish to know each other better yet covered by a veil of inability to speak. They wished for the other party to speak but neither did and they remained, with silence as their communication.
“Well shall we go? I thought I’d get you something to appease the grunts your lack of food is giving you; its pretty thunderous there.” He smiled a little after some time, his uneasiness succumbed to the desire he had to get to know her better.
“Yeah sure.” A hint of merriment was mixed with timorous fear.
The story began to reach the end, yet never quite reached its destination. Their story had just begun; A spark and a taut rope had been found within the consolation of unspoken emotions over the warm round of latte and green tea.
AN: hahahaha so i wrote this for a prompt for a fluffy dude so eheh there