Rated Pg-13: Because I believe love stories a little too mature for anyone younger,
although there really isn't anything bad in it.
She told me she didn’t have a love story….
So I decided to write one for her
The story They Write Together
She browsed through the section, looking for another ‘cute’ love story. The books just sat there, waiting for her to pick them up, longing for her touch. Most never had the chance to feel her soft hands upon their pages; others got to be held by her cool soft hands a few moments before she quietly sat them back on the shelf. A lucky one would get checked out and carried around with her for a day or so. It was the same ending each time though. The books felt her cool breathe as she sighed and then closed the book. It wasn’t the right story. There was only one love story for her, and she looked for it diligently, biding her time.
She didn’t believe in quick love stories. The kind that ended with the girl realizing she was dating a jerk. She didn’t like teenage love stories, about how she was popular or he was amazing, or how every guy and girl wanted that particular person. No; these stories seemed to fake, and some to realistically harsh. She wanted that simple love story.
Slowly, the time rolled by. As she searched, each passing day grew into a few days. A few days became a few weeks until it became months. The book shelf never ended with love stories. Many true, many false. Many made up, feeling too real. Others were real and feeling too fake. There were numerous stories with a vast amount of different feelings, relationships, teachings and happenings; but none were hers. She wanted a story she could call her own. Something uniquely hers. She wanted a book no one has yet read.
Depression took hold of her heart. The story she sought could not be found.
Many people had come and gone from the section. Friends; Family; Co-workers. Most never came back to the section. They either had been hurt by their stories or happened to find the perfect one.
She was the only one in the section still. She would sit on the floor, holding the stories in her lap, her dyed shiny black hair tied up in a ponytail. Her cream colored hands would hover over or stroke the page. Her deep blue eyes would skim over the book titles on the shelf, passing by the titles that were too ‘glamorous’ and only halting on simple titles. She often sighed, sagged her head and shook it. This wasn’t the book either.
On the other side, he sat. He usually never sat alone, but he always felt alone. No girl wanted to be more than friends with him. He was that kind kid, who wasn’t perfect, nor could he ever say anything right without messing it up, but he did his best. The pain of being alone he had felt since he was little. He considered it a friend now. He figured himself to be a low life, who could do anything he wanted, but figured that without someone who understood him, and could share all the good and bad times with, there was nothing he wanted to really do. Motivation left him. He was too much of a team player. Without another with him, all he was doing was just trying to live, and only surviving was a pointless thing. Deciding to not survive for himself, he set a goal to help others in life.
This decision did little in helping get what he originally wanted; someone to spend life with. He felt selfish for wanting that so much. He even felt undeserving. Who would want him anyways? His confidence was low. He knew he could get people to like him, but never did he want to force someone to love him. He wanted that to happen naturally. To him, it didn’t happen. He began to assume no one would really love him the way he wanted; which made him feel even more selfish. He grieved over the fact that so many girls would pour their hearts out, only to later get dumped or find out worse about their ‘beloved.
One heart bled for a story of her own that fits inside her arms, never letting go. The other bled out cries of angst, as heart after heart poured out and never received love in return, and his heart wishing it could give as much as it wanted to get.
He walked up to her one day, telling her that he understood what she was looking for. He asked if he could help. She politely just shook her head without looking up. He continued to ask her everyday in spite of her silent decline. This is how it began.
One day, they both would realize that they ultimately wanted the same thing. To pour their heart into the other and received more than their heart could give.
That book she sought for was going to be written by the work of two different hands.
The love he wanted would soon be written down in a book about two people.
One story would be told.
They would Write it Together.
Spoiler:- Authors Note::
A girl at school inspired this story. She told me she read love stories because she herself didn't have one. I felt touched and hearbroken because, neither did I. So I take my interpretation of her desires and then the desires and feelings I have, and mold them into the story. I hope you enjoyed.
EDIT: I have tried many times to change it, but just cannot figure out how without changing the effect I wanted. I will just leave it as the crap it is (since it is pretty bad haha!), and learn to write better and avoid doing this. Good learning experience on my part. Thanks Yami
Last edited by #Chimecho#; 22nd May 2009 at 2:10 PM.
Most of them could probably be snapped up with a proof reader/doing that yourself or spell check. Well doubt for the last one because it's not really typos. It's more like;
The books felt her cool breathe as she sighed and then closed the book.
Breath- breathe is the wrong one. BECAUSE I FORGET ABOUT NOUNS AND VERBS AND ALL THAT GOOD CRAP *shot*.
The other thing is it feels a bit choppy. And listy. The books were the only witness to the disappointment of the girl. For with a heavy sigh, she closed the book with a sad glance at it, then set it aside. Her attention slow to turn elsewhere as she attempted to focus on finding her own love story.
This seems to be a bit of the problem for the short story, yes I know it's short, but it doesn't feel like a story. It just feels like you're telling us what happens, instead of showing us/presenting it for us to let us see. The idea and basic gist of the tale is good, the presentation is what's flat.
I've seen short stories that aren't what you'd think would be short. If you've ever read those books which collect short stories/one shots, you'd see too. And I think imo, that this would be better if you treat this- if you rewrite it, like those stories.