Thursday, January 24, 2013 | post a comment {0}

      Emerson, the boy who enjoys his coffee black. The ticking of the clock, the pattering of rain drops on a window pane. Emerson, with an imagination so vast that the confines of his small room weren't really confines at all. His mind wandering to long agos and what ifs. Of the past, the future, the present. Because today, like yesterday, Emerson thinks of tomorrow. Watching tendrils of smoke climbing out of his cup, the in-out in-out of his chest as he breathes. Calmly, soothingly. He thinks of the yesterdays that were once todays, the todays that were once distant tomorrows. In a glass castle, Emerson sits. And waits and ponders and drinks his black coffee. Loving and fearing the ticking of the clock.

      He had met her at a coffee shop. Hair in a bun, neck wrapped in a soft, pretty scarf. Her face matched it well. He was warmed by the clinking of cups and her laugh. Shannon. The sound of her name was the perfect embodiment of her face, scarf and cup of coffee she held in her hand. Latte, with extra sugar and foam. Sweet, like her. And though he likes his coffee black, he did not mind the sweetness of Shannon. Not at all.

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We were given two names and were told to write a flash fiction out of them. I enjoy creative writing; Time to just write whatever the hell I want. (Including fluffy, overly idealistic love shorts) It helps to get rid of this insatiable desire I possess to have romance in my life.