Entries, Featured, You Didn’t Write That: Entries
You Don’t want to incur my Roth!
Oct
Literati!
How can I (aka moi) possibly relate to a story of undelighted–oops!–unrequited love? But perhaps you can. Please give the girl a little encouragement. Tell her, remember love’s a game. And if you want it, it can always come again… So…don’t let the sun catch you catch you cryin’ (I like that) And by all means, leave advice about love and literature in the comment box.
Speaking of love, life and literature, once you have provided Kayla a little southern comfort, go to Theresa Ann’s blog Let’s Make A Scene! and leave a comment or two about any of the obnoxious/whine-ee/or noble characters starting to surface in her interactive stage play. Pick a favorite and put some money down on the ongoing horse race to see who is gonna get ahead, who is gonna get even, and who is gonna get just what they deserve!
And, as always, invite your friends into the playground by pimping for us on Facebook and the twit thing.
In the meantime, here is
Incommunicado
by Kayla Roth
“Dear Blue Eyes,
I love you. Will you love me, too?”
With her shoes resting on the grass beside her, Rebecca sat scribbling away in her notebook. It was a childish love letter, written and rewritten but always addressed to the same boy down the hall.
“If only it was as easy to speak to people as it is to write to them,” she wrote, “then maybe I wouldn’t be so afraid.”
She glanced up, and saw him, Blue Eyes looking seamless as he strolled across the grounds. Her heart beat faster and the grip on her pen grew stronger. But in his hand was another, belonging to a tall blonde in a blue sundress. They kissed, and Rebecca felt her chest cave.
She looked down, face burning. Rebecca couldn’t let him see. Her hand tore out the page of confessions from her notebook. “You didn’t write that,” she mumbled, as she tossed it into the nearby trash can. “You didn’t write that at all.”
Don’t sit under the apple tree unless it’s with your core group. And speaking of apples, anybody notice that the Barbie in this picture has one of Adam’s?
So why would anyone be looking that close? Unless she was real!!! LOL
Oh, man. Do I gotta bite?
It is actually Drag Barbie. Although a lotta dolls can end up being a drag
Must be a limited edition.
Kayla – this is outstanding. You brought so much emotional angst to this short peek into young love. Memories float to the surface of those days of long ago…wait…oh darn that was just last week!!! Anyway – this is beautifully done.
Thank you, Diane! This story was actually inspired by a recent event…love certainly finds a way to bring out the teenager in us, no matter what our current age. 🙂
Dear Blue Eyes, I know Rebecca quite well! Boy are you ever missing out.
This is so good, I’m about to sit under my rubber tree and try this again. I wonder if it is true for all. We can write on paper, magnitudes of feelings, but are unable to express through words what we truly feel. And then maybe that’s a good thing! NICE.
Thank you, Kyle! I hope that you do sit under that rubber tree. If anything, it’s a great excuse to do some writing.
Yeah, high school was like that. I never did any work because I was letting every girl I fell in love with know what a hero I was-on paper. I let every bully in on how he was going to get his a__ kicked the next time I saw him-on paper. Funny how that is for writers, except if your Hemmingway or so. A well written, focused short on the issue, which begs the question…do writers make better lovers? Kayla, this is great.
I think even Hemmingway may have written down a lot more than he could say in person. Or maybe his writing gave him the courage to say it in the first place? Thank you for your compliment, Michael (and for taking the time to read)!
Yes, I had a diary. Yes, I had a secret love. No, he never knew… and now, I’m glad he didn’t. I liked your story very much!
Thanks, Debi. 🙂 Oh, secret loves…
Ah yes, better destroy the evidence. . .Then again, bury it in love’s graveyard for future reference. . .
Let’s just hope no one does any gravedigging. Or worse, zombie love poem apocalypse.
Ah to feel love’s heart sting when young. Those blazing pains that are never really forgotten, even under layers of time’s grey coils.