Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Chick-flick narrative voice!

It's one of those days where I feel I should put a modicum of effort into my appearance (why exactly, I don't know, it's not like today will probably be any different than the average three-class Tuesday), but will probably end up wearing these ridiculously comfortable Under Armour men's soccer shorts and a Nike T-shirt instead. (To my credit, the shirt is new, yellow-orange, and has the word 'Nike' in pink script. Thass right, y'all, PINK. By technicality, I will be wearing pink. Contain your shock to a few respectful gasps.) I've recently fallen in love with fitted Nike T-shirts, because they are made for those of athletic persuasion, and actually make me look like I have a waist without being Spandex-like and clinging to every inch of my body (in which case, I would also be wearing pink, on my face, from embarrassment).

And they're guys shorts because I got them for Frisbee, because having long shorts really helps those of the kamikaze persuasion who like making wild dives for the disc when it's out of normal reach (I am not claiming to be one of those people. But I think you all know I am.) I tried finding women's shorts long enough, but I have freakishly long femur bones (approximately fifty percent of my height is between my hip and knee). The only shorts that came past my knees were basketball shorts. They were extremely comfortable, pajama-like, even, but disturbingly see-through. (My conspiracy theory is that men designed them.)

So that is how I ended up with men's shorts. And holy crap, they are the most comfortable shorts EVER. Besides, like a good pair of high heels, they nicely show off my calves, one part of my body in which I do take pride.


I'm not sure why I'm blogging about incredible randomness of my life, but I have been reading this fantastic blog for about an hour now (warning, there is a bit of language, but if you push past that, prepare to laugh out loud, possibly scaring any other occupants in the room). Hopefully that explains. Plus, this post gives me a chance to ramble in my chick-flick first-person narrative voice, one I usually don't use, because it's pure fluff, but really fun to let loose now and then.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Rafe leaned over his chocolate milkshake, voice low. "It's all a conspiracy, you know."

Shara's expression blanked out, and she looked at me, hands freezing around her paper-cupped latte.

I shrugged. This was Rafe. According to him, there were not one, two, but seven conspirators in the JFK assassination, the world was made of tiny elephant-shaped particles in lieu of atoms, and - my personal favorite - Steve Jobs and the Google crew were teaming up to overthrow the government. "What is?" I said.

"Your parents being out of town so much, travelling around the world. They're spies." He calmly adjusted his black beanie. Edges of tin foil poked from the hem, and he tucked them back in.

"I thought that too, when I was seven." I said this in a matter-of-fact tone. Not that a patronizing tone would offend Rafe. Nothing offended Rafe. He'd been called a nut, looney, maniac, oddball, and loser. All the names bounced off him like tennis balls, probably scared senseless by his grin.

He leaned back in his wrought-iron chair and winked. "Trust me, sugar. You'll see the light one day."

I sighed. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?"

"I have a name."

"Meh. I like Sugar better than Emily." Rafe tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "Yup. Sugar."

"Geeze, cut it out." I couldn't say it with much irritation. Mostly because I liked the nickname the same way I liked peppermint mochas - far too much. I mean, Rafe was mind-meltingly droolingly heart-beating-like-a-helicopter gorgeous. Lanky limbs, caffe latte skin, soulful brown eyes, swishy black hair, a face of subtle angles, and a smile that made girls swoon, until they realized it was...well, Rafe. He thought the Titanic was an early German U-boat attack, for heaven's sake. Did I like him? As a friend. Did I want to like him as something more? Yes, if he weren't batcrap crazy.

Rafe took a languid sip from his milkshake. "I only do it because of the irony."

I wadded a napkin and threw it at him. It nicked his left ear before falling to the ground. "Okay, Quixote." That was my retaliatory nickname for him. Pretty darn fitting, too. I checked my watch, did a double-take, and pushed my chair back so fast the legs scraped the concrete. "Holy crap, it's almost five."

"Erk." Shara winced at her sound of dismay, and started sweeping a collection of pink Post-it notes, sharpies, and notebooks into her purse. I don't know how it all fit. Rafe theorized she mugged Mary Poppins.

He took another long draw of milkshake, watching Shara and I clean up our studying supplies, none of which we'd actually touched in the last hour, except to re-enact a particularly good play in yesterday's soccer game. "You're actually going to class?"

"Yeah," I said, shoving my laptop into my backpack. "You should too. For once."

He lifted his shoulders enigmatically. "I do alright without."

Truth was, he had a better grade than I did, and I worked my butt off in that class. I sighed. Cute, ridiculously smart, and completely insane. I always fell for the impossible cases. My phone buzzed, and I snatched it off the table. "Huh. Thought Mom and Dad were still on the plane to Beijing." I aimed a finger at Rafe, who raised his eyebrows with a smirk. "Don't even start." I flipped the phone open. "Hello?"

"Emily, where are you right now?"

I frowned. At first, I thought my mother sounded controlled and angry, voice tight like a rubber band. "Heading over to Psych. What's up? I thought you were still-"

"You need to get out of town, now."

Rafe leaned in, mirth dropping from his face. I tried to glare at him, but that failed when I recognized the exact emotion in my mother's voice.

It was fear.

"Okay," I said. I slung my backpack over my shoulders. "What's going on?"

She released a breath. "There's a lot I can't go into right now, but you're in danger, and you need to run."

Across the table, Shara tilted her head. I shrugged, shaking my head. "That's pretty vague."

Rafe swore under his breath, standing, milkshake tipping sideways on the table. "Fantastic."

"Is that Rafe?" said my mother.

"Yeah," I said. "Look, what the heck's-"

"Just tell-"the line went dead.

I stood immobile, phone in my head. "Mom?"

The bell on the front door jingled, and two men entered. They looked like a couple young professionals in business casual attire, stopping in for coffee after work, except for the way they moved. The dark-haired one got in line to order, and the blond walked our way, casually. Something about it seemed rehearsed, like they'd done this a million times.

Rafe took my hand in his, and started walking toward the side door to the patio. "Come on."

I followed, bewildered. "What's-"

"You too, Shara. Leave the notebook, it doesn't matter right now." He dropped my hand and settled an arm over my shoulders as Shara trotted to catch up. "Don't look back, just keep walking. We just have to get to the car."

My breath lodged in my throat. I looked at Rafe as he pushed the door open with one hand. He looked no different for a moment, smiling like a loon, but his gaze was both a million miles away and assessing every detail of our surroundings. "You weren't kidding about-"

"No," he said. "Sometimes the windmills really do come alive, Sugar."


Sorry. No real ending here, and this is not my best writing by any stretch, just a bit of a creative exercise.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

the one with the dusty rose lips

and sway in her hips, long california legs and swoop of blond hair, coy pout and golden fingernails dancing on the table, the girl who walks through the room, eyes serene and straight-ahead as the boys stop to stare. the corners of those full lips turn up as she reaches the door because oh yes i got the power, but it's only in the quiet moments when she gazes out the window you catch the sadness in her eyes.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Because my brain is dead as a doornail (or doorknob, or doorknocker!)

I had two midterms this week, and a 8-10 page paper (it clocked in at 8.5 total). I did not go to bed before 1 am any day this week. I am exhausted. But this week is done! :D So, I will hopefully write something soon that is not drivel from the dregs of my brain. Here is some freewriting. I hope it is not atrocious. Please...don't hate too much :P


he smiled. oh, god. it was the adonis smile. 'nice to see you out here. you should come more often.'

i lean casually against my car to disguise the fact my knees are butter left in the microwave for three minutes on high. 'yeah, hopefully i'll be able to. it was fun watching y'all play.' i sound so horribly drawling and texan, but my options were 'y'all' and 'you', which could be rightly taken as 'you' in the singular form, which would just be kind of weird since i've only known him for a couple months.

'it was a pretty good game.' he shifts, and the parking lot light falls over his chest, which, thanks to the delightful resurgence of summer weather, is deliciously bare.

i smile and tilt my head a little, getting a quick glimpse. six-pack. just as i suspected. thank you, summer, i know i was cursing you this morning, but i grudgingly concede you have your benefits. 'for sure.' crap. this conversation is racing toward awkward silence. 'i mean, except for the part when matt took a soccer ball to the face.'

he half-snorts. yes, i'm hopelessly biased, but the man makes snorting sexy. 'i always get on him for flirting with the sidelines and not paying attention. i think he learned his lesson tonight.'

i rub the side of my mouth, hiding a grin. 'yeah, he and my roommate seem to be hitting it off.'

'i'm sorry. have fun with that when they start dating.'

i groan. 'noooo, please no, i always manage to walk in on the most awkward couple moments ever. it makes me want to run off to a nunnery for the rest of my life.'

'well that'd suck, especially because i was gonna see if you wanted to get coffee or something tonight.'

my breath latches in my throat, and i make a flattering 'urk' sound. adonis just asked me out for coffee? i cough to clear my throat. 'excuse my frog imitations. i've been practicing them in the hopes of luring the frogs out of the swamp by my apartment so i can eternally shut them up and then use their entrails to tell the future.'

he blinks. to my eternal humiliation, an actual frog croaks from the pond behind the fields.

i feel heat bleeding into my cheeks. what was that crap that just spewed from my mouth? thank you, macbeth, for that inspiration.

he grins and start laughing. my face is on fire. 'you know, i've heard you say some weird things, but that just topped them all.'

'i try to exceed expectations,' i mumble. mumble? i don't mumble! what is wrong with me? now he thinks i'm sort of incoherent freaky frog-whisperer!

he gets a hold of himself. 'um. anyway, coffee?'

i nod tentatively.

'well, that was enthusiastic.'

'after the frog rant, i'm kind of scared of what might come out of my mouth, honestly.'

he starts laughing again. 'i'm kind of curious what's going to happen once we get you on some caffeine. ten o'clock?'

i smile. it's a little hesitant but happy. could be worse, it could be super-bashful and blushing, or one of those stupid grins smearing itself across my face. 'see you there.'

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

and what is it anyway, this crazy little thing

it does funny things to us, and i don't mean comical-larry-curly-and-moe. that bittersweet curl in your stomach and that dime-sized hollow spot in your chest that pulses like a negative heart. and the knife and the poison in the tomb with silent stone angels only witnesses. the need to give, not receive it to feel whole again. the hitch in your breath when you see them under the soft light of the lamp absorbed in a book with a half-smile, and you feel your own lips curve because their happiness is yours and they don't know it.

they don't know. maybe they never will. but for now you can't help it. maybe you'll never be able to. maybe staying silent and hanging on to that scrap of time you share, just you two, is worth it than speaking and risking the ruination.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

A Distinctly Prosaic Update

As some of you may know, I tried out for the men's club Ultimate Frisbee team at my university. They decided to keep it an all-male team, so I decided to start a women's team. It's been mostly paperwork so far, and difficult to recruit, since we can't use official channels to spread the word since we are not yet an approved organization. So, I turned in the paperwork today, and who did I run into (almost literally) on the stairs but the captain of the guys' team? He sent me a shortlist of names of other women interested in playing. Three of four of them are in, and one of them sent out an email to her sorority.

Within one hour, the tentative roster has doubled from six people to twelve. I am literally on the edge of tears out of sheer happiness. Now I'm waiting for number 13. See, I have this weird love of the number 13. Mostly because it's conventionally unlucky. And for the last two weeks, I've been brainstorming team names, and for whatever bizarre reason, the name 'Lucky' has lodged itself in my mind. I can't figure out a logical reason to save my life, which is rare for me. So, I have this weird hope we have 13 people on the team, and call it Lucky. (I've also been seeing shamrocks everywhere the last two weeks. They're stalking me.)

So, in conclusion, God is so, so good. Now I'm just waiting for number 13 to show up, and then my night shall be complete.