Person A is counting down the seconds until when they can clock out of work. They are excited for the evening as this is the first time, in a long time, that had something to look forward to
Write about an event (or series of events) that gets in the way of their evening plans.
In the comments, let us know what is holding them up and what they were the looking forward to!
Person A bought a day pass to the aquarium to treat themselves. While enjoying their time, they run into Person B, someone they have not spoken to or seen in 10 years.
Write the scene of their interaction all the while focusing on the body language of Person A and Person B.
In the comments, let us know what the relationship is between your characters!
Bonus: What would be their first words to each other?
The aroma of a newly lit incense, the sound of blues music playing in the background, and the rays from the sun bounced off freshly cleaned wine glasses always brought bliss to my life. Everyday at six o’clock after such tiring days, that scene would ease my aching bones. But, the only reason I could feel that way was because of Her.
The purr of Her voice as she hummed along with the blues music playing softly in the background, the sound of her book’s pages turning, and that beauty that shone off of her… that view was what I was always grateful to see.
“I’m home,” a phrase I would have repeated everyday after taking those few minutes to appreciate her radiance.
I would watch as she looked up from her book and turned my way. Her smile was light yet calming. She would always reply with, “Welcome home. How was your day?”
She always knew my answer, because every time I saw her it would become better than it was before.
“It is fine.”
She would place her bookmark in her book and close it. I would watch her as I took off my shoes. Everyday she was wearing what could have been confused as a white dress that reached her knee caps, in actuality it was one of my white t-shirts. As she stood up from her spot the sun always seemed to fall perfectly on her like it was a spotlight. Her black hair was always wrapped up with clips but it still glistened in the light. She would step out of her spotlight and make her way over to me.
“Let me help you,” she would say, taking my coat from me. I never refused her request and I had always let her do as she pleased. She took my coat from me and hung it up on the rack. Her short stature made it seem like she would not be able to place the coat on the rack, but she was strong willed and always placed it high enough for me to reach the next day.
She turned around and I stepped up closer to her, smiling down. She smiled back up at me and I could see the shine in her eyes even though we were in the light of the sun. Her beautiful light brown eyes would bring a warmth to the cold heart I bore throughout the day. Their warmth would melt the icy shell I placed around my heart to protect it. She melted the defenses I had for each day in an instant. The song in the background would change and I would place my hand out to Her.
“May I?”
I watched as her smile would grow bigger as if she were waiting on that question the whole time. She would take my hand and I would walk Her over back to her spotlight. We would slowly sway back and forth to the beat of the song playing. Our breathing slowed and at some point we would be inhaling and exhaling at the same pace. The warmth of Her in my arms always made me feel whole. Or rather the way she held me made me realize that she meant everything to me and I meant everything to her.
We would dance until the sun had set leaving us in total darkness. I would feel her slip slowly away from my arms, and each time she did that my heart would drop. In the darkness the sound of a match being lit could be heard and the glow from it showed Her hovering over a candle that was ready to be lit. She always looked beautiful. From the sunlight that had faded away awhile ago to the dim light of a candle, she was always beautiful.
Those were the days when I was in true bliss. Those were the days I was grateful for. If only I could have one more chance to cherish it all again. Now, when I come home I no longer hear the sounds of Blues playing in the background, I no longer smell on newly lit incense, and no longer see freshly clean wine glasses. Instead I am greeted by silence, I smell nothing appealing, and I see wine glasses have moved from the night before. Everyday at six o’clock I am tired and my bones ache. The reason I feel like this is because she’s no longer here.
I no longer hear her hum along with the blues music that once played or hear the sound of a book’s pages turning. And most of all I no longer can witness her beauty.
“I’m home,” I would say every day, a phrase I wouldn’t say that usually got her to look my way, no longer held any weight for me now. I would no longer see her look my way with the soft smile that she held for me, I would no longer hear the reply I loved, I could no longer say my day was fine.
I missed watching her get up from her spot in my white t-shirt every day, how the setting sun shone on her. I would take off my coat by myself and place it where she used to hang it for me only reminding me that I could no longer watch as she hung it up for me. I would step into the spotlight and stand alone no longer able to sway to the blues music. I missed her. The sound of her voice, the ones she brought to my cold heart, the beauty she held… I missed all of it.
She left me without a single warning, and there is nothing more than I want to have her back.
It wasn’t a pretty birth. Mother struggled to stay alive, Father was absent for the entire “miracle”, and I didn’t ask to be born. By the time I was five, I realized I was by myself. Mother worked, Father was still absent, and my only source of comfort was my one stuff bear that I declared to be my best friend. One day, Mother came home with new people, a small person and a big person like her, he told me to call him Father but he wasn’t my Father. For the next ten years I raised that small person, who bore the title as my sibling, making my world expand to just the two of us and my stuffed bear. When CPS arrived, frankly I couldn’t tell you why, all I know is that I left my sibling with my bear. After that each year became a blur. Those years I spent forced into new homes with strangers. Each place revealed new body parts and a slight sense of ownership. Every night and new enjoyments where created every week. My body began to barely functioning, and later, I had to learn the meaning of sobriety. At twenty-two, I learned my sibling was given away to strangers as well, I learned he was living a happier life, so I relapsed without knowing if he still had my bear. At twenty-five years old, I managed to get my own place, a job, and my first living friend. A fish named Jean. Twenty-six, Jean died, but I met a person who said they ‘loved’ me. A newfound will to exist emerged within my chest. Thirty, my sibling contacted me, showed up at my doorstep with two kids, my niece and my nephew. The person who said they ‘loved’ me stood next to me welcoming them in. My sibling told me about his life, how our mother passed away, O.D, and how he is glad I lived. I cried a little. My nephew came up to me and showed me his bear, whom he called best friend. Our best friend. Fifty-five years old, my lover passed away, stage four pancreatic cancer, we caught it too late. The grief in my heart caused a relapse of pain I hadn’t felt in years. Seventy years old, I passed away from fifteen years of heartache, but I at least learned to live for something.
A continuous force that never seems to stop even when you wish it to the most. A continuous force that shapes the world around us, moving even the simplest forms of life. What we perceive as time differs from body to body, mind to mind, but we all somehow agreed that time itself exists within a plain of living that we can not obtain with our bare hands. From the moments we wish for time to move faster to the moments where we need it to move slower, we just never seem to be happy with time offers. We are constantly at the mercy of time, forced to move with its pace.
I often think about the phrase ‘time waits for no one but time itself’, and I often think about who came up with it. The question of why can’t time wait pops into mind followed by what happens if it waits? Has time ever waited? These questions then lead me into a section of my brain to think about what I define as time. If we all have the same definition of time maybe that’s why we are all always struggling, maybe that’s why I struggle. I fester within the wounds caused by time, but time has done nothing but move on at its pace. It’s own constant pace that is neither moving too fast or too slow. What is my time? How would I define it? I wouldn’t be able to tell you an exact definition, I would be able to tell you how I spend it: days on end thinking about what has gone wrong in my life, weeks on end wondering if I can do better for myself and others, months on end wishing to find time. Of course, those are just the abstracts and existential crisis thoughts, but, to be honest, I have found they take up most of my time. I view this allotment of time to be a hindrance to my existence: Why waste so much time on needless thoughts? Why this? Why that? It is just a constant cycle of whys– and because of the sheer amount of time I have had to think about these questions over and over again the thought becomes; Does that make the questions the conclusion?
Maybe if I spend more time thinking about time I will figure it out. The true answer. That is if I don’t run out of it.
To be able to say “I did it.” To be able to tell a story-- All to please those who want to be, I say: “To hell with you.” My words, My thoughts, They are mine. In this city I feel that; I embody that. For my heart bleeds... Just not the same blood as yours. No, my heart pulses a thick black liquor-- Intoxicating my every thought, every move. That drunk man... You know the one everyone avoids? Yeah him-- The one being step over in the street, being judge? His stench so hazardous it makes your stomach shrivel to the size of a cut umbilical cord. Purges you of all appetite. Yeah, that same man who sits in his own pool of piss and vomit? He is me-- He is the free thought-- He gives no fucks. What exactly do you think of him? How you belittle him, He could give two shits about you-- Because, his movements are free. His heart is like mine-- It bleeds to intoxicate. His story transcends your world -- My story excels your thoughts. Only when you can accept that will you understand. To be able to say; "I did it." To be able to tell a story-- All to please those who want to be, I say: “To hell with you.”
Tracing
from the fingertips on the left,
down to the wrist,
pausing—
pressing with light pressure
to feel a faint pulse.
Continuing up the forearm,
passing the pit of the elbow,
gliding over the blemishes,
yet nothing seems to go unnoticed.
To the shoulder
allowing the nails to scratch away
the protruding bumps.
No immediate pain.
only a reminder from the nerves.
“Keep on moving.”
Across the torso.
From the shoulder.
Lay the fly away hairs down and
pull out the stuck ones.
Over the pit of the elbow,
down the rest of the forearm,
at the wrist,
pausing—
pressing with light pressure
to feel a rapid pulse.
Up the fingertips on the right,
stop.
The left-hand tilts its fingers to the right,
interlocking—
The right-hand’s fingers twitch,
responding—
Between the two’s pressures,
one’s knuckles will give away.
Sweat forms
in-between the new joint.
The ritual has started.
And when it ends
with forced separation.
One, will go on
seeking more—
the other, will rest
unresponsive—
On Sundays, he slaps some Old Spice under his arms, and takes exactly 4 light dabs of his father’s cologne. He isn’t a man of God, but to fake it he dresses in his Sunday best. People know when he is coming— a failed attempt to mask the pungent smell of sin— choking people for their attention. When he would arrive for church He could never find a reason to step inside. On Mondays, It’s nicotine. Did he smoke— or is it his buddies? Did he light it— or was the old lady in the apartment above? It sits in his hair, fuses with the fibers of his clothes— His lung will find the answer with the faint orange light that flickers in the night. On Tuesdays, he knows he needs a shower to wash away Sunday and Monday. He has been called into the office; a report to the higher ups. He must be fresh— his last bar of Dial mixes with his mother’s peppermint body wash. He needs to scrub any hint of his private life away— in order to maintain even the slightest sense of his security. On Wednesdays, It is dank. The day that calls for relaxation; his friends will come over and share, from morning to evening. Letting the mind wonder on its own, enjoying smoke swirl through the air, his neighbors will leave letters at his doorstep pleading: ‘Come on man…’ On Thursdays, An old fashion Dark-amber bourbon will burn his esophagus. The sweetness of the sugar will give him euphoria. He will mull on the loss of himself. His finger will play with the orange peel as he finishes his drink. A 2nd will be bought. Then his memory will fade. On Fridays, With sweat dripping from the base of his hairline, down his neck, trickling into unseeable places. It draws people to dance with him— This is club number 3, or was it 4? A haze he is left in, intertwining with an unknown body. This leaves him in different forms of ecstasy He will leave his buddies for the night embraced in the arms of Hedone and Peitho. On Saturdays, It’s a different person who isn’t in the bed next to him. He rolls over to stare out the window recollecting his past two nights. He can’t tell if his nausea stems from his daily intoxication rituals or the lingering aroma of Bath & Body Works perfumes. He brushes the thoughts off from his head, ties the hotel bed sheets around his waist, stretches and repeats.
Unknown Scent was recognition through the Agnes Scott American Academy of Poets College Prize as an honorable mention in 2022. This prize recognizes and appreciates the honorable mention poem submitted each year to the American Academy of Poets Prize as well as recognize the excellence and promise of the writer.
Amoeba Writings 