"Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet." Cyrus Farivar

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Damp Shoes

    Perhaps another submission to Flash Party, I'm not sure. I'll probably wait another week before I end up writing something else, or using either "Echoes" or "Damp Shoes." 

Damp Shoes-      

            It smelled of mold; damp shoes and soaked polyester jackets. To most it wasn’t a pleasant aroma. But it only took a few minutes of sitting in the enclosed space before it wasn’t there. In fact, it started to smell more like sour acid from the pages of his sketch book. The scent reminded him of pickles.
            His mouth was open, tongue barely visible as his pencil slid across the page. He liked drawing in here; his closet away from the yelling of family, of school, of life. In here, he could focus on himself and think. This space was just what he needed after draining phone calls and long study sessions with him.
            No matter how hard he tried, he always got caught staring. Whether it was at his lips, or the way his hair fell across his brow. A smirk would appear on his face, and that’s where it’d all start. He’d melt at the sight and yearn to be close to him; finally their skin would touch.
            In the back of his mind, he knew he didn’t see him the same; that he was just a warm body. There was never that glint of affection in his eyes. It was pure need.

1 comment:

  1. I really like how emotive this is, and especially that it goes to what many people would probably find to be a rather alien emotional space. It's rare that we see sexual, or other (implied?) emotional need separated from affection in fiction.