RunningWithScissors' Stories

Where To Find Him

2008-07-02T04:22:38Z

It turned out to be nothing. Like a false number used by a very pretty girl to let a not so pretty guy down easy. The rejection hotline.

I am nothing.

My days kept montone and drowned in grey abyss.

It was Friday and I picked up a bagel, the first food I’ve had for three days. Coffee doesn’t count.

And then, as I took a cannible bite, getting low-fat cream cheese all over my fresh BerryCute lipstick, I saw the numbers.

They were large, metal, industrial sized cutouts on a similar looking wall as to the one..

Wait.

I peered closer, daring to step across the street. A car honked and my scarf nearly escaped in the mid-winter wind. My boots clipped the pavement, rushed and anxious, matching my heartbeat.

I stumbled and caught myself on the display window. Blue jeans. Beautiful, deep sea blue jeans. He was associated with this company.

The number company. With an industrial, boho, rough outlook on life. And blue jeans. “Holy shit,” I whispered in prayer and stepped inside.

Tell Me About Him

2008-07-02T04:05:55Z

He had the tangled hair and the not quite tangible soul.

He had the fast motorcycle; the combat boots and occasional pink, hi-top Chucks.

He had the chick pants.

He had the deepest eyes, like black holes, they’d suck you in and convince you anything.

He had the laugh lines, the expressive eyebrows, even.. the character-built nose.

He had every girl, even a few boys, in line—and he knew it.

He had the tall frame, A shape, and lickable abs.

He had the world in his careful hands; paintbrush, camera, tools, heart of the girl next door.

He had the surf beneath his feet; ocean or pavement, even snow.

He had the sun embedded in his skin.

He had happiness in his voice, deep and slow.

He had adventures and ‘that-one-kid-I-met-one-time’ only heard about in the bestseller books.

He had the history no one expected, etched with worry in his forehead—the price of growing up alone.

He had the party where ever he went.

He had the cops on his tail.

He had me.

At hello.

My BestFriend is a Pothead

2008-07-01T21:31:07Z

I trace his name into the keys weathered and yellow with age.

I love him with my whole goddamn heart and sometimes, one the rare occasion of him being sober, I was in love with him, too.

Dangerous territory, I know. Best friends shouldn’t.. have the urges I do.

It wasn’t like those stories, where they are both are in love and don’t know the other is, too.

He likes to tell me about his girlfriend’s lips, I just try not to stare.

My fingers dance along lines of black and white, my foot stamping on the instrument’s “feet”. The only sound, the only words in notes that can define this, is sweet Augustana.

And I wish I could play some of my own, but I can barely remember how to speak English in his presence, right in front of me or in my thoughts.

I close my eyes and hum, weaving his name into the pounding of rythym being tiptoed, light and fast across the ivorybone dashboard.

Warm, salty tears run down my face, tainted black with heavy makeup.

“Damnnit, Charlie,” Im barely a whisper

My Mom Told Me I'd Die Alone.

2008-06-30T02:25:07Z

Stella likes to tell people, upon first greeting, first meeting, first fucking handshake, just how damn awful she is.

They’d deny, argue even. No, No, Sweetie, You’re Beautiful and Perfection is a Dream.

Her opening statements are always warnings.

“Run, fast. I fuck up every single relationship.”

They got to know Stella. Slowly.

Somehow.

It’d start to fall together. Her warning were no longer hazardous omens but rather current situations.

The ones you sit back and kick yourself, because you knew, you knew it would happen.

And it did. And Stella was at fault.

They’d throw eveything, every disregardment, back in Stella’s face. She knew. She had told them in the first place.

Remember?

So why did it hurt so goddamn bad, hearing it from someone else?

If she knew.. If she really believed she was horribly and fucking nasty as she promised, then why did they steal her breath with parting words..

Her words. Reassured.

The Thing Is

2008-06-29T06:15:48Z

I dont have a tragic yet beautiful story. I’m not getting better, or overcoming hardships, or staying strong.
My parents are sober and still in love. I have a big house and plenty of stuff to fill the spaces.
I’ve never been completely isolated and alone. My heart has never been broken.
I don’t cut, drink, smoke, sleep away the pain.
But.
Every bit of food or nonwater drink I put past my lips and swallow is regretted and when I don’t eat—I am damn proud, happy in acomplishment.
If I wasn’t such a sucker for guilt, I’d hate my mom. When she says, “I love you,” I want to punch the walls in.
Honestly, I like feeling danger. I chase trouble and go heels over head for an asshole just because I enjoy the unexpected.
With unconditional digust, I loathe my body. Sometimes my frame seems too big, corners unfilled. I will never ever believe anyone when they tell me I’m better than ugly. I see myself as atrocious at best. Compliments piss me off, I’m not an attention seeker.

Hey, You Dirty Little..

2008-06-22T23:15:06Z

It was funny how people seemed to flock to his side. The well-known, oh so popular pompous jerks seemed to be his usual possee. They were all around us now, simply because Casper was with us.

He drew himself back a bit. Right, I thought bitterly, don’t associate with the losers.

But then, in the middle of a drug debate, he spoke to me. “Is that Oasis?” he referred to what we were listenning to.

I nodded my head and kept writing, scared he’d leave before I was done. I wanted him closer to me, I frowned.

His black specks were sliding down his thin nose. With deliberate casualness he pushed them back up and stole a glance at me. I pretended not to notice.

At long last, the jerks left and Casper walked them out. When he came back I handed him his yearbook.

“What?” His forehead creased in confusion.

I smiled huge. “I fixed it, I wasn’t done writing. Now you have a full page, too.”

“You dirty..” He trailed off suggestively but flipped his book open excitedly. I was forgiven.

OMG, Cyd's back.

2008-06-22T09:16:51Z

Art was good. We all have forever. That twenty minutes was mine.

Kids staggerd across the room, ones that normally weren’t there. The teachers drifted, not really caring about who or what, just that we’d all be gone for two whole summer blistering months in just a matter of hours.

Cyd was back. I pulled out my ipod and split the headphones with her. Rainbow Veins popped and bounced pretty and optimistic in my right ear, Cyd singing along with Owl City.

We swapped yearbooks, brainstorming all the adventures we had tripped and flirted with in just the past schoolyear.

“Oh, God,” she sighed, “Not him.”

I burst into hysterical laughter. “How he kept talking about that boy he made out with..”

She rolled her eyes and Casper sat in front of me, legs stretched out in ease.

I aligned my feet with his, mocassin slippers to shredded Vans, sole to sole. Soul to soul

“Hey, girl,” he sang.

I gave a petite wave and, while he looked away, stole his yearbook. I decided I wasn’t done writing to him.

Hey, I'll BRB.

2008-06-22T09:08:28Z

He grabbed my yearbook in reply. “I, Casper the Great,” he said nobly, hand over heart, “am going to write you, Ms. Friday, a full page.”

I groaned in protest.

“I suck at yearbooks.”

He chuckled mischeiviously and said, “Just wait.”

I was finished within a matter or minutes, and spent the rest of the time wandering the empty classroom. I paced.

It was odd. An empty classroom. Everyone had gone to a different class to watch a movie or ditched. It was, afterall, the very last day of school.

At long last, he finished, and as much as I wanted to read it, I didn’t. My cheeks burned at what I had written.

“Where to?” he questioned.

My shoulders slumped. “Idunno.”

Guidance by his invisible thread I was pulled through the quiet hallways. Empty lockers stood, cold and propped open with air unattained by books.

His smile was open. “Which class?”

It was nice, him by my side; didn’t even need words to fill the blank spots. But we seperated.

I wanted a movie, he chose people.

Howdy, Wait.. What?

2008-06-22T08:58:59Z

His words chimed in my head softly, but loud enough to startle me offgaurd at the randomest moments. I had to remind myself that he had a girlfriend, on the he used the L word with. And meant it.

Early morning he slid into the desk in front of me. My eyes focused. No one talked to me in this class.

He held out his hand for some sort of handshake thingy. With admirable patience he guided me threw it. I briefly wondered if all the slaps and claps and miscalleaneous gestures were measley excuses for him to touch my hand.

“No,” I said simply, when he was done.

“No?” He was happier today.

I shook my head, grinning still.

“God, you’re pretty amazing.”

I hung my head, blocking my enormous smile from his view. But embarressment shook my ribs and fluttered my intestines. Friend. Friend. Friend.

He took my movement as discouragement and he too, hung his head. Only his acting was dramatic and well staged.

“These feelings aren’t mutual!” he cried.

“What?” I asked. Friend?

Dear Lola, I'm Sorry

2008-06-21T23:21:34Z

His words were deadly when they were angry. I inhaled deeply, letting the essenece of paint and clay fill my senses.

Not even a full five minutes later, he stomped his way back over. I kept my eyes down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pulled at your hair clip and I shouldn’t have ruined your picture and I shouldn’t have been so mean.”

I nodded, a bit numb with shock.

“I like your hair better,” he complimented.

“Thanks,” I mumbled. Why was it so warm in here?

“I really do hate you, though,” he warned, arching his eyebrows. I played with the cubbie-like cabinets behind me. Open, close.

“Okay,” I allowed.

“No, I don’t,” he paused, rolled his eyes, and then continued, “Okay, maybe I do. Is it okay if I hate you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t. Well, can you hate and love someone?”

“Yes.”

He grinned. “Okay, but I like you, I really do.”

I shrugged my shoulders in reply and he sifted through people’s still soggy watercolorings.

The bell rang irritably and we stood slowly.

Hello, I'm Not Here

2008-06-21T16:10:56Z

“Oh, what, you don’t like pepperoni?” His hands were throw up towards the heavens.

“I can’t be saved,” I said.

“Do you believe in God, Jade?”

“Nope,” I puckered my lips, “My name isn’t jade either.”

“What the fuck,” he sounded angry.

I glanced at him through my bangs. Uhoh. He was definitely angry.

“My name is Lola Friday,” I bobbed my head with each word.

“No, it’s not. What the hell are you talking about?!” He shook his head in disgust.

“I’d appreciate it if you called me Lola,” I said with a wistful look at an empty fishtank.

“You’re completely absurd,” he bit every word, “Lola.”

I smiled.

“What’s your favorite month, Lola?”

“October,” I said, not missing a beat.

He stood up fast and steady. “I hate you, Lola, you’re a motherfucker.”

“Casper,” I said apology on my tongue.

And with that, he stormed toawrds the other side of the room, not a single glance back.

So I crawled my way even farther back, behind the drying racks, and pulled up my knees, and waited.

Hi, I'm 'the Favorite'

2008-06-21T06:47:04Z

“What’s your favorite color, Jade?”

I looked back down at the trippy swirls we had accomplished, pulled out of my quest to find a pulsing muscle in a box of metal. “I don’t have favorites.”

“Favorite food? person? place? No favorite?” His jaw was about to hit the floor.

“No,” I said simply, a small laugh in my short reply.

We sank to the floor, close enough to touch but not actually touching.

“What about you?” I peered at him sideways, counting the ceiling tiles. “Favooorite color?”

“It depends,” he said, stroking his chin.

“For instance,” he went on, “right now, I feel very.. neon. Like neon green.”

I looked him over, bright eyes, green headband and shirt.

“No shit.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Favorite food.”

“Easy, pizza.” He didn’t hesitate. We weren’t asking anymore, we were telling. I was starting to realize ever since we met, there had never been any boundaries.

“What kind?” Food was a tricky, picky subject.

“Pepperoni.”

I scrunched my nose in distaste

Hey, Have You Seen Me?

2008-06-21T06:35:07Z

“Madison,” he said slowly.

“Mmh,” I mulled that over, “What’s she like?”

The teacher threatened Shane irritably, for ruining yet another desk with safety scissor carvings.

“She’s one of those people who thinks she’s the nicest person ever but-”

“Until they leave the room,” I mutttered darkly and grabbed a Sharpie.

“-really is a bitch, because everyone’s a bitch. It’s all only skin deep.”

“And the ‘l’ word?” I asked, “was that only skin deep?”

“No,” he said.

My silence left him reaching for something safe to compromise upon.

“Well, how ‘bout… muscle deep?”

I gave a bitter laugh and replied teasingly, “You’re supposed to mean it all the way to your heart—past the muscle and bone, right to the core.”

“I did?” He sighed. “I don’t have a heart.”

I rolled my eyes and flicked a marker cap at him, “Shuttup.”

I rest my chin in the cup of my hand, looking at him, really looking at him this time; trying to see in him, see if I could find a heart in two human eyes.

Hi, Who Are You?

2008-06-19T22:53:43Z

“I’m serious,” he said, raising his thin eyebrows.

“I know,” I replied, and sniffed my short hair.

God, I hated talking about Jack. I hated talking about that whole damn family but it just seemed to come up like vomit.

“Do you use the ‘l’ word?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw him look down.

I chuckled sadly, “Do you use the ‘z’ word?”

“Zipper?” he mocked with fake awe.

“Shh,” I teased, “Don’t say that so loud.. The ‘l’ word?”

He drew cirlces on the center of the flower.

“Oh,” it hit me, “Love?”

He drew a smiley on my thin hand.

“No.”

“I knew it!” he said, looking very much like a five year old on christmas morning.

“Do you?” I asked, skeptic and wanting something against him.

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?” I tried to keep the dissapointment out of my voice.

Hi, My Name Is _Jack

2008-06-19T22:43:37Z

I messed with my bangs a bit and then finally looked at him. It was hard to be unhappy around him; those blue eyes and platinum hair just radiated summer.

“Sally’s older brother. Ahem.” I looked down, waiting for the big OMG .

“What?!” See, I told you.

I scribbled some more before he abruptly pulled a bobby pin out of my bangs, demanding my attention.

” Why’d you do that?” I turned, angry.

“That’s so stupid, you even color coordinated it with your hair bow.” He grimaced.

“No, I didn’t,” I defended, pivoting, hand on my hip, “I found it on my bed and my bangs were irritating, so I just-

“So, Sally’s older brother?”

I grimaced, turned back to my paper and whispered confirmation in a name.

He repeated it and I fought the urge to punch something. “I used to chill with that kid. He’s a motherfucker.”

My eyes fluttered, “What, are you saying he’s a jackass?”

“He can be, everyone can be. The truth is, everyone’s a motherfucker,” he said solemnly.

“Baha,” I guwaffed in agreement.