Sometimes you are dealt a funny hand. I’m on a plane as I write this, using my old, out-of-date laptop, which functions only as a portable word processor. It’s dark outside and there is turbulence. I’m sitting on a very large plane (the brochure to explain the safety of this craft labels it as a [...]
stories for boys
You are currently viewing the monthly archives for March 2009
Monthly Archives March 2009
. . .
Stephanie had some issues.
The only other story I know about her paints her in a less sympathetic light. This might help explain why, even if I had known about her feelings toward me, I would have tried my hardest to keep a safe distance. She was driving on the interstate somewhere around town. Going? Coming? [...]
. . .
The last party we attend is odd. The climate, the atmosphere is weird to me, not the actual party. There are a lot of details that take me by surprise. Things that are probably alike all over, but I’ve never noticed. Of course, to be honest, I don’t have a lot to go on in [...]
. . .
Since then, I’ve read articles, interviews, people talking about things that blew their mind as they grew up, developed as a person. Drugs, music, art, other people. This was what blew my mind. This was my version of the story. Nothing has ever hit me as hard as this realization. I’m sure my age and [...]
. . .
There is a boy running around the party with his shoes off. He is drunk. He looks a bit hippie-like. I don’t know if he had taken them off to prove something to someone or to feel more at home. His pair of Birkenstocks sit in a corner, hastily thrown off, clumsily stacked.
. . .
It is a weird party. I know that is easy to say, but it really is. The house apparently belongs to a bunch of theater students. And as stereotypes go, they are theater students. It isn’t simply the black clothes or the dyed hair. I know enough of those to not be phased. It is [...]
. . .
There is a blonde girl in the corner. Blonde for me implies I find her attractive. But in this case, it isn’t her hair. Not that she is unattractive. She is one of those people my friends and I argue over exactly how she rates on whatever scale we are using that week to measure [...]
. . .
I hate spell-checkers. I’m sitting here, typing away, a happy little boy. Every once in a while, my fingers will slip; my mind will want a word it doesn’t remember how to spell. And I’ll type it the way I recall it being, press enter and a nice little red bar appears under the word, [...]
. . .
I leave the party to walk this girl home. She is attractive, but I have no ulterior motives. She is wasted and had been flashing people. I feel bad for her. I know, somehow (and as sure as I am, I’m also sure I am wrong) that she will regret it all in the morning. [...]
. . .
“When in Rome . . . “
