They're in the garden. It's summer, and greenflies are in abundance. They are children, barely toddlers, with no sense of identity, save for the friendships they had. They spilled juice and laughed until they cried. Here, they are happy with eachother, whilst their parents are in the shade and talked over their heads.
They're in her bedroom, now. She's telling secrets and he's laughing at misfortune. She laughs, too, clutching her favourite toy. They are children, protesting against haircuts, begging for pets, insisting they are mature. Their parents talked still, mothers with their glasses of wine and fathers with the tv in the background. They think they are lucky children, strong, resilient children. Children who's limit is the sky, full of ambition. She hopes to be a nurse, he a doctor. They want to stay linked for life.
They're at the park. She sits on the swings and he's next to her. There are other children, barely toddlers, guided by their parents. They plan their futures together, promising the world to eachother. They assured themselves their friendship was strong and true. How could it not be? They talked, they played, they shared toys and food. He joked, she laughed, he laughed more. She gave him bracelets and he kept them as treasures.
It's colder now, and they've grown into teenagers. She has blonde hair, he has brown. She sits on the bench, and he's next to her. He tells her about his girlfriend whilst she hides her face. She tells him about her boyfriend, and she heard his voice break. She adds a bracelet to his wrist. He gives her her favourite sweets. They are quiet. The world stops, horrified, when they share the separate collages they'll move to. The wind cried with the injustice. Childhood friends promise eachother to keep in touch, call twice a week. She cries on the phone on moving day.
They are in their gardens. She has her cats, he has his dogs. They reminisce and promise eachother they will return. Time stretches when they are apart. The bracelets fade in colour, the flowers wilt and grow anew in the summer. The trees blossom and mourn in the winter. She tells herself it was never meant to be. He tells himself she was an angel.
YOU ARE READING
wet mug. as opposed to a dry mug
Randomthese are a collection of story starters that i just want to put somewhere. the first one was written on here. please give me feedback, im a big boy i can handle it. tws will be given when necessary cover art is from something on etsy? called "blank...
