Marcelle is attractive.
Marcelle is a football player.
Marcelle is cliché.
Marcelle is a wolf in sheep clothing.
Marcelle is a Christmas fanatic.
Marcelle is just downright annoying.
Matthew Griffin is a certified theatre geek/video game nerd. And...
❝Christmas was on its way. Lovely, glorious, beautiful Christmas, upon which the entire kid year revolved.❞
Adult Ralphie A Christmas Story
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Matthew is never spontaneous.
He struggles to comprehend a state of surprise, especially when he feels something towards another. He doesn't quite grasp surprises or why they are so magnificent. To be surprised is to be shocked, but not angry. Surprising someone is elevating their heartbeat and opening them up to an entire new medical universe of heart failure. No one needs that.
But he's done minoring himself, because he can be happy too.
It's time that he unravels his life and turn it into art and deco. a) He has to get his best friend back. b) He has to proclaim what he loves. c) He has to visit his mother and crack the crispy air between them.
d) He needs to stop making lists, because he's slowly driving himself into a state of general insanity.
Matthew collects pebbles between the silky grass sheets, slowly progressing to the backyard of the unarmed Grey house. The double story, mason-stoned house poises on its ground with subtle boasting, such as the crystal glass sheets and silk curtains you can see from the outside.
What fascinated him about the short girl with the Pippy-long-stockings style braids wasn't her whip-long hair, but her original surname pronunciation. Her surname was never Grey up until a recent translation, it used to be Grijs. [He's not particularly sure if that was a real word or not, but the family fixed it short after to grease the rusty life they had.]
Then again, his surname is related to a house in Harry Potter, so how could he complain?
Marcelle's window pane is just out of his sight, timidly hiding behind the rest of the broad, big Miami house. There is no German heritage on the outside of the house anymore, Olga killed all the pretty rainbow plants with weed killers the second their father showed symptoms of cheating. He remembers how he helped her kill the plants, all because her father loved gardening.
Now she loves gardening weeds of horrible memories.
He collects a wax-coated pebble from the forest of railroad rocks crusting what used to be the garden. He needs pebbles smaller than a broken bone, but larger than a black eye, yet he finds himself in quite the pickle: it's darker out than Macbeth and his vision is strong enough to see a pencil as a piece of floss.
He rounds up to Marcelle's window, counting exactly three windows from the corner. The windows are only black tiles against the speckled walls, prohibiting the entrance of light. Marcelle's window is shut, but shards of light slice on the patchy grass.
