Unwritten

Task Two: ☀ Entries ☀

☀ Brendan James Johnson ☀

Chemistry: The key to any love story and the prerequisite to making a scene turn hot. The thing that makes a reader turn every page and feel a pit of fire in their stomach, panting with jealousy as they picture every moment of passion.

Luxurious is not a word Brendan would use to describe his room at the resort. In fact, it looks like his dorm, almost, if it were stretched out just enough to fit a double bed rather than a single, and had an actual closet rather than some wardrobe pressed up against the wall. Even the walls are the same boring off-white, so barely beige that Brendan can't quite tell if the room is meant to be this colour or the walls are just really dirty. He's not sure which would be better, either; someone would have to be horribly bad taste to choose this colour.

Briefly, his mind flashes to the people who arrived to the resort in pairs. Do they each have their own rooms, or are they stuck together, sharing a small room just like this one. The thought of couples, cramped together in a double bed, invites a twinge of jealousy into his heart, but Brendan chases it away. It's only a matter of time until he finds true love. Or at least, he thinks it is.

"Alright, BJ," he mutters. "Time to write. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"

He sits at the corner desk and pulls out his laptop, opening the document labelled Hoe Down and stares at the blank page before him. None of the facilities interest him; BJ has always written his best work by himself. All he wants is a new view from out his window, and the ocean outside is doing wonderfully. He's no expert, but it looks much better than the brick and concrete of London, despite the millions of stories that could live in each building. He's imagined them, already. Now, he wants an infinity before him, his to define. His to tell.

The words unblock themselves, and the western love story falls onto the page without Brendan having to do anything. This is how he likes his writing to happen, as though he weren't there. As though he's sitting, watching the story unfold before him, and he's doing nothing but witnessing it, jotting it down as it unfurls before him. He's a voyeur, looking into the romances of the couple before him, and sharing them with the whole world.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Bryce Jamieson, but most people call me BJ. I just moved here from the city."

"Fittin' name."

"Thanks. What's yours?"

"John Woods. 'Course, most people call me Long John Woods, or they call me nothin'. Which do you plan on bein'?"

"The former, definitely, Sir. I mean Long John. Bet that's fitting too."

"Trust me, boy, it's more fittin' than you can handle."

Brendan sees him standing on his bed – Long John, that is. He looks just like in BJ's imagination, tall and covered in rippling muscles, the type that could bounce his chest when the mood takes him. He wears blue jeans and a cowboy hat, and a messy kind of stubble that coats his face and would definitely scratch against any skin it might rub. Beard against bare flesh, hands gripping into pristine white sheets, gasps and moans ringing into the midnight air. It's the kind of mess that fills a bed, the kind of chaos that knocks down a wooden shack – but it stands. Somehow. It'd mesmerize him, if he could think about it, but his mind is elsewhere. It's in each nerve, electrified and tingling. It's in Long John's skin, too, which feels like part of his own right now. He can almost feel both their pleasure, both their thrill. He can feel everything, at the same time, and yet it's so overwhelming that he feels nothing, too. It's as though he's escaped his body, but he's never been more aware of it either.