his two thousand deaths + l.h

six

VI
08·30·14

According to Luke Hemmings himself, it was the obvious allusion of his last name to Ernest Hemingway's that convinced him that his life's calling was to be a writer.

He told Pin  the story when he was fourteen, lounging at the sofa with his older brothers, a show he didn't admit to willingly watch apparently mentioned something about how the surname of an English teacher, Fitz, was a shorthand of Fitzgerald. It was Jack, one of his brothers, who pointed out that Hemmings would work as Hemingway's counterpart and since then, Luke said that he took it as an omen.

Having been that kid who tried too hard to not be like everyone else, he said he took pride in the trivial fact and pursued writing just to differentiate himself. By the time he was fifteen, he had done more growing up within a year than he had in the previous fourteen all because of it. He found commitment from a family friend's local publishing press which only marketed an area five miles around the headquarters but still, he was positive that it was a start.

He was published by fifteen, having sold twelve copies which he himself plugged in bookstores and coffee shops, until he had the guts to send the manuscript to every suiting agency he could find.

Out of thirty-seven mails, only four came back and half of them were denial letters. But two actual people were interested and Luke said that he didn't even mind that they were white. He settled in one, Argent and Co., and that’s how two years later, he was based in California.

“That’s... that’s actually quite inspiring,” Pin laughed. “Kinda racist, but inspiring.”

“Oh, Aspyn. You did not just say that.” Luke sighed, shaking his head, “I personally have no sympathy for white Americans who have everything handed—“

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Just please shut up.” Pin rolled her eyes, expecting another one of his hour-long lectures with more detours than her fingers.

“Just because you’re white...” Luke mumbled under his breath, fidgeting with the ends of the table cloth, making Pin glare at him.

“How many times should I tell you Luke that I’m not freaking white—“

“Can you please stop bickering?” Ophelia whined, pressing her index fingers to her temples. She’s been acting like she’s in the middle of recovering from a hangover with her weird oil cravings and constant whining.

 “Ophelia,” Pin warned, lowering her voice as if she was in position of authority over her aunt, “Did you drink last night?”

She looked up at them shyly, momentarily flinching from the sunlight, whispering silently, “Yes.”

Pin glared at her. Pin and Ophelia had made a deal about drinking, regardless of whether it was a formal event or not, and they fully expected each other to comply considering Ophelia’s father-in-law and Pin’s grandfather died of liver cancer. Pin was prepared to give her a lecture but Luke beat her to chastising the only considerable adult in their circle.

“You drank?” Luke asked, raising his voice and leaning over the table.

“I—I did—“

“And you didn’t think of inviting me?” Luke hissed, squinting down at her. Pin’s eyes widened before it easily turned to slits towards Luke.

“Well, don’t encourage her!”

“I’m not trying to!” Luke defended, flinching away when Pin slapped his arm. “I’m sorry but honestly, Aspyn, you’re chastising someone twice your age.”