𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐈𝐈𝐈

• 3 •

Some people read self help books when what they really need is a lobotomy manual. Keenan Travino is one of them.

The nice Saturday afternoon and Keenan's mood contrast like light and dark. Ruby and I arrived at around 1:30 and were left to chat in the study as Keenan ate his late lunch which happened to be a two-day old burrito. Despite having maids and butlers who can cook for him, a loaded fridge and pantry, and all equipment for cooking different meals, he opted for microwaved Mexican food.

Ruby and I fan-girled over the thousands of books the man had on his wooden shelves. The library is as big as the living room, and that says a lot. The center comprises of his sturdy, big brown desk. A homey looking conversation area sat before it and around the cluster of furniture were bookshelves in front of bookshelves. Two were dedicated to self help books—the best of the best titles. I found myself wondering just how many books he's read in his library. Maybe he just collects.

At exactly 2 PM, the five students were gathered in the book room. Jessica sat on Slater's lap who sat on a dark red chaise lounge. They were flirting like a couple on their honeymoon despite being three years into their relationship already. Adil was walking through the gaps of Keenan's collection, hands occasionally pulling out books to read descriptions. Ruby had already chosen one she prefers, settled on a chair, crossed her short legs, and dove into the pages. I, on the other hand, was near Keenan's desk, half-tempted to snoop due to the heavy curiosity on my back.

When the large wooden doors of the room sounded, I stepped away from his table. He's in a grumpy mood today, more tetchy than the first time I saw him which was a week ago. He strode in, sex on legs and all.

He glared at Jess and Slater, "Detach," he ordered. The woman scrambled to her feet and put her hands behind her back.

Mr. Travino rolled the long sleeves of his gray sweater to his elbows before grabbing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He slipped a brown stick in between his lips and pulled out a lighter from the same patch, lighting the cancer stick.

"Creativity," he began before blowing out smoke, "If you want to become a writer and you don't have it, you're pretty much fucked—thoroughly," he glanced at Adil, "Exhaustively," to Ruby, "Rigorously," he glared at the couple, "Fucked," his eyes settled on me.

F-Fucked?

"Let's have a little activity," spoke the man, "The person to fail is the person to piss me off."

I walked to Ruby, sitting on the armrest of her seat. Our shadows on the floor were the result of the blinding sunlight from the massive windows behind us.

"Adlib," his head turned to Adil, "Think of three random things."

Adlib looked confused, though not at all pressured. He shook his head slowly as he talked, physically racking his brain, "Bird, smoothie, cellphone."

Travino's next words were as comical as they were random, "A bird drinking a smoothie while he plays on his cellphone."

The five of us exchanged looks, mine asking if Keenan Travino is berserk.

"Gigi," he sent me a pointed look and air caught in my lungs, "Three words."

I blurted out the first three inanimate objects that popped into my head, "Cigarette, train, book."

"Book burnt by a cigarette on a train," he muttered, yet again another random linking between the words he received.

He walked slowly towards his desk, resting against its edge as he mimicked Thomas the train with the gray clouds from his mouth. He spoke some more, "Creativity's biggest hindrance is judgement. It's very easy to reject an idea after initial perspicacity, but that crazy and silly idea might be your best one yet," makes sense, "Strangeness interests people. Mundanes don't like reading the same shit over and over again. They'll get bored eventually."