Story cover for storytellers by chloegenevieve
storytellers
  • WpView
    Reads 56
  • WpVote
    Votes 4
  • WpPart
    Parts 2
  • WpHistory
    Time 5 minutes
  • WpView
    Reads 56
  • WpVote
    Votes 4
  • WpPart
    Parts 2
  • WpHistory
    Time 5 minutes
Ongoing, First published Oct 15, 2014
Brent Lawrence has known Dani Brooks since the fourth grade, when he showed up on her doorstep with a bouquet of pink roses on Valentine's Day. But before he could explain that it was a "welcome to the neighborhood" gift, he had them slapped out of his hands. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Dani had screamed. And then Brent had turned around and sprinted back across the street, tripping over his shoelaces in his driveway, and slamming his front door closed, leaving the tattered roses behind, where they still sat, scattered across Dani's front porch, the next morning.

Now, Brent and Dani are sophomores, and they haven't exchanged words since the fourth grade. But when Dani finds pink roses on her doorstep on Valentine's Day, an hour before the Valentine's Dance, four words turn into billions.
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Accidently in love

9 parts Complete Mature

Hello dear people, here I am again. This is a new attempt to bring the chaos and ideas in my head to (digital) paper in a story about friendship, courage, and hope for true love. Trigger Warning: May contain traces of smut, coarse language, mentions of homophobia, illness, and death. --- **The Changing Seasons** Meeting you was like spring. Sun rays, the first green, and delicate blooms of a feeling I thought the snow and cold had buried. Getting to know you was like summer. I began to burn for you, more and more each day, each meeting like a mild evening by the lake that never wanted to end. Seeing you with her was like autumn. The strength that slowly but steadily leaves the leaves. The hope that crumbles and lies on the rain-wet ground. Losing you was like winter. Cold and icy, seemingly never-ending, swallowing every light. And when I thought I'd find joy in the snow masses, they turned into gray, slippery mud. Here comes spring again, hope blossoms anew, only to be torn apart once more.