literature
Whether written centuries ago or just last year, literary couples show that love is timeless.
Stranger on a Bus
A Guy is on a bus, the same bus he rides at the same time to the same place from the same place while in the same seat just like he does every day. He's listening to music on his headphones while he hides from the world around him under the hood he pulls over his head every day, just enough to fake being asleep because it falls just short of his eyebrows. The Guy's hood head leans off to the side resting carelessly on the worn window of the public transportation bus, almost exactly below a terribly drawn heart that's been etched in by an elderly artist named Earl, but his friends called him Gus, with Parkinson's disease, dedication, and entirely too much time unsupervised on the bus for someone with his trend of mischievous behavior... or at least Guy likes to imagine that's how it got there. Guy imagines a lot, like how many others have stared through the window fantasizing about the impossible in the very same seat as him? Why the seat was so warm when he sat down? Especially during October, and what kind of person has butt heat like that? Was it a medical condition they should probably get looked into? Did they already know about it?
By Jayson Rich8 years ago in Humans
Memoirs of a Depressed Girl Part One
hen I was seventeen years old, I tried killing myself. Only my family and a few close friends know my secret. It's not something I like to share. That particular time in my life was in all honesty, hell. I hated my life. I hated my job. I hated my friends. I hated my family. I hated my boyfriend. And most of all, I hated me.
By Jennifer Rubey8 years ago in Humans
Retribution: Chapter 33
Marianne sat in front of the mirror in Hélène’s bedroom while Hélène arranged her hair. The morning before, she had washed it using egg yolks and then sat outside in the sun to let it dry. Lemon juice had been drizzled into her hair before she let it dry outside to bring out its golden highlights. Today, she had spent several hours in wave clamps and curlers. Hélène twisted each curl, stiff and sticky from permanent wave lotion, and pinned to Marianne’s head. The rest of her golden hair rippled in exaggerated waves.
By Rachel Lesch8 years ago in Humans
Paper Towns and the Unrequited Complex
My name is Hannah, and I am an English major, so be prepared for a really strange perspective. Yesterday, as I sat among my fellow English majors in my Eighteenth-Century British Novel class with the Austrailian professor, a little part of me broke. Earlier that morning, I'd texted a friend of mine from high school - ya know, one of those coulda, shoulda, woulda if he liked me back kinda friends.
By Hannah Kay8 years ago in Humans
I Leave You With This
She was the last thing I clearly thought about before I died. Every detail was precise; creating a phantom of her next to me that I knew I couldn’t actually touch. I couldn’t trace the crescent-like lining of her vitiligo that peaks from above her left ear, trailing towards between her lips to the back of the right side of her jaw, or kiss her after. I couldn’t wipe the tears from her spectral eyes and I couldn’t say goodbye. I knew this was going to happen, that they would kill me, so I planned ahead. She’ll find my letters and she’ll have me in her hands. I rather her treasure me as paper than as a memory of my limp and empty shell. She’ll find my letters.
By Troi Speaks8 years ago in Humans
