I Ain't the Worst That You Seen (Hopefully): My Fiction

First things first: my ever-so-fashionable and witty lil sis (whose thoughts were featured in this post), has started her own blog.  She loves reality TV and is quite awesome, so follow her, please!

So in addition to ripping on pop culture, dissecting movies, and befriending Jeremy Sisto, I also write YA fiction that doesn't involve vampires.  No agent yet, but I'm working on it.  I started this blog as a way to indulge my love of pop culture and create another writing channel--one with feedback more positive and detailed than "thanks, this isn't for us."

Though apparently I don't totally suck, as this place is going to pay me to work on my novel for two weeks in February.

I've had readers ask if they could read some of my fiction.  As it happens, two weeks ago I wrote a short piece for this contest.  I didn't win, but I was pretty happy with what I came up with.  It's a self-contained story, and it's already online (therefore I'm not paranoid someone will steal it) so I thought I'd share it.

NOTE: this is a highly atypical post. Regular snarkage will continue next week.

A little background: the prompt for the contest was 500 words or less from a teenager's secret diary or a letter they never sent.

Enjoy.

If only Levon hadn't worn that red grandpa cardigan.


Now I'm stressing whether Taylor will flay me with their recently-expelled fetus.


I need to write this down, even though circumstantial evidence probably isn't a good idea. Like what just happened.


I wish I could say "he's like my brother." We were together in the nursery, grew up singing the Elton John songs we were named for, alongside parents who'd been the oldest in Lamaze class, shot up from faithful story hour-goers to high school employees at the library.


But I was convinced that we were meant to be. Who else sounded as retro compatible as Levon and Harmony?


Then came Taylor, who preferred Cosmo to Tolkien. Taylor, who we liked anyway. Taylor, who found herself knocked up and didn't need Maury to prove that Levon was the father.


I went along for the nine-month ride. What else could a virginal third wheel do? And Taylor was grateful to confide in me when her boobs hurt.


That night was the first time Levon and I were trusted to close the library alone. Taylor was home, about to pop.


While I picked up discarded hardcovers, I listened to him heave up the ancient stereo hidden behind the circulation desk. Crap. Why did he have to pick that song? Out of all the Beach Boys, he had to choose the prayer of unrequited lovelust.


"Wouldn't it be nice if we were older, and we wouldn't have to wait so long/
and wouldn't it be nice to live together, in the kinda world where we belong?"


"I wish that every kiss was neeeeeeeverending," Levon crooned along. In the fluorescent light, I could see lines on his forehead that weren't there last year.


"Harmony!" I turned around. "Why ya running away?"


I held up the book.


He told me to put it down. "We always wanted to be all alone in the library." Levon spread his arms wide, banging his elbow on the newspaper carrel.


I rushed over, gingerly rolling up his sleeve, not even sure what I was supposed to be looking for.


His hand covering mine should have set off the security alarms.


What happened next was like flipping crisp new pages of text: stumbling to the windowless genealogy section, the tight space, the big gap in experience.


The swirl of "this is exactly how it's supposed to be" blending into "this is the worst thing we could possibly be doing." I wasn't sure which one was right, if there was a right feeling at all.


By the time Levon's cell beeped, the Beach Boys had moved on to "Barbara Ann" and we weren't looking at each other.


Taylor's water broke.


He started pulling on his clothes. He left the cardigan spread out on the floor facedown, and caught my eye with a glance I couldn't read. Asked if I'd be okay.


I swallowed. Nodded.


The heavy door slammed. Goosebumps broke out on my bare skin.


The closest thing was the red cardigan, but I didn't touch it.

NOTE2: HEY LITERARY AGENTS! Like what you see?  There's more where that came from!  Email me at maybeimamazed02[at]yahoo[dot]com.