New Adult Contemporary Romantic Suspense
This story is about Abram, a hopeless romantic who enrolls into college and begins leaving love notes for the girl, Jec, who works at the front desk of his student apartments. About why they know each other when neither have even met. That's right, she had seen his face only two weeks earlier, when he tossed his book bag in the middle of the street, holding up traffic like a mad homeless man. But what she doesn't know is that just before he came to grab his keys to move in, the handsome albeit strange eyes and the person they belong to had just been released from the county jail.
The jail cell talk without any cameras around to record make his last 51 minutes in the pen with a sketchy bunkmate a do or die conversation that may explain why he became homeless, why he wrote the love letters in the first place, and if both were random at all.
I lazily connect my last sentence with the next, saying “Jec, for short”.
He pauses, then shakes his head and asks “What if I want to call you something different?”
I meet his eyes with a stare of my own, slow to respond, blink, and say “It will be okay Abram.” His face scrunches for a moment and his eyes look as though he is wondering straight through me. My glance falls deeper into the hole of an eye, and I see a marble in the night, the dark side of a full moon, which can be plucked right out of the sky to place a piece of the void heaven filled should I grab it and tuck it into my pocket.
The ascension falling as the walls collapse to drop a cloud in his ear, a long fiber weaves my wonder, wherefore out there did he discover?
And I conceived a thought of a single droplet, enough months from now, falling into a gravitationally absent drip time has lost, and him not.
Before I can tell if he eased his facial expression, he walks off keys in hand without another word.
“See, I told you. Killer” Bobby says flatly, and I just return to checking my emails.
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A day with (you) behind the scenes.
Washed up, I put my socks on one foot at a time just like anybody would. It humbles me to know that I’ve got the same twenty-four hours as everybody else, and I’m most likely doing the same thing, nearly at the same time as many other people in the world. But those darn socks keep me on my toes because I can only choose one pair dang it, and boy do I like each pair of socks I buy. In my head, I know it’s going to be the first decision I’ve made of the day, and what is life but a whole bunch of decisions? Can’t start it by getting this one wrong. So I settle on the navy blue with sky blue pokey dots, determined to let these bad boys shine every time I sit down like they were meant to when I bought them. I say, “maybe next time” to the fuchsia pokey dots, don’t want to hurt them too bad today. Then I complete my wardrobe game, slap some peanut butter on a slice of bread, and bask in the peanut buttery goodness of thought while I grab my keys, throw my lunchbox filled with one of the ready-made jars of lunch in my book bag, and unlock my bicycle. I hook a left out of the driveway on my two-wheeled roadster and feel a slight tug on the bottom of my pants. Dang it, too busy thinking about what I want to write next, I forgot to tuck my right pant leg into my sock. So I slow to a stop, tuck it in, think somebody in a car is going to get a nice preview of these bad boys though, and I’m off.
I’m standing on the pedals as the bike handles slightly sway from side to side, making the morning journey look both athletic as well as smooth. Then I punch a clock for eight hours. The glass is everywhere. I mean, there is a zero percent probability that this clock could ever be rebuilt. What can I say? That timekeeper had been giving me the stink eye for a while now, and I warned it to stop looking at me so funny, or else.
When I get home, I have no remorse for that clock whatsoever. I immediately dive into the computer screen. I crawl out a while later, jog for about thirty minutes or an hour (depending on how close I am to my five hour of jogging a week goal), and dive back in for a bit before din-din. Washed up, I put a pillow over my head and turn onto my stomach when I’m ready to stop thinking about either, my writing or the next pair of socks I’ll choose, and lose consciousness.
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Jeremy lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado. He grew up in the south Atlanta area, where he eventually earned a football scholarship to Duke University. After experiencing enough life to form his own opinions, he enjoys sharing some with friends, reading, watching fantasy thriller and romance films, listening to music, and jogging when he is not writing. He writes new adult fiction.
Jeremy would love to hear from you. Follow him on Twitter @JTRingfield, friend him on Facebook, or visit his webpage at www.jeremytringfield.com
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