stories by definition
tsun·do·ku 積ん読 noun (Japanese)
They said she should open a book store, but she didn't want to.
They said “You love to be surrounded by books so much, a bookstore is the perfect place to do that!”
But she didn't want to.
If she owned a bookstore, that would mean selling her books. Letting them go.
She was surrounded by books because she desired to have them. And they, her.
a·wash /əˈwôSH,əˈwäSH/ adjective
“This is how much I love you!”
It was like the book they'd read to me as a child. A baby bunny and her mama bunny. Love so big it dared to be contained in the pages of the book. Or was it a human child and human mother? Maybe the love was in fact so gargantuan that it defied species in my mind, and it mixed and mingled and swirled with all the other books I read in childhood.
dal·li·ance /ˈdalēəns/ noun
“Aha! I say,” The alabaster man in the top hat chortled. “Yes, this was a grand idea, to give folks five day instead of seven day work-weeks.”
“Indubitably, my good man,” The other, chalkier fellow responded, equally top-hatted. “Now that the fine citizens of these United States have two days a week to go out into the world with their families, they will spend so much more of their money!”
/pak(t)/ noun
“So you know how we made that pact at 15 that when we lived in the same city again we’d go on our road trip?”
Rhea just stared at the woman standing across from her on the front doorstep, trekking dirt onto the otherwise clean welcome mat. The woman wore boots that could have been a homeless man’s second-to-worst pair of shoes and sunglasses that were more expensive than any pair Rhea owned.
“Well, I’m back!”
spi·ral·ing /ˈspī-rəl-ēŋ/ verb
Hands tapping, fingers flying over keys. Brow furrowed, shoulders hunched. Writing is art, art is pain, pain is life. Yes, yes, YES!
He’s done it. He. Has. Done. It. Completed. Kaput.
His masterpiece. His magnum opus. The best thing he will ever create, the thing he’s been working toward his whole life, his whole existence.
And yet.
ca·dence /ˈkādns/ noun
It was Thursday night, which meant Family Dinner, which meant Gabby would have to come clean. Her twin sister, Arielle, already knew, and had promised under threat of blackmail not to tell. It was Gabby's news to share.
“So, Arielle, any fun plans for the weekend?” their mother, Patricia, asked breezily as she passed the dish of sautéed spinach across the table to the eldest twin. Since they'd turned sixteen a year ago, their parents had rewarded Arielle — and begrudgingly, Gabby — with a greater sense of freedom and autonomy. Though as their mom, Betty, liked to jokingly threaten, “privileges can be revoked at any time.” So far, that time hadn't come, and the twins intended to keep it that way. Well, had intended, anyway.
/stôrm/ noun
Content warning: suicide, language
I learned the hard way that I am my biggest enemy, the biggest monster under my bed, the biggest boogie man in my closet. No one else. Just me.
/depTH/ noun
Content warning: violence, language
5:57am. Saturday, August 2nd. 54 degrees Fahrenheit. Still air.
A rusty metal pole. Faded ‘76’ and ‘45’ lettered near the top in yellow paint. Cigarette butts scattered at its base.
A woman, leaning, waiting. Hands in the pockets of her oversized half-zipped hoodie. Low cut v-neck cropped tank underneath. Jean shorts cut off at her upper thighs, ripped hems. Scuffed black and white sneakers. One foot scraping back and forth on the pavement, shredding the cigarette remains through pure friction.
5:58.
Another girl walks up the sidewalk toward the bus stop. She’s dressed in scrubs. A high schooler, part of the hospital’s teen summer intern program.
The woman has been expecting her.
di·chot·o·my /dīˈkädəmē/ noun
Content warning: language
They last got their nails done together four years ago. After a summer of lemonade stands, saved allowance, and nagging their parents, Merry and Kelly's moms finally agreed the best friends could get manicures before the start of eighth grade.
It was surprisingly chilly for August. But it wasn't even lunch yet, so Merry didn't overthink the slight breeze. She strode up to the salon on the outer wall of the local mall, hyper-focusing on what color she'd choose for her first-ever manicure: fuchsia…or hot pink. She'd grown out her nails carefully for the past month. The start of eighth grade was her one chance to make a statement. It was practically high school. It would basically set her up for life, really.
char·i·ot /ˈCHerēət/ noun
This is a love story.
The girl sits alone in her room. She's supposed to be working from home, but it's been one of those days. The kind where she feels hopeless and lost, unmotivated and out of ideas. She got up to go to the bathroom and ended up scrolling through 30 second videos for an hour, and then only pushed herself up out of that daze to download an app advertised to her after the 200th video she watched (give or take).
Her partner works in another space in the apartment, his desk customized to his very specific interests and much better than the desk he'd had back at the office. Much more his style. He's been focused, diligent — okay, yes, he's taken a break here or there, but he's been looking forward to their plans for the evening: grocery shopping together, then cooking together, then cuddling onto the sofa together. Together. They've been apart all day, and he looks forward to when that no longer has to be the case.
Except.