The Challenge: The Alphabet Game
Write a complete story in 26 sentences, each sentence beginning with a sequential letter of the alphabet. In other words, the first sentence starts with A, the second with B, the third with C and so on.
The Story: Forgive Me
“Alright, well what did you think?” She asks, almost whispering. Before he can respond, her hand drapes across his chest as the pale blue light from the television bounces on the walls. Creating shadow puppets against the pale white surfaces they were leaning on, he lists slightly to his left to see the full figure he has formed.
“Don’t think about it too much,” he thinks to himself and utters under his breath. Escaping his lips was the crux of the dilemma, he had meant to hold it in for himself. For nothing other than the simple fact that he wasn’t sure what he thought, her prying had dug under his skin. “Good,” he finally says, “it was really good, I think.” He’s unsure of himself more than anything, of whatever it was he had become.
It takes all of his restraint not to shut himself off completely, even though that’s all he really wants. Just out of reach is the remote, but the television is his only solace at the moment. “Kiss me? Just one more time?” She requests of him. Lamenting on the events of the last hour, he obliges. “Maybe just one more,” he allows. No more than twenty seconds pass before they sit in their prior positions, droning towards the television.
Out of the corner of his eye, through the crack in the door, he sees a familiar shape waltz through the hallways. Perhaps a moment of acceptance would cure this ambling sense of emptiness he felt. Quietly, he explains that he needs to grab a drink of water from the kitchen, closing the door shut behind him—following the path of his hopeful savior.
Red coats his shoulder, scratched and weathered from his recent endeavor. Sounding out what he’s going to say as he saunters down the hallway, he hopes for a warm welcome where the window to the main room exposes him to his roommate. The cabinets in the kitchen open and shut before he makes it around the corner to see his friend. “Under the saucepan,” he reminds him, realizing he was looking for the skillet. Violently, he sighs. “Why can’t we ever keep anything where its supposed to be around this apartment?” His friend asks, accepting as much blame on himself as he had distributed.
Xerarch foliage wilting in the sills of the window personifies the relationship between the two, now standing face-to-face—seemingly distant from one another despite their proximity. “You could’ve just said no,” his roommate pushes. Zooming in on the cracks around his eyes, noticing he had added to them with his own actions, “I know, I’m sorry,” he relinquishes.