[ruhrohwrites]

Why don't you spare a little kindness and tell me what it says?

Pippa knew he was messing with her. And maybe she knew she was a fool for obliging, but the truth was she was bored. And maybe, just maybe, if she indulged him, she’d finally earn a straight answer in return. With a soft exhale, she brought the letter back closer to herself and began to read it.

"Dear reader," she started.

She kept her reading pace steady and voice clear, providing pauses where needed for emphasis and shifts in her tone to convey humor or sincerity. Reading well aloud had always been one of her quiet points of pride thanks to her fifth-grade English teacher that once commended for her it.

She flipped the paper around once she was done reading. "It didn't lie. There is a challenge written behind this. With rules, a list of questions... everything."

The dare that came with the letter had Pippa's brows pulling together.

“Steal a traffic cone…?” She read slowly, disbelief curling at the edge of her voice. “That has to be illegal," she said with a scrunch of her nose.

[nieisms]

While she read the letter aloud, Taru tucked his pen behind his ear. Or rather, the pen he had plucked out of Randy's hand earlier, mid-note-taking. "Wow, I feel like I'm back in elementary school for a little popcorn reading," he said wryly. "Just waiting for my turn and praying it isn’t the paragraph with all the big words." His mouth flattened as he feigned sheepishness, silently conveying on account of the illiteracy.

His next expression was more sincere: disdain at the word rules. Though it flitted, briefly, toward interest with a much more exciting word: steal. He snorted dismissively to cover it up, folding himself back into detachment as he leaned heavily against the shelf. "Come on, that's the first interesting thing you've mentioned," he said, aware that he wasn't being persuasive by any definition. "That shit's barely a misdemeanor."

If she abandoned this pseudo-intellectual Jigsaw-lite task because of a little risk, then at least she'd given him some inspiration on how to spend the rest of his night, he thought, all by himself. He eyed her for a split second. Her prim, neat clothes; her shiny, dark hair. Big brown eyes. She looked like she flossed after every meal and cleaned under her nails every time she washed her hands. She was probably in bed by 9 every night.

"If you're the lookout, you're basically just standing around," he found himself saying. "Keep your record squeaky clean."

[ruhrohwrites]

Was this man writing in a book? Pippa wondered, her brows beginning to pinch together in disapproval until he spoke to her.

Nope.

"You hardly looked at it..." She couldn't help but point out, still holding out the letter.

Her gaze flicked briefly to the shelf where he’d shoved the book, wondering if it even belonged there or if he had just carelessly stuffed it back.

Every word out of his mouth after that was equally unhelpful.

"Is that so?" She questioned without any real interest, though she humored him anyway. "And is your being here tonight some kind of attempt at learning then?"

She wasn't an idiot. She figured he could read. But this man clearly enjoyed being smart aleck for the heck of it. Unluckily for him, Pippa had a well of patience — and a textbook she was in no hurry to return to.

[nieisms]

It was only then that Taru clocked that she actually expected him to take the note from her. He held up his hands as if to avoid contact with the paper, pressing a half-inch closer to the bookshelf, and put on a grimace. "What is this, a humiliation ritual? You wanna see me make a fool of myself?" He shook his head. "That's not real nice of you, stranger. Ain't right and it sure ain't Christian."

Is your being here tonight some kind of attempt at learning then? Taru quickly dropped the act with an amused scoff, though there was a tinge of genuine offense in there. Him? In a library? To learn? "I'm offended by that allegation. I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid." He leaned an elbow against the nearest shelf, lacing his fingers together as he assessed the woman's facial expression. It was an extremely familiar one.

"Why don't you spare a little kindness and tell me what it says?"

[sandvipxr]

It was a miracle her parents allowed her to attend university so far from home. But begging and pleading and attending every prayer without protest opened their mind to the idea. Eventually. She had to agree to certain conditions, however; no clubbing, no drinking, no bacon, no boys unless absolutely necessary, always answering the phone, attending every lecture, maintaining a perfect average, and on and on and on it went. Anitha would have agreed to sacrifice her firstborn child for this opportunity. So she nodded, and agreed and reassured and, perhaps, although she was not proud to admit it; she also lied a bit. She had no real intention of adhering to every rule, and there was something exciting about straying from firm conditions every now and again.

Anitha was too social, too charismatic, and too keen to explore all that college had to offer. So when her father called, she left her group of friends and headed for the nearby window. She wrapped her head in a scarf quickly, it looked bad. The conversion with her father ran short, and they agreed to check back in before she went to sleep. That meant couple of hours of stress free time, at least. She enjoyed a moment of relief, and silence, when a boy approached her out of nowhere. It was not surprising in the least, she found people were a whole lot friendlier in the States than she was taught to believe.

A smile spread wide across her features, the warmth of it reflected in her eyes. “You’re no bother.” she stated immediately, because he wasn’t, and even though he was a stranger approaching her, she wanted him to like her. She wanted to be the best stranger he’d ever come across. Her eyes shifted down to the paper, there was no hesitation as she took over and read through it. Her heart set off into a faster beat at the mere prospect. “That’s so cool.” her accent slipped through, eyes widened as she held onto it. “I would love to be your rat.” that was wrong, she thought, but it didn’t matter. “Let me go grab my things and I’ll be right back. Okay? Don’t…” her eyes stayed on him, as she walked towards the group of people at the nearby table, backwards, smile still on. “— don’t go anywhere.”

She collected her things quickly, and dodged the sneaky and snarky and funny comments her friends had made on the account of leaving them for a boy. “Hi, again.” she was practically beaming now, this was the most exciting thing to happen in the past several days. “I’m Anitha, by the way.” she wanted to extend her hand, in greeting, it’s what people did out here. But she put her hand over her chest instead. It was wrong enough to be alone in his company, she did not need to burden her own conscious with unnecessary touch. “So how’s this work? We uh, we should probably go somewhere less…” crowded? “— quiet?”

[nieisms]

That's so cool. Isaiah refrained from vocally disagreeing because that would be counterproductive and instead shot her his best attempt at an encouraging smile—though it came out rather thin. He was, of course, a little surprised by her immediate willingness to play along, but perhaps others weren't as cynical and distrustful as he'd be if the positions were reversed. "Hey, take your time," he said plainly.

While she was briefly gone, Isaiah took the moment to investigate the note some more. He flipped it over again in case he missed a hashtag or QR code that would lead to some sociology or psych major's Google Form or Instagram. Nothing. Even as he willfully put himself in the situation, he struggled to find what the person who penned it would gain from it, if not a collection of data. Whole lot of bupkis, that's what. He guessed it could be his own experiment instead.

Hypothesis: if I follow this letter's instructions, I can observe not just the stranger’s behavior, but my own internal reactions and social strategies. Or, hypothesis: how does participation in a random social experiment alter my perception of agency, trust, and control in a public space?

Any further thought was interrupted when the girl returned with her things. When she readily provided her name, Isaiah grimaced before he could stop himself. "Okay, this is my bad—" he started, handing the note over for her to read. "Says we can't exchange names." He was sure that it was some concept of impression management. "But since that's down the drain, I can just tell you mine and we'll—Damn, I don't know. Choose aliases from the book anyway."

At her mention of heading somewhere else, he nodded. There was a green space adjacent to the library with trees and a couple of benches. Students were usually out there passing a football, reading in the sun, or, most notably for one student in particular, studying with his leashed cat at his side. The latter felt pretty performative to Isaiah, but he digressed in his own head. "You know where that big black cherry tree is just outside?" he asked, and started heading toward the self-checkout kiosk.

At the machine, he scanned his student ID, then angled it for her to see before he scanned the bar code on the book itself. "Isaiah," he told her. Better to level the playing field. He opened the book again and glanced at the first couple of pages, which included publishing details. Christine Lynch. Theresa Abad Swierzowski. Michael Fishbane. Robert Goldenburg. "You can call me Elliott," he said. Elliott Wolfson, editor. He handed it over to her. "And in case the title didn't tip you off, most of the names in there come with a menorah and a punch card for the deli."

[ruhrohwrites]

WHERE: The library

WHEN: Late at night

Pippa felt like she was going cross-eyed. She's been staring at this book on Critical Care Nursing for ages. Her fingers were practically shaking from all the note-taking she's been doing for the past couple of hours.

Bowing her head, she pressed her closed eyes into her palms and groaned. As much as she wanted to pack up for the night and get into bed, she had promised Matt she'd stay up in case he needed help getting home after a party he was at tonight. Some shindig with boys he was friends with from a frat. Nothing that interested her, so she decided to opt out and take the time to study instead. Though after all the hours she's spent here, she's had her fill and then some. She needed a break.

Pushing back from her table cluttered with textbooks and one-too-many empty energy drink cans, Pippa stretched her arms high above her head, trying to work out any stiffness from all the sitting. Then she wandered toward the Classic Literature section in search of something light and more enjoyable. Some Charlotte Brontë maybe? Her friend's been recommending Jane Eyre to her for ages.

Plucking the book from its row once she'd finally found it, Pippa opened it and was surprised to find something fall out of it as she did. Some small, intricately folded note. She bent to pick it up, frowning as she read the single word written on the front: PULL!

Curiosity got the better of her and she did as it requested, eyebrows lifting at the words inside. She even flipped the paper over too to see if it actually had a challenge written behind it and it did. Maybe she was just over-tired, but the whole thing was hard to wrap her head around. This had to be some kind of prank to encourage mischief on campus.

Still holding the letter, she stepped out of the aisle and scanned for the nearest person who didn’t look too busy. Approaching, she lifted the note in her hand.

"Hi, excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but have you come across a letter like this in one of the books here before?"

[nieisms]

Taru was only ever in the library for one reason: to annoy the hell out of Randy. He didn't attend this school, and he certainly didn't think studiously spending his day among dusty, old books written by lame white dudes was ever a good way to spend his time. So while he succeeded in his goal—Randy eventually snapped after a series of well-aimed paper airplanes and pencils—he didn't succeed in his real one: getting the guy to actually leave.

So there went his Thursday night, he thought bitterly, loitering around just to scribble in the margins of some collection of Greek poetry. His minor act of vandalism was interrupted not by some stuffy, bespectacled librarian with a stick up their ass, but by an entirely different type of stranger. He stopped his internal observations there. Taru's expression stayed blank as he looked at the note in her hand, and then at her face. After a second passed, he snapped the book closed. "Nope."

He shoved the book into a shelf at random, lacking any real respect for Dewey and his so-called system. "I'm one of those children who were left behind," he continued, a step up from the noncommittal grunts he usually reserved for people he didn't know. "Never learned to read."

[nieisms]

@sandvipxr

When Isaiah cracked open Moshe Idel's Hasidism: Between Ecstasy and Magic, a piece of paper eccentrically yet quaintly folded fell out between the pages and onto the ugly grey carpet at his feet. He stared down at the detritus, brain moving sluggishly through a sleep-deprived haze. 'PULL!' it exclaimed, quirky and mysterious—Isaiah sighed, nudging it with the toe of his shoe as he considered. A moment passed, and then he bent to pick it up. Curiosity killed the cat, perhaps, but satisfaction brought him back. Color him curious.

Yes, this letter is meant for you. He scoffed, but read on. Some sheltered bookworm who thought the grass was greener on the other side, he surmised, but he had to admit that something about the idea intrigued him. The act in and of itself echoed Levinas's philosophy of the Other, with the letter itself as the 'face'. Feasibly, it summoned him to recognize the humanity of another beyond the usual anonymity of public spaces. It was an exercise in ethical responsiveness and community-making. Or, maybe, it was a reintroduction to ritualized social interaction amidst the fragmented, isolated nature of modern social relations, especially in a place defined by individualism and silence, e.g. a library.

On the other hand, it sounded a bit like a chore.

But after his fraternity brother threw around accusations about him exhibiting antisocial behaviors this semester, this felt like a sudden opportunity to prove him wrong. That, compared to everything else, was the most compelling argument to actually follow the letter's instructions. Isaiah re-folded the paper, but not in the way it had been creased before—the practice was totally lost to him—and exited the stacks, eyes scanning the few people who sat studying and tapping away at their laptops.

The only one who appeared both unaccompanied and not on the cusp of a mental breakdown was a girl by the window. He headed over, book tucked under his arm, and tapped the letter against his open palm as he went. "Sorry to bother you," he started, because manners dictated it. "I found this weird letter in a book over there." He nodded in the general direction, then handed the paper over. "It's some kind of icebreaker-meets-social-experiment, I guess. I wanted to ask if you'd be interested in being a lab rat with me." He paused. "No pressure."

[trashxmuses]

@nieisms

a college library was one of the last places you would ever find liam anderson. not out of lack of study but because liam never went to college. he always wanted to go, he once had big dreams of doing something with his life, something good, but life had other plans. his mom and siblings needed him and the money he makes to take care of them. he was the man of the family and that took sacrifices. it was one of his few jobs that brought him to the library so late at night. a buddy of his was in need of... enhancers to prepare for a test or something and liam was the one to supply them.

with his deal made, he was perusing through the library, mostly not wanting to go home just yet but there was a part of him that liked to pretend. to walk among the stacks of books and imagine what it was like if he was the one cramming for a test. pulling out a random book off the shelve, he noticed that there was something stuck in the middle of it. he scanned over the letter and he had to admit that he was a little curious. curious about whoever wrote the letter, curious about the person who would actually listen to the litter. flipping the paper over, he read the challenge written on the back.

now, liam wasn't want to believe in fate or a higher power, but for some reason, he felt like he was meant to find this letter. after all, just looking at what it was asking, it sounded exactly like something he would do. was he really going to listen to a random letter written by a stranger? scanning the nearly empty library, he thought about going back to his friend, but the letter said to find a stranger. walking through the library for a couple minutes, he saw a guy who with pink hair who looked like the perfect person to ask to do this completely insane, random thing with him.

walking up to the guy, liam cleared his throat before speaking. "hey dude, are you busy?" he paused for about half a second before jumping right into what was probably the craziest thing he's ever said. "so i found this letter inside a book and i don't know why by i feel like i should listen to it. i know it sounds crazy, but would you want to do it with me?" he held the letter out to the stranger with a hopeful look on his face.

[nieisms]

To the surprise of his father, his childhood buddies, and, theoretically, his 10th-grade Chemistry teacher, Dash was kind of... kicking college's ass? School was mostly a drag in the past, and while he never did poorly, it was clear he wasn't as brilliant as some of the kids he attended prep school with. They were the types with acceptances to the final bosses of LinkedIn schools, where everyone's either cured cancer by 11th grade, in a social club with a name that sounds like a crypto coin, or got a senator for a dad. Sometimes all of the above.

But Dash ended up in Chicago, and it weirdly suited him. Dean's List last 3 semesters, internship secured, and he was totally locked in to his final research paper for the last class he'd actually have to write a paper for. The Symbolism of Color in Pre-Modern Fashion: Purple, Red, and Gold in Global Contexts—not as lame-as-fuck as it sounded. With one earbud in and the other stashed safely in its case, Dash let the white noise of nearby whispering and the loud beats of Hudson Mohawke's B.B.H.E. doing irreparable damage to his eardrum serve as his studious soundscape. After an unknown stretch of time, it was interrupted.

With a background soundtrack of wub-wub-wub-vrrrrooooom bzzzzt! a stranger approached Dash and used one of his favorite words: crazy. "What the fuck?" Dash said, voice maybe this side of too loud—there was the AirPod blasting music in his ear, in his defense—and smiled widely at the guy as he took the letter, immediately flipping it over to see how extensive it went. He saw 'steal a traffic cone from the streets of Chicago' and let out a laugh. "What the fuck?" he repeated, delighted by this chain of events.

His eyes flitted over the rest of the words as quick as possible, scanning and maybe missing some details. "This is one whimsical ass curveball," he said good-naturedly, tugging the earbud out. "No names, huh? Let me get a look at that book you found this in. I call dibs on the first pick."

[ruhrohwrites]

A wide grin took shape on Elias's face at the stranger's impression of one of the characters in the movie. He couldn’t decide what charmed him more: the cleverness of the line, the commitment to the transatlantic accent, or the way her grin turned sheepish once she was done. Either way, he wouldn't be forgetting it any time soon.

"Well shit, someone call Old Hollywood," he began gassing her up as they made their way toward The Nook. "One of their stars is on the loose. What are you even doing here? Aren't you needed on set or something?" He gently knocked his elbow against her arm, playful and easy.

"That was solid. Seriously. Is it just transatlantic or do you have like a Princess Diana up your sleeve too?" His tone was teasing, but his eyes lingered on her a beat too long.

When she settled on a name, 'Robbie' leaned over to get a peek of what this Ester Perbandt looked like. With their height difference, it was pretty easy to get a glimpse of the page she was on. He bobbed his head in approval. "Esther. Dig it."

"Oh, I'm writing a paper on gendered participation in streetwear culture, " he revealed casually, though inwardly feeling quite proud of the topic he landed on. "I'm grounding it in Angela McRobbie's theoretical framework," he explained further. "She's got a lot of good stuff on post-feminism, fashion, and media, so it was a no-brainer to anchor my stuff with her ideas." He was trying to be super chill about it, but he hoped she’d ask more — half wanting to impress her, half excited to share what he'd come up with.

[nieisms]

Alice laughed when she was gently jostled. "Gosh, you're right, aren't you?" With a dramatic huff, she looked up at the dark sky with a put-on wistful frustration. "Somebody, please, get John Ford on the horn," she joked. "My talent's wasted here. MGM needs me now more than ever now that Ava Gardner's fled the roost."

Looking over at him, she shrugged with a small smile. "I like old movies, and I think as a kid, especially, I found their voices weirdly... the word invigorating is the most accurate," she said. "And my mom has all these vintage clothes she scrounged up over the years, so I'd don one of the old fur capelets and big, chunky costume jewelry and put on performances for the family. I got a lot of Hepburn requests, as you can imagine. She's a real crowd pleaser." Her British accent, by contrast, was atrocious. She feared Diana would roll over in her grave.

When he approved of the pseudonym, she handed the book back over to him with an air of satisfaction and listened with real interest as he described the paper he was working on. In terms of fashion, much like her love of grandmotherly names, she feared her tastes veered a little geriatric; she had a lot of knitwear and, much like Katharine Hepburn, was quite fond of a comfy pair of overalls. But that didn't mean she couldn't appreciate the topic, or at least that's what she thought.

"That sounds really cool," she said earnestly. The mention of feminism certainly piqued her interest. What self-respecting woman didn't dig a little liberation? "What are your findings so far? Like, do you have a thesis statement in the bag?"

[ruhrohwrites]

Kaleidoscope of personalities? Elias liked the sound of that. He gave a small chuckle, watching the stranger across him tug a knitted sweater over her shoulders.

"Philadelphia Story..." He repeated, trying to pin down why that title sounded familiar. "I think I've stood around while my mom's watched it... She loves old-timey movies like that." Not that Elias didn't appreciate cinema from like, 50 years ago. They were super aesthetic and total art; he just preferred modern stuff. "It's kind of like Mamma Mia, right? Just without all the fun music?"

At her suggestion, Elias agreed easily. "The Nook sounds good to me. And hey, I can walk and sip. It's no biggie to me if it isn't for you. We could always find some other place to sit too."

Once they made it out of the library, Elias retrieved the letter from his jacket pocket and gave himself a refresh of its contents.

"Okay, find a stranger... check. No names?" Elias glanced to the side at said stranger, get a feel of how she might have felt about that rule. "It says: use something from the book as a placeholder." With his mouth pursed, he reached for the book in his back pocket to scan it for a name.

Fashion as Creative Economy Angela McRobbie Daniel Strutt Carolina Bandinelli

"Okay, how about you call me... Robbie?" He suggested with a quick shrug of his shoulder. "I could pass for a Robbie, right?"

He angled the book in his hand, twisting his wrist so she could get a look at the cover and where he took the name from before passing it over for her to hunt down her own placeholder name.

[nieisms]

"In a sense that the beautiful Tracy Lord technically had three men vying for her affections, for sure. It's a lot like Mamma Mia," Alice acquiesced with good humor, uncomfortable with any quote-unquote confrontation, even one as little as a slight correction on a movie. It was a weird hangup she'd been trying to correct for a long, long time. "But there's this line in the movie you just reminded me of."

In her best Transatlantic accent, she affected Ms. Hepburn's cadence as well as she could—and she had plenty of practice—when she quoted: "The time to make up your mind about people... is never." Her grin turned a little sheepish. "I bet Tracy would have a lot to say about containing multitudes."

No names. A mystery wrapped in an enigma. Alice nodded, the corners of her mouth pulled downward in an expression of intrigued agreement. "Robbie. Very friendly. Very approachable. Very laidback. So far, that seems like it tracks." She took the book when it was offered to her, quickly flipping through the pages as they walked. She stopped at random on a photo of a woman assessing a garment.

She tapped her finger on the woman, who had a blunt, edgy dark haircut, and read out the name printed below the black-and-white image. "Esther Perbandt. She looks very chic," Alice said. "I like the name Esther." It was similar-ish to her middle name, Edith. Old lady-ish. She liked a grandmotherly name. Closing the book again, she actually took stock of the title itself. "So, not on our list of mandated questions, but: Fashion as Creative Economy—what made you open this one up?"

[ruhrohwrites]

"Hey, people contain multitudes, you know," Elias argued. "I know a guy that hates showering but loves to floss his teeth." You’d think someone so obsessed with oral hygiene would at least care about general hygiene. But no, his roommate liked to stink before getting under a showerhead.

Though his mouth was in an amused mile, a faint scoff left him.

"Woooow, okay." He bobbed his head as he took the letter back from her. "I can contain multitudes too, you know?"

To prove his point, Elias stood and unzipped his Carhartt jacket to reveal a white shirt with a small drawing of Snoopy on it and the text 'i bet on losing dogs'.

"But a neon shirt that says 'UNLEASH THE BEAST' does sound kind of sick. I'll be on the look out for one next time I thrift," he added, punctuating the words with a smirk. She wasn’t bruising his ego that easily.

"Well, it was just maybe-dying wish person," he said as he moved away from his seat to push it back under the table. "But you did close that laptop quick, so something tells me you don't hate having an excuse to get out of here."

This is a 'yes', right? He was taking her packing up her things as a sign that she was in for whatever that ride this letter would take them on — which was a trip to the nearest cafe or coffee shop. He took his book from off the table and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans.

"So... know any places that are open right now, or should I hit Google with the ol' 'coffee shop near me'?"

[nieisms]

A smile teased at Alice's mouth at the sight of Snoopy. The keyring in the front pocket of her backpack featured a Snoopy charm keychain made and gifted to her by Shiloh. He was by no means a niche, little-known character, and Alice didn't necessarily believe in any kind of fate, but it felt a little serendipitous nevertheless.

"Forgive me. You are a kaleidoscope of personalities," she said, shrugging on the blue-and-white knitted sweater she had left draped over the back of her chair. "It reminds me... Have you ever seen The Philadelphia Story? It has Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, and Jimmy Stewart in it."

As she slid her laptop into its case, she admitted, "Okay, here's the thing. You've given me a perfect excuse to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes: the old siren song of procrastination. It seems ungrateful to turn down such a gift when so graciously offered."

There was no paper or project that Alice didn't leave until the 11th hour, unfortunately. From middle school through college, it led to many late nights and a forever-altered sleep schedule. But between Wikipedia spiraling and a subscription to TCM, it was hard to resist the temptation of straying off course. She was a pretty good student overall, but a poor academic.

After placing her laptop safely in her backpack, Alice pushed up the sleeve of her sweater to check the time on her old Casio. "If we hoof it, we can make it to The Nook before they close up. We wouldn't be able to stick around inside for too long, though." She pulled a strap over one shoulder, and then the other. "What do you think?"

[ruhrohwrites]

Relief loosened something in Elias' chest when the stranger didn't immediately tell him off. This could have gone... very differently. He let out a soft chuckle, his mouth hitching to one side at her questions.

"Uhh... no," he answered. "On both counts — the 'knowing me' and the 'am I selling you something'."

A brief pause then he continued.

"But that's actually kind of perfect because we're not supposed to know each other. At least not for this—"

Enter: the unfolded letter. He held it out to her to take. And because his knees were starting to kill, he sidestepped over and slid onto the empty chair across from her. He figured not getting an empty Nature Valley wrapper chucked at his face was invitation enough to sit.

"I found it tucked between the pages of this book I looked up for my paper," he explained once he plopped down, grateful to no longer be bent at the knees. He then placed said book down on the table to his side, the words Fashion as Creative Economy written on it in pink and orange text.

"When you flip the paper around, there's like this challenge on it," he revealed. "Some people might think it's totally stupid, but I think it's kind of cool. Like a dying wish, except this person probably just works on Wall Street or a lab — whatever takes up more of your time." He figured Finance Bros or people who wore white coats for a living were the type to live in the library during their college years.

"I promise this isn't an elaborate scheme," he assured her after giving her a bit of time with the letter. "If I wanted to ask you out for a coffee, I just would. This is purely... you know, good Samaritan behavior."

[nieisms]

Alice perked up with interest at the mention of a curious letter, embarrassment forgotten. She took it from his hand with a small furrow to her brow, flipping it around when he made mention of a challenge on the other side. It reminded her of the Nancy Drew video games she played on her dad's desktop as a kid. Many great stories and mysteries unfolded with the discovery of a letter, and it just so happened they often came with instructions. Usually, it called for Nancy to jetset somewhere like Scotland or Japan; these instructions just required a nearby coffee shop or cafe.

"I admire your confidence in the creativity of the future stockbrokers and research scientists of this world," she started, her eyes scanning the words as she placed her protein bar onto the table. Though maybe he was right: it did sort of read like a more in-depth, more poetic icebreaker a couple of suits might have to hack through for the sake of team bonding. The secondhand embarrassment that made her want to wither away while watching The Office with friends might've been detrimental in remembering a good chunk of the plots, but she did catch a corporate trustfall or two between her fingers.

"The only kind of elaborate scheme I suspected was that you were one of those guys who like, hawks energy drinks at music festivals and sports events, practicing his lines," she continued jokingly, still wrapping her head around the letter. "I half-expected you to unzip and reveal a neon shirt with the words 'UNLEASH THE BEAST' on it." Alice smiled a little, handing the paper back to him. "But if you're just a Good Samaritan, then that changes things." She closed her laptop with a dull click, then reached for her backpack by her feet. "So who's the parabolic stranger you're helping here: the person with the maybe-dying wish or me?"

[ruhrohwrites]

WHERE: The library

WHEN: Late at night

"Well, shit..." Elias whispered to himself, his heart warmed by the contents of the surprise letter he'd just found and read. While he was sure he wasn't the writer's intended audience — he had no trouble taking a break, making friends or memories — he couldn't help but feel a pull towards carrying out this mystery person's wish. Sure, he was supposed to be neck-deep in writing a paper about gender and streetwear, but... he was like, 2000 words in. And it wasn't due until 11:59PM tomorrow anyway. He could spare thirty minutes, right? He was overdue for a break anyway.

Book in one hand and unfolded letter in the other, he moved out from the aisle he was in to get a better look of who was present in the library. Godforsaken time it was, there wasn't too many people to choose from where he stood. Between the guy half asleep and drooling on the book he was supposed to be reading and a pair of friends more concerned with their phones than their laptops, the choices were bleak. But then he spotted someone a little further away. Not asleep or under TikTok-induced hypnosis.

"Worth a shot," he muttered to himself as he stepped away from the shelves and walked towards the study area to approach this girl. If he blew it and she was weirded out by the whole thing, maybe the guy dampening school property with his bodily fluids might be willing to entertain the challenge written in the letter.

He came to a halt about a step from her table, ensuring he was in her line of sight before waving slightly.

"Hey." He pulled his mouth into a polite smile and then crouched downward so he was somewhat level to the person he was speaking to. "Sorry to bother you." Considerate of the environment he was in, he kept his volume low. "But is there any chance a hot beverage sounds really good to you right now?" A beat. "Or a cold beverage? Or just... a beverage?"

[nieisms]

While Alice loved libraries -- for aesthetic reasons, for reading a favorite book reasons, and for quiet-corners-to-snack-in reasons -- she sometimes felt a little smaller than the people around her. She envied their seriousness and, more often, their left-brain savviness. Distracted by the group of engineering majors whisper-arguing at a table nearby, an especially dry Nature Valley protein granola bar, and the distant, tinny sound of Wallice from the headphones resting around her neck, her own work lay forgotten in front of her.

She would've continued chewing and humming quietly to herself, procrastinating her Art History paper, if not for a sudden presence near her. Hey, said a quiet, deep voice. Alice paused mid-chew, eyes somewhere around a young man's chest for a second before he dropped to a crouch, and then all she could think was: blue eyes. Plastic wrapping crinkled between her fingers. "Do I know you?" she blurted, mouth half-full, then immediately felt her face grow warm.

Alice covered her mouth with her hand as she finished chewing, straightening in her chair as she did. "Sorry," she continued, then rushed to think of a way to sound less like someone who had been dropped on the head when their skull was still soft. "I have some kind of dissociative amnesia from the lab I took last semester, so all those names-and-faces from class are just...," she waved a hand over her head, still a little flustered, "gone forever. I have to double-check with people now."

She imagined herself going: it's been like that Dr. Seuss book, Are You My Mother? But instead it's Are You My Former Lab Partner Who Saw Me Almost Cry While Handling Raw Liver for an Enzyme Lab? She pinched her thigh under the table, then tried a smile. "Different question: are you trying to sell me something?" she asked, aiming for lighthearted.

[nieisms]

ruhrohwrites​:

-

Riggs didn’t know whether to be freaked out or delighted that Harper seemed so elated to learn that Clem had someone on the other side of this door. Her enthusiasm to get into the bathroom only furthered his amusement, in total disbelief of the situation they’ve found themselves in. Harper Fontaine was a hoot and a half, and Riggs should be ashamed of himself for not befriending her sooner. It seemed they shared a common passion for giving Clem grief and that in itself needed to be celebrated. His mouth sat in a wide and toothy grin, all too pleased at how miserable Clem looked right now. “Oh, it’s in her, alright—” Riggs chimed smugly, throwing gasoline on the open flame. Listen, if he was going to die by Clem’s hand tonight, he was going to out in a blaze of glory as fiery as the red in her cheeks.

He was tempted to tack on to his words when something Harper said gripped his interest, shifting his train of thought entirely. You-know who? His widened eyes asked. Did Fontaine have a little crush on someone that Riggs was totally unaware of? Predictably, Clem’s insistence that nothing was happening on this side of the door only served as inspiration for him to be even more annoying. “Yeah, we’re making love!” He added from behind Clem, leaning over her to smack his palm to the door once, and then again, developing a rhythm that was suggestive enough for anyone with a working brain.

.

There was a high-pitched ringing in her ears that grew louder as the moment dragged on. It couldn’t have been more than a single minute since Harper marched up to the door, but Clem felt it stretch out for eons. Oh, it’s in her alright. She let out an indignant noise, her hands coming up to squeeze at the air in front of her as if they were around Rigg’s neck.

When she briefly caught sight of his widened eyes, she thought it was some other weird act, pretending to be shocked by Clem swearing, as if he hadn’t heard her do so dozens of times over the course of the too-long time they’d known each other. It only made her angrier. She was sick of him acting like she was some prude; it was almost as aggravating as the people in high school acting like she was an unholy hybrid of Jezebel and the Witch of Endor.

As he leaned over her to smack his hand against the door, she repeated her previous threat of the elbow but actually followed through this time, not looking to see which part of him it forcefully connected with. “Riggs, I am going to kill you,” she began to threaten lowly, but her next words were cut off by the squawk-like sound that pierced through the doorway. 

“You’ve got Rigsby in there?” Harper basically hooted, her amusement probably visible from the Russian space station. “Well, now, I’ll be. That’s something the cards didn’t tell me. Maybe your bad connection’s messing with the readings again, babe.” Clem’s throat tightened in panic as Harper continued, hopelessly wondering what she would have to do or say for this to be over. “Hiya, Riggs, so how’d you win her over?” 

Clem really couldn’t let that stand. “Nobody won me over, Harper—” she interjected hotly. “Are you even listening to me? We’re not doing anything. He’s literally the last guy I’d ever—” She exhaled noisily through her nose, her molars nearly ground down to dust. “Be serious.”

[nieisms]

ruhrohwrites​:

-

Is that what Tyler thought of her? Someone who needed a pros and cons list to do something adventurous. Pippa gave a roll of her eyes. “Your fun and my fun’s different then. You ever try to solve a 1000-piece puzzle? That's crazy fun,” she said, a soft giggle trailing after her words. She figured Tyler would sooner bury himself alive than consider something so tedious entertaining.

“I do get tense,” Pippa shared. “And stressed. And bored.” Who didn’t? “But it’s never made me curious about smoking that stuff,” she told him, only feeling a little insecure about her answer as she wiped away some cream that found itself on Tyler’s chin. Should she have been? She wondered briefly. Her response to things in life have always been very tame. She was very tame. She didn’t think anything was wrong with that though. Matt has never complained about it. He liked that she had a sensible head on her shoulders.

Tyler’s sudden movement off of the bed surprised Pippa, eyes widening momentarily as she adjusted to his absence on the mattress. Her gaze was quick to follow him, watching him snatch joint off her nightstand and pinch it between two fingers. Just looking at the thing made her heart race a little. It was definitely something out of place in a space that was hers. “Not that I’m not appreciative of your generosity…” She started gently. “But I think I’m gonna have to pass.” A choice everyone and their mother saw coming. “It’s just not my thing.” Not wanting Tyler to feel disappointed by her choice, Pippa offered a faint smile in apology.

“But you know, if you really did want to give me a parting gift, you’d let me finish treating you,” she suggested. “There’s a bag of frozen peas in my freezer that I have yet to put on that eye of yours.” Don’t think Pippa didn’t notice it. It was hard not to.

.

The thought of sitting down and doing a puzzle, let alone one with 1,000 pieces, was so mind-bendingly boring that Taru had half a mind to pretend to fall asleep at the mere mention of it. But then Pippa honest-to-God giggled. So he settled for a derisive grimace instead and kept his comments in check on this one subject. When she continued, he rolled his eyes but otherwise momentarily ignored her. His hand curled into a fist over his knee when she wiped at something on his chin; it was the only thing keeping him from jerking away from her touch again. As soon as she pulled away again, he felt his muscles relax — they’d gone tense without him knowing.

Taru pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. It’s just not my thing. He scoffed and didn’t try to hide it. Maybe unfairly, he thought it likely just wasn’t Sullivan’s girlfriend’s thing since everything, for everyone everywhere, had to pass through some bullshit sieve. But if someone didn’t want to smoke, fine. He didn’t care. Randy rarely took part in it, probably too scared to piss off his mommy, and Steph told him it was a waste of her time; time she could spend sober and studying or sober and working, but she made it up to him by letting him tempt her away from her textbooks with late night drives and lukewarm fries in grease-stained paper bags. He thought about what she’d do if he showed up at her window like this. The thought made him bare his teeth slightly. Any other day, he wouldn’t care. But on this specific day, it seemed he did.

“Whatever,” he said discourteously, then tucked the joint behind his ear. “I’m goin’ outside to smoke this. You can bring your bag of peas if you want.” The pale pink walls already seemed too close for comfort. “Or forget all about it.” Taru returned to the window to slip through, one leg and then the other before he pushed off and jumped down onto the soft grass. His eyes darted to his own home. The windows were dark. They’d probably sat down to dinner without him; his plate was probably covered in tinfoil and sat in the fridge. His mama probably said her prayers to St. Dominic Savio: the patron saint of teenage fuckups. They didn’t expect him until dawn. He placed the joint in the corner of his mouth, like he told Pippa he would, and reached deep into his front pocket in search of his lighter.

[nieisms]

ruhrohwrites​:

-

“Ahh—” Riggs couldn’t help but pout, face pulled into a grumpy twist when Clem shot him a dirty look. Raising his hands in surrender at chest height, he silently agreed to keep his distance as they both stood in her tiny bathroom, ears strained to catch any sound from the mysterious person behind the closed door. Who the hell was this? He was just beginning to get bored until a sudden movement from Clem broke the silence with a heavy knock of her shoulder to the bathroom door. A stifled snort slipped from behind Riggs’s pressed lips as he couldn’t help but find amusement in the irony that Clem was the one who fucked it. "Smooth,” he couldn’t resist making a remark, rubbing a bit of salt in the wound, as a soft chuckle accompanied his words and he relished in Fontaine’s mishap.

With the jig up, the slight curl of Riggs’s mouth widened into a full smile as the puzzle pieces came together and he realized it was Clem’s sister on the other side of the door. Clementeeny? And here he thought Clemmie was bad enough to start. Riggs had to press his lips together just to keep from barking out a laugh. It was getting harder and harder as Harper went on but he kept true to his word: he was keeping hush, letting Clem deal with the situation… until he decided not to. “Yeah, we’re just fuckin’ so a minute’s all it take for me, really,” he spoke, punctuating his words with a self-satisfied grin. It was in that moment he knew that Clem would probably attempt to dick punch him again but honestly, whatever shocked or fiery reaction he’d earn from Clem and her sister felt like a worthy trade-off. He’s already been hit in one head tonight, why not add the other to top it all off.

.

The world stood still. Dread – not entirely unlike the kind Clem had felt at the foot of The Monster – spread through her. Neither her mind nor body could even begin to process and deal with what Riggs had said, though the very first vague inclination included violence. Her eyes widened when an exaggerated, elated gasp emanated through the door.

“Oh my god, are you serious?” Harper hissed with delight. And then suddenly, the doorknob began to furiously rattle. Clem didn’t think her cousin would actually try and gain entrance, but she did find some entertainment now and again in giving Clem a heart attack. They tended to revert to their most immature selves around each other.

Clem moved quick, grabbing the knob to still it, her shoulder pressed against the wood to prohibit any movement from the other side, and then swiftly pressed the button to lock it. Harper cackled. “Clemmie-bear, I didn’t know you had it in you,” she tsked. Promptly, her palm slapped against the door, triggering Clem to pull away from it with a flustered frown, teeing up Harper’s next ridiculous, gross comment: “Oh my god, is it in you?”

Childishly, Clem smacked her own palm against the door in return. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding,” Harper continued, still sounding far too entertained. Clem squeezed her eyes shut for a second and took a deep breath. “Just tell me who’s there with you and I’m gone. Please. Don’t say it’s you-know–”

“We are not fucking,” Clem announced through clenched teeth, her face flushed hot and pink as she finally found the wherewithal to speak. Harper surely knew that, but still. Clem wanted to fast-forward through this moment. She wanted Harper to get her own stupid house across town and stick her big nose in someone else’s business. But most of all, she wanted Riggs ritually castrated. “Go. Away.”

[nieisms]

ruhrohwrites​:

-

“The Popeye thing?” His mime earned a sigh from her. “Tyler…” Pippa tilted her head to one side, caught between amused and disapproving, then shook her head. “You’re silly,” she settled for saying before taking his injured hand in hers, resting it over her knee. She applied a squeeze of Arnica cream to his knuckles, spreading it over the bumps on the back of his hand with the cotton swab. It was simpler to focus on that than the fact that she had a joint resting on her nightstand. It was the last place she’d ever expected to see one.

“Matt and the guys don’t do things like that.”  The words fell out of her mouth with confidence. But was it the truth? Not entirely. She was aware of at least one time Matt and the guys did it — the very first time they tried something like that. She remembered it clear as day. The guys decided to do their own thing for Bobby Palmer’s birthday so the girls had a sleepover at Vanessa’s since her daddy was out of town. Then some time around past 10, the boys came throwing rocks at the window acting goofy beyond belief. Matt could hardly stand, was laughing his rear off and sleepy at the same time. It was the strangest thing. He also hardly seemed like himself. Saying things he normally wouldn’t, not taking her seriously, even tried to kiss her when she didn’t want him to. Pippa could still remember the earthy way he smelled when they were helping him into Vanessa’s guest bedroom so he could pass out. She didn’t like it — not the way he smelled or the way he acted. He apologized when they talked about it in the morning, and he swore he’d never do it again. So yeah, Pippa was confident that now Matt didn’t do that kind of thing, as far as she knew anyway.

The word ‘shotgun’ had Pippa’s shoulders going tense, eyes wide as she looked up from what she was doing to Tyler’s hand to meet his gaze. She was sure he was here for the entirety of the time they were talking about her boyfriend, right? But then Tyler clarified his suggestion, talking about keeping things PG and using his fingers to make a tunnel for pass the smoke to her mouth. As much as she appreciated the compromise, it was still far too close for her liking. She was sure Matt wouldn’t be a fan of it either. “I think I’ll pass on the shotgun.” It was the respectable thing to do. “What’s that stuff good for anyway?” She asked after a beat, applying Arnica to a new cotton swab and moving her attention from Tyler’s knuckles to his bottom lip now. Delicately, she took his chin and brought the swab to his lips, as tenderly as possible covering the split with the cream.

.

Silly? The only other person to ever call him silly was his little brother — and it’d been a long while since he’d said so. Maybe childishly, it made him scowl for a second as he watched her treat his knuckles, the skin split and bruised from a long night. When she turned down the offer of a shotgun, he shrugged. He hadn’t meant anything by it other than a sincere way to keep it from being too harsh on her lungs. But he had to admit her reluctance came with the promise of something much more entertaining if it were true that she’d never smoked before. 

When she reached for his chin, he initially jerked back a fraction — a very small, quick movement, like a jumpy, distrustful cat — before he forced himself to stay still long enough for her to take hold. Still, it made his brow furrow in displeasure. He poked his tongue at the opposite side of his lip, already predicting that this stuff wouldn’t last long on this spot. Taru waited until she was done to answer, the brief moment of quiet only interrupted by the loud-as-fuck tree frogs out in the woods beyond their houses.

“I don’t know, Rossi, it's fun?” he started, thumbing at the skin below his lip.  “You wanna draw up a pros and cons list?” What did he consider it good for other than to get him to chill the hell out; to make some things easier to do, others to forget, and people more palatable to talk to? A whole slew of embarrassing shit. 

“You never tense? Stressed? Bored?” he continued, not really stoked that he had to sell her on this. He wasn’t a salesman. “Plain ol’ curious?” Maybe she wasn’t, not about something like this. Something off and away from her usual day-to-day. Of all the people he knew, her life seemed the most neatly planned out. All her goddamn ducks in a row. Just as harshly as he had dropped himself onto her bed, he pushed himself off of it. His bruised eye throbbed, but he didn’t want to sit any longer. “Offer’s got an expiry date.” He plucked the joint from off her table and twisted it between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t wanna encroach on your little Last Hurrah.”

[nieisms]

ruhrohwrites​:

-

“Mmph—” Riggs sounded as Clem’s palm covered his mouth, creasing his brows in a disapproving frown at the attempt to silence him. He had half the mind to lick her hand and freak her out for pulling that, but his curiosity was sparked when he noticed Clem’s attention shift to something on the other side of the door. “What is it?” He asked once her hand fell away, mindful to speak in a hushed tone now. Eager to be part of the mystery, he shuffled forward a little, trying to lean in himself for a listen but it was quite the challenge with Clem standing there. Her despairing whisper of ‘no’ only furthered his interest. “What? Your daddy awake or something? Down for a glass of milk?” He quipped, his playful spirit shining through despite the tense situation.

.

Clem stuck out her elbow to keep Riggs at bay, shooting him a dirty look to solidify her message of Do Not Touch Me. “Shhhh,” she hushed him again. Her dad? She’d be so lucky if it were her dad. Her dad, mom, any auntie — anyone, anyone would’ve been better than who was actually on the other side. She strained to listen for further movement, leaning in to press her ear against the dark wood of the door. Slippers sliding across the tile, hands ruffling through cabinets, the crinkling of a bag of potato chips; slowly, the footsteps finally exited the kitchen.

In her mind’s eye, she could easily picture the left turn back to the staircase, the way you had to mind your step since there was a lip at the sill. The swing of the kitchen door behind you. The corner of the wall everyone ran their hands against when they rounded the corner, leaving the wallpaper faded in spots. Clem adjusted her stance, not ready to exhale until she heard those footsteps ascend, but she made a blind error. She’d stepped on the gauze on the floor, which didn’t make her fall but forced her to over-correct so she didn’t slip. In the process, her shoulder knocked against the door. Heavily. The footsteps stopped.

“Clemmie?” a voice called out, unashamed in its volume despite the late hour, then quickly approached. Clem winced. When she didn’t immediately respond, Harper continued in a sing-songy pitch: “Clementeeeeny.” She rapidly rapped her knuckles against the door. “Is that you? What are you doing in there? Thought you said the thought of all those clients’ cheeks on that toilet seat skeeved you out too much.” Clem’s teeth clenched. When she continued to not reply in a timely enough manner, Harper bulldozed on: “Okay. Are you seriously ignoring me? I already said I’m sorry. Literally only you would still be pissed that—”

“I’m not ignoring you!” Clem cut her off, voice tight. The last thing she needed was for Riggs to hear about the very long, very arduous argument she got into with her cousin that morning about which end to squeeze the toothpaste tube from. The catalyst being when Clem entered the bathroom upstairs and fount her Colgate in a crinkled, dilapidated mess, with red, white, and blue remnants all over the sink. The sight still sent a shiver down her spine. “I’m just — I’m busy,” she continued, though that didn’t sound right or work. She knew she must’ve heard Riggs’ moronic cheer and was holding out on mentioning it; it had to be the only reason she mentioned Clem’s aversion to the toilet seat down here. “Give me a minute.”

[nieisms]

ruhrohwrites​:

-

“Does it not to you?” Riggs questioned in return. “It’s nature’s enema, Clem. Thought a girl like you loves all things natural and from the Earth. Better than sticking that sorry excuse of a turkey baster up your rear.” He listened as Clem found a way to make his hypothetical movement lame. Leave it to Fontaine to suck the fun out of things. Though he wasn’t giving in that quickly. “Yeah,” he agreed, surprisingly. “Go on little walks, whisper our secrets… and when it’s done, we’re gonna gather round and circle jerk on a silk cocoon in a symbolic release our toxic masculinity.” He barely got to the end of his spiel before a laugh spilled from his lips.

Every remotely concerned question made Riggs feel more uneasy, tension finding its way to his slouched shoulders. He leaned away slightly when Clem fussed with his fingers on the gauze. “Worse of it was when it happened and on the way here. I’m used to it now.” Riggs talk for it was fine. He didn’t like this attention. He felt like a rat backed into a corner, nails desperately scratching at the wall to get some distance between himself and an encroaching predator. “It’s a figure of speech, Clem,” he told her, exasperated. Sick of being alive. Sick of sleeping on the floor of the Hometown Hotdogs storeroom. Sick of this damn town and its soul-sucking ways. “I’m fine,” he assured her with a wave of his hand. “Don’t you worry that giant head of yours.”

Yeah, just about. Riggs’s mouth curled at a side. "Perfect.” He took the piece of gauze off his head, blood soaked and all, and flicked it at Clem before reaching for the back of his shirt and pulling it over his head in a swift motion. “Whoo!” He chucked the sloppy wet thing at the floor, not a care in his mind about how loud his cheer just was. “Freedom!” Anything to get away from that feeling of being closed in.

.

“Charming,” Clem said derisively, then made the executive decision to Ignore Him – which was easier said than done. Her hackles started to raise in response to his exasperated tone. Like he had any reason to be frustrated with her. She was the one who hauled his heavy ass around on her bike through the pouring rain so she could help his stupid, thick, bleeding head. In her bathroom, no less! He had no right to treat her poorly during what she was sure professionals would define as a medical emergency. And he definitely had no right to call her head giant. Clem was tired; she was sore; and she was at the end of her rope. As a pressure built behind her eyes, a development that was both unexpected and extremely uncommon, she attempted to school her face to impassivity and ground out: “You’re so full of it. If you don’t want to tell me the truth, fine. I don’t need it from you. But you’re doing no one any favors by acting all shitty and cagey. Definitely not doing yourself any.”

With half a mind to leave him and his ugly injury alone, or to even shove the first aid kit in his hands and send him on his way, Clem reminded herself she wasn’t a little girl. She was a full-grown, adult woman, and full-grown, adult women didn’t get weepy and dismayed just because some boy kept being mean and annoying. She’d barely managed to mentally repeat that mantra to herself more than once before Riggs moved. Perfect, he said, and flung the bloody gauze in her direction. She let out a small, high-pitched screech at its advancement, curling inward and away to no avail. It made contact with her forearm before it fell to the ground, leaving a shivery, sickly feeling in its wake. Her face paled, but there was no recovery time before Riggs pulled off his shirt and cheered. It was just about the worst possible moment for her to hear something outside the bathroom door. And hear something, she did.

Quiet, creaking, and far too close. Clem’s eyes widened, and she immediately rushed to fix her palm over Riggs’ mouth. “Shut up,” she said in a harsh, hushed voice and turned her head to listen closely, then slowly pulled her hand away. She wanted to put as much distance between herself and Riggs as she could. So many relatives and friends-who-were-basically-relatives came in and out of the Fontaine house, taking up space in the kitchen, bathrooms, and otherwise empty bedrooms. At this point in her life, Clem had memorized their different gaits; the tells into who was who, when she heard them walking the corridor outside her bedroom door. These footsteps were heavy and careless. They dragged a little. “No,” she whispered despairingly, the word elongated by her apparent anguish.