#phantomstarter

[bergandrew-blog]

starter;;: 

   Once a week, late evening, Andrew dressed in whatever clothes he had left that felt clean —  on this particular day it was khaki shorts, a light sweater of indiscernible colour, blue socks that reached his ankle and his usual pair of converse sneakers — and embarked on a journey to the laundromat. Every single time the loneliness he felt was indescribable. His father was responsible for the laundry, all the siblings were expected to help. Walking alone with a bag of dirty clothes, the absence of family felt like a dagger to his chest.

He reached his destination with a paper cup of americano in hand, fished a few coins out of his pocket and began his usual routine of arranging his clothes into two piles of colourful and colorless, all the while thinking that he would have loved to have his father by his side explaining to him the basic points of a film plot and how most screenwriters these days knew scheisse about them. He loaded the first pile into the washing machine and in a rare manifestation of exhaustion, propped his elbows on the device and buried his face in his hands.

[qaqambadances-blog]

Qaqamba had the bad habit of dancing wherever she was. Even if it was in the middle of a hallway. She just couldn’t contain herself whenever she was listening to music, and she was almost always listening to music. So it wasn’t really a surprise that she bumped into people often. Such as right now, just after classes had ended for the day. She was listening to Xhosa by Radical (it helped with her homesickness) and dancing along when she turned and rammed right into someone. She pulled out her earbuds and swore. “Shit, I’m so sorry!” she said.

[callistertruman]

Hazelnut locks swam just a couple of inches over the sea of students in the corridor as a restless Callister Truman made his way across the hall. He had a deep burgundy leather satchel slung around one shoulder, and a rather forlorn paperback in one hand. A twisted, impish smirk played on his features. Without warning, he leaped onto a stone bench that was quietly facing the floor to ceiling glass windows, his face brighter than the rays of the sun that flowed through them. “Hear ye, hear ye! A fearless, gallant hero calls the attention of thee. I have salvaged this beloved tome from the merciless sea of Langerhans, and I desire to uncover the identity of its possessor so that I may release them of their troubles,” he declared in a profound voice, brandishing the book over his head.

[bergandrew-blog]

starter:;;

The art of appearing nonchalant when, in fact, there was a volcano of discomfort threatening to erupt inside your core was commonly referred to as acting. Andrew was waiting to do exactly that inside the auditorium, but his constant need to fit in with the cool kids without having to exchange any words with them manipulated him into lingering outside; waiting, like a person out of place, for the rest of the students to take their seats before he marched inside like an awkward guest of honor. His earphones rested in his ears, but no music could be heard, because maybe- just maybe- someone would need to talk to him and he wanted to be prepared.