Ez trys his hand at writing about other things other than himself.

I have realised that I only ever seem to write about myself. So I decided I would try my hand at writing fiction. Hope it is not too bad. X, Ez


'If only you knew.' the boy mumbled as a singular tear rolled down his left cheek. ' If only you knew how much you meant to me.'

It was in the hazy, sticky weather of a late summer night, the type of humid nights, that causes your clothes to sticky uncomfortably onto your skin, the type of nights, the noise of mosquitoes and cicadas seem to fill the air.

It was on that faithful night, that the boy decided to fix the shattered soul of another.

The boy remembered it well. He remembered the caterpillar speckled yellow and black crawling up the side of a palm tree, the way the individual segments moved in a single fluid motion, the way it's antenna swayed with each step it took. He remembered sitting on the grass of the hockey pitch, blankly staring at the starless sky, at the thin, crescent moon. Besides him was the remaining jagged shards of the other boy, limply, sitting, sobbing in the pale yellow light of the dusty moon.

'Why, did she do it? I loved her, I really did.' the other boy confessed, between the moans.

'I don't know.' The boy replied. He pulled out a clump of dry brown grass. 'Maybe it was all just a terrible accident. The way you two end up together. A costly mistake.' The boy realized his fingernails were now, chalked with dirt.

'I guess you're right,' said the other boy, lying down in the grass. The boy remembered how red his eyes were, the tightness of his chest as he cried, the wetness of sweat and tears. 'I guess I should've known, I don't deserve good things.'

'At least, you had something close to that.' mumbled the boy.

'Well, at least you didn't get hurt. These things. They're never really meant to be experienced, only faintly felt.'

The boy whispered, 'No, we deserve better.'

A cooler breeze brushed past the boy's cheeks. The breeze not only carried the heat, but the words the boy never told the broken soul. The three words he so desperately wanted to scream into the thick, hot air. He remembered the taste of sweat on his upper lip as he opened his mouth, but with the wind, it seemed, his words floated away, into the pale night sky.

The pile of broken pieces said, 'Thank you' to nobody in particular.

'It's fine.'