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Nicolas P. Evans is an ambitious 17-year-old who fell in love with writing via interests in theatre. Writing, now, poetry, short stories, a novel and a musical, he plans to spend his upcoming years in college perfecting and honing his craft.

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Hey all! Please, please, please feel free to comment and suggest edits. I am, like most of you, writing so that someone can read; let me know, as a fellow writer and audience member, what you would like to see more of or what you think I can do better. I will be sure to return the favor (if you would like). Thank you! Can't wait to read from you.

Something Decorated

December 1, 2019

    She pulled back her head -- her eyes were still closed -- and took a deep breath in, to herself. I can only imagine what the air might have smelled like: marshmallows, hot cocoa, some distant bonfire-smoke humming and crackling in the wind, dead leaves, pine trees, snow. And I remember wishing I could breathe through my nose. Winter strikes and my allergies flare in a pitiful retaliation to the cold; I’m left only with envy for those who can sample Christmas successfully via functioning olfactory organs. Vicariously, though, as with most simple joys, I would be experiencing the vibrant effervescence of December festivities through her, my juxtaposition, my polarity: my girlfriend. She has always had a way with appreciating “the little things”, and an even sneakier way of coercing that appreciation into me, slowly -- but surely. Opposites attract, I could write, but that would be cliche: --
    Normally, I quite dislike cliches. Being a writer, I am often warned against them. Admittedly, I suppose “cliches” are cliche for a reason: they are applicable, universal -- but even so, in regards to redundancies, I care very little. Around the holidays, however, I find myself to be swarmed. Not even pessimisms such as mine could prevail against the roaring tide of carolers and telemarketers and light shows and inflatables; snowmen and snow-angels and snowflakes and fake snow machines; nutcrackers and nutmeg; gingerbread houses and gingerbread men and gingerbread cookies and -- the list parallels only pi and infinity (and perhaps Santa’s if you want to fail an attempt to humor me). Thus, me, beneath the mistletoe, kissing a bubbly, giggly girlfriend, would not be the first scene I would have imagined myself to be attending -- much less participating in. She opened her eyes and gave me the brightest smile, Gotcha written all over her chocolate-chip-cookie-sprinkled face.
    She grabbed my hand and we continued walking down the strip. Gorgeous lights, arrays of sparkle-things, dangled overhead, as though one colossal Christmas tree unfurled across the city. Garlands and wreaths strewn about, each building shimmered uniquely, ultimately conflating together into one single, more homogeneous sense of jollity and merriment. The urban canopies glinted and glowed with a dazzling aura not dissimilar to a fireplace, or a slow-melting candle -- a scented candle: one that my girlfriend could probably smell. But like a virus happiness is: Next thing you know, regardless of my plugged nasality, I was beginning to wear my girlfriend’s smile for my own. We approached a coffee shop particularly dressed for the occasion; a neon OPEN sign screamed for help in Morse code under tons of glitter decor.
    “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Let’s go in.”
    We walked inside. Immediately we were met with the soothing cacophonies of pedestrian dissonance that naturally you would expect from a crowded coffee shop drowning amidst the hordes of last-second Christmas shoppers stopping in to catch a break from winter onslaught. Lines of people weaved madly about the place like an ugly quilt, little rows of disheveled masses with little heads tucked away into little scarves and little hats and winter coats. The sound of chattering teeth and gloves rubbing together made actually for a somewhat cozy environment. As for the ornaments, the entire establishment was strung up with Christmas lights; they covered every inch of the ceiling from the registers to the empty sitting chairs out by the neon sign at the front. Colors of red, yellow, green snowed down on us lightly. Her eyes met their intensity with awe; in their reflection it somehow all looked even brighter. And I’m sure it smelled nice in there, too, what with the coffee and everything. I wiped my nose on the inside of my jacket.
    “Maybe they’re decorating to hide how actually run-down it is,” I jested, trying, perhaps, to shake off that uncomfortable feeling of gayness now nestled warmly deep in my chest.
    She sighed, sort of serious but mainly playful: “Maybe the decorating needs to go both ways,” she responded -- and she looked at me; “maybe the decorations only help to encourage the decoration of one’s view.”
    And then it was silent a while.  . . 
    She does this thing sometimes where she will explain a concept so intensely elaborate in thought so remarkably eloquent and plain in speech it makes me speechless, which, I should say, is a pretty hard thing to do seeing as how I’m a writer and all. And there are other ways she makes me speechless. But this one particularly struck me that night. Same as it struck me every other night of the rest of that December. She smiled. Then she got in line. And I followed.
    I won’t lie to you -- that would make for a bad narrative -- but something was there in that chocolate cookie-kiss, and there in the rest of our night, too, standing, waiting in line for a poorly made hot cocoa that was soon to scald my tongue and have way too few marshmallows to make up for it. That something would visit me quite often for the rest of that month, sometimes even kissing me under metaphysical mistletoes. December has often meant a lot of things to me. There’s nothing like opening presents with your family huddled around the living room, each taking turns sharing stories, sharing laughter, or seeing relatives you haven’t seen in a while, or cracking jokes with friends during old Christmas movies that no one is watching. But, for the first time in a long time, December reminded me of a different, unorthodox something. In its long wisps of whispering chill, curt in lyric, sharp in wind, the cold seemed only to make the warm things that much warmer. And I suppose this could expand not only to Winter frosts but, instead, beyond the physics of specific instant.
    Perhaps that kiss thawed more than what I’d expected or what it might have appeared to. 
And maybe that sounds cliche. Sobeit. She was beautiful.


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  • December 1, 2019 - 2:21am (Now Viewing)

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1 Comment
  • Christina Pan

    stunning imagery and lyrical writing. I love it

    8 months ago