ninasemen: “J…J…J…” Laia mumbled to herself as she walked past the rows of dusty books. “Joyce. Where the hell is it?” She decided to go back to the register and demand that the less than helpful clerk show her exactly where it was, since the store was set up on no certain scale. She turned up the next aisle and promptly tripped over the long legs that blocked it. She caught her balance and looked down. Sitting there, perusing a battered copy of Atlas Shrugged was a man with almost black hair, standing in messy peaks on top of his head. He pulled his ankles back out of her path and muttered an apology without looking up at her. She started to continue her trek to the front but hesitated. “Don’t tell me you buy into all that crap.” she said, turning her back to him and fingering the disintegrating spines of the books shelved messily before her. He looked up, seeing nothing but her jean’s back pockets, as they were full in his face. “What crap?” he asked quietly. He had an accent that she couldn’t quite make out- English maybe. “Objectivism.” she answered. “No,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Ms. Rand wouldn’t like me very much: I’m pretty altruistic. But I do appreciate a good novel when I read one.” He was Irish; it was obvious by the fullness with which he enunciated his ‘r’s. “So do I,” she said, spinning and looking down at him. “And it is an excellent book.” She saw that he had incredibly lively green eyes, with flecks of gold and hazel dancing throughout. He took note of hers: deep, chocolate, unwittingly expressive. He closed the book, grabbed the other that was sitting beside him, and lifted himself off of the floor in a fluid motion, dusting off his jeans and smoothing his t-shirt. He was taller than Laia, by about a foot, and looked down at her with a playful smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. Dimples came in and out of focus beneath his high cheekbones as he struggled against it. The aisle was tight, and forced them to be closer to each other than usually appropriate for strangers. They both noticed, and were internally grateful to the person responsible for it. Laia found it difficult to meet his intense gaze for long and turned her head, flipping her hair over her shoulder. The scent of it broke through the thick, musty air of the store and met his nose like a cool spring breeze. She used a fruit scented shampoo, he gathered. He made her uncomfortable, but in a pleasing way and she found herself lost in instantaneous daydreams. He touched her face, under the guise of removing a stray lash and she snapped out it. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” she said, remembering her reason for having traversed down the aisle to begin with. She smiled, showing him her own dimples, and made to start back on her way. “What are you looking for?” he asked, in an obvious attempt to stall her. “Ulysses.” she replied, glad for a reason to stay. “James Joyce.” “Yes.” “Here.” He handed her the book that had been lying beside him. It was what she was searching for: a first Random House edition of Ulysses in it’s original red and black hardcover wrapping. She traced her fingers over the sharp lettering. Read More I am a big Johnathan Reys fan so reading this made my morning! I love your writing so much and you totally inspire me!!!!

ninasemen:

“J…J…J…” Laia mumbled to herself as she walked past the rows of dusty books. “Joyce. Where the hell is it?” She decided to go back to the register and demand that the less than helpful clerk show her exactly where it was, since the store was set up on no certain scale. She turned up the next aisle and promptly tripped over the long legs that blocked it.

She caught her balance and looked down. Sitting there, perusing a battered copy of Atlas Shrugged was a man with almost black hair, standing in messy peaks on top of his head. He pulled his ankles back out of her path and muttered an apology without looking up at her. She started to continue her trek to the front but hesitated.

“Don’t tell me you buy into all that crap.” she said, turning her back to him and fingering the disintegrating spines of the books shelved messily before her. He looked up, seeing nothing but her jean’s back pockets, as they were full in his face. “What crap?” he asked quietly. He had an accent that she couldn’t quite make out- English maybe.

“Objectivism.” she answered.

“No,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Ms. Rand wouldn’t like me very much: I’m pretty altruistic. But I do appreciate a good novel when I read one.” He was Irish; it was obvious by the fullness with which he enunciated his ‘r’s.

“So do I,” she said, spinning and looking down at him. “And it is an excellent book.” She saw that he had incredibly lively green eyes, with flecks of gold and hazel dancing throughout. He took note of hers: deep, chocolate, unwittingly expressive.

He closed the book, grabbed the other that was sitting beside him, and lifted himself off of the floor in a fluid motion, dusting off his jeans and smoothing his t-shirt. He was taller than Laia, by about a foot, and looked down at her with a playful smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. Dimples came in and out of focus beneath his high cheekbones as he struggled against it. The aisle was tight, and forced them to be closer to each other than usually appropriate for strangers. They both noticed, and were internally grateful to the person responsible for it.

Laia found it difficult to meet his intense gaze for long and turned her head, flipping her hair over her shoulder. The scent of it broke through the thick, musty air of the store and met his nose like a cool spring breeze. She used a fruit scented shampoo, he gathered. He made her uncomfortable, but in a pleasing way and she found herself lost in instantaneous daydreams. He touched her face, under the guise of removing a stray lash and she snapped out it.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” she said, remembering her reason for having traversed down the aisle to begin with. She smiled, showing him her own dimples, and made to start back on her way.

“What are you looking for?” he asked, in an obvious attempt to stall her.
“Ulysses.” she replied, glad for a reason to stay.
“James Joyce.”
“Yes.”
“Here.”

He handed her the book that had been lying beside him. It was what she was searching for: a first Random House edition of Ulysses in it’s original red and black hardcover wrapping. She traced her fingers over the sharp lettering.

Read More

I am a big Johnathan Reys fan so reading this made my morning! I love your writing so much and you totally inspire me!!!!

NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY