( He probably should have provided context. Some guidance. Something, rather than just shoving that piece of paper unexplained into the envelope. But truth be told, Luther hadn't even known where to start — for that exact, very reason of being daunted, terrified, by the blank page and unable to put his words down properly. How does he rip his heart out and put it onto the page, and summarise everything that these letters mean to him? So he hadn't; he'd hidden behind Mssr. King's words instead, who had already phrased it so much better than Luther ever could.
When he receives Allison's reply, he reads it over and over while sprawled on the comfortable sofa in the basement, the stuffing leaking everywhere, the cushions dented from years' worth of seven children camping out on it. He has room now to kick up his feet, his whole body stretched out along it, when before he'd probably have been jostling with Klaus for space.
He just marinates in her words, the images she's painting, which are so much more descriptive than anything they've handed each other until now. And so when he picks up the pen again, he really does try: )
Dear Allison,
I don't know how I'm supposedly the fan of poetry when you can write like this. That's beautiful. It's almost like I was there myself, I can picture it so well from your latter. I'll have to see if I can find any photos of the Magic Hour at work.
I wasn't trying to say you weren't trying, by the way. Just— I don't know, I remembered that quote and it happened to be on my mind, about the importance of writing and reading, and I thought it was fitting.
So, I guess it's my turn. I'm not as good at telling stories as you are, so I apologize in advance.
I told Dad that I was going out, and he said whatever for, I didn't have a mission scheduled — so I said I'd just turned twenty-one so I was heading out for a drink. He'd forgotten our my birthday, of course. He thought it was a complete waste of time, and that it would interfere with my training regimen and if I got hungover I'd jeopardize my health, but I'm twenty-one and it's legal so there isn't actually anything he can do to stop me, really. Just a couple drinks, I said, and I wouldn't disgrace the Academy or anything and I'd call Pogo from a payphone if I ran into trouble. So he let me go.
I tried to find someplace that wasn't too crowded or with too many people, so I went to a hole-in-the-wall on the lower east side. You have to walk down some steps, with this unassuming unlabelled metal door covered in graffiti, that looks like it leads into a basement but it opens up and turns out to be this massive brick-walled space. So dark you can't even read the drinks menu without turning on a lighter, and sticky wooden counters, cracked leather in the booths, and enough people to show it was popular but not enough that you had to be crammed in elbow-to-elbow.
The bartender absolutely did not recognize me and didn't want to give me a free drink — if I'd been a cute girl, he probably would've — but a woman down the counter took pity on me and bought me one. It was a tequila shot, with the lime and licking the salt off my hand and everything. Not exactly the same as what you'd described, but I took it anyway.
It's actually the first drink I've ever had? I play by the rules too much, I guess. It burned like I'd swallowed a warm flame going down, but I actually really liked it with the lime. And I got the cocktail umbrellas and tried some whiskey neat, and I did not vomit on anyone's shoes and I didn't get any drinks thrown in my face, so I consider the night a success. She asked for my number, but I pretended I had a
Do I get a reward for passing the challenge?
- Luther
PS: This is the most I've ever written outside of Academy assignments, too.
no subject
When he receives Allison's reply, he reads it over and over while sprawled on the comfortable sofa in the basement, the stuffing leaking everywhere, the cushions dented from years' worth of seven children camping out on it. He has room now to kick up his feet, his whole body stretched out along it, when before he'd probably have been jostling with Klaus for space.
He just marinates in her words, the images she's painting, which are so much more descriptive than anything they've handed each other until now. And so when he picks up the pen again, he really does try: )
I don't know how I'm supposedly the fan of poetry when you can write like this. That's beautiful. It's almost like I was there myself, I can picture it so well from your latter. I'll have to see if I can find any photos of the Magic Hour at work.
I wasn't trying to say you weren't trying, by the way. Just— I don't know, I remembered that quote and it happened to be on my mind, about the importance of writing and reading, and I thought it was fitting.
So, I guess it's my turn. I'm not as good at telling stories as you are, so I apologize in advance.
I told Dad that I was going out, and he said whatever for, I didn't have a mission scheduled — so I said I'd just turned twenty-one so I was heading out for a drink. He'd forgotten
ourmy birthday, of course. He thought it was a complete waste of time, and that it would interfere with my training regimen and if I got hungover I'd jeopardize my health, but I'm twenty-one and it's legal so there isn't actually anything he can do to stop me, really. Just a couple drinks, I said, and I wouldn't disgrace the Academy or anything and I'd call Pogo from a payphone if I ran into trouble. So he let me go.I tried to find someplace that wasn't too crowded or with too many people, so I went to a hole-in-the-wall on the lower east side. You have to walk down some steps, with this unassuming unlabelled metal door covered in graffiti, that looks like it leads into a basement but it opens up and turns out to be this massive brick-walled space. So dark you can't even read the drinks menu without turning on a lighter, and sticky wooden counters, cracked leather in the booths, and enough people to show it was popular but not enough that you had to be crammed in elbow-to-elbow.
The bartender absolutely did not recognize me and didn't want to give me a free drink — if I'd been a cute girl, he probably would've — but a woman down the counter took pity on me and bought me one. It was a tequila shot, with the lime and licking the salt off my hand and everything. Not exactly the same as what you'd described, but I took it anyway.
It's actually the first drink I've ever had? I play by the rules too much, I guess. It burned like I'd swallowed a warm flame going down, but I actually really liked it with the lime. And I got the cocktail umbrellas and tried some whiskey neat, and I did not vomit on anyone's shoes and I didn't get any drinks thrown in my face, so I consider the night a success.
She asked for my number, but I pretended I had aDo I get a reward for passing the challenge?
- Luther
PS: This is the most I've ever written outside of Academy assignments, too.