Marley was dead to begin with.

Someday I want to write a novel. I want it to be amazing. I want it to be something teenagers hate to read in high school, not because it's bad, but because their weird, trying too hard to be hip, 9th grade English teacher is obsessed with it and tries to present it to them as the new tome for how to be an awesome, well rounded person. Don't worry, I have no great delusion that I am Dickens, or Hemingway, but I think if I can get my spelling and grammar errors under control, and maybe hone my typing skills a bit I will be on top of my game, and at least come out with something mildly appealing.

I have notebooks full of story ideas, and mini conversations between characters that I haven't fully developed yet. Not to mention detailed descriptions of characters that have no story attached to them. For the sake of todays post I am going to include one of those said characters, please tell me what you think, sorry it's not a funny post, I can't be on all the time

Her shoulders hunched forward, forward and up, like she was trying to conceal the length of her neck. Her head angled in a way that it the posture of her rotator cuffs were proper she'd be looking at the ceiling. The hollow expression in her eyes was not a result of her vacancy in the conversation, rather years of concealing her emotions to protect her well-being. She had few words to offer, but provided a nod of agreement from time to time when the speaker was concerned with the unity of the group. Her buzz cut had grown out by months, and slightly resembled the trendy pixie haircuts of the past. She was an attractive girl, the kind a man would buy a drink for at a bar had we been born to another kind of life. A mousey nose the creased right above the tip that created a small bulb at the end, high cheekbones that were accented by a lack of proper nutrition, and full lips. Her lips were my favorite part of her they were dry most of the time, but when she moistened them with her tongue they glistened red as blood, she puckered them when she was focusing on a task, as if flirting with what ever it was, coaxing it to her will like it were a love sick teenage boy.

I've caught my self-starring at her more often then I'm comfortable with, but to the best of my knowledge she's never noticed, me in general for that fact. We've worked in the same weaving room for nearly two years now, before that we attended the same classes at school for three quarters of a decade. She's never so much as said a word to me. No, that's wrong. In our third year of school, we were about 12 years old, and the instructor assigned a project on flowers, we were sent to the field behind the schoolhouse and told to write everything we could to describe our given blossom. Nearly an hour in I hadn't a word write, how do you describe a flower with words and do it any justice? Words, letters, sounds, no combination of the groups seemed to express the true nature of the folds of the petals, the color in the afternoon sun, the smell, it was a stupid assignment, and with only 10 minutes left I decided I refused to do it. I placed my pencil in my notebook and absorbed a few more minutes of sunshine.

My eyes closed, hands laced behind my head, face tilted like the solar panels on our homes to ingest as many rays as possible. When suddenly my supply was cut off. "Hey! What's your problem?" I expelled squinting towards the non-astral body eclipsing my sun.

"Here" a tiny voice said stretching out a piece of paper towards me covered in graphite lines. I looked down at the paper as she walked away. A page full description of my flower. I never knew why she wrote it, but when I read it I knew that it was something I never could, she captured every aspect of the flower. I never turned it in, got a ruler to my knuckles for having not done my project; my teacher would take one look at it and know I didn't write it. Not only that, I couldn't bare the idea of letting go of those words. I read it over and over memorized each letter in order. Recited it back to myself with my eyes closed at night in my room. I could feel the petals on my fingertips; smell the nectar in my nose. She did more with words then I have ever seen before.