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Here's a small excerpt from a oneshot I'm writing:


“Remember that one boy?” I try to mention him casually, but the words won’t slide off my tongue right.

“Huh?” My friend Colin turns around. “Who?”

“Um,” I say, my throat feeling dry already. “You know, the guy who used to live across the street from me. His name was Byrd, or something.”

“Oh, that guy,” Colin says casually, puffing on his joint and leaning backwards onto the cement. “Didn’t talk much. Nice hair. He was kind of annoying, though. He always did this one really ******** up thing with his mouth--” Colin screws up his face, then laughes. “I remember him. Didn’t he move away though? Last summer, or something.”

I bite my lip. “Yeah.” I guess I don’t really feel like talking about him anymore. Funny, when I was the person who brought him up in the first place. Yeah, really ******** funny. I wish that Colin would stop being so nonchalant.

As if wishing is going to help any. “Anyway, I think I heard something about him moving back over here.”

Colin groans. “Stop talking about him,” he giggles. “There’s more interesting things to say. Don’t you have something to say to me?”

I frown, remembering what I had said earlier. “Oh, yeah. Never mind. It wasn’t important.” It was important, but I don’t want to talk to him about it. Maybe someone who would understand. Or a girl. Either way, it’s not as if Colin can help anyway. He’d probably be shocked so bad that he’d go into a coma, and then he’d have me assassinated.

“No, seriously, I want to know. What’s up?” Colin is still smiling.

“It’s nothing, just drop it.” I must be scowling, because he does drop it, and starts talking again.

“Hey, don’t get pissed, I just wanted to see how my ickle bestie was doing.” He’s really annoying when he says things like that. I punch him on the head, lightly, and he sticks his hand in my hair and pulls it. He might be acting like this is nothing, but my throat feels like sandpaper and I think I might have to throw up. “’Cause you know how much I love you,” he practically sings. “I just love you to death!”

“I know you do,” I say. “I really do. After all, you’re so nice to me, it just makes me feel so special.” No, really, it does. And if sarcasm could burn, he would be screaming.

He’s still looking at me. “Hey, I’m not mean to you. I’m your best friend. The least you can do is be appreciative of my great labor to be of service to you.”

Gee, he’s so nice. I love him oh so very much. Why do I feel like I want to murder him?