I wrote this short intro to get my creative juices flowing on April's MWC. Unfortunately, though I liked the piece, I didn't have time to finish it for the contest and doubt I'll find the motivation to (exempting a theme conducive to the story's continuation in a future MWC). Enjoy?

"I.""Am.""Not." The authority in her voice echoed rhythmically in my mind, accompanying her words as the ripples a stone skipping across the water; fading in volume as echoes tend. I hear her clearly, if distractedly. She's angry, that's the main point. She's cute when she's angry. That little furrow in her left eyebrow and the way her irides throw those daggers just like she'd throw a baseball...

The right corner of his mouth pulls him back into the conversation, as a tell like that can't but be told.

"Are you even LIST'ning to me!?" She asked, suddenly furious.
"I-"
"Forget it."

Myke's jaw follow orders perfectly.

I watched the anger on her face evaporate and saw something new, something different in those eyes: dejection. That was the moment, I later told myself. That instant was when the bond I shared with her fissioned. I'd've never quit dwelling on how perfect a metaphor the fission truly was if it weren't for what her words truly were. I mean, I'm deluding myself so hard with those memories of her happy and comfortable as she's deluding herself equally with my improvement at her behest? Even as I write this I manage a wry smile at the thought. Journal: I don't think you're keeping my mind on task.

He doesn't lift his pen at the 'k''s conclusion, rather, doubles back on its path to underline "task." Except, it quickly digresses toward a descending scribble, enveloping the rest of the page.

My recent obsession with all the duality I see in the world had come to a head. Mulling over these thoughts until I've pieced together enough to start drawing conclusions. Journal: are you upset that I keep thoughts from you until I've finished with them?

The pen moved rhythmically across the page, its cobalt ink evincing his fingers' inkling and his thoughts requesting ever more.

I'm done with these thoughts. They're yours now, keep well.

He closes his journal in preparation for a return to the middle drawer. As the desk lamp's rays glints across 'Noyes', his name embossed on the cover, he noticed her picture grinning wildly up at him. The photo, normally lifted before the journal's replacement, isn't disturbed tonight.