Do you ever just randomly get an idea in your head and decide to follow it through even though you aren’t sure how it will turn out? Well, this is mine! As a regular writer and daily reader of the OTF newsletter, I (Kayla) was reading a piece one day when a thought popped into my head. All of us writers are so unique with our perspectives and in our writing, so I wondered if it would be possible to identify each of us without actually knowing who wrote the piece. When I read all of my fellow writers’ pieces, there are just certain writing techniques or phrases that are distinctively theirs. The challenge of seeing if I could identify each writer blind is something that sounded fun to me and I thought it was something that each of us (readers included) could participate in! Thus, the two part “Whose Piece Is it Anyway?” idea was born! Yes, you read that right: it’s going to be a two-parter!
How it works:
This week, all writers at OTF have been given the same prompt in which to write a short scene about. These pieces are all shared anonymously below. After reading all of the pieces, each OTF writer and all readers will have the opportunity to guess who wrote which piece via the Google Form below. Next week, the results will be shared along with who actually wrote each piece! So, get ready to analyze and scrutinize the short stories below to see if you can correctly identify who wrote what!
The prompt:
Write a romcom-esque story beginning with a character saying, “Don’t you remember?”
Genre:
Fiction - For purposes of this challenge, all pieces are meant to be creative writing.
Writer 1:
“Don’t you remember?”
“No?”
“Ms. Shepard’s class? ‘95? We sat next to each other in math?”
“Oh yeah! How are you?”
“You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“Of course! How could I forget! Such good times!”
“You used to high five Jack Hensley when I would get the answers wrong in class.”
“Right. Yeah, I’m sorry about that…”
“Forget it.” Caden grabbed his receipt from Steve and moved out of the way for the next customer, staring as Steve stumbled through the next interaction while he waited for his smoothie to be called.
He kept wanting to make eye contact but Steve was avoiding his gaze like it was a cop’s flashlight tracking his movements, typing away as he tried to get all the regular’s modifications correct. Acai bowl with light flax seeds, no mango, sub strawberries, add protein powder.
Caden waited for his plain banana and blueberry to be called and for Steve to remember him. How could someone who made his life so miserable for a full six months have just forgotten him? How could he not remember when they ran into each other at the football game and Steve pushed him to the ground under the bleachers just to lean down and give him a passionate kiss on the lips before running away? Caden’s first kiss. From a supposedly closeted bully, at that! Yet here they both were, out and living in a big city hundreds of miles from their small hometown, and he didn’t even seem to surprised at this novel interaction.
Caden had thought about that kiss everyday for eight years, never thinking he’d run into Steve in his new city. He wondered if his lips still tasted like warm skittles and repression.
He shifted impatiently, still waiting for his smoothie to be called, and started to get more frustrated that Steve didn’t remember him. Had he not made as lasting of an impression?
Finally, he heard his name called and walked out in a huff without trying to force another awkward conversation out of him. Once outside he realized there was a number written on the drink with “call me :)” scrolled across it.
Maybe he did remember after all.
Writer 2:
“Don’t you remember?”
June froze in her tracks (not the smartest thing to do while strutting down 5th Avenue). She clutched Lily’s arm, and with a bewildered look in her eye that suggested she was about to have some kind of shocking epiphany…
“Burrrrrp!”
“Ewww, June!”
Yeah, turns out it was just gas. “Whew, exCUSE me!” June said with a chuckle. The business casual-clad friends resumed their jaunt through Midtown, June completely oblivious to the dirty looks some passersby were shooting at her. “Sorry, Lil–I really don’t remember. You know I’m a complete scatterbrain.” June shook her hands in the air to emphasize the word “scatterbrain” and nearly knocked a man in the face in the process. “See?!” she exclaimed.
Lily let out a sigh. “It’s fine. You know that’s why we all love you.” June smirked, and Lily continued, “But anyways, it’s Andrew’s birthday, remember? We’re gonna get all dressed up, then we’re going out for a nice dinner, and then–”
“Right, right, boring outfits, boring meal–”
“–hey!–”
“–all to be followed by a boring proposal…or so you hope.”
“Yes!” Lily said happily. “Wait, not the boring part!” She lightly smacked June on the arm.
“Ow!”
“You’ve never really given Andrew a chance! It’s time you accept that we’re madly in love and are preparing to share the rest of our lives together.”
The friends had reached their place of work by this point, but June moved to block Lily from entering the building. Frowning somewhat, June said, “Madly in love? Really?”
Lily shifted uncomfortably, but put on a face of resolution. “Yes. Madly.”
June looked Lily in the eye long and hard. Lily didn’t waver, though, so into the building they went.
Lily knew June had a point; her relationship with Andrew was…far from passionate. But it was sensible! He had a good job, a decent apartment, a dog even! Guys like him were becoming increasingly difficult to find in the city. You know, guys who are, well, husband and father material. Someone who’s going to be there when you need him. Someone who’s married to his wife, not his job.
“All right, so as you can see here–wellllllll, look who decided to finally join us!” Lily sheepishly rushed to her seat at the conference table while June rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at Blake. “Ladies,” Blake continued, “I’m sure there’s a wonderful reason you’re late to the meeting that I’ve spent so long preparing for.”
“Yeah, actually, I was feeling a little gassy.” June patted her stomach. “Needed to take a walk.”
Lily was beside herself with embarrassment. “I–uh–um–we just–lots of foot traffic–”
Blake watched Lily stumble through her words with a look of equal parts annoyance and pity. “Whatever,” he finally said. “Let’s just get on with it.”
As they left the meeting, Lily’s head was spinning with her hopes for the evening. Was Andrew really going to propose at last? Sure, they hadn’t explicitly discussed taking that step, but it seemed like the right–
“You look good today, Donovan.”
Blake’s comment threw Lily completely off course, and she nearly walked into the door frame. “Uh, what? Me? Huh?” she stuttered.
Blake laughed. “Yeah, you. You look good. Did you try out some new makeup or something?”
“Oh no, she’s just glowing with excitement,” June interjected. “Tonight’s a big night for her.”
“Oh, is that so?” Blake actually seemed mildly interested in something pertaining to the two of them for once. Lily was surprised, but mainly mortified that this conversation was happening at all.
June leaned in and whispered to Blake, “Her boyfriend is going to propose tonight.”
For a split second, Blake’s expression changed. Did he look…unhappy? Why would that be? It was only for a moment, though, and then he was right back to his usual charismatic–albeit slightly douchey–self. “Well then, that’s cause for celebration! Tell you what–I’ll treat you both to lunch tomorrow.”
“Me and…Andrew?” Lily asked, quite confused.
Blake laughed again. “No, silly. You and the ever-professional Ms. Parker here.” He motioned toward June, and she did a little curtsy.
Lily was growing redder by the minute. “Right, of course,” she said. “We’d love that. Thanks, Blake.”
“Sure thing,” he said with a wink before strutting off down the hallway.
“Just be thankful I didn’t tell him the real reason you were ‘glowing with excitement,’” June teased.
Lily frowned. “And what was that?”
“That Blaaaaake called you preeeeetty!”
Lily aggressively shushed June who was giggling incessantly. “He didn’t call me pretty!” she stated quietly. “He said…he said I look good.” Though she was trying extremely hard not to, Lily began to blush again at the mere memory of Blake’s compliment. Damnit! Think about Andrew, think about Andrew! she mentally yelled at herself. And when thoughts of Andrew finally did fill her head, the blushing quickly vanished from her cheeks.
Was she making a big mistake?
Writer 3:
“Don’t you remember?”
He posed the question so quietly, if I wasn’t already attuned to his voice I might not have picked it up. The almost utterance of it broke my heart. The question wasn’t accusatory, though I knew he was withholding some of those feelings. It was simply a question; curious to a fault because who would really want to know the answer. There are only two options:
Either I did remember and am actively choosing to ignore it, or pretend to forget about it, like it never happened.
Or, I really didn’t remember how we met and that could and would prove more frightening than lying to him through my teeth.
I looked out the frosted window, the street below quiet in the dark. Normally there were people, other students, milling about, going out on their own or forming a gaggle to walk four-wide on the sidewalk, inevitably and effectively irritating every solo-walker behind them. There were the ones with keys to the Brownstones off the street and there were the ones with bus and Tube fare that would take them the hours-long trek back home. There were ones with wide eyes and bright faces, unaware of the neighborhood etiquette and typical haunts. Then there were us, sitting on the hilariously small bed, post-accident, looking out the street, everything left unsaid between us. We’re undoubtedly both wondering how to go forward through this, like those people below, continuing on with their evenings—him wondering what to do with me, me wondering what to do with me.
“I—” I started, but didn’t know what words to grab—the truth, yes, but his truth or mine? When nothing came out, I shut my lips, the sound almost audible in our quiet, the gap between us, somehow, widening. I was losing him and who could blame him? Our time together hadn’t been long before the accident, only a handful of months. It would be easy to wash his hands of me, take the memories he has of, put them somewhere safe and move on. I would go on living too, just without the shared memories.
“Will you tell me, again, how you remember it?”
His eyes bored into mine, intense, severe, then softened deeply and he sighed so heavily, it was like his final breath, defeated. I had lost him.
As my heart broke more for this person I didn’t mean to hurt so badly, I hadn’t noticed him shift towards me until he took my hands in his.
“My friend texted me to come to the bar, said we were all hanging, though I didn’t know who ‘we’ was,” he began quietly but quickly, “having nothing better to do, I followed his orders and trekked my way to Stout. It was Thursday night, it was loud and I saw Matt’s back first. He was sitting on top of the booth, his feet on the cushion, leaning aggressively forward, his elbows on his knees. He was talking intently with the person seated across from him, the shot and pint glasses around you indicating the conversation was already to a certain degree I didn’t know I would want to deal with. But I stepped closer.
“And then there you were—wearing a yellow t-shirt, smiling, so bright, like a star in the dark, your hair mused and your eyes shining. I think…” he gave a nervous laugh that pulled me out of the scene, “I think I did a double take, and felt frozen for a second. But then Matt saw me and suddenly I was sitting down next to him, he was introducing me to you, you were reaching your hand out to shake mine.” He paused thoughtfully, before returning right back at it, full force.
“You were dating someone at the time, of course, I couldn’t be that lucky, and it was clear Matt—and just about everyone else in the room—was turned towards you, waiting for your next move, next breath. Matt, no matter how horny, gets distracted easily and, as we began talking in detail, grew bored of our conversation on books and music and went to take shots with some girls at the bar.
“At this point, the rest of the room receded and we were alone. You talk with your hands and they were wild—you would throw your arms in the air to gesticulate your exact energy from the moment. If you hated something, I would watch you push back against the table, yours or my story giving you a visceral reaction. If you loved something, you would push forward as if trying to get your very existence closer to the thing you saw of worth.
“I had never, in my entire life, met someone who talks the way you do, who shares her entire being with the world because how else would you do it? It didn’t matter that you were already in a relationship—I swore to myself then that you would be in my life, even as the best of platonic friends, because I couldn’t imagine ever not talking to you again.”
I was speechless. I had closed my eyes, afraid tears would fall, but in doing so, the vision he created, the image he painted—I was seeing it, I was remembering. Again, his pause was brief.
“I remember seeing your tattoos for the first time and you explaining them to me and I wondered how someone so young could have come up with that much thought, detail, and meaning for something, and that you chose to share it with me, a complete stranger who was and still is unworthy of your specialness. You told me about your move to Seattle to ‘get away from it all’ and I told you about dropping out of community college and somehow, miraculously, finding my way to Seattle too.
“You told me about your favorite books and asked mine, a topic that could have spanned hours. I asked you about your music tastes, knowing the critical nature of this question. You blushed when you said something along the lines of ‘I like everything, but I don’t know a lot,’ and I had visions of showing you music videos, of showing you the history that sucks me in. You summarized astutely for me, the idiot, the magic of the brain and psychology, the things that suck you in.
“Drinks were had, shots were taken, Matt rejoined us at some point and all too soon we were walking back.” Another nervous laugh, “I was anxious; I didn’t want to leave this space that we had carved out of time, I didn’t want you to leave. I went into slight panic when I began thinking of what it would feel like to never see you again, but then you were taking my phone confidently, added yourself in there as ‘The Hot Redhead From Stout’, and demanded a text so you could have my number. It was as if you had already decided for us that I would be seeing you again.
“You ask me if I remember when we met, Alice, how could I ever forget?”
Writer 4:
“Don’t you remember, Rae?”
The judgmental words flooded into my head like the pounding bass at an Odesza concert. Maybe they weren’t actually that harsh, but as I stared into the porcelain throne (aka the toilet) trying not to expel the last remaining contents in my stomach, bits and pieces of last night flooded into my brain. Whose idea was it to pound two lemon drops, one liquid marijuana, and one Vegas bomb followed by copious vodka sodas, anyway? Mine. Probably mine. The massive hangover that I was trying and failing to avoid thinking about was nobody's fault but my own. Damn the need to always be the life of the party. I’m way too old for this shit.
Also, who the hell does Audrey think she is questioning my memory?
“Fuck you, bitch! Don’t pretend like you’ve never woken up with your head in a toilet trying to piece together alcohol-laced memories from the night before.” The brief mention of booze made my stomach lurch, but the snicker on Audrey’s face as she leaned up against the bathroom door was enough for me to muster up the courage to sit upright for the first time all morning. As I looked around the powder blue, somehow still-spinning bathroom, the previous evening started to become clearer. And that’s when I saw it. Discarded in the bathroom corner beside the cheap, bronze wastebasket (that apparently was considered a “good” college graduation present from my dad) was a 3.5” x 2.0” business card that contained all the secrets from the night before. In big, bold, black letters that screamed, “I know exactly what I’m packing,” read a name that couldn’t be erased by a thousand hangovers or black-out drunk nights: Finn Vos. And scribbled on the back in black ink was the reason I was in this mess. Second story balcony. 12:15.
“Fuck, fuck, fuckedy-fuck,” I muttered as I snatched the slightly crumpled business card off the floor and jammed it into the measly excuse for a pocket on my mid-thigh blue jean skirt. The night may have been a blur of vodka and disco lights, but I remembered exactly how it ended.
As I ran out of the Jack-and-Jill style bathroom that I shared with my roommate, Audrey, I quickly glanced in the mirror to see the damage from the night before. Big mistake. My pin-straight, light brown, shoulder-length hair looked like it would take first prize as an ode to Beetlejuice at my hometown Halloween costume contest. Don’t even get me started on the once-perfect berry colored lipstick smeared across my right cheek. That would all have to wait, though. I couldn’t bear to look at myself any longer. My main priority right now was to find him…and unfortunately I knew exactly where to look.
“Good luck fixing this mess—if you can even really call it a mess,” Audrey giggled as she plopped down on our questionable Goodwill-thrifted tan couch. “Tell me, was he really as gifted as the socialites say, or is it all gossip?” She made a special point to drag out the word “gifted” as if I didn’t already know what she meant. “Given the very visible hickey on your neck and the fact that your panties are still wadded up in your back pocket,” she said motioning to the bulge in my back pocket, “I’d say the rumors are true.”
My hand instantly flew up to cover the mark on my neck and I couldn't help the blush that came over my cheeks. “Sometimes I absolutely hate you, you know?”
“Bullshit. You love me, because who else would clean up after your messes and keep your secrets? This one is on you, though.”
She was right. In truth, I could never hate Audrey. As uptight and bitchy as she was, Audrey kept me grounded…and occasionally let me bum food whenever my bar tab outweighed my paycheck.
Audrey had been my best friend since freshman year of college, and from the beginning she was never afraid to openly judge my decisions to my face. Last night, I had let my clearly horny thoughts for Finn and insatiable thirst for alcohol compromise the only job I had ever had, and now it was time to commence Operation: Damage Control.
I quickly scanned the white, faux-marble countertops of our closet-sized New York apartment in hopes to find anything that resembled the contents of my purse. I definitely needed to work on becoming more organized, but that goal would have to wait another day. At first glance, the counter only seemed to tell a tale of neglect. Dirty dishes spilled over from the sink, week-old mugs with lipstick stains and coffee rings littered the area, and a stack of mail (well, mainly annoying credit card offers) stood at the corner of the counter nearest the door—unopened with no home in sight.
After locating my beat-up metro card, building ID badge, half-used tube of Burt's Bees, and cell phone that was currently on 17% (and ditching the crumpled up thong in my back pocket), I slipped on my once-white Adidas laying by the front door and ran down the two flights of stairs to the bustling streets of the city.
In my haste to remember (and find a remedy for) the situation from the night before, I completely forgot to check the time. Glancing down at my phone, I noticed that it was already a quarter past noon. Fuck, not only did I sleep half the day away, but most of the corporate American slaves were already eating lunch and spreading gossip which meant I had to work fast.
Even in my half-delirious, hungover state, there was just something about the streets of the city that made me feel alive. It was as if even the gum-coated sidewalks radiated energy. The bustling tourists, trash-littered curbs, and dirty-water hot dog cart scents culminated into this feeling that was uniquely New York. Even after only being in the city for two years, I couldn’t imagine life anywhere else. Now I just hoped my past, which I had fought so hard to suppress, wouldn’t come back to haunt me after one careless night.
Shit. Focus, Rae. Gotta get to Finn before anyone has the chance to confront him, and maybe your entire future won’t be screwed up.
But just the mention of Finn had my brain swimming. Although the night was a blur, I could still remember my shock after spotting him trying to blend into the corner of Karma Nightclub. For starters, it definitely didn’t seem like the kind of place for someone just named Number Ten on Forbes 30 Under 30 list. Karma had a stigma for attracting a less-than-reputable crowd looking to blow their Wall Street earnings on hookers and drugs. Definitely not a place for a successful heir to a powerful investment trust who grew up going to London boarding schools and flying in private jets. If he wanted hookers and blow, he could definitely go somewhere more discrete. But alas, there he was. Standing in a $2,000 Armani suit at a sleazy nightclub while drunk girls and braggadocious men grinded and twerked to synth-pop music mixed by an over-hyped DJ.
He wasn’t just minding his own business, though. He was at that club for a reason. What that reason was, I don’t know exactly. What I did know is that Finn had a hold on me like nobody else ever could. Even in the shadowed corner of the club, his piercing blue eyes locked on mine and my willpower was shattered. As soon as I spotted him, I knew the night would get dangerous. It always got dangerous when Finn was involved. Our past interactions toyed a line that could never be crossed, and unfortunately, last night that boundary was broken to a point of disrepair.
Racing towards the subway, I didn’t have a plan. I just knew we had to get our story straight.
Writer 5:
“Don’t you remember?”
Don’t you remember…
My dress when you got down on one knee?
My face when you asked me?
My tears when I said, “yes baby, yes”?
Don’t you remember…
That night we swam under the stars?
When we promised this love was ours?
How you held me in your arms?
Don’t you remember…
The fight that started it all?
Me screaming at you from the hall?
The whiskey on your breath from the bar?
Don’t you remember…
Every time that you promised forever?
Every lie that you thought was clever?
My mom asking when I’d leave, if ever?
Don’t you remember…
The day that I packed my bags?
You begging saying, “this is just a snag”?
In the same breath calling me a hag?
Don’t you remember…
You ruined us and I still loved you.
You shattered me and I still loved you.
You slept with her and I still loved you.
Don’t you know now…
I love myself more than I loved you.
This wasn’t something out of the blue.
I left and you know I had to.
One more time, here’s that Google Form! We’d love to know who you all think wrote each scene!
Shit We’re Loving: PEOPLE
Our Pick: The characters we birthed for this collab
I know for a few of us, this project was a challenge, but (and even though it was late because of me [shocker]) we all wrote and contributed in our own ways and created characters and stories just from a single prompt and a few words. Much love to all my friends here for perhaps flexing some different writing muscles than normal.
Show Your Support: Children’s Literacy Initiative
School has officially begun for everyone from kindergarteners to university students and, of course, their devoted teachers—learning is in the air again. As we may be aware, many schools and their students across our country are severely underserved, especially when it comes to accurate, anti-racist, LGBTQ+ friendly, and sex-positive literature and books. Children’s Literacy Initiative has stepped in to change this.
Literacy is the very foundation of all learning and the pathway to liberation for every human being.
The CLI seeks to dismantle structural racism by providing Black and Latinx children with anti-racist early literacy instruction, support and advocacy needed to create equity in education. Educators currently serving high-need student populations can join the CLI and learn high-impact strategies and nuture dynamics to continue the necessary trajectory of improvement in our schools. Just some of the ways CLI assists teachers is by providing workshops and seminars about literacy content and pedagogy, by stocking classrooms with much-needed, high-quality books and other learning materials, and by coaching teachers to incorporate these practices in their classrooms.
At the time of this writing, the Children’s Literacy Initiative has served 295 schools, 5894 educators, and 104,419 students. They have also distributed 34,907 books. In the OTF fashion, we have already donated to CLI and we encourage you to do the same if you can!
Daily Intention:
Today I choose…
To have a little fun.
Here’s some nifty buttons for you to press, enjoy: