You Make Me Feel Like Chalk

This was an exercise in Grad School. We had to take a mundane object, in my case, chalk, and create a story about it. There may have been some instructions on making it a person as well, I don’t actually remember. Anyway, take a swing and enjoy!


You make my mouth dry, make it hard to swallow. I taste dust when you come near me and almost want to sneeze as your perfume tickles my nose. I can’t tell you why I’m here, or why I keep on coming back. But I do know that, despite all the dreams, convictions, and arguments that drive me back onto this place, this house. I always end up feeling the same. Bland.

You don’t say a word, you just stand, leaning against the doorframe with sunlight illuminating your hair into a burning halo. I clear my throat, trying to make the dryness leave, my voice is raspy in the still air. I manage to squeak out “Hi.”

In the history of amorous advances, it ranks low for creativity, but quite high for versatility. The word hangs in the air with the dancing dust motes and slowly fades. I hear you chuckle low and your bare feet against the hardwood. I stand stupidly and waver between making a break for it or falling forward into you. Before I make my decision, you snag my hand. My shoulders slump slightly, it’s too late now. Your hand is warm and strong. Mine is pale and fragile, resting like an egg in your grasp. I feel your heat seeping into my skin.

Before, in other moments, other indecisions, and indiscretions, you have told me how smooth it is, how light and dry it seems under your fingers. I sigh in the now and feel your hand tighten around mine and pull me forward. Without thinking, without intent, I begin to follow you to wherever you wish. Driven forward by a will other than my own.


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