So here, it is. An Average Hello, it's the first work I've put on fiction press... Please review! I'd really love some contructive criticism, or if you really liked something too! I'm planning on continuing on this, but I have no concrete ideas and it's more of a thought in the back of my head.

The bright green leaves shook with the wind of summer, and the curious adolescent with the beautifully clear, pale green eyes walked to a simple nondescript restaurant. He called it "The coffee house," a name of the past, but perfectly suited for his personal "now". He crossed the tar road, and for a moment absolutely detested the color black. His temporary hate, however, slid away like silk over the fingers when the central air conditioning of the building touched his face.

He looked out the glass wall, and encountered a strange feeling of confusion when he had his hot coffee and came across the girl walking on the street with no other people. She looked up at him, with her soft but vibrant brown eyes, and dark purple eyeliner.

She was following him.

Crossing the empty road, she stopped at the door and stared at it instead. The bell shaped object that hung on the bar of the door failed to make the sweet ringing noise, and not because it had a defect, but because as this peculiar person pushed open the door she grasped the bell and didn't let it ring. She saw his eyes again, and the look on her face was one of recognition. Her bag hit her thigh when she walked, and her shoes were black flats, with a neon pink flower. Her mid-forearm sleeve, brown, and red shirt stripe combination gave her a casual atmosphere.

She said to him, "I've seen your eyes before..."

To which he replied, "What?"

"I've seen your eyes before, at a carnival! There was a lady. Actually, she could be your older sister. Hmm..."

"My sister doesn't have my eyes," he said, relieved to recall the fact.

She asked, "What's your name?"


"Uhuh..." she muttered, and not a word more.

"So what's your name?" Analeio asked, breaking the tension he imagined was there, "and is there any reason you're staring at my forehead?" He welcomed the insanity, and the absurdity of it. It was a cheerful distraction, and took him to a "castle in the sky" world, where mentioning the mere impossibility of a subject can render it useless and dead. It was what he daydreamed of when he was at the coffee shop alone, and when he was preoccupied with his own slight misery. He unconsciously smiled, aware of it only when it was already on his face.

"Sarah. And no reason. Can I get your last name? Oh, I forgot to say Hello." She wasn't nervous.

"Are you going to Google me? And 'Hello' right back, how are you?"

"I might. I'm feeling better. Always better. You?"

"I'm perplexed. Better? My last name is Spencer."

"I refuse to elaborate. Analeio Spencer, it was nice to meet you. I like you, here's my email. I have to go. Bye."

She got up, opened the door, cringed when she heard the bell, and departed. As abruptly as she had come, she had left. Analeio's coffee sat, losing heat to the air, untouched.

It was simple really, the small isolated incident. But it prompted much thought in Analeio, as he later arrived at his broken home. The scene exasperated his eyes, his ears, and soul. It was as follows: Barbie was in her room, with shallow selfish Ken, and Mother was asleep, busy procrastinating.

Two hours later, and yet again, his mp3 player had died out on him. His attention had been caught in a net of notes, with the violin shouting a flurry of obscenities, every word beautiful. It was so fast, so vibrant, deep yet light and made up of soul… When…

"Bleep," the device complained. It turned off.

He lay there, and the comforting quiet grew into irritable loneliness, into angering laughs from the room beside his, and into hurtful silence from the master bedroom. It had been like this yesterday, the day before, and the days before that.

And it would continue, for seeming eternity. He thought and thought, but could not find the source of his bitterness. The email he had gotten earlier was destined to be forgotten, perhaps he would never change, and distractions would make up his life. The "castle in the sky" world was just that, a dream. Even if he did not message her, though, he still typed the contact into his phone, and threw away the paper she had given him.

A minute later, he found himself typing, "Hello."