Bailey Powell

The Striped 9 Ball

When my fingers grip around the cool, smooth surface of the flaxen striped 9 ball, the night comes flooding back.

He stood before me with an elongated stare, sparkling sweat forming at his hairline in the August heat while I leaned back against the pool table in my safe, all black outfit. “Dare.” He stated, unflinchingly. My eyes scanned the dimly lit bar, it’s emptiness and lush, high-backed red leather upholstery leaving me uninspired. The closest wall was constructed entirely of glass doors, all of which had been flung open with their rich tapestried curtains gathered to the sides to let any teasing bout of wind find it’s way inside to where we stood. All the other patrons were dining outside where we had just been, softly lit by the sea of paper lanterns strung above them swaying gently in the balmy breeze. Their voices had become a calming white noise to me.

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The Beginning of Something Big

I’ve got so many thoughts, all seemingly unoriginal and previously tried. However, isn’t that what people want to read, bits of familiarity dipped in articulation? An eloquent portrayal of an indescribable feeling, the simple satisfaction of knowing someone feels like you do? Essentially a temporary cure for loneliness, a comforting, warm bed in the shape of a book filled with people who couldn’t possibly disappear after a finite number of pages? Tiny, untraceable ideas dawn in my mind, each bearing the affectations of everything that passes through my irises and eardrums. They’re anxious to be transcribed to form a place one would feel desperate to physically delve into, a fantastic engulfment. I want these ideas to jump off pages and captivate readers. I want them to provide a temporary escape to a place absent of pretension, a place where the once mundane and trivial become bewitching and gripping.

The open-ended nature of creativity is simultaneously the most daunting and exciting thing about it.


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