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The Adventures of Mallory Yellinger and Samuel Kent

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May. 4th, 2006 | 09:34 pm
location: Portland, ME
mood: complacentcomplacent
music: Stars of Track and Field--Belle and Sebastian
posted by: bad_mushroom in les_cannettes

Mallory Yellinger was the kind of girl who collected fallen flowers and pressed them, preserving their brown skeletons for all to see. That was why her favorite time of year was spring, when all the budding trees were heavy with blossoms-- so heavy that flowers littered the sidewalks. As she and her friend Sam walked around town she would gather them, until her pockets were full of limp petals.

“This one,” she told him, twirling a pink and white blossom, “is almost perfect. Look at that--hardly any bruising.”

Sam nodded noncomitally, with a slight smile. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s nice.”


There was a boy who would sit in a cafe on the waterfront. He had hair the color of the ocean in the carribean. Mallory liked to watch him--his hair against the pale of his skin, how the sun looked shining through the aquamarine strands. She wanted to do his portrait in seashells. She wanted to be Holden Caulfield, and have silver hair and enough charm to talk to anyone.


Sam called her at ten. Her clock said 9:56. He said it was ten exactly, your clock is slow. It was, but she liked it that way. It made her feel like she had more time.

“I found a book on flowers,” he said, “do you want it?”

Mal looked at her desk, where her book of pressed flowers was sitting.

“Sure,” she said.

There was a pause. “Hey, Mal?” said Sam.


“Is there such thing as blue flowers?”

“Yeah,” she said, “morning glories.”

Sam’s voice was distressed. “No, no, not that kind of blue--I mean real blue, like sky blue or, or...sea blue.”

“Oh,” she said, thinking of the carribean, “not that I know of, no.”

“Okay,” he said, “thanks,” and he hung up.


The Boy was in front of Sam and Mal in line at the local bubble tea cafe the next day. He bumped into Sam as he was bending over to pick up some spare change that had fallen out of his wallet.

“S-sorry,” he muttered. Sam didn’t say anything.

If Mal had been paying attention, she would have noticed the look on Sam’s face.

“His jacket smelled like sea salt,” she told Sam dreamily on the way home. She was smiling. He wasn’t.


Sam was a dreamer with a side of cynicism. He painted portraits and landscapes. There was a portrait of Mal on his wall, and next to it one of himself. In it he was solemn-faced, and a little pale and withdrawn. Mal was radiant, though she too was fair-skinned, but her red hair shone like fire.


Mal ran her fingers through her bright hair, looking out the window to the sea. Her fingers tapped listlessly on the table, and her eyes were misty and red-rimmed.

“What are you thinking?” Sam asked.

She wouldn’t answer, but Sam knew.


“Sam,” said Mal, “should I dye my hair?”

He sighed. “No, never.”

Her face grew curious. “Why?”

Red-cheeked, he shrugged. “Because it’s beautiful like it is,” and he reached out and touched it, hand trembling a little.

“Oh,” said Mal.

“Exactly,” said Sam.


Mallory Yellinger still likes collecting flowers, but now when she goes to the cafe by the water she only looks at Sam.

Critique goes here.

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