Story 1

So I've decided to start writing a fictional narrative because I'm really bored with my own life. Check it out.

There were times when he would give me bits of his lunch. Those were the few times he had too much food, and this was not one of those times. I looked across at the foam box, while taking out my textbooks and notebooks, and my pens and calculators. It undoubtedly held steaming within it some form of re fried bean burrito or grilled sandwich. I had stolen from him before (although not without the inherit guilt), once when he had gone to the restroom and left an open bag of caramel popcorn; I was not that hungry today, however. Still I was curious and crept around my table and over to his, five rows and two tables down. The narrow bookcase ailes were my only window to his return, the fourth through which the beige restroom door could be seen. Prodding the soft white rectangle lightly, first with my finger, then with the tip of my nose, salt, ketchup, and beef singed the olfactory. A squeeze to the opening emitted a vulgar squeal,causing me to scuttle behind my book bag where it rested at the table across the room. I stared fearfully back to find the box lid that squeaked so had also sprung open and revealed the inevitable hamburger with fries. Fountainhead of my fear had not been the sound exactly, rather flushing heard followed by furious hand washing. I had considered walking back over there to close the foam container of life's splendor, but mind you as a busy college type he probably would have finished before i was done. Then again if I left it as it was, he would could have done nought but conclude i had opened it. We were the only people there that time of night. Screw it, I thought, rising from behind he table and plowing forward. My feet had been forgotten however, and as one tripped the other, an outstretched arm attempted to catch any object preventing my crashing to the thinly carpetted floor. It swung downward upon the tray's edge. Bun, patty, and potato strip launched upward and forward upon the side of the closest bookshelf. Through the strands of hair covering my face I witnessed the twenty-something-year old view his meal strewn about. Books exploded around as flying elbows threw them from the shelves. His shout followed me down four flights of stairs until I was engulfed by the outside air.