The Letters of Aus & B, p.1Matthew Turner
THE LETTERS OF AUS & B
BY MATTHEW TURNER
Published by Turndog Publishing
Copyright © 2015 Matthew Turner. All Rights Reserved
THIS IS NOT A LOVE STORY
I UNLOVE YOU
BY MATTHEW TURNER
Introducing I Unlove You - The Novel That Comes After These Letters
My name is Ausdylan Elvis Ashford, a twenty-two-year-old who leads a rather perfect life. With a steady job straight out of university, a charismatic best friend I’m in a band with, and a girlfriend I’ve loved since the moment I first gazed upon, I couldn’t ask for more. Until my perfect girlfriend, B, changed both of our lives forever.
It began with the words, “I’m pregnant,” and the realisation I’d soon guide a new life into this world. Embarking on my own journey of self-discovery, I found new meaning in love, living, friendship, and family. This should have become the greatest love story of all, but I assure you it isn’t.
Sometimes true love and unbreakable trust is built upon lies and deceit. Sometimes those you know better than anyone turn out to be strangers you don’t know at all. My name is Aus, and this is my (un)love story . . .
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Dedicated To The Kid. My Son. MY MUSE.
From a chair in the home away from home
As I’m currently waiting for Joey to show up at The Pub, I thought I’d do what I always do in such situations, and write you a letter. I don’t care that it’s only been four hours since I last saw you, or that’ll I’ll sleep by your side tonight. In fact, by the time this letter reaches you, we’ll have kissed, had sex, and no doubt seen each other dozens of times.
An email may get to you quicker, and I could always call you, of course, but we both know that isn’t the point. After all, if we’re not careful, pens and paper may vanish out of existence, and then what would we do? Would I have to learn what the meaning of LOL is, or OMFG? (Don’t judge, I overheard a girl use it on the train earlier. I’m not sure, but I imagine it means Old Men Favour Grandmas).
Things like this are happening more and more - the moment on the train, I mean, not old men favouring grandmas - as I’m forever surrounded by people trying to add to an already complicated English language. Don’t they understand it’s already insane without them adding abbreviations and slang terms alike?
Imagine you are Chinese for a moment, and attempting to fathom this language we take for granted. Try explaining how I once wound the bandage around my wound, or when I saw the tear in my jumper I shed a tear. I’ve read hundreds of books written in the English language, but cannot explain how it works. Yet teenage girls with orange skin and drawn-on eyebrows deem it necessary to create new words?
Speaking of which, please never turn into a walking-talking mess of orange paint. As I walked from the station this morning, a girl passed me who must have woken up at three o’clock to construct her face. I quite like the fact I can see yours for what it is, and know that when I kiss your neck I won’t ingest a tube of cream… or paste… or is it powder? Sorry, after all these years watching you get ready, I should know what makeup is made of, shouldn’t I?
Anyway, the point is I love you and think you’re rather pretty. In fact, if you do decide to transform into an orange transsexual one day, I sense I’ll still love you. I may stop kissing your neck, though.
Right, I suppose I should wrap up this letter, seen as Joey has just arrived. It’s a shame you’re not here in fact, for he wears that red tie you hate. You’re right, too. It does make him make him look like a member of the Labour Party.
And so, as Joey showers me with indecent hand gestures from across the bar, I’ll say goodbye. I’ll be sure to give you an extra special kiss tonight, but refuse to tell you why. Try create mystery like that with an email.
The boy you love,
Ausdylan Elvis Ashford x
From the counter at work, with a stack of jeans to my left
Your swooning kiss from the other night now makes sense. You old romantic, you. I knew I kept you around for a reason.
I write this from the counter at work, mere minutes after reading your latest offering. Now, the question is, do I write so soon because I love your letter, or is it because no one is in The Shop and this morning is dragging like no other? I will let you be the judge, mister.
And don’t worry, I have no plans to become an orange orang-utan, but I expect you to continue kissing me no matter how ugly, old, and wrinkled I become. You know all too well the effect your lips have on my neck. Don’t deprive me of one of your most specific skill-sets, sweetie. Speaking of which, I did something rather terrible this morning, and peeked inside your notebook. Your latest drawing — the one of the old man — is wonderful.
And I know, you’re not finished yet, but I don’t care. It’s great, and seen as you won’t allow me to praise you in person, I’m left with no choice but to do it in writing. I do have one question, however. Who is the old man, and is old man-gazing your new hobby? Should I worry?
I suppose that’s three questions, but I would like to know what I’m getting myself into.
Anyway, on the train this morning I saw a young guy who reminded me of you. He must have been fourteen-years-old or so, his face buried in his notebook as his hair flopped over his eyes. I couldn’t see what he was drawing, but he didn’t look up the entire journey. For a full thirty minutes he remained fixated on the page, doodling and swooshing away.
It reminded me of us at that age, lounging around the park with nothing to do. You used to sit there for hours and draw, lost in your own little world. That was the summer I sensed we might become more than friends. I imagined you drawing me, staring at me but not; your eyes locked on my body, but in a way that looked through me… beyond me.
That young guy had the same intensity about him this morning, and one day he’ll drive a girl wild with his mysterious ways. You aloof types really are dangerous, do you know that?
Right, I suppose I should finish up, because this stack of jeans won’t un-stack itself. I will see you in a few hours though, and when I do I’ll lick your cheek and not tell you why. Two can play this mysterious game, mister.
The girl you love,
On the train after a wet and windy walk from work
I’m sorry if this letter reaches you in a somewhat tatty and hopeless state, but as I write it, I’m wet, cold, and beaten from head to toe. Oh yes, my walk from work to the train station may only be five minutes, but in weather like this, it matters not. Winter is most certainly here, and it’s left me battered and bruised.
I may sound rather wimpish right now, but you know how I hate the wind and rain, and it doesn’t help that I sit next to a man twice my size. His arms and legs overspill his own chair, and mush into my sodden clothes. I feel everything: I feel my skin, and it’s soggy; I feel my hair smushed into my forehead, and it’s heavy; I feel the icy chill among my bones, and it aches.
I only hope you missed this downpour, although can you call it a downpour when it seems to last for three days? I swear this weather is breaking my will, and I must apologise because this is no doubt the second time you’ve heard my woes. I imagine the first thing I’ll do when I see you in a few hours is whine and moan and groan about this damn weather.
Anyway, other than this disgusting Yorkshire sky, I’ve had a rather good day. As I arrived this morning, a magazine awaited me on my desk. Inside was the advert I designed a couple of months ago, which means I’m now a published artist… kind of… in a way… okay, may
I know this shouldn’t be a big moment, and if you tell Joey I’ll deny everything, but I feel a sense of achievement right now. I still don’t know how I feel about this job, and I haven’t quite come to terms with the title, Graphic Designer - after all, it doesn’t have the same romantic twist as writer, poet, painter, or starving artist - but still, a job is a job, and seeing my design in that trade magazine I hadn’t heard of until a few weeks ago, placed a smile on my face this morning.
It’s a shame the rain had to wash it away.
I suppose this is when I should wrap things up, because the page is rather soggy and about to fall apart. Anymore drips from my hair will make this unreadable, which would be a shame indeed as I know you love to listen to me whine and moan and groan.
I love you, my sweet, and I’ll tell you so as soon as I see you - two hours and counting.
Here’s to an evening of music and lounging with the one I love, for the rain shan’t dampen that. I just hope you have a towel waiting for your soggy man.
From the boy you love,
Ausdylan Elvis Ashford x
In bed, not with you
As I told you the other night, I’m proud of you. You may say it’s no big deal to get your work in a magazine, but I cry big deal in abundance - even if it is in a trade magazine neither of us had heard of until recently. I love you. I’m proud of you. I’ll always listen to you whimper and moan about the weather, even if on the inside I sigh and snigger.
Anyway, I’m alone in bed right now, which is rather sad, wouldn’t you say? After all, isn’t this why I keep you around? So you can keep me warm and snuggle up to my naked body on cold nights like this one. Yes, that’s right, I’m seducing you with mental images of my naked body whilst you no doubt read this on the train.
In fact, maybe I’ll run my hand up my thigh - slowly - and edge inward a little - slowly - and work my index finger up my tummy… up-and-up… until I caress… my… hmmmm, maybe I should stop. I mean, it would be cruel to keep going, yes?
This is your fault though, for if you were here I wouldn’t have to talk about it. I could show you, or, better yet, have you do it for yourself.
Oh well, I guess I’ll have to have some lonesome fun after I finish this letter. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime. Then again, maybe not…
The truth is, I am rather tired because The Coffee Shop bustled all evening long. We had that singer/songwriter who I always forget the name of. John Stones or Sam Joseph or James Smith, I cannot remember. Either way, he was good, brought in a crowd, and all night I dashed up and down serving mochas and fruit flavoured lattes, because of course, everyone was about thirteen-years-old.
I know I shouldn’t make fun of them, because we were that age once, but they truly are annoying. One girl - I think she it might be Sammie’s younger sister. You remember Sammie, right - said the following: “I think Daniel likes me because he told Sarah that he likes Donna, but everyone knows that Donna wouldn’t go out with him because he used to go out with Emma, and Donna and Emma are besties, plus, he knows I can’t stand Donna, so I think he’s saying it to make me jealous.”
I kid you not. She said all of this without so much as a pause, and as I prepared a mocha with extra chocolate, I contemplated killing them all.
Does that make me a terrible person?
Either way, John… or Sam… or James played a good set, so the music was good at least, which I needed, because tomorrow is insane. For some crazy reason I decided working at The Shop all day before catching a train back to serve coffee and drinks all evening would be a good idea. I’m not even sure it’s logistically possible…
Oh, and heads up, I’m going to convince you to keep me company at The Coffee Shop all night, so consider yourself warned - even if this letter will arrive a few days too late.
Right, mister, I shall say goodbye and head to sleep… or will I? Hmmm, I suppose you’ll have to let your imagination decide.
The girl you love,
From my desk, counting the damn hours
You darn tease. You’re right, I did read your latest letter on the train, and I fidgeted in my seat the entire way. To think, I had you in bed just a few hours ago and did nothing about it. After reading a letter like that, I feel I should have my wicked way with you every morning… just in case another letter like that awaits. Or would you be having your way with me? I can never tell.
Anyway, next time you write a seductive letter, please enclose a few pictures. Then again, I blushed on the train as it was, shielding the letter from the old man sitting next to me. I have no idea why, because it’s not like he could read the words. What, not with your chicken-scratch handwriting. I do love your childlike handwriting, but making fun of you right now is the only way I’ll be able to get through this long and horny day.
Seriously, never write a letter like that again. Except, please do. Every time. Oh, I don’t know what I want. I’m so damn confused. Is this what Joey feels like every day?
Right, anyway, okay… I’m sitting at my desk and it’s not even nine o’clock. As soon as I set foot in the office, Bob grabbed me and began to preach how important it is I finish his designs today. Does he not know that demands are pointless before coffee? That mornings aren’t for work, rather coming around nice and slow?
The more I come to this place, the more I question how long I can handle the nine-to-five strain. Then again, there’s something poetic about this job. After all, how many painters slaved away in bars and shops and factories? How many creative folk have led normal, boring lives? I’m torn between working in a studio all day, dedicating my life to a craft of some kind; and doing it on the side as a piece-of-shit job like this inspires me to create something better.
What do you think? Starving artist or depressed jobs-worth?
After I re-read the beginning of your letter a few times (damn you!), I did laugh at your teenage coffee shop commentary. I know we’re not that much older, but did we ever sound like that? And I don’t mean us - because come on, we were never like that - but our generation? I feel we must have, because society can’t have evolved all that much in the last five or six years. Has Facebook and YouTube had such an impact? What will this world be like in another five years?
Hell, what will our kids be like? Can you imagine how conceited Joey’s future offspring will be? Jesus, I just threw up in my mouth a little.
And I suppose this is a good point to bring this letter to an end, for you have a great deal to ponder. After all, you are a superstar designer and will no doubt have a huge impact on tomorrow’s youth. Use your skills wisely, missy. The world depends on it!
The boy you love,
Ausdylan Elvis Ashford x
From a coffee shop I dare not mention because I know you hate it
I wish I was sorry for making you horny, but I’m not. After all, the other night was rather good indeed. If that’s how you’ll greet me in future, I may have to get you hot-and-bothered on the train more often. I think this is where the wink-face-emoticon would go if this were a text.
Hmmmm, should I write/draw it? No, better not. You’d never forgive me.
I agree, though. Everything seems to have picked up pace these last few years. I think The Coffee Shop is a good indicator, too. Do you remember how many of our peers went to coffee shops when we were fifteen? That’s right, ZERO. We were the only ones! Sure, we dragged Joey from time-to-time, but that was it. I’m not even sure what the go-to hangouts were. Was it a park bench? A bus stop? The Corn Exchange?
Each week brings a new hoard of youngsters into The Coffee Shop. As soon as four o’clock rolls by, I serve nothing but mochas and lattes and
Well, actually, I think you did. Didn’t you have your first coffee when you were seven?
Kids these days grow up far too fast, but at the same time, not. I mean, we all live at home. Out of all our friends, Joey is one of the few with his own place. We live away at university, sure, but as soon as it’s over we head back to our parents. It’s only getting worse, too. At this rate people will never leave. We’ll become a society of kids living with parents living with grandparents. In fact, isn’t that how it used to be?
Maybe we’re not evolving at all. Maybe we’re devolving. I’m not sure I like the idea of devolution.
Anyway, I just want to say this coffee is delicious, even though you hate this particular chain with a passion. Last time I made you horny, and this time I make you angry. Is there a prize for the world’s greatest girlfriend? If so, I deserve it (insert smiley-face with tongue sticking out)
Okay, mister. I’m rounding this letter up for I have a train to catch. I’m not seeing you tonight, so I may have to get naughty on my own again. Who knows, maybe I’ll send you pictures this time. Or maybe I’ll wait until you’re on the train tomorrow morning. I quite like this kinky letter-writing version of sexting. Maybe we could start a new/old trend.
The girl you love,
In bed thinking about you
Now, I’m not saying I’m mad, but I didn’t receive any pictures. I’m sure there must be a mistake between the phone company, or the email bureau, or whoever else is in charge of internet images, because your last letter hinted they would follow. Don’t worry, you can send them again. I mean, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t give you a second chance?
With that sorted, let me tell you a quick story from earlier today. I considered calling you straight away, but certain tales are destined for the page. This is one of them, so get comfortable as I’m about to rock your world.
The Letters of Aus & B by Matthew Turner / Romance & Love have rating 3.4 out of 5 / Based on17 votes