WRITERS EYES / ASCRIBER Uniting Writers Around The World Online Writing Group Group Home Page Back to workshop submissions

She knew before he even spoke. She'd seen that expression before in animals, children and now him. His wide impassive eyes seemed to be windows into the depths of his soul.

“Soul,” she said to herself thinking 'what a joke'. He was a typical man; a primitive hybrid of child and animal. Those impassive eyes didn't fool her. They only seemed to be windows into the depths of his soul. He was faking soulful eyes because he felt the possession of deep windows into the soul would help him get his wicked way.

She felt flustered, pressed against him, attempted to reach down into his soul. It was deep as a teaspoon.
“Ouch! You're poking me in the eye. I didn't touch you,” he said.

“You were just about to though. Weren't you?”

“I am not surprised you are still single,” he said.

“I'm sorry. I take things too literally. I read somewhere that eyes are windows into the soul.”

“You've been reading too many old novels. Eyes are just organs that enable us to see.”

He gave her Post Office by Charles Bukowsky. It was honest; no windows. She gave him a Bronte, more windows than a greenhouse. They both left the book club alone.

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