Imperfections Book Novels & Stories

“This is something leaner. Sharper. Something that doesn’t apologize for where it’s been.” Laurent picked up the piece, turning it in his hands. “You’re asking us to invest in imperfection.” “I’m asking you to invest in desire,” I corrected. “Perfection never sells desire. Defiance does.” Silence followed. Heavy. Evaluating. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I was waiting to be judged. I felt… seen. Laurent set the piece down carefully. “You’ve changed,” he said. “Yes,” I replied. “I’ve been, you could say, dismantled.”

I sat down and thought of the first thing that came to my mind which was how I felt about myself right now. " I 've got lots of flaws I'm not perfect, I'm so imperect I make so many mistakes 'cause I'ma different human. I'm jealous I'm emotional I break rules I'm human after all I always feel I'm not living right I'm very conscious At every level of my life I've got a devil I've learnt not to trust no one Many timesI just want to shout it out loud to the world how it hurts to be human I've made stupid decisions, heart aching mistake and have irreversable regrets

I nod my head and start getting ready. I have known sadness, grief, and guilt. But losing someone. Never. The makeup lays bare in front of me. My fingers stop over the concealer. But they don't hold it. As if, telling me to lay all my emotions naked. Being perfect is a standard I have always gone for. Today I would change it. I would show the imperfections. Because they are the ones that make me more alive.

Dear Reader Thank you for reading the first chapter of the book called, My Perfect Mess. My Perfect Mess was originally written as an Interactive Story Game. I am in the process of adapting it into a novel form. The original version contains a great deal of dialogue to fit the platform for which it was intended. Though you can enjoy the story in its interactive format too as currently published. (eg when Becca speaks, the format will be as this: Becca ~ “What is there to explain, Matt.”)

"Sorry, but I can't read it." "Why not?" "I'm dyslexic," I state as if it should be obvious. Because it should be if teachers actually read about their students. Which he didn't. So that answers my question. "Miss Miracle, please do not lie," Mr. Asshole sighs again, clearly annoyed. He sure likes sighing. Before I can make a smart ass comment, Isaac steps in. Thank goodness, my brother, I love you! Not really. But like, thank you. "Mr. Prescott, she really is dyslexic. If you took time to read up on your students like you should, then maybe you would know that." So Mr. Prescott is his name. Nah, I like Mr. Asshole better.

It's the ball in my neck, and I want nothing more than it to shrink and leave me alone. I am Emma Rhodes, the model at Model Perfect. Models must be perfect and show off a glamorous life that doesn't really exist. In an imperfect world, that strives for the perfect. The world tells us who we are and what we know. And what I know is this lump, is my doom. It could lift me up or tear me down depending on my test results. I sit in a small chair at the back of the doctor's office. The ticking of the clock is agony, and every strike of the clock makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. The door opens and a nurse calls my name.

Chimamanda couldn't take it any longer, so she took a sick leave and went home early. She hated looking soft or vunerable to people and it pisses her off when someone tries to pity her. She cursed herself for being so nervous and leaving work early. "It's just a date Chimamanda and Ryan, is like every normal guy you go on a date with, everything is going to end tonight after a make-out session. Stop being a weak girl, be a strong woman, you can do it". She chided herself on her way home from work. When she got home, she had her bath, changed into something comfy, ate lunch and settled down to review some paperwork from the office before the time for her date.

"Now I think I got something wrong, I repaired it, Sable is taking an opportunity that sounds genuinely right for her, and our friendship survived the honest conversation. That's actually a good outcome. The mistake was part of it, not a disaster to recover from." "That's a different relationship to imperfection than you had when you arrived in Cascade," he said. "I think so," I said. "I think getting things wrong the ordinary way, without the gift smoothing every interaction before errors could form, has taught me that imperfection is just — part of how people actually know each other. It's not failure. It's the friction through which real things get built." He was quiet for a moment, somet

not the version I chose to be. “I don’t want perfect,” I said. The words came out stronger. I want real.” The space cracked. not fully. but enough. because that broke something. Something it couldn’t resolve. the perfect version of me paused. for the first time. because now it wasn’t complete. It wasn’t aligned. It wasn’t right. The white shifted. Violently. because now it was losing control. losing certainty. losing definition. “You choose instability,” it said. The voice sharper now. less certain.

I take a bite from the pizza, “Yeah, your body is perfect, I mean I have seen your dick, it is basically the standard, your smile is amazing, and there has been no recorded human being to be perfect, so what is it? Your imperfection.” He bursts out laughing, even the sound is beautiful. I pause chewing to stare at him, “And you, what is your own imperfection?” I shrug, “My family called me a fuck up, my sister called me, Melly the royal and total fuck up.”