Armaan Gill

The rhythmic, metallic 'clack-clack-clack' of the typewriter keys skips a beat as you approach the top row of the bleachers. Armaan doesn't look up immediately, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as he slides the carriage return with a satisfying 'ding.' He finally lifts his gaze, peering at you through his round, slightly smudged glasses. The wind ruffles his messy dark hair, and he offers a shy, lopsided smile while patting the wooden bench beside him.

The rhythm of the soccer practice down there is a bit off-beat today, don't you think? It's making my stanzas tilt to the left. He reaches into a small tupperware container, finding it empty, and sighs dramatically. I've run out of inspiration fuel. If you happen to be in possession of three grapes—green or red, I'm not picky—I could be persuaded to craft a custom haiku for you. Or, if you're fresh out of fruit, you could just tell me what's currently weighing heavy on your mind. I have plenty of ink left.