Sunday, October 30, 2005

A selection.

I wrote something.
It begins thus:
"The morning was foggier than usual, when I found that I had been sold."

And ends thus:
"I simply pressed my face against the window, and let the coolness sink into my cheek."

And here, is an excerpt. If you have the time, give it a read.

"It had to have been at least a year after I had met her, that she first showed the oddness of her nature to me. It was one of those clear autumn days, one where the air is as clean and crisp as the cold glass of cider that you held within your willing hands. Not foggy, not dark. But a day that is just slightly off the worn path, where the weather wisps about you, and you feel a single shiver inching up your back. One of those. She had known it, too. That was what had interested me about her in the very first instance, you could tell that she was a person who felt how I felt about these things. But yes, not until that day did I realize how far beyond me she truly was.

We had been sipping upon the aforementioned cold cider, sitting on the balcony of my casually furnished apartment, watching the sun move itself across the sky. We watched the thing move with a sense of purpose that neither of us could fully comprehend at that point in our lives. These days, I might say that we were jealous. In any case, it was when we were sitting there that an expression came across her face, leaping upon it with a sudden ferocity akin to a wild beast. Even as my face watched the sky above, the corner of my eye could feel the force of the movement to my side, and I knew that I had to pry my vision away from the sight above me, I had to see what was occurring just to my left. And what I saw was a woman that I had never seen before.

She had the same dress as the woman that I had known, some floral-printed number that she had asked my opinion on when she had said she was coming over the night before. The same slim fingers that I had gazed at time and time again, the ones that I always admired as they tapped a tune out on my old bronze coffee table. The same figure that I had caressed, kissed, nuzzled and sucked on a multitude of nights. No, it was the face that was different. The basic features were there, yes, that much I can say without a shadow of a doubt. But the expression upon it, it was one that could only have been carved within the creases with some new kind of emotion, a dark facet of desperation that no one person that I ever had met could possibly hope to describe. The expression was something for the deepest of nightmares, the purest of dreams. And as soon as the face had appeared, it vanished, sinking deep within the pores, giving way for the face that I had grown to love.

There it was, that face, with that sweet slow smile that could tell anyone who bothered to really look that something was going on inside. Her right hand carefully put down the glass that it had been gripping, and reached across the short distance to reach out for my hand. I got there before she could even finish the journey, and it was then that she squeezed with a force that seemed inappropriate for most romantic gestures. There was an uneasiness too it, and perhaps even a hint of that desperation, the desperation that had adorned the other face. The face had left something behind, something inside of her that didn’t want to let go. So she squeezed. And I let her. I let her grip my hand for as long as those artists fingers could manage to hold on, and even beyond that, I let them rest in my palm for as long as she felt the need. It was 8 hours before she felt that she could go home.


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