post something you like, that you wrote recently

No need to say anything about what's above you: just post something, anything, that you like, from what you've written recently. I feel like posting something kinda sappy...

Elsa found solace in the back yard. Tulsa, Oklahoma was a pretty dry locale, but it got enough rain to support some planted trees. Next to the patio grew a big sycamore: Elsa loved its white-and-grey patterned bark and the generous proportions of its leaves—supple and strong enough, when green, to make good blankets for little toy animals and other treasures. On one side were tall rose o' sharons with their intriguing soft fuschia flowers, banks of pink and white hydrangeas that were oddly chilly in their beauty, and lush-textured violet morning glories that she learned she had to look at before she went to school, or miss the chance. On the other side were two different kinds of peach trees: one that was tall and straight with pretty flowers, another thick, short, and twisted, with a few big fruit every year—not as sweet as the ones at her grandparents' in Illinois, but special all the same. 

Very poignant, Fiona! lush-textured violet morning glories that she learned she had to look at before she went to school, or miss the chance. What a great way to show another of the many ways Elsa defines herself and her life through her surroundings.

Here's my MC lost in the hall of mirrors:

Aram ran ahead, and turned the corner to face two of his own reflections running toward one another. A kid in a green sweater ten feet away became two, then vanished. Aram bumped into another pane of glass trying to get to where the kid was, then turned and ran around a curved corridor into another dead end. He and two reflections split up and retreated.

-Shem

Shem: I love this! The way you captured reflection and the confusion of a child's mind when faced with it is positively poetic (alliteration).

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A little demonstration of American bigotry in the 1920's- logical validation of the Sacco and Vanzetti case. It's all very sarcastic; in no way am I expressing my actual beliefs about immigrants here. I know it's long, but I love it so much.

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“Say,” the first man said, eager to show his knowledge to his clearly more competent and informed neighbor, “what do you think of that old case, those two immigrants that robbed that store and murdered that man?” The figure, now sunken in his nausea into his coat, hiding his face for the sake of easing his roaring belly, perked to attention, his curiosity piqued to hear the opinions of these two men, whom he already despised.

“Well, clearly they were guilty,” the second man said. “Two Italians- of course they were guilty, must be used to that sort of lawlessness in their country. They may know art and cuisine, but their aptitude for the law is laughable at best. I hardly know how they operate as a nation; wouldn’t surprise me if they fell to some Communist or other soon, and then where’ll we be? In the pits, that’s where.”

“What were their names again? Sock-ho something or other, right?” The second man nodded gravely, such would be their names, don’t even want to be in this country, you can always tell because they wouldn’t change their names to something proud and American, like me, Smith, my name is. Just out to take our jobs, regular antagonists to our great nation, they are, only want to bring us down- jealous pigs, that’s what they are! The other man, whose name was Peters, exhaled sharply in relief as the other name popped into his head, Sock-ho and Van-jetty, that’s what they called themselves!

“You know why they did it, don’t you?” Smith said. “They were anarchists, they only wanted to bring America down to their level! Didn’t even fight in the War. Got their German friends to blow up a bomb in Paris, damn near killed twenty people! And, you know what they said, when they were strapped to the chair? I heard that that Sock-ho character looked straight into the eyes of the man about to press the button and said, in Italian, mind, ‘Long live anarchy!’. That’s what the Times printed up, anyway, I believe it; and of course they professed their sentiments to their wives and kids after, in English, trying to prove themselves martyrs.”

Peters snorted in agreement. “You know they tried to argue in court that it was a class war, that it was the rich and white looking down on the immigrants for being foreign? Had the damn nerve to call us racist! Like it was our fault they were driven to kill and rob! Didn’t even speak proper English, didn’t even try to look American; no wonder they were so easy to find after their sin was done, they looked the part of the regular criminal!”

Smith let out a squawking chortle, and slapped his knee, finding the humor. “And before they were put down, they had the nerve to think themselves saintly for getting caught! You know what they said about themselves? That they would, in the event that they weren’t caught, have lived out their lives unimportant and nameless in history books, but because they were caught, their deaths would be their greatest triumph! That riled up their fascist supporters, all right. Demonstrations in the streets! Chaos! Anarchy! Just what they wanted!”

“What these men don’t understand,” Peters continued, “is that such lawlessness doesn’t simply demand punishment because it is a crime or a sin. One must think of the consequences of one’s actions! They stole good, hardworking men’s paychecks; should they be punished for the act of stealing it?”

“Absolutely!” Smith said.

“Wrong, sir, and I’ll tell you why. You see, it was not just blank dollar bills that they took, and not simply an anonymous man’s life that they took- it was the livelihood of families that they stole, and for their own benefit! Without the money from those paychecks, the workers they stole it from won’t be able to provide for their families, and say they had a sickly child. That child will die now- another life taken at the hands of the two criminal Italians. The man they murdered will never go home to his wife and children; in her grief, his woman might take her own life, leaving her poor and defenseless children to drown in poverty. This is why they are punished; not for murdering the man and taking the money, but for slaughtering the hopes for the future that all of those workers held, that their families held, and that is a far more reaching crime than the simple act of pulling a trigger.” Satisfied and breathless, Peters leaned back in his seat and laced his hands while Smith pulled a cigar form his breast pocket and lit it, coughing a little as the black smoke filled his lungs and the poison cloud left his lips in several small, perfect rings.

Writing a zombie-ish novel told through the journal of an especially lucid infected man. I like this section because I let my main character complain, and that's all he really wants to do (besides eat people):

For the most part, I am thankful that I am not a decomposing soulless monster. I am grateful for the compassion I still have and the reflection and rationality that I am still capable of. There are still some days when I would prefer it were otherwise. I suppose if you have read this far you know me well enough to see why I would be so careful not to think this way. It’s verging on blasphemy in some strange way for me to question these gifts or prefer not to have them, but they do make life hard.

We killed a family today. It’s not like they weren’t shooting at us and doing everything in there power to harm us. They were. It was two parents and a young girl. All three of them were trying to kill me, and I had to kill them to eat them. I know that. At the same time, some days it is so hard to continue doing what I do, and I know that that is because of how reflective I am. If I was just the raving maw of hell, with no free will and no semblance of consciousness none of this would be challenging. I would kill and eat and eat and kill. I wouldn’t read every night, and I wouldn’t need to struggle with these acts.

I enjoyed eating them, all things told. I wonder if that would make them feel better. Probably not. It only made me feel better for a little while. If I was the reapers mower, and all humanity was chaff to be struck dumb from the earth with death, I would reap and reap and the chaff would blow in the wind over the threshing floor, and I would not be capable of remorse or intense guilt. I would be the arm of something greater. I could fulfill my destiny without having to consider it.

As things are, I am not a member of a shambling horde. I can’t even hide behind some kind of majority. I am simply a man with all knowledge of good and evil. Now before you give me shit about Nietzsche and slave mentalities, let me cut you off. I believe Nietzsche was saying that you should value something (namely what he wanted you to value for some reason), and ignore ideas about good and evil, because they are simply the argument of the weaker, made to enslave the greater. Well I do have values, and they don’t match up with my predilections.

Maybe you would argue he didn’t care about values, per se, but that he wanted us to replace our moral system with an aesthetic system. Well what kind of Aesthetic system am I imbedded in? Do you think I love being covered in blood and the tears of children and parents?

If you are so interested in Nietzsche I would redirect you to Heart of Darkness. If you want to see the Nietzschean hero in all his glory I would point my bloody finger at Kurtz. There he is, limping to a boat to escape only to turn back several miles out to return of his own will, torn between his aesthetic appetitive predilections and his sense of Nietzschean superiority. There is your hero. How far have we fallen as a culture if only a fool would want to be a hero? How eroded are we socially if the best benefit for society would be that heroes stop being born?

Great stuff so far! I love these sneak peek excerpts!

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Crazy smiled warmly. It was one of the few times Lawrence had actually seen her do it. It softened him – and for the moment and all the beauty that was captured in it, he had forgotten all the horrible things that he had done – he had forgotten about how badly he had failed at his life with his children, how he was responsible for the smashing of their souls and bodies into a fiery crash of burnt metal and life. The thoughts of sorrow and pain and despair melted away as he stood witness to the sweetness and innocence found in a simple moment – a moment where time meant nothing, where want meant nothing – it was a moment of love and it was beautiful.

(Don't know how to italicize. Things in asterisks are thoughts.)

The parking lot was vacant save for a single other car, so I expected to be in and out in no time. I walked inside to find one person in queue ahead of me, so I pulled my phone from my pocket to check my emails. As I began to read the most recent, I heard someone come in the door behind me, but naturally I paid them no notice.

The gunshot, however, got my attention.

Immediately, I turned around to find the source of the noise. Standing just inside the door was the bank robber; he was wearing nondescript clothes aside from the black ski mask and oversized sunglasses, and he was just lowering his gun from the air having just fired it into the ceiling.

**Are you kidding me right now?**

“Good afternoon,” the bank robber exclaimed, distorting his voice by talking in a grunt-like fashion. “Would all patrons please…” and he hesitated as he surveyed we two patrons before he continued, “Um, get down on the floor.”

**Why the hesitation, buddy? Address your captives with conviction or we’ll take you less seriously.**

I was annoyed, but my aversion to having a gun pointed at me convinced me to lay face down on the floor. My phone was still in my hand.

“Slide your phone to me, please,” Bank Robber said. At least he asked nicely. I slid my phone to him. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.

**I really hope he gives that back**, I thought.

He walked around the counter and pulled a plastic grocery bag from his pocket. He pointed his gun at the register where the teller was standing, and with a sweeping motion, pointed the gun at his bag and said, “Fill it up.”

The teller seemed much more calm than I’d have expected if I’d tried to imagine how a bank heist would go prior to that day. She was attractive, probably around my age—mid-twenties or so—with light brown hair and a narrow face. Her expression was rather stoic, all things considered. I was impressed with her composure, but mostly I just wanted her to hurry up.

When the register was empty, Bank Robber tied the bag shut and began heading toward the door. The man who was ahead of me in line and who was laying facedown a few feet from me turned his head to the floor so as to avoid looking at Bank Robber. I, however, kept my focus on Bank Robber. As he walked toward the door, instead of stepping over me he put a foot directly on my derrière and stepped directly on me.

**What the fuck. Was that necessary? How strange.**

As soon as he was out the door, I saw him take off running toward the left. When I figured he wasn’t coming back, I stood.

“Well that was interesting,” I said.

“I activated the silent alarm when I saw him coming in,” the teller said. “I have to ask that you both stay so you can give the police a statement.”

The other guy, probably in his forties and dressed in business casual attire, was visibly a wreck. His hands were shaking like he had Parkinson’s and his face was white. He almost looked like he was going to puke. Then he puked, right there in the middle of the bank lobby.

**Gross.**

Four hours later, I was allowed to leave. I walked out of the bank and toward my car. I got in, put the key in the ignition, then noticed something was laying in the crack between my hood and windshield.

It was my phone.

In the summer they spent most of their time indoors, and occasionally they went to the river to escape the heat that made the cement sticky and smelly and turned everyone's skin into the slimy epidermis of geckos. One night, when James's family had gone to the movies, the two of them ran cold water in the bathtub and slipped into the water in their underwear. They submerged themselves for a glorious hour until they heard the family clicking the key in the door, the whine of the three younger brothers and the high-pitched snap of the mother's voice. Laura went home that night with her wet bra and panties rung out and shoved in the bottom of her purse.

This is from the very middle of my novel, Strange Land. Take a look:

It was a picture of her and Jack wrapped around each other against a wintry expanse, taken at the shore in mid-January. In the background, the wind ripped across the sand and pulled up the blankets of the few who sat nestled in the dunes. Winter had brought a vast grayness over everything, like smoke settling over a landscape with no breeze to disperse it.
Despite the evident frigidity, they hadn’t seemed too bothered or uncomfortable. As the waves had pressed up the beach next to them, Jack’s pulsing red fingers were lovingly entangled with hers, while Lena playfully kissed him on his ruddy cheek, raw from the harsh cold and winter ocean mist. She remembered his skin feeling so soft then. But now, photocopied and sharpened, it appeared as hard and cold as that frosty winter day.
How could she not know?
Lena further examined the photograph, eyes strained, desperate to find a sign, a gesture, a weak glimmer of insanity aflame like a campfire in Jack’s amber irises.
But there was nothing.
He was perfect.


||||||This is another thing I wrote that I kinda liked, but it's a continuation of my current story rather than a part of it (I'm planning on doing a series)||||||||

Every time Will looked at Lena now, every time a lock of her raven hair or a twinkle in her steel-blue eyes caught his glance, his concentration became deeply impaired. He couldn’t explain it. All Will knew was that the night they had spent together, as he had lay next to her, kissing her hair and tracing winding patterns on her back, new feelings had been born—urges.
His inattentiveness had died down substantially with each passing hour, but Will could still feel the desire burning dimly inside of him—unwanted and unwavering—like a forgotten ember in a fire pit that, if provoked, would burst into a roaring blaze at any moment in time.
It was the fact that he knew things now, that he could easily envision every curve of her silhouette if he wanted to; it was fueling his lust like kerosene. Will now knew what it was like for his fingers to get lost in the goose bump maze of her body…to be so close to Lena that he could count all the gleaming craters and tangled squiggles in her irises. He knew what it was like to savor the subtle softness of her rising flesh… the heart-shaped birthmark over her chest…the passionate bite of her lips…
It was terrible.

“HI.”
“Hi.” Eva stands before Laurel. Her arms are swinging at her sides. For once she doesn’t have something witty to say.
They’re grinning ear to ear. Both of them.
“I’m glad you could still come,” Laurel says, “I’ve been excited.” At this she blushes furiously. “I mean . . . er, I’ve never had a student before. It’s, it’s exciting. It’s new—“
Eva laughs. “I know what you mean, Laurel. I understand what you’re trying to say.”
“Um. You do?”
Eva winks, but makes no reply. She sits down and kicks off her boots in the grass. Peels down her stockings to reveal dainty white feet. She’s in leggings again with another long boy’s shirt on.
“Is that your father’s?” Laurel asks. “Those shirts you wear. Do they belong to someone?”
Eva looks up. “No. They’re my brother’s. He shares.” Unselfconsciously, she reaches up and starts to unbutton the shirt. Laurel tries to keep her gaze away from the widening collar of Eva’s shirt, busies herself by sitting next to Eva, and taking out her ballet shoes.
“Your brother, is he home or is he. . ?”
“He’s not fighting if that’s what you mean.” She slips her arms out of the shirt and throws it on the ground. Underneath she’s got on a white tee shirt. There’s several rips in it. The flat muscles of her belly, the arch of her hips, is just visible enough to be alluring. Even so, it’s not decent wear for the public. Eva knows this, and Eva doesn’t care. “He’s got a lung condition. It’s manageable here, but not on the front, you know? Nah, he’s too busy helping Ma and Pa and chasing the boys away from me.” She laughs. “Of course he doesn’t know that I have no interest.”
“Oh.” Laurel feels her throat tighten, and quickly rakes her eyes over Eva’s face, trying to figure out what the girl is trying to tell her. There’s plenty of women who have no interest in men, especially ones as young as Eva. But Eva is so loud, so real. . . So could she mean that instead of an interest in men she holds an interest in women? Laurel’s secret comes to mind. Butterflies roil in her stomach. She scours Eva’s features, trying and failing at unraveling her words. That’s when she notices the bruise over Eva’s left eye.
“Oh.” She reaches out without thinking, tracing it with the edge of her thumb. “What happened?”
Eva shuts her eyes, smiles knowingly. “Nothing,” she murmurs. Placing her hand over Laurel’s she feels the soft, callous free skin. The skin of hands who know no pain, who’ve never had to beg or work for bread. Innocent hands that know as little about love as they do suffering. Tilting her cheek, Eva allows the heat from the gentle slope of the inside of Laurel’s wrist to wash over her. She can feel her pulse against her aching, discolored eye, can smell the sweet waft of perfume on her skin.
“Are you okay?” Laurel asks, still concerned. Still oblivious to what’s happening.
“Sh, darling. It’s nothing.” Eva leans in, hesitates. Her eyes find Laurel’s; they’re wide and scared.
Suddenly, Laurel understands. The spike of her pulse sounds like thunder. She wants it, and she doesn’t. She’s scared, oh, she’s so scared. But Eva sees this and doesn’t give the fear a chance to win.
She smiles gently. “Sh, darling. It’s okay. It’s okay to be different.” And she wraps her hand around the back of Laurel’s neck and kisses her softly on the mouth.
It’s a perfect kiss shared by two strangers. A perfect, brilliant, electric kiss, that is, until Laurel comes to her senses.
She jerks her face away, mouth crumpling. Knees fold up on the insides of her arms. Within seconds she’s locked away, shaking with the gravity of what she’s done.
For a moment, Eva sits perfectly still. She sits more still than she’s ever sat before, lips red, eyes trained on Laurel, burning for more. “Let me kiss you.”
Laurel looks up, incredulous.
“Let me kiss you,” Eva repeats. Her words are soft, gaze steady as it bores into Laurel’s.
Laurel glances around at the people around them. The people who could look up and see at any time. The people who could judge her, ruin her, make her more worthless than she already is. She squeezes her eyes shut, wipes at a tear with her palm.
“Why are you crying?” Eva has scooted over. She’s got a dainty hand on the small of Laurel’s back, rubbing in smooth circles. “Did I do something wrong?”
“N-n-no. That’s the problem.”
Eva reaches out, takes ahold of Laurel’s chin. Thumbs away her tears. “Open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at me.”
Laurel opens her eyes.
“Now tell me, then, what’s wrong.”
“Nothing was wrong, that’s what’s wrong. God, it was perfect,” Laurel sobs. “It was so perfect.”
A long laugh escapes Eva’s throat.
“Why are you laughing?” Laurel asks, aghast.
“And why are you crying?” comes the retort between chuckles.
“I. . . I don’t know. . .” she says shakily, and within moments her tears turn into a few shaky giggles. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m crazy, I’m, I’m—“
“Shh, now. Don’t overthink it.” Eva sweeps a strand of hair off Laurel’s forehead. “You know the best way to cure crazy?” she asks with a crooked smile.
“How?”
“A kiss.” But this time, Eva doesn’t go for Laurel’s lips. She reaches out, taking the same hand that touched her black eye and raises its palm to her mouth. Slowly, her lips move across the achingly soft skin. She pauses on the wrist, let’s her tongue slide across the crease of it. A shiver travels down Laurel’s spine, and satisfied, Eva presses her small mouth to it once more, and places it in the grass. “You know what your problem is?”
“What?”
Eva leans in, letting the words curl against Laurel’s ear. “You need to be loved, darling. The right way.”

Charles Hirsh was in the living room reading the newspaper after dinner. Ed sat down on the couch next to him. “Hi son. Want a section?” Ed had always liked the way his dad looked in his reading glasses. Since Ed could remember, his dad had always worn them while reading anything. Ed remembered him wearing them when he had read Ed bedtime stories; sometimes Ed would lose track of his dad’s voice as he stared at the glasses. They made him look wise, and kind; he looked just like Gepetto, with his wavy hair and the delicate chain hanging from the glasses. Ed sometimes imagined his dad carving him out of a block of wood, gently tapping his chisel along Ed’s lower eyelid, his hand steady and true at just the right depth, taking special care not to scratch Ed’s eye. And when he’d cleared the final small wood wedge from Ed’s eye, he’d lean in close and gently blow away any remaining dust or splinters. Then he’d move back, holding Ed’s face in his hands, and smile at the son he’d created, maybe tears pooling in the corners of his own eyes.

This is rough, because I just wrote it, but I'm curious to know if it conjures up a vivid visual impression...it's hard to write about experiences had in the ocean, because I never know how much is obvious, how much to explain to a reader who may not have done anything similar.

Elsa was online once when people were posting their favorite Thanksgiving memories. She posted hers with the caveat that it might've sounded a little strange, because she had grown up on the Texas Gulf Coast, where it tends to be warm on Thanksgiving. "The water, especially, stays warm," she wrote, "Later than the air does."

It was a similar Thanksgiving to many others: Elsa's family got together with another family and rented a beach house, a big sprawling place with a huge back porch, right on the beach. It was 1968: Elsa was 13. What made it special for her was her best friend Joan got to come along with them.

They had a turkey, but what she always remembered best from those Thanksgiving day meals was the traditional oyster stew her mother made, and the crabs caught fresh that day and simmered in beer and spices and Gulf water (which tasted good, that year at least), which they pounded open with nutcrackers and gorged on, right out of the shells-- out on the porch, looking out to sea.

Her favorite memory, though, was what Joan and she did that night-- late at night, after everyone had fallen asleep and the beach was completely deserted. At first they were inside the beach house, but they found they were laughing so hard at the jokes they were whispering to each other, they had to run outside to avoid waking people. They ran down the beach like wild animals, the wind snatching the laughter out of their mouths. The sky was overcast, so it was unusually dark. All of a sudden they noticed that their wet bare footprints were glowing bright in the darkness: "It's luminescent plankton," Elsa cried. "Oh wow!"

They could also see swirls of brightly glowing particles in the water coming up on shore, so impulsively they ran right into the ocean, dressed in T-shirts and shorts. The ocean water was inviting because it was warmer than the air that night. As they walked deeper into the water, up to their waists and above, they got a bit spooked: it was pitch-dark, and they couldn't see the waves massing up in front of them. But they were still so excited, they thought it was a pleasure to be spooked. As if of one mind, they started singing the theme from "Dark Shadows" (their favorite TV show) together, and found themselves laughing again.

Suddenly, in the darkness before them, they saw a long, bright, pale, horizontal band-- twisting and writhing like a ghost in front of them-- at the height of their chests, then their faces, then above! then SPLASH! they were completely tumbled by the wave whose breaking crest they had been watching, all full of bright-glowing plankton, and then whoosh! swirl! they were completely enveloped in the amazingly bright plankton-- their heads popping out of the warm water only...SPLASH! to be tumbled all over again by another wave of glowing water. In between waves they could see each other's faces-- even in the darkness-- because they were lit up by the glowing water. They saw each other's faces, grinned from ear to ear, and started laughing all over again, in glee over the delightfully weird experience they were having. And then another wave would come crashing down.

Elsa had known Joan all her life, had kept in touch with her for four decades. She didn't think they'd ever loved each other so much, though, as at that moment-- sloshing around and struggling to get their footing in the wet sand under the water-- overpowered time and time again by big warm waves-- neon-bright watery wonders everywhere they looked.

I needed to create an introspectic chapter of some sort so that my FMC could attempt to grasp what has happened to her. I ended up really happy with the rough cut:

There is no God. There is no Influence. All there is in this world is me. My empty prayers come from an empty mind that had never even begun to fill. There are no Rasa. There are no numbers. There is no understanding.
Evelyn opened her eyes to a world upside-down. She was no longer on the floor of Deephaut’s energy factory, but staring now at the ground atop some sort of tower. As panic gripped her and she began to fear that gravity would greet her with a smashed skull, she began to realize that she was floating. However, she was only floating in place. Nothing in this world was moving, aside from the veil that had remained on her head. Before she could realize what was happening, her body made a jolt as if pushed from it’s peak.
There is no control here. There is no reason to move.
Gazing upward at her feet, she was able to see that she been bound to a plank of wood. Her ankles looked red, even through her stockings, and were tied with strands upon strands of glass beads. Looking to her sides, the nun realized her arms shared similar fates.
Oh great being in Heaven.
The cross gave another quick jolt, as if its screws that kept it steady on the tower were stripping themselves of their weight. With another wordless prayer sent down towards the sky, the cross-bound nun fell from her perch.
A prophet once ascended, while a disciple returned to earth.
Before she crashed, she could make out people gathering to watch the shooting star that was plummeting towards them. The bespectacled Rasa gazed upward, their numeric markings covering their privates, shining in the light of the sunrise, as the cross fell from the white church’s bell tower.
The force of the descent was minimal, yet eternal. As she leaked into the ground, her veil catching little of her fluids, the nun could feel her blood dripping below the soil, falling into a pit of boiling charcoal that seemed to scream in high-pitched agony.
There is no truth.

I know I already posted something but I REALLY like this one... Even more than the last. So here you guys go :

.” And there’s those stupid tears blossoming in my eyes again. I break his enchanting gaze to look over my shoulder again for my incompetent fool of a father who couldn’t bother himself to show up for his own daughter’s funeral on time. This time I see him come in.
Relief washes over me. Better late than never, for if he hadn’t come at all Mom would have probably flown her ass straight to New York, stick and all, to personally make sure he never went anywhere again. Loathing him, or not loathing him – one funeral was enough funerals for a fifteen year old girl to attend.

I'm not stopping, re-reading or thinking much to be honest, but I liked the part I'm posting below. Oh, my grammar SUCKS!

He didn’t rub her back. He took both sides of her face into his hands, the strong, big hands she had studied before. His palms on her temples and his fingers in her hair, he started to touch her. He rubbed her forehead. He touched her eyelids. He traced her lips with his fingers. He ran his fingers through her hair. His hands were sure and certain. He touched her like he wanted his hands to memorize her. He leaned down and rubbed her neck, putting his face right next to hers. She could smell his coffee, she could feel his hair on her cheek and he was breathing her in. She closed her eyes. Her body was responding. Her back was full of shivers and her legs had gone from being straight out in front of her to bent and turned towards him. She could feel every breath he took on her neck. She could barely breathe. She was trying to fight the urge to reach her hands up and touch his head and pull him in to her. She wanted his hands to find other parts of her body.



He paused and asked her to sit up. She did. He straddled her from behind and started working on her back. He alternated between touching her lightly with his fingertips and working the knots. She leaned back into him and he brought one of his arms around her. She smelled the soap on his skin and the laundry detergent he used. She was breathing him in. He ran his hands up her spine to her hair and pulled her head back. He put his lips to her shoulder and she froze. She willed him to kiss her. Wanted him to kiss her, but she hoped he didn’t kiss her.



He continued to touch her. He touched almost every part of her body. He touched her feet, her collarbone, her ears, her nose… He gave her an intense, warming backrub and he still didn’t kiss her. He put his mouth close to her face, whispered in her ear that she was beautiful and nibbled her lobe. She should have stopped him. She knew, in her head, she should stop him. She didn’t want him to stop. She wanted to lay there and have him touch her and tease her for the next week. She didn’t want to leave. He stopped for a moment, laying his arms along hers and holding her wrists in his hands and said softly “Please let me draw you.”



She had let him draw her. She looked back at him. She looked right into his eyes. His light brown, flecked eyes with long lashes quizzically.



“You have drawn me.” She stated.



“I want to draw you. Without your clothes on.”



It hung there between them. Melanie wanted to do this. She was dying to have him draw her like that. She had dreamed about it, but she was afraid. She had children and her body showed it. He might think she was beautiful with clothes on, but she knew he wouldn’t think so once the mystery was gone. This day had been magical so far. She felt good and beautiful. She wasn’t ready to expose herself in this way. She shook her head.



“No.” she said “I’m not ready for that.”



He put his head close to her face again, nuzzling in to her neck and said:



“I’ll wait.”



He continued working every part of Melanie’s body with his hands until she was the most relaxed she had been in a long time. The light had faded from the room. It was getting dark outside and Melanie still didn’t want to leave. She wanted to walk outside with Jack and hear the leaves brush against the sidewalk as they walked through them. She wanted to walk to the closest bar, have a drink with him and sit as close as she possibly could to him. She wanted to stay there and feel that way for the rest of her life. She had forgotten about work, her house, her husband, her children and anything else that ever caused her to worry. Jack had made that happen in one afternoon. She hadn’t been able to make that happen nor had anyone else in her lifetime. Melanie was peaceful.



She willed herself out of the bean bag. She stood up to her full five foot ten inch frame and stretched. She didn’t want to leave, but she was afraid to stay. He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her. He had been doing that all day, but she had never once held him. She did now. She returned his warmth and his embrace. She buried her head into the crook of his neck and inhaled him. She wanted to remember his smell and the shape of him. She put her hands to the back of his neck and his head and kept herself from pulling his face to hers. Almost as if he had read her mind he turned his head so he was eye to eye with her:



“No kissing.” She said.

Sophia Tun sat in one of a row of orange plastic chairs, across from a woman who was breastfeeding her baby. Sophia was an older woman, almost 64, brown and strong with ropy arms and a face that looked like wet clay. She wore a dress she had owned for a dozen years and her haired was in two braids that merged into one down her straight, broad back. She looked completely incongruous in a modern airport, in a way that a photographer might notice--her presence was an interesting irony in itself. She was dozing when the smiling mother sat down across from her. Her baby, whose sex Sophia couldn't guess, had the cashew shape of a newborn. The corners of Sophia's mouth turned as she wondered whether air travel was safe for such a tiny creature. She had been told that her ears would feel like they were expanding, and she hoped the baby could handle the pain, prayed it wouldn't have any permanent damage.

Been avoiding this forum til I wrote something worthy of it.

Fiona, your descriptions are always very sensory for me.

This is a bit of nonsense I wrote last night.

"Grilled Salmon con Salsa de Mango, hm," Jack said. I think I'd pair that with a lightly effervescent yet reflective Pinot Grigio, how about you, Violet?"

Violet giggled with surprise. "Well, let's see. I might wish to start with the Clams Oreganata, and then I'd select a warm-complected California Chardonnay with cliched psychological complexities and a slight hint of pear from a weary old orchard on a forgotten farm just north of Sacramento."

Laughing, Jack replied, "All right, then perhaps the zuppa de pesca paired with a full-bodied yet ambivalent rosé, jejune in spirit, yet slightly fatigued on the nose."

They both chortled, then noticed the waiter standing over them patiently. "Let me tell you about our daily menu items," he said, and Violet snorted with laughter. He continued, "And you'll find the actual wine list here," he flipped her menu over, "on the back. Perhaps a starter, for now?"

Jack composed himself and said, "You can skip the recitation. We'll have Clams Oreganata, and a bottle of your most eager Pinot Grigio."

Breathing was uneven, beating of the heart as well, his mind would not stop running, but it refused to get off the treadmill to do so. How long had he been standing in front of that small sculpture? It occasionally would catch his attention and he would pass some thought upon the evocation of humanity that was captured in those two pieces of steel that were slightly bulbous and perfectly smooth, reaching towards one another and yet not touching despite the fact that they worked to wrap about one another. One of the dealers of the art had stopped by at one point wanting to know if Joshua was wishing to purchase the piece, and if so he was sure he could convince the artist to part with it.

Purchase was not the desire of his heart now, just to stand and stare, once again his eyes were far beyond what lay in front of him, but rather than traveling away they had traveled inside: it was equally as dark though.

His feet were wet. His ankles were wet. The umbrella he held against his leg was wet. He was wet. Rain fell a lot in London. Rain fell when it wanted. Rain was the condensation of the moisture already in the air becoming so heavy that it was incapable of resisting the pull of gravity. Rain was the opening of the windows of heaven. Rain was God crying. Rain was tears. Tears were on her cheeks. Rain was on her cheeks.

Death was what he was expecting next: sheer coincidence was ruled out in its entirety. Something, be it God, fate, or nature was pulling strings, it was the only way to explain how his day had crumbled in a heap, how his brain was starting to struggle in a way that was supposed to have been forgone. It was dark inside, but he could still sense the shivers that were running through the dark cavities of thought. Tremors of the threat of emotion, the deadliest power of the heart that could be afflicted upon a person.

Two smooth, slightly bulbous, pieces of iron, nearly intertwined, and yet were never touching, incapable of touching now, not until their current form was destroyed in immense heat could they ever dream of touching, and then they would no longer be the same. Change was a frightening concept, no one wanted to be too close to a furnace, burns were excruciatingly painful. How had the sculptor received the courage to come close enough to the heat to make the piece of work? Surely there would be burns on the skin: unless a superiorly constructed safety suit had been worn, but that would seem to create too great of a distance between the work and the artist. Art was to be organic—a communication of the state of humanity, could a person communicate the human soul when there were so many barriers between them and the piece of art?

Barriers and walls could be good though, sometimes things needed to be kept out, or held in. Damns were amazing creations, and that was a lot of layer between the creation and the creator, if there were any less than it would mean the destruction of the creator. Destructive force that is simply poised, waiting for a moment to break forth, amplified by the significant amount of Potential Energy constantly in effect: gravity never ceases. All things must come back to earth, unless it is the intellect and the soul, things that contain no mass and so are free to rise above the pettiness of the world. Two pieces of iron, perfectly smooth and slightly bulbous, wrapping about one another and never touching.

http://www.whatamiherefor.co.uk/national-novel-writing-month-16-the-waiters-story-cont/

The next day we set off for the walk up Mount Etna. It was a hot day and after the cool hours of the early morning, the sun was burning down on us once we had got out from under the pine trees. We had walked for an hour or two of walking more or less in silence along the ridge in the midday sun and were resting to drink water. The opening of the volcano was in sight. Very suddenly and very briefly something came over me. It was like the feeling you have of falling just before you wake up from a nightmare.

“Are you alright?” Zoe asked me. She must have noticed.

“Yes, yes, fine. It was just… weird… I felt like I was falling.”

“Drink some more. What were you thinking about on the ridge? You were looking very serious.”

“Empedocles. His stuff about the perfect sphere, love and strife…”

“He died here didn’t he? He jumped into the volcano?”

“Yes, they say he wanted to prove that he was a god, no longer a mere mortal.”

“Is that what you think happened?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. But his philosophy was incredibly deep. He practically founded ontology, cosmology, physics and chemistry. He cured diseases. He was the most intelligent man of his age. He wouldn’t do anything that foolish, would he? It’s easy to be misunderstood if you’re that far ahead of your contemporaries. No, he wanted to progress further into the mysteries of the universe. Get to the bottom of things. So he let himself fall. He didn’t want to prove that he was a God, but he was mortally frustrated by the limits of human understanding.”

“Sounds about right.”

“What were you thinking?”

She smiled. “A snake came to my water trough on a hot, hot day, and I in my pyjamas for the heat…”

“What the hell is that?”

“Lawrence.”

“The Seven Pillars of Wisdom? I don’t recall him wearing pyjamas in the desert?”

“DH, not TE, you idiot! It’s a poem set in ‘Sicilian July, with Etna smoking’ in the background.”

“Oh yes, I should have spotted it. A snake at the water trough! Very DH, not very TE.”

“There’s nothing phallic about that snake. It’s just a description of something that actually happened. He had a villa near Taormina. It wasn’t about sex. Just about a snake.”

“For once…” I had the last word, but as far as Lawrence was concerned, she was obviously better read than me. I didn’t know him well enough to understand the connections.

But the truth of the matter was that it wasn’t just Empedocles I had been thinking about. The image, the very brief dreamlike hallucination that had come over me, looking at the volcano as I had the feeling of falling, was of Marius making the leap into the depth.

On the mantlepiece, in amongst all the ‘Well Done! You did it!’ and ‘Congratulations! It’s a boy!’ is a card with just plain black text on a white background. The text reads ‘You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could've, would've happened... or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on.’

Tom looks at Hope with surprise. As far as he can see, nothing about her has changed. His son is clamped to her breast, there’s a dream catcher in the living room window, and a mug of herbal tea on the coffee table in front of her. She’s every inch the calm, peaceful hippie she always was.

He gets up, strides across the living room, and gestures at the card. ‘This doesn’t seem like you’

Hope looks up at him. He realises that in his head, she’s become a bit like the virgin Mary. His brain cannot process the fact that the baby she’s holding is his. He cannot accept that once, or in fact, many more times than once, he was inside her body. Did he love her? He has no idea. Did he love her sister? He’s even less clear on that.

‘It’s not,’ she says. ‘Yet. But I’m getting there’.

What can he say to that? Nothing will come out of his mouth apart from ‘Oh’.