Post by amcake on Jul 12, 2006 10:33:45 GMT -5
Servitude to His Mind/ I Love Him/ Writings of Love
(can’t decide title)
A silver-white dust alights upon the cedar wood furniture locking hips inside a cubbyhole of a cottage. It floats between slanted shadows, only sparkling like muddled stars when caught between the sunlight falling through uneven roof rafters. One speckle lands on the length of my body, where I lie in an airless corner, hugging lonesome thoughts. He has not touched me in days since the rainy Tuesday that I recall him taking me to this place.
What am I here for? I know not such answers. And yet, he wakes! I draw my breath short and study his protrusion stirring from under a scratch-weave blanket. I am but a lowly servant and if I have a heart, I would say it beat with a desire for him. A cat’s yawn escapes from his lips and beads of tears well from the corners of his still sleep-drawn eyes. His tawny body swivels in his sheets and over the side of his bed to a drawer full of mugs. Mayhap he can see my naked body glinting in the sunlight of my dewy corner but if so, he makes no move towards me. Instead, I hear the thump of a full mug reverberate across the wooden sweep of my desk. The rich steam rises and coats a sultry layer over my barrel-taut naval. As he stirs his coffee, his teaspoon sends a chill of silver echoes ringing from out of the porcelain well with each tap against the sides.
I stare at him expectant of his attention as I lie still. A breeze ruses in through an open window unsettling the paper white sheets of my own bed-pile. Each feather sheet whips against my legs, as raspy as orange autumn leaves when swept across asphalt. I can feel my concubine poet eye my slender frame behind sips from his coffee. His shadowy eyes swimming in perversions of a midsummer’s tale taking a dip by the lake, hidden by the innocence or deceit of night. Or is it that he looks past me to study the bidden words dyed and bleeding dry on my last blanket?
Suddenly, he reaches out to brush my [*midrift/midriff] with a single finger. It was a kiss, his fingers moist from coveting the warmth of his coffee mug. I shiver in delight as my once steel cold body became a pink fire as he melds me in his hands. My body becomes pliant, lithe and willing to bend with his own movements. I can see intent in his coal eyes as even in the process, my white sheets are torn and crumple in his passionate frustration. He is the sole wielder of my being, my governor of words who whispers at me so. He is a virtuoso at the poetry of our actions. I love him. I grow dizzy in the heat and give way to the irrational volition of his plotting thoughts. My hard tip jabs at my sheets and curlicues of my discharge find place on innocent white. I grow hot with embarrassment as I failingly try to repress my ink’s bleeding desire to run with each swish of his frivolous wrist. I hear the crackling sparks as he scratches a match. A small ember burns a little ways overhead atop a tapered candle and stimulates the heat of my torso to my dismay. I roll between his fingers, pressing my naked frame against him. I tremble as a mounting heat in my vein tumbles through me in my final spills of liquid
My breaths lengthen after our fervent elation comes to pass, carousing my spent body in the folds of his weary hands. I lie motionless; the moisture he left on me slowly fades. He too is silent. Then his lips spread into a smile as he turns his attention towards my messy bed, gathering each sheet in his arms to look them over. I am content to be of his service and I watch as the candlelight casts an ambient glow in my lover’s face. The candle’s small fire is a blinding night star atop a wax wick that dances with his last brush strokes against me; the end of his book. This is our tale, a story between a writer and his beloved fountain pen.
Inspired by: Life as a pen.
Written by: Amelia Chang (Am_cake)
Writing period: June-July 06.
Short story style: 1st-person, descriptive narration.
Notes: I “think” all the tenses are the same. =/
It is supposed to be all in present but I vary to past a lot, which is a bad habit I must kick.
Also, I think the transition between the climax and the conclusion is too abrupt, any suggestions on how to fix that? =/
And the reason I can't decide on the title is because originally I wanted it to be I Love Him because it is a sentence in the story but I remember that titles are supposed to summarize more than just that.. Writings of Love just sounds corny. =_= and Servitude to His Mind works but doesn't show that the act of writing b/n writer and pen is a loving action.
Oh yeah and I also think that I should indirectly state the writing process more clear and in order for that matter.. i.e. Tearing bedsheets is like writer's block or editing..
Oh and sorry if the story doesn't fit polite standards..
Edit: Already submitted an older version of this story to Liz/Lichee, so that she can run it through to execs? because as you can imagine, its content is questionable.
(can’t decide title)
A silver-white dust alights upon the cedar wood furniture locking hips inside a cubbyhole of a cottage. It floats between slanted shadows, only sparkling like muddled stars when caught between the sunlight falling through uneven roof rafters. One speckle lands on the length of my body, where I lie in an airless corner, hugging lonesome thoughts. He has not touched me in days since the rainy Tuesday that I recall him taking me to this place.
What am I here for? I know not such answers. And yet, he wakes! I draw my breath short and study his protrusion stirring from under a scratch-weave blanket. I am but a lowly servant and if I have a heart, I would say it beat with a desire for him. A cat’s yawn escapes from his lips and beads of tears well from the corners of his still sleep-drawn eyes. His tawny body swivels in his sheets and over the side of his bed to a drawer full of mugs. Mayhap he can see my naked body glinting in the sunlight of my dewy corner but if so, he makes no move towards me. Instead, I hear the thump of a full mug reverberate across the wooden sweep of my desk. The rich steam rises and coats a sultry layer over my barrel-taut naval. As he stirs his coffee, his teaspoon sends a chill of silver echoes ringing from out of the porcelain well with each tap against the sides.
I stare at him expectant of his attention as I lie still. A breeze ruses in through an open window unsettling the paper white sheets of my own bed-pile. Each feather sheet whips against my legs, as raspy as orange autumn leaves when swept across asphalt. I can feel my concubine poet eye my slender frame behind sips from his coffee. His shadowy eyes swimming in perversions of a midsummer’s tale taking a dip by the lake, hidden by the innocence or deceit of night. Or is it that he looks past me to study the bidden words dyed and bleeding dry on my last blanket?
Suddenly, he reaches out to brush my [*midrift/midriff] with a single finger. It was a kiss, his fingers moist from coveting the warmth of his coffee mug. I shiver in delight as my once steel cold body became a pink fire as he melds me in his hands. My body becomes pliant, lithe and willing to bend with his own movements. I can see intent in his coal eyes as even in the process, my white sheets are torn and crumple in his passionate frustration. He is the sole wielder of my being, my governor of words who whispers at me so. He is a virtuoso at the poetry of our actions. I love him. I grow dizzy in the heat and give way to the irrational volition of his plotting thoughts. My hard tip jabs at my sheets and curlicues of my discharge find place on innocent white. I grow hot with embarrassment as I failingly try to repress my ink’s bleeding desire to run with each swish of his frivolous wrist. I hear the crackling sparks as he scratches a match. A small ember burns a little ways overhead atop a tapered candle and stimulates the heat of my torso to my dismay. I roll between his fingers, pressing my naked frame against him. I tremble as a mounting heat in my vein tumbles through me in my final spills of liquid
My breaths lengthen after our fervent elation comes to pass, carousing my spent body in the folds of his weary hands. I lie motionless; the moisture he left on me slowly fades. He too is silent. Then his lips spread into a smile as he turns his attention towards my messy bed, gathering each sheet in his arms to look them over. I am content to be of his service and I watch as the candlelight casts an ambient glow in my lover’s face. The candle’s small fire is a blinding night star atop a wax wick that dances with his last brush strokes against me; the end of his book. This is our tale, a story between a writer and his beloved fountain pen.
Inspired by: Life as a pen.
Written by: Amelia Chang (Am_cake)
Writing period: June-July 06.
Short story style: 1st-person, descriptive narration.
Notes: I “think” all the tenses are the same. =/
It is supposed to be all in present but I vary to past a lot, which is a bad habit I must kick.
Also, I think the transition between the climax and the conclusion is too abrupt, any suggestions on how to fix that? =/
And the reason I can't decide on the title is because originally I wanted it to be I Love Him because it is a sentence in the story but I remember that titles are supposed to summarize more than just that.. Writings of Love just sounds corny. =_= and Servitude to His Mind works but doesn't show that the act of writing b/n writer and pen is a loving action.
Oh yeah and I also think that I should indirectly state the writing process more clear and in order for that matter.. i.e. Tearing bedsheets is like writer's block or editing..
Oh and sorry if the story doesn't fit polite standards..
Edit: Already submitted an older version of this story to Liz/Lichee, so that she can run it through to execs? because as you can imagine, its content is questionable.
I was dancing in a sleepy dream, when I fell in love with one midnight fling...
Oh gosh! Okay I just sent you the story over to your e-mail.