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robinsnestI wrote this short story at work today. I'm still working on it but I'd love some feedback if anyone has time time. It's really short
The carriage rattles onward and the passengers sway in motion. As I move to its erratic rhythm I imagine the gentle swaying is his arms around me. Rocking me. Forward. Back. The tube is full tonight. Men in their business suits and the socks that never match. Women, tired in heels and stockings. Everyone is ready to get home, rushing somewhere. But tonight I’m not rushing. I know he won’t be there when I get home.
The tube stops and the doors open with a woosh, a rush of cold air comes swooping in that sends chills down my spine. His lips upon my neck do that, send little bolts of lightening dancing down.
The woman across from me glares. I realize she thinks I’ve been staring at her, and I lower my eyes. His eyes were amazing. Blue. Ocean blue. I used to swim through those eyes, treading water deep into the night as the stars sparkled within those liquid mirrors. I can still feel his fingertips running down my back, lazily stroking the curves of my sides, and the gentle protrusions of my shoulder blades. I used to love the warmth of his hands, soft and steady.
I remember the last time. I came home and he was there. That goofy grin on his face as he and my roommates exchanged idle banter. When I walked in he got up and gave me a hug. I could smell his smell. That unique mix of polo-sport and boy, rough and dirty but soft and gentle. Like him. His face was rough with stubble but his lips melted into mine. That night as we lay in bed with my head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, my arm across his chest. I was idly walking my fingers along his warm skin when it came. I knew the second it came, his voice changed and the way he held me changed.
‘we have to talk’
And that was it. Bliss was shattered by the realization that the end was here.
The woman across from me looks up from her book and I quickly busy myself fixing my scarf. I refuse to cry, not here. Later, when I’m in my room and no one can see. I want to ask her if her heart’s ever been broken, but she doesn’t seem like she’d care if it was. Her harsh salt and pepper hair is pulled up into a bun, her petite spinster form dressed in an olive wool suit. I hope my legs look like that when I’m 45, she can still wear her knee length pencil skirt with pride. I always loved my legs, strong. I even loved their scars, badges of all I’ve accomplished.
I re-cross those legs and pull my coat more tightly around me. Trying to banish those phantom hands of his I feel sliding around my waist. Too close. Even in dreams I fear him getting too close. Close to my secret.
I don’t know why I do it. It’s an itch, I don’t wish my death, its not that I’m unhappy. I hid it from him even then. I always made excuses, ‘I scratched myself,’ ‘The Cat did it,’ ‘Oh I must have gotten it at the Club.’ Deep down I wonder if this secret shame is the reason for his leaving…was I just too messed up for anyone to care about? I don’t feel fucked up. I feel strong, I feel confident. I just have a secret. A dirty little secret.
The carriage rattles onward and the passengers sway in motion. As I move to its erratic rhythm I imagine the gentle swaying is his arms around me. Rocking me. Forward. Back. The tube is full tonight. Men in their business suits and the socks that never match. Women, tired in heels and stockings. Everyone is ready to get home, rushing somewhere. But tonight I’m not rushing. I know he won’t be there when I get home.
The tube stops and the doors open with a woosh, a rush of cold air comes swooping in that sends chills down my spine. His lips upon my neck do that, send little bolts of lightening dancing down.
The woman across from me glares. I realize she thinks I’ve been staring at her, and I lower my eyes. His eyes were amazing. Blue. Ocean blue. I used to swim through those eyes, treading water deep into the night as the stars sparkled within those liquid mirrors. I can still feel his fingertips running down my back, lazily stroking the curves of my sides, and the gentle protrusions of my shoulder blades. I used to love the warmth of his hands, soft and steady.
I remember the last time. I came home and he was there. That goofy grin on his face as he and my roommates exchanged idle banter. When I walked in he got up and gave me a hug. I could smell his smell. That unique mix of polo-sport and boy, rough and dirty but soft and gentle. Like him. His face was rough with stubble but his lips melted into mine. That night as we lay in bed with my head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, my arm across his chest. I was idly walking my fingers along his warm skin when it came. I knew the second it came, his voice changed and the way he held me changed.
‘we have to talk’
And that was it. Bliss was shattered by the realization that the end was here.
The woman across from me looks up from her book and I quickly busy myself fixing my scarf. I refuse to cry, not here. Later, when I’m in my room and no one can see. I want to ask her if her heart’s ever been broken, but she doesn’t seem like she’d care if it was. Her harsh salt and pepper hair is pulled up into a bun, her petite spinster form dressed in an olive wool suit. I hope my legs look like that when I’m 45, she can still wear her knee length pencil skirt with pride. I always loved my legs, strong. I even loved their scars, badges of all I’ve accomplished.
I re-cross those legs and pull my coat more tightly around me. Trying to banish those phantom hands of his I feel sliding around my waist. Too close. Even in dreams I fear him getting too close. Close to my secret.
I don’t know why I do it. It’s an itch, I don’t wish my death, its not that I’m unhappy. I hid it from him even then. I always made excuses, ‘I scratched myself,’ ‘The Cat did it,’ ‘Oh I must have gotten it at the Club.’ Deep down I wonder if this secret shame is the reason for his leaving…was I just too messed up for anyone to care about? I don’t feel fucked up. I feel strong, I feel confident. I just have a secret. A dirty little secret.
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Date: 2004-05-05 02:25 pm (UTC)Winced at the end of the first segment, partly out of the trepidation intentionally induced and partly from the memory of being That Guy. (i can promise i'll never time that phrase so badly again...)
The transition from the second-to-last paragraph to the final one is abrupt, but I imagine it should be; an imitation of how those thoughts come on?
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Date: 2004-05-05 03:38 pm (UTC)There seems to be a lot of good connection in memory in the first and second paragraph, but there's not transition really between them. They're almost 2 completely separate stories. I think you need to have a connection between the two. He was perfect, but things weren't perfect, you should hint around that in the first paragraph, because the second comes too far out of no where. Also, I don't know if you know any cutters, I myself do. I know a lot actually, and "I don't feel fucked up. I feel strong, I feel confident." seems blatantly wrong. lol. The reason they cut is because they're trying to feel something, or they're trying to cut away the bad parts, or they're trying to forget their pain in life by creating a more real physical pain. If she's cutting throughout this great thing then something is wrong and she would acknowledge that, unless she's one of these 13 year old girls who cuts themselves because everyone does it and it makes them seem oh so emo. I think you should explore her reasonings a little more if you're going to expand this, and you definitely need more transition between 1 and 2, other than that it's a good jumping off point, and you have a lot of places you could take it.
no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 04:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-06 04:31 am (UTC)