Framed Portraits
This was a piece I wrote for a creative writing contest. It wasn't until I saw who won that I realized I completely ignored the rules of the contest haha.
Regardless of my fail, this is the first non-poetry piece of original fiction I've written since I started writing fanfic. I would love to get some feedback on it, positive or negative, cause lord knows I didn't spend enough time of this one as I should have.
It's short. Only about 1500 words. It also has a TS. Eliot reference in there.
Framed Portraits
x
x-x-x
x
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she whispers.
Green eyes skid across the wall, all white paint and spackle and gray scratches of her pencil. He tilts his head, following a fine crack that forks and branches, disappearing when plaster meets ceiling tiles. Street lights push through the blinds and overpower the small bedside lamp. Dark curtains. Smudged windows. He'll never be within these walls again. So he takes his time.
He crosses his arms behind his head and memorizes the little details he never noticed before. The dent two feet above the floor-a souvenir from when he claimed her body on top of her hope chest. A series of black circles on the carpet by the window, burn marks from dropped cigarettes. He looks over books and albums and the clothes scattered on the floor of her bedroom. Anywhere but her face.
"Matthew."
Her sweet voice drifts over him like heartburn. It settles high in his chest until he feel he can't breathe. He wants to pull her onto his naked lap, to drown in her giving self until all of his sadness is nothing more than water damage. He wants to chant how much he worships her until she smothers his words with slightly chapped lips. But he can't.
He knew this from the moment--
--They met in the most pretentious of places.
Big business coffee shop, decorated in plush chairs, during that awkward hour between lunch and skipping dinner. Where all the artists go to perform, to feel the pleasing blush one gets from being watched.
That particular day, Matthew sauntered to the fake-granite counter. He smiled to the average looking barista (he knew women loved his pale skin, reddened from wind and lightly freckled from the city sun) and placed his usual order. Medium English breakfast, one sugar. Hand carefully disheveling his blonde hair. The girl grinned and handed him a large.
He looked around the place and pondered his seating choice. Too close to the front, the open close open close of the glass door would chill his fingers. By the counter, his concentration would be constantly interrupted by the chorus of small non-fat dirty chai and I ordered before you, that drink is mine. He finally found a spot between two college students hunched over comically large textbooks.
And then he saw her.
She had a notebook tucked under her arm, a writer who wanted to be seen writing. Abnormally straight hair. Ordered a large cup of water, hand slipping over her mostly flat stomach, “and two sweet-and-lows, please.”
There was nothing special about her as she shuffled her feet, in uncomfortable looking ankle boots, to a table by the window. Not even when she pulled a colored pencil from the pocket of her dress. But when she reached into her bag, grabbing a metal tin and flipping it open with her thumb, withdrawing her own hand-wrapped bag of tea leaves-she had his attention. And he had his in.
Wrapping his hands around his coffee cup, he rose to his feet. She was a hipster-chic New Yorker, trying too hard to mask her insecurities. He would have no trouble. Her eyes (blue) lifted from her now steeping drink and focused on him, waiting.
“You do know they sell tea here, right?” Just enough of a smile, hand resting against the empty seat across from her, piece of hair falling over his forehead. A careful routine perfected over three years in the city.
“Is that supposed to be charming?”
He jerked straight up, nearly splashing his beverage on his fingers. With the faintest pull of a smile, she handed him a napkin, watching carefully as he wiped off the lid and attempted to piece together his distantly alluring persona.
She bested him again that day. Her foot nudged the chair in his direction until it hit his stomach, gentle push, amused candor, and she smirked. Spinning the tea bag around her cup, she gave him an opening under carefully dim lighting. He fell in.
“So are--
--you just going to ignore me?" she asks.
He can tell she thinks he's breaking her, but she really doesn't understand. And still she slithers through his exterior. She reaches him even when he writhes away.
Before he can stop himself, his eyes lock onto hers. Blue, red-rimmed eyes stare back at him, the same shade as her comforter. She sees this connection as surrender and drops to her knees at his bedside. Her knees thud against the floor, and he cringes. He never wants her to be in pain. That's why he has to do this. If not, he will see her pain and be the cause of her pain until he shatters her completely.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he replies. His voice is airy and distracted, forced. “I really don’t--
--laugh at me,” she whined, though restrained laughter shook her shoulders under his hands. He tightened his grip and pulled her back to his chest. “I told you I’m afraid of heights.” Warm fingers digging into his leg, worn jeans, skin sensitive from the cold. Thank god her nails were short.
“That’s stupid.” Her elbow hit his jacket, but softly, and when her hand tried to draw his around her waist, he let it. “You know I’m not going to drop you.”
“I know, but…”
“Did you want to see the Statue of Liberty or not?” The wind was sharp against his cheeks, but he knew she would love the view from his roof. From the right angle, it was a straight shot to Ellis Island, the only benefit of the otherwise rundown apartment building.
He pushed his toes against her heels. When she gave no sign of movement, he bumped her foot forward. Then he bumped the other, and the other, and again, moving her closer to the railing. Just a few more feet and they’d be there. Her notebook was downstairs waiting for her words, and just another foot. He wanted her to be inspired.
“No! Matt, I can’t. I’m sorry.” She pushed herself against his chest until he had to step back, and he sighed.
This was just like Sera. She was jumpy, and strange, and still insisted on going to public places to write her poetry, bringing her own earl gray with her, but none of that bothered him as it should have.
She was talented but temporary. Destined for more than a cheap apartment in Brooklyn. And even though she wasn’t meant for him, he wrapped his arms around her trembling body like a vice. Maybe if he held her tight enough, she wouldn’t leave him behind.
“I think you could really be something,” he admitted against her cool ear. Sera turned around and brought them lip to lip. Fingers tightening around his lapels, pulling him closer and closer and pushing him away.
Later that night, he would pull her back. He would consume her until there was nothing left but groans and sweat and skin, but for the moment he just smiled.
Sera mirrored his expression, soft. His for this moment.
“You don’t have to--
--Say that you're not this person."
She’s pleading now, pushing her fingertips against his sweaty side, moving her face closer to his until her loose hair spills forward onto his bare chest. The contact makes him shiver. "I know you're a good man, Matthew. Please don't prove me wrong."
The words are stuck in his throat, fervent apologies and declarations begging to be said.
You're right, Ser.
You're everything to me.
That much is true. But it won’t push her away, and he needs to push her away before he can’t. Before she’s bound to him and his failures and her talent is nothing more than scratches in worn plaster. His eyes turn to the ceiling, further to the wall, until he can't even make out her blurry form in peripheral. When he finds his voice again, it’s not his own.
"You are wrong, Sera," he says. His fingers clench, nails digging into his palms. "I wish you weren’t."
The silence crushes him. He swallows the urge to take back his words, because he knows he won't have to wait much longer. He can't. Neither of them can bear the quiet or this ache that circles them like fog.
Finally-with stomping feet on creaking floorboards-Sera takes a stand. He feels her body grow rigid, though he can't see her.
"So that’s it then? It’s over?”
A shaky exhale is his only reply. If he looks at her, his thumb will meet and clear her falling tears. If he speaks, he’ll beg her to stay.
“I… I need to go,” she whispers.
Her breaths fall staccato, and then she’s taking small steps. The floor creaks and soft clothes brush against the carpet, each quiet noise cracking him further. Keys scraping the counter are almost enough to break him completely. But it doesn’t. Not yet.
“Please don’t be here when I get back."
Matthew closes his eyes, against the stinging and the lies and quick fucking and slow kisses and hours spent over tea cups and bread-and against the pain that makes the bile rise in his throat. He swallows and pushes away any thoughts that this could have ended differently. It was always too late.
The love of his life doesn't slam the door.
She closes it with a whimper.
Regardless of my fail, this is the first non-poetry piece of original fiction I've written since I started writing fanfic. I would love to get some feedback on it, positive or negative, cause lord knows I didn't spend enough time of this one as I should have.
It's short. Only about 1500 words. It also has a TS. Eliot reference in there.
Framed Portraits
x
x-x-x
x
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she whispers.
Green eyes skid across the wall, all white paint and spackle and gray scratches of her pencil. He tilts his head, following a fine crack that forks and branches, disappearing when plaster meets ceiling tiles. Street lights push through the blinds and overpower the small bedside lamp. Dark curtains. Smudged windows. He'll never be within these walls again. So he takes his time.
He crosses his arms behind his head and memorizes the little details he never noticed before. The dent two feet above the floor-a souvenir from when he claimed her body on top of her hope chest. A series of black circles on the carpet by the window, burn marks from dropped cigarettes. He looks over books and albums and the clothes scattered on the floor of her bedroom. Anywhere but her face.
"Matthew."
Her sweet voice drifts over him like heartburn. It settles high in his chest until he feel he can't breathe. He wants to pull her onto his naked lap, to drown in her giving self until all of his sadness is nothing more than water damage. He wants to chant how much he worships her until she smothers his words with slightly chapped lips. But he can't.
He knew this from the moment--
--They met in the most pretentious of places.
Big business coffee shop, decorated in plush chairs, during that awkward hour between lunch and skipping dinner. Where all the artists go to perform, to feel the pleasing blush one gets from being watched.
That particular day, Matthew sauntered to the fake-granite counter. He smiled to the average looking barista (he knew women loved his pale skin, reddened from wind and lightly freckled from the city sun) and placed his usual order. Medium English breakfast, one sugar. Hand carefully disheveling his blonde hair. The girl grinned and handed him a large.
He looked around the place and pondered his seating choice. Too close to the front, the open close open close of the glass door would chill his fingers. By the counter, his concentration would be constantly interrupted by the chorus of small non-fat dirty chai and I ordered before you, that drink is mine. He finally found a spot between two college students hunched over comically large textbooks.
And then he saw her.
She had a notebook tucked under her arm, a writer who wanted to be seen writing. Abnormally straight hair. Ordered a large cup of water, hand slipping over her mostly flat stomach, “and two sweet-and-lows, please.”
There was nothing special about her as she shuffled her feet, in uncomfortable looking ankle boots, to a table by the window. Not even when she pulled a colored pencil from the pocket of her dress. But when she reached into her bag, grabbing a metal tin and flipping it open with her thumb, withdrawing her own hand-wrapped bag of tea leaves-she had his attention. And he had his in.
Wrapping his hands around his coffee cup, he rose to his feet. She was a hipster-chic New Yorker, trying too hard to mask her insecurities. He would have no trouble. Her eyes (blue) lifted from her now steeping drink and focused on him, waiting.
“You do know they sell tea here, right?” Just enough of a smile, hand resting against the empty seat across from her, piece of hair falling over his forehead. A careful routine perfected over three years in the city.
“Is that supposed to be charming?”
He jerked straight up, nearly splashing his beverage on his fingers. With the faintest pull of a smile, she handed him a napkin, watching carefully as he wiped off the lid and attempted to piece together his distantly alluring persona.
She bested him again that day. Her foot nudged the chair in his direction until it hit his stomach, gentle push, amused candor, and she smirked. Spinning the tea bag around her cup, she gave him an opening under carefully dim lighting. He fell in.
“So are--
--you just going to ignore me?" she asks.
He can tell she thinks he's breaking her, but she really doesn't understand. And still she slithers through his exterior. She reaches him even when he writhes away.
Before he can stop himself, his eyes lock onto hers. Blue, red-rimmed eyes stare back at him, the same shade as her comforter. She sees this connection as surrender and drops to her knees at his bedside. Her knees thud against the floor, and he cringes. He never wants her to be in pain. That's why he has to do this. If not, he will see her pain and be the cause of her pain until he shatters her completely.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he replies. His voice is airy and distracted, forced. “I really don’t--
--laugh at me,” she whined, though restrained laughter shook her shoulders under his hands. He tightened his grip and pulled her back to his chest. “I told you I’m afraid of heights.” Warm fingers digging into his leg, worn jeans, skin sensitive from the cold. Thank god her nails were short.
“That’s stupid.” Her elbow hit his jacket, but softly, and when her hand tried to draw his around her waist, he let it. “You know I’m not going to drop you.”
“I know, but…”
“Did you want to see the Statue of Liberty or not?” The wind was sharp against his cheeks, but he knew she would love the view from his roof. From the right angle, it was a straight shot to Ellis Island, the only benefit of the otherwise rundown apartment building.
He pushed his toes against her heels. When she gave no sign of movement, he bumped her foot forward. Then he bumped the other, and the other, and again, moving her closer to the railing. Just a few more feet and they’d be there. Her notebook was downstairs waiting for her words, and just another foot. He wanted her to be inspired.
“No! Matt, I can’t. I’m sorry.” She pushed herself against his chest until he had to step back, and he sighed.
This was just like Sera. She was jumpy, and strange, and still insisted on going to public places to write her poetry, bringing her own earl gray with her, but none of that bothered him as it should have.
She was talented but temporary. Destined for more than a cheap apartment in Brooklyn. And even though she wasn’t meant for him, he wrapped his arms around her trembling body like a vice. Maybe if he held her tight enough, she wouldn’t leave him behind.
“I think you could really be something,” he admitted against her cool ear. Sera turned around and brought them lip to lip. Fingers tightening around his lapels, pulling him closer and closer and pushing him away.
Later that night, he would pull her back. He would consume her until there was nothing left but groans and sweat and skin, but for the moment he just smiled.
Sera mirrored his expression, soft. His for this moment.
“You don’t have to--
--Say that you're not this person."
She’s pleading now, pushing her fingertips against his sweaty side, moving her face closer to his until her loose hair spills forward onto his bare chest. The contact makes him shiver. "I know you're a good man, Matthew. Please don't prove me wrong."
The words are stuck in his throat, fervent apologies and declarations begging to be said.
You're right, Ser.
You're everything to me.
That much is true. But it won’t push her away, and he needs to push her away before he can’t. Before she’s bound to him and his failures and her talent is nothing more than scratches in worn plaster. His eyes turn to the ceiling, further to the wall, until he can't even make out her blurry form in peripheral. When he finds his voice again, it’s not his own.
"You are wrong, Sera," he says. His fingers clench, nails digging into his palms. "I wish you weren’t."
The silence crushes him. He swallows the urge to take back his words, because he knows he won't have to wait much longer. He can't. Neither of them can bear the quiet or this ache that circles them like fog.
Finally-with stomping feet on creaking floorboards-Sera takes a stand. He feels her body grow rigid, though he can't see her.
"So that’s it then? It’s over?”
A shaky exhale is his only reply. If he looks at her, his thumb will meet and clear her falling tears. If he speaks, he’ll beg her to stay.
“I… I need to go,” she whispers.
Her breaths fall staccato, and then she’s taking small steps. The floor creaks and soft clothes brush against the carpet, each quiet noise cracking him further. Keys scraping the counter are almost enough to break him completely. But it doesn’t. Not yet.
“Please don’t be here when I get back."
Matthew closes his eyes, against the stinging and the lies and quick fucking and slow kisses and hours spent over tea cups and bread-and against the pain that makes the bile rise in his throat. He swallows and pushes away any thoughts that this could have ended differently. It was always too late.
The love of his life doesn't slam the door.
She closes it with a whimper.