398: Nothing At All...
Friday I fell sick again, this time with much hacking--and, sorrow or ironies, that was the night we had Karoke in the lounge. I had been so excited, and now my throat was shot to hell. I still championed through, with slightly less than disastrous consequences--but my throat hurt like hell on Saturday, though I'm somewhat better now...
Among other things I managed to get done, I finished Dust--I'm not yet cogent enough to write the review yet; let my emotions settle--and wrote. A lot.
Among the current slew of rewrites, and one big chunk I'm very excited about for the book (I'm saving it for post 400); I actually wrote a bit of fiction. Now, for those of you who have been paying attention, over the past year I've been doing this a bit more, starting things, getting ten, five pages out. At least something, as opposed to my previous nothing.
But last night I came out with a little 200 (okay, more like 208) word piece, and I think it's interesting, at least for the sort of themes that seem to be arising between this one and Serenade. I would proceed to analyze my own work, but that's a bit too postmodern, even for me. Instead, without further ado, I present it to you here:
*
*
*
Niente Nulla
Empty, she sits at the writing-desk, staring at its surface, cluttered with papers. She can't seem to read the words, and, blinking, looks down at the long, long rope in her hands. His letter never came.
As in a trance, she delicately ties the end around itself, thinking of the man who first took happiness from her, and then the one who refused her even hope. She did what was right, always-whatever men said-emptied herself of all longing, but she was still a whore. How they dismissed her, like a woman; great men who had no time for hysterics.
Contemplating the beam above her, she lacks even anger. There is one thing, she knows, that they cannot deny her. The one thing over which she alone has control, whatever their delusions. And placing the noose around her neck, rises.
All thoughts of men are driven from her as she throws the rope over, and grasping the end-wood on flesh-begins to drag herself up.
For the first time in years, she feels joy, filling her void, sweetly, like oxygen. Closing her eyes to savor it, she reaches over the edge and, twisting, tumbles into darkness, full of grace.
And finally finds her peace.
***
Among other things I managed to get done, I finished Dust--I'm not yet cogent enough to write the review yet; let my emotions settle--and wrote. A lot.
Among the current slew of rewrites, and one big chunk I'm very excited about for the book (I'm saving it for post 400); I actually wrote a bit of fiction. Now, for those of you who have been paying attention, over the past year I've been doing this a bit more, starting things, getting ten, five pages out. At least something, as opposed to my previous nothing.
But last night I came out with a little 200 (okay, more like 208) word piece, and I think it's interesting, at least for the sort of themes that seem to be arising between this one and Serenade. I would proceed to analyze my own work, but that's a bit too postmodern, even for me. Instead, without further ado, I present it to you here:
*
*
*
Niente Nulla
Empty, she sits at the writing-desk, staring at its surface, cluttered with papers. She can't seem to read the words, and, blinking, looks down at the long, long rope in her hands. His letter never came.
As in a trance, she delicately ties the end around itself, thinking of the man who first took happiness from her, and then the one who refused her even hope. She did what was right, always-whatever men said-emptied herself of all longing, but she was still a whore. How they dismissed her, like a woman; great men who had no time for hysterics.
Contemplating the beam above her, she lacks even anger. There is one thing, she knows, that they cannot deny her. The one thing over which she alone has control, whatever their delusions. And placing the noose around her neck, rises.
All thoughts of men are driven from her as she throws the rope over, and grasping the end-wood on flesh-begins to drag herself up.
For the first time in years, she feels joy, filling her void, sweetly, like oxygen. Closing her eyes to savor it, she reaches over the edge and, twisting, tumbles into darkness, full of grace.
And finally finds her peace.
***