[wip] writing in progress;
Prose-poem, or what I had hoped would be one. Unfinished, but I wanted to share. I want to be able to do this. I do. I want and need to.
Wrote this yesterday. I think that's enough to say how good a day I had. :)
I read a story in a book. This account of two individuals meeting, purely by chance. It is much like the stories of love today, where two collide sometimes seamlessly, flowing one into the other while others struggle at first, like puzzle pieces hesitant to fit.
But wait, there is more.
It is always the man who finds the woman: on an abandoned shore, her eyes turned out to sea; or in a forest dense with leaves, its tall trees immovable until he, so familiar with well-worn paths, comes upon her in the half-dark.
He takes her with him, of course. Brings her to where he says the fire will warm her bones, give heat back to flesh not made for the cold. He offers her food and drink to make her strong again, tells her to eat first for they can talk later, because while she looks to him - at him, she does not speak.
He does not know that the fire is the kiln that solidifies her shape, setting her bones, once pliant like clay, into the pale whiteness of teeth. Nor does he realize that it is not food or drink that she consumes, but the echo of words left upon the plate, that bowl, this glass. This is how she comes to speak his tongue.
She stays with him awhile, because in the morning, despite knowing that others might be looking for her, he is reluctant to let her go.
Self-critique. Some turns of phrase are lovely, but this piece needs to be more than just pretty. Attempt to veer away from some cliches, there are a couple coming out on this one. what are you trying to say, Noey? Why are you writing this in the first place.
Kam suggested I submit this as a flash-fiction piece. I'd love to, but I'm making the decision now that I won't. Not for this one. I have something in mind for that other one.
Wrote this yesterday. I think that's enough to say how good a day I had. :)
I read a story in a book. This account of two individuals meeting, purely by chance. It is much like the stories of love today, where two collide sometimes seamlessly, flowing one into the other while others struggle at first, like puzzle pieces hesitant to fit.
But wait, there is more.
It is always the man who finds the woman: on an abandoned shore, her eyes turned out to sea; or in a forest dense with leaves, its tall trees immovable until he, so familiar with well-worn paths, comes upon her in the half-dark.
He takes her with him, of course. Brings her to where he says the fire will warm her bones, give heat back to flesh not made for the cold. He offers her food and drink to make her strong again, tells her to eat first for they can talk later, because while she looks to him - at him, she does not speak.
He does not know that the fire is the kiln that solidifies her shape, setting her bones, once pliant like clay, into the pale whiteness of teeth. Nor does he realize that it is not food or drink that she consumes, but the echo of words left upon the plate, that bowl, this glass. This is how she comes to speak his tongue.
She stays with him awhile, because in the morning, despite knowing that others might be looking for her, he is reluctant to let her go.
Self-critique. Some turns of phrase are lovely, but this piece needs to be more than just pretty. Attempt to veer away from some cliches, there are a couple coming out on this one. what are you trying to say, Noey? Why are you writing this in the first place.
Kam suggested I submit this as a flash-fiction piece. I'd love to, but I'm making the decision now that I won't. Not for this one. I have something in mind for that other one.