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Hmmm. I finally get off of my lazy arse and submit Enigma to FictionAlley, only to have chapter 2 (and subsequently 3 and 4) sent back for editing. Now, I have a question. Why is it that I have FOUR betas? Aren't they supposed to help me edit?? *is all mean and scowly* Anyway, enough of that--I'll get over it.
Livejournal keeps logging me out. Am not happy.
I have also decided to start posting some more of my original work up here (yeah, I bet you've been waiting to see that! ) And I figure those who were nice enough to try and give me ideas for my final fiction piece for class should get to see the results I'm going to turn in. So here it is: my interior monologue. (The characters should be easy to get. ^^)
Chasing the Sun
~*~*~*~*~
The sun is baking me in Capri; the sky is hazy with heat and swims before the eyes, knotting the native patterns of thatch and cloth into a wash of blurring colors, each hue jumping out in desperation before sinking back into the tangled mass of threads that constitutes its being. The dark browns and scorching reds of the cheap woven fabric on the backs of the people remind me too much of myself, and I remember the days on the Mediterranean, the way the clear blue-green of the water danced in shimmers before my eyes. I hummed along the edges of gleaming skin there, and at one point I think I might have been happy to linger on the water and flesh and I remember now how the air always smelled of salt.
I remember traveling alone over the deserts of Africa, beating myself into the sand with each breath and I remember the dark dark skin left exposed for my ravaging kiss. I am almost ashamed to say that I scour this land, searching for mysteries to touch with fingers caked with mud and the memory of gentler times. I sweep underground in teasing breezes, always hoping for a glimpse of the past that never comes, pressing my forehead against the nooks of stone and pressing my wishes upon those who never understand. All of the secrets there are waiting to be unlocked, but I have never had the key.
I fly over Paris every year, and laugh at the senseless lovers who use my time to cement their affection. They are fools, I think. Idealists. They press their lips against their palms and against mouths and swear that this time, Summer will stay forever and Paris will be an eternal city, and this moment will last until the next moment comes and the next moment will never come. But it does, and I move on, and their dreams crumble after me like a house of cards missing its foundation.
I remember London, playing hide-and-seek in the fog and how Spring always seemed just two steps ahead of me as we pranced around light posts and drank endlessly of the fountains in the crowded squares. It was a little like chasing the sun, trying to capture Spring, and I knew even as she coaxed me on with soft looks and softer promises that I would never touch her. But I still follow her, steps stealthy-still on her doorstep, waiting for the creak of wood that will alarm her and send her dancing once more. Following Spring is like reaching out for a dream, and the truth is that I’m old enough to know better. Sometimes, an irrational sort of hope stirs in my breast and I know she weeps for me and what we could have been.
Maybe someday, when I’m tired of hide-and-seek and those endless youthful games of Spring, I’ll be able to look for the maple tree and see it on fire in a way that I’ve always heard of but never actually seen myself. Autumn is a ghost, I think; full of misty promises and the breath of finality, the acrid burning of leaves and oh, what I wouldn’t give to feel the wind blow cool on my face, carrying the promise of something beyond my cruel heat and her endless tears as the sleeping trees rain leaves down upon my head. There is the crunch of dying things beneath Autumn’s heel, but I can forgive him because everything has its cycle and everything has its end.
I was breathing in the nuances of America when I felt the first rippling chill of her against my back and I think that moment is what I miss the most. Winter is a different kind of blue than the warmest ocean, so I’ve heard, and not even the most radiant heat can melt her core. I’ve never heard her, never seen her, and yet, her fingerprints are dusted everywhere I go, smudged into the canvas of my life like the trail of her hand resting against a window leaves the barest impression of frost in its wake.
Sometimes her touch eases against my spine and the shadow of her voice is pressed at my ear. I listen for her echo in the dead woods of California and search for her essence in the lost streets of Baghdad, and although Spring is calling me to play and Autumn is promising me fire I cannot let go of that memory of her. Her voice is the snow drifting over the highest mountain peaks, her anger the frigid vinyl of ice, and all though I can only feel the vaguest impression of her on my mind, she and all that she represents has been carved onto my heart.
Winter is elusive in her charm, and only the longing for her touch keeps me searching. I think about those lovers in Paris and remember the light dancing from the windows of La Sainte Chappelle and in the stained glass wonder I think this yearning could be called ‘love’. I have never even seen her face, and yet I’ve memorized the curve of her throat from a brief afterimage caught in the snow of Aspen and I remember the glow of her eyes, for they put the stars to shame and even now, I am still entranced.
Winter is a fragile girl sleeping on the street corner, and although she stands in plain sight, no one ever sees her coming. She is like a queen in her anger, and her displeasure can kill, with howling winds and hail tearing down from the sky. She is a melancholy princess, trapped in her tower of isolation, and the others refuse to touch her because ice is not theirs, is not mine, it is hers to be borne like a punishment and tossed out in anger by herself, as the golden apples of the Northern gods once gave them immortality, and yet were given by a single hand.
She is kind to me, or I am kind to her—the feel of the sun or snow but the barest of connections between us, and it doesn’t matter who is what as long as we can pretend we’re together. She whispers to me in those brief moments of passing, on her way to the oases of the Arabs while I go with trudging, reluctant steps beyond the equator, and it is her voice that reminds me of the mysteries in Africa, for she is a mystery waiting for me, and I still don’t have the key.
She rests her head against my shoulder on the warmer days of her season, and her hair smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, and for a moment all I want to do is breathe her in so she’ll never be cold again.
There is an irrationality to love, I’ve found, and with each passing moment the illogical pull becomes stronger and stronger, and someday I will find a way to stop. The anger of Autumn and the pain of Spring are nothing to the determination of Summer, and now I finally understand the hearts of those I once called fools. For they are driven of passion, as I am driven of passion, and in the end, what really matters is the moment, that moment, all of the moments coming together in one single breath to freeze and crystallize because all the directions of the world lead to her in the end. And I understand the seconds stolen by desperate lovers beneath my burning sun or Winter’s cup of mulled wine.
With the ghost of her tender kiss still lingering against the back of my neck I can’t help but think Yes. This moment is our moment, every moment, and yes, it will last forever.
~*~*~*~*~
Livejournal keeps logging me out. Am not happy.
I have also decided to start posting some more of my original work up here (yeah, I bet you've been waiting to see that! ) And I figure those who were nice enough to try and give me ideas for my final fiction piece for class should get to see the results I'm going to turn in. So here it is: my interior monologue. (The characters should be easy to get. ^^)
Chasing the Sun
~*~*~*~*~
The sun is baking me in Capri; the sky is hazy with heat and swims before the eyes, knotting the native patterns of thatch and cloth into a wash of blurring colors, each hue jumping out in desperation before sinking back into the tangled mass of threads that constitutes its being. The dark browns and scorching reds of the cheap woven fabric on the backs of the people remind me too much of myself, and I remember the days on the Mediterranean, the way the clear blue-green of the water danced in shimmers before my eyes. I hummed along the edges of gleaming skin there, and at one point I think I might have been happy to linger on the water and flesh and I remember now how the air always smelled of salt.
I remember traveling alone over the deserts of Africa, beating myself into the sand with each breath and I remember the dark dark skin left exposed for my ravaging kiss. I am almost ashamed to say that I scour this land, searching for mysteries to touch with fingers caked with mud and the memory of gentler times. I sweep underground in teasing breezes, always hoping for a glimpse of the past that never comes, pressing my forehead against the nooks of stone and pressing my wishes upon those who never understand. All of the secrets there are waiting to be unlocked, but I have never had the key.
I fly over Paris every year, and laugh at the senseless lovers who use my time to cement their affection. They are fools, I think. Idealists. They press their lips against their palms and against mouths and swear that this time, Summer will stay forever and Paris will be an eternal city, and this moment will last until the next moment comes and the next moment will never come. But it does, and I move on, and their dreams crumble after me like a house of cards missing its foundation.
I remember London, playing hide-and-seek in the fog and how Spring always seemed just two steps ahead of me as we pranced around light posts and drank endlessly of the fountains in the crowded squares. It was a little like chasing the sun, trying to capture Spring, and I knew even as she coaxed me on with soft looks and softer promises that I would never touch her. But I still follow her, steps stealthy-still on her doorstep, waiting for the creak of wood that will alarm her and send her dancing once more. Following Spring is like reaching out for a dream, and the truth is that I’m old enough to know better. Sometimes, an irrational sort of hope stirs in my breast and I know she weeps for me and what we could have been.
Maybe someday, when I’m tired of hide-and-seek and those endless youthful games of Spring, I’ll be able to look for the maple tree and see it on fire in a way that I’ve always heard of but never actually seen myself. Autumn is a ghost, I think; full of misty promises and the breath of finality, the acrid burning of leaves and oh, what I wouldn’t give to feel the wind blow cool on my face, carrying the promise of something beyond my cruel heat and her endless tears as the sleeping trees rain leaves down upon my head. There is the crunch of dying things beneath Autumn’s heel, but I can forgive him because everything has its cycle and everything has its end.
I was breathing in the nuances of America when I felt the first rippling chill of her against my back and I think that moment is what I miss the most. Winter is a different kind of blue than the warmest ocean, so I’ve heard, and not even the most radiant heat can melt her core. I’ve never heard her, never seen her, and yet, her fingerprints are dusted everywhere I go, smudged into the canvas of my life like the trail of her hand resting against a window leaves the barest impression of frost in its wake.
Sometimes her touch eases against my spine and the shadow of her voice is pressed at my ear. I listen for her echo in the dead woods of California and search for her essence in the lost streets of Baghdad, and although Spring is calling me to play and Autumn is promising me fire I cannot let go of that memory of her. Her voice is the snow drifting over the highest mountain peaks, her anger the frigid vinyl of ice, and all though I can only feel the vaguest impression of her on my mind, she and all that she represents has been carved onto my heart.
Winter is elusive in her charm, and only the longing for her touch keeps me searching. I think about those lovers in Paris and remember the light dancing from the windows of La Sainte Chappelle and in the stained glass wonder I think this yearning could be called ‘love’. I have never even seen her face, and yet I’ve memorized the curve of her throat from a brief afterimage caught in the snow of Aspen and I remember the glow of her eyes, for they put the stars to shame and even now, I am still entranced.
Winter is a fragile girl sleeping on the street corner, and although she stands in plain sight, no one ever sees her coming. She is like a queen in her anger, and her displeasure can kill, with howling winds and hail tearing down from the sky. She is a melancholy princess, trapped in her tower of isolation, and the others refuse to touch her because ice is not theirs, is not mine, it is hers to be borne like a punishment and tossed out in anger by herself, as the golden apples of the Northern gods once gave them immortality, and yet were given by a single hand.
She is kind to me, or I am kind to her—the feel of the sun or snow but the barest of connections between us, and it doesn’t matter who is what as long as we can pretend we’re together. She whispers to me in those brief moments of passing, on her way to the oases of the Arabs while I go with trudging, reluctant steps beyond the equator, and it is her voice that reminds me of the mysteries in Africa, for she is a mystery waiting for me, and I still don’t have the key.
She rests her head against my shoulder on the warmer days of her season, and her hair smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, and for a moment all I want to do is breathe her in so she’ll never be cold again.
There is an irrationality to love, I’ve found, and with each passing moment the illogical pull becomes stronger and stronger, and someday I will find a way to stop. The anger of Autumn and the pain of Spring are nothing to the determination of Summer, and now I finally understand the hearts of those I once called fools. For they are driven of passion, as I am driven of passion, and in the end, what really matters is the moment, that moment, all of the moments coming together in one single breath to freeze and crystallize because all the directions of the world lead to her in the end. And I understand the seconds stolen by desperate lovers beneath my burning sun or Winter’s cup of mulled wine.
With the ghost of her tender kiss still lingering against the back of my neck I can’t help but think Yes. This moment is our moment, every moment, and yes, it will last forever.
~*~*~*~*~