Silver Nitrate, Platinum Rose (a long one)
dyna2
Posts: 14
(thanks for reading, I appreciate it)
The light in this room is the slate grey that is only derived from witching hour ambience.
She is beautiful, with her silver hair and silver skin and liberty dollar eyes, and it takes me a minute to understand that I appear the same to her, that we are two tragic and ethereal ghosts in a peep show.
She sits on the corner of the bed, against the cornered wall, staring at me with her covers pulled and clutched, reluctant…
We have been forced into this room and into this bed against our will and it is clear that we do not know each other well and that we may yet have to consign our selves or our souls to love this night.
Her eyes grow large, shining moons, pewter saucers in the patch’d mist, and in deference to her waxing and impossible beauty I offer her my hands as consolations. She slow, though willing, submits, shivering and wondering at my gentility as I explore her warmth.
Leaning her head in to my shoulder, her glance alights ‘pon my face and I have to consider what planets she may have seen there, what stars.
She shifts as the warmth explodes in a volcanic heat, and sighs, biting into the sleeve of my shirt and gripping me with nails razor sharp.
(I am quite sure that I am bleeding; I am also quite sure that she is crying.)
I continue, as we have been told to do, until she pulls back, struggling with her body and its tremble, its burning seizures, and she holds her head up high, no longer the ghost, I am convinced, but an angel come for me in my hour, and asks politely and in the softest and most ultrasonic of whispers, if I would like to finish inside her. I, choking back, have to use body language and telepathy to affirm my need, as there is nothing to say to this vision that would suffice nor testify nor succeed in painting this moment’s justice.
She accepts me. And I slowly, reverently, enter the angel who tells me it’s okay and that she can love me for now, no matter what they say, as the war began outside, lovers in a dangerous time.
I do not know whether or not I came, nor whether or not we whispered or screamed the other’s name, nor whether or not such things were even shared.
Cluster bombs have shaken the house, plaster casts and snow now falling from the ceiling and cracking tiles. Explosions and movement in the trees behind the house just off the deck indicated a military might of some force or another were moving forward. Veiled glimpses of aircraft, their oncoming whistle/whine and travesty, and the tremors as their violent footsteps trod upnever master. Metal glints and carries and appears electroplated in mercury, the wet and thermal look of eternity. Each magazine carefully cleaned, loaded, inspected, Calculated Passion an ionization in its own right, I settle back on my heels to ponder this night of mythic love and fabled war.
I consider my muse and recall her twilight grace as I apply my zinc, my copper, my coal; Stripes and Swirls designed to cause my disappearance to the naked eye, and by the time I finish I will be the contrasted collage: a panther hidden, deadly accurate, bloodied by the nails of an angel, with the echoes of her tongue in my head.
Slowly turning, now fully armed and prepared for whatever gods may greet me tonight, I dissipate in the shadows. It is good to be lithe and supple again, with wings unfurled and eyes alight.
With fire and flame in the belly and a lover on the mind, I’m a lit pilot, the shadowbox, the question left unanswered, the great unknown, a grey memory, a forgotten dream.
As the bay window behind me is blown inward by an enormous concussion, embedding glass in my kevlar and scoring my exposed skin, I turn my gaze to the moon and wish her luck, thanking her for the witching hour shared, no matter the circumstances, and praying that she shield me in the things that I must do to protect her and all else I hold dear.
I never master. Metal glints and carries and appears electroplated in mercury, the wet and thermal look of eternity. Each magazine carefully cleaned, loaded, inspected, Calculated Passion an ionization in its own right, I settle back on my heels to ponder this night of mythic love and fabled war.
I consider my muse and recall her twilight grace as I apply my zinc, my copper, my coal; Stripes and Swirls designed to cause my disappearance to the naked eye, and by the time I finish I will be the contrasted collage: a panther hidden, deadly accurate, bloodied by the nails of an angel, with the echoes of her tongue in my head.
Slowly turning, now fully armed and prepared for whatever gods may greet me tonight, I dissipate in the shadows. It is good to be lithe and supple again, with wings unfurled and eyes alight.
With fire and flame in the belly and a lover on the mind, I’m a lit pilot, the shadowbox, the question left unanswered, the great unknown, a grey memory, a forgotten dream.
As the bay window behind me is blown inward by an enormous concussion, embedding glass in my kevlar and scoring my exposed skin, I turn my gaze to the moon and wish her luck, thanking her for the witching hour shared, no matter the circumstances, and praying that she shield me in the things that I must do to protect her and all else I hold dear.
I step out from behind the sliding glass door, leaving a house of mirrors to the backward path, joining my brethren; and as we disintegrate into the brush, the air shimmers overhead with the heat of battle and blood and sweat and the intensity that opens rifts to other worlds… the lost call of mankind.
Taking point, I wonder at the similarities of a quaking world on fire and a woman who shivers and burns, opening to the touch like petals to dew, both images searing into my retina, my alpha waves forever changed.
Sighting targets through my scope, an optic long, terrible in its precision and in the efficiency of her fraternal twin, I have determined that this last firefight will be for her, my angel, my love, and that I will at last be hero to the platinum rose that blooms forever in the architecture and temples of my dreams.
It is finally time. My lips are trembling and I hear a thousand peregrine falcons behind my eyes, piercing the canyon wind with their cries and the I love you’s I repeatedly whisper to myself.
This first shot is mine.
The light in this room is the slate grey that is only derived from witching hour ambience.
She is beautiful, with her silver hair and silver skin and liberty dollar eyes, and it takes me a minute to understand that I appear the same to her, that we are two tragic and ethereal ghosts in a peep show.
She sits on the corner of the bed, against the cornered wall, staring at me with her covers pulled and clutched, reluctant…
We have been forced into this room and into this bed against our will and it is clear that we do not know each other well and that we may yet have to consign our selves or our souls to love this night.
Her eyes grow large, shining moons, pewter saucers in the patch’d mist, and in deference to her waxing and impossible beauty I offer her my hands as consolations. She slow, though willing, submits, shivering and wondering at my gentility as I explore her warmth.
Leaning her head in to my shoulder, her glance alights ‘pon my face and I have to consider what planets she may have seen there, what stars.
She shifts as the warmth explodes in a volcanic heat, and sighs, biting into the sleeve of my shirt and gripping me with nails razor sharp.
(I am quite sure that I am bleeding; I am also quite sure that she is crying.)
I continue, as we have been told to do, until she pulls back, struggling with her body and its tremble, its burning seizures, and she holds her head up high, no longer the ghost, I am convinced, but an angel come for me in my hour, and asks politely and in the softest and most ultrasonic of whispers, if I would like to finish inside her. I, choking back, have to use body language and telepathy to affirm my need, as there is nothing to say to this vision that would suffice nor testify nor succeed in painting this moment’s justice.
She accepts me. And I slowly, reverently, enter the angel who tells me it’s okay and that she can love me for now, no matter what they say, as the war began outside, lovers in a dangerous time.
I do not know whether or not I came, nor whether or not we whispered or screamed the other’s name, nor whether or not such things were even shared.
Cluster bombs have shaken the house, plaster casts and snow now falling from the ceiling and cracking tiles. Explosions and movement in the trees behind the house just off the deck indicated a military might of some force or another were moving forward. Veiled glimpses of aircraft, their oncoming whistle/whine and travesty, and the tremors as their violent footsteps trod upnever master. Metal glints and carries and appears electroplated in mercury, the wet and thermal look of eternity. Each magazine carefully cleaned, loaded, inspected, Calculated Passion an ionization in its own right, I settle back on my heels to ponder this night of mythic love and fabled war.
I consider my muse and recall her twilight grace as I apply my zinc, my copper, my coal; Stripes and Swirls designed to cause my disappearance to the naked eye, and by the time I finish I will be the contrasted collage: a panther hidden, deadly accurate, bloodied by the nails of an angel, with the echoes of her tongue in my head.
Slowly turning, now fully armed and prepared for whatever gods may greet me tonight, I dissipate in the shadows. It is good to be lithe and supple again, with wings unfurled and eyes alight.
With fire and flame in the belly and a lover on the mind, I’m a lit pilot, the shadowbox, the question left unanswered, the great unknown, a grey memory, a forgotten dream.
As the bay window behind me is blown inward by an enormous concussion, embedding glass in my kevlar and scoring my exposed skin, I turn my gaze to the moon and wish her luck, thanking her for the witching hour shared, no matter the circumstances, and praying that she shield me in the things that I must do to protect her and all else I hold dear.
I never master. Metal glints and carries and appears electroplated in mercury, the wet and thermal look of eternity. Each magazine carefully cleaned, loaded, inspected, Calculated Passion an ionization in its own right, I settle back on my heels to ponder this night of mythic love and fabled war.
I consider my muse and recall her twilight grace as I apply my zinc, my copper, my coal; Stripes and Swirls designed to cause my disappearance to the naked eye, and by the time I finish I will be the contrasted collage: a panther hidden, deadly accurate, bloodied by the nails of an angel, with the echoes of her tongue in my head.
Slowly turning, now fully armed and prepared for whatever gods may greet me tonight, I dissipate in the shadows. It is good to be lithe and supple again, with wings unfurled and eyes alight.
With fire and flame in the belly and a lover on the mind, I’m a lit pilot, the shadowbox, the question left unanswered, the great unknown, a grey memory, a forgotten dream.
As the bay window behind me is blown inward by an enormous concussion, embedding glass in my kevlar and scoring my exposed skin, I turn my gaze to the moon and wish her luck, thanking her for the witching hour shared, no matter the circumstances, and praying that she shield me in the things that I must do to protect her and all else I hold dear.
I step out from behind the sliding glass door, leaving a house of mirrors to the backward path, joining my brethren; and as we disintegrate into the brush, the air shimmers overhead with the heat of battle and blood and sweat and the intensity that opens rifts to other worlds… the lost call of mankind.
Taking point, I wonder at the similarities of a quaking world on fire and a woman who shivers and burns, opening to the touch like petals to dew, both images searing into my retina, my alpha waves forever changed.
Sighting targets through my scope, an optic long, terrible in its precision and in the efficiency of her fraternal twin, I have determined that this last firefight will be for her, my angel, my love, and that I will at last be hero to the platinum rose that blooms forever in the architecture and temples of my dreams.
It is finally time. My lips are trembling and I hear a thousand peregrine falcons behind my eyes, piercing the canyon wind with their cries and the I love you’s I repeatedly whisper to myself.
This first shot is mine.
"Who was that guy?"
"Jesus Christ."
"Seriously, man, don't be an asshole, who was he really?"
"Jesus Christ."
"No shit? What'd he want?"
"My apple pie and a cigarette."
"Jesus Christ."
"Seriously, man, don't be an asshole, who was he really?"
"Jesus Christ."
"No shit? What'd he want?"
"My apple pie and a cigarette."
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
I was thinking about the lengths of the sentences though. Could varying the length of sentences and tightening certain clausal constructions make this even better: I think given the subject matter, if you convey the suspense, expectation, passion yet curious narratorial detachment by varying the sentences in length towards the climax of the piece you can really have a piece for a literary agent.
Here's my go at trying to tighten one particular paragraph and break it up for extra dynamic. You can of course disagree with my suggestions but when presenting a piece to a publisher, a writer will find that a lieterary editor is much more drastic in revising the author's intended work.
She shifts. Warmth explodes in volcanic heat, in sighs, She bites into the sleeve of my shirt: she grips me with nails razor sharp. I sense my bleeding, her crying. And, as we have been told, I continue. She pulls back, she struggling with her body and its trembling burning seizures. She holds her head up high, no longer the ghost, no, but an angel come for me now, in my hour:
She asks me in such sweet soft ultrasonic whispers, if I would like to finish inside her.
I, choking back, have to use body language and telepathy to affirm my need, as there is nothing to say to this vision that would suffice nor testify nor succeed in painting this moment’s justice.
I enjoyed reading this. Thanks.
Our takes on it were exceedingly similar, so much so I may have to ask that you please vacate my brain, sir.
So, whilst I apologize, for now it will remain. Though hopefully for a good reason.
As I've said on another board, where I have seen you mister fins, if i may be so bold, it isn't polished yet.
but I believe that it's potential is extreme and that, even in it's roughened state, it stands well.
which is unusual for me. but we won't go into that.
thanks for reading.
"Jesus Christ."
"Seriously, man, don't be an asshole, who was he really?"
"Jesus Christ."
"No shit? What'd he want?"
"My apple pie and a cigarette."
please don't think I am ungrateful. As this was a tentative piece, I'd take a "Hell son, that shit right there's worth a bowl a froot loops!"
if you get me.
and no joke about literary editors. That has been one of my worst issues in getting published in the past (that and an honest agent, appears ain't many of those, either)(also my own skills as a writer notwithstanding), because of the "are you sure you couldn't just... maybe we should just... I think we should... are you sure you didn't possibly mean..." conversations.
uck. no thanks. iUniverse.com or somebody for me, those that won't blast your work you just pay for ze publishing. Good stuff. However the marketing isn't exactly the greatest considering it's all done by Flintstone's Express.. that is to say BY FOOT.
now to BED with me for crying out loud.
"Jesus Christ."
"Seriously, man, don't be an asshole, who was he really?"
"Jesus Christ."
"No shit? What'd he want?"
"My apple pie and a cigarette."