Writing Challenge

[Aurora Black]

Oooo. I love this, Aurora! Of course you need that extra hour--you had to go back in time to write this. Lovely. Very much in the style of some Victorian/Edwardian European journal entry.

So, are you going to continue it?

Thank you.

I have no idea. It was originally supposed to be a one-time shot, but I can see that it screams for a continuation. I'll have to think on it; I'm very busy with my Halloween projects at the moment, but when I'm free... perhaps.

ETA: I really liked the tone of your piece, by the way.

 

[Guest]

Ted-E-Bare,

Your options mean that

* A prison played a significant role in your character's day
* the action takes place in winter
* Your character is someone who suffers from crippling shyness
* Your character is a kleptomaniac

I went to see my father today.

It is a depressing bus ride in mid-February. That part of upstate New York gets more snow than anywhere in the US, even more than Alaska. Its the lake-effect, and it dumps incredible amounts of snow on Rochester, Watertown, Syracuse, and of course, Attica.

Sure, recent snow is pretty. But after a few days of people driving through it, and rain and some melting, it turns from a glorious white blanket to a depressing gray sludge. It was an appropriate dressing for my mood, and my task.

Leave it to me to be able to depress someone in prison. My father is the eternal optimist. Maybe that’s what appealed to all those women. He thinks every day his appeals will kick in and he’ll walk out of there.

His first question to me was to ask if I had a girlfriend. He can’t understand how someone like himself could spawn a boy women don’t flock to.

His appeal is amazing, I will admit. Several of his former wives still visit him in prison, and not just the ones who’s money hasn’t been recovered. Everytime the episode of “America’s Most Wanted” reruns recounting his string of bilked ex-wives, he gets scores of fan letters from women, he tells me, and I am the only person he does not lie to.

It kills him that I don’t have a girlfriend. At our last meeting a year ago, he was thrilled to hear that at 25, I’d finally gotten laid. So of course, he figured the dam was now broken, and I’d be pulling women to me as ably as he had, and visit him today with a woman on each arm.

I didn’t tell him that my sole lover was one of his former wives, the 33 year old he’d abandoned in Tahiti on their honeymoon, after the money transfers out of her account to his in Barbado’s was complete. She was still in love with him, and thought maybe his son would be a worthy substitute. I guess that’s what I needed--a determined experienced woman who’d not take no for an answer. She never came back, and I haven’t met anyone since. Of course, I would never, you know, actually go up and talk to a girl. My father could seduce a statue of a woman, me, I couldn’t get laid in a sorority house if I were were a Heisman winner.

A girl started talking to me on the bus today on the way back to Albany. When I didn’t keep up my end of the conversation, she moved over and started talking to another guy. Later, they moved to the back seat of the bus, leaving her stuff behind. Later, I heard a slirping sound and him whispering, “that’s it, suck it baby”. They didn’t notice when I got off the bus, carrying her backpack.

My father stole hearts and fortunes. I get t-shirts, shorts and a small bag of pot.

 

[Aurora Black]

My father stole hearts and fortunes. I get t-shirts, shorts and a small bag of pot.

Bravo, Ted!

 

[Guest]

Bravo, Ted!

Thank you, oh sexy Greek goddess.

Er, or goddess in Greece.

 

[Aurora Black]

Thank you, oh sexy Greek goddess.

Er, or goddess in Greece.

That will do. Your check's in the mail.

 

[3113]

WOW! Way to go Ted!

My father stole hearts and fortunes. I get t-shirts, shorts and a small bag of pot.

Ted...that was AWESOME! I loved every bit of it. I especially liked your solid references to certain places, upstate NY, Barbados--putting us right there and accenting the opposition between father and son, hot and cold, optimist and pessimist, stealing hearts and stealing heartless objects.

Kudos!

 

[Guest]

Ted...that was AWESOME! I loved every bit of it. I especially liked your solid references to certain places, upstate NY, Barbados--putting us right there and accenting the opposition between father and son, hot and cold, optimist and pessimist, stealing hearts and stealing heartless objects.

Kudos!

I love you!

 

[3113]

Absolutely loved it, 3113

I thought your descriptions were terrific, and I loved the way you gave just enough information, while leaving enough questions unanswered.

Almost forgot to respond to this! Thank you! I kept in mind that it was a diary entry, and that she wouldn't explain everything. It was actually refreshing, in that way. When writing a story, you sometimes don't know how much to put in or leave out. In this vignette, the requirements made it easier to make those decisions.

It's interesting what came to mind given the requirements. The nightclub and prison, for example, as well as it being a diary, made me give the character choppier sentences and rough language. Tfhese two things suggested someone a little more worldly, and I got the feeling that there ought to be a kind of insistent honesty, as if she felt she couldn't or shouldn't lie to the diary. Yet when it came to the pregnancy, it was always her "condition" as if she felt she had to be delicate about it.

I'm not altogether sure why it turned out that way.

How did the requirments mold the voice of the character for the rest of you? Those who have already done the challenge that is.

 

[English Lady]

3113, Aurora and Ted -wow. I shouldn't have read yours before starting mone *gulp*

Each one of you has done an excellent job, I love them!

 

[Aurora Black]

How did the requirments mold the voice of the character for the rest of you? Those who have already done the challenge that is.

The shorter sentences really helped to convey the rough, gun moll mentality of the heroine (my interpretation). They were very blunt and to the point, and as a result, the entire piece was a straightforward read.

EL: Don't be like that! I'm sure it'll be great.

 

[3113]

The shorter sentences really helped to convey the rough, gun moll mentality of the heroine (my interpretation). They were very blunt and to the point, and as a result, the entire piece was a straightforward read.

But how did your OWN requirements mold the character that you wrote? When you saw those requirements, why did your mind go to opium and Edwardian (?) times rather than present day (for example)?

 

[Aurora Black]

But how did your OWN requirements mold the character that you wrote? When you saw those requirements, why did your mind go to opium and Edwardian (?) times rather than present day (for example)?

It was the first setting that came to mind, and ultimately the one I ran with. I thought about other scenarios and timelines, but I was powerfully drawn to the late Victorian period. I just felt more comfortable with it, and I welcomed the challenge. Laudanum sounds more romantic than crack, anyway.

ETA: Concerning the church part of my requirements, I don't know exactly what happened there. I just lost myself in the feeling of what I was writing, and it came out that way.

 

[scheherazade_79]

Wow... I'm glad I arranged this challenge rather than took part in it! I'm feeling slightly in awe of the level of writing going on.

I'm going to have another better look at what people have written tomorrow when I'm feeling fresher. Bastard tonsillitis is back

Sorry to the people who've PMd me and had to wait ages for responses.

 

[scheherazade_79]

Crimson Maiden

It's a summer diary entry.
Your character has early onset arthritis.
Your character secretly wants to fuck every woman he or she comes across.
A night club plays a significant role in your character's day.

Good luck

 

[scheherazade_79]

Falling to Fly

It's a winter diary entry.
Your character is ashamed and slightly paranoid about one part of his or her body.
He or she is a kleptomaniac.
An amusement park plays a significant role in your character's day.

All the best to you

 

[yui]

1. The action takes place in summer
2. A classy casino plays a significant role in your character's day
3. Your character is blind
4. Your character secretly wants to fuck every woman they come across


August 4, 2006

Las Vegas, Nevada - Bellagio Hotel and Casino

Exactly why Jack thought that coming to the desert in high god-it’s-115 degrees-in-the-shade-if-there-were-any summer was a good idea I have no clue. The air conditioning continually blasts metallic air that I can taste on the back of my tongue, and even though I can’t see it, I can feel the heat of the sun just outside the concrete walls; waiting to consume my fluids, burn my flesh from my bones, eat me alive.

Even tonight, when I went out onto the balcony, I could smell nothing alive, nothing green, only warm masonry, and faint exhaust from the traffic that sounded so tinny, so tiny, so far below me. It was the only noise I could really hear over the roar of white noise people create when they mass in great numbers and kilowatts. But woven through it all that was the smell of hot sand and tinder dryness, grave-like in its utter lack of moisture, of life. I can’t help but think all the electricity I can’t see, but I can feel, and the frenetic activity and forced joviality of this place have a desperation to them, as if everyone senses that this place is just a mirage, and soon, they will awaken to just dust and an unquenchable thirst.

I know, I am a creature of water, though more Asytanax fasciatus, than mermaid, but I do believe I might hate it here.

Now, I sit, breathing air that would be silver if it had color, unable to keep from touching the smooth surface of the desk. Stroking it, enjoying how it feels like glass yet has the subtle warmth of wood. If I press my toes into the sheep’s wool of the carpet, I think I can feel the vibrations of the casino downstairs; the click of a hundred wheels, the clatter of a thousand dice, coins dropping into whizzing machines, chips chattering to each other in happy little plastic piles; people laughing, yelling, talking in an incessant buzz that reverberates through walls and travels upward on an infrasonic level that makes me hurt. I think because I am not a part of it. I’m separate, once again, alone in this room.

But I was alone in the crowd downstairs, too.

Jack got angry with me tonight because I keep playing with his chips, disturbing those neat little tubular stacks. He is so freaking tidy, but I love the texture of those perfect little disks, with their perfectly spaced little grooves and smooth centers. He finally put them out of my reach.

I elbowed him in the ribs.

At least that’s what I was aiming for.

I spent the rest of evening rather sulking, fingering the soft felt and satin wood of the Black Jack table, because I couldn’t not touch something; listening, trying to separate noises in the cacophony created by too many people, too much stuff, in too small a space. It was hot. I could feel people, the kinetic energy of them, pounding into me and the scents tasted like emotions; sweet cards and hope, sour sweat and fear, bitter perfume that burned my nose and desperation, tobacco and anxiety, alcohol in dizzying varieties and dissolution, and, quite inexplicably, cold, sweet snow cones and innocence.

I spoke a bit with the woman beside me. About nothing really, just polite chitchat. Her voice was high and flat, and her sleeve, when it brushed against me, felt like ruffled fish scales. She emanated the confusing scents of algae, White Shoulders, and coconuts. Her breath smelled like gin and peppermint, and her arm, where the fish scales ended, was faintly rough to the touch, with skin lines; sun damage, I suppose. She won $1000 and left with some man whose voice sounded like the barking of a barrel-chested dog. I hope she’s okay.

The waitress who served us drinks flirted with Jack. I could feel the heat of her body when she leaned between us to put his drink on the table. She smelled, not unpleasantly, of liquor, cloves, and cigarettes. I knew I was blushing, but I couldn’t help it.

I’m so easy. I wanted her. I’m getting used to the feeling; the heat, the flush, the rush of blood to the head. Familiar now with the craving for touch; that skin hunger for skin like mine, that eats at my belly until I can’t breathe.

I have no idea what she looked like, but she smelled good and her voice was soft and sweet and distinctly southern. To my blind eyes, she was beautiful.

She probably left some small town to be a star in Vegas, baby. Now, she’s a cocktail waitress. Odd that I should envy her. I think I would like to be a cocktail waitress, in that loud room that Jack described as “shiny, glittery”. I would like to see that, be a part of it all, even if was just for a bit.

I mean, I’m over the self-pity and I know I’m lucky to have images from before; colors, the sun, the ocean, my parent’s faces, and Jack all skinned knees, bony elbows and wild hair.

I love those images, but sometimes, like tonight, I would like just a few more. I would like to see an adult world, not just the remembered moments seen with a child’s sighted eyes. I want the impossible.

Her name is Hannah. The waitress. She came back to the room with Jack.

I can hear them. Their sighs. The faint, aquatic, smacking sucks of lips and tongues. The shushing of my brothers rough hands on the fabric of her skirt.

I hurt. Deep in my stomach, below my soul, in my sex, I want. God.

I want to be his hands.

I want to feel that same silky fabric with my small blinds fingers. Brail the weave pattern with my fingertips. I want to feel that cloth, the cloth that smells like her, of spice and powder and faintly of excited sweat. I want to count her ribs with my lips and feel full-on her breasts, warm and giving, so erotic even pressed into my arm when she leaned between us downstairs. I want to trace the contours of her sex. Consume her. Does she have the same silky texture as me? Does she smell like me? Taste like me?

I want to lie with my naked skin on hers and feed this hunger for touch until I am glutted with it, satiated finally, and the ache goes away.

I want to shelter between her thighs, warm and strong, like all women, muscles and softness, all that smooth salty skin to taste and feel. I want to pillow my head on the mound of flesh above her naked pubic bone, feel the roughness of her fleecy hair on my jaw and the soft give of her stomach against my forehead and simply breathe her into my body. Listen to the burbles and gurks of her tummy and to the amazing sound of air moving into her lungs and out again.

I would do that, too, move air that smelled of her, in and out of my body.

God.

I want.

I’m going to bed now. I know I’m going to lie in that big soft bed, alone in the dark—always in the dark, always alone—while this entire hotel vibrates around me with life and desperation, the air conditioning will breathe for me in a quite hum, and I’ll listen guiltily to the faint sounds of sex coming from the other room. I’ll pretend I’m my brother’s hands … memorizing the similar skin of Hannah’s body, hearing that pretty, soft voice whispering my name, not his.

God, I want.

 

[Aurora Black]

Jesus, Yui! *collapses*

 

[Guest]

Yes, outstanding Yui!

 

[FallingToFly]

Fair warning, I think I went overboard.

Title: Smile
Genre: Writing Challenge - AH - Scheherazade_79
Rating: Hard R
Use: Literotica, personal use.
Date: 8-06-06
Notes: "Falling to Fly
It's a winter diary entry.
Your character is ashamed and slightly paranoid about one part of his or her body.
He or she is a kleptomaniac.
An amusement park plays a significant role in your character's day."

WARNING! This piece contains material that may be extremely disturbing to parents and other people with morals. Please keep in the forefront of your mind- A) THIS IS A NON-EROTIC PIECE and B) vampires don't have morals. If you feel you cannot handle the material, please do not punish me for your choosing to ignore this warning and continuing to read.
-------------
November 13, 2005

I can't stand this. Day after day I have to live with this horror inside of me, with everyone pointing, staring, gawking. Why? Why can't they just leave me alone? Haven't I given them enough beauty, enough dreams, that they can forgive me one flaw? I can't help it that age plays tricks on us all.

But it's winter now, and no one thinks twice about my muffler wrapped over my face as I hurry down the boardwalk towards the bright lights and calliope music. The pimple-faced lad who runs the afternoon shift buggers off before I've even managed to lever my old bones over the turnstile, past the mothers with their screeching toddlers and the bored bints chewing gun and looking like whores made up for a Saturday prowl. A few of the bigger boys rough-house in the queue, bolstered with the carnival of scent and sound, hot buttered popcorn and the powdery sugar perfume of cotton candy riding over the flash of the mirrors and strobes of white and red and gold circus lights.

Boardwalk will close up for the season soon- no more toddlers, no more chickies, no more pimple-faced lad who nods at the controls and lets the ride wheeze on too long. No more boys, either. The girls choose swans and the long-legged unicorns, occasionally a dolphin. The toddlers choose fat, chubby ponies and elephants, their mothers in the carved and gilded benches nearby. Most of the boys choose the big bull elephants, the lions and tigers, the statuesque bull with his threatening horns. They stay on the outside, or in the middle, where the lights are brightest and they can showoff their tricks to the watching crowd. They flaunt the rules by making flying mounts and dismounts, weaving through the carved menagerie to choose new creatures, standing so bravely on the bobbing wooden backs to wave out to the crowds.

Very few, boys or girls, come to ride the inner circle, closest to the mirrored walls of my control booth. I see out, they don't see in. The creatures here are the ones never meant to be seen- the dragon, coiled and twisted, so his rider almost seems more victim than burden, the manticore, a griffin with his sharp beak open. The mermaid, with her bare, nippleless breasts, twisted so she reaches up as though to embrace whoever dares throw their legs acoss her narrow waist. And the pegasus, with his wide, sheltering wings to hide between, his noble head, the wise dark eyes cocked back in sympathy, his smooth, arched neck to lay a dreamer's head against.

Tonight it is a pale, dark-haired boy who chooses to slip through the noisy throng with his ticket. I close the gate and make my way back to my little windowed room, unsurprised to see him, curled into the shimmering crimson coils of the dragon, his fair cheek laid on the cool carved scales. He has long, tapered hands, streaked and smeared with paint. An artist, a dreamer, a faerie-child. In my day, they would have called him changeling. Now, they call they sensitive, or the newest term- "emo." The contempt is the same between here and there- I am living proof that some things never do change.

I finger the trinkets strewn across the controls as the gears grind together. I don't know why they're here, or who leaves them. Maybe I have a fairy godfather somewhere, leaving me these little gifts, bits and pieces of the changeling's crafts. Calligraphy pens, with their fine tips, to bleed brooding poetry across mundane notebooks, or delicate camel-hair brushes bound in their pristine wrappings. I see such things in the shops, of course, but I am not an artist or a poet, a dreamer dark or otherwise. How they come here- I don't know or care. I find them useful.

I settle back into the comfortable swiveling chair and watch the dragon wing him away, his fantasies and reveries dancing in the play of shadows and light across his rapt face and deep, shining eyes.
----

"Here, boy!" I call him over as the old riders disembark, the new impatiently clustered at the gate. He glances around startled, and I point at him and nod. He comes timidly, afraid, perhaps, that I am one of those perverted things that lurks in washrooms and parks for tender meat. The very thought of such an act disgusts me, and I am glad again for my concealing scarf that allows me so much freedom.

"Eh, come on, come here!" I see his eyes move over me, take in the papery skin and white hair that I'm too old to bother cutting, the faded eyes that so many once told me were kindness itself. I like to help others, I do, although I don't know that I am what they call kind. "Here now," I say as I take tickets and he lingers within hearing distance. "Do you paint boy?"

"Uh.. yes, actually," the boy says. His voice is deeper than his slender frame should allow, soft and well-educated.

"Thought so," I say, nodding at his besmirched hands. "Look, my nephew, he was banging on about paints for this past year, and I go to get his Christmas gift, and now his mother says he's off to model ships, in the bottles, now. Any matter, I bought some of those... what do you call them- camel's hair? Aye, camel's hair brushes, a whole great ruddy roll of them. Blighter at the shop won't take them back, but if you've got yourself ten quid, you can have them."

His pale, ethereal face flushes with excited color. "Really?" I can see the sudden doubt swimming below his skin, and he looks me over warily. "This wouldn't be a trick, would it?"

"Eh? No, of course not. I know, lad, how important an artist's tools are to the quality of his craft. Who do you think carved those carousel animals, eh?"

"Did you? Really? The dragon and all those others?"

"That I did. Here, boy. If you don't believe me, you can come up into the control booth with me, look over the brushes while this lot has their spin. I can hardly cause you mischief in three minutes, can I?" He wavers, then nods and comes through as the gate clangs shut behind the last pram pushing mother. He helps me do the walkthrough, and then descends the little steps into my little room, the door slapping closed behind him.

Fascinated, as the bright, bubble music begins and the pretty toys begin their whirl through this fantasy world, he unrolls the canvas pocket that holds the brushes.

"Oh, they're perfect," he sighs. "I've begged my mum, but she says it's a waste, it's only a hobby." He glances up at me as I loosen my scarf in the warmth of the booth, and I can see that flame down deep in his eyes. A true artist, desperately struggling to thrive inside this so-easily controlled shell. I feel a tingle of excitement through my weary body. "I can't afford them today- but perhaps next week?"

"Oh, well," I hedge. "They were a bit dear, on a fixed pension like mine, but Art, she has her needs. Perhaps- I say, perhaps you could help me a bit around here. See, look at the giraffe as she comes by, see how her spots are faded? Perhaps you put those brushes to use for me a bit, and we can make a swap." The last fold of the concealing muffler drops as the boy stares out at the painted animals.

"Perhaps I could-" he begins, and then all is quiet.
---

I gave the boy his brushes, of course. I always give them a little gift, for the gift they give me in return. If his dreams and art are a little moodier, well, they don't suffer much for it. And I...

I go home to my little cold water flat. This too is littered with such a hodge-podge of writing and art supplies, the odd musical jumble of strings or picks or other incomprehensible pieces. My fairy godfather is a busy little bee.

Against the far wall, in various stages of completion, are my creations. Art, all art, fanciful in design and heart-breaking in what they will come to- child's toys delegated to a carnival life until their paint is worn and their oak skin gashed and gouged, and thrown away. I've rescued them, where I could, brought my poor battered children back and restored them for someone else to love as a collector's piece. But, again, I am old.

The running out of youth I don't mind so much. Those urges of lust and appetite I don't miss at all. But losing the dreams, the vision- now that I can't have. There are others, I know, of my kind. Those who lust for power, or wealth, beauty and eternal youth. We all have different goals, take different things. I- well, I take dreams. Those pure, sweet dreams of the young, I take, and pour into my creatures.

It's such a little thing, that I take away from them. Just a little thing, and yet, their fear and loathing lingers like a bad taste on my tongue. All for the sake of my smile- those nightmares that I have no choice but to give them. I make my way to the tiny bathroom, unwrapping and folding the scarf, laying it away, forcing myself to face the reality, the horror. In the mirror, this face that is nothing but a mishmash of shapes, individuality lost in the maze of wrinkles that the last century and a half has laid on my face.

Except for that one feature, the one I despise- my wide, white, predatory smile.
-30-

 

[Aurora Black]

Holy shit, Firefly!

This challenge is kicking ass all around! Thank you, Scheh!

 

[FallingToFly]

Rora. Ty.

 

[yui]

Jesus, Yui! *collapses*

<laughing> Thank you. I couldn't keep the sex out of it, could I?

I love the way you handled the pregnancy and the drugs. Excellent work!

Yes, outstanding Yui!

Thank you, Ted. You’re much too kind.

I love what you did with your challenge!

“My father could seduce a statue of a woman, me, I couldn’t get laid in a sorority house if I were a Heisman winner.”

Perfect.



Well done, Falling!

 

[3113]

Thank you, Ted. You’re much too kind.

Not too kind at all, Yui. It really was outstanding. Amazing piece of work. You captured the vibrancy of the sounds and spells and textures...it was just fantastic.

 

[3113]

Blown away!

Fly: I LOVED your description of the Amusement park and how you made the whole story revolve around it.

The quality of writing here really is blowing me away--and not just that, but also the cleverness of the ideas. The use of the prision and crime in Ted's story (failings passed down through generations), the merry-go-round and children in Fly's (things going round and round), Yui's twist of using one of the most crowded, flashest cities and focusing on darkness and lonliness, Aurora's haunting mix of drugs and spirituality.

I'm beginning to think we should bundle these up and post them or publish them or something. They're just too good.

 

[FallingToFly]

I'm seriously considering "Smile" for something to publish somewhere.

I doubt, seriously, that Lit would publish it. Despite being Non-erotic, it does have children in it, and even victimized. My vampire may only take dreams- their artistic talent to renew his drying well, so to speak- but it's still there.

I loved the idea of a vampire that didn't necessarily take blood or life force from his victims. Instead, he takes their inspiration, and leaves them with a piece of the darkness that's consuming his own soul and creativity.

I love vampires, I love art and the processes of it, and perhaps most telling of all, I love carousels. I love the carved animals and the music, the up and down glide and the sparkle and flash of the lights. I'm glad that this turned out so well- if Scheherazade hadn't given me this challenge, I never would have written this story.

Thanks, Sche, for an oppurtunity I'm glad I didn't let pass.

Firefly