This is the first (What I would consider, proper.) short story I ever wrote about a year ago when I was 13, it is included in a book I'm working on that involves a compilation of my works, to see the plans for this, click on the following link;
http://www.bebo.com/Profile.jsp?MemberId=5293489477
And NO, I did NOT copy this, this is a completely original work that I conceieved, and if you think my age at the time acts as proof that I couldn't possibly have the ability to write in the language presented, well then that's just ageism.
It is my absolute favourite work that I have ever written, and without appearing to be bragging, I feel that it is a beautiful personification of love, and I will always hold it near.
Almost every piece of work I do is in fact, a symbol. One of something almost entirely different to what is actually presented. The most obscure details are sybolic of a FAR greater outcome and story, but it's up to your interpretation!
Leave a constructive review! Thanks!
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The murky silence that surrounds my clouded judgement magnifies the far-off sounds of the fickle sounds of everyday life. All light outside is blurred and is melded in the many colours borne of unnatural light. Each siphon of this is a hexagon stretched across the confines of my peripheral vision and absorbed by the brief darkness of each blink of my eyelids. They are heavy now, flickering in their stance, and their vision is obscured by the darkened crimson that drowns the area of this intensely dark room.
Only one thing catches the trailing of my gaze, though it has little distance to travel now, for it is so close now, so close to me. As your blurred silhouette sharpens at your approach, every sliver of light concentrates itself on your body. The edge of the bed that I sit on is creased and crippled slightly more in its balance as you sit down beside me, and little of you is seen. Though there is a definite prescence, some familiar, the energy of you is emanated as it envelopes my blind and magnetic movement towards your direction.
Yet, at your approach, the echoes of past voices are mirrored, and I am aware of my choice. In so deep, it is as though I now drown in the finality of our decision. Past warnings skim my uneasiness that is killed so quickly, yet is resurrected constantly everytime I look away from you, which are few.
You are now so close to me, the shallowness of your breath lines the goosebumps created on my neck, and my cheek revolves towards yours. I look up to see for a fleeting moment your physique that is blocked and blinds the wishes of my eyes by your clothes, though they are now loosened in their clench on your build with open jacket that is that of an artificial fabric, an ocean of waves that are the caverns of deep creases along the two contrasting hues of green dipped in a fine cerulean and the palest beige. I have come to recognise this upon your person often, becoming my mental image for when I should think of you. There also lies evidently unbuckled belt, an imperfection of past fingerprint that conquers the dim shine of its buckle, three silver characters carved into letters, again, this comes as fond familiarity to my mind.
The curve of your neck overshadows my visison now, I can see every pore that releases naught, sweat blocked by unnatural yet alluring scent, soon to be broken. The features of my face fall into place as though a puzzle along the refined caverns of your sculpted and rounded visage.
My journey upwards finds your breath, and lips that move incoherently with mine, I hold back and yet I surrender, as you do. My eyes drift along your sharpened yet full and rounded cheekbones, and they lock in their gaze into the view of your eyes, each a deep brown that I lose myself in at each glance towards them and theirs towards me. They are bright, each staring into my being at a mere flicker of a glance towards me, I now drown in their fixed gaze, literal chocolate refined as brass for the feasting of my eyes. Our foreheads meet, both you and I relax in each other's soft weight.
Your hand now, as though of its own volition, traces up my surrendered arm, merely touching the tips of my goosebumps that come now so naturally. Your hand clasps the cleft of my neck now, tenderly, yet with a strength that controls every muscle that moves in my face. Our gazes come now only to our lips, yours a faint and dull pink, protruded forth and chiselled to perfection by the outcome of nature's choice. My eyes roll back now into the mute darkness of my head, my eyelids fluttering hastily, coming to an eventual and permanent close. Our lips meet now, melding to each other's form, they close slightly to their limit across our mouths. Whatever breath that may escape our lips when briefly and rarely parted is fast and yet deep. We feast on each other's tongues, each wildly controlled and strictly let loose into whatever space is empty inside of our mouths.
We break now, ever so slightly and with great difficulty, with inability to satiate the unspoken sentiment of our lips' greeting. I raise my head now, my eyes abstractly closed, as I feel your lips etch themselves into my neck, and I lean back onto the soft pillows, of whose features I cannot describe, except that of their touch, so soft and cradling, yet it is nothing compared to your stifling and arousing embrace.
I let go of all control I have of my body, I am now a still life glozed into the grasps of your searching hands. I feel the brief stiffening of your lips each time they meet my chest, now fully exposed to your sight, and yours to mine, for each piece of clothing slips away into the nothingness that are the far corners of the room. Your shoulders come down onto me, so heavy, for you are older than I, crushing my trembling heart, now obscured from yours by the unfortunately necessary protection of your skin, a fair beige tinted with a tanned brown that is ever so slight, with an inconstant rosiness in your cheeks.
Our arms now snake around each other's torso, your hands barely creasing each one of my muscles under my skin with hidden yet obvious strength. Mine travel up the back of your neck, your goosebumps less detailed in their form, for this is not your first time as it is mine. My fingers coarse through your hair, unnaturally formed in a way that is endearing to my memory. Your hair is a slight brown edged with a dusty blonde, your hair is firm and yet flexible in its stance, and my fingers stretch each hair to its limit as they wind upwards and fall down to your shoulders once again.
Beneath the softened shell of my trousers, the incandescent power of your heat sinks into me, building and brimming to the point where my distinguishing organ stiffens. This rises up towards you, symbolic of my abstractly magnetic pull towards you. Manhood against manhood, our hardness links us together like daisy chains, for only with the strength of our love can this weak link be maintained.
Time passes so slowly, the winding of our digits having shed all skin that is removable, the cloth that bears past shame that is no longer required to be shown between you and I. Your strong legs twist about mine, and whatever muscle once soft in between is hardened, strengthened, lengthened. Our heat rises and is trapped again by either you or me at our rising and weakened and slowed falling.
My hands are miniscule and not entirely matured from the past of the physical appearance of childhood innocence compared to yours. Though far into my adolescence, I am guided by foolish dreams. They constrict the haunched-forward frame of the far reaches of your abdomen. My fingers find the origins of hair, and trace these further and deeper in, meeting sensitivity within that surprisingly bring chills down even your spine, for I am not completely without knowledge of this forbidden art.
I turn now at your guidance, your hands now falling to my sides, you are no longer in my sight, yet your face is pressed close to the ends of my hair, and your breath almost solidified within my skin that shivers, shivers that have no origin within heat, as my heat is non-surpassed.
I feel you reach into me, with slight difficulty, though hardened manhood splits apart what resistance that remains within my body. You recoil ever so slightly, but with intention, as you then go in even deeper, your lust personified by the eagerness that is your heart racing into my shoulder blade. Your rhythm is steady, slow, but strong, it is as though we dance, I am both your puppet and puppeteer, as are you for me.
Groans of which I cannot trace the source back to either you or me break the silence, groans of slight pain, and of intense physical pleasure. The rhythm is interrupted slightly by misguided quickening, as the dance is no longer choreographed with expertise. For both of our expectations rise, we both know what is to come, every fibre of both the prescence of our physical bodies and our abstract yet evident love and lust is magnified until the breaking of that one moment. I feel your essence pour into me briefly yet slowly. In that one moment our love is brought into physical being, neither you or I are seperate, we are one body.
I reach my head back and avert my gaze towards yours with great effort. I see your face, glistening with much sweat borne of effort as mine glistens with salty tears borne of happiness.
There is an inconstant yet brief look of intense emotion and a naked flame in the stare of your eyes. At this moment we slowly drift out of and away from one another, instantly returning to each other's arms once we have broken away. Exhaustion bears down upon us, and hazy tiredness sweeps my eyelids, now heavy and empty. The shelter of the sheets of the bed have somehow found themselves to be upon us.
For one last time before our reclining into the murky depths of sleep in each other's clasp, our lips part and rise towards each other. I see mere seconds of your eyes, blurred by past tears and the receding light, I see your intense love for me, and for one more time my eyelids clasp shut and the muscles of my mouth stiffen to greet;
... Your kiss. |
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Nice
Written by sabbathfan (4 comments posted) 17th January 2008 | I really liked that. I loved the descriptions of the passion both characters feel. Even the smallest detail was fleshed out (no pun intended) and made into something significant in the moment.
I also like the descrpition of the blinking of the eye in the first paragraph. It interests me when writers make the mundane into the extraordinary.
Good read.  | Review, Please!
Written by D-J-M (14 comments posted) 17th January 2008 | Please review the story, I'd really like to know what people think!  |
Written by Asferthecat (834 comments posted) 18th January 2008 | I hesitate to review this in the light of your introduction. It is your favourite piece and you are rightly proud of it.
It was a beautiful and poetic description of the act of love.
Sentences such as "My hands, miniscule and not entirely matured from the past of the physical appearance of childhood innocence compared to yours," made me think you are describing child abuse.
I found your style too dense - too many adjectives - and the sentence structure tangled, which made it difficult to read.
I hope I haven't upset you, but this is honest feedback. Clarity is one of the skills writers should develop and it needn't be at the expense of poetic expression. | Don't Worry About It!
Written by D-J-M (14 comments posted) 20th January 2008 | Yes Asferthecat, alot of people criticise my intricate and long sentences! 
And...No, child abuse is not meant to be evident in any way here, there are many complicated aspects of the themes of sexuality symbolised in the symbolic imagery I mentioned in the introduction.
As to what these are, they're open to interpretation, get guessing and discussing, people! |
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