Silvermasque
07-28-2005, 07:30 AM
A little one shot written for Literature, were studying Beverly Farmer and had to write our own creative response. And of course, where else would I turn to for inspiration but the Angel of Music and Masterpieces himself? Hope you enjoy (and my teacher doesnt find out).
Midnight Suitor
She stands at the kitchen sink, hands resting on the wooden bench top. Allowing the heavy golden afternoon light to dance and play lazily across her bare arms and face. Her gaze flickers to the frozen lump of meat defrosting on the stainless steel draining board. She touches light fingers to the white furry frost, silently marvelling at the way the heat of her fingers melts the ice and spreads the message of warmth on to fellow crystals, leaving damp patches of pink and shiny red areas where her fingertips had rested. Ring finger, pinkie, forefinger and finger of honour, like the notes on a piano. She smiles lightly at the thought. Beethovens Third Symphony in minced steak, oh how the crowds would cheer!
The kettle boils and releases a cloud of steam, she turns from the sink to lift the heavy silver instrument, tilting it forward to allow a bubbling splash to pour into the wide-rimmed mug, striped with cream, cerise, dusk blue and wheat gold. Water dashes out and over the bench, clear lakes on the white surface. She regards them a moment, then shrugs, taking up her mug to inhale the breathy dark scent of instant coffee, about four teaspoons beyond the good doctors recommended daily intake. She takes a sip, scalding the tip of her tongue, as if it matters.
A floorboard creaks behind her and she turns, holding the mug away to stop it spilling, to see if its Him. The house is empty.
Of course, she thinks ruefully, He never appears during the day. The golden shafts of light that haze her vision are not for Him. He belongs to the night. Mentally she scolds herself for getting so carried away. Of course He would never show Himself to her now! Only in the hours of darkness was she permitted to know Him, the silent early time between midnight and morning, when she lay alone in her bed, tossing with insomnia and dreaming of a better place, would He come.
His cold fingers brushing her transparent skin, where veins lit pathways across her body in a strange race to places beyond imagination. Always the same, He in His impeccable finery, she rumpled and twisted in her bed, body longing for sleep even as she cried out for Him in her dreams. Only then could she hear Him, only then would He permit her to seek His cold flesh with her desperate hands, begging, pleading for Him to stay. Of course that is impossible. The more she tries to hold Him, the more insubstantial He seems. Only when she loses all holding to reason does she wake from deep slumber to find His scent still clinging to her hair and skin.
But of course, these are the nights she can never remember at all.
She takes another sip of coffee, strong and rasping down her throat, and stares at the spindly branches of far off trees, sunk in the red glare of the lowering sun. Perhaps, if she is lucky, he will appear for her tonight. Perhaps this time, with coffee burning through her veins, she can stay awake long enough to remember his visit when the morning comes, and the pale colourless dawn reaches out cold fingers to remind her of life. Perhaps.
Well, what do you think? some reviews would really be appreciated.
I'm really kind of proud of this one, to me it captures the lost feeling of a fangirl who really has no chains to hold her or interest her in her current world and would much rather exist in a fantasy world where she can be with someone who scares her. but makes her feel alive.
Midnight Suitor
She stands at the kitchen sink, hands resting on the wooden bench top. Allowing the heavy golden afternoon light to dance and play lazily across her bare arms and face. Her gaze flickers to the frozen lump of meat defrosting on the stainless steel draining board. She touches light fingers to the white furry frost, silently marvelling at the way the heat of her fingers melts the ice and spreads the message of warmth on to fellow crystals, leaving damp patches of pink and shiny red areas where her fingertips had rested. Ring finger, pinkie, forefinger and finger of honour, like the notes on a piano. She smiles lightly at the thought. Beethovens Third Symphony in minced steak, oh how the crowds would cheer!
The kettle boils and releases a cloud of steam, she turns from the sink to lift the heavy silver instrument, tilting it forward to allow a bubbling splash to pour into the wide-rimmed mug, striped with cream, cerise, dusk blue and wheat gold. Water dashes out and over the bench, clear lakes on the white surface. She regards them a moment, then shrugs, taking up her mug to inhale the breathy dark scent of instant coffee, about four teaspoons beyond the good doctors recommended daily intake. She takes a sip, scalding the tip of her tongue, as if it matters.
A floorboard creaks behind her and she turns, holding the mug away to stop it spilling, to see if its Him. The house is empty.
Of course, she thinks ruefully, He never appears during the day. The golden shafts of light that haze her vision are not for Him. He belongs to the night. Mentally she scolds herself for getting so carried away. Of course He would never show Himself to her now! Only in the hours of darkness was she permitted to know Him, the silent early time between midnight and morning, when she lay alone in her bed, tossing with insomnia and dreaming of a better place, would He come.
His cold fingers brushing her transparent skin, where veins lit pathways across her body in a strange race to places beyond imagination. Always the same, He in His impeccable finery, she rumpled and twisted in her bed, body longing for sleep even as she cried out for Him in her dreams. Only then could she hear Him, only then would He permit her to seek His cold flesh with her desperate hands, begging, pleading for Him to stay. Of course that is impossible. The more she tries to hold Him, the more insubstantial He seems. Only when she loses all holding to reason does she wake from deep slumber to find His scent still clinging to her hair and skin.
But of course, these are the nights she can never remember at all.
She takes another sip of coffee, strong and rasping down her throat, and stares at the spindly branches of far off trees, sunk in the red glare of the lowering sun. Perhaps, if she is lucky, he will appear for her tonight. Perhaps this time, with coffee burning through her veins, she can stay awake long enough to remember his visit when the morning comes, and the pale colourless dawn reaches out cold fingers to remind her of life. Perhaps.
Well, what do you think? some reviews would really be appreciated.
I'm really kind of proud of this one, to me it captures the lost feeling of a fangirl who really has no chains to hold her or interest her in her current world and would much rather exist in a fantasy world where she can be with someone who scares her. but makes her feel alive.