Theme Week 4: The Ghost of Him
There was something devastating in the way that he looked at me. I couldn't tell if it was fear or just brutal attraction that kept me pinned to that spot, his eyes washing over me, flooding the distance between us. He was the cool, calculated way that a watch moves. Everything timed and in sync.
I watched him move to the seat in front of me. His eyes never left mine, or mine his. My heart was pushing it's way through my organs trying to get out...was its intent to or away, I couldn't tell. It didn't matter. I was not a participant. Just an observer.
He was beautiful. Strong face, centuries old. He devoured me - every piece, every hidden nuance of me with those green, transparent eyes. I could see straight down to his desire and it was fierce, unfettered by want. Pure need. I was embarrased by the depth with which I let this stranger touch me. His affect was torturous in the lack of expression that followed. I was his property and I'm not accustomed to being tagged.
He played me through the entire length of the ceremony. His eyes would hold mine then leave their shadows to guard my cage. I felt unveiled, uncovered...naked. The ceremony ended and he filed out into the stream of the moving crowd. He stole one last glance back at me before rounding the corner out of my sight. Finally, he smiled, the ghost of me dripping from the corners of his mouth.
I watched him move to the seat in front of me. His eyes never left mine, or mine his. My heart was pushing it's way through my organs trying to get out...was its intent to or away, I couldn't tell. It didn't matter. I was not a participant. Just an observer.
He was beautiful. Strong face, centuries old. He devoured me - every piece, every hidden nuance of me with those green, transparent eyes. I could see straight down to his desire and it was fierce, unfettered by want. Pure need. I was embarrased by the depth with which I let this stranger touch me. His affect was torturous in the lack of expression that followed. I was his property and I'm not accustomed to being tagged.
He played me through the entire length of the ceremony. His eyes would hold mine then leave their shadows to guard my cage. I felt unveiled, uncovered...naked. The ceremony ended and he filed out into the stream of the moving crowd. He stole one last glance back at me before rounding the corner out of my sight. Finally, he smiled, the ghost of me dripping from the corners of his mouth.
posted by millay | 10/01/2005 10:39:00 AM
4 Comments:
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Hey, you have a great blog here! I'm definitely going to bookmark you!
I have a pet bird supply site/blog. It pretty much covers pet bird supply related stuff.
Come and check it out if you get time :-)
What do you think?
It works for me, but many of the things you discard do. It's all of a piece, same tone throughout (foreign, mysterious, evocative, atmospheric) and then the snapper in the last line, with a double (but not self-contradicting) metaphor.
On the other hand, your answer to 'what is clay' in your blogger profile also creates a personality, a man watching you (I'd guess) in even fewer words.
hmmm...well the interpretation of clay's anger didn't occur to me at the time or even before it was brought up. I can see its possibility now. I thought it was because I was a better foosball player.
This one feels natural for me. Was a 10 minute exercise that didn't require a lot of rewrite, just some polishing.
This is the slant that my writing typically takes. The me changes but the writing wants to stay the same.
You could be right about foosball but I'm inclined to trust the tale, not the tale-teller.... The tale tells me something in addition to foosball.
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