(c) Memory. (PG-13)
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I am Revolution :: Words :: Stories :: Original Fiction
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(c) Memory. (PG-13)
by tea-boy. Fri 20 Feb 2009, 1:37 am
lol, whut? Meaghan writes shitty fiction.
---
The ticking clock kept time with the rattling ribcage of the young man. His eyes remained wide open in an otherwise silent and darkened room. Starlight etched itself on the curtains, waiting to be let in, but the young man refused its entry. He couldn’t handle shining light on his actions, his words, himself. Not tonight.
He rolled onto his back and kept his eye fixated on his ceiling. If he focused hard enough, he could imagine the white textured roof quite well. A small sigh parted from his lips and echoed through the room, an almost tangible reminder that he was still there.
His fingertips still tingled from the party atmosphere he had been in only an hour ago. A slight buzz still filled his mind from the ecstasy of it all. The fiery demon that fueled his desire, the rapture of touching skin, the shame of an empty side of the bed and conscious. Thoughts sparked in his mind, but none caught alight. He couldn’t piece it together.
He remembered short breathes and a rush of pleasure. He remembered an insatiable craving for flesh and an empty smile that satisfied it. He remembered faded grey eyes and rustling sheets. He remembered frantic heartbeats and two as one. One memory after another flashed through his head, but no string connected them. A kaleidoscope of words caught in his mouth as he licked his cracked lips.
There was heat, but no warmth. There was pleasure, but no joy. There were people, but no lovers. There was lust, but there was definitely no love. There were chemicals, but no intoxication.
He remembered the cold hand that made him lose control. He remembered the wild touch that made him beg for more. He remembered the long hair and just the way it got in his face. He remembered almost every detail of his face, but the identity remained unseen.
Exact moments blurred in his head. The first meeting and coy smile. The walk upstairs, one hand leading another. The detachment of the lips and the loss of clothes. Each whizzing memory, another dot in his Sunday Afternoon. The artist longed to finish his piece, to remember a name!
But, alas, nothing came. His canvas lay unfinished and given up on. He sighed, defeated, and made a small angry growl in the back of his throat. Not knowing who irritated him to no end. He shut his eyes tightly, but then relaxed them.
It had been blind faith in a random stranger. And he was okay with that.
---
The ticking clock kept time with the rattling ribcage of the young man. His eyes remained wide open in an otherwise silent and darkened room. Starlight etched itself on the curtains, waiting to be let in, but the young man refused its entry. He couldn’t handle shining light on his actions, his words, himself. Not tonight.
He rolled onto his back and kept his eye fixated on his ceiling. If he focused hard enough, he could imagine the white textured roof quite well. A small sigh parted from his lips and echoed through the room, an almost tangible reminder that he was still there.
His fingertips still tingled from the party atmosphere he had been in only an hour ago. A slight buzz still filled his mind from the ecstasy of it all. The fiery demon that fueled his desire, the rapture of touching skin, the shame of an empty side of the bed and conscious. Thoughts sparked in his mind, but none caught alight. He couldn’t piece it together.
He remembered short breathes and a rush of pleasure. He remembered an insatiable craving for flesh and an empty smile that satisfied it. He remembered faded grey eyes and rustling sheets. He remembered frantic heartbeats and two as one. One memory after another flashed through his head, but no string connected them. A kaleidoscope of words caught in his mouth as he licked his cracked lips.
There was heat, but no warmth. There was pleasure, but no joy. There were people, but no lovers. There was lust, but there was definitely no love. There were chemicals, but no intoxication.
He remembered the cold hand that made him lose control. He remembered the wild touch that made him beg for more. He remembered the long hair and just the way it got in his face. He remembered almost every detail of his face, but the identity remained unseen.
Exact moments blurred in his head. The first meeting and coy smile. The walk upstairs, one hand leading another. The detachment of the lips and the loss of clothes. Each whizzing memory, another dot in his Sunday Afternoon. The artist longed to finish his piece, to remember a name!
But, alas, nothing came. His canvas lay unfinished and given up on. He sighed, defeated, and made a small angry growl in the back of his throat. Not knowing who irritated him to no end. He shut his eyes tightly, but then relaxed them.
It had been blind faith in a random stranger. And he was okay with that.
Last edited by Sheepy on Sat 21 Feb 2009, 8:43 pm; edited 4 times in total (Reason for editing : Corrections and rating.//checked:sheep)
tea-boy.- Crusader
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Number of posts : 2508
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Re: (c) Memory. (PG-13)
by Isis Fri 20 Feb 2009, 1:53 am
Just want to point out a few typos/errors, to start off with.
A small sigh parted from his lips and echoed through the room, an almost tangible reminder of he was still there.
Something about this just bothers me. It doesn't seem quite right.
I keep wanting to say that it should be a noun after of, not a whole sentence, but I can't word what I mean, unless I use examples. What I would put instead of what you have might be, of his presence there or of the fact that he was still there. I hope you can make sense of what I mean, and fix the little kink in it.
He remembered almost every detail of his face, but the his identity remained unseen.
There's a the where there shouldn't be one.
Not knowing who irritated him to know end.
Should be no instead opf know.
Other than that, this was flawless, beautiful, and, yes, elegant. I really fancy [haha I just used the word fancy.] your descriptions. They're vivid, clear, crisp. Not excessive, but perfectly coloring your story, and I just absolutely loved your wordchoice. It was spot on, for sure.
I really liked the story. The just hinting at what was done. I mean, it wasn't vulgar, like some might have made it. It's more...sensual, delicate, beautifully written. Not that you lose any of the feelings in the process, however. No, it was just perfect.
I love how at the end, he just accepts the circumstance. It's much better than him continuing to question it all, and get no answer. And I mean, I feel like it just had to end that way. It wrote itself.
I think my favorite line would be the following. The wording, the beautiful description, I just can't get over it.
A kaleidoscope of words caught in his mouth as he licked his cracked lips.
Overall, you do not write shitty fiction.
You are a lovely writer, and I really enjoy reading your work. Wonderful story.
A small sigh parted from his lips and echoed through the room, an almost tangible reminder of he was still there.
Something about this just bothers me. It doesn't seem quite right.
I keep wanting to say that it should be a noun after of, not a whole sentence, but I can't word what I mean, unless I use examples. What I would put instead of what you have might be, of his presence there or of the fact that he was still there. I hope you can make sense of what I mean, and fix the little kink in it.He remembered almost every detail of his face, but the his identity remained unseen.
There's a the where there shouldn't be one.
Not knowing who irritated him to know end.
Should be no instead opf know.
Other than that, this was flawless, beautiful, and, yes, elegant. I really fancy [haha I just used the word fancy.] your descriptions. They're vivid, clear, crisp. Not excessive, but perfectly coloring your story, and I just absolutely loved your wordchoice. It was spot on, for sure.
I really liked the story. The just hinting at what was done. I mean, it wasn't vulgar, like some might have made it. It's more...sensual, delicate, beautifully written. Not that you lose any of the feelings in the process, however. No, it was just perfect.
I love how at the end, he just accepts the circumstance. It's much better than him continuing to question it all, and get no answer. And I mean, I feel like it just had to end that way. It wrote itself.
I think my favorite line would be the following. The wording, the beautiful description, I just can't get over it.
A kaleidoscope of words caught in his mouth as he licked his cracked lips.
Overall, you do not write shitty fiction.
You are a lovely writer, and I really enjoy reading your work. Wonderful story.
Isis- New Recruit
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Number of posts : 186
Age : 32
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Re: (c) Memory. (PG-13)
by tea-boy. Fri 20 Feb 2009, 1:57 am
Thanks, love. 
Sorry about all the mistakes, I wrote this from one-four in the morning.
Sorry about all the mistakes, I wrote this from one-four in the morning.
tea-boy.- Crusader
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Number of posts : 2508
Age : 29
Location : Massachusetts -
Re: (c) Memory. (PG-13)
by Isis Fri 20 Feb 2009, 1:59 am
Don't apologize, it's completely fine. Great writing, and you're very welcome.
Isis- New Recruit
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Number of posts : 186
Age : 32
Location : Stuck in my past, longing for my future. -
Re: (c) Memory. (PG-13)
by the takedown. Fri 20 Feb 2009, 2:04 am
hey isis, just so you know, there's literary mentors for that kind of thing...
Last edited by believe. on Fri 20 Feb 2009, 3:15 am; edited 1 time in total
the takedown.- Administrator.
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Re: (c) Memory. (PG-13)
by Isis Fri 20 Feb 2009, 2:10 am
^ Okay, didn't know that, and I didn't think there'd be any harm in pointing out the mistakes as I was going through it and commenting anyways. [/spam]
Isis- New Recruit
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Number of posts : 186
Age : 32
Location : Stuck in my past, longing for my future. -
Re: (c) Memory. (PG-13)
by Jack Skellington Fri 20 Feb 2009, 4:20 am
Meg is a great writer and a blatant liar.
Jack Skellington- Crusader
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I am Revolution :: Words :: Stories :: Original Fiction
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