Kiki on neglect (prompt #2)
Apr. 20th, 2004 @ 07:38 pm
A part time job, Scheduled in for odd hours with minimum wage dedication. From Wednesdays, three thirty to five fifteen. Tuesdays from ten to one thirty. Something slid in between lunch and other activities.
He used her up the way people do punch cards, one coffee drink at a time, or a meal embarked upon without relish or hunger: left soggy by the wayside on the sidelines of a plate. When he departed, the god left the temple of her adoration and she was left, gathering up her underwear and scraping it off into the laundry bin, all her tasty bits consumed.
She wished she were daintier, like a pastry or a minute, something consumed in one sitting or given away just once. Her body in the mirror was the sort to be mounted on a ship and admired or turned around and around all night in his arms as if he were fashioning her waist by wearing her out with touches. There was no sugar to her breasts, no sugar to her thighs and waist, her sex smelled musky and her breasts had the perfume of warm, baked summer smell wafting off her skin.
She envied the young virgin, auto-sodomized by her own chastity. Better left dry and violated than to be as she was: a woman only partially penetrated, the love act just short of orgasm, a love affair truncated by the limits of a bus schedule, forgotten never but only partially accounted for. She was saturated like cakes in honey with the bitterness of indifference.
Ah, you Dali lover! I can see your surrealist colors shining through the night, you beautiful angel. You make even neglect a wondrous thing. I want to take you in my arms and fold you into me like orgami--that is how inspiring you are.
I love everything about it. Specifically, the way you say She was a part-time job, scheduled in for odd hours with minimum wage dedication. From Wednesdays, three thirty to five fifteen. Tuesdays from ten to one thirty. Something slid in between lunch and other activities.
There is nothing like the pain of neglect and you tell instead of showing, but somehow, somehow, that makes it all the more powerful, all the more painful, like looking at a booked agenda.
How about next Thursday, I can hear him asking as her lips shake a little, knowing it is only Monday morning. Exquisite. You have a delicate way of writing that is simply heart-breaking. I don't think ayone could immitate the careful sensuality and pain of your syntax.She wished she were daintier, like a pastry or a minute, something consumed in one sitting or given away just once.
Ah, you say it all so well, so carefully and flawlessly that I am almost, almost convinced it is effortless, and yet I know it is not. That is the sign of a good writer, the effortlessness that is not.
The only problem I saw with it was in the third paragraph when you say "she too real." Perhaps a word somewhere in there would make the transition less choppy. But goodness, what a piece. You shine bright tonight.
Ah, the omitted "was".
Still, I think that that paragraph needs work, and when I re-read the piece this morning, I suspect fatigue birthed a tinge of laziness to it. There are many other things to add...she was a twenty five cent romance novel, a dose of artificial sweetner to his coffee, a pen he left behind at the bank counter...
"too real" seems to me too blatent, after all, is that not the sensation already? You have given me food for thought, I must sit down again with her, this woman in my head, and ask her the pertinent questions again, "Darling, how was it for you? Can you please explain" and see if I cannot spread my nets wider.
Thank you, my dear E, the flower of my my midnight sun.
I wish you the best, though I needn't, for if that is lazy, I am eager to see what something not lazy would be. You never cease to awe me, dear! I mean it with every fiber of my being.
Strange I sat to write about being the Virgin Sodomized by the Chastity He had Imposed upon her when suddenly, the covers were thrown back and I was attacked by a lusty man who wanted more than life to destroy the chastity belt. Alas! He can't even get that right!
Needless to say, I enjoyed it immensely.
Oddly enough, the prompt line is the one line that doesn't work for me in this piece.
The rest is wonderful - the phrase minimum wage dedication
immediately conveys how he sees her and a bit of who he is.Her body in the mirror was the sort to be mounted on a ship
This tells me that she is beautiful and doesn't know it, also that she can be free and doesn't know it.
It makes me sad.
|Date:||April 25th, 2004 09:04 am (UTC)|| |
The third paragraph is fantastic, absolutely perfect. I want to frame the first sentence of it.
I agree about the prompt in the fourth. She seems too...real
(no sugar, smells of summer) to be thinking about such an abstract thing. I am left thinking of a milkmaid quoting Proust; not that it's so improbable, but that we have no reason to think of her in this light by the fourth paragraph.
I really enjoyed this piece! You have a gift for odd and enjoyable metaphors.
There are a few places where you could tighten up your sentences. For example: "...left soggy by the wayside on the sidelines of a plate." The "by the wayside" there seems unnecessay when related to "on the sidelines of a plate."
I thought the comparison of the man to a god was just a bit out of place in the second paragraph-- everything else is so human to suddenly have a small deity reference thrown in.
That third paragraph is definitely brilliant.
I also love the last paragraph... except for the prompt line. As others have observed, it just doesn't fit. Too abstract for the organic fabric of your piece.