Writing challenges: Part 1.
Writing challenges #1 - 10 of 19. Comments, critiques, helpful suggestions welcome.
Breathe
Whenever I hear a nocturne I think of him-- young, filled to the brim with the first flush of that strange elixir of desire, finger always to his lips. Shhhh. Him, the I name cannot say even now, playing Chopin from memory on a borrowed piano. To my ears, it was exquisite; it spoke everything that could not be said-- never aloud, never in the many, many notes that were passed back and forth between us. I remember closing my eyes-- my breath would rise and fall as his fingers moved, in time with the cadence, a delicate pink creeping into my cheeks. Sometimes I forgot to breathe at all, and I could have drowned in the drowsy sweetness of his song. I wonder what has become of him, his body. Surely, the boy I knew is long gone.
Curious
She walked into the kitchen, the scent of patchouli trailing headily behind her. Curious, he peered into her bedroom-- where would a creature like this live? What did her bedsheets look like? Were they black and silken? A thick, golden duvet? Plain cotton seemed too simple, too common for her. He half expected to find an exotic temple, redolent with the scent of rich spices and resin.
But he took no notice of her bed, as his eyes were immediately drawn to the picture in a gilt frame upon her desk. An illustration of Cain and Abel, the first children borne of man. It was haunting and strange, and as his eyes fell upon it, it captivated him.
Abel's hair fell white across his face, eyes innocent and somehow sad as he clutched a young zebra-- his gift unto to the Lord. Cain stood slightly behind his brother, hair raven-dark in sharp contrast, eyes hollow and full of unmistakable shame-- for his gift, a single rose, held in trembling fingers, had been rejected by his maker.
Hastily, he averted his eyes; he felt a sorrowful rush of remorse, as though he had just glimpsed something unspeakably private.
Gloaming - Waking the Moon
Every day after Angelica’s disappearance, for a solid week, Sweeney slept in late. Fitfully, she tossed and turned, soaking the bedsheets with sweat, clutching so anxiously at Dylan that some mornings, he’d wake with marks on his skin-- little half-moons from her nails, carnelian pink and fresh. In the afternoons, she lay out on the grass pretending to read, phoning Annie, or sometimes just counting the dying blades that fell through her fingers. She felt safe there-- beyond Angelica’s grasp, beyond the screeching hymns of the naphaïm, no long shadows cast across the lawn. But soon, the amber light filtering through the trees would fade into the peculiar violet of twilight, the air thick with dread and the scent of jasmine. Watching from the window, he could see her shiver as night fell heavy and naked upon them. Soon she would dream again-- the electric prickling of sistrums, the acrid tang of smoke, and a woman in the moon, beautiful and terrible, rising high above the golden dome of the Shrine.
Hinge
An ordinary Sunday evening-- the dishes are done, she's just put the baby down for the night. She hums to herself as she makes some tea in the kitchen. The cozy tableau is too much-- it prickles his skin, sharp as brambles, and he blurts it out, the words tumbling from his lips. He'd always thought it would be this way-- no preamble, desperately confessional, naked and clumsy. It was just once. She meant nothing to me, I swear. In his horror, he has resorted to clichés. She turns at him, stunned-- a look of horror frozen on her face, a startled deer. Her pale skin blanches to a sickening white, spine rigid, and the words hang aloft, motionless in the air between them. He braces himself for impact.
Lunge - Buffy the Vampire Slayer
It is dark; she can hear her speed, feet pounding the sidewalk, wind whistling in her ears. She heard the girl’s cry about about three blocks off, registered it well after she took off running. There is no moon, nothing but the jaundiced light of a streetlamp throwing off leering shadows, the chiaroscuro painting a labyrinth across her path. The wood grain of the stake bites into her palm-- she is so close that she can almost smell the blood, the foul musk that death gives off, familiar as a beacon. One final leap over a chain link fence and she is there, landing gracefully, one knee to the ground. The vampire turns, startled. His face contorts when she lifts her face-- the shock of recognition. The huntress smirks and lunges towards her prey.
Mnemosyne
It strikes her at the oddest times. A perfect stranger-- the uneven slope of his shoulders so strangely familiar, the quickness of that startling smile. His self-conscious laugh, genuine nonetheless, ringing out in the too-quiet air. It all comes back like a slap of chill wind across her cheeks, the roar of blood in her ears. Each time, unconsciously, her knuckles clench, her mouth draws tight. So close, she watches as he fades into the distance, a dull grey void where life had once been. The only thing left is the scent still clinging to an old tee shirt, tucked away and never washed.
Mystagogue
I still remember the name of that lipstick-- "African Queen." I was twelve, far too young, my mother said, to be out chasin’ boys and going to the dance hall. Jealous, I would slip into my sister’s room on Friday nights while she, four years older than I, was out on the town, doing just that. Her desk was strewn with plastic jars of cocoa butter, greasy vials of Kemi oil, straightening combs splayed about. There was cheap costume jewelry and a tiny glass atomizer of Soir de Paris— I remember it all. It was all as hypnotic to me as Cortez’s beads, such an exotic treasure. I would sit in front of that old wooden vanity and put on my face, always saving that lipstick for last, spreading the thick purplish hue across my mouth with a shaky, untrained hand. Afterwards I would sit and admire myself— in my head, I was always some beautiful starlet accepting some dramatic award. In truth, the lipstick never looked as good on me as it did on Vivi, with her wide-lipped, beatific smile.
One Saturday morning I woke to see Vivi hovering over me, the little tube of African Queen in her hands. The jig was up. Bedraggled and embarrassed, I slipped from my bed and saw that I’d fallen asleep without washing my face-- the violet hue was smeared across my cheek like some grotesque bruise; there were bright spots of rouge staining my floral pillow.
Vivi laughed. "Come ‘ere kid," she said. I rubbed at my eyes sleepily and followed her into her room. She wiped my face down with a damp washcloth, then carefully applied the lipstick to my lips. I closed my eyes and sat perfectly still.
"Now blot," she said, holding a thin tissue to my mouth. "You don't want to look like some floozy."
I looked into the mirror and saw our faces-- two sets of brandy-colored eyes, two cleft chins. Two pairs of wine-tinted cupid’s bow lips.
"I gotta go-- momma needs help with the laundry," she said. "Maybe I’ll make you up real pretty this weekend." She tossed me the tube. "And you can keep that-- you should really get your own anyways." She ruffled my hair and was gone.
Opaque - The L Word
"Something about her bugs me, Al," Dana whispered over the table. Alice looked up from her laptop and at her friend, still chewing absently on the end of her pen cap.
"Who? Jenny?" She quirked her head to the side as she followed Dana’s gaze to where Jenny stood at the bar, concentrating far too hard on entering their order. "What is it, ya think? Is it the tortured artiste schtick, ‘cause I’m so over that."
"I don’t know." She watched as Jenny balanced several latte mugs precariously on a tilted tray. She looked like a scarecrow, all elbows and skinny knees, her dark hair hanging self-consciously over one eye. “No wait, I do know.”
"Is it that she’s a shitty waitress? ‘Cause do you remember the time that I--"
"It’s her tights, Al."
"Wha?"
"Look at those things. I haven’t worn tights since my mom forced me to take ballet when I was seven. And even then, they looked ridiculous."
"You know, you’re right." Alice paused, amused by the thought of Dana shifting awkwardly in a pink tulle tutu. "She looks like a kewpie doll or something. Creepy."
She reached for a sip of Dana's coffee, then resumed working.
Tranquil
Eight days have passed since the accident. Her mother had been carrying a box of Christmas lights up from the basement when she stepped on a tiny porcelain angel. Startled, she fell. They found her, still, at the bottom of the stairs, blood pooling around her head like a halo. Emily waits patiently by the hospital bed for her mother to wake, anxiously chewing on the ends of her hair. A distant melody hangs in the air-- carolers in the hall, 'O Holy Night' in four-part harmony. Her mother breathes softly in and out, in and out. She cannot hear the singing. Emily rests her head in her mother's limp hand and lets the slow, steady drip of the IV lull her to sleep.
Vessel
He was once a creature of light, a bearer of hope, a vessel of joy. That was before the torchbearer fell, and everything, even the heavens, seemed to dim. Some had followed Lucifer, convinced that he had found the key to transcendence-- mortality, euthanasia-- but they were cast out, not only from the luminous realm, but from the human one as well. He heard stories from time to time, rumors of hauntings, of demons and phantom hitchhikers. He paid them no mind.
There was a chasm in paradise-- the remaining ones spiraled into confusion, blown about, leaves on a turbulent breeze. Always were they searching out the answers to questions that would fall on deaf ears. Humanity was now God’s favored creation, the angels merely a prototype, mock-ups, misbehaving children long forgotten.
And so they drifted across an earth that was barren to them, dwelling at the frayed edges, ever unseen. Life wore on, not more than ash-- the rich incense of myrrh and honeysuckle replaced by the caustic stench of motor oil and burning rubber. He grew numbed by the millennia, the passing years tainting even the beauty of the blushing sunset, stealing the deep indigo magic from the once-haunting twilight. Diamond stars in the cobalt sky tarnished to cheap glass, the milky moon transformed disdainfully matte. The favored children had seasons in riotous color, but for him, the despised son, there was only winter, an always barren winter, forever bereft of life.
Breathe
Whenever I hear a nocturne I think of him-- young, filled to the brim with the first flush of that strange elixir of desire, finger always to his lips. Shhhh. Him, the I name cannot say even now, playing Chopin from memory on a borrowed piano. To my ears, it was exquisite; it spoke everything that could not be said-- never aloud, never in the many, many notes that were passed back and forth between us. I remember closing my eyes-- my breath would rise and fall as his fingers moved, in time with the cadence, a delicate pink creeping into my cheeks. Sometimes I forgot to breathe at all, and I could have drowned in the drowsy sweetness of his song. I wonder what has become of him, his body. Surely, the boy I knew is long gone.
Curious
She walked into the kitchen, the scent of patchouli trailing headily behind her. Curious, he peered into her bedroom-- where would a creature like this live? What did her bedsheets look like? Were they black and silken? A thick, golden duvet? Plain cotton seemed too simple, too common for her. He half expected to find an exotic temple, redolent with the scent of rich spices and resin.
But he took no notice of her bed, as his eyes were immediately drawn to the picture in a gilt frame upon her desk. An illustration of Cain and Abel, the first children borne of man. It was haunting and strange, and as his eyes fell upon it, it captivated him.
Abel's hair fell white across his face, eyes innocent and somehow sad as he clutched a young zebra-- his gift unto to the Lord. Cain stood slightly behind his brother, hair raven-dark in sharp contrast, eyes hollow and full of unmistakable shame-- for his gift, a single rose, held in trembling fingers, had been rejected by his maker.
Hastily, he averted his eyes; he felt a sorrowful rush of remorse, as though he had just glimpsed something unspeakably private.
Gloaming - Waking the Moon
Every day after Angelica’s disappearance, for a solid week, Sweeney slept in late. Fitfully, she tossed and turned, soaking the bedsheets with sweat, clutching so anxiously at Dylan that some mornings, he’d wake with marks on his skin-- little half-moons from her nails, carnelian pink and fresh. In the afternoons, she lay out on the grass pretending to read, phoning Annie, or sometimes just counting the dying blades that fell through her fingers. She felt safe there-- beyond Angelica’s grasp, beyond the screeching hymns of the naphaïm, no long shadows cast across the lawn. But soon, the amber light filtering through the trees would fade into the peculiar violet of twilight, the air thick with dread and the scent of jasmine. Watching from the window, he could see her shiver as night fell heavy and naked upon them. Soon she would dream again-- the electric prickling of sistrums, the acrid tang of smoke, and a woman in the moon, beautiful and terrible, rising high above the golden dome of the Shrine.
Hinge
An ordinary Sunday evening-- the dishes are done, she's just put the baby down for the night. She hums to herself as she makes some tea in the kitchen. The cozy tableau is too much-- it prickles his skin, sharp as brambles, and he blurts it out, the words tumbling from his lips. He'd always thought it would be this way-- no preamble, desperately confessional, naked and clumsy. It was just once. She meant nothing to me, I swear. In his horror, he has resorted to clichés. She turns at him, stunned-- a look of horror frozen on her face, a startled deer. Her pale skin blanches to a sickening white, spine rigid, and the words hang aloft, motionless in the air between them. He braces himself for impact.
Lunge - Buffy the Vampire Slayer
It is dark; she can hear her speed, feet pounding the sidewalk, wind whistling in her ears. She heard the girl’s cry about about three blocks off, registered it well after she took off running. There is no moon, nothing but the jaundiced light of a streetlamp throwing off leering shadows, the chiaroscuro painting a labyrinth across her path. The wood grain of the stake bites into her palm-- she is so close that she can almost smell the blood, the foul musk that death gives off, familiar as a beacon. One final leap over a chain link fence and she is there, landing gracefully, one knee to the ground. The vampire turns, startled. His face contorts when she lifts her face-- the shock of recognition. The huntress smirks and lunges towards her prey.
Mnemosyne
It strikes her at the oddest times. A perfect stranger-- the uneven slope of his shoulders so strangely familiar, the quickness of that startling smile. His self-conscious laugh, genuine nonetheless, ringing out in the too-quiet air. It all comes back like a slap of chill wind across her cheeks, the roar of blood in her ears. Each time, unconsciously, her knuckles clench, her mouth draws tight. So close, she watches as he fades into the distance, a dull grey void where life had once been. The only thing left is the scent still clinging to an old tee shirt, tucked away and never washed.
Mystagogue
I still remember the name of that lipstick-- "African Queen." I was twelve, far too young, my mother said, to be out chasin’ boys and going to the dance hall. Jealous, I would slip into my sister’s room on Friday nights while she, four years older than I, was out on the town, doing just that. Her desk was strewn with plastic jars of cocoa butter, greasy vials of Kemi oil, straightening combs splayed about. There was cheap costume jewelry and a tiny glass atomizer of Soir de Paris— I remember it all. It was all as hypnotic to me as Cortez’s beads, such an exotic treasure. I would sit in front of that old wooden vanity and put on my face, always saving that lipstick for last, spreading the thick purplish hue across my mouth with a shaky, untrained hand. Afterwards I would sit and admire myself— in my head, I was always some beautiful starlet accepting some dramatic award. In truth, the lipstick never looked as good on me as it did on Vivi, with her wide-lipped, beatific smile.
One Saturday morning I woke to see Vivi hovering over me, the little tube of African Queen in her hands. The jig was up. Bedraggled and embarrassed, I slipped from my bed and saw that I’d fallen asleep without washing my face-- the violet hue was smeared across my cheek like some grotesque bruise; there were bright spots of rouge staining my floral pillow.
Vivi laughed. "Come ‘ere kid," she said. I rubbed at my eyes sleepily and followed her into her room. She wiped my face down with a damp washcloth, then carefully applied the lipstick to my lips. I closed my eyes and sat perfectly still.
"Now blot," she said, holding a thin tissue to my mouth. "You don't want to look like some floozy."
I looked into the mirror and saw our faces-- two sets of brandy-colored eyes, two cleft chins. Two pairs of wine-tinted cupid’s bow lips.
"I gotta go-- momma needs help with the laundry," she said. "Maybe I’ll make you up real pretty this weekend." She tossed me the tube. "And you can keep that-- you should really get your own anyways." She ruffled my hair and was gone.
Opaque - The L Word
"Something about her bugs me, Al," Dana whispered over the table. Alice looked up from her laptop and at her friend, still chewing absently on the end of her pen cap.
"Who? Jenny?" She quirked her head to the side as she followed Dana’s gaze to where Jenny stood at the bar, concentrating far too hard on entering their order. "What is it, ya think? Is it the tortured artiste schtick, ‘cause I’m so over that."
"I don’t know." She watched as Jenny balanced several latte mugs precariously on a tilted tray. She looked like a scarecrow, all elbows and skinny knees, her dark hair hanging self-consciously over one eye. “No wait, I do know.”
"Is it that she’s a shitty waitress? ‘Cause do you remember the time that I--"
"It’s her tights, Al."
"Wha?"
"Look at those things. I haven’t worn tights since my mom forced me to take ballet when I was seven. And even then, they looked ridiculous."
"You know, you’re right." Alice paused, amused by the thought of Dana shifting awkwardly in a pink tulle tutu. "She looks like a kewpie doll or something. Creepy."
She reached for a sip of Dana's coffee, then resumed working.
Tranquil
Eight days have passed since the accident. Her mother had been carrying a box of Christmas lights up from the basement when she stepped on a tiny porcelain angel. Startled, she fell. They found her, still, at the bottom of the stairs, blood pooling around her head like a halo. Emily waits patiently by the hospital bed for her mother to wake, anxiously chewing on the ends of her hair. A distant melody hangs in the air-- carolers in the hall, 'O Holy Night' in four-part harmony. Her mother breathes softly in and out, in and out. She cannot hear the singing. Emily rests her head in her mother's limp hand and lets the slow, steady drip of the IV lull her to sleep.
Vessel
He was once a creature of light, a bearer of hope, a vessel of joy. That was before the torchbearer fell, and everything, even the heavens, seemed to dim. Some had followed Lucifer, convinced that he had found the key to transcendence-- mortality, euthanasia-- but they were cast out, not only from the luminous realm, but from the human one as well. He heard stories from time to time, rumors of hauntings, of demons and phantom hitchhikers. He paid them no mind.
There was a chasm in paradise-- the remaining ones spiraled into confusion, blown about, leaves on a turbulent breeze. Always were they searching out the answers to questions that would fall on deaf ears. Humanity was now God’s favored creation, the angels merely a prototype, mock-ups, misbehaving children long forgotten.
And so they drifted across an earth that was barren to them, dwelling at the frayed edges, ever unseen. Life wore on, not more than ash-- the rich incense of myrrh and honeysuckle replaced by the caustic stench of motor oil and burning rubber. He grew numbed by the millennia, the passing years tainting even the beauty of the blushing sunset, stealing the deep indigo magic from the once-haunting twilight. Diamond stars in the cobalt sky tarnished to cheap glass, the milky moon transformed disdainfully matte. The favored children had seasons in riotous color, but for him, the despised son, there was only winter, an always barren winter, forever bereft of life.