Challah Rajni
Active Member
- Joined
- Nov 28, 2008
- Messages
- 42
Warning: the following piece contains suggested sexual themes.
Greetings all, resident lurker Challah Rajni returning from a long, long break to be broken once again by the critics (Kidding. All of you are wonderful. My writing wouldn't be the almost decent state that is without all of you).
I had a bad habit of posting chapter 01s, so I decided to go for something different. A chapter 02!
Some background: This is a chapter/section of a short story about a notebook, her writer and their adventure in a day. The piece started out as a very big poem. I realized after putting it all together that the prose/short story format would be a better fit. There isn't much fantasy in this section, but the story definitely isn't "mundane." It has a sentient lady notebook for goodness sake.
Oh, and a certain Hindu god feels the need to make an appearance in a later chapter.
What I'd like to know is how strong and compelling a character the notebook is. The writer started out as the focal point, but it turned out the notebook's story and POV were more interesting.
Lastly, I've been worrying that as usual I've been getting too wild with the prose. I'd like to know if the sentences are too dense (overloaded with info), too hard to understand. How much work did you have to do to get the ideas and images? Did reading it tire you out?
Also, my writing has been described as utterly devoid of sexual tension. I'm experimenting in an extreme way. I'd like to know how effective it is.
***********************
02
Good writers walk ten feet tall.
Her writer practiced his tall steps, and together, the notebook and he journeyed down their gray hall. She wished for legs of her own. She would have pretended with him and laughed twice as hard. The floor shined with brilliant little tiles. Squashed beads; they must have felt that way underfoot; that floor was tempting for bare feet. She and her writer arrived at the elevator three steps early.
There they found a tall Asiatic fellow. His face could have been stone, but his eyes were very soft. His drooping shoulders and stillness told that he was accustomed to working from sunrise to sunrise, but his eyes whispered that he was too fragile to endure sleepless nights. He watched the elevator door vaguely.
Her writer noticed that the button hadn't been pressed. She noticed other things.
Her writer tipped his hat, as fine gentlemen do, and hoped for a little crack in stone. The Asiatic fellow nodded very softly.
All in the hall waited silently. She would have watched the Asiatic fellow until it was impolite, and she wished to behave most ungentlemanly and take his hand to coax a story out. But all in the hall waited silently.
Her writer pushed the elevator button.
At the far end of the hall, so far that her writer had never made the journey, a door opened.
Her writer did not notice, but the Asiatic fellow did.
The little woman from hall's end came running and looked as if she were coming from the other end of the world and another time; amber eyes, honey skin, sugar fingertips, old Levi's hiding under an older world salwar, and a soul older still than the big books she let slip from her arms. Why the books whispered when they fell and hit, only the notebook knew. The little woman yelped: her voice, that for every other time in her life was as sure and rich as polished mahogany, cracked. The hall was a resonator, and two sets of dry lips, one set dark, the other not; un-kissed, never-had-been kissed, almost-kissed; grazed the strings, dared to pull to let the oldest song ring. Let it ring; the little woman cried a name: a man's name. She ran faster than her shadow could go and fell apart along the way. But when her shadow reached them, the Asiatic fellow had long ago caught her and raised her up, shard by piece, by shard. He held the little woman. His closing grasp; the closing soul door, the tightening binding; was as slow and inevitable as sunrise, but the sound of it was a pin-drop to the world, the loudest song at the moon for him, and everything and all to her.
He was hers.
Her writer pushed the elevator button again and waited silently.
The Asiatic fellow and the little woman savored every last inch that wasn't between them, and danced, as maniacs, closer to the edge of a each other's lips.
Stone wept; sugar fingertips sang.
The elevator arrived with no cheerful ding. Its red door simply crawled and rumbled open. The notebook watched as she followed her writer in. The Asiatic fellow and little woman had traveled so far in a breath that to make love in that very moment would have been an afterthought. The notebook watched and watched every last drop of the scene...
The Asiatic fellow's eyes softened to tears and told a thousand falling stories. The little woman stood up taller than her legs would let her, on her tiptoes, and listened to each story with the pull of dark lips.
...as the red metal curtain crawled and rumbled closed to leave only a memory.
Her writer had not seen the Asiatic fellow and the little woman together. The notebook frowned to herself for not acting quickly; she should have covered his eyes. The worst of writers can only bear moments like those from a distance: to live at the edge of flames' reach could kill.
Her writer soon forgot the Asiatic fellow, had never seen the little woman, and only remembered that he had tipped his black hat.
The elevator door opened at his building's lobby. He stopped and waited before the raggedy iron and glass door and took out his golden tipped pen. The notebook quickened for the moment; feigned coyness with still pages, but waiting. Remember it... Dream. Write, you fool. Write!
He felt his chest pocket, looking for something that he had forgotten. His wallet was safe; he found his keys a second time. His hand returned to the pen. He tapped the blank page once. She felt the dark ink running, savored his heavy hands and waited in flames. A perfect moment.
He put his pen back into his chest pocket. No... Then he caressed her pages lovingly. She felt a smile in his fingers weighted with thoughts heaver than those about the sort of hats that detectives wear. That saved her from madness. She breathed a shallow sigh. Not yet.
The notebook went back to her thoughts and saved a story for the both of them: somewhere beyond hall's end, a little woman and an a tall Asiatic fellow danced over crushed beads and made love every other moment with just tiptoes and dark lips pressed against a stone forehead; the world was all theirs.
"Let's be off, old friend," her writer said. "Life is out there for the experiencing!"
Today was their writer's day after all.
Greetings all, resident lurker Challah Rajni returning from a long, long break to be broken once again by the critics (Kidding. All of you are wonderful. My writing wouldn't be the almost decent state that is without all of you).
I had a bad habit of posting chapter 01s, so I decided to go for something different. A chapter 02!
Some background: This is a chapter/section of a short story about a notebook, her writer and their adventure in a day. The piece started out as a very big poem. I realized after putting it all together that the prose/short story format would be a better fit. There isn't much fantasy in this section, but the story definitely isn't "mundane." It has a sentient lady notebook for goodness sake.
Oh, and a certain Hindu god feels the need to make an appearance in a later chapter.What I'd like to know is how strong and compelling a character the notebook is. The writer started out as the focal point, but it turned out the notebook's story and POV were more interesting.
Lastly, I've been worrying that as usual I've been getting too wild with the prose. I'd like to know if the sentences are too dense (overloaded with info), too hard to understand. How much work did you have to do to get the ideas and images? Did reading it tire you out?
Also, my writing has been described as utterly devoid of sexual tension. I'm experimenting in an extreme way. I'd like to know how effective it is.
***********************
02
Good writers walk ten feet tall.
Her writer practiced his tall steps, and together, the notebook and he journeyed down their gray hall. She wished for legs of her own. She would have pretended with him and laughed twice as hard. The floor shined with brilliant little tiles. Squashed beads; they must have felt that way underfoot; that floor was tempting for bare feet. She and her writer arrived at the elevator three steps early.
There they found a tall Asiatic fellow. His face could have been stone, but his eyes were very soft. His drooping shoulders and stillness told that he was accustomed to working from sunrise to sunrise, but his eyes whispered that he was too fragile to endure sleepless nights. He watched the elevator door vaguely.
Her writer noticed that the button hadn't been pressed. She noticed other things.
Her writer tipped his hat, as fine gentlemen do, and hoped for a little crack in stone. The Asiatic fellow nodded very softly.
All in the hall waited silently. She would have watched the Asiatic fellow until it was impolite, and she wished to behave most ungentlemanly and take his hand to coax a story out. But all in the hall waited silently.
Her writer pushed the elevator button.
At the far end of the hall, so far that her writer had never made the journey, a door opened.
Her writer did not notice, but the Asiatic fellow did.
The little woman from hall's end came running and looked as if she were coming from the other end of the world and another time; amber eyes, honey skin, sugar fingertips, old Levi's hiding under an older world salwar, and a soul older still than the big books she let slip from her arms. Why the books whispered when they fell and hit, only the notebook knew. The little woman yelped: her voice, that for every other time in her life was as sure and rich as polished mahogany, cracked. The hall was a resonator, and two sets of dry lips, one set dark, the other not; un-kissed, never-had-been kissed, almost-kissed; grazed the strings, dared to pull to let the oldest song ring. Let it ring; the little woman cried a name: a man's name. She ran faster than her shadow could go and fell apart along the way. But when her shadow reached them, the Asiatic fellow had long ago caught her and raised her up, shard by piece, by shard. He held the little woman. His closing grasp; the closing soul door, the tightening binding; was as slow and inevitable as sunrise, but the sound of it was a pin-drop to the world, the loudest song at the moon for him, and everything and all to her.
He was hers.
Her writer pushed the elevator button again and waited silently.
The Asiatic fellow and the little woman savored every last inch that wasn't between them, and danced, as maniacs, closer to the edge of a each other's lips.
Stone wept; sugar fingertips sang.
The elevator arrived with no cheerful ding. Its red door simply crawled and rumbled open. The notebook watched as she followed her writer in. The Asiatic fellow and little woman had traveled so far in a breath that to make love in that very moment would have been an afterthought. The notebook watched and watched every last drop of the scene...
The Asiatic fellow's eyes softened to tears and told a thousand falling stories. The little woman stood up taller than her legs would let her, on her tiptoes, and listened to each story with the pull of dark lips.
...as the red metal curtain crawled and rumbled closed to leave only a memory.
Her writer had not seen the Asiatic fellow and the little woman together. The notebook frowned to herself for not acting quickly; she should have covered his eyes. The worst of writers can only bear moments like those from a distance: to live at the edge of flames' reach could kill.
Her writer soon forgot the Asiatic fellow, had never seen the little woman, and only remembered that he had tipped his black hat.
The elevator door opened at his building's lobby. He stopped and waited before the raggedy iron and glass door and took out his golden tipped pen. The notebook quickened for the moment; feigned coyness with still pages, but waiting. Remember it... Dream. Write, you fool. Write!
He felt his chest pocket, looking for something that he had forgotten. His wallet was safe; he found his keys a second time. His hand returned to the pen. He tapped the blank page once. She felt the dark ink running, savored his heavy hands and waited in flames. A perfect moment.
He put his pen back into his chest pocket. No... Then he caressed her pages lovingly. She felt a smile in his fingers weighted with thoughts heaver than those about the sort of hats that detectives wear. That saved her from madness. She breathed a shallow sigh. Not yet.
The notebook went back to her thoughts and saved a story for the both of them: somewhere beyond hall's end, a little woman and an a tall Asiatic fellow danced over crushed beads and made love every other moment with just tiptoes and dark lips pressed against a stone forehead; the world was all theirs.
"Let's be off, old friend," her writer said. "Life is out there for the experiencing!"
Today was their writer's day after all.
