Hiya!
Well, it certainly has been a long time since I've posted a real
story to the FFML. Unless I'm mistaken, I sent out the complete Choices:
The Party about a year-and-a-half ago, and dropped a chunk of its sequel,
Choices: Dilemma, about six months ago.
I actually feel kinda guilty about the slowness of my writing, and
the extent of my procrastination, though I assure you (assuming, of
course, that anyone still actually _cares_ about the fic) that I had good
reasons. I won't bore you with the bibliographical details of the last
year of my life, except to say that things were. . . time consumming.
Last semester, however, I got into this great 4th year creative
writing seminar, and that sort of took priority over fanfic writing.
Great class -- and, as an aside, it was thank to the FFML and RAAC that I
even got into the class; entry was based on a portfolio submission, and an
old fic of mine, _Snapshot Reflection_, constituted half of it. Anyway, I
got to try my hand at, well, fiction that wasn't sci-fi or fantasy or that
had martial artists and chi in it. Surprisingly tough, but a great
challenge and lotsa fun.
Anyway, to end this update before I bore whoever may be reading
this to death, I'm back at Choices: Dilemma, and am _very_ close to
finishing it off. I'm even (optimistically) thinking it'll be done
within a week. I'll repost Choices: the Party first, since I doubt anyone
can actually remember what the story was about (heck, _I_ barely can!).
And, to grant some justification to my slowness, here's one of the
three stories I wrote for my writing class. It's in no way a 'fic', but
it is fiction, so I don't know if it's out of place or not on the ML.
Hope you enjoy it, and C&C is always, of course, welcome.
Later!
-Mike Noakes
***
What Follows Red
by Michael J. Noakes
Metternich -- �ber-conservative -- believed in divine order.
Tiria methodically copied the professor's blackboard highlights into
her notebook without paying attention to the spoken words. She placed her
pencil down, aligned it with the edge of the page. Glanced at the clock,
drumming her fingertips on the desk's surface: rhythmic glinting clicking.
Class ended and she walked home.
The door shut behind Tiria as she stepped into her apartment. She slid
out of shoes turned uncomfortable and hung up her coat. The hallway was
dim, the lights turned off in the two adjoining bedrooms and little
illumination coming from the darkening outside. Lingering scents hovered
on the air: the heaviness of fried oil, sharp undercurrent of garlic.
"Tanya, you home?" she called out.
No answer. Whispery steps over hardwood, and she peeked into her
friend's room. Lights off, the usual mess, a scattering of freshly-tossed
clothes across the bed, a faint tang of musky perfume mingling oddly with
the foodsmell. Barely audible cheap clock- radio left on with the volume
turned down. Tiria checked the kitchen next: vegetable scraps and spice
bottles decorated the counter, a greasy frying pan sitting on the stove.
A hastily scrawled note in her roommate's cursive hand was pinned to the
fridge: _Gone out with the Ed. gang. Didn't wait, figured you'd hang with
John. Stirfry in fridge, help yourself. Luv, Tanya._ Tiria looked in the
fridge and found the promised meal, a mound of soy-sauce darkened rice
mingled with fried vegetables and chunks of chicken. It was still
slightly warm. She stripped away the Saran wrap and popped it in the
microwave.
As the buzz of reheating food filled the air, she returned to her
room, hitting 'play messages' on the answering machine. Quick whirl of
rewinding, then her mother spoke.
"Hi dear, it's Mom. Is everything okay? We haven't heard from you
in weeks; it's not like you to go so long without calling; is everything
okay?" Tiria closed her eyes against her mother's voice. She slipped out
of her clothes. Carefully draped her skirt over the back of the chair and
hung her blouse in the closet. Over the beeping of the microwave, the
continuing message: 'How is school going?' Stripping off undergarments,
she threw them in the hamper, then pulled on loose jogging pants and her
faded frosh t-shirt. 'You still seeing that boy?' She rifled through her
bookbag, pulled out a binder, textbook, pencil and highlighter; piled on
photocopied essays from her desk; carried the stack with her to the
kitchen. 'Find a job?' Balancing schoolwork in one hand and the plate of
hot food in the other, she moved into the living room and deposited
everything on the table.
"Call soon, dear." The answering machine clicked, whirled in
reverse, clicked again.
Tiria sat to eat, pulling out an essay at random to read. The text
bored her, and each mouthful seemed bland and tasteless. She tossed her
schoolwork aside and pushed the plate away. Settling into the couch, she
turned on the television. The inanity of the angsty drama annoyed her.
She didn't change the channel but severed the show's shimmery-eyed teen
voice with a single jab of the mute button. She sank back into deep sofa
cushion.
Tiria opens her eyes: the room is mostly dark, blotchy patterns of
paleness scattered by muted moonlight glimmering through the window, as
shifting artificial luminance of television images flickeringly renders
comfort landscape into sharp relief; grey and dull electric blue, nothing
appeals to her: and for a moment she feels content. Background sounds:
tick of clock, hum of refrigerator, creak of hardwood beneath her feet.
Zephyrous whistle of slightly-open window. The foodsmell is gone. Never
has she felt so isolated, alone; she thinks softly crying would be
appropriate, but feels her lack of grief would make the act dramatic.
The answering machine's annoying red light is blinking: John.
Tiria checked herself over one last time in the mirror before answering
the door. Body ensconced in knee-length inky fabric, legs slickly
sheathed in shimmery charcoal, feet pinched and perched in black, she
looked as she had when John and she first met. She smoothed cold hands
down the front of her dress, across tight stomach, and wondered at the
fluttering nervousness she felt.
When she opened the door John was standing there with his back to
her. He turned, smoothly, an arm extending a flower toward her, began to
speak, "Ti . . . " but hesitated in mid-spin. Tiria appreciated the
moment in which, eyes widening slightly, he caught his first look of her.
It somehow seemed to validate the effort of preparation.
"Wow, you look great. Fabulous."
"I know," she said, and smiled. "But thank you, anyway."
They kissed, held the position. Tiria hugged him tightly, almost
savagely, life-preserver grip and fingers curling into the fabric of his
jacket. But when they separated, she released him quickly, easily.
"So what's that you got there?"
"Huh? Oh, sheesh, I almost forgot." He stuck out his hand,
single, long-stemmed red rose held lightly between thorns. One
side of petals was slightly crushed, having been caught between the
two.
"Red?"
He gave a grin, scuffed the ground with a kick. "Well, it's
been six months. . ."
Their relationship had started with a single yellow rose.
Tiria remembered finding it odd, but curiously pleasing, when he
had handed her the first of the flowers, asking for her phone
number in exchange. They had met just hours previously through a
mutual friend, at some departmental formal that Tanya had invited
her to. A week later he sent her two yellow roses. The next, by
which time they were formally dating, he handed her three. On the
fourth week, however, she received a single pink rose; and every
month after that she received, either in person or by delivery, on the
anniversary of that first night, an incremental number of pink roses.
And now red. Carefully placing the rose within her purse, she
wondered what the new interval would be: every six months, every
year? What does one follow red with?
The waiter delivered their meals. A porcelain bottle, white with
engraved blue-tinted broad-petalled flower, lay between them. The
sake within made it warm to the touch. Delicate, choice pieces of
sushi, colorful with deceptive simplicity, were placed strategically
on a small black plate: ebi, tamago, tako, lime-green blob of
wasabi, flakes of gari. Tiria deeply inhaled the steam of her soba
soup, delicate somatic caress and suggestions of taste. Lights were
dim and diffused. Soft and soothing Asian-sounding music wafted
on the background.
She snapped her chopsticks apart and began eating, deftly
lifting the soup's thick noodles into the narrow, deep spoon held in
her left hand. John was still struggling with his first piece of sushi.
"Stupid chopsticks. I should just use a bloody fork."
"Oh no you don't. You're going to do this the right way."
"How is using a fork the 'wrong way'?"
"Think of it as a cultural experience. Engage it. Just hold
your chopsticks like this."
"Like this?"
"Yes. Now the bottom one doesn't move. The top one does all the
work."
"Um . . . "
"Close enough. Now. Try something easy. That rice ball there."
"Damn."
"You're trying too hard. You have to grip it gently, or it'll
slip . . . "
"Aw, screw it."
He speared it with the narrow end of his chopstick and
swallowed it whole, trickle of sauce escaping from the corner of
his upturned mouth. "See? Simple."
She watched as her boyfriend switched to western utensils
and resumed eating with far greater enthusiasm. John was right, of
course: it was simple. For him. She smiled to cover a sudden,
unexpected bitterness. To conceal an incipient grimace she took a sip
of sake. The pungent wine sat momentarily in her mouth.
Tiria swallows: the suggestion of brown backs bowed in
knee-deep water imbues the drink with the poignancy of thrashing
rods, swollen buzzing, sweltering heat dropping spreading diffusing
ephemera slides, submerges. Syncopated rhythm buried beneath
foreign chords, chimes, and winds assaults her ears. Fleeting tickle
of a single strand of hair across her cheek, eternal tick-ticking of
watch cold against her warm pulse. His scent, somehow marking
her. Noh. She sees her hand anew: coldly pale, fingers long and
slender like the slice of wood -- jagged, coarse, raw -- cradled across
her tiger's maw, rounded nails a glossy burgundy slash against an
amber wash.
"Wow, that green stuff's hot! You tried it yet?"
"Yes."
With fork and spoon, she resumes eating her meal.
A number of hours later she allowed John to lead her up into his
apartment, leaning into him as they climbed the stairs, separating as
he fumbled for the light switch. She sat back on the sofa while he
hung up their coats. Prying off her shoes allowed her feet to
stretch, arch relaxing into a more natural position. Tiria released a
sigh of contentment.
"Your feet hurt?" He slid in next to her.
"A little." She wiggled her toes. "Oh, the pains we women
endure for you men."
"Methinks the woman doth protest too much. Besides,
your suffering was not in vain."
"Really?"
"Here." Lifting her feet onto his lap, easing her back onto
the sofa, he gently began massaging her right foot.
"A foot massage. Maybe you are worth the effort."
"I'm touched. Really."
Tiria closed her eyes. Enjoyed the sensation of John's
gentle kneading. Subdued fuzziness of mild intoxication. Muted
pleasurable jolts as his fingers caressed her instep, sliding softly
across stockinged feet. Quiet breathing, silence.
"I'm not surprised your feet are sore."
"Mmmm."
"Dancing the way you did."
"Mmm-hmmm."
"I mean, especially in shoes like that."
"You should try it sometime."
"What, wear high heels?"
"No, silly. Dancing.."
"Hey, I did dance."
"You shifted your weight from foot to foot. That's not
dancing. That's barely moving. You need to relax out there,
embrace the music you know, just dance."
Through half-lidded eyes she saw him shrug and shift his
ministrations to her other foot, attention focusing on the task at
hand. He seemed totally engrossed. Watching him in the half-light,
she wondered if she loved him. Tiria felt that maybe she did. She
also wondered if, as pleasant as it felt, he was going to do anything
more than rub her feet tonight. She lightly pulled them from his
grasp, curling her legs beneath her as she sat up.
"Now I know why I keep you around."
"And I know why I keep you around." He waggled his
eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.
She bopped him over the head with a cushion. "Stop that."
He sat, watching her, suddenly tense. Tiria followed his
eyes as they slid up, along her body. Contact: exchange. She
shifted forward, pressed up against him. Then his hand,
tremulously chasing, touching: calf, thigh, hip, stomach, breast;
other hand reaching up behind. Kiss, deepening.
Abandoning the sofa, she pulled him toward the bedroom,
hands alternating between awkwardly pulling at buttons and buckle,
and sliding across his body, fingers curling through his hair. Tiria
felt the edge of the bed against her leg. He lifted her dress up,
nuzzled, fondled as the garment was tossed aside, and she grabbed
hold of the pleasurable rising awareness, background prickling
shifted forefront, vivid. Mutual undressing: tie, shirt, stockings,
pants, bra, boxers, panties, as she lay back onto the sheets, John
following. Tiria's attention internalized: staccato snippets of
sensation: hand cupping breast; trail of kisses along neck's arch;
finger circling nipple; tracing of an arm's soft contours: and the
varied and wonderful sensations -- sharp, soft, subtle -- that
accompanied each touch. Indefinite time, gradual growing warmth.
Finally, as she sensed her partner's readiness, she lightly
disengaged herself. Tiria twisted over and above. She smiled,
lifted, straddled him, then slowly lowered herself onto him.
"Ah . . . "
"Shhh." She brushed his lips with a kiss. "Don't move."
Released and lay across him. "Let me." Shifted her weight, hips.
"Just relax." Ran a finger across his chest. Gripped. Felt the man
lying beneath her. Tension. Slipperiness of sweat and skin. Heat.
Downward sway of hair across eyes.
Tiria lay comfortably within John's arms, body spooned to his. In
the silence, she could feel and hear her breathing rising and falling
in rhythm with his. She savored the casual exchange of intimate
touches with him: light rubbing of an arm, gentle stroking of her
hair, slight shifting in each other's grasp, a delicate kiss to the top
of her head. The moment could not last.
"What do you follow red with," she asked.
It took a long moment for him to respond. "Huh?"
"Yellow, pink, red -- what's next? You know, the roses?"
"Oh! Oh, yeah, that. Ah, nothing?"
"Sure."
"It's silly, really."
"I'll be the judge of that."
"It's just . . . well, it's something I came up with back in
high school. I must've just learnt it in some English class: the
meaning associated with different types of flowers and all that stuff.
So I thought up a routine, you know, yellow weekly roses to
monthly pink roses, to red roses."
"And after red?"
"After red -- you see, it's more a punchline than anything I'd
ever do -- I mean, it's only a flower -- you're the only girlfriend I've
done this with -- but, well, the next flower would be . . . black. For
when the relationship ended."
"I see. So, you've been planning to dump me all along?"
"No, no! It's just ."
"I know, I know, I'm just kidding."
"I mean, believe me, when I bought you that first yellow
rose, I wasn't thinking six months ahead. I just wanted to get to
know you, give you something different -- there were so many red
roses floating around already, one more wouldn't have stood out.
"Wasn't easy to find, either. There weren't any flower
shops open that late at night. I drove around like nuts, until I saw
some flowers on display at a corner store. They had this one really
horrible, gaudy bouquet, but it had a single yellow rose buried
inside of it. But the guy wouldn't let me buy just the one flower, he
charged me forty bucks for the whole thing."
"You paid forty dollars for one yellow rose?"
"I really wanted that flower."
"But you didn't even know that I'd still be there when you
got back!"
"I was willing to take that chance, and I wasn't really
thinking at the time. And look at me now! I think it was worth it."
"Yup," she answered, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"You're one lucky guy."
Not long after, his breathing deepened into the regularity of
sleep. Tiria remained awake, still cradled within his arms. In the
silence of late-night, she could hear the faint click of the old analog
clock as the minute-display flipped forward. Boisterous voices
passed by below and outside, fading quickly with time and distance.
Some small light snaked in through a crack in the blinds, cutting
lengthwise across the room. A piece of dark clothing, wedged
between the mattress and headboard and just within her reach,
caught her attention. Moving slowly so as to not jar her boyfriend
awake, she pried it loose. It resolved itself into her dress of the
night, black, somewhat rumpled, splash of red still pinned to the
front earlier, at the restaurant, she had severed the long stem from
the flower and fastened it to her breast.
She carefully detached the rose. It looked the worse for
wear, having been mostly crushed during the night's activities. The
bulb was surprisingly still intact, if flattened, pistil and stamen
somehow unbroken. Its modern-bred unnatural redness remained
painfully unmarred. She raised the flower to her nose.
Tiria smells: and finds nothing.
When Tiria returned home she found a very animated and
angry Tanya waiting.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"I was at John's. I thought you knew."
"Sure. You were at John's. You left there hours ago. I
know, he called. A couple of times."
"Oh."
"Oh? That's it? Tir, the man's a wreck! You dumped him,
for fuck's sake! What the hell were you thinking?"
Tiria brushed past her, into the bedroom. "I wasn't
thinking, Tanya. I just did it." Peeled off her clothes, exchanged
them for a bathrobe. "I don't expect you to understand."
"You're right. I don't." Her roommate followed her to the
bathroom. "What's going on, Tiria? I'm worried, I really am. You
don't talk anymore, to me to anyone! I thought you were just
obsessed with John, but now. . .
"Tiria, what are you doing to yourself?"
Tiria turned to face the woman and said, nothing.
***
Heh.
Choices: Dilemma coming soon!
* * * * * * * * * *
The only artists I have ever known, who * E-mail at:
are personally delightful, are bad artists. * s669330@aix2.uottawa.ca
Good artists exist simply in what they make * Homepage/Fanfiction:
and consequently are perfectly uninteresting* http://aix2.uottawa.ca/~s669330
in what they are. A great poet, a really * * * * * * * * * *
great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are
absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque
they look . . . He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others
write the poetry that they dare not realize.
-Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
* * * * * * * * * *