College happened to me recently, and I haven't had a lot of time to write. I'm posting this not because I think it's much good (though I like the basic idea), but because it is literally the first piece of fiction I've written in weeks. It's also the first thing I've ever written in the first person.
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She’s waiting on my right, her face etched in shadows that deepen the lines of her face and lend prominence to her diminutive nose. Now she steps fully into the light and I can remember her in all her beauty from when I saw her last night. She begins to speak, staring directly at me. Yes, she’s speaking to me. There’s no other possible explanation. To forget me would be impossible; we had such a connection last night. Rich in timbre, I let her voice wash over me. It’s such a visceral thing.
Then she turns away. Such a flighty girl—can’t make up her mind. One man here, another there, me in the middle and on again.
The man next to me is talking about her. He wants me to hear him. “I had no idea Gwendolen knew any foreign language,” he says, “and I’m not sure I approve. It’s the sort of think that can only broaden a girl’s mind.” That bastard. He doesn’t respect her at all, not the way I do. She left without hearing it, but she’ll be back, I’m sure of it. I’m irresistible. Everyone she talks to is irresistible. We keep her coming back into the lights, again and again and again.
It’s been ten minutes and she’s still gone. Another man loves her too, and he can get so close to her. Physically close, I mean. You can’t get as close as we got last night. We had a connection, an almost visceral link that bound us to one another. I could feel it in her eyes. They can speak to one another now, but I can look at her; reach through her eyes beyond the mask and tell her what I’m feeling. Sympathy, emotion, approval—no man down there can offer her that. He can only do what he’s told, but I am a man of infinite variety.
She’s out again, wearing her mask for him. Behind it, she’s waiting for me. I’ll talk to her after it’s all over. Look—she speaks the words to him, but she faces me dead on. Those eyes—aimed at me. Those gestures—for me alone. The lights are on her from above. She’s not lit up for him, she’s lit so I can more clearly see what I’m meant to. She loves me, she says. She kisses him, but as an extension of myself.
I’ll meet you after all this is over, I mouth silently, and she pretends not to hear. I know the message got across. There’s a bounce in her step as she exits stage left.
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She’s waiting on my right, her face etched in shadows that deepen the lines of her face and lend prominence to her diminutive nose. Now she steps fully into the light and I can remember her in all her beauty from when I saw her last night. She begins to speak, staring directly at me. Yes, she’s speaking to me. There’s no other possible explanation. To forget me would be impossible; we had such a connection last night. Rich in timbre, I let her voice wash over me. It’s such a visceral thing.
Then she turns away. Such a flighty girl—can’t make up her mind. One man here, another there, me in the middle and on again.
The man next to me is talking about her. He wants me to hear him. “I had no idea Gwendolen knew any foreign language,” he says, “and I’m not sure I approve. It’s the sort of think that can only broaden a girl’s mind.” That bastard. He doesn’t respect her at all, not the way I do. She left without hearing it, but she’ll be back, I’m sure of it. I’m irresistible. Everyone she talks to is irresistible. We keep her coming back into the lights, again and again and again.
It’s been ten minutes and she’s still gone. Another man loves her too, and he can get so close to her. Physically close, I mean. You can’t get as close as we got last night. We had a connection, an almost visceral link that bound us to one another. I could feel it in her eyes. They can speak to one another now, but I can look at her; reach through her eyes beyond the mask and tell her what I’m feeling. Sympathy, emotion, approval—no man down there can offer her that. He can only do what he’s told, but I am a man of infinite variety.
She’s out again, wearing her mask for him. Behind it, she’s waiting for me. I’ll talk to her after it’s all over. Look—she speaks the words to him, but she faces me dead on. Those eyes—aimed at me. Those gestures—for me alone. The lights are on her from above. She’s not lit up for him, she’s lit so I can more clearly see what I’m meant to. She loves me, she says. She kisses him, but as an extension of myself.
I’ll meet you after all this is over, I mouth silently, and she pretends not to hear. I know the message got across. There’s a bounce in her step as she exits stage left.
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