The terror began and ended in her arms - not that there was anything horrific about her, or the arms - it was all in his con-voluted, relationship-analyzing, dis-satisfied brain. Out of those thoughts seeped a labyrinthine fog that wound about and kept her from him, while he, in the center of that density, felt hollow inside. Indeed. Something was missing.
"Why do you look so disturbed," she'd asked him, concerned at the expression clouding his face.
"Nothing, it's nothing at all."
"I don't please you."
"Yes, of course you do," but his reassurance was empty, even to himself. Then he'd fix his gaze on a fleeting image of her in a drinking glass, specters of his own imaginings that were the essence of the girl he wanted, the girl that wasn't there.
It hadn't always been that way. Not before that visit to the art museum. They walked in, hand in hand, harmoniously in love, walked past couples on canvas. First the naturalistic styles. How grand it was walking with her! Then the impressionists. But was it really right? The expressionists. He began not to understand her. Then into the next room, where the implode ended. Surrealists! When he saw into her eyes. she never looked that way, and when he folded her in his embrace none of those parts were ever there.
Story #390
Thanks to all who wrote a story and waited so patiently for me to post mine! I'm really lucky to have such creative visitors.
15 comments:
is this a photo of you? i like the angle of it. so what is our homework? we are supposed to let this photo inspire us?
hi Meander! I've gotten into the habbit of not explaining the "rules" too well - anyone who likes, can write a little story that goes with the picture, and post it here as a comment. I post my story a few days later (like in the previous posts). I hope you will want to play!
P.S. It's not me, but a randomly found photo, as in synchronicity...
"Oh, Margarita, my muse, my love, my inspiration!"
"Oh, Pablo, my protector, my provider, my foundation!"
"Oh, Margarita, you feed my mind and soul!"
"Oh, Pablo, you hold my life together!"
"Oh, Margarita, you are the spice in the meal of love."
"Oh, Pablo, you are the pedestal I sit upon."
"Oh, Margarita, that is not a pedestal you are sitting on!"
"Oh, Pablo, does it mean you like my lap dance?"
"Oh, Margarita, Oh, Margarita, Oh, Margarita! Oh!"
"Oh, Pablo, Oh Pablo, Oh Pablo! Oh!"
"Stop squeezing my head, Nerd Boy," Ruby muttered at her brother through clenched teeth.
"Shut up and pretend you're happy while Mom takes the picture or I'll give you a noogie," Yuri muttered under his breath. "And just you wait till Mom leaves the room. You're getting your ass kicked for smashing my Death Cheese CD's and turning them into a crappy piece of collage art!"
"But the CD bits are so shiny and glittery," Ruby protested. "And anyway, Death Cheese smashes their own CD's in the video for "Mindless Destruction." It inspired me!"
"Say 'Cheese!'" the teens' mother said chipperly.
"Cheese!" managed Ruby, hoping her generally oblivious mother would notice her predicament.
"DEATH Cheese!" Yuri said.
"You're gonna get it now, Buttface!" he said with an evil grin as their mother skipped cluelessly from the room to check on the Betty Crocker cake she had prepared earlier.
Coco loved Sarai..loved her with all his heart..
Sarai had no heart
life imitates art, or so the two thought, quite oblivious to the lack of wrestling space. they had argued over the painting at the gallery, coming from two polar points, as polar as polar could be.
"i hate it."
"it's beautiful."
he took it home that very day, with promises he would make the pesto, after he had decorated the wall with the new acquisition.
"there."
"it does look rather kooky."
"come here and take a picture."
"let's both be in it."
"deal."
after the timed flashes had blinded them both, she asked herself why on earth she had consented to something so silly. she didn't say it aloud, but he read her eyes so well, which was why they had moved in together after knowing each other only five days.
"someday, they'll write about this day," he said. and that was it. that was all. the pesto had to be made.
When Graham brought home his baby from the hospital was the happiest moment of his life. At least until the nurse showed up to explain he'd taken a patient at the Stuttering Center whose ID bracelet had been switched by mistake.
mommy! mommy! the house is rolling, the house is rolling!
She looks close to dead to me so my story wouldn't be pretty.
I love reading these guys stories though.
After "Roseanne" ended, the characters bravely tried to carry on a story. But David had never realized Darlene could turn so psycho.
"It's not what you think!" he said, as she advanced with the knife. "It's an art project!"
All of you were so brilliant in what you wrote! I've finished "something" but I hate it. Probably I'll post it tomorrow, after I've slept on it.
Lammy: Thanks! I was wondering whose picture that was on the wall! Wicked story.
Cheesemeister: This really entertained me. So funny. I will think of this anytime someone says "say cheese"
Cynnie: So eloquently put in such few words. You should get along with Doug quite well.
{illyria}: Your beautiful poetic prose stuns me, as it always does. I never thought of "life imitates art" until you had written it. I wish I'd thought of it.
Doug: You're even wickeder than Lammy.
Catnapping: Love it! Now I finally understand what's going on in the picture.
Cooper: I like unpretty stories, too! As I said, so impressive this time around (it always is to me).
Mrs. Weirsdo: those brave characters! I love that phrase: "the characters bravely tried to carry on a story"
I wish my stories would write themselves without me. Is that too much to ask?
Again, Indie writes a beautiful expression of bittersweet romantic love. Wonderful, but ARGH! Why do these sometimes hit so close to home with my less than delightful memories of romance?
Hi Cheesemeister - it's very kind of you to write such nice things about my story. I'm really irritated with myself that it takes me so long now to write these little vignettes, and when I do write them, I never am much satisfied with them myself.
Came back after a long time, and had as delicious a time as ever, with the visit to the art gallery.
I like this story too, Indie. Life can only approximate art.
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