I was cleaning up My Documents when i came across this short story that I had written about my first proper sexual experience...
"Your Kiss" by David Magee
The murky silence that surrounds my clouded judgement magnifies the far-off sounds of the fickle noises of everyday life. All light outside is blurred and is melded in the many colours borne of unnatural light. Each siphon of this is a hexagon strecthed across the confines of my peripheal vision and absorbed by the brief darkness of each blink of my eyelids. They are heavy now, flickering in their stance, and their vision is obscured by the darkened crimson that drowns the area of this this intensely dark room.
Only one thing catches the trailing of my gaze, though it has little distance to travel now, for it is so close now, so close to me. As your blurred silhouette sharpens at your approach, every sliver of light concentrates itself on your body. The edge of the bed that I sit on is creased and crippled slightly more in its balance as you sit down beside me, and little of you is seen. Though there is a definite presence, some familiar. The energy of you is emanated as it envelopes my blind and magnetic movement towards your direction.
You are now so close to me, the shallowness of your breath lines the goosebumps created on my neck, and my cheek revolves towards yours. I look up to see for a fleeting moment your physique that is blocked and blinds the wishes of my eyes by your attire. Though they are now loosened in their clench on your build with unbuttoned shirt that is a crushed velvet, an ocean of waves of white silk, and unbuckled belt, an imperfection of past fingerprint that conquers the dim shine of it. The curve of your neck overshadows my visison now, I can see every pore that releases naught, sweat blocked by an artificial yet alluring scent, soon to be broken. The features of my face fall into place as though a puzzle along the refined caverns of your sculpted visage.
My journey upwards finds your breath, and lips that move incoherently with mine, I hold back and yet I surrender, as you do. My eyes drift along your sharpened yet full cheekbones, and they lock in their gaze into the view of your eyes. Each a deep brown that I lose myself in at each glance towards them and theirs towards me. They are bright, each staring into my being at a mere flicker of a glance towards me. I now drown in their fixed gaze, literal chocolate refined as brass for the feasting of my eyes. Our foreheads meet, both you and I relax in each other's soft weight.
Your hand now, as though of its own volition, traces up my surrendered arm, merely touching the tips of my goosebumps that come now so naturally. Your hand clasps the cleft of my neck now, tenderly, yet with a strength that controls every muscle that moves in my face. Our gazes come now only to our lips, yours a faint and dull pink, protruded forth and chiselled to perfection by the outcome of nature's choice. My eyes roll back now into the mute darkness of my head, my eyelids fluttering hastily, coming to an eventual and permanent close. Our lips meet now, melding to each other's form, they close slightly to their limit across our mouths. Whatever breath that may escape our lips when briefly and rarely parted is fast and yet deep. We feast on each other's tongues, each wildly controlled and strictly let loose into whatever space in empty of our mouths.
We break now, ever so slightly and with great difficulty, with inability to satiate the unspoken sentiment of our lips greeting. I raise my head now, my eyes abstractly closed, as I feel your lips etch themselves into my neck, and I lean back onto the soft pillows, of whose features I cannot describe, except that of their touch, so soft and cradling, yet it is nothing compared to your arms.
I let go of all control I have of my body, I am now a still life glozed into the grasps of your searching hands. I feel the brief stiffening of your lips each time they meet my chest, now fully exposed to your sight, and yours to mine. Each piece of clothing slips away into the nothingness that are the far corners of the room. Your shoulders come down onto, so heavy, crushing my trembling heart, now obscured from yours by the unfortuantely necessary protection of your skin, a fair beige tinted with a tanned brown that is ever so slight. Our two hearts beat together as one. Our arms now snake around each other's torso, your hands barely creasing each one of my muscles under my skin with hidden yet obvious strength. Mine travel up the back of your neck, your goosebumps less detailed in their form, for this is not your first time as it is mine. My fingers coarse through your hair, unnaturally formed in a way that is endearing to my memory. Your hair is a dark brown edged with a dusty sheen, your hair is firm and yet flexible in its stance, and my fingers stretch each hair to its limit as they wind upwards and fall down to your shoulders once again.
Time passes so slowly, the winding of our digits having shed all skin that is removable, the cloth that bears past shame that is no longer required to be shown between you and I. Your strong legs twist between mine. I gasp slightly as whatever soft flesh between my thighs becomes a hardened shell rising to greet you. Our heat rises and is trapped again by either you or me at our rising and weakened and slowed falling. I now turn at your guidance, your hands now falling to my sides, you are no longer in my sight, yet your face is pressed close to the back of my neck, and your breath almost solidified within my skin that shivers, shivers that have no origin within heat, as my heat is non-surpassed.
I feel you reach into me, with slight difficulty, though hardened manhood splits apart what resistance that remains within my body. You recoil ever so slightly, but with intention, as you then go in even deeper, your lust personified by the eagerness that is your heart racing into my shoulder blade. Your rhythm is steady, slow, but strong, it is as though we dance, I am both your puppet and puppeteer, as are you for me.
Groans of whom I cannot trace the source back to either you or me break the silence, groans of slight pain, and of intense physical pleasure. The rhythm is interrupted slightly by misguided quickening, as the dance is no longer crafted with expertise, rather that of an animal. For both of our expectations rise, we both know what is to come, every fibre of both the prescence of our physical bodies and our abstract yet evident love and lust is magnified until the breaking of that one moment. I feel your essence pour into me briefly yet slowly. In that one moment our love is brought into physical being, neither you or I are seperate, we are one body.
I reach my head back and avert my gaze towards yours with great effort. I see your face, glistening with much sweat borne of effort as mine glistens with salty tears borne of happiness.
There is an inconstant yet brief look of intense emotion and a naked flame in the stare of your eyes. At this moment we slowly drift out of and away from, instantly returning to each other's arms once we have broken away. Exhaustion bears down upon us, and hazy tiredness sweeps my eyelids, now heavy and empty. The cover of the sheets of the bed have somehow found themselves to be upon us.
For one last time before our reclining into the murky depths of sleep in each other's clasp, our lips part and rise towards each other. I see mere seconds of your eyes, blurred by past tears and the receding light, I see your intense love for me, and for one more time my eyelids clasp shut and the muscles of my mouth stiffen to greet;
...Your kiss.
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thoughts?
![[-]](https://gayspeak.com/images/duende_v3_local/collapse.png)
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ive actually found a whole lotta short stories in my computer, so ill put those up soon too =]
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W  mile:W!
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^.^ thank you very very much!
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Inspired by a time in my life in which I delved into such practices
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One's vision was that of an ebony canvas, broken in the pattern of its darkness by brief pillars of refracted light through swift slivers of water that knife the air. Their voyage downwards was placed randomly hither and thither, scattered in droplets of brief noise at their descent and contact with the hardened flecks of stone that checked the path. There was little else that registered in one's eye's knowledge, and the near mute pitter-patter of the sheets of past ocean opened downward blocked one's ears to all other sounds.
A sudden movement caught itself on a camoflauged silhouette. Slightly tall, and feminine in its stance and form, it swayed vaguely. The one footstep that it took melded itself with the rain, for it was as if she had not moved at all, and yet was closer to the open refraction of the moon's children in the water.
The figure, a girl within breaking point of her adolescence, knelt down to the ground, to look down into the murky and near mpty reflections of the water collected in a small and hastily dug bowl in the soil on the edge of the road.
What little light was sparsely hewn into the ripples of the puddle found themselves upon the girl's head. She wore a crushed beret that sank upon her head. Her hair was a wild mass of a blonde tinged in pure snow, and seemed almoat artificial in its sway and texture upon her shoulders. She wore a prim and uniformed navy dress that was shortened to the higher regions of her thigh, with spots of moist darkness where the rain had fallen upon it. This sheltered a sleeved shirt that was evidentally and intentionally wrinkled and creased repeatedy, the buttoned cuffs split open. Shoes that shone dully from artificial means of cleaning were an oily black pelted with whitened mud, over long tights that bore a familiar yet even lighter hue to that of the shirt. Dangling from her neck was a simple silver chain, strangely dry and perfectly unharmed in any way, an inwards-facing pentacle matching the chain hung from this, also devoid of any physical harm, both were completely dry, though the rain hammered itself upon them.
Her face was full, but also sharpened to some extent. Her eyes were most striking to the eye due their oily cerulean colour, seeming an iridescent grey or green at certain angles of the light. Her eyes were dominated by cosmetics that were not drawn from the usual artificial kind, seeming rather to be refined dirt etched perfectly into her forehead, for many perfectly symmetrical desgins were carved into this display.
From somewhere within her, although it seemed to be from nowhere, she drew a carved quartz crystal, in the shape of the stereotypical image of the symbol of love. It was both bright and yet slight in its hue of magenta, seeming almost white. She looked long and hard into the water, her thoughts abstractly feeding of any invisible source that commanded its physical existence and any evident power or strength borne of this. She bore the quartz aloft in the air, obscuring her vision, yet never averting her gaze from the abstract point of its concentration, nor blinking or merely wavering an eyelid. All she presumably saw became physically palpable within her, and she focused it onto the polished surface of the quartz, and she dropped it into the shallow depths of the filthy water, and somehow all pre-determine ripple never escaped the liquid, nor did a single raindrop descend upon it.
She opened her mouth, exaggerating and harsh in her tone, a hint of expectancy remaining in her eyes, and she spoke;
"...Evil which hath come to me,
turn back from thy course,
by the power of water and law of three,
go back to thy source ..."
Suddenly, whatever color was borne upon the reflection of the water was drained sinking into the downward direction of the quartz, a stale image of no colour remained upon the surface.
The girl then sifted her fingers through the water, through the sides of the bowl into the dirt, searching for the crystal, and in finding it, her hand flung to her chest, encasing the crystal in her grasp, from where it then found its eventual resting place in wherever she had produced it from.
Then, in mere moments as she had glanced to and fro within the darkness, she seemed to melt into the rain and into the shadows, creating herself an echo of herself as void, into which she subsequently spun herself within. The rain no longer finding itself physically palpable upon her, and at her vanishing the rain ceased mutely.
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This I wrote a long time ago when I was thirteen years old after been inspired by a video on youtube entitled Lolita. I later learned that the very last piece of dialogue ended up drawing parallels to a film I watched a year ago, a remake of the 1970's film "The Omen", this was no intentional, although the themes in this story can actually be matched with those of the film in many ways.
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The leaves were a faint and sickly brown, clenched in folds frozen and ugly. Yet they emanated a soft golden light that came as wafting beams, cold sunlight that seemed to stand out, as though a silhouette, on the general dullness of the area. The leaves spun slowly, feebly clinging to the grey–brown branches of the infinite amount of trees that were firm despite their unattractive, fleshy and peeling bark. Bumps and ridges streamed up the immense trunk, an aged brown edged sparsely with a moss-green. The eye was clouded, if one would have looked above, with the branches entangled in cumbersome and sparse randomness without pattern or end.
The sky was a milky white, disrupted by sudden upward fissures of deepening shadows that broke the paragon of that true and defined colour. The unborn blue of the day was veiled entirely apart from mere pockets and roots of the sky’s canvas amongst where the sun, without visible outline, shone through the clouds as a colourless silver and light. Feeble gasps of moisture cold to one’s face breathed upon the air, a slight rain died out quickly and sharply, its icy mark lasting upon one’s cheek.
A sharpened encrusting of a liquid sunlight blinked to and fro amongst the meandering of the water. It flowed in a bobbing demeanour, silhouetting shadows that shrank and swam across the miniature hills of ghostly cerulean that seemed so sharp in their edges of slightly frothing knives of a brilliant white foam, but soft, yet still piercing in its coolness at the touch of one’s fingers sifting through the transparent mirrors and worlds that were the waters. It sloshed and rose feebly, the flowing slight, precise, and constantly repeating in its path. The path a trench dug at nature’s hand, an imperfect line through the earth. A river. It sat, winding almost invisibly through the maze of trees, the forest.
Closest to it was a lone tree, bowing in infinite yet slight worship in its stance beside the river. From the perspective of the birds above it would seem that its empty branches were etched into the waters, or that it was some shadow, some trick of the eye that was somehow burned into the flowing mirror of constantly breaking brightness. It was empty and deceased, a vestigial shell and a body without soul
A lone crow was perched rigid, swaying ever so slightly in its stance, upon a single briar that swung, unbalanced, away from its original root and bush that gathered beneath the roots of that tree, yet did not even touch it, not reacting to its physical existence. The many thorns were a powdery magenta that were extraordinarily soft until the sharpening of the upper curves, a sting that broke one’s skin at a mere prick. The splintered flesh of the branches were a stale, dead brown.
The crow seemed aged, though still handsome. Its feathers were partially and gently ruffled, though there was still an edge and hint of a silver sheen on its greying black feathers. The neck was set and prominent in both its height and stature. The eyes were an olive green tinged with an abstract and dull ghost of grey. Once, the crow blinked, but only once, in a mere flicker. For a shadow had crossed and melted across the watery surface of its eye. The stillness of the moment had been disrupted awkwardly and abruptly. The crow, in a flutter and resounding batter was swept away by its instinct of absolute fear and uneasiness. It now cruised the horizon of an oncoming storm in the distance.
That shadow from before now settled at the foot of the shadowed tree, strangely detached from any visible source. It was a strange and transparent dark grey; its silhouette was almost unnoticeable if not for its sudden and eerie movement. It twisted and contorted the rest of its entirely massless shape to merely move a single muscle. It moved its visible head in this same manner, seeming vaguely and almost humanoid in its shape, childlike and small. The shadow then cocked its head inquisitively, now almost still, as if it were listening, its perspective came across through whatever eyes it seemed to have as a warped strand of light, colours and vague shapes drifted and seeped through it, strangely slowed down. The shadow lifted its hand, hesitating, and then knocked its hand against the jet-black bark of the tree.
The tree stirred, and an intake of breath seemed to gather around the hem of its branches.
They seemed to contract, shake and vibrate incoherently with the words that seeped through the gaps and knots that riddled its body, that were not even as black as the bark itself, black holes into void of blackness, yet still lighter than the shadow that was the faultless skin and veil of the supreme dark tree;
“For it has been written, said, and finally soon to be wished,
That my only son will be high and lifted up, twice finished.â€Â
There was a shuddering and whispered sigh as the darkness literally shed itself off the thin air of its physical existence, sliding off it slowly and mechanically, as though the tree was exhaling deeply. There was nothing beneath, and there was a faint breath of wind combined with the many ghosts of malevolent laughter. It span mournfully, in a monotone, into the air and faded from one’s hearing.
There was now an empty circle of thorns, as though the tree had never been. Within it now walked the shadow, it seemed to sit and cross its legs. It was now relaxed, leaning back against where the tree’s trunk had been, as though it was still there. It looked somehow content and satisfied in its body language and its seemingly excited tension.
A rattling and rasping whisper issued from where its mouth should have been, the words distorted to the point of no audibility, it rose and was emphasized;
“Dear Father, for all it would take, for me to be whole,
The future within, its body, but not its soul.â€Â
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The sun was now a blurred watermark upon a soft blue sky that was scarred with the far off ridges of the clouds, which were few. The light was a creamy white-yellow without warmth, and uncomfortably piercing to the eye.
A little girl strode through the dead leaves, a rattling echo that died quickly after its birth and resounding. The girl stopped and tilted her head on her left shoulder, her right hand, clenched in a fist, swung heavily behind her.
She wore an ebony frock that was interlaced with a dark but brilliant crimson. It was frumpy on her breast and waist, sticking out rather oddly and awkwardly past her thighs. It was very old fashioned, and it looked as though it had certainly aged. Dust still clung to it in small beads within its crevices and creases. There was a strong smell from it that, although not entirely unpleasant, was certainly not preferable.
Her hair was a black that shone weakly in the light with a gloss of dead blue. It had split largely at its ends. It was long and straight, dead skin from her scalp clung as white dust to what greasy roots were visible, for much of her head was hidden by the battered bonnet that greatly matched her dress. It revealed only her uneven fringe and was peppered with holes.
At her side in her left hand was an open umbrella that also matched her outfit. Its frame was rusted and contorted out of recognisable shape so that it would not open or close any further. It was also useless in the fact that it had been ripped and torn, as though on purpose at a pathetic attempt to perhaps stylise it according to the remainder of her attire. The material on it was now hanging and swinging off it in stripped ribbons.
The girl wore large boots that were a greying black pelted with the greying beige mud and dirt. They were almost broken at both heels. They proved to large to fit her, the laces were gone, the soles and tongues missing.
Her skin was a marble and chalky white, her face chiselled unevenly, awkward, muddled and sharp. She was not a pretty sight to behold at all, let alone her attire and bitter expression. A smile would have seemed unfitting, unnatural on her face. Her eyes were large, oval and a deep grey, appearing to be a deep red in the right light. Heavy black makeup was smeared and diced across her face at general random, as though a child had scribbled it.
She stopped at the foot a tree. So dull in its appearance, for the sight was multiplied before her eyes as the surrounding forest, it acted as a fierce and intense contrast to what lay above.
The leaves above seemed like golden stars dipped in sparse slivers of molten rock on an orange web of fire. The branches now seemed an inky jet-black, etched into this display.
She knelt down; her sleeves dragged amongst clenched digits up high, tight and snug. Her eyes were full and gleamed dully and sadly, almost enviously, at the beauty above. Her voice was small and meek, it squeaked at all the wrong areas and times. It broke sometimes, cracking on her pronunciation;
“Oh, how I would have it so, the secret of beauty for me to know.
For me to shed this shell, this skin, to become a star, both out an in.â€Â
She drooped her head, and then sobbed into her hands. The sleeves had now slid down, revealing deep scars that ran along her wrists that seemed to have been sliced open repeatedly, and purposefully, for they seemed to be tattooed onto her skin. Dry blotches of purple and a dull blue edged with a vague brown lined them, smudged with bruises.
There was suddenly a rustle and a distant breath of air and disembodied whispers that carried the leaves before her. Yet there was no wind.
The girl had lifted her head; she was alert now and very afraid. Her eyes darted to and fro; the trees surrounded her, an encasing wall and siege of endless forest, now claustrophobic. The star fire above was now a hellish flame. Her heart hammered at her chest, and yet it seemed impossibly as though it had ripped itself from her vitals, and clawed its way up her throat. Her eyes fell upon where the sound had been born; a ring of bushes of briars. It seemed as though it were a crown of thorns.
Then a voice rose from seemingly no where, everywhere, and yet only that circle of sharpness. A voice suddenly so lovely to her, as though it were birdsong, though she did not hear the truth of its tone. The intent was hidden, disguised as though a song from the heart, a comforting lullaby;
“Little child, do not cower as would a mouse,
For all I ask for is something from your house.â€Â
A shadow had then sat down beside her; its visible arm shrouded and clouded her shoulders, comforting her, which was unfamiliar to her. Yet for some reason she immediately relaxed, a strange and complete trust in the shadow had now clouded and shrouded her judgement. She said simply;
“Why of course, little shadow who is surely fair,
What is it you seek that lies surely in my lair?â€Â
The shadow, in whatever way it had moved its head, seemed to smile. It pulled even closer to the girl and peered over her, almost endearingly, surveying her intently. And all the more trustworthy it seemed to the girl, who now gazed up into the shadow’s face with silent yet obvious admiration. The shadow seemed to think for a moment then said carefully, slowly and precisely;
“For what I need, you must make your house your family’s tomb,
For all I truly desire lies within your mother’s womb.â€Â
The girl began to nod, but then doubt somehow sifted through her near-blind conscience as her nodding slowed. She asked inquisitively, inquiringly, confused;
“At such a price to pay, is it this that you are worth?
For friend though you may seem, you hardly inspire mirth.â€Â
The shadow then looked away from her for a little while, and then whispered slowly, as though almost unsure of the promise he was about to make;
“If you do this, I will promise one wish that I can surely grant you,
Only one that’s power is within my father, and first this you must do.â€Â
The little girl pondered for a short, brief time. Deep in her thought, she saw a dying poppy between her feet, its brilliant scarlet petals crumbling to dust in the wind. But it would come back, she knew, it would regain its life. At nature’s wish of course. A wish, she thought, could her family be brought back at this one wish promised for her? Could she renew their love and give their relationship another chance? It had been the very thing in her mother’s womb that had torn them apart. It would be no loss. This shadow some aid, help that came as this one kindness that would benefit all, surely. A knowing smile crossed her lips as she realised the meaning of the shadow’s requirement of slaughtering her family at first, for she knew that her parents would never give up the child.
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That same, little girl was kneeling down, her dress now sagging, dripping wet with droplets of a liquid ruby that gleamed vaguely violet at the gloomy light shining upon its edges. She traced her finger in the thick layer of blood that had begun to recede, drying and disappearing into the peeling floor.
Before her lay her parents, unmoving.
Her father’s blank stare that hinted at a touch of a sudden and most horrible realisation and fear was etched into his face, and the girl’s mind, forever. From his neck down was strewn his clothing, there was no longer a full body. His torso and abdomen were split apart hither and thither like scrap paper. The carnage had been cast away from his face, which was surprisingly spotless of the destruction.
There had been no weapon, she remembered. Nor for her mother.
Opposite from her father was the front door, flung open and snapped off its lower hinges. Her mother was lying just over the brink of the threshold inside the doorway. She looked relatively unharmed, though her expression more that of one under extreme and intense torture, as though pain had acted as a holocaust to all her senses, save for her sense of touch.
Her stomach and what was now only partially between her thighs, were rendered and sundered to the point of her losing her very gender. She had been ripped wide and gapingly open, torn asunder in mountainous red stumps, folds of a pearlescent white velvet that seemed to once be her skin, blemished over a sea of a constantly flowing stale red.
In the girl’s right hand was now a foetal being. A muscle, it seemed more like. Yet it bore a vague resemblance to the basic anatomy of a child, but only a baby. Evidently male. It drew what seemed to be a strange last breath as it shuddered and the skin close to its navel quivered. For from the centre of its stomach protruded a length of flesh and vein that now hung from the girl’s hand, dangling the child now, and purposefully as far away as possible from her. A look of revulsion clouded her face’s features. But there was also a hint of a deep longing, a hunger, and expectation.
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The sky now was a canvas of collectively dusty colours. Shades of greying blue, rich though aged purple effortlessly blended with waves of a shade of pink that was that of one’s rosy cheek. Yellow and orange toppled over the horizon and split the top half of the sun, its bottom half gloriously dying in a fiery shade of sulphur. The leaves too were now silhouettes of absolute darkness, the multitude of trees now that of the shadowed tree from before, as though its memory took a lasting hold on that place.
Under the tree again the girl waited, a sack of stale and beaten beige tinged in blood clutched in her fist. There was something light weighing it down within. The girl began to doubt, but for only a fleeting moment, for the shadow had then stood tall over her.
Gone now from her hand was the sack, which now was cradled in the shadow’s arms. It seemed to smile again, though not with the usual air of benevolence. It said slowly, suggestively, eyeing only the sack, but towards the girl absent-mindedly;
“Little child, faithful to this point have you been,
But what you shall wish for, this remains to be seen.â€Â
The girl’s eyes gleamed, her mouth shook with potential happiness and she appeared to begin to say something. However, she frowned, and changed her words quickly, whispering;
“My dear childlike shadow, if I may be so bold,
Why choose my brother? This remains to be told.â€Â
The shadow continued to move the muscle structure of its cheek and jaw bones. It did this in such a way that suggested a now clearly malevolent and evil smile. It now looked squarely and directly into the little girl’s eyes and told her;
“Child, what folly! My lies in you I’ve sewn.
Your brother, now my body, better you should have known.
You’ve been told of my father before,
His name an icon in mankind’s lore.
A thousand shapes and faces he has worn,
But never into this world has his son been born.â€Â
The girl’s eyes widened in fear, another frown lined and plagued her features, and finally a grim realisation as she slowly exclaimed;
“You speak of your father, the paper tiger not known to be small,
What wish can you or he grant me but destruction is all?â€Â
The shadow smiled again, seemingly beaming now and spoke;
“Wise void spun far too late within your heart,
Surely what wish can we grant to surely do you part?â€Â
But then the girl’s eyes widened yet again. A knowing smile played at her lips. The riddle had already been solved, and the shadow stiffened at her saying this;
“Then wish for your imminent destruction I do,
Maybe not now, but death shall surely find you.â€Â
The shadow began to sink into the sack as though sand peeking through a clenched hand. The smile still hung upon its face, but in a clearly sad fashion due to the drooping of its head. It turned to look mutinously at the circle of thorns, darting its head to and fro around that area, as though expecting to see the object of its renewed hatred. Its voice shook as it whispered through seemingly grinding teeth;
“Then at the time of mankind’s end that draws surely nigh,
My judgement shall be secured, my destiny to die.â€Â
The shadow had now faded from view, and the sack stirred and squirmed. Issuing now forth from it was the familiar sound of the wail of a child. The girl noticed the now tangerine lines of the sun fading from view over the line of the seemingly never-ending earth. The top half now prominent behind tufts of different shades of peach and the night sky birthing its magnification overhead, the first star blazed weakly. She said to herself, now looking at the moving sack;
“The day started the same as any other, nobody could have known by that evening,
An early birthing for the brother, a destiny written long before the conceiving.â€Â
The girl then took from the sack that which was no longer her brother. It immediately ceased in its weeping and understood every word she said to it;
“From the seas of man’s reason, you exist on either shore,
Parting brothers then once one, until man exists no more.â€Â
No more.
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[COLOR="Purple"]Finally got a chance to read "Your Kiss" since the matey has been abandoning me!
Again, feel such magic connecting to your writing which is the sign of your talents. You make something so personal seem so familiar.
Again, thanks for all the amazing words.[/COLOR]
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I just read "Your Kiss". I love stories that blur my vision. <3
I am currently writing a big story about, you'll never guess!, gays. It is my first so long story and is a product of many painful efforts that I made so I can get comfortable with my style of writing. However, as I am used to reading such stories in English, I find a little strange and hard to put some of my ideas into words in Bulgarian. "Your Kiss" gave me an idea about the finale of my story. Thank you, David.
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OH NO! I forgot these were up here. Don't look at them! They're horrible, the sentences trip over each other! These were from when I was 15 and bad, bad, bad!
Thank you though Rizz. x)
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