100 Words (or Fewer)

* * *

Christine dipped her finger into the wine glass and with it drew a large, wet heart on her lover's stomach. "The difference between my love for you and yours for me is, as I see it, that mine IS conditional. I don't want unconditional love. I can't respect it because it's too much like worship. No, I prefer to be loved conditionally. Attach strings to your love. I want there to be lines in the sand of your emotional desert, things I could do that would damage us. Without them, you're just a dog to me. I'm a cat person."

* * *

Weekends made her feel pathetic, and the weekdays weren't much better of late. Squeezed into the transitional moments of a well-worn orbit, real change hovered just out of reach, teasing. Ricki asked herself for the umpteeth time why she put up with it; why she allowed another to put her on hold. Where was this love? On what plane did it exist? When she reached for its sustenance, her hands hit… a black hole of promises. The complete lack of any sense of urgency fueled her growing dissatisfaction. Time passed inexorably and with it, the gravity of her hope.

* * *

Stepping off the roller coaster, Chloe blinked in an attempt to balance. Her body still swayed with the memories of the excruciatingly slow uphill climbs followed by the inevitable gut-wrenching plunges. How long had she ridden; how many circuits? She couldn't recall when she last felt terra firma beneath her feet. Her first steps were unsteady, tentative, but as she distanced herself from the ride, her confidence grew. It felt good to be moving on her own terms, at her own pace. Leaving the ride behind, she lifted her eyes to the horizon. There, she smiled. I'm going there.

* * *

Leah studied the small gift in her hands. A token, really. Inexpensive bordering on cheap. Certainly not a burden to the giver, requiring more thought than coin. Nevertheless, she wanted—needed—it, and she absolutely hated the fact that she had to ask for it. Anyone paying attention, the ultimate gift, would have known. Anyone truly committed to her happiness would—should—have known. She shook it. Its heft felt hollow, contrived, desperate; not fulfilling as it would have been if spontaneous. Sighing, she flung it against the wall. Even its physical impact disappointed her. "Too little. Too late."

* * *

There's a difference between being "reserved" and being "deceitful," and regardless how much Tamara rationalized, that difference left a garish, indelible stain on the crisp, white linen of their love. She spread a salve of words around her actions to soothe Justin's burn. Poured excuses into neat, little capsules and dispensed them like medicine. Drowned the voices with sweet wine and sweeter promises. Packaged her precious sacrifice like a gift with a shiny silver bow. At the end of the day, it still hurt him. What purpose did such pain serve if it destroyed the very reason for its existence?

* * *

The arguments sounded weak to Jamie's ears, and he knew why: they were weak. No matter how he sliced it, he couldn't rationalize his actions in a way that convincingly justified the hurt they caused. Not just any hurt, either. Oh, no. Jamie had, by persuading himself it was for the best, hurt—deeply—the one person he wanted most to please. He wondered if he'd done irreparable harm to their relationship and prayed not, especially since he knew he was just going to continue to do it. Every day, every moment, was a choice—and Jamie chose to procrastinate.

* * *

The process of first recognizing, then accepting, that the relationship was never going to be what she most wanted it to be drove Maria into an emotional abyss. Too tired, too angry, and just too fucking too to haul herself out of the pit, she stretched supine on its floor and wallowed in the muck of ennui. It sucked at her soul, and she knew she should divorce herself from it rather than continue to hope for change. Move on. Alone. Perhaps forever alone, or at least until she could scour the stain of such transient beauty from her skin.

* * *

One by one, the gang filled the corner booth. Tamara swallowed her pride as she accepted Justin's kiss. Their ever-changing dynamic made each gathering fresh: sometimes awkward, others invigorating. Friends today might be lovers tomorrow. Through it all, the whole remained surprisingly solid. Jamie held out Chloe's chair, winking as he ignored Maria's glare. Ricki flanked her left, and Leah her right, making Maria's ire evaporate in the heat of their proximity. Girl love, they all knew, existed on a different plane of emotional existence.

Christine raised her glass. "A toast… to love!"

"To love!" they echoed in unison, laughing.

# # #

And the feedback ...

Resonates
06/26/07 by Nirvanadragones
- deeply, as always. I love that you write my feelings without you intending to. That's what Soulcandy does. And I'm so very thankful.

Masterful
06/26/07 by saw_man1 in Atlanta
That was indeed a masterful series of sketches which when strung together form a vivid portrait. This is a perfect example of less being more!

What was your intention?
06/26/07 by Anonymous
The way you strung together words is pretty - in fact, they are almost musical - like a poem, but I have NO clue what you are talking about or what were your intentions for writing this collection of words. I guess I'm just not artsy enough because I have no clue what you are writing about or what was your intention for stringing these words together. Nevertheless, it was pretty.

Beautiful
06/27/07 by Northsider in canada
This was a lovely, honest, and unencumbered treasure: almost jazz like. I loved it, it inspired me.

Trained

Victyr raised the hand nearest the aisle without turning from the window. Outside, early morning fog blanketed the terminal, rendering travelers into a throng of bustling apparitions. He felt his ticket taken, heard the snick of it being punched, and waited for the same two words as it was returned to his hand.

“Pleasant journey.”

The familiar smells of coffee and bacon followed the conductor as he made his way through the car. His breakfast never varied, but the odor sometimes competed with that of the fabric softener his wife used. At least, Victyr assumed the man’s wife laundered his clothes. He wore a wedding ring, after all, and his collars were always starched.

Snick for the old guy with the musty suit. “Pleasant journey.”

Snick for the haggard, young woman. “Pleasant journey.”

And so it went. Twenty-seven regulars and a handful of occasionals. He knew all their stops; guessed all their stories. Each traveled alone.

Victyr often complained about the commute, but he could not imagine his life without the comfort of its routine. Each day, he crossed six stops to his destination, spent the day in a purgatory of his own creation, and returned in the evening to a house that wasn’t home.

He’d long since memorized the cadence of the tracks and the flicker of passing lights through the crimson curtain of his eyelids. His fellow passengers he knew by scent and by sight but not by name. Save one. An exception. They didn’t speak, but the camaraderie of shared silence cemented their bonds. Misery loved company.

By the time the train reached his stop, only he and Mrs. Martim remained onboard. They didn’t acknowledge one another until the last of the other passengers disembarked. To do so seemed to violate a code, of sorts. Each traveled alone.

At their destination, they often shared a cup of hot coffee and cold commiseration before parting ways for the day. Her situation mirrored his own. Neither could see any escape.

Victyr shrugged himself into his overcoat as he rose and collected an old briefcase. Stepping into the aisle, he paused to allow Mrs. Martim to precede him.

She sat two rows forward, on the opposite side. Her head was bowed, and she made no move to stand. He thought, perhaps, she’d fallen asleep.

Still loathe to speak, Victyr cleared his throat. No response.

After his second attempt failed to get her attention, he whispered, “Mrs. Martim, time to go.”

She turned then, eyes filled with tears. “I’m going on today, Victyr, to the end of the line.”

Speechless, he shook his head.

“Yes. It’s time.”

“I…” He reached for some words, any words. “Good luck, Mrs. Martim.”

She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Thank you. Please, though, call me by given name. Just once. I won’t see you again unless…”

He looked down at the back of his hand and the sheen of her tears that sparkled upon it.

“Good luck,” his voice cracked, “Joy.”

Pantheism 101: Sexual Synæsthesia

Pantheism 101 is now available as an ebook.

~ ~ ~

Impressive work...
04/02/07 by jakebarnes06
...from one who has watched that of which you write.

A little jewel...
04/04/07 by TE999
that glows brightly. Evocative and inspiring. Wonderful story, imp. Good luck in the contest.
Tender & sweet
04/05/07 by Sapphire_O
This was a very comforting story. I think you did a great job of writing an original Earth Day story; the theme is genuine and integral, rather than tacked on. I love the tenderness you show Penny in this story. Thanks for sharing.
wow
04/05/07 by Unbridled_Passion
that is all I can say-wow!
I really enjoyed that
04/08/07 by CeriseNoire in USA
Lovely, vivid imagery. A very pleasing read.
Intriguing
04/09/07 by RogueLurker
I found myself drawn in as the story unfolded and enjoyed it thoroughly. A fascinating take on Earth Day - and I'd like to find out where to sign up for those classes. Wonderfully done.
didactic literalism
04/11/07 by gaoshan
dictates that I remind you that Cecil Adams has conclusively demonstrated that running in the rain does, in fact, keep you drier. Otherwise, an interesting work.
Very original
04/13/07 by Darkniciad in IN US
Unique, with a lot of character development in just a few words.
Another piece of IMPressive writing
04/15/07 by Rumple Foreskin
Somehow I can't see that class at Texas A&M or Bob Johns University. :) Well done, Imp.
Creative
04/15/07 by SelenaKittyn
Creative and interesting... and extremely well written! Selena
Interesting
04/18/07 by damppanties
A unique story, but then, one expects that from you. Good one, Imp.

Timeless

First light peeks through the drapery sheers, appearing as a raspberry blush through closed eyelids. Their pale bodies lie atop the soft taupe bedspread, naked limbs entwined in a deeply sated slumber. Lance smiles softly without opening his eyes, remembering that the woman he loves is—against all odds—finally by his side. His beard is still redolent with her essence, and his hips ache with the memory of passion lasting far into the night. Into the pre-dawn hours, if truth be told.

Truth. If defined as the absence of pretense, he muses, then their love is most assuredly true. Truer, in fact, than any bound by the arbitrary constructs of sin and salvation. Call it destiny, if needs be, or call it lust. Both may be true, but neither matters when the silky skin of her thighs rests atop his groin. Their rhythmic union declares itself beyond the reach of definition, of mere words—timeless in its systolic perfection.

Gwen stirs—whimpers as if an unpleasant dream disturbs her sleep—and he kisses her forehead to smooth her brow. The ding of an elevator carries through the heavy door, accompanied by muffled voices from another realm, another reality. The wheels of a pulled suitcase echo as retreating hoof beats against the ridges of the tiled corridor floor. Distant sounds of morning traffic filter through the thick panes of glass high above the city streets. Reminders of a world to which they must soon return. The dual spells of duty and honor, cast upon their souls, would ne’er allow them to remain in this sheltered escape. Their power trumped all else.

He is painfully aware that the universe may have but one such night set aside for them, and it is not without grave risk to their lives, their loves, and their cause. Yet her insistent kisses vanquish all doubt. Her hot tongue upon his cock eclipses even the threat of death, and her velvet touch rends his very soul. There is no price too steep for this moment—no grail too dear. In their stolen embrace, only now exists.

Opening his eyes, Lance drinks the sight of her face. Fair lashes rest against porcelain cheeks still flushed with sex. Her breath teases his mouth, and he moves closer to inhale the air once inside her—as if in so doing, part of her will forever be in his blood. She smiles in waking as his tongue then traces the outline of her lips, and her eyes—bluest fields deep—slowly open to the morning.

The purity of her gaze falls upon him, and he gasps in wonder. She can speak volumes with nary a word, calm raging storms of doubt, and keep the poison chalice of fear from his lips. There is both peace and passion in those eyes, and when they hold him, he wants only to swim in their depths for all of tomorrow. That such unparalleled comfort coexists with burning desire is ever a source of awe, and Lance again thanks the powers that be for allowing him even one night of such bliss. To dare hope for a lifetime of it seems greedy in the extreme, yet such hope is his very oxygen.

Their kiss deepens, and their bodies move together—closing the narrow space. He feels the cold steel just as Gwen gasps. Neither recoils. They know—without needing to look—what lies between them. It has been there all along, in spirit if not in fact, and their eyes lock in silent understanding. Time’s up. The sword’s ornate handle protrudes from the mattress, its legendary blade embedded as they slept.

Their love of another brought them to this place and time, and while both feel the unavoidable shame of shared betrayal, neither regrets their union. To deny such passion would be to insult life and, in so doing, forfeit the divine magic in one’s soul. Better to at least attempt flight—soaring ever so briefly with the warmth of the sun on love’s wings—than remain ever tethered to the earth. Better to have at least glimpsed the heart’s true Camelot than never know such beauty. They are now one, and no matter where life’s currents take them, it will always be thus.

And so, as one, their fingers grip the shaft to extract the blade, and they read the words engraved upon it. Timeless words for a timeless quest. On one side: Take Me Up. On the other: Cast Me Away.