B and A

[Pochipochi]

i let this come off my hands without really reading it over much again, or editing. it probably needs an edit since not all of it was written with an equal amount of care, but i preferred getting it off as is. it's shorter than intended and could've been lengthened.

–-

When the answering machine took over, I was still lying on my stomach, forehead on pillow. The uncomfortableness meant nothing to me. My neck weighed too much to lift, was too strung up to let my head fall. The voice from the other end of the world stabbed at the air to alleviate it of the pressure, but the atmosphere was a sludge that melted back into place after every sharp note puckered at it uselessly. Its efforts were noted, however. Every word it let fall rung an echo in the back of my thoughts, but by the time it reached me I could make out only the faintest. But even the faintest grew and before long was growing in strength, taking advantage, shoving. Did it want in? I let out a groan and for the first time in hours felt life, though it left from my mouth. With the body off guard, my head shook free, broke its shackles, and suddenly my god everything was coming back to me how long was I asleep, or rather more importantly, very much more importantly, because hold on a second. That voice was rolling the erotic off of her tongue as if they were cigarettes. Neatly packed, rehearsed phone sex. What a treat, she had obviously been preparing this for an occasion.

Now somewhat sobered, earlier parts of the conversation pushed their way back into my thoughts without much resistance on my part: sundresses, the removal of them, I had definitely heard something about sundresses... I wasn't really thinking about any other details actually, my mind stopped there. I had a fondness for sundresses matched only by my fetish for female underwear. Accordingly. Ah. A certain vigor returned to me, one that took painstaking difficulty to rope in by my own hands and I thanked the sultry voice silently. Even so. Even so. This wasn't my bed and this wasn't my phone call, but I could not bring myself to feel guilty about overhearing. I sat up, on my knees, and took a look at the answering machine I had been ignoring until now. Only fifty seconds had passed according to the recording time, but somehow the caller had already made it to second base. Where was I before this? But I only need look at my reflection and serve up a glazed gaze to remember the events that had brought me here. 15-Love, you piece of shit. In the other room, my brother's shower was still where it had been hours ago when I had fallen down to hopefully just die. I had disappointed myself, but maybe he died instead. Part of me hoped so.

Taking advantage of his absence, I brought my attention back to his loose-lipped paramore. With no second thoughts to throw aside, my hand threw itself out and cupped the receiver, cherished gift it was. I brought it close to my face. "Wait, I'm here. Did I almost miss you?" There was a silence. A giggle.

"Hello A," her voice slowed when she heard my voice. I could feel her smile. I was not A. She did not realize. I tried to think of a response, but instead used the energy to merge my free palm into my sex. A preparatory act. I maintained silence for an overbearing length of time, hoping she would mercifully pick it up and cradle it in her arms. But nothing. I realized it was my turn. All I could muster was reiteration: "hello."

"Did you just get home? How much did you hear?"

"All of it." I half-lied.

She giggled again, bubbly and childishly. Silence followed. It was enough to make me regret becoming a participant. I did my best to act the part, "Where were we?" Here I go again, further shouldering the responsibility. Will I have to turn her on too? Is this how it works? Rolling the words off in a way I had grown used to by now (enchanted no longer), she queried what position her legs were in. Apart, one up, the other down, maybe one is-- wait, is she flexible enough in person to put one behind her head? Is this a joke to her? A fantasy? I had no interest in the fantastic and I wasn't in the mood for this. I grabbed onto my crotch instinctively, but I knew it had been shut down long before I had even woken up. Kicking the call out from under my own legs, I found my voice again and held on while it bit and hissed, "I'm sorry, but can this wait for later? I have to go. I really am sorry."

A giggle did not follow. Awkward. When she spoke again, she almost sounded hurt, "A, you were the one who-"

"We can continue in a bit. It's my dog, I'll be back in a second." I let down the phone into the receiver. My own expectations. I only even half-provided an excuse. I knew if I waited, I'd be trapped as a participant. For the first time since I heard her voice, I found myself starting to feel guilty. It would be another half hour until I remembered that my brother's apartment did not have a dog. It was sometime around then that my twin exited the bathroom, dressed. He sat down next to me. It was in an assuring way. Almost arrogant. He flipped over his palms and showed me his hands.

"Raisins, B."

"Yeah."

He looked thoughtfully to the side for a second before coming back to me. "Are you going to be staying long? I don't mean to pressure you."

"It's not good if I linger."

"I just mean, I miss you." I noted the depth of his voice in comparison to my own.

I had no response. Though I did. I felt an intense urge to grab his throat. To open my palms, place them around his neck, strengthen the grip, cut off his circulation. My imagination was draining, though, and the image I saw was almost lifeless. He wouldn't fight back. He would just stare, accepting, playing the role he had been cast in years ago. He would sit there and take it. He would only approve after all, these hands were ours. "Do you have a girlfriend?" It fell out.

He chuckled and his tongue slid itself over his teeth, "I don't know. I guess. I don't know. It sounds cold, but I don't even know if I care. Maybe it's selfish to care at all." It was then that he fell backwards on the bed. I turned to look at his face and he gave me a smile. I fell back too. All the same really. I couldn't bring myself to smile. But I couldn't remember why. I stared at the stucco ceiling and the amorphous shapes, masses blending into one another, truly they were my days and it was in this that I realized it was a poor metaphor. Nothing in there looks like me, or even feels as I do. So I stared into a Just-a-Ceiling. If they weren't there, though, where were my days? I tried to think back to how I arrived here, but my thoughts turned to sundresses.

[Jazzy Jinx]

I'm not going to lie, Holy. Even if this was impulsively written, this is really good. All the major points: story, flow, presentation, etc. are all very much above par. The only issue with it is some slightly shaky writing here and there which is only minor at best. I'm very interested in seeing a continuation of this even if, like I said before, it was impulsive.

[Kitsune Inferno]

Why am I not surprised how well of a story-teller you are? Much like Kenny, I have to commend you for this. You've got a great style that's not too bare-bones and not too wordy. It's really nice.~ With a couple of edit runs, you'd have something that could even rival our best. ^^ Bravo, Ashley, and welcome to the Writing section.~

[ChesCa]

Right, this took longer than it should've, but at least it's still 'today.'
Holy, you know how to pour everything you know about imagery and psychology into a scant story and make it intriguing. There's not much in the way of plot here (and whenever there's something subtle I need to have it spelled out for me) but this is a pretty fantastic character study of someone we the reader only get to know for a few minutes.
There is a heavier use of metaphor in the beginning than later, but that could either be fixed by making everything consistent or attribute the imagery to having just woken up, like he's still in a hazy dream.
There could be a bit more use of tags to identify who's talking but since when have even I taken that advice?
This stand alone leaves me wanting more but in a good way. I both want to know how things got this way and how things go from there. It's a slice of life/character study that would be really fascinating.

[Pochipochi]

Feverish writing at 1AM

She's so good at that thing she does. "I get what you mean," I respond to her while eying her lips. To have her seated down at my level is a convenience.

Her focus was unshakeable, "Do I mean something?" She inquires from the hem of my skirt, bent into her craft with intense concentration.

"I must have misunderstood," cautiously I let down the conversation down. It was getting heavy and neither seemed to want to hold it up.

Eyes unwavering, she rests her elbows on the table and plays with a thing in her hands, examining it with an interest absent in her voice. I am relieved that she doesn't continue, but my heart drops at her next words. "I think you need a hobby," and then she picks up something else and fiddles.

I swallow and from my stomach a feeling grows a mushroom, which promptly digests. Perhaps I made a mistake in my word choices earlier. Her attention no longer is with me. If to converse is to play a game, I served her an inadequate shot. Time passes. Also I think she's spitting in my mouth, “I'm sorry, I just like seeing what you make. If you don't show anybody else, that's your business.” I eye the clock and note the hours since I arrived. Every day I come prepared with icebreakers that melt in my mouth before they can reach her and the droplets that make it give way to fragmented half-arguments.

So time passes and I observe. Her hands are her favorite body part. In the years I've known her, this was the first thing I noted. They get dry, she would say and then pour copious amounts of oil, powders and creams into her palm, all expensive, but wasteful she did not find it. She truly loved her hands. I don't really care for them. I actually like her ears. Not for any aesthetic, but because it's a rarity for her hair to be pulled back. On the occasion, just right, she will pull it all back and get up close to that craft of hers. She asks for a headband, so her bangs may not interfere. I keep one in my purse, alongside oil, powders and creams. It makes me feel intimate with her.

"You're like a potted plant." She states this, turns her face not once, but twice, to my thigh (I wish for any reason but it being eye level), and then her hands slow, and then her hands cease. I am pacing in circles at this point around her station, so I too stop.

"I see." I see.

Her expression blanks, "you are welcome. To be here I mean. I don't mean to say, 'you are welcome', as if you thanked me, I mean to say you are welcome to be here. If you're bored, though, I don't mean to keep you."

"It's never boring," I lie, but it is reflexive. Her words sounded kind. If they are kind words, then I must be doing something right. If she doesn't hate me, maybe one day I can get through to her. "Potted plant?" I feel like she's spitting in my mouth again, though.

"Density. Vibes. Atmosphere. I've never noticed if a potted plant ever did make a room colorful, but people usually do the opposite to me, but you're so passive. It's not a decoration I don't mind." I want to believe she speaks sincerely. To be a buzzing fly on the wall. To be tolerated by her. The idea gives me shivers. I cannot follow up, so I let the silence sit. It's never awkward, so I never mind. Silence is what she becomes.

So it goes.

As I trace the collar of her shirt with my eyes, I am startled.

“Do you have a favorite?” she breaths.

It catches me off guard. She spoke so suddenly. I pluck a few words from the air, a makeshift bouquet prepared with illtiming. If she heard me, though, there are no tells in her face. I watch her eyes watch her work. She's so good at that thing she does, I think. Then she gets up, finished, and walks away

[ChesCa]

This is an entry that deserves to be read more than once, and in my case I should. I like barness and fluidity of it all, but I also found it slightly confusing.
I do like the language. It has that kind of empheral reality to it, like how someone's thoughts would actually work.

[Pochipochi]

I was out there, in a levee, staring down at a vastness of dirt. It was all around me, the land, and very deep. There was no surface, but the bottom on top filled with mud. Out on the horizon staring back was a face. It stared back at me, though it was very far away. It was a mile away, I could barely make it out, but I saw its wide eyes. I saw it looking and I cannot help it, but I felt colored completely. I remembered my dreams and the sun bearing down on me. But there was no sun, just greys and oranges and they were everywhere around me and it. I stood still, the vastness around me unsafe. Nothing was on either side, I couldn't bear to look behind me, I suddenly knew then, that no matter what had previously been I could not look back. There was only it behind me and I realized it was watching again. It was so frightened of me, but I felt the most intense fear that it wanted to kill me. Whatever was holding it back, I did not want it to realize how naked I was. For it was held back by this fear and chose to follow behind, my executioner. I looked ahead of the vastness and on the horizon, it was all around me, the land, and very deep. The mud as dried and it was cracked. That feeling of running away overwhelmed me, though I stood still.

I'm afraid of this dream, because I cannot move, because I don't know what to do with this feeling that it's watching me. All around me, as I stand on a levee, staring down at a vastness of dirt, it was all around me, the empty space, the land, and there had never existed another human being and I myself understood the despair to be prey. I walked out on to the bank of sand. I saw it stretch into the distance. There was nothing ahead, absolute nothingness. I was tearing, I heard only a whir of sound coming from far away, pulling at me. I was afraid to run into that nothingness, though I know it is not a cliff that drops into nothing, there is but nothing ahead, but the face, which comes back to me just when I think I may have fallen asleep completely to get away. There is no sound to me, though I am crying, space folds out over everything and then I am alone. Over the horizon I see it, a tiny face, though it is a mile away, I can see it, only the top of its head, its eyes visible. It was so far away I wanted nothing more for it to have never existed. If it went further out, I would grow scareder of the true vastness around me, but to become closer was death. I dug into the sand and I was afraid more and more, but I started sinking through. I hoped I could get under before it saw me.

I realized that I would die if I let it disappear me under, so I pulled and I started doing everything I could to scream then. I tried pulling myself back to the landscape, the dry desert, which was too funny. So great and big, all around me and I realized the whir had returned. It was a song, singing, I could understand completely the words. I was somewhere else, far beyond me, but I could hear every word in the song so perfectly. It was a song as naked as I was, though it didn't realize I was there and I did not want it to know. I reached through the surface and towards the distance and I saw a cottage, which I ran to, never looking backwards because I feared everything that could see my nakedness, the space which oppressed and enveloped me. I felt a coldness on my shoulders and thighs as I reached out, falling into the door of the cottage, and into it I ended up throwing myself. When I was inside I understood I escaped death and I broke into tears and sobbed as much as I could, but only a rasping gasp came out and underneath the door I saw the orange turn to black and the space was gone at once and I was trapped.

In the cottage it was small, with a chair facing the window, which I was afraid to sit in, because the ocean had always frightened me as a child. The window faced into the night and into the ocean, which I felt was growing more and more tall by the second. I did not sit in the chair, but stood against a corner and looked out the window, into the night. My sobs had been because I knew the ocean would drown me for it would never quench my thirst and thirst is all I had anymore. And to the ocean I stared and I watched the waves crash into each other and I swore every crash rose closer to the windowsill. And as I got closer to look, to fully understand the time I had left before I surfaced, my body gave way and I laughed defeatedly. On the horizon in the corner, I realized I had been watched and it stared unblinkingly the entire time as I suffocated

[ChesCa]

Dreams are the run off of the senses bleeding together like a melting mosaic, relying only on mood to give it shape and meaning. As much as I like to self reflect on my own dreams I could only give them symbolism but no real substance. Typing this review right now not planning my words the best I can say is that you practically made rainbow soup or whatever metaphor you want for giving the subconious actual substance, and I'm equally impressed whether this is a story you made up or based on a dream you had the lucidity to remember every single detail of. Fantastic work!