VcatoV
December 17th, 2010, 12:01 AM
This is my second story, and I have a lot of apprehensions about it. I would appreciate criticism more on the work as a whole and the progression of the narrative as opposed to specific elements of style or grammar critiques (though those too are always welcome!).
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The night was damp. One could feel the suffocating embrace of moisture, roaming the earth free from the tyranny of the sun, clinging to all matter like folds of skin hugging the hungry bones of a destitute dog. An interrogative owl marked the time by the only measure known to a forest; the seconds in between hope and sudden expiration. In such a place, it was not surprising that the beauty of tranquility was frequently rocked by the treacheries of a velvet world. They knew no other way, no other method, no other song. Yet not all the contents of a sunless world are drab and hopeless. There are those who dance to an undetectable rhythm, who construct shining wonders in the echoes of the moon. The night is young and the hour long.
She knew he would come. She could seemingly smell the subtle scents seeping from his satin skin. He would arrive within the hour and she would have to be ready. Imminent contact. A mad race ensued as she scrambled to make her home presentable. These moments, the gut-wrenching agony that somehow tore itself into a creeping smile, the pain of expecting a moment to occur so soon that the short distance of time multiplies into eons, the joy of desire above life itself—she existed for these moments. Pride never occurred to her; these were the tools of her craft. It was not the hours spent in preparation which propelled her to act, but the seconds savored in lust.
Instinctively she puffed out her chest. A crimson hourglass glistened on her body, the mark of good breeding. Presentability, quality in craft, and the delicacies of body language were traits that would be passed on to her offspring. For they were the raison d’être. They were calling him, her body merely a vessel. In the stillness that is not silent the wind danced with the leaves. Her anticipation fueled a force within her being so strong that at times she wondered if a butterfly would burst from her bosom, fluttering in a fit of ecstasy. But these were not the times to dream—she must be vigilant. Slowly she stroked her poisonous dagger.
Tension collapsed when the coo-who of the night’s guardian signaled the arrival of the object of her labors. He was much smaller than her with surprisingly longer legs, faint colors of brown being noticeable in the moonlight. It was hoped that her offspring would not pick up on such pedestrian qualities—a foolish wish indeed. Wearing a faded, jaundice-yellow figure, he approached. A sudden shiver surged through her spindly legs, and though she struggled to retain her energy, the need to breed overwhelmed her. He ambulated towards her, each step taking longer than the last. With one leg he rapped a beat upon the entryway. Her spine ached as she stretched her back to its limits, her black body irresistibly contrasting the red hue. By flaunting, she acquiesced. The next few moments occurred in the length of a lifetime, yet would be forgotten in a flash. He reached out and they met.
First contact put into motion a long-hatched plan. With grace they touched and writhed, danced and tried—yes tried—to answer to the greatest call of nature. It was not that she had any objections, for she was prepared to meet any challenge; it was not his revolting appearance, for he was her first in too long; it was not the chill of the fog which blanketed their sin, for vice is relative to life; it was her madness, her delusion, her fear of Medea that tore apart at the fabric of her values. The suitor would soon be suited yet too feeble to push daisies.
In the span of an instant, she knew. The children would arrive to spread her dominion. He had rendered his services, and now collapsed over what he thought was a job well done. Lying there he appeared so vulnerable, hubris at his conquest blinding his flanks. For a second she pitied him, the wretched existence he called life, wandering from meal to meal, driven by an insatiable desire to create something he would never see. Were she to spare him, to pardon his ineptitude, to sacrifice her needs, the consequences would have been irreparable; not only was he her first in awhile, but she too clung to life more tightly than her beloved home. It must be done.
She sank the poisoned penetrators into his supple flesh with the finesse of a moment completed before it began. What once had been the eyes of a man collapsed in pleasurable exhaustion became mirrors to the dread of betrayal in his soul, begging in the most despicably helpless manner to spare what had already been achieved. It was not remorse she felt, not pity or guilt. As the toxins embraced his nerves more intimately than their preceding courtship, her stomach began to grumble as his jilted corpse transformed into a holiday feast. The last inkling of life, dripping from his eyes, were unable to observe the ritualistic orgy of consumed flesh. These same legs which had caressed her thighs, these eyes which had gazed upon her most personal of places, she engulfed with veracity, dropping to the ground those pieces she could not digest. They would eventually find their way to the forest floor, fertilizing the flora as efficiently as planned. She left no part of her scheme to chance.
Commotion in a dense bush in the distance signaled victory for the owl. He flew away, darting through the limbs and gliding over the tree-tops, the spoils of his victory limply dangling from his beak. Watching the wise one flutter off, she was suddenly overcome with the most unforgivable sense of fatigue. Full and fermenting, she knew that her children would face a harsh world. That they would never know their father was none of their concern; that they live, was. The harshness of life is never jarring to the acclimated, and she knew that in time, her daughters would venture forth to create their dream homes, and her sons would march on, blindly pursuing their consumptive demise. For the moment, though, nothing mattered. She gazed off into the distance, waiting for the tempest of the breeze to rock her to sleep.
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The night was damp. One could feel the suffocating embrace of moisture, roaming the earth free from the tyranny of the sun, clinging to all matter like folds of skin hugging the hungry bones of a destitute dog. An interrogative owl marked the time by the only measure known to a forest; the seconds in between hope and sudden expiration. In such a place, it was not surprising that the beauty of tranquility was frequently rocked by the treacheries of a velvet world. They knew no other way, no other method, no other song. Yet not all the contents of a sunless world are drab and hopeless. There are those who dance to an undetectable rhythm, who construct shining wonders in the echoes of the moon. The night is young and the hour long.
She knew he would come. She could seemingly smell the subtle scents seeping from his satin skin. He would arrive within the hour and she would have to be ready. Imminent contact. A mad race ensued as she scrambled to make her home presentable. These moments, the gut-wrenching agony that somehow tore itself into a creeping smile, the pain of expecting a moment to occur so soon that the short distance of time multiplies into eons, the joy of desire above life itself—she existed for these moments. Pride never occurred to her; these were the tools of her craft. It was not the hours spent in preparation which propelled her to act, but the seconds savored in lust.
Instinctively she puffed out her chest. A crimson hourglass glistened on her body, the mark of good breeding. Presentability, quality in craft, and the delicacies of body language were traits that would be passed on to her offspring. For they were the raison d’être. They were calling him, her body merely a vessel. In the stillness that is not silent the wind danced with the leaves. Her anticipation fueled a force within her being so strong that at times she wondered if a butterfly would burst from her bosom, fluttering in a fit of ecstasy. But these were not the times to dream—she must be vigilant. Slowly she stroked her poisonous dagger.
Tension collapsed when the coo-who of the night’s guardian signaled the arrival of the object of her labors. He was much smaller than her with surprisingly longer legs, faint colors of brown being noticeable in the moonlight. It was hoped that her offspring would not pick up on such pedestrian qualities—a foolish wish indeed. Wearing a faded, jaundice-yellow figure, he approached. A sudden shiver surged through her spindly legs, and though she struggled to retain her energy, the need to breed overwhelmed her. He ambulated towards her, each step taking longer than the last. With one leg he rapped a beat upon the entryway. Her spine ached as she stretched her back to its limits, her black body irresistibly contrasting the red hue. By flaunting, she acquiesced. The next few moments occurred in the length of a lifetime, yet would be forgotten in a flash. He reached out and they met.
First contact put into motion a long-hatched plan. With grace they touched and writhed, danced and tried—yes tried—to answer to the greatest call of nature. It was not that she had any objections, for she was prepared to meet any challenge; it was not his revolting appearance, for he was her first in too long; it was not the chill of the fog which blanketed their sin, for vice is relative to life; it was her madness, her delusion, her fear of Medea that tore apart at the fabric of her values. The suitor would soon be suited yet too feeble to push daisies.
In the span of an instant, she knew. The children would arrive to spread her dominion. He had rendered his services, and now collapsed over what he thought was a job well done. Lying there he appeared so vulnerable, hubris at his conquest blinding his flanks. For a second she pitied him, the wretched existence he called life, wandering from meal to meal, driven by an insatiable desire to create something he would never see. Were she to spare him, to pardon his ineptitude, to sacrifice her needs, the consequences would have been irreparable; not only was he her first in awhile, but she too clung to life more tightly than her beloved home. It must be done.
She sank the poisoned penetrators into his supple flesh with the finesse of a moment completed before it began. What once had been the eyes of a man collapsed in pleasurable exhaustion became mirrors to the dread of betrayal in his soul, begging in the most despicably helpless manner to spare what had already been achieved. It was not remorse she felt, not pity or guilt. As the toxins embraced his nerves more intimately than their preceding courtship, her stomach began to grumble as his jilted corpse transformed into a holiday feast. The last inkling of life, dripping from his eyes, were unable to observe the ritualistic orgy of consumed flesh. These same legs which had caressed her thighs, these eyes which had gazed upon her most personal of places, she engulfed with veracity, dropping to the ground those pieces she could not digest. They would eventually find their way to the forest floor, fertilizing the flora as efficiently as planned. She left no part of her scheme to chance.
Commotion in a dense bush in the distance signaled victory for the owl. He flew away, darting through the limbs and gliding over the tree-tops, the spoils of his victory limply dangling from his beak. Watching the wise one flutter off, she was suddenly overcome with the most unforgivable sense of fatigue. Full and fermenting, she knew that her children would face a harsh world. That they would never know their father was none of their concern; that they live, was. The harshness of life is never jarring to the acclimated, and she knew that in time, her daughters would venture forth to create their dream homes, and her sons would march on, blindly pursuing their consumptive demise. For the moment, though, nothing mattered. She gazed off into the distance, waiting for the tempest of the breeze to rock her to sleep.