Heart's Desire
Re: Heart's Desire
I agree with Imperial Standard: this is quite good. Definitely liking where this story is going
激しさとこの胸の中で絡みついたしやくねつのやみゆるぎないあすとかう
The other side of death
The other side of death
Re: Heart's Desire
While I have immense appreciation and gratitude for your shows of support, a little more in-depth criticism would be immeasurably more useful to me in optimizing the next chapters.
Re: Heart's Desire
Weeeell, since you asked so nicely... ^_^
"Now, that mysterious force tried to bring me closer to her." <- Two things: first, I would omit the word 'tried'. Second, I would replace 'to bring me closer to her' with something more physical or direct. Perhaps a sentence like, "Now, that mysterious force sent me walking straight toward her." Something to give more real and forceful imagery to the compulsion that he feels at that moment. That's the only major content change I would suggest (nothing very 'major' about it, though).
In the beginning of this third chapter, many of your sentences were quite long. There's nothing wrong with this, except where maybe one or two turned into an entire paragraph, in of themselves. However, it also seems that, at the beginning, the very long sentences were clustered together. The end of this chapter also had a lot of medium-length sentences following each other. If you'd like, you could try keeping the sentence length and structure varied. I hear that the reader is more mentally stimulated when they're constantly surprised by unexpected lengths, though it wasn't much of a problem for me.
Those are the only real critiques I can think of. You mentioned frustration with the dialogue, but since it was a series of short, back-and-forth statements, I can't really see what you could have added without making the reading clunky and awkward. I think you added in just the right amount of non-conversational detail, and the sentences aren't long enough to really manipulate (I don't think they should be, anyway). Reading what you have here already sounds pretty natural.
You also keep your sentence structures pretty well-varied. Sometimes you'll use openers [example: Initially, I...], sometimes closers [ex: ...finished, that's all.], and often just a plain, non-fluffed sentence. Only saw one or two splits [ex: ... features, while a bit strange, were still...], but those are rather awkward to implement, as it is.
Anyway, TL;DR: here are a few improvements, but I think you are truly doing quite well.
"Now, that mysterious force tried to bring me closer to her." <- Two things: first, I would omit the word 'tried'. Second, I would replace 'to bring me closer to her' with something more physical or direct. Perhaps a sentence like, "Now, that mysterious force sent me walking straight toward her." Something to give more real and forceful imagery to the compulsion that he feels at that moment. That's the only major content change I would suggest (nothing very 'major' about it, though).
In the beginning of this third chapter, many of your sentences were quite long. There's nothing wrong with this, except where maybe one or two turned into an entire paragraph, in of themselves. However, it also seems that, at the beginning, the very long sentences were clustered together. The end of this chapter also had a lot of medium-length sentences following each other. If you'd like, you could try keeping the sentence length and structure varied. I hear that the reader is more mentally stimulated when they're constantly surprised by unexpected lengths, though it wasn't much of a problem for me.
Those are the only real critiques I can think of. You mentioned frustration with the dialogue, but since it was a series of short, back-and-forth statements, I can't really see what you could have added without making the reading clunky and awkward. I think you added in just the right amount of non-conversational detail, and the sentences aren't long enough to really manipulate (I don't think they should be, anyway). Reading what you have here already sounds pretty natural.
You also keep your sentence structures pretty well-varied. Sometimes you'll use openers [example: Initially, I...], sometimes closers [ex: ...finished, that's all.], and often just a plain, non-fluffed sentence. Only saw one or two splits [ex: ... features, while a bit strange, were still...], but those are rather awkward to implement, as it is.
Anyway, TL;DR: here are a few improvements, but I think you are truly doing quite well.
激しさとこの胸の中で絡みついたしやくねつのやみゆるぎないあすとかう
The other side of death
The other side of death
Re: Heart's Desire
This chapter is a lot shorter than the other ones. It's just that first it was way too long, but I figured I could sort of cut it in two and it wouldn't look too unnatural, then I'd have two slightly short chapters instead of one insanely long one...
bah.
The Good, The Bad, and The Happy
Sitting right next to her on the cold wooden bench felt like going all the way back to the classroom. She was being as aloof as ever on her side, and I was nervous and ridiculous sitting on mine, and neither of us seemed to have the courage to cross the gap; exchanging awkward, silent glances over the invisible wall, thirty centimetres thick, that separated us.
Yet this time, I could see through the cracks in it. I'd wished so very hard that she could, too. Hoped and feared that at that very moment, she did.
Even though I had no idea what I saw. Even though I had no idea what she might see.
The cracks widened as the silence grew.
The whispering wind around us reached out to a troupe of dead leaves, picking them off the ground for one last, desperate dance of absolute freedom, as if aware of some sorrowful longing of theirs; of a nostalgic hope to return to the skyward canopy within which they were born.
I shivered. Emma did not. Maybe because of that fur coat she was wearing – it did seem very warm. I also couldn't help but notice that it mostly hid some of her more obvious bodily features, an elegant covering for a tantalizing, obscene image.
Then I realized that the only reason I'd noticed was that I've been unconsciously staring, perhaps looking for said, and immediately went back to looking at the leaves.
"You know what would feel just about perfect right now?" I whispered absentmindedly.
"No", she admitted.
"Piano music. Starting off slowly, quietly. Never quite reaching full strength. Just… existing in the background. You know what I mean? When a piano sounds like sad raindrops?"
This made her smile a little. "Are you saying that sad raindrops would feel perfect right now?"
I stretched my neck to look at the sky above us. All I could say of it, hidden behind the red canopy, was that
it was a dark, cold grey colour.
"Maybe."
"Does that mean that you're sad?"
I closed my eyes. "I don't think so. Are you?"
"Maybe", she answered, and didn't elaborate any further.
"Raindrops and pianos sometimes sound like dreams to me."
She turned to me to give me another strange look, raising an eyebrow.
"What a thing to dream about."
I giggled. "Have any better ones?"
"Not any that I feel like sharing with you", she said flatly.
Yet even as she did, I think I could hear that piano in the distance.
Starting off slowly and quietly, like sad raindrops. My mind composing a soundtrack for this moment in the film of my life.
It was a beautiful tune.
Maybe I spoke mostly to myself. Maybe I'd wanted her to hear.
"…whenever I see you, you're like a completely different person."
She contemplated this for a few moments. "Am I?"
"Yes," I said, now with more confidence. "Yes you are."
"What kind of person am I now, then?"
Wind blowing around us. Red leaves. A distant piano in my mind.
"I'm still not sure."
"But I'm different from before?"
I nodded.
"I see. Is it a good kind of different?"
What could I say that would hurt her the least? What could I say that wouldn't provoke or offend her? That I was afraid of her before? That I pitied before? Was I not then? Did I not then?
Which Emma did I want to bring out? Which Emma did I want to touch, to agitate, to confront?
The wild monster from the day before? The cynical flirt from that morning? The sad queen I was sitting right next to?
"It's just different. That's all."
This answer seemed to disappoint her more than any other could have, and I cursed my lack of confidence once again. I told myself that it could have been worse. That I could have made her cry again.
I tried to believe that.
Searching through my mind for something to talk about, I was brought once more down to earth by the rustling of the branches.
"This park feels like being inside a fairytale, doesn't it?"
"I hate fairytales."
"Why?" I asked, genuinely disappointed, somewhat shocked.
She had a difficult expression on her face. Her posture strengthened it. "They're just stupid."
"Didn't you enjoy them when you were younger, though?"
"If I did, does that mean that I have to enjoy them now? I grew out of it."
"People sometimes tell me I should, too," I chuckled.
She didn't respond to this, and passed one leg over the other in her seat, as if doing anything in her ability in order to increase the distance between us. I was starting to feel as if I was boring her (or even worse, offending her again) and so, looking for a subject for us to converse about, asked the first question that came to mind:
"Do you read other kinds of books?"
She gave me a polite, somewhat uneasy smile before answering that. "Not anymore, really. I should probably get back to it one day, I guess."
"No time, huh?" I nodded sympathetically.
"You could say that", she replied, then fell silent for a moment as she considered her next sentence. "I'm just… not very good at keeping focus long enough for something like that. It'd take me ages to finish a book."
"You do seem flighty at times", I agreed, trying to sound friendly and interested, unwilling to mention that right now seemed to have been one of those times. But something about the way she expressed her last sentence made me grow more alert all of a sudden. The cracks in the wall between us widened a little. The fleeting image of something dark and indescribable could be seen, just for a moment, on the other side.
The way her shoulders sloped, and the way her lips tightened.
"Lots on your mind?"
"Yes… and no" she replied cryptically.
Another gust of cold wind hit us. This time, she crossed her arms tightly around her body against it. I resisted the urging of two different instincts to come closer to her, to cuddle, perhaps, to hug.
The primal instinct of human beings to share their body heat through touch to protect each other from the wrath of the freezing wind.
And another one, which I dared not name or describe to myself. Perhaps it was another kind of protective intention. Perhaps it was not, and I did well to leave it at the edges of my thought.
"Is that something you'd like to talk about?", I asked through clenched teeth until the gale subsided.
"Not with you, I wouldn't."
I pulled back a little, not hurt by her words as much as by the realization that I accidentally went too deep. I touched too sensitive a spot, apparently. Delved into a matter too personal.
And then she spoke.
"Thank you for asking, though. You're kind of weird, but maybe not in a bad way."
I was at a loss for words, so I just muttered "thank you" in a volume undetectable to the naked human ear. Thank God it wasn't raining at the moment. I could imagine the steam rising from my face as the drops hit it.
It was an inconvenient feeling, but Emma's weary, subtly apologetic smile at that moment seemed worth any amount of discomfort. It was a real one, and that made it more beautiful than any seductive smirk that's ever appeared on her face.
I think I could see her blushing a little. A told myself that I did, and I told myself that it was for all the right reasons, because I didn't want to admit that it most likely wasn't.
She has removed her armour of nonchalance before me. I could see through her cloak of serenity. Behind the transparent wall that separated us, I could almost see her beating heart, could almost hear its whisper.
All it would've taken would be a raise of my arm – to reach for it, to grasp it and bring it closer to me. To pry open, to force open, to observe its internal mechanisms.
Yet she seemed so fragile around it. So brittle that a misplaced word could bring her down like a work of glass.
It was a moment of clarity that one can only experience before making a deep, fateful decision: to ask, or not to ask. To risk breaking something beautiful and pushing her further away from me, for the chance of attaining a lead, a clue pointing towards the elusive truth behind her.
I cleared my throat, somewhat more loudly than I'd intended. She only turned halfway towards me, appearing to be no less conflicted than I was, no less curious and doubtful.
"Before…" I started, speaking slowly and clearly, making every word count, "…you asked me whether you are now a good kind of different."
She nodded, saying nothing.
"There is something I need to ask you before I could answer that question."
"Ask away", she said, her voice hollow, glinting with an edge of creeping fear.
"What makes you happier?"
She giggled again, nervously, and there was obviously nothing funny about it to her.
"What do you mean?"
I considered my words carefully; suddenly not sure anymore whether I even knew myself how I'd wanted to phrase my question.
"The way we are speaking right now. The way you're acting right now, the… Does any of it make you happier than the way you acted… you know. Back in class."
"You intend to say that what makes me happy is what's good for me?" she countered with a question of her own. "Then let me ask you this: what is happiness?"
I sat silent, shocked and confused, unable to respond.
And indeed, what could I have said? Philosophers have been wrestling with questions like this one ever since there were philosophers; possibly a lot before.
Happiness, like sadness, like beauty, all pervasive and so natural that we often do not even mentally notice it. Happiness, in whose recognition we can make no mistake…
And which, as much as we try, we cannot adequately define with words.
"I don't suppose you want me to go quoting Seligman?"
She frowned. "Never heard of him. Can you answer my question?"
I thought some more. Above us, the sky was already a shade of purple, and the red leaves around us were blackening as we spoke, burned by the darkness.
She seemed determined to get an answer out of me, and I didn't want to disappoint her – but her question hasn't been an easy one, and I could already see the rest of the conversation unfolding before my eyes.
"…well, maybe… a feeling of contentment? Pleasure? Fulfilment?"
"I see", she said, and went back to looking at the trees.
"Then I'm afraid that for your last question, I'd have to answer 'no'. I'm not happier here with you than I was back in class. Not by a long shot."
The breath that I've been holding without noticing has been released pathetically into a long sigh and a pale cloud of vapour. "I'm sorry", I said simply, and got ready to move away.
Her words stopped me on my tracks, though. "I don't think you should be."
Now was my turn to ask her "What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, then stopped suddenly with her mouth still open, having probably not yet fully finished formulating her response. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, then continued: "By your definition of it… I am happy being like in class. I feel content and fulfilled and all that. And when I'm here with you, well, you're depressing and strange and not very friendly, and you haven't really been helping with the already bad mood I was in…"
"How does any of that mean that I shouldn't be sorry?"
"…because despite all that, I think that the happiness I feel acting like I did is not what's good for me. I think that being here with you, and answering your stupid questions, and speaking with you about those kinds of things… I think it just might be."
It took me a while to realize that I was staring, dumbfounded.
"Dammit, I am not making a whole lot of sense now, am I?"
"No need to worry", I said flatly, still processing the rest of her confession. "I'm not really expecting you to anymore."
She laughed again, shivering as she did, clenching her fingers against the fabric of her white coat.
I was starting to get those disturbing vibes from her again.
"Are you alright?" I asked, throwing caution to the wind the way I've apparently learned in record time over the last day and a half.
"No, I am not", she answered, her voice sounding a little broken. She breathed in deeply, and slowly let her palms open.
"See what I meant? I'm not happy at all being with you. You're nothing but trouble", she said, her smile a little unfocused. "And I think it's good. Isn't that funny?"
"I don't think it is", I answered, moving a little further from her across the bench without noticing. "You're starting to scare me all over again."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. It's… not your fault. Or maybe it is. I don't know."
"It's alright", I answered.
"We make an awful lot of apologizing to each other. Something just about that might be wrong with us."
A slow nod. A hesitating gesture – then a pause of premature regret.
"I don't want to touch you", she explained, as if it'd made things clear all of a sudden. Maybe it did for her; for me, it was just her pulling out another riddle out of the blue.
"…I get that a lot from girls, it's all right. You don't need to."
"I mean," she stumbled, maybe suddenly worrying over having accidentally offended me, "I want to. But I don't think that'd be good. So I won't."
"That'd probably be for the best", I agreed, although I didn't really have any idea of what I was talking about.
It seemed to make her feel better, though, so I think it was the right thing to do.
I waited for her to calm down a little bit before I pulled myself back into my former seat, closer to her.
"Is that something that happens to you often?" I asked.
"Not… really. Not like that."
"I already said that you don't have to tell me anything if you don't feel comfortable with it."
"I don't, but I should", she said, a tortured expression on her face. "You're just like my psychiatrist, you know?"
"You have a psychiatrist?"
"…I just said I do, didn't I?"
"And you see him because of… this? Whatever this is?"
She nodded quietly.
"It's not working out so well. But it's better than nothing."
"Are you afraid of touching people?"
"No", she replied, shaking her head quite forcefully. "But I was afraid of touching you, before."
"I'm that scary?"
She laughed weakly. "You're not. I am."
"Well, I can't say you're not", I admitted jokingly, taking another look at the sky.
"It's getting kind of late. My mom's probably wondering where I am right now", I finally mentioned. "And you look like you could use some rest. How about we get going soon?"
"Alright, then," she said, "But can you… can you stay just for a while longer? Please? You don't have to do anything. Just sit here with me."
I said yes, and so I did. The silence deepened once again, and the walls returned to their places – though not quite, and the fairy wood around us transformed with each passing minute into a dark mirror of itself, no less enchanting.
"I just realized I have no idea what your name is", she said casually, dreamily, not even looking in my direction."
"Is that a problem?"
"Only if it troubles you."
"I see", I answered, not really focused on our conversation anymore, lost in thought.
"Friedrich. Friedrich Gottlieb. Pleasure to meet you."
"Pleasure to meet you, Friedrich."
To part with an introduction. How terribly cliché of us it was. But so it was, and the shadows of the autumn trees around us made a perfect background for the scene as it was.
"I have practice tomorrow, but if you'd like to see me here again on the day after that…"
She never got to finish that sentence, since I cut her in the middle of it.
"I'd be honoured."
--------------------------------------------------
Now here's a challenge: which music was a listening to while I wrote this?
(also: can you start guessing what the protagonist's problem is?)
Criticism etc. etc. I'd stop here before I'm tempted to go on a self-bashing rampage that might anger Worthington again.
Good night, for now.
P.S. No, his name isn't a historical reference. Will people stop asking that? It's not that uncommon a name, surely?
bah.
The Good, The Bad, and The Happy
Sitting right next to her on the cold wooden bench felt like going all the way back to the classroom. She was being as aloof as ever on her side, and I was nervous and ridiculous sitting on mine, and neither of us seemed to have the courage to cross the gap; exchanging awkward, silent glances over the invisible wall, thirty centimetres thick, that separated us.
Yet this time, I could see through the cracks in it. I'd wished so very hard that she could, too. Hoped and feared that at that very moment, she did.
Even though I had no idea what I saw. Even though I had no idea what she might see.
The cracks widened as the silence grew.
The whispering wind around us reached out to a troupe of dead leaves, picking them off the ground for one last, desperate dance of absolute freedom, as if aware of some sorrowful longing of theirs; of a nostalgic hope to return to the skyward canopy within which they were born.
I shivered. Emma did not. Maybe because of that fur coat she was wearing – it did seem very warm. I also couldn't help but notice that it mostly hid some of her more obvious bodily features, an elegant covering for a tantalizing, obscene image.
Then I realized that the only reason I'd noticed was that I've been unconsciously staring, perhaps looking for said, and immediately went back to looking at the leaves.
"You know what would feel just about perfect right now?" I whispered absentmindedly.
"No", she admitted.
"Piano music. Starting off slowly, quietly. Never quite reaching full strength. Just… existing in the background. You know what I mean? When a piano sounds like sad raindrops?"
This made her smile a little. "Are you saying that sad raindrops would feel perfect right now?"
I stretched my neck to look at the sky above us. All I could say of it, hidden behind the red canopy, was that
it was a dark, cold grey colour.
"Maybe."
"Does that mean that you're sad?"
I closed my eyes. "I don't think so. Are you?"
"Maybe", she answered, and didn't elaborate any further.
"Raindrops and pianos sometimes sound like dreams to me."
She turned to me to give me another strange look, raising an eyebrow.
"What a thing to dream about."
I giggled. "Have any better ones?"
"Not any that I feel like sharing with you", she said flatly.
Yet even as she did, I think I could hear that piano in the distance.
Starting off slowly and quietly, like sad raindrops. My mind composing a soundtrack for this moment in the film of my life.
It was a beautiful tune.
Maybe I spoke mostly to myself. Maybe I'd wanted her to hear.
"…whenever I see you, you're like a completely different person."
She contemplated this for a few moments. "Am I?"
"Yes," I said, now with more confidence. "Yes you are."
"What kind of person am I now, then?"
Wind blowing around us. Red leaves. A distant piano in my mind.
"I'm still not sure."
"But I'm different from before?"
I nodded.
"I see. Is it a good kind of different?"
What could I say that would hurt her the least? What could I say that wouldn't provoke or offend her? That I was afraid of her before? That I pitied before? Was I not then? Did I not then?
Which Emma did I want to bring out? Which Emma did I want to touch, to agitate, to confront?
The wild monster from the day before? The cynical flirt from that morning? The sad queen I was sitting right next to?
"It's just different. That's all."
This answer seemed to disappoint her more than any other could have, and I cursed my lack of confidence once again. I told myself that it could have been worse. That I could have made her cry again.
I tried to believe that.
Searching through my mind for something to talk about, I was brought once more down to earth by the rustling of the branches.
"This park feels like being inside a fairytale, doesn't it?"
"I hate fairytales."
"Why?" I asked, genuinely disappointed, somewhat shocked.
She had a difficult expression on her face. Her posture strengthened it. "They're just stupid."
"Didn't you enjoy them when you were younger, though?"
"If I did, does that mean that I have to enjoy them now? I grew out of it."
"People sometimes tell me I should, too," I chuckled.
She didn't respond to this, and passed one leg over the other in her seat, as if doing anything in her ability in order to increase the distance between us. I was starting to feel as if I was boring her (or even worse, offending her again) and so, looking for a subject for us to converse about, asked the first question that came to mind:
"Do you read other kinds of books?"
She gave me a polite, somewhat uneasy smile before answering that. "Not anymore, really. I should probably get back to it one day, I guess."
"No time, huh?" I nodded sympathetically.
"You could say that", she replied, then fell silent for a moment as she considered her next sentence. "I'm just… not very good at keeping focus long enough for something like that. It'd take me ages to finish a book."
"You do seem flighty at times", I agreed, trying to sound friendly and interested, unwilling to mention that right now seemed to have been one of those times. But something about the way she expressed her last sentence made me grow more alert all of a sudden. The cracks in the wall between us widened a little. The fleeting image of something dark and indescribable could be seen, just for a moment, on the other side.
The way her shoulders sloped, and the way her lips tightened.
"Lots on your mind?"
"Yes… and no" she replied cryptically.
Another gust of cold wind hit us. This time, she crossed her arms tightly around her body against it. I resisted the urging of two different instincts to come closer to her, to cuddle, perhaps, to hug.
The primal instinct of human beings to share their body heat through touch to protect each other from the wrath of the freezing wind.
And another one, which I dared not name or describe to myself. Perhaps it was another kind of protective intention. Perhaps it was not, and I did well to leave it at the edges of my thought.
"Is that something you'd like to talk about?", I asked through clenched teeth until the gale subsided.
"Not with you, I wouldn't."
I pulled back a little, not hurt by her words as much as by the realization that I accidentally went too deep. I touched too sensitive a spot, apparently. Delved into a matter too personal.
And then she spoke.
"Thank you for asking, though. You're kind of weird, but maybe not in a bad way."
I was at a loss for words, so I just muttered "thank you" in a volume undetectable to the naked human ear. Thank God it wasn't raining at the moment. I could imagine the steam rising from my face as the drops hit it.
It was an inconvenient feeling, but Emma's weary, subtly apologetic smile at that moment seemed worth any amount of discomfort. It was a real one, and that made it more beautiful than any seductive smirk that's ever appeared on her face.
I think I could see her blushing a little. A told myself that I did, and I told myself that it was for all the right reasons, because I didn't want to admit that it most likely wasn't.
She has removed her armour of nonchalance before me. I could see through her cloak of serenity. Behind the transparent wall that separated us, I could almost see her beating heart, could almost hear its whisper.
All it would've taken would be a raise of my arm – to reach for it, to grasp it and bring it closer to me. To pry open, to force open, to observe its internal mechanisms.
Yet she seemed so fragile around it. So brittle that a misplaced word could bring her down like a work of glass.
It was a moment of clarity that one can only experience before making a deep, fateful decision: to ask, or not to ask. To risk breaking something beautiful and pushing her further away from me, for the chance of attaining a lead, a clue pointing towards the elusive truth behind her.
I cleared my throat, somewhat more loudly than I'd intended. She only turned halfway towards me, appearing to be no less conflicted than I was, no less curious and doubtful.
"Before…" I started, speaking slowly and clearly, making every word count, "…you asked me whether you are now a good kind of different."
She nodded, saying nothing.
"There is something I need to ask you before I could answer that question."
"Ask away", she said, her voice hollow, glinting with an edge of creeping fear.
"What makes you happier?"
She giggled again, nervously, and there was obviously nothing funny about it to her.
"What do you mean?"
I considered my words carefully; suddenly not sure anymore whether I even knew myself how I'd wanted to phrase my question.
"The way we are speaking right now. The way you're acting right now, the… Does any of it make you happier than the way you acted… you know. Back in class."
"You intend to say that what makes me happy is what's good for me?" she countered with a question of her own. "Then let me ask you this: what is happiness?"
I sat silent, shocked and confused, unable to respond.
And indeed, what could I have said? Philosophers have been wrestling with questions like this one ever since there were philosophers; possibly a lot before.
Happiness, like sadness, like beauty, all pervasive and so natural that we often do not even mentally notice it. Happiness, in whose recognition we can make no mistake…
And which, as much as we try, we cannot adequately define with words.
"I don't suppose you want me to go quoting Seligman?"
She frowned. "Never heard of him. Can you answer my question?"
I thought some more. Above us, the sky was already a shade of purple, and the red leaves around us were blackening as we spoke, burned by the darkness.
She seemed determined to get an answer out of me, and I didn't want to disappoint her – but her question hasn't been an easy one, and I could already see the rest of the conversation unfolding before my eyes.
"…well, maybe… a feeling of contentment? Pleasure? Fulfilment?"
"I see", she said, and went back to looking at the trees.
"Then I'm afraid that for your last question, I'd have to answer 'no'. I'm not happier here with you than I was back in class. Not by a long shot."
The breath that I've been holding without noticing has been released pathetically into a long sigh and a pale cloud of vapour. "I'm sorry", I said simply, and got ready to move away.
Her words stopped me on my tracks, though. "I don't think you should be."
Now was my turn to ask her "What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, then stopped suddenly with her mouth still open, having probably not yet fully finished formulating her response. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, then continued: "By your definition of it… I am happy being like in class. I feel content and fulfilled and all that. And when I'm here with you, well, you're depressing and strange and not very friendly, and you haven't really been helping with the already bad mood I was in…"
"How does any of that mean that I shouldn't be sorry?"
"…because despite all that, I think that the happiness I feel acting like I did is not what's good for me. I think that being here with you, and answering your stupid questions, and speaking with you about those kinds of things… I think it just might be."
It took me a while to realize that I was staring, dumbfounded.
"Dammit, I am not making a whole lot of sense now, am I?"
"No need to worry", I said flatly, still processing the rest of her confession. "I'm not really expecting you to anymore."
She laughed again, shivering as she did, clenching her fingers against the fabric of her white coat.
I was starting to get those disturbing vibes from her again.
"Are you alright?" I asked, throwing caution to the wind the way I've apparently learned in record time over the last day and a half.
"No, I am not", she answered, her voice sounding a little broken. She breathed in deeply, and slowly let her palms open.
"See what I meant? I'm not happy at all being with you. You're nothing but trouble", she said, her smile a little unfocused. "And I think it's good. Isn't that funny?"
"I don't think it is", I answered, moving a little further from her across the bench without noticing. "You're starting to scare me all over again."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. It's… not your fault. Or maybe it is. I don't know."
"It's alright", I answered.
"We make an awful lot of apologizing to each other. Something just about that might be wrong with us."
A slow nod. A hesitating gesture – then a pause of premature regret.
"I don't want to touch you", she explained, as if it'd made things clear all of a sudden. Maybe it did for her; for me, it was just her pulling out another riddle out of the blue.
"…I get that a lot from girls, it's all right. You don't need to."
"I mean," she stumbled, maybe suddenly worrying over having accidentally offended me, "I want to. But I don't think that'd be good. So I won't."
"That'd probably be for the best", I agreed, although I didn't really have any idea of what I was talking about.
It seemed to make her feel better, though, so I think it was the right thing to do.
I waited for her to calm down a little bit before I pulled myself back into my former seat, closer to her.
"Is that something that happens to you often?" I asked.
"Not… really. Not like that."
"I already said that you don't have to tell me anything if you don't feel comfortable with it."
"I don't, but I should", she said, a tortured expression on her face. "You're just like my psychiatrist, you know?"
"You have a psychiatrist?"
"…I just said I do, didn't I?"
"And you see him because of… this? Whatever this is?"
She nodded quietly.
"It's not working out so well. But it's better than nothing."
"Are you afraid of touching people?"
"No", she replied, shaking her head quite forcefully. "But I was afraid of touching you, before."
"I'm that scary?"
She laughed weakly. "You're not. I am."
"Well, I can't say you're not", I admitted jokingly, taking another look at the sky.
"It's getting kind of late. My mom's probably wondering where I am right now", I finally mentioned. "And you look like you could use some rest. How about we get going soon?"
"Alright, then," she said, "But can you… can you stay just for a while longer? Please? You don't have to do anything. Just sit here with me."
I said yes, and so I did. The silence deepened once again, and the walls returned to their places – though not quite, and the fairy wood around us transformed with each passing minute into a dark mirror of itself, no less enchanting.
"I just realized I have no idea what your name is", she said casually, dreamily, not even looking in my direction."
"Is that a problem?"
"Only if it troubles you."
"I see", I answered, not really focused on our conversation anymore, lost in thought.
"Friedrich. Friedrich Gottlieb. Pleasure to meet you."
"Pleasure to meet you, Friedrich."
To part with an introduction. How terribly cliché of us it was. But so it was, and the shadows of the autumn trees around us made a perfect background for the scene as it was.
"I have practice tomorrow, but if you'd like to see me here again on the day after that…"
She never got to finish that sentence, since I cut her in the middle of it.
"I'd be honoured."
--------------------------------------------------
Now here's a challenge: which music was a listening to while I wrote this?
(also: can you start guessing what the protagonist's problem is?)
Criticism etc. etc. I'd stop here before I'm tempted to go on a self-bashing rampage that might anger Worthington again.
Good night, for now.
P.S. No, his name isn't a historical reference. Will people stop asking that? It's not that uncommon a name, surely?
Last edited by Gloom on Thu Apr 19, 2012 3:53 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Re: Heart's Desire
I require an entire 5 book series, ASAP. MrGooglez demands the best, and a taste of it he has found. But seriously, I'm HOOKED big time and I need to know witch direction this story will take. I can already see it heading several different ways, all of them good. Who knew staying up till 8am all through the night would unveil such gems?
Re: Heart's Desire
Care to share some of your ideas? I could definitely use some!
Anyway, thanks. If you ever feel like going into a little more detail about what exactly you liked or didn't about this story, I'd very much appreciate it.
Also, welcome to the forum!
Anyway, thanks. If you ever feel like going into a little more detail about what exactly you liked or didn't about this story, I'd very much appreciate it.
Also, welcome to the forum!
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imperial.standard
- Posts: 1265
- Joined: Sat Jan 14, 2012 5:00 am
- Location: Jakarta, Indonesia
Re: Heart's Desire
Hmmm the pace of Emma and Fritz' conversation are increasingly depressive, yet they appeal to each other. They alienate each other yet are drawn to another - this is really intriguing and I am digging for more!
I am usually not a sucker for depressive stories but yours is an exception, and I can't wait to see the character's progress with her, whether they take it a step further or just remain as musing friends...
I am usually not a sucker for depressive stories but yours is an exception, and I can't wait to see the character's progress with her, whether they take it a step further or just remain as musing friends...
"With words like these, we DON'T CURE patients, we make them INCURABLE"
Saint Peter Canisius, S.J., on polemical attacks against John Calvin & Melanchton
Saint Peter Canisius, S.J., on polemical attacks against John Calvin & Melanchton
Re: Heart's Desire
Do you think I went too far with the angst? I could try moderating it for the next chapter.imperial.standard wrote:Hmmm the pace of Emma and Fritz' conversation are increasingly depressive, yet they appeal to each other. They alienate each other yet are drawn to another - this is really intriguing and I am digging for more!
I am usually not a sucker for depressive stories but yours is an exception, and I can't wait to see the character's progress with her, whether they take it a step further or just remain as musing friends...
Re: Heart's Desire
and"…because despite all that, I think that the happiness I feel acting like I did is not what'd good for me. I think that being here with you, and answering your stupid questions, and speaking with you about those kinds of things… I think it just might be."
I can sort of make out the meaning of each of these sections, but it takes significant effort. From the first one, I had to read the line a couple times before I realized she was trying to essentially say, "What makes me happy isn't good for me. On the other hand what you make me feel--which certainly isn't happy--just might be good for me." The second one I'm still not 100% sure, but I think it might mean something to the effect of, "Even our constant apologies are a sign that something's wrong with us.""We make an awful lot of apologizing to each other. Something just about that might be wrong with us."
Aside from those awkward sentences (and one or two miscellaneous typos), good work. And good luck on the next submission, as well!
激しさとこの胸の中で絡みついたしやくねつのやみゆるぎないあすとかう
The other side of death
The other side of death
Re: Heart's Desire
Both your interpretations are correct. In my defense, I did lampshade this a little (Emma admits that she's not making sense, and Friedrich mentions that she never does), but I see what you mean. I'll try to make things clearer for the next chapter. Thank you very much!Malkav wrote:and"…because despite all that, I think that the happiness I feel acting like I did is not what'd good for me. I think that being here with you, and answering your stupid questions, and speaking with you about those kinds of things… I think it just might be."I can sort of make out the meaning of each of these sections, but it takes significant effort. From the first one, I had to read the line a couple times before I realized she was trying to essentially say, "What makes me happy isn't good for me. On the other hand what you make me feel--which certainly isn't happy--just might be good for me." The second one I'm still not 100% sure, but I think it might mean something to the effect of, "Even our constant apologies are a sign that something's wrong with us.""We make an awful lot of apologizing to each other. Something just about that might be wrong with us."
Aside from those awkward sentences (and one or two miscellaneous typos), good work. And good luck on the next submission, as well!
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Mr Immortal
- Posts: 151
- Joined: Wed Mar 07, 2012 5:00 am
- Location: El Marrow
Re: Heart's Desire
Ah, Gloomy, Gloomy, Gloomy. Wish I'd bothered to properly check the FanFiction section sooner, you know, since I kinda enjoy your stories. I like the characters so far, which is always good, and especially like the main characters aversion to the stereotypical Hentai tropes; in that he doesn't just go along with the perverted situation, and actually lampshades how unlikely it is.
I'm not one for digging into something I enjoy reading, and I fear anything I have thought of has already been brought up. That being the case, I'll just say that I've enjoyed what you've written so far and that I'm looking forward to more
I'm not one for digging into something I enjoy reading, and I fear anything I have thought of has already been brought up. That being the case, I'll just say that I've enjoyed what you've written so far and that I'm looking forward to more
Last edited by Mr Immortal on Sun Apr 01, 2012 9:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Kindeys. I've got new kidneys! I don't like the colour."
- The 12th Doctor
"We have 80 Million ancestors; one of them has got to be Winnie the Pooh."
- David Mitchell
- The 12th Doctor
"We have 80 Million ancestors; one of them has got to be Winnie the Pooh."
- David Mitchell
Re: Heart's Desire
Too hesitant to mention my ideas, but I will say I have a feeling these two will fall for eachother. Like that depressive but cryptical connection with him will develop into something even deeper and will lead her to possibly overcoming Dilema and opening up and exploring who SHE is and not what her impulses have crafted for her to be. Then there's his issues, overcoming his awkwardness and his fear of what he seen the first day.... Sorry... I'm a sucker for character developmentGloom wrote:Care to share some of your ideas? I could definitely use some!
Anyway, thanks. If you ever feel like going into a little more detail about what exactly you liked or didn't about this story, I'd very much appreciate it.
Also, welcome to the forum!
Edit- Thanks! Took me ages because I forgot my email password.... Heh oops
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imperial.standard
- Posts: 1265
- Joined: Sat Jan 14, 2012 5:00 am
- Location: Jakarta, Indonesia
Re: Heart's Desire
NONSENSE! Angsty characters seem to be your specialty so go ahead ~ however they can't stay angsty forever I presume? Maybe they will grow to find things more than just that and their relationship will grow? Also....Dr Rosenstein haven't bugged them yet, has he?Gloom wrote: Do you think I went too far with the angst? I could try moderating it for the next chapter.
"With words like these, we DON'T CURE patients, we make them INCURABLE"
Saint Peter Canisius, S.J., on polemical attacks against John Calvin & Melanchton
Saint Peter Canisius, S.J., on polemical attacks against John Calvin & Melanchton
Re: Heart's Desire
She did mention seeing a psychiatrist. Not sure about it myself, but I left that thread hanging in there just in case I come up with something hilarious.imperial.standard wrote:NONSENSE! Angsty characters seem to be your specialty so go ahead ~ however they can't stay angsty forever I presume? Maybe they will grow to find things more than just that and their relationship will grow? Also....Dr Rosenstein haven't bugged them yet, has he?Gloom wrote: Do you think I went too far with the angst? I could try moderating it for the next chapter.
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ShotgunNinja
- Posts: 5
- Joined: Fri Mar 09, 2012 5:00 am
- Location: Milwaukee, WI
- Contact:
Re: Heart's Desire
Wow, Gloom.
I wasn't quite expecting the seemingly-male MC in the first part to be swapped with a female MC in the second part... that transition caught me rather off-guard.
Were you to continue with the MC of the first part of the story, then I could see the same sort of realization and eventual acceptance storyline occurring naturally as a response to this.
But you've received all of my other criticism in the IRC channel, and I'm really looking forward to hearing more from you in the future.
I wasn't quite expecting the seemingly-male MC in the first part to be swapped with a female MC in the second part... that transition caught me rather off-guard.
Were you to continue with the MC of the first part of the story, then I could see the same sort of realization and eventual acceptance storyline occurring naturally as a response to this.
But you've received all of my other criticism in the IRC channel, and I'm really looking forward to hearing more from you in the future.
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ShotgunNinja
- Posts: 5
- Joined: Fri Mar 09, 2012 5:00 am
- Location: Milwaukee, WI
- Contact:
Re: Heart's Desire
MrGooglez wrote:Who knew staying up till 8am all through the night would unveil such gems?
Re: Heart's Desire
Yes.... Leave me alone, I'm learning!ShotgunNinja wrote:MrGooglez wrote:Who knew staying up till 8am all through the night would unveil such gems?
Re: Heart's Desire
Another short chapter, I'm afraid. This time, while I work on improving the next one, you guys get to enjoy another disgusting lesbian filler courtesy of Emma's mind. Notice how she tends to speak to herself in the present tense, while Friedrich relates his story as if it'd already happened. 
The conversations I have with people in order to gather information for Emma's chapters are always amusing and disturbing. I can't say what's more: when they feel to embarrassed to answer, or when they do so eagerly.
Either way, I eventually decided to tone down the explicit in this chapter as well. Yes, that's right: it was even grosser before. Maybe I'll keep the real nasty staff for some future chapter, maybe I'll just save you the mental images (you sick wacks probably manage either way, don't you?)
There's a game for you: try to guess where in the text entire paragraphs were cut and quickly replaced or gotten done away with. The stitches are so crude you may very well be able to find the seams.
The Zen of Highschool Volleyball
My mind being as addled with adrenaline as it is, time seems to slow down around me, as more and more little details of the world become distant and insignificant. It's an evolutionarily beneficial mechanism: as our bodies and minds are overtaken ever more deeply by primitive fight-or-flight instincts, our brains dedicate less neurochemical and metabolic resources to dealing with unnecessary information; that is, everything that is not directly related to the matter at hand.
Be it a hunt or a chase, a run or a fight, be us predators or things of prey: the firestorm of thoughts, memories, and desires in our head focuses momentarily into an ultra-efficient laser at our task, leaving the rest of it blissfully hollow.
I raise my arm to pass the ball to Elsa. It hits with sound that is felt more as a vibration throughout my skeleton than as a sound in my ears, deafened as they are with the sweet rush of blood and endorphins. My eyes follow its flight unerringly, my legs and arms moving automatically in virtual independence. Even through the insulation of my shoes, I can feel the beat of the hard floor against my foot, rhythmic and powerful in my run.
The gym is filled to the brim with the cacophony of our shouts and of our frantic footsteps and falls and cries, but the incoherent noise just complements the picture, and the feelings that come with it. We don't have an audience for practice, of course, and even if we did, they probably wouldn't be cheering as loudly as they would have, say, for a soccer team. Most people who come to see actual volleyball games aren't in it for the game anyway: but I don't miss that sound of them one bit.
Aiming for the ball, Elsa jumps and spikes over her head, sending the its blurry image across the net and towards the opposing court. As if the rest of the world was turned out of focus, leaving just the few of us truly existing in an illusory space, everything about the moment is clear. Her maniacal smile, which I am certain cannot be too far from the one I am wearing on my face right now, and the fire in her eyes, and the fierce howl of her breath.
This time on the opposing side of the net, Hilde dives for a dig to prevent us from getting this yet another point, sweat gleaming on her brow visible through the bang of her short hair. She lands awkwardly, twisting her arm in a way arms most definitely should not be, and a small part of my brain, the one responsible for physical empathy, can't help but cringe a little at the thought of how much her elbow's going to hurt her in a couple minutes.
But right now, she's way too high on game spirit and violent passion to notice it, and so she rises again in a fluid motion as if she didn't just crash into the floor a second ago. In action, yet another one of the brilliant features included in our biological machines, chosen through the process of evolution and honed over millennia: pain is numbed in such situations. Hunger is quieted. All the minor physical inconveniences and disturbances are forgotten, so as not to distract us from the operation before us.
With a combination of luck and brute force effort, the girls on the other team manage to save themselves from this kill and once again send the ball flying towards our court.
It seems almost unnatural, how much at peace one can feel while having each and every one of their senses bombarded by so many powerful experiences. It's like the zen clarity of a warrior, maybe: those detailed descriptions of soldiers who had managed to find ultimate serenity within that momentary eternity of their suicidal charge towards enemy lines. Like fighting monks who claim to have found a glimpse of enlightenment at sunlight reflecting of their foe's blade.
Practice only lasts a couple of hours, and each game lasts a lot less, but while it does, things are going well in my world. It is diminished for the better: there is no longer confusion, and shame, and pain. There is no life to worry about, no parents or classmates or homework or boring conversations with people I barely know.
All that exists is me, and my team, and the other team, and a small synthetic leather ball flying between us. Those girls around me: I look at them now, and I see that they have no masks or dresses, no lives to care for, no unnecessary emotions or worries or obligations. I and them – we have no flesh, just burning spirit.
Few people care enough to really ask me, but I think that if there is joy in life, than this is it. If there is passion, than there it is. If there is power and desire and freedom, they are limited to this moment, in this place.
The engine of my body, my heart, is beating fast and strong. I can feel my skin, and my muscles, and my bones, but in a way that is infinitely purer and more satisfying than any other.
My body doesn't need anything. I don't need or want for anything.
I know how stupid and pretentious all of this sounds. Like something out of a Nike commercial, or perhaps something an Olympic athlete should say, not a mediocre high-school volleyball player.
I want this game to never end. I don't want to have to return to the real world, to my own mind and body, to other people.
I just want to stay here, with my mind clean of yesterday's burden's and tomorrow's fears.
I can't decide for myself whether the past few days have been good or bad ones, and whether I should expect tomorrow after all.
That weird boy from class, Friedrich, messed up everything. Why did I get so upset about him? Because he denied me what my brain said that I needed? Because he later came back to apologize for it like an idiot?
Because he sat by me in this park for hours on end to talk about painful things?
Because so very few other people ever did those things for me?
I miss a block while thinking about all this, but now that I went down that mental pathway, it's hard to come back, and bite my lip in annoyance. Not because of the miss: those happen. Because I let something so trivial get to me to such a level. Because I let some obnoxious nobody confuse me like this even while playing. I need those moments of peace, dammit.
I try to stay focused, but I keep losing track of the ball, and the relative positions of the player's around it – and all of this just frustrates me more.
Frantic minutes pass in the speed of light, points are scored, and I slowly manage to regain my composure and get back into the game like I should have a while ago.
Even if I do care about what happened, I tell myself that am definitely not going to let it bother me now, of all times.
Even so, my hits become more aggressive and less calculated. Some would consider this a good thing, but I don't. I don't need the extra strength right now, in a game like this; pure strength only takes you so far – not to mention that I'm needlessly wasting mine.
After another successful block, our team goes back on the offense. Turning my head to follow the approaching ball, I realize that I've brought myself closer to the net than I'd intended to. Acting mostly on a whim, and since this isn't a real game or anything, I decided to try and spike on my own.
It feels like an immense discharge of whatever pressure it was; to leap into the air and hit the ball with all my might, smiling ecstatically, but I'm not even really surprised when my attack is easily deflected by the other team.
At least I still managed to hit within the court – it wasn't a real error, just not a very good move. I shouldn't have done it, and I know it. My height and build make me better suited for serving in other roles, and it's the not the one I practice most.
But I'm angry and irrational, and I give myself that excuse to maybe cost us a point.
My joy of this current practice session somewhat soured, I feel the all too human permit to make it harder for everyone around me.
A few minutes later, our team wins, but Elsa still scolds me about that attack, and rightfully so. It probably could have looked funny to an outside observer, because I look more physically imposing than she is, by most standards, and yet I shamefully take my verbal beating with a silent nod.
Taking my cellphone out of my bag to check the time, I realize that we've stretched this practice for a little longer than we should have – not that I mind it much. Following the flow of the other girls, I go catch my breath and change back out of my volleyball cloths.
As we leave behind the court, the magic is gone. Once again, I'm just Emma Klingemann, with all that the title entails. Once again I'm living my life in my world, with my problems and troubles.
It happens almost every time we finish practice, like some kind of compensation for the healthy bliss I get during the game itself. It is as if an intelligent force behind whatever that's wrong with me wants to just spite me, or to remind me that no matter how much I try to escape, I'm still me.
The buzz of adrenaline goes down in all of us, and the weight of the physical world crushes back on our shoulders. Within minutes, I go from feeling like I can run across water to fatigued and aching, despite the light exercise that was supposed to prevent at least that.
I can't ignore the pull of life anymore – my muscles are sore, I'm thirsty, I'm hot, and beads of sweat are irritating my skin.
Just like I thought, after a few minutes, Hilde starts complaining about her elbow, and I suggest that she should go get it looked at, just in case, because it'd be a shame not to have her around for the next game due to an injury.
Hilde used to be my best friend for years – I met her right after I moved here from Frankfurt, but now we just talk like this: politely, efficiently, not wanting to raise anything between us again.
I miss the days when we could talk forever and ever, and play, and hang out. But things happened. I happened. We all did, maybe.
My first time was with her brother. Ever since then, things have just been... different, between us. I don't know if it's because of her behavior, or because of how I saw it.
I looked very different back then, and nary a boy looked my way, but he did – never mind that fact that he was years older than me. He was… nice to me, and charming, and rather handsome, and one thing led to another and then it just happened.
It hurt so much that I promised myself to never have sex again with anyone.
Funny how things turned out in the end.
Anyway, after that I just couldn't hang out with Hilde like we used to. It felt too scary, and awkward. Thing is, though, I'm not even sure she knew about what went between me and her brother.
Years later, I slept with her, too. Just once – some things feel too weird and shameful even for me to delve into, no matter how bad I feel at the moment. I couldn't help but wonder if she was aware of the fact that she was committing incest by proxy, if such a thing exists.
Incest by Emma. Sounds like the title for a book I'll end up writing one day, or maybe I would if I had any siblings. I don't even want to go there in my mind.
But I can't just ignore those thoughts. I can't ignore the place I'm in, and the circumstances. I take another sip of water from my bottle, desperately trying to distance myself from what's going on around me, but there's no use.
I sit there, breathing heavily, sweating in a shirt that feels all too tight, in the same small room as a dozen other girls in much the same conditions. I close my eyes, but it feels like being a fat gourmand going into a restaurant with a blindfold over his face. Not seeing anything just doesn't help when I can smell, and feel, and imagine.
I really, really try not to, but my mind wanders into forbidden territory within seconds. Every thought of a word or an image has a million connotations that draw my imagination farther and farther from where I want it.
Some of those girls I've been with before. A part of me which I can't control begins to consider trying to arrange for this to happen again. I can think of a few who'd almost certainly agree, at least in a few hours – most people don't get so much in the mood by such mundane things.
But I don't want any of this to happen. I'm tired. I'm angry. I can't help but keep thinking about that stupid Friedrich from yesterday, and his naïve questions about happiness.
I'm not happy right now, not one bit.
But it doesn't matter, what I want: my brain wants, and it tells my body what it wants, and I can't help inhibiting both.
Hormones play with their sticks and their carrots, making me uncomfortable, subliminally promising me things that would feel momentarily, physically good.
It's a physical compulsion, like hunger or thirst. I put aside my bottle and bury my face in my palms. I hate this feeling, and I can't understand why anyone would ever want it, and it upsets me.
I'm so glad I'm not a boy right now. At least I don't get hard-ons in situations like these – female symptoms of arousal are easier to hide, if more annoying.
Happily and loudly chatting among themselves about things I probably should, but don't care about, none of the other girls is likely to notice anything, anyway.
Coming out through my dry lips, my voice sounds strange at the first moment – just like it always does. I stretch my arms painfully, and exhale "I need to go for a moment", excusing myself while I go visit the nearby bathroom.
I am just too tired to start anything with any of the girls out there – even the minimum of agreeable mutual foreplay feels tedious right now.
In other words, I take the while to deal with the problem… manually.
I can be surprisingly quiet when I want to. Some girls are like this naturally – I'm not, but I can hold it in well enough. I get a lot of practice.
Now, if I were a boy, at least this would have gone a lot faster – and I do make every attempt to hurry things up, as ridiculous as it might sound to talk so utilitarianly about such a thing. I don't have the time to spare, and it suffices for now, even if in the long run it'll only leave me hungrier for more.
On the other hand, I have a lot less cleaning to do than I boy would. Those messes take a while to fix, and the way my arms and fingers are shaking right now, that could've been a lot of nasty work.
Resting against the wall in my tiny cramped space to take a breath, I try to clean my mind a little and not think about how bad I feel, mentally and physically. My head hurts – I probably shouldn't have drank so quickly (or maybe this is just not the kind of thing that's recommended to do right after strenuous exercise), and my stomach is churning. I try retching a little, hoping for something to come out, but nothing does, and I just feel dizzy after I come back up.
Breathing deeply one last time, I go wash my hands and get back to the others, trying to keep myself at least looking as steady as I can. They all know me, and some know me better than others, but some things I still try to keep to myself if by all means possible.
"You're really pale, you know?" Elsa mentions casually in my direction as she tries to push her towel back into her bag. "You sure you're feeling okay?"
"It's nothing", I say hoarsely, annoyingly aware of the fact that if anything, I sound just the opposite. "Maybe I just pushed myself too hard after all. I'm sorry."
"Don't be so harsh with yourself – I'm sorry I shouted at you like that earlier, I wasn't thinking straight. People make mistakes." She looks concerned and nervous, probably because a part of her really does blame her own treatment of me for this.
"Yeah, I know, it's all right," I answer, pulling a good fake smile. "I think I'll just go home and go to sleep early or something."
"You do that. You're still recovering from that cold yesterday, aren't you?"
"It wasn't anything like that. I just felt bad, that's all."
"Well, you still should watch yourself. Acting like this can't be good for your health."
"Yes mom," I laugh, and pick up my bag to leave, having finished changing.
It's not until I get far enough from there when I crash down on a nearby bench.
I really do feel terrible. I'm starting to think that maybe I don't want to see him tomorrow after all.
It'd just hurt me more. I don't need more of that – I have more than enough. Sometimes it feels like more than I can handle.
But maybe that's just what's good for me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It goes without saying that I don't actually know anything about volleyball, and that criticism of any sort or type etc. etc. would be glad to hear etc. etc.
Have a nice day! (or evening, or whatever it is right now at your place)
The conversations I have with people in order to gather information for Emma's chapters are always amusing and disturbing. I can't say what's more: when they feel to embarrassed to answer, or when they do so eagerly.
Either way, I eventually decided to tone down the explicit in this chapter as well. Yes, that's right: it was even grosser before. Maybe I'll keep the real nasty staff for some future chapter, maybe I'll just save you the mental images (you sick wacks probably manage either way, don't you?)
There's a game for you: try to guess where in the text entire paragraphs were cut and quickly replaced or gotten done away with. The stitches are so crude you may very well be able to find the seams.
The Zen of Highschool Volleyball
My mind being as addled with adrenaline as it is, time seems to slow down around me, as more and more little details of the world become distant and insignificant. It's an evolutionarily beneficial mechanism: as our bodies and minds are overtaken ever more deeply by primitive fight-or-flight instincts, our brains dedicate less neurochemical and metabolic resources to dealing with unnecessary information; that is, everything that is not directly related to the matter at hand.
Be it a hunt or a chase, a run or a fight, be us predators or things of prey: the firestorm of thoughts, memories, and desires in our head focuses momentarily into an ultra-efficient laser at our task, leaving the rest of it blissfully hollow.
I raise my arm to pass the ball to Elsa. It hits with sound that is felt more as a vibration throughout my skeleton than as a sound in my ears, deafened as they are with the sweet rush of blood and endorphins. My eyes follow its flight unerringly, my legs and arms moving automatically in virtual independence. Even through the insulation of my shoes, I can feel the beat of the hard floor against my foot, rhythmic and powerful in my run.
The gym is filled to the brim with the cacophony of our shouts and of our frantic footsteps and falls and cries, but the incoherent noise just complements the picture, and the feelings that come with it. We don't have an audience for practice, of course, and even if we did, they probably wouldn't be cheering as loudly as they would have, say, for a soccer team. Most people who come to see actual volleyball games aren't in it for the game anyway: but I don't miss that sound of them one bit.
Aiming for the ball, Elsa jumps and spikes over her head, sending the its blurry image across the net and towards the opposing court. As if the rest of the world was turned out of focus, leaving just the few of us truly existing in an illusory space, everything about the moment is clear. Her maniacal smile, which I am certain cannot be too far from the one I am wearing on my face right now, and the fire in her eyes, and the fierce howl of her breath.
This time on the opposing side of the net, Hilde dives for a dig to prevent us from getting this yet another point, sweat gleaming on her brow visible through the bang of her short hair. She lands awkwardly, twisting her arm in a way arms most definitely should not be, and a small part of my brain, the one responsible for physical empathy, can't help but cringe a little at the thought of how much her elbow's going to hurt her in a couple minutes.
But right now, she's way too high on game spirit and violent passion to notice it, and so she rises again in a fluid motion as if she didn't just crash into the floor a second ago. In action, yet another one of the brilliant features included in our biological machines, chosen through the process of evolution and honed over millennia: pain is numbed in such situations. Hunger is quieted. All the minor physical inconveniences and disturbances are forgotten, so as not to distract us from the operation before us.
With a combination of luck and brute force effort, the girls on the other team manage to save themselves from this kill and once again send the ball flying towards our court.
It seems almost unnatural, how much at peace one can feel while having each and every one of their senses bombarded by so many powerful experiences. It's like the zen clarity of a warrior, maybe: those detailed descriptions of soldiers who had managed to find ultimate serenity within that momentary eternity of their suicidal charge towards enemy lines. Like fighting monks who claim to have found a glimpse of enlightenment at sunlight reflecting of their foe's blade.
Practice only lasts a couple of hours, and each game lasts a lot less, but while it does, things are going well in my world. It is diminished for the better: there is no longer confusion, and shame, and pain. There is no life to worry about, no parents or classmates or homework or boring conversations with people I barely know.
All that exists is me, and my team, and the other team, and a small synthetic leather ball flying between us. Those girls around me: I look at them now, and I see that they have no masks or dresses, no lives to care for, no unnecessary emotions or worries or obligations. I and them – we have no flesh, just burning spirit.
Few people care enough to really ask me, but I think that if there is joy in life, than this is it. If there is passion, than there it is. If there is power and desire and freedom, they are limited to this moment, in this place.
The engine of my body, my heart, is beating fast and strong. I can feel my skin, and my muscles, and my bones, but in a way that is infinitely purer and more satisfying than any other.
My body doesn't need anything. I don't need or want for anything.
I know how stupid and pretentious all of this sounds. Like something out of a Nike commercial, or perhaps something an Olympic athlete should say, not a mediocre high-school volleyball player.
I want this game to never end. I don't want to have to return to the real world, to my own mind and body, to other people.
I just want to stay here, with my mind clean of yesterday's burden's and tomorrow's fears.
I can't decide for myself whether the past few days have been good or bad ones, and whether I should expect tomorrow after all.
That weird boy from class, Friedrich, messed up everything. Why did I get so upset about him? Because he denied me what my brain said that I needed? Because he later came back to apologize for it like an idiot?
Because he sat by me in this park for hours on end to talk about painful things?
Because so very few other people ever did those things for me?
I miss a block while thinking about all this, but now that I went down that mental pathway, it's hard to come back, and bite my lip in annoyance. Not because of the miss: those happen. Because I let something so trivial get to me to such a level. Because I let some obnoxious nobody confuse me like this even while playing. I need those moments of peace, dammit.
I try to stay focused, but I keep losing track of the ball, and the relative positions of the player's around it – and all of this just frustrates me more.
Frantic minutes pass in the speed of light, points are scored, and I slowly manage to regain my composure and get back into the game like I should have a while ago.
Even if I do care about what happened, I tell myself that am definitely not going to let it bother me now, of all times.
Even so, my hits become more aggressive and less calculated. Some would consider this a good thing, but I don't. I don't need the extra strength right now, in a game like this; pure strength only takes you so far – not to mention that I'm needlessly wasting mine.
After another successful block, our team goes back on the offense. Turning my head to follow the approaching ball, I realize that I've brought myself closer to the net than I'd intended to. Acting mostly on a whim, and since this isn't a real game or anything, I decided to try and spike on my own.
It feels like an immense discharge of whatever pressure it was; to leap into the air and hit the ball with all my might, smiling ecstatically, but I'm not even really surprised when my attack is easily deflected by the other team.
At least I still managed to hit within the court – it wasn't a real error, just not a very good move. I shouldn't have done it, and I know it. My height and build make me better suited for serving in other roles, and it's the not the one I practice most.
But I'm angry and irrational, and I give myself that excuse to maybe cost us a point.
My joy of this current practice session somewhat soured, I feel the all too human permit to make it harder for everyone around me.
A few minutes later, our team wins, but Elsa still scolds me about that attack, and rightfully so. It probably could have looked funny to an outside observer, because I look more physically imposing than she is, by most standards, and yet I shamefully take my verbal beating with a silent nod.
Taking my cellphone out of my bag to check the time, I realize that we've stretched this practice for a little longer than we should have – not that I mind it much. Following the flow of the other girls, I go catch my breath and change back out of my volleyball cloths.
As we leave behind the court, the magic is gone. Once again, I'm just Emma Klingemann, with all that the title entails. Once again I'm living my life in my world, with my problems and troubles.
It happens almost every time we finish practice, like some kind of compensation for the healthy bliss I get during the game itself. It is as if an intelligent force behind whatever that's wrong with me wants to just spite me, or to remind me that no matter how much I try to escape, I'm still me.
The buzz of adrenaline goes down in all of us, and the weight of the physical world crushes back on our shoulders. Within minutes, I go from feeling like I can run across water to fatigued and aching, despite the light exercise that was supposed to prevent at least that.
I can't ignore the pull of life anymore – my muscles are sore, I'm thirsty, I'm hot, and beads of sweat are irritating my skin.
Just like I thought, after a few minutes, Hilde starts complaining about her elbow, and I suggest that she should go get it looked at, just in case, because it'd be a shame not to have her around for the next game due to an injury.
Hilde used to be my best friend for years – I met her right after I moved here from Frankfurt, but now we just talk like this: politely, efficiently, not wanting to raise anything between us again.
I miss the days when we could talk forever and ever, and play, and hang out. But things happened. I happened. We all did, maybe.
My first time was with her brother. Ever since then, things have just been... different, between us. I don't know if it's because of her behavior, or because of how I saw it.
I looked very different back then, and nary a boy looked my way, but he did – never mind that fact that he was years older than me. He was… nice to me, and charming, and rather handsome, and one thing led to another and then it just happened.
It hurt so much that I promised myself to never have sex again with anyone.
Funny how things turned out in the end.
Anyway, after that I just couldn't hang out with Hilde like we used to. It felt too scary, and awkward. Thing is, though, I'm not even sure she knew about what went between me and her brother.
Years later, I slept with her, too. Just once – some things feel too weird and shameful even for me to delve into, no matter how bad I feel at the moment. I couldn't help but wonder if she was aware of the fact that she was committing incest by proxy, if such a thing exists.
Incest by Emma. Sounds like the title for a book I'll end up writing one day, or maybe I would if I had any siblings. I don't even want to go there in my mind.
But I can't just ignore those thoughts. I can't ignore the place I'm in, and the circumstances. I take another sip of water from my bottle, desperately trying to distance myself from what's going on around me, but there's no use.
I sit there, breathing heavily, sweating in a shirt that feels all too tight, in the same small room as a dozen other girls in much the same conditions. I close my eyes, but it feels like being a fat gourmand going into a restaurant with a blindfold over his face. Not seeing anything just doesn't help when I can smell, and feel, and imagine.
I really, really try not to, but my mind wanders into forbidden territory within seconds. Every thought of a word or an image has a million connotations that draw my imagination farther and farther from where I want it.
Some of those girls I've been with before. A part of me which I can't control begins to consider trying to arrange for this to happen again. I can think of a few who'd almost certainly agree, at least in a few hours – most people don't get so much in the mood by such mundane things.
But I don't want any of this to happen. I'm tired. I'm angry. I can't help but keep thinking about that stupid Friedrich from yesterday, and his naïve questions about happiness.
I'm not happy right now, not one bit.
But it doesn't matter, what I want: my brain wants, and it tells my body what it wants, and I can't help inhibiting both.
Hormones play with their sticks and their carrots, making me uncomfortable, subliminally promising me things that would feel momentarily, physically good.
It's a physical compulsion, like hunger or thirst. I put aside my bottle and bury my face in my palms. I hate this feeling, and I can't understand why anyone would ever want it, and it upsets me.
I'm so glad I'm not a boy right now. At least I don't get hard-ons in situations like these – female symptoms of arousal are easier to hide, if more annoying.
Happily and loudly chatting among themselves about things I probably should, but don't care about, none of the other girls is likely to notice anything, anyway.
Coming out through my dry lips, my voice sounds strange at the first moment – just like it always does. I stretch my arms painfully, and exhale "I need to go for a moment", excusing myself while I go visit the nearby bathroom.
I am just too tired to start anything with any of the girls out there – even the minimum of agreeable mutual foreplay feels tedious right now.
In other words, I take the while to deal with the problem… manually.
I can be surprisingly quiet when I want to. Some girls are like this naturally – I'm not, but I can hold it in well enough. I get a lot of practice.
Now, if I were a boy, at least this would have gone a lot faster – and I do make every attempt to hurry things up, as ridiculous as it might sound to talk so utilitarianly about such a thing. I don't have the time to spare, and it suffices for now, even if in the long run it'll only leave me hungrier for more.
On the other hand, I have a lot less cleaning to do than I boy would. Those messes take a while to fix, and the way my arms and fingers are shaking right now, that could've been a lot of nasty work.
Resting against the wall in my tiny cramped space to take a breath, I try to clean my mind a little and not think about how bad I feel, mentally and physically. My head hurts – I probably shouldn't have drank so quickly (or maybe this is just not the kind of thing that's recommended to do right after strenuous exercise), and my stomach is churning. I try retching a little, hoping for something to come out, but nothing does, and I just feel dizzy after I come back up.
Breathing deeply one last time, I go wash my hands and get back to the others, trying to keep myself at least looking as steady as I can. They all know me, and some know me better than others, but some things I still try to keep to myself if by all means possible.
"You're really pale, you know?" Elsa mentions casually in my direction as she tries to push her towel back into her bag. "You sure you're feeling okay?"
"It's nothing", I say hoarsely, annoyingly aware of the fact that if anything, I sound just the opposite. "Maybe I just pushed myself too hard after all. I'm sorry."
"Don't be so harsh with yourself – I'm sorry I shouted at you like that earlier, I wasn't thinking straight. People make mistakes." She looks concerned and nervous, probably because a part of her really does blame her own treatment of me for this.
"Yeah, I know, it's all right," I answer, pulling a good fake smile. "I think I'll just go home and go to sleep early or something."
"You do that. You're still recovering from that cold yesterday, aren't you?"
"It wasn't anything like that. I just felt bad, that's all."
"Well, you still should watch yourself. Acting like this can't be good for your health."
"Yes mom," I laugh, and pick up my bag to leave, having finished changing.
It's not until I get far enough from there when I crash down on a nearby bench.
I really do feel terrible. I'm starting to think that maybe I don't want to see him tomorrow after all.
It'd just hurt me more. I don't need more of that – I have more than enough. Sometimes it feels like more than I can handle.
But maybe that's just what's good for me.
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It goes without saying that I don't actually know anything about volleyball, and that criticism of any sort or type etc. etc. would be glad to hear etc. etc.
Have a nice day! (or evening, or whatever it is right now at your place)
Last edited by Gloom on Sat May 12, 2012 6:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Heart's Desire
I love all of these stories, Gloom.
Sorry for no constructive criticism, but still. Just thought I'd let you know that I enjoy it. Lol.
Sorry for no constructive criticism, but still. Just thought I'd let you know that I enjoy it. Lol.
Re: Heart's Desire
Guesses related to music you played during your writing of chapter 4: The Good, The Bad, and The Happy (the challenge you declared on the post):
Beethoven - Moonlight Sonata. Sad raindrops, very sad raindrops. Or indirect raindrops falling from rooftops... during Großaktion Warschau.
Ok, too sad. Just way too sad. Really doesn't fit into the mood. These are just way too depressing "raindrops".
Chopin - Nocturne No 2. Sligthly sad raindrops that get more uplifting during the play. Variates between sad, and almost happy. Leaving a bittersweet overall feel to it.
Mozart - Ah, Vous Dirai - Je, Maman. Slightly randomish feel to it. Sad and happy moments... and those moments that just doesn't go anywhere between happy and sad - just plain weird at times.
Satie - Lere Gymnopedie. Very rain droppish piece. And sad / melancholic too.
...or it could be something from Katawa Shoujo sound track since it has many nice piano clips.
Beethoven - Moonlight Sonata. Sad raindrops, very sad raindrops. Or indirect raindrops falling from rooftops... during Großaktion Warschau.
Ok, too sad. Just way too sad. Really doesn't fit into the mood. These are just way too depressing "raindrops".
Chopin - Nocturne No 2. Sligthly sad raindrops that get more uplifting during the play. Variates between sad, and almost happy. Leaving a bittersweet overall feel to it.
Mozart - Ah, Vous Dirai - Je, Maman. Slightly randomish feel to it. Sad and happy moments... and those moments that just doesn't go anywhere between happy and sad - just plain weird at times.
Satie - Lere Gymnopedie. Very rain droppish piece. And sad / melancholic too.
...or it could be something from Katawa Shoujo sound track since it has many nice piano clips.
