Do the Twist

penelopecarax

This was the first story I ever wrote, or rather, finished. I know it is over descriptive and pretty pretentious, but I spent sooo long rehashing it that in the end I just decided to leave it as it is and move on. As always, any criticism is appreciated.

Do the twist

I have never loved with rules. There are no real rules in an emotional reality. Justification is obsolete. Love these days, is free. We need not blindly close out eyes and say that 'you are all I need, there is no one else but you'. I absolve my future lovers from guilty regret and bindings with which we tie ourselves together. There exist more than dances just for two. I prefer a more democratic choreography, where I and they dance freely; drifting between partners, unhurt. And so, in mocking tones I denounce the stiff pomp of old romance, and with high words and loose gestures usher in the new steps for modern lovers.

But then to every rule - or non rule - there is an exception. My exception is you. You know that I am different, and treat me so. We are still at the beginning. We rationalise our differences, and with conspiratory voices we recount our faults and failures. With our wounds comes empathy, with our temptations comes respect, with our secrets comes trust. We learn each other with fondness; pulling the threads of our histories together to weave a present between us. We talk close, dance closer, playing the game, revolving and rotating; that line of mutual liking tugging at us both.

Do the twist.

I arrive late, and seeing you already involved in words, I take pleasure in our momentary apartness and keep my distance. We flit from group to group, occasionally glancing at this invisible connection, threading its way through the crowd between us. The dancers fill the floor, making me invisible to you. Eventually the figures part, and I see you with a friend. Nothing is wrong, but I draw you closer along the line, pulling you in. Just in case.

I direct my cheerfulness upon you; animating the conversation into lurid neon lights. Forcing you to feel the strength of my felicity. It is returned by brittle smiles, and eventually my chatter slips from your ears, as you recede into the conversation with the other. You offer her your drink; I had to pay for mine tonight. You hand her the cigarette; the one I had to ask for. You think nothing more on me, than as a mute figure trapped at the side of your vision. My words remain unformed - dry and shrivelled in my throat. You still hear them though; the same phrases fall from her lips. The two of you converse in a language I cannot speak, and slide into a place I cannot see. Together.

Do the twist.

In pity, your friend plays with me: he the clown, and I the fool. A big game of bigger smiles and backs turned in the right direction. Finally I give in. I turn and see the reason that we are playing. You are pouring your midnight thoughts into some other ear. Your bodies turn in unison; coiling together in co-operation, in blind satisfaction. With every twist you make - staring into her eyes - you tug and yank and jerk until finally my gaze is dragged along that sacred line that we drew with mutual like. In an instant it extinguishes itself; recoiling from the dropsickstomach sight of you - and her - back into the plummeting heart of a bystander. For a beat, her eyes rest upon me - nothing but another obscure flashing figure. I smile a hard smile that cracks the lipstick upon my lips - for your benefit. For mine, I smile again, and close my eyes and dance numbly.

Do the twist.

The night sets, and the people depart in twos or threes or drunken parties roaring into lamplight, marching with shoulders locked towards the sunlight. I am now nothing more than a bystander. You are a pair, talking close, standing closer. There is an unspoken agreement of how the night will end, and you both delight in the tortuous silent heat of tantalising proximity.

Apart, we drift towards the motor that will carry us into morning, this time in different directions. Seated, I plant a hand on either side pressed into the cold metal. The smile is not so easy now and settles on my face as a grimace. In front of me, on the other side of the platform, you are deliberately oblivious. The track becomes a wall between us. Your bodies mirror mine - arms splayed, pressing into metal, you lean into her, finding her warmth. Finding her mouth.

Do the twist.

You know what you are doing is not wrong. You know this, and revel in it. I can't say. I can't confront you. I have practiced these steps that you dance around me now - running rings around my words with your actions. You are tearing me from you, and it hurts. These are the fruits of my open morals; my easy liberality. I was too busy making my own rules to notice that you were ardently putting them into practice. Everything I feel, every dropsickstomach, every dry earth-filled mouth is of my own making.

Do the twist.

But some habitual steps are hard to forget, and once again, under the covers, I am twisting with you. Eventually I mellow, but this time, not entirely. You try to bind my eyes and ears with confidences once again, but I struggle. A moment's caress, one whisper, does not stoke a heat to melt a heart. Attached, entwined. Skin pressing beaded, pulsing skin. 0ur hips are locked, but our minds drift far, entirely cold to one another. 0nly unsmiling eyes betray the wary circles we are still dancing around each other. My cynicism has fulfilled itself. We are at the end now, and your breath, misting into my hair fails to warm the chill I cradle in my unseen arms. Your rhythms no longer determine the ebb and flow of the pulse that colours me pink. I twist away from you.

davyjose

You know I once got arrested for the dropsickstomach feeling. It was nothing a few hours later, just a few frayed tempers outside a Nightclub. But yeah, it was big deal for an hour or two. Anyways.....



Eh, this was phenomenal. It's one of the best things I've ever read on here. It was just brilliant.

As a writer, and a reader, I'm very much about the whole "the plot drives the story", and a lot of amateurs (In my opinion) try to drive the story by detail, trying to get the reader to respond by the prose and not the stroy (and hey, we're in the business of writing stories, yeah?) But, in a couple of paragraphs, you just managed to merge detail with the real heart of the story, in a few painful awkward hours in a nightclub.

This was just a brilliant piece of writing.

bakkiesbotha

It's good, but yeah it is pretentious. You are trying to do too so much with every sentence that you almost obscure what you are writing about. It has good pace all the same though. The wordiness creates a feeling of detachment from the situation, maybe what you intended, but it dulls the overall impact a bit.

Less is more in this example, but it sounds like you know that yourself.

penelopecarax

This was a really personal experience, sort of patchworked from different events, so it's really great to hear it resonates with someone else Am trying hard to be less pretentious, but as a modernist fanatic, it is pretty damn hard.

PurpleBee

Don't critique your piece before we get a chance to read it. I find that quite upsetting. Much like introductions to classic novels, they serve no purpose unless that is all you intend on reading.

So I read it on the look out for pretentiousness and over descriptiveness (by whose standard exactly?). I think the expression "dropsickstomach" is an example of how feelings like this are difficult to express through such a finely and deliberately crafted piece that seems a little over thought and underfelt.

I'd like a bit more dropsickstomachness. But on the other hand, yeah, I liked it.

Antilles

OP, that was amazing. I'm critical as hell, and I was going to comment that some of the paragraphs don't "flow" well, that they seem almost fragmented within themselves. It was only when I got to the end that I realised how well that fits into the overall theme and tone of the piece.

Very very very good work!

And can I just add that "I have never loved with rules" is a cracker of an opening line?

KitKatt

"There is an unspoken agreement of how the night will end, and you both delight in the tortuous silent heat of tantalising proximity."

Wow I am so jealous of your writing ability...particularly that line above, it bowled me over...
Well done, you have real talent.

geuro

This is fabulous, I was absolutely immersed in it