Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's TWILIGHT time...

It's time to talk about...

...Twilight.

Now, I will try to phrase my words as diplomatically as possible. I will try to put my own personal prejudices aside, (remember, I like Gone With The Wind so that should reduce my credibility just a tad), and I will not give away plot to those who are in the middle of reading, or are planning to read it.

I realize that the Twilight craze is a little "so last month," with the release of the movie that did not meet its hyped expectations. It took me about a month, since I had school and what not, but I read all four books in this series. I wanted to get in on that craze and I wanted to find out for myself, "what's the big deal?"

My praises for Stephenie Meyer's series is that she is able to project the crystal-clear picture of a hormonal, post-adolescent girl grappling with normal teenage stuff and the rise of womanhood. This is why so many young girls can relate with the novel's main character, Bella Swan. The writing is convincing enough that you do go through the motions right along with Bella.

(Bella, played by Kristen Stewart in the film)

Meyer also works well with suspense, stringing the reader along with intrigue. No matter how boring her prose can become, something wills you to continue. Perhaps it is the seductiveness of vampires? :P

Oh, I slipped. Yes, I said it. Her prose is boring. Most of the four novels have been written predominantly with dialogue advancing the storyline, alongside Bella's inner reflections. This is not a bad thing, per se, but when we do go into Bella's narration and her reflections, the scene is static and unmoving. I often zone out, drift, even fall asleep when this happens. Not to mention, the content--what Bella is saying is usually some sort of insecure drivel, which goes back to my earlier point about Meyer's convincing handle of teenage feelings. Bella's thinking about this, feeing insecure about that, dreaming about Edward Cullen this...

(played by Cedric Diggory, I mean, Robert Pattinson in the film)

Bella is obsessed with Edward--no question about that. She constantly describes how beautiful he is, how his icy cold skin turns her on, how he smells like honey and lilac, and even his breath is the sweetest, most wondrous thing in the world...

That's fine, but we get it the first time, Bells. He's hot, you want him. Understood.

The relationship between Bella and Edward isn't that developed, though. It seems rather shallow and superficial, based on feelings, looks, and yes, hormones. Bella's freak-nasty. Her relationship with Jacob Black, her eventual best friend, is much more developed through the beginning of the series. I want to know why she's spouting out that she loves Edward so much, so early in the first book.


(Kind of a hot image, actually...)

Meyer's writing is definitely long-winded. Twilight is 500 pages long, and yet I still yearn for a stronger emotional attachment between Bella and Edward, that I'm just not getting. But anyway, I too, am long-winded, unfortunately. So if this post has done nothing but sallivate your thirst to read the series, watch the film, or made you very angry...great! Let's talk Twilight.

(to be continued...)

Short Story from 308: The Local Drugstore

All right, short story time! Not that anyone reads these. They're mostly for my own entertainment, but really...if you have the time, please do read my stories and leave me comments, critiques, anything. I really would love input on my writing and I haven't gotten much around here.

Except, this isn't really a story you should be critiquing. The exercise here is called Plot Potential. You are to write five "mini" stories, to lay down the foundation of a larger story. Here's three mini stories. Check, check, check it out. :)

"The Local Drugstore"

Ava wasn’t used to the wad of toilet paper bunched between her legs. She stood in aisle four, in the feminine products section, across from the vaginal lube and XXL condoms. Her ten-year-old eyes glazed over the abundant stacks of maxi pads, tampons, panty liners, diapers, and napkins. She pinched one of the tightly bound plastic packages with her fingers, poking at the ribs of lined pads. Which to choose?

“Daddy,” she said timidly. “I need help.”

Her tone flounced through her father’s ears, like a whistle to a soldier, signaling the call to action. Dave had been standing off to the side and Ava noticed his hands in his pockets were disguising a nervous shake. He sputtered out guttural mumbles and picked up a small package of super maxi pads.

“Um, well baby,” he said, his voice quavering. “It depends on how heavy your flow is. And…yeah.” She watched his eyes scan over the hundreds of possibilities, trying to find the solution, as though the right package would suddenly illuminate like a carnival prize. She turned her gaze back to the boxes. The names of the packages on the top shelves were hardly visible. She shifted her weight to the tips of her toes and pushed off with her calves to read their descriptions.

“Are you sure Mommy didn’t have some left over at home?” Ava asked.

Mommy hadn’t had her period for several years.

“No baby,” he said. “Sorry.”

Ava eased off her toes and planted her feet firmly to the vinyl floor. She blew back a strand of dark brown hair with a quick gust from her lips, then tucked it behind her small tanned ear. She looked to her father. Her almond eyes twinkled back at him and glistened with a heavy teardrop. Dave opened his arms and let Ava collide into him, and the few tears in her eyes dotted his jean jacket, darkening the spots in a polka dot pattern.

It would’ve been easier with Mommy.

“Here,” he said, once he let her go. He quickly scanned the aisle again and chose a variety pack of maxi pads from Always. “This one has light, medium, and heavy in case you aren’t sure.”

Ava took it and hugged it close to her body. “Thank you, Daddy.”

They started walking towards the cash register when Ava stopped them. She clutched Dave’s arm with a gentle squeeze. “I want to visit Mommy after this. Can we?”

“We went yesterday, hon,” he said, scratching the scruff on his beard. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. There was no need to shave anymore.

Ava nodded. “Okay. Then tomorrow? I’ll pick out the flowers for her and then we can decorate the grass…”

Dave’s throat tightened. Ava saw his face and the red tinge that shone through the gruff on his cheeks. She then felt the toilet paper wad bunched in her crotch, dampening with an unwelcome sticky warmness. Though she felt it uncomfortable, she no longer cared if it leaked and stained her pants. It wasn’t time to go home. Mommy wasn’t home.

***

Mr. Bishop came in with a stainless steel cane, hunching over it gingerly, with careful footsteps. He made his way to the back of the store in five minutes. He smoothed his soft white hair down with a black handkerchief. He came to the pharmacy window and he smiled at the young pharmacy girl. A golden brown ponytail hung high up in the air.

“Hey Linda,” he said to her. “Is my prescription ready?”

“Let me check, Mr. Bishop. Just a sec.” She whirled around and looked at the A-D files, searching for the white paper bag full of medicine. When she found B, Bishop, she plucked it from its place and brought it back to the counter. It was the usual, the familiar package of meds for his ulcers. He had a second bag. She blinked several times to make sure and Mr. Bishop curled his lips into a devilish smirk. Viagra.

Mr. Bishop let out gusts of belly laughs. He wheezed the air in and out of his lungs rapidly. “Yep. I owe Mrs. Bishop a treat, especially since my hip’s not so bum anymore.”

“Well, just be careful,” Linda said, laughing along. She handed him the bags after he paid for them.

He lingered for a moment, then leaned on his cane to gear up for the painstaking walk.

***

Zack walked into the store while whistling a humble tune to himself. He was casual, cool, and collected. Keeping anticipation bottled was difficult when the cork was loosened.

He remembered lying in bed with Emily, just moments earlier. He had stripped off her T-shirt and her boot-cut carpenter jeans, leaving her in a turquoise bra and panties. He knelt beside her on the bed and laid his hand on her belly. She held his head in her hands and pulled him towards her to kiss him hungrily on the lips. His hand started to migrate, reaching in beneath the thin panties and played with the crispy bristles of her pubic hair. He ran his fingers through them, parting them into five aisles. Emily jerked his hand away when he started to dig farther down. She twisted her index finger lifted and right. No condom, no nookie.

Zack stood in aisle four, facing the condoms. The hoards of latex laid out in front of him were like a museum of keys that led towards a treasure trove hidden away in a far off village. He chose the ribbed and lubricated, specifically designed for her pleasure, apparently. He walked off and as he left the aisle, he spotted a young Asian girl with inquisitive almond eyes, followed by a man in a jean jacket. She looks so scared.

Before leaving with the condoms, Zack spotted the ice cream bar by the cash registers. He sat down next to a pungent man, the only seat available at the time. He asked for a pint of chocolate malted crunch, Emily’s favorite, and the bearded man clapped him on the back with a celebratory cheer.

“Congratulations! Never heard o’ that flavor before in my life!”

Zack flipped his thumb up swiftly and smiled at the stranger. Something was pulling him, bonding him to the seat of his chair. Though the urges in his body wanted him to return to Emily’s soft embrace, he stayed in the store, sitting on the stool and let the world go by in nimble flashes.

First Draft; Story for 408: A Yellow Submarine

Comments, criticisms, anything in general are always appreciated. Don't steal. I worked hard.

"A Yellow Submarine"

His jeans are crispy. He doesn’t use fabric softener. He lifts my favorite powder blue cami over my head. Did I shave my pits? I hope they don’t smell. He doesn’t look repulsed, so maybe I’m okay. I don’t know why he thinks I like it when he kisses my neck. It is a snail slithering its slimy, snot-covered body on my skin, leaving a sticky trail behind it. It is marking its path and its territory, wondering which flower in the garden it can terrorize next.

He has amazing hands, though. He knows how to use them; he knows how to flutter his fingers just the right way that sets the bumps on my skin rising to the height of a skyscraper. If I could only have his hands, the two faceless, lifeless servants then I’d be eternally satisfied. I like it when he leaves the TV on in his bedroom whenever we fool around. I always get so bored with his incessant tonguing, but at least I’m caught up on episodes of Lost.

He’s fiddling with my bra; he’s clumsy. I reach around behind me and unhook the clasps for him, then throw the white lace cups at his face. He thinks it’s playful and endearing, but I roll my eyes with indifference. I lie on my back, on top of the sheets of his double bed, with my breasts bare and all he can do is stare at them. It always seems to be a sub zero temperature in his room and now I’m shivering. I try pulling his arms towards me, but he’s too stiff and won’t budge. Maybe he doesn’t want to get too close for fear that I’ll gouge out his chestnut eyes with the shriveled and taut raisins on my chest. I wish he would just man up, grab a hold of them, and conquer me like a Viking brute, but he’s more like a Victorian gentleman steeped with brandy after a cocktail party.


On our first date, he suggested that we play an icebreaker game. I was mousy and so quiet that he might have been losing his patience trying to strike up a conversation with me. The game was to tell one another a vulnerable secret or experience from our past. I scanned my brain and examined all the events of my youth, which raced through in microsecond flashes of images. When I didn’t say anything right away, he cleared his throat and began to talk.

There was an insecure girl and she began with occasional slaps to the face. He couldn’t always physically be there for her, and she resented that. Then she became violent. She swung right hooks to his jaw. Her elbows dug into his ribs. He was too ashamed to call the police and believed all dignity and manhood relied on his ability to handle her, but she overpowered him. So he walked away beaten and broken-hearted, reluctant to touch and to love, and she quickly found someone else to happily drown with her fears.

When he was through, he was red in the face and stared blankly into space. I didn’t know him that well, yet, and I wasn’t sure how to console him. So I blurted out my icebreaker.

“I first masturbated to orgasm when I was 13,” I said, darting my eyes to him. “I felt so ashamed of myself that I actually prayed to God, asking for forgiveness after I did it.”

I was expecting an eruption of laughter, but his beautiful browns only looked into mine with an amused smile. He patted my arm tenderly and said, “That’s very cute.”

We had planned for the simple dinner and a movie date that evening, but we sat in his jalopy canary yellow Volkswagen. We went nowhere. We remained huddled close together, unveiling confessions and submersed under the protection of our solitude.


Now as I lay topless on his bed and he loosens the buttons on his crispy jeans, I start to have jitters coupled with nervous girlish giggles. He pulls off the blue jeans, followed by his heather gray boxer briefs. Oh Jesus—it’s like a rifle. I cover my mouth, hoping he doesn’t see the abject horror splayed upon my face. I feel like I’m about to meet my impending doom, like the crew aboard U-47. He starts to work on my jeans and successfully pulls them off, along with my bikini panties.

I reach to my right to his bed stand and reluctantly grab a box of condoms. I hand him one from the package and as he is rolling the slippery latex on himself, I fight the urge to laugh in his face. It is utterly ridiculous. It’s a submarine, gearing up to plunge into the deep caverns of uncharted waters. His body looms over me and he supports himself on his knees and arms. When our eyes connect, there is a moment of clarity, like a sip of red wine paired to accent a meaty meal. I see his face, an old soul marred by a lifetime of feeling inadequate. I can’t laugh at him; I shouldn’t. He smiles and lays a kiss on my lips so powerful that dozens of colors dance behind my closed eyelids. I brace my hands on the top of his broad shoulders and right before we take the plunge, I ask him to turn the television off. He returns to me and his hips meet mine. I am no longer laughing or afraid. Down, down we go.