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DragonRat
27-11-2005, 08:57 PM
Naomi combed through her jet-black hair, with the same brush she had kept since she was twelve. When a handful of people who specially knew her (yet mistook her association with the brush as nostalgia) asked her exactly where, when, and from whom she received the brush, she would justify their questions with the correct answers: “Shopping mall. Nine years ago. A saleswoman.” These three facts dictated the circumstances, by which Naomi received her brush – and of course, to the most unwitting of acquaintances, this was as final an answer as possible. Most, if not all, people decided not to pursue the issue any further, and simply assumed Naomi held the brush in highest sentimental esteem.

As she combed slowly and subtly (one hundred strokes in rhythmic succession – a throwback to her days as a musical prodigy), her reflection in the mirror changed to fit her appearance: her hair fell back like the hair off a fallen angel; her eyes shown with a brilliant, dark hazel hue – two large bulbs flashing an incandescence similar to that of a 100-watt bulb (bright, warm, but requiring maintenance every three days); her nose was small and pert; her lips looked a soft pink (more so her natural tone than whatever name brands could fix); her face slightly round with a slight uneven indentation on her chin. Her forehead was slightly enlarged: that was a genetic consequence over the years, yet gave her a petite air of inconsequence and security. She smiled and thought that, for a brief moment, her guardian angel smiled in response.

The clock told the time – 1:26 am. No, it was never too late for Naomi. After finishing the ardor of her tresses, she quickly undressed and put on her least classy dress – a nice two-piece with sequins, bound together with string the diameter of her jet-black hair. If one could describe her fully in this “dress,” one would expect her either to walk up to cars in dark alleyways at odd times, or to embrace every muscular man who approached her with a wicked smile. Her skin at the time was softer than her lips – a pale tan reminiscent of one’s first few days on a Caribbean island, drinking mai tai’s and wondering how life got to be this good. Though she never exercised a day in her life, her frame outlined in shadows the very sculptured image of Greek goddesses: how the curves of her back declined toward the trench of her spine, until it ended in an abrupt plateau, only to finish (in the words of Robert Plant) “over the hills and far away”; how her neck turned ever so gracefully – the sinews of her throat subtly growing in magnitude – a ballerina in the middle of her performance; how the most stalwart of heroes would rot in Hades for the tiniest caress from her side (just below the armpit) down a hidden arch (just below her abdominals) toward the flexible bridges of her legs, never again feeling the same emotions they once felt for a God they had never seen.

She picked out a matching purse for her outfit – sequined in white and silver, shimmering in the opalescent reflections from her bedside lamp. Inside her purse she carried a wallet, change purse, lipstick, eyeliner, two condoms, a box of contraceptive pills (half-full), a small 12 oz. bottle of water, a packet of tissues, and enough lint to fill a man’s pockets. The last part, she always forgot to remove.

As she turned off her lights and walked out the door, she picked up her keys and jacket from the chair beside the doorway. Locking the door from the outside, she put on her jacket, walked down two blocks east toward the nearest bus stop. As the chill November wind cut through her combed hair, Naomi’s lips began to crack, her eyeliner began to dry, and her fingers and toes blanched in disgust. But, as everyone in the party would soon find out, it hardly mattered what happens to lipstick or eyeliner or fingers and toes dipped in cold. At a party, with black lights and moving disco balls, the color of one’s body is forgotten, the texture of their skin unimportant. A hundred or so people moving about in a crowded room, means either that people enjoy the malodorous sweat of their neighbors, or they are as horny as a Catholic priest in Rio. The only thing that stays important is one’s willingness to ignore. Worry about that other shit later.

Niscen
06-04-2006, 06:46 PM
Add some more sentences such as : ......, she thought to herself,..... or ..... , she thought

~then, this one will be a brilliant workhttp://www.kkwavefront.org/forums/images/icons/icon12.gif

Leonie
06-04-2006, 06:53 PM
Add some more sentences such as : ......, she thought to herself,..... or ..... , she thought

~then, this one will be a brilliant workhttp://www.kkwavefront.org/forums/images/icons/icon12.gif
I disagree, I think the lack of those add to the general feel of still decidedness. She doesn't think things, they simply are, is what the story seems to say. The instance with the brush further exemplifies that she's no lady excusing her opinions with 'thinking so'.