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TITLE (EDIT)
The Male Qualities Of New York Love |
DESCRIPTION
This is an experiment.
[1,090 words] |
AUTHOR
Tyurina E Allen |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
I am a 17 year old writer who writes, essays, prose, poetry among other criteria. I also study philosophy, arts, religion, past authors, and etc.
[February 2000] |
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
[email protected] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (3)
A Place Of God In Modern, Feministic Views, Or Quotations From A Goddess To A God (Short Stories) This is a story about a young girl who does not feel she is worth anything. It is told by an outsiders point of view. She is tortured by a "head voice" and past experiences. this is a modern tragedy. [1,536 words]
I, Movements In Automatic Writing (Poetry) a poem I wrote automatically. If you know a better title for it please tell me. [130 words]
Suicide And Cigarettes (Plays) This is about two lesbians who have come out overnight. [1,729 words]
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The Male Qualities Of New York Love
Tyurina E Allen
THIS IS AN EXPERIMENT PLEASE GIVE ME GOOD FEEDBACK I DONT' KNOW IF THIS IS GOOD. THANK YOU
The Male Qualities of New York Love
An explanatory note story by T.E. Allen
The virgin girl stood there silent by the ice cream stand in the corner of a dusty New York City street. Her looks were provocative and her season appeared supernatural to all other passers by. The nearby photographer noticed that there were children clutched to her knees like the many arms of partially grieving lovers. Everything around her was projected as systematic and very probable, especially to the green eyes of the photographer. Everything from the eye of his green lens looked very probable indeed.
This is the day they came to know each other. The day itself was not bright at all, but it seemed possess a showiness like that of a new person in a drafty nude museum whose eyes were startled by what they saw in the trailing glow of their new and smiling surroundings. Much like a new picture on an old Kellogg�s cereal box.
The first split second thing the photographer noticed about his flat winged virgin was that she did not smile. Not when the children called out mother, mother, nor when the children said how much they loved her and held on to her as if possessed by the vague magnitude of people. He realized in his moment of glance that the children must be somewhat frightened by all the passing people in their oddly drawn looks. And he wondered if she was scared by the children being scared.
So this, as the day they came to know each other, they as a fate selected and relatively small group did not speak often or much. They did not talk of the weather or of American politics, as most small groups are often prone to do. In fact, to a quick observer of who was probably a non-writer, they did not seen to speak at all. Yet they did, although their variable of speech was quite different to the more organized kind such as of a non-writer. Their speak was through systematic gestures and facial criticisms of their opposite. They each saw something in each other that they did not ever truly see in themselves. He saw that she, as a human in an inhumane world, was pathetic but beautiful. She saw that he was a photographer.
To a non-writer these two probably seemed to stand there each in their ozone of silence observing and complementing each other each with their individual facial expressions for only a few seconds, possibly minutes. Yet this is untrue, for to a writer they stood there for hours talking, gasping, and maybe laughing. A writer would see this out of simple expressions for they are writers and to write they must see what is commonly never seen.
The virgins� attentions for a short while seemed to be turned to her children. She turned to them as they smiled and played up in the superficial clouds near her. When she saw how happy they were with their inner fears gone she promptly turned away, facing the siding traffic and missing the smiling face of the photographer. The photographer noticed that from the green of his lens she was amused. She from the silence of her form noticed that he was especially funny.
Now to a writer who by just observing them two alone in a distance of nothing but people could see that they loved each other. Even in the people hungry streets of New York City a simple writer could plainly see they loved each other deeply.
And, by all accounts, they did.
Yet this whole feeling of the green dust earth at their feet and the food at their silk-laid table was formidably habitual. For they as a small gathered group both saw and knew that one person loving another person could very well become a habit. And for their split seconds in time it did. Deep down they both new that even when they were 80 years old and close to death they both would always remember this moment. Forever, now, still and even then.
Suddenly, if your eye was quick, through the bustle of people and the popping noise of New York, she softly kissed his cheek. The blotchy red cheek of the photographer. He turned towards her and realized she was Vietnamese. She as he turned away again noticed that he was all New Yorker and she made note of it.
Though through all these inner movements of time and space, they never moved. Nor were they ever really walking together to and fro, to and fro like the rest of the world at their feet. They each just stood there in their own eclipse of silence, alone physically (except for the virgin and the children) but forever together spiritually. They, as a small gathered group, were their own and only still life against all the clown gathers in this particular New York City street. And this fact of the whole matter made them inwardly laugh.
The fact of the matter was that neither of them knew exactly what the other was thinking. One anothers thoughts were the one object of the other neither could fully possess or appreciate. The first reason to this, one non-writer would observe (if non-writers observe), was that they as a group, were never vocal with each other to thoughts or individual feelings. The second reason to this was that despite racial differences, they both were from New York.
Then suddenly as falling from the sky a yellow blur came to a halt at the feet of the virgin. She turned with this outward movement and seemed to beckon to the children with her small hand. The children saw this and moved towards her, dismembered from the fetal position they had been in. As the children tumbled themselves into the small yellow of the taxi they seemed to resemble, at least to the photographer, to be a synonym for 6 great apostles. Though, to the virgin they were already that.
So now alone, and though with her, these six great apostles toppled into the cab, followed by their virgin mother.
Then as she ran off with her six great apostles in the yellow blur of the cab the photographer alone noticed thorough the green eye of his lens she never smiled
Nor did she wave.
As he turned to walk away from the site of the occurrence he realized if she had he greatly would have been ashamed.
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READER'S REVIEWS (2)
DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"I didn't like this one as much as some of your other pieces. My impression was that you didn't really know where it was going yourself a lot of the time. I can accept ungrammatical sentences and strange images if it all adds up to something but this time I didn't think it did. All I got out of it was a claim to the effect that writers are very special and see things that other people do not see. This may be true, but if it is then the point of being a writer is to be able to communicate the special insights, and I don't think this one communicates very much at all." -- David Gardiner, London, England.
"Too many words without nothing being really said. Too much telling and no involvement. I did not care about the characters. Also too much melodrama. Tone down a bit." -- fellowdroogs.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2000 Tyurina E Allen |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
March 2000 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2227
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