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The White Room

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I have been enjoying this Pk, I just have been giving "likes" because I did not know what to add to the thread. I have just been following in the background. I do this on a lot of other threads I enjoy. I give "likes" and if I feel I have nothing constructive to add to the thread, or at a lost for words, I just leave it at that.
Great writing as always!!!!
:goodjob::clapping:
 
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Hondoboot2 said:
I have been enjoying this Pk, I just have been giving "likes" because I did not know what to add to the thread. I have just been following in the background. I do this on a lot of other threads I enjoy. I give "likes" and if I feel I have nothing constructive to add to the thread, or at a lost for words, I just leave it at that.
Great writing as always!!!!
:goodjob::clapping:
Click to expand...

I think this sums the feeling of a lot of us.

It feels it would sully your great work to add a banal comment, which is the best many of us can manage.
 
I want to remember the words from the movie. From both of them. Oui? Non? And the generation of Marx and Coke-Cola and smoke in the cinema and my girlfriend passing the joint to me and how we staggered out into the brilliant white light of the morning and found a café and ate Eggs Benedict and how we went back to her place and pulled our clothes off and lay on her bed. I would have loved to walk over the Pont des Arts and take a drink in a dank bar by the Gare du Nord. But I look at my wrists and I’m content. Because you have to decide sometimes. And when I climbed into the car with the bench seat that had faded to a soft, evening sunset, I knew I had decided. I look again down my body and I know that we’ll soon be going to the place that he’s told me about where the broken wooden posts surround the old farmstead. I’m waiting for him to come and it must be soon. I’m thinking about it so much.
 
When he comes he’ll ask me to follow him I think. Or maybe not. Maybe today isn’t the day he’s decided to take me to the place. Maybe that will be another day and maybe he’ll just lie down with me and maybe he’ll just take me to the basement room. But I think that today he’ll ask me to follow him down to the garage. He won’t ask me to dress, because that won’t matter. He will want me just to be as I am. And I will follow him of course and I will climb in to the car and sit on the bench seat and feel the leather on my skin. I am looking forward to feeling the cool of the leather on my skin. And he’ll start the engine and the gate will open. I wonder if he’ll ask her to get in too? I think he will, but I think she’ll sit next to him this time. Or maybe she’ll climb in next to me. She’ll be wearing a black basque I think and she’ll have stockings on. I think that will be what she’s dressed in. And I’ll smell her perfume and she’ll run her finger behind my ear and over my neck. That’s if she is coming. I’m sure that she will be coming. And I’ll let my head fall onto her shoulder and her red hair will fall over my eyes and he’ll tell me to sit straight and I will do as he says.
 
Well, I will risk a banal comment. There's a lot of "we don't know what to say" going on. I read your stories, and there's so much deep under the text. You paint emotion, mystery, and yearning with all the colour of your words. I write stories here, and I look at your work (and Malins' work too), and I say "I can't do that", and all my thoughts just come out like "wow, Pk, that's so great!":rolleyes::doh:, which sounds like a jarring chord in a soft love song. Your writing, and this story, have that much of an effect.
flower1
 
I was in bed yesterday. In a white room drugged up to my eyeballs. I had been on here quickly yesterday morning and fell fast asleep into a dream. An old big car pulling up at a gate of a house in an old street covered in blossoming cherry trees. A girl in a loose white cotton dress appeared at an old gate that creaked when it opened. She glanced around to put the gate back on the latch and looked up at an old holly tree overgrown and sheltering the view of the home she was leaving. Over her shoulder she carries a paisley jute bag that belonged to an elderly woman who she loved before she died in a nursing home.
She steps onto the footpath and towards the open door of the car. She slings onto the floor of the car and hops onto thd bench seat. She looks at the driver and in a show of bravado puts a bare foot on the dash in front of her and offers him a galouise. He accepts and as he leans over to take a light he can smell the fragrance of Anais Anais off her. He turns the key and the car moves off towards the seaside. Xxx
 
And then we’ll be there at the old farmstead with the broken wooden posts and the barn with half a roof and the shadows of torn tin corrugations that sit a stained red corpse on the sandy ground. I know I want to go there and to be there with him and with her. But I want the drive to go on for so long. So long that day turns to night and turns to day again, as if I’m trapped on some merry-go-round that rolls through the desert and back to the breakers on the coast and back again to the dust and the cactus plants that grow from the orange soil and make black shadows on the ground, their spikes like nails.

And I can’t help but think of the broken wooden posts and the shadows of the nails.
 
I believe some dont like comments that follow story updates. I hope PK knows when she writes beautiful prose that i want her to know how much joy i get from reading her stories. I cant believe the places she takes me to. That cant be a bad thing at all. For me. And i hope for the dear friend writing. Xxx
 
Celticvirgin said:
I was in bed yesterday. In a white room drugged up to my eyeballs. I had been on here quickly yesterday morning and fell fast asleep into a dream. An old big car pulling up at a gate of a house in an old street covered in blossoming cherry trees. A girl in a loose white cotton dress appeared at an old gate that creaked when it opened. She glanced around to put the gate back on the latch and looked up at an old holly tree overgrown and sheltering the view of the home she was leaving. Over her shoulder she carries a paisley jute bag that belonged to an elderly woman who she loved before she died in a nursing home.
She steps onto the footpath and towards the open door of the car. She slings onto the floor of the car and hops onto thd bench seat. She looks at the driver and in a show of bravado puts a bare foot on the dash in front of her and offers him a galouise. He accepts and as he leans over to take a light he can smell the fragrance of Anais Anais off her. He turns the key and the car moves off towards the seaside. Xxx
Click to expand...
That's lovely...
 
pkindenhaag said:
And then we’ll be there at the old farmstead with the broken wooden posts and the barn with half a roof and the shadows of torn tin corrugations that sit a stained red corpse on the sandy ground. I know I want to go there and to be there with him and with her. But I want the drive to go on for so long. So long that day turns to night and turns to day again, as if I’m trapped on some merry-go-round that rolls through the desert and back to the breakers on the coast and back again to the dust and the cactus plants that grow from the orange soil and make black shadows on the ground, their spikes like nails.

And I can’t help but think of the broken wooden posts and the shadows of the nails.
Click to expand...

My head is spinning ... stop the world I want to get off? ... and then, wooden posts and nails ... night and day ... desert and sea ... so many images here. :rolleyes:
 
So, for some audiences I think I could quite easily stop here. Because it's an ending of sorts. And so here's the story so far, with a few little changes (there will be more, I'm sure, when I re-read it with a different head on...). But maybe for this audience, which is my favourite, I won't quite stop here... because I might enjoy going on a little bit longer.... :)
 

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Maybe i want this story to continue on and on. It is like a day on a beach. I dont want this girl to hurt. I want her to be happy. But for some of us girls the hurt makes us happy. The cord on the wrist. The lash of a whip. The knife that cuts. I love this girl. I want her to be happy.
 
I’m imagining myself in his car, imagining the farmstead. I know it so well in my mind. I’m imagining the dust and the slow wind moving the old sign that stands on the highway. I know it will be the right place. I wonder if she’ll hold my hand as we go through the doorway? We’ll walk across the desiccated boards. I’ll feel the wood on my bare feet and from somewhere will sense a slight dampness. The shutters will probably bang to and fro until he closes them and the light will fall in thin stripes of white over the heavy table that we’ll be sitting around.


He’ll look at me and his eyes will be asking me if I am still ready. And my eyes will answer him that I am. I think he’ll sigh, rather deeply. I think she’ll look at me with a steady gaze that means something but I’m not sure what. I think I’ll be imagining the blue of the water as it lapped my ankles and my sister and my brother and the laughter on the beach. And the way that the slow waves make little bubbles all around our feet. And then, after a glass of ice-cold water, I suppose, he’ll say it’s time.
 
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