Message-ID: <22579asstr$949374601@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: michaeld38@aol.communism (MichaelD38) X-Original-Message-ID: <20000131190843.23198.00001209@ng-ch1.aol.com> Subject: {ASSM} 1800 Words {MichaelD} (M/F, rom, literary pretensions) Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2000 22:10:01 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: IceAltar, kelly IMPORTANT LEGAL INFORMATION If you have received this work in your e-mail box and do not know why, it is because your Internet service provider is forwarding posts from Usenet newsgroups to your account. It has *NOT* been e-mailed to you by the author. You must contact your ISP for help. This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons is unintentional and strictly coincidental. This work contains explicit descriptions of sexual activity, and anyone offended by such things should read no further. If reception of this work is illegal due to your age or other repressive local regulations, liability for downloading it is your problem, not mine. This work is intended solely for the quiet and private enjoyment of adults, and any other use is a violation of the copyright. This work is Copyright 2000 by MichaelD38@aol.com and is protected by United States and other international copyright law. Reposting and archiving is permitted, except where a fee of any sort is required or earned for access, provided this disclaimer and note remain attached to the story. All other rights, specifically rights of commercial use, are reserved. Commercial use here is defined to include posting on membership web sites, banner-funded web sites, and those protected by fee-based age validation methods (such as Adultcheck and Adultsights). However, exception is specifically made for web sites (such as DejaNews) that provide archiving and access to all Usenet posts in a particular group without editing or selection for content. No modifications may be made to this story (except those necessary for normal newsgroup dissemination) without express permission from the author. Any questions regarding use of this work can be directed to the address above. Failure to contact the author prior to use is presumptive evidence of bad faith and may expose you to significant criminal and civil liability. AUTHOR'S NOTE This thing is a little weird, as much a demonstration of the writing process as a story. You may need to read it more than once to figure out what exactly I'm doing here. Write me, or not, as it pleases you. After "Call Girl Cheerleaders," I really don't care whether I get another piece of e-mail the rest of my life. But if you write me with your thoughts, I promise I'll write back with mine. You can find my other stories in the following archives: www.storiesonline.net (complete but not always up) www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/BitBard/www/forray/michaeld/ (incomplete, but more reliable) www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Bissell/www (all the work of my alter ego) EIGHTEEN HUNDRED WORDS Copyright 2000 by MichaelD38@aol.com C. They slept together shortly after he watched her die. It was a suicide; she threw herself into a river. He asked her out for coffee afterwards. They talked for a while, and he walked her back to her place when they left the coffeehouse. It was raining. She was still a little cold and clammy when he kissed her goodbye. She wasn't sure if he would call her, but he had. She was supposed to die again that night, after which they went out for dinner. When he walked her home, she asked him up. He came. She died again. CC. By the time she was dead, he had decided for certain that he wanted to meet her. It wasn't that her death, per se, was so affective; it was the last sight of her, standing in three-quarter profile, head turned, face twisted in anguish. Then she threw herself in the river and died. He found her when it was over, though it took some doing. She didn't want to see him at first. The coffeehouse was down the street. They talked about her death, about other things. It began to rain while they were there, as the time for leaving seemed to approach. "Will you walk me back?" she asked. He pulled his coat over their heads, and they ran through the rain to her apartment. The kiss lasted longer than she intended it to. She was still wet when it ended. He called a few days later. He came again to watch her die, and they met again afterward. They had dinner not far away. This time the kiss didn't end as the first one had. It followed her inside, to her bedroom. There they went, there he came, and there she died. Afterward, they watched Letterman in bed. D. Watching her die had been the last thing on his mind when he went down to Times Square. His intention had been to get into a shot in front of the MTV Studios, but that had evaporated when he saw her name on the wall exiting the subway. It wasn't too far away. He sat in the darkness watching her, waiting for her death and wondering how she would do it. One could never tell these days. They wouldn't let him near her at first. He told them some things to say, and eventually one of them emerged from the back. "She said to come on in." Her initial greeting was cold, distant. "I was impressed," he said. "You did really well." She shrugged. He finally got her to laugh about five minutes later. He watched the ice inside her thawing slowly. "I need to go," she said finally. "Want to get some coffee?" She paused--maybe for effect?--before agreeing, then led him down the street to Dean & DeLucca. "How long do you think this will go?" he asked. She wasn't sure. The producers were giving them mixed signals. He watched her hand as she fidgeted with the blonde hair behind her ear, looking at the little downy hairs on her neck. The smell of the rain came before the sound of it, blowing in the door, the steamy scent of newly wet asphalt. She glanced out the window. "Damn it." "How far away are you?" "Just a few blocks. Will you walk me back?" She huddled under his coat, giggling, as he tried to shield them from the rain. They walked faster than necessary, and he could feel the heat of her body against him. She turned to say goodbye as they reached the door. "Thanks." "No problem." Her eyes were damp, vulnerable. "Will you call me?" "Yes." He put his hands on her waist and kissed her. A peck, then her lips parted slightly. Her tongue met his. Her hands twisted his shirt a little, then pushed him away. He called her as soon as he thought it was appropriate. Dinner? he asked. She had another performance that night, she said, but they could go out afterward. He bought another ticket and watched the play again. He watched her anguish on the stage, wondering what she was using for motivation. Then she died again. The restaurant was Italian, a hole in the wall not far from the theater. They talked, drank, laughed at each other's jokes. It wasn't raining, but he walked her back anyway. They kissed once, twice, then she was pulling him inside. "Are you sure?" She nodded, not looking up. Few of their clothes made it to the bedroom. He tried to take things slowly, but she would have none of it. She cried out at the moment of her little death, dying around him, yet reborn. She lay still in his arms afterward. He lit a cigarette and reached for the remote. M. It wasn't the flyer that caught his eye but the name, something familiar amongst the mass of tawdry and weather-beaten. He paused a few steps down from the entrance to Times Square station, his head about a foot above street level. "Julia Drake as Ophelia," the playbill said. Was it her? New York had to have more than one Julia Drake, but more than one who might still be doing off-Broadway Shakespeare revivals? Maybe, but worth checking out anyway. He arrived just before curtain time. Outside the theatre was a more elaborate playbill, displaying head shots of the actors. Julia's was at the bottom, underneath Laertes and Polonius. He bought a ticket and went inside. Her hair was shorter, but she was otherwise unchanged. He watched Laertes warning her to beware of Hamlet: "In the morn and liquid dew of youth, contagious blastments are most imminent." The actor playing Hamlet annoyed him more and more as the play progressed. He sat impatiently in the darkness waiting for Julia to reappear. The producers had added a death scene to the play. It was devoid of dialogue, though Julia was given free reign to emote Ophelia's madness. Then she threw herself to the stage, and the lights went out. His attention wandered afterward. During Laertes' lament for his sister ("Too much water has thou, poor Ophelia, and therefore I forbid my tears"), he remembered the forecast for that evening and realized that he had left his umbrella on the subway. When the play was over, he went to the backstage entrance. One of the ushers stopped him. "I'm a friend of Julia Drake's." "Your name?" "Bill Shaker." The man returned in about a minute, a smirk creasing his face. "Sorry. She doesn't want to see you." "Could you tell her I'm sorry? That I just want to talk to her for a minute?" The smirk intensified. "I don't know. She said, 'Tell him to get lost.'" "Please?" He rolled his eyes and went backstage. But when he returned, he let Bill through the door. Julia apparently shared a dressing room with the other female actors, but she was alone when he found her. She gave him a wary glance and went back to cleaning her face. "What do you want?" "I just thought I'd stop by and say hello." "Okay. Hello." "I liked the play," he said. "I was impressed. You did really well." She ignored the praise. "How have you been?" he asked after a few seconds. "I'm supposed to believe you care?" "I do." She sighed. "I don't have time for this, Billy." He smiled. "You know, you're the only one who ever called me that." A spark of affection grew in her eyes, and he watched her trying to stifle it. "Please don't." "Why not?" "Because I can't go through all that again." "I'm not asking you to. I'd just like to see how you're doing. If you're using me as motivation, I'd at least like to hear how it's working out." She couldn't stop the smile this time. She had to turn away to keep the laugh from escaping. Soon she was dressed and ready to leave. "Want to get some coffee?" She didn't answer him immediately. In her eyes, desire and caution collided like icebergs, jostling for position. "Just coffee?" "Just coffee. I promise." They walked back to Times Square, finding a corner table at a coffeeshop within sight of the MTV crowd. He looked up at the sky. It was probably going to rain tonight. "You're still doing Shakespeare?" "It's what I do, or at least try to. You know there's not much of it in New York." "How long do you think this will go?" "I don't know. The receipts are okay, but the producers aren't giving us much to go on. It's been running for about three weeks. If it lasts another month, I'll be happy." Her icy demeanor thawed slowly as they talked. Maybe things between them weren't as dead as he had thought. He didn't notice the rain until a damp gust of wind blew in the door as someone left. Julia's forehead creased in dismay. She asked if he would walk her home because of the weather. Without his umbrella, he had to shield them under his coat. She clutched his waist as they scurried through the rain, and her scent swirled around him as the wind blew. The kiss came as a surprise, to both of them. She wiped the rain from her cheeks, and her eyes caught his. They came together. He promised to call her, and she went inside to dry off. They made a date for dinner the following Friday, after her performance. He showed up early and watched the play again. He sat in the back so as not to distract her, but he kept wondering if indeed she was using their past experiences in her performance. They walked back to her apartment after eating, holding hands. One moment he was kissing her, and the next she was dragging him toward her bedroom as he kicked off his pants. Her little breasts were in his hands, his erection in hers. They bumped against the mattress, falling backward. She sucked at his mouth as if gasping for air. She was already wet when he entered her, so much so that he seemed to be drowning, swallowed whole by the sea. At her climax, she cried out as if in the throes of death. They slowly came back to life together. He felt beads of sweat cooling on his back before he rolled to the side. It was raining again. He could hear it through the window. He turned on the TV, finding Letterman. "Do you have anything in the works, when this is over?" "Maybe. My agent called me about it yesterday. It's a World War I period thing. The female parts are all nuns." "You should do it." Outside, the rain, still cold and wet, continued. * * * Michael ~Story Archives~ www.storiesonline.net www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/BitBard/www/forray/michaeld/ www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Bissell/www -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+