I’m not much in the writing mood today as I am in the reviewing mood. So, I started to dig around in some old Drive folders to see what I had sitting there, moldering and forgotten. From the same time period as Dust, just posted a bit ago today, I found this piece in the same folder.
I thought it might do something positive for my image if I posted a short bit of fiction that wasn’t all monsters, blood, brains and guts — so you are stuck with this rubbish from 2006.
I was playing around with writing romance fiction at the time, especially teenage romance back before I decided I preferred to be all sweary and rough around the edges with my writing. I don’t think I was ever very good at it (“And your regular ‘fiction’ is different, how?”), but it’s proof that I at least am able to write something other than about werewolves and killers, soldiers and swords, monsters and mayhem when I write this thing I have erroneously described as “fiction”. (“That’s news, chummer. Looks like the same drivel as always.”)
Very minor inspiration from The Glove’s song of the same name. More inspired by autobiographical elements that have been modified so much as to be largely unrecognizable from the actual event. No Irish lilt, no handsome guy, no silhouette cutouts in steel doors, no competitive elements. In fact… it’s hardly autobiographic at all except one part. Maybe two. But I’m not admitting which.
Oh, and I’m done with these forays into the past for tonight — you are spared additional horrors.
There is terror in his eyes, she can see it as their lips draw close, hover, heat rising and the warm moist breath billowing out. She stifles a laugh before it can even come to her throat, her eyes, her tight skin tingling.
It wouldn’t do to laugh.
But, she wonders, how can it is even possible for him to have survived this long without having kissed a girl before? It’s not as if he isn’t absolutely delicious — he’s been the talk of the school since he abruptly showed up mid-quarter, his striking features dreamed about by scores of girls since that rainy autumn day he strolled into the classroom with his lanky, easy good looks.
It was the accent that had trapped Jess. She was a sucker for anyone with an Irish lilt and didn’t see how anyone could avoid melting on the spot anytime he spoke. She had inherited a vigilant determination bred from generations of ancestors trying to scrape by on rugged Montana ranches and, by God, she was going to make sure she was the first girl in the school to kiss this boy. She hadn’t imagined she was going to be the firs girl to kiss him ever, which made it the bestest, greatest win of all times. Something to brag about, in fact.
It was this determination for which is why she showed no sign of the laughter welling up in the darkest pit of her stomach. She had quelled all suggestion of laughter by the time their lips met somewhere over their clasped hands held chest level.
He no longer looked as if he might drop her hands, stand up and run out through the reinforced steel door leading to her living-room, leaving a crooked silhouette of his shape in the door. Jess almost lost her resolve to not laugh at the thought, but held fast. He’d fallen into it as best he could, this kissing thing that was so new to him. As she tasted his taste, she allowed part of her mind to be wholly in the moment, with the kiss, with his warmth and with her feather-fine hair in both of their eyes, slightly tacky with hairspray; the other part of her mind toying with the notion of how Kieran, at seventeen, had lived so many years in his home country and then the couple months here, never kissing a girl. The thinking on this topic cause Jess to start a little, her skin filled with a sudden charge of electricity at the thought and she pressed herself closer, to share that burn, that spark and fire with the boy she was kissing.
He was a kissing virgin. She was doing the deflowering this time around, in a way.
Jess thought she might be on the road to understanding why boys were so worried about making it with virgins. There was something thrilling about being the first to cross a country that had yet to be mapped; and there was the added energy of knowing that you were giving something, not taking, for the first time to someone — a gift. As with many gifts, the results were two edges of the same blade. There was always the chance that, somewhere down the road, he might not remember this fondly at all.
Jess was bent on making sure that his reaction would be the other edge of the blade. She was going to make sure he remembered this first kiss until the day he died. She decided instantly that she was going to do her damnedest to make sure that, the day he lay on his deathbed, Kieran’s last breath with mingle with the memory of this first kiss he was sharing with her, that his last sigh would be filled with a memory of this quiet moment in time. Then, there would only be the journey to the next world.
She poured herself into him, ignoring the distracting ticklish wisps of hair dancing across her face, ignoring the chance that her mother might come home with the groceries this wintry day in January and catch the two of them kissing, mouths open and tongues probing. She ignored the tattered remnants of the challenge her and Suze had taken up to who would win his heart first, knowing she’d be the one most heartbroken if he’d chosen Suze over her because he had that damn lilt than she couldn’t get out of her mind. The damn lilt and the sparkle in his eye as he smiled. Jessica was well aware of the main motivator for pursuing Kieran so fiercely was that she was hopelessly in love with him from that rainy day she’d first set eyes on him.
She turned of that thinking part of her mind, turned it of to focus on the matter at hand and then there was just kissing.
Just two wet sets of lips touching.
Mouth to mouth.