What a specimen of a 21 year vintage I am. :) tehe

What it means to be a man:

I think being a man means being honest in all you do, and always striving to be better. Being knowledgeable about the local and global affairs. Having an educated opinion, standing by it, and always being able to rethink it. About being passionate about life, your interests, your family and friends and your gal. Being a man means living life, laughing, and loving. These are The Things I see, live, do, think, read, watch, love, like, want and more.

Cheers, Jared

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

A Post Forgotten in the Past - A Short Story As Well

While going through my posts I found this - It seems I started a post and never finished it.  I have read through it and seen the errors, but for the sake of authenticity I have left them alone.  I am going to attach the short story at the end and leave the post as it is.  I hope you enjoy.

I feel like it has been forever since I last actually sat down and just wrote.  It's been a while since I posted on here.  The other night, while watching a movie, I was inspired to write a little short story.  It's been brewing my head the other day.  Today, after beginning an article in an issue of Times magazine from earlier this year on Secretary of Defense Robert Gates, and stealing the magazine after my appointment so that I could finish the article and thus the whole magazine, I was in a writing mood.  That article was magnificent.  It captured Gates, his person and it was just damn good nonfiction.  It made me want to write.  So, I went to into my makeshift room in the back of my childhood home, the room I'm occupying now returned from college.  It has just a box spring and a mattress slung in the corner, low to the floor, no sheets on top, a mess of pillows and one blanket.  It's surrounded by my clothes piled on a table and an assortment of furniture from around our house in the past 15 years and items of mine from my dorm room.

As I wrote I seemed to get that feeling where you stand up too quick after sitting or lying for too long.  I was feeling like I was viewing myself from above, whilst writing still.  I was literally caught in this story.  It sort of just flowed from me.  I read over it twice, and hope I caught any bad mistakes in my writing, but I am not so worried about that.  It's just for me, and you-my blog.

It, like I said, was inspired by a scene from the movie Wyatt Earp, my imagination, my memories, and my dreams for the future.  It's sort of

This is where the post ended.  This is the short story.  It seems they were both written on May 20th.


A Love Affair - An original by Jared Krauss

The left side of the bed was still warm from the heat of the body that now stood in the bathroom door. The curve of the hips leading up to a smaller waist and the rise of the bosom, arms gently crossed at the chest, and the head, with it's long flowing hair falling behind, resting on the door frame; she was silhouetted by the single light of the bathroom. She hadn't wanted to rouse him, only needing a moment alone to look her self in the eyes.
Her legs had slowly lifted from the depths of the comforter they had purchased new almost two years ago, with excitement of what was to come in their eyes. She slowly twisted her body so that her feet could touch the floor to the side of her bed. Her head turned down and right, looking back at the other body still sleeping next to her. She noted the way her pillow remained slightly dented from where her head had lain. Slowly, she reached out her hand and touched the rough hair that was beginning to grow on the strong, proud chin she so loved to kiss. Her body slowly rose, only whispering of her departure. Momentary fright caused her to stiffen as the body across from her shifted, spinning from one side to the other, facing away from her and grabbing the pillow in order to stuff that strong muscled arm up underneath.
She loved the way she could see ripples beneath the skin; a silent ocean of strength to her, its currents capable of much. She thought of when she was spun around in those arms, her white dress filling with air on their pedestal; tipping her head back and exposing her neck as those arms supported her when they were alone on the dance floor; the warmth of the chest and the scratching of the hair on her soft and supple back as those arms wrapped around her from top and bottom, holding her close, protecting her from the cold of the night and any other assailant.
She stood there in the doorway, braving that cold. Her features hidden by the light that gave sight only to her eyes and blinded anyone who would look at her from the darkness of their bedroom. She knew there was only one set of eyes for her, and they were hidden away by their delicate skin covering. She couldn't help but ask herself the question she had asked herself so many years ago.
Sitting on the seat next to the window, pillows at her back, knees in her chest. Her journal had been clutched tightly to her heart, freshly written in, the ink being smeared by her haste. “What is love?” The page had been stung by the salty water falling from her red cheeks. She'd been 17 then, just broken up with by her first boyfriend, her one and only true love, until the next week. Her ego, pride, everything, had been beaten, battered and bruised. She'd barely had the will to wake up at 6AM that morning to prepare herself for school. It had taken her two hours to get ready instead of one, and she'd not had time to read her magazines that morning. She was in a mood. She was even angrier at her magazines for lying to her. They had told her all the right moves, all the right words to make the perfect boyfriend, to find the perfect boyfriend, to keep the perfect boyfriend and now she realized she had nothing. It was all a lie. She lamented she would never know love. Oh, the imagination of the fountain of youth.
The sound of the water running softly from the sink had not disturbed that body caught in slumber. She stuck one hand underneath the stream, the warmth spreading slowly. She held but fingertips underneath, a moment. Slowly, inching her hand forward, turning it over, feeling alive. Then began her other hand, sharing in the love affair between warm water and skin. With her hands cupped, she held love in her fingers. Lowering her head, she threw love on her face, enjoying the momentary warmth. She raised her head, her eyes meeting their match in the mirror. Their hazel ringed with white were barely visible in the low light. She examined her own face: love was slowly dripping from her cheeks, like the tears she had shed nearly twelve years ago; they fell in single droplets to hit the white marble sink. Love was etched into her eyes, the creases at the corners from all the smiles she'd shown over the past two years, and the ten months before. The way her cheeks automatically defaulted to the teeth baring, dimple inducing form spoke of laughter in abundance. With all these memories flashing through her mind, slowly, her eyes creased and her pearly whites peeked out, and her dimples appeared. Then she stood up and turned around, finding the metal that marked the end of their bathroom and the beginning of their bedroom to lean upon.
She stood their still, only mere moments had passed; her face was still wet with love. What is love? She could only smile. Her toes met gently with the carpet as she made her way back around to her side of the bed. She examined the ever shifting ocean that rose and fell with the tide of breathing on the other side. The ocean had turned it's face back again towards the center, facing her dented pillow and ruffled comforter, coveting the last remnants of heat with an outstretched arm. The last of the heat was dissipating as she carefully peeled back the sheets and comforter, and placed the arm back underneath its pillow, allowing her entrance to her most desired location. Once her legs were under, her trunk planted in the soft support of her mattress, and the blanket once again covering her, she laid her head back in the dent.
She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening only to the soft in-and-out of breathing coming from her left. With another smile, one big and proud, she turned over on her side. Her eyes now found the lamp that resided on the table next to her bed, the book she'd dog eared just a few hours earlier, the glass of water half drunken. She uprooted her trunk and inched back towards the tide across her bed. Once again, she was in the embrace of the warmth of the chest, experiencing the scratching of hair on her soft and supple back as she retrieved the cast away hand that had been on its search for the warmth, that love affair between water and skin. The rippling of currents now draped across her waist, holding her tightly, protecting her from the assault of the cold night and any other assailants. That same smile crossed her face as she answered her own question. She had loved each boy and man that had entered her life. Love was an emotion, fleeting as any other, but this man she was in love with and it was no longer just an emotion, but an action, a thought, a frame of mind, a loyalty. This was where she most wanted to be.

After reading this for what felt like the first time: I am trying to understand my own writing.  What my connection was between water and love.  I feel as though I was trying to express the idea that love is like water (obviously) but let me continue.  Water is fleeting, it has an ebb and flow.  It has surface tension.  Seas are large, puddles aren't.  Love is like water in the sense that it can be fleeting, it can ebb and flow, when love meets other love they grow, become stronger and attract more love (in a relationship), but water needs more to grow bigger, and if you are not willing to jump in, feet first into the sea you can not grow, you'll be stuck like the puddle on the sidewalk in the midsummer's heat, slowly dissipating.  Hmm.  I am not so sure.  What is your take on it?

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