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Thread: "Her Name was Daisy"

  1. #1
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    Talking "Her Name was Daisy"

    Here goes. Any feedback is welcome. Any at all...
    ==========================================

    Her name was Daisy. She was nineteen when she met me. We met on the day she died. You know, she was very pretty, but not many people knew that.

    There was a knock on her door. She peered through the video monitor hanging on her apartment wall right next to her apartment door. She had to stand on her toes to see the image properly and she didn’t like what she saw. The knock sounded again and it rang her head like a bell. Putting her back to the door she looked down at the open palm of one hand and traced the lines with her index finger of the other. Then she raised that finger to her red lips and tasted the tip.

    The bolt snapped back and Daisy slowly pulled the door open a crack. He was tall, the man that stood there, and he was breathing very heavy. He loomed there, anxious, all alone in the slate hallway. His face was a blur and he wore a suit, but not a fancy one. Her face was pallid and her blue eye-shadow was much too thick. She wore blue a lot, she liked blue, and purple, I suppose.

    Her dress was green though, when we first met.

    “Can I come in,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Daisy just stood there, she tried to smile, but she couldn’t. Biting her lower lip, she pulled the door open further and let him pass her threshold. Her roomed smelled like old newspaper. He pretended to look around.

    There was her desk, with all the standard features, in the first corner of the room, with a tiny picture frame on it. The windows were set to dark so no sunlight came through. In the other corner there lay her bed, blue sheets splayed about, no comforter, no pillows, just a bed. A ceiling fan hummed over head.

    Daisy gently shut and bolted the door with a grunt. At first the deadbolt didn’t snap into the socket so she leveled herself and pressed one shoulder into the door and put one hand forcefully on the handle. Again nothing, so she pushed harder, and at last, the bolt clicked and the door held the paper walls steadfast once more.

    The man didn’t notice but was instead inspecting the second to last corner in the room where there stood a tall oak bookshelf.

    “That’s a lot of words,” he said. Daisy looked at him and slowly turned her head towards the shelves filled with books.

    “I’m a reader,” she replied. She absently ran a hand through her short black hair and then a gleam caught her eye. A small metal pin, fashioned in the shape of an American Flag. It was much smaller, a tiny mockery of the original; for it only had a few stars and stripes. The pin was just too small to fit everyone on it. It caught her eye, and she stared at it there on his gray lapel. Shiny, metal, red-white-n-blue.

    Yes sir, the very one. The same one you found, yourself.

    Well, the flash disappeared as he took off his jacket and began to unfasten his pants. Daisy slipped off her black dress and helped him with the rest. His fingers were clumsy and stupid looking. She had to help him, poor bastard; he couldn’t even do it himself. He breathed even harder, if that were possible, and threw her into the blue, sprawling sheets.

    Several hours past, the sun had set, although Daisy didn’t know because her windows were darkened. She sat up in bed with one eye open and other one closed with her palm pressed firmly into it. He was already dressed, standing there in profile, fixing his gray shirt cuffs. His face was a blur, it was impossible to make out.

    “Where’s your Portal?” he asked. Daisy dropped her hand down to her side and nodded her head to the last corner of the room. He turned and approached it, inserting a small carbon fiber key into a metal slot. She watched him. He punched in some numbers and removed his key.

    “Want to take a look at the amount?” he asked. Daisy shook her head.

    “No, no need.” He turned towards the door then stopped and realized his pant’s zipper was still undone. Shaking horribly, his garish hands couldn’t close the gap. He looked at her for help. Daisy didn’t move, but merely shook her head. The door opened and slammed and then he was gone.

    With a yawn and a stretch she slipped off the bed. She slid the dial to half transparency and glared out the windows. All she could see was a brick skyscraper and no sunlight. Desperately, she tried to look up and out to catch a glimpse of the sky, but she couldn’t; the building was just too tall.

    My view isn’t much better, but if I look just right, sometimes I can see the sky from my window.

    She darkened the windows completely again. Something stabbed her foot. No yell came but her eyes did well up in pain. Hastily, she lifted up her foot behind her and plucked a small, metal pin out of her heel. It was the one from his lapel. She grasped it firmly in her palm and sat down at her desk, in the first corner of her room, still naked with black, disheveled hair falling around her face.

    The flag was covered in blood now and she held it out in her palm. Everything became blurry as one of her tears fell into her hand. She tried to cry but she couldn’t. She set down the pin on her desk and wiped her eyes. The picture frame stared past her. It was someone important to her, but also someone she hadn’t seen in a long time.
    She touched the desk and the screen started up and the keyboard’s outline became clear and illuminated. Today, she thought, today I’m going to finish it; and she did! Working furiously, she typed up the last few pages. It only took a few minutes to print, her story that is, the one you found next to her in the ally. I never read it but I figured what it was about.

    I was writing a story too. If I knew that she was a reader I would have asked her to read it for me. I would have asked her sooner.

    That’s when we met! On her way out, she had her story in her arms. She had on a green dress this time, which was strange because she really liked blue. She ran past me in the hall but our shoulders got snagged and her papers fell to the floor all around her.

    “Sorry,” I said. I was pretty nervous. She was so pretty.

    “It’s ok,” she smiled. We both worked hard to get them all collected but they were all out of order now; upside down, backwards.

    “What’s your name?” I asked. She told me. I smiled and looked down at my hands. Then she told me she had to go, she said she had something very important to do. That’s when I saw the metal flag, pinned to her black purse she was carrying. The pin you found on her. She ran off, down the hall, down the elevator. I read about her on the nets the next day. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t.

    Well that’s it, that’s when we met. On that day, the day she died. I had never met her before. She was very pretty, no one could tell, but she was. You know, she was only nineteen.
    Last edited by cmoney88; 03-11-2011 at 10:22 PM. Reason: Formatting

  2. #2
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    It's not often you find work of such high quality.






    J

  3. #3
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    Thanks! Anyone else? =D
    "Lolita. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lolita. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita."

    Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

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    Registered User bortleman's Avatar
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    Nit sure if it was intended but I thought I caught a touch of David lynch.
    You think they're selling you. Truth is, they're selling you out.

  5. #5
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    bumps
    "Lolita. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lolita. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita."

    Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

  6. #6
    an organized mess
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    Very good. I might have liked it better if you hadn't used a narrator. Am I right in assuming the narrator is someone who stalked and murdered her, or am I totally off?

  7. #7
    Registered User bortleman's Avatar
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    Hey EA, no its not a stalked killer scene. It says he read about her death on the "nets the next day". Not every character in the story has to be so foul lol
    You think they're selling you. Truth is, they're selling you out.

  8. #8
    Registered User Steven Hunley's Avatar
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    response to story

    I like the tone of this and the style. It's somehow told in an intimate fashion, and it's well thought out, and the ending mirrors the start giving it a sense of completeness. Good stuff.

  9. #9
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    bumbsies
    "Lolita. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lolita. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita."

    Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

  10. #10
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    It's an intriguing story - I have to admit that I read it twice and am still unsure about a few things (no, not THOSE things!). Like why does he say that not many people knew that she was pretty? And who is the narrator speaking to ("The pin *you* found on her")? And I admit that I don't understand how Daisy died - did the pin somehow lead to her death?

    I really liked the writing, I think it was well written. I think I'll need to read it again, though, for clues to my mystery questions (sometimes I'm a bit slow, but also maybe I shouldn't read stories with a glass of red in front of me!).

  11. #11
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    Thanks for all the feedback! The stories outcomes and incidents are intentionally elusive, so don't go crazy looking for everything! =D
    "Lolita. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lolita. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita."

    Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

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