SouloftheWolf
03-07-2004, 10:35 PM
Okay, I just wrote a page-long description of my....blah blah creative writing professor, etc., my college life, etc. and lost the page before sending! =/ At least you all got spared from that, b/c I am not going to rewrite all of that. grr... Anyways, onward to the real reason you clicked on my thread. Oh, feel free to critique, I'm open for suggestions/changes, but only CONSTRUCTIVELY please, I am sensitive. =) Oh, and I know it might read a bit rushed, I realize that, but I wrote the nine pages in around 3 hours, so there needs to be a rewrite, most definititely. I'm kind of worried that maybe the focus is not where it should be...I'm wondering if the character's struggle is with the mother or in broader terms: trying to grow up. Thank you! --Wolf
“Stalemate”
When I was still in that tender stage between adolescence and adulthood, I fell in love with a young Cuban man whose eyes were lit by green fire. I once told him that I thought I could sit and stare at them forever, but I realize now it was all a pretense. Okay, so perhaps I hadn’t really fallen in love with him; I had merely stumbled over a man who gave me the attention that I craved for so long. I stumbled awkwardly over him and my first love affair, and consequently, the first grown-up decision I had ever made in my life.
It’s possible for me to look back on the incident now with older and more experienced eyes. But back then everything was so fresh, exciting, terrifying, and passionate, that I thought my heart was likely to burst. Ahh…those days. I don’t remember feeling anything close to it since those fragile years. There was so much pain, so much joy—and to think: I wouldn’t take any of it back. Not a second of it.
I’ve learned that it’s the things that test your character that show you who you really are. I used to think myself invincible, but then I realized how easily the world I had set up around me could so easily break. I was young…what did I know? But we’re all young once, and we learn more about ourselves with every new experience, whether it’s good or bad. And in my own case, I was lucky in that I learned to conquer myself. No, I hadn’t conquered love. Love is not something to be conquered: it conquers you.
The young man’s name was Maximilian. He was a chess prodigy who had won asylum to the United States when he was still a teenager, just a few years before I met him. Those first years in the new world changed him just a little; he wasn’t the type to be easily swayed, even if he had moved to a new country. The only difference I could tell from old photographs was a considerable weight gain on his behalf, and a fondness for New York style pizza.
I guess I can admit now that my admiration for him exceeded my love. I admired so much about him…the way his sensuous accent caused him to mispronounce every single vowel in my name. The way he refused to beat me in chess, even when I told him to treat me like one of his high-ranking opponents. I even admired his chess ability. He was a Fide Master, which is the third highest possible rank to attain. When he came to America, he studied under the great International Master Blake Lagos, also a Cuban immigrant. Both men were brilliant chess players, and could have easily attained Grandmaster status if they so wished, but neither had an ego about it.
I was nowhere near the level of Maximilian or even the children who attended the chess academy. But I’m getting ahead of myself here; let me start with my chess beginnings, which I had no idea would lead me—of all things—to love.
My father taught me how to play when I was about eight years old. I loved the time he and I spent together, which sometimes became hours, as can happen when one contemplates the best move to make. We would get lost in thought, trying to outsmart or outmaneuver the other. It was a special time just for us, for no one else in my family knew how to play the game. I have always been highly competitive, and it probably stems from the many games that I played against my father, whom I could never seem to beat. But it didn’t really matter to me, because I cherished the time we spent over that heavy, wooden board.
Years passed and my father and I played chess less frequently, why with my high school engagements, and then college, I had little time to devote to my studies, let alone a game. When I was having lunch one day at my college cafeteria, I noticed a green flier advertising a chess academy. I jotted down the number in my planner, excited to inquire about it when I got home. But first I had to ask my overprotective mother.
Even though I was nineteen years old and legally regarded as an adult, I was far from grown up. I had my own ideas about matters, but in the end the final word rested on my mother. I did have freedom to an extent, but it was freedom that I took in secret, that I stole. I seized the right to my virginity and to my first experience with drugs. But for the most part, I asked for her permission on anything that I was too scared to embark on my own. So when I told her I was thinking about taking lessons at the chess academy, she voiced her parental concerns, saw little harm in it, and reluctantly agreed.
After coming back from my first chess lesson, I excitedly told her about every little detail I could remember, from the rows of neatly arranged chessboards and timers, to the countless trophies gleaming in the glass case. After I gave a police-like description of everything, she opened Pandora’s box.
“So, were there any young boys there?”
My face flushed. I had described quite accurately the throes of old Cuban men—who looked better suited for dominoes than chess—but neglected to mention the young, bilingual man who had taken me under his wing.
“Well, you see Mom, no one there speaks English, not even the director. So, I was pretty much lost at first until someone my age came up to me.” I gave a goofy grin. “He’s really nice,” I added.
My mother’s eyebrow rose. “Oh? And what is this young fellow’s name?”
“His name is Maximilian and he’s twenty-one.” I just had to put in his age.
“Maximilian, huh? Sounds like a communist’s name. You ought to be careful of these Cubans. He might be a spy for Castro.”
I frowned. My mother wouldn’t have been happy if I said his name was William of the Royal Family.
Her eyebrow finally came down. I saw her release of tension and perhaps any anti-Cuban thoughts she was harboring and decided to take my chances. “There’s something different about him, something about the way he looks at me.”
Her eyebrow shot back up.
“I think he likes me.”
“Honey,” she said, clasping her long fingers around my shoulder, “just don’t forget why you’re going there: to learn chess.” She added that last part as if I’d heard it for the first time and needed careful instruction.
“Sure mom, okay. I think this’ll be fun.”
It wasn’t long afterwards that Maximilian invited me out on a date. Even though he was only two years older than me, I thought I should ask my mom for permission, just in case she decided to flip out and take all privileges away from me, including attending my weekly chess lessons. I reminded her that he was only 695 days older—and to my excitement, she allowed me to meet him for pizza.
I met Maximilian at the chess academy, and we drove to the pizza joint in his beat-up silver Buick that Blake had sold to him for a meager $500. After we had been in the car for several minutes, he brushed his hands along the floorboard, looking quite nervous and sweating, and presented me with a crimson gardenia.
I put the flower to my nose. “Oh, it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a gardenia this color before.”
He smiled and his face turned the color of the flower I had put in my lap. “It’s not quite as beautiful as you.”
Now I was the one blushing. We arrived at the pizza place, and took a table outside. It was unusually gusty that day, and I had to hold down the poems I’d brought with me to share underneath my cup of soda. After I read him a poem in which I compared love to the short lifespan of a butterfly, he looked at me, smiled, and said I had a special way with words. He was always telling me that I was special, with regard to whatever I did. I cherished every minute with him. We seemed to always be thinking about the same thing: poetry, reincarnation, music. I felt that when I looked at him, I was really looking at myself. Maybe that was the problem. I hadn’t learned at the time to love myself, and if I couldn’t love myself, how could I love this masculine incarnation before me? I did eventually learn, but at the cost of a priceless friendship and potential future with Maximilian.
He stared at me across the table, seeing that I was lost in thought.
“Are you still trying to figure out how to use the Queen’s Gambit?” he asked, referring to a chess move that he had used five moves into the game to beat me. He smiled again when I blushed, as I quite frequently did whenever he smiled in my direction. Those smiles of his were never short in supply, and they made me feel truly special in his company.
“I know,” I said, my face finally returning to it’s normal color. “You teach me how to play good chess, and I’ll teach you how to write good poetry. Deal?”
“Baby, you already do play good chess. But I’ll never be able to write like you do. But that’s okay, we only need one poeta in this relationship.”
The word relationship had scared me. We had only known each other for a short while, and this was our first date. His charm and confidence threw me off quicker than an inexperienced rider on a pissed off rodeo bull. I shrugged the strong words off and we continued seeing each other more often. It was soon after—too soon after, in fact—that he told me he loved me. I wasn’t all that surprised because every time his eyes met mine, I could feel the love that he so desperately felt and wanted to communicate. But it was too fast for me, I felt cornered. And so when he took my hands into his larger ones one night, and told me that he loved me, I felt obligated to repeat those words back to him. He hadn’t even noticed the hesitation or the quaver in my voice. He never noticed a thing, except the woman before him, the female counterpart to his soul. I’ve since had my share of men: the good, the bad, and the ugly. But I don’t think any of them cared about me as much as Maximilian did. Most of them only saw a face or a body, but I like to think that when he looked at me he saw himself reflected in my image. I only wish it could have been a better mirror.
I soon became tormented with my lies of love. I could not bear to have him listen to my empty words, and I began to substitute them for deep kisses in an effort to betray my falsehood. Then, after seeing a movie about an Italian soldier stationed in Greece who falls for a local girl during WWII, I realized that I began to push him away. During the movie Maximilian’s fingers continually brushed my hand, causing it to feel dry and sore. I tried in vain to hide my hand from his, but he always reached over and took it back to his keeping. I felt anxious and bothered, and at the end of the night, I rushed back into my house after saying a quick goodnight. My entire family was sitting in the living room, evidently waiting up for me to hear all about my date. Before anyone could say a word, I burst into tears.
“Oh my God, Katrina! Are you all right?” my father asked, quite alarmed.
“Did he try to touch you? Did he!” my mother added angrily.
“No,” I managed to sob in almost inarticulate words, my mouth drawn to a frown. “No, I wish that was the case! Any physical pain would be easier than what I feel now.”
My parents exchanged glances. They knew this was serious.
I went on to explain how Maximilian expressed his love for me--in my opinion and to the agreement of my parents--all too soon. I told them about my forced replies and how I felt bad for lying, but I didn’t know what to do. I cared for him deeply, but I wasn’t ready to tell him so profoundly. I felt completely torn; the feeling was so horrible that I wouldn’t have wished it on my worst enemy. I cried for days and wouldn’t return his messages. I had reached the breaking point.
I managed to end our relationship with silence and unreturned calls. To this day he probably thinks that what I did was cold, but I like to think that it was kind. Maybe it wasn’t the kindest thing to do, but perhaps kinder than letting the charade continue and eventually marry a man that I didn’t wholeheartedly love. I look back on it now and appreciate our relationship as the purest—if you can call it that—of any of my sojourns. It was pure and stayed pure because we never consummated our deep desire for one another. I think back to all of the ungrateful, unworthy men who shared my bed, and I realize that of them all, it was him who I wanted to freely give my body to. It was him who I wanted to wrap my magic scarf around and transform lust into love and back again. It is one of the few pertinent regrets in my life. For days after the final dissolution of our affiliation, I would wake up half asleep and feel his warm body next to mine. I closed my eyes, reopened them, and found him and the warmth that I thought was there, gone.
Some months later, I sent him a poem in the mail, not even sure if the address was still current. It was a poem by Sydney Russell King, and goes like this:
You loved me for a little,
Who could not love me long;
You gave me wings of gladness
And lent my spirit song.
You loved me for an hour
But only with your eyes;
Your lips I could not capture
By storm or by surprise.
Your mouth that I remember
With rush of sudden pain
As one remembers starlight
Or roses after rain-----
Out of a world of laughter
Suddenly I am sad----
Day and night it haunts me,
The kiss I never had.
I hadn’t quite understood the full meaning behind my sending it to him, but I did because it was beautiful and reminded me of him. Now I know that even though the poem was for him, it was really about him. It told his story, and not mine. Today I read it and memories of our short, stormy summer flood my mind. And I remember…the kiss I never had.
For some time afterward, I felt an ache inside of me, akin to emptiness that one feels from losing a piece of one’s childhood or even something more vital, such as a limb. I recognized its absence, and realized that I would be okay despite its loss.
One day I found an unmarked letter in my mailbox with no return address. It was from him. I lost in many years ago, but the words still echo within me.
Regret that now emerges as uncontrolled horses in self-reproach…she was like the path that knew no end, like the eternal light of the moon and sun, the wind and rain of my path. She was just like me…with the same warmth of two lighted candles. Thank you for having filled my life, although for a few hours, with happiness. Thank you for having illuminated my nights with your image. Mostly, thank you for having illuminated them before rendering myself to sleep. Simply…thank you. It feels like I can see you now, smiling with the smile that I have loved most until now. It feels like I can see you, thoughtful with the expression that has filled my soul the most until this moment. This is the way I want to see you always. One last thing, when you think of me, don’t ever feel sadness or pity. Remember: the person who loved the most is always the happiest …and that was Me.
I think back at the short time we had with fondness and remorse. But I will never forget the light he filled me with. I like to say that the sun never sets on the blade of grass closest to it. And in my memories, the sun shall never set on Maximilian.
“Stalemate”
When I was still in that tender stage between adolescence and adulthood, I fell in love with a young Cuban man whose eyes were lit by green fire. I once told him that I thought I could sit and stare at them forever, but I realize now it was all a pretense. Okay, so perhaps I hadn’t really fallen in love with him; I had merely stumbled over a man who gave me the attention that I craved for so long. I stumbled awkwardly over him and my first love affair, and consequently, the first grown-up decision I had ever made in my life.
It’s possible for me to look back on the incident now with older and more experienced eyes. But back then everything was so fresh, exciting, terrifying, and passionate, that I thought my heart was likely to burst. Ahh…those days. I don’t remember feeling anything close to it since those fragile years. There was so much pain, so much joy—and to think: I wouldn’t take any of it back. Not a second of it.
I’ve learned that it’s the things that test your character that show you who you really are. I used to think myself invincible, but then I realized how easily the world I had set up around me could so easily break. I was young…what did I know? But we’re all young once, and we learn more about ourselves with every new experience, whether it’s good or bad. And in my own case, I was lucky in that I learned to conquer myself. No, I hadn’t conquered love. Love is not something to be conquered: it conquers you.
The young man’s name was Maximilian. He was a chess prodigy who had won asylum to the United States when he was still a teenager, just a few years before I met him. Those first years in the new world changed him just a little; he wasn’t the type to be easily swayed, even if he had moved to a new country. The only difference I could tell from old photographs was a considerable weight gain on his behalf, and a fondness for New York style pizza.
I guess I can admit now that my admiration for him exceeded my love. I admired so much about him…the way his sensuous accent caused him to mispronounce every single vowel in my name. The way he refused to beat me in chess, even when I told him to treat me like one of his high-ranking opponents. I even admired his chess ability. He was a Fide Master, which is the third highest possible rank to attain. When he came to America, he studied under the great International Master Blake Lagos, also a Cuban immigrant. Both men were brilliant chess players, and could have easily attained Grandmaster status if they so wished, but neither had an ego about it.
I was nowhere near the level of Maximilian or even the children who attended the chess academy. But I’m getting ahead of myself here; let me start with my chess beginnings, which I had no idea would lead me—of all things—to love.
My father taught me how to play when I was about eight years old. I loved the time he and I spent together, which sometimes became hours, as can happen when one contemplates the best move to make. We would get lost in thought, trying to outsmart or outmaneuver the other. It was a special time just for us, for no one else in my family knew how to play the game. I have always been highly competitive, and it probably stems from the many games that I played against my father, whom I could never seem to beat. But it didn’t really matter to me, because I cherished the time we spent over that heavy, wooden board.
Years passed and my father and I played chess less frequently, why with my high school engagements, and then college, I had little time to devote to my studies, let alone a game. When I was having lunch one day at my college cafeteria, I noticed a green flier advertising a chess academy. I jotted down the number in my planner, excited to inquire about it when I got home. But first I had to ask my overprotective mother.
Even though I was nineteen years old and legally regarded as an adult, I was far from grown up. I had my own ideas about matters, but in the end the final word rested on my mother. I did have freedom to an extent, but it was freedom that I took in secret, that I stole. I seized the right to my virginity and to my first experience with drugs. But for the most part, I asked for her permission on anything that I was too scared to embark on my own. So when I told her I was thinking about taking lessons at the chess academy, she voiced her parental concerns, saw little harm in it, and reluctantly agreed.
After coming back from my first chess lesson, I excitedly told her about every little detail I could remember, from the rows of neatly arranged chessboards and timers, to the countless trophies gleaming in the glass case. After I gave a police-like description of everything, she opened Pandora’s box.
“So, were there any young boys there?”
My face flushed. I had described quite accurately the throes of old Cuban men—who looked better suited for dominoes than chess—but neglected to mention the young, bilingual man who had taken me under his wing.
“Well, you see Mom, no one there speaks English, not even the director. So, I was pretty much lost at first until someone my age came up to me.” I gave a goofy grin. “He’s really nice,” I added.
My mother’s eyebrow rose. “Oh? And what is this young fellow’s name?”
“His name is Maximilian and he’s twenty-one.” I just had to put in his age.
“Maximilian, huh? Sounds like a communist’s name. You ought to be careful of these Cubans. He might be a spy for Castro.”
I frowned. My mother wouldn’t have been happy if I said his name was William of the Royal Family.
Her eyebrow finally came down. I saw her release of tension and perhaps any anti-Cuban thoughts she was harboring and decided to take my chances. “There’s something different about him, something about the way he looks at me.”
Her eyebrow shot back up.
“I think he likes me.”
“Honey,” she said, clasping her long fingers around my shoulder, “just don’t forget why you’re going there: to learn chess.” She added that last part as if I’d heard it for the first time and needed careful instruction.
“Sure mom, okay. I think this’ll be fun.”
It wasn’t long afterwards that Maximilian invited me out on a date. Even though he was only two years older than me, I thought I should ask my mom for permission, just in case she decided to flip out and take all privileges away from me, including attending my weekly chess lessons. I reminded her that he was only 695 days older—and to my excitement, she allowed me to meet him for pizza.
I met Maximilian at the chess academy, and we drove to the pizza joint in his beat-up silver Buick that Blake had sold to him for a meager $500. After we had been in the car for several minutes, he brushed his hands along the floorboard, looking quite nervous and sweating, and presented me with a crimson gardenia.
I put the flower to my nose. “Oh, it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a gardenia this color before.”
He smiled and his face turned the color of the flower I had put in my lap. “It’s not quite as beautiful as you.”
Now I was the one blushing. We arrived at the pizza place, and took a table outside. It was unusually gusty that day, and I had to hold down the poems I’d brought with me to share underneath my cup of soda. After I read him a poem in which I compared love to the short lifespan of a butterfly, he looked at me, smiled, and said I had a special way with words. He was always telling me that I was special, with regard to whatever I did. I cherished every minute with him. We seemed to always be thinking about the same thing: poetry, reincarnation, music. I felt that when I looked at him, I was really looking at myself. Maybe that was the problem. I hadn’t learned at the time to love myself, and if I couldn’t love myself, how could I love this masculine incarnation before me? I did eventually learn, but at the cost of a priceless friendship and potential future with Maximilian.
He stared at me across the table, seeing that I was lost in thought.
“Are you still trying to figure out how to use the Queen’s Gambit?” he asked, referring to a chess move that he had used five moves into the game to beat me. He smiled again when I blushed, as I quite frequently did whenever he smiled in my direction. Those smiles of his were never short in supply, and they made me feel truly special in his company.
“I know,” I said, my face finally returning to it’s normal color. “You teach me how to play good chess, and I’ll teach you how to write good poetry. Deal?”
“Baby, you already do play good chess. But I’ll never be able to write like you do. But that’s okay, we only need one poeta in this relationship.”
The word relationship had scared me. We had only known each other for a short while, and this was our first date. His charm and confidence threw me off quicker than an inexperienced rider on a pissed off rodeo bull. I shrugged the strong words off and we continued seeing each other more often. It was soon after—too soon after, in fact—that he told me he loved me. I wasn’t all that surprised because every time his eyes met mine, I could feel the love that he so desperately felt and wanted to communicate. But it was too fast for me, I felt cornered. And so when he took my hands into his larger ones one night, and told me that he loved me, I felt obligated to repeat those words back to him. He hadn’t even noticed the hesitation or the quaver in my voice. He never noticed a thing, except the woman before him, the female counterpart to his soul. I’ve since had my share of men: the good, the bad, and the ugly. But I don’t think any of them cared about me as much as Maximilian did. Most of them only saw a face or a body, but I like to think that when he looked at me he saw himself reflected in my image. I only wish it could have been a better mirror.
I soon became tormented with my lies of love. I could not bear to have him listen to my empty words, and I began to substitute them for deep kisses in an effort to betray my falsehood. Then, after seeing a movie about an Italian soldier stationed in Greece who falls for a local girl during WWII, I realized that I began to push him away. During the movie Maximilian’s fingers continually brushed my hand, causing it to feel dry and sore. I tried in vain to hide my hand from his, but he always reached over and took it back to his keeping. I felt anxious and bothered, and at the end of the night, I rushed back into my house after saying a quick goodnight. My entire family was sitting in the living room, evidently waiting up for me to hear all about my date. Before anyone could say a word, I burst into tears.
“Oh my God, Katrina! Are you all right?” my father asked, quite alarmed.
“Did he try to touch you? Did he!” my mother added angrily.
“No,” I managed to sob in almost inarticulate words, my mouth drawn to a frown. “No, I wish that was the case! Any physical pain would be easier than what I feel now.”
My parents exchanged glances. They knew this was serious.
I went on to explain how Maximilian expressed his love for me--in my opinion and to the agreement of my parents--all too soon. I told them about my forced replies and how I felt bad for lying, but I didn’t know what to do. I cared for him deeply, but I wasn’t ready to tell him so profoundly. I felt completely torn; the feeling was so horrible that I wouldn’t have wished it on my worst enemy. I cried for days and wouldn’t return his messages. I had reached the breaking point.
I managed to end our relationship with silence and unreturned calls. To this day he probably thinks that what I did was cold, but I like to think that it was kind. Maybe it wasn’t the kindest thing to do, but perhaps kinder than letting the charade continue and eventually marry a man that I didn’t wholeheartedly love. I look back on it now and appreciate our relationship as the purest—if you can call it that—of any of my sojourns. It was pure and stayed pure because we never consummated our deep desire for one another. I think back to all of the ungrateful, unworthy men who shared my bed, and I realize that of them all, it was him who I wanted to freely give my body to. It was him who I wanted to wrap my magic scarf around and transform lust into love and back again. It is one of the few pertinent regrets in my life. For days after the final dissolution of our affiliation, I would wake up half asleep and feel his warm body next to mine. I closed my eyes, reopened them, and found him and the warmth that I thought was there, gone.
Some months later, I sent him a poem in the mail, not even sure if the address was still current. It was a poem by Sydney Russell King, and goes like this:
You loved me for a little,
Who could not love me long;
You gave me wings of gladness
And lent my spirit song.
You loved me for an hour
But only with your eyes;
Your lips I could not capture
By storm or by surprise.
Your mouth that I remember
With rush of sudden pain
As one remembers starlight
Or roses after rain-----
Out of a world of laughter
Suddenly I am sad----
Day and night it haunts me,
The kiss I never had.
I hadn’t quite understood the full meaning behind my sending it to him, but I did because it was beautiful and reminded me of him. Now I know that even though the poem was for him, it was really about him. It told his story, and not mine. Today I read it and memories of our short, stormy summer flood my mind. And I remember…the kiss I never had.
For some time afterward, I felt an ache inside of me, akin to emptiness that one feels from losing a piece of one’s childhood or even something more vital, such as a limb. I recognized its absence, and realized that I would be okay despite its loss.
One day I found an unmarked letter in my mailbox with no return address. It was from him. I lost in many years ago, but the words still echo within me.
Regret that now emerges as uncontrolled horses in self-reproach…she was like the path that knew no end, like the eternal light of the moon and sun, the wind and rain of my path. She was just like me…with the same warmth of two lighted candles. Thank you for having filled my life, although for a few hours, with happiness. Thank you for having illuminated my nights with your image. Mostly, thank you for having illuminated them before rendering myself to sleep. Simply…thank you. It feels like I can see you now, smiling with the smile that I have loved most until now. It feels like I can see you, thoughtful with the expression that has filled my soul the most until this moment. This is the way I want to see you always. One last thing, when you think of me, don’t ever feel sadness or pity. Remember: the person who loved the most is always the happiest …and that was Me.
I think back at the short time we had with fondness and remorse. But I will never forget the light he filled me with. I like to say that the sun never sets on the blade of grass closest to it. And in my memories, the sun shall never set on Maximilian.