[Lunatique]

I don't usually share my writing with people, as it is a very personal and serious creative endeavor for me--more so than drawing, painting, music, or photography.

Today, I've decided to share that side of me. As with my artwork, I welcome comments and criticism--but please do it with prudence, as a criticism for paintings judges a person's skills, while a criticism for writing judges a person's soul.

Basically, I just want opinions on my prose style--whether it works or not. The subject of interest is highly subjective, as most writings are, so please reserve any comments regarding any disagreement of the genre or subject matter.

The following excerpt is from a novel in progress, titled "Silent Storm." It is a story about betrayal, redemption, forgiveness, and the consequences of illusory passion.

Silent Storm
By Robert Chang

Prologue

My first impression of her was that of a lost child. Her pale face peered through the door and looked straight at me with her dark, aqueous eyes. She seemed surprised, and slightly frightened by my presence. As I was about to introduce myself, she retreated back with her basket of laundry and allowed me to pass through the stairs. I had a large box filled with picture frames and photo albums, struggling up in a slow five-story climb--the result of a broken down elevator.

When I stopped at the next floor, it was my turn to let her pass. As she nimbly ascended the stairs, her eyes locked with mine, in a silent agreement that the absence of propriety was a conscious and unanimous decision. I felt guilty for my obvious fascination with her, yet her adamant need to satiate her own curiosity about me provided what little excuse I needed to satiate my own. Her abiding gaze betrayed her longing for acquaintance--two dark pools that mirrored my own intoxication, pulling me in, demanding my attention. When she brushed by me, she turned her head slightly to prolong our locked gaze for a second more. As she finally tore her eyes from mine and pattered up the stairs in small, graceful steps with her bare feet, I inhaled the air she saturated with her sweet scent, and watched the hem of her white summer dress swaying softly above her shapely legs. Staring at the corner where her shadow slipped away and listening to the echoes of her bare feet against the cement stairs, I started to feel light-headed as my surrounding began unraveling all around me. My face was hot, and my eyes felt like they were imploding. When I finally regained my thoughts, I found myself unable to look at a framed picture sitting on the top of the box amidst the stack of photo albums; it was of Janice and me on our honeymoon, kissing beneath the impossibly blue sky of Waikiki Beach.

Her name was Eve, I later learned. The entire building referred to her as �The Ghost.� I didn�t know it then when I met her, but as soon as I heard the unflattering nickname, I understood why. She had a certain translucence about her, floating and intangible, weighed down only by her melancholy, which she wore like a shawl, wrapping herself in its promise of ever-present embrace.

I didn�t tell Janice about her.
Usually, I am very open about this sort of thing. Janice is confident and mature enough to handle my praises about other women�s beauty, and usually agrees with me and expresses her own admiration. This time, however, it was more than just taking note of someone�s physical beauty and grace; it was being overwhelmed by the mere presence of another person�s soul.

In my panicked and bewildered state, I did the only thing that seemed reasonable to me: to demystify the source of my curiosity.

Her apartment was on the top floor. Luckily, the elevator was functional again, or else twenty floors would�ve been daunting. It turned out her apartment dominated the whole floor, and was in fact, a gigantic suite. I rang her doorbell and waited a bit longer than I normally would have, but as I stepped back into the elevator, the door opened.

Peering from behind her door, she stood silently and looked at me, slightly timid. Her shoulder-length black hair framed her small face, and on her chest were bloodstains, still fresh, scattering random drops of deep crimson to otherwise a white, gauzy summer dress.

�Hi. . .. Are you alright?� I let her follow my gaze to the blood on her dress. She nodded and held up her right hand and showed me where the blood came from; a deep cut on her forefinger, with blood still running down, dripping onto the marble floor. I realized she hasn�t done a thing to try to stop the bleeding.

�I cut myself.� She explained. Her voice was like tiny bells heard in the distance, faint yet distinct.

�You need to stop that from bleeding.� I pointed to her finger. The splattering sound of her blood as it hits the floor seemed unnaturally loud. The sight of her blood, her pale skin, and the heat from my face made me feel slightly dizzy.

�I�m Ashley. We met a couple of days ago on the steps?� I held out my left hand, as so she could use her uninjured hand to shake mine. She looked at it, and slowly reached out. Her hand was cold, and her grip weak.

�How did you cut yourself?�

�I�um. I was making something.� She looked away.

�Try keeping your hand above your heart. It stops the bleeding faster.�

She raised her hand, but looked uncomfortable, not knowing what to do with it. I reached out and took her hand. It was so fragile and delicate, I was afraid the bones that held her fingers together might collapse from my touch.

�Do you have a first-aid kit or something?�

She shook her head and backed into her apartment, I held on to her hand and followed her.

Her apartment was very spacious, with white walls and simple, pastel colored furniture. It was odd that everything seemed to have been purchased in complete sets, as if the person who purchased them refused to breakup what was meant to be together. My immediate impression was that she lived alone there. They say that lonely people can spot each other instinctively, and as I looked around her apartment, I had the distinct feeling that her loneliness was more familiar to me than anything else about her.

Her kitchen was smaller than it should�ve been for an apartment of that size, but it was quite a sight: fully stocked with every imaginable spice and cookware, all appeared to have been used frequently. I quickly located a roll of paper towel, tore off a sheet, and wrapped it around her finger. Immediately, her blood soaked through the white sheet.

�You should keep a tight clamp--never mind.� I noticed her indifference to her bleeding finger, so I reached out and gripped her finger firmly and held it above her heart. She looked at my hand and saw my wedding ring, then looked down. I felt her trying to pull away, but I had a good grip on her finger. She tried only once, then stopped struggling. By then, I had forgotten why I knocked on her door in the first place. What followed should�ve been an uncomfortable silence, but I felt as if it was my right to be there, and my privilege to be concerned for her. She accepted my willful intrusion without a word, submitting to a kindness unasked for, and maybe unfathomable. I knew in that moment that my life was about to be changed forever, and I could never go back to the moment before I met her.


Chapter One

I woke up drenched in sweat, and in that moment of confusion, it felt like blood trickling down my temple, tickling my chin. Trying to control my breathing to slow down my heartbeat, I drew reality in, letting it ground me. My senses were alert, but the dream clung to the back of my mind, unwilling to let go. I didn�t feel safe. A slight push would�ve sent me spiraling down into the nightmare again.

I turned and watched Janice in her sleep; so peaceful and at ease, as she is in her waking hours. She had always been a deep sleeper, and I often teased that she slept like the dead, but I�m grateful that even in her sleep, she seemed to radiate the same unique ebullience that often made her the center of attention for those around her.
When I felt I had a stronger grasp on reality, I allowed myself to wander back into the images from the dream.

I was in an elevator, going up for what seemed too many floors to remember. Although I couldn�t see outside the elevator, I could sense that there was darkness beyond the four cramped walls. When the elevator reached the top floor, the mechanical slide of the doors intruded into the silence of a long, dark hallway. I kept the elevator door from closing with one foot, while I looked both ways.

There was a door at the end of the hallway to my left, and I knew instinctively it was Eve�s door. I reluctantly let the elevator close behind me, giving up my sole illumination, and took steps towards the complete darkness. I felt a sudden sense of urgency, as if I had to get to her before something else did. Feeling my way towards the door in the darkness, I eventually found the doorknob.

The door was locked, and I tentatively placed a finger in front of the keyhole, trying to reshape it mentally to be slender enough to fit. The tip of the finger started to compress itself, but I felt no pain. When it had assumed the shape of a hair pin, I started feeling my way around its mechanism. I tried to find the one latch or dial that would allow my entry, and in my mind, as if I could see through the metal and the wood, I envisioned rows of numbers inside the lock. Instinctively, I started to dial random numbers with an unexplained confidence that I could hit the right combination without knowing what it is. When the door finally opened with a click, the darkness of the hallway gave way to the light in her apartment.

Silhouetted against the bright sun outside, with only the sheer layer of the curtains drawn, I could see Eve standing with her back towards me, facing the glass door that lead to her balcony. In her hand, a small blade glinted in my eyes. Slowly, she took the knife up towards her chest. I wanted to yell for her to stop, but my voice evaporated as soon as it left my throat. By the time I ran to her, she had already sliced off a finger. Turning around, she held her bleeding hand in front of me, her face calm and blank. Her blood sprayed onto her dress and onto my face. Every drop began to burn as soon as it made contact with my skin. I reached out and grabbed her hand to stop the bleeding, but the blood kept spraying, imbruing the carpet around us, soaking its way through the walls and furniture. Inch by inch, her blood dyed the entire living room into a deep crimson, enveloping us, and climbing towards the ceiling. Her blood was hot, and the heat emitted from it was becoming unbearable. When the blood suddenly burst into flames, I snapped awake. (To be continued)

[ June 14, 2002: Message edited by: Lunatique ]

[gLitterbug]

A nice read, I�m not really used to reading such type of stories, but I like it.

I can�t comment on the writing style though, as english isn�t my mother tongue and I�m no literature expert.

Hope you continue it soon

[Rat]

Very nice. As with gLitterbug, I don't usually read that sort of story, but I liked this one.

The only suggestion I've got at the moment, though is to not repeat words so much. Like in the beginning, you used the word "stairs" a lot in the first two paragraphs.

And (this is just personal preference) I think it might make a little more sense if you italicized(sp?) the scene from the dream.

[Coaster]

good story, not the type I'd read like the last two people.. but I'm glad I did.

Very expressive, well structured.
It needs more robots.

[Lunatique]

gLitterbug- it's a long-term thing, so. . ..

Rat- hey, thanks! I didn't catch that one. I'll fix it.

Coaster- there will be a passionate love affair with a robot in the 5th chapter.

Just kidding.

[Basse_Ex]

Very good, actually.

I've seen your pictures, and read some other writing on forums like this, and was expecting some kind of pathetic, romantic fantasy\sci-fi hack story, but no... not at all.

In the beginning the story was a little bit verbose, with romantic tendencies(Romantic as in the style, not as in things concerning love). Now... the fact that I call it verbose shouldn't bother you that much, since I'm practically illiterate, and have trouble reading anything longer than four-letter words if it doesn't come with illustrations. But still.... Unfathomable is such an unfathomable word.

Then it started to build up. The dialogue is simple and sweet. The use of such things as regular sentences with question marks after them to show a sense of uncertainty is very good and.... ummh... human. Me likes!

I'm also a great big fan of "I-um" and "-- nevermind", although having grown up on comics, I prefer them when written as "I... umh..." and "... nevermind".

I think the french author C�line has written a couple of novels where "..." is the most used thing that seperates the sentences. I haven't read them, have only gotten them greatly recommended by sources I trust in these matters, but something about your style made me think of him.

In case you haven't read him, and is interested, here's the link to his books on Amazon.com:

Louis-Ferdinand D. C�line

Don't really know if it has any relevance... but... it just popped up in my mind(Perhaps as a reminder that I should read him myself).

Back to your story...

Things really elevated in the dreamsequence. Extremely elegant, spinechilling, and plain old-fashioned fun.
The finger key thing is a stroke of genius. I love that. I wish I could have fingers like that.

Now it's hard to tell all that much from this little fragment, but it got me hungry for more.

The greatest compliment I can give you, is that I actually read it. Without problems. Which doesn't happen often with fiction literature for me. As I said, I'm practically illiterate when it comes to text without images.

Now some questions(If you don't mind):

- What's your literary inspirations, or rather, what do you read?

- I think I saw a post where you showed your comics...(Hopefully my memory isn't deceiving me)... Have you ever written your own comics?

Blimey, this became a long post.

hmmm...

[ June 14, 2002: Message edited by: Basse_Ex ]

[Awetopsy]

Lunatique,

In a way I feel honored by your gesture to let us read this. As I think about it, I get the feeling that this comes from a deep part of you that you are generally afraid to even let yourself see... much less the world. (dont get me wrong, Im not calling you a wuss or anything) This writing was gripping right from the opening sentence and it really feels like there is emotion in the writers hand (you, of course). I believe that writing that strikes home is writing that comes from experience and feeling that the author is experiencing and/or feeling at the time. Thats why the reluctance to post something like this. You are opening up a sensitive spot of your heart.. your very being. Risky around these parts...

This is well thought out material. I find it hard to read because of the emotion it raises in me. Its good writing keep it up.

[Lunatique]

Basse_Ex- Thank you so much for taking the time, especially when you are a self-proclaimed illiterate.

I checked out your link, and definitely looks interesting. The next time I go to Hong Kong, I'll hunt down one of his books.

It's funny, I always didn't like the dream sequence, as I felt it didn't flow as well as I had intended. I had wanted to use more symbols and metaphor for a more mirage like illusion, but ended up with a fairly straightforwad prose style.

your questions:

- What's your literary inspirations, or rather, what do you read?

In the early days, I read in Chinese(I was born in Taiwan). I read lots of translated works such as the Arsene Lupin series by Maurice LeBlanc, Japanese manga, classics like The Jungle Book..etc. Then, as a teenager, I read a lot of general fiction by Taiwanese writers. Most were human dramas, and some were romance novels. I also read some martial arts novels and quite a bit of sci-fi by Hong Kong writers.

When I moved to the States, I was in the fifth grade, and I didn't know a word of English. My first English books were Choose Your Own Adventure books, as they were easy to read, and a lot of fun--kinda made you forget the pain of learning a new language. From there, I moved onto the Fighting Fantasy books, and then fantasy and sci-fi novels.

In high school, J.D. Salinger had a profound impact on me when I read The Catcher in the Rye, but in general, it was mostly fantasy that I read. Of course, manga and American comics were often consumed. I especially loved manga that had a literary bent to it. The intelligent, ethereal, ironic, and movind stories by creators like Nishi Keiko were my favorite.

Then, a few years ago, I read Peter Hoeg's Smilla's Sense of Snow, and his powerful prose was like a revelation for me. From that day on, I have been unable to read any fantasy or sci-fi. I've made a few attempts to read them again, but they just felt empty and irrelevant.

These days, I just read general fiction(I have a thing for tragic, ethereal, passionate stories). I haven't come across any English language books I truely love, as I did when I read Chinese movels, but I hope I will one day find an English book that can move me the way some of my favorite Chinese books did.

- I think I saw a post where you showed your comics...(Hopefully my memory isn't deceiving me)... Have you ever written your own comics?

Yes. I worked on a creator-owned comic series for about 4 years. It was called Enchanted. Five issues were published, and then discontinued. Enchanted was a fantasy/drama hybrid. I tried to depict the characters in their daily lives, yet kept the fantasy plot moving along. Just as the story started to get really intense, my association with the publisher ended.

Awetopsy- Thank you for the heart-felt reply. You are right about this being a risk, and believe me, I've given it a lot of thought before posting. I had wanted to post some writings before, but I didn't feel comfortable enough at the time. Now, as I've known most of you for well over a year, and there appears to be mutual trust and respect between most of us, I felt the time was right. I even assumed the worst case scenerio, where the trouble makers would come in and make a mockery out of this thread, but I'm an optimist, and I'd rather believe in the good of human nature.

In some ways, even though "Luna, the official sijun pimp" is a fun image for kicks and giggles, it's not really who I am. In many ways, if you've read my writing, you'll know me better than most people who have known me for most of my life.

[[666]Flat]

Bombastic, yet readable. But you forgot the part where you bang her.

[Impaler]

This excerpt is like corn on the cob. From afar, you give it a cursory glance and think, "hey. shit. big deal. just some corn." Then you get closer, and you realize that this story has a definite structure, very deliberate and precise. The way the kernels fit together is fantastic. The entire thing is covered with the buttery layer of established technique, which gives the whole story an extra nuance of flavor. Then, when you're finished biting into this corn, you're left with the core of the cob, the barebones version of the author's soul.

Crackin'.