![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"Across the Street and into the Bushes"
a story i wrote for that gay website that i put that other story on for...they had another gay contest for the "greatest love story"...i wrote this story for that...my story is not gay, so i'm sure it has no chance, but it's fun to get a story written...
-----
I am well aware that, statistically speaking, the odds are not in my favor. The number of cases in which the stalker wins the heart of the stalkee—marching hand in hand through the limitless horizon, silhouette emblazoned in fiery sunset where inevitably lips lock in twisting throes of passion as arms enclose and the two streaks of shadow merge into a single blur of monochrome—are strikingly low: a seeming anomaly of insignificance. In spite of these unfavorable chances, I must continue to stalk her because I have no other way: no resources by which to attain her attentions through the “proper” channels.
I have no illusions about where I stand. I’d like to be able to say I’ve studied all of the great stalker cases of our time, analyzed their shortcomings and cross-referenced the various strands of failure in order to pinpoint exactly what hasn’t worked—to use this understanding to perfect the art, to benefit my own situation and develop a new stratagem that, if not impenetrable, is at least feasible. However, I already know the futility of such efforts. The stalker-problem is axiomatic. It is an inherent flaw in the very nature of the act itself. There is nothing I could do by my own volition to reverse this fate. I can only maintain hope in a remote chance or some disorder on the part of the girl in question.
I can’t remember when I first laid eyes on her. That elusive moment obliterated all preceding—stretching back through time erasing all notion of an existence without her in sight. Inasmuch as I can perceive, she’s always been there—burned into my retinas with unobstructed permanence. Whatever plethora of other me’s there may have been [permutations from which she cannot be extracted], not one can be linked to the current version.
In the bushes, across the street, waiting in the pale-dark light of dim stars and clear sky, the frigid air sharpening my view crisp into focus, I’d sit with only my albescent breath occasionally twisting across a chance of a glimpse that would leave me transfigured—off and on with each burst from the frame of the window: projected like film / cut and stripped to the bare essentials of subliminal coercion. I sing her name in the air without speaking. I trace her being with my breath. In between flashes of her body, she flickered, dancing in the ether before me.
More and more I began to see her in the room, in the window, in my sight. What was once a passing fancy slowly became the norm. After a time she stopped leaving the room altogether. I began to notice a certain restriction on her movements. Her area of traversion was slipping into an almost geometric progression until she finally converged into a classic mime act (“Trapped in a Box”®). I knew something was wrong.
I cast aside my caste of stalker and raced across the street to try out the much nobler role of hero. I scaled the house: a blur of white wood lattice and wisteria. Smashing the window and falling inside, I ran to her and grabbed her arm. We fell to the floor and our eyes locked as I gently straddled her, an inch from my face.
“My hero! I thought I was trapped for good!”
Our lips met softly, briefly. Once more, only a little less soft, a little less brief, but it felt like she bit me with tenderness. We blushed and Istooped stood up, helping her to her feet. She thanked me and led me out. I was tensed for a goodbye kiss, but was left alone with thoughts of our next encounter.
It was a bit of a shock when, the very next day, I was served a restraining order. the weight of hope crushing me with the emptiness of expectation. I had grasped her with fingers spread wide. The tears were soft and brief. I am alone, but not empty-handed, not completely. In the bushes, across the street, she hovers over my palm [geometric progression expanding] into the ether, dancing with my memory. The flashes of present frame the past flickering through the lattice of time (bordered by wisteria beneath the shattered glass). I submerge myself in her vague presence. I breathe the vapors of passion: tendrils of memory and fabricated lust. I sit and watch, in the bushes, across the street, in the cold, clear night of loneliness.
-----
I am well aware that, statistically speaking, the odds are not in my favor. The number of cases in which the stalker wins the heart of the stalkee—marching hand in hand through the limitless horizon, silhouette emblazoned in fiery sunset where inevitably lips lock in twisting throes of passion as arms enclose and the two streaks of shadow merge into a single blur of monochrome—are strikingly low: a seeming anomaly of insignificance. In spite of these unfavorable chances, I must continue to stalk her because I have no other way: no resources by which to attain her attentions through the “proper” channels.
I have no illusions about where I stand. I’d like to be able to say I’ve studied all of the great stalker cases of our time, analyzed their shortcomings and cross-referenced the various strands of failure in order to pinpoint exactly what hasn’t worked—to use this understanding to perfect the art, to benefit my own situation and develop a new stratagem that, if not impenetrable, is at least feasible. However, I already know the futility of such efforts. The stalker-problem is axiomatic. It is an inherent flaw in the very nature of the act itself. There is nothing I could do by my own volition to reverse this fate. I can only maintain hope in a remote chance or some disorder on the part of the girl in question.
I can’t remember when I first laid eyes on her. That elusive moment obliterated all preceding—stretching back through time erasing all notion of an existence without her in sight. Inasmuch as I can perceive, she’s always been there—burned into my retinas with unobstructed permanence. Whatever plethora of other me’s there may have been [permutations from which she cannot be extracted], not one can be linked to the current version.
In the bushes, across the street, waiting in the pale-dark light of dim stars and clear sky, the frigid air sharpening my view crisp into focus, I’d sit with only my albescent breath occasionally twisting across a chance of a glimpse that would leave me transfigured—off and on with each burst from the frame of the window: projected like film / cut and stripped to the bare essentials of subliminal coercion. I sing her name in the air without speaking. I trace her being with my breath. In between flashes of her body, she flickered, dancing in the ether before me.
More and more I began to see her in the room, in the window, in my sight. What was once a passing fancy slowly became the norm. After a time she stopped leaving the room altogether. I began to notice a certain restriction on her movements. Her area of traversion was slipping into an almost geometric progression until she finally converged into a classic mime act (“Trapped in a Box”®). I knew something was wrong.
I cast aside my caste of stalker and raced across the street to try out the much nobler role of hero. I scaled the house: a blur of white wood lattice and wisteria. Smashing the window and falling inside, I ran to her and grabbed her arm. We fell to the floor and our eyes locked as I gently straddled her, an inch from my face.
“My hero! I thought I was trapped for good!”
Our lips met softly, briefly. Once more, only a little less soft, a little less brief, but it felt like she bit me with tenderness. We blushed and I
It was a bit of a shock when, the very next day, I was served a restraining order. the weight of hope crushing me with the emptiness of expectation. I had grasped her with fingers spread wide. The tears were soft and brief. I am alone, but not empty-handed, not completely. In the bushes, across the street, she hovers over my palm [geometric progression expanding] into the ether, dancing with my memory. The flashes of present frame the past flickering through the lattice of time (bordered by wisteria beneath the shattered glass). I submerge myself in her vague presence. I breathe the vapors of passion: tendrils of memory and fabricated lust. I sit and watch, in the bushes, across the street, in the cold, clear night of loneliness.