Writing exercise

Christine Eldin had a writing exercise on her blog. The task was to supply another 300 words to the story she started. Below is the part she wrote and my version's below the ****-s.

This is sort of a romance, and I had very hard times finding out anything about these people. I don't think my version came out bright or truly original, but this is what I got when I got my brain working on it.

Feel free to comment on my writing and don't forget to visit the original version by Chris.

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Neal was the gem in my collection. An art major from an upper-class family, he had hazel eyes with long-eyelashes. And oh so smooth, gentle hands. Outcast by meaty frat-boys, we often spent time together walking through the woods.

"Let's kiss," he'd say. And we'd lean in and put our mouths together and I was always surprised when he'd use his tongue. I knew he wasn't gay, but it always surprised me just the same. He'd pull away then talk about his classes or an upcoming vacation, or how he'd like to sketch the bird resting on a branch overhead.

I was never embarrassed when he'd put his hands in his pants and adjust an errant erection. They were never related to our kisses, and he always excused himself. And, you know, I was never curious enough to peek. To think we were twenty but quite comfortable acting like twelve-year-olds.

I was part of Neal's collection, but he wasn't in love with me. Of that I was quite sure.

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We’re friends he’d say. Yet, my roommate made faces when she heard Neal asked me to accompany him on bird-watching. Lucy insisted Neal was a nerd. Or gay. Or a gay nerd. I did not care much about birds; and clutching to binoculars with freezing hands was not my type of pleasure either. Instead, it was the gem I followed. Or was it my heart?

We set ourselves in a log cabin for the night. Neal explained about the birds we were about to explore early in the morning. His deep, warm voice circled around and lulled me to sleep. I had the strangest dream this night. I saw Neal squatting in a nest, his head slightly turned down; his arms hanging loosely. He looked at me and was so quiet, peaceful and loveable I wished I could go up and spread my love around his body; because well, he had feathers all around him and he was sitting in a nest. And he was up about two meters high in an oak.

The morning came with a mist that wove its silky threads among the trees. The grass bore drips of silver under my feet as I stepped out to see where Neal was. I thought I slept too much and he was out already. He really was. About two meters high, in a bird’s costume. His facial expression was bemused and calm.

I returned to grab my belongings. The highway was about half an hour’s walk.

I never saw him again, nor did I speak to him. Sometimes I wish I did. I can still recall the enchantment over his almond eyes. Sometimes I’d walk past a pet shop and see caged birds in fancy plumages. They remind me of the taste of Neal’s kisses.

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