Finding examples of your themes

[Stella_Omega]

Inspired by WRJames, (whom I hope will repeat his post--)
Find and post an excerpt from your own work that you feel illustrates your main theme. If you have more than one theme that you revisit-- by all means, give us examples of them!

 

[neonlyte]

Art is a recurring theme, one I experimentally explored in 'Painting the Nude':

'The door is ajar, I did knock. The studio, a room, empty, and crowded. Partly cleared. A slightly raised dais. Cushioned, purple draped shiny, and around, paintings... possibly.

Possibly... photographs more like. Paintings by smell by touch by framing. Caressed not brush stroked, intimacy within oil, deep drawn plunging conscious depth. Colour sublime, clear, the painters eyes hauled to canvas, shades unnoticed, virulent hues rendered clean, unsullied, now seen, now fingertip touched, now traced.

I am here, centred. I am singly clad, my face, my clothes, my hands, my lips, my body, my hair, all cloned, the once. To my left side, a flaccid penis thicker than my leg, dusky pink, partly sheathed, purpled head intruding beyond, rippled skin sleeping. To my right side, a shaven pubis, viewed like the soft hill of the English countryside painted twice the size of my head, split, smooth shadow trailing, curving beneath, tissue nub crinkled darker skinned breaks shadows line. I crouch. Move left. The same penis, a woman's? lips as last I was here. Lipstick pink, glistening, pouting kisses. Move right, a lower view, legs slightly parted, crevice snagged creamy skin, a protruding crenulated russet nub, a beauty spot, a blemish on otherwise perfect skin dark spilling into folds of blackness.

I'm made to move, a symmetry unfolding left and right, separate acts, detached intent, mutually independent, intrinsically joined. Lipstick pink parted on purpled hue, moistened, growing. A male finger (definitely) indents female flesh, parting, and still hidden. Pink lips engulfing, erect, dark vein ridged, drawn inward on hollowed cheek. A glistening finger, the dazzling transparency of wetness, penetrating, half entered, half withdrawn, a moisture click painted to see heard crystal clear in silence. Erect, shadow cast on muscled abdomen, wet, saliva trailed ruddy engorged, ringed with vestige trace of lips pink bloom. Now almost joined, arched to receive, parted to give, strained to pour, electric. The last painting, set opposing my singularity, a climax, unmistakable, the canvas screams, fingers claw, fully penetrated leaking pearl gelled on ruby red flesh, opened, exposed to see, to smell to hear... and intimate within, and within. I'm uncomfortably with uncanvassed honesty, an unwilling voyeur feasting unsated, aroused by desire, curiosity abandoned to selfish pleasure.'


I did warn you... it was an experiment

 

[Stella_Omega]

Art is a recurring theme, one I experimentally explored in 'Painting the Nude':...
I did warn you... it was an experiment

Reads like a prose-poem, or one of Burroughs cut and paste experiments!

Here's one of mine that illustrates a couple of my recurrings; a bit of culture clash, an honest slut, a top that falls for the bottom in a just-played scene;

"Ay conó, fuck." Sheba muttered some time later. She rolled away, onto her back amid the tangled sheets. Jess stirred, reaching down to release Sheba from her harness. Sheba's hand came down lazily to caress her head and she whimpered in remembered pleasure; the grip tightened momentarily. "Do you always turn inside out like that?"

"Not always" Jess whispered. Her throat hurt. "You..."

"Yo soy la R-r-reina del pinche mundo!" Sheba said, with an extravagant rolling of her 'r's. "Ooh, Mamacita. You are some kinda freaky, know that? I'd keep you in a cage, como una pantera... Think you'd like that? You oughta come with me. I'd treat you real good..."

"I'm with Gloria right now." Jess said, with gentle regret.

"Shit," Sheba said. "Come on, baby, that was the best you ever had. I could fall in love with you, no lie..."

"Don't fall in love with me, Sheba. Please? If Daddy will let me see you... I'd love to, any time..."

"Hey, chica." Sheba caressed her head; "This is Sheba you're talking to, baby. I could make you so happy, baby. You can't get it as good as me, and you know it-"

"Sheb'... I wouldn't be able to keep you happy, I don't think. I mean like that time... Sooner or later, something would happen that you'd end up hating me for. Gloria understands, she doesn't get so jealous. I can't handle jealousy, I leave..."

"Damn." Sheba went silent.

Jess stood up, shakily. "I'll be right back, Sheba." She took the toys to clean, and returned with a warm washcloth.

Sheba sighed under her ministrations. At length she chuckled. "Well," she said at last, "I guess I'll have to buy you, once a week or something. Six bucks a week, you're worth that, baby. Ay conó, Gee is gonna dog on me, falling for her bitch."

Jess's misgivings deepened. She'd never been bought and sold before. Still, what a fantasy, and maybe...

(I just re-read that story, and I'd bet I've never written rougher sex then that, ever!)

 

[neonlyte]

Stella, I'll look and read later. Builders are about to arrive and other duty calls.

 

[CharleyH]

Location in space and time are imperative to many of my stories and I often take great pains to describe my settings vividly and meticulously because they reflect on the struggle of my characters and ultimately they hold the key to my more dominant themes. Food is a recurring motif and essential to this end, as is the dominance of high and low culture in my stories. Fire and water symbolism play in some stories, masochism/sadism, Dionysus/Apollo, reality/artifice, the street and the stage are some dichotomies I often use to bring forward my themes.

I believe stories hold multiple themes and also that they are dynamic from one story to the next.

So, what the hell are my more frequent themes? ( lol ) Some are ...
- The importance of savouring the moment
- The truth of artifice
- The freedom of death (albeit normally in my more tragic stories)
- Significant lives gone unnoticed

My themes are more often than not implicit (occasionally explicit, although this is not my preference) and located in the fuller meaning of all the symbols I use and I have a tendency (well, not typically when I write chain stories) to be extremely discerning about the choices I make when writing since I believe (likely due to my film background) that any one thing from the look of a character, to the location, time, the type of space, gesture or movement and anything in the mise-en-scene must be significant to the story or else be removed.

A sample of theme in one of my stories, then? This is how I set up one of my tragedies: what's looked at but not seen (otherwise unnoticed lives).

Parents shouted at impatient kids waiting outside the Odeon for a ticket to see 'Grease', while the upper middle class stood for a breath of Virginia Slim air during an intermission from 'Ain't Misbehavin''. Marc Benecke manned the door on West 54th Street, picking and choosing clientele to fashion-pack the club, while 18 year olds emerged from boroughs, dodging Jack Rollers to hear the latest street rock at CBGB's on the Bowery. The Newport Jazz Festival was gearing up, and tourists from around the world stepped over drunk or junked out bodies lining sidewalks in Times Square, while punks hung on street corners eating Big Mac's from Styrofoam container's before heading to whatever party was in the making on that particular Saturday night in July.

Cabs swerved in and out of lanes on Broadway where horns blared as loud as the 8-track sounds of Patti Smith screaming from dilapidated, mural-pasted vans fighting for airtime with The Bee Gees booming from Mustangs and Stingrays. Jocks wearing college letters yelled, "Yo, faggot," and waved their fists as they passed Club 82 on West 4th, while row houses on the avenues beamed with blue lights from TV sets, and as Belushi and Radner parodied everything and anything a shrill of laughter spilled into the streets. New York was always busy, but in the summer, and on that particular Saturday everything seems more vivid in my memory.

I noticed Kyle Morie walk out of Uncle Paul's with a pepper haired man about fifty. ... etc. etc.

 

[WRJames]

Here is the quote from A Murder in Eden. this is from the third novel of the series, fairly deep into that one at that. Actually, I'm going to include a little more of the passage. One advantage of writing a novel, as opposed to a short story, is that you can throw in these little philosophical interludes. Don't get the idea that there is no sex in them. though. Take a look at this excerpt from the same novel -- which I would not dare to submit to Lit.

(Press the Fee Sample Button here . You also need to have a Mobipocket Id and the software. For some reason we never put this excerpt on the Club Lighthouse Publishing site).

“Of course,” the headmistress said, “of course. My dear, I owe you an apology. I seem to have misjudged you completely.”

“No you haven’t,” Sarah said. “I’m a terrible person. Worse than you can imagine.”

“We’re all terrible people,” the headmistress said.

“No,” said Sarah, “you at least are striving for the light. I don’t know where I’m going any longer. Once, I went very deep into the ocean, to talk to the Snarks. There was just a little hint of the sun, far above, to indicate which way to go to find the light. But I’m deeper now, I’m floating in the darkness. I don’t know which way to go.”

There were other people standing there, the player from the other team and her parents, and Noah. They were all squirming, they were witnessing something too private, too intimate.

“We all struggle,” the headmistress said. “We need to struggle for what we know is good.”

“I don’t know what is good any longer,” Sarah said. “The things I was brought up to believe in, they were lies! They were lies! The Great Mind told us that it knew the will of God! It was a machine! And what wasn’t a machine was a crazy lizard that wanted to eat us. Do you believe in original sin?” she asked abruptly. The Seedlings had been condemned, they were destined to be terminated. It was only by accident that she had escaped into this afterlife, this purgatory. It was, she thought, their original sin, in their own Eden, that they could not escape. Every attempt to make things better only made them worse.

“I think,” the headmistress said, choosing her words carefully, “that the universe does not mean well for us. I think that if we drift with the current we will wind up in the abyss. We have to struggle, to struggle for the light. We can never lose sight of it, never venture away from where we can see it clearly. If we turn our backs, if we close our eyes, if we lose our vigilance, even for a moment, we can be swept away into the darkness. I’ve tried to teach my students how to fight for the light,” she added, “how to be strong in the middle of darkness, in the middle of temptation. But it’s hard when they see you. They see wealth, beauty, power, athletic prowess, fame, sexuality, all the things that can lure them, deceive them, corrupt them. Maybe,” she added, “that’s not the real you, but it’s what they want to be.”

Sarah was crying now, a little, a few tears rolling down onto her cheeks that she did not bother to brush away, and the student who had seemed so bold, so full of secrets, looked very uncomfortable now, very abashed. There was another long silence, broken only by the quiet mewing of the babies as they nursed.

“My dear,” the headmistress said, at last, and this time it was not at all sarcastic, “you live on a scale far beyond us. I do not condemn you for being who you are, for doing what you do. But our girls, our simple girls, will try to be like you. They are drawn to you like moths to a flame.” A curious, ancient, phrase, Sarah thought. None of them had ever seen a moth, but the image lived on. “Would you like some tea?” she added.

“I’m sorry,” Noah said. “We really have to get back to Eden. Please, get in touch with us. The offer stands.”

“Of course,” the headmistress said. “Of course.”

“I would love some tea,” Sarah said. “I would like to stay and talk for a while.”

“Sarah,” Noah whispered, “it’s really not safe here. We have guards, posted around the stadium. But if you leave them, if you go off elsewhere …”

“I understand,” the headmistress said. She had overheard them. “I would not want you to risk your babies.”

“Of course not,” Sarah said. “Do you believe in God?”

“Of course not,” the headmistress replied with a sharper edge to her voice. “We don’t need that superstition. Why? Do you?”

“God talks to me,” Sarah said.

“Oh,” the headmistress seemed taken aback. “What does he have to say?”

“He’s annoying,” Sarah said. “He’s angry at me. He sent me to do a job the last time, and I failed. I failed on purpose.”

“You were the Goddess,” the student said. “I read about it on the tabloid pages.”

“Yes,” Sarah replied, quite seriously, “the Goddess.”

“You were sent to save the world,” the student added.

“No,” Sarah sighed. “Yes. I was sent to save the world. I was sent to save it,” she paused, then added, “from us.”

“I hope you are wrong,” the headmistress said.

“I think she’s wrong,” Noah said, “I don’t think God has any intention of ending his creation so abruptly.”

“He’s not going to end it,” Sarah said, “He just is ready to move on to something different. He gave us a couple of chances to clean our act up and we blew it.”

“I hope you are wrong,” the headmistress said again. “It’s bad enough to think that all this happened by accident, that we just stumbled into existence. It gives us a purpose, to try to make something out of nothing. But to think that we were deliberately created this way, that some being somewhere deliberately chose to put us through such pain …”

“I don’t know what is wrong with all of you,” Amelia said. “How can you possibly think that there is just one god?”

“Look at the world,” her brother added, “so full of contradictions. It’s obvious that the gods are at war.”

“You’re a pagan!” the headmistress gasped. “A primitive!” And, she thought, a little boy, too young to take seriously.

“Primitive?” Emil said. “How you possibly believe in one god or no god? What are you talking about when you talk about darkness and light, good and evil? Aren’t those just the gods in disguise?”

“Well,” the headmistress replied, a bit startled, “that’s an interesting argument. I’m impressed.”

“Oh,” Emil said, “I have these discussions all the time. Noah likes to argue about things like this. And some of the clients like to talk about serious things.”

“Clients?” the father said. “You’re a student at Sarah’s school?” Emil nodded. “A working student?” the father added, tentatively. He was staring at the twins with a fascination that was unsettling. His wife noticed it, and he looked away hastily, blushing a little.

“Evil is the absence of good,” Noah murmured, remembering one of Paula’s sermons, one that he had failed to doze through. But he didn’t believe it. If good failed, if it was absent, it only let evil come rushing in. It was a tide, a pressure, not a vacuum.

“Evil is like entropy,” the headmistress said, “it is what captures us when we are not vigilant.”

So simple, so preventable, Noah thought, so easy to avoid. But what had made him start to rub against Paula’s inviting little rump? Entropy? And what had made her yield to him? Entropy. What was prompting that girl over there to sneak up to the main station and strut her stuff? Entropy, just entropy.

“God doesn’t care if we’re good or evil,” Sarah said. “He’s just bored with us. He’s ready to move on, and we’re in the way.”

“Does that mean,” the headmistress asked, “that you’re just going to give up?”

“Of course not,” Sarah answered.

 

[The_Fool]

I tend to lend a voice towards the blues in lyrical form. Blues fits me. And usually there is some drinkin' and smokin' involved.

Slow Burn Blues

The piano soft and muted
A velvet sound from far away.

Sitting at a corner table,
Intimate for two, lonely for one,
He looks around
At faces leaning close together,
Conversation intimate and low.
He takes a drink

Just to feel the heat,
To feel the fire,
All the way down.
His eyes begin to water
From the whiskey, from the smoke.
Rubbing his eyes, so tired.

Rhythmic and low
The bass throbs out the beat.
A brushed snare offers counterpoint.
The heartbeat of the music,
Muffled and low,
Steady and hypnotic.

He shakes off the malaise
And reaches for his cigarette
Already burned down to nothing.
Lighting a new one off the butt,
He takes a drag, exhales,
Then sets it down, forgotten.

Her voice penetrates the smoky haze.
She sings about her honey,
She sings about her bad, bad man,
Sad and caressing, intimate and caring.
Her voice a long lingering goodbye kiss
From a lover leaving.

He knows all about being bad
He knows all about that cheating, that lying.
He remembers fondly
Those warm, welcome arms
A lover pulling him close
Who now pushes him away.

A slow saxophone pierces his thoughts
Wailing out its loneliness.
His loneliness.
His hands start to shake
His body starts to tremble.
He reaches for his whiskey

And drinks it down.
To feel the burn
The slow steady burn
Down his throat to his belly
To match the burning shame
Within his soul.

Unable to take it,
He starts to stand.
A hand pushes him gently back down,
Puts a full glass in front of him,
And takes the empty away.
He sighs and takes a long deep drink.

It’s too dark to see his tears,
It’s too late for her to see him cry.

 

[Stella_Omega]

(Understand, this is my way of sneaking free reading material from alla youse)

More, more!

 

[rgraham666]

On reflection, I often speak about power, its use and misuse, and the responsibility power entails.

I think this is a good example of that. This passage is from Abyss. The narrator's a vampire, by the way.

__________

“You’re a mage, Mademoiselle Richardson. You use spells to capture people’s minds and then use them for your purposes.”

Mandy slumps into her usual insouciant posture. “Good one, prof,” she states. “You’ve found me out.” A chuckle emerges from her throat. “I’ve really underestimated you, haven’t I?”

“You have indeed,” I reply.

“Yeah, I use spells. But not on their minds.”

My eyebrows quirk up in curiosity.

“My little girl was the first. But I asked for control of her body,” Mandy tells me.

I nod my understanding to her.

“So her body does what I tell it to do. Her mind’s free. She was a frumpy, cold fundamentalist when I took her. A real Puritan. She turned out to be gay and after I started giving her regular orgasms, she ended up hooked. Now I don’t need to use the power of the spell at all. She’s so addicted to coming she does anything I ask. My little girl’s a complete orgasm junkie now.”

My distaste for Ms. Richardson goes higher. It’s not only what she does, but the contempt she holds her victims in that I find abhorrent. There’s not the slightest concern for them.

“My bitch was next. Used a different spell on her, I took her will. She didn’t lose it, it works for me now. I tell her something and her will gets busy to make it true. Damn, she was an uppity cunt. But look at her now, all soft, weak and horny. She loves being humiliated. Sometimes I even have her bang some guy. I made her believe she both hates and loves it now.

“It’s also handy for me to get men to do things.”

“Ah, the thugs. You told Mademoiselle Coburn to promise to put out if they put me in the hospital.”

She nods her head with a feral grin on her face. “I’ve used a few other people. I had a whole list I wanted to get back at and I did. By the time I got to school here, I found I liked fucking people. I needed to look like I was doing schoolwork, so that’s when I took the Dean’s will. She’s really sweet. I don’t push her as hard as my little girl or my bitch, but she’s addicted to me as well. And she’s really handy for making sure I pass. All I have to do is say I’ll cut her off and she gets right to work.

“Everything was fine until you came along. I couldn’t manipulate you. I didn’t want to use a spell. I sure as hell don’t need a male sex slave. And I didn’t think I needed to.

“But you wouldn’t back down. You stood up to the Dean, and those football players didn’t even make you break a sweat. I needed some other way to hurt you.

“So I had my bitch convince some hacker in the computer science lab to do some digging. A single blow job goes a long way over there. He pulled up cab and phone records that brought your friend to my attention.”

My hands tighten into fists as I realize my lovely woman’s fate is my fault. If I had fed and gone, she would be whole. But I had to pretend to be human. I’m such a fool.

 

[WRJames]

(Understand, this is my way of sneaking free reading material from alla youse)

More, more!

Please -- somebody! Make my day! How far wrong can you go for four bucks? (Just click that banner!)

 

[Stella_Omega]

Please -- somebody! Make my day! How far wrong can you go for four bucks? (Just click that banner!)

Jamie, most of us are writers-- and in the same boat as you are!

 

[WRJames]

Jamie, most of us are writers-- and in the same boat as you are!

What's that saying about the blind leading the blind? Who knows, maybe an actual human being will wander onto this thread by accident.

I did try posting on GB a couple of times -- but they're crazy over there.

 

[Stella_Omega]

What's that saying about the blind leading the blind? Who knows, maybe an actual human being will wander onto this thread by accident.

I did try posting on GB a couple of times -- but they're crazy over there.

Learned that lesson quick, eh-- so did I!

Take a wander through this forum and don't be put off by its name-- there are some good discussions in there on publicising your work.

 

[WRJames]

Learned that lesson quick, eh-- so did I!

Take a wander through this forum and don't be put off by its name-- there are some good discussions in there on publicising your work.

You're not willing to say where it led? Actually, I was asking my editor one time why we didn't list my books under Romance on MobiPocket. But, she's a Romance writer, and she has her pride. I'll take a look at it, though. I have, I admit it, listed on Coffee Time Romance -- but they get so few views, it's hardly worth it. Same for the SciFi forums.

 

[Stella_Omega]

You're not willing to say where it led? Actually, I was asking my editor one time why we didn't list my books under Romance on MobiPocket. But, she's a Romance writer, and she has her pride. I'll take a look at it, though. I have, I admit it, listed on Coffee Time Romance -- but they get so few views, it's hardly worth it. Same for the SciFi forums.

where what led-- the lesson? I never posted in GB again, basically. I'm cowardly that way.

Romance is a very specific genre, no polyamorous relations allowed... I've been told that getting involved in the amazon.com forums can be useful.

 

[WRJames]

where what led-- the lesson? I never posted in GB again, basically. I'm cowardly that way.

Romance is a very specific genre, no polyamorous relations allowed... I've been told that getting involved in the amazon.com forums can be useful.

No -- the link.


Thanks for the tips.

 

[SesameStreet]

Learned that lesson quick, eh-- so did I!

Take a wander through this forum and don't be put off by its name-- there are some good discussions in there on publicising your work.

That's a new Forum I never heard of. Thaks for the tip. I'll check it out.

 

[Stella_Omega]

No -- the link.


Thanks for the tips.

Oh... Duh! I'm sorry-- clean forgot that part!
the forum is called Erotic Romance Writers
and, as I said, there is more than merely Romance writing being discussed there.

 

[CeriseNoire]

Examples of my themes...

Well, let's see. This is now the beginning of a story I'm working on. And then this

Missed Communication

She lies in bed naked.
The afternoon sunbeams
through the window
burn her skin.
She doesn't move. She's waiting

Rusted door joints moan.
The scent of mild cologne
signals his return.

She wishes he'd fuck her,
but she won't say the word.
He'd blush, you know.

So when his cold hand lands
on her sunburned belly,
she purses her lips,
closes her eyes,
waits for the usual kiss,
his sweet slow caress.

With his cold hand on hot skin,
he wishes he could fuck her,
but he won't say the word.
She'd laugh, you know.

So when she purses her lip
and closes her eyes,
he gives her the usual kiss.
He'll love her sweet and slow
again.

is a poem I posted here recently. I think I see a pattern.

 

[Stella_Omega]

Well, let's see. This is now the beginning of a story I'm working on. And then this

is a poem I posted here recently. I think I see a pattern.

It's a good one-- not a happy theme but one worth exploring