Here is a bit of a recycled snog - when I wrote The Conjurer I was thinking a lot about loss of vision and how that would impact on someone's life and also their sense of self. Well, for the past couple of months for an hour every other day I get migraine aura which pretty much means I can't do anything that requires vision... It can be quite disorientating but only temporary, thank goodness - but also, being a writer means that nomatter what you go through in life, there's always a part of you thinking, "Well, this is interesting... I could use this..."
So without further ado...
Here's the prelude to a kiss from my story The Conjurer which is included in the fantastic Smut In The City anthology. I hope you'll think about grabbing a copy - it's a classy wee book.
Now, you know what to do - have a read then hop along to the other blogs who are indulging in a bit of lazy Sunday kissing action over at Ms Blisse's place...
This little snippet is a scene where Carla, who has recently begun to lose her sight, finds herself in an artist's studio...
“How did you know?” I am lying naked on what feels like a velvet lined alter – though he assures me it’s simply a platform for best viewing his subjects. “Was it obvious?”
He pauses, I can see him from a mirror placed serendipitously on the wall so my eyes can give the impression of looking right at him while he paints, but I am able to catch a woozy reflected glimpse from the side.
“Perhaps not to everyone,” he says very gently, “but I study things. Everything. I can’t look at even a glass without being fascinated by how the light strikes it – both piercing and reflecting, causing shadows to make it look whole.” He pauses to load up his brush and perhaps, I think, he might be a little embarrassed about what he might say next.
“Go on,” I urge.
“Well, it’s just that, most people can’t handle my scrutiny. Most people find it... me... creepy.”
My skin bristles and I’m suddenly panicky. What the hell and I doing here, naked, in a strange man’s flat, drunk and almost blind? I feel a little sick. Creepy? I hold my breath and the air grows static between us. He must see the change in my posture. Self preservation screams at me to shatter the suddenly weird atmosphere. He beats me to it.
“I mean, I can’t help staring that’s all,” he says, the slight uneven tone in his voice alerting me to the fact that he knows he’s said something to scare me. “I’m still like a child in that way. It gets hard to cultivate good social skills when you’re talking to someone and all you want to do is study the way their skin skates and moves over the bones beneath.” He manages a soft nervous laugh, trying to soothe me. “I’m not really... I mean... I shouldn’t have said the word creepy.” He is terribly flustered now and through the mirror I see he is mixing colours frantically on his palette.
“It’s all right,” I say, choosing to stick with my initial impression of this man. I hesitate, desperately wanting to ask him the question that no-one will answer, but not wanting to hear the truth either. I have to know. “So how exactly did you know?” I ask the question in a way that I hope he understands what knowledge I’m seeking and that I don’t want to admit that I want to know. I brace myself, thinking he’s going to give a description of my strange looking eyes.
He puts down his brushes and steps out from behind the easel walking quickly towards me. Before I can work out what’s going on, he lifts my face by my chin and through my blinkered vision I feel him looking right into me.
“Because you didn’t look away,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss me...