Her hair was moped into a bun. Eyes like fire, she backed up against the wall and asked, “What do you want?”
I ran the steely edge across her neck and tugged her close. Patting her cheek, I breathed into her face and said, “Nothing, darling”.
Gulping, she whispered, “Don’t call me that,” as she jerked her chin away from my touch.
She was so pretty. Deep brown eyes with pale lips on her almond brown skin.
I pressed her harder against the wall. Tracing a finger across her collar bones, I imagined her in a blue ball gown. She was a perfect match.
Bang! Her foot swung up and within seconds, I was on the floor. Pain rubbed my stomach and my lungs were on fire. I looked down at my t-shirt. A big boot print marked her kick and I grasped my stomach, heaving.
A door clicked open. I looked over my shoulder to see her scamper out, leaving me on the floor, clutching my stomach.
No. She can’t run. Not from me.
Wiping the sweat off my face, I jumped up and ran.
I darted into rooms, scanning them for the familiar brown bun. There she stood. Like a maiden of fire, her beauty burning as bright as the passion in my heart. Hands on her hips, she glared at me.
I smirked. Women. Pulling out my knife, I charged at her. She backed up against the wall and scrunched up her eyes. “Do it.” She spat in my face as I pressed my hands into hers. Warmth surged through my body and I dropped the knife onto the floor. I touched my forehead to her hard one and stared into her eyes.
Her breath grew heavy and I felt her eyes follow mine. she stared into my soul. Exhaling, I moved back. I held my hands out. “Come,” I whispered.
Staring at the knife, she pushed herself against the wall harder, digging her nails into the peeling paint.
Fear ripped her smile away and I felt my heart melt. She was a true beauty.
I felt her warm breath puff in my face. Looking up, I trailed my eyes from her toes to her shiny nose. I placed my hands on her shoulders, steadied and pulled her close. I pushed a wisp of hair away from her forehead. For a moment, all I could hear was the beating of our hearts.
My heart banged against my ribcage. I wanted to touch her so bad. Inching a hand up the small of her back, I felt her shiver under my touch. I couldn’t take it anymore.
Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her close as her arms slithered up my neck.
Overview: I realized that the stories with a male point of view, received more likes and comments! So I wrote another story with a male character’s point of view. The plot is really hazy and flummoxed but I think I tried to focus on the love aspect more than the actual story. These days, I feel like I lost my writer’s voice. Like I got this bad cough and can only tell bad stories with the weakest vocab. I know my vocabulary is weak. But I’m trying. Anyway, what I really wanted to know is: How do you think of a story? Are you a planner or ‘pantser’? Do you sit with a thesaurus and edit your work afterwards?