FOR GOD'S SAKE, HELP!!!!!

I need serious assistance with getting affect into my work. I mean line edits, tasks, practice sketches, something! I just can't seem to get it! Hache, I know you told me a lot yesterday, but I just don't understand!!!

And now, sketches. If you could point out good and bad points for me, that'd be fantastic.

1.

It was cloudy the day he would not believe me. I had tears in my eyes. My heart was stopped and I had no breath with which to answer his jabs at my integrity. Teeth chatter, somewhere between caffeine and restraint, and my eyes are itching. I needed him to know that I needed help, I wanted help, and someone needed to stop Richard Conti from breaking us.

That’s nice, miss, but without evidence I can’t do anything to help you.

I had told him the story the way everyone else had heard it. I’m not sure they believed me, either.

2.

At eleven o’clock on any given weekday in August, my hands ache from typing hundreds of invoices. By this time, anyone but a customer will hear me cursing and see me flopped back in my father’s office chair, the one with wheels. My head is filled with orders, questions, complaints, two sourdough, five Tuscan, four peasant, all sliced. The phone rings and I cry out in agony at the thought of dealing with the late callers. Get your orders in by eleven or they will not be sent until the next production order goes through. Doesn’t anyone follow the rules anymore? Quick change. An octave higher than normal, masking a rage that should not have to exist, “Daily Bread wholesale, how can I help you?” I need to get out of here before repressed anger kills me. Lucky for me, we have to close the bakery.

They don’t pay, no matter how often I call, no matter how many weekly bills are sent. Some of the classier restaurants are over three thousand dollars in debt to us and refuse to admit it. I’ve been bounced from kitchens to purchasing to accounting to general managers to the kitchen again, looking for a check. By the end of a collections day, I’ve nearly lost the will to live. Five to nine hours a day with no company but a telephone full of faceless raging chefs will drive you to the brink.

It was a Wednesday when Conti dropped by the basement office unannounced in a three-piece suit with a lawyer, a file folder, and two men with twenty-inch necks. I know it was Wednesday because Cat was there with me, filing old checks and chattering in French for practice. I straightened my hair, wild from running my fingers through it too many times in the deepest of frustrations, and greeted him with the voice I reserve for customers. Only Cat knows the contempt I bury in the phone voice.

3.

She works with stainless steel because aluminum is weak. Her muscles strain around the pliers, opening and closing rings. She is thin, too thin. Her blood is weak. Her eyes are enormous as she works the chain mail. There is passion in those eyes. Reflected glitter of swords and shields and days she doesn’t remember in her baggy t-shirts and blue jeans. One ring, two ring, three ring, she arms herself. She needs protection. The bruise on her forearm could have been prevented with a good bracer. Mountain Dew for strength, stainless steel just in case.

4.

Let's watch me listening to Albeniz. I breathe higher, my waistline is cinched, and my hips begin to move back and forth. I cannot move my feet right, but I want to. Small steps, Bess, small steps and sweeping hips.

5.

Eyes closed tight in dismay and pleasure. Yellow flush to the temples. Her nose has disappeared, but thin nostrils lineate the center of the beauty. Her lips are petals, to be soft, to be touched. Ashamed of orgasm she hides in flowers. Blue hair blends with spiking grass and stems, but is too soft to avoid contrast. Red, red, why can't she be red? White skin is a betrayal.

6.

The faeries all sneer. In their nudity, they are superior. Blank eyes do not dim the contempt radiating from pale faces. Wings made of webs won't fly, but my aren't they pretty? Long ears, pierced several times with refined gold, surrounded by loose hair. They pout and glare. Hair covers just enough breast to taunt with feigned modesty.

7.

She would not survive in Arabia. She would be beautiful, yes, bound in silk. Her hair would be tied to itself and wrapped in gold, soft brown hair. She would not stop smiling, grinning in the sun. But it is forbidden in Islam to portray the human form in art. Soon men would follow her. She would be labeled an idol and killed for her sin against he who had given the world such beauty.

8.

I was cold. I tied my arms around myself. I curled into a ball and covered my nose with my tail. My legs were tight against my chest and I shivered. A mew escaped my shaking teeth and my father kicked me in the stomach. He kicked me with those spotless leather boots and told me to shut my mouth. Soldiers work in the cold. He had stolen my breath, and I wanted to scream. I wanted M'ma so much, but I did not scream. I just felt water through the fur on my face. If it weren't dark, my father would have kicked me again for crying. If he hated me so much, why did he take me from the Captain and keep me with him day and night?
The fire had gone out and left only the stars for light. Through the trees, I could only see three stars. One burned a cold blue like my father's left eye. I shuddered; even in sleep he was watching me. The fur on my back stood on end.

9.

The dice are cool and smooth in my hand. Familiar angles and edges and etched numbers. When I open my hand and let them roll, they glitter and clack across the table. Five, six, ten, one, two: I succeed. I need this. I need to pretend for a few hours that physics does not exist, or my brain will implode.
Why turn to drugs when I have my own mind? If it's going to be so damn creative that it makes nightmares out of conversations, then it can fix the mess it makes.
Tonight, they will follow my lead. I will tell a story and they will swing from chandeliers and save the princess. Statistics in Neverland. They can act without real consequences in my world.
I light the wild berry candle and open the window. The smell stays in the room, and the smoke blows out. Now the gaming room smells like adventure.

10.

She won't talk to me. She says it's over. It can't be over; five years, Bessie, you've been my best friend for five years.
I pour another shot with a shaking hand, gasping to keep tears back so I can see the glass. I hate tequila, but that's all I have and it's good enough. Maybe I'll drink enough to forget her.
Five years. I bought her a camera and she made me a scarf and a mix CD. Cheap bitch. No, I'm sorry, Bessie, it was a nice scarf and I know you don't have a lot of money. Otherwise you would have come to visit me and then you'd know there was nothing wrong between us, babe! So I drink. So I flirt. I still love you so much, I'll never give up.
Our picture slips from my hand to the floor and the glass shatters. God, I'm sorry. I broke it, and it was ours. Best friends forever, that's what the frame said.
You know what? Fuck that. I stand up, supporting myself on the bar, and pick up the photo. A piece of broken glass sticks in my finger. Shit, I'm clumsy tonight. With dragging hands, I manage to get a finger and thumb on either side of the picture, us dancing at prom. Her date took it, the date I set her up with. Bitch. "Bitch!" I rip it down the center.
The pieces fall to the floor among the glass. That's all I remember.