The memories don't fade easily for her. When she least expects it they begin seeping back. The cinnamon bark timber of voice. The delicate colour of skin. Hair like flowing honey. And eyes, like mystical windows. Finally, the most perfect little ears in the world and she begins to weep.

Christmas Horror

Too soon the sky began to drip. A sudden red cloud covered the earth heralding the beginning of bloodletting season. From the thick filth the leeches and ticks crawled and beneath every Christmas tree they found a home. Drunk on Yuletide cheer, the families slept sound and the leeches came out of the woodwork. Literally.

Colour Contortion

She sat by the window dreaming of coffee as the raven drew near. It
perched itself on a branch and settled its' wings, dark as the thoughts
that unsettled her. The black coffee steamed and she poured the milk,
smooth as the skin of the girl she was thinking off. Porcelain white of
ivory bones, skin of delicate milk coffee and hair of honey brown. And
the sky dripped slowly, filling heavily with tears. The bird was as
sordid and damp as her mind. And the girl in her thoughts was bluer by
the minute.

"Say the word slowly", she said, as she nibbled his ear.
"And say it with feeling, like you really mean it."
"Wed Nes Day", he whispered, wincing in pain.

Terminally Ill

The fight was a cruel one, but they fought hard and tirelessly. And within a month, each of them had terminated relations with that one thing that had held their family together.

Lamp Light

His words were reverberating in her head like laughter in an empty room.

"Be careful what you wish for..."

And all around everybody seemed to be smiling away, smiling at everyone and everything but her. In this place, she thought she'd get by on a smile, that people would be warm to her because of her lovely face. But her fair skin paled a sickly gray as the locals moved graciously, luminescent, comfortable in their beautiful skin.

She opened her mouth to speak but realized how useless her words were in this place of boundless beauty. The infinite pale had made her taciturn. When the shroud of darkness fell like a mosquito net over the watery city, she crawled beneath a street lamp and begged the invisible for dreamless sleep.

The lines run deep into his face like rivulets that pour into his stock white mustache, locking his mouth in a parenthesis of resounding laugh lines.

He's tired of dreaming other people's dreams. He's tired of pulling the darkness from the sky at the crack of dawn so that the ungrateful can crawl from their comfortable beds. He's tired of bringing the sun to half-mast at noon and putting the clouds up for the one's who complain about the sunshine. And then tired again of building up the soft moonlight so that young lovers can be inappropriate on city park benches.

He seems smiling, even when he's not, perhaps that's why they take advantage of him.

Kink Unlimited

He stared down at her bright red stillettos; 8 inches of bloody murky heel - dangerous enough to spear your heart right through.  Her gorgeous legs quivered from the unwarranted attention. With shoes so sexy, who needs a pretty face, she thought.

Love, in dishonest times

He flicked an invisible switch and the ceiling over their heads disappeared without a whisper. Starlight beamed gently into the room, bathing it in shades of ethereal blue. The moon shone pale, dishonest with secrets that it tried to hide. As she looked up, a shooting star darted across the black ink sky. She placed her hands firmly in her lap and began to twiddle her thumbs, it was all she could do to keep her hands off him.

Winter Song

He returned to the little brick house in the valley, in the exuberance
of summer. Flowers were blooming everywhere and cold winter frost was
a distant memory. The little wooden door was exactly as he remembered
it, even though the last time he walked through was two decades ago.
He was old and grey now, and so was his little lady. An aching pain in
his heart said she might not let him in, after all the faces he's
seen. But he knew that her love was true. She'd spent the flower of
her beautiful youth in his memory and every sunshiney day taking care
of his children. Now there would be no dancing in the rain or making
angels in the gentle snow. They were both terribly spent and the
winter of their love had begun, but he thought they would salvage it
still.

On certain days, she was merely a distraction. He stared sleepily at
her, across the boardroom and dreamed of more than her brains. This
happened often.

To be continued...

She walks through rows and rows of sodden books, feeling at home with the smell of mould. These books are probably old enough to be my father, she thinks and giggles involuntarily. Suddenly a thousand eyes are glaring up at her wondering why a girl would giggle to herself. She thinks nothing of it and goes down the line.

Moving along, she falls into each book. She must feel it voluptuously beneath her skin, before she can take a book home. This has always been her personal practice. But as she moves down the line, she knows she’s being watched. A young man follows with diligence. She wonders, Could he really be interested in all the same books as I am?

To be continued...

Sans Souci

“You should see her in trousers”, he said.

“Aah, the darling girl!”

“She looks so good in them; you’d piss away your dreams to have her”

“Wow. I bet you’ve seen her without them too, right?”

“Well…”, he purred like a milk-fed kitten, “let’s just say I sold my soul, one dollar at a time to get her there.”

“Totally worth it! So where do you plan to sleep tonight?”

The former is response-less, he melts into his scotch with unfailing dignity and smiles.

"Sans souci..."

Inspiration:

“What can I do? What can I be?
When I'm with you I want to stay there
If I'm true I'll never leave
And if I do I know the way back”

- The Beatles

At the stoke of midnight he got out of bed. He tapped her gently to
make sure she was still sleeping. Then, he got dressed with lightning
speed and prepared to leave.
But before he left, he went to her bathrooms mirror, picked up her
darkest kohl and scrawled in in unmistakable cursive, "Think of me
tomorrow 'cause I'll still be thinking of you"

Orange Light

In the stillness of the aching blue morning, neither has the strength to speak. Silence stirs restless between them. It descends quick into an endless chasm of black pain, flying swift on the wings of a menacing bat out of hell. Yet they move, skin on skin in the lifting shadows. Dark eyes move tender and the silence is torn by blades of desire that cut deep blood red. Skin on skin again, and all those nerve endings tingle bright passion pink. They taste touch, those nerves. They lick in the sweetness of the air and saltiness of an early morning sweat as it begins. They breathe each other's very being. The sunrise bathes the walls with gentle orange light as they rise and fall slowly - separate, yet together. Like the flash of dawn they know what it is and they feel all they could never live without.

time without consequence

she stares at the mirror and a tired reflection, worn timely thin, stares back. the little lines haven't set deep yet, she knows they will soon but that's fine. she loves the little wrinkles, in fact they look dignified.

it's the lovely length of her hair that she truly despises. 'Honey Blonde', they'd call it. the shade, mellow and comfortable, that could slide around an angry face and give it softness or frame a plain one with plenty of character. the colour of salvation in a stack of pancakes piled ceiling high. the texture of straw that is dull, yet glossy and old, yet soft, fresh and clean. the length of pretty ribbons running through cities of gold, getting stuck in elevator shafts every now and then. the smell, warm and inviting, that her man loved having on his pillow.

with a smile, she picks up the scissors. in an instant her lovely hair is reduced to a messy pile of honey on the bathroom floor.

I haven't the time to put all these posts down,
but I will soon. Come back in 10 days for:

Imaginary Bees
Extreme Voyeurism
Powder puppies
Dead Butterflies

Faint

He wakes with silent screams
The world is swimming in blue black haze
The nightmare reaches up, fold him in
He wakes again at the end of days

Tiny Thoughts

Bathed in light, she sits
Lightly she sits, and bathes
Sitting, she bathes with lights

But the promises are too many to keep
And the keepings are too few to promise

Her eyes are decadent with sickly sweet coffee
Yet, caffe au late could be last thing on your mind

Faraway River

There is a furrow in her brow and its’ getting deeper by the second; she pretends not to notice the thoughts that make it grow. With one wrinkled palm, she smudges her waning, yet dignified grey hair into place and begins down the windy path that bends away from home.

A furrow is also growing in her brain but she never notices it, Cerebrospinal fluid pulses through the deepening ridge and she begins to feel calm for the first time in a while. The ridge on her forehead disappears and one appears on her face, in the form of a smile.

A room full of faceless people is laughing; not a jeering laughter but kind sweet words, but what are they saying? She wants to talk to them but the words are falling all around her, on the mud away from home. One particular woman bears a stark resemblance to… umm… what is it? That child that she once birthed, who? It must be a type of girl. But the word is running and laughing now, how can it easily do that? What strong bones it must have! She can’t catch it so she moves on and tries to tap a shoulder, it vanishes. Funny, she thinks, I was about to say… ? Another word is laughing at her from the floor. Suddenly a gust of wind knocks all the people in the… uh, box shaped place, oh yes room. The people and the room are nowhere around but there’s a cool, blue, transient substance flowing around her ankles. She can’t remember what it’s called and she doesn’t know where that place is uh… um… you know? The place with a warm bed and something to eat? She thinks it begins with an ‘h’. She doesn’t know where else to go, so she sits down in the river bed and waits. She thinks this must the first time her Mother let her out alone; she’s going to be mad when she comes to fetch me from the playground.

The white tufts of cotton disperse in the quickly fading daylight. And back at home, the family still waits patiently for her at the dining table.

Portrait of a Baby

At the age of 15, his bones thickened and his lankiness fleshed out. You could see from his jaw and the curve of his back that he had become a man. He lost the shy smile, it had always been a faint reflection; his mother's benign adoration. Instead his light eyes shone dark with the glow of turgid stirrings from deep with his soul. Still all the life he lives, there's one thing he'll never lose.

The swiftness of thought, the grinding of gears upon gears and chains pulling trains of thought, rushing fast, falling headfirst, tumbling ladders, dodging snakes, running up through fields of mental mind games. He never resists it. It never stops.

But, the clogs, they work fast and the machine, it moves slow. And the train, it runs on but, never in the right direction. He still wants candy, far too often and far too much. And without it, he's a loss. All the books, all the logic, all the knowledge, all the money; all useless as worn inner-wear at a garage sale. All useless if he can't have candy. And too many times a day he's on his knees, "Please Lord, let me always have Candy!"

This was never intended to be so much like Joyce's 'Portrait of  an Artist...', I wasn't even thinking of it when I wrote his but when I read it back I suddenly felt like a plagiarist; he must be a bigger influence on me than I know. If you liked this, please 'like' it below. Read the rest of the blog here.

Fate

She had begun to walk up the driveway when she saw him – a small, thin
boy with mud spattered clothes on, his strawberry blond hair was
pulled off his face by two pink clips and he had a rusty rake in his
hands. She'd never met the neighbour's son before; in fact she'd never
met anyone from that family. But he looked sad so she decided it was
time for a 'little man' talk.

Bending to his height she said, "So, how old are you little man?"

"Four. And whom should I say is asking?"
"Haha. Well, not since breakfast have I met someone as old as you!"
"And who did you meet at breakfast?"
"Well, I have a little girl who's almost you're age. She'll be four in
the fall."
"That's lovely. I don't know anyone my age!"
"Maybe you should come over some time..."

Just then the thick wooden door flew open and a freckled face appeared.

"Come in for dinner son. And what have I told you about playing with
rusty things and talking to strangers?"

Just as quickly as it had begun, the conversation was over, with no
more smiles than there are clouds in an autumn sky. And though the
boy's family moved away in the fall, the two children met once,
accidentally.
---
Nineteen years later, he takes the bus home from work. A girl gets on
the same bus and finds an empty seat besides the boy with strawberry
blonde hair. Their eyes meet for a second and she feels like she's
known him for ages.

She sits down. They exchange pleasantries and get off the bus long
before either of their stops have passed. Now they're walking
down an unfamiliar street, going nowhere in particular.

The Proverbial White Handkerchief

A dangerous chill scratched at the French windows and the sun wouldn't be up for hours. It was that time of night when even the wolves couldn't bear to be outside. It was no time to leave but the war was almost over and the battle flags were rising to the mast.

He sat by her bedside and whispered softly,

"I know you need space, and I'm willing to give it to you. But if I followed you halfway across the Universe, where would that leave me?"

She nodded and the tears began to fall.

"That would leave me sad, alone and in a different country, just like you."

"Well, at least you'd get to see a different country, do you want to stay here all your life?"

He threw his hands up and left. She reached for the immaculate handkerchief, wiped up her tears and felt the long-awaited sinking feeling.

"Do you have anywhere to go today?", she asked.
The other nodded.
They lay still, arms entwined, and the silent strains of morning flit in through the open window.
It's always calm in the eye of the storm.
Their hands are now in disarray.

Red hair with a curl...

At the back of his mind, he remember it all, like cobbled stones on a familiar path. The red hair was always everywhere. When she left, he would clean. He's pick all the silken strands off his bed, then get on his knees and pick them off the floor and put them all in a little box by the window. He remembers the little freckles she had on her thighs and the way her mouth would curl when he told a lie. Now he stands at the window, watching them falling fast to the street like feathers too tired to fly away. She will be coming back. But he doesn't know that yet.

Violent Thread

String of detached Haiku...
  such beauty in
    white exists as the spring
        to daffodil comes

gently bend the winds
    in folds of silent mourning
        heart strings softly wrung       

a freedom within
    like intangible rain fall
        in empty glass hearts

and I hold it still
    every word that I have known
        is bloody useless

The Wives of the Master Chefs

"Must I keep stirring it, Maharaja?", she ventures.

"Of course, my dear. Fish needs time to absorb the flavour. Keep stirring, you don't want to burn it, do you?"

She giggles out a flurry of apologies and blushes. The Maharaja watches her from the diwan while pretending to sharpen his hunting knife. Her back faces him; she pours over the cauldron of curry and never once looks up or turns around. A benign young doll indeed, he thinks. Slowly and as if by mistake, his eyes glide down to the small of her back until he's looking straight at them. There, on his bride's beautiful midriff are three bright red scratch marks, their glowing redness ignites an insatiable fire within him and he quickly looks away. Now she's tired and leans against the wall. When he lifts his eyes again, he notices that a thin film of lime has settled on her back and sari blouse from leaning against the wall for too long. He would have sprung up and licked them off immediately, if it wasn't for the four luminous eyeballs glaring at him from behind the translucent curtain. It takes all his strength to stay rooted, but he does.

Later, when they begin to eat dinner the two older women sneer down at the broken fish bits. They tease and jeer at their prey like carnivorous felines revealing their claws for the last kill of the day.

"Didn't your mother teach you to cook?"

The new bride's face turns red and her eyes begin to well up.

The Maharaja's heart breaks for her and he intervenes, "Parvati, don't you remember you're first fish curry? There wasn't any fish left in it. What a disgusting milky pulp! Atleast this is edible. And Sushila, you're fish curry isn't even worth talking about."

Embarrassed faces begin counting the spots of the floor. The Maharaja is satisfied and he runs his hand down the weeping wife's torso. She smiles faintly but doesn't look up. He knows that tomorrow she'll cook a mouth-watering tandoori chicken that will put all his years of cooking to shame and make the other wives eat their words. But that's tomorrow. Tonight, she'll have to be the kitchen maid.

It's on!

The changes are perfect. This is exactly how I wanted it to be. Soon as the posting begins. So, wait for it!

Also, please remember this blog is pure fiction.

It's a gurl!

Well, she has finally virtually arrived...
Stay tuned for the changes, there will be plenty, promise!