Wednesday, 26 November 2014

Dear Gloria

Dear Gloria,
I was lost until I found out for sure who you really are. I know you don’t want it all to come out -
what Dad did all those years ago - especially since we have both changed our names. I see that
you are now Gloria Badger (where did you get that name from?) and have somehow risen to the
illustrious heights of Detective Inspector. Well done, you.
I have thought about you often since the day they took you away from me - my beautiful little
sister - and I honestly believed I’d never see you again. But when we bumped into each other
that day when you came to my office, I knew I had to tell you who I was. I remember you looked
at me strangely, almost as if you already knew. Your blue eyes gazed into mine, perhaps not
quite as innocent as before.
I promise I won’t tell anyone. It will be our secret, my darling sister. It’s not the only secret we
share. I know about you and Ferdy. It was the last thing he told me before he died. He was an
old romantic, wasn’t he, writing all those love letters. I’ve spent most of the evening reading
them and they’re really very touching. I expect you’d like them back.
Well, my dear, come to see me - perhaps one evening this week - and we’ll read them together.
We shall both keep our secrets.
With love forever, Michael. xxx
Dear Michael,
I say ‘dear’, but you’re not really, are you? You’re just a stranger I bumped into while I was on
a case and you’ve got it into your strange, sick head that I’m your long lost sister. My name
is Gloria Badger - unfortunate but true - and always has been. We are not related. We are
You weren’t a stranger to Ferdy though, were you? What was that twist of ribbon you sent
me? Was it the murder weapon, or merely a lost decoration from your porcelain doll collection,
you twisted freak? And what was the envelope of poppy seeds all about? If they were meant
to scare me, you should have tried arsenic-laced chocolates, like every other self-respecting
And you’re quite wrong about Ferdy and me. There was never anything between us. He is the
murder victim and I am the police officer investigating that murder. It must be a different ‘Gloria’
in the love letters, which I will not be coming to your lock-up to read. I’m sure you must have a
I expect you’d like to know that your letter gave me a bad feeling. Well, it didn’t. It made me
sublimely happy to know that I could never be related to such a sad, lost individual.
With no regards, Gloria.
P.S: I will prove that you killed Ferdy.
Dear Diary,
I’m scared. Yes, Gloria Badger, D.I. Cool, Calm and Collected doesn’t admit this to anyone but
you, Diary. And you’d better keep your mouth shut.
I keep dreaming about Ferdy. I dream of his touch, his warm breath against my neck. His dark
eyes pulling me into the gravity of his love, the maelstrom of the his darkest, sweetest thoughts.
Then I open my eyes and see blood, brain matter like glue and wake with the sticky, cloying
stench of guilt in my nostrils. I knew I should have got rid of his love letters - no sloppy texts or
emails from him - but I just couldn’t stand to, even though they turned out to be lies, of course -
all that ‘you’re the only one I’ll ever love’ garbage. So I secreted them in odd places, filed behind
radiators, hidden away in the pasta jar, one in the toolbox in the garage. But, of course, they
could all be found. And were.
Those love letters... silent witnesses to his death, joining the dots, screaming out my name.
Most of all I regret that I didn’t have Ferdy’s baby. But I was too much of a coward to face the
morning sickness, the exhaustion, the mother-toddler groups. The loss of my all-important
career. This is what I can’t forgive myself for, even as I cold-bloodedly frame my brother for
Ferdy’s murder.
But his blood still soaks my dreams. I wake up drenched in it every morning; trail it around
behind me all day. Some time, sooner or later, that trail will lead back to me. Then the punisher
of crime will become the punished.
Good night, Diary.

The copyright of this post belongs to Alisha Bailie.


Alicia put her head down, keeping to her course, fighting the impulse to sink to the ground. She
felt weak. Heavy but depleted.
Covent Garden was insanely busy, the crowds seemingly aiming for her, exocet missiles
keeping her from her destination. The bizarrely warm weather had brought everyone out into the
early evening darkness, clad in next to nothing, though it was late October. It heightened her
sense of walking through a dream, trapped in a waking hallucination. Her mind was dazed by
the motion of the crowds, her body crammed with the secret, pulsing life inside her.
Focus, she told herself sternly. You’ve got a job to do.
Ben had booked them a table at the Raymond Blanc restaurant overlooking the main square,
where various mad buskers vied for money and attention. A string quartet were playing a lively
Vivaldi piece, dancing as they played. A slinky girl sang in French under a waving Tricolor,
drawing a (largely male) crowd.
It was the auspicious occasion of their first anniversary and his wife had let him out to play. Ben
and Jessica had ‘an understanding’; what used to be called ‘an open marriage’. Alicia didn’t
quite know what to call it. She just took what she could get and tried not to ask for more.
But now, she would be asking for more. She wished she didn’t have to spoil their meal with the
news she was carrying. Literally.
He was waiting for her at the dimly lit table - so much the better for hiding the dark circles under
her eyes, the result of a series of sleepless nights as her hormones rioted around her exhausted
body. Her heart bungee-jumped at the sight of him, part fear, part pleasure. She felt the move of
baby joy within her.
He grinned at her. “You’re late. I was about to order coffee.”
She sat down carefully, smoothing her dress. “You got through the other three courses without
me, then?”
“I was hungry.”
“Charming.” She smiled back, her insides melting as she looked into those deep, dark, lightfilled
eyes, big and round as a child’s.
Seeing how happy and relaxed he looked tonight, she was tempted not to tell him at all. Or, at
least, to wait until desert. Or coffee. Or just after he’d paid the bill.
She was still looking into his dark, gypsy eyes, drawn in by their changing light, the secret, busy
life pulsing in that extraordinary brain of his. What thoughts were pinballing around as he looked
back at her? She reached out her hand across the table, wanting to touch his mystery, find
the combination, break the code that was Ben. Then perhaps she could prepare herself for his
He took her hand in his warm, firm grasp, lifting it to his lips. Their soft, moist pressure against
her skin sent mad flutters all through her, delicious shivers coursing through her blood. The new
life inside her stirred again.
“You’re looking especially radiant this evening, Sweetheart.” Said Ben, lacing his fingers into
That’s being pregnant for you, she thought. She’d noticed this morning, brushing her hair,
how strong and shiny it was, the pale gold falling in soft waves. Her lips were fuller, her eyes
brighter, her skin flushed. She looked... fruitful.
“Not bad for thirty-nine.” She replied. “You won’t have to trade me in for a younger model, yet.”
Or perhaps you will, she thought grimly. Her heart gave another dangerous leap.
Menus were handed to them by a heavily accented tired-looking woman with a warm, motherly
smile. She probably knows I’m pregnant. She’ll advise me against the caramelised brie and
onion tart and the moules marinieres…
While Ben studied his menu and she pretended to, she realized afresh that she had literally no
idea how he would react. He might be delighted - a genetic joy at the growing life he had helped
create. After all, he and Jessica didn’t have any kids. But perhaps this news would break the
spell of their impossible fantasy world, ushering in the ultimatum Ben had so far been spared,
his wife at last drawing the line, making him choose. Alicia thought she knew what his choice
would be.
He had told her from the first how much he loved Jessica, how he would never leave her. That
was his non-negotiable bottom-line. He seemed genuinely oblivious to how shabbily she often
seemed to treat him, invariably choosing her various boyfriends’ company over his, coming
home when she felt like it. Not that Alicia was complaining, exactly - except on principal, on
Ben’s behalf. The more his wife neglected him, the more he came running to her. Considering
the amount of sex he got from her, it was hardly surprising. Oh, boy, the sex… An electric shock
of desire passed through her ripened body.
There was one last possibility, though. A small miracle glimpsed, glowing on the far horizon,
somewhere in the land of happily-ever-after. That he would leave Jessica, come to her. Then
they could all be a family.
This was all very well, but she doubted this land existed. And if it did, it wasn’t a place she could
ever reach. Single mums and mistresses don’t have enough air miles.
Ben interrupted her far-flung thoughts by announcing that he would start with the Lobster
“Did you know that lobsters scream when you put them in the water?” She teased him.
“Actually, they don’t. That’s their shells cracking.”
She flicked his fingers in mild rebuke. “I bet they still feel pain, though. Even if they can’t yell
about it.”
“I doubt it.” He said, screwing up his face in concentration, as he considered this philosophical
question. He was fond of considering such things. “Not in the sense that you mean pain. They’re
barely even sentient.”
”I know the feeling.” She said.
He laughed, a delicious sound. She felt the undulating rapture of her baby dancing to her
daddy’s melody.
Alicia thought she must be only a month gone, her baby little more than a collection of cells;
but somehow she knew that it was a girl. A sister for her two boys - a dark-eyed, sweet-smiled,
strong-willed Emily with her father’s intelligence, her creativity and a temperament all of her
own. Her miracle baby. She herself had never had a sister. But Emily would be the gift of
femininity to her two very male, boisterous boys, a new tenderness in their lives.
She thought about the photograph on her mantelpiece, a triptych of Adam and Alex, three
consecutive years of sports days, big grins on their handsome, open faces as they crossed the
tape. And now there would be a third sports day photo, her pale-haired, determined daughter,
her face screwed up with the intent concentration so reminiscent of Ben, reaching for the
finishing tape.
Adam, Alex and Emily, a trilogy of stories beginning with her love, thrust out into the world.
Alicia’s mother had always wanted a granddaughter. It looked as if she’d get her wish. Not that
it wouldn’t also be a huge shock, of course; hopefully not one big enough to put her in her coffin.
Her mum thought Alicia had gone back to being a virgin since her husband had walked out on
her and the boys, nun-like in her state of untouched single-motherhood. She would probably
say: “But how did it happen?” Sarcastic responses would be hard to resist: “There was a special
offer on babies at Tesco, Mum. Lots of extra points on my Clubcard.”
Ben had been talking, but she hadn’t heard a word.
“What are you thinking about, love?” He said. “You were far away.”
“I was just considering your erudite thoughts on the nature of sentience.” She said, teasing him,
back on safe ground. “Or lack thereof, in my case.”
He stroked her hand, gently. “Stop putting yourself down. You are a beautiful, intelligent, rare
woman. I love having you in my life.”
Tears filled her eyes. She forced a laugh and blinked them away. She didn’t know how to say
the words that could put an end forever to such tenderness, the look of focused love in his eyes,
the gentle pressure of his hand as he stroked along her arm, his fingertips pulsing against the
soft flesh. To never feel that again. But, to protect her baby, she had to be prepared for that.
“I love you, Alicia.”
“I love you, too.” She said, sadly.
“Are you pregnant?”
She looked up, sharply. “How did you -?”
“I don’t know. I just did.” He closed his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart.”
They hadn’t even made it to the starters.
She whispered: “If you’re going to say it’s over, just say it now. Please.”
For the longest time, he said nothing. The hand that rested on her arm was trembling.
“Please.” She repeated.
The universe seemed to shudder to a halt, time frozen in a galactic crisis. Covent Garden was
silenced, waiting for his answer.
“Alicia.” He sighed, shaking his head. “ I just told you. I love you.”
She stared at him, not understanding.
“I’m not going anywhere, my darling.” He smiled, a slow-spreading wonder. “You’re going to
have our baby.”
“But - what about Jessica?”
“I doubt she’ll be at the birth.” He gave a shaky laugh. “I know it’s a dumb question, but are you
She smiled into his big, round worried child’s eyes. “Six positive pregnancy tests can’t all be
He nodded. “How long have you known?”
“Three weeks, give or take.”
A shadow of hurt passed across his light, open face. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”
She shrugged. “I was scared.”
“So, you haven’t had a scan, yet? I haven’t missed anything?”
“You and I will be the first to see our daughter. And the scan lady, of course. Ultrasound
technician, whatever.”
“Daughter -?”
She stroked her stomach tenderly. “I know it’s a girl. This is Emily.”
He resumed his familiar, sensible scientist expression. “You do know you can’t possibly tell,
don’t you? ‘If your wee smells like kippers it’s a girl, if you pass wind seven times before
breakfast, it’s a boy.’ All that stuff has precisely zero basis in scientific fact.”
She gave a loud laugh, making the couple on the next table turn and stare. “If my wee smells
like kippers, then I’ve got a urine infection.”
“You know what I mean.” He looked worried, again. “What if it’s a boy? What if Emily turns out
to be George?”
“Then I will be equally delighted. But she isn’t. She’s Emily.” And as she said it, she felt Emily
move, smiling in recognition of her name.
He laughed at her determination. “As long as it doesn’t turn out to be Emily and George.”
“Oh, dear. There are twins in my family.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Then we’ll get to name a baby each.”
He held her gaze for a long, long time. In the end, she had to lower her eyes, with a shy smile.
When she glanced back up, she found him looking worried, again.
When he said her name like that, she knew it was serious. In fact, he hardly ever used her
name. She sometimes teased him that it was because he couldn’t remember it. “I expect you
get mixed up, with all your other girlfriends.” He didn’t deny this nearly often enough.
She swallowed. “Say it.”
He said quietly: “You know this doesn’t mean I’m going to leave Jessica, don’t you.”
So, there it was. She had guessed, of course, but hearing it in simple words was rather
different. ‘Never’ sounded once again in her brain, that most terrible word, the one she was fond
of using, but didn’t fully believe.
“I know.”
“It’s just that… this is going to come as a shock to her. She never wanted kids herself, but still…
I can’t leave her, now. You do understand?”
“She needs me.”
“I know.”
There was a silence, almost as pregnant as she was.
“How do you feel about that?” He said carefully.
How did she feel? Under the disappointment, the familiar stab of resentment the she couldn’t be
his first - his only concern - somewhere under that lot was something else. A settled resignation,
a strange peace at his decision. If he left Jessica, he would be miserable with guilt, utterly
conflicted. It would be pitiful, like caging some wild, bright thing.
“It’s O.K, Sweetie.” She said, looking back up at him. “We’ll manage. The important thing is that
you want to be in our lives.”
He smiled with relief. “If you’ll have me.”
A thought occurred to her: “You know, Jessica doesn’t have to know. You don’t have to tell her.”
Ben frowned at her. “Of course I do. Lying - even by omission - I can’t do it. It doesn’t come
naturally to me. I couldn’t keep something like this from my wife.”
She jolted at the physical pain those two words delivered: my wife and the rebuke contained
within them. Shutting her out. Lying did come naturally to Alicia, a long-learnt defence against
relentlessly critical parents. And here she was again, trying to get herself - and him - out of
“Sorry, darling.” He said. “I didn’t put that very well.”
“We’ll manage.” She repeated, knowing as she said it that it was true. This child would be loved
by both her parents, welcomed into her new, chaotic, unconventional family. She reached out
once again for Ben’s hand, leaned across the table and kissed him, her lips tasting his. “We’ll
make this work.”
“I guess Jessica’s got about eight months to get used to the idea.”
“Till about late June, next year, if my calculations are correct.”
She watched the light dancing in his eyes, a slow smile melting across his face. He got up from
his chair, came to join her on her bench seat. He reached out his hand to her stomach.
“May I?”
“Say hello to your daughter.”
Leaning down - drawing further stares - he brushed his lips against the velvet of her skirt,
whispering: “Hello, baby.”
He stroked his soft, dark hair, just beginning to grey at the temples. She heard him sigh.
“Well, baby and I are both starving.” She said. “How about ordering those starters?”

The copyright of this post belongs to Alisha Bailey


Have I not made myself clear? Travel dreams race through my repeated hours if insomnia...train, airplane, bus, van. I am exhausted with queues, galloping for entrances, never reaching the appointed seat. A maelstrom of frustration that shatters any chance if deep sleep. Head chatter with galloping whispers. Reminders of the coming holiday bad the lists of Christmas cards to send. Instead I toss and turn around in a spinning spirograph of anxious dreams, sending postcards from the edge. Written snapshots of places I have never seen. Eagles sitar through the sheets. I hear their wings accompany my spurious cries. I watch the badger want for they eat fish? Would they love river trout or anglers bait? I feel insane. My night gown sticks to my skin, and I aware in the dawn darkness crying out as though I have already disappeared in a luddite's nightmare. Royal mail in news again. Letters. Post office lucky if you can. Who writes anymore? She made herself get up.

The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne


Train is-a-coming, oh, yeah! On tracks snaking up the mountains, and down into the valley renown for its emerald-green pond. The journey is like a game of snakes and ladders. The journey is as intricate as a six-part marital, sung with seduction in mind. Oh, speedy seduction of scenery, melting by in shades of pink and amber earth. Icing like icicles drippingodripping mountains bearded in snow. The engine pulses and steams rivets of tears, which frost the passenger windows. The light is a beacon in the dark, a floodlit consciousness where once you could only see the whites of his eyes. Christmas paper lanterns sway from the ceiling in the dining car, bad the child pushes your finger into the icing of sticky marzipan. You stroke your husband's cheek, soft and silky like cat's fur. A beard is-a-coming you think with longing. You rope your hand through the crook in his suited arm, and wish he was your life raft. Sweet as cake.

The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne

On Reflection

Her sightless gaze stared at the mirror. The face of a man took shape in front of her. The reflection had a vague watery look about it, as if it was not quite real. Yet it was definitely a man’s face. A handsome face, confident and self assured. The lips disdainful, moved to a full sneer. His eyes were black with contempt, and she felt the fear. Then something moved.
The whole face turned into disbelief and shocked surprise. The smooth forehead was flawed. The flaw a perfect circle. The circle grew in size and colour right in the centre. She was transfixed by the symmetry. The back of his head exploded in an arc of grey and red mist as he went down. He had been a big man, that had been part of his problem, and now in slow motion he spread his length upon the pavement. He fell like an old factory chimney, and lay unmoving upon the ground. She knelt beside him shaking, she could feel herself shaking. Then feet arriving, many feet came from nowhere. Always feet, she never looked above the feet. Hands gently lifted her away, but still her eyes remained on his grey face, taking in the crimson puddle, then again the feet. More and more feet. The further she backed away, the more she melted into the gathering crowd. Then he was out of sight and she was walking.
She knew the mirror had been there, but all the time she stared the events continued to unfold in a perpetual loop. How long had she been there?
Now his face was back just as before. This time she was aware that another face, that of a woman, was superimposed onto the sneering lips. She was aware of a desire to identify this woman. Somehow she was important. The loop continued as before with the scarlet hole central to his forehead, but the woman’s reflection intruded further and further into her consciousness. The more she tried to identify the reflection the more ‘ he’ faded into the background. Once again she reached the point where she left the feet behind and began to walk. She was aware of the walk. She remembered walking. She had walked here.
Then the woman in the mirror stared right back at her as clear as day. She was grey and drawn, even under heavy make up and her eyes were black. The black had cut a swathe through the peach foundation, skirted tight lips and was dripping off her jaw line.
The soaking wet mascara began to smart quite painfully, and to her horror she saw the face in the mirror make the connection. Once again in slow motion she watched as the woman’s reflection came to the realisation she was staring at herself.
The pain in her eyes and the release from shock galvanised her into action. The full peril of her situation hit her hard and fast.
Grabbing a handful of tissue she wiped away the errant mascara, taking the heavy peach foundation as she went. Methodically and efficiently she worked until her face was naked. She raised her eyes once more to the mirror to survey her handiwork. The vulnerable reflection eyed her back. No more black streaks, only red rimmed eyes where the chemical had been. However, in its nakedness, her skin revealed a mass of small scars and evidence of recent bruising. He had always aimed for her face. He enjoyed her pain and liked to admire his handiwork. He knew he controlled her completely and it gave him such a buzz. Always so very sure, the final surprise had been total.
The tinny voice of the tannoy crackled into life announcing the imminent arrival of the London train. Gathering up the large pile of damp tissue, she deposited it into the bin with something akin to aplomb. She opened the clasp of her handbag and placed the leather gloves on the top of the gun. She closed it firmly. In the mirror her reflection raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement of a job well done. Closing the door of the Ladies waiting room, she crossed the platform and entered the anonymity of the train.

The copyright of this post belongs to Geneva Grey

Dear Julia

"Dear Julia,

You have given me much happiness.  As I play form the gift of the music sheet for Bohemian Rhapsody you gave me I picture you choosing the pink fluffy bed socks.  I fear our association must end as my health has suffered with palpitations since you gave news of the positive pregnancy test.  The caster oil has been no help, and I fear I will soon have need of the definite place in the church crypt.

I have the key to the castle on the isolated Scottish island you gave me, and I will retreat there with the map and phial of dirty water you inexplicably provided for such an occasion.  Chairman Mao's little red book goes with me, as do enduring memories of our frolics in the apple pie bed.

I remain your devoted Reverend Green."

The copyright of this post belongs to Jaine Currier

Monday, 17 November 2014

Train is A' Comin'

'Train is a coming, oh yeah'
They sang as the cakes baked in the sun.
The hot iron tracks burnt their bottoms
But who cared?
It was time for a celebration.
Mercy was going. On her way.

Better get your ticket, Mercy, oh yeah
Me, Faith, Honesty and Joy have had enough.
Enough of hands folded on knees begging and praying
Who needs a Being to act as Judge?

Devils on the train, oh yeah
Escape that fire in hell, Oh Mercy!
Your magical transformative days are over.
There is no hope of escape, Mercy.
A nightmare rolls towards you
Couched as dreaded reality.

Train is in the tunnel, oh yeah
Bliss it will be when we escape Mercy.
The light searches for her.
Bliss comes our way.
Oh mercy me, how sweet it is,
Revenge and betrayal are true and due.
Bite the hot cake, feel it sear your mouth.

Come Faith, Honesty and Joy.
Come with me.
This insanity is over.
Chuff, chuff, choo, choo
Goodbye Mercy
Coming in the station Oh Yeah!
Taste that cake.

The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack

The Husband

The husband submerged his square, strong hands in the blue light of the cosmos. Stars winked like burnished silver lockers cavorting out of his reach. It was his fault that the days had drawn in and darkness reigned. Nowadays she stayed indoors wrapped in a cloak of memories. Only the cat occasionally courted her when he stirred his ginger limbs from the rag rug hearth where he lay curled. Her heart was a huge, cavernous building strewn with faded poppies. The war was over and emptiness remained. Deep in the woods the hatchet lay buried. Buzzards flew overhead chasing crows downwards. 'Honey,' he murmured, 'honey?' But his words were no longer drops of golden sweetness dredged from her pure teenage dreams but hollow with overuse. She hummed a tune from eons ago, 'little willie, willie won't come home.'
His square strong hands had shod her in a shoddy way. The genie was out of the bottle and there was no going back. She clicked her fingers for her first wish longing to feel life's warmth infiltrate her days.

The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack

Monday, 10 November 2014


Whispering white clouds floated across a blue sky, oblivious to this auspicious day of history piling itself into the air. Sons of God, all, gathered in a trench filled with mud and mice and men, depleted of energy and purpose.
One task. Carry out orders. The wire has been cut.
Six rungs to go over the top in a puerile attempt to claim a bit of bloodied mud. One job to do before they died. And they knew they were to die; hadn't they all been home on leave to say their goodbyes?
Six rungs. Fix bayonets. Focus.

Whispering white clouds scud across the horizon behind lines of white crosses, standing proud. 'Remember the dead' they say. Remember the fallen. Remember the sacrifice.
Are they at peace?
Wind blows into her face and stops the tears from sliding down to wet her collar.
My beloved.
So many beloved fathers, sons, brothers. All gone. Only the lucky few ones found a coffin at all. The wind will always blow across this open space of remembrance. There will be no quiet at all for those at peace. Something rustles unseen in the tall grass. is it a mouse or a memory?

Whispering white clouds hover above in a holographic sky. Free Earth is but a dream gone by. We escaped from the old wars, the Great war, into galactic ones.
Nothing ever changes however hard the wind blows. Men will always fight one another.
There is only one escape left.
The hosepipe will do its part attached to the belching exhaust.
I am exhausted!... will they understand the irony?
I will shut the door now.

The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

Four posts from Istanbul

The Persian carpet

You leave your unique pattern on my heart

Woven through with intricate care

Threads of gold, sienna and cerulean

Repeating your consistency.

Outside stark winter marks out its lines with geometric precision.

Ice cobalt and umber.

Bleakness has its own appeal

Still, unfettered loneliness

Tranquil moors flowing to the horizon

Flattened with usage, worn thin in parts.

You touch the burnished lamp on your return

Diffused light spreads. Rose ochre hues. Warm and familiar ease

The missing piece revealed.


Kybele Roof Terrace.

A variation on ‘Lewis’

 Should we care what the model of the car was? What was hidden in the glove box?

It could be many things; a hummingbird waiting to be set free, a rusty Victorian key, a lotus blossom.

I haven’t a hope of understanding the situation.  Is the murder an open and shut case?

It is not straightforward. Someone trying to equal the division of wealth?

Back to the quest.

I wonder what was in the boot.  It could be a micro light, my turquoise suitcase, or our other car? (It’s a big boot). The remote hides its locking system and I can’t work out which button to press to open the boot. The darkness of the boot hides the pride of pain.

I wish I had less of a desire for order and neat solution. I wish I didn’t have to give the ending and the answer. What bleak spec is in my eye?  My eyelids close on the openness of anguish

I reopen my eyes and decide to forget about opening the boot.. I see a pristine turquoise padlock and turn the tiny key. The lock springs open. I’ll leave it dangling on the gate as a memento.

I’ll give up trying to solve this pointless mystery.  I break the passenger window with a rock; I break into the glove box with a chisel and release the hummingbird.  It flitters across the valley like a shiny thread of fizzing joy.


Shall we make a plan? No, not today. I have the desire to reach the zenith on the charabanc covered in the rose perfume of the East.

Shall we go straight? No not today. I want to wander through decrepit alleyways strewn with decadence and festooned with ivy.

The path forks. Shall we choose which one to take?  No, not today.  Let’s toss a coin into the fountain.

Shall we take the iron road? A base metal but practical. The charabanc would have argument with this path. Let’s follow the yellow brick road that winds round and round.

Shall we pass the pool? The reflections show harems strewn with concubines languishing on lace cushions. Overflowing with fruitfulness.

Prim and proper Alice looking through the glass is confused. The reflections make her woozy. She prefers the portrait of Arnolfini and his wife constrained endlessly within their mirror.

On return I look in the my oval mirror which reflects the sixty four lamps suspended above the bed. Travelling forward with repetition and  illumination.

Two Haiku

Rose Opal Harem

Ivy Alley

Splintered winsomeness

rose opal veil

cushioned winsomeness

parakeet in alley

The copyright of these posts belongs to Rachel Morrell