Wednesday, 29 April 2015

The Price You Pay

I complete mindless puzzles to distract me from the dead hours of your absence.I just want you to come home. You did warn me you'd be away a lot. "If you think it's worth getting involved with me at all, that is." You added, with that little boyish half-smile of yours, and an I-dare-you glint in your eye.
I dared. You were already my opiate, my straight-in-the-veins, high-as-a-kite, mainlined habit. I am a junkie, doing sudoku, and screaming in withdrawal.
I'm sweating and moaning for my next fix. A text would do. Anything.But my phone stays silent and unused adrenaline eats away at my gut.
This is the price you pay for passion.
I can imagine my mum and all my most sensible friends shaking their heads at my most foolish choice of a globe-trotting aid worker. I can also imagine, only too well, the kind of man they would consider suitable for a woman like me, with a divorce and an (unmentionable) breakdown already behind me. And, of course, the little incident with the sleeping pills. They would set me up with some reliable divorcee, home by six every night, DIY and garden centres at the weekend. He would be content to sit around watching 'Top Gear', and picking his nose, before dozing off in his favourite chair by nine-thirty.
There's a reason you're gone half the time, my love.You're not this man and never could be. I love that you're always chasing manna from heaven to satisfy the needs that don't appear on the radar of most people's lifetime. I love that you live at the very top of the hierarchy triangle, seeking what can't be found in meeting mortgage payments, three square meals a day and a bit of sex on a Saturday morning.What most men of your age accept as their lives and are wearily grateful for it.
I've made my choice and I don't regret it. This is what I tell myself and anyone else who is listening. Day by day I keep it all tightly packed in, busy rationalising. I smile, I laugh, I function, knowing you're coming home.
But on nights like this I haemorrhage loneliness, my life blood a bright stain of protest on the carpet. And I stare at my silent phone like it's a grenade with a loose pin, to be put far away from me. Its silence is an ominous live ticking of threat. I snatch it up and run upstairs with it, sliding it into my undies drawer, where I can't hear its silence any more.
I was a mess when I first met you. My ex-husband had done a number on me, taking me apart over the five year period of our marriage so comprehensively there was barely anything left to identify as me. Dental records were required.
But you recognised the Self I thought had been lost. You put me back together, spent hours (and hours and hours) listening to me rehashing the past, 'processing' as the therapists like to call it. Long after all my other friends had told me it was time to be drawing the line and moving on. You held me as I sobbed, overwhelmed by the nightmare of my husband; a walking obscenity, a shadow of death pacing through my dreams. You mopped up the mess of my grief.
When I could give nothing back to you, you gave me everything. With your hours of devotion you opened me up to you, unlocking the barricaded doors of all the secret rooms of my life. Rooms of damage, rooms of treasure, you found them all.
You expanded my world, giving me eyes to see things I hadn't imagined. You patiently taught me about dark matter and quantum theory, about the nature of time and the possibility of other worlds, other realities and universes. You spoke about supernovas and black holes and what had to happen to determine which would be created from the ruin of a star. 'It's called the Chandrasekhar Limit.' you said. 'Named after the Russian chap who discovered it.' You talked about your recent visit to Cern, and I thought to impress you by vaguely knowing what the Hadron Collider was for. But the Higgs Boson was old news.
'They're looking for something else now.' You told me with one of your gleeful half smiles. 'It's called supersymmetry, the theory that every particle has a partner.'
'Ahh' I interrupted.
'A slightly heavier mirror image, if you like. If they can prove or disprove the existence of supersymmetry, then they may have a better idea of what constitutes dark matter. Which is a big deal, considering that dark matter makes up at least sixty percent of the universe.'
'It makes up about a hundred percent of my brain.'
You rolled your eyes, squeezing my hand. 'Don't put yourself down.'
the language of science fell from your lips and entered my heart like the most exquisite poetry (poetry that I didn't really understand, of course.)
You whispered to me your vision for my future, for the strong independent woman I was going to be, reaching out from my wounds to others whose wounds were still raw. You told me I was beautiful.
'You're a very special person.' You said. You slid your big warm hands up inside my blouse, along the length of my spine, and added in your best Devonshire accent: 'As well as being a propor comely lass my lover.'
You promised me intimacy beyond anything I'd known or hoped for. You tantalised me with a glimpse of your longing to be fully known, even while there remained something essentially unknowable about you. I told you one, teasing, that you reminded me of the main character in C S Lewis 'Perelandra'
'Sweetie, your eyes are impregnated with distance.' My teasing hid my frustration that they weren't more often focused solely on me.
I sigh and console myself with the thought that there might well be no-one who knows you better than me. My lips have worshipped every inch of your surrendered body; your flesh, my own, and in return I have unfurled in the fullness of your love, turned to face the bright darkness of your need, like a flower to the sun. I drink you in, take you down to the earth of me.
Restless, the sudoku numbers swimming before my tired, adrenaline-bright eyes, I look out of the window. Longing etches your shape into the descending mist. It's a grim pea-souper of a night, treacherous to drive in. You're not coming home tonight.
I think I can still hear my phone being silent on me, so I gingerly climb the stairs and root around in my undies drawer to switch the tiny object of terror off completely. I know you hate it when I do this, when you try to callme and all you get is my voicemail; but I have to protect myself from those times when you don't call. Times like tonight.
The phone rings from within my underwear, its tinny, glockenspiel melody making me jump. I fish it out, smiling with relief as your name comes up.
'Hello sweetheart.' Your voice sounds distant. 'How's it going?'
I try for lighthearted. 'I'm currently being defeated by a ten minute sudoku. So far it's taken me an hour and a half.'
A pause. Then you laugh 'Look, sweetheart, I know I said I might make it back tonight, but...'
'I know. You can't. I already figured that out.'
'Well, the thing is... I'm not going to make it back tomorrow either....Sorry, sweetheart.'
My heart turns to water and seems to drain out of me.
'Well, when, then? The next day?'
Another pause. the line starts to crackle and I just catch '...the end of the week...' before I lose you completely.
'I love you,' I say to the empty line.
I should try and sleep. But the bed is cold, the memory of your body heat lost from the heartless sheets.
I remember our first night together. Stirring from shallow sleep to find you still there, your warm body in the darkness curved into mine. And I woke up to your kisses.
'Morning, lover,' You said, 'Looking gorgeous.'
I snuggled closer to you, whispering into your neck 'Yeah in a blearyeyed smellymorningbreath kind of way.'
You laughed. 'We can't all be perfect.'
I flicked your earlobe, 'Not even you my sweet. You know how I adore you, how I was born to kiss your feet and worship the ground you walk on, but you snore worse than anyone I've ever heard. Like a sodding pneumatic drill.'
You laughed and shut me up by kissing me.
I want you, now. I want you here with me. I'm tired of paying this price.
Like someone drowning, slowly lifting each loneliness-logged limb, I go back downstairs.
It's the not knowing that gets to me. I can't settle, can't plan, can't allow myself to fully look forward to anything or get on with my life, as I can when I know you're not going to be around.I mustn't let myself have expectations. You live your life every day for the needs of others and I can't be yet another needy person in your life. But sometimes I want to be. I want to shout and scream, stamp my foot, refuse to let you go. To face you with  the question: 'What about me?' I want to confess that at times like this I don't care about the starving masses on some faraway continent or the victims of natural disasters. They don't need you more than I do.
And I think: Why can't I love an ordinary man? Even the nosepicking, 'Top Gear' watching type would be preferable to these nights of wall-climbing withdrawal.
Perhaps I should let my mum set me up with one of her safe choices.
Except that I don't want anyone else. I just want you.
I stop on the bottom stair, leaning against the bannister, trying to summon up the energy to go back into the empty, darkened living room and face the smug sudoku. Gazing wearily around, my eyes settle on the painting hanging in the hall, a present from my much-missed Granny. A sunset, an eagle, vivid colours; wouldn't have been my first choice. But underneath are the words 'They that tarry upon the LORD...shall rise up on wings as eagles.' Isaiah chapter 40 verse 31
And that's what you're doing my love.You are that eagle and you must be where you belong. I refuse to be the one who clips your wings, grounds your flight.
So I will carry on paying the price, knowing that you will come home to me.
I smile. It's ok that I miss you. It's ok that they joy of having you in my life comes with a  price. And it's even ok that I complete mindless puzzles to distract me from the dead hours of your absence.

The copyright of this post belongs to Alisha Bailie 29.4.15

Tuesday, 28 April 2015

A Game of Cards

Seven tropical fruits glisten in their massacred translucent spill of juice and dark ambition.
The King of Diamonds stamps his foot " I said I wanted bananas."
The Ace of Diamonds descends to hell, an awkward cousin sitting at the top table on a subterranean plot and whistles into the quiescent air following the King's outburst.
The Jack of Hearts dribbles into his mead, a dew drop hanging from the end of his nose,
living dangerously before the opium ball waiting for the Queen.

the copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan

The Knave of Spades

The Knave of Spades digs with desperation to secure his foothold in the kingdom. He digs in the seaweed damp of the night, the blood dripping from his hand. He is aware of the metallic cordite smell freckled to his skin and fights to ignore it along with the insistent throbbing stump of his newly missing finger, a small price to pay for duelling with that gangster, the Knave of Diamonds. Hearing of the duel, The house of Diamonds would be on his tail as light broke but he would be away with the treasure by then and they could do nothing.
Water drips from the walls of the cave as the wind stirs butterfly cobwebs, full of translucent dewdrops. The sand grits between his toes as they sink with the effort of his toil. The sweat is dripping from him and the cave once filled with moonlight becomes darker as she follows her path across the sky pulling the tide up the beach. Desperation beats loud at his heart and thrums in his ears at odds with the quiescence of the coming dawn. He urges himself on with every stroke of his spade. the shove and heave is a jolting pendulum in reverse.
He must reach the box hidden deep beneath the stalactite's point before the tide imprisons him or he will be left to sell his soul to the devil. There is no other way to escape with your life once the sea reclaims her cave.
The spade strikes the tin box, the clang of a gong a skylark ascending into the gloom and silence of the cave. He is released from poverty and servitude in an instant. There is enough power in this box full of diamonds to secure him an army. His destiny calls to him as the rush of water approaches the mouth of the cave. He will take back the throne of his father and throw the Diamonds to the dogs. There is sudden clarity to his thoughts: His fortune will change forever, the Knave of Spades will be King.

The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan

Tuesday, 21 April 2015

Beyond Words

The perfumed garden
Smudged glasses perched on nose
Paisley-pink passion
With warmth and understanding
A well-thumbed book that falls open
On a pertinent page
     Virginia Woolf

In search of the truth
The truth cannot be found in broken images
The cracked reflection
Lonely in a crowd
The silver breast-plate
Invisible but present
     Virginia Woolf

Waking up from the dream
The poor boy drowns in her arms
Strangled in seaweed
The cracked reflection
Weary, heartfelt and true

Toes curled
In the dark wet
Deafening silence
     Virginia Woolf

The copyright of this blog belongs to Claudia Anne, Terry and Teresa 

Friday, 17 April 2015

The Star and the Satellite

The star awoke one night ready to glint in the heavens, secure in his place in the firmament.
"Look at me, here I am, nights light with my burning core. I am confident. I am suave. Watch me as I wink at you brazenly through night's curtain, watching you when you think you are alone. I see your private moments and know you want me. I am the beauty that you wish upon."
But on this night as he gazed about his celestial brothers and sisters he found a new prick in the firmament. A man-made shimmering object that did not blink but stared with the open eye of a God. It seemed dazed, surprised at its own existence, not knowing of its own birth or creation as stars do. Its capsule form adorned with grated wings absorbing energy from the sun in osmotic ignorance.
How could the star envy such a creature as this. His life was not threatened. This object had no power of its own, it was a parasite of the sun. It had no burning heart, no brilliance, no life force, no pride in its time and place in the galaxies. It was an overrated ogre hanging in space, its life abbreviated by man's changing desires and the limits of his hardware. This satelite was no celestial being.
And yet, he had appeared unbidden and portentous in the sky, an extra unblinking button on Orion's Belt. Children would stare up enchanted and unknowing at the firmament wishing on this most constant of stars.
"Daddy, what's that one? It is so bright."
"That is a satelite, see how its light is constant."
Constancy, dependability: prized above all else by children craving stability in the tumultuous lives they lead. They do not know it is wrong to wish on space hardware thus the star is put firmly in his place.
The star bows in the orange light of morning to the satelite still shining. He knows he can have no satisfaction in dialling with one such as this and turns away chivalrously
"I will burn forever in the firmament but for now you have the stage."

The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan


Complete in itself yet fractured, splintering light, reflecting this realm of nothingness, of dream work.
Your destruction reveals the archaeology of your heart – fury veined like a green and lilac bubble, serenity drawing the line and moving on.
Quantum clouds of chromophores drift quietly through the planes and interstitials of your imperfect jagged form. Dragged from the earth – yet you behave in accordance, do no harm.
Your flawed clarity keeps its secrets, reveals nothing; says ‘Just make a wish!’

The copyright of this post belongs to Clare Elstow

Saturday, 11 April 2015

The Light

In space, stars collide, expand, implode. I am the light, I am truth, I am knowledge. I am held, a kernel at the centre of all things, at the molten heart of the earth. My journey begins.
I worm my way from core to mantle and come to rest on scorching sands beneath innumerable moons where I watch the march of stars, the paths of heaven, understanding love, truth, beauty: the eternal trilogy.
It was here, in the dunes, that I was found by the Jin of the dessert who was filled with wonder and fear at what he saw in me. In his limited wisdom he saw fit to hide me from the world in a gold filigree box, afraid of man turning my power to his own purpose. If his mind had not been clouded with sandstorms and desert desires I could have shown him that mankind already held me at his heart, as all matter did. Man had always been free to chose his own path. But like mankind, the Jin's mind's eye was stubbornly closed and double lidded like the camel that bore him, so he used his magic to bury me in a cavernous cathedral beneath the sands where no mischief could find me.
I glowed quietly beneath the sand, biding my time imparting my truths to the pillars of earth. I leaked in to the soil, feeding the plants that grew from their richness and in turn to the animals that fed on them. The creatures of the earth understood by this that their was a balance to all things, a reason and a purpose for everything.
But then came the rise of men. Some men understood the balance, the laws of nature. Their hearts were open. They knew that from the lowliest insect to the leviathans of the sea all were equal, born of Matter and returned to Matter. They respected the path and did not seek to own or rule with a power imagined for themselves. But the others, the majority of men, sought power, land and sovereignty to inflate their vanity, believing themselves more important than the other creatures of the earth. They waged war on each other to prove their superiority, heedless of the damage. They enslaved first animals to their will and then other men. But what ever they gained they were never satisfied. Blinded by greed, not realising they were straying further from the true path they blundered on causing unimaginable destruction.
The Jin saw. He could not hide in the shade beneath his date palm oblivious to the progression any longer. He put his head in the sand and called for me.
"Truth! Knowledge! Come Forth and turn the tide of men from their own destruction." Such was the Jin's magic I could not reveal myself to him, so I whispered to him through the wind.
"Find a man of power to bring together the elements. Do this and the way back to me will be made clear. Bring with him another, a man of pure heart, for only he will hold the key to my
release." The Jin did as I asked and whispered honeyed words in the ear of the Kings Vizier and sewed a seed of desire at his breast that swelled with every greedy breath. Unknown riches would be his if only he sought the cave that held the Heart of all Matter. Imagining chests of gold and the power to manipulate all men to his own desires he wasted no time in bringing together the elements. Finding a man of pure heart was more of a challenge to him as his mind had been poisoned by greed and manipulation for so long that he could not see that a diamond was still a diamond even in the rough, but after many days, and some help from the Jin it was accomplished.
Today they came to me. And the Jin whispered again to the Vizier, "Seek only the lamp and you shall prove that you are worthy of the treasure it holds." It was a trick of course, to give the Vizier one last chance to see if he was worthy. But he was not.
The elements were roused; water washed along the dry river bed for the sun to bake a dry path then the winds blew the dunes apart revealing a hidden door to enter the cave. The door was of heavy stone and carved with many cuneiform symbols. The Vizier tried many words of power and a great deal of brute strength to unlock it as the Jin looked on smiling to himself. Then the boy, curious about the symbols, laid his hand on the door and it unlocked and swung open at his touch. At this the Vizier remembered the Jin's words and saw that the prophecy must be true. Hungry and lustful for the riches that were to come his way the Vizier instructed the boy to fetch the lamp. The boy was simple and willing with no device or cunning and did as he was asked. He brought the lamp to the Vizier who snatched it from him throwing the boy back in to the cave as it's door disappeared into the shifting dunes. As the Vizier watched the door disappear the lamp turned to ash in his hand and he yelled in anger and stamped his feet upon the earth. I kept my word though, he received the unknown riches he so deserved: I unlocked the door to his deepest mind and relit the spark there. Humility, love, a thirst for knowledge, generosity, kindness and thoughtful curiosity, gifts that had been previously lost to him were all open to him once more.
And what of the boy? My voice led him to the filigree box that I had called home all these years. I shone brightly from within it making a display of dissonant stars on the walls and roof of the cave.
He picked up the box with tender curiosity and caressed the years of dust from the lid and as he did so the Jin appeared by his side.
"You are a rare boy with an open heart. I was afraid for mankind but I see in you a hope I could not have dreamed of. This is the light of the world, of knowledge. It can show mankind the way. I wish of you three things: take it into the world, be guided by it and let it be seen by others. Man has been lead by greed and envy for too long, he must be shown the light. Will you do this?"
"But who will listen to me," said the boy, afraid, "I am no-one."
"You are everything. If you carry the light, you carry the hope of salvation with you. You are Salah al Din, righteousness of faith. Let the light shine from within you, and all who have good sense and seek truth will know this is the way. Will you be the vessel?"
"I will try" said the boy.
So the Jin released me from the cave of wonders to take root in the boy's heart, shine from his eyes and pour golden truths from his lips that all men could find the path of light, of truth and knowledge. I reside still in the hearts of men to show them the true path if only they will take heed. The boy, Salah al Din, returned to dust in time but his story lives on in the legend of Aladdin.

The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan

Friday, 10 April 2015


On this day of happiness- you with your beautiful spiky hair, forged paperwork, the taste of spunk in your mouth: me in my cotton dress and crinoline petticoat, looking like something out of the “Sound of Music”. We are ready to catch the moon. You tease me by whistling a tune I know must be significant as you wink at me & then you lose the sound as you cannot smile & whistle at the same time. What is that tune? Suddenly I know- “Raindrops on Roses & whiskers on kittens”. You ask me to lean against the crenulated wall so you can take my photo. You catch me with the sun filtering through my long corkscrew curly red hair- my halo, you say. You love my hair. You say it’s the craziest thing about me- the only crazy thing about me. You do not understand how bendable I am. Some things we cannot see. You cannot see that I want to be spanked like you are spanked. I don’t want “Bella, Bella”. I want something wilder. I want to do the Buddha dance, to shake off the sadness. I don’t care about the spill of birdsong on a summer evening. I look at the bruised tinfoil dish, a fisheye in the sky. Can you equip me with what I need so I can be your equal on this equinox? Show me the way to your dangerous world.

The Journey
Show me the way to your dangerous world. I am ready. You found me as I stood on the edge of the rocks. I was hypnotised by the waves crashing on the umber rocks at sunset, sending spray into crystal sparks. I stood there- my euro railcard ticket & my last £40 gone. All I owned was the clothes I was wearing. You approached me cautiously and gently asked my name. The spell of the sea was broken and what I had been about to do escaped from me. “Esther”, I whispered. I was unaware that you already knew who I was, that the course of my life was about to change. I know now of course what it is to love a thief. The first night you took me through the curtained doorway, unknown secrets within. The very beautiful Juliet Wilderness was sitting at a little table- a kind of makeshift reception. She smiled graciously as you introduced us. “We need to think of another name for you”, she said as she reached under the table and fitted a plastic foot over her stump as if she were doing something very ordinary like putting on boots. She took us through a courtyard to a little salon at the other side of the building. I caught a glimpse of a pale naked body catching the last of the light of day as the sun disappeared in the tree growing tall in this open courtyard. Where had you brought me I wanted to ask, and yet deep down I knew. We entered a dark room and you introduced me to John Good, the son of a preacher man who most certainly did not live up to his name. He would help teach me my craft. He spoke in riddles. “There is treasure hidden in the cave”, he said as he dipped the fingers of one hand into a pot of golden liquid, his other hand expertly undoing my buttons.”Honey can be used for many things”, he said. I heard the clink of metal like the sound of keys clanking together. “A ring is many sized,” he said. I was not to know at that stage that I was there to replace Sally Mustard, the wild hot tardy girl who was trying to banish old age. For me at that moment I was only grateful. He held my face in his hands and said “Thank the Lord God for this day of happiness”. The journey had begun.

Advice from your mother
If I were you I would keep your hand on your ha’penny. You’ll make a good farmers wife one day. You’re always busy and nothing ever tires you. You’ll not be one of those exhausted mothers, children hungry, babies screaming and not able to cope with it all. Now pass me that lantern and stop looking at yourself- you are beautiful but we need to get going- it’s off to work we go. I wouldn’t wear that necklace if I were you, though. When we go out, I don’t want you to listen to any man who says “I am your brother”, or tries to entice you into his shop of aromatic spices, or one who asks, “How is your complexion?” These are sorcerers and tricksters. You must listen for the man who is whispering to himself, “It is the hour to pray,” the man who is always composed. This is a good man. If he has land, this is even better. Do not wait for the moment when the birds fall silent. This is too long. We must match you when you are in your prime. So- as I say- it is off to work we go. We must display you if we are to find a good husband but you do not need expensive creams for your face or fancy necklaces. We must take care with what little we have and use it wisely to our own

The copyright of these three pieces belongs to Jean Durrand

Thursday, 9 April 2015

A Day of Happiness

On this day of happiness the crinoline skirt entered the room. It was so vast the chocolate man melted leaving a puddle on the floor. The white skinned, black haired twins, with their impeccable coifs, dicky bows and white shirts crawled on all fours to lap at the chocolate, like dogs at a puddle, revelling in the moment. A spiky cackle burst forth, fearful, passionate, anarchic with malice, as the witch stepped forward. A halo of red dust fizzed like crazy over her head.
‘Bella!’ she exclaimed.
Bella the beautiful turned slowly, swishing her wide skirt round. She was equal to the witch, or better than, as she had no need to achieve reflected glory. Her glowing face promised new life for the coming times. The twins, Spank and Spunk, paused in their greedy licking and looked up, two identical faces happy at the promise of a battle.
Bella arced her arm and tears fell from the glass domed ceiling. The dancers stopped to kiss each other in the warm rain, equipping themselves with happiness for what would be. Nobody knew what would come to pass at this moment, this equinox of light and life. The tick-tock of each of their beings was a metronome pushing its way through space into the unknown.
The crinoline lifted to form perfect crenulations and out poured an army of dwarves waving spades.
‘We dig to reach victory,’ they cried as one, rushing at the witch.
Sensing defeat her halo wobbled and flew away in a v of dust.
‘Bend,’ shouted Bella, ‘or break.’
‘I am not bendable,’ the witch retorted, snapping into two pieces, which took flight shattering the glass ceiling as they escaped. Surrounded by the red dust they flew away like woody, winged sticks flying into the setting sun of a hot horizon.
With a noise like the crack of thunder the glass fell from the atrium roof in rainbow sparkles. Bella muttered a softening spell so the shards were transformed to melting ice. She turned to Constantine Merryman, who was sandwiched between the twins, a bright spot of purple velvet, between their dark towers.
‘Go,’ she said. ‘Quickly find me the blue book which holds the golden story.’
Before he hurried away One Eyed Melvin, the witch’s’ cat, guffawed loudly.
‘Ha, ha, all the magic is held within the halo. You don’t stand a chance, she will be back.’
Bella beckoned. From behind Spank and Spunk came Epsilon and Cosima. Epsilon glowed as brightly as a shimmery, glimmery star forcing the twins to don their Raybans. Cosima spoke first but her voice was so soft the air swallowed it whole. Epsilon spoke for them both.
‘There is always magic. Mystery is a life force. Our happiness is within us. Look for the mirror within mirrors, step inside and retrieve the magnifying glass, for there lies the book hidden in the frayed pouch. Bring it to Bella.’
‘Be quick,’ urged Bella, ‘for this is an inside out house with eyes on every window.’
Constantine darted off on his mission. Slow music started up to embrace those waiting on the ballroom floor. They clung to each other tightly, soft lips meeting in a gesture of solace. All, except the twins, who were tainted by theft. They jumped in and out of the puddle of chocolate,
laughing ecstatically, unconcerned while chocolate splattered up their carefully creased trousers. One Eyed Melvin nipped between the dancers causing chaos as they tripped and parted from each other. Particles of red dust dropped through the hole in the ceiling and One Eyed Melvin mewed with satisfaction.
Bella was on the point of tipping her crinoline in another direction, to summon further aid, when Constantine returned blue book in hand.
She began to read and the red dust bent its head to listen…
‘Once upon a time on this day of happiness…’

the copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack

Triumphs and Gardenias

She cut a swathe through the warmth of a night filled with the smell of lemons and Castrol R. The Triumph a throbbing pulse beneath her. The gentle throaty burble of the powerful engine chewing holes in the silence as she sped to the sea.
They needed to make plans, however, there was another need to be satisfied first.
Upon reaching the cliff edge she turned west and eased her fiery steed towards the ramshackle shelter on the very brink. The tidal swell lazily caressed the rock strewn beach adding salt to the lemons and replacing the mechanical music with a sensuous cacophony of gyrating water.
Killing the engine, the rhythmic waves increasing her awareness, she flicked her eyes over the dwelling for signs of life.
He would already be there, she sensed his powerful presence with mounting excitement. The opiate of his magnetism invaded her being, and her brain dissolved.
With an athletic swing her leg cleared the saddle and she parked one throbbing beast and headed for another.
The door was invitingly ajar and she leaned, following the progress of the peeling paintwork into the seductively dingy interior. An all pervading smell of damp warmth oozed over her senses and something else, indefinable. She held her breath. He was here, he was here, her heart beats echoed. One shadow detached itself from the others and engulfed her in an embrace with all the practised skill that she found irresistible.
His touch was as the caress of a silk nightdress and slithered over her body taking her breath away. Surrendering to the inevitable, the animal warmth between them poised to strike with the passionate joy of an exploding Gardenia. They wasted no time exchanging words, but cleared the table with the swipe of an arm, employing its surface with an efficiency born of haste. The night became one of simple urgency. Ideas would come later.

The copyright of this post belongs to Geneva Grey