“It is just sleight of hand.” She said.
The cards snipped like scissors.
Clip
Clip
Clip
“It gets them every time” she smiled.
The sharp practise of a card hustler with well oiled wrists and nimble fingers had an allure that he found irresistible.
They sat around the coffee table in his hotel room.
She dealt the cards and he poured the drinks.
The clock chimed eight thirty.
“I need the toilet.” She said, giggling.
“Through there, on your right.”
She scooped her self up and moved out of sight.
He took a phial from his pocket and poured it into her glass stirring it quickly with a bic pen.
She came back into the room adjusting her skirt with quick hands and smiling at him.
“Said I wouldn’t be long didn’t I?”
“Drink up.” he said pushing the glass toward her.
“It is just sleight of hand.”
The minutes passed with a watchful eye.
The minutes fogged with a cloying tacky taste.
Memories shattered into broken pieces.
Carpet.
Glass.
Underwear.
Sliding.
Slip, slip slipping.
Fractured moments through a Vaseline smeared looking glass.
When he awoke his wallet and watch and credit cards had gone, as had his mobile phone.
All that remained was a playing card.
A joker.
Written on the card…
It is just sleight of hand.
.
.
.
all words and art are copyright © of cocaine jesus.
Monday
a christmas tale (the cat and the widow)
old misses pipewash dressed her cat in black lace.
"the better to furnish you for inclement weather whether you like it or not my fair-weather tot" chided the matronly miss.
and so the cat, a ginger tabby with a large head and frisky tail, tall tale to tell, set out into the winter high street.
the trams chugged, the people huffed and high over head the metro chuffed like a metal reptile grinding down a steel cable.
frost lay piped onto the pavement with brisk strokes. white wash pale and brittle under foot.
"fine if you wear footwear," thought the cat, "but ruddy unpleasant if, like me, you do not."
the cat strode on. its finery fluffed up by the chill winds that whistled like a broken flute up and down the length of the high street. the baubles in the widow glittered like the eyes of dead fish and this made the tabby lick its lips. (the thought of fish, cold or hot, was a delicious thought for the tabby tot.)
misses halflintle, a widow these past twenty years, was cleaning the rust off of an old iron pot when she spotted the black laced finery of the ginger tabby cat and thought, without malice but a hunger that burnt low in her stomach for she was a very poor woman who could not afford turkey or goose this yuletide, that if she, the widow so long, could tempt the cat into her parlour, then, perhaps, she could kill the creature and cook for it for the yuletide feast. after all a well cooked and stuffed with thyme and parsley cat would be almost as appetising a dish as goose to a poor old widow.
the gas light flickered and the neon windows dazzled but the cat paced on until it reached the doorstep of the aging and thin misses halflintle.
"morning dear pussy, pussy my dear, i have fresh fish in my parlour that is oh so near. fish and cream for you to drink. why not come inside? tell me, what do you think?"
well, what could an insatiable cat do but accept such an offer when so politely put?
the cat, picking up its feet along with its lace finery, stepped over the doorstep and walked into the house.
the walls were dank and damp and covered in green, pungent moss. the floor was a carpet of old bones. fish bones and dog bones and cat bones too. the cat even thought that she saw the odd bone, here and there, of small infant humans but undeterred walked on.
"this way my pretty do not stray, let the light from my tallow show you the way."
the old widow stooped low with a courtesy and, with a wave of her hand, (such an elegant gesture), showed the cat the way into her parlour. but the cat, an intellectual feline with a highly suspicious nature had caught sight of a blade that glowered darkly in the old woman’s hand.
"mistress so fair, so true and so kind, i have a bargain that comes to my mind. a bargain with you i think should entreat. how would you like a feast of fresh meat?"
the old woman’s eyes lit up like summer and she licked her lips and rubbed her chin. (you could tell her poor mind was pondering the thought of a feast to which her stomach was entreating her to listen).
"go on," she cried and far too loud, "tell me more dear cat, of what’s in your mind beneath you fair hat?"
so the cat sat down and begun its eloquent soliloquy.
"'tis like this fair maid, for i see that you were but the years have been cruel and treated you unfair,"
to this the old widow nodded agreement.
"your frame 'tis thin and your cheeks are gaunt. you will soon be a ghost this house for to haunt."
to this the old widow nodded sagely.
"with this in mind listen to what i proffer, fresh meat forever that is what i offer."
the old woman, unable to hold her tongue in check or to maintain even a semblance of dignity screamed at the top of her voice, "do it! do what ever you have too. i will let you go so fetch me the feast. i will spare you your life you well meaning beast!"
the cat couldn't smile because cats are not able but it unfurled its tail and sent it a wagging and with a swift 'meow' shot out of the house.
within the hour the cat returned with its fine lace covered in grass.
"just as i promised with fresh meat i have returned for all promises i keep and your feast you have earned."
the old widow smiled at this.
"from now and forever fresh meat in your house so bid them to enter the kingdom of mouse."
as the final word left the cats stately mouth a tiny tramping of feet was heard that grew in volume and magnitude until the old woman’s house was filled with the squeaks and scratchings of mice. the old woman fled to the nearest stool and cursed the cat with all her might but the cat was long gone its job now all done.
the moral of the story?
be kind to all creatures that pass by your house be they ferret or weasel, cat or mouse.
.
.
.
all words and art are copyright © of cocaine jesus.
Tuesday
Mowberry and Parkhurst (part nine)
Helen arrived at the front door and felt surrounded by menace. The very air tingled with an odd sensation that sent chills down her spine, raising the fine hairs on her neck. The door seemed to vibrate as though it were made from some insubstantial material. She raised the brass knocker and let it fall.
It made a dull plop sound. She did it again but still it made the same insignificant sound like a stone falling into wet clay.
Plop.
She hammered her fist against the wooden panels and was relieved to hear the sound of feet running toward her.
The door opened soundlessly to reveal a small boy child who was patently scared witless and for very good reasons. The boy had to be Dima and behind him stood a creature from nightmare. A female with what appeared to be a huge erection and a face that seemed to be made of fluid for it changed as she glared at the child and Helen. It was hard to distinguish the features for the shape changed so swiftly but Helen felt as if she knew the face.
The creature smiled.
A rictus grin.
A carnal stain on a human face.
An impossible voice croaked a pebble stone welcome.
'Ahhhhh, more flesh to play with. Pink, sweet, succulent, fresh. Come in my dear and let me open you.'
Dima stood stock still. Petrified. Helen stepped forward and swept him up into her arms.
'Keep away. Leave him be.'
'Ohhhhhh, such bravery runs in your veins. I hope that you cunt runs as sweetly.'
Shadows fled the walls and swept onto the floor in a hush of shade. Moving with a killer stealth.
Helen felt her heart beat faster, her pulse raced. Every fibre of her being told her to run but she knew that even as she turned to flee the creature and the shadows would be upon her like locust onto a field of rice. They would be taken before they could get to the garden gate. Instead, with the heel of her boot, she pulled the door shut behind her trusting to god and to her partners tatics.
'Why don't you try and see for yourself monster. I am not going anywhere.'
The unbelivable and unexpected threw the creature for a second. It's face softened momentarily and Helen could see the vestige of what remained of Lubov. Then the face changed again. A male face. A sordid face. She knew that face but it melted again into an unrecognisable horror before she could recall who it belonged to.
'Brave but foolhardy. You cannot stop me child. Nothing can that faces me. I am not of your world. Your rules do not apply to me.'
'Oh, I do not intend to face you, I just wanted to distract you.'
As Lillian and Helen had approached the house Lillian had told Helen to go on alone and enter through the front door whilst she gained acces via the back door. Lillian had found the backdoor open and had quickly moved from the kitchen area passed the lounge where the dead father and Elena lay mutilated and dead. Their bodies were hideous to behold. Gutted like fish. Cod eyed and bloody. Lillian moved on. In front of her Dante came to life. Shadows peeled from the ceiling and the walls and what had once been Lubov stood in front of her but with its back to her. The girls body seemed to have a life of its own as it shimmered and shifted. From small female child to full grown man and back. A constant moving thing of liquid flesh.
Lillian watched as Helen entered the hallway.
She heard the dry rasp of the creatures voice.
She switched the garden spade from her left hand to her right.
She watched as Helen took the boy into her arms and she watched as the creature, momentarily stopped moving, halting with its head crooked to one side. Then it advanced again. Its hand held out like the fingers of inevitable horror.
Helen, whose nerve had stood until now broke. Not with a scream but a shout of defiant fear.
'Nooooooo!'
Lillian swung the spade against the creatures head. The neck twisted to a ludicrous angle but the creature was far from dead. It turned around, shocked but undeafeted to face whatever it was that had struck it. Lillian attacked again. Slamming the spade down upon the things head. It made a sound like a mellon. Soft. Moist.
The creature fell to the floor. Lillian placed the spade at her feet and used it as a support whilst she regained her strength and composure. Helen made to move toward Lillian with Dima still in her arms. The boy was beyond sobbing and just lay stock still. Beyond fear. Grief to follow.
The thing moved. Its hand claw like made to drag its broken body toward Lillian. The shadows regrouped and now as one dark and horrendous mass moved toward Lillian who stood, head bowed over the spade.
'LILLIAN!'
Helen's cry roused Lillian who lifted the spade and drove the blade clean through the neck of the creature. The head rolled a few feet. Blood spurting across the hall floor coating Lillian's dress and shoes.
The shadows fled as though day had broken. A hissing breath of departure.
The decapitated head and lifeless body was again that of Luba. Poor Lubov. Used and dead.
From the lounge door came the familar sound and smell of burning. An orange glow now filled the entrance. Lillian seemed lost. As though the ordeal had taken more out of her than either she or Helen had expected.
'Lillian dear, we must get out. The house is a flame. We must get this boy to a doctor. Lillian?'
'Yes? Sorry. More effort than I thought. Of course, of course. Let us go.'
Together they hastily left as the flames greedily took hold of the building. They moved as far aways as seemed safe before collapsing into a heap on the Parisian kerb side. In the distance they could hear the sound of bells as the French firebrigade rattled over the streets of Paris.
'It all seemed to happen so fast. I never imagined for a moment what I could or might be like. We destroyed it though didn't we Lillian?'
'Yes, I think we did. We certainly removed it from here.'
'Strange, but I thought I recognised the face. I just cannot remember where or who. It was so difficult to see.'
'Nevermind dear, let us get this poor child away from here.'
By the cab that Helen had seen earlier now stood the driver with the door held open. Monsignor Cholmondeley approached and stepped into the cab.
'Everything go as expected Monsignor?'
'Not entirely no but a lesson learnt. Take me home Giles.'
The fire from the house cast a sombre glow across the face of Monsignor Cholmondeley. A strange shade. A dark and ominous look.
THE END
Mowberry and Parkhurst (part eight)
May 1920
dima had hidden in the cupboard under the sink. large enough to fit in, small enough to hide. inside the shadows were friendly. they didn't move or shift but just sat, lay still. dark images left by light. he hated the shapes in the house. the way they slithered over the walls and floors. they way they had entered lubov's bed. cancer fingers entering her mouth and nostrils. whispy smoke. cigarette like in reverse. no exhalation just a going in.and in. and in. they seemed to steal the light. suck upon it and somehow pervert it. coiling and writhing. serpentine.
he had run from her room, from the warmth of his sister's bed. terrified. unable to tell anyone. too scared. but later, much later, the following morning. breakfast. lubov had arrived and sat beside him. she took a bowl and smiled at him asking him how he had slept and saying what a lovely day it was. she smiled with her mouth but her eyes were dead. a shell. a husk. she raised a finger to his forehead as though it were a loaded pistol and then placed it against her dry lips. silence. gravestone. death.
he couldn't tell anyone, he couldn't. his fear moved within him. bowel deep and constant. he couldn't tell anyone. he could only tremble. tremble and weep.
he had left his secret place once. just once. he needed the lavatory. he had to go. he sneaked out soft and passed the room his aged father sat in and saw the room boiling with a fermented darkness. roiling with shade shapes like bone dry, tentacled squid. for a moment, a fraction of a second, he made to run and help his father, his daddy but he was so small and so tiny and so very much afraid that he turned and ran back to his hideaway. he defectated there. hunkering down small and scared. preying that the shadows wouldn't smell the foulness of his deacying fear.
he sat there when the starnge noises begun.
he sat there when he heard his father cry out.
he sat there when he heard elena shout.
he sat there when he heard elena scream but when he heard the knocking at the front door his already frazzled nerve broke and he ran. ran as fast as his little legs would take him. ran with his terror nipping at his heels.
he only had to reach the door.
open the door.
open the door.
and run.
run far, far away.
Mowberry and Parkhurst (part seven)
May 1920
the cab rattled over the parisian streets in a rush of crinolene and diffused light.
lillian and helen sat in silence reflecting upon the brief conversation they had had with Monsignor Cholmondeley.
neither had enjoyed his abrasive manner and neither had thought much of the man himself. caustic. hypocritical. a power broker and manipulator but as lillian had said, he was after all the client.
his only concern was to stop the unatural events and to ensure that a strict and total seal of secrecy fell upon the whole affair.
it seemed strange, but then again perhaps his motive was simply to obey his own superiors dictates. to keep the church and its followers bathed in a light of uncorruptible ignorance.
the cab rattled on.
lillian sat with head held high. dressed in a dark coat with matching kid skin leather gloves and with a high necked white blouse that was clasped at her throat by a wedgwood brooch. her air of detachment was a fraud but allowed her a distance with which to observe her companion who sat in the muted silence like a lost school girl. all delicate charm and porcelain innocence.
helen wore a long black coat but with no gloves. her fragile, long fingers seemed extraordinarily white in the early spring morning light. beneath her unbuttoned coat she wore a thin cream blouse that was shockingly sheer and wonderfully translucent. her dark areola was clearly visible and, to lillians utter horror, this sight aroused her bringing an uncomfortable damp feeling between her closed thighs.
"it is a beautiful morning is it not helen?"
she asked this question more as a way to take her mind off of her companions dark charms than to strike up any idle conversation.
"yes, it is. very."
"you seem a little distant. is there anything troubling you?"
"sorry, i didn't mean to be rude it is just that i was watching the cab that is behind us."
"and why such interest in another cab?"
"it seems to be following us."
a dark cloud passed across the may sun and threatened a sudden downpour.
Mowberry and Parkhurst (part six)
May 1920
Outside rain fell. Gutters wept.
Nature’s fingers drummed a tinny sound upon Parisian rooftops. The sound of mortal souls crying.
Inside the Savinkov household shadows moved upon silent heels.
The old man sat trembling, his nerves shattered.
His life had turned from nightmare into waking horror. The walls of the room had bled a diffuse shade that had swallowed the floor and vomited hideous shapes that scurried over him. Licking him, kissing him, running rasping fingers over his slack skin. A thing of dark had unbuttoned his trousers and had fellated his flaccid penis and when it was done spat his ejaculate into his face. It clung to his face like sordid history. He tried to shut his eyes tight. Tried to wish it all away but their dry rustling continued and their stone harsh throats issued an ultimatum.
watch and weep the children bleed.
Lubov?
Where was Lubov?
He could hear Elena shrieking. Her normal stoical tones replaced by a pleading, raging mad woman. She was screaming at the shapes to leave her father alone, to leave them all alone. The shadows slipped beneath her skirts and fingered her innocence but still she shouted whilst beating her fists against her petticoats.
Lubov?
Where was Lubov?
And Dima, his little boy, where were they?
Before him the walls and the floor melted and folded in like pastry into the ceiling. Reality crept away and left chaos to dance.
Elena felt her clothes being torn from her body. Shredded clothing fell like dry scabs. She screamed now not for her father, not for her family but for herself. For her sanity. For her life.
She felt as if everything she had learnt or been taught about her world had been taken and placed in front of a fairground mirror. All about her was distorted. All about her was madness. Madness and bone harsh fingers clawing at her virgin flesh penetrating her vagina, her mouth, her rectum. An obscenity of hands was running over her and she felt her self lifted up with her legs splayed apart and presented, like an offering to some pagan god.
watch and weep the children bleed.
before her was luba.
luba?
standing man hard, like someone else, like something else. a senseless grinning effigy. a paradox. a crime. a sin of confusion. luba. like a man. with a stallions erect penis and a rictus grin.
luba?
luba.
the laugh from her throat was a deep soiled contagion. it was the sound of unlight. the sound of pained children. the sound of death.
luba.
reality gone. chaos supreme and the knocking. the knocking that brought chaos to heel. the knocking. that splintered the moment dreadful and spun the world back from the outside, dark side into the gas lit turmoil of the now.
The knocking of the front door knob.
And little dima, too scared to run to his family's aid ran now to the front door.
Mowberry and Parkhurst (part five)
May 1920
Upon receiving the initial letter from Monsignor Cholmondeley, Lillian Mowberry had been both surprised and flattered. She was glad that her reputation had grown to such international status but was a little disconcerted by the letters obvious despair. It felt, if she were to be honest with herself, that the Parisian church authorities were writing as much out of a desperate desire for anyone to cease the horrors that they had recently been afflicted with, as much as they were requesting some one of high regard too.
It was a case, she suspected, of we have tried every known and accepted method and have failed and so now we are trying something a little more dubious.
She didn't mind this at all. Often she had encountered dull minds that still clung to their need for scientific rationale even when all logic and science had long been defeated.
So it was that both Helen Mowberry, her new associate in the business, and she took the swiftest route to Paris.
Rue Pierre-la-Grand was their destination and the residence of the beleaguered Savinkov family but first they met with Monsignor Cholmondeley.
"Ladies," his English was perfect and with the slightest of accents, "this matter has caused grave concern and its ramifications have traveled beyond the city of Paris and beyond the French borders. The Papal office, the Pope himself is very concerned with this matter. Not only for the tragic deaths of these children but also because of the sacrilegious nature of the murders. Murders really don’t do these vile acts justice for they are truly the hideous act of an arcane evil. An evil that mutilates and rapes small children, mutilations the nature of which we will not discuss here although all the despicable facts are within the volume of papers we have assembled for you."
The crisp Parisian sunlight broke through the Monsignor's office window and splashed onto his wooden desk. He cleared his throat with a sharp cough and then took a sip of water form a glass that sat on his desk. He was a sleek man, like mink thought Lillian. Tall and very well groomed and with a high forehead.
"In this matter we need two things. An expedient conclusion to this grim business and your total silence. The local French police and local government have no intention of allowing any of this to become, how shall I put this? of any public interest. In other words the public, apart from the local residence are to know nothing of these incidents. You have been hired for several reasons but primarily because of your reputation at maintaining client confidentiality and at achieving results. So, to reiterate, bring this issue to a swift conclusion and contain all events within your selves and this office."
He then asked if they required any further refreshments before they left. They said they didn't and he then escorted them to the door.
"One other thing. If needs must, the Savinkov's are all expendable. I have that authority, and do give sanction if need be."
They made the brief journey to their hotel where they unpacked and then settled down to read and study the documents prepared for them. A Lovecraft/Poe resume in the artifices of satanic ritual. A document so sinister and corrupt that both found the contents difficult to digest.
Three children, two females and one male aged 10, 12 and 11 had been slaughtered. Either by having their throats ripped out or, as with the 10 year old, gutted and sexually assaulted. The final depravity was to nail their dead forms to either the church door or the churchyard tree. Around the nailed corpses a crude circle was painted, using the deceased's own blood, as though the dead bodies were the centre of some macabre target. More confusing still was the tools used for the gruesome murders or rather the lack of tools. The autopsy revealed, on all three bodies, that whatever creature committed these heinous atrocities it certainly wasn't human. Or if it was then the human in question was immeasurably powerful. Pierre DuPont, a local expert in zoology thought that the nature of the attacks resembled the frenzied mauling of a brown bear. That however, did not explain how the bodies came to be nailed after death nor the rapes. Although the horrors had all been committed within the church and its yard there had been reports of strange occurrences at the Savinkov's house. A white Russian father and his three children had moved into the district some three years ago with a minimum of fuss. They had all lived quietly and without transgressing any of the locals sensibilities up until some three months ago when neighbours heard strange noises coming from the house. This coupled with a palpable chill that seemed to ooze from the house itself onto the very street. One witness even claimed to have seen one of the children 'float' in front of a window.
When Helen concluded her reading of the documents, pale faced and visibly shaken, Lillian said, "Tomorrow we go to the Savinkov’s household. I think it is time we ascertained just what on earth is going on.
Beyond their hotel window, over on Rue Pierre-la-Grand, shadows were gathering.
It was a case, she suspected, of we have tried every known and accepted method and have failed and so now we are trying something a little more dubious.
She didn't mind this at all. Often she had encountered dull minds that still clung to their need for scientific rationale even when all logic and science had long been defeated.
So it was that both Helen Mowberry, her new associate in the business, and she took the swiftest route to Paris.
Rue Pierre-la-Grand was their destination and the residence of the beleaguered Savinkov family but first they met with Monsignor Cholmondeley.
"Ladies," his English was perfect and with the slightest of accents, "this matter has caused grave concern and its ramifications have traveled beyond the city of Paris and beyond the French borders. The Papal office, the Pope himself is very concerned with this matter. Not only for the tragic deaths of these children but also because of the sacrilegious nature of the murders. Murders really don’t do these vile acts justice for they are truly the hideous act of an arcane evil. An evil that mutilates and rapes small children, mutilations the nature of which we will not discuss here although all the despicable facts are within the volume of papers we have assembled for you."
The crisp Parisian sunlight broke through the Monsignor's office window and splashed onto his wooden desk. He cleared his throat with a sharp cough and then took a sip of water form a glass that sat on his desk. He was a sleek man, like mink thought Lillian. Tall and very well groomed and with a high forehead.
"In this matter we need two things. An expedient conclusion to this grim business and your total silence. The local French police and local government have no intention of allowing any of this to become, how shall I put this? of any public interest. In other words the public, apart from the local residence are to know nothing of these incidents. You have been hired for several reasons but primarily because of your reputation at maintaining client confidentiality and at achieving results. So, to reiterate, bring this issue to a swift conclusion and contain all events within your selves and this office."
He then asked if they required any further refreshments before they left. They said they didn't and he then escorted them to the door.
"One other thing. If needs must, the Savinkov's are all expendable. I have that authority, and do give sanction if need be."
They made the brief journey to their hotel where they unpacked and then settled down to read and study the documents prepared for them. A Lovecraft/Poe resume in the artifices of satanic ritual. A document so sinister and corrupt that both found the contents difficult to digest.
Three children, two females and one male aged 10, 12 and 11 had been slaughtered. Either by having their throats ripped out or, as with the 10 year old, gutted and sexually assaulted. The final depravity was to nail their dead forms to either the church door or the churchyard tree. Around the nailed corpses a crude circle was painted, using the deceased's own blood, as though the dead bodies were the centre of some macabre target. More confusing still was the tools used for the gruesome murders or rather the lack of tools. The autopsy revealed, on all three bodies, that whatever creature committed these heinous atrocities it certainly wasn't human. Or if it was then the human in question was immeasurably powerful. Pierre DuPont, a local expert in zoology thought that the nature of the attacks resembled the frenzied mauling of a brown bear. That however, did not explain how the bodies came to be nailed after death nor the rapes. Although the horrors had all been committed within the church and its yard there had been reports of strange occurrences at the Savinkov's house. A white Russian father and his three children had moved into the district some three years ago with a minimum of fuss. They had all lived quietly and without transgressing any of the locals sensibilities up until some three months ago when neighbours heard strange noises coming from the house. This coupled with a palpable chill that seemed to ooze from the house itself onto the very street. One witness even claimed to have seen one of the children 'float' in front of a window.
When Helen concluded her reading of the documents, pale faced and visibly shaken, Lillian said, "Tomorrow we go to the Savinkov’s household. I think it is time we ascertained just what on earth is going on.
Beyond their hotel window, over on Rue Pierre-la-Grand, shadows were gathering.
Mowberry and Parkhurst (part four)
June 1920
After their passion had been fulfilled and they had slept the pleasant sleep of the exhausted, they had awoken with ravenous rumblings in their stomachs. Still naked and holding each others hands they had wandered from the sitting room into the kitchen.
Aware of their nudity, Lillian had pulled the curtains across the window to prevent the world outside the dimpled glass from gazing in.
They had gone through the cupboards giggling like school girls dismissing the foodstuffs that they saw. Finally they had come across, and had settled on, the remains of a large fruitcake which Helen had sliced up into two large chunks.
They had sat crossed legged on the tile cold floor and had hissed in protest as the chill pinched their pale behinds, then they had set to laughing again at the sheer burlesqueness of their situation.
They sat in front of each other with two large slices of fruit cake of which they both consumed with an almost animal voracity. Crumbs tumbling down between their breasts and falling like autumn leaves into their laps.
They laughed all the time in the narcotic like atmosphere of the moment. High on lust and love and some how totally liberated by their recent act.
Helen, through a mouthful of cake, rose to her feet saying, "I need a drink to wash this cake down with. Where will I find some milk?"
Lillian watched her rise and noted again how small she was. How small and yet so perfectly formed. Tight buttocks, almost boy like that flowed down into sculptured thighs and calves. Her ankles were exquisite and Lillian felt her sleeping desire crawl its way back into her crutch at the thought of planting kisses on those divinely chiseled bones. Kissing and licking from ankle to knee from thigh to the moist heart of her lovers being.
"There should be a jug of milk in the cupboard directly above your head"
Lillian too now rose and walked over on silent toes to Helen's side. Helen had already found the jug and was pouring the milk into two chunky tumblers. She passed one to Lillian and guzzled the liquid from her own glass. Lillian watched her fascinated by this impetuous woman/child who always seemed to act on instinct and intuition. She watched her down the milk and watched as the residue slid from her mouth and down her chin.
Rivulets of milk trailed down her chin and dribbled down her neck falling in drips onto her collarbone.
They both giggled again and Lillian passed a teatowel to Helen for her to wipe her mouth on whilst she, Lillian took a gentle sip from her own glass.
Helen had seen something in the cupboard that had taken her interest and she stretched up to collect it. Her breast flattened in the attempt and Lillian noticed again how pert and shapely her sweet bosoms were and how dark those delicious nipples. Dark brown and pointed.
"A tin of golden syrup. Look you have a tin of golden syrup".
Lillian smiled "Yes, my love. I have a passion for sponge pudding. A passion that ruins my figure but I find it irrestible. Why? Would you like some?".
"Yes. Yes I would. Do you have a pastry brush?" asked Helen, puzzling Lillian with the oddness of the query.
"Middle draw. You will find all manner of kitchen utensils in there.Why?"
Helen ignored her friend and fussed around inside the draw until she found three pastry brushes. One new and two a little used.
She gave one to Lillian and dipped the other into the tin of golden syrup.
"Pout".
"I beg your pardon?"
Helen repeated her demand.
"Pout. As though you were about to apply lipstick".
Lillian did as requested pushing her lips out into a dry kiss.
Helen brushed syrup onto Lillians lips coating them with the golden liquid and then she kissed her. Their lips gluing together in a sticky, tacky osculation.
The sensation was odd but also highly sensual and left Lillian feeling highly aroused. Her nipples grew erect and her sex damp.
Helen licked the syrup off of her own lips and then, by using her mouth gently and seductively Helen sucked the residue of the sugary substance off of her lovers lips. With slow nibbles and closet sucking her mouth muzzled Lillian's lips drawing them into her mouth and then moving down and over them.
"Now stick your tongue out. As fas as it will go. Like a dog panting".
Lillian again did as commanded and pushed her tongue hard out from her mouth.
Helen poured the syrup onto Lillian's tongue coating it with a thick layer and then, placing the tin and the brush by her naked feet she took Lillian's mouth into her own and sucked upon it. She embraced Lillian's body wrapping one leg around and behind Lillan's legs whilst her hand caressed the back of Lillian's neck. She sucked on Lillian's tongue until all traces of syrup were gone. She felt herself grow damp with ardour and she placed her hand onto Lillian's vulva and ran her hands down over the velvet bed of her pubic hair onto her labia. Peeling aside the protective lips she found Lillian's clitoris erect and her vaginal opening moist. She ran her fingers over Lillian's modesty as though they were the tiny feet of mice or the fall of leaves on dewy grass.
"Now its your turn".
Lillian picked up the tin and the brush and dipped the one into the other. Then she brush stroked the amber fluid onto Helens dark and pointed nipple turning it into an object that honey glowed. The nipple stood long and tall. A monument to lust and longing. She continued to paint a journey descent across Helen's belly and over her sable mink and musky mound.
"Lay down my sweet and open your thighs wide for me".
Helen's breathing came deep and heavy as if her heart and mind had flown to somewhere deeply exotic and faraway. She complied laying her self down onto the cold tiles of the floor and parting her legs revealing her warm self.
Lillian's brush strokes fell with slow sensuous grace as tactile horse hair flowed over Helen's deeply flushed and darkly pink labia coating her in an amber gloss. Firstly she painted one of the lips and then the other and, as Helen's breathing started to come in ever shallow gasps, she painted her clitorial hood and watched as her vagina opened to her revealing its vibrant glory. The brush oh so painfully and slowly moved down and away from the centre of Helen's arousal and down to her sensitive perineum and then onto her puckered anus. The anus twitched involutarily but Helen released an audible "Oh".
Over and around and back up and over and around and onto Helen's inflammed clitoris. Helen bit hard into the back of her hand and her eyes screwed shut in deep pleasure. Slow strokes. Long Strokes. Delicate and exquiste almost playful strokes ran across her, inflaming her passions and opening her pink cleft.
Helen felt her climax grow and as she felt herself about to explode into an unrestrained orgasm Lilian's mouth attached itself to her clitoris and devoured her. Lips, tongue and teeth eating at her. Lapping and gobbling each sweet centimetre of her womanhood. Helen felt heavens doors open in a flood of potent feeling.
Lillian followed the sticky trail up from Helen's crutch and over her dark skinned belly with her mouth attaching itself to her long nipple. Dark and long and proud. She sucked and tongue stroked her arieola. Then she covered Helen's exposed throat with kisses and bites. Their lips met and their tongues busied themselves within each others mouths. Lillian lifted herself up and over Helen's prostrate body and lowered her wanton longing onto Helen's mouth.
It was night when much later they had finished with each other, passion spent, and they left the kitchen to be tidied up in the morning and so retired to bed.
Mowberry and Parkhurst (part three)
April 1920
anais gilbert took the short cut through the churchyard ignorning the ominous dark and the dappled fear that the grave stones scattered across the path with moon shadow.
her skirt rose and fell as she jogged along.
the recent spate of local horrors did not scare her as much as her fathers rage. she was late and she knew that he would chastise her, possibly with his cane, if she were late. she moved with a jerky pace that brought to mind a cork on a timid sea.
she didn't notice the shape that fell in beside her as her thoughts were still mulling over the notes and melody from the music lesson she had just left. she knew mozart was a giant among composers but she didn't like mozart at all. she much preferred the fun sounds of jazz.
'devils music', her father intoned, 'black mans cheap vaudeville. commonplace and attrocious. forget jazz and listen to the classics.'
she never argued with her father.
the shape behind her moved coser. a breath of hell fell upon her heels.
she never argued with her father. a true victorian who believed whole heartedly in the saying 'children should be seen but never heard.'
never heard unless you were playing mozart of course. she giggled at her own thoughts and then thought of her hot supper laying in wait for her on the sculery table and, with a little luck, the delicious pattiserie that would fill her 'corners'.
warm thoughts that lit her heart with the comfort of home.
the shape struck with mercurial speed. grabbing her by her throat and tossing her bodily aginast the hard stone grave. she tried to rouse her self but the shock was to great and the shapes speed to swift.
it tore out her throat and then tore of her clothes.
pale linens fell as ash with the clotted spots of blood.
a mosaic of primeval colours. whites and reds and bleating shadows. shadows that danced as though driven by satan. shadows that crept out of every corner. from behind every gravestone. dreadful shapes and shades. dancing. flame like beneath the silvered moon. a collective shadow splinterd into a multitude of shade shapes with heads thrown back as though wolves. heads back to bless the night. their voicelss thoats swallowing the air as if unable to give vent to the vile horrors that ran through their souls.
she was dead long before the rape.
she was cold long before the shape nailed her limp rag doll body to the single tree.
Mowberry and Parkhurst (part two)
June 1920
Helen started to unbutton Lillian's blouse working her way down from the top button to the bottom.
"What are you doing?" asked Lillian. Her voice, whisper soft, sounded to her as though it came from some other distant and remote place. She was finding it hard to think. Lillian was watching Helen's hands as they undid her clothes but she made no attempt to stop her nor did she voice any protest.
"I am going to remove your blouse and then your shift. Then I am going to remove your skirt and your underclothes. Then I am going to touch your breasts and then your vagina. I am going to kiss your breasts and your buttocks and your vaginal lips. I am going to make love to you and after wards I am going to hold you in my arms. It isn't wrong for you to feel what you feel nor is it wrong for us to want each other. And I know that you want me as much as I want you.
Now I know that you are always in control. In control of your business. In control of your life. I know that you are terrified of letting your feelings show but just trust me in this".
She undid the final button on the blouse and let it fall to the floor. Then she lifted the shift over Lillian's head and watched as her breasts rose then fell. Her breasts were larger than her own but not overly so. They were still firm and had lost none of their shape. She saw the nipples, pale compared to her own, pink and hard and longing to be caressed. Longing for the tug of clenched teeth or the tender twist of thumb and forefinger. Less long than her own but alert and erect. Her stomach was an undulating curve that led down to her waist. A narrow waist that promised much but was still bordered by a skirt. Then she undid Lillian's skirt and watched it slide onto the floor. She took in the curve of her hips that gently pushed out against the taut skin. With her small hands she then slid her fingers into Lillian's underwear and peeled it from her skin. She saw the dark triangle of pubic hair that lay above Lillian's vagina. She imagined its perfume and its folds of darker pink skin that kept hidden her inner sex and her clitoris.
All this time Lillian had remained silent. Allowing Helen to undress her, unable to think properly let alone speak. Now, as if climbing out of a dark hole into a beautifully sunlight garden, she regained her faculties and found again the power of speech.
"I seem to have lost control of my hands... I am all fingers and thumbs... I don't know what to do...What to say... Can I watch you undress... rather than me undress you?...Please?"
For reply Helen kissed her. A gentle kiss that slowly nibbled and sucked upon Lillian's lower lip and then progressively grew more heated and exploratory as Helen opened Lillian's mouth with her lips and slid her tongue in until it touched and massaged Lillian's own. Helen's pink tongue probing the tip of Lillian's tongue and then penetrating deeper into Lillian's mouth whilst with her hand she drew a line down and across the curve of Lillian's belly. Finding the vulva with its protective lips closed together; lips that barred the entrance to her moist vagina. Helen touched the vaginal lips and gently prised them apart with her sensitive fingers and with her middle finger started to stroke the clitoris and to circle around the opening slit. Delving deeper inside as the vaginal mouth opened to her. Helen moved her finger again and again over her clitoris slowly and softly until she felt Lillian's vagina open further, granting her fingers greater access dipping her index finger progressively further in. She stopped kissing Lillian and moved her head away but continued to finger her clit and vaginal lips and opening. Lillian's breathing was becoming more pronounced and her vagina was now fully open. Helen plunged her finger deep into Lillian's sex and heard Lillian gasp with pleasure at the delight of the sensation. Still facing Lillian
and with a slow and deliberate action Helen placed the finger that had entered Lillian up to her own mouth and then licked it drawing her tongue softly and slowly all around and over her own finger and then she placed it fully in her mouth and sucked upon it.
Lillian's face was flushed with pleasure and with anticipated excitement and she watched as Helen removed her own clothes. She stood there mesmerised as Helen stripped away her clothing. Firstly her blouse, then her vest and her skirts and finally her undergarments.
Everything about Helen was smaller than Lillian's. Her feet, her hands, her breasts. Her breasts were taut and her nipples dark and long and erect. Her belly was flat and her pubic triangle was a luxuriant black. Lillian's desire was a white heat that was burning her crutch. She wanted Helen's mouth to fasten it self to her vagina. She wanted her to suck her until she screamed.
"Sit on the floor in front of me crossed legged" commanded Helen.
Lillian did so and Helen copied her. They sat facing each other and about a foot apart. Helen took Lillian's hand and put it onto her own vagina and then she placed her hand on Lillian's hot crutch. Together they began to finger each other with slow, delicate touches as fingers caressed clitoris' and vaginal lips and delved deep into their open, moist vaginas.
Helen again parted the vaginal lips taking firstly one then the other between her thumb and forefinger and massaging them, teasing them, gently tugging on them. She selected a strawberry from the bowl, bit the top of it off and then ran it over Lillian's clitoris. Then she ran the strawberry across and around the vaginal lips. Slow circlular movements. She then ate the fruit and taking Lillian's clitoris between her two digits she started massaging, pulling, probing. Then she started to agitate Lillian's sex by firstly using one finger with which she pushed in and out and then over her aching clitoris, and then she inserted a second finger and drew an imaginary circle inside the vaginal wall opening and closing her fingers in a scissor like action. Lillian started a low moan. A mewling sound that came from deep within her. Her face was slack and contorted as pleasure ran through her every fibre. Lillian was untutored and clumsy and far further aroused than Helen and so very soon felt herself begin to orgasm. Helen stopped and instructed Lillian to lay down and to lay with her legs spread wide apart to which Lillian obeyed. Helen started again to agitate Lillian's sex. She took her darkening vaginal lips between her thumb and forefinger and massaged first one then the other. Then she slowly drew her fingers again and again across Lillian's clitoris.
"Wider. Open your legs wider. Use your hands to hold your legs apart, to hold yourself open"
Lillian lay flat on her back with her hands behind her knees stretching her self wide open, granting Helen easy access to her wet womanhood. Helen probed her with firstly one finger in and out, in and out, feeling Lillian's climax build. Watching her thrust her hips forward. Watching the pink flesh unfold. Watching the colour change from pink to a darker blood rose.Then she inserted a second and then a third finger, in and out, in and out. Lillian was pulling her legs further apart. Attempting and allowing Helen greater access still. Her vagina was running with moisture and her pubic hair glistened with it. Lillian's groans deepened and her breathing was coming in rapid gasps. Her vagina opened to the constant stimulation and Helen felt her own climax burning at her. Lillian gasped and groaned as her pleasure mounted. Lillian bit her lip and her eyes rolled. She could feel a powerful wave of orgasm breaking from her stretched sex. Helen's fingers were penentrating deeper and deeper and her trusting was growing harder and faster. Both Helen and Lillian were now groaning. Lillian was desperate to climax as her tortured sex felt as if it would explode. Lillian's hips were rocking back and forth. Helen grabbed Lillian's pubic hair with her spare hand and tenderly tugged and pulled at it whilst her other hand continued its constant agitation. Faster and further into Lillian. Lillian started to scream and Helen stopped and removed her hand.
"Don't stop, please don't stop"
Lillian still lay with her legs wide apart and with her vagina now fully open. It was flushed a deep purple colour and lay wet and wanting. Helen climbed onto Lillian. Pulling her legs down and wrapping them around her waist. Their naked breasts moved together, hard nipple gliding across hard nipple, belly to belly, pubis grinding against pubis. They kissed, hard passionate kisses their tongues probing each others mouths. A fleck of saliva flew from thier passion and lay on Lillina's lip. Lillian grasped Helen's face and held it to her own. Helen brushed Lillian's hair to one side and bit into her neck, nibbling her way up and down her pale skin. Helen moved down Lillian's torso finding her breasts. Kissing each one and biting their nipples. Holding each nipple firmly between her teeth and gently pulling at them. Her tongue ran across the stubborn muscle of Lillian's stomach gliding down and through her pubic nest finding its home in the still open wound of Lillian's moist vagina. Her mouth latched onto Lillain's bruised clitoris and she locked her teeth gently onto its pink, inflamed head and began to suck. Slowly at first. Shallow, almost imperceptible tugs and as Lillian, now so close to her orgasm, began to writhe uncontrollably, her sucking became fiercer and more intense until with an explosive scream Lillian climaxed. Shuddering and gasping and weeping Lillian's orgasm flooded through her like a fire running riot in a forest. Wave upon wave crashed into and out of her. A raging fire that burnt its way from her genitalia outward to every extremity of her body. Helen held her buttocks with her hands and had raised her so that her elbows supported her, she kept her mouth glued to her clitoris until the final wave of ecstasy had passed.
Lillian lay exhausted and covered in a silken sheen of sweat. Helen lay with her head still between Lillian's legs. They lay like this for long moments with Helen's head only inches from Lillian's crutch. Helen looked at it, her vagina, studying its shape. Studying its texture, remembering its taste, mesmerised by its scent. They lay like this for many minutes and then in an almost lazy and abstract way Helen started to trace its outline with her fingertips, following its natural curves and contours with her forefinger. Her finger traced the mound of Lillian's vulva moving through her pubic hair like a wind through grass. Slowly descending down the crease of her groin and following the line of the crease until it reached the soft area between the vagina and the anus. She lingered there a moment and then moved on. Her finger moved on up. Gently moving aside the fleshy lips that protected the nub of a clitoris. By placing the thumb and forefinger of her left hand around the side of the clitoris but not touching it she was able to then push the lips further apart. Looking into the depths of Lillian's sex. Dark pink now from the sex act. She looked upon the opening and blew upon it hearing Lillian's primitive mewling of pleasure. She watched as the vagina opened in front of her eyes like a flower opening to accept rain or sunlight. Seeing a richly coloured vein she traced it. Following the vein down from the clitoral hood down to its root at the edge of Lillian's anus. She put her mouth to the anus and with her tongue she licked its corrugated circle and then inserted her tongue inside. Then she traced the vein back to the clitoris. Watching she saw a tiny pulse throbbing at the side of the vagina. She touched it and saw the slit opening further, welcoming her touch, wanting her to explore its inner softness. She placed her mouth over the entrance and pushed her tongue deep into Lillian. Then she withdrew. She waited a moment and then started to plant kisses upon Lillian's thighs moving upwards, avoiding her tender fanny, avoiding her punished clitoris, crossing up and over her belly, planting kisses and tiny love bites around her navel, onto the nipples, biting them, sucking them and then on past the nipples that still stood so proud and now wet from saliva, on to the neck where she nibbled and bit and sucked and finally she planted a long kiss on Lillian's mouth. Lillian could taste herself on her lovers tongue, a taste of salt and satisfaction and she felt Helen gently cupping her breasts and teasing her taut nipples by taking them between her thumb and forefinger. Pulling them and tugging on them.
"That was wonderful. I have never felt such divine pleasure. I thought that I might explode"
Helen giggled. "I am glad, but it isn't over yet. Now it is my turn. I want to feel your mouth on me. I want to feel you pushing inside of me. Will you do that for me? Will you do it now?"
They made love again. Slower and more sensual this time. Enjoying the moment. Afterwards they lay together. Lillian on her back with one leg laying straight out in front of her and the other thrown over Helen . Helen lay on her side in a foetal position with one arm under Lillian's head and her other hand clutching Lillian's sex. Lillian drifted in and out of sleep blissful and contented whilst Helen lay with her hand entwined in Lillian's pubic hair and her fingers tip touching the entrance to Lillian's vagina.
Mowberry and Parkhurst (part one)
June 1920.
The business at Rue Pierre-la-Grand had been grisly.
A white Russian family had moved into Paris, as had many other middle class Russians, to escape the communist revolution. An aging father, his wife, their two daughters and young son had bought a reasonable size house in the district and had begun to make their home there.
No one in the area initially had put two and two together but after the third brutal child mutilation the authorities had become suspicious of the Savinkov household and had called upon the services of the worlds foremost authority on the paranormal.
Lillian Mowbrey was born in August 1890. She was English and lived in Portman Square, London. Her roots were deep within the traditional middle class and her money had come from her Grandmother who had left her only grandchild a small fortune.
Lillian had been well educated and had left school with an armful of qualifications but had suffered as so many women had in those times from a bias toward her gender.
She had attempted to work initially as a secretary for an established legal firm but had found the work easy and boring and had not enjoyed the attention that she had received from one of the partners sons.
He had been overtly attentive toward her. Always insisting on accompanying her at nights to her cab and constantly plaguing her to attend the theatre or opera with him.
She had ignored all his overtures of friendship but the eventual straw that broke the camels back was the afternoon he had put his hand upon her knee. Such impertinence from a man, even one has handsome as Henry Brown-Hardy, was simply unforgivable. And besides Henry was just a man.
Lillian had left her employment and had bought her home in Portman Square without any prior knowledge of what she was going to do with her life. This was in the year 1912, two years prior to the First War. Lillian was only twenty two.
With her passion for the unexplained and the paranormal Lillian had spent the next eight years establishing her reputation as an expert in her field. She worked hard and had little time for either friendships or romances.
She was a very attractive woman. Light brown hair and large grey eyes with an elfin face. Her nose was small and slightly upturned and was complimented by her generous but not large mouth. She was considered to be tall for a woman of those times and stood five feet seven inches in her bare feet and was possessed of an aloof elegance that was the envy of any who met her. She had a clutch of male suitors who would have gladly offered to marry her but Lillian's only focus was her rapidly growing business and its equally fast growing reputation.
In truth, and with her reputation to one side, her business, in the first five years made no profit at all but ran at a loss. It was only due to her massive inheritance that she was able to continue to pursue her interest.
By the beginning of 1920 Mowbrey Investigations was in the black and Lillian, now thirty and no longer a target item of the male suitors of London, was in a position to expand her business and take on a junior partner.
Helen Parkhurst was ten years younger than Lillian. Dark haired, dark eyed and very pretty. She was shorter than Lillian at five feet four and had something of a vaguely Latin look about her. Dark and exotic. Her features were delicate and her hands and feet were small. She was intelligent and qualified and able to speak French, Italian, Spanish, German and a smattering of Russian. She was a modern woman. Independent and not brow beaten by the mans world she lived in. She wasn't as experienced as Lillian nor was she as aloof but she made up for her lack of experience with her full on commitment and her inquisitive and bubbly personality.The two had met at Lillian's home, which doubled as her office, in the spring of 1920 and, after the preliminary interview, had traveled to Paris to investigate and eventually solve the "Chateau de Paris" case.
During the interview the normally stoic and aloof Lillian had warmed to the easy and natural charm of the younger woman. Her enthusiasm was captivating and her ability to converse in so many European languages was precisely what Lillian needed. Lillian's expertise in languages extended to French and a slice of school learnt Latin. Helen was an ideal candidate for the post.
At one point during the interview Lillian had watched as Helen had sipped tea from a pure white Wedgwood tea cup. She watched as the lightly lipstick covered lips had parted and had seen, momentarily, Helen's tiny pink tongue as it lay within the darker pink of her mouth and her teeth that matched the white of the tea set. Dazzling white teeth with rosebud lips and the pinkest of tiny tongues. She was small, or perhaps petite is a better description. With small delicate hands and elegantly long fingers. Her eyes were large and of the deepest, liquid brown and her nose, which was long but well proportioned was also small. She was undoubtedly a very pretty young thing and reminded Lillian of her self some ten years earlier when virtually every male in London was proposing marriage to her. Lillian was now seen as being "on the shelf" which was a state that she was more than happy with.
Lillian had asked whether Helen was either engaged or courting and although Helen's reply had been a forthright no, there was something about the manner of her answer that had intrigued and puzzled Lillian. She paid it no more attention and asked if she might look at her Curriculum Vitae and her references.
Helen had delved with her beautiful, butterfly fingers into the pocket of her handbag and had produced an envelope. She then leaned over toward Lillian to pass the envelope to her. Her skirt moved fractionally sliding across her leg revealing a glimpse of her thigh to which she seemed totally unaware and as she passed the envelope to Lillian their fingers lightly brushed against each others. Lillian felt an involuntary shudder course through her as they touched. A shock of white lightening intensity that both thrilled and confused her. She managed to regain her composure with a perfunctory thank you. She opened the envelope and glanced over its contents but without taking on board a word of what was written. She had already made up her mind.
Helen joined Lillian's little company the next week and together they set of for Paris where they were greeted by horrors that would haunt them both until the end of their days. However, that tale need not concern us.
They were only away for a fortnight and returned emotionally drained and physically fatigued.
Helen went home to her parents and Lillian to her Portman Square home.
Lillian had been very impressed with Helen. She had proved to be an invaluable asset with her ability to speak both French and Russian but more importantly Helen had seen things of such a horrific import that most people her age, or any age come to that, would not have been able to face. She was intelligent, intuitive and above all else she had vast amounts of courage.
Lillian came to a mental decision and immediately put her thoughts into action. With a word to her solicitor and an even swifter word with her printers Lillian had the company name changed from Mowbrey Investigations to Mowbrey & Parkhurst Investigations.
She sent a telegram to Helen requesting her to get a cab and come over to her home.
Lillian was not the sort of individual that easily showed any emotion but she felt positively excited by her initiative and couldn't wait to inform Helen of her decision.
Within the hour Helen arrived.
She arrived with her normal verve and vigor, bustling into Lillian's hallway, throwing her coat onto the banister rather than using a coat hook, enthusing her delight to see Lillian again and embracing her bemused colleague warmly and planting a slight kiss on her cheek. The embrace was brief but their breasts fleetingly met and Lillian felt a similar thrill as the first time they had touched. She felt a softness as their breasts touched and cushioned against each other and a hardness at the tips where, due to the cold, Helen's nipples protruded. It was a thought that both excited and alarmed her so she put it aside with her normal stoicism.
"Come into the lounge" Lillian invited. Helen followed her, speaking of small things, asking after Lillian's health and saying how mild the weather was.
They sat in front of the fire upon two armchairs and Lillian began by telling Helen of her decision and precisely what she had done. She believed that this was the appropriate action to take as it would benefit both of them. Her company was at a stage in its development where they needed to grow. Initially she had worked only in Great Britain but that was a limiting business view and increasingly she was receiving requests from potential European clients and, as the last case had proved, these were of a far greater financial reward.
She had expected an emotional outburst. A joyous shriek, a clumsy embrace but she hadn't expected silence.
Silence and a look of utter bewilderment. Helen looked as though she had been stunned by some unknown and invisible force. She sat there blinking like an owl in daylight.
Confused Lillian asked "Is there something wrong? I thought you would be pleased?"
Helen began to cry. Holding her head in her hands and shielding her eyes.
"Pleased? Of course I am pleased. It is just that I, I have never, no one has ever, I ..oh I'm so sorry."
She wept uncontrollably and Lillian felt her self moved by the sight of this feisty young woman in such an emotional state. Lillian moved out of her chair and stood beside Helen. She put her hand on her shoulder in a small sign of comfort.
"Come now, don't cry." Lillian smiled warmly. "It isn't that important. If you don't want to enter into partnership I won't force you. I just thought that it might be advantageous for both of us but you really don't have to if you don't want to".
Helen was huddled over from crying but pushed herself back a little. The top two buttons on her blouse had remained in place but the one beneath had come undone from her sudden outburst. Her blouse, partly opened and with her vest fallen forward, revealed her breast to Lillian. It was small and much darker in skin tone colour than Lillian's. The breast was perfectly formed and beautifully shaped curving as it did upward into a point where the nipple stood dark, long and erect. Lillian noticed that the nipple and the surrounding area was also far darker than her own. The areola was also dark brown and was covered by a mutititude of miniature dimples that stood out around the nipple like a collection of satellite villages around a larger fortification. The nipple was erect and stood out firmly and trembled slightly as Helen wept. It was singularly the most desirable object that Lillian had ever seen. A desire came over Lillian to take it between her thumb and forefinger and gently pull upon it. She pushed the thought away.
Lillian moved her hand away from Helen's shoulder and moved back a little.Helen had composed her self sufficiently to sit upright and Lillian passed her a small lace handkerchief.
"Here, take this."
"Thank you" said Helen, "I am being so very silly aren't I? I must be giving you the totally wrong idea. Of course I want to be your partner it is just that I never thought of such a thing happening to me. No one ever before has taken me or my talents seriously and I had quite given up that any one ever would".
Lillian smiled, "You are only twenty and still young. I wouldn't have thought that many people are, as yet, aware of either you or your talents but give them time for they will".
Helen sat up right and pulled her skirt back over her knees and Lillian could see both of her nipples, aroused by the surprise or simply cold, thrusting their heads against the fabric of her blouse.
"If you are cold why not stand nearer to the fire? I will go into the kitchen and make us a pot of tea. Would you like that? I had bought us a bottle of champagne and some strawberries and cream by way of celebration but I think tea might be more appropriate."
Helen looked puzzled but nodded her affirmative and moved closer to the fire. Lillian went to the kitchen to prepare the tea and returned minutes later. She placed a silver tray upon an occassional table and poured a cup for Helen and one for her self. The champage bottle was opened and stood besidea bowl of strawberries and a jug of cream.
"Here" said Lillian "Drink this tea. It will warm you"
Walking over to Helen she noticed that her blouse had been buttoned up again and that her nipples, those pert, perfect peaks, warmed by the fires glow had disappeared. She passed the cup and saucer to Helen who gratefully accepted it with her out stretched hand. As before their fingers touched but this time Lillian didn't shudder nor did she allow any sign of her inner feelings to show.
Helen thanked her and took the offering of tea. She ran her delicate fingertip around the cups brim and the repeated the action over her own lips.
"Thank you. I see you brought the champagne and strawberries in. Do you like strawberries?"
Lillian felt a deep sense of desire rising within her seeing this tiny creature before her so small and so pretty.
"I do yes, very much"
Helen gave her a deep and searching look.
"How did you know that I was cold?"
"You looked chilly. I thought that you looked cold. I don't know. Does it matter?"
Lillian sipped at her cup standing in front of the fire with Helen a little to her left. She could feel Helen's gaze burn into her.
"I hope that you liked what you saw even if it was cold?"
Lillian took another sip of her tea but steadfastly refused to look at Helen preferring to gaze at the fire, watching the tongues of flame licking at the coal.
"Lets drink the champagne. I feel fine now and a little silly so lets celebrate with a toast".
Helen deftly picked up the bottle and poured the champagne into one glass then another. She picked up a strawberry and dipped it into the cream. She ran her tongue, the richly pink and moist tongue around the strawberry lifting the cream from it and swallowing. Lillian watched her throat rise and fall and felt an uncomfortable heat surface at her own neck. Mesmerised she watched as Helen bit into the fruit, holding it by its leafy stalk. Again she trailed the berry around her lips and then across her tongue before finally eating the remains.
"Mmmm, delicious. Would you like a bite Lillian? Fruit and cream? Some champagne first eh?"
Helen held out the champagne.
"Why have you never married? You are very attractive, obviously wealthy and highly succesful. I would have thought that any man in his right mind would have swept you away".
Lillian blushed slightly accepting the flute of champagne and ran her finger down the length of her nose.
"Thank you. The right one, right for me that is, has never asked besides I am not certain that marriage would suit my lifestyle now but thank you for the flattery."
"I wasn't trying to flatter you. I was speaking what my eyes see, what my heart tells me. You are very attractive."
Helen's deep brown eyes sweept over the elegant form of Lillian taking in every contour and curve of her profile. There was an almost palable but unspoken dialogue that was being performed between and in spite of them both. An electric force that was charging the atomosphere.
"So", said Lillian desperately at a loss and trying to change the conversations direction, "you are happy with my choice? You have no objections to becoming my partner?"
Helen had put a her cup and saucer down on the hearth and had moved closer to Lillian still holding the glass flute. She placed the glass to her lips and drained the contents. Again Lillian watched as Helen's throat moved. She followed the line of her neck up to the fine cut of her jaw and watched as Helen's wet tongue flicked out and over her lips. Lillian felt a wave of fear and longing and of discomfort well up inside her but she was determined to remain calm and above all to maintain her stoic exterior.
"I would love to be your partner" replied Helen taking Lillian's glass from her hand and placing it on the table next to hers. Lillian looked bemused, startled even but remained silent.
"Your partner in business. Your partner in life. Your partner in love?"
Helen placed her hands upon Lillian's shoulders, those slender, bird delicate digits that now exuded a power and strength beyond their subtle look and turned Lillian to face her. Her dark beauty with its dark brown liquid eyes looked hard and long into the cool grey eyes of Lillian. Lillian looked stupified and at a total loss as of what to say or do. A rose blush flushed the nape of her neck.
"You have always said that I have a unique intuitive ability. You are right I have and right now my intuition tells me that you and I have things to discuss, things to discover, things that you feel uncomfortable with. I am right aren't I?"
Mowberry and Parkhurst (Prologue)
April 1920
the old man sat stock still in the failing armchair watching shadows walk the walls. his face was impassive as if the passing of his life had drained all emotions and left behind a series of wrinkles that portrayed his memories.
deep lines that grew across his face like the fingers of ivy creeping over a castle wall.
he found it difficult now to remember the history or detail of things that happened only yesterday and yet his memory of things long old was still as sharp and clear as if they, and not the newer events, had occurred but seconds ago.
his childhood in the streets of omsk.
his first day at school. the anguish he felt when his mother left him with his teachers.
his first love. spring sun on his back. her mouth on his. her warm moist comfort.
then olga.
their courtship. their conversations. their engagement. their wedding.
the birth of his children.
two daughters and a son.
the bliss of days that wept at the rise of communism in his beloved homeland. the troubles. the hysteria. the bitter recriminations.
they had fled their home, him his wife and their children. fled their home and settled in paris.
the shadows on the walls looked at the old man. eyes callous traits. sightless voyeurs.
he shut his eyes and remembered.
the journey, the long, long tortuous journey. days spent cramped on trains and trams and on the back of broken, horse drawn carts. his wife holding her tears in check whilst holding her children close to her as if to ward of the cold and the crimes of their nation.
the french border.
the questions asked.
the hours wasted.
the palms greased.
now, here in paris and under this roof they lived. here, in this mold of a crumbling eddifice, this bad joke that they called home, here was where they had fled to.
the shadows on the wall were moving now. across the wall and away from the wall.
he found it difficult to recall when the horrors had started. who had found the first child hanging from the nearby church. nailed to the door like a blasphemy? lubov? no, not lubov. little dima? no. surely it was elena. always elena the eldest with her old womens brain and sour face who held the family together and in check in much the same way as his beloved olga had.
oh, olga. if only your flesh had been as strong as your spirit. so many hard decisions to make and all alone, so alone.
yes, it had been hard nosed elena his first born, now eighteen, who had discovered the child's body nailed like a cat to the church door. naked. abused. torn and dead.
why? was this country no better than mother russia? he swore that it was communists that had committed this attrocity only to have elena mock him and laugh at his old man's thoughts.
was he not the head of his house even if he was in his early sixties? was he to be mocked by someone many years his junior? someone so soon out of her baby carriage?
there had been others. other deaths. other children abused and murdered but he knew little of these tragic events. not even the little ones names.
the shadows crept now on feet of shade across the floor and toward where the old man sat with eyes firmly shut
he had seen a change come over both his princess lubov and his tiny treasure dima. lubov seemed distant somehow, as though her body moved with the instincts of her experience but without the spark of her soul to guide her flesh. dima too seemed different. withdrawn. subdued.
he had blamed elena for her harsh disiplinarian methods but in truth he wasn't sure that was the cause.
and then there had been the slow descent of cold that had settled upon the house like a cloud upon a mountain. and no matter how high they stacked and built the fires the chill still remained to gnaw at their bones. an unnatural cold. a cold that sent a fear of primeval terror along the old mans spine.
he was terrified now. mortally terrified as a shadow moved toward him and licked at his face with a dry, rasping tongue that followed the trail of his tear from his withered old cheek up to his tightly shut eye.
the shadows were moving.
to be continued...
a rumour of trees
the morning whispered dry leaves. the bent back streets littered the city and i followed their curves winding this way and that. driving their flat, indecisive lengths from dawn's early kiss to day break. a broken branch journey that followed the tourniquet of the river in its elusive twists.
who wrote the rules for this place i wonder? not the bureaucrats for sure, not with their synthetic, limited vision. not the architects of tumble and jumble.
maybe, just maybe, this city has grown from the torn crumbs that have spilled from the mouths of the people who have built it. an organic fungus that has spread out from the dark knowledge of the bullshit fed to the meek and the poor during the times of monarchs and matriarchs. holes filled in with masonry after this and that war. dirty blood spots on the torn page of history.
we had parted company in the early morning following a night of coitus without recrimination or need for words of warmth. a connection made by the vital need we both understood. moist the scented moments of night that drove us on through sleepless, sheet spilt hours. driven hard and slow and fast and sudden and soft with low murmurings.
it brought to mind a moment i had seen years before when i was taking children around a zoo and we had spotted two otters mating. making love, making joyous, unconcerned, unhurried, oblivious to the human eyes, love.
one of my charges, a small child of ten and with slight learning and speech problems had announced, as only a child with such a sweet and unbruised mind can, and in the loudest of voices, 'they are having sex'. and they were but in such an intimate and loving way. he thrusting for all his worth before stopping as if to recover his stamina and she, oh so sweetly and gently, patting and caressing his back.eyes half shut as if savouring each thrust. her forepaws patting encouragement. i wondered, if the gods were watching us, would they have drawn the same conclusions that i had upon seeing those otters? would they have seen how pain and loneliness can be shared for the briefest of times?
the city drove me on over bridges and train tracks and out into the flat heart of estuary england. the grey, no mans land where grandsons of immigrants move to avoid the new wave of immigrants they curse and abuse for not being as english as them. the smell of the city faded with the dreams of night but the guilt followed like a spectre to haunt me. the faces of the beloved rushing to greet me with acrimonious fingers raised and pointing. marleyesque visions that rose on the tarmac heat haze. there are times when you can conjure false hopes from nightmare scenarios, when the mind has taken enough truth, enough solid honesty and draws another definition. i allowed this momentary illusion to cast its drowsy net and followed the watery sun.
seeing a huddle of trees i thought of the divine way nature has of producing clearly identifiable metaphors for us to decipher. there is an ornate beauty about forests, about woodlands. something prehistoric and timeless. dark at times and perhaps a little sinister but in truth is it not the singular design of trees, rather than their collective threat, that scares us? intimidates us? is a single tree not only an object of beauty but a thing of supreme isolation?
the car, with a mind of its own, followed the hedge constructed lanes past fields of rape and cottages of thatch. around bat blind corners that humped over hills and dove into shallow pools laying like a passing thought on the road.
somewhere near milton keynes rain began to fall only to prove another fact a fallacy. sunshine isn't the only way to spread a little light anymore than being in crowds of people is an answer to being lonely.
who wrote the rules for this place i wonder? not the bureaucrats for sure, not with their synthetic, limited vision. not the architects of tumble and jumble.
maybe, just maybe, this city has grown from the torn crumbs that have spilled from the mouths of the people who have built it. an organic fungus that has spread out from the dark knowledge of the bullshit fed to the meek and the poor during the times of monarchs and matriarchs. holes filled in with masonry after this and that war. dirty blood spots on the torn page of history.
we had parted company in the early morning following a night of coitus without recrimination or need for words of warmth. a connection made by the vital need we both understood. moist the scented moments of night that drove us on through sleepless, sheet spilt hours. driven hard and slow and fast and sudden and soft with low murmurings.
it brought to mind a moment i had seen years before when i was taking children around a zoo and we had spotted two otters mating. making love, making joyous, unconcerned, unhurried, oblivious to the human eyes, love.
one of my charges, a small child of ten and with slight learning and speech problems had announced, as only a child with such a sweet and unbruised mind can, and in the loudest of voices, 'they are having sex'. and they were but in such an intimate and loving way. he thrusting for all his worth before stopping as if to recover his stamina and she, oh so sweetly and gently, patting and caressing his back.eyes half shut as if savouring each thrust. her forepaws patting encouragement. i wondered, if the gods were watching us, would they have drawn the same conclusions that i had upon seeing those otters? would they have seen how pain and loneliness can be shared for the briefest of times?
the city drove me on over bridges and train tracks and out into the flat heart of estuary england. the grey, no mans land where grandsons of immigrants move to avoid the new wave of immigrants they curse and abuse for not being as english as them. the smell of the city faded with the dreams of night but the guilt followed like a spectre to haunt me. the faces of the beloved rushing to greet me with acrimonious fingers raised and pointing. marleyesque visions that rose on the tarmac heat haze. there are times when you can conjure false hopes from nightmare scenarios, when the mind has taken enough truth, enough solid honesty and draws another definition. i allowed this momentary illusion to cast its drowsy net and followed the watery sun.
seeing a huddle of trees i thought of the divine way nature has of producing clearly identifiable metaphors for us to decipher. there is an ornate beauty about forests, about woodlands. something prehistoric and timeless. dark at times and perhaps a little sinister but in truth is it not the singular design of trees, rather than their collective threat, that scares us? intimidates us? is a single tree not only an object of beauty but a thing of supreme isolation?
the car, with a mind of its own, followed the hedge constructed lanes past fields of rape and cottages of thatch. around bat blind corners that humped over hills and dove into shallow pools laying like a passing thought on the road.
somewhere near milton keynes rain began to fall only to prove another fact a fallacy. sunshine isn't the only way to spread a little light anymore than being in crowds of people is an answer to being lonely.
Mart The Fart
no one called him martin, it was either marty or, more likely mart.
funny that, the way his shortened name rhymed with the one act he so loved doing, farting. loudly and with a grin but with an amazing and singular lack of odor.
mart the fart.
you could be stood in a circle of friends and he would let one rip. a sonic boom of a fart. then he would grin and say something swift like 'thank you vicar' or 'not now mother'. sometimes he would shake his leg as though kicking away an aroused dog from his calf. 'get away you beast' he would holler.
mart the fart.
his views on life were always parceled up with a rum old humour.
'married life?' he would query, 'don't talk to me about married life. life being the operative word. you get a shorter term for murder.'
sharp as a knife was mart and as acid as vinegar.
he sipped on his cider, his hand forming a frosty imprint around the glass.
'you know what she said to me?'
no mate?
'she said, "it doesn't have to be like this!"..words spoken in haste with a hurt that floats like dead flies on a scummy pool.."it doesn't have to be like this!"..
'so i said"no it doesn't but we do"..
'her sobs collided with an impotent rage borne of pain and frustration. and then the accusations, mate, the accusations fly like fuckin' Rimbaud. like razor wire that slice tiny pieces away from the collective whole.
funny really.
you find something quite wondrous and beautiful and you are so glad to have it that it feels near like an explosive joy. almost, almost akin to pain, like an orgasm 24-7.
you find something rare and precious, a divine emotion that floods the empty spaces of you and then you go about chipping away at it to make it better.
to improve it.
to smooth out all those wrinkles and odd and unpleasant bits that irritate you ever so slightly.'
the glass had melded to his hand but he took no more sips from it, he just brandished it about but without ever spilling a drop.
'why?
why would you take such a gift, such a wondrous gift, like a unique sculpture by someone famous and gifted and chisel it into a different shape?'
lost for words what could i say? "i dunno mate, i dunno" but he didn't need my response, didn't want it either, in fact i don't think he even heard it.
'it don't make fucking sense does it? like marriage really. nah, it doesn't have to be like this, it just is.'
he was a funny old fucker was mart.not that everything he said had me laughing.
mart the fart.
funny that, the way his shortened name rhymed with the one act he so loved doing, farting. loudly and with a grin but with an amazing and singular lack of odor.
mart the fart.
you could be stood in a circle of friends and he would let one rip. a sonic boom of a fart. then he would grin and say something swift like 'thank you vicar' or 'not now mother'. sometimes he would shake his leg as though kicking away an aroused dog from his calf. 'get away you beast' he would holler.
mart the fart.
his views on life were always parceled up with a rum old humour.
'married life?' he would query, 'don't talk to me about married life. life being the operative word. you get a shorter term for murder.'
sharp as a knife was mart and as acid as vinegar.
he sipped on his cider, his hand forming a frosty imprint around the glass.
'you know what she said to me?'
no mate?
'she said, "it doesn't have to be like this!"..words spoken in haste with a hurt that floats like dead flies on a scummy pool.."it doesn't have to be like this!"..
'so i said"no it doesn't but we do"..
'her sobs collided with an impotent rage borne of pain and frustration. and then the accusations, mate, the accusations fly like fuckin' Rimbaud. like razor wire that slice tiny pieces away from the collective whole.
funny really.
you find something quite wondrous and beautiful and you are so glad to have it that it feels near like an explosive joy. almost, almost akin to pain, like an orgasm 24-7.
you find something rare and precious, a divine emotion that floods the empty spaces of you and then you go about chipping away at it to make it better.
to improve it.
to smooth out all those wrinkles and odd and unpleasant bits that irritate you ever so slightly.'
the glass had melded to his hand but he took no more sips from it, he just brandished it about but without ever spilling a drop.
'why?
why would you take such a gift, such a wondrous gift, like a unique sculpture by someone famous and gifted and chisel it into a different shape?'
lost for words what could i say? "i dunno mate, i dunno" but he didn't need my response, didn't want it either, in fact i don't think he even heard it.
'it don't make fucking sense does it? like marriage really. nah, it doesn't have to be like this, it just is.'
he was a funny old fucker was mart.not that everything he said had me laughing.
mart the fart.
and saccharine
"you make everything so, treacle like", she said, "every sentiment becomes sticky and saccharine."
i had known Sandra a long time. too long i guess, long enough to know when she meant what she said. and this she meant.
you make everything so, treacle like, she said.
and this she meant you make everything so, treacle like, she said.
and this she said.
I walked away with the thought still pulsing. My head hurt and my heart felt sore but…
But.
Walk on. Walk on.
I walked past the bus stop and the kebab shop where meat hung like a surrealist sculpture. Surrealism and Dada collided in my mind fracturing the words she had spoken. Re-writing them over and over and with hammer hard beats. Rain fell in an accompaniment to my pulse and the hammer beats. Puddles collected images. Kerb stones and streetlights.
you make everything so, treacle like, she meant you make everything so, treacle like, she said.
and this she meant you make everything so,
treacle like, she said.
and this she meant you make everything so, treacle like, she said.
and this she meant you make everything so,
treacle
like,
The words felt like a corruption of vowels. As if syntax had been shredded and replaced with an alien understanding of English.
and saccharine i had known sandra too long enough to know ...
How the hell could I go back and make right what I had said so wrong? Life isn’t like that is it? It isn’t a rehearsal. You get the once so make the most of it. And I had screwed up big time.
“I love you more than life itself.”
Was that so bad a thing to say? Was it?
Was it so wrong to allow a little sentiment to enter our world?
I didn’t think so and the more I thought the more I knew that I was right and she was wrong.
and this she said.
and
this she meant you
make everything so, treacle like, she said.
and this she said.
Sandra lives in this place where only the real carries weight and anything even a little mushy is tantamount to false emotions. She had never grasped the fact that humans have to deal with their own inner feelings whilst trying to manage the emotional expectations of others.
Sorry?
Why was I sorry?
I hadn’t done anything wrong. All I had said was “I love you more than life itself.”
She had made me feel as though I had violated a nun. As though I had screwed a choir boy.
and saccharine i had known sandra too long enough to know ...
Sorry?
and saccharine i had known sandra too long enough to know ...be better
The bitch.
I turned my face into the rain and raised two fingers back toward her flat.
and this she said.
and
this she meant you
make everything so,
treacle like, she said.
and this she said
and this
My head began to clear and the rain seemed warm and friendly. Puddles fell at my feet in wet circles.
I walked on.
And on.
Dialogue (The Dream of Boxing Day)
"well?"
"well what?"
"how do you feel?"
"weird."
"funny hearing you say that again. i remember it being your favourite word back when you were seventeen."
"hah, yeah, i guess i was trying to sound hippy cool. everything seemed weird then."
"it certainly seemed to be the word of the day."
"i guess."
"so explain why you feel weird."
"well, we haven't seen each other for eighteen years and the last time we spoke like this was the day you had your stroke. it feels a little weird to be talking to you now. eighteen years is a long, long time and besides, talking to someone who has been dead for eighteen years would strike anyone as being weird wouldn’t it?"
"i suppose it would son, i suppose it would."
a clock ticks a hushed tic toc, tic toc, in slow mechanical notes. time exists here only as a concept. it is eighteen minutes past nine.
"you are looking good son."
"thanks. you too. you haven't changed a bit. funny thing is i couldn't remember your voice. i could remember certain characteristics like the way you laughed or the way you pulled a funny face when slightly embarrassed but i couldn't remember your voice. they say the first thing you forget is the sound of someone's voice don't they."
"yes they do. i certainly forgot your granddad’s voice but i could always recall the things he said and the way he said them but not his voice. strange that."
the hands of the clock glide over the clock face in a silent imitation of time passing. a slow motion recall. it is eighteen minutes past nine.
"how's your mum?"
"getting older, a little slower but still good for her age. i still wouldn't cross her."
"ha, ha, ha. no. she could be a bit fierce couldn't she but she always loved you son, always would kill for you."
"i know. must be odd not being with her? you i mean, not being together."
"it is a bit, although there is no sadness here, no sense of loss but i do have a constant feeling of wanting her with me. does she ever mention me now?"
"does she ever stop mentioning you? my kids could give you a better answer to that than me. they all have heard of 'the legend of crack'. you are a blessed saint according to mum."
"ha, ha, ha. not when i was alive i wasn't. always being told off for one thing or another. how are the children? how's emily and jamie? you have another two now haven't you?"
"yes. charlotte and grace.
i...er,
phooa,
i,
er...
shit...
shit"
"don't cry son. don't be sad. i can see them. i can watch them."
"but you aren't there dad, you aren't there."
"no. i am not there in flesh but i still exist in you don't i? you still have my values. you still have my spirit. i am not a saint son. never was but i am still here in you."
"yeah, i guess so. i guess so. still seems a pretty stupid way to think though doesn't it? it is fine to be philosophical about it but it doesn't help much."
the echo of time resonates like a whisper. the clock hands move with gossamer threads. it is eighteen minutes past nine.
"charlotte and grace eh? my aunts were charlotte and grace. of course we didn't call them that, we called them aunt lotty and aunt em. nice names though. old fashioned."
"i hadn't thought of that but i suppose you are right, they are a bit old fashioned aren't they?"
"what made you call them that then. a family thing or...?
"a bit i suppose although we just liked the names, you know. i once told your sister that we had named them after the bronte's. it wasn't true though. emily, charlotte and grace. not anne."
"i see. you always did like your books didn't you? how is olive?"
"she's dead. died in 1999. eleven years after you. i thought you would have known that?"
"no i didn't know. it is a funny place this. not as you think it will be. no pain or hurt or sadness but no information either. how did she die?"
"old age. she simply grew old. all her parts ceased to function and she just passed away."
"out lived me and her brother AND she was sixteen years older than me. always was a tough old bird."
"dad?"
"yes son."
"i'm so sorry for all that stuff i put you through. all that teenage rebellion. all that shit. i must have drove you both mad with frustration and worry."
"yes, at the time you did but, as no doubt you have found out, all children and their parents go through rough patches. anyway, it is all water under the bridge now."
"but i must have seemed like some demonic form of alien to you. all that sixties desire to bring change and bloodless revolution. i really didn't mean to fuck your lives up. i really didn't."
"stop being so bloody self pitying and stop going on about the bloody sixties. they may have seemed a wonderful time to your generation. they don't to mine and maybe won't to your children’s generation either. and stop swearing so much. you always were too fond of it."
"i was just trying to apologise for any hurt i might have caused. i didn't want a lecture for christ sakes. it really bothers me that i never got the chance to say sorry when you were alive. as for the sixties, they were a bloody remarkable era..."
"son, you were only fifteen when the sixties finished. how can you really know what they were like?"
"i know 'cos i was there. i know 'cos i bought the music and watched the avengers and saw us beat west germany. i know."
time moves now with a silence of ghosts. a sound of an embarrassed librarian who coughed too loudly. a pregnant pause of a sound. it is eighteen minutes past nine.
"son, i helped to run news of the world. 700 men answered to me. i am used to bad language so don't apologise i am just saying that you do it too much. for effect almost. are you still playing all that awful 'rock and roll' music? crimson king and david bowie and john lennon? still driving your neighbours crazy?"
"ha ha ha. yes dad, still playing that stuff. i also play duke ellington now though. i guess i was wrong about him."
"what about the beatles and that horrible 'sgt peppers'? they were such nice lads and then they, along with all of your generation went weird. pity. they wrote some nice melodies before that."
"i seldom play that any more dad. don't like it much now."
"hah! so i was right then?"
"ha ha ha, you silly old sod. about peppers yes but not the rest and it was king crimson."
"bloody awful racket nonetheless."
"dad?"
"yes son?"
"we never said it did we?"
"said what son?"
"that one word."
"no."
"i wish we had. just once."
the hands slide slow time. arthritic fingers creaking over a tin roof. it is nineteen minutes past nine.
Of Snails and Magpies (part eight of The Vagrant God)
the coffee had grown cold.
mud thick and stale.
the percolator sat friendless on the side.
the coal fire had spat its blaze but now was just a memory of a heated room. fading embers remained like a hangover.
beneath the covers god and satan lay entwined in each others limbs. a tangle of flesh to rival the knot of cordium.
she awoke.
yawned and stretched. sliding out of the warm comfort into the cold reality of another day.
a glow hung around her and she padded upon silent feet to the luxury of a warm shower.
the water cascaded over her. it felt good. it felt refreshingly human.
outside a fine drizzle fell. a snail wove a silver trail over yellow patio slabs.
from a tree the magpie opened its wings and glided noiselessly to the ground. it hopped twice and then stopped by the snail. the bird cocked its head. it observed the snail with its grim shell as though it were a riddle or a piece of modern art
she stepped out of the shower and her skin dried. by the time she had moved from the bathroom and into the lounge she was dressed.
white shirt.
blue jeans.
red sneakers.
samael sat dressed in a robe on the sofa.
"enjoy the shower?"
"mmmm, delightful. a rare luxury for me."
"you are meant to use a towel to dry."
from the kitchen a clock ticked a slow rythmn. time passing as a footnote to the conversation of gods and angels.
"privilege of position. were you watching me?"
"oh, yes."
she passed her long fingers through the mass of her hair.
"how has it been in my absence?"
samael sniffed and threw his head back as though looking at the ceiling. little spots of rain fell against the glass of the window.
"creation continues as creation must with random acts that perplex some and give rise to questions in others. life forms have come and sadly gone but then again, you know that. mankind have evolved at a fierce and even frightening rate. it is mankind that has proven to be the most problematic though.
"why? i was very proud of them. i thought that they numbered amongst my greatest of creations."
"well, they certainly are inventive. inventive and willful. they have wireless communication links that span the globe but still haven't found ways to stop flood or famine. they have discovered how to slow the aging process with silicone but still haven't a clue how to stop the common cold. they have turned warfare into a work of unrivalled brutality and evil and seem incapable of leaving behind their brute ugly and primitive, tribalistic past.
they certainly seem to worship you, in all your myriad forms, but even then seem unable to agree upon who is right and who is wrong. they then spend a curious amount of energy and time killing each other rather than following their declared creed to love each other."
"wouldn't it be easier to simply agree to disagree? to live and let live?"
"you would have thought so wouldn't you?"
outside the rain grew heavier.
the magpie moved closer still to the snail and with a sudden movement picked the snail up in its beak.
it held it there for a moment as though testing to see how tough the shell was and then, with a flick of its head, it tossed the snail high up into the air.
the shell spun.
a strange object spinning with no control of its flight or fall.
tossing and turning.
bereft of any reference point.
spin.
spin.
spinning.
the snail fell onto the cruel floor with a sharp crack.
the shell shattered into tiny fragments.
"you have had it hard haven't you samael? mankind never truly understood your role here did they? condemned as the lord of evil. a creature to be feared and to be hated. the dark to my light. i am very grateful to you for all you have done. mankind is my finest achievement but they are still, as you said, primitive in oh so many ways. so attached to ritual and dogma and the dusty lessons of the ages past. unwilling to take responsibility for themselves and blaming you for all their shortcomings and ills."
the rain grew heavier and fell against the panes with a whip smack of sound.
"i cannot stay here much longer samael. i only returned because of your concerns over ishtars plotting but again, my greatest friend, you were on hand to take care of things just as you have these past five thousand years. i cannot stay much longer. mankind and this planet have come of age surely. time to let them stand on their own feet."
"let me come with you."
"no samael. i need you to remain as custodian to this place."
"you said it was time to let them stand on their own feet?"
"no samael, no."
"please?"
"samael."
"please?"
outside the magpie snatched up the fresh and succulent snail.
threw back his head and swallowed.
the rain fell in large droplets.
stars and rain.
magpies and snails.
holding hands god and satan left and walked with starlight steps away from here.
mud thick and stale.
the percolator sat friendless on the side.
the coal fire had spat its blaze but now was just a memory of a heated room. fading embers remained like a hangover.
beneath the covers god and satan lay entwined in each others limbs. a tangle of flesh to rival the knot of cordium.
she awoke.
yawned and stretched. sliding out of the warm comfort into the cold reality of another day.
a glow hung around her and she padded upon silent feet to the luxury of a warm shower.
the water cascaded over her. it felt good. it felt refreshingly human.
outside a fine drizzle fell. a snail wove a silver trail over yellow patio slabs.
from a tree the magpie opened its wings and glided noiselessly to the ground. it hopped twice and then stopped by the snail. the bird cocked its head. it observed the snail with its grim shell as though it were a riddle or a piece of modern art
she stepped out of the shower and her skin dried. by the time she had moved from the bathroom and into the lounge she was dressed.
white shirt.
blue jeans.
red sneakers.
samael sat dressed in a robe on the sofa.
"enjoy the shower?"
"mmmm, delightful. a rare luxury for me."
"you are meant to use a towel to dry."
from the kitchen a clock ticked a slow rythmn. time passing as a footnote to the conversation of gods and angels.
"privilege of position. were you watching me?"
"oh, yes."
she passed her long fingers through the mass of her hair.
"how has it been in my absence?"
samael sniffed and threw his head back as though looking at the ceiling. little spots of rain fell against the glass of the window.
"creation continues as creation must with random acts that perplex some and give rise to questions in others. life forms have come and sadly gone but then again, you know that. mankind have evolved at a fierce and even frightening rate. it is mankind that has proven to be the most problematic though.
"why? i was very proud of them. i thought that they numbered amongst my greatest of creations."
"well, they certainly are inventive. inventive and willful. they have wireless communication links that span the globe but still haven't found ways to stop flood or famine. they have discovered how to slow the aging process with silicone but still haven't a clue how to stop the common cold. they have turned warfare into a work of unrivalled brutality and evil and seem incapable of leaving behind their brute ugly and primitive, tribalistic past.
they certainly seem to worship you, in all your myriad forms, but even then seem unable to agree upon who is right and who is wrong. they then spend a curious amount of energy and time killing each other rather than following their declared creed to love each other."
"wouldn't it be easier to simply agree to disagree? to live and let live?"
"you would have thought so wouldn't you?"
outside the rain grew heavier.
the magpie moved closer still to the snail and with a sudden movement picked the snail up in its beak.
it held it there for a moment as though testing to see how tough the shell was and then, with a flick of its head, it tossed the snail high up into the air.
the shell spun.
a strange object spinning with no control of its flight or fall.
tossing and turning.
bereft of any reference point.
spin.
spin.
spinning.
the snail fell onto the cruel floor with a sharp crack.
the shell shattered into tiny fragments.
"you have had it hard haven't you samael? mankind never truly understood your role here did they? condemned as the lord of evil. a creature to be feared and to be hated. the dark to my light. i am very grateful to you for all you have done. mankind is my finest achievement but they are still, as you said, primitive in oh so many ways. so attached to ritual and dogma and the dusty lessons of the ages past. unwilling to take responsibility for themselves and blaming you for all their shortcomings and ills."
the rain grew heavier and fell against the panes with a whip smack of sound.
"i cannot stay here much longer samael. i only returned because of your concerns over ishtars plotting but again, my greatest friend, you were on hand to take care of things just as you have these past five thousand years. i cannot stay much longer. mankind and this planet have come of age surely. time to let them stand on their own feet."
"let me come with you."
"no samael. i need you to remain as custodian to this place."
"you said it was time to let them stand on their own feet?"
"no samael, no."
"please?"
"samael."
"please?"
outside the magpie snatched up the fresh and succulent snail.
threw back his head and swallowed.
the rain fell in large droplets.
stars and rain.
magpies and snails.
holding hands god and satan left and walked with starlight steps away from here.
'On Earth as it is in Heaven' (part seven of The Vagrant God)
the lake was a mirror that reflected the pale, autumn sky with a flat reference. the colour of the sky appeared to be fading as though the rich colours of summer were draining away like the dye from a pair of levis. as if the sky was being bleached of colour in slow pantone shades.
a lattice work of cloud hung across the horizon as if skeletal bones were giving a structure for the sky to hang from.
nailed to the sky was a bird.
a white bird.
a swan.
the swans wing beat made a deep throbbing sound, its powerful wings flattening the air currents into passive submission.
it landed, after several clumsy attempts, with a rush of water and a hush of feathers. silence subdued the swans intrusion and it glided with the elegance of a faerie boat to the shore whereupon, and with a silken liquid movement like mercury, the bird shape shifted into a naked woman. raven haired, copper skinned and with sapphire blue eyes.
upon the branch of a eucalyptus tree perched a magpie.
the woman shook herself sending tiny droplets of water flying like jewels.
"i believe you want to talk to me?"
.
.
.
on an island in the adriatic a dark cloud, small and ominous, moved across the green tundra like the threat of death. a dark cloud rumbling with an angry heart. upon seeing the prostrate and lifeless bodies of the seven monks the cloud parted and then dissipated.
kuan ti stomped across the island as thunder over the silent sands. his ambition burnt fierce within him and the words of chung li echoed in his mind.
"the way is clear master. your time has come"
'your time has come'
he could see the temple now in the near distance. white. hallowed. holy. empty of anything. anything except the box.
the hour was his. his time HAD come. he had now but to walk in and claim the prize.
but feet away lay the prize. the secret to all things. to power. to the future. to the end of days and the start of his gargantuan myth. a myth that would rage like a forest fire for an eternity and more. he had but to lift the lid of the box and to steal the prize. the soul of god.
'your time has come'
a lattice work of cloud hung across the horizon as if skeletal bones were giving a structure for the sky to hang from.
nailed to the sky was a bird.
a white bird.
a swan.
the swans wing beat made a deep throbbing sound, its powerful wings flattening the air currents into passive submission.
it landed, after several clumsy attempts, with a rush of water and a hush of feathers. silence subdued the swans intrusion and it glided with the elegance of a faerie boat to the shore whereupon, and with a silken liquid movement like mercury, the bird shape shifted into a naked woman. raven haired, copper skinned and with sapphire blue eyes.
upon the branch of a eucalyptus tree perched a magpie.
the woman shook herself sending tiny droplets of water flying like jewels.
"i believe you want to talk to me?"
.
.
.
on an island in the adriatic a dark cloud, small and ominous, moved across the green tundra like the threat of death. a dark cloud rumbling with an angry heart. upon seeing the prostrate and lifeless bodies of the seven monks the cloud parted and then dissipated.
kuan ti stomped across the island as thunder over the silent sands. his ambition burnt fierce within him and the words of chung li echoed in his mind.
"the way is clear master. your time has come"
'your time has come'
he could see the temple now in the near distance. white. hallowed. holy. empty of anything. anything except the box.
the hour was his. his time HAD come. he had now but to walk in and claim the prize.
but feet away lay the prize. the secret to all things. to power. to the future. to the end of days and the start of his gargantuan myth. a myth that would rage like a forest fire for an eternity and more. he had but to lift the lid of the box and to steal the prize. the soul of god.
'your time has come'
"your time has come master. this is the hour. your final hour."
"chung li? what are you doing here?"
"as i said oh illustrious master, your time has come."
chung li plunged the knife firmly between kuan ti's shoulder blades and kuan ti collapsed with a grunt and a barely audible sigh. "bitch spider." his last words left his mouth like vapour.
the death of a god, even a forgotten japanese deity has fierce ramifications.
.
.
.
ishtar stood now as proud and arrogant and as sensual as the embodiment of sin. her skin was perfection. her smile the radiance of the moon by starlight. her plans and schemes were reaching their bitter conclusion. the web was nearly complete. ishtar smiled her most seductive of smiles and started to dance. she spun on her heels and her hair flowed behind her as when the sun chases the day. her hips gyrated a hypnotic sway and her belly rippled like the swell of the sea.
dancing like a ballerina wrapped in electric hues
with all movement trapped frame by frame
frozen in cut and paste sticky back sequence
she spins upon the mirrored steel spotlight clean and precise floor
with time a mesmerised spectator unable to blink
in the blinding gaze of her blazing super nova
sunlight shimmering shifting sensual spin and thrust
with ankle and wrist razor blade sharp
and cutting imaginary semaphor lines
across the stark bleached backdrop of vacant space
as time and meaning collide with bone bruising brutallity
and finite feather tendrils that spark and shine like sex
chase down history across the benign canopy of vision
that blurs with emotion and visual violence
that confounds thought and confuses sight
and confirms the knowledge that beauty moves
with precise and limitless grace like angels weeping
and sighing at the dazzling creation of a divine starbust dance
ishtar turned and went to enter the halls of the temple when from its shade a male form emerged.
"very impressive ishtar. very impressive indeed. not sure that kuan ti would approve though. clever the way you had chung li embroiled in your web of deceit"
samael stood, the avatar of darkness, the prince of nightmares. suave. sophisticated.
"samael. what brings the fallen angel to this godless place?"
"not a very good turn of phrase my dear given the location we find ourselves in. this is one place that categorically is not godless. as for why i am here, for the very same reasons that you are here. the box."
"the box is mine satan lucifer. and even though i would not wish to have to fight you over it, i will if i have to."
"i am confident that you would but worry not, it is not me that you should fear this night. you see, with all your plot hatchings you forgot some of the base priciples of being a deity. deceit spins further deceits and, like the tacky cobweb it is, the strands become ever more complex. you were so busy patting yourself on the back that you forgot the rules. you forgot that for every betrayal there is a counter betrayal. you should have considered achilles. he too left his weak spot uncovered"
as he said this there was a sound as of silk upon silk and a sudden movement that was as sharp as it was swift. the serpent struck and bit into ishtars heel. she screamed her dismay and grabbed at her ankle.
"you despicable, loathsome bastard. why? why?"
ishtar fell, like kuan ti before her face down into an inelegant and very dead heap.
"oh, but i didn't my dear. that was kuan ti. his insurance so to speak."
the snake lay still beside the dead seductress. his eyes a malevolent glare.
"trust me you noisome little reptile, if you even think about biting me i will wither your fangs to grass and turn your worthless skin into a handbag. go, now. i have other business to attend to."
the snake departed watched by the magpie and the woman who moved from behind the cover of the trees nearer to samael and the temple.
the woman smiled at the dark angel.
"hello my erstwhile captain. it has been a very long while hasn't it?"
"an absolute age mistress."
“we have much to discuss”
“indeed we have mistress, indeed we have.”
the day was failing and the first star was revelling in an empty sky. now was the time for reunion and explanations. now was the time for the devil and god to remember and recall and recount the way of things on earth and also in heaven.
Samael (part six of The Vagrant God)
Autumn sunlight, spiteful with its low hung orb, pin pricked the windows and the balcony of the Kensington apartment bouncing razor sharp light onto the leaves and glass turning green to white. Invading the shadows of fall with its indelicate glare.
The man, tall and lean and dressed in a black sweat shirt and black combats walked barefoot to the kitchen sink. He held in his elegant fist a red kettle which he filled and then placed onto the gas hob. He lit the gas with a push of a button that ignited with a sharp and rapid click click click.
From an over head cupboard he took out a teapot, a cup and saucer, a milk jug and a side plate. He placed the crockery onto a wooden tray and then tossed two slices of toast onto the plate. He then filled the jug with chilled milk from the fridge.
The man was beautiful to behold. Not just good looking or handsome but beautiful. Black hair that was neatly trimmed. Porcelain perfect features and a face that resembled a Latin looking and youthful Paul Newman. Startling grey eyes that could turn as black as pitch at a moments notice if angered. He was tall, well over six feet and had an echo of an angel about him albeit a dark angel.
The kettle started to moan an indistinct rattle hiss.
A sudden rush of wind brought a magpie onto the balcony.
White chalk marks on a black board. Petrol blue stains on oil.
“Morag. Good morning. What news do you have?”
The magpie cocked its head to one side as though attempting to clear its throat to speak.
“The ancient assassin has struck. Seven monks are dead. The secret is unguarded.”
The birds voice was a clattering of pebbles on a corrugated tin roof. A sand stone landslide of words. Dry. Raw. Rough. Jagged.
“I see”, said the man, “and who seeks to benefit from this?”
The bird ruffled its crisp feathers and defecated.
The kettle blew an irritating and tin shrill whistle.
“Ishtar and Kuan Ti but I know not who hired the assassin.”
The man took a mouthful of toast.
“No matter. Both are culpable and both have the desire. Has either of them made a move for The Box?”
The bird hopped forward to pick up the fallen crumbs of toast.
“As yet no but they will and soon.”
The man poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot.
“Indeed. Time for me to make an appearance then. To the devil his due after all.”
“And what of me master? What shall loyal Morag, your servant Pica do next?”
“You will take a message for me once you have rested and refreshed yourself.”
The man poured the tea from the teapot into a bone white cup. He then poured the milk from a jug and stirred the beverage with a bronze tea spoon.
“I have always been misrepresented by humans Morag. Cast as a demon with horns and a tail. A fork and a fistful of brimstone. Cast from heaven like a misbegotten misfit. As I said before, now the devil will have his due.”
The sun, brandishing a new day with a curious eye, rose a fraction higher. Heaven looked down on earth with a fearful gaze.
The man, tall and lean and dressed in a black sweat shirt and black combats walked barefoot to the kitchen sink. He held in his elegant fist a red kettle which he filled and then placed onto the gas hob. He lit the gas with a push of a button that ignited with a sharp and rapid click click click.
From an over head cupboard he took out a teapot, a cup and saucer, a milk jug and a side plate. He placed the crockery onto a wooden tray and then tossed two slices of toast onto the plate. He then filled the jug with chilled milk from the fridge.
The man was beautiful to behold. Not just good looking or handsome but beautiful. Black hair that was neatly trimmed. Porcelain perfect features and a face that resembled a Latin looking and youthful Paul Newman. Startling grey eyes that could turn as black as pitch at a moments notice if angered. He was tall, well over six feet and had an echo of an angel about him albeit a dark angel.
The kettle started to moan an indistinct rattle hiss.
A sudden rush of wind brought a magpie onto the balcony.
White chalk marks on a black board. Petrol blue stains on oil.
“Morag. Good morning. What news do you have?”
The magpie cocked its head to one side as though attempting to clear its throat to speak.
“The ancient assassin has struck. Seven monks are dead. The secret is unguarded.”
The birds voice was a clattering of pebbles on a corrugated tin roof. A sand stone landslide of words. Dry. Raw. Rough. Jagged.
“I see”, said the man, “and who seeks to benefit from this?”
The bird ruffled its crisp feathers and defecated.
The kettle blew an irritating and tin shrill whistle.
“Ishtar and Kuan Ti but I know not who hired the assassin.”
The man took a mouthful of toast.
“No matter. Both are culpable and both have the desire. Has either of them made a move for The Box?”
The bird hopped forward to pick up the fallen crumbs of toast.
“As yet no but they will and soon.”
The man poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot.
“Indeed. Time for me to make an appearance then. To the devil his due after all.”
“And what of me master? What shall loyal Morag, your servant Pica do next?”
“You will take a message for me once you have rested and refreshed yourself.”
The man poured the tea from the teapot into a bone white cup. He then poured the milk from a jug and stirred the beverage with a bronze tea spoon.
“I have always been misrepresented by humans Morag. Cast as a demon with horns and a tail. A fork and a fistful of brimstone. Cast from heaven like a misbegotten misfit. As I said before, now the devil will have his due.”
The sun, brandishing a new day with a curious eye, rose a fraction higher. Heaven looked down on earth with a fearful gaze.
The Serpent (part five of The Vagrant God)
Moomstib moved with a whisper of grass that opened before him and fled behind him with a shudder.
Let him pass unhindered, let him pass
His eyes moved with a mechanical precision that allowed him to see or be aware of everything that was foolish enough to lay foot or paw or claw within striking distance of his mouth.
A random violence of fangs.
Let him pass unhindered, let him pass
Moomstib was a serpent but not just any serpent.
He was the serpent. The serpent of tall tales and legends. The serpent who offered temptation. The serpent that had been in one of the oldest myths of all. The serpent that gave all serpents a bad name.
A very bad name.
It was the time of falling leaves when the sun slides into cooler sectors and the mists rise like a thin memory.
When dewdrops hold a frozen moment that in itself holds a promise. A promise of winter and of shorter days and chill, crystal ebon nights.
The day had withered like the ageing of flesh and the monks, weary from a day spent holding sentry over their prize, had grown less attentive and their eyes, so used to scanning the landscape for a hint of movement, had gazed skyward to watch a sunset set ablaze the horizon.
He was noiseless.
Like time passing
He was swift.
Like time passing
He was as deadly as the poison that dripped from his fangs.
Seven monks.
Fourteen puncture wounds.
Seven heels bleeding.
Death by sin it self or at least a servant of sin.
Above him, perched in a fig tree, sat a magpie.
White chalk marks on a blackboard
The magpie watched him with an attentive stare. Black, impenetrable eyes, eyes that glittered like birth. Eyes that saw with a wisdom borne of ages past and that recorded every last detail of what had happened.
Then, with an effortless flap of his wings, the magpie rose into the sky.
A dark silhouette on a bleeding sun.
Let him pass unhindered, let him pass
His eyes moved with a mechanical precision that allowed him to see or be aware of everything that was foolish enough to lay foot or paw or claw within striking distance of his mouth.
A random violence of fangs.
Let him pass unhindered, let him pass
Moomstib was a serpent but not just any serpent.
He was the serpent. The serpent of tall tales and legends. The serpent who offered temptation. The serpent that had been in one of the oldest myths of all. The serpent that gave all serpents a bad name.
A very bad name.
It was the time of falling leaves when the sun slides into cooler sectors and the mists rise like a thin memory.
When dewdrops hold a frozen moment that in itself holds a promise. A promise of winter and of shorter days and chill, crystal ebon nights.
The day had withered like the ageing of flesh and the monks, weary from a day spent holding sentry over their prize, had grown less attentive and their eyes, so used to scanning the landscape for a hint of movement, had gazed skyward to watch a sunset set ablaze the horizon.
He was noiseless.
Like time passing
He was swift.
Like time passing
He was as deadly as the poison that dripped from his fangs.
Seven monks.
Fourteen puncture wounds.
Seven heels bleeding.
Death by sin it self or at least a servant of sin.
Above him, perched in a fig tree, sat a magpie.
White chalk marks on a blackboard
The magpie watched him with an attentive stare. Black, impenetrable eyes, eyes that glittered like birth. Eyes that saw with a wisdom borne of ages past and that recorded every last detail of what had happened.
Then, with an effortless flap of his wings, the magpie rose into the sky.
A dark silhouette on a bleeding sun.
The Crones (part four of The Vagrant God)
'it is dark in here.'
"treacle black my love, dripping like tar"
{pinch the void to see if it blinks}
you hold out your hands to offer me succor but you are a fake my friend. as plastic as television. as hollow as straw.
'it is dull in here'
"blind me, bind me, curse and cuss me"
{poke the void to see if it shrinks}
so who now offers that dangerous hand?
the one that proffers friendship whilst wetting the blade.
the one that smiles with white wide teeth whilst his eyes flash dark.
'it is sharp in here'
"barbed wire and nails my love, and razor blades"
{pull the void to see if it clinks}
"TREACHERY COMES ON A BELLY OF SCALES
A THIN LITTLE ASSASSIN WHO CURLS IT TAIL
AND WITH INFINITE GUILE LIFE CURTAILS
LEAVING SEVEN MEN LYING DEAD IN THE PALE"
"moomstib"
"MOOMSTIB"
"MOOMSTIB"
"treacle black my love, dripping like tar"
{pinch the void to see if it blinks}
you hold out your hands to offer me succor but you are a fake my friend. as plastic as television. as hollow as straw.
'it is dull in here'
"blind me, bind me, curse and cuss me"
{poke the void to see if it shrinks}
so who now offers that dangerous hand?
the one that proffers friendship whilst wetting the blade.
the one that smiles with white wide teeth whilst his eyes flash dark.
'it is sharp in here'
"barbed wire and nails my love, and razor blades"
{pull the void to see if it clinks}
"TREACHERY COMES ON A BELLY OF SCALES
A THIN LITTLE ASSASSIN WHO CURLS IT TAIL
AND WITH INFINITE GUILE LIFE CURTAILS
LEAVING SEVEN MEN LYING DEAD IN THE PALE"
"moomstib"
"MOOMSTIB"
"MOOMSTIB"
Kuan Ti (part three of The Vagrant God)
the glass goblet smashed against the wall shattering into a thousand fragments that fell onto the ornate marbled floor like a myriad droplets of frost.
the noise echoed throughout the palace of Kuan Ti and then settled blanket heavy into an ominous silence.
a silence that held its breath in the belief that whilst it did the storm of rage might abate.
it didn't.
"Chung Li".
"CHUNG LI!!!"
there was the sound of running feet followed by the whispered hush of two gigantic alabaster doors being opened. Chung Li entered the imperial throne room of Kuan Ti and instantly fell to his knees and kowtowed in the time honoured way, knocking his forehead several imes upon the heartless marbled floor.
Chung Li was a demon and a eunuch and, more importantly, a loyal servant to Kuan Ti. he had served his master for a millennium and had seen many a fellow demon dispatched to hell by his masters fury. he had learnt the art of appeasement and understood the machinations of his masters mind but of late, even with this extensive knowledge and an even more impressive ability at self preservation, his master had been acting in ever more mercurial and irascible ways.
"GET UP YOU DAMN FOOL BEFORE I SMASH YOUR WORTHLESS SKULL TO SMITHEREENS!!!".
"Master," said Chung Li rising like smoke, "How might I best serve his imperial majesty?"
"Give me your fool tongue on a late so that I need not hear YOUR WITLESS WORDS!!"
"As ever Master, your word is my command."
and with that Chung Li turned on his well oiled heel and started to leave the imperial throne room. as he reached the twin alabaster doors another glass goblet smashed above his head forcing him to duck and cower as a shower of splintered glass rained down upon his head.
"HOW DARE YOU LEAVE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION? COME BACK HERE YOU MAGGOT!!"
again Chung Li turned and with head lowered retraced his steeps back to where his master sat.
"Apologies Oh imperial majesty. your unworthy servant was too eager in his desire to carry out his masters command."
"Too eager MY ARSE!"
Kuan Ti's rage seemed to be in decline but still Chung Li did not dare to tempt conversation.
"Master."
"I am bored Chung Li, bored and redundant. there was a time when millions worshiped me but now i am forgotten. i have no purpose. there is no point to my existence and i have no power whatsoever. i was born to rule. how can i rule without power or people to fear and worship me?"
"Master?"
"Speak."
"Recently a swarm of beetles returned to me from an island in the Adriatic. They told me of a temple guarded by seven monks."
"What of it?"
"The monks guard a precious secret Master. A box."
"A box?"
"Yes Master, a box."
"And what is in this box?"
"Power Master, complete and utter power."
the silence returned now pregnant with the pulsating passion of avarice and corruption.
"Get me the box, Chung Li, at whatever cost get me the box."
"Consider it done Master."
the noise echoed throughout the palace of Kuan Ti and then settled blanket heavy into an ominous silence.
a silence that held its breath in the belief that whilst it did the storm of rage might abate.
it didn't.
"Chung Li".
"CHUNG LI!!!"
there was the sound of running feet followed by the whispered hush of two gigantic alabaster doors being opened. Chung Li entered the imperial throne room of Kuan Ti and instantly fell to his knees and kowtowed in the time honoured way, knocking his forehead several imes upon the heartless marbled floor.
Chung Li was a demon and a eunuch and, more importantly, a loyal servant to Kuan Ti. he had served his master for a millennium and had seen many a fellow demon dispatched to hell by his masters fury. he had learnt the art of appeasement and understood the machinations of his masters mind but of late, even with this extensive knowledge and an even more impressive ability at self preservation, his master had been acting in ever more mercurial and irascible ways.
"GET UP YOU DAMN FOOL BEFORE I SMASH YOUR WORTHLESS SKULL TO SMITHEREENS!!!".
"Master," said Chung Li rising like smoke, "How might I best serve his imperial majesty?"
"Give me your fool tongue on a late so that I need not hear YOUR WITLESS WORDS!!"
"As ever Master, your word is my command."
and with that Chung Li turned on his well oiled heel and started to leave the imperial throne room. as he reached the twin alabaster doors another glass goblet smashed above his head forcing him to duck and cower as a shower of splintered glass rained down upon his head.
"HOW DARE YOU LEAVE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION? COME BACK HERE YOU MAGGOT!!"
again Chung Li turned and with head lowered retraced his steeps back to where his master sat.
"Apologies Oh imperial majesty. your unworthy servant was too eager in his desire to carry out his masters command."
"Too eager MY ARSE!"
Kuan Ti's rage seemed to be in decline but still Chung Li did not dare to tempt conversation.
"Master."
"I am bored Chung Li, bored and redundant. there was a time when millions worshiped me but now i am forgotten. i have no purpose. there is no point to my existence and i have no power whatsoever. i was born to rule. how can i rule without power or people to fear and worship me?"
"Master?"
"Speak."
"Recently a swarm of beetles returned to me from an island in the Adriatic. They told me of a temple guarded by seven monks."
"What of it?"
"The monks guard a precious secret Master. A box."
"A box?"
"Yes Master, a box."
"And what is in this box?"
"Power Master, complete and utter power."
the silence returned now pregnant with the pulsating passion of avarice and corruption.
"Get me the box, Chung Li, at whatever cost get me the box."
"Consider it done Master."
Ishtar (part two of The Vagrant God)
they say that when Ishtar dances that her hips dream rainbows and her ankles sing bluebells. that for every pirhouette she spins a man will bleed semen enough to drown his soul and commit his sins to hell.there was a time when Ishtar meant something to so many but now she is just a vague memory. a name in a reference book. a thing of antiquity, of dim rememberance.a curiousity.being a curiousity does not bother her although she still recalls those halcyon days when men built temples in her name and women made libations to her. but then again, when you have lived as long as Ishtar has there is little in this world, or any other, that holds surprises.upon a time long ago she was a goddess of love and of fertility. some would cast her as a queen of evil and of being cruel, ruthless and heartless as she, spider like, killed all her mates and lovers. nonetheless, she had loved them and had danced for them turning her heels of magic to weave dark lusts within their hearts.they would watch her dance with their jaws gone slack and their manhoods turned to rigid cockstands. they would watch mesmerised as she thrust her pelvis at them and made her belly and thighs drift like the scent of sex before their faces. their hearts would burst. their erections would flood their robes and they would die in a fit of sudden, orgasmic pleasure.her pride and her beauty had been her downfall though, and her vanity for Ishtar believed that she was the prettiest star in the firmament but infact she wasn't.there was one even more beautiful.one who had power beyond reckoning and beauty beyond belief.but she was nameless and now she is gone but still Ishtar plots and schemes and dances her wayward magics.for in truth there is a prize that Ishtar desires even more than the admiration of women and the lusts of men.a tiny thing.a hidden thing.a thing of untold power.a thing in a box.
The Box (part one of The Vagrant God)
it is funny how things happen isn't it? i wrote the piece below back in Aprl of 2005 never knowing that it would not only have a sequel but a whole short series of tales to follow it.
so, to start, we have the original piece "a phallus in blue jeans" followed by the sequel "The Box"
"a phallus in blue jeans"
god went walkabouts. she just packed up her stuff and went. nobody knows exactly where she went but she is gone. gone the way of legends. gone the way of myth. gone. somewhere else. somewhere far away. god doesn't get lonely like you and i. she doesn't feel the hollow pangs of sorrow gnawing like a rat at your stomach lining. she doesn't feel the desolation of guilt hanging heavy in the pit of your guts. she left her hairbrush and her box of trinkets. left her lacey gloves of cloud. left them all behind her and went. thataway. the girls and boys in heaven found them. they had no time for bric-a-brac. they threw them over the edge of the sky. watched them fall like crystallized rain drops. falling to earth in a clatter of pin pricks. shards of diamonds. a splash of jewels to confuse shoes. down onto the heads of peasants and paupers. some paupers are smarter than others. a collective. a co-operative. a conglomerate. saints to sinners. paupers to princes'. the men of tungsten and foil opened a stall. selling bits of rope and truth. the men of wood and brass opened a shop. selling the promise of perpetual youth. slices of heaven cheap at half the price. neatly wrapped and easily swallowed. and it came to pass. through the ticking of time. through the vaudeville of ritual. through the denial of faith. that peasants and paupers. proprietors and princelings. bought salvation with coins and corruption. and made a new god. a god of muscle. a god of stealth. a god of iron with a will of stone. a phallus in blue jeans.
"The Box"
beyond the veil sits a box. square and black.
there is nothing remarkable about the box as it has no adornments or ornate decorations. the only hint to what it might be, or what it contains, lies upon its surface which is of a highly polished lacquer that reflects images with a mirror like ability.
as i said, there is nothing outwardly remarkable about the box and yet it is situated on a pedestal within a room with a key and a lock.
of all the things ever created it is perhaps the most secret and the most well hidden.
the box and the pedestal and the room that contains them all are all housed within a bleached bone white temple that sits snugly in the Adriatic. the columns of the temple have creeping golden ivy and creamy clematis that intertwine like lovers and in the summer the temple is a glorious vision to behold.
it has all the makings of a myth doesn't it?
the box and the temple and the heavy shroud of secrecy.
and perhaps that status is correct.
seven monks guard the temple and the box and should the need ever arise the seven monks would each gladly give up their lifeblood to protect the temple but most of all the box.
seven is a sacred number but the box is more sacred still for it contains the soul of the great creator and it is said that should god ever return from wandering the great void and take up residence once again on this green and fertile planet then all the sins and all the ills of mankind would be washed away when god opens the box and takes back her soul.
and so the guards maintain their vigil. the same vigil that they, or men very much like them, have maintained for every night and every day of every year for the past ten thousand years.
one day the monks believe they will be granted the status of angels.
one day the monks believe that god will return.
one day.
maybe.
Chicken Feet
Like demon toes they left their mark in the damp soil. The chicken strutted.
Tail feathers high.
Head tall and bobbing.
The forest was ancient.
If a forest could have a memory then this forests memory would stretch back to a time before men, before dinosaurs, before gods.
It lay in a valley beneath a tall mountain that in itself was covered by the escaping family of trees from the forest proper.
There are times still, when a heavy cloud, pregnant with the promise of rain will descend upon the mountain and the forest like the portent of better days and shroud both mountain and forest in a moist mist.
Today though was cloud free and sunny and the sun stole through the trees like a thief. Silent and soft.
A small homestead stood in a green clearing. A family farm with some livestock and a love of nature.
A chicken, a rooster, patrolled across the damp floor leaving satanic foot prints in the dirt. The chicken was watched by an old man and his granddaughter. Beyond where they sat and deep in the forest a wolf slipped through the trees. Her eyes shone deepest jet with flashes of hazel. She lifted her snout and sniffed the warm air. Somewhere near was her mate. An old male wolf as cunning as the coming of winter.
“Grandpapa?”
“Yes child?”
“I’m scared. I can see a wolf. Shouldn’t we go in doors?”
“Few are the times if any when a wolf has attacked a human, even a child. Do not be scared of wolves my pet be respectful.”
The chicken paraded.
Devils toes leaving devils prints in dirty soil.
“See the chicken my pet? See the way he preens himself? There are those who say that the chicken, stupid as we may think he is, is the bird of Satan. His spy in the land of men. See his feet? See how very much like the Devils own feet they are?”
The girl child nodded and smiled up at her old grandfather. His dark eyes, flecked with splashes of hazel sparkled.
“It is said the reason the chicken crows at the break of dawn is because the dark is the domain of the Devil and the coming of light is God’s. It is also said that to punish Satan for making the chickens his spies that God made man keep and eat chickens to forever show Satan that his spy birds were useless.”
The sun climbed higher and laid down more heat for to warm the day.
The wolf watched the grandfather and the child.
The chicken pranced, its head metronoming back and forth as it walked. Its chest puffed up with foolish pride.
“It is getting warmer. Why not do your old grandfather a favour and put the kettle on? Hmmm? Make me some coffee and while you are doing that I will go and chase the wolf away.”
The girl sprang up and ran inside.
“Be careful Grandpapa, of the wolf I mean.”
“She won’t hurt me child.”
The girl clattered about the kitchen filling the kettle with cold water and putting the kettle onto the heat of the stove. She placed two mugs onto the table filling one half with milk and the other with a spoonful of sugar. Her grandfather had a sweet tooth. She waited until the kettle had boiled and then she poured the hot water into the coffee pot.
Outside the wind moaned.
It was a cannine sound as if the wolf were talking to the breeze or to a long lost soul mate.
She poured the brew, strong and black into her Grandfathers mug and milky sweet into her own and then took them both outside to where her grandfather, now returned, sat.
“Has the wolf gone?” she asked.
“For now yes, but remember she too has to live. She will always be out there so make sure you give her the room she needs and respect she deserves.”
“Grandpapa?”
“Yes child?”
“Where has our chicken gone?”
“Maybe the wolf took her when I wasn’t looking.”
“Grandpapa?”
“Yes child?”
“You have blood on your chin.”
“I must have cut my self shaving.”
She poured the brew, strong and black into her Grandfathers mug and milky sweet into her own and then took them both outside to where her grandfather, now returned, sat.
“Has the wolf gone?” she asked.
“For now yes, but remember she too has to live. She will always be out there so make sure you give her the room she needs and respect she deserves.”
“Grandpapa?”
“Yes child?”
“Where has our chicken gone?”
“Maybe the wolf took her when I wasn’t looking.”
“Grandpapa?”
“Yes child?”
“You have blood on your chin.”
“I must have cut my self shaving.”
said the Grandfather wiping his chin with the back of his hand.
“Now then, where is that coffee that I can smell?”
Words by cocaine jesus
Words by cocaine jesus
nits
the nit scratched itself with its foreleg and hopped down in between an out crop of pubic hair. a dark triangle that lay above a recently showered vagina. the nit didn't give a damn about the shower it just buried itself deep into the hair and skin and waited for the pelt down of water to cease.
it took awhile but eventually it stopped and then it hid itself some more when the towel savaged the skins surface removing a section of epidermis as the towel was dragged back and forth like cotton sandpaper.
even when the goop was applied, the skin lotion that slid across the pink flesh like an oil slick, the nit simply dived into an open pore and watched while all that gunk oozed about.
it stayed close to the vagina as it was moist there and warm and it had a neat covering of fluff that gave the nit a nice area to hang around in. it could have landed on the head, with its richer and more luxuriant growth of thick hair but hey, beggars can't be choosers and besides this place was usually covered up with some kind of cloth coverall which acted as a decent defense against some of the more unpleasant things that lurked out there and fed on little nits like him.
again the nit scratched itself and decided that it was time to drink. it hopped on higher up until it came to a large dip that was rapidly filling with sweat. the nit stuck out its long and disgusting tongue and drank from the womans navel.
then it scratched again.
out in the garden and just below the bathroom window little manish was holding an eyeglass over an ant that was held captive in a pyrex bowl. even the ant, with amazing tenacity and incredible agility and strength could not climb out of the sheer surface of the bowls sides.
manish held the eyeglass directly over the back of the ant and, much like the man who operates the spotlight at a theatre, followed the ant every which way it went. the hot bangalore sun beat down onto manish's head and was magnified a thousand fold onto the ants back via the ground glass.
the ant tried running away from the torturous heat but manish was relentless. a brief and tiny flame burst from the back of the ant and a tiny billow of smoke rose from its curled up and burnt form.
manish, now bored of his efforts at torture, scratched his head and decided to slip away from his dusty garden and go and play out on the street.
the driver of the old ford scratched his head and steered with his left hand. the sun shimmered and made the pale and dusty road appear to rise and fall like a tide. he wiped a worn and torn old rag across his face to clean away the sweat that was glossing his skin.
he saw the rat as it entered his peripheral vision just as it started to make its run across the road.
there was a dull thud, a sinister sound of breaking bones followed by a damp squelch. the rat died instantly and the driver drove on oblivious to the rodents death. the smear of life lay on the dirt like the stain of humanity passing.
upstairs the nit scratched again.
upon its head a gang of microscopic bacteria feasted. they lay mute like miniscule flora but they were irritating little bastards and, once again, the nit scratched. he hopped away from the navel and started to make his way up the womans stomach stopping once again to scratch at his head.
a fatal mistake.
the womans fingers crushed his existence with a violent scratch ending the nits life and freeing the microscopic bugs that lived on its head.
upon the breath of a sudden breeze they took flight and the Staphylococcus aureus flew into the womans open mouth.
shit happens.
the woman scratched her head.
words by cocaine jesus
The Waking Man
"To sleep perchance to dream" - Shakespeare
.
.
.
the sun played down like a cats lick.
its tongue rasped the promise of noon with an eiderdown compromise that carried the scent of jasmine upon its perfumed kiss.
the waking man laid down the hollow tube with which, moments before, he had blown the spirits a sound that had sent their feet dancing down dusty canyons and across arid plains that stretched beyond the vision of the human eye to the bare backed fury and glory of the sun.
black birds had gathered upon a wedgwood sky.
grains of dirt in a giant’s eye.
their raucous voices carried the melody of the dead as if a cacophonic symphony blending as one with the waking mans throbbing sounds.
wing beats. talon scratch. clickety clack of beaks opening.
the waking man blinked. eyelashes the rustle of dry leaves.
the sun hung proud and stubborn in an optimistic sky that had not even the rumour of a cloud to spoil its blazing view.
the whispered hush of the faraway grass spoke in sibilant sighs whilst the dust rose and fell in a contortion of sculptured grit from the breath of the breeze that blew soft and low.
hushabye baby, don't say a word, mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird.
no mocking bird, thought the waking man, just crows.
crows and spiders.
he opened his pocket and from it poured an army of blood red spiders that threaded their way up his arm and down his thigh. two columns of spiders. weaving and marching like drunken revellers after a bawdy night in a dark, back street ale house. weaving and marching like a mariachi band. he watched them as they left him and continued their bombastic swagger over to the burnt, dead tree that threw a shadow the length of time.
a shadow that hooked and beckoned like a finger to the outside world. calling the past and the future toward it in the shape of scorched, fallen leaves. leaves that tumbled backward in a mock ballet of retard nature.
he licked his lips and clicked his tongue as the shadow swept its elegant shape forward like a wine spill staining the scorched earth.
this could be forever or this could be right now.
in the distance before him a gaggle of rocks opened their craggy mouths and with stone drift pebble tongues spoke a legion of pilgrim fathers dressed in long black frock coats with faces sombre and drear that drifted over the sharp wastelands like a fog. a fuge of figures that moved like a procession of pall bearers. from then until now they shimmered past and with a gust of wind were blown away like ash. their furious faces calling out a silent no as particles of their spirit rose and drifted autumn leaf free.
tumble down twig blown.
he felt his soul rise and fall with the tumultuous ash that hung like gravity defying sleet and watched as it formed a perfect mouth.
the mouth of god perhaps?
a dry smile in a dry land.
and then, before the image of a mouth had time to purse its lips, the mouth vanished as a fragile lattice work of skeletal bird bones formed from the shivering dust in the shape of a stairway that ran from the mud ball sphere of earth to the unicorn splendour of heaven.
he ascended the bone bridge and with humble feet walked up its length and from the dizzying heights looked back to the ground below where he could see himself sat crossed legged.
he could have been a rock.
he could have been a tree.
he could have been the dried husk of some prehistoric animal.
but he was just him sat in dirt browns.
he sighed a long mournful breath and allowed himself to return his corporeal form to the body that sat stock still below.
the waking man. the dreaming man. which world is the one world?
perhaps both. perhaps neither. perhaps sleep is where we really come alive and leave behind this frenzied existence. or maybe only death can bring the peace and tranquillity we seek.
don't ask the waking man as he is dreaming still.
.
.
.
"Tis only in their dreams that men truly be free" - Keats
Toffee Love (parts 1,2 & 3 and Waters Edge)
She entered my life like summer.
Warm as honeysuckle and sudden as nicotine.
I remember the first collision of our eyes from across a silent room. A silence filled with the hubris of business. A spark that flew at acute angles and bounced around the distance between us like Morse code. A semaphore signal that rode on wings of lust and damp desire.
Of all the gin joints in all the world you had to walk into mine.
Funny that.
The way that quote floated into my mind at just the same time as my eyes were undressing her.
As she was undressing me.
The strange, inexplicable magic weaved its drunken spell and we both became intoxicated by its voodoo.
The Gris Gris and the chicken bone.
Shake them.
Shake them.
Days bled into weeks and the turmoil of our lives twisted knotted desires between us and neither one of us could break the cord. And ironically neither one of us could break the vows we had made those years gone by.
Loyalty or fear? Maybe elements of both.
The age gap played no part. It really didn’t come into the equation. Commitment did and there was none on offer. None we could truthfully deliver.
She danced before me and threw off her blouse and we kissed and promised the stars to each other but all we had to offer was a fistful of rose dust.
I would have tasted those lips forever. I would have parted those thighs and laid my heart in her hand but that old devil, commitment and loyalty, and the love of children, strode between us with a vow.
She entered my life like summer and just as soon as seasons change she was gone.
2.
i want you to take me on the front of a car
whilst the rain falls and soaks us to the bone
she said those words. she said those words to me. and i loved her though i shouldn't.
i had never seen teeth so white or eyes so blue before. pearls and sapphires. sapphires and pearls.
her tongue tasted of stale cigarettes and the taste made me glad that i didn't smoke.
the sun stroked the car like the golden hand of god caressing a cat and the promise of days stretched out before us.
a myth in the making but a pleasant one.
she undid my shirt and sucked upon my nipples and then kissed my stomach with the flutter kiss of butterfly lips.
i sighed a smug and self satisfied sigh and thought that there must be a god in heaven that has blessed me with forbidden kisses that fell from my chest to my midriff to my waist.
down.
down.
i placed my hands on her knees and prised her legs apart and she screamed. the sound shattered the moment as though stones thrown against stained glass.
what's wrong? honey, what's wrong?
she wept tears of poisoned jade from those gorgeous azure eyes.
she spoke in staccato syllables that bruised against her sobs and told me of a step father with his ivy hands and worm withered loins. she spoke of dark days and even darker nights and of a mother who knew but looked the other way with blinkered eyes. of a man who whispered honeyed threats and wanted secrets sinister kept silent and hidden like cobwebs in a coffin.
this is love, this is love that i'm feeling
and i knew then that the scars of childhood terrors and memories ran deeper than any shared love.
and i knew then.
take me home. please....
she said those words. she said those words to me. and i loved her though i shouldn't.
3.
all that ever was, or ever could be, was here right now.
here.
i tried to pretend it wasn't happening, as if pretence could ward off the inevitable in the same way that a crucifix or a garland of garlic could ward off a vampire, but we both knew that what was happening was as much a ritual of fate as was the symmetry of the hour that wove the thread of minutes about us like a daisy chain.
we held fast to the myth of the moment and clung to it in silent desperation in a way that, with the gift of hindsight, was as funny as it was tragic.
one love, one life, when it's one need in the night
tragic like a pantomime horse or a clown with a painted smile and wounded, weeping eyes.
painful.
brutal.
honest?
sometimes though honesty is no substitute for self centred self deception but even so, we couldn't fail to realise the fundamental facts.
this was all there ever was.
and this was all there would ever be.
you see, love isn't just the falling in. that bit is easy. it is the falling out and then climbing back up that fucking big hole that really counts. climbing back up and out and reaffirming what real love is all about.
for a moment, a fraction of a time, i forgot. i saw my own hurt rise up like a hillside and i cowered down in front of such an obstacle. i cowered down and saw toffee love. sticky and sweet and available. but real love kicks ass. and i do love. i always have loved and always will love.
and the one love remains.
the pain that was then has passed and is nothing now but distant forgetfulness and toffee love is still a sweet taste.
but that is all it is.
and the one love remains.
one love, one life.
.
.
.
Waters Edge (Conclusion)
.
.
Could you see me if I got any closer?
If you looked over your shoulder
And saw the mirrors reflection grazed onto the moon?
This is not the time for dim recall
Nor for the dewy eyed remembrance
Of the lost days spent star gazing and skimming stones.
We wrote our history in chalk dust
So that the winds of memory
Would blow and cast those thoughts away like crumbs.
Warm as honeysuckle and sudden as nicotine.
I remember the first collision of our eyes from across a silent room. A silence filled with the hubris of business. A spark that flew at acute angles and bounced around the distance between us like Morse code. A semaphore signal that rode on wings of lust and damp desire.
Of all the gin joints in all the world you had to walk into mine.
Funny that.
The way that quote floated into my mind at just the same time as my eyes were undressing her.
As she was undressing me.
The strange, inexplicable magic weaved its drunken spell and we both became intoxicated by its voodoo.
The Gris Gris and the chicken bone.
Shake them.
Shake them.
Days bled into weeks and the turmoil of our lives twisted knotted desires between us and neither one of us could break the cord. And ironically neither one of us could break the vows we had made those years gone by.
Loyalty or fear? Maybe elements of both.
The age gap played no part. It really didn’t come into the equation. Commitment did and there was none on offer. None we could truthfully deliver.
She danced before me and threw off her blouse and we kissed and promised the stars to each other but all we had to offer was a fistful of rose dust.
I would have tasted those lips forever. I would have parted those thighs and laid my heart in her hand but that old devil, commitment and loyalty, and the love of children, strode between us with a vow.
She entered my life like summer and just as soon as seasons change she was gone.
2.
i want you to take me on the front of a car
whilst the rain falls and soaks us to the bone
she said those words. she said those words to me. and i loved her though i shouldn't.
i had never seen teeth so white or eyes so blue before. pearls and sapphires. sapphires and pearls.
her tongue tasted of stale cigarettes and the taste made me glad that i didn't smoke.
the sun stroked the car like the golden hand of god caressing a cat and the promise of days stretched out before us.
a myth in the making but a pleasant one.
she undid my shirt and sucked upon my nipples and then kissed my stomach with the flutter kiss of butterfly lips.
i sighed a smug and self satisfied sigh and thought that there must be a god in heaven that has blessed me with forbidden kisses that fell from my chest to my midriff to my waist.
down.
down.
i placed my hands on her knees and prised her legs apart and she screamed. the sound shattered the moment as though stones thrown against stained glass.
what's wrong? honey, what's wrong?
she wept tears of poisoned jade from those gorgeous azure eyes.
she spoke in staccato syllables that bruised against her sobs and told me of a step father with his ivy hands and worm withered loins. she spoke of dark days and even darker nights and of a mother who knew but looked the other way with blinkered eyes. of a man who whispered honeyed threats and wanted secrets sinister kept silent and hidden like cobwebs in a coffin.
this is love, this is love that i'm feeling
and i knew then that the scars of childhood terrors and memories ran deeper than any shared love.
and i knew then.
take me home. please....
she said those words. she said those words to me. and i loved her though i shouldn't.
3.
all that ever was, or ever could be, was here right now.
here.
i tried to pretend it wasn't happening, as if pretence could ward off the inevitable in the same way that a crucifix or a garland of garlic could ward off a vampire, but we both knew that what was happening was as much a ritual of fate as was the symmetry of the hour that wove the thread of minutes about us like a daisy chain.
we held fast to the myth of the moment and clung to it in silent desperation in a way that, with the gift of hindsight, was as funny as it was tragic.
one love, one life, when it's one need in the night
tragic like a pantomime horse or a clown with a painted smile and wounded, weeping eyes.
painful.
brutal.
honest?
sometimes though honesty is no substitute for self centred self deception but even so, we couldn't fail to realise the fundamental facts.
this was all there ever was.
and this was all there would ever be.
you see, love isn't just the falling in. that bit is easy. it is the falling out and then climbing back up that fucking big hole that really counts. climbing back up and out and reaffirming what real love is all about.
for a moment, a fraction of a time, i forgot. i saw my own hurt rise up like a hillside and i cowered down in front of such an obstacle. i cowered down and saw toffee love. sticky and sweet and available. but real love kicks ass. and i do love. i always have loved and always will love.
and the one love remains.
the pain that was then has passed and is nothing now but distant forgetfulness and toffee love is still a sweet taste.
but that is all it is.
and the one love remains.
one love, one life.
.
.
.
Waters Edge (Conclusion)
.
.
Could you see me if I got any closer?
If you looked over your shoulder
And saw the mirrors reflection grazed onto the moon?
This is not the time for dim recall
Nor for the dewy eyed remembrance
Of the lost days spent star gazing and skimming stones.
We wrote our history in chalk dust
So that the winds of memory
Would blow and cast those thoughts away like crumbs.
Now and Forever More (Strangers on the Street)
All my sadness weeping tears down on your streets
All our lusts are now stains upon our sheets
Could this have been so short awhile ago? This love of ours now an imagined never mind. My hand still winces from the absence of yours that would cling to me with sticky innocence and the promise of something more.
Tongues.
Scents.
Forbidden bruises.
The angles of this affair were sharp and refined and detailed with the strangest of hieroglyphs like Chinese whispers carved into porcelain. As fragile as virginity. As cold and redundant as old metaphors such as fast as a cheetah or as swift as a mamba. A banquet of chilled meats left out for tiny mouths to feast on.
And the twenty first century spins its cold devices devoid of humane concerns.
Was it just the wheel spinning another neat trick or did my heart mean anything to you at all? Just my naïve child mind that spoke its usual dull wisdoms and clichéd truths that amused you and made me wince.
Makes me wince still.
I could be your hero. I could levitate for you. Make small objects disappear and reappear like tarots cards being turned. But voodoo didn’t/doesn’t impress you does it? Nothing but smoke and mirrors with me desperate to polish the glass that slides between you and me.
An insect on a slide.
A stone in a bottle.
All our lusts are now stains upon our sheets
Could this have been so short awhile ago? This love of ours now an imagined never mind. My hand still winces from the absence of yours that would cling to me with sticky innocence and the promise of something more.
Tongues.
Scents.
Forbidden bruises.
The angles of this affair were sharp and refined and detailed with the strangest of hieroglyphs like Chinese whispers carved into porcelain. As fragile as virginity. As cold and redundant as old metaphors such as fast as a cheetah or as swift as a mamba. A banquet of chilled meats left out for tiny mouths to feast on.
And the twenty first century spins its cold devices devoid of humane concerns.
Was it just the wheel spinning another neat trick or did my heart mean anything to you at all? Just my naïve child mind that spoke its usual dull wisdoms and clichéd truths that amused you and made me wince.
Makes me wince still.
I could be your hero. I could levitate for you. Make small objects disappear and reappear like tarots cards being turned. But voodoo didn’t/doesn’t impress you does it? Nothing but smoke and mirrors with me desperate to polish the glass that slides between you and me.
An insect on a slide.
A stone in a bottle.
The hungry hours pass now with a ravenous appetite that consumes not our fond remembrances but all of our passions. With every bitter mouthful comes a new hurt.
The years will pass like sand sifting too quickly and you will regret this bitterest of memories.
Once upon a golden time we could have chased the stars and beaten them to the sun. We could have flown where angels didn’t have the nerve to go. Vigilantes in love. Desperados in lust who never knew the meaning of fear.
Of hurt.
Everything was you.
For you and about you.
You.
You.
You.
And me?
I will pass from your life but not quietly. I never did things by halves did I?
Now and forever more we will be Strangers on the street.
Willow Walking
the willow tree stood like a rasta god in the spectral silver moonlight. shimmering and shivering beside the lake with its roots buried years deep into the soft soil.
the moon haunted its upper boughs and flickers of light touched the candle yellow bark.
it stood like a sentinel guarding the portal of some other worldly kingdom.
a solitary giant who had lived for many lives of men and who had borne many a man-child upon his arched limbs.
a lifetime of gazing at a lake becomes monotonous after awhile and this night, this singularly special night, the willow made up its mind to go a walking.
and, having pulled its roots away from their long time nesting place with a squelching sound he went out a walking.
down by the muddy thames where history bleeds into the vast wet spaces and where rats run free whilst rodents of a different variety harbour mysterious secrets.
he went out a walking.
past the statues of war heroes whose chests heave with posthumous praise for the crimes they committed against humanity for the sake of queen, empire and the self satisfied belief of their posterity.
past merchants fat and wealthy who stagger beneath the weight of their own proclaimed divinity whilst poets and painters still linger on the south bank with spectral whores and tinkers who, in times past, had their heads removed and displayed upon wooden stakes to let a cowering world know that this is no place for your foot to fall.
he went out a walking.
down corridors and alleyways built on the backbone and blood spill of the underclass of ireland.
and of scotland and india and every other damn continent or country you would care to name. down streets with cracked pavements covered with the sin of sons and the shit, spit,old blood of fathers who sat in cold rooms at wooden benches and scribbled elegant notes into ledgers broad and thick with only a tallow wicked candle for company and light. where dickens and collins would pace gas lit avenues for to seek inspiration.
and further back.
much further back, will shakespeare supped ale with both sir francis bacon and christopher marlowe whilst a hidden audience, not yet born, would, years on, dispute who wrote what and with whom.
he went out a walking.
through the fog of time that clings like a pilgrim to the architecture of saints. past high rise blocks and low life scandals. past palaces and playgrounds and cathedrals tall 'n squat 'n vast 'n beautiful.
and ugly.
wren and hawksmore.
beauty and the beast.
past the clock of freedom that chimes its toll loud upon the hour of every hour of every day for now and forever more while beneath its bells peacock’s parade as if they were druids wrapped in the sanctuary of politics who bandy sharp words with dull witted ease but with little regard for those who pay their wages.
he went out a wandering.
past fields of green where flax haired maidens curtsey and tombombadillo's doff their quaint little caps with subservient ease and willows fingers scrape the grass. ponies and paupers lead each other round and down with nodding heads and belly’s that rumble. past tents and pavilions and the merriment of ages that pours out a music to praise false gods. he nodded, sage like, to the other willows and walked on.
he went out a wandering.
up mountains and hillsides where vagabonds gather armed with passion and hope and brute ugly pistols that pump out destruction in the shattered belief of a nations dreaming but without their dreams all hopes are false. past the sand dune out backs where children go barefoot and the worlds riches are fought over with falsehoods and threats while tribes still gather in group herd mentality to curse the stranger who looks nothing like them. where religion constrains you and places only more shackles on the human heart. and god has no face. and god has no humour. and god has no soul.
he went on a wandering.
over cumulus and nimbus that gather on high to bless us with rain that feeds the world but cannot wash away our sordid stains. past stars bright and distant that sparkle like cocaine. onwards and evermore he strode past constellations and supernovas that burned brighter than memory and wormholes that shrunk star systems from infinity to over there in a blinking of an eye.
a n d onwards he walked past angels and demons of perfection and purity with wings that spanned suns and eyes that matched the deepest night.
he went on a wandering until finally he came to a tree so vast that the eye could not hold it and from its cradle of roots life fell like raindrops.
"hello" he said
and the vast tree replied.
"hello"
"who are you?" asked the tree
"everything and always, but let's not worry about names and stuff i am the creator, you know the one that spun all these stars and suns and planets. i made it all happen"
"you are god?" he said this with a degree of awe.
"I guess so although that sounds suspiciously like a man made concept to me. don't worry though i don't get so easily offended as their particular invention seems to."
"but if i was rude to you or called you vile names and besmirched your name THEN you would be offended right? then you would send down pestilence and famine as by way of retribution?"
"do i look like a psychopath to you? i may have created everything but i sure as hell do not rule my creation like a savage and primitive king. you are beginning to sound less like a tree and more like a man by the minute. you see man's problem has always been to try and shackle me to their tribal logic. i do not go in for revenge and nothing that mankind does can offend me except for perhaps their random, ritualistic slaughtering of each other. i do wish that they wouldn't attempt to make me seem like them. man like and low."
the tree looked long and hard at the magnificent other tree and said, "you are very big and tree like."
"i can be what ever size you want me to be and i am all shapes to all things but i am NOT a man and man is NOT created in my image. life is the most precious of my gifts and you and every living thing should remember that and live their lives accordingly. if you need to understand my laws then simply look around you. they are there for every living thing to see."
the tree nodded in affirmation and perhaps grasped the wisdom of truth that mankind has thus far failed to grasp. life, in all its varied aspects is diverse and living with all that diversity takes a deal of love, understanding and tolerance. there are no wrongs. there are no rights. there simply is.
life.
"what about religion?" said the tree
"there is no relgion on the moon and i created that too."
with this the tree turned back the way he had come and returned to his home by the lake.
the moon haunted its upper boughs and flickers of light touched the candle yellow bark.
it stood like a sentinel guarding the portal of some other worldly kingdom.
a solitary giant who had lived for many lives of men and who had borne many a man-child upon his arched limbs.
a lifetime of gazing at a lake becomes monotonous after awhile and this night, this singularly special night, the willow made up its mind to go a walking.
and, having pulled its roots away from their long time nesting place with a squelching sound he went out a walking.
down by the muddy thames where history bleeds into the vast wet spaces and where rats run free whilst rodents of a different variety harbour mysterious secrets.
he went out a walking.
past the statues of war heroes whose chests heave with posthumous praise for the crimes they committed against humanity for the sake of queen, empire and the self satisfied belief of their posterity.
past merchants fat and wealthy who stagger beneath the weight of their own proclaimed divinity whilst poets and painters still linger on the south bank with spectral whores and tinkers who, in times past, had their heads removed and displayed upon wooden stakes to let a cowering world know that this is no place for your foot to fall.
he went out a walking.
down corridors and alleyways built on the backbone and blood spill of the underclass of ireland.
and of scotland and india and every other damn continent or country you would care to name. down streets with cracked pavements covered with the sin of sons and the shit, spit,old blood of fathers who sat in cold rooms at wooden benches and scribbled elegant notes into ledgers broad and thick with only a tallow wicked candle for company and light. where dickens and collins would pace gas lit avenues for to seek inspiration.
and further back.
much further back, will shakespeare supped ale with both sir francis bacon and christopher marlowe whilst a hidden audience, not yet born, would, years on, dispute who wrote what and with whom.
he went out a walking.
through the fog of time that clings like a pilgrim to the architecture of saints. past high rise blocks and low life scandals. past palaces and playgrounds and cathedrals tall 'n squat 'n vast 'n beautiful.
and ugly.
wren and hawksmore.
beauty and the beast.
past the clock of freedom that chimes its toll loud upon the hour of every hour of every day for now and forever more while beneath its bells peacock’s parade as if they were druids wrapped in the sanctuary of politics who bandy sharp words with dull witted ease but with little regard for those who pay their wages.
he went out a wandering.
past fields of green where flax haired maidens curtsey and tombombadillo's doff their quaint little caps with subservient ease and willows fingers scrape the grass. ponies and paupers lead each other round and down with nodding heads and belly’s that rumble. past tents and pavilions and the merriment of ages that pours out a music to praise false gods. he nodded, sage like, to the other willows and walked on.
he went out a wandering.
up mountains and hillsides where vagabonds gather armed with passion and hope and brute ugly pistols that pump out destruction in the shattered belief of a nations dreaming but without their dreams all hopes are false. past the sand dune out backs where children go barefoot and the worlds riches are fought over with falsehoods and threats while tribes still gather in group herd mentality to curse the stranger who looks nothing like them. where religion constrains you and places only more shackles on the human heart. and god has no face. and god has no humour. and god has no soul.
he went on a wandering.
over cumulus and nimbus that gather on high to bless us with rain that feeds the world but cannot wash away our sordid stains. past stars bright and distant that sparkle like cocaine. onwards and evermore he strode past constellations and supernovas that burned brighter than memory and wormholes that shrunk star systems from infinity to over there in a blinking of an eye.
a n d onwards he walked past angels and demons of perfection and purity with wings that spanned suns and eyes that matched the deepest night.
he went on a wandering until finally he came to a tree so vast that the eye could not hold it and from its cradle of roots life fell like raindrops.
"hello" he said
and the vast tree replied.
"hello"
"who are you?" asked the tree
"everything and always, but let's not worry about names and stuff i am the creator, you know the one that spun all these stars and suns and planets. i made it all happen"
"you are god?" he said this with a degree of awe.
"I guess so although that sounds suspiciously like a man made concept to me. don't worry though i don't get so easily offended as their particular invention seems to."
"but if i was rude to you or called you vile names and besmirched your name THEN you would be offended right? then you would send down pestilence and famine as by way of retribution?"
"do i look like a psychopath to you? i may have created everything but i sure as hell do not rule my creation like a savage and primitive king. you are beginning to sound less like a tree and more like a man by the minute. you see man's problem has always been to try and shackle me to their tribal logic. i do not go in for revenge and nothing that mankind does can offend me except for perhaps their random, ritualistic slaughtering of each other. i do wish that they wouldn't attempt to make me seem like them. man like and low."
the tree looked long and hard at the magnificent other tree and said, "you are very big and tree like."
"i can be what ever size you want me to be and i am all shapes to all things but i am NOT a man and man is NOT created in my image. life is the most precious of my gifts and you and every living thing should remember that and live their lives accordingly. if you need to understand my laws then simply look around you. they are there for every living thing to see."
the tree nodded in affirmation and perhaps grasped the wisdom of truth that mankind has thus far failed to grasp. life, in all its varied aspects is diverse and living with all that diversity takes a deal of love, understanding and tolerance. there are no wrongs. there are no rights. there simply is.
life.
"what about religion?" said the tree
"there is no relgion on the moon and i created that too."
with this the tree turned back the way he had come and returned to his home by the lake.
The Wisdom of Crows (parts 1&2)
1. Ballad In Dust.
2. Crow Blues in Black
the wind blew a lick of dust. it blew around her head like a halo. like a galaxy of dirt orbiting a sunken star.
she felt like a ghost. a ghost that haunted the deep dark hollows of night. and this night all she had to offer was a confusion of thoughts and a skerry of emotions that rose out of the distant frame of flirtatious nods and winks.
a dangerous game. a game of lust and longing and make believe.
pretend.
as fake as the concrete cattle at Milton Keynes.
somewhere below a car changed gear and a red light changed to amber.
"technology. remote and distant and calculating but oh, so effective. erotic even. we humans rely upon the cold heart of our created science as though it were mothers love when in reality all it is is a series of binary codes. digital counters that effect the way we think and behave."
she knew the remote love of computers and worshipped at the cruel screen of a cold machine.
"my lifeline. my bold infamy."
her hands trembled as she touched the passionless glass of the window that held her to this world. beneath her the traffic rumbled. a clarion call from the romance of suicide.
she thought again of moist love. of fingers and tongues and the rumour of his loins. but a rumour is not reality and remote lust rides chill vectors.
her thoughts drifted. a paper cup that floated upon the sewage of failed sensibilities.
gravity is but a sullen mistress and she felt icy fingers clutch at her ankles and her wrists. the call of gravity was as remorsless and inevitable as the seasons.
the wind blew a lick of dust. it flew around her like a halo and the dust of her dreams followed her down like a trail of tears.
2. Crow Blues in Black
i sit beside a swollen old crow whose beak has cracked more shells and skinned more bones than time has time to tell.
His eyes are of jet and are so deeply black that they reflect my own face back at me.
within his eyes exists another universe with galaxies and constellations all of its own where the daily doings of any intelligent life forms are observed by a bird.
a bird as black as famine.
i wonder that for every crow that lives and breathes, is there a parallel universe existing in each birds eye? and when the bird dies, as every bird must, does the universe that spins its unique existence within that black environment die along with the bird? or does it go spinning on in an independent life cycle? spinning and turning and burning its own bright stars and suns?
who knows?
the evening drags a charcoal blanket across my sky. a blanket infused with the distant glitter of time blessed stars. stars that speak in silent flickers of ancient days. days of dream triumph. whenever i watch the snow fall it makes me feel like i am falling into a wealth of stars.
stars. fallen heroes or forgotten angels?
who knows?
maybe just lights hung within the dreamtime.
i look at the crow and the crow, with head crooked to one side, looks back at me. we know where we sit and who we are. we know our place in this world and we know how the fates confide not in the doings of man but in the ways of birds and beasts and insects.
below us the traffic grumbles a discordant sound, the sound of brakes being applied and horns being punched. life is a blur of tail lights that fade into a rapidly moving wide angle screen.
above us a murder of crows moves down like a dark storm cloud. the coming together of the carrion fowl.
a sudden wind blows a halo of dust that converges above our heads and then spirals away to below us. below us a woman sits with sunken eyes and talon fingers that cling in quiet desperation to a glass pane.
the crow shakes his heavy wings and with a practised ease takes flight.
worlds spin in the eyes of crows and the days of men are numbered but still a single life matters.
dust swirls into a nebulae of infinite possibilities that froth and fail in the winds currents as the crow plummets like a dead object. head thrust forward. wings pinned back. a black missile with a singular focus in its beady black eyes.
the ramshackle congregation of crows all wait with baited breath and beady eye as the old crow plummets.
the woman falls like blood spilling from an open wound and is surprised to note that time slows as if to make the moment of freefall last. punishment perhaps or a time for belated reflection. she see's the earth spin and rush to greet her whilst her own body falls in slo-mo time. she hears a roar of sound, like blood in the ears and then she see's the crow beside her. wings now open with wingtip feathers held out the like a clawed hand. she see's in his eyes wisdom beyond reckoning and briefly she smiles as heaven gazes into her and lights her pallid face and then she smashes into the cold, hard, uncaring concrete of the pavement sidewalk.
the heavens turn black and the sound of wings fills the air.
later, when the crow has settled back down beside me and i have finished shaking from the shock of it all he turns to me and with open beak says.
"no one should pass from this life alone"
i nod and consider the wisdom of crows.
The House of Bright Star
Above him the steps bent high and twisted and were surrounded by sweet William and dark, damp, green moss.
He saw the steps and counted them.
Thirteen.
The eleventh step was deeply cracked and wet and it looked treacherous.
He must remember that.
He started to climb.
The steps were very old, ancient even and appeared to be carved as though by Norse giants. Various colours and hues ran through the stone steps as though they were veins.
Veins of violet.
Veins of vermilion and bright, bitter ochre.
He could have sworn that he saw the veins pulsating and did a double take to reassure himself that he wasn't imagining things.
He wasn't.
Warm blood felt cold within him. He felt a dark, sickly taste in his mouth like a vile aftertaste of honey slick bile.
He spat.
Blinked.
Shook his head and looked up again at the steps.
Fifteen.
He moved swiftly so as to cover the steps as quickly as possible while still observing a degree of care.
He climbed spider like. Hands and knees and claw like fingers.
As he reached the fifth step he saw, nestled among the green sweet William and moss, a freshly severed foot. Cleanly cut and with congealed dried blood clinging to the evenly sliced remains.
Vomit moved a sluggish finger that wormed its way to his throat.
He swallowed and grimaced.
He didn't stop but kept going, taking great care not to slip as his strides took him ever higher up.
He reached the summit and looked back down at the steps.
Thirteen.
A raven cawed a greeting.
A warning.
A distressed sound of broken fingers scrabbling over tin.
Before him was a door.
Blood red and shiny with a brass knocker but no letter box.
He reached out his hand and gripped the knocker.
The door opened to his touch and a midget with stone black, blue bottle eyes greeted him.
"Yes?"
"I was looking to find shelter."
"Not here. You'll find no sanctuary here."
A silence descended like the sky at night. Slow and black and tired. A voice called from behind the midget.
"Let him enter Casparian. Let me see him."
Together, the midget and the man walked through the door frame.
A clock hissed a tock.
They walked together, the midget in front and the man following. Down a corridor that smelt of nicotine and sex. The walls looked to be made of flesh. Pink and raw and sentient.
The midget lead the man into a sparse room that had no furniture apart from an empty leather chair that sat in front of a vast glass window.
The glass window looked out upon a mottled land that was bereft of grass and was covered with a dust that could have been ash or black sand.
The voice that gainsaid entry spoke again.
"Welcome friend, welcome to my house. How may I help and what brings you here?"
The wayfarer looked upon this man and was startled to note his beauty and obvious charm.
He was tall but not overly so and stood about six foot two. He was grey eyed with a burnished cooper skin tone. His hair was white and yet he did not seem old. Ageless perhaps but not old. Ancient beyond reason but still not old.
"I was looking to find sanctuary from the approaching storm and when I saw your house I thought I would ask if I may rest here awhile."
"Indeed? It is not often that we have visitors here. Would you like something to drink? Some water perhaps?"
The man was awe struck by his surroundings. A pale blue room with just the one chair and some minimalist art that hung small on one wall. The painting was a depiction of angels who were obviously talking to or listening to some one out of frame.On their faces was the instantly recognisable look of worship or maybe fear.
"Water would be fine. Thank you."
He moved to the window and looked down upon the scene below. Something was moving on the dust bowl plain. Something large and man like with a huge tail that kicked up dust so that it billowed out behind him like a cloud. But it wasn't dust that flocked above the man things head but a host of flies that canopied him like a winged umbrella.
The man again spoke to the beautiful stranger.
"Your home is distinguished and unique. Was it custom built?"
"I designed it whilst others built it. Do you like it?"
Not wishing to cause offence the man said he did."Have you lived here long?"
"For the better part of my life. Many years ago I had to leave my home. I had a dreadful argument with my father and moved out. I settled here and with some friends built the home you see."
"What about your mother?"
"My mother?"
"How did she take your moving away. Mothers are very protective."
"So I am told. Unfortunately, I never knew my mother."
They both stood by the window peering down onto the vastness below. There was an energy about the tall figure. A silent power that emanated in an almost tangible way.
From behind them the midget scurried forward carry a jug of water and a tall crystal glass.
"Ah, your refreshment has arrived."
He took the glass and placed it against his lips taking down a large draught of the freshest water he had drunk.
"You were thirsty. Are you sure that there is nothing else you want? Anything at all?"
"That was wonderful, and thank you, but it is sufficient."
The men gazed at each other like two flamingo's. Elegant and pale. And then the wayfarer spoke.
"Forgive me for being so bold but you are very beautiful. I have never seen any man before who was as attractive as you. You have the look of an angel."
The man smiled an even smile and his eyes sparkled like diamonds.
"Angel indeed. I am the Angel and one who has forgotten the common courtesies. Forgive me.Please allow me to introduce myself for I am a man of wealth and taste. . ."
baby
the baby looked different to other babies.
not disfigured not deformed.
just different.
something about the eyes.
something about the teeth.
"he is awfully good", said the rose hip smelling mother, "sleeps all night and never wakes up once. as long as he is fed he is good as gold"
the other woman looked down defensively at her squalling offspring. face puce with bubbles of snot spilling down his vermilion chin.
"wayne is good he just never seems to get enough of anything. sleep. food. me"
the two mothers wheeled their buggy's over to the shade of an old oak. it was late spring and all the magnolia trees had shed their blossom leaving an eiderdown of bruised pink and white upon the parks surface. the oak was a forerunner to the ancient woodland that lay behind it. verdant and hushed.
the rose hip mother pulled out a blanket from the cradle at the bottom of the buggy.as she did this and unseen by either her or the other mother, her tiny offspring, with eyes of deepest jet, opened his jaws in a yawn. yellow pinprick teeth connected to gluttonous strings of saliva. he smacked his teeth to together and stared beyond his mother into the woodland at her back. a slow wind softly blew a fistful of leaves over his mothers feet.
"here we go", said mother rose hip placing the blanket gently on the ground, " a nice spot to picnic".
waynes mother looked around and saw, some fifty feet away, a fox. muddy red with a tatty brush.
"look", she said as the fox sprung about and ran away, "did you see that?"
baby teeth's eyes flashed shark like and he made a sibilant hiss like snakesong. his mother said "what?"
"nothing", replied baby snots mother, "its gone".
they placed their two babies, still in their buggy's, at opposite corners of the blanket and set a plastic Tesco bag, containing a bottle of lemonade, bags of crisps and two babies feeding cups, at the centre.
"come on", said rose hip, "what did you see?"
"a fox. dirty and cruel. a fox".
"oh i love wildthings". said rose hip "i wish i'd seen it. nevermind. lets go and get the kids some ice cream shall we?"
"i dunno", said waynes mum, "do you think it will be alright? what with that fox around and all and leaving the kids on their own?"
"yeah, course. foxes don't hurt kids besides we ain't going far. we'll only be a couple of ticks. come on".
they crossed the short distance to the parks tea room where tea, coffee and ice cream were served and sold. the mild may sunlight, soft and warming, suddenly blinked out as a dark cloud slipped across the sun.
"looks like its going to rain", said mother rose hip looking up at white birds on a black sky as thunderheads scudded across the sky like battleships, "where did they come from?"
from her side an explosive scream burst out from her friends throat startling her and the other people in the park cafe.
"GET AWAY". she bellowed
Get away you brute" she screamed again.
the fox had crept up close to her baby's buggy and now, upon hearing the shouts and screams of the two women, both now running at him, the fox took flight.
the two women covered the ground in a matter of moments.
rose hips baby sat in his buggy with his bland face and his black eyes and held out his arms to his mother. she picked him up, momentarily puzzled to find that she had left him unbuckled. he could have fallen out and hurt himself she thought.
waynes mum screamed again. a blood chilling heart rending sound. her baby sat with his throat a bloody torn gash like the red mouth of a scarecrow. his eyes rolled up and staring sightless at the obsidian sky.
"the fox, the fox, that fucking evil fox. oh my baby. my baby"
she sobbed and crushed the lifeless body of her son to her.
rose hips son watched and licked his lips and wiped the back of his pudgy hand across his mouth. above them the sky darkened to a deep sable.
it started to rain.
reflection
the rain fell hard against his forehead like rice thrown at a wedding. it stung his eyes. it stung his skin. he looked up and saw the sea. and the sand. and the pier. the pier slunk out into the grey horizon like the skeletal finger of a corpse. he looked down at his feet and saw that they were naked and bereft of shoes or socks. he didn't understand and tried to remember why he was dressed like this. a grey suit. no shoes. no shirt. no tie. bare foot and stumbling. he couldn't remember why he was dressed like this nor could he remember why he was here or indeed who he was.
he blinked. and blinked again. the rain still stung but he felt that blinking might trigger his mind to think. to remember. it didn't. he was here. that was all that mattered. he didn't know why but he had better just follow the course of his instinct and intuition. follow it to hopefully find his memory.
the beach or the pier?
the pier.
yes, the pier.
he stuffed his hands into his suit pockets and continued to walk. over the pavement and onto the wooden slats and planks of the pier. he heard the sound of the gulls screeching over head like babies crying. like babies screaming.
children.
blood.
vast amounts of blood.
images flickered in slo-mo and cut and paste but they made no sense.
children and blood.
whose children? whose blood?
seagulls and sand and sea and the leaden heavy sky.
and the pier.
the wind blew in strong gusts that tore at his hair and his clothing and made breathing into its force an accomplishment. there was something in his memory. something bubbling like tar, slow and thick. something that niggled at the periphery of his consciousness. something that he couldn't bring, struggling and howling, to the surface of his thoughts.
forget it. don't force it. it will return when it is ready to. walk. just walk.
he walked on and saw in front of him a dead gull. white feathers wet with rain. long dead but moving. he could see its chest moving as though breathing and yet its eyes were gone and its beak was frozen open in the echo of a cry. but there was no sound. just the bizarre movement. then he saw what it was. from death and rancid corruption comes life. the bird was filled with maggots that fed upon its decaying flesh giving it the illusion of movement. beside the bird was a empty can of coke that was rolling wherever the wind willed it to go. red and empty and bent like a mouth. a womans mouth. red lips. lipstick. varnished nails. white teeth. a sensual mouth curled like a cupids bow.
the memory hit him like a train. a woman's face. beautiful. smiling. who was the woman? wife? sister? lover? friend? mother? no. not mother. not sister. who?
he felt a hot wave of nausea flood through him. a powerful desire to vomit. he hung over the railings and threw up. clumps of spew and spitle splashed down into the waters below. he felt weak and clung onto the railings. hands white knuckles of gripped tension. he brought his hand up to his forehead and massaged it. placing his fingers at the top of his nose and pressing firmly into his eyes sockets. he screwed his face into a tight bunch of lines and then suddenly snapped his eyes and jaws wide open like the shutter on a camera. he did this several times over and then spat into the ocean. he took a lungful of air and walked on.
an elderly couple saw him and asked if he was OK? he said he was and hurriedly moved on. their eyes followed with dark suspicion etched on their eyes.
the pain in his head grew worse. from a dull ache it had grown to a black throb. he tried again massaging his temple but the hurt wouldn't stop. he wandered from one side of the pier to the other. he once again leaned over the railings gazing at the waves below and then back toward the shoreline. the beach was empty. it was too cold and too wet for anyone to sit or play on. he could see in his mind though an image of families gathered in summer sunlight. children playing beachball. children splashing into the shallow surf and screaming in pleasure. children screaming.
children.
his children? yes, that was it. he had children. he was certain of it. he couldn't see their faces though. couldn't remember their names nor their genders but he had children.
the woman then must be his wife. mustn't she?
the mother to his children?
again the desire to vomit overcame him. he retched until his ribs hurt and tears fell from his eyes and rolled down his face and burnt his cheeks. he thrust his hand into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. he wanted to clear his nose and wipe his eyes from the mucus that was flowing down. he brought the cloth up to his eyes and stopped short. a small whimper escaped from his lips. the handerkerchief was covered in blood. dry blood. a red rag of congealed plasma.
for a moment all he could do was to stare at it uncomprehendingly. then he dropped the thing into the ocean.
snapshot memories. frozen instances. womans face. screaming. bloody axe rising and falling. children huddling. bloody axe chopping. blood spurting. jaw missing. limbs severed. a foot. a hand. a hank of hair.
screams and screams and silence.
still silence.
sepulchral silence.
the handerkerchief spun in the sea spilling its blood and spilling its memories. he uttered a long and piercing shriek. the elderly couple turned momentarily to stare before hurriedly moving on.
he fell on his knees and started to cry.
memory returned in haunted whispers.
painful and inexorable.
he saw his beautiful wife. slashed and bloodied and dismembered. fish eyed and mutilated. his children too. a tangled ruin of limbs and bodyparts. there was blood everywhere. on the walls. on the ceiling. on the floor. he was walking in puddles of blood. he was sreaming and sceaming and screaming. the self same syllable over and over and over again.
no.
No.
NO!
and then he had seen the face of the man.
a man he didn't know.
a man who towered over the bloody corpses covered in gore and bits of flesh.
the face of the killer.
he had ran. he didn't know why he had ran but he had ran.
he had ran as though the devil was after him.
he ran as though all the hordes of hades were chasing him.
he had ran to the beach. to the pier.
and he was running again. back down the length of the pier. back toward the scene of the slaughter. back for revenge and justice. he ran into the elderly couple and knocked the old man over. the woman shouted after him. he ran on.
claws of desperation clawed at his guts and he ran on.
he had to find a policeman. a cop. he had to tell them. had to warn them. he ran on.
had tell them about the man.
he ran on although his legs felt slugish.
he ran on although his lungs felt they would burst.
he ran on for two or three hundred yards.
he ran on toward where he could see the glass front of the pier.
he ran on to where he could see the police standing in a group of four.
he ran on with his arms windmilling a frantic semaphor to the police.
he ran on covered in sweat and panic and fear.
he tried shouting but his voice was but a hoarse croak.
names came to him. the names of the dead. the names of his wife and children. angie and sophie and archie. he wanted to weep but he ran on.
he ran on and he could see that the police had seen him. they were speaking into their lapel communicators.
he ran into their arms and felt the cruel snap of steel as it encircled his wrists. confused he tried again to speak but could only manage a dull croak. his confusion turned to anguished bewilderment as the police smashed his head against the cold glass of the piers windows and he saw the face of the killer.
the killer of his wife. of his children. of his family.
he saw the killers face.
his face.
kiss the spider
i have a nail on the end of my finger.
it is long and hooked and yellow.
i don't use it to clean the filth and snot from my nose nor do i rake it along my lovers back in moments of animal passion.
i don't have a lover.
i don't have anyone. just me. and the nail.
i am very good with my nail.
not subtle but swift and good.
as a child the other children would tease me calling me cruel names and chanting puerile rhymes. they would encircle me and sing 'Kiss the spider, kiss the spider' over and over again. i hated them and i hated their bovine stupidity and their callous cruelty. they called me 'Spider' because i was tall and thin and gangly and because i didn't play with them but preferred my own company.
solitude has never frightened me. i have always been a loner. i have always viewed life as if through a widow with me on the outside and every body else inside. after all eagles do not flock do they?
as i grew, and the first few confusing and belittling hairs sprung out upon my body in places that were too embarrassing to confess to, i would watch the girls in the school changing room through a hole some other perverted boy had carved and i would observe them naked and tender. with their odd and yet distinctly beautiful shape, even though my mother had said that naked girls were a blasphemy i thought otherwise, with breasts that, newly formed, held a promise of teeth and bites and knife wounds and their triangle of downy hair that arrowheaded the way to their secret, bitter sweet holes that i coverted with desires as nameless and as dark as sin. i watched them and felt waves of strange sensations flood through me that i neither understood nor had the means or wherewithal to act upon.
but time was on my side and i waited, spinning my webs of deceit and black designs.
i would be made to take part in the sporting activities but hated every last minute of it and would look forward to when the games were over and i could shower with the other boys. i would watch them with their muscles that rippled and flexed and their small erections that fascinated me and that i so wanted to grip with my teeth and suck and rend and tear from their primitive, mute pale bodies.
but time was on my side and i waited, spider like, poised and poisonous.
sam clarkdale was the first. he thought that i was homosexual like him and i let him stick his puny penis into me and grunt and wheeze like a brute boar and when he had satisfied himself on me and stood with his heavy shoulders heaving from his bovine activity, i stole up behind him and slit his throat and removed his eyes.
even then i was very good with my nail.
i kept his eyes in jar that i filled with formaldehyde and i hid it safely away where no one but me would think to look. the police found his body but there were no obvious clues as to who could have committed such a foul deed and they, like sams eyes, were left totally in the dark.
it was years before i committed my second act and it was the first time i enjoyed my sexual self fully. anita was a dark haired, pale skinned girl with large breasts, large eyes and long legs. she always waited for either her father of her boyfriend to collect her from the farm where she worked and then to drive her home. that night it was dry and warm and there had been a fire in the town that had lead to the roads being blocked and anita had to wait for her normal collection.
i took her to a field and tied her hands behind her back. i placed a plastic bag over her head and watched giggling as she struggled to find breath. her body convulsed and her legs kicked in a spastic motion that filled me with wonder and powerful desires. and then with a stanley knife i slit all her clothes from her and then, as she was close to suffocation with her eyes rolling up white and sightless and her lips turning blue, i removed the bag and she dragged in desperate mouthfulls of air. she trembled in a delicious fashion and looked at me with utter horror and despair. i cut her eyes out and then removed her genitalia placing both into my jar. my magic jar. her breasts i sliced of and then, realising that they wouldn't fit into my jar, i paired the nipples away from the rest and burnt the remains on a fire. she was still alive and i had an erection the size of which i had never had before and i thrust it into her mouth where i ejaculated and watched as she choked to her death.
that was years ago and there have been many more. many, many more.
i stand in silent shadows and watch as the children walk by. herds of them. pink and frail and succulent. i watch the women with their bad taste in clothes and their equally bad taste in men and i think of how i could use my nail on them. on their weak flesh. on their eyes.
obviously the authorities are aware of, if not my identity, then the fact that there is someone out there preying on them like a hawk preys on mice.
they dream of catching me, the police and the terrified citizens, and one day they will and they will administer their pointless judgements on me who neither cares nor harbours any respect for their fragile society for in truth the fabric of their feeble society is tissue thin and there will always be people like me who stand outside their pathetic regulations.
they will chain and imprision me with neanderthals and cromagnum man who will make his own judgement and punish me in ways that they see befitting of my kind.
but i have prepared for that eventuallity and i will never be caught alive.
over time my jar collection has grown and no longer can i keep my items in just the one jar. now i have several. upon my shelves in my dusty, secluded place, i have eyes and breasts and penises and testicles and vaginas. they float in liquid glory in formaldehyde and they are my pride and joy.
no one sees them of course for after all i have a very singular taste but there is one who watches over them. one who keeps a vacant eye on them. one who maintains a silent vigil for me so that no one enters or trespass into my sacred vaults.
now a dried husk and still tied to the same chair that i bound her to when i tortured her to her ultimate death. eyeless. breastless and without the flesh that pushed me into this world blind and blinking and raw.
she is my guardian at the temple of my ruin.
my first female.
my mother.
waiting now.
waiting for me.
waiting to kiss the spider.
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