Creative Writing, Literature

His Uncovered Wife

Aha. The painting. I call it The Uncovered Wife. I took it from the storage boxes of the Syrian Prince, Faisal Raheem.

I was away at war, a dire time it was. The streets was full of golden sand rushing towards us like a billion bullets. There had been no gun fire for almost a week and I was beginning to appreciate the sound of the silent screams fleeing on the winds.

Their voices, running from me, running toward me and resonating within me. At first it tore away at the mind, conscience batteling with the patriarchal teachings. But then, as I have said, the sound of those voices in the wind served as a reminder that there was life outside of these barren dunes.

I had been convinced that all native life had seen its end. The life that I would again meet with would not be here; it would not be on my sweep. This was a daily thought and there was hope. I was interrupted by a hollow bang. It echoed through my body and soul. Was it hope it was it fear?  Until this day, I am unable to say.

I was alone in the world with nothing but the embrace of dying screams and golden bullets of the wind. I had even begun to question if I had survived the war, if I had made it out alive. Certainly not. There was no life about me, the was no life within me. But the bang.

I turned and turned again. In the distance I saw a house, a palace which had been under construction since we had arrived. I was sure it was empty, we all were. When the tanks drove us inland on the very first day we saw it. The crumbling walls and the blackend windows encourages our thoughts away from the possibility of finding inhabitants there. So we moved on.

The palace represented a choice, something that I did not understand at the time. You see, I could have continued on to the boarder and have been done with nationalism. It could not have been far off. Or, I could have gone in search of the unlikely inhabitants of the deserted palace, which I did.

When I found them, him, I felt that death had gripped us all. I, myself, was no inhabitant in that land of the living, for that land of the living did not exist for us. I stood over them, on my way to The Gates, had I not already unknowingly passed them. She lay there having already descended into a place from which there was no return. He lay beside her, deciding whether or not to follow her now or at another time.

It was a dark day. I remember the wind beating at the house. I went back in my mind, it was exactly as they helped us to understand it. If we did not fight relentlessly, they would come to and beat at our home. At our women, at our children, at our souls.

He shuffled. He pushed something back into a large wooden box that lay flat behind him. He looked into the box, then he looked at me and attempted to avert my gaze. He spoke and I stepped closer to the place where the box lay flat. That bang.

He sat up and moved away from the dead woman on the ground. His strength and energy took him towards the box. He shook. I remember the sound of his bones shaking.

I could see that he was dying and this was his dying wish, that I should not look inside the box. I disregarded any wish from a man that was capable of beating my home, my land, my women and my children. I stepped into the box and it crumbled under my feet. He tried to stand before me, but he crumbled just as the box did. I pushed him away with my foot and lifted the painting.

The naked, celestial body of the women, dead on the floor, stood before me; such grandeur beneath that burka. He looked up at me, searching my face for some sympathy and some remorse but there was none. There was only lust. He mumbled something to me in that dark room, I did not hear and when I managed to look away from the still beauty to him, I found that his body lay as lifeless as hers.

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Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Baby on Board

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This is a District Line train to Upminster. The next station is Gloucester Road. It was lightly air conditioned and artificially bright. It was early but not rush hour early, a little later than that perhaps. Only a few people stood but every seat was filled, so she stood there with her long, wiry, white hair wisping around her golden-bronze face. She was bent over a little reaching and shaking. It was as though it were winter and she’d forgotten to wear a coat. Most noticeable was her head which was bobbing up-down side-to-side involuntarily. Her lips were thin and cracked and very pink with a brown outline. Pocahontas!

Her hands struggled to find the green pole as the doors closed and the train jilted to commence the journey. She stumbled forward but did not fall. She had grabbed the pole for safety. Eyes were on her from all over and from above. Everyone watched the show of the hundred year old Pocahontas.

I looked away from her to scan my surroundings again. Eyes flitting between the show and the cats. Between the show and the makeup mirrors. Between the show and the Kindles. Everyone hoping that she might not fall, God forbid they delay this train for her sake, but all the same, noone willing to give up their seat.

The next station is Sloane Square. The train stopped. She went chest first into the pole. Someone gasped from the far end of the carriage. The seat behind her became free as a young man got up at the last minute and ran off the train. But before she could notice, for she was soothing her bruise with gentle strokes from her aged brown fingers, another young man jumped in the seat. He quite literally jumped. He had been inches away from her ever since South Kensington, holding onto the same pole she struggled with, never thinking to give her a hand. Thoughtless.

The girl opposite me saw it as well. She tutted, and when I turned to look at her tutting self, she pulled an ugly face as if to say what a shameful thing that was to do. I glared at her, stood up and pulled my whale of an ass over people’s feet to the old Pocahontas. It’s been too long.

“Hi,” I said to her in the softest voice I could conjure up. I was fuming. A single drop of warm water fell from my tear duct and crashed into my hand. I wiped it away. She pulled her arms around the green pole, holding on for dear life as she turned towards me. My legs, as wide as I had positioned them, could no longer support us so I was grabbing for the pole too.
“Hello,” she said to me with a croaky voice.
“Take my seat, please.” I said to her turning to point at the ash-white girl with pink lips sitting prim and proper with her A-line midi covering her knees and her breast bulging up out of the corset she wore with it. She was smiling and fiddling with her almost invisible necklace.

I don’t know where she came from, or how she got to my seat so quickly but I would get her out!

“YOU…” I began, addressing every dumb, ignorant and selfish ear that could hear me. Everyone who was not pregnant, disabled or elderly.

The old Pocahontas rested her paw upon my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it my dear,” she said, “leave them be. They’re not so bad, just preoccupied.” she said. I spun around to look at her again and held the rest of my disgust in my mouth. Once I had swallowed it down again, I felt faint. I pressed my hand into my back and then the train pushed my baby into the pole. Still, noone stood for the old Pocahontas or for me, the child bearing whale. Although her age was well etched into her face and my bulge was bouncing around and bruising, it was not enough for them.

The next station is Victoria, please change here for the Victoria Line, national rail services and Victoria coach station.I found that Pocahontas and I had the same stop. We made it on our feet until Victoria. Although we shouldn’t have. As she stood beside me and we stepped off the train onto the platform, I flooded both of our feet and crashed into my knees. She slipped on my waters and fell to her end in a moment.

It is true what they say. As one life comes into this world, one must go.

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Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Deuces

The string of 24 tiny light bulbs shook left and right and then left again. It had been doing this for hours but it was noticeable now because the lights had been turned on. A special request from the pair that sat under it. Pellets of rain battered the table top and bounced off into the mist of the incoming rain, rain that was being whipped around in the cold hard breath of nature.

She sat forward, on the edge of the bench, leaning over the table into him. He mirrored her, although he couldn’t lean too much, the bench on his side was loose and he was heavy. He held her wrists with a tight grip. She didn’t mind because she was used to it. He whispered something into her ear. She barely heard him over the waves of rain, but she heard enough. She flung her head back, her red lips parted as far as they could be and a jazz voice offered up some joy against the melencholy morning.

It was still dark, eclipse, they said it was. Her laughter called the attention of the staff inside the Sandria Coffee Shop. Then those who’d paid their custom that morning, and others who were around for the sake of temporary shelter, turned their attention to the two sitting outside.

The bench and table were damp and the two out on it were constantly wiping their foreheads and chins with various wet items. They squinted alot and raised their hands a lot, as if they were blocking the sun out of their eyes, which is bizarre because there was no sun – but they were having a perfectly normal conversation and enjoying it.

The onlookers, the in-lookers were victims of the thing some refer to as pathetic fallacy.  Too right it’s pathetic. They were victims not because of the torrential downpour but because they weren’t able to find a way to enjoy it. The common denominator was the inner rebuke shared by all of those inside. They were stuck.

They made phone calls explaining latenesses, and they sat a sulked otherwise, looking onwards out. Insanity maybe? Hippies maybe? Dying maybe? Thoughts flitted across the minds preoccupied with frustration. Why on earth are they out in the cold, in the dark, in the rain? What on earth is the meaning of all this rain lately? Rain! Rain.

The laughter had resided, but eyes were still attempting to focus on the silouettes beyond the misted glass walls.

She stood up for a second. She lit her cigarette and climbed over the bench. She said something that was hardly audible from the inside. I love this. I love him. Something like that, something about love. She moved slowly, breathing in the nicotine. She sat down next to him, the bench rocked. She was facing the shop, she was facing the envy. Then she spun around 180 degrees on her gluteus maximus and was side by side with her companion.

The eyes began to tear away from the silouettes, two backs weren’t so interesting. They’d turned their backs on the envy and on the pathetic pathetic phallacy. He had told her a little about his evening on Friday. It involved a  video about a pathetic orange cat, and they just both had to watch it.  If she didn’t laugh he’d leave. She didn’t care and told him to show her.

She laughed, well she giggled and not because it was funny but because the cat looked like Ed Sheeran. He stayed.

She took his phone and asked him if he had pinterest, he said no and she said he sucked. But she found the absolutely hilarious picture she wanted him to laugh at with her. Thanks Google. A dolls head attached to a chicken carcass. She was elated and couldn’t stop. He said its not funny, it’s sick.

“You’re crazy,” he said and snatched his phone back. “It’s good to be crazy,” she said. She grabbed his wrists and squeezed.

“I have to leave now,” she said, “because you didn’t laugh.” She stubbed out her cigarette on the dampened table top, shot up, hopped over the bench, grabbed his skate board and ran. “Deuces!”

He flung his legs over the bench, wiped his brow with a wet napkin and ran too.
It was fun because they had only just met that morning, and now anything could happen.

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Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Bedroom Mess

She liked having a tidied bedroom because it compensated for her untidied mind. When she came around from a night of violent passion and naked limbs, she woke him up and told him to leave.

She pressed her bruised thigh and sighed as he got up. She threw a bloodstained white shirt at his face.

She breathed slow and imagined a tidy room. It settled her. She took a shot. She began to pick up and put away and sweep and tie and throw out all of yesterday’s memories. He’d left and she was alone, in the midst of her thoughts.

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Creative Writing, Flash Fiction, The Fine Line

Greeting

“Hi, back here hey. How was your weekend?” he said.

I smiled. I stared a little at his plump lips smiling back at me. I grabbed his extended hand. My right hand flat against his palm while my left clasped his wrist. As I ran my fingers through the hairs on his forearm he pulled me to him.

We were in a dance. Swiftly yet graciously our greeting stance had become undone.
On my right, his left he laced his finger with mine, simultaneously unclasping my hand from his wrist, slidding his hand down my palm and along my arm. My shoulders bore the beautiful burden of an embrace. I could feel my heart pounding in his chest. I stared into his eyes as he reached down. His beautiful face drawing nearer and nearer to mine. His breaths dusting my face like a summer wind. He was a master in the intimate embrace.

I was excited by him so my pulsing body was tense. I swallowed and he heard and he turned that pout into a smile. He drew his face back, away. I remembered to breathe. ‘Don’t go away’. He thrust his face foward again and his neck rested in the crescent of mine. His warmth, my warmth – we were two whole beings whose embrace had made us one. Love. There was nothing between us.

“Hi,” I said, “yep we’re back here. I had an okay weekend. The in laws were over. Ha. What about you?”

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Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Happy Birthday

Dear ex lover,

I just remembred it was your birthday and thought I’d drop a quick message.

I hope you are well and I hope you are happy now, because I am. I am so happy. It’s been two years since we last spoke (you know, besides the Christmas message I left for you a few months back. Did you get that?) and it’s been four years since we last dated.

I just want to thank you for everything,  the fun times and the hard times, and that time when you held my hand when I found out my real father was dead and  it was my stepfather who had raised me. I mean we went through a lot together. But most of all I want to thank you for leaving me like you did.

I was beaten down and heart broken, I was in a mental ICU and it seemed as though all my nurses had died. I couldn’t believe how much of myself I gifted to you, and when you left and didn’t give me me back I was a little bit lost. A lot lost.

But like I said I am happy now, I have moved on. I put myself through uni, and I am moving to LA to do some modelling.  I have an amazing boyfriend, who is thinking about proposing to me – but my move has postponed all of that for a little while. So I thank you because if you hadn’t left me like you did I would have never ever progressed.

I think about you sometimes, enough to almost call you but not so much that I actually hit send. I am glad we ended on good terms, it helped with the consolation and so I know everything between us is okay. Anyway, I’m rambling. ..

Now. Your new girlfriend is pretty, how old is she? Is she a Capricorn like me? I remember you always said your soulmate would be a Capricorn. And I love that she’s a flight attendant (yep, I admit I stalked her page a tiny bit). How’s the distance thing going?

I really hope it is working well. That’s what tore us apart. I was fine with it, I waited for you to come home on holidays and some weekends. I was fine with you being away. It was only a few years. I still don’t know why you thought that I needed more. I don’t understand.

Ah, rambling again…

Anyway, happy birthday.

C x

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Uncategorized

Untamable

I have my reservations. They are not enough to keep me restrained though. I mean when I have stepped over the line of some unrelenting friend or foe and I find myself sprinting away from them through the forest with he or she but a moment after me and I come up again the edge of a cliff, I may think, what about my clothes, there’s no time to take them off. And my phone? I pull it out from its hiding place. Hide it in the shrubs. I leap.

The moments, the adrenaline, the reservations, the threats all behind me. Looking down at me falling through the air, with a scream in my throat and a smile on my face. And I crash!

The water is cold and shocking. Something swims just under my chest.

I drag myself and my clothes through the cold fresh water onto the rocks. All the while screaming up and about my rush of emotions. Sharing with nature my joys of being free in its presence.

The water trickles down my face and the wind blows through the parts in my dreadlocks.  Untamable.

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