Life in progress

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Thirteen Idolized Man

The lights, the lights, like mother’s love burn through retina and numb the brain. Drink them in, precious boy. Screams of adoration oppress and uplift, confusing like family’s comforting reassurance. Float, young man.

Man drops his key card on the table inside the door of his hotel suite, his music echoes in his ears. He turns to his chosen one and bends to press his mouth against hers. His desire radiates heat through his body. His chosen leaps up, legs around his waist, her sweet scent reaches his taste buds. Man carries her to the bed. She knows what he wants. She has been his before.

“The sword is beside the bed,” man says.

Man lays back and his chosen slides from his lap to retrieve the katana he occasionally uses, like a benediction, to shave his face. She hands it to him and with a smile and a shink! he unsheathes the weapon.  He drops the scabbard to the floor and rests the sword on the bed above his head while she undresses him.

“Do you love me as I love you?” man asks.

“More,” his chosen whispers.

She crawls up his body to take the weapon.

Man closes his eyes. The lights and the roar of the crowd pierce his memory as he hungrily anticipates the inspiration of a fresh scar.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Fourteen click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Twelve Inherent Brother

Two spent bulbs reside darkly beside a third, dimly illuminating the marital bed. Go deep, vapid man. Clouds rage between two souls in thunderous silence. Attend, inconsequential man.

Brother slips on his black cotton pyjamas and glares down at his wife. He measures the years by the Christmases they have spent together. This one sees more lines about her eyes – lines of worry about how she plans to leave him for his younger brother.

“Why don’t you just go fuck him if you think he’s that much more of a man than I am?” brother spits.

She admits nothing, backing up from where she sits. Brother knows he is right.

He sees again as father stalks past mother to upend the kitchen table laden with hours of preparation. He beholds again as his sibling protects the children from the glass on the floor, protects their mother, protects his own wife while he looks on, paralysed.

“Chase him around the country like one of his groupie whores why don’t you?” brother continues as he administers the first pinch to her thigh. He sees the blood red and sickly green that this Christmas has become.

“Say it!” brother seethes. He crawls up her body, forcing her down. “SAY IT!”

“You should never have let him grow up,” his wife whimpers.

Brother rewards her with his love.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Thirteen click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Eleven Visionless Mother

Christmas lights sparkle like champagne, ascending to the Angel atop the tree. Glow of family’s warmth pervades the room like a candle. Shine on, blind mother.

Mother places the final platter on the table with a smile and steps back to admire her work. She lifts her elbows as two of her grandchildren, chasing one another, careen past the crystal wine glasses, toppling one to the floor. Cursing her eldest son’s spawn she bends to retrieve the largest of the shards.

“Mother, let me help you,” says man.

Mother looks up at her son, wondering where he achieved his height. If only he would cut his hair.

“Thank you,” mother says.

Man bends to help her.

“When will you get married and have children like your brother?” mother asks him quietly.

Man smiles.  “I’m too busy for that,” he says.

From the kitchen doorway comes a grating whisper.

“Mother, he’s coming,” warns brother.

“Then get your children in order!” mother accuses.

Man stands to face his father.

“Lovely,” says mother, glowing. “Let’s eat.”


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Twelve click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Ten Grown Boy

Screaming neon bathes the room in hues of blue, but red abducts the breath. Lay down, young man. Torturous pleasure soothes Ego where she hides. Take it, tempered boy.

Man stands at the end of the bed, contemplating the sensuous mound beneath the white cotton sheet and draws with finality on his cigarette. He watches as she rolls over through the cloud of his exhalation. He readies silken crimson scarves, tying one to each of the four posts.

“What do you do for a living?” man asks unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

She laughs a dark, wicked divulgence and rises to her knees, facing him.

“I’m a nurse,” she says. “I help people to heal.”

Man grunts, deep in his throat. He inhales her naked refinement with his eyes.

“What happened here?” she asks, placing her fingertips delicately upon the hollow where his collarbone should be.

“It doesn’t matter,” man says.

He strips his shirt from each of his wrists and goes next for the buttons of his fly. He watches her watch him, her gaze steady, unfaltering, settled solely on his flesh.

When he reclines, bereft of his clothing, he surrenders his limbs.

“Do you trust me?” she asks as she ties him, wrists and ankles, like a martyr, to the bed.

“No,” man shivers.

She smiles as she slips one last scarf around his neck, tugging gently.

An exalted master in his own right, man succumbs.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Eleven click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Shattered Hopes – writing assignment

Leila awoke to the sun streaming through her bedroom window five minutes before her alarm was due to go off.  She stretched, catlike and smiled to herself. Awareness dawned as clear as day.

Tonight’s the night.

She rolled over and gazed at the pillow beside her, fluffed up, soft, inviting. She pictured in her mind what he would look like laying there in the soft sunlight, a mere twenty-four hours from now. In her mind’s eye she saw him open his eyes and smile at her adoringly, as happy to be there as she was to have him. She breathed in, imagining his musky natural scent, heady as a glass of fine Italian wine, and what it would be like to cuddle up in his arms, to feel the comforting warmth of his embrace.

Jeff.

She whispered his name out loud and the feel of it on her lips caused her mouth to water. Her hand slid down her body to the sensitive spot between her thighs. She turned to look at the clock. Two minutes left. She didn’t have time. Instead she propped her head up with her hands and looked around the room, making plans. Candles. She would need lots of them. And incense perhaps. Or not. She could see herself at work today, unable to concentrate even more than usual just knowing…

Tonight’s the night.

Jeff.

Her radio came on giving her a start but then she laughed out loud when she recognized the song: “Anticipation”, by Carly Simon.

She leaped out of bed and into the shower. Thoughts of what kind of music to play for the evening entertainment distracted her from the task of shaving, her causing her to nick herself. She swore under her breath and let the water run over the cut, hoping that she wouldn’t have a scab to mar her perfect date, with Jeff… It was going to be a tough day.

Showered and dressed for work, Leila flicked on the light as she floated into the kitchen, singing the song that was now stuck in her head. Through the large picture window she could see clouds gathering.

‘Never mind,’ she thought to herself. She grabbed her favourite yellow mug with a large animated sun hand-painted on its side and filled it with hot coffee. Still mulling over music she turned on the radio. Maybe not date material, but the DJ was certainly in tune with Leila this morning. She danced around the kitchen singing “I’m walkin’ on sunshine, wooah,” until she heard the front door slam closed. Her roommate, Amanda was home. Coffee in hand, Leila shimmied out of the kitchen to greet her best friend. She came to a dead stop when she saw the look on Amanda’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Leila asked. “Did something happen at the stagette last night?”

“Jeff’s not coming tonight,” Amanda said, worriedly. “He has to work.”

“What are you….” Leila looked down at the piece of paper in Amanda’s hand. It was a glossy photograph of a man, nude but for a g-string, a collar and a pair of pink shirt cuffs, his hands at the back of his head and a face that looked exactly like… Jeff.

Leila let out a tiny shriek of disbelief as her cup hit the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces.


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Nine Grasping Brother

Cold and white, flurries muffle the air like clouds of frigid dust. Hurry on, persistent child. Wind stings, raw, bitter, like father’s loving caress. Abstain, willful young man.

Brother throws his keys on the table just inside the door and shakes the snow from the shoulders of his jacket as he takes it off. He goes to the kitchen to find boy sitting at the table, drawing a picture by the dim afternoon light.

“How’s mom?” asks boy.

“It was a miscarriage,” answers brother.

Boy looks up at brother and narrows his eyes.

“You wouldn’t know, you weren’t there!” brother disclaims.

Boy goes back to his drawing.

“What are you making?” brother asks.

“Nothing,” boy answers.

Brother peers over boy’s shoulder to behold a well detailed account of the previous night. Father stands over shattered mother, his mouth agape, his fist raised. Brother cowers, twitching in the corner, his knees to his chin. Below the drawing boy has written, ‘Father’s Love‘.

Brother, snatching away the drawing, shreds it with his teeth before eating it.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Ten click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Eight Yielding Mother

Sun gleams golden through autumn’s glorious passing. Morning coffee steams promises of wakefulness. Wake up, thirsty mother. Love’s remembrance lays fast. Wake up, confounded woman.

Mother settles at the kitchen table and welcomes the joyful twitter of birds through the open window. She breathes the cool fresh air and raises her feet, crossing her ankles on the chair opposite. With a sigh she rests her right hand on her belly, her left lifts her cup to her lips. Sweet nectar of the Gods, mother loves her coffee.

Boy thunders down the stairs in his school uniform and stops dead, seeing mother’s pose. Brother, following, almost runs into him.

“Will he kill this one too?” boy asks mother.

Mother stares at boy, wordlessly, the day shines blindingly in her eyes. She hardly comprehends the first swing that sends boy crashing to her feet.

“You can’t say that!” brother yells, falling atop boy.

Mother, unable to conceive of how she can dissolve the dispute while preserving her unborn child, sips her coffee, noting that the birds have abandoned their song.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Nine click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Seven Still Boy

Darkness drapes heavy across the shoulders, comforting, calming. Listen, quiet boy. Father’s love clinks, pours wetly, gulps, and sighs rancid. Listen fast, poor boy.

Boy creeps down the stairs, avoiding the creaks and groans he knows so well. He takes cover in the dark corner between the stairs and the kitchen door. At first all he hears is the tick of the clock that guards the hours of father’s rigid schedule.

“You’re wrong,” confesses father. “Your mother is a saint.”

“Why then?” asks brother.

Boy hears liquid sloshing into one glass, then another. The shadows on the floor shift and the tumblers collude sickeningly.

“Because,” answers father. “She is better than me. And that good-for-nothing little dick you call a brother is better than you.”

Boy hears a chair propelled back across the linoleum and a monstrous shadow stands, larger than life.

“Don’t you ever tell her I said that!” father roars.

The meeker shadow crashes to the floor and boy cringes, afraid. Slowly it picks itself up, sits, and slurps from its glass.

Boy scrunches back further into the corner and closes his eyes when father’s shadow starts to the door. Boy hears father’s fly unzip as he steals up to the room he shares with mother.

After many breaths boy quietly returns in the dark to the asylum of his bed.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Eight click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Six Charming Brother

Time is of the essence now; the minutes tick by like days. Look back young boy. Father’s dear love ties clots in the throat, mother puddles to the floor. Look back young man!

Two weeks have passed since the last incident and brother bounds down the stairs to the kitchen. Mother kneels on the spotless floor pouring food into the new cat bowl, the animal hums at her side. She lovingly strokes the glossy black creature.

“Your brother comes home today,” mother says without looking up.

“I know. And father?”

“Not until tomorrow.”

Brother places his hands on his hips.

“Can we pick him up from the train station?” brother demands.

Mother looks up sharply, narrowing her eyes.

“Who will look after your brother?” mother accuses.

“He will come along,” brother smiles and swipes at his lips with the back of his hand.

“We’ll see,” says mother, turning her attention back to the cat.

Brother stares for a moment longer, at mother, at the cat. He races back to the privacy of his room.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Seven click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


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Five Denying Mother

A single shard of crystal twinkles red, a bloody star in the sunlight. Strip your eyes from this pretty corner. Home wraps its arms around like a cool gray blanket. You are the fulcrum.

Perspiration drips from mother’s brow and lands on her skirted knee as she scoops up the last of the broken glass from the kitchen floor. She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist and turns to the small shadow in the doorway. Mother gazes up at her eldest child. Brother’s stance, in nothing but cotton boxers, belies his vulnerability. Mother thinks that at thirteen he is trivial for his age.

“Where is he?” asks her son.

“He went back to work,” answers mother.

“And…”

“Hospital,” mother yields.

As mother stands she picks up the cat’s food bowl. She makes a mental note to go to the pet store. With a heavy thunk! the bowl impacts the inside of the black plastic trash bin, the lid closes, the sun gleams from its surface.

Brother shields his eyes and runs to get dressed.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Six click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.