Tuesday, August 24, 2010


The pain is sweet celebration but nonetheless hard to bear as her labour is too long, no husband to hold her hand, no mother to wipe her brow but persist she does.  She does what women do when that urge to push kicks in, grips tight with maternal courage, knowing of the reward. The child breaches and is quiet. Concerned faces gasp at his palour but under lights he's moved to intensive care and she is tended by the tenderest of obstetricians but misses the touch of the lover who dares not attend the birth of his firstborn child.

Neptune's son was warned that landing on antipodean shores this way is dangerous and illegal. His kind are not welcome there. It was a careless and frivolous pursuit but navigate he did, alone and unaccompanied save the guidance of migrating behemoth's who make the sojourn south each year, encouraging him on his path with whaling song.  Unwavering from his course he forges his aquatic path, drawn by the siren's unsung lyric.

Long had he watched her, brown-brazen on the beach. She was often alone, bathed in, solaris' light, her body goldened by the sun but still a daughter of Terra Firma and not to be taken lightly by the likes of him an extra terrestrial of a different kind.

She gazes across an unending sea, its ripples and bouncing light creating illusions as it dances. She longs to see a fin, a fluke, a man, among the glimmer-glow of the ever changing surface.  But no, just the crest of gently breaking waves and she becomes bored and rests, reading romance novels beneath the eye of Sol. She sleeps, listless on the sand, soaking rays, relaxed yet unrequited.

He's watched her there, often, but coming ashore in the light of day to perilous for an alien such as he, so he bobs among the warm waves, tasting their salt  and craving dryness, admiring from afar and cogitating landfall.

Night presents a different view, with agile limbs he leaves his watery abode, runs rampant on the beach and watches through windowlight as she reads and cooks and bathes. So beautiful is this full-bodied creature his gaze is glazed and he and cannot resist her charms.

Days go by and as he sees her pack belongings into her valise he realises that he must  appear or be forsaken. Her stay here is impermanent and the sylph will leave before he has a chance to demonstrate affection.

She walks a lonely walk comforted by the lonely moon in all her gibbous glory. Waves licking upon the sand demure and seductive. The air perfumed with the scent of Frangipani, Coconut and salt.  Barefoot, the sand caresses and depresses between delicious toes, Hibiscus in her hair, she wonders alone with no-one to share her grace or thoughts.

She hears footfall behind. A sound that might alarm, does not, in this isolated place. She turns and there he is.  Nervous greetings are dispensed and beach combing engaged without a qualm. He is beautiful, feminine but strong, flawless yet flawed but she cannot work out why. And yet he takes her hand, as natural as night, she clasps his fingers amongst hers. And all feels perfect, natural, light.

Conversation turns to love, lost and regained. They run, they chase, they play while mother moon instills her gaze and casts an eerie spell.

On dunes they roll while making love, sweet and tender, discreet yet wild and free. He is a gentle  lover, she is a willing slave and lush is their encounter to the sound of breaking waves. They hold, stop, still, sleep.

By dawn he has gone. She is left there dozing  on the shore in morning's golden light, seaweed tangled in her hair, errant translucent rainbow scales shimmer on her skin and a shell of such exquisite form  is left within her palm. She's seen nothing like it ever before, engraved  with words she does not understand yet knows are poignant beyond belief. The rarity and value of such a gift not lost after their night of forbidden love.

Her baby now folded in her arms. Beautiful and benign, sleeping like the depths. A picture-perfect cherubim with wild blonde hair unusual for a newborn. He bears bow lips pursed and pout. She inspects this miracle of life, unwrapping every fold. She gently fingers each detail of nature's abundant miracle. He is translucent, perfect, unblemished, ten fingers but   . . .  tiny webs between them and . . . no toes.

This is a 10th Daughter of Memory entry for "Below the Neck"

Friday, August 20, 2010

Harbinger - Part 2

Miles, straightens his Polo collar and brushes his camel lapels, as if anyone would notice in this place full of filth and noise. He wraps his fist with a starched linen handkerchief, embroidered with his initials and knocks gingerly on the dilapidated door. It's the last along the corridor of a once respectful establishment now fallen into disrepair and disrepute. Now it's cheap hostel accommodation, rank and broken, where those who are also rank and broken, seek refuge. The peeling paint a testimony to long term neglect and the smell of urine in each corner, testimony to inhabitants who have lost all self-respect.  He prays that someone answers because so often they do not. No-one replies.

He's not cut out for this. He's more comfortable with neurotic housewives and stressed executives, traumatised spoiled brats who need a dose of Ritalin for a spurious disease. These are the people who normally find themselves on his therapists couch but maintaining a pro-bono presence is good for his practice so he suffers the indignity of poorer and less lucrative clients and pays the occasional 'home' visit. His lips turn downward  with disgust, this dilapidated tenement is no home.

He waits, but no noise from within and since he can't enter without a warrant unless invited, he unwraps an antiseptic wipe and cleans his hands before calling the police. "Nobody's answering" he snipes without emotion in his voice and wishing he could just walk away, "I need assistance . . "

Too often he's too late. Turning up after some poor soul has passed away through neglect or suicide. He steels himself for the usual response.

"A stinker?" the Comms Op asks, "Not that I can tell" says Miles. Although he suspects when the door is opened his olfactory will be assaulted to the point that his evening meal will be vegan, a necessity of sustenance rather than a sumptuous feast to savour.

Finally the police arrive, break down the already beaten door and enter the hovel. Not much to be enjoyed for $55 a week. The lino floor is stained, the light switch doesn't work. A thin beacon of sunlight streams through broken glass illuminating a sliver through curtains, long drawn and never washed. Minuscule particles of dust dance happily within the beam.

Dinginess is pervasive with thin drapes drawn across a window glazed with grime. A couch against a grubby wall its vibrant floral blooms long faded by age and lack of attention. The table smeared with last month's dust and last year's grease. The carpet clean on inspection but filthy when disturbed. Dishes unwashed and the stain of weeks clings hard to every surface. In the background buzz the flies, the harbingers of death.

They draw their LED torches and rays form happy partners in their dance with the dust, like random stars looking for escape from this black hole into the cosmos. Miles' discomfort in the clammy dark is palpable as he nervously, flicks the light switch.  A buzz, a flicker, the light ignites and illuminates the room.  Now wishing he'd left the flat in darkness he's revulsed by it's tardy state.

Police torches holstered, since no longer needed with the light, three officers inspect every filthy room.  The air is acrid and becoming pungent with the smell of decay. Experience forewarns the visitors that the bedroom would not be pleasant. The harbingers were breeding and tell-tale maggots form a moving rice-grain trail towards the closed bedroom door.

 Miles has seen such scenes before and this one was not so different but what greeted each upon their entry was more than incongruous. The room was spotless. Dust free and pristine with a translucent Holland blind permitting sunlight with no view. Strategically placed upon the floor and in the centre of the only clean  room in the house, were two large cardboard boxes,neatly bound with gaffer tape.   Miles trails the three policemen as they inspect their pristine but odourific surroundings. Eyebrows are raised more at the oddity of this sterile resting place among such neglect, than towards the rookie cop who fouled the floor by losing his lunch. 

Careful hands remove the tape that seals the first box. No need to open more than one flap before it's obvious, dismemberment had been parcelled up and packaged, weeks ago. The most experienced of these hardened cops gagged at the state of the remains. Only harbingers of death appreciate such tasty morsels. Coroners are called and cameras flash the scene, yellow tape is applied and notes are hastily taken before the box is zipped and locked into a bag with its as yet unopened companion, prior to the Coroner's deliberation.

Miles is no longer needed. There will be no repatriation or social assistance required today. He's free to return to the trials of desperate housewives and tortured executives. These bodyparts won't need soothing with psychology. Time to depart the scene.

He leaves them to their grisly calling and walks into the sunlit street. Tears open another disposable sanitized cloth and wipes his perfectly manicured hands. He straightens his spotless polo collar and adjusts his camel lapels. He's a picture of sartorial elegance and well-pleased, begins to smile. 

This is his fourth 'disposal'. He smirks at the stupidity of the uniformed grunts who haven't clicked that men like him will always double-check their handiwork and revisit the scene. Clearly they haven't read the book now closed on his Kindle.

Filth begets filth he thinks, "Time to find new flatmates"

Part 2 of Harbingers, posted for The Tenth Daughter of Memory "Below the Neck"

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Harbinger Part 1

He colour-codes his Tupperware, organises his pantry bottles from tall to small, folds his towels before he leaves, plumps  his cushions, arranges his shoes in neatly rows. Yes he is a tidy man. A clean man. Not one to understand the slovenliness  of others. Not that he hadn't experienced it. His flatmates of years gone by had driven him insane with their slatternly habits.

Laura refused to stack the dishwasher or remove the hairs from the drain. She splattered mascara on the mirror and spat toothpaste unrinsed  into the sink. She discarded shoes where she stood, never placing them perpendicular to the wall.

Michaela rarely flushed the toilet at night and had an "If it's yellow, let it mellow" rule disguised as being 'green'.  He gagged when she cooked, poisoned with the thought that her hands might not be clean and never consumed anything she prepared for fear of contracting some exotic parasite.  Both had disappeared long before their lease expired. For that he was grateful apart from the lack of assistance with the rent.

Now Mel? She was sweet in that 'girl next door' respect. No rare beauty but a pleasant and symmetrical face, and most importantly, well-presented, fresh smelling, neat and clean. Someone who appreciated his fastidiousness and respected his space.

He of course, utilised the master bedroom, with an en-suite in sparkling white. A taintless metal-framed bed, well clear of the floor and adorned with a hypoallergenic quilt, covered in the purity damask. Perfectly plumped European pillows embroidered with his monica and a single chest of drawers containing neatly folded Polos, shorts and socks. His sliding wardrobe doors revealed autistically organised shirts in descending colours. Like a pantone pallet, all were diminishing shades of blue through to luminscent white. His shoes stacked like sentries on a rack, his ties carefully placed. Three suits freshly pressed and still protected with dry cleaner's wrap.  The only feature distinguishing his picture-perfect room from an uninhabited display home was a kindle on his bookstand with a copy of "Richard Platt's, Crime Scene: The Ultimate Guide to Forensic Science " at the ready and a single orange Gerbera in a vase. Artificial of course, the thought of mirky water and stray pollen was unthinkable.

The second room, his office, allowed him to work from home. A pristine Ikea computer desk was positioned against the window, nothing cluttered the surface of his desk other than a mouse pad and a web cam and a purpose-designed carryall for a solitary pen and newly sharpened 2B pencil. A compact wireless printer sat upon one of the shelves, shining black and dust free. A small two-seater couch leant undented by use against the wall, still with its showroom smell. The floor completely tiled in inoffensive cream. He'd seen the filth emanating from carpet within the cannister of his vacuum and had since never entertained that choice of floor covering in his home.  A holland blind drawn down against the easterly facing window was transluscent to let in light but easily cleaned should any offending dust particle choose to settle. This is his 'space'. This is where he's found. This is where he's untouched and untainted by the filthy world outside.

Mel took the third room. Spacious and spartan but immaculate. Again the window sheltered with transluscent holland blinds and a single small but modern mirror on the wall adjoining his office. She'd brought a bed and drawers but he had insisted she leave her other acoutrements in storage. He had all she needed and she was willing to comply.

They were a couple without being a couple sharing interests and time. Both living separate lives but coming home together. They enjoyed the same music, television, films and he loved spending evenings with Mel. Tidy to the core and aware of his penchant for taintless immaculacy, she was indeed the perfect flatmate.  Until 'he' came along.

Tom began  visits sporadically, at first polite and distant, he and Mel would retreat into her room and do what lovers do. It bothered him to know that this man was in his house, sullying her sheets, spreading his germs, contaminating the very air he breathed.  Within weeks, Tom was a regular visitor, his beer in the ' fridge, his shoes scattered carelessly under the couch. Late night clothes hurriedly divested from their bodies en route to the love nest leaving a scattered trail towards her door, then left  lying dormant until morning, his smell permeating the air and his voice muffled behind the walls.

He spent hours in the office to avoid this malodourous man and could hear the bedroom pounding with the athleticism of their sex. His little 'girl next door' had an appetite for variety and a vocal repertoire to match.

He began to imagine each position they took, guided by her voice. Deep and low when penetrated from behind, loud and free when she was on top as skin slapped against skin. Even when she was alone he was curious about the buzzing emanating from the wall. It was time to take it one step further.

At first he justified his watching through the tiny aperture to  ensure no  wine was being spilled or post coital feasts sullying the room but soon he began to enjoy these performances to the point where he became erect and pleased himself, of course a box of tissues always present to absorb the fruit of his wayward hands, followed by a vigorous cleansing shower to wash away his guilt.

In times when he was absent, he knew they ventured beyond their bedroom.  Cushions were depressed, crumbs on the kitchen bench, an empty plate left in the sink. They'd copulated on his couch and left a nasty little stain and a pretty diamante adorned g-string had been abandoned behind his cushions, which of course he kept. There were wine bottles on the windowsill and burnt toast scrapings on the neglected cutting board. Tom was a slob of huge proportions and corrupting his clean queen.  He left the bathroom strewn with shavings and wet towels on the floor, left toiletries on the vanity and adding insult to over-familiarity hung his grubby towelling robe behind the door.

He scopes his immaculate kitchen, it's sparkling grey granite surface gleaming speckless in the waning afternoon light and bearing nothing more than a rarely used Krups Espresso machine and a wooden knife block housing his precious Mundail knives. He inspects every blade and tine and his imagination runs wild.

He imagines doping the lovers' midnight snack before donning his disposable hazmat suit in preparedness for his hideous act. He imagines a well-placed incision below Tom's unshaven neck, perhaps another in his groin. He imagines inserting the hose and trocar with which to drain his fluids. He imagines muffling Mel's screams as she wakes to a cooling corpse. He imagines dismembering each bloodless cadaver into neat butcher's cuts, arranging pieces in a hard plastic lined box like the one his providore sent containing a side of pork. Twin to the box now almost empty in his freezer.  He imagines the orgasmic thrill of cleaning with Virusolve, cathartic and delicious.  He imagines using his wet and dry vac to clean the walls, the floor, the ceiling and passing a black light with slow precision over every surface to ensure it's antiseptic with no DNA residue remaining. He  imagines burning fabric evidence in his basement incinerator.  He imagines bleaching each knife, cleaver, container and hose before returning them to their appropriate recepticle. He is after all, a tidy man.

Posted for Tenth Daughter of Memory "Below the Neck" Part 2 coming soon!

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Soft Serve

Adult Content

A golden thigh and singlet of gelato colours, still moist from her afternoon swim. Not a common sight here in the suburbs, but what a thigh pressed firm against a horse's flank. The heat haze rises from the suburban road and liquorice bitumen begins to melt.

She bends down towards the hatch, still mounted bareback on the horse, the tease of unbridled cleavage exposed, beaded with honey drops, not too full but not too small and makes her request. "Soft serve, chocolate dipped" she whispers and drops change into his open palm.

He depresses the valve and swirls of soft-serve fall into their waffle cone in slow concentric spirals. Lascivious thoughts fill the bottom of the cone as quickly as the ice cream it contains. He dips the swirl into warm melted chocolate and twists with expert hands to ensure even coverage before passing her the summer delight. She licks her approval but it's not ice cream his mind's eye sees her tongue caress.

He observes her often, riding bareback up that hill and memorises every detail. Each strand of cocoa hair, retreating rhythmically across her shoulders with every lunging footfall of the horse. Wayward locks obscure small portions of her profile, rendering her mysterious. He knows her eyes are brown as his dipping chocolate, her lashes long, her lips full of the flush of youth and glazed with strawberry gloss. Her legs are caramel, her arms glow with summer sweat as she sits, hips rocking gently back and forth, relaxed and sensual and perfectly melded to the mount she rides. How he envies that creature's spine.

Their encounters are more frequent and conversations are engaged.  And with each pressure push, each topping applied, he feels his own blood pressure rise and he craves another flavour.

She waits for the sound and makes an auditory calculation. He's just two blocks away. Her crush increases with each decibel and she chooses her moment to sashay across the street and meet his gaze. He'll linger this afternoon, his day is almost over, children's appetites are sated but not hers, her sweet tooth now craves salt.

He smiles at her approach and her  'I dare you' grin, but his arms are folded in firm resolution. He waits for her familiar order, "Soft serve, chocolate dipped. . ."  she tilts her head, her hands clasped behind her back, waiting for his counter. "Nope, my shift is over"  he declares remaining square and resolute.  She feels somewhat chastised until he beckons her close, bends down towards the hatch and whispers, "You can come make one yourself?"

He slides the door and lifts her into the tiny space then closes it behind. The smell is hot and sweet and sticky. She takes a cone and his hands guide hers, pushing on the valve. She can feel his form behind her, pressing firm and hot. He smells of vanilla with a hint of salt.

Sweet swirls spiral ever downwards. She doesn't want ice cream today but is aware of the metaphor she's creating and can feel its impact on the body behind her.  Once made they share ambrosia, their mouths drawing closer and the cone is soon discarded for a kiss.

His hands clasp on to hers but do not let go, instead one moves slowly around her waist and draws her in. The other remains held tight, there is no escape.  The compact space heats up beyond the exhaust of the ice cream machine. Sweat combines with sweat and sweet carbon-laden breath induces euphoria. She is now his soft serve, pliable and smooth and he the sweet and melting chocolate.

She disengages from his mouth and licks the sweet remnants from his lips. She tongues his neck and licks his ears as hands unfurl his shirt. Cotton rolls from his torso to be discarded carelessly as a disused serviette landing softly on the floor. Sliding down from his chest, moisture dampening her touch, she caresses with her tongue and deftly undoes his belt.  There is no ambiguity as to her taste as now she consumes his centre. Thick locks caress his thigh, his hands pressed gently on her shoulders as he leans back against the serving bench spilling flavour, wanton as her desire, toppling sauces and confection while she trades her sweetness for his salt.

Replete she rises. He is eager to reciprocate and slides a slippery hand beneath her dress. Its wrap-around tie is easy to release as it too, falls silky and silent to the floor. He stares at her a while, stripped bare but she's no innocent. This nubile nude teases with an eyebrow raised, her turn to beckon and this time there is no catch.

He embraces as he lowers to taste that tender bud, drawing nectar from its source and sending shivers through her thighs. Her head thrown back against the hatch, rainbow sprinkles tangling in her hair as she moans her delight. His hands and mouth are gently forceful and she's consumed by their assault.  She bites her lip as he savours the succulence of her body, creating sherbet tingles that rise to a crescendo unwilling to subside. His mouth now traces upwards towards her navel and explores its depths.  He expertly navigates her breasts, stained sweet with syrup and sweat before he once more connects to her lips and their flavourful finale.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

The Tyranny of Distance

"Send me cupcakes and your first born!" he jibes in a Rumplestiltskin voice. Of course he's joking but the favour granted demands payment and this is his price.

Her firstborn is lovely, radiant and clearly doesn't  know or care. She wears her beauty carelessly as a tossed cardigan with never a sideways glance at her reflection.  She avoids spurious attention and mocks the cameras that try to capture her visage by pulling Facebook faces to deflect those behind the viewfinder who would capture her image and retain it unsolicited. Few see her as she really is. Hazel eyes, lively but with longing.  Lustrous long hair as dark as the coffee he sips. A  face marked both by contemplation and laughter, flawless skin, slim with well-placed curves. She's at  home in her 'lived in' look.  She is sensible and silly. Shy yet outgoing. Outspoken and demure. She is constant yet restless, her wonderlust keeps her head in the clouds while feet remain reluctantly on the ground. Her heart bleeds on her sleeve yet few seem to notice.

He is a soldier poet. The macho male with a sensitive side. He wears his bruises like a watermark, pale beneath the surface barely visible against the light but he is damaged, just slightly and it gives him an amazing edge.  He is a walking anachronism, a duality of forces, a conundrum of personality. He’s bored and interesting, insightful and exciting. Moral yet lascivious. He cares deeply and not at all. Experienced though na├»ve. He’s arrogant and shy. Profane and eloquent. Loquacious and silent. Childish and churlish, hurtful and loving. Sometimes spiteful with his play, painful with his threats.  So many contradictions hide within this chameleon man, yet the child remains inside.

Both tick all the mother's boxes, a match made on the ether. The daughter that she loves, the son in law she wants. Of all the lovers in all the world, these she's sure would meld but neither will comply. He  won't act upon his whim and she barely knows he's there. Barriers have been built through the tyranny of distance, a fantasy refusing to unfold.

"Send me cupcakes  and your first  born!" rings like tinnitus in her ears.

She sends him cupcakes and his watermark intensifies.

This is a 10th Daughter of Memory Post for "There's Gotta Be a Catch"