Bedtime Story

8 September, 2011 at 22:30 (Flash) (, , , , , , , )

“Daddy, just one more?” she asked, her big blue eyes looking up into his.

He smiled down at her. “One more.”
Then he looked down at the book in his hand and read the next story, ‘A Christmas Angel’, this one was about an angel who ate too many christmas biscuits. She fell asleep when he was about half way through reading it. When he heard her breathing become even and slow he put down the book and let the tears flow.

The nurse poked her head through the door. “Mr Chambers?”

He looked up at her.

“There are some more papers for you to sign.”

He nodded and got up, leaving the book on the chair besides the bed. It had been her favourite book when she was a kid, when she had been about seven she’d recieved it for Christmas and he hadn’t been allowed not to read from it for her bedtime story. Now she was thirty-seven and here in the terminal cancer ward he read it to her again. This time though, when she closed her eyes and slept he didn’t wish for her to wake with her dreams fulfilled, he just wished for her to wake at least once more.

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In The Woods

24 January, 2007 at 22:06 (Uncategorized) (, , , )

Faith had never really liked the woods. When Jim had finally taken her hands that day and spoken deep into her eyes, the way she had always wanted him to and he’d said that of course they would go to the woods and she hadn’t minded because they were walking together and he had taken her hands and, when it got cold, as it was wont to do in the woods he’d given her his coat to wear.
Faith was walking on air. Every so often Jim would allow his thick fingers to brush against her and he’d squeeze her hand. The first obstacle was one of sound. Cutting across the path was an eerie whining and Faith was frightened. It sounded nothing so much like she imagined ghosts would sound and she paused in the path, Jim continued.

“Oh come on Faith, it’s just a fox.”

Faith considered this, she’d never heard a fox sound like that, she’d heard them barking a few times when she walked in the fields of an evening but this wailing, moaning, whine of an almost human nature sounded nothing like that.

“You trust me don’t you?” asked Jim and, when she nodded, a little hesitantly, looking into the pools of his bright blue eyes for confirmation, he swept her into his arms and carried her beyond the eerie noise.
He didn’t put her down though she could tell she was getting heavy for his arms.

“Careful,” she said. “You’ll drop me!”
“No I won’t.” he snapped, irritated.

She became silent after that and comforted herself by snuggling into the warmth emanating beneath his shirt. The woods were dark, but the path was solid and Jim’s breathing became gradually more laboured as he struggled with her until she finally said,
“Look, why don’t you put me down?”
Jim looked around.
“Yeah I suppose here would do.” he said.
He swung Faith down and looked at her, those piercing blue eyes gazed into hers and for a moment she thought he would kiss her. Then he stepped away from her and looked up at the trees. Something looked down from the trees and Jim stepped off the path.
It swoooped down from the trees.
It was black and had no feathers though it flew silently towards Faith. It was black and rotting, it was gelatinous and dripped as it flew and where it dripped arouse smoke for what it touched could not bear it.
Faith heard Jim, a little ways off the path, make a movement as if he was reaching out to it, she saw the not-wing, dripping and foetid and black reach towards him and heard his shriek of fear and the sounds of his shoes runnning, squelching through the damp undergrowth and she could not move.
It came closer, it had no eyes, nor mouth, nor any sort of feature but something akin to a head pushed from it’s main mass, now hanging, flapping slowly above the forest floor.

Faith heard Jim shouting in the distance but the words meant nothing to her as the creature enveloped her in it”s gelatinous, warm embrace. She had time for one last breath full of the hot scent of meat left out too long covered over in sweetest horse manure before her mouth was sealed by the gooey taste of that smell. She could feel it, black and covering her. Rotting and foetid and pulling her deep within itself. She felt herself surrounded and the sensation of movement, of falling far within that black sweet-sickening place. Around her she could feel the heat rising and added to the foetor was the stench of smoke, of fields burning in the autumn. And then, It was gone, she could not have said how she knew for she was covered and dripping and the blackness surrounded her. But she looked up to discover that it covered her like a second skin, gelatinous and oozing over her and it covered the part of the wood that she was in as well. She looked up and saw that It had left her in a round and smoking hole, the sides of which were sloppy with the remains of itself.

The sky above was as black as It had ever been and did not fill her with hope. As she began to cry from the sheer hopelessness of it all she felt a stinging, burning sensation run down her cheeks, the black slime began to react with the tears. Began to burn into her face like acid. She raised her hands and scrubbed furiously at herself rubbing off the slime where she could and wiping her hands down her dress. Finally the stinging stopped and she could feel the sore wounds covering her cheeks.

She pushed at the earth surrounding her, her hands slipped and slid over the loose soil beneath but finally she could feel them gripping at the rock within. Hand over hand she pulled herself through the mud and slime. Hand over hand she dragged her body up from the hole in the woodland floor. Hand over hand until she felt the grasses scratch against her ruined face and pulled herself, panting, from the hole.

She lay there, at the edge of the hole, looking up at the night sky for some time. Her dress was spoiled by slime, her face by the burn marks that followed her tears down her cheeks. She sat up and looked around the wood somewhat helplessly, lost in the dark, unable to even see the path that she had taken to get in.
Nevertheless she set off into the dark, because there just wasn’t any other way to go.

Eventually, she came to a sort of glade, peering into the dark she made out the figure of a…man? He sat on his horse and gravely watched her as she approached. She couldn’t quite make out his shape as he looked down at her, his eyes seemed to glow somehow from within. She couldn’t quite make out if they were brown…or yellow…or red…He turned his muzzle…his face…he seemed to shift in the low light and then he slid from his horse and she saw that it was simply a large grey rock that he had been sitting on.

“You’re lost.” he stated.
“No I’m not. I’m just walking, thats all.”
He looked at her.
She looked back, defiant despite her covering of black poison.
“I’ll show you the way back.”
He held out his hand.
She raised her chin, and, to her surprise, took his hand.
“Its this way.”

And her curious guide, his shape tall, but not too tall, led her through the woods right to the outskirts. She tried to make him out in the dimness, his hair was long, she thought, and his eyes, they seemed to retain their glow. When they reached the edge of the woods he pointed her way back.
“Over there.”
She nodded to him. “Thanks.”
He nodded back and his eyes seemed to smile, she thought. Then she headed off over the grass her eyes firmly on the way ahead.

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11 January, 2007 at 23:26 (Uncategorized) (, , , )

(23:18:44) Me: Descending the stairs was deliberate,
(23:18:54) Me: On my part, at least,
(23:19:02) Me: I could have gone straight down,
(23:19:11) Me: But it was too good an opportunity to miss.
(23:19:19) Me: The look on your face, as you watched her,
(23:19:25) Me: Walk downstairs.

(23:19:40) Other: And what did you think?

(23:20:41) Me: I thought,
(23:20:49) Me: that I had seen that look before,
(23:21:07) Me: From other eyes,
(23:21:19) Me: It could be called commonplace,
(23:21:54) Me: By a man with no conception, of the enormity of what he felt,
(23:22:01) Me: Or what she felt,
(23:22:21) Me: I wonder, if I imagined her eyes would mirror your own,
(23:22:30) Me: As you looked at each other,
(23:22:34) Me: I doubt that I did.

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Love Or Nothing Like It

10 January, 2007 at 21:37 (Uncategorized) (, , )

relaxing in my chair I look at you,
And simply feel,
All that I have felt all day,

Her hair unbound around her shoulders,
A warm glow within me,
And starlight expands from every cell,
Every moment of my being,
Has come to this inevitable point,
Has taken me to the brink,

relaxing in his chair he looks at her,
And simply feels,
All that he has felt all day,

Your mouth smiling at my jokes,
A tingle along my fingertip-toed skin,
And a shivering runs from outside in,
Until every part of my body,
Has come to this inevitable point,
Has pulled my onwards,

relaxing in her chair she looks at us,
And simply feels,
All that she has felt all day.

It lasts from the moment of her smile,
Until her eyes close in sleep,
And we are there,
Beyond her brink,
Warmed all the way from within, inevitably.

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Desire

3 January, 2007 at 17:13 (Uncategorized) (, , , )

“You’re very desirable”
Am I? With the rain ruining my hair,
With my mascara running round my eyes,
“You’re very desirable”
Am I? With my mouth that doesn’t know when to stop,
With my constant talking, thinking, dreaming,
But you still said it,
Standing in the lamplight,
Was it raining? It should have been,
My feet were bare,
It was real, no matter how it seemed,
And the language was plain,
No mistakes.
Lets,
let our desire remain.

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You Took My Arm

1 January, 2007 at 17:20 (Uncategorized) (, , , )

Was that all it was then?
A simple mistake of butch for femme,
When you took my arm the words flowed again,
I’d like to get to know you,
I’d like to think we could,
Paint pictures on the mountain tops,
Or spread out the clouds in verse,
But first I’d like to listen,
If I only may,
The way it was this morning,
Or when you were in my arms yesterday.
To say that you inspire me,
Sounds oddly arrogant,
To say that you move me,
Doesn’t sound nearly right,
But I hope we get to play together,
Out on paper,
The way it was last night.

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I Could Not Speak To You

1 November, 2006 at 19:43 (Uncategorized) (, )

When I took your arm,
I almost thought I could,
Say everything that I’d ever thought,
But no.
Banalities, as ever, floated from my mouth,
And am I writing this because I know you’ll read this?
You went walking where I only wished I could,
With him, along the canal.
I really thought I would,
Say all that was on my mind,
That moment when I took your arm,
But the only words,
That came from my mouth,
Were those that came by some baboon-learnt pattern.
You, are everything, I ever dreamed I’d be,
When I look at you from these eyes.
You walked where I can never be,
And it is not only my eyes upon you.
You went walking where I only dreamed I could,
With him, along the canal.
I wanted so much, to say these things to you,
But all that I could say was programmed in me
A thousand years before I spoke
And I never dreamed I’d say that,
Because I dreamed that I could speak to you,
It is not surprising I was wrong.

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Slut

22 August, 2006 at 18:37 (Uncategorized) (, , )

My nymphy friend says I shouldn’t edit this at all but leave it as is – would appreciate feedback on this please?

It was obvious they thought me a slut.
It happens,
I wasn’t worried.
‘So…you sleep with other people?’
they said.
‘Yes’, I said.
‘So…you sleep around’ they heard.
‘And…you have two boyfriends?’
they said.
‘Yes’, I said.
‘Don’t they mind?’

This from the girl who,
When I told her, in confidence,
That I thought I was gay
(I wasn’t, only half-way, bisexual, sat on the fence)
Had said, ‘So do you fancy me?’
‘Because I’m not gay,’
Every few days she said,
‘I’m not gay’,
How affirmed does a sexuality have to be?

‘Don’t they mind?’

This from the boy,
Who’d known that I was out,
Had counted himself my boyfriend,
And wondered why I couldn’t cope,
With our relationship…

‘Don’t they mind?’
‘No, they’re friends.
They both love me,
I guess we just worked things out.’
‘Ohh…Kay…’
they said.
And poured more wine.

It was obvious they thought me a slut.
It happens,
But when I went to the pantry,
Bent over the freezer to get the icecream,
He turned out the light,
And shut the door behind him.
‘So, you sleep with other people?’
Rang in my head.
‘It’s good to see you again.’
he said.
‘You too,’ I said,
And tried to leave with the icecream.
He brushed my side with his hand,
Like he used to.
Ten years ago.
I put the icecream down.
‘It’s good to see you again.’
he said.
And bent to kiss me.
Like he never did when we were sixteen.
Like I wished he did when we were seventeen.
And stroked my side,
And took my hand,
Pulled it to his
erect
cock
‘You should stay tonight,’ he said,
And his eyes told me,
He hadn’t listened to a word,
Got stuck on a question,
‘So you sleep with other people?’

It was obvious that,
My ten year crush,
My first love,
Thought I was a slut.
It happens.

‘You’re too late.’ I said.
And took the icecream to the kitchen.

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In Unexpected Directions

17 May, 2006 at 22:41 (Uncategorized) (, , , , )

This was inspired directly by a friends poem, although it reflects my ideas on love and the differences between her and my love.

In Unexpected Directions

To be a creature made of silk,

Being a Guenevere,

Some unreal,porcelain beauty,

Has me quaking with fear,

What then is my alternative?

To become an Elaine? 

Pockets of bandages and pins,

A nurse to those in pain?

A useful sort of person?

I’m sure I despaired when I thought,

That that was all was left,

I have held secret my desires:

To paint my nails so deft,

Curl my hair and know what to wear,

Know weird secrets of girls,

But not to be a pretty sort,

And flounce, my hair in curls...

A pretty sort of person?

Not I, no fear, George was my aim,

No Timmy-silliness,

Leaving the faffing to Henry,

With her laces illness,

But this was mimicry,unreal

Should I be like others? 

Like me,why this is not for me!

Copying my brothers.

A tomboy sort of person?

Then can I be some artist’s muse,

Delicate and whispy?

Pah! Far rather sell my soul than、

Be lipsticked and lispy,

A muse like that is an echo,

She, something like Susan,

Reminding…a Guenevere sort of show,

Or an echo of man,

An echo of a person?

What then, am I left with Elaine?

Left to be but useful,

Guiltily wanting desire,

And to be beautiful,

But my lovers were my muses,

Never the other way,

I, an artist to do as she chooses,

With imagination not mimicry, 

I, my own sort of person.

I was tricked into thinking that I had,

Limited choices,useful or useless,

Elaine or Guenevere, equally sad,

Neither fate is mine, I make my own mess.

So rough and steady hands I see I have,

But they are not to catch,hold a lover

To weave a magic from my kitchen hearth,

So lover’s may choose to take it’s cover.

My home is not of the practical sort,

I’d rather it was made of fairy gold,

Certain it will fade in one night, it ought,

One night is enough、it cannot be sold,

White bandages, none, but a little pot、

Of magic cream、foul-smelling, hit’s the spot.

My magic cream is an antiseptic,

But it is the magic that makes it work,

I have this magic working you sceptic,

In our homes foundations I have it lurk,

They will not be in practicality

I’d rather have their roots steeped in romance,

Of the elvish sort, rich in pain, beauty

Than have my hands and feet too coarse to dance,

Magic will die and our homes will tumble,

When our homes have fallen I will be dead,

What care has my spirit for walls, crumbled,

This love on wilful passion has been fed,

I WILL be as soft to touch as I want,

I WILL be as hard to bend as I want,

This love of mine and yours and yours looks like...

A poets dream, An artist’s viscera,

Spread on the page, in the hills on some hike,

To be home is to be split with terror,

For our home is our art,mine and yours love

Not for us wholely artist, wholely muse,

I am not your nurse nor your mother, love,

My capabilities you cannot choose,

Amiable?Say rather passionate,

I believe in love built in shifting sands,

In beauty, moonbeams, magic incarnate,

Nothing more substantial between these hands,

For substance may be cracked, torn and broken,

Some visiting darkness up and tearing,

Until nothing is real or worth sharing.

What is mine,ours, and moving as the mist,

Can’t be harmed, nor taken by another,

From within only is it felt, touched, kissed,

Practical loves please take from your mothers,

Do not kill my love by naming it so,

Depend on me only, only for this;

I will love you all the while I come, go,

Whilst my muses dance for me, you I’ll kiss,

This love will never leave me, so depend,

On my witchcraft but never my nursing,

I will to you listen, love and defend,

Your name you will never hear me cursing,

I want one thing, desire me as a man,

Don’t need me as a child; love me, a man.

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