little sister in Siberia land
wat exactly r u doing ther?
dont u miss teh sunny british isles?
dont teh snow get in ur hair?
little sister in Siberia land
i miss u so much here
even tho we saw each other
mayb once or twice a year
little sister in Siberia land
wen r u coming home?
pls hurry bk to see us
pls call me on ur phone
luv mxxx
Monday, 28 March 2011
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
The White Kitten that Harboured Death.
While growing up in Ecuador I remember being frightened about many, many things. I was afraid of the dark, I was afraid of the old lady accross the road, I was afraid of the big dog next door, I was afraid of the crickets that congregated in huge piles outside of my house. I was even a little bit afraid of dolls. But what I wasn't afraid of were cats.
Those fluffy, cute balls of fun were not dangerous to me at all. Why should they be? They looked so harmless! So when a neighbour came round with the cutest little white kitten myself, my siblings and cousin squeeled with delight and spent many lovely hours playing with the darling thing.
We saw the kitten a few more times in the weeks following. And towards the end, the little creature took great delight in licking and nipping our hands. Oh how we laughed!
Being children, the fact that we never saw that kitten again meant absolutely nothing to us. In-fact, I don't recall ever thinking about the fluff ball again until I stood behind my mother one day, saw her answer the door and overheard a conversation between her and the guest about a little white kitten that had died of rabies. And 'oh!' we'd all better go to the clinic and get ourselves checked out against the ravenous neural-viral disease that was incurable after a certain time spent in the host body.
My father was visiting us from England for two weeks. We'd not seen him for nearly two years and the last week of his visit was spent frantically running to the clinic every morning, lying on a bed while getting a set of vaccinations around the belly button for seven days running. My father left wondering if he'd ever see us again.
We're all still alive now, which means either we weren't ever infected. Or we were able to counter the disease before the point of no return.
So! A travel tip for all you adventurers out there: When in Ecuador, never ever pet white kittens!
Those fluffy, cute balls of fun were not dangerous to me at all. Why should they be? They looked so harmless! So when a neighbour came round with the cutest little white kitten myself, my siblings and cousin squeeled with delight and spent many lovely hours playing with the darling thing.
We saw the kitten a few more times in the weeks following. And towards the end, the little creature took great delight in licking and nipping our hands. Oh how we laughed!
Being children, the fact that we never saw that kitten again meant absolutely nothing to us. In-fact, I don't recall ever thinking about the fluff ball again until I stood behind my mother one day, saw her answer the door and overheard a conversation between her and the guest about a little white kitten that had died of rabies. And 'oh!' we'd all better go to the clinic and get ourselves checked out against the ravenous neural-viral disease that was incurable after a certain time spent in the host body.
My father was visiting us from England for two weeks. We'd not seen him for nearly two years and the last week of his visit was spent frantically running to the clinic every morning, lying on a bed while getting a set of vaccinations around the belly button for seven days running. My father left wondering if he'd ever see us again.
We're all still alive now, which means either we weren't ever infected. Or we were able to counter the disease before the point of no return.
So! A travel tip for all you adventurers out there: When in Ecuador, never ever pet white kittens!
Thursday, 17 March 2011
Sketch: Seared Salmon.
I sat on the stool at a strange angle. Its edge dug into my thigh and left a sting after I hopped off. Another customer was next to me asking for his usual. What was his usual? The Sushi chef nodded and went to his small kitchen. I remember the noise, the heat of that busy indoor market. The sense of inprisonment by the walls and ceiling, making me wonder when I'd see the sun again.
The sun was an unusual concept here. Constantly it hid from our sight behind the great blankets of grey cloud that promised to wring out its cold, heartless rain. And the breeze. Always, always a breeze from the sea-front. Either blustering past us or caressing our faces, teasing us. At least on the few hot days we experienced per miserable year we could be assured our own city-wide cooling system.
Finally I saw the chef bring out four slim, perfectly pink fillets of salmon. He laid them on a stone plate, like an offering on an altar. He bought out a blow torch and I watched, fascinated as the heat of the flame he commanded distressed the perfect, pink flesh.The skin bubbled, fizzed. It cracked and popped open. The sound fed my ears with sizzles and hisses of agony. The vaporised, transendant remains of the whitening, browning sacrifice teased and flirted with my sense of smell.
The Chef laid his masterpiece on some fluffy white rice and drizzled a sticky sauce over it. He handed the food over to the customer without any more show and smiled.
And so the spell over me broke and I sat back on my stool in the same, uncomfortable angle.
The sun was an unusual concept here. Constantly it hid from our sight behind the great blankets of grey cloud that promised to wring out its cold, heartless rain. And the breeze. Always, always a breeze from the sea-front. Either blustering past us or caressing our faces, teasing us. At least on the few hot days we experienced per miserable year we could be assured our own city-wide cooling system.
Finally I saw the chef bring out four slim, perfectly pink fillets of salmon. He laid them on a stone plate, like an offering on an altar. He bought out a blow torch and I watched, fascinated as the heat of the flame he commanded distressed the perfect, pink flesh.The skin bubbled, fizzed. It cracked and popped open. The sound fed my ears with sizzles and hisses of agony. The vaporised, transendant remains of the whitening, browning sacrifice teased and flirted with my sense of smell.
The Chef laid his masterpiece on some fluffy white rice and drizzled a sticky sauce over it. He handed the food over to the customer without any more show and smiled.
And so the spell over me broke and I sat back on my stool in the same, uncomfortable angle.
Friday, 11 March 2011
Milestone on an Abandoned Highway
sticky
damp grass pokes through the cracks and crannies of the broken road
droplets cling to the stalks
drenching a wild cat whose fur is mired by mud and blood
a dying breeze meets its end at the mossy milestone
the milestone
a marker long since abandoned
on a road no longer traipsed by living human feet
no longer graced by relieved sighs or cursed by disappointed groans
the forgotten mark yet stands
and will stand
until the mossy growth and crying breeze tear it piece by piece
and let the crumbled wastes lie among the sticky
damp grass
damp grass pokes through the cracks and crannies of the broken road
droplets cling to the stalks
drenching a wild cat whose fur is mired by mud and blood
a dying breeze meets its end at the mossy milestone
the milestone
a marker long since abandoned
on a road no longer traipsed by living human feet
no longer graced by relieved sighs or cursed by disappointed groans
the forgotten mark yet stands
and will stand
until the mossy growth and crying breeze tear it piece by piece
and let the crumbled wastes lie among the sticky
damp grass
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Xarisha's Tale : Part II
The light was unbearable, incredible and shocking in one.
Xarisha gasped, her eyes screwed shut and her hand protecting them from the ever present glare. Her instinct was to crawl back down into her dark, painless cave, but she knew she had to press on. Crawling on all fours, she forced herself out and into that blinding light.
She felt the last dredges of earth cling to her feet and knew she was free. But that light, it made her curl into herself and use her body as a shield against it. She heard her own breath. She head the hard, undulating rhythm of her heart pounding. She felt the hot tears drip on her cheeks. She felt grateful that at least those senses still sensed.
She felt the burning pain the light inflicted on her eyes lessen. So she experimented and opened one. She cursed. More pain assaulted her. Grasping at the hem of her simple robe, she tore at it until a strip broke off and wrapped this over her eyes. Now she opened them again. This time the sting was lessened and she could finally see where she was.
She recognised walls and cracked tiled floor. She peered up and saw a ceiling. She glanced to her left and right and saw burning torches light the way into a corridor. She peered behind her and saw a barred window. She let out a loud cry and hid back into herself. That was where the glare came from.
What was this place? She wondered, shivering as she felt a cold breeze enter from the window and assault her skin. The torch flames flickered. She crawled forward and felt sharp pain as a broken tile cut her hand, blood droplets spattered the dirty tiles. She cursed again and tried to stand. At first, her legs were shaky and useless, like a newly born gazelle. She grasped onto her father's locket for comfort and pushed herself on and up. Finally she stood in the narrow corridor. What now?
She desperately wished she could face the glare of the window and look out, but not now. Now she looked down at the hole she had crawled from. She felt no desire to return, despite the light's glare. It was as if she stared at a past life, a past way of being. She felt a surge of excitement course through her and clung to her father's locket tighter. The breeze from the window caressed her face and she smiled. She had never felt the wind on her skin before.
Xarisha closed the tunnel back with the earth she had dislodged and then turned to face the corridor. This was the only way she could go now. Clinging to her father's locket, she walked on.
Xarisha gasped, her eyes screwed shut and her hand protecting them from the ever present glare. Her instinct was to crawl back down into her dark, painless cave, but she knew she had to press on. Crawling on all fours, she forced herself out and into that blinding light.
She felt the last dredges of earth cling to her feet and knew she was free. But that light, it made her curl into herself and use her body as a shield against it. She heard her own breath. She head the hard, undulating rhythm of her heart pounding. She felt the hot tears drip on her cheeks. She felt grateful that at least those senses still sensed.
She felt the burning pain the light inflicted on her eyes lessen. So she experimented and opened one. She cursed. More pain assaulted her. Grasping at the hem of her simple robe, she tore at it until a strip broke off and wrapped this over her eyes. Now she opened them again. This time the sting was lessened and she could finally see where she was.
She recognised walls and cracked tiled floor. She peered up and saw a ceiling. She glanced to her left and right and saw burning torches light the way into a corridor. She peered behind her and saw a barred window. She let out a loud cry and hid back into herself. That was where the glare came from.
What was this place? She wondered, shivering as she felt a cold breeze enter from the window and assault her skin. The torch flames flickered. She crawled forward and felt sharp pain as a broken tile cut her hand, blood droplets spattered the dirty tiles. She cursed again and tried to stand. At first, her legs were shaky and useless, like a newly born gazelle. She grasped onto her father's locket for comfort and pushed herself on and up. Finally she stood in the narrow corridor. What now?
She desperately wished she could face the glare of the window and look out, but not now. Now she looked down at the hole she had crawled from. She felt no desire to return, despite the light's glare. It was as if she stared at a past life, a past way of being. She felt a surge of excitement course through her and clung to her father's locket tighter. The breeze from the window caressed her face and she smiled. She had never felt the wind on her skin before.
Xarisha closed the tunnel back with the earth she had dislodged and then turned to face the corridor. This was the only way she could go now. Clinging to her father's locket, she walked on.
Thursday, 20 January 2011
Sketch: Soil
Crumbles. It crumbles apart like well cooked pastry. Earth crumbs littering the pavement as I walk. It's that smell. That grainy, moist smell that happens after the rain splatters on. Damp, heady grass breaks appart the soil. Crumbles.
Thursday, 13 January 2011
The Mango Tree
Deviant acts as a child are mostly explained away by the 'We didn't know any better!' line. We tell this to adults with wide eyes and small noses turned up at their big, benevolent faces. But we lie. We do know better and we execute our naughty behaviour with maximum efficiency and the least risk of getting caught.
There is, however, a time when one particular misdeed carried out by myself, my siblings and my cousin, was more obvious than a naked man dancing the cancan at a funeral.
In our defense, there was nothing we could really do to stop ourselves. It was... the perfect plan. Our goal, to reach the juiciest mangoes in the area. Our prize, to feast on the mangoes and relish our victory.
We waited for the afternoon to melt into evening and then into night. The humidity of the Guayaquilanian winter meant that there was hardly any difference in temperature in the dark. It was still sticky, it was still hot. Street lights were an issue, they gave away our position if anyone looked up at the rooftops at the right moment!
My brother led the charge. He's always been a natural leader. My cousin followed closed behind, she moved quickly and hardly made a sound. My little sister was just ahead of me, bounding along and trying not to laugh too much. I stayed behind and watched out for any sign of people spotting us and ruining our fun.
The slated rooftops over most of the houses on the street run over each other and were mostly flat, so clambering over them was easy to say the least. The problem was reaching out just enough to the tree that sprouted in the neighbour's garden and out over the roof tops without being spotted by the same neighbours sitting out, enjoying some down time.
I remember the excitement in dashing across the roof-tops, that sense of complete freedom outside the rule of adults who wouldn't dare cross over the relatively thin slates. We were light, we were agile, we each reached out and took as many mangoes as we could and VICTORY! We scampered back.
We ate the mangoes on the roof-tops, relishing our success, living the moment. As children that's what you do, each moment lived fully, never looking ahead or back. But then we got tired. So we crawled back down to the level of the adults and were faced with their wrath. Apparently they had been alerted by our neighbours that 'your kids are stealing mangoes again.'
Such slander against us! We were shocked. Us climbing the rooftops and stealing mangoes? Why that would be too dangerous and more importantly you told us we weren't allowed...
Unfortunately, it was rather hard to fool our adults. We were covered in dust and our faces were sticky with mango juice, also our stealthy crossing of the roof-tops was rather louder and more obnoxious than we had realised. So we all got the beating of our lives and told, on pain of having all our privileges revoked, never ever to climb those rooftops again.
But those mangoes called to us.
So the next night we laid out a new plan...
There is, however, a time when one particular misdeed carried out by myself, my siblings and my cousin, was more obvious than a naked man dancing the cancan at a funeral.
In our defense, there was nothing we could really do to stop ourselves. It was... the perfect plan. Our goal, to reach the juiciest mangoes in the area. Our prize, to feast on the mangoes and relish our victory.
We waited for the afternoon to melt into evening and then into night. The humidity of the Guayaquilanian winter meant that there was hardly any difference in temperature in the dark. It was still sticky, it was still hot. Street lights were an issue, they gave away our position if anyone looked up at the rooftops at the right moment!
My brother led the charge. He's always been a natural leader. My cousin followed closed behind, she moved quickly and hardly made a sound. My little sister was just ahead of me, bounding along and trying not to laugh too much. I stayed behind and watched out for any sign of people spotting us and ruining our fun.
The slated rooftops over most of the houses on the street run over each other and were mostly flat, so clambering over them was easy to say the least. The problem was reaching out just enough to the tree that sprouted in the neighbour's garden and out over the roof tops without being spotted by the same neighbours sitting out, enjoying some down time.
I remember the excitement in dashing across the roof-tops, that sense of complete freedom outside the rule of adults who wouldn't dare cross over the relatively thin slates. We were light, we were agile, we each reached out and took as many mangoes as we could and VICTORY! We scampered back.
We ate the mangoes on the roof-tops, relishing our success, living the moment. As children that's what you do, each moment lived fully, never looking ahead or back. But then we got tired. So we crawled back down to the level of the adults and were faced with their wrath. Apparently they had been alerted by our neighbours that 'your kids are stealing mangoes again.'
Such slander against us! We were shocked. Us climbing the rooftops and stealing mangoes? Why that would be too dangerous and more importantly you told us we weren't allowed...
Unfortunately, it was rather hard to fool our adults. We were covered in dust and our faces were sticky with mango juice, also our stealthy crossing of the roof-tops was rather louder and more obnoxious than we had realised. So we all got the beating of our lives and told, on pain of having all our privileges revoked, never ever to climb those rooftops again.
But those mangoes called to us.
So the next night we laid out a new plan...
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Fishing for Lies
Inspired by my father, who worked in an aquarium in his younger days.
Mr. and Mrs. Davies, newly married, hand in hand with self-satisfied grins on their happy, pampered, full faces walked into Sam's shop. Sam liked to think it was his shop at least, he did most of the work that ever got done in that squalid, damp place.
The shop specilised in exotic fish. Beautiful floating beings that swam with lifeless eyes. Bright, inspiring and soothing colours that belonged to creatures that had long ago lost any real spark. The sour smell of treated, used water smothered every other smell in that tiny shack. Fishing rods, fishing bait, fishing everything hung about the walls and ceiling, cluttering any free space. Even the counter and till were drowning in all the rubbish that was on sale.
Sam spotted his potential customers and smiled to himself. He felt a certain sale coming his way.
'You alright mate?' Mr. Davies said, while Mrs. Davies chirped happily away in the background. Sam nodded and put on his best fake smile.
'Afternoon' he replied, eyeing the pretty, plump lady who was currently distracted by an idly swimming butterfly fish.
'Me and the missus want to buy a fish or two for our exotic aquarium,' Mr. Davies boldly announced, brandishing the word 'aquarium' with flourish. He had no idea what fish was what, but it didn't stop him trying to sound impressive. Mrs. Davies giggled behind him, cooing at some Coy flopped miserably on the floor of his watery prison.
'Well, eh.. I can tell you're after something really special.' Sam made his smile broader, kept his eye on his customer and then moved from behind the counter to a tank that had all manner of foliage and shiny, colourful pebbles. 'Now this fish here,' Sam said pointing to a spot on the aquarium, 'used to be rarer than gold. They're called Carassius Suboculi,' he said grandly, 'you used to only ever see them in the wild.' Mr. Davies screwed his eyes up to stare better at the weaving underwater plants, 'but we here at 'Angle and Bait' discovered a way to make them breed in captivity.'
Mr. Davies peered closer at what Sam pointed to, Mrs. Davies merely yawned, the soothing sounds of water bubbling and flowing were making her sleepy. Sam smiled to himself as he saw Mr. Davies try very hard to see the 'Carassiues Suboculi', this was a sure sale.
'Yeah? How much are they? A packet I bet.' Mr. Davies commented, rubbing his chin at the flashes of movement he saw, these highlighted by the gloom that weaved about the place.
'I can give you a very nice price for them,' Sam informed, always the charitable sales-man, '30 quid a pop.' Mr. Davies 'Oohed' and 'Aahed'.
'I'll take two off you for twenty each' Mr. Davies finally said. Mrs Davies smiled blankly and yawned again, the fish weren't that interesting anymore.
'I'll let you take two for forty-five.' Sam pushed, and to his surprise Mr. Davies nodded and fished out his wallet. Sam smiled politely and ran the bill on the till.
'So what's these, Carasus Supoclusi? What's their common name?' Asked Mr. Davies while Sam dipped in a net into the tank, pulled it out with his hand wriggling along the handle and dipped it into a plastic bag full of water.
'Common name? Invisible Fish. Make sure you feed them plenty of specialist fish food, which you can purchase at this store, and keep the water at exactly 23 degrees, or they die.' Sam informed, all the while smiling at them. Mrs. Davies began to whine at Mr. Davies about something unintelligable, she was getting very bored.
'Alright love, we're nearly done. I'll take some of that specialist food too then mate.' Mr. Davies grandly declared, dipping into his wallet again.
Mr. and Mrs. Davies walked out hand in hand happily, a bag full of water and about £300 of extra fish food, exotic tank supplies and a guide on all things fish. Sam simply waved them out and smiled, slipping forty-five pounds worth of crisp notes into his pockets.
Mr. and Mrs. Davies, newly married, hand in hand with self-satisfied grins on their happy, pampered, full faces walked into Sam's shop. Sam liked to think it was his shop at least, he did most of the work that ever got done in that squalid, damp place.
The shop specilised in exotic fish. Beautiful floating beings that swam with lifeless eyes. Bright, inspiring and soothing colours that belonged to creatures that had long ago lost any real spark. The sour smell of treated, used water smothered every other smell in that tiny shack. Fishing rods, fishing bait, fishing everything hung about the walls and ceiling, cluttering any free space. Even the counter and till were drowning in all the rubbish that was on sale.
Sam spotted his potential customers and smiled to himself. He felt a certain sale coming his way.
'You alright mate?' Mr. Davies said, while Mrs. Davies chirped happily away in the background. Sam nodded and put on his best fake smile.
'Afternoon' he replied, eyeing the pretty, plump lady who was currently distracted by an idly swimming butterfly fish.
'Me and the missus want to buy a fish or two for our exotic aquarium,' Mr. Davies boldly announced, brandishing the word 'aquarium' with flourish. He had no idea what fish was what, but it didn't stop him trying to sound impressive. Mrs. Davies giggled behind him, cooing at some Coy flopped miserably on the floor of his watery prison.
'Well, eh.. I can tell you're after something really special.' Sam made his smile broader, kept his eye on his customer and then moved from behind the counter to a tank that had all manner of foliage and shiny, colourful pebbles. 'Now this fish here,' Sam said pointing to a spot on the aquarium, 'used to be rarer than gold. They're called Carassius Suboculi,' he said grandly, 'you used to only ever see them in the wild.' Mr. Davies screwed his eyes up to stare better at the weaving underwater plants, 'but we here at 'Angle and Bait' discovered a way to make them breed in captivity.'
Mr. Davies peered closer at what Sam pointed to, Mrs. Davies merely yawned, the soothing sounds of water bubbling and flowing were making her sleepy. Sam smiled to himself as he saw Mr. Davies try very hard to see the 'Carassiues Suboculi', this was a sure sale.
'Yeah? How much are they? A packet I bet.' Mr. Davies commented, rubbing his chin at the flashes of movement he saw, these highlighted by the gloom that weaved about the place.
'I can give you a very nice price for them,' Sam informed, always the charitable sales-man, '30 quid a pop.' Mr. Davies 'Oohed' and 'Aahed'.
'I'll take two off you for twenty each' Mr. Davies finally said. Mrs Davies smiled blankly and yawned again, the fish weren't that interesting anymore.
'I'll let you take two for forty-five.' Sam pushed, and to his surprise Mr. Davies nodded and fished out his wallet. Sam smiled politely and ran the bill on the till.
'So what's these, Carasus Supoclusi? What's their common name?' Asked Mr. Davies while Sam dipped in a net into the tank, pulled it out with his hand wriggling along the handle and dipped it into a plastic bag full of water.
'Common name? Invisible Fish. Make sure you feed them plenty of specialist fish food, which you can purchase at this store, and keep the water at exactly 23 degrees, or they die.' Sam informed, all the while smiling at them. Mrs. Davies began to whine at Mr. Davies about something unintelligable, she was getting very bored.
'Alright love, we're nearly done. I'll take some of that specialist food too then mate.' Mr. Davies grandly declared, dipping into his wallet again.
Mr. and Mrs. Davies walked out hand in hand happily, a bag full of water and about £300 of extra fish food, exotic tank supplies and a guide on all things fish. Sam simply waved them out and smiled, slipping forty-five pounds worth of crisp notes into his pockets.
Sunday, 2 January 2011
The Creature that comes at Night
You are in a room. You are paralysed, unable to lift a finger and you feel a murderous chill bite your prone body. As you shiver, you hear whispers, hints of the something that lives in this room. The inhabitant wheezes. You have little choice but to remain still and wait.
Are your eyes closed? You try to open them, nothing is revealed. You try to close them and are subject to the blind panic you were in before. The creature growls, close to your ear now, you can feel its breath on your exposed, cool cheek. Your heart pounds and your skin becomes clammy with terrified sweat.
You feel the thing's drool lather your mouth and chin. It is the only warmth afforded to you. It growls again, deeper. Then again, each growl coming more menacing than the one before. The sound of your palpitations and your own rasps of panic deafen your ears. Where is the creature now?! Is it with you still? The growls come faster, your eyes refuse to open and your body will not move.
You feel a sharp jab of pain in your side. The creature has struck and you scream in terror.
You are momentarily grateful that you can move and you sit up. The room is dark, but you can see faint outlines in the gloom. A voice next to you murmurs, 'Please darling, I can't catch a single wink with you making that racket.' Your eyes hungrily roam your surroundings for any sign of that beast as your hand wipes traces of spittle and drool from your mouth and chin.
At last you're convinced the creature has gone and you settle yourself down to sleep. The wheezing and growling starts up again.
It's back.
Your eyes fly open in horror.
Are your eyes closed? You try to open them, nothing is revealed. You try to close them and are subject to the blind panic you were in before. The creature growls, close to your ear now, you can feel its breath on your exposed, cool cheek. Your heart pounds and your skin becomes clammy with terrified sweat.
You feel the thing's drool lather your mouth and chin. It is the only warmth afforded to you. It growls again, deeper. Then again, each growl coming more menacing than the one before. The sound of your palpitations and your own rasps of panic deafen your ears. Where is the creature now?! Is it with you still? The growls come faster, your eyes refuse to open and your body will not move.
You feel a sharp jab of pain in your side. The creature has struck and you scream in terror.
You are momentarily grateful that you can move and you sit up. The room is dark, but you can see faint outlines in the gloom. A voice next to you murmurs, 'Please darling, I can't catch a single wink with you making that racket.' Your eyes hungrily roam your surroundings for any sign of that beast as your hand wipes traces of spittle and drool from your mouth and chin.
At last you're convinced the creature has gone and you settle yourself down to sleep. The wheezing and growling starts up again.
It's back.
Your eyes fly open in horror.
Sunday, 26 December 2010
To do list
I'm going to ask her today.
I'm so excited, I can hardly wait. I know she'll say yes, there's no doubt about that. Perhaps there's a point-two percent chance she'll say no. But that's such slim odds I'm not even going to bother giving it any thought. No, she's definitely going to say yes.
I'm looking at the ring now, holding it up to the light. It's stunning, gorgeous. It's a silver band with over two carats of diamond nestled in the center framed by tiny blue sapphire gems. It's just... wow. I've been saving this for years for her. I knew I wanted to marry the moment we met, but... these things take time now. It's not the done thing to sweep someone of their feet and marry them within a month of meeting. It makes people think it's not going to last because it was so impulsive. But I knew. I'm almost 100 percent sure she knows now too.
Shower next. The hot water cascades down my body and when the steam dissipates, so does the tension in my muscles. I rub soap into my chest. The hair there is becoming matted in the foamy lather. She always loves playing with those hairs. I rub soap into my neck, massaging the base with my fingers, feeling the strong tendons loosen with my insistent touch. When I start to clean my flaccid member, I'm tempted to liven it up a little and relieve myself. But I remember tonight, and decide I want to save everything for her.
I'm clean, smelling of aftershave and now what to wear. I pick khaki twilled jeans with a black shirt under a light blue v-neck. I probably looks a mess; she'll probably think so anyway. Not that it matters. Both of us know clothes aren't my strong point. I'm trying to be discerning about what I wear for tonight, but really there isn't much point in trying.
I put on my socks, watch and shoes. Dressed now. Time to get the food. I head out of my apartment and down to the street. I stop by my local fish-mongers on the way to M&S and pick up the live clams. They're in season now, so I know they'll be at their finest. At the supermarket, I pick up shallots, chillies, garlic, cream and coriander. I know she loves those flavours and they'll go well with the clams. I'm going to prepare her something luxurious, yet simple. Next stop is a bakers that sells the most intensely chocolaty cheesecake either of us have had. I got her one for her birthday a year or two back and she's been hinting at getting it again ever since. The price is prohibitive though, as much as I want to shower her with money and gifts, £250 is a little excessive for a dessert. But tonight, who cares about price. I also buy some crusty french stick to go with the clams.
Now alcohol. What sort of proposal dinner is complete without fine champagne? I head to a specialist store close to her flat that has the biggest variety of alcohol imaginable in the UK. I choose a delicate white to simmer the clams in and a bottle of champagne I can't afford. I'm nearly set now.
I arrive at her flat and ring the door. I'm not nervous. I'm not afraid. I'm so sure she'll say yes, I can just relax and prepare this delicious meal and laugh and chat with her. She answers the door. She's so lovely when she smiles, her auburn hair falls about her pretty face alluringly and I go in to kiss her lips lightly. They're so soft. I can feel my body respond to her with arousal and I try to contain myself - not yet.
I walk into her scented flat. It's homey and cosy, cushions scattered over the sofa, soft lighting and rugs and throws wherever possible. I like walking into her space. I can sense some of her warmth here. She takes my bags and squeals when she peeks into them. Yes, I'm telling her, I'm planning on treating her like the queen she is tonight. She stops her trek into the kitchen to smile gently at me. Then she walks to me and kisses me again, a little more passion in her actions. I get the impressions she's finding it hard to stay focused on food too.
I wrap my arms around her slim waist and nuzzle her neck while she chatters at me and washes the clams. I breathe her in. So sweet. I rarely smile these days, not without her around. But with her it's all I can do not to smile. I ask her if there's anything pretty she can wear, not that she needs it. I bought a new dress last week, she tells me, should I put that on? I don't really want her to go, I just want an excuse to get everything ready and I know she spends an age and a half getting ready. I nod at her and tell her to take her time.
She does just that. By the time she arrives, I've chopped the shallots, garlic, chillies and coriander and fried them for a few minutes. I've thrown in the clams, some of the white wine and cooked them for a few minutes more. I've laid the table with her best crockery and warmed the bread up. I've added the cream to the clams and served it in bowls, steaming hot. The champagne is chilled too.
She walks in with a stunning shimmering purple number that accentuates every curve of her body. Her face is prettily made up and her hair swept from her face to a complicated knot. She's wearing pearls around her neck and ears. She looks sensational. I say something to her and she giggles, blushing slightly. I can feel my hard-on pushing its agenda to me. Not yet! I tell myself and beckon for her to sit down.
She talks about her work while we eat. I try not to think about how much I want to drag her to her room and - not yet! I top up her champagne glass. We've now moved onto holidays and where we'll go this year. I've never been to Japan, I tell her and she rolls her eyes. Okay I've never been to Greece, I lie, and she flashes me a grin. We went last year, but it seems that's where she'd like to go again. It's the last thing on my mind, holidays. I clear our plates away and bring out that desert. She looks at it longingly and gobbles her piece up before I've even served mine. I look up at her with a look of disbelief and there is an awkward silence between us. She also has a chocolate streak down her chin which she discreetly tries to wipe off. It's too much for me and I burst out laughing. She follows suit and for a while we amuse ourselves with impressions of her rapacious appetite. She has tears in her eyes and so do I. Oh shush! She tells me giggling, you should see what you're like with pork scratchings!
Finally, while we eat our third portion of the chocolate cheesecake, I decide it is time to ask her. The light of the room caresses her magnificently. She's just lovely. I feel myself overwhelmed with so much longing for her. I can barely contain my excitement. And my arousal. I slip off my chair and get down on one knee. She tilts her head and peers at me questioningly. Then her eyes light up and she simply stares at me. I take her hand in mine and I say those words, all the while reaching into my pocket for th- NO! I forgot the ring...
I'm so excited, I can hardly wait. I know she'll say yes, there's no doubt about that. Perhaps there's a point-two percent chance she'll say no. But that's such slim odds I'm not even going to bother giving it any thought. No, she's definitely going to say yes.
I'm looking at the ring now, holding it up to the light. It's stunning, gorgeous. It's a silver band with over two carats of diamond nestled in the center framed by tiny blue sapphire gems. It's just... wow. I've been saving this for years for her. I knew I wanted to marry the moment we met, but... these things take time now. It's not the done thing to sweep someone of their feet and marry them within a month of meeting. It makes people think it's not going to last because it was so impulsive. But I knew. I'm almost 100 percent sure she knows now too.
Shower next. The hot water cascades down my body and when the steam dissipates, so does the tension in my muscles. I rub soap into my chest. The hair there is becoming matted in the foamy lather. She always loves playing with those hairs. I rub soap into my neck, massaging the base with my fingers, feeling the strong tendons loosen with my insistent touch. When I start to clean my flaccid member, I'm tempted to liven it up a little and relieve myself. But I remember tonight, and decide I want to save everything for her.
I'm clean, smelling of aftershave and now what to wear. I pick khaki twilled jeans with a black shirt under a light blue v-neck. I probably looks a mess; she'll probably think so anyway. Not that it matters. Both of us know clothes aren't my strong point. I'm trying to be discerning about what I wear for tonight, but really there isn't much point in trying.
I put on my socks, watch and shoes. Dressed now. Time to get the food. I head out of my apartment and down to the street. I stop by my local fish-mongers on the way to M&S and pick up the live clams. They're in season now, so I know they'll be at their finest. At the supermarket, I pick up shallots, chillies, garlic, cream and coriander. I know she loves those flavours and they'll go well with the clams. I'm going to prepare her something luxurious, yet simple. Next stop is a bakers that sells the most intensely chocolaty cheesecake either of us have had. I got her one for her birthday a year or two back and she's been hinting at getting it again ever since. The price is prohibitive though, as much as I want to shower her with money and gifts, £250 is a little excessive for a dessert. But tonight, who cares about price. I also buy some crusty french stick to go with the clams.
Now alcohol. What sort of proposal dinner is complete without fine champagne? I head to a specialist store close to her flat that has the biggest variety of alcohol imaginable in the UK. I choose a delicate white to simmer the clams in and a bottle of champagne I can't afford. I'm nearly set now.
I arrive at her flat and ring the door. I'm not nervous. I'm not afraid. I'm so sure she'll say yes, I can just relax and prepare this delicious meal and laugh and chat with her. She answers the door. She's so lovely when she smiles, her auburn hair falls about her pretty face alluringly and I go in to kiss her lips lightly. They're so soft. I can feel my body respond to her with arousal and I try to contain myself - not yet.
I walk into her scented flat. It's homey and cosy, cushions scattered over the sofa, soft lighting and rugs and throws wherever possible. I like walking into her space. I can sense some of her warmth here. She takes my bags and squeals when she peeks into them. Yes, I'm telling her, I'm planning on treating her like the queen she is tonight. She stops her trek into the kitchen to smile gently at me. Then she walks to me and kisses me again, a little more passion in her actions. I get the impressions she's finding it hard to stay focused on food too.
I wrap my arms around her slim waist and nuzzle her neck while she chatters at me and washes the clams. I breathe her in. So sweet. I rarely smile these days, not without her around. But with her it's all I can do not to smile. I ask her if there's anything pretty she can wear, not that she needs it. I bought a new dress last week, she tells me, should I put that on? I don't really want her to go, I just want an excuse to get everything ready and I know she spends an age and a half getting ready. I nod at her and tell her to take her time.
She does just that. By the time she arrives, I've chopped the shallots, garlic, chillies and coriander and fried them for a few minutes. I've thrown in the clams, some of the white wine and cooked them for a few minutes more. I've laid the table with her best crockery and warmed the bread up. I've added the cream to the clams and served it in bowls, steaming hot. The champagne is chilled too.
She walks in with a stunning shimmering purple number that accentuates every curve of her body. Her face is prettily made up and her hair swept from her face to a complicated knot. She's wearing pearls around her neck and ears. She looks sensational. I say something to her and she giggles, blushing slightly. I can feel my hard-on pushing its agenda to me. Not yet! I tell myself and beckon for her to sit down.
She talks about her work while we eat. I try not to think about how much I want to drag her to her room and - not yet! I top up her champagne glass. We've now moved onto holidays and where we'll go this year. I've never been to Japan, I tell her and she rolls her eyes. Okay I've never been to Greece, I lie, and she flashes me a grin. We went last year, but it seems that's where she'd like to go again. It's the last thing on my mind, holidays. I clear our plates away and bring out that desert. She looks at it longingly and gobbles her piece up before I've even served mine. I look up at her with a look of disbelief and there is an awkward silence between us. She also has a chocolate streak down her chin which she discreetly tries to wipe off. It's too much for me and I burst out laughing. She follows suit and for a while we amuse ourselves with impressions of her rapacious appetite. She has tears in her eyes and so do I. Oh shush! She tells me giggling, you should see what you're like with pork scratchings!
Finally, while we eat our third portion of the chocolate cheesecake, I decide it is time to ask her. The light of the room caresses her magnificently. She's just lovely. I feel myself overwhelmed with so much longing for her. I can barely contain my excitement. And my arousal. I slip off my chair and get down on one knee. She tilts her head and peers at me questioningly. Then her eyes light up and she simply stares at me. I take her hand in mine and I say those words, all the while reaching into my pocket for th- NO! I forgot the ring...
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
Yue'Vanir : Xarisha's Tale
I'll start with something that I've had pressing on my mind enough to begin writing it. This is the beginning of a far wider arch of stories that I've been messing around with with my fiancee (he's a writing mug too!) By the way, there's something very wrong with the way blogger.com handles space bars and enter keys. Anyway here it is.
Xarisha's Tale
Shakily, she caressed the cave's wall for guidance and walked on. She tried to sing a hymn of exuberance to honour her father's passing, but the words came hollow and rang strained. 'Oh father..', she whispered in the darkness, 'father.. father..'', shaking her head and crying. They had warned her the journey back would feel like the longest, most arduous of your life, but words were nothing to the deep despair that swallowed Xarisha in that pitch black. Yet she continued. Her father's words echoed in her mind, 'Where the Blackcap lights the way, seek the crack on the rock...'
Xarisha finally saw the dim, opal gleam of Blackcap in the distance of the narrow passage and she hurried to it, thinking of home and comfort first, but then halted, struck by her father's command. She walked on, hesitantly now, afraid of this 'burden' that had been laid on her. And yet.. Light... Real Light... She hurried on, reaching the line where the humble fungus grew and created a path back to her people. She scanned the area carefully, the vague light offered by the bright mushrooms made her eyes strain. And then she saw it, the crack. Easily missed by many because of the great concentration of the mushroom that grew there. She fell to her knees and clawed, scraped and dug the mushrooms out, wincing a little, remembering this was sacred ground, but finally the pitch black of a cave within a cave revealed itself. Xarisha did not hesitate, not even to gawp at such a wonder, she edged herself in.
She crawled on her hands and knees, sneezing at the stale air and taking one or two gulps of breath before sinking deeper into the tunnel. It was stifling. This was the smallest space she had ever crawled in and she felt the weight of the earth above and around her oppress her being. Yet her heart did not thump with fear, no. Excited anticipation welled up within her. Light.. sweet Light! She felt her father's locket stick to her sweaty skin as she clambered up along the earthy tunnel. It was hard to breathe now, hard to think, all she could do was keep on forward. The rock below her began to feel grittier, softer and the stench of stale earth hit her nose. She coughed and sneezed again, eyes streaming, but kept on forward. Finally her head smacked on hard earth.
She recoiled, and then dug with her hands, dug with her beating, thumping heart full with the fervour of promise. It was harder to breathe, ever harder to continue dislodging earth from earth, and at a point of giving up she felt great clomps of dusty soil fall on her. She rubbed her eyes, shook her head and sneezed, again. Then she saw it. Light. Pure, white light graced her eyes for the first time in her young life. A splash of it poured in, piercing the darkness below and illuminating her pale face. She squinted at the strength of it and protected her eyes with her hand. 'Oh sweet father you were right.' Xarisha whispered in the gloom, her closed eyes roving over the stream of brightness hungrily.
Though I know the above is part of a wider story arch, I think it stands quite nicely on its own.
Xarisha's Tale
Darkness. It permeated every rock, every pore.
Xarisha walked with careful, measured steps, one hand gripping tight to her father’s and the other running along the cool smooth wall of rock that guided her. Blackcap did not grow on this sort of surface and had long stopped sprouting and showing her their path. Instead utter pitch black covered her eyes like a heavy blanket blots out all trace of the moon. Xarisha dared not speak. She knew she was her father’s guide on his final journey and therefore, must act with dignity. She knew that, by and by, they would reach those sacred waters and with that, her blind father’s doom. She bit her lip and tightened her grip on her father’s hand, which he reassuringly squeezed back.
Her fingers came to feel empty, cool air and she halted. Now her feet would guide her. Feeling ahead carefully with her toes, she stepped forward. Icy water met her naked feet and she hissed her breath in to stop herself from crying out with shock. This was her first time here. ‘We are here father,’ she whispered, her voice multiplied many times its volume in the eerie cavern. ‘Lead me into the water child,’ her father replied, his voice coming strong and wise, all the more magnified by the strange echoes in the place. She carefully guided him past her and held on tightly to his arm as his entire weight dropped into the waters and then buoyed him back briefly.
‘Father!’ She cried out, abandoned panic choking her. He soothed her, ‘Shh, hush child, I will remain a moment longer’. His rich voice bounced with each echo and grew stronger. She could no longer control herself and let out terrified, grief-stricken sobs. She sank low so her face was level with his. He gently stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. ‘Easy child,’ he murmured with loving affection, ‘save those precious tears for mourning the next child born into our poor, mutilated clan. For me? For me rejoice! I go to join those that have gone ahead of me and finally I leave this cursed existence.’ Xarisha bit her tongue and attempted to regain some form of self-control, ‘Forgive me father,’ she whispered, her voice still catching, ‘I will celebrate this moment with you as is appropriate.’ She stroked his cheek with the tender affection of a daughter and tried to remember every line, every contour of his aged face.
He was becoming heavier and loosening his grip on her moment by moment. ‘Daughter,’ he whispered in the pitch dark, ‘it is time I passed on. But one final gift and one terrible burden must I lay upon your back.’ He clawed a locket about his neck, splashing Xarisha with icy water as he did so. She flinched and tried to hold him up, but found the waters drag him down slowly. He finally removed the locket and with trembling hands, placed it over Xarisha’s head. ‘This is the key to the fall of those that keep us in eternal darkness. Escape these caverns and guard it with all you are until the time is right to bring armies against our cruel masters.' He sunk deeper, the water now closing over his neck. 'There is a way out, my dearest child, return the way we came, feel the smooth face of stone until you see Blackcap light your path once more. But do not take it-' Xarisha finally lost her grip on him and let out a horrified scream. He began to struggle blindly against the water and shouted the last words at her desperately, 'do not take the lighted path! Instead seek a crack in the rock and sink into it. Crawl this way until you see light. Sweet light! G-go my daughter redeem us all!" She was sobbing, trying to keep the grief from making her loose all sense of direction, but she stepped backwards and reached back until she felt the solid face of the rock. She waited, quietly crying, as his gasps and splutters came and went with the splashes of those cold, icy waters until she heard nothing more.
Shakily, she caressed the cave's wall for guidance and walked on. She tried to sing a hymn of exuberance to honour her father's passing, but the words came hollow and rang strained. 'Oh father..', she whispered in the darkness, 'father.. father..'', shaking her head and crying. They had warned her the journey back would feel like the longest, most arduous of your life, but words were nothing to the deep despair that swallowed Xarisha in that pitch black. Yet she continued. Her father's words echoed in her mind, 'Where the Blackcap lights the way, seek the crack on the rock...'
Xarisha finally saw the dim, opal gleam of Blackcap in the distance of the narrow passage and she hurried to it, thinking of home and comfort first, but then halted, struck by her father's command. She walked on, hesitantly now, afraid of this 'burden' that had been laid on her. And yet.. Light... Real Light... She hurried on, reaching the line where the humble fungus grew and created a path back to her people. She scanned the area carefully, the vague light offered by the bright mushrooms made her eyes strain. And then she saw it, the crack. Easily missed by many because of the great concentration of the mushroom that grew there. She fell to her knees and clawed, scraped and dug the mushrooms out, wincing a little, remembering this was sacred ground, but finally the pitch black of a cave within a cave revealed itself. Xarisha did not hesitate, not even to gawp at such a wonder, she edged herself in.
She crawled on her hands and knees, sneezing at the stale air and taking one or two gulps of breath before sinking deeper into the tunnel. It was stifling. This was the smallest space she had ever crawled in and she felt the weight of the earth above and around her oppress her being. Yet her heart did not thump with fear, no. Excited anticipation welled up within her. Light.. sweet Light! She felt her father's locket stick to her sweaty skin as she clambered up along the earthy tunnel. It was hard to breathe now, hard to think, all she could do was keep on forward. The rock below her began to feel grittier, softer and the stench of stale earth hit her nose. She coughed and sneezed again, eyes streaming, but kept on forward. Finally her head smacked on hard earth.
She recoiled, and then dug with her hands, dug with her beating, thumping heart full with the fervour of promise. It was harder to breathe, ever harder to continue dislodging earth from earth, and at a point of giving up she felt great clomps of dusty soil fall on her. She rubbed her eyes, shook her head and sneezed, again. Then she saw it. Light. Pure, white light graced her eyes for the first time in her young life. A splash of it poured in, piercing the darkness below and illuminating her pale face. She squinted at the strength of it and protected her eyes with her hand. 'Oh sweet father you were right.' Xarisha whispered in the gloom, her closed eyes roving over the stream of brightness hungrily.
Though I know the above is part of a wider story arch, I think it stands quite nicely on its own.
Introduction
I read somewhere, Writer's monthly or something, that 'if you're a person full of ideas, it doesn't meant you're creative it means you're lazy.' Harsh right? Mostly harsh if you're constantly going: HOLY MOLY I JUST HAD TEH MOST AMAZING STORY IDEA OF A BUG TAHT BECOMES A TREE AND THEN HE MARRIES A FREAKING DOG WOWOWOWOW!
I may have just started to imagine what the above story might be like and what sort of sub-text it might imply and... I need help.
Anyway, I'm a 'lots of ideas ALL THE TIME' person. Which is great because it makes me feel special and like talent could lurk somewhere in the grey smush I call a brain (and I don't care blogger.com it's G R E Y not G R A Y. Your spellchecker can squiggle red lines at me all it wants). Having said that I am notoriously lazy and spend all my time in my head. Or in WoW. Mostly in WoW. In fact the only times I'm not in WoW is when I'm sleeping or unable to access the game. So as a way to challenge myself and stop being such a waste of space, I decided I'd try to post one story per week. At least one. Even if it's just,
"The cat sat on the mat. The man sat on the cat. The cat shat on the man. The man sat on the shat. And then they all lived happily ever after. The End."
I will do my very best to stick to the one-story-a-week thing. Let's see what I can pull of eh?
Oh, I should also probably do something along the lines of:
****DISCLAIMER**** All the crap I write is my own, not lifted from anyone else. Please don't nick it. And if you think I nicked yours, I'm very sorry, this is done unintentionally and I always site my sources if sources have been used.
I may have just started to imagine what the above story might be like and what sort of sub-text it might imply and... I need help.
Anyway, I'm a 'lots of ideas ALL THE TIME' person. Which is great because it makes me feel special and like talent could lurk somewhere in the grey smush I call a brain (and I don't care blogger.com it's G R E Y not G R A Y. Your spellchecker can squiggle red lines at me all it wants). Having said that I am notoriously lazy and spend all my time in my head. Or in WoW. Mostly in WoW. In fact the only times I'm not in WoW is when I'm sleeping or unable to access the game. So as a way to challenge myself and stop being such a waste of space, I decided I'd try to post one story per week. At least one. Even if it's just,
"The cat sat on the mat. The man sat on the cat. The cat shat on the man. The man sat on the shat. And then they all lived happily ever after. The End."
I will do my very best to stick to the one-story-a-week thing. Let's see what I can pull of eh?
Oh, I should also probably do something along the lines of:
****DISCLAIMER**** All the crap I write is my own, not lifted from anyone else. Please don't nick it. And if you think I nicked yours, I'm very sorry, this is done unintentionally and I always site my sources if sources have been used.
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