Glenda The Good Witch

Some writing I did for the fun of it. Have many ideas floating around my head, and sometimes need to get the voices out. Writing is the only way. One day I will take all my ideas and make them into a novel of sorts. But I am buy, so alas, today is not that day.

 

Once upon a time, on this very earth you stand upon, lived a coven of witches and warlocks, the likes of which you have never seen. Their purpose on our earth was to bring forth the magic that had been stifled eons ago when the very last dragon was slayed. Now dragons are peculiar creatures, or rather, were, because they appear to be ferocious giants with wings, who destroy all that stands in their way, pillage gold for their own selfish aesthetic reasons and kill innocent knights in shining armour. However, this is only what they appear to have done. But remember this, nothing is what it seems.  Since the last dragon was spotted hundreds of years ago, we only know their fierceness through the ‘once upon a time’ stories that humans have written throughout the ages. Stories written either blindly or to blind humans to the truth of it all.

 I am no human, or at least, I am not a human with her eyes sealed shut by the puppet masters.  Therefore I can tell you the truth, because I too am a witch, descended from the coven. Ascended and sent to earth to take a blade to the web of lies that has slowly spun its way through the continents. I am here to shatter the illusion you have all created to keep yourselves safe.

Let us start by debasing the myth of Dragons. Dragons were not monsters. In fact, they were harbingers of Light. They held within their blood, the ability to besmudge the darkness from this earth. The blood they spilled was no accident. The soil of this earth needs blood to breathe. The blood of the brave, to be exact. Hence the massacre of any knight who tried to slay a dragon. And the reason for their deep obsession with hording gold has been mistold as well, a broken telephone of a tale. The true reason is a simple complexity, one a greedy man cannot fathom; they stole gold because gold has the power to wipe light from this earth for good. The greed and selfishness that it bled onto the human race was more than Light could bear, and so dragons tried, but to no avail, to wipe it from this earth. Bu evil… is indestructible, as you will come to know.

This coven of witches and warlocks was named after the race of dragon, for they were the only Light left in the world, along, of course, with the Fey Weavers. Drago… A coven so powerful it had to be destroyed… So one by one, the Dark Scythes of Under Land convinced the puppet masters of the world-above that every witch and warlock was to be engulfed in flames, an irony that almost amused the Drago. Fire being their greatest friend and the human source of all things light. Each and every one of my family was burnt at the stake. All that remains are their remains, ashes in the wind.

 Many innocent lives were taken, and centuries later, there are no first blood Dragon’s alive. But like the phoenix, from the ashes of destruction, we will rise again. And that is where I come in. I am a descendant, a daughter of a daughter of the Drago Coven, and at this moment in time, I do not yet know this. In fact, I, and the rest of the world around me, take me to be a mere mortal, a weird and ugly freak, to be ignored or stepped on. That is all I am good for. I see no light at the end of my tunnel, nor do I see it inside me. But it is there, like a flickering candle in the dark, a hope for humanity, a spark… My name is Glenda, and I am a good witch.

However, I do not know anything of this, only my name and what that little spark tells me. For sixteen years I have listened to its whisper. And straining to hear has almost driven me mad…   For now, I live in the town of Lone with my adoptive parents, who, bless their souls, are the most normal of normal’s I have ever seen. We have nothing in common and I fear that in time they will come to loathe my existence, because everything I am is everything they stand against. Propriety is their middle name, and Norm their surname. How then, have I come to live with such people? How then, have I no idea of my lineage? How then can I listen to my spark of light when in my world, it is ever so wrong to do so? I am ridiculed because of these whispers in the dark, which tell me I am not Home. Why do I see things no one else does? Why do I fall into almost dream like worlds where nothing conceivably real IS real? And why can no one understand me? Why am I so alone? What have I done to deserve to have a monster in my head, a polarity I can’t escape. A feeling that I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here. And it’s even worse at school. At least my parents truly love me. They may not understand me but they care and are kind. They have my best interests at heart. If only they knew what my heart sung to me. But they try, and I am forever grateful, despite this deep ache in my gut. At school it is a constant fight to stay out of the fiery pits of hell. Only in this here hell the demons take the form of perfectly immaculate human girls with gleaming blond hair, almost as if it were spun out of sunshine. However, they are nothing like the sunshine I know. Their looks are deceiving, because as we well know, nothing is what it seems. Every day is a nightmare from which I cannot wake up. I have no friends. If someone were to try and be my friend, the driplets (I have dubbed them driplets because they are totally rain on my parade) would have their necks. They have turned the entire school population into zombies, and it is abhorrent to behold. They rule the school with their sneers, smirks, jeers and unnaturally long finger nails. The click of their stilettos on the stallico floor is, to me, the sound of a bullet entering my gut and flying straight through. It always hits bulls eye, and it always hurts like the hell I live in.

A day in my life goes something like this:

I wake up from a dream where I am sitting on a dirt road, and I am surrounded by cats. Cats of every colour mew and prance and rub up against me. And I can hear their purrs as if they were talking to me, and I can see their wide green eyes mirroring mine. I feel their soft fur and the brevity of having almost no space to breathe. I wake up feeling like I’ve been on a long trip. And I am more exhausted than before. I wake to the sound of Dana, my mother’s voice. She has her head popped round the door, and her soft eyes meet my bleary ones before  she steps into the room and pulls open my curtains, letting the brilliant light Of Lone tumble in. ‘Rise to shine, sleepy head’ she says, and walks straight out again, leaving the door open behind her. I can smell breakfast wafting in from downstairs. I lie in bed, trying to remember the conversation I had with a black and white cat in my dream but it comes out as nonsense and I moan in frustration, rubbing my eyes to adjust to the real world again, before heaving myself out of bed. I take in my surroundings, although familiar to me, this does not feel like home; my room is covered in posters and articles, stories ripped from the pages of my favourite fantasy novels. Poetry that keeps me warm at night. The colour of the walls is green but it can barely be seen of the masses of scraps of paper, filled with my sketches of my dreams, tacked to its front. Books scatter my desk, as well as pens and pots of paint. I arrange them neatly before choosing my clothes for the day, as I know Dana will not tolerate a messy living space. I, however, am messy by nature. I am too busy feeling and thinking on the inside to worry about what the outside world looks like. I pull of my nightie and toss it into my washing basket, as it is drenched in sweat, like I ran a marathon in my sleep, and perhaps I did. Stranger things have happened to me in the dark of night than that. I stand before my gilded mirror, bare and scrawny and heave a great sigh before banishing my appearance by throwing on a loose fitting green shirt with gold embroidery and some denim shorts I find on my floor. As I lace up my doc martens I hear a sound, almost like laughter, but infringed in melody. I stop mid lace and go to my window, and peer out. It looks onto the across the road neighbours peculiar little house, with its lustrous over grown garden and elongated chimney. The sound comes from there and it is music to my ears. I almost forget that o have a day of torture ahead of me and giggle to myself, seeing a woman with black hair, streaked with purple kneeling in front of a daisy. It looks as if she is having a full blown conversation with the flower, and that the flower is a rather humorous companion. I peer closer still at the curious site and see she has a watering jug in her hand. I dismiss the theory that the flowers are her friends, as this is a ridiculous notion that would be frowned upon in society. As a rule, we humans don’t pay much attention to our surroundings, especially nature. Perhaps because nature is the only magical thing left on this godforsaken planet. ‘Glenda! Your breakfast is getting cold!’ Dana calls from the bottom of the stairs in her usual sing song voice. I turn away from my thoughts and leave my room, jumping the stairs two at a time. Both Kevin and Dana are at the bottom, their arms crossed and their eyebrows raised, in complete mirrored unison they say ‘you’ll trip if you continue to walk in such a fashion.’ I scoff but end up tripping over my unlaced boot and landing at their feet. I blush a dark shade before getting up, brushing imaginary lint from my knees, and without looking at either of them, take my place at the dining room table. It is laden with fruit salad, pancakes, crispy bacon and a jug of freshly pressed orange juice. ‘Guys, I can’t eat all of this so early in the morning.’ ‘Pish posh. You can and you will. We were thinking perhaps the reason you are always so tired is because you don’t eat enough.’ Dana chided ‘and maybe that’s why you are so scrawny. Girls your age are rather buxom creatures, yet you look like a waif. We want to take care of you Glenda. And your mother has been slaving over the stove since seven. So eat up!’ Kevin smiles and pats my shoulder, squeezing me reassuringly. I know they mean well, so I take a pancake and dig in. they stand and stare at me, sad smiles playing on their faces. It makes me uncomfortable. Mid-chew I cannot bare it any longer ‘I’m alright, really. And I feel even better now I have had a wholesome meal. Thanks so much guys. You’re the best.’ I stand up and kiss them both of the cheek, making them glow. I then pick up my backpack and am out the door, hastingly adding a shouted goodbye. Once the door is closed I heave a sigh of relief. On top of all the sham and drudgery I have to face on a day to day basis, I also have to bear the burden of burdening my sweet parents, who can’t grasp that I am different. They just want me to have friends and go out on a Friday to the movies like everyone else my age. Instead I sit at home with my music as loud as it can go, painting picture after picture of stranger scenes, dark and beautiful in context. No wonder they are freaking out. I need to act more like them. More normal. After all, norm is our last name. I wish I were more solid. I wish I weren’t so tired. I wish I were more hungry. I wish I had a friend to go out with on a Friday night.

After gathering my thoughts I head out. School is only a few blocks from my house and the walk does me some good. The town is a beautiful one, laden with manicured lawns and great gardens. Statues and fountains and cobbled stone streets. I live in paradise. Why am I complaining?

 

The parking lot is already packed with the sleekest cars in the blandest colours, and students mils around in packs. There is a buzz of noise that hovers over the entire student body and I almost want to cover my ears at the sound. The glare of the sun glints off the many platinum blond heads that bob up and down as they walk past me, studiously ignoring the fact that I am trying to get through. Most pupils at Lone Castle High are one and the same. It isn’t like the movies here, where there are different cliques for different interests. The Goth’s sitting together and the nerds sitting together. No, there is no minority (besides me) here. The school is built around the confines of an old castle that used to house Lone’s founders. There are still random turrets amidst the new age cinder and block building. These we use for chemistry and drama classes. The feel of the gothic castle is long gone, replaced by stainless steel and mowed grass. Lone takes pride in its educational facility, as it is a private school, with only a few hundred kids attending each year, all handpicked for their drive and talent. I, although invisible to my peers, am what is seen as ‘talented’. Not when it comes to anything school related, but ask me to paint a picture, or write a sonnet and I am your girl. Thus my parents, as well meaning as they are, insisted I enrol here, rather than the local High school, which resides a bus ride away. I am grateful for ‘the opportunity to rise and shine’ as Dana puts it, but being in such a close knit class has its draw backs. I enter the large building through wrought iron doors which slam shut loudly behind me and make me jump. I whirl around out of habit and hit straight into someone. My nose smarts and my eyes begin to water. The face I have hit with mine is but a blonde blur. ‘Watch where you’re going with that thing!’ it snarls, poking my nose before shoving me aside and into the wall. I hear vicious sniggering and I don’t need to be able to see to know who the perpetrator it. That laugh haunts me. My vision returns as I see Claire Riches strut past me, nose in the air, hair and hips swinging in harmony. Her outfit is one to be marvelled at. I don’t know how she manages to feel comfortable. Her dress is as tight as can be on her slender frame, pink and white checked, flawlessly creaseless, as if hung in a plastic bag in the wardrobe until she decides to put it on, which I can guarantee is the case, and as short as is allowed at school. She manages to strut by my speedily and with such confidence in super high white wedges, her posse, the driplets, in tow, equally bedecked in tight fitting clothes and high heels.  I do not have time to seethe because the bell goes. A long and melodious chant, another left over relic from the castle. One has to pull a thick rope for it to toll. It is located in the West end. A place forbidden for students to enter. In fact, I have never seen the one who rings the bell, nor have I witnessed any teachers ever enter or leave the West Wing Tower. I scurry to my first period before I am attacked by the throng of students wanting to get to class.  First period is mathematics. I sit right at the back. I am the first to arrive, thankfully, and I settle in by imagining myself invisible. I take out my pencil case and last night’s incomplete homework as well as a calculator I do not intend to use. In-between the pages if my maths book lies a note pad that I scribble on throughout each maths lesson. The act of drawing and writing helps me maintain the air of invisibility, and also soothes my wrath. I hate being here. Don’t get me wrong. I do not dislike school. In fact, I enjoy learning anything and everything I can. But the people that make up Lone Castle make it a miserable place and learning is a distant dream when I am constantly under attack. Case in point, although I sit quietly at the back, minding my own business, a boy with coiffed blond hair and a football jersey that I never see him without comes up to me and just stands in front of my desk. At first I ignore him and go on drawing little boxes on my notepad. He clears his throat and I am forced to look up. Our eyes meet, my iridescent light green cats eyes to his cold pale blue ones, almost dopey looking. ‘Can I help you?’ I ask, staring him down. ‘No. can I help you?’ he laughs. I furrow my brow in confusion and turn my gaze away. At this moment the class is already full and everyone is staring at us, their backs twisted in their seats. Lucas, for that is his name, sees them staring and grins, feeding off of their attention he swipes his hand over my desk and sends all my stationary and books flying to the left. ‘You dropped your shit. And while you’re done there where you belong, stay down. This is my seat.’ He nudges me off my chair and sits down, plonking his bag onto the table. I am stunned, because Lucas has never personally sought me out before. And I am humiliated, having to bend down in front of every sniggering teenager and retrieve my work. Before I have time to grab my book of poems it is swiped from beneath my fingertips. I look up to see Claire fingering though it, a sneer on her pretty face. ‘What do we have here? Is this your diary, Glenda? Oh my gosh, it is!’ she squeals in sickening delight. ‘Give that back, Claire, its mine!’ I try grabbing it from her but she tosses it to Gemma, who, giggling starts to read. I stand there, mortified, as my own personal words come alive in her nasty nasal voice. Each word she sullies with sarcasm. I cannot move.

‘If I were the sky

I’d always be high

But the world would drown in rain

And every day it’d begin again

If I were the ocean I couldn’t drown

The sinking feeling wouldn’t stay around

 

If I were a mountain I could stand tall

At the edge of it all

 I wouldn’t fall

 

If I were a tree I’d be happy just to be

My roots would drink from the ground

And I’d have all the wisdom the forest has found

 

If I were silence I wouldn’t need to speak

I wouldn’t have to explain why this runs so deep

Why each time I am back on my feet

The rug is pulled out from underneath me’

She stops, looks at the words she has just now read out loud and contorts her face into the epitome of disgust before tearing out the page and proclaiming ‘what IS this hippy rubbish? Are you trying to turn yourself into a tree, Glenda? Can you do that sort of thing nowadays? What with being a witch and all. Look! You even have warts and a big nose to prove it. Well then, go on, turn yourself into a tree. I double dare you.’ I find her words pathetic. The fact that she cannot understand my poem and has warped it into such silly nonsense makes me feel above it all. Bravado builds in my heart and I feel warmth flood my being, I am not afraid. ‘If I could do magic, do you not think I would have already turned you and your cronies into what you already truly are?’ I try to grab the book but she lifts it above her head ‘and what, do you think we are, witch?’ she snarls ‘you are zombies! Slaves to the norm!’ I shout, jumping up and grabbing my book from her hand. Everyone is laughing now and some are even chanting ‘witch, witch, witch.’ I wish I were a witch, I think, and then I would show you. With your heads filled with stuffing, you are all nothing better than zombies. Tears prick my eyes. I do not feel warm anymore. I feel defeated. The chanting gets louder as the driplets join in. Claire takes the seat next to Lucas, and kisses him on the cheek. I stand stock still, unable to move, although I want to run and never look back. Of course. Lucas singled me out because he and Claire are an item now. And when you’re with Claire, you do her dirty work. It all makes sense. She sits their mouthing witch at me, but smiling sweetly. Mister Carson walks in at this very moment, ‘settle down now, class. Plenty of time for chit-chat later. I want you all to run to page 7 of your new text boo-‘ he sees me standing there and his cheery disposition drops like my stomach. ‘Glenda. The bell has rung. Get to your seat immediately or face the consequences. We have no time for your dilly dallying.’ ‘And what is that mess on my clean floor!’ he shakes his head as if I were the greatest disappointment to walk through his door, and perhaps I am. ‘Pick. It. Up.’ he says through gritted teeth, before turning away and bending to pick up a black marker from his draw. I do as I am told, kneeling at Lucas’s feet. My pencils have rolled this way and that and I am having a hard time finding them. Lucas’s foot comes down hard on my hand and I scream ‘fuck!’ before I have the time to stop myself. ‘Right! That’s it! I have had enough out of you for one day, Miss Norm. Principles office, now!’ he points to the door. I am almost glad to leave. I gather the rest of my belongings and make my way to the front. A small chant of  witch, witch, witch.’ Wafts through as I make my exit.

 

I almost sigh with relief as I turn the corner and the chant dies. But relief does not come, because my journey away from the jeers and leers of my class mates leads me ever closer to the wrath of my school’s principal, who, until now, I have never met in person. I have only seen him from afar, as he preaches pride and patriarchy to the entire student body every Monday at assembly. I do not want today to be the day we meet. Although he seems like a well-meaning person, his punishment quota is notorious amongst us, and I don’t want to find out what sort of punishment he has in mind for me. Will be it a weeks’ worth of homework, to be done after school, where I must stay overnight until it is finished? Repainting the science block? Scraping the toxic mould from the West Wing? These thoughts tire me out and when I reach the glass door of his secretary’s office I walk straight passed, my feet nonethewiser to having reached my destination. To hell with it. I retrieve my books from my locker and push the great front doors open. The fresh air on my tear stained face is cool. I allow myself that sigh of relief, shrug my bag onto my shoulder, and make my way home. I didn’t even make it past first period today. I am slightly disappointed in myself. And the disappointment grows with each step I take. Until I am heavy with fiery hatred, coursing through my veins, pumping my heart with venom. I hate myself for so easily succumbing to victimization at the hands of vapid fools. And I hate those vapid fools for their empty headed viciousness. They fear what they do not understand. But how can I be so different that they cannot understand me? I am human, just like them. Aren’t i? Kevin is at work, and Dana is at cooking class, so the house is peacefully empty. I throw my bag down and race myself downstairs, to the basement, my only private space. My parents never come down here, as an unspoken rule. Here is where I paint. And listen to my music as loud as I please. The walls are thick concrete and the cellar is so deep under the house that no one ever hears me. I can cry, I can scream, I can curse this wicked world for throwing me so haphazardly into the wrong family, and no one will be the wiser. Today I head straight for my couch, emerald in colour, and velvet in texture, and bury my head in the many scatter cushions. I scream. I scream until my lungs are grated and raw. I scream until I am exhausted, and deaf, and can no longer hear the chant of ‘witch, witch, witch’ playing like a merry go round tune in my head. When all I hear is a ringing nose in my ears and it seems like hours have passed, I sit up, and take a look around. The shelves are lined with my paintings. I never know where I get my ideas from. There’s a whole series of a woman who looks like me, slowly catching fire. There’s dark smog, mixed with blood red, hanging about her, as the flames grow higher and higher, forming a halo around her head. Her eyes are closed. And she looks like she accepts her fate. I long to be like that painting. A martyr of strength and acceptance. I get up to better look at my paintings. I touch the smooth canvas with my fingertips and smell the oil paints lying next to them. I pick a new, clean canvas up from the desk and set it up on my easel, squeezing a dollop of yellow onto my pallet. I meticulously clean my brush with linseed oil before dipping it lovingly into the paint. As I put the paintbrush to paper, begin to feel warm, soft, better. Like a gust of wind came and blew all my troubles away. This feeling intensifies, and the warmth turns to heat. I am painting vehemently now, without thinking, because I am distracted by this spreading heat, which grows hotter and hotter by the second. I start to sweat. I feel uncomfortable, but it isn’t unpleasant. I feel light. I feel like I imagine a feather would feel, floating along the currents of the wind. I stop painting to better experience this strange sensation. Looking down, to my surprise, I find my feet are no longer touching the basements floor.  I am floating! My eyes widen as suddenly I feel a jolt beneath my ribcage, which yanks me backwards. I am flying through the air and I cannot stop myself, nor do I want to. I feel saner than I have ever felt. More normal, in mid-air, streaming through the sky. I begin to laugh and as I do I hit the back wall. Something terrifyingly beautiful happens now. I am outside looking in, as my whole body explodes in a cataclysmic shower of rainbows. On closer inspection, the pieces of me flying in every which direction are little puzzle pieces, glimmering like puddles of petrol. I am inside and outside and I am free

Luminous

LUMINOUS

 A short story

A young boy sits with his back against the trunk of a great and ancient Willow tree. No one can see his knobbly knees, drawn to his chest, his eyes skewered tightly shut, or his cupids bow of a mouth, muttering romantic prose and silent prayers to the silence surrounding him, because the willow’s bows have languorously bowed before him and down to the floor, and the leaves weep all around, creating a small but sheltered safe haven. A home away from home; a barrier between him and the outside world. A greenhouse all his own. No one can see him, but no one is looking either. He used to collect arrows, now he doesn’t know which way to go. The playful youth has dissipated, replaced by muddled, muddy, bloody tears.

No noise penetrates his safe space, but in his head he still hears the screams, echoing, as if he held a conch shell to his ear. Instead of the ocean, it stores his mother’s rage, and wish washes through the contours of the shell endlessly. His hands are glued to this metaphoric shell, no matter how hard he tries to drop it, and leave it behind. The shell is thick and too strong to break. It terrifies him, although he knows it is but an echo, and not the real thing. He left the real thing behind not ten minutes ago. A once upon a time he would prefer to never reread. His mother is drunk again, and he is the reason why. For she taught him to mix her a special drink eons ago, her lying on the couch, unable to move, moaning out of the corner of her lips, cupids bow in shape as well, aiming to hit and pierce the flesh with undiluted love, for she and her son are splitting images of one another; sweet to behold but bitter to taste. She cannot be bothered to move off the island that is a dingy couch  most days, and therefore needs her son to concoct her medicine, which also looks sweet but is bitter to taste. Today he incorrectly mixes the substances, and when she brings the liquid to her mouth she spits it straight out and begins to yell. ‘You useless mess of a boy! Have I taught you nothing? Why do you punish me so? Why are you so wicked, when all I do is shower you with LOVE and KINDNESS? Have you no sense in that big head of yours? I shouldn’t have bothered bringing you into this world. You are godforsaken, rotten to the core!’  She tries to heave herself off the couch so as to hit some sense into him, but her body is weighed down by all the liquor she has already consumed. This frustrates her all the more, and she takes her cup and flings it into the boy’s face. It shatters on his nose and he tastes blood on his Cupid’s bow lips. ‘Get out, you wretched excuse for a son! Get out and stay out! God has thwarted my faith by giving me you.’ She begins to weep, fat golden tears spill from her red and bleary eyes. He tries to comfort her, takes hold of her hand, but she has strength enough to dig her nails in and pull at his soft, pale skin. He screams in shock and before he can stop himself he is out of the door, his legs sturdy despite his wobbling lips and his blurred vision.

 

He wishes he could fly away, and reach a place in the clouds where he could look down and see the bigger picture. He wishes he could ask God why he is the way he is. He knows this much; everything happens for a reason. On days when the fire of drink does not scorch but soothes, his mother tells him as much, beseeching an unforgiving god in the sky for a sign she is on the right path, whilst simultaneously clasping her sons hands and begging forgiveness. ‘Forgive him his ignorance, my Lord, for he knows no better.’  But he cannot for the life of him fathom the reason behind his mother’s fiery hatred in the first place. He must be a wicked boy to deserve such manhandling. He whispers his question to God over and over. It is a simple question, with a complex answer. One he will never receive, as his whispers go unheard by him or this almighty God his mother speaks of with such high reverie. Perhaps the answer is to BE a god? Only then will his mother praise his existence. But how to go about being a God in the world of the nitty-gritty? He opens his eyes and wipes his tears away. He gasps when he sees his tears are not translucent opals, but crimson rubies, and begins to panic. His heart contracts and squeezes, making itself small in his chest, he cries out in pain.

 A yellow dragonfly hovers in front of him. It silences his cry immediately. He cocks his head and observes its luminous wings, which whir gracefully, the dragonfly is unafraid. Maybe he fears nothing because he always has the option of flying away? The boy stays still, and the dragonfly lands on one of his bony knees. He can almost feel its weight. It is an incandescent little entity. At first, only awe enters his heart. But the awe grows hard and cracked and it cakes his heart in jealousy. The jealousy hardens his heart, and his thoughts harden with it. They race one another, in two lanes. Good and bad. But the lines are blurred and he doesn’t know which lane he is running on anymore. He doesn’t care. He must reach the finish line either way. All he knows now is that if he possesses the dragonfly, in all its peaceful glory, he will be light and he will be loved and he will be able to fly up, up and away, into the clouds, so as  to ask God ‘WHY’ and also ‘HOW’.

 In the blink of an eye he grabs the intricate, luminous wings between his thumb and forefinger and yanks them free of the dragonfly. The dragonfly topples from his knee without a sound and lies motionless at his feet. He gazes at the wings in wonder, innocence gushing from him like the blood from his eyes. He decides then and there that he will sit under the weeping willow, weeping no more, until he has enough wings to make his own pair. And then he will know God.  Then he will hold all the answers in his hands, just like he holds the wings of the dead dragonfly. He feels no remorse, only a sense of relief. For he has found a way up, and out.

Days go by, hunger sets in, fear of the dark humbles the boy, and he misses his mother. He draws up images of them together, laughing at all this fuss they had once made over the big questions. Perhaps one day, he reassures himself.  But still he sits beneath the willow tree, perfectly still in stature, perfectly mobile in mind. He waits for dragonflies of assorted colours to mistake him for a part of the weeping willow, and when they find a spot to rest, he pounces, and steals from them their flight, their light and their life. His sadness confuses them into making the assumption that he too is a weeping willow. On the seventh day, when he can take it no longer, when the hunger has driven his hard heart miles from home, and the luminous wings of the dead dragonflies have blinded him to the wicked truth; that he will die before he gets there, he leaves the willow behind, his hands and pockets full of wings and makes his way unsteadily back home.

He trips and falls, grazes his knees, sees white, stumbles and bangs into stairs, but still continues. His mother lies motionless where he left her, her snoring is the only sound. And what a comforting sound it is. He smiles, and his vision returns, tenfold. Everything has sharp edges and brilliant colours never before seen. His stomach rumbles, begging for nourishment but he has no time to care. He goes about gluing all the corpuscle wings together. Gently he constructs wings of his own. The only noise he hears are his mother’s snores, and they act like a prayer, guiding his every move until he has constructed the most marvellous pair of wings. He fits them to his back carefully and takes a look at himself in the mirror, which is cracked, with shards missing. His mother couldn’t stand the sight of herself any longer and therefore threw her head into its shallow depths. He has lived with this mirror as long has he has lived with his mother.  He is distorted in its reflecting surface. And a mirror never lies, because it never thinks. Only reflects. To think is to be wrong.  He does not notice the cracked mirror however, he never has.  He only sees that his wings are complete, ready for flight.  Soon he will arrive on cloud nine and find God. Soon he will have his answers. He tip toes up the stairs so as to not wake his mother. The bay window that overlooks the lone willow tree is wide open, and wind makes shapes in the Muslin drapes. He tentatively steps onto its ledge. The sun is a brilliant glare on his brand new but second-hand, luminous wings. He holds his hand above his eyes so as to better see his destination; the clouds. All thought has now drip dropped from him like spirits down his mother’s throat. He is excited and drunk on the idea that freedom awaits. He jumps, knowing his wings will not fail him, knowing he will reach the top.  Instead… he drops, and upon hitting the cold, hard ground, his soul, surprised and groggy, slowly rises to the warm, soft clouds. His questions stay behind, encased in his lifeless form. Now he is truly at liberty, for he does not need answers any longer. Here, they are null and void.  In death, one does not ask questions. He needs no solution. He is whole, for he is welcome here, received warmly by the luminous abyss.

The Hunter And The Hunted

THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED

 

The bar wraps around the edges of my world and zooms off into the next room. Empty drinks scatter its gleaming polished surface. My face is reflected as a blur in the mahogany. The room is crowded; people sit and stand in twos or threes. Everyone is hot and bothered, pulling at their collars, pulling at their partners, pulling at their seams. A din of noise makes its way across the room like the glug of a beer down a parched man’s throat. We are all dehydrated, thirsty. Thirsty for drink, thirsty for air, thirsty for closeness. Thirsty for care. Glazed eyes everywhere.

 I am alert. I sit alone at the mahogany bar, studying the grains in the wood, fingering the rim of my glass, half full. Or half empty. It would depend who was looking at it. If I were to look at it, however, I would say it was half empty. Drained of sustenance and taste. The ice cubes have melted, but I am still on the rocks. And they cut into me, jagged and uncaring. I am searching for something. Perhaps a jug, so as to full my drink once again. Quench this thirst that parches me. The thirst of desire. Many men have come up to me tonight, offering to fill my drink, my bed, my desire. I have coolly declined. No balding man with thinning blood and a desperate tremble in his lip can fulfil this deathly hollow. I am looking for someone specific. How to find him when all I do is observe the ground. I shake myself out of the reverie that clings to me like wet clothes and scan the crowd of expectant, slurring ghosts. A man walks through the door. He wears a black fedora, a gold watch and a hard jaw. I am glad I have taken my eyes on the journey, for he is a sight to behold, and exactly what I have been searching for. His eyes are shaded by the brim of his smart hat, but I still see him looking around. I gather he is meeting someone, and that he cannot find them, because his shadow eyes glance at his gleaming golden watch and his broad shoulders heave a sigh. Perhaps he has been stood up? Poor thing.

~*~

 

I scan the crowd for an easy lay. They all look the same to me. Mutton dressed as lamb. I don’t have much time before I must get back to work. Energy builds, brick upon brick, one wrong move and my tower will topple. My confidence will waver, and I will go back to the grindstone more frustrated and let down than ever before. I am weighted by the world, which rests squarely on my shoulders. I am weighted by the gold and leather of my belt. I am weighted by the money I seek, make, spend, and make some more of. I am weighted by my clients, who ride me all day for the best deal THEY can get. And I? I am left saddled with nowhere to go. So I have come to this bar, on the corner of the street I work on, to find a place to unload all my weight. I am here to find, fuck, and finally forget. But everyone is coupled up, sweaty, smiling. In no need of a tall, dark and handsome stranger, If i do say so myself.

 I look at the time, which trickles away too fast. Like sand through a broken hourglass, I am. Riddled with holes, punctured by invisible shards of glass. Empty.

 I look up once more, still hearing the metallic tick tick tick of my wrist watch, mocking me. A time-bomb ready to explode.  I make my way to the bar, wheedling through the flock of sheep, baaing in protest. I reach the oasis without much fuss and to do, and order a whiskey, on the rocks. I sit down and swivel my stool around, nursing my drink in one hand. Next to me sits a young woman. And she is alone. And she has a pussy and a glass half full of clear liquid. I decide she will be my prey for the night. I close my eyes to channel the charm I once had, before I sold it to the devil, along with my soul, for the chance to make my weight in gold. I didn’t know then that the gold would take the form of chains. Shackled, I am. To an empty cause. I clear my throat and pour out my words carefully, equally measured and as smooth as my drink ‘May I refill your glass?’ she eyes me sceptically, her grey blue eyes darting around my person. She seems nervous. I introduce myself ‘Let me introduce myself, so we are strangers no longer. I am Wallace Greene. Would you tell me your name, and perhaps join me for a drink thereafter?’ she smiles, and her posture relaxes noticeably. And what a posture. Slim in frame, with long black hair overflowing like gossamer about her shoulders, tickling her half moon breasts. I watch them move as she breathes a, ‘Nice to meet you, Wallace Greene. My name is Jennifer, and I’m parched.’ She smiles sweetly and I am taken. I signal for the bar man. He takes her order and refills her glass. It overflows and spills onto the bar, sticky, it drip drops to the floor. She leans over and takes a sip without picking up the cup. I admire the curve of her back and her audacious bad manners. ‘Thanks’ she salutes me, and we chink glasses. The sting of whisky is welcomed by my empty belly. ‘My pleasure. I couldn’t help noticing you, all alone at the bar, and looking so lovely. I thought to myself, now what’s a nice Jewish girl like that doing sitting alone at a bar on a night like tonight.’ ‘What’s tonight like?’ she asks ‘A beautiful one.’ I reply stoically ‘I hadn’t noticed whether it was beautiful or not. And how do you know I’m Jewish? Or nice, for that matter?’ her voice is a soft, sweet melody, and I know she is nice just by hearing her ask the question, as if it were a song I had known in adolescence. I ignore it, nevertheless. I do not want to waste my valuable time using our mouths to make small talk. I want her mouth around my cock. I feel it throb angrily at the thought. ‘You haven’t noticed how beautiful tonight is! Why Jennifer. That will not do. Finish your drink and I will show you just what you are missing!’ ‘Now I am intrigued.’ She giggles, and blushes, and I can almost see her as a school girl, innocent and fresh, not knowing how much pleasure her body can withhold, still oblivious to her curves and her giggles and what they do to men such as I. sick men who long to fuck the innocence right out of girls like her. She gulps down her drink, makes a face and stands to go. I am almost surprised at how easy this has been. I came, I saw… and soon I shall conquer. I down my drink too and offer my arm to Jennifer. She takes it, blushing all the more and we head outside. Soon she will have my head inside. I snigger at my inside joke.

~*~

 

The night is fresh and clean compared to the dingy bar, with its dark orange glow. Outside, everyone and everything seems alive, awake and enthusiastic. And I too feel the same, for I have a man at my side. A stranger, so he is. But I feel no danger here. I know he is about to full my thirst and therefore I feel safe, content even… he guides me around the corner and into an alleyway. I am pleased that we are alone. No more noise. It is blocked out by trash bins and thick brick walls. I sigh in relief, relishing in the silence, my eyes closed. He comes closer still and brushes the hair away from my eyes. I see his eyes are no longer shadow, but substance. Warm and brown and creased with age. His breath smells of spirits, ghosts that haunt me, beckoning me forward. I lean into his hard form and kiss him sweetly. He moans, pushes me against the wall and has his hand up my skirt all in the flash of a car driving past. I am so thirsty. I am so whet. I let him push his fingers inside me. I give him that. I have been waiting so long to relieve myself of this ache; I can wait a moment longer. He is so close we could have been one fat mess of a man. Perhaps, to cars passing by, that is what we looked like. One lone man, leaning into the wall, too drunk to stand up straight. Moaning to high heavens, cursing his luck. No passer-by would be the wiser, or want to stop and help. After all, as a rule, we humans are a self-involved bunch of sour grapes, ripe for the picking. I put my hand into my jacket pocket; feel the blade press against my fingertips. They shake with antici…pation. I take the hilt of my knife in my grip and at the same time, bite his lip, tugging at it, emitting a sigh of relief, release. At this, his go-ahead, i plunge the sharp point into the soft flesh beneath his ribcage, lovingly. He moans ever louder, his lips still glued to mine. I dig the blade ever further until heartfelt, wet and sticky blood starts to pool in my hand. Warmth envelops me. I yank my trusted weapon from his heart and feel his body crumble, lifeless, at my feet. I kick him away, as his soul darts forth, shocked and wide-eyed, and lick my fingers clean. I am thirsty no more.