Author: maleghast (Page 20 of 35)

The old rocking chair out on the porch was moving very gently in the breeze; I could hear it moving behind me. The light was glittering off the lake’s rippled surface, warming my face. The light, like molten gold, trickled into my eyes and somehow calmed my soul.

I had been out at the lake for three days, and I had spent most of it sleeping, but that morning I had awoken feeling fresh and rested for the first time in weeks, and the sun was coming up. There in the April morning all of my troubles melted away; yet in the back of my mind I knew it was respite at best.

Kirsty had been gone for just over a month and I still found myself talking to her over my shoulder, noticing a TV show in the paper that would interest her or just including her in my thinking when something moved me;

“Look at that sunrise, baby. Oh how I wish you could see this.”

On the treeline I heard a noise, and turning to look I saw that a young doe was staring right at me, her deep black eyes shining in the morning light, like obsidian mirrors.

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The photograph is old and cracked now, the corners bent; one is torn off. Even so I take down my copy of The Brothers Karamzov at least once a week and open it to the page where I keep this last touchstone of my Karina.

I remember the day that we met as if it were yesterday. I was looking for an obscure text, a treatise from the nineteenth century about the provenance of the gospels, and I thought myself to be alone on the sixth floor, after all there was never anyone there after six on a Saturday night. I turned a corner between the shelves, into an open area with a study table and there, kneeling by the table with her back to me, head buried between the legs of another girl, was Karina. She looked up, into my eyes, smiled, then simply gestured for me to join her. Of course I did, I was ensorcled. I will never forget the thrill that shot through me when she took my hand and pressed it urgently against her sex, willing me to give her pleasure, as I watched her make love to a woman whose name I never learned.

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This Ficlet was inspired by Kt’s suggestions of a torn photograph, a library and a being interrupted as item, place and activity from the Wednesday poll on my Livejournal.

“Will you shut up? Honestly you really do spout some crap from time to time! I’m not leaving you; what the hell gave you that impression?”

She started to wipe the tears away with the backs of her hands; the panda eyes now became racoon markings. Why was she wearing mascara anyway, we were just ‘about the house’?

“I don’t know Ted. You’ve not come near me all weekend, you are always on that bloody mobile and never in front of me. I think anyone would assume that you were cheating at this point!”

So it was going to be like this; heaven help me.

“I don’t want to spend the whole weekend rutting and you think that there’s something wrong? Jill I spent every night this week trying to get you in the mood; candle-lit dinner to flat out demanding you suck me off, and everything in between. Now, when I’m having a crisis with the event you wonder why I’m not chasing your pussy all over the house? I love you, darling, I’m not leaving, I am not seeing anyone else. Please let me work before we’re living on the street, ok?”

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BANG BANG BANG

He struggled for the land of the awake; it was still dark outside. The room was pitch black. The shock of waking to so much loud noise had left him tangled in the blanket. Knowing this gave him no comfort whatsoever as he tipped face first towards the floor, saving himself from a bloody nose at the very last second, as his shoulder bore the brunt of the fall.

BANG BANG BANG

Someone really wanted to get into the house, and he had a feeling that they were not there to spread good tidings and joy. He disentangled himself, pulled on his breeches and buckled on a sword. He was pulling a shirt on when Gabriel came barrelling into the room, half dressed himself, talking at ten to the dozen;

“Luc! It’s the King’s men. The Pope has conceded to the arrest of all Templars, and they are here for our guests.”

Luc paused for a moment and then, gesturing for Luc to calm down and be quieter said;

“Hide them. There are spaces under the wine casks. I will talk to the soldiers. Now go, and hide their colours as well!”

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This Ficlet was inspired by the front page of Wikipedia for the 13th of October 2008, in English. The Article was from the “On This Day…” section from the 13th of October 2008 and concerned arrests of the Knights Templar, which began on the 13th of October 1307; you can find out more here.

“What do you want to do today?”

I looked up at her, still a little bleary.

“It’s your birthday. That means you get to decide.”

She was smiling. How could I tell her that I wanted to go to the driving range, spend some time on my allotment and to head down to the pub with John and Harry for a bite and the football? Her smile was filled with expectation that I would want to spend my birthday with her, making love, talking, maybe a romantic walk along the beach that she loved so much we had to move here. I cannot tell you when I had stopped desiring her, stopped filling my time with making her happy, getting her to share her thoughts, wanting her naked, horny and alone at the same time. It just happened. I caught myself trying to work out how I could get her off the subject some romantic weekend away because it clashed with the television coverage of the British Open. Decision time;

“Anything I want?”

I wanted to keep the lie going; I know that I should not have done. I raised an eyebrow and pulled back the sheet.

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“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, am I sure? Are you kidding me? We’ve been talking about this for weeks! Why are you askin’ me now if I’m sure?”

“Because this is the last chance that you have to back out and I wanted to be sure that you are sure.”

“Look it’s not making me angry, but why do you assume that I’m going to back out of things? I mean if it’s just that you want to make sure that I’m happy then that’s fine, but it feels like you are assuming that I will let you down.”

“Look, let’s not get into that now, okay? I wasn’t trying to suggest that you are going to back out, really. I just wanted you to feel like it was okay, I mean it’s a big deal.”

The mirror was sitting between them, the blade to one side, the light glinting off its sharp edge.

Howard picked up the knife, never once moving his gaze away from Petra, but somehow managing to draw it across his palm and spill a small pool of blood on the mirror. He wiped the blade clean and placed the knife back on the table, hilt to Petra.

“Ok then, your turn.”

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“What are you doing that for?”

Llewellyn looked around, trying to find the source of the high pitched and slightly scratchy voice. It was not human, even though he had no idea what manner of being could own such a voice. Maybe it was one of Odette’s friends playing a trick on him; they did that quite a lot.

“Up here!”

Sitting in a saddle where the bole of the oak tree next to him split, was a squirrel. Llewellyn was fairly sure that the average squirrel did not speak, and also that they were not usually as big as this specimen, which was more the size of a small dog than even a large squirrel. He tried to hide his dismay and was about to speak when;

“What’s the matter? You never been spoken to by an animal before? How old are you anyway? You must have led a pretty sheltered life if you’ve grown up this close to a faerie wood and not been addressed by a blackbird or a fox, nay even a squirrel, before.”

Was he mad? Dreaming? Better that than this be real. Such nonsense was not likely to be well received by his aunt.

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“What do you mean you’ve never heard of John Peel? Andrew! Are you aware that your seventeen year old son has never heard of Peel? And you claim to be a good father!”

The smile on my brother’s face as this torrent of jovial taunting broke forth confirmed that I was being brought to task for crimes against music; again. It was only twenty-five years since the greatest radio DJ the world has ever known had been taken from us; how was it that my son did not know his name? There were many, many bootlegs of his shows and sessions in the family’s audio library, and yet my son, who calls himself a music fan, had not noticed the aformentioned Margrave of the Marshes.

“You’re absolutely right. I’m a terrible disappointment as a parent. I feel ashamed”

I tried to keep a straight face, but before we knew it the room was filled with laughter.

“Andrew, you know that it came up because it’s Peel Day?”

I had forgotten, but on being reminded it seemed appropriate to put on some music;

“Teenage dreams, so hard to beat…”

Brilliant.

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Today was nominated as John Peel Day 2008 by the BBC, one of the keenest protectors of his legacy. The anniversary of his death is in a little over two weeks… I can still remember where I was and what I was doing when I heard the news, and I still feel the space left behind on Radio 1 & 4 with him gone – wherever you are John, thanks, so much, for everything that you did and said.

The arch of her back was exquisite. The stark lighting and her skills as a model were a part of that mystery, but it struck me in that moment that she was a truly beautiful woman.

I put my mind back into the moment and gently squeezed the shutter release; the strobes popped and started to whine as the re-charge phase kicked in.

“You want me to hold this?”

She was looking back over her shoulder, smiling; I could not remotely understand how she held the pose in the first place, let alone throw me a look without losing her position.

“Yeah, just for one more and then we’ll step it up a notch. These heavy contrast spotlight shots are great for the book, but we’re neither of us going to make any money on them, you know?”

She winked;

“Don’t worry, mate. Knees so wide you’d get a car between. I just need to go smoke a fag first.”

I laid the remote down on the camera and fixed her gaze;

“You know that I’m looking for something less brash than that, yeah?”

Her face softened and the smile came back;

“Don’t worry, I know. Relax.”

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Yet again I forgot to do the Wednesday Poll; apologies to all… Anyway, I offer this as an alternative.

It felt cold in his hands as he picked it up and turned it over and over. Leaning back into the soft leather back of the chair he traced the tip of his finger over the magic word that he had been told by his father since childhood was synonymous with the word camera; Leica. Since growing up, finally, and leaving home, the petty jealousies that a boy holds for his father’s posessions had passed. Even so, sitting there he could clearly remember the teenage frustration he had felt at being denied the chance to even borrow it. Now it was sitting in his grasp; unhappily.

When his mother called, he had known. Dad had been slipping away for weeks. Now, thinking of that slow wane into the darkness, absently fiddling with his M7, James realised that his cheeks were wet with silent tears. After thirty-eight years of life, the only connection that he felt to his dead father was a long-past coveting of a favourite camera. There was nothing more sad, to him, than that realisation. That and the absence of time to change it.

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