This is a confession that I wrote for you. Only you. And I know you won't understand this because your heart doesn't race at the sound of my name or voice. But I wrote this because I hope you do understand this. That you do feel something when you hear my name or voice.
I always seem to be behind you. It's not even one step that's separating us. It's a million steps that I'll never be able to close up because your expectations are slowly eating me up. Everyone seems to love you and I'm afraid that I do...
The conversation lasted two words: "Too much." Too much pain? Too much regret? Too much suffering. And who's? From twenty nine hour a day parenting to none, in the space of one brief, bitter phone call. "We don't want to live with you, Dad. We want to live with Mam, fulltime." And then a long overdue pause of a pregnancy, waiting for the response. Not sure if it would be explosive rage, reprisals and recriminations, or sad acceptance. All that came was the dialing tone. It spoke more eloquently than any words would have done. One more abandonment, in a...
That part of New York was home to several artisan outlets and small, incubated, cottage industries. Rather like a hipster vision of battery farmed chickens, Wilhelm noted. Right next door to his bakery - Purveyor of the Finest Home-Baked Goods* (* all dietary requirements catered for) - he was aware dimly of a bespoke micro brewery, although no liquor of any kind had passed his ancestor shudderingly German lips in over forty years. Wilhelm didn't approve of alcohol. Not for a long time, though he had once courted the hop and the grape until their avoidable, but probably inevitable divorce....
It was the quiet way Fron did the simple things - anticipating a glass of water, settling to a joint task, silently prompting something urgently forgotten - that Wilhelm noticed more than anything else. She would just eye smile at him when he, yet again amazed at her casual thoughtfulness, would gratify his mutterings. As if words were not necessary.
It was as bewitching as it was uncanny. He felt she could pluck a dropped desire out of the air, well before its longing weight would shatter it on the hard stone floor of the bakery. Slowly, quickly, her careless...
I'll do anything… No, not that!
Froniga, or Fron (as most of her US friends and relations called her) was a patient sort of soul. More in touch with her forebears than many Americans, perhaps because she was closer to her immigrant roots than most. She'd married into the "Land of the Free" as much as she had been born there, not really considering where she lived as something to define her. Maybe that was the Romany spirit showing through. She couldn't tell. She didn't care.
Of course, her attracted neighbour did present a problem. She was who she was, and it was hardly her fault...
“They’ve been sat still for 38 minutes. It’s clear they’ve just dug in to defend their flag. I say…”
“You say…” 117 interrupted his Squad Leader, who couldn’t have looked more pissed.
“John, enough of your shit!” He slid a finger across his throat in what he knew would be a futile gesture. “We’ve got the same tacticals as Red Team. We have the same number of cadets. They're boxed in. I say…”
117 coughed. “You say… er… Sir.” I think he genuinely tried not to sound insubordinate. He failed.
“All right, soon to be ‘ex’ cadet. Out with it.”...
His apology was not the thing she'd expected when she checked her phone in the morning. With one eye she stared at the screen and then rolled to her belly and pulled the phone to the tip of her nose as she tried to focus.
"I shouldn't have done any of that, I can't stop thinking about it."
She patted her hands over the bedcovers, fumbling through folds until she found her glasses and pressed them to her face.
"I can't stop thinking about it either," she replied, "But I liked it. It was exactly what I wanted."
His reply...
He had climbed the steep Acropolis, seeking Athena Parthenos (the virgin), every time work or pleasure or strange fates called him to Athens. Yet today he paused by the Temple of Dionysis, only about a third of the way up the olive treed slope. One of the several custodians, some in plastic and metal cells, others, like this young lady beneath whatever shade the Gods (and strategic umbrellas) could provide. Something about her effortless attention, seeing all who paused or passed, while seemingly merged into a thick hard back, caught his attention.
She sat, regally, letting the Sun and people...
I slept inside the dream I didn't spin from yarn
this time inside my dream
i didn't spin another lie within the tale
you never sold to me
I look inside this bed I didn't make
the spell i didn't spin
from yarn inside my dream
I couldn't sell this dream to awakened eyes and ears
and dreams never do
sell themselves well outside the walls inside our hearts
I bake for you but do not eat
I draw for you but do not sell
I sing for you but do not sing
The things and songs from stolen dreams...