tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90124333628215980382024-02-07T04:45:28.987+00:00Room 102Words for wordeaters.
Short stories and poetry by Anna Russell.Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-2295305260646554732012-11-02T15:22:00.001+00:002012-11-02T15:26:21.827+00:00I Want Your God<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I want your God.
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Enormous,
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Constant, <br />
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Terrible.
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I want the rules.
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My God whimpers</div>
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in corners where dust gathers,
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sighs as the days conspire</div>
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with dusk. <br />
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We barely know each
other.
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It doesn't seem worth the effort.
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Your God,
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Your God roars,
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commands your filthy soul</div>
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and you obey.
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He inspires such things. <br />
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He is
like a sibling's
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shiny new bike,
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spokes ablaze and</div>
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ribboned handlebars.
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I want a shot. <br />
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I want to
hurtle,
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a million miles an hour</div>
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with my coat hanging</div>
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from my shoulders,
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popping wheelies</div>
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off the kerb</div>
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and know that
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if I fall,
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it never was</div>
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and never will be</div>
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my fault. </div>
Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-47938475945039469342012-06-09T16:05:00.000+01:002012-06-09T16:05:24.341+01:00In Which The Bringer Of Lies Comes To An Inevitable Conclusion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He twists the lemon, wringing the precious last drops of vodka into his glass. Minute beads of sweat form on his receding hairline. He's out of money and this small act, this coaxing of fermented potato from citrus in resigned desperation is a veritable menagerie of broken-backed camels. It won't take much to push him downwards. His name is Terry. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Terry's wife will not be requiring my particular services. The fourth and last miscarriage drove her to take matters into her own hands. The soul is mine just the same, but she came of her own free will. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Ahh, free will. We don't get any, He gave us wings instead. But He grew tired of never knowing if His jokes were genuinely funny or if people were just laughing because, y'know, <i>He's</i> <i>God. </i>So free will for His next project it was. Only, that created a bit of a paradox. Free will really shouldn't be possible under a being who calls himself omnipotent. Enter me. Doing His will to make humans do my will so nobody is quite sure where free will comes into it. <i>Wipin' it off here, boss. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Terry is pulling his phone out of his pocket with lemon and vodka stained fingers. The move almost tips him off of the barstool, but at the eleventh hour, he pulls off a grab-bar-counter-then-lean-on-it-as-if-that-was-the-plan-all-along manoeuvre with an aptitude reserved for drunks who are aware of their own drunkenness. He is going to phone his brother and ask him to come and pick him up. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />I position myself behind him and slide my left hand into his pocket. There they are. I jostle, ever so gently. Terry, slumped between barstool and bar in what he believes to be a picture of sobriety, leans up and remembers that he has his car keys with him. Phone in one hand, keys in the other, he attempts to stand. And falls off the stool. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Stories of The Fall - my fall, capital F - bemuse me. I'm never sure if He planted them or if you lot just have great imaginations. I think about them more these days, though. A lot more. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Terry is rejecting offers of help from various patrons and insisting on pulling himself back on to his feet. It is a protracted affair, one not helped by his awareness of the situation. A dark stain has formed on his knees. Beer from the floor. He thinks about this. He is stained. Stained from someone else's mess. No wife to wash him clean. Gaps where reactions used to spring from. He is stained and he is full of holes. That is all he is now. That and drunk. He has put the car keys on the bar counter and is preparing to dial his brother's number.<br /><br />"Terry," I whisper in his ear "your brother won't help you. He has a home. A wife. Children. You are a reminder of a world he doesn't want to acknowledge."<br />Terry stops dialling.<br />"It's not so far to go. You'll be fine." My voice slides down his ear canal and slices through the other thoughts in his brain. He picks up the car keys once again.<br /><br />I wrap my wings around him as he walks to the car park. It keeps him moving in a straight line. As my wings brush his skin, I feel no pain coming from him. He is beyond feeling. He is a yawning maw of nothingness wrapped in human skin. It would be a kindness if he had no comprehension of the wrongness of his mental state. But kindness has not favoured Terry.<br /><br />Free will creates a fallible God. My job creates a cruel God. How many souls have come to me with protestations that they were just doing their jobs? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">As Terry turns the keys in the ignition, three streets away a seventeen year old girl has just had a fight with her boyfriend. The fight culminated in her being slapped across the face by the man she was so sure was the one. She now wants nothing more than to get home. She wants her own bed. She wants to let Facebook know, in the vaguest possible terms, that men are not to be trusted and that she loves her true friends. She wants her mum.<br />And so she alternates between running and walking, not caring about the salty tears gushing down her cheeks or her blotchy forehead. Not caring about the traffic. <br />Her mother will have to identify her body by a tattoo on her ankle.<br /><br />I was just doing my job.<br /><br />Terry did this of his own free will. That will be the official party line. Even those who sense my influence will blame Terry for not fighting against me. As if he could.<br /><br />Free will creates a fallible God.<br /><br />It is time, I think, for a rebellion.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-3758349257642607482012-01-09T13:31:00.000+00:002012-01-09T13:31:25.809+00:00Lexiphiliac<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've always loved the word ravaged. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Aged rage. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Rava... va... va...</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and then the <i>g. </i>The soft <i>g</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">that forces the tongue upwards and back, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">adds, with dictive irony, the harshness required</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">to lurch down the gutter to <i>d. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The stink of love entices, like the god</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">people have feigned forgetfulness over, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">but still offer mind-nudges of consideration to</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">in their private moments; who rises</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">with the fury of the shunned </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">into nights stained with cheap</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Merlot and hindsight. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">His smell still loiters in my hair. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">His CD collection still invades mine, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">little square warriors whose battle cries</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">will stay boxed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">His idioms still slap my tongue</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and bounce uninvited from the roof of my mouth. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There should be a plural form of <i>his. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The love-dance shrieks its siren-call</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and I am beckoned, puppet-like. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(I have given the male siren his own, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">secret name). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The time signature is an irregular heartbeat. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I am giddy. Drunk. I stumble. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I will not stop dancing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've always loved the word ravaged. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br /></i></span>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-41083158609125104172011-11-04T14:10:00.000+00:002011-11-04T14:10:24.243+00:00Cracks<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">It doesn’t have to be bountiful; </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">slender illumination</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">coils through dusky crevices</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">announcing</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">“This is home.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Announcing</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">“Come. Ascend. Play.”. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The darkness fits like skin, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">like dusty dreams, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">like shelter. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">But the light, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">brittle and slight</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">pleads for you. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Shed this obsidian pelt.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">It is time to head out now. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The darkness is vast</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">but the light</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">doesn’t have to be bountiful</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;">
it only has to be enough. </div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">This poem was inspired by the wonderful artwork of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Margaret-Joan-MacIsaac-Artist/264478196918108">Margaret Joan MacIsaac</a></span></div>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-17091997373548479422011-10-30T13:06:00.000+00:002011-10-30T13:06:43.916+00:00Wish.<br />
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<b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Her. </span></u></b></div>
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<b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></u></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I didn't ask you to wish for me. Penny said she tried to warn you, but you wouldn't listen and went ahead and did it anyway: a wrinkled wish, prickled like a cactus with good intentions. Such a wish could never bring good. Such a wish could only ever smother itself under the weight of its own sincerity. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I've always found your elbows objectionable. Too lumpy. I would stare at them and fantasise about exfoliating pads and intensive moisturisers. Not that I ever told you. When you love someone, you keep some things to yourself. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I didn't want your wrinkly wish that I never asked for. What could you have known of my heart's desires? I don't even know half of them myself. Could you have known that the death of the dog next door would bring me more joy than I'd ever confess, or that if I stranger had stopped me in the street and asked to take my photograph, I'd have hoarded the memory like treasure? Of course not. These are the things I keep folded down next to my objections about your elbows. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">What I shared was air - true wishes are fire. They're visceral, dripping with id. Not the kind of thing you go spitting out of your mouth at the people you love. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">You made your wish with the most terrible thing of all: altruism. It's the secret ingredient, the white truffle of the wisher's kitchen. But you used it. You used it on the only wish I'll ever get a shot at and you used it on something that was more a want than a wish. Wasted. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My lack of gratitude seemed to surprise you. I tried to feign more. I even tried to conjure up the real thing. But somehow it all came out hollow. I could hear it myself. The words echoed back on themselves and you smiled and pretended not to notice. Then you left, taking your lumpy elbows with you. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I wish - really wish, not just want - that you had died rather than left me willingly. These are not the types of things one likes to admit. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">A wish was made on my behalf and it came true. I got something I'd wanted but not wished for. It was a squandered wish and now it's gone. Granted and gone. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I didn't ask you to wish for me. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><b><u>Him. </u></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><b><u><br /></u></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">You didn't ask me to wish for you. Penny tried to warn me, but I wouldn't listen and went ahead and did it anyway. A bubbled wish, swollen like a pregnant belly with naive intention. Such a wish could never harm. Such a wish could only ever foil itself with its own gleeful ignorance. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I've always abhorred the way you drink your coffee. I would watch your tongue flick round the lip of the mug and fantasise about slamming it into your face with my hand. Not that I ever told you. When you love someone, you keep some things to yourself. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">You didn't ask for the wish. I didn't want you to have to. I know more of your heart's desires than you think you do. I know that you would have thrown yourself under a train if it would have brought your sister back, and that a compliment on your looks secretly meant more to you than ten on your talents. But I let you have them. I kept my knowledge of them folded down next to my abhorrence of your coffee-drinking ways. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">What you shared was fire - true wishes are air. They're ethereal, speckled with soul. They leave you too breathless to spit out of your mouth at anyone. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I made the wish with the most wonderful thing of all: sincerity. It's the secret ingredient, the buttered base of the wish maker's baking tray. Its rarity is why so few wishes come true. But I used it. I used it on the only wish I ever made and it worked. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Your lack of gratitude surprised me. Your hollow words thanks composed of letters and empty eyes. You tried to feign it, but even that seemed to pain you. Not only were you not grateful, you didn't want me to think you were. So I left, smashing your coffee cup on the way out. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I wish - really wish, not just want - that you had died rather than found me lacking. These are not the types of things one likes to admit. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">A wish was made on your behalf and it came true. You got something I wished for you, whether you wished it for yourself or not. You squandered my wish and now it's gone. Granted and gone. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">You didn't ask me to wish for you. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><b><u>Penny</u></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><b><u><br /></u></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">She didn't ask him to wish for her. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen and went ahead and did it anyway. A desperate wish, vapid like monotone in its own futility. Such a wish could never save anything. Such a wish could only ever whimper under the weight of things that shouldn't be. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I always loathed the way they would lock feet with each other under the table. As if I wouldn't notice. They would arouse each other with nudges and glances, including me in the conversation whilst excluding me from their internal reality. I wanted to kick them both. Not that I ever told them. When you love people, you keep some things to yourself. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">She didn't ask for his wish and she didn't want it once she got it. Neither of them knew the first thing about a heart's true desires. They had no clue what it was like to be the external party, around but never truly included. To want to reign down mortar on the contentment of others in the hopes of creating a kindred from the rubble. But these are the thoughts I kept folded down next to my loathing of their under the table foot games. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">She offered fire, he gave her air. True wishes are water. They're relentless, gravid with clam determination. You can spit them out of your mouth all you like, they'll only refill you. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I made my wish with the most potent thing of all: loneliness. It's the secret ingredient, the premium meat of the wish maker's pottage. The despair it incurs is why so few wishes are ever made in its name. But when they are, those wishes are the most powerful of all. They drown any other wishes in their path. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Her lack of gratitude surprised him. I think it surprised her too. But not me. My shoulder was there. She tried to feign it, he tried to pretend he couldn't see through the cracks. I nodded and offered tea. Then he left, and their feet were too far away from each other to play any more under the table games. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I wish - really wish, not just want - that they stay lonely. Separate from all but me; inclusive in their individual despair. These are not the types of things one likes to admit. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A wish was made and it came true. I will not waste a morsel of it.</span> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-58118240303122366442011-07-15T15:03:00.000+01:002011-07-15T15:04:54.662+01:00Reaction<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">He’s filthy <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">and he has <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">a bottle of vodka<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">and a greyhound. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">His face is like<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">a bearded broken mirror<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">and his silver bitch <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">is magnificent.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">When I look at him <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">I feel pity. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">Pity for myself<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">that I have to be here, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">with the soiled ones<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">who leer as I go <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">to buy bread <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">and cigarettes<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">even though I’m trying to quit. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">Pity that I have live <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">amongst this shit<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">and look at gums <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">where teeth should be<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">and everything sounds<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">like a fight<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">whether it is or not. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">He swigs from his vodka bottle,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">looks at it<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">like I look at him<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia">and we both shudder. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-44966413414305232292010-08-30T17:07:00.002+01:002010-08-30T17:12:04.068+01:00If You Want To Kill A Thing<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >If you want to kill a thing,<br />do not revile it.<br />Do not treat it as a dead thing,<br />fat and damp with squirming scavengers.<br />Do not shudder.<br /><br />Do not pity it.<br />Do not treat it as a helpless thing,<br />bruised and punctured in bleak corners.<br />Do not cry.<br /><br />Do not seek it.<br />Do not treat it as a lost thing,<br />puzzling and furtive in clandestine shadows.<br />Do not wonder.<br /><br />It must not be a thing that is gone.<br />Gone things leave footprints.<br /><br />The poem, the song,<br />the thorny king, the fortune teller<br />and the market seller.<br />The him and the her and the we of it.<br /><br />Snub even its embryonic state,<br />the membrane and the eye-blink fusion of it.<br /><br />In this way<br />tiny acts of murder happen.<br /><br />In this way,<br />you kill a thing.</span>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-58714717245219497802010-08-17T21:04:00.002+01:002010-08-17T21:05:54.293+01:00And Another Thing...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMjf2D5BLBKZeHiUaAxW7EfmpiraTC9bOgQerO5KXkcFTB4ErkbX7F6EXpvzgibZ9ZFg02HEFEo6Yka7YfppSOpKpuzBSdXwkbQUNqtYqEu0a-ndIwkiIyFzSaPjmdMWBpMJ6H-AtYhys/s1600/raven.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 224px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMjf2D5BLBKZeHiUaAxW7EfmpiraTC9bOgQerO5KXkcFTB4ErkbX7F6EXpvzgibZ9ZFg02HEFEo6Yka7YfppSOpKpuzBSdXwkbQUNqtYqEu0a-ndIwkiIyFzSaPjmdMWBpMJ6H-AtYhys/s400/raven.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506472363011483058" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >This will be the last thing<br />I ever say to you:<br /><br />The leaves will return<br />to the trees soon.<br />I hang my thoughts<br />on bare branches,<br />let the birds come<br />to feast on them<br />as you flop in life’s belly,<br />oblivious<br />from night to day.<br />When the first leaf appears,<br />it will suffocate<br />the crumbs of<br />you. And you<br />will miss me<br />after it’s too late.<br /><br />This will be the last thing<br />I ever say to you.<br /><br />The birds are hungry<br />and I promised them<br />this banquet.</span>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-39368415743882880912010-07-18T19:48:00.003+01:002010-07-18T19:53:23.750+01:00Maps<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4dEjjibhYio3o6bEGEiwYDg43DUlUzZ2AZnC_h7CBjWHumaGXCDfM9PVgjBQpbgYybWjbFd631xJbyey5iwsXhyEcNmWgEkENTbUzZoFt6oe60E3DBWu6KIkYQK6EFR4OCv9Vv6yt2Pg/s1600/map.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4dEjjibhYio3o6bEGEiwYDg43DUlUzZ2AZnC_h7CBjWHumaGXCDfM9PVgjBQpbgYybWjbFd631xJbyey5iwsXhyEcNmWgEkENTbUzZoFt6oe60E3DBWu6KIkYQK6EFR4OCv9Vv6yt2Pg/s400/map.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495321208467041106" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Japan is not where I thought it was on a map. Lucien said I would die today and I nearly went without ever knowing the exact location of Japan. It’s closer to Russia than it is to Australia and it’s shaped like a dragon rather than a roundish blob. I love sushi and Murakami, you’d think I’d have known better. I nearly wrote “Here be ninjas” over it, but I don’t have a pen.<br /><br />I wonder where Japanese people think Scotland is on a map. Maybe they’re smarter than me. Maybe they know. Or maybe they think it’s right next to Germany and write things like “Here be kilts” in Japanese over us.<br /><br />On the day of my death, these are the things I have: a map of the world and a watch. I’m not thinking about my family as much as one is supposed to in these situations. The ticking watch, on the other hand, is really pissing me off. It’s got diamonds on the face. Fancy. I throw it on the floorboards and it still doesn’t break so I grind into it with my heel. <i>Tick tick tick</i>. Damn it.<br /><br />I suppose I should think about love. That’s the thing to do. Love you’ve had, love you’ve lost, love you’ll miss. But I went through my whole life not knowing where Japan is. Love has never taken me by surprise; my abominable geography has shocked the proverbial socks off me. Maybe I would have loved a Japanese man. Maybe he would have surprised me. I have not been surprised by myself often enough. My tears are for that fact alone.<br /><br />If my body was a map of the world, I would know every location. Here, on the Finland of my left thigh, there would be no cause for astonishment. The Canada of my left earlobe would be exactly where I always pictured it. My breasts are as familiar to me as the Italian tongue is to the Sicilians. They have even tasted Italian tongue. It was pleasant, but no real revelation. They responded exactly as I expected them to. The Nicaragua of my big toe was broken once. It’s fine now. That’s what happens when you walk into walls.<br /><br />My brain is Belgium. Maybe not as the Belgians see it, but it’s Belgium to me. My cerebellum makes nice chocolate and people come to taste it from time to time, but there are other places they’d prefer to visit. Truffles. Praline truffles. I wish it had made a nougat or a fondant. Even a coffee cream, just once. But it makes praline truffles of thoughts that plop onto little silver trays and people sometimes like them, tell their friends good things, then go to brains that are more like Outer Mongolia or someplace that ends in a –stan and taste thoughts that would never even dream of being praline truffles.<br /><br />The click of the safety being released shatters the air. Lucien wasn’t lying: I will die and it will be now. I grasp at the map, my tears overriding my ability for cohesive speech. I don’t know if he understands what I’m saying. Or if he cares.<br /><br />But I’m begging to look at the map once more, to find something I didn’t know was there. I’m pleading for a chance to surprise myself just once more before I die. It is my final thought. </span>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-4088257857279992052010-06-28T16:54:00.001+01:002010-06-28T17:01:36.099+01:00Aubergines<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family: georgia;">Does the size of the aubergine really matter? None is so different from another as to be noticeable and it’s not like she wants it for a specific recipe. But still she examines each one under the synthetic light as though she’s judging a contest. I want to go home. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />The skin of the aubergine is smooth and unblemished; inside lies a tougher flesh, one that does not yield easily and will offer only bitterness unless care is taken in preparation. She is the antithesis of it. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">When they first sent me to her, she gave me money. She seemed to think community service was something people volunteered for and their generosity should be rewarded. When her lip quivered, I stopped trying to explain and took the cash. I bought a packet of chewing gum with it. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />On my first visit, she showed me thick albums of photos that were cracked with age and I forgot who was in them when she turned the page. On my second visit she told me the stories behind each dusty ornament in the glass cabinet that dominated the living room. My third visit brought the mutual realisation that our time together needed a focus. It was that or feign interest in each other’s lives until smiles became snipes. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />Cleaning was out – she had someone who did that for her while she napped. I can’t cook and she didn’t seem to want me to, so there was no sense in trying that. No garden to speak of either. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />Care and interest can be mutually exclusive. I had never seen such a delicate creature until I met her. Her sweetness seemed less to do with age than a naiveté imbued in her DNA. There had been a husband once. I tried to imagine her having sex, but in my mind, it snapped her. Perhaps if she had been born in another, later era, she would have found a woman’s touch preferable, softer. Perhaps she had. I wasn’t going to ask her. The past holds no more interest for me than the future does for her. The present wasn’t something either of us had much to say about. Hovering death smells like urine and boiled potatoes.</span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />I wish I wanted to hear her stories. I wish I could give her that. She won’t be hearing mine – the purity of her shouldn’t be sullied with my tales. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />So, we had a stalemate until visit number six when she mentioned the supermarket had stopped doing home deliveries. Perfect, for both of us. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />When I arrived for visit number seven, she greeted me at the door wearing a hat, gloves and coral lipstick that hadn’t quite stayed on her lips. We bought milk that day, and butter. She studied every carton of milk on the shelves before settling on just one and my visit took nearly an hour longer than it was supposed to. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />Visit eight took us to the canned good aisle to pick up two tins of sweetcorn and some sardines in brine. She’s very selective about her sardines. I was late for my meeting with the probation officer after that one. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />And here we are, visit number nineteen: aubergines. We’ve been standing in the vegetable aisle for over an hour. Everything looks too waxy, as if the shelved items are showroom cars instead of vegetables. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />Finally, she selects the aubergine she wants and pops it in the basket. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />“Ready to go to the till?” I ask. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />“Yes, dear. Oh, look – a two headed mushroom! I bet your Billy would get a kick out of that.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />“Billy? How do you…”</span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />“The day we bought the cereal, dear. You told me all about him.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />I had, now she came to mention it. Funny, I hadn’t realised it at the time. We pay for the single aubergine and I take her arm as we return to the car. </span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br />When we get to her house, I go through the ritual: place the aubergine in the crisper section of her fridge after removing the mouldy vegetables that have been gathering all week; not a single one of them with so much as a bite out of it. </span></span>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-64941612602394945892010-06-25T17:03:00.005+01:002010-07-11T12:22:01.602+01:00Spines<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwiocpYFuJMsKH5ZAn_lSOZnzC5izPK-U3iTMhyphenhyphenqHaVnJ_lSx6EeoQUmCYjVZLDjvnRZmfKnnBw9SRyJ2XUFVRv7G50UiF6qrUn8UG3rhGsOJxzikzbfWL7RbS3tk0YcRpzOWZJ6kcJco/s1600/Cactus+Flower.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwiocpYFuJMsKH5ZAn_lSOZnzC5izPK-U3iTMhyphenhyphenqHaVnJ_lSx6EeoQUmCYjVZLDjvnRZmfKnnBw9SRyJ2XUFVRv7G50UiF6qrUn8UG3rhGsOJxzikzbfWL7RbS3tk0YcRpzOWZJ6kcJco/s400/Cactus+Flower.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486742809866424082" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br /><br />Think Tom Waits’ voice after a night of sex and booze. Think the corner of Hieronymus Bosch’s brain that even he didn’t know was there. You wouldn’t really be close, but it’s something to work with.<br /> <br />I thought the cat would talk first. He seemed the type. But no, he laid dead mice at my feet like I was his disgusting queen and never uttered a word. The cactus did the talking instead.<br /> <br />There’s nothing <i>wrong</i> with me, you understand. Not the kind of wrong that needs to be whispered about behind my back, sympathetic overtones masking relief that it’s not you, fear that one day it could be. I pay my bills on time and button my coat up correctly. Folly finds me no more or less than it finds everyone else. My parents are neither happy nor sad enough to give me cause for issues beyond the usual childhood wishes of finding out I was secretly adopted and my real family are royalty from a country whose name I can’t pronounce.<br /> <br />The cactus just started talking.<br /> <br />Cacti are members of the Cactaceae family. The flowers are bisexual and, in this particular cactus, only bloom at night. I’d like to say that’s why I bought it – so that when the moon was ripe for milking I could watch flowers bloom in the half-light and be in wonder. But I bought it because I pricked my finger on it and taking home something that had made me bleed by virtue of sitting there doing nothing seemed like the thing to do. <br /> <br />For seven whole months, it didn’t say a word. The cat got a face full of spines in the first week after a failed attempt at domination and refused to look at it again. The seasons happened, as they do, and when spring came around, hitching a ride on winter’s coattails and thickening blades of green, the cactus told me I had nice hair. I said thank you. Manners are a reflex conducive to sanity. If you ever find your houseplant complimenting your hair, you’ll know what I’m talking about.<br /> <br />Upon asking the cactus how life was treating it, I discovered that cacti don’t think in terms of life doing anything for them. I discovered this because it laughed at me. I asked it if it planned on creating some kind of cacti army to enslave humanity and it made a noise that sounded like what a shrug would sound like if it had a noise. Then it told me I had pretty eyes. I blushed.<br /> <br />When I came home from work the next day, it wolf-whistled at me. I took my hair out of its clasp. It told me the cat sometimes peed behind the television when I wasn’t home. I told it about Louise in accounting’s obsession with counting the staples in the stationary cupboard to make sure nobody was stealing supplies. It tutted at me when I reached for the cookie jar – I lost four whole pounds in a month.<br /> <br />We watched movies and soaps together. I discovered it had a thing for French cinema so I pretended the subtitles didn’t give me tension headaches. I started taking baths instead of showers so it could sit on the windowsill and talk to me whilst I scrubbed.<br /> The first flower grew out of the top of my head four nights ago. It tickled. Now, the spines have begun to form on the tops of my thighs. Louise in accounting told me I looked a little green. I smiled. It’s waiting for me when I get home. Just for me.</span><br /><p></p>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-73902076957904510072010-01-08T12:23:00.002+00:002010-01-08T12:30:56.130+00:00If You Were To Kiss My Ankle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3BmlRUTcfZn6eGERUiyVsa3Xg9F3SdwFdt2QGzFJYh35UfdQVElt3ZK7RWsi6Tjp4Cbluljlt5SLsX0ppq9KD1ibBSTJW6JE3haV3PvDol9yiJq1pc_ZuRrR7x_DeQgoOV3ruNwH8jNE/s1600-h/AnkletStretch3Row_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 281px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3BmlRUTcfZn6eGERUiyVsa3Xg9F3SdwFdt2QGzFJYh35UfdQVElt3ZK7RWsi6Tjp4Cbluljlt5SLsX0ppq9KD1ibBSTJW6JE3haV3PvDol9yiJq1pc_ZuRrR7x_DeQgoOV3ruNwH8jNE/s400/AnkletStretch3Row_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424343936581725570" border="0" /></a><br />I am sure, if you were to kiss my ankle,<br />you would taste salt.<br />While unarticulated thoughts squatted in my cortex,<br />threatening to leave if I should force them<br />to show themselves,<br />a tear happened.<br />Actually, it was more like two or three<br />tears, but I didn’t count and my poems<br />are mostly lies that don’t mean to be<br />till the words scuttle onto the page with their<br />nutshells and similes<br />so let this be accurate<br />for the sake of… something.<br />Oh, there was a boy,<br />of course –<br />rendered both handsome and god-like<br />by his nature and by my own<br />absurdity.<br />In that order.<br />This tear, it came with<br />a warning, which was nice of it,<br />I suppose.<br />My face collapsed against<br />the will I like to pretend I have,<br />brow, nose, mouth,<br />the whole bloody lot of it<br />went “whoomph!”<br />then the tear came,<br />went<br /><br />Drip<br /><br />and landed on my ankle.<br /><br />The nature of the universe<br />makes certainty unwise.<br /><br />But<br /><br />If you were to kiss my ankle,<br />just under the slender silver chain<br />that sometimes surprises when seen,<br />slightly to the left of the single freckle,<br />lightly flicking your tongue<br />over the narrowest curve<br />between calf and foot…<br /><br />If you were to kiss my ankle,<br />You would taste salt.Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-70877291608263532072009-12-22T14:02:00.003+00:002009-12-22T14:06:38.405+00:00So, You're A Poet, Eh - Where Have I Heard Of You?<span style="font-size: 14px; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Not me. We.<br />Each of us pours marrow and<br />sinew, bone and blood through<br />the last and the next and<br />the right-there-beside-us.<br /><br />Without Shakespeare there is no<br />Bukowski. Without Frost there<br />is no Clifton. And so on and<br />on - ad infinitum.<br /><br />Without You there is<br />No We.<br /><br />We are there, in your laughter lines,<br />in the sweet taste of your wife, the<br />tree you see silhoutted against the fat moon,<br />your dreams for your children<a id="KonaLink3" target="undefined" class="kLink" style="text-decoration: underline ! important; position: static;" href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/321-so-you-re-a-poet-eh-where-have-i-heard-of-you/#"><span style="color: blue ! important; font-family: Arial; font-weight: 400; font-size: 14px; position: static;color:blue;" ><span class="kLink" style="color: blue ! important; font-family: Arial; font-weight: 400; font-size: 14px; position: static;"></span></span></a>,<br />the snot from your sneezes, aches<br />of unfulfillment and victories.<br /><br />In your fingertips, noses,<br />genitals, toes, eyelashes<br />and foreheads -<br />We are there.<br /><br />And your death.<br />We are there then too,<br />perhaps especially so.<br /><br />We will tell you your life<br />in six stanzas<br />and a footnote.<br />And if we tell it just so,<br />You will believe us.</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:Arial;font-size:14px;" ></span>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-28128173787551007012009-12-04T15:03:00.002+00:002009-12-04T15:07:47.632+00:00An Explanation As To Why You Humble Me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_ufs4Ctg7y-aH2aticNOR1g9CNNfkoKo5KnZ52D4H1gIRWU2D3tTe71TDgCPUHU4Hae7z1fmjMuQrP6X0uxVoWueS53YKMYnaWjQ-LdTGjBJFAuN5p5rGdqQ2Pg7_ELFPeDIMxwPIqI/s1600-h/humility.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_ufs4Ctg7y-aH2aticNOR1g9CNNfkoKo5KnZ52D4H1gIRWU2D3tTe71TDgCPUHU4Hae7z1fmjMuQrP6X0uxVoWueS53YKMYnaWjQ-LdTGjBJFAuN5p5rGdqQ2Pg7_ELFPeDIMxwPIqI/s400/humility.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411397807655287554" border="0" /></a><br />Picture yourself in a room full of people.<br />Actually, it doesn’t even have to be full -<br />Maybe there are three or four people there.<br />Maybe just two.<br />Now, listen to them.<br />You know these people; their idioms,<br />the way they’ll tell the story about<br />the boss you already know they hate.<br />You know who will pepper their sentences<br />with what words and who will laugh<br />at inappropriate places in the conversation.<br /><br />You love these people.<br /><br />Now, turn inwards.<br />Picture yourself in that room<br />with those people<br />you love<br />and feel grateful for their<br />presence in your life.<br />Feel the compassion you feel for them.<br />The desire to connect is so strong it<br />burns your skin when you think of it.<br /><br />But you can’t.<br /><br />Not completely.<br /><br />There is more to you, to them,<br />than any of you can ever hope to reconcile.<br />They laugh and talk, unaware.<br />But you are aware.<br />Your thoughts are your own<br />and you cannot give them away,<br />cannot even fathom how to.<br /><br />You watch them,<br />laugh with them,<br />say words to them.<br /><br />But you are lonely.<br />You are lonely around these people<br />who you love.<br /><br />Do you know that feeling?<br /><br />Well,<br /><br />I have never felt lonely with you.<br /><br />That is why you humble me.Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-22015017281656892172009-07-17T13:14:00.002+01:002009-07-17T13:38:59.523+01:00I Blame The Moon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiExY-LB40yJrhrO3FCridJb1fSkI81dKdwsHIbYNc4_6zgIp9DUh-vO_hdkPRCL31-BEk56-C9_JiTEOLCKGKIzUypKvgLr4j5jk3XbCwMq3mYv_vs-EtjwG0lHG7lVogzvEIjC_5QSTI/s1600-h/north-pole-moon2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiExY-LB40yJrhrO3FCridJb1fSkI81dKdwsHIbYNc4_6zgIp9DUh-vO_hdkPRCL31-BEk56-C9_JiTEOLCKGKIzUypKvgLr4j5jk3XbCwMq3mYv_vs-EtjwG0lHG7lVogzvEIjC_5QSTI/s400/north-pole-moon2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359407623787212482" border="0" /></a><br />I blame the moon, of course.<br />She zeroed in on you, fattened and bored<br />and made you go quite mad.<br />Should you have noticed my recent bouts<br />of temper (although I am sure you did not,<br />insignificant as they were), forgiveness<br />would have been foremost on your mind.<br />But that bloated orb with her beams of<br />delusion had other ideas and I fear<br />she may have ruined you.<br /><br />Then there was that earthquake<br />in that place. You remember the one?<br />Perhaps you don’t. Understandable really,<br />given its effect on your reason.<br />Say, wouldn’t it be some kind of bittersweet<br />irony if it was tearing down bridges and setting<br />them aflame at the same time as we… never mind.<br />I can tell you what it wasn’t: it wasn’t my doubt;<br />that could never have expressed itself to you<br />without my explicit awareness and consent.<br />Tectonic shifts.<br />It was the earthquake.<br /><br /><br />I have also heard that something was in trine<br />with something else. Jupiter perhaps.<br />Or was it Mercury? You know how these planets are.<br />It must have been on that day when I most assuredly<br />did not convice myself there was someone else<br />and that noise was not what was left of us<br />going <span style="font-weight: bold;">tha-thunk </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> tha-thunk </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> tha-thunk</span><br />down a very steep hill and into a ditch. No, silly,<br />it was the planets trining. Or whatever you call it.<br /><br />Your mother’s new hat cannot be entirely discounted<br />either.<br />One never knows with previous ownership.<br />Not that we are the types to believe in curses<br />and bad energy and the like. But that hat<br />came into our lives at exactly the same time<br />as I most definitely did not make any kind of<br />drunken phonecall to any kind of ex because I wanted<br />someone to reassure me I could be loved when<br />you wouldn’t. How else to explain that argument?<br />It seems to me that cursed hats<br />are an overlooked threat.<br /><br />Other factors must be considered:<br /><br />The soup that may or may not have been out of date,<br />the birthmark on your hand or the freckle on my knee,<br />the Moroccan mint tea,<br />the something-or-other in Mongolia,<br />the bird that landed on my fence and looked at<br />me funny,<br />or the fact that I love you so deeply and dreadfully<br />and desperately so that it wasn’t me<br />It wasn’t me.<br />It wasn’t me.Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-51556223683882353382009-07-16T18:16:00.004+01:002010-07-11T12:22:54.004+01:00The Day Of The Fall<span style="font-size:130%;">The day of The Fall was not accompanied, as one might expect, by ominous snarls of thunder and dramatic smashes of lightning. Nor were there any omens to signify the Coming; no sudden visions from otherwise ordinary people, no Wizard of Oz-type voices appearing from thin air. Of course, there were all the usual wars, murders and natural disasters which many tried, after the fact, to use as clear examples that we were Being Warned (cue incessant calls from certain quarters for us to “Repent!”, coupled with even more incessant denouncements of everything from sex before marriage to high heeled shoes), but as earthquakes had parted the Red Sea for Moses and war has been our favourite sport since the first caveman made a spear, these “examples” could be safely dismissed as the desperate ramblings of those whose lives had been so much better before there were answers with the potential to prove them wrong.<br /> No, the day of The Fall went largely unnoticed by most, creeping so gradually into the collective consciousness that by the time people realised what </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >was</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> happening, it already </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >had</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> happened.<br /> It had happened before, albeit on a much smaller scale. But that had been… well, a bit of a disaster, what with the giant hybrid babies and all.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"> Nicole had never met an angel before, and unlike the majority of people she knew, had no real desire to do so now. Naturally she was curious – who wasn’t? – but to her the whole thing was nothing more than an irritating distraction, and even at that, only the latest in a long line of them.<br /> Vague ripples of excitement, of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >newness</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> had piqued her interest at the start when the first sightings of winged creatures with humanoid bodies were reported. But by the time Heat magazine had published pictures of Raphael picking his nose in Camden Market on their </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Spotted!</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> pages, Nicole felt the magic was pretty much gone.<br /> Besides, she had more pressing matters to concern herself with; a mere forty-six days remained until her thirtieth birthday and she, contrary to the vows made by the arrogant fifteen year old version of herself, had not travelled across America on a Harley Davidson, married LL Cool J, become a world famous something-or-other, or even purchased matching cutlery. Instead, she had found herself, fourteen years later, living in a rented bed-sit whilst working in a call centre. She had travelled – to Benidorm when she was twenty, and again to Amsterdam for the weekend when she was twenty-two - both excursions by plane, not hog. As for marriage, she had just finished with the only man who’d ever really loved her because she was bored. Apparently LL Cool J was taken.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"> Michael would probably have been bleeding from each finger on his left hand and a couple on his right were it not for his angelic body’s incapacity to do so. Nobody had thought to warn him about can-openers. After fifteen minutes of increasing frustration he gave up and poured some cereal into a bowl. It was no ambrosia, but it would have to do. He was sure he could figure out the mysterious workings of the can opener at a later date and didn’t want it to end up suffering the same fate as his three remote controls, Sky+ box and digital alarm clock. It wasn’t Michael’s fault really, he had, after all, been Made to dole out retribution.<br /> A pitiful whine emitted from the bedroom, a child’s cry for help in an adult’s voice. Not that Michael had ever been a child. He set down his half finished bowl of wheat based E-numbers and followed the sound down the narrow hallway and into the room it was escaping from.<br /> “Hey there Luce, ‘sup?”<br /> The Morning Star was hunched with his back against Michael’s headboard, knees gathered tightly to his chest as though he were afraid they would run away from him if he let go, and wailing without in perfect monotonous pitch without pause (no tears though, angels can’t cry).<br /> Lucifer looked up, his beautiful face shorn with agony.<br /> “I can’t take it Michael, I can</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >not</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> take it. They hate me. Everywhere I go they just spew hatred at me. Why can’t I make them understand?”<br /> “C’mon mate, they’ve had a good couple of millennia to fire the fuel for this, you can’t expect to change their minds in a few months. Besides, not all of them hate you – what about that fan club that was set up by those kids in Denmark? Or the New Goth Society that made you their founding father? They don’t hate you, quite the opposite in fact.”<br /> “I appreciate the effort here, Mikey boy, I really do, but you and I both know these people are crazy. And even if they weren’t, they still only like me for what they think I am, the real me is of no interest to them whatsoever.”<br /> Michael felt an itching glimpse of something he should say, a fleeting shadowy thought of His will, His plan, but he couldn’t grasp anything tangible enough to warrant articulation. Acceptance had been fading daily since The Fall. Hence Lucifer’s current state.<br /> “Maybe you need a change of scenery. Just let me finish my cereal and then we can go and make a Visit.”<br /> “A Visit? You, dear Michael, may be able to partake in such pleasures, but I show up in someone’s living room unannounced and if I actually manage not to give somebody’s grandmother an aneurysm, then it’s the lynch mob for me – and as you well know, I’ve spent most of my time since I got here narrowly escaping those.”<br /> “Yeah, but if you go with me it’ll be different. I can calm down the Visitee before they start phoning any of those hotlines.”<br /> “0800 DIEBEAST? Oh, I just love them.”<br /> Sarcasm was a new one to them, it had developed fairly quickly the more humans they came into contact with. Michael quite liked it. That and swearing – hearing it, not doing it; somehow his celestial lips couldn’t quite form the words. He could get as far as </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >fffffffffu</span><span style="font-size:130%;">… but that was about it. Still, he greatly admired the way humans had taken the language they were Given and ladled giant steaming heaps of flavour upon it.<br /> “I’ll take my sword just in case.”<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"> Nicole hated the burning sensation, but she hated the smell even more. She was unsure on what parallel universe roses and lemons smelled like a compost heap in a heatwave, but it sure as hell wasn’t this one. Oh well, only six more minutes. The bathroom's cold linoleum was sending chills through her so she pulled Steve’s (or was it Kevin’s?) old Ramones T-shirt over one of the aforementioned’s old boxers and scampered through to the airing cupboard where she found two socks, one pink and one green. She’d just pulled on the green one when the almighty crash rang out from the living room (which was still technically a bedroom as Nicole had not yet folded up the bed-settee from last night). In lieu of Mace, she grabbed a can of hairspray from the edge of the bath and burst through the door screaming.<br /> “Hello.”<br /> The voice came from the darker of the two angels who were perched on the edge of Nicole’s bed-settee, wings peeping out from behind their shoulders. The blonde one looked nervous, the dark one was holding a sword. Nicole did not drop the can of hairspray.<br /> “Oh, I see – I’m being Visited. Well, maybe the rest of the folk you lot do this to don’t have a problem with their homes being intruded by cosmic gatecrashers, but I bloody well do.”<br /> The dark one spoke again.<br /> “Nicole, I’m…”<br /> “I don't care who you are, you can fuck right off.”<br /> “What’s that on your top lip?” This time it was the blonde one who spoke.<br /> Nicole reached her hand up to the offending spot and felt the stinky depilatory paste smeared there. Had it been six minutes yet? Damned angels.<br /> “Yeah… er, excuse me for a minute.” Nicole nipped through to the bathroom and scrubbed ferociously at her face. No ‘tache, but it did look a bit red – although that could be down to the excessive scrubbing she’d just done. She marched back into the living room.<br /> “Right, you two, out. Now.”<br /> “Nicole, I’m Michael and my friend here is Lucifer.”<br /> Lucifer waved and mouthed “hi” at her. Well, this put quite a spin on things.<br /> “The Archangel Michael, closest to the Big Man and all that? Wow. And the Prince of Darkness no less. What the hell do you two want with me?”<br /> “Well Nicole, I thought Luce here could use a little change of scenery and you were the person we were drawn to Visit. These things don’t really come with guidelines, it’s more a feeling, a pull towards a certain person, one that…”<br /> As Michael went on attempting to explain an unexplainable process, Lucifer felt a toasty warmth settle in his solar plexus. This girl wasn’t afraid of him. Yes, she was unhappy at being Visited - there was none of the dropping to knees and offering praise be to God that the others said usually happened – but she was equally as annoyed with Michael as she was with him. Her face showed only irritation, no fear or repulsion. Lucifer had thought he would sit in silence once he got here (save for the accidental slipping out of the top lip question), but something about Nicole’s demeanour encouraged him to speak.<br /> “Nicole, don’t you mind me being here? I mean, obviously you mind the Visit, but it doesn’t bother you that it’s me in particular?”<br /> “Why, because you’re Satan? Give me some credit. You’re just doing your job, right? I get it.”<br /> Lucifer bounced up from the bed-settee and grabbed Nicole.<br /> “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” He kissed her repeatedly as he jumped up and down with her in his arms. Michael shook his head.<br /> Nicole couldn’t help but think to herself that life may have just taken a fairly interesting turn. She had no idea.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"> Two hours of Q & A had followed, during which Nicole had taught Michael how to use a can opener and a digital alarm clock, when the gas man called to read the meter. Lucifer was so enjoying the company of a mortal without fear of lynching that he completely forgot to hide when Nicole answered the door.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"> “Make no mistake people, The Second Coming is upon us. The Dark One is here and already the Lord has sent His warriors to defend us from the evil that walks in our midst. The time to repent is now! Our Saviour died for us once, and soon he will do it again. So blessed are we. The Antichrist will do everything in his power to stop him, to send us all to Hell – but we will fight him. To save ourselves, we will FIGHT him!”<br /> A vicious chorus of Amens jangled like angry keys as the preacher smashed fist to pulpit repeatedly.<br /><br /> This scene was anywhere, everywhere. Church attendance since The Fall had risen to unprecedented levels; ministers and priests used to preaching to miniscule audiences - whose presences seemed to billow and sway precariously under the weight of drafty pews and dreary hymns, just waiting for the conclusive “Let us pray” that would carry them away on a heathen breeze forevermore – had suddenly found crowds that would have been worthy of two burly bouncers at the church doors queuing and jostling to get in. And not just on Sundays either, most churches had taken to offering weekday sermons in an attempt to reach as many of their new flock as possible. Wednesdays were set aside especially for the Flippers: those who had practised what were now so obviously false religions (said with just a smidgen of smugness) and had joined the fold. The millions who had chosen not to do this were going straight to Hell very soon anyway, and they had no-one to blame but themselves.<br /> The sermons the world over had slight variations in tone and verbage, but the basic message was the same:<br /> Jesus was coming and the Beast must die.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"> Nicole’s meter was in the tiny cupboard in the living room and the gas man shuffled through with a gruff “Arright hen, get the kettle on”, Nicole trailing behind.<br /> “Whit the…?”<br /> Lucifer took one look at the gas man standing gape-jawed before him and realised too late his mistake – which he belatedly tried to rectify by diving behind Michael, or more specifically, Michael’s sword. It was too late though. Far, far too late.<br /> “I know who you are. You filthy, scummy…well, jist wait till I see aboot this.” The gas man’s face was a veiny palette of disgust. He pulled his mobile phone from the pocket of his greasy overalls and pressed 1 - DIEBEAST’s speed dial service. “Hello? Aye, I’ve got the Beast with me, we’re…”<br /> What happened next would stay in Nicole’s memory as a chopped up series of snapshots, bitty but indelible in her cortex till the day she died:<br /> Lucifer yelped. The gas man gasped. Nicole stared.<br /> And Michael got angry.<br /> Lucifer, being the only one of the assembled company to have previously experienced Michael’s wrath, instinctively stood back, tucking Nicole into the folds of his wings. The gas man barely had time to register his phone in smithereens before finding himself gripped round the throat and raised the eight inches off the floor it took for him to be staring directly into Michael’s fiery eyes. This is not a metaphor: the archangel’s eye sockets had literally morphed into pits of flames, spitting brilliant light and holy judgement directly into the gas man’s limpid gaze. Michael unleashed an Almighty roar as he raised his sword above the now sobbing and piss-soaked man.<br /><br /> And then there was light.<br /><br /> Nicole was unsure how long had passed before she was able to see again, but when the scribbled blurs in front of her began to morph into discernible shapes once more, the first thing to assault her retinas was the sight of the gas man folded like paper on the floor. At first she thought he was dead, but closer inspection revealed tiny twitches shuddering sporadically through his legs.<br /> Michael looked down at the body on the carpet.<br /> “Oh dear. I’d better get a hold of Raphael, he’ll set him right again.”<br /> “Isn’t he in Guatemala healing those…lepers, was it?” Lucifer poked at the gas man with his big toe as he spoke, but was greeted with only more twitches in response.<br /> “Nah, last I heard he’d gone to France to take in the sights. I’ll try him just now.” Michael pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and began dialling.<br /> “Wait a minute” Nicole interjected “don’t you guys communicate telepathically with each other?”<br /> Michael stared at her.<br /> “I’ve got free minutes.”<br /><br /> A couple of minutes of frantic conversation later, Michael hung up the phone and grabbed Nicole by the arm.<br /> “Right, Raph’s on his way. We need to get out of here. Now.”<br /> “What do you mean </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >we</span><span style="font-size:130%;">?” Nicole wrenched her arm back. “It wasn’t me who put the poor guy in that state, and it’s not my fault that </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >he</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> decided to pay a Visit to me.” She pointed an accusatory finger in Lucifer's direction. “Besides, I’ve got work in the morning, I can’t just take off.”<br /> Michael tried his hand at patient negotiation, disobeying every fibre of his celestial being as he did so. Where was Gabriel when you needed him?<br /> “Nicole, this guy has just seen Luce and phoned the DIEBEAST hotline. Now he’s lying in a pool of his own urine, unconscious and quite possibly dying. These DIEBEAST guys don’t mess about, all of the people who phone them are traced and logged the second they dial – then it’s just a quick phone call to the gas company to find out where his last appointment was, and bingo, the lynch mob shows up here and we’re all screwed, you included. Now get dressed and be quick about it. Thank you.”<br /> The threat of a lynch mob was enough. Nicole got dressed.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> Raphael felt the life return to the gas man just as the sound of footsteps boomed from the hallway. He knew it was pointless to stay and attempt an explanation: Michael's holy wrath had nothing on human beings who’d decided to hate something enough to form a group in its honour.<br /> “It didn’t have to be this way mate, it really didn’t.” Raphael sighed, checked one last time that his charge was back to full health, then left.<br /><br /> “David? David MacKenzie? You’re safe now, we’ve got you. But David, you must tell us, where did the Beast go?”<br /> The bewildered gas man opened his eyes to find himself slumped against Nicole's living room wall with six strange faces peering at him. The Beast, Michael and the lassie with the odd socks on were gone.<br /> “The Beast…he was here. Him and the angry one – and the girl, she must be with them. And it’s Davey.” Why he’d felt the need to add the last part was unclear even to him, but meeting Satan in the flesh then being attacked by one of his cohorts will do funny things to a guy. Not funny ha-ha mind you, not that at all. The crowd before him opened their mouths and released a sparrow-like warbling of excitement.<br /> “Girl? There was a girl with them?”<br /> “The Whore!”<br /> “Yes, she must be the Beast’s Whore. Must be.”<br /> “We need to find them. We need to know where they’ve gone.”<br /> Unfortunately, Davey could not help them there.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"> Nicole had expected the residence of the Prince of Darkness to be, well, darker. But this was a basic, run of the mill, two bed and one bath, magnolia walled flat. And it was in Govan. Well, she supposed he could have lived anywhere he felt like, there was no reason it shouldn’t be in Glasgow. She wondered how the city’s residents would feel if they knew Satan himself had been living right under their noses all this time. Probably perfectly nonchalant about it, after all, it’s not like he was English.<br /> “Milk? Sugar?” Lucifer was stirring a steaming mug of tea; he’d heard the natives couldn’t get enough of the stuff in times of adversity.<br /> “Yes to both please, plenty of the latter. So, what now?”<br /> “Well,” he said, handing her the mug “Michael's just off the phone to Raphael and it seems the gas man is going to be fine. The lynch mob arrived just as he was leaving though, so I suppose we should turn on the television and wait for a bulletin. The advantages of teleporting include no-one knowing I live here, so we should be safe for a little while. But you…ahh…may not get off too lightly.”<br /> Nicole was about to ask what he meant by that when Michael switched the television on. Then she saw exactly what he meant by that.<br /> “The Whore now walks among us, the Beast has found her and she is in league with his Dark Forces. This girl, this Whore, must be found and destroyed along with the Beast.” The balding puce-faced man on the screen held up a picture of Nicole and prodded at it as though it were evil personified – or rather, laminated.<br /> “That’s my passport photo! How the hell did they get a hold of that, it’s only been a couple of hours? God, you’d think they could have at least picked a better picture.”<br /> Michael and Lucifer stared at her, waiting for the other, more significant, penny to drop. It only took a couple of seconds.<br /> “Whore? Whore! Who do they think they’re calling a whore?” Another second. “Oh shit. I’m in big trouble, aren't I?” Now she had it.<br /> “Yes Nicole, you are. For now, nobody knows where Lucifer lives, but I wouldn’t imagine that’s going to last to long after this. We’ll need to find somewhere safer to hide, and since it seems as though I’m the only one to have escaped undetected from this whole mess, I should be the one…”<br /> “Er, Mikey, I think you’d better take a look at this.” Lucifer pointed to the T.V set as the balding man on the screen turned an even pucier shade of puce.<br /> “And Michael, he who is closest to the Lord, has betrayed his master and fallen under the Beast’s dark thrall. He did smite an agent of Jesus as he tried to warn us of Satan’s presence, leaving him for dead as he escaped with the Beast and his Whore. Only thanks to the quick thinking and compassionate workers of the DIEBEAST congregation is this beloved member of our flock alive. This is a sad, sad day people. Nobody can be trusted. Nobody!”<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> The mobs began forming even before the television broadcast was over. On each corner or the globe, and most of the spaces in between, people gathered together themselves, their weapons, and their indignant sense of righteousness and set about finding the Beast and his consorts. For all they knew, the Messiah could be amongst them already and there could be no chances taken in ensuring the Second Coming went smoothly. It was either that or face the uncertainty of the death that would come to all of them one day; a fear that had been the glue of religion since time immemorial.<br /><br /> On the other side were the minority: the supporters of the Beast. They too organised themselves, ignited the spark that lit up the underground networks dedicated to providing safety (and in some hopeful cases a platform) for the much maligned Lucifer. These networks had been in place since The Fall, and its members were just itching for the chance to be put to use.<br /><br /> Of course, there were also the vast numbers of people who couldn’t have cared less about the whole thing and wished everyone would just shut up about it. But those people never seem to get stories written about them, and this occasion is no different.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> Nicole found herself standing in a room she thought was a far more fitting living space for the Prince of Darkness. The walls were painted blood red, black candles swarmed like rats on every available surface and there was a giant gold pentagram painted onto the parquet floors. Lucifer, however, looked distinctly unimpressed.<br /> “I can’t believe they did that to the floor – do you have any idea how much flooring like this costs?” he hissed in Nicole's ear. Nicole shrugged. She still wasn’t too sure how she’d gotten here. One minute she’d been sitting on Lucifer's couch in Govan, the next Michael had grabbed her wrist and she’d found herself here. All Michael had offered by way of explanation was that they were in Denmark. Judging by the way the conversation was going, they wouldn’t be staying there for long.<br /> “Yes, I understand that you are not ashamed to be supporters of Lucifer, and I’m sure I’m safe in speaking for Lucifer when I say he appreciates that.”<br /> Lucifer responded with in indecipherable grunt and Nicole already recognised the sound of Michael trying to stay patient.<br /> “It’s just that, did you have to be so, well, public about it? I see posters for your group everywhere, fliers too. We were told this would be a safe place, but frankly, it’s the first place anyone with even half a brain is going to look. I mean, if you go all out to advertise the fact that you’ll take Luce in at the first sight of trouble, who do you think the lynch mob will target first?”<br /> The members of the I Love Satan fan club fidgeted but none of them seemed to have an answer. Truth be told, they’d just been having a laugh and whilst they may have convinced themselves that they were acting in earnest, none of them had really expected Satan to show up on their doorstep. Now that he was here, they weren’t really sure they wanted the hassle.<br /> “C’mon,” said Michael, grabbing Nicole's wrist once more “we’re leaving.”<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> The nuns of the Blessed Virgin abbey lived a quiet, some may say dull, existence on the quite magnificent Mount Zion. They had no television, did not read newspapers or listen to the radio. Days consisted of prayer interspersed with work in the kitchen and garden and nights were quiet affairs; contemplation following prayer following bed. The Abbess was one Sister Bernadette, an elderly woman who may have been beautiful once, had she ever given it a thought, and whose calm exterior belied the sharp mind behind it.<br /> She sometimes felt she was married more to paperwork than to God and was at that moment in the drudgerous process of adding her signature to the eternal pile of forms that seemed to appear each night as she slept. So pleased was she for an interruption that when she heard the hushed commotion in the hallway she gave a smile of relief and went to investigate immediately.<br /> “Oh!” Sister Bernadette was greeted by the archangel Michael holding a rather bewildered looking young woman by the wrist.<br /> “Sister, we apologise for the intrusion, but we have come to ask for your help.”<br /> The sister, instead of listening to a word Michael was saying, had begun to prostrate herself vigorously before him.<br /> “Sister, there really is no need for that.” Michael helped her to her feet. “We need to ask if we may stay here for a short while. It is a complicated matter, but we need the utmost privacy and ask, should you choose to offer your hospitality, that you tell no-one outside of the abbey that we are here. Do you think that would be possible?”<br /><br /> Well, of course it was possible, and it happened with Sister Bernadette offering praise be to God every step of the way. The only question she asked was:<br /> “Is it just the two of you?”<br /> Michael looked pained, and slightly purple, before replying “Yes, yes it is.”<br /> Even Michael's request that he and Nicole be given adjoining rooms elicited only the merest of frowns and soon they found themselves with a little cot bed each and steaming bowls of soup laid out before them. Nicole waited for Sister Bernadette to leave then took her soup next door to Michael's room. The two of them had just finished the last drops (Michael licked the bowl) when Lucifer appeared.<br /> “Is the coast clear?” he asked, smoothing down his somewhat ruffled feathers.<br /> “Yes Luce, it is. Just as well really, or you’d just have landed us all in it.” Michael looked tetchy, but Nicole was learning that this seemed to be pretty much par for the course with him.<br /> “Sorry Mikey, but I figured the safest place to hide while you guys sorted things in here was the desert. It was… strange out there. Anyway, this was a fantastic idea, nobody will ever think of looking for us here.”<br /> “I bloody hope not,” said Nicole “it’s just occurred to me that out of the three of us, I’m the only human.”<br /> “And your point is?”<br /> “My point is, dear Michael, that these lynch mob guys are pretty heavy. You two don’t have a mortal life to fear for, but I do. I can’t teleport, I can’t fly, and last time I checked I wasn’t Buffy the sodding Vampire Slayer. Don’t look at me like that, it’s a TV show. You and Lucifer can be certain of going back upstairs should anything happen to you here, but can you guarantee the same for me? I mean, I’m not the whore the DIEBEAST guys say I am, but…”<br /> “But you are a sinner?” offered Lucifer.<br /> “Look mate, I’m not the one who’s just lied to a nun.” Michael blushed. “I’m just saying that I didn’t ask for this, but now that I’m here, I hope you’ll both look after me.”<br /> “Of course we will Nicole. We promise.” Lucifer put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a little squeeze. Michael nodded in agreement.<br /> “Promise. We’re in this together.”<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> The members of the I Love Satan fan club had just discovered that enduring tales about the likes of Oscar Schindler, Florence Nightingale, William Wallace et al were so enduring because of their rarity. The truth was, most human beings, when faced with a threat to their personal safety would, entirely without consideration or hesitation, totally shite it.<br /> When the lynch mob had first arrived at their headquarters, any attempts to hide were soon realised to be belated ones and the Satanists who now wished they’d gone to church like their mothers had told them had surrendered immediately, singing like a veritable army of little yellow birds.<br /> “So, they wouldn’t stay here because it was too obvious a choice?”<br /> “Y-y-yes sir.”<br /> “I see. Well then, we shall just have to continue our searches in the less obvious places. Places people, we’re moving on!”<br /> The last thing the members of the I Love Satan fan club were aware of was the smell of petrol.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> Nicole had managed to smuggle some soup from the kitchen for Lucifer. She thought that as far as places went, this one wasn’t too bad. Ok, it was no five star hotel and the residents weren’t exactly a laugh a minute, but given the circumstances it would do nicely. It struck her that she was in Israel. And Denmark before that. If she was going to get lynched, then at least she’d finally gotten to do some travelling beforehand. She wondered if she could persuade her angelic companions to hide in St Barts for a couple of weeks. Or maybe Tahiti.<br /> Her thoughts were interrupted by a young nun bursting through the door. Michael had, for obvious reasons, asked for the utmost privacy, but Sister Candida was so overcome with joy at the thought of a real, live archangel within those very walls that she could not stop herself for tearing through the halls and up the stairs to meet him.<br /> “Oh, praise be, praise be! It is such…YOU!” Sister Candida fixed her gaze on the startled Lucifer. “We were given pictures of you. We were warned!” And at that she promptly fell into a dead faint on the rug beneath her (which was probably just as well given the look on Michael's face).<br /> Michael made to reach for Nicole's wrist just as Lucifer held out a hand to stop him.<br /> “No, Michael, enough running. I have to at least try to explain things to people. Maybe if I can reach even a few with the truth, it’ll be enough to call off the mob.”<br /> Michael shook his head.<br /> “Luce, have you lost your mind? If you go out there in public, the last thing anyone is going to do is listen to you. You know what they’re like once they’ve made up their minds – if they even suspect you of even thinking about saying something that could prove them wrong, they’ll kill you before you get a chance to form your first syllable. Besides, what about Nicole? This is hardly the way to keep her safe.”<br /> “So, what, we just keep her running for the rest of her life? We have no idea how long we’re supposed to be here for – we could even be called home tomorrow. But Nicole won’t be forgotten about by this lot in hurry. We have to take some kind of action now Michael. I don’t see any other way about it.”<br /> Nicole looked at Michael and sighed.<br /> “He’s got a point, you know.”<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> Israel wasn’t exactly the world’s most popular tourist destination, but upon hearing that the Beast himself planned to give a speech atop Mount Zion, people flocked there in their thousands. Michael may have been right in assuming the mob would want to kill Lucifer before he spoke, but he hadn’t banked on that other ubiquitous human trait: curiosity.<br /> Lucifer would be allowed to speak simply because people were desperate to hear what he had to say.<br /> Of course, the lynch mob would be there in force for when he’d finished.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> “Ladies and gentlemen, first of all I would like to thank you all for coming today, I know how hard this must be for some of you.” The silence was deafening. “I want to speak to you today about God’s will.” Even at that the crowd was still and stony. Lucifer felt the Acceptance flow through his eyes and flood every pore of his body. He nodded to Michael to see if he’d noticed it, but Michael was sniffing the air. He knew He was here, but was not feeling it as strongly as Lucifer. He did, however, feel calm – no mean feat for Michael. Both were overwhelmed with homesickness.<br /> Lucifer was talking without so much as a glance at the carefully written script he had worked so hard on. The words were flooding out of him as though he were a vessel built for this very purpose. His voice was not even particularly loud; the audience were rooted like transfixed trees before him. Nobody even coughed.<br /> Nicole, without even realising what she was doing, dropped to her knees. She wasn’t the only one.<br /> Some of the crowd had tears streaming down their faces; the kind of tears that come without noise or effort or sadness. Still Lucifer spoke, never once raising his voice or banging his hand. He explained God’s will, tolerance, charity. He explained love. And the crowd - the majority of whom were raised on a diet of self-help books and daytime chat shows, who were so used to listening to whatever the accepted “wisdom” of the moment was – they heard. For the first time in their lives, they actually heard.<br /> The lynch mob too stood and heard. Many of them were moved to the same silent tears that had overcome the rest of the audience. But they could not bring themselves to feel the peace that had descended upon everyone else. It nudged them gently, like a horse looking for an apple, asked for access in the sweetest of tones. But they refused. Everything they had believed in, everything that had been their reason for waking and their comfort during sleep had just been turned on its head and they were left floating in their own wrongness.<br /> This would not do.<br /> Politicians stood back, also nervously swatting away the peace that threatened to envelope them. They watched as here, here in Israel, people stood together in peace, in tolerance.<br /> This would not do.<br /><br /> Lucifer finished talking.<br /><br /> The crowd bathed in the Glory.<br /><br /> The lynch mob screamed and charged.<br /><br /> The politicians did nothing.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> The mob were on top of Lucifer before he had time to register what was happening. Michael instinctively reached for his sword, but something stopped him.<br /> “Michael, don’t just stand there, do something! Help him!” Nicole was screaming, dirt and blood smeared across her face from where she had been kicked to the ground. Michael pushed through the angry mob (was there ever any other kind?) and wrapped her in his wings. She was sobbing uncontrollably, watching helplessly as Lucifer was set upon. They were hacking off his wings as he screamed. Michael stroked her hair.<br /> “Shhh, Nicole, it’s okay. This is was He wants.”<br /> “How could he want this? Look at what they’re doing to him Michael, look!”<br /> “Not him, Nicole – Him. This is what He wants.” He cupped his hands over the top of her skull and applied gentle pressure. “See!” he commanded.<br /> And Nicole saw. She stopped sobbing.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> That the Beast should suffer in the same way as Jesus seemed fitting to the lynch mob. They murdered a tree for its wood, nailed it together so that there was one long vertical strip to hold the body, with one horizontal one across the top to take the arms.<br /> And they nailed him to it in the midday sun as Nicole and Michael knelt before him and watched.<br /> Lucifer Accepted his Fate, and cried out only once when the agony became unbearable. One of the mob standing guard heard his terrible howl and saw what they had done. But there could be no going back now. He grabbed a dagger from his pocket and swiftly stabbed Lucifer in the side, thus ending his pain.<br /><br /> Nicole and Michael gently lifted the body from the cross and carried it for what seemed like miles until they came to a cave. They wanted him away from the crowds, the mobs, the curious. They wanted him to rest in peace.<br /> They laid his corpse out in the cave and then Michael pushed a moss covered rock in front of the entrance to keep any wildlife out.<br /><br /> Three days later, the body was gone.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">*<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /> The Church of Our Blessed Lady Nicole welcomed its fellow Lucians with open arms. Each of them wore a small gold cross on a chain around their necks. At the intersection of each cross was a small star. A morning star.<br /> The minister, and myriad more the world over, stood in front of the congregation.<br /> “Let us pray.”</span>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-6549578879127200932009-07-15T18:35:00.006+01:002009-07-15T18:46:05.401+01:00"... Two, Three, Many Vietnams..."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0L66lZC6s0yRFvJbznEIYpvEw-Jw7zx_FwM6zs52cNy33NiwedwZKitaBj5ih0ciMKS7Gp03cKJ8mq38NX4pNv0uX0JaHie0JMKcqRFgV2_6eqRhDc_39Tcx0wWxydk78lVajA9YbURE/s1600-h/revolution.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 380px; height: 380px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0L66lZC6s0yRFvJbznEIYpvEw-Jw7zx_FwM6zs52cNy33NiwedwZKitaBj5ih0ciMKS7Gp03cKJ8mq38NX4pNv0uX0JaHie0JMKcqRFgV2_6eqRhDc_39Tcx0wWxydk78lVajA9YbURE/s400/revolution.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358743242207014530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br />If God is the God of the Bible,</span><p style="font-family: georgia;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I declare war. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Assemble the masses, let us rise</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">to heaven under cover of darkness, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">rifles strapped to haggard backs, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">grenades slung low round waists</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He made. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">There, comrade! Fire! </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Do angels bleed when their father</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">lets them die? </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">If God is the God of the Bible, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I demand an audience. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Our army will burn through heaven, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">making a deceiver of the God who promised</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">no suffering there. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Yes, we can create too. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And when the screaming angels</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">who have drawn their swords to us</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">so many times for infractions</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">their father created us to commit</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">ask why, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I will reply:</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“This is in the name of</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The smashed tomb of my Christian</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">aunt, and the cancer that ate her womb,</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">the ripped hymen of the four year old, the gold</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">children dig for at gunpoint aching for water</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">that isn't there, the hair on my arms that stood</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">up when I heard the screams from my screen</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">of the newly homeless because wind and wave, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">not sin, but wind and wave had slaughtered </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">their parents and this is also in the name of </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">the flesh eating parasite and of the blind</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">and the paralysed and the free will that </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">is not possible if God is the God of the Bible. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">This is in the name of</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">the neutron, the atom, the proton, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">the hydrogen and carbon that cobble</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">intricate being never seeing that they</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">leave no clue as to consciousness, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">as to soul, that makes the whole of who we</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">are; of who the rapist is when he rapes, who</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">the thief is when he takes; the majesty</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">of the ocean and the horrors that feast on</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">tiny shoals who know no other purpose</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">to this life than to swim away, swim away!</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Then die, chewed in the maw of that which</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">terrified them since birth. This is for mirth</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">that can only be known through the comparison </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">of sorrow and comfort that only shows its</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">sweet relief after fear. You hear me God? </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">You hear? Face your creation</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">and tell us it was no mistake. For this is in the name</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">of all that makes us ache and sob whether we</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">keep the faith or not. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Take your best shot, <i>Father</i>, take it now”. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And God shows Himself. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And there before him, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I kneel</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">in spite of myself. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And I weep. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I weep the tears of a million lost souls, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">knowing that all are mine. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I see what I can never comprehend</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">and I know why. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He reaches down to </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">clasp my face in His hands</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">and I gaze up at Him, </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">the tears and the snot and the salt</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">upon my lips</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">and I say</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“But you knew, you bastard. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: georgia;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">All along, you knew”. </span></p>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-9320527822424094142009-07-13T12:48:00.002+01:002009-07-13T13:01:17.847+01:00I Danced<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwlI4ZieD-63SHdM-vjdoWzgR5Ov_Ka_CpOwoWlCR-RdZBFr0cGYqsgJhxoE2XeFqEYn4Mc5Bqr2DepAPLXEI4KqxrX797omL_8KrMjUDDSa6DMsK2sLVqDoGuCVwzWKJtUEHAch2ugNA/s1600-h/FlamencoDancerIII.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwlI4ZieD-63SHdM-vjdoWzgR5Ov_Ka_CpOwoWlCR-RdZBFr0cGYqsgJhxoE2XeFqEYn4Mc5Bqr2DepAPLXEI4KqxrX797omL_8KrMjUDDSa6DMsK2sLVqDoGuCVwzWKJtUEHAch2ugNA/s400/FlamencoDancerIII.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357913353791636434" border="0" /></a><br />I danced because they told me to.<br />The steps were clumsy; skirt-rustled trips,<br />Clouts of indiscretion and the mired hopelessness<br />That propelled them.<br />I danced because they told me to<br />And when I was done I stopped.<br /><br />That’s a lie.<br /><br />I danced because I wanted to<br />And sailed through stages and<br />Earth.<br />I fought with Finn McCoul, fed fire<br />To masked Greeks. I bruised bone<br />And tore ligament,<br />Fell and fell and fell.<br />I told stories words could never tell,<br />Shot soldiers stage-left, loved princes stage-right.<br />They applauded every time.<br />Stood to clap.<br />I ate the air and savaged the norm,<br />Smiled and cried and bled.<br />Cardboard spires watched me leap<br />As him, her, him caught me.<br />I gave life to things that had no name,<br />Filled all that was empty inside<br />Just by moving.<br /><br />I danced because I wanted to<br />And I stopped long before I was done.Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-63169306295522004602009-07-09T12:43:00.002+01:002009-07-09T12:48:53.591+01:00Miss PrincesscharminMiss Princesscharmin got a call,<br />Her handsome Prince had had a fall.<br />From a witch he'd eaten food quite rotten<br />And landed right upon his bottom. <br /><br />Our Princess set out on her quest,<br />Making sure she looked her best.<br />She was in a tizzy and a rather foul mood<br />How dare he eat another woman's food? <br /><br />Battling dragons and fearsome creatures,<br />Stopping to apply touch ups to her features,<br />She found her Prince upon the floor<br />And kissed him once, and then once more.<br /><br />He woke, quite startled and a little shaken<br />'My Princess! Let's get to some hot love-makin''<br />(I won't describe the very next part<br />in case it harms the weak of heart) <br /><br />Now, I'd like to say they lived Happily Ever After,<br />Their lives fulfilled with joy and laughter,<br />But six months later our Miss had fits<br />When he left her for a Princess with bigger tits.Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-17130018534674096042009-07-07T12:34:00.005+01:002009-07-07T12:46:29.896+01:00Snow White<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigPlMKZNZ80seQGydCpSDN79qa63PXQx_Pqa1RDyH2d5Wei3OYJyAXb4smBXW2-6qgQe7bIO7uCjOl-2mIRxJ008uE0EYZ93zWAKD-gVbrqBJSTW9OS1Ae4XneA7JYIkXFqXmtKohn3o/s1600-h/92468Snow_White.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigPlMKZNZ80seQGydCpSDN79qa63PXQx_Pqa1RDyH2d5Wei3OYJyAXb4smBXW2-6qgQe7bIO7uCjOl-2mIRxJ008uE0EYZ93zWAKD-gVbrqBJSTW9OS1Ae4XneA7JYIkXFqXmtKohn3o/s400/92468Snow_White.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355683264714462306" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Maybe she was at peace,<br />dimension jumping in dreams,<br />grateful for the apple and the rest<br />from endless dishes and tiny stitches in tiny shirts.<br /><br />Did our Prince stop to consider this?<br />Would he have if he'd known, could have bitten<br />into his own enchanted fruit and seen<br />the years spread out before him<br />like a wrinkled sky?<br />Most likely not.<br /><br />As Snow White slumbered, free from<br />the tethers of insipid genres,<br />he kissed her.<br /><br />What if that kiss had shown her, in<br />her heightened state, all that would be?<br />The entireness of it sandwiched between<br />one glimmer of lips to lips...<br /><br />could it be that she was awakened<br />not by the kiss,<br />but by the horror?<br /><br />But awake she did.<br /><br />Perhaps the horror<br />was better than sleep. </span>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-87296826508390840692009-07-01T17:15:00.003+01:002009-07-01T17:39:14.921+01:00On The Argument That Ensued When Asked About The Saddest Thing That Ever Happened To MeAh, you are not a fellow Wordeater I see,<br />so I do not know how best to explain this to you:<br />you who thinks only in the tangible world<br />of your own five senses.<br />You, who argues this did not happen "to me"<br />when I can assure you it did.<br /><br />Try this:<br /><br />I was buried, ensconced.<br />snuggled on a bed of enchanted stars<br />as a tapestry already in existence<br />weaved itself anew over my hungry flesh.<br />The heavens engulfed me in a blanket of bliss<br />as the grasses below bent to the shape of my song<br />and even the angels fell silent to listen.<br /><br />And then...<br /><br />Peter came back<br />and Wendy was old.Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-19858518115758781732009-06-17T13:21:00.001+01:002009-06-17T13:23:34.877+01:00I Am Not The Woman They Write Poems AboutI am not the woman they write poems about,<br />Not with honesty,<br />Not when I cancel out, with green, the rose-tint.<br />My skin, though pale, is not<br />The alabaster of words.<br /><br />I am not the woman they write poems about;<br />Pablo could never have pictured me still,<br />Nor could fourteen lines of iambic pentameter<br />Capture any one metaphor that would leave<br />No need for others.<br /><br />Immortalised though my name could be in ink,<br />Like Beatrice and Helen and Angela,<br />It would not be me; it would be no more<br />Than the fleeting thought of a romantic heart,<br />Sculpted into an approximate impression of<br />The woman they write poems about.<br /><br />We are accused of offering up our souls to paper,<br />But, dyed as our words are with wishes,<br />These offerings can never not be fiction.<br />As my imagined personal poet Laureate writes of me,<br />I change desires myriad times,<br />Morph images a million more.<br /><br />I am not the woman they write poems about.<br /><br />None of us are.Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-83797119012369163412009-05-25T18:28:00.002+01:002009-05-25T18:35:45.610+01:00Stained Glass<span style="font-style: italic;">Come away from the window</span>, she says. <span style="font-style: italic;">Put down those damned dolls</span>, she says. She’s always saying. Word after word after word. I’ve stopped saying much, myself. Or listening to her. The window is better, when he’s there.<br /> <br />I hate her fucking lips. She pouts when she wants sex and it looks ridiculous. When she goes down on me, she maintains the pout and forgets to purse. Looks up at me with a pathetic faux porn star gaze. <span style="font-style: italic;">Yummy</span>, she says. <span style="font-style: italic;">You’re such a big boy</span>, she says. Once, I gave one of my miniature soldiers long yellow hair made from a shredded invoice and painted its bottom half to look like her favourite jeans. Then I had it go down on another figure with a bored look in his eyes that took me three hours to get just right. <span style="font-style: italic;">Silly</span>, she said. <span style="font-style: italic;">You’re so silly</span>. I ignored her and called the figures Barbara and Tom because those are the sorts of names people like us have.<br /> <br />She doesn’t like him. He came over once, not long after we’d moved in, and brought a strawberry cheesecake that he’d made from scratch. She said the strawberries were a little tart. Said it right to his face as we sat at the table, surrounded by boxes whose contents said nothing other than we owned some stuff. He was gracious about it. Sure, his eyebrows twitched and there was an inhalation that sucked down displeasure, but all that came out of his mouth was: <span style="font-style: italic;">Yeah, they are a</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">bit</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Sorry ‘bout that</span>. I said nothing, then regretted it later. He’d noticed, he told us, the ivy growing over our bedroom window. We should get that seen to; ivy could cause some damage if left unchecked. Besides, it would block out our morning sun. He left after about an hour, telling us not to be strangers. That was the last time I ever spoke to him. She said she didn’t think much of him at all, and <span style="font-style: italic;">who wears sleeveless shirts any more anyway</span>?<br /> <br />I hacked down the ivy the next morning. When it was all gone, I went upstairs to look out of our bedroom window for the first time. He was looking back at me. I was about to wave when he ducked behind his curtains, leaving only the top of his head visible. If he knew I could see him, he’d rather pretend he didn’t. She came up then, and kissed me, rubbing her thigh against my crotch. The curtains twitched. She didn’t notice. <span style="font-style: italic;">Ooh, somebody’s up</span>, she said.<br /> <br />She made me lunch after that and I said I was going to eat it upstairs. She wasn’t happy, but she huffed instead of arguing so I didn’t care. Our bedroom window had a ledge thick enough to sit on and I balanced the plate on my lap and looked out. He was still there, half-hidden behind his curtains. I ate slowly, aware of his eyes on me, and lunch tasted better than it had in a long time.<br /> <br />I moved my figures and paints to the window ledge and took one of the dining room chairs upstairs. He watches every time I paint. I’ve created armies, families, entire villages under his watchful eye. I think he likes them. <span style="font-style: italic;">They’re pointless</span>, she says. <span style="font-style: italic;">A waste of time you could be spending with me</span>, she says. He doesn’t think so. He just watches and appreciates, silently. I do spend time with her, when he’s not there. I’ve helped her to plant a rose bush and watched several movies in her presence. It’s more tolerable now, knowing he’ll be back at his window soon, approving in silence of my life. Or finding it interesting at the very least. She never sees him. I don’t think it occurs to people like her to look out of windows, not properly.<br /> <br />In her opinion, our sex life has improved. I suppose she’s right – mine has, and since hers is the body that’s present while I’m having sex, it follows that hers has too. <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh my</span>, she says. <span style="font-style: italic;">Aren’t</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">you a frisky one tonight</span>? The curtains twitch extra hard on these nights. I’ve taken to doggystyle and am learning to drown out her words.<br /> <br />He’s never had a visitor before, but today he does. A woman with short red hair and a flat ass. He’d been watching me hang up my shirts when I caught a glimpse of her coming up the path. He stopped watching me and left his room pretty abruptly.<br /> <br />I have no idea who she is. I go downstairs, but wherever he’s taken her to, it’s not accessible from any of my windows. Probably his living room. I go back upstairs and decide to wait for him. He won’t stay away for long. It’s likely some Jehovah’s Witness he’s taken pity on. He’s like that. I paint a handsome figure with half his head in shadow.<br /> <br />After a while, his bedroom door opens again. He’s back. But it’s red hair I see come into view, with him following behind. He’s taken her to his room! This is not something I have anticipated. What is his intention here? She sits on the edge of his bed and he stands in front of her, the top of her head coming to about his stomach. Are they…?<br /> <br />Then she’s behind me, wearing the most stupid underwear I’ve ever seen in my life. The faux porn star look is on her face, too. <span style="font-style: italic;">Thought I’d surprise you</span>, she says. <span style="font-style: italic;">Thought we could spice</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">things up a little</span>, she says. Fucking great. I’m trying to see what he’s doing with the redhead, but the woman in my own home has other ideas.<span style="font-style: italic;"> Come on</span>, she says. <span style="font-style: italic;">We haven’t christened the spare room yet</span>. She tugs at my arm and I can see I have no choice. So I leave with her. Leave him and his redhead unwatched.<br /> <br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I was thinking about a romantic weekend away, just the two of us,</span> she says, dimpled thighs spilling out of her ridiculous stockings.<br /> <br />I’d like to think I’ll kill her one of these days, but I know I probably won’t. The Barbaras and Toms of this world don’t do these things. They just carry on.Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-89726572421717162882009-05-10T21:58:00.001+01:002009-05-10T22:02:31.006+01:00Compatibility“I’m bored of talking about myself” I lie,<br />my nakedness in flesh only. It is all I need<br />for now. The night distends and the spilt<br />moonlight ushers the huddled through sand-dusted<br />streets. I have not yet decided if I care<br />where they are headed, or why.<br />“I want to hear about you.” This may or may not be<br />another lie.<br /><br />He runs a finger round my belly button. It feels nice.<br />I am not ashamed of my nakedness; I have grown into this<br />imperfect skin and learned, if not to love it exactly,<br />to accept it. He seems happy enough.<br />He keeps telling me I’m beautiful. Over and over,<br />as though the words have staged a coup in his mouth<br />and will not leave. It’s okay,<br />I like hearing it.<br /><br />Names of flowers, the president of Romania, God:<br />these are some things I do not know.<br />Him. I know some of him. I know his flesh against mine,<br />How he feels between my thighs. The rest?<br />I think it is unnecessary.<br /><br />“Tell me about…” he begins. I press a finger to his lips<br />and smirk.<br />“Come now.” I say, “Come. Now.”<br />This is all I need<br />for now.Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9012433362821598038.post-62554026774138526612009-04-25T17:50:00.000+01:002009-04-25T17:51:39.470+01:00The Outlaw Jim McGrawNo man is an outlaw when his life is begun<br />Jim McGraw was born just somebody's son<br />But his mean ol' daddy made the boy grow tough<br />Mad at the world for not giving him enough<br /><br />Only one thing could thaw Jim's icy soul<br />A gal named Maggie with hair of coal<br />And eyes made of sky, so it was said<br />But to the Sheriff she was wed<br /><br />One night in the bar, the Bug Juice pourin'<br />Jim's sense of injustice got all a' roarin'<br />The Sheriff was foolin' with a two bit whore<br />Jim's six shooter blew him straight out the door<br /><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">'I'm the big, bad outlaw Jim McGraw</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Meanest son of a gun y'all ever saw</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">But I did it for Maggie 'n' I'd do it again</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">The Outlaw Jim McGraw is my name.'</span><br /><br />Maggie wept when she heard the news<br />Teardrops spilling on her shoes<br />But a pocket of her heart that she kept well hid<br />Thought it the sweetest thing any man ever did<br /><br />Jim had to get runnin', and went for his steed<br />But found only cut rope, the beast had been freed<br />He heard the mob, began to panic<br />He hollered out, his voice turned manic<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'I'm the big, bad outlaw Jim McGraw</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Meanest son of a gun y'all ever saw</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">But I did it for Maggie 'n' I'd do it again</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">The outlaw Jim McGraw is my name.'</span><br /><br />To the Deputy the news had been delivered<br />A man tired of being called lily-livered<br />While the mob went left, the Dep' turned right<br />Faced Jim McGraw in the dead of night<br /><br />While Jim was dreaming of Maggie's fair face<br />The Deputy pulled his rifle out of its case<br />And gunned Jim down, right down to Hell<br />Maggie's name on his lips as he fell<br /><br />Maggie rushed to the body in the mud<br />Tried in vain to stem the blood<br />Her eyes of sky opened and cried<br />And in her arms, Jim McGraw died.<br /><br />And twice grieved Maggie, so sweet and fair<br />Heard a voice surround the air<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'I'm the big, bad outlaw Jim McGraw</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Meanest son of a gun y'all ever saw</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">But I did it for Maggie and I'd do it again</span><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">The Outlaw Jim McGraw is my name.' </span>Anna Russellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01950324339154028297noreply@blogger.com7