By: Alex

The girl had been reading Gaiman.  She closed the book and reached for the wine.  A funny thing about women, and to a lesser extent men, is the way the wine they choose is often misrepresented as a metaphor for their personality.  This is of course wrong; and the girl was no exception.  She was drinking a White from South Africa; it was cold with definite citrus flavours.  It had been chosen because it was the only wine in the house, and she didn’t fancy chestnut liqueur or His whisky.

The glass finished, she reached for a refill, then turned the volume up on the stereo.  (Why call it a stereo?  How often do we hear mono in today’s age of technology – indeed, stereo is so last century, is there a similar term for 7:1 surround sound?  Septo?).  She didn’t know why she had chosen jazz, she didn’t particularly like jazz, but He had been playing this before he left.  Downing the last of the bottle she idly fantasised about smashing the glass into His face, twirling the stem between slim fingers, feeling the blood run down them, hot and metallic.  She resisted the urge to smash the vessel – it would mean buying a new glass tomorrow along with the definitely necessary wine, or drinking from a tumbler.  Both were anathema. This was the last glass from their wedding gifts, nearly two dozen had been swept in shards from various floors in the five years since they had arrived intact.  In a way, this glass represented the thread by which her life now hung.  She placed it gently on the coaster.

She picked the book up again, then replaced it.  She was too drunk and it was late.  Standing, she caught the stranger looking back from the mirror.  When had she been crying?  She didn’t remember that.  Her hair was a mess, as if someone’s fingers had been twisting through it time and time again.  Had that been her?  She had seen no one else for four days, so it must have been.  A scratch ran down a flushed cheek, she slowly remembered catching herself with her bracelet as she wiped rivulets of mascara laden tears away.  So she had been crying.  The cuff of the shirt she was wearing looked like she had been rubbing soot from the fireplace.  Why had she insisted on reapplying her make up – time and again, for four days.  She needed a shower, but she could feel her eyelids beginning to close already, another night spent in His shirt, another night in their bed alone.  Morning would be here again soon enough and she would have to face the brightness, unless she gave in to the whisky.

The stairs were steep, but climbing them became easier using all four limbs. Halfway up she began to use her knees too.  Clutching the thickly painted banister, she pulled herself to her feet, taking a moment to balance and avoid dropping downstairs.  She remembered why she had her boots on as she entered the bathroom; carpeted with slivers of mirror as it was, it was no place for bare feet.  She had realised this after the first four AM dash to the toilet to empty her stomach of the excess of alcohol.  Bloody footprints still led back to the bedroom, their random weaving indicative of her condition.  She slowly remembered picking reflective splinters from caked feet the following morning; the wounds that were reopened were perfect metaphor for her feelings, she had almost laughed at that thought, as tributaries of blackened tears dripped to the floor.  She could no longer feel the pain though, so she was relatively sure she had extracted all the mirror’s flakes, or the alcohol had numbed it.  Either way, as she climbed into bed, fully clothed and booted, she didn’t care.  She didn’t care about anything anymore.

‘Nothing,’ she mumbled, as sleep took her.  Hadn’t she been reading a book?

By: Alex

It had struck him as an irony that despite all the time he had avoided her, cut her out and tried to move along, she had stayed in the same place the whole time. True, as she had told him on the phone that very first conversation after ten years, she had moved out several times. Once when she had moved to New York, once when she had lived in Barcelona. And then the marriage. Yet she had always kept the flat in the city she had met him. He had asked her why this was the case, her response was typical of her,

‘I like the ceilings.’

She occupied two floors of a converted 19th century building, once the workplace of an array of factory girls, the basements served as their accommodation. It had closed as a business after the Great War, had been extensively remodelled as a large townhouse in a style that was not quite Art Nouveau, not quite Art Deco, but somewhere strangely in between. It was certainly distinctive. The ceilings were incredible works of design; he had spent long enough studying them while laid on his back on the ornate bed she had inherited from her Great-Grandmother, or by the fireplace on the rug, or tied to the kitchen table or in the large enamelled bath lit by a myriad of candles and wreathed in burning incense. The place suited her; it was decadent, opulent, with a dark side. Why would she leave?

They had walked hand in hand back from the park, stopping off for some ice-cream in the rain. She had talked constantly, reminding of things he had tried to forget, tried to block. Her memory surprised him continually, the tiny details she recalled was disconcerting. Then, as they reached the large bright red door she turned and said,

‘Here we are.’ As if he had never been there before. As if he hadn’t spent hundreds of nights there, listening to her soft breathing as she slept, watching the silhouette of her naked form on top of the silk sheets.

‘I know.’ Again he very nearly called her by her real name.

‘Coffee?’ The ritual was as old as their non-relationship.

‘Please.’ He followed her up through the door and into the entrance lobby. Sometime in the past the place had been separated into three separate flats, she had the top two floors of the four. As they made their way up the curving stairs he idly wondered if she still grew her herbs on the kitchen balcony.

The door at the top of the stairs had been changed since the last time he had visited. It was no surprise; she must have lost her keys a dozen times when he had known her before. In a different life, a different time.

Now, instead of a lock, there was a keypad to gain entry, he smiled to himself as she took off her gloves and spoke.

‘I was always losing my keys, remember? I thought this would be a better option.’ She paused, ‘The boy who did it was so sweet, really innocent. Like you used to be.’ She giggled at his stony expression; she knew full well what she did to him. Cruel.

‘The code is 25091995.’ She stopped and looked at him. He couldn’t hide his shocked expression.

‘The date we first met?’

‘And first fucked. Yes.’ He would never understand her. ‘There was a full moon, remember?’

Yes, he remembered. She had been wearing black then, with silver jewellery, a diamond necklace she had also inherited. She had taken his breath away, glittering in the moonlight, her eyes alive, wide and excited. They had danced, then found a dark corner to talk, talk had turned to touching, kissing. By the time they had been asked to leave her dress had been ripped, one earring lost amidst heated passion. It had been another ten months before she had moved into this place, her Father, who he had never met, paying the rent for his little girl.

‘Does your Dad still pay your rent?’ It was a cheap shot.

‘No, don’t be silly.’ She paused for full effect; ‘He bought it for me five years ago.’ That didn’t surprise him at all.

She closed the door behind him, the hall with the stairs to the bedrooms had been repainted, a deep red, the colour of fresh blood. The walls were hung with paintings, scores of them. She had always loved her art, she collected poets, painters, sculptors and kept their works when they moved on, realised what she was. There was no overall theme to the paintings on display; twee landscapes were placed above cubist nudes, a portrait of her posing with peacock feathers sat uncomfortably next to something that looked suspiciously like a Lowry. The steps all had a statue, plant pot or stack of books narrowing each. He recognised some of the books and two of the sculptures, but the rest had filled the once empty steps in the intervening ten years. The huge gilt mirror propped up at the far end of the hall reflected the lights, creating the illusion of depth, space. She always had known exactly what she wanted, and had been good at somehow pulling off her strange tastes.

The chandelier, an original feature from the 1920’s, was covered in whispers of web, dust coated. Even the dust oddly fitted.

‘Right, coffee it is.’ She opened the door to the kitchen and he followed. Sure enough he could see the plant pots beyond the window. She had always been an amazing cook and he remembered the times they had cooked together fondly, they had created some true magic.

‘Black please, I have a feeling I will need to be alert.’ Again, another cheap shot. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care,

‘Yes, you will, if I have my way.’ She reached for the knife block. “Do you want to try?”

No, he really didn’t, but he knew there would be no way out. It had been something they had taught each other, throwing knives into the thick wood of the door over and over. She had been the first to volunteer to stand in front of it and did so again.

‘Come on, I’m sure you haven’t lost the ability, have you?’ He hadn’t thrown a knife in years.

‘No, it’s probably like riding a bike.’

‘Yes,’ she giggled, chimes that sent a shiver through him, ‘or having sex’.

‘Yes.’ It occurred to him that he could miss and hit her. What would he do? There would be enough DNA in this place to keep the police busy for years. He stopped himself thinking and threw underarm, quickly. The knife landed with a satisfying deep thud, two inches from her head.

She giggled again,

‘My turn.’

‘Go for it.’ They exchanged places, she bit her lip exactly as he remembered; she always did when she was concentrating. Strangely his breathing and heart rate remained normal. The flash of the blade spinning towards him was as familiar as the herbs on the balcony. It hit the door and quivered, too close. She had missed him by a hairs breadth. The look on her face as she walked towards him was peculiar.

‘I never hit you before.’ He raised his hand and felt the wetness on his ear. She reached him and pulled his head towards her. ‘It’s only a nick, sorry.’ She put her mouth around the tiny wound and sucked, she had always liked the taste of blood more than him. They stayed like that until the kettle had finished boiling, he had always found it comforting in a perverse way, her lapping, licking and sucking of wounds she had inflicted. He had never done that with anyone else since, it worried him when he realised that he had missed it.

‘Coffee.’ She said again, before she pulled away he could feel her heart beating faster against his arm, had she meant to hurt him? So very dangerous.

He wandered around the room while she filled the cafetière; she had added to her collection of pans, utensils and kitchen paraphernalia over the years, he wondered if they’d cook together again.

As he sat at the table to drink his coffee he realised he hadn’t had a smoke since he met her more than five hours ago and said the same. She reached behind her and passed him an ashtray. She watched him intently as he rolled his cigarette, then reached for his papers and tobacco. She had always tried to roll for him, nearly always failed. She surprised him by going to the spice and herb rack and bringing back a container labelled oregano. He raised his eyebrow.

‘It’s not oregano, silly, I quite like a smoke from time to time, remember?’ He did, she had always enjoyed a joint, especially after sex. She had obviously been practising, her slim fingers making quick work of the paper, tobacco and cannabis. She lit it, a proud gleam in her eye challenging comment. He said nothing.

Instead he remembered the crockery they had broken over the years, sweeping it from the table to imitate the Jeff Koons print (from his ‘Made in Heaven’ collection) that hung above the kitchen door, writhing on the wood. He could still see the scratches she had left in the pine. He finished his cigarette and she passed him the weed. It had been a long time since he had smoked the stuff, another dangerous spiral she had set him on. He took a few drags and passed it back.

‘So,’ he cleared his throat, ‘what do you want of me?’ It hadn’t been what he had been intending to say.

‘You.’ She fired right back, ‘I’ve always wanted you, and you’ve always been mine. You know that.’

‘I can’t do it any more, I can’t go back to that, I can’t share you.’

‘What makes you think you will have to share me?’

‘I know you.’

‘Can’t we just give it a try, have you not missed me?’ She asked it again for the second time that day.

‘Yes, I told you, of course I have. I just can’t go back to that.’

‘Let’s just see how it goes, shall we?’

‘And when you go off with someone else? I can’t do it.’

‘I’ll try my best, I haven’t been with anyone else since I sent you that message, you know?’

That meant she had fucked someone the day before, he was sure.

‘Fine, we’ll see how it goes then.’ Then he added, ‘I suppose your real name is still out of bounds.’ How he had missed that fiery flash.

‘Yes. Of course it is, I hate it, you know that. You will call me what we agreed upon.’ She subconsciously rubbed the tattoo that had been the origin of the name. “It’s much nicer and only you call me that, remember. It’s your name too.” He idly wondered what other people called her when they slept with her; she probably had a thousand names by now. Again she read his mind, ‘Everyone else calls me by my middle name.’

‘Ok.’

‘Why did you get married?’ Again she changed the topic away from the subject of herself. He paused before replying.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you not think of me?’

‘Yes. I think,’ again he drew a breath before continuing, ‘I think I subconsciously wanted you to destroy it for me so I wouldn’t have to do it myself. Like you did before.’ He raised his eyes from the table to hers. She stared back.

‘You are mine, that red headed child had no claim to you. If you’d asked me, I would have destroyed it for you.’ She took a deep drag, ‘You know I would have done, don’t you? But you hid away from me for so long.’

How did you get my number?’

‘I met a girl you knew,’ again the challenging look, ‘Pretty thing but not my type. That was a lie; he had seen her with women of all colours, ages, shapes, sizes, shared her and himself with them. ‘We were at a bar ordering drinks, she was talking to her friend about someone, I heard your name and the rest fell into place.’

‘So you got my number from her.’ He knew exactly who she was talking of, the second girl he had fallen in love with, he wished he could ask her what she had heard.

‘Yes, in a fashion.’

‘You stole her phone?’ She laughed again,

‘Perhaps, does it matter?’

‘No. Pass me that.’ The weed was strong and was affecting him more than he would have liked, but it seemed the right thing to do.

‘So, do you want to see the rest of the flat then?’ It wasn’t really a question, as she got up, passing him the ashtray to carry.

It was strange walking around her place after so long. Memories were hidden everywhere, for every new thing (no doubt presents from other lovers) there was something old, something he remembered that triggered a reminiscence. The lampshade in the front room was one he had bought for her; for some reason the practice of buying lampshades for women was one he had continued over the years; he had now bought four, all totally different styles.

The books lining the shelves drew him towards them and he thumbed over several of them while finishing the smoke. There were many new titles; she was a collector, a hoarder, as much as he. Despite himself he picked up some of the volumes he had given her as presents, rereading the inscription at the front of each, even though he remembered every word.

He left the ashtray on the mantelpiece and followed her to the study. He had always loved that room, the walls entirely sheathed in books, piles of papers everywhere, boxes full of notes and letters, their contents spilling out. She had a similar habit of collecting things from nature and he picked up the badger skull they had found on a walk through the woods one day, she had been so excited to find it, bleached and toothless but clearly a badger. He had found a roe deer skull a little while later on the same walk; his journal for the day was entitled ‘Two skulls, a picnic and a new place for fun.’ The last part of the title was due to her insistence that they climbed a tree to have sex off the ground. It had been very tricky and the fear of falling had made things interesting. Most of the titles from that time involved some sort of mention of sex; it was the addiction that held them together.

‘Come on then, let me show you the bedroom.’ As if they had not spent hundreds of nights there. They went back into the hall and started the spiral stairs. He paused, there was so much he wanted to say, so much he dare not mention. Yet again he wondered if he was doing the right thing. Then took another step upwards. And another.

There was always tomorrow to worry, for now he would put it out of his mind, his old mantra coming back to him.

The good outweighs the bad, the good outweighs the bad, the good outweighs the bad.
Another step.

By: Alex

The sun was hidden behind steel clouds, rain sporadic and a chill breeze cut through his thin jacket. It was no surprise that she decided to suggest a walk. She took his hand and they set off away from the city centre. She had always liked to walk, even wearing highly inappropriate and expensive footwear.

He couldn’t help smiling again to himself; he had always loved her holding his hand as they walked. With her heels she was taller than him, just. This had never bothered him before but for some reason it did today. He stopped after they had strolled in silence for ten minutes, let go of her hand and turned to face her.

‘What are we doing?’ He forced himself to stare into her eyes. They narrowed slightly.

‘Walking.’

He bit back the obvious retort and took a breath,

‘Where do you see this going? And you know I don’t mean the walk.’

She was silent for a while, studying his face intently. Before she replied one freshly gloved finger stroked the line of his jaw.

‘Don’t you just want to have some fun? Haven’t you missed me? I’ve never understood you.’

‘Fun?’ He tried not to snort, ‘Yes, of course I’ve missed you,’ he didn’t fail to notice the triumphal glint once more adorning her eyes, ‘I’ve never understood you either.’

This was a lie; he had a very good idea of exactly what she was. For years he had thought she didn’t understand what she did to men, and some women too, for that matter. He had tried to persuade himself that she was somehow inculpable, an unknowing participant in the cruelty she often created. He knew now that he had been wrong; she knew exactly what she did, her marriage was the final proof of that. He had to be very careful. Very careful indeed.

‘So.’ She paused and again stroked his face, his cheek this time, ‘where do you see this going?’

It was typical of her, to turn a conversation around in this way; she would always avoid serious discussion of their relationship, as much as it was or ever had been a relationship.

‘I asked first.’ The dangerous flecks reappeared, ‘I don’t know,’ he paused, he had almost made the cardinal sin of calling her by her real name, something he hadn’t been allowed to do since he was nineteen.

‘Let’s walk some more’.

They set off towards a park, no hand holding any longer. Conversation seemed forbidden, so he concentrated on putting one foot in front of another, avoiding the temptation to turn and run. She didn’t know where he lived. He could change his mobile number and his email address, delete his profile from Facebook. There was still time. One foot in front of another, a man condemned by his own inability to avoid an execution he could so easily walk away from.

They reached the park and sat on a bench. She took off her kidskin gloves and turned to look at him once more.

‘So, you want to run away?’ His eyes widened slightly, how did she always seem to know what he was thinking? So very dangerous.

‘Run away?’ There was no point in lying, he could read her like a book, she him. ‘Why would I bother, yes I thought about it, but I know you.’

‘Good. Well, that’s settled then. Now, are you going to fuck me, or do I have to look elsewhere?’ The sad thing was, he knew she would, and not think twice about how he would feel. She had spent four years using him, taking him under her wing when he was eighteen, teaching him things many people could only fantasise about. She had taken what she wanted, showed him another way of living, oblivious or uncaring about his true feelings. She had deliberately sabotaged his next relationship when he had walked away from her, and that had been one of only two times he had ever been sure he was in love. She had threatened to tell the girl things she knew he would have never told her, show her pictures, videos. The leverage she had disturbed him. She wouldn’t care if he showed anything he had, why should she? It was who she was. The next time he had been sure he was in love he had broken his silence about her, discussed some of the things they had done, the darker side of his youth. He had ended that himself, the girl had started to remind him too much of her; just little things, but the feeling was uncomfortable. He had wished over and over it could have been different, but it had been the right thing to do.

‘Fair enough’. He looked around the park; there were plenty of people, despite the rain, families, dog walkers, joggers and couples, young and old. He sighed inwardly, this was her idea of fun, and the stirring he felt betrayed the fact he loved it too.

Without even bothering to look around to see who was close, she unbuttoned his jeans and reached inside. He knew what was coming next and sure enough she bent over, her hot mouth finding exactly what she wanted. To anyone looking from a short distance it would appear she was tired, head resting on his lap. How many times had they done this? He closed his eyes.

After a while she moved and expertly raised her dress, her long coat covering them both as she slid down on him. Outwardly she barely moved, instead relying on her muscles, he had only met one other woman who was as good at this since. Clench, grip, and loosen, rippling around him. Throughout, she kissed him deeply, passion evident to all who walked past, but no obvious indecency. He had never forgotten how skilled she was, it had been one of the main reasons she had never been far from his mind in the ten years since he had last seen her. Once more he thought about this addiction and finally decided to give in, for now forget about the bigger picture, enjoy the moment, the minutiae. There would be plenty of time for thinking later. He licked his finger and reached around behind her, under her coat, she murmured into his mouth, she still loved that.

No, no time to panic, live for the moment. The self-loathing was gone, for now. There was only the woman on top of him, the woman who most men would kill for and, for this moment at least, she was his. He would always be hers.

By: Alex

It had all started so well. They had sat down opposite one another, genteel, she in a dress and long coat she informed him had come from Karen Millen in Soho, New York last time she had visited (oh, you have to see it in the Fall), he in his usual Saturday combination of jeans, shoes, t-shirt and jacket. How long before she started dressing him again?

They had talked, awkwardly, for fifteen minutes, she sipping her Long Island Iced Tea, extra long, he his Green Vesper. They kept avoiding each other’s eyes as much as possible, pointing out people at the bar, talking in hushed whispers that began “Do you remember…” Then she left to powder her nose.

When she returned, she sat next to him. The awkwardness disappeared as her hand surely found what she wanted, ten years since the last time. Old habits died hard and the tablecloth was rearranged. His hand was firmly placed where she wanted it. She hadn’t changed at all, smooth, silky, hot, wet.

The waiter ignored them; a couple kissing was none of his concern. Perhaps he should have paid more attention. The ivory tablecloth would certainly need changing before the next diners.

They separated, as had always been the case her hands knew exactly what they were doing, his responding in kind. As he stood to go sit opposite her as the starters arrived he once more marvelled at the fact his clothes were unmarked. Yes, the tablecloth would definitely need changing. Her eyes had taken on that predatory look he had feared and loved for so long. The colour slightly changed, ‘passion flecked’ he had once called it in his journal, dangerous.

As soon as he sat to begin his starter she slipped off her shoes (Brian Atwood, Gio Moretti, Milan), her naked feet pushed against his leg, insisting. He shook his head and moved slightly. He kept telling himself he should try and regain some kind of control. She smiled, a leopard stretching, showing its teeth; she knew she was in control. He knew it too.

The meal passed with conversation of the past ten years, she had been married, true, but there were no six children. No children at all. The husband foolishly hadn’t realised what she was until far too late. And she could play the victim. His considerable assets had been split. She had never had a problem with finding money, had always told him if he wanted any she would get it for him. It slipped through her fingers like sand in a glass. She didn’t care about it, neither did he.

Dangerous, how had he forgotten that, how had he convinced himself she may have changed? He knew how an addict felt, even after the consultations he knew she was the addiction that would never go away, despite what the therapist had said; she was the muse who could call and he would come running. It had taken ten years before he could talk about her with anyone he knew. He had never truly loved her, how could he, knowing what she was?

Yet she had been the anvil upon which the path of his adulthood had been hammered out. She had set the course of his life as surely as a puppeteer, and now she had once again twitched his strings. Marionette that he was, he danced for her.

The food came, the food went. He paid little attention to what he was eating, his concentration had to be extreme or he would slip up, say something he shouldn’t. He avoided discussion of his own marriage, of the lovers who had come after her, that had always been a mistake, she was strangely jealous. Strange because she had loved nothing better than to send him out to find someone, male or female, for them to play with. Strange because she had taken him to parties where she shared herself with as many others as she could, and had expected him to do the same. Yet, mention another by name and those flecked eyes would narrow, lips tighten.

Safer to talk about her, she was always willing to do that. He truly believed she didn’t understand the things she did, how a throwaway comment could set his heart racing, then another could crumple it. How many times had he lain awake since meeting her, wishing he had chosen a different course at university, wishing she had gone to Cambridge, as had been her original intention. Events come to pass that are beyond control; fate, karma, whatever it is he knew that even had things been different their paths would have intersected at some point.

When he did talk about himself he inhibited the conversation to the topic she loved, nature. It had always sat at odds with her exterior, this woman who oozed class, good taste, fine city living, yet would be giggling while they marched covered in mud, across the hills, through the woods, rain or shine. She had absorbed his knowledge, mastered the identities of plants, learnt about the birds, the animals. She loved the outdoors almost as much as he, some of his happiest memories of the four years they had been together (or as together as she would allow) had been the camping trips and walks they had shared.

She asked about his family, she had never met them, made it clear that there was no need. Yet she could remember their names, all their names, details he had forgotten he had shared were recounted. If only it had all been purely physical, but her mind was one of the sharpest he had ever met, her knowledge often hidden but constant. Her poetry had moved him to tears on occasion; her words dripped venom, then honey. It was all so easy for her; the novel she had abandoned had stayed in his head for nearly twelve years. He had no doubt if she actually bothered to send anything to a publisher her work would sell – all the more so for being crafted by an intelligent, beautiful and confident young woman.

The third time she used her toe to stroke the line of his shin then his inner thigh he gave in. She was not a woman to be refused more than twice, he reached under the table and unbuttoned his jeans, her toes had more intuition and skill than most others hands. Finishing his dessert became difficult, as did ordering a coffee from the waiter. She never took her eyes off his face, watching for the minutiae of expression that she relished, proof of her skill, her talent. When she had finished, expertly adjusting the tablecloth with one foot at precisely the right moment, she raised an eyebrow. The signal that meant it was her turn now.

He smiled and slipped his shoe then his sock off.

After the coffee was finished he first “accidentally” dripped some over the cloth, to ensure it would be changed (old habits died hard) then he returned to sit beside her, her smile was triumphal. They ordered more cocktails.

By the time they left, nearly three hours after first entering the place, he had come three times, she seven (she always made it a rule she got twice the enjoyment he did, something to do with power, he was sure). She had dripped wine on the cloth, concealing the other stains; she the teacher of these tricks who made it all look so easy; an apologetic glance and smile at the waiter, swift shrug, hefty tip left in the plate. He knew the day was just beginning. That feeling of fear in his legs and across his chest had never left; it felt like staring at the scene of an accident. This was a long, slow car crash he was a willing participant in.

He simply couldn’t stop it from happening, nor could he stop smiling, despite the self-loathing.

By: Alex

Saturday finally came. They had spoken each night during the week. They had exchanged messages, emails. She had even sent a video, surprisingly chaste. She certainly hadn’t really changed, maybe more elegant, more mature. But lush, ripe for picking, eating.

He left the house, the familiar feeling he had missed once more returning. Fear, trepidation, lust, self-loathing, all sat on top of a steady stream of hope. Legs quivered as he walked into the city centre.

How would it end? How would it begin? Time will tell.

By: Alex

The papers had become stuck together in the rain. They opened, concertina fashion, requiring teasing, gentle peeling. A cigarette would be good now. He hadn’t meant to text, he hadn’t meant to respond at all.

She had called him immediately upon receiving his message. For some reason he had answered. They were going to meet up. Saturday. In their old place.

Thoughts spider-webbed across his mind, what would she look like after all these years? He had heard from a friend she had doubled in weight, doubled in size, been married and had six children. After checking this after the phone call it transpired it had simply been a way to put him off ever meeting her again. His friends who knew about her had spent years worrying about the destructive nature of the woman, and the effect she had on him.

No, she was still the same. Still the same curves, the same hair, tattoos. And the thought of her still excited him, despite all that had occurred between them.

Saturday seemed a long time.

By: Alex

He had invested so much time in remembering to forget her that when the message arrived it spiralled into his brain, sending corkscrews of doubt, fear, worry and plain disgust across the synapses.

She had once meant something to him, true, but that had been more than ten years past and things had changed. They had certainly changed. So why was he considering replying? Why even entertain the idea? Done is done. Dead and buried. Cut out. End of.

Yet his finger itched to reply, itched to respond in kind. Yes, I think about you, yes you played a major role in my life, yes I would love to meet you again, sorry to hear the marriage didn’t work out.

He sat on his hand and chewed his lip. End of.

For now.

By: Alex

You drop, faded parchment,
the tale of the year retold in your script
Dry rustle, nutrient rich,
next year’s growth relying on your Fall.
Eternal story, cycles onward,
green becomes brown, yellow, red.
Colours abound, nature’s spectrum,
your descendants await the Spring;
Tightly packed, awaiting warmth,
hard now but buds wait to softly unfurl.
You sleep, resting through.
This the time for evergreen cousin, holly and ivy.
You dream, so slowly,
digesting the year, tickled by squirrel, woodpecker, owl’s talons.
We watch, through frost,
checking for the signs of return, signs of growth.
And finally, they arrive,
pushing through chill blanket of Winter, bringing green, rebirth,
Hush descends, listen closely,
you can almost hear the leaves sigh once more.

By: Alex

Dawn breaks across jagged night
Teeth bared, sun arising,
Cool moments before sledgehammer
Heat, squinting eyes.
Sweat drips through cotton
Drones the fly as sleep is
Near impossible.  Time to roam
Across the blasted hillside, Avoid
Snakes and spiders, boars and wolves.
Rehydrate with dehydrating drink,
Ready for a night of fiesta, of calamucho
And tent goats. Beware! The pack of wild
Dogs as their cateyes reflect fear and desire.
Beware the naked ramble, the sacrificial
Earthworks, ramparts, fortifications.
Wake up! Growling dawn once more.

By: Alex

There is a truth to the dawn
There is a truth to the rain
There is truth in the cold, and the heat
There is a truth in these, for they are truth.

There is a truth to the birdsong
There is a truth to the scent of loam
There are truths hidden in trees and the flowers,
There are truths through simple existence.

If truth is to be understood, it must just be
It must become the honesty of true art
An expression of self, outside self,
Within the world, a place beyond that which is.

There are truths we do not believe in
There are truths we should not believe in,
There is to be equilibrium through oneness
Oneness with the dawn, with the rain.

Oneness with the cold and the heat
With the birdsong and the loam, the trees
And the flowers. To become truth we must
Step outside and see, we must not think, just be.