Angelus

--The Ravensbrook Awakening

2012-01-30T15:42:00.000-08:00

--The Ravensbrook Awakening

Chapter One ~ Once Upon A Wary Day

I live on what had been a block of houses and bungalows off a side road, leading to a Mere, golf-course and farmland to e left and, a small village, to the right; then the main road,

Now though, the Ravensbrook had two roads running parallel, into a large sprawling estate of mostly tree-lined streets and cul-de-sac: such is Ravensbrook Estate.

The bungalow where I live is also where I’d had for many years, until moving away for ten years or so, to Live a Life and more.

And then I’d returned, thanks to the good graces of my folks, who’d come to my aid, yet again.

All-in-all, Life has been good, ‘cept for the spell I had inna psychie-unit, after my parents death. And, for quite a while, I had teetered, on the edge somewhat. Yet, things are better Now.

And, I can’t help but smile a little, as I look out the living-rooms picture window, to a blue-sky and a green lawn; a tidy front border, in front of a small wall and, to the right a low privet hedge, dividing my property from next-door. Well, that and, a dividing wall, of course.

I watch a young mother in tight, light-blue jeans, pushing a buggy toward the school, further down the road. Watching her; and sometimes, just sometimes, I wish there were more. Yet, I’ve got more than most and, particularly in these dire times.

And that car, that big white SUV with darkened windows has been parked at the end of our drive now, for over twenty minutes.

The window on the driver’s side wound down and I watched the driver use his mobile, then drink juice and, have a cigarette while he read the paper.

Going through to the kitchen and the back door, I clean the stainless-steel pedal bin, keeping my eyes looking right occasionally, as I stare through the wrought iron gates and up the drive, to where the cats sits, still at the end of our drive.

And, it’s been nearly forty minutes now I notice, briefly looking to the kitchen clock, as I wash my hands, prior to making myself a much-needed coffee.

I haven’t been sleeping well of late; ‘just way too much on my mind,’ I consider a few minutes later, sitting on the bench seat opposite the kitchen door, sipping at the hot brew, glancing between the cacti and spider plant and out of the window.

Still there, I notice.

Then the fellow, with full cheeks and cropped hair and, wearing a suit, seems to glance my way while his face stares straight ahead, a moment, just a moment.

And, I hold my cup, knuckles tightening as I do so.

The smoked-glass window descends slowly, as I watch intently, then the car drives away and, turning away from the window, I make my way through to the kitchen and make myself yet another coffee. I need, just need to stay awake.

I can’t help but think about what I had noticed, curious as to whether I’m being paranoid, or not…

Chapter Two ~ A stranger only till met

Time passed, or Tempus Fugit as an acquaintance of mine is wont to say. And, I’m pretty sure that manic depression isn’t my problem; that is ‘who are the occupants in the big white SUV, with the smoked glass windows?’

I mean, other than spotting that vehicle at least four times in the last two weeks, things have been pretty humdrum of late.

Although I did go out to the flix in the ‘Pool, last Friday. I had even ended my night with a whiskey, as I’d wound my way slowly back to the station to go home.

Yet, it was on the way to the ‘Pool that things got strange. After disembarking from my train I’d left the Wirral Line, then the undergrounds exit and taken the white-tiled tunnel to the left, leading to the escalator and, up to the main Liverpool Lime Street.

A woman strode toward me, of above average height for a woman, in cowboy boots and, faded blue-jeans and a suede coat, running long, slender fingers through dark brown, almost black curly hair, that reached to her shoulders.

And, on her approach to the station I’d just left, our eyes met, with a distinct spark of something between us: gawd knows what it was, but it’s been there, of that I’m sure.

Then, she’d been gone.

And me?

I’d been halfway up the escalator when I’d realized I should’ve got off at Central, or better still, got off at James Street, for Liverpool One.

And, when I left the flix, after watching a particularly good film by Luc Bresson, I’d idled back through the city centre, ignoring the passers-by, the hen parties and the straggling reveller split from the party and the occasional fellow, seeling anywhere from forty to eighty pence, ‘for the train fare hair mate’.

I’d been intent on find a hostelry of my own liking and, taking a turn at the old Lewis’s store, I’d made my way to The Liffey which hadn’t been too busy, that night.

I’d opened the double doors and walked in, thinking of that scene, in almost every western I’d ever seen, where the main protagonist walks into the bar in a similar manner.

And I do like the décor of The Liffey, all dark wood, ‘cept for a little brass on the bar itself.

I’d taken the step up from the ground level to bar level then approached the bar itself.

It had been as I’d done so that a double-whiskey had mysteriously appeared on the bar, much to the bemusement of the two people either side of where it sat waiting.

Eyeing the barman I had mouthed ‘thank you’, then offered the correct money, plus a twenty pence tip, on my flat hand, on the end of my right outstretched arm.

The fellow had smiled and, taking the coins from me said, “Thanks mate” as I’d downed my whiskey all-in-one.

Smiling I had turned and walked back to the bars entrance, relishing the warmth that spread through my gut.

Two fellows worked the bar, both of them knowing my ways; one was a big friendly looking fellow with short black hair and twinkling eyes. The other fellow was small and wiry, with a perpetual grin and, often stood by the door with a smoke in his hand, as he talked to regular punters.

That fellow seemed to work just when the place was busy, so I’m figuring he was the manager, or maybe the owner.

Either way, when one of those two was working, I’d not have to wait long for a double of the ‘water of Life.’

Come the street and a quickly whirling head thanks to alcohol on an empty stomach, I’d found myself meandering back to Central Station, my eyes darting back and forth, alert as ever, to any potential threat.

And still, the woman I’d passed earlier rattled around in my head, as I stood on the escalator, going down to the platform. Then, as I’d got there I had noticed the display telling me that the West Kirby train was due, in a minute or two.

‘Being scathing?’ I’d mused with a grin, at my own lack of appreciation of a British Rail minute.

The train had pulled into the station, the doors had opened; then from amongst those who stepped forward from those waiting, was the woman I’d seen earlier.

My mouth had opened: I’d wanted to say… something. Yet I’d stood there mute, as she got onto the train. And, moments before the doors had closed, the woman had turned her head, to look at me, as she smiled.

Then the train doors had closed and, it sped away, leaving me surprised, as I just couldn’t get my head around the fact that she’s smiled… as if… she knew me.

Chapter Three ~ Voices from the Past and Present

Come Saturday cabin fever had set in by noon. So I got my black leather cap, glasses that go dark in the daylight and a light jacket in blue, to match the heavy button day trousers, I wore with the hem turned up. Over black boots, with a moderate heel.

My jacket had been a waist length zip-up, with a nylon out and a soft lined inner; and as usual, I had the zip way down, to reveal a fairly hirsute chest. And looking back, I guess it’s all based on a style of dress I chose at sixteen. Like many, I’d just wanted to be different. And, I always did feel… different.

Yet I digress. I’d stood at the living-room window, staring at a rare blue-sky day and the mundane nature of Life, as a young woman pushed a pram toward the school down the way toward the school, as The Beatles song ‘Please Pease Me…’ filled my empty home and, .I sighed.

‘Yep, definitely time to go out…’ I’d muttered, walking into the kitchen and turning the radio off. Then I’d closed all the windows and, on the way out I locked up.

‘Yes,’ I’d mused looking down the drive and the wrought iron gates my Father had put up years ago: the padlock was in place; “All secure.”

No matter how many times I locked up my home, prior to going out, I always went through the same routine and, often double and treble checked my actions, always unsure that I’d done as I needed.

Then I had taken a left at the end of the drive and walked to the end of the road where I’d paused a moment, trying to decide, ‘which way to go?’

I’d smiled at my own question, finding irony in it.

Turning to the left would take down the tree-lined lanes toward Raven Mere down the way, with a golf course opposite the road leading down to it; and, to the right, the shops and the road leading the station and The Village and, a country park I hadn’t visited for almost ten years or so.

‘Well, there you go…’ I’d muttered, as I’d begun to walk.

I’d walked up the hill, passed the station, then continued up the road and the two blocks of shops, then onward up the road, enjoying the fresh air and the sky of blue and, even the sound of the brown leaves crunching underoot.

Then I’d walked across The Common, where there had been a quarry, over a hundred years previous, that’d been filled in, with green grass and trees there Now.

The oasis of green in had been nectar for my senses and I walked with a slow easy pace, as I walked toward the other saide of The Common and back onto the pavement on the other side.

I’d walked through the village, passing by the shoppers, crossing the road with the old Saxon Cross at its centre, then passed the launderette and tools shop, with the other do-it-yourself store across the way.

Then continuing down the hill and houses built sometime in the lae forties, and down, toward the damn and, the country park.

The park had immediately brought back a myriad of memories from my youth, being out with my Mother as I’d held her hand, looking up to her gentle eyes, as they seemed to twinkle with delight, as she took pleasure in the moment.

How I’d missed that, these last past years.

I’d taken a path I recalled across a large field, the pond that the fishermen had cleaned out a few years previous to behind some trees to my left.

The trees ahead held a path that would lead down to my memories given form in green and, as I walked through the dense woodland I’d listened to the quiet.

And I had just stood there, a few yards from the green bench-seat, the one with the sign in brass saying that it was dedicated to Mrs Silverstone; the bench-seat near the stepped path leading down to the vale below, where the stream meandered, crossing marshland, filled with rushes on one side and, parkland on the other side.

All had been quiet and still, ‘cept for the sound of a barking dog, somewhere on the other side of the bulrushes and trees over the way.

I had closed my eyes, for a moment, then seconds later opened them, wondering why there was something wet on my top lip.

Using the back of my left hand, I’d wiped my across my face, noticing with curiosity the smear of blood there.

It hadn’t been a just a little blood though. It had been quite profuse and it had been accompanied by a blinding headache; and within minutes I was positively freaking.

I’d sat on the bench-seat, holding my head moaning, eyes closed.

And that’s when I’d heard the voice, a woman’s voice, which calmed me. The feelings I’d felt, just then, were of my Mother and those times Past, good times.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be alright…” The gentle voice had assured me… again and again and, I’d felt her hand on my shoulder.

‘My Mother?’ I’d mused for all of a second, then I recalled, ‘she was gone’

Yet, I felt calmer, with the touch of another and, just by hearing their words, which continued. Then, as the bloods flow ceased and the headache slowly passed, I’d looked up and turned round, to see who’d been so helpful.

The voice had ceased and, I couldn’t recall when and, there’d been nobody there, when I’d looked. I’d been sitting on the green bench-seat, all alone.

That’s when I’d looked wildly around, ‘First paranoia and, now voices?’ My only thought at that moment had been, ‘Am I going mad?’

Chapter Four ~ Eyes open, Mouth Shut

I’d stood up and away from the long green bench-seat after long moments had passed. Feeling extremely fatigued I’d wavered back and forth on my heels. I’d felt quite drained and, ready for bed; yet, taking a few stumbling paces forward, I reached the steps that had been created as a nature trail through the trees, leading down to the base of the vale.

And, although I’d stumbled a few times, my eventual exit from the woodland, then a few bushes had been without much incident. Then once out once out I’d found myself and, on one of several stretches of grassland intersected by a pathway falling to my knees, my hands on my thighs and, I’d sighed long and hard, staring across the nettle and brambles at the side of the stream, to the bulrushes ahead.

From my left a figure walked into view, as they walked the path that overlooked the stream and the bulrushes. And, as exhaustion coursed through every limb, I’d noticed the figure stop and turn toward me.

Then as my chin found the silver Ankh, resting round my neck and, my eyes closed there was a distinct awareness inside my head of a presence nearing me, someone who meant me no harm.

“Are you alright?” A voice asked, soft woman’s voice asked me; and, I recalled the voice, from earlier.

I had tried to lift my chin, so I could respond directly. But, to no avail.

“Calm down Keiren… Calm down…” I heard.

Nose still bleeding, I’d felt like saying, ‘How’d you know my name?’

But, the blinding pain that tore through my skull seemed to prevent any speech.

Then I’d felt her place a hand on my right shoulder, as she continued, “Just focus on my voice Keiren… and breathe in slowly, so slowly… and, allow your heartbeat to slow…” I’d liked her voice.

Her voice had a soft Irish lilt, that warmed.

As she told me to ‘calm down’ again and again, I found that I did.

And slowly, very slowly, I lifted my head to an upright position. Then I opened my eyes, equally slowly, surprised to see the woman from the subway days earlier.

It was the same woman running long, slender fingers through dark brown, almost black curly hair, that reached to her shoulders. And, she was dressed for a country walk, a camera draped round her neck by a strap.

“The bleeding has stopped…” She said: “How’d you feel?”

“A little better…thanks…” I’d responded, suddenly realising that her lips hadn’t moved, as she had spoken.

With twinkling green brown eyes, dimples at the corner of her smile and, that hand gently squeezing my shoulder, she told me, “Yes, you did hear me Keiren…”

Staring at her, my mouth open, I tried to ask, “How do you know…?”

“You’re nearly twenty-one and, you’re awakening…”

This time her lips moved; yet the voice was the same: that same soft Irish lilt, that calmed me so, with its warmth.

‘Awakening?’ I mused, filled with a desire to ask more. Yet, that’s when I’d fallen forward as the blackness took my mind.

Chapter Five ~ Emergence

The Blackness had taken me, held me and, just for the first time in ever-so-long, the pain of my memories and the loss I associated with them mattered little.

There was no fear or regret and, I’d felt truly at peace, for awhile…

Then as my mind became accustomed to the comfort of nothingness it found peace within the void, I sensed something else with me, something darker than the surrounding darkness and, I became quite fearful.

It was then that I began to hear a multitude of voices, subverted by one voice, which possessed a fine Irish lilt.

“Come to me Keiren,” she instructed, as bright light formed ahead of me.

Then a hand, at the end of a long naked arm, came out of the light, long slender fingers outstretched.

“Reach for my heartbeat Keiren. Feel it. Match yours to mine and, come to me…” she called out to me and, I did as she had coached.

It was surprising how easy I found it, to find her breath, then her heartbeat; and finally reach for her hand.

As my fingers curled round those of the woman, her gentle voice filled the void, very quickly by the bright light, from which she emerged, quite naked, quite lovely...

“My name is Laurell,” she told me, taking my hand, drawing me toward her and out of the darkness…

Chapter Six ~ Memory Lives On.

We’re on the Northern Line and, as the train pulls out of the station I look to the faces of the men who get on; men of a certain age, with hair receding like mine and, a build that is similar to mine and, a ring upon their marriage finger.

Then, just ahead and across the aisle one sits, who fits the description; although he wears a suit of tweed, I’d never wear. And, I can’t help but frown, as he stares quite openly at me.

He notices and smiles.

So I turn and look our the window, as countryside takes over from the cityscape and, looking into the glass, I see the fellows reflected image, as his eyes of blue-green, like mine, glare at me quite intently. I squirm a little.

My bladder needs releasing, so I think, as he stands and slowly walks toward me, his hands holding each seat back, as he passes, to hold still his gait, as the train suddenly lurches to the left the right.

His gaze is fixed upon me and his mouth turns into a malevolent sneer as he gets ever near and, there few paces left for him to walk: then I balk and sweating profusely, I’m filled with a desire to shout… I am suddenly awake.

Chapter Seven ~ Safe Is A Relative Term.

Sitting up a little too quickly, Keiren banged his head my head on a low bookcase. Immediately he lie down again, very confused and more so, when he realised that he was naked.

“My name is Laurell,” she explained, taking my hands and, helping me to sit. And, as I do so I look around, rubbing my head.

“If I ask where I am, will I regret it?” I query, as she stands back from the cot bed, built into the side of the bulk-work.

“I don’t know,” Laurell replied with a smile and a flick of her fingers in her hair; “Why don’t you try it and see?”

She was wearing a shirt, a blue shirt, which reached mid-thigh. And, once again the eternal question was asked, this time by me: ‘Why do women look so good in a man’s shirt?’ And, realising I was staring at her thighs, I looked all around and, saw that I was on a barge, a well-appointed one, to judge from all that was around me.

“You’re safe,” she assured me, which I’m afraid wasn’t good enough.

So I persisted.

“Dependant on context,” I began with a smile, “Safe is relative.”

She had grinned at this, nodded and, then sat on the end of the small bed.

“You’re with me Keiren, at my home. And, by your definition… the one important to you… You are safe.”

“Really?” I queried, accepting her smile, with as much good grace as I could muster.

“Yes. When you reached out, we had touched. You felt that. The knowledge, the awareness, the emotion, it was all too much for you though. So knowing there are others who may be looking for you, before you….” She waved her right hand in the air, then continued, “I brought you here….”

At that moment, a motorboat passed by and the barge rolled obscenely for a moment.

“Yep,” I muttered, “Definitely a relative term….”

Laurell had grinned at me, before standing again. She made her way across the galley to the stove, turning to look at me as I stared at the backs of her legs and, she asked, “Coffee, or tea?”

Dry-mouthed, I responded, “Whatever’s easiest.”

And, I’ll swear she told me ‘not me’, yet I heard no words.

“Coffee…” I added.

“So, tell me Kieren…” Laurell started, as she made our drinks, “do you dream of your Father often?” And, though it’d been a question, it seemed obvious to me that she already knew the answer.

Chapter Seven ~ Knowing Me, Knowing You

She had to be kidding? ‘Do you dream of your Father often?’ I’m adopted and, I had good parents, who gave me a good childhood. Hell, my Mum walked in, saw my blue-eyes, as I’d reached up to her She had even given e a green book, ‘The Chosen Baby’, telling me, that’s what I’d been.

‘Did I dream of my Father?’ I missed my parents. But, the sperm donor. He had four kids of his own and, had been a married Catholic, while my Birth Mother had loved him and, had two of us to him. Then, he’d dumped her, or something like that.

I felt sorrowful, even thinking of it all. And, seemingly my sadness was mirrored in Laurells face. That was strangeness in itself, I’d thought.

Certainly, I had thought of him, whenever I’d travel on the Northern Line, knowing full well that if the stories had been right, he had travelled on that line.

But, I’d thought all of it way back when; when I’d been living in a mid-terraced house in Kirkdale, with my Fiancée, before she’d left to be with my best-friend and, as I’d recall her, I’m sure I can see my sadness reflected in my hosts face.

“Your Mother loved you though, didn’t she?” She asked, albeit as before, it was almost as though she knew the answer, before she’d spoken.

Yes, she had loved me. She had loved me so much that a new home had been found for me, with loving parents. I’d met her, when I’d been nineteen. That’d been weird, as he’d looked so like m. Hell, he’d even shared the same sense of humour and taste in women as me. And, I’d liked her.

Laurel had smiled then, as if at my memory and, I’ll concede, I found it disconcerting.

Smiling warmly, Laurell leant forward and proffered my coffee, to me; “While you drink that, I’ll go get dressed…”

“Not on my account!” I blurted out, then blushed all over.
Hands on hips, so that her skirt rode up a little, Laurell exhaled deeply and frowned.

I felt mortified. ‘Had she taken offence, a gate, a hedge?”

Suddenly, she grinned.

“What is it they say? ‘There’s nothing better than to look at first thing in the morning than a woman in a long blue shirt that just about covers her buttocks?’”

I blushed further still and, she laughed.

Laurell either guessed very well, or everything she had said thus far was accurate?

The latter was difficult to fathom though…

The she looked at me a moment, her face quite serious, then turning a three hundred and sixty degrees, Laurell twirled, a wide smile on her face: “I’m afraid mine is a little too long…”

‘A little too long?’ I thought wryly.
“Nah,” I answered, “It looks… great… to me…” I said, slowly.

“Yes. I can see that!” Laurell pronounced, a look of mischievous delight playing on her face, as she looked at me.

And, quickly realising where Laurell was staring at she knew I found her arousing; she could see evidence of that from where I was tenting the duvet.

Chapter Eight ~ shirt, hair and legs

.
Laurell walked passed me, the long slender fingers aof her right hand lingering for a moment, on the bulge I’d made in the duvet.

Dumbfounded by her brazen move, I’d trembled a little. This wasn’t a girl, Laurell was a woman; and truth be told, I felt quite intimidated by her…

“There are things I could teach you,” she’d teased, a light smile playing on her lips; “But there’s other things you have to learn first…”

I’d gulped with a dry mouth; Laurel left me with my coffee, while she went to get dressed. Attractive as she was I found the woman distinctly intimidating.

Seconds later, Laurell reappeared, all legs, shirt, beautiful hair and, full lips, that she used to kiss me on the forehead.

Standing back, Laurell twirled again and, I got a flash of her white pants.

“See!” She said with a grin, “I’m not that scary, am I?”

“Erm… Erm…” I’d replied, still aware that an attractive woman had just kissed me; irrespective of the fact that she’d just evidenced the connection she’d spoken of.

And, as Laurell left to finally get dressed, I’d sipped at my coffee, totally bemused. After all, she had just read my mind, or so it had seemed…

Chapter Nine ~ there’s a sigh in it

“So, hows that!?!” Laurell asked brightly And, I craned my head round, to look at her. And boy did-she-look good….

She still wore her hair down, but it seemed fuller somehow, the way she’d pinned it up on the right side, to drape over her left shoulder, leaving the right side of her swan-like neck bare

She had dressed in elasticated type skin-tight jeans, as tight as a second-skin; beize ankle boots, over matching socks; and an angora wool long-sleeve jumper with a cowl-neck of pink and grey horizontal bands that reached mid-point her very flat stomach, to show-off her belly button, an inney. The insert looked to have a red ruby inset. And, as that’s my gaze lingered, I had to ask, “Is that real?”

With hands on her hips, Laurell laughed, “The belly button, the stomach, or the jewel? Now be specific…”

Continuing to stare, I’d looked for an answer, yet it was Laurel who found it first and, after laughing uproariously, she told me, between panting for air, “It’s almost too easy, to read you, when you’re emotional…”

Turning my face back to the bottom of the cot-bed I blushed, from my face to my neck, to my exposed upper body. And, the tent I’d made in the bedding was still there.

And, the tent I’d made in the bedding was still there.

Yet, all the while I heard her laughing, I heard Laurell’s voice, in my head. She’d said, “Aw, how cute he is, I’ll bet he’s still a virgin…”

She was right. But, Laurell hadn’t used her mouth, to say as she had… Yet, I’d heard her… Then, suddenly she was at my side, sitting next to me, holding my shaking right hand between her cool, steady hands, her voice calming me, with that soft Irish lilt: “Finally, you’re getting it…”

‘Gettit!?!’ I screamed, inside my head, through the pain of embarrassment, my frustration, at my lack of awareness, of surrounds and self; and my loneliness, my unending loneliness: I screamed, long and loud, inside my head, to shut it all out.

Laurell responded by squeezing my hand and saying to me ‘Shush, shush… be calm. Calm down Keiren. Seriously, calm down… Or, you’ll break something, literally.”

She had spoken to me with her lips moving, I noticed that. And, I kept watching her lips, as she continued to say, “Shush Keiren… Calm, down. Listen to my voice and, feel that connection we had earlier. Feel your heartbeat. Feel mine…

Then without her lips moving, she told me, “Make our connection as one. You can.”
And, I did. I felt my heart slow, then felt hers and, suddenly I could feel Her, inside my mind, with me. And, that union calmed my mind.

“It seems I was right…” she said, after long moments of blissful silence, “You’re capable of understanding, who and what you are…”
I’ll concede that Laurell knew more than me; yet, for me the curious thing was why was she so-interested in me and, who I am.

She grinned, still holding my hand: “Your Father was the son of one of the greatest of us. And, like you, he never knew his Father; and like you… he had powerful Psionic abilities…”

Stupefied, I found myself squeezing her hand. Oh, not with my hind, with… something. I needed… I needed… something… And, I saw blood trickle from Laurell’s nose, as she winced… And then, she pushed back….

I fell into the mattress and down shattering the beds slats beneath. Then, I’d released her hand, as I fell through the splintered wood, to end up a tangle of limbs, looking up at Laurell.

“Are you alright?” She asked, looking down, into the hole in the middle of the bed, where I lie panting.

“Yes,” I told her quietly, feeling very, very stupid…

Chapter Ten ~ Chu… Chu… Changes…

Up till just that very moment I’d not cared a jot about the so-an-so who sired me.
‘He’s a married Catholic with four kids of his own…’ I’d been told.

Now it seems, that was only half the story, as it were ‘the story’, at all. Up till hearing what Laurell had to say about him and I’d not cared a jot.

Laurell stood back and laughed.

Watching me struggle from amidst the middle of the bed and shattered wood, Laurell stood back and laughed.

“It’s not that funny!” I told her, glowering at the amused woman.

“Well,” She said to me, after a moment or two’s consideration, “If you knew what you are capable of, I think even you would find it funny…’

“What can I do?” I queried, stepping out of the bed-frame carefully.

“Well, when you were tested at seventeen your abilities were deemed as a potentially latent skill, to be realised, then honed; if and only, they manifest.”

‘Huh?’ The only time I recalled having any kind of assessment at that age was at college. My Dad had wanted me to ‘get into sports’, as he didn’t appreciate me ‘sitting in all the time drawing’, as he phrased.

So I’d ended up going to the Heswall Boys Club, where I’d taken part in fencing, which had been run by, of all the people, the Head of the catering department of the college where I’m been doing my catering course.

I recall being left in the office, while he attended to something, or other; turning a report round and, seeing a really stupidly high potential IQ figure there. I’d turned the paper back round, then on his return; I’d said my goodbye, then made my way to the nearest toilet block.

I’d been disappointed in the system. If I were so bright, had so much potential, then why had it never been realised? So I’d entered a cubicle and unwrapped my knives on the floor before me. Staring at the handles of the many different sized knives, I’d taken the largest, the French knife and looking at my inner left wrist, I’d drawn my knife across. Seeing my blood run and flow, I’d fainted.

But, I’m still here. Was that just happenchance? Either way, as the fellow had said I’d ‘great potential’ and, until now, that had made little to me. But now, looking back at what he’d said, I had to think on it all somewhat,

And after long moments, the look of concentration that had crossed Laurell’s face ceased. “He was right Keiren, you do have great potential…’

She’d read my mind??

“Yes I did…” Laurel said to me, reaching for the back of my right hand and holding it, gently, as she answered my unasked question.

“And I’ll be able to do that?” I quizzed, frowning.

Laurel smiled, then I heard her musical lilt in my head, as she responded, “This… and oh so-much-more…”

I wanted to know more about these newly discovered abilities; but now I needed to know about my Birth Father.

Chapter Eleven ~ Ready, or Not

“So what can you tell me of my Birth Father…?” I asked after due deliberation. After all, ‘did I want to know?’ It was a damn fine question.

“He was adopted, by the couple he was left with, before his parents were killed…” Laurell told Keiren, conscious of his emotional condition .He was in a state of flux as his mind showed her; and so she had to be careful, with what she told him and how she said it.

‘Killed?’ I mused. There were more questions than answers. Yet, there was one thing that needed answering: “What was his name?”

Smiling gently and squeezing my hands, Laurel said to me, “It was David Kellum…” Then she continued, “And, your Aunts name is Julie, Julie Vale.”

I was stunned, ‘an Aunt? Well, of course… why not?’

“She was as powerful as he was and, if they’d got their way, there’d be peace, between the humans and Us…” She added.

“Hang on,” I interjected, “What did you mean by Us…?”

And, without using her mouth, Laurell illustrated further, just what she meant.

‘People like Us,’ Her soft Irish lilt inside my head: ‘People like you and me Keiren. Many call Us Scanners…”

And, I groaned, the mother of all headaches sweeping through my skull, as Laurell continued her explanation, “Scanners were, or are, individuals born to Mothers who took a drug called Ephemerol, during the late nineteen forties and early nineteen fifties. The drug was intended to ease childbirth, but it had totally unexpected side-effects. The children were born with abilities that the mormals don’t have, hence their fear of us…”

“Fear?” I quizzed, through the pain.

“Yes, fear Keiren. Look I’m sorry that hurt so, she told him, “but you had to know this is all real, alright?”

“Uh huh,” I responded, nodding.

Again she squeezed my hands, in reassurance.

Then, she continued: ‘He was ready.’

“Pretty well anything humans are scared of, they try to destroy…” Yet, instead of hearing Laurell’s rhetoric, Keiren was still intrigued by the term ‘Scanners’.

And, Laurell smiled, “A scanner? Well… you know when I listen in, or put thoughts in another’s head, that’s scanning. If I were to bring you a drink…” And so saying, she directed her gaze from him to a rack of mugs; one moved across the small galley, to hover beneath the cold tap, which turned itself on and, water filled the mug, which floated across to Keiren, as the tap turned again and, the water ceased running.

I let go of Laurell’s right hand and took the floating mug, looking at in complete bemusement….

“And, I can do that?” I said softly.

Again Laurel smiled at her me, watching me cautiously sip the water: “You’re the Grandson of Cameron Vale. You can do that and, so much more…”

Chapter Twelve ~ Here I Come

Laurell spoke slowly, as I placed the mug down and sought out her hands again, with mine: “Cameron defeated Revok, the first of us; whose grand plan had been to flood the country with Ephemerol and build a new generation of Scanners, under his control. But, his defeat had come at a cost Keiren; the loss of all he was, bar one thing…”

‘Go on?’ I prompted impatiently.

And, Laurell smiled a little, at my sudden use of telepathy.

‘His mind…’ Her voice, that soft lilting musical voice told me.

And, she smiled.

“Okay, Okay… What happened to my Father then?” I asked; I had to.

“Ah… they disappeared. Both he and Julie…”

And, that was it: she could tell me no more…

Laurel squeezed my hands and I felt good. For the first time, in such a long, long time, I felt good.

“So, how did you find me?”

She smiled.

“Since seventeen… Our little group of listeners….” And again there it was; the smile.

“Well, we’ve known of you since you were seventeen…” “The test that Roughton had put me on?” I recall losing it with him one time with him; ‘lunge, parry, lunge’…

We had been in all the gear, masks and swords, with red training tips and, dancing the moves as he encouraged me, loudly. I hadn’t like that. And, my anger had broiled inside, deep inside. It had been released in a burst of energy, and…. the end of my blade had come broken of as the blade had bowed on impact with his padded jacket; there’d been that much charged emotion behind my moves and, that final thrust.

“Yes, that test. Some of the results had been of particular relevance, to Us…”

She touched my cheek, with delicate fingertips.

“And, with your… pedigree, as it were…” Laurell grinned, “We had been waiting to see whether you realized that… potential.”

‘That’s quite a time to be following someone…’ I mused.

“Not so long Keiren… not so long…” Laurel nodded, as she stood.

She had read me and, there’d bee no nose-bleed, or head ache and; it’d felt, ‘Right.’

“C’mon, lets go up top, with a drink, eh?” I’m sure you could do with the fresh air…”

She was right, fresh air sounded good.

“Whiskey, isn’t it?” Laurell asked me, picking up a bottle of Teachers and two whiskey glasses.

“Heck,” I began, “I don’t know why you asked. My mind; nay, my whole Life, is an open book to you look…”

“Aw, now don’t be like that,” she reproached, “It’s mostly been for your own good…”

“And the bit that wasn’t?” I asked. I just had to.

“The way we saw it, you may have ended up like your grandfather, or if we were very unlucky, his brother…”

She rises from her stool and I follow.

I’d followed her anywhere.

She leads me to the short vertical ladder, leading up top and, again I follow, watching her shapely derriere, clad in elasticated type skin-tight jeans, tight as a second-skin.

She looked good, real good.

“Should I say ‘thank you,’” Laurell asked, looking over her right should, mirth in her voice. And, I know I blush. I know I blush… as I climb after her, making an effort not to think thought that she’ll find too amusing.

Up top, she leads me to the right side of the barge, which is painted beautifully.

And yes, there is a bucket, painted in dominant blue and white, with delicate flowers on stems, coming from a green watering -can, painted on the side.

The barge was… lovely… her home, was lovely.

We sit and she pours our drinks, which I hold, as she replaces the bottles cap.
And placing the bottle down, she takes her glass and we smile at one another, before clinking them together.

‘Cheers’, we think, as One. And, we smile.

For a long moment, silence reigns.

Looking around I finally note my surroundings. She has moored the barge with open fields either side of us. There is no-one in sight, not on the canal tow-path, or in the fields… well, bar the odd bird or two… and, I see a kite, or kestrel wheeling in the air; and, there is a fine warming sun against my face.
.
“You’re lucky…” She said to me, out-of-the blue, after sipping at her drink awhile.

“Huh?” I quizzed. Not feeling very lucky; bruised yes; but, not lucky.

And she laughed. Laurell laughed.

“You can be funny.”

“You’re scanning me again…” I snapped.

“It’s not hard Keiren… you’re feeling emotional. So I feel your thoughts just flow…”

“Oh…” I retorted. What else was there to say?

I drained the contents of my glass.

“Don’t be like that,” she admonished, “I am trying to help…”

“Yeah, I know,” I answered, dully.

She crouched down, to my right and sliding her left arm over my shoulders, Laurel drew me to her.

And, as I rested my head, she stroked my hair, “Believe it, or not, you can make it alright…”

“Me?” I whispered, looking down, to her lap.

Suddenly I heard the voice inside my head; filling me with beautiful warmth that radiated inside me; and for a very brief moment that soft Irish lilt was all I heard, or knew.

Yet, it wasn’t Laurel; or, it wasn’t just Laurel that spoke inside my head, ‘Yes you… Keiren Foster… You’re One, but you will be many, when the time is needed.’

I saw Laurell staring wistfully into the far distance, her face quite serene. Then turning to me, I heard her say inside my mind, ‘You are lucky,’ again.

‘Why?’ I asked, communicating in the same fashion. And, she smiled, at my ease of use of telepathy, one of the talents of a scanner, I’d learnt.

‘You’re third generation Scanner Keiren,’ she told me, ‘and, you had nothing of the voices that drove some demented…’

And, she must have seen the images that flowed from her remark, as I recalled that first breakdown at college, then the other two, the latter of which had led to me ending up in hospital, with little awareness of who or where I was.

Placing a her left hand over my right hand, her gentle smile warming, she told me, ‘Yes, I know you had some difficulties my friend…. But, it could have been worse, far worse. Some had their minds torn apart, from birth, as they suffered sensory overload…’ And, squeezing my hand a moment, she told me once more, ‘You have been lucky, that your own awakening has been as it has…’

I can’t say that I saw it as she did, but that said, if individuals with my abilities had suffered as she’d described, with imagery thrust into my mind, of people writhing in pain, clutching at their heads, before one exploded, literally; then maybe I was lucky.

“It seems that you’re found some understanding my friend,” She said to me softly, as a gentle breeze blew and the water rippled beneath my dangling feet. And, I really did like hearing her saying ‘my friend’. That’d sounded good to me, particularly from someone who knew so much more than me, someone I felt such a rapport with.

She stood and, offering me her right hand, Laurel said to me, “Come with me…”
And, I don’t ask ‘where?’ It really doesn’t matter.

The Porthole Pact

2011-11-12T14:39:00.000-08:00

The Porthole Pact

Chapter One – A Stranger, till met

The weather had been at its worst and it had rained for hour and would continue to pour. Lauren, a woman of maturity, yet still in her youth, had origins of dark and light. Protected in trench-coat and water proof parasol through the rain, she at last reached the book store hidden in gothic architecture. Safe. Dry. Yet still a bit cold she entered the candle lit welcoming, creepy and medieval-looking bookstore. "What does await me here...?" She mused finding her own way deeper in.

Opening and closing her umbrella a little, to rid it of the excess water, Lauren looked around, amazed that so much dust could sit on the top of a row of books, without bringing the shelf down, beneath it’s weight. She hung the parasol over the lower half of her right arm, then continued walking.

She walked between old and dusty bookshelves, that created an avenue toward the center of the shop, where a woman sat before a small cloth covered table; a small woman, wrapped in silks and robes.

The woman was old-looking, Lauren noted, as she unbuttoned her coat, revealing her daywear; a white blouse, a black A-line skirt and around her waist, a front-fastening black corset, with red trim, that fastened at the front, acting to emphasize her bust, already a generous size, some might say.

On her feet, she wore blood-red high-heels, that echoed, click-click, across the old, uneven stone, which made up the shops floor.

Finally Lauren was within feet of the old woman, hunched over a crystal ball, on a walnut base, her hand’s moving over it in semi-circular motion.

The old woman looked up and, as a slow benign smile spread across the heavily wrinkled face, then she said in a croaky voice, “Yes Lauren, what can I do for you?”

Eyes opening wide with surprise the young woman asked, “How do you know my name, or that I want something?”

At that moment, a cough drew the attention of both women, to a third person, in the old shop and, heads turned to see who had spoken.

From behind a line of shelving, a face appeared between two-parted books peering toward them, gaunt, clean-shaven and wearing, small round glass-frame lenses.

Replacing the books, a figure appeared from behind the shelves; a tall man, wearing a black leather cap, tilted to an angle, a long black coat, fastened tightly at the waist. As he walked to where the two women stood, the fellow opened his coated, to reveal clothing that was bright and style well, in a dark brown and a forest green waistcoat, of threads so metallic, the garment seemed to shine in the dim light hanging over the table.

“You have a fire,” he stated, pointing to a small electric heater near the old woman’s feet, “Would you mind if’n I warm myself up ladies?”

The old woman looked up, as the fellow stepped forward, smiling brightly, “I’m Kevin, Kevin Foster and, boy is it good, to be out of the rain.”

Then, as he knelt by the small fire, warming his hands, Lauren looked toward the old woman with a grin on her face, “Now, you can’t tell me I’ll meet a ‘tall dark stranger’…”

‘After all,’ she thought with more than a trace of wry amusement, ‘the fellow introduced himself to us, by name.’

Chapter Two – Connections Make for Strange Bedfellows

‘We may have been introduced, but I still don’t know him,’ Lauren mused, choosing to ignore the references made toward the man as the old woman patted her hand once again.

She then continued to talk, slowly, each word drawn out: “You wanted to know about The Porthole Miss?”

“You know of it? What can you tell me about it? Erm, do you have a copy?” Lauren asked, her words tumbling out, all at once.

And from where he knelt, Kevin’s eyes opened wide beneath the lens of his glasses, as he heard the question.

Smiling a tight-lipped smile, the old woman looked to Lauren, and taking her right hand in her left as she spoke, she patted the back of Lauren’s hand with her right hand, “You’re not the first to ask about that book…”

Lauren shook for a moment, filled with repressed exultation.

Steam rose from Kevin’s wet coat, the damp, dank smell it made further adding to the fusty, musty, dusty smell of the antique book emporium.

Still fascinated, by what he had heard from her, Kevin drew his eyes from the two women, to gaze at the healthy-looking half-moons of flesh, seemingly trying to escape the confines of her black corset with red trim, worn over a white red blouse.

“I think we’re after the same thing, you and me…”

Noting where he was looking Lauren scowled, “Oh, I seriously doubt it.”

Once more the old woman patted Lauren’s hand, as she sighed a distinctly melancholic sigh, as she began to talk again, “Van Gogh, De Vinci, Huxley and Morrison, men of their time… All dreamed of the book, like you…” She began, nodding briefly to Kevin and then Lauren, who looked to him, with surprise evident on her.

‘You as well?’ she mouthed.

Kevin nodded, as the old woman continued talking, “Dreamers all, whilst still having a foot in this world…” And she paused, her eyes closed a moment and smiled, only to open them with a sigh: “Except for poor Vincent…”

“Poor Vincent. Truly a tortured soul…” she mumbled, as a tear rolled down the old woman’s left cheek, “Poor Vincent. Truly a tortured soul…”

Chapter Three – Answers and, More Questions

A question needed to be asked and, had needed to be asked since Lauren had taken her seat at the small table. And, having listened to all she had, Lauren decided to ask it Now. Yet, before she asked, a frowning Kevin did, “Please, what’s your name?”

“My name? My name? It’s something I haven’t used for many years. And, back then, there were three of us…” the old woman replied obscurely, her words distant and wistful, as she stood and walked toward the back of the counter and the rear of the shop.

“Why don’t you sit down young man,” she called through, “I’ll make you both a hot drink… if you’d like?”

“Thanks…?” Kevin responded as he sat in the vacated seat, with a pause that seemed to require an answer.

“Moira…” she called back, “call me Moira.”

With her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, Lauren stared over the Crystal ball, toward Kevin, a look of total confusion on her face; “I can’t imagine why I’m here.”

“Because you dreamed the place?” He asked in turn, removing his hat, furling it in on itself and setting it on the table before him.

“Yes, but I don’t normally have dreams that lucid. Do you?” Lauren asked.

“Of late, I have…” Kevin admitted, his gaze on the room at the back, where Moira had disappeared moments earlier.

“Really…?” Lauren quizzed.

“Uh huh, just recently my dreams have been disturbing me somewhat, with the reality, or unreality of them…” He answered.

“And?”

“It was the last, the most… unreal, that drew me here….” Kevin responded.

“Whereas mine are cryptic…” Lauren explained, “and then, there was the last. That one had almost like going to the pictures, with knowledge of the address, somehow supplied, as well.”

“And, we’re both here… aren’t we?” Lauren countered, with a smile.

“Yes, we are…” Kevin said, sitting back, crossing his arms.

At that point, Moira busied out from the dark of the back of the shop, a silver tray in her hands, with a teapot, cups and saucers on it, with a small plate of cookies.

“Ah, you’re getting on famously, I see…” Moira said, beaming.

She set the tray down on the table, and then picked up the crystal and stand and, turning to the counter, she set it down.

As the old woman returned to the table, Kevin stood to offer the chair.

“Oh there’s no need for that young man,” Moira replied graciously, one hand on the counter-top, “these old knees of mine need exercise, every Now and Then.”

Stepping forward once more she picked up the teapot and asked, “Now, shall I be Mother?”

Lauren looked to Kevin, then back to Moira and she smiled herself, “By all means.”

As the tea was poured into two cups he asked, “The names you mentioned. What were they looking for in The Porthole.”

“Ah now,” Moira began, looking up with a grin on her face, “Now that was the right thing to ask, my young friend…”

Lauren looked to Kevin, one eyebrow raised.
“The people you mentioned, there were a lot of years between them all… and yet, you say they came to you…” He persisted, noting the interest that Lauren showed in his question.

“To ask about The Porthole?” she added.

“Ah yes,” she replied with a grin, “The Porthole. Let’s say that for those I talked of, it meant something more to each of them, than a book.”

“And they sought what then?” Kevin queried.

“They had been looking to a doorway to another reality, that’s just outsside what you know now…” she told him.

“So why did they come to you?” Lauren queried, sipping at her drink..

“They each knew something of the myths…” Moira answered flatly.

“What myths?” Kevin asked; his curiosity piqued somewhat.

Sorrow in her voice Moira told him, “My sisters and I had a reputation for truth. And, we’d a way of seeing things that others could not. Even the Gods were afeared of us…”

“You and your sisters? The Gods?” Lauren exclaimed: “Explain, please?”

Slowly the old woman told them, “The Romans called us the Parcae, the Germanic people called us the Norms and, Shakespeare wrote of the three witches…” then with a grin she added, “and, that had tickled me.”

Both Kevin and Lauren sat mouth open, until he closed his momentarily before asking, “You’re talking of The Fates, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Moira whispered, “even the lives of the Immortals were within our vision and, that was not… appreciated, shall I say.” As she spoke, the old woman watched Kevin sip at his own drink: and, she smiled.

Chapter Four – When Is A Door Not A Door?

“This all sounds so crazy!” Lauren exclaimed.

“But, no more than both of us dreaming of this place, or The Porthole…” Kevin reminded.

“Ah, The Porthole…” Moira sighed: “Each of them sought their own Porthole: shortcuts on their own pathway…”

She was talking to herself now.

“Huxley and Morison thought they’d found a door to perception, whilst poor Vincent…

“…he just, couldn’t comprehend what he saw, although his visions were quite lovely. Yet…” And, again, a tear fell, at the thought of the gentle man, of mixed character, who had so easily found his darker side.

She sighed: “It hardly mattered in the end. Just like, the others.”

Lauren and Kevin had not been the first that Moira had directed through Dreamweaving. But, she hoped that they would be the last she would help, on her own.

The old woman picked up the tray, glancing idly at the pair at the table, now silent.

Both Lauren and Kevin’s bodies had sat motionless as Moira continued to chatter to herself, their unblinking eyes an indication that each of them where elsewhere.

“Zeus took my sisters… leaving me…” And, as she finished drying the cups, Moira looked for the word she needed; a word that she loathed; “…alone.”

Then, turning back to the doorway, the woman pulled her shawl tighter over her shoulders, as a wry smile spread across her face: Moira knew, the mistake that so many had made, was to make that journey on their own. They… needed unity, to survive.

They needed to be as The One.

“If they find the porthole, together and, come return to me, then I will have found the two I’ve been looking for,” she said, to the endless shelves of books.

As her words died, two people walked through Elysian Fields, beneath a fine-blue sky that had mountains of white fluffiness to it.

They were slowly approaching two marble columns of a width of thirty cubits, a distance of a hundred and fifty cubits from each other, their tops disappearing into the sky.

Both Lauren and Kevin were naked, as these non-corporeal astral forms had no need of clothing. And, each of them had quickly lost all trace of modesty, realizing that it were fascicle, in a place such as that they had found themselves in.

“They look so far away,” Kevin said to her.

And Lauren smiled, her eyes dancing with merriment, finding herself filled with a warm sense of contentment, emanating toward her from ahead, filling her, caressing her.

She hoped he felt as she and, squeezing his hand gently, turned to her companion, an almost blissful smile playing upon her lips.

And, Lauren reminded him, “But, the journey there will be pleasant, with company.”

Kevin didn’t hesitate, before answering and, taking her other hand he looked to her face, “Yes, it will…”

They stood, like this for a long moment, the faint smell of jasmine floating lightly in the air. Then, parting from their embrace, Kevin took her left hand in his right and, leading the way, he trod lightly, amongst the flowers of many colors.

And the couple continued their journey…

Dracula's Kiss

2011-06-03T15:53:00.000-07:00

Dracula's Kiss

Part One Dracula’s Kiss

With a propensity toward purple and black, with white ruffled cuffs and breast, there was a lot of wannabee’s and role-players at the club, but no real-lifers.
“How would you tell the difference?” Tracie wondered, her back to the bar, as she scanned the crowd around her.

Ahead was the dance-floor with both-seating to the left and to the far right another large room that had two pool tables, which were covered tonight.

It had been billed as ‘Vampire Night’ and she came along, still uncertain as to why she was there.

Granted, she liked and admired the style of dress adopted by the night’s revellers.
“What made it Vampire Night?” She mused. ‘Was it the date, the 31st October? Was it the name of the drinks, like ‘Dracula’s Kiss’? Or, was it the posters proclaiming it as such, all garish black-neon letters, dripping with red, as if painted in blood.

She smiled momentarily. There was a common bond, with all the club-goers, of that she was sure. Then awareness struck her: ‘They’ve all bought into the film image of what a vampire is.’ It was so mind-blowingly simple.

Staring around at the poseurs, pretentious and irritating Tracie gave a distinct “Harumph” turned back to the bar, to order a much-needed drink.

For the irony of it, she ordered a ‘Dracula’s Kiss’ from the girl with light freckles across the bridge of her nose and on her cheeks; and a dash of purple to her shoulder length bleach blonde hair, worn in bunches.

The question had been just too easy to answer; and, was disappointing when found.
She frowned: ‘There are no vampires…’ though she wished there was: ‘and, if there were they wouldn’t been coming here, not to a local community centre dance.’

Part 2 French Kiss

He couldn’t help but grin as Tracie gave a distinct “Harumph” and turned back to the bar, to order a drink.

He watched her order a drink from the girl behind the bar; the one with light freckles across the bridge of her nose and on her cheeks; and a dash of purple to her shoulder length bleach blonde hair, worn in bunches.

“I can see you don’t come here often…” he said, suddenly appearing to her left.

Tracie turned her head a little to look see who’d spoken to her.

“Pardon!” she retorted, “is that a piss-poor line or something?”

It was evident he’d intruded on her space, he considered, for just a moment.

It could have been, he replied, but I in actuality, it was more of an observation.

Now, her curiosity was piqued. He could see that from the way she sought the gaze of his eyes, of a flint grey-blue.

“Go on?” She asked, in part through boredom.

He looked around.

“You’re wearing the colour of their tribe, but you’re not one of them.”

“Impressed,” she told him, adding, “you’re accent, what is it?”

“I had a French…” he paused a moment, then said, “Mother.”

“And she taught you to talk to strange ladies did she?” Tracie asked, with the hint of a smile. He’d got to her, already. And already she could feel a heat of desire, building within her loins. ‘Noway,’ she reasoned, continuing to look into his eyes.

He grinned, a warm grin that touched her immediately.

And Tracie didn’t like that, at all.

“No, some things I learn in life were self-taught,” he told her, smiling quite gently now.

“But,” he grinned again; “sometimes I like to pass on things’ now and then.”

His accent, it was magical, to her.

And, that really annoyed Tracie.
This fella had got to her, in minutes. ‘That was well out of order.’

“I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself did I?” The fellow began, leaning in toward her with his right elbow: “My name is Xavier, Xavier Martyns.”

She liked his leather coat: Expensive obviously.

And Tracie surprised herself again, by turning a little and extending her right hand toward him.

“Tracie,” she told him.

He took her hand, as she continued to stare, unknowingly, into his eyes.

“You actually look bored out of your mind.”

“I guess I am,” she admitted.

“Why?” He asked, straight-faced, knowing the answer.

“I don’t know why I came, I expected… well, something… different.”

“Like Vampires?” He asked with that pleasing grin on his face again: the one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, she noticed.

“Nah…” she told him, aware she was blushing.

He had caught her out.

“You wouldn’t get vampire’s going to a local dance,” she admitted ruefully, downing the second of the powerful cocktail’s she had decided she liked. ‘Dracula’s Kiss.

“Even the idea is so stupid,” she reminded herself, looking down, her hair falling, so her neck was exposed to her companions gaze

Xavier looked at the pretty brunette; his eyes alight with his need.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he told her, looking slowly around the dance-floor at the those before him, all with a propensity toward purple and black, with white ruffled cuffs and breast.

There was a lot of wannabee’s and role-players at the club, but only one real-lifer.

‘And there was that grin, again’ she thought.

Part 3 Last Kiss

Determined to check out the Goth’s her friend Liza had told her of, Tracie had arrived at the ‘Vampire night’, at the local Community Hall, filled with curiosity.

She had stood at the bar and watched the reveller’s, dismayed by what she saw: a lot of wannabee’s and role-players, wearing a lot of purple and black and white lace; ‘and just waaay too much pretension,’ she thought as continued to people-watch.

Tracie had soon become bored and drank at least two ‘Dracula’s kiss’ to her knowledge, ordered from the overworked girl behind the bar; the one with light freckles across the bridge of her nose and on her cheeks; and a dash of purple to her shoulder length bleach blonde hair, worn in bunches.

And, she had even contemplated yet another early night, with a bad book, until he had arrived to her left, as if from nowhere.

His eyes had fascinated her, even more than his accent: French.

‘Je’adore.. the French accent,’ she had thought dreamily, as he had continued to talk to her. And, it had mattered not what he said after awhile, just that it was her he was saying it to. And, saying whatever it was he was saying to her.

“Boy, doesn’t he look dreamy,” something had said to her loins, because she’d got warm between her thigh’s, in a way she wouldn’t normally allow, not like that.

After all, she was drinking. She needed control.
Yet, at that moment, Tracie realised she was drunk, not just slightly, but very drunk.

Perhaps it had been the ‘Dracula’s Kiss,’ or even the lack of a meal inside her before she came out? But either way, Tracie had soon felt the heat of so many bodies close to, augmented by the music’s thump-thump, thumping. And, she needed air.

Xavier, as she had learnt he was called, had offered to take her home, telling her, “I have a car, just round the block from here…”

And with glazed eyes, she had said to him, “Yes, thanks.”

Tracie had let him take her by the arm and guide her through the crowded dance-floor and out the fire escape, past where a young couple stood kissing and then, out onto the street, then he had led her to his car, a large black sedan.

“Where to?” He had asked, helping her stand, as he held open the passenger door.
“Mine,” she answered, and then hiccupped.

“Where’s that?” He asked, as she fell into her seat.
“Not far from here…” She told him and gave him her address.

It was wrong, she knew: taking him home like this. But this young Frenchman was the most interesting man Tracie had encountered, all week. Perhaps even this month, and there was noway she was letting him out of her sight; ‘till morning, at least,’ she thought with a grin, as he started up the engine.

Xavier drove into town, and then took the ‘B’ road, off the main-road, that led into the hills, where the houses were mainly of a single-floor and generally painted white.
“So where is your car?” he asked.
“I came with a friend…” she replied, feeling quite languorous, as she revelled in the car’s warmth, the seats comfort and Xavier’s voice.

“And will your friend miss you?” He asked, with that grin on his face, which pleased irritated Tracie, in equal measure.

“On a full moon? That nutter will be out prowling the streets, if I know her!” She exclaimed, and then went quiet, as if she had said the wrong thing.

A pause followed that lasted for well over half a mile of dark highway, interrupted by the occasional neon-lit sign, advertising the next point at which a driver could fill up his motor, before hitting the desert.

“So the drink? What’s in it?” Xavier asked, to break the silence.

“Dracula’s Kiss?” Tracie asked between giggles; ashamed momentarily, that she had begun to giggle and that she found it difficult to stop.

“Yes, that drink,” he responded, almost laughing himself, though he managed to retain his stoic façade.

“One part Drambuie, One part Cherry Brandy, one shot of Vodka, served in a pint glass, topped up with lemonade. An, the girl behind the bar had smiled when she said ‘a dash of port is optional,’ which I thought was funny, as there’s enough in there already an…” She was rambling: she knew she was rambling.

“I take it you liked it?” He asked, with a surprisingly amiable smile.

“I did,” she answered with a light voice, “best part of the evening… till..”

“Until what?” He asked, aware of the lorry bearing down on the, it’s lights glaring.

“Until I met you,” Tracie admitted, as the lorry passed by and she hoped the noise of it’s passing would drown out what she had said. It had not.

He grinned. He grinned that damned grin that drove her ‘nutso, with the insufferable smugness of it. Then he placed his hand gently on her thigh: and, Tracie melted.

“Mais qui mon amore, that is good to hear.” He responded, much to her chagrin, as it was obvious that the lorry hadn’t done her the favour she had hoped that it might.

‘French? What was it he’d said??’ She mused, aware that he hadn’t moved his hand, nor did she want him to. She liked his hand, just where it was.

“Ah nevermind,” Tracie thought looking up, into the rearview mirror.
Xavier Martyns had no refection, she noticed.
She smiled and the warmth between her thighs increased, further still.
The night had suddenly become more, so much more than had been expected.

Tracie glanced to her right, at her intended lover, with the lightest of smiles.

‘There are vampires…’ she thought and, she was glad there was: ‘and, who’d have believed she’d meet one at Vampire Night, at a local community centre dance.’

And, Xavier bared his fangs, embracing the night, as he gunned the engine and the black sedan continued down the highway, into the night.

*

Epilogue:

In town, an alleyway had become home to four very bloody cadaver; young men who had accosted the wrong young bleach-blonde, hair worn in pig-tails, wearing a short tartan skirt and abbreviated black tee-shirt.

It had become her time of the month, to change, as she wanted: and Liza so-wanted to change, to lose her freckles, as the fur grew and nails extended.

She had so-wanted Tracie to join her, but she had denied her own calling; so till she decided to join her, Liza would run alone…

The Sydney Incident

2011-01-06T15:48:00.000-08:00

The Sydney Incident

Chapter One

The Airport in Sydney was crowded and noisy, people going and coming from everywhere, all in a hurry; and the plane to New York was about to depart. She was waiting in a hall checking her hand luggage yet again, when the lady at the counter lady announced that the gates were opened.

Soon Kristen McNamara was sat in her seat close to the window, reading the new book her friend had strongly recommended to her. In her heart there was a weird feeling. Every time a plane took off, she could feel a sense of emptiness. It was strange, she felt as if she left something important behind. But there was nothing to leave. She had no family, except her parents, but she didn't live with them, she was single, no children and, no house. She was always changing addresses, taking planes and living in different countries for two or three years; but this time, something very deep inside told her that this trip will be totally different, so she was a little bit scared. She had had those nightmares and she still couldn't get rid of those images.

Kristen was thirty years old, but looked like twenty-five, and had worked for seven years for the Secret Service, trained by the Mossad. Many missions accomplished and many people dead. Her name had a very good reputation in certain circles. Every time any government needed a spy, agent McNamara was called and sent somewhere to find out, recover, kill, or whatever was required of her.

She was lost in her thoughts when her beeper made a sound. The hostess came to her and told her that the captain had received a call for her. Kristen eased out of her chair, stood up and calmly followed the hostess into the pilot's cabin, easily aware of the man sitting one back across from the aisle and, his gaze following her. She felt flattered. 'Of course,' she mused, 'all these years of training in martial arts have given her a very well shaped body.'
She took out her beeper and a cable and connected it to one of the receivers in the console. Immediately she started receiving the encrypted message. The message was immediately decoded and as soon as she started reading, her face changed.
She was accustomed to those codes, so she understood immediately.

'The plane was sabotaged,' end of mission.

She finished reading when she heard the explosion. It seemed as if they lost one of the motors. They started falling, faster and faster. She could look out of one of the cabin's windows and saw the sea below them, getting nearer. The plane was in flames and the passengers were screaming and panicking.

Suddenly Kristen felt the impact, the noise and the pain. She tried to open her eyes, but everything was getting dark... and the screams and noise were soon gone... then just nothing, very emptiness, the simplest and warmest nothing.

The plane sank and she could feel the water entering her lungs. She tried to look for the passengers, but she could see nothing.

'I don't want to die,' she thought, but the pain in her chest was bigger every minute... "I can't breath..." She sighed, as water filled the cabin.
She saw them, the passengers, trying to swim, but she knew there was nothing she could do for them, not with water entering her lungs.
Kristen was trying to keep herself from drowning when there was another explosion... a bright light...brighter and brighter...
She felt herself buffeted across the cabin and into the screen, her eyes closing, arms outstretched, legs feeling leaden.
Then, a hand clasped a mask over her face, filling her lungs with the oxygen she so needed; and as consciousness returned to her, Kristen opened her eyes, to see a mans face close to hers, a smiling face.
The image of him sitting in his seat flashed into her mind and, abruptly Kristen came to full awareness, 'It had been the fellow eyeing her up.'

Up.

He was giving her thumbs up and she nodded, following him wit strong strokes, as he swam toward the main door, which was open.
And they swam, through dark water, bodies, seats and luggage surrounding them, as the plane continued to sink, toward the bottom of the ocean.
Still they swam and Kristen looked to her right, feeling the water getting warmer; and lighter, as they neared the surface.

Suddenly they broke free of the water and, Kristen gasped fresh air into her lungs.
She cast the mask aside and peddling water, turned to look at her saviour, who grinned inanely, "My names Mark Kristen McNamara, what a way to meet?"
And despite their hostile environment, Kristen couldn't help but grin, at what seemed a ridiculous introduction, under the circumstances.
The grin turned to a smile, as she realised she still had her blackberry in her jacket pocket: 'would it still work? Would rescue arrive in time?' She mused.

* * *

Chapter Two

Within moments of the crash occurring, naval ships were despatched to the area, to provide aerial support to the coastguard, already minutes from Kristen and Mark pedalled in the water, as all around them, heads appeared.

'There were other survivors,' she thought, smiling.

Mark looked round anxiously as, chairs and luggage popped up and bobbed nearby; and then the bodies began to surface, many of them with their arms and legs outstretched, their pale faces downward, sightless eyes open to the inky depths below.

Debris was scattered all around, as the first of the coastguard's helicopters arrived on the scene and rescue seemed imminent.

"Which name are you using?" Mark asked her.

Trying to look indignant, Kristen looked at her saviour: "Mine," she responded.

"Is that a good idea?" He enquired, as a winch-line and personnel approached one of the survivors, nearby where they continued to peddle the water.

Curiosity hit Kristen as she considered what he'd asked.

'Why on earth would he ask such a thing, particularly now?'

"If that was meant to get you out of the picture, this is the perfect opportunity to do so, if you want that is..." He explained.

"Whoa!" She exclaimed: "What makes you think that was meant for me?" Kristen asked, looking round at the dead, the debris and, the few survivors seeking rescue.

"Because I know who you are, Kristen McNamarra," he explained.

Mark noticed trickles of water falling down her face, as she visibly blanched, at the sound of her own name.

She swept wet hair out of her eyes and, looked around at the flotsam and jetsam floating nearby, as if there might be someone, somewhere who might have heard what had been said.

"You know who I am?" She asked querulously.

"Of course I do Kristen, I'm the..." She saw his lips move, but his words were drowned out by the encroaching sound of a naval helicopter, with a winch dangling from it, with emergency personnel holding tight to it.

As water sprayed upward and the fellow in luminescent colours neared them, Mark drew his forefinger and thumb across his lips, as if closing a zip.

Kristen nodded, she mightn't have heard his words, but the intent was clear.

Suddenly air expelled from her lungs, all in a rush.

A hand grasped Kristen round the waist and, one leg flung back she looked down toward Mark her green eyes alight with the vibrancy of the moment.

The winch was lowered again, as a concerned crewman thrust a polystyrene cup of sweet tea in her hands: "You're safe now," he assured her, his weather-beaten scarred face covered by the helmets visor still over his face,

The flight back to their ship didn't take long and, once there the survivors were filtered from the confusion wrought by the press milling around them, each reporter, man or woman looking for their sound bite, which would mark the day and make their name.

Then finally back on Australian soil once more and wrapped in foil sheeting to keep warm, Kristen and Mark were herded with the other survivors to hospital. From there, it was far easier than either of them initially thought, to get lost amongst the throng of reporters and emergency crew and, slip away unnoticed.

In the safety of her room Mark looked at Kristen as she walked toward him, glancing in every direction as she did so.
He found her overt caution mildly amusing.

"Hello there," he greeted, embracing her and air-kissing each cheek.

Then he drew back from her, the fingers of his left hand trailing her left cheek lightly.

"Good to see you," he told her.

"Is it? Is it really?" she queried, watching his right hand move, to his outer right hand jacket pocket and he held a small flash card toward her, in his flattened palm.

"Of course it is," he assured her, with a gentle smile.

Kristen looked at the card cautiously.

"You can always use it after you've deleted your mission," he suggested helpfully, the smile turning into a grin.

And, suddenly he was serious, "This is important, to me."

Kristen heard the tone in his voice and though she truly abhorred taking another assignment, from anyone in the CIA, she took the card.

"For you then," she said, a trace of sadness in her voice.

Chapter Three

Many had died in the aeroplane crash and, as Kristen slotted the flashcard into her slim-line Dell Aspire, she thought of the dead, sightless eyes watching her do so.

'Was it possible that the crash had occurred to remove her from the game?' She considered with horror.

The file that came up was encrypted, as expected. She threw in her password and there before her eyes, a succession of folders opened up...

She read carefully, the new location, Afghanistan. "Thank god I speak Pashto" she thought while reading. In fact, she spoke several languages fluently. Her training had been quite complete. She was very good speaking Pashto; whilst Dari was a bit more difficult for her, but she hoped to do it well, if required. The instructions were clear.

She stood up and looked for a piece of paper. In the instructions, an address was detailed. She took her bag, and after closing the computer and taking out the flashcard, she put everything inside her bag and left the room.

Outside of the hotel, the bellboy approached her: "Do you need a taxi, Ma'am?"
She merely nodded; her expression so serious that the young boy could just obey, getting a taxi immediately.

"Thanks," she just muttered, her mind unusually distracted by recent events.

She got into the car, giving the instructions to the driver, who drove faster through the heavy traffic and turned left two blocks ahead. She could see a bus station.
"Wait here," she ordered and got out without waiting for his answer. She had a number, that was all, just a number. But, it was easy for her to realize what it was.

Kristen went to the lockers and could see that every locker had a combination lock, as she had suspected. Locating the right locker, she put the numbers in carefully, moving her fingers with mastery. When she put the last number, the lock opened. She slowly opened the door and saw an envelope. Inside there were plane tickets, money, other instructions and a 9-mm. gun.

She took the envelope and put it inside her bag, then turned around and left the bus-station. The taxi was there, waiting.

"Thank you," she said to the driver, his shoulder on the ledge of his wound down window. "Now we can go back to the hotel," Kristen added, as she got in the taxi.

The man didn't move. She leant forward and realised from his vacant stare and, a trickle of blood, the man was dead. Killed with a shot through and through, in the temple. Breathing fast, she slowly opened her door once more, then quickly left the car and ran, into the midst of the pedestrians on the street.

When she turned left at the corner, she felt the explosion...

Chapter Four

Shards of metal tore into the legs of passers-by and pieces of material and flesh and bone and blood showered outward.

In the seconds of silence that followed the blast, the screams began, of the dying and the injured, who had been happily shopping, just moments earlier.

The smoke that had followed the blast dissipated slowly and Kristen rose slowly, momentarily groggy and, with hearing hollow and ringing.

She had fallen hard, but her version of tactical armour had helped her survive the blast that had killed several and injured many more.

Kristen had worn knee and elbow pads, a light bullet-proof vest, slim, black leather gloves and, her coat. And, she was thankful that she'd worn them.

Standing, she turned to look at the line of dissipating blue-grey smoke, "Rocket-propelled grenade?" She mused, suddenly very aware how close she's come to meeting her maker, again.

The protective clothing had worked well, especially the coat wrapped round her; a test product, she had acquired as a 'thank-you', for a job well done, months earlier.

The black thigh-length trench-coat had been made of a material that could deflect knives and, 'obviously offer some protection in the event of exploding fragmentation grenades', she considered, allowing a the briefest of smiles to cross her face.

Kristen sighed heavily, realizing that she'd find no clues as to her assailant; certainly not from a fading smoke-trail.

Looking back to the direction she'd been walking, Kristen saw how much damage had been done to the corner a nearby wall: 'No wonder there were so many casualties...' she mused as she began walking again, removing the coat, which showed distinct signs of wear and tear.

Looking back to the injured, Kristen wondered whether someone had called the emergency services. And, minutes later, as she idly deposited the coat into a nearby waste-bin she heard sirens. She allowed a smile to slip into place, as she casually walked against the crowed of people, heading toward where she had been, intent on 'having a look,'

Such rubber-neckers annoyed her. She couldn't understand their mentality and the morbid fascination with others suffering they illustrated with their behaviour.

Yet that was not for now, she reminded herself: there was the little matter of two attempts on her life, both of which had led to civilian casualties. And, that made Kristen angry, very angry.

But, unfocussed anger would distract her. She knew this; and as she walked, Kristen centred herself, breathing slowly, evenly.

It was a fine sunny day, she was alive and there were answers to find. 'Perhaps the place to start, is where I began?' She considered, rooting in her right-hand jacket pocket, for her mobile.

Kristen looked at the screen, pleased to find that it was still working well, "Mark, we need to talk, soon...' She informed him simply.

Chapter Five

Less than an hour later, Kristen had changed again and, was in mid-pace, when the smartly-dressed Mark ran a hand back across his forehead and through his hair, looking up from the papers in his lap: "I swear down Kristen," he began, "I don't know how anyone knew where you were, I don't."

Although he seemed emphatic in his denial, Kristen was genuinely doubtful. It was she who had survived to attempts on her life: 'and after all,' she considered, 'there was little chance of him admitting his involvement, just like that.'

They had met at her hotel room and her impatience was apparent, as the young woman strode from one end of the main room to the other.

"Yet, someone did," she explained slowly, as she slid her right hand inside her jacket, where her snub-nose sat in its shoulder-holster.

The assassin had become the target and, the target really didn't like it. Kristen was steaming, bristling with righteous anger and someone was going to pay, for all that had happened, to all those innocents, caught in the crossfire.

She slid the small revolver out slowly and screwed on the silencer that she'd carried in her right hand trouser pocket.

Mark watched her actions and, his face whitened as she levelled the small weapon, its working end pointed toward his groin.

"Hey hey," he started, hand in the air, "You know me!"

"Now that's hardly true, is it?" Kristen asked, her words drawn out. And, she clicked the hammer back, grasping her right hand, to steady her aim, while she continued talking, "I met you on a plane and you hardly came forth to let me know who you were..."

"I'm just a glorified messenger boy...” Mark told her, his voice getting high-pitched.

He blanched visibly, knuckles turning whitening: death seemed imminent.

She tightened her finger on the trigger and Mark closed his eyes.

'Fut', went the sound of the bullet, as it left the revolver, and then entered the armchair, just to the right of Marks head.

His eyes snapped open, his hands going up in the air, "Hey, hey, hey, I'm not a field-operative, y'know? I'm just not used to being shot at."

"Well, if I don't learn something to my satisfaction, you won't have to worry about it any longer. Now, put your hands down..." she instructed.

"You see, right now I'm reacting to the way I see things, do you have an alternative point of view for me?" she told Mark dispassionately. "Two attempts on my life, many dead and, the common denominator is you..."

Marks eyes flicked from her eyes to the barrel of the gun, then back to her eyes once more: "So, how do I prove I'm not involved, in a plot to kill you?"

"I've illustrated that for you already, I kill you and remove you from the equation and if something else happens, then I was wrong..."

Mark looked to see if she showed any signs of lying to him, yet saw none.

And, in the silence that followed her words, Kristen removed her left hand from her wrist and swept her hand up her forehead, then through her hair.

A thought had occurred to Kristen, one that she might have thought earlier, if she could have stopped seeing dead people, floating in the sea, their accusing eyes staring at her, every time she closed her own.

"Who else knew I was being called on?" She queried.

"Just... my line-manager..." he answered, nervously.

"And, who's that?"

"Creavey..."

"James Creavey?" Kristen asked, left eyebrow raising and, her own knuckles whitening, as she tensed up, in response to some particularly violent memories.

"Uh huh," he responded, "just him."

"No secretary, or someone? I know him, of old. Believe me, I can't see him doing a menial job, like that..." She told Mark, scowling.

Chapter Six

Mark closed his eyes for a second as he sighed heavily, then opened them: "I tried to explain to you, I'm just the gofer Kristen. Saving you on the plane, giving you the file, that was the first time I came out of the back office..."

Lowering her pistol, an inch or so, Kristen rubbed her chin with her free hand, as she mused aloud, "The file? So tell me, who encrypted it?"

"I did," he assured her.

She continued rubbing her chin: "Where?"

"Here," he told her, "I used my laptop. That one, over there..." He added, pointing to the far end of the room, where the machine sat on a half-circular table next to the wall, three chairs around it.

"And, do you mind if I have a look at it?" She quizzed, bringing her pistol back up an inch or so, levelling her arm, so that the killing end pointed at Marks face.

He turned white and stuttered, "No... no, I don't mind, at all."

Kristen smiled in response and asked, "Do I need to shoot you in the knee's, to make sure you keep out of my way, while I look?

Marks hands were shaking, as he answered, "No, I don't mind."

Staring into his eyes, Kristen slid the pistol back into its holster and Mark watched as she set up his machine and then called over her shoulder, "Password?"

"Joanlancaster1959... with a capital at the beginning."

"Uh huh," she muttered, typing away busily.

From across the room, Mark Field stood and, pouring himself a whiskey, he asked, "Kristen, do you want one?"

"I suppose that's your Mother's name? Her maiden name," she queried, fingers dancing over the keys, as she opened up one screen after another.

Mark watched from the middle of the room, as she peered intently at the screen.

"Aha..." she expressed, one hand to her mouth.

"Aha doesn't sound good to me..." Mark told her.

In turn, Kristen turned in her seat, to look at him, "Depends on what you think is Mark..." She had used his name, which he caught immediately.

"So tell me, do you often leave your laptop unattended?" Kristen queried, her green eyes alight with seeming delight.

"Well, I put it down now and then, when it's safe, that is..." he murmured.

"Have you left it unattended anywhere near Creavey?" She quizzed.

Deep in thought, Mark rubbed his chin and frowned: "Yes, I guess."

"Recently?" She added.

"C'mon I work in the office, so yes; of course the answer is yes. Why?" He asked in return, his voice betraying his irritation.

"Well, you've heard of cyber terrorism?" Kristen asked with a smile.

Mark nodded.

"Well mister, you've been a victim of it..." she informed him glibly.

"What the...? How? Why!?!" He responded, in a raised voice.

"Every keystroke you've made in awhile has been monitored. You've been more than a gofer Mark. Without knowing it, you've also been a mole..." She explained: "and, a simple programme on your machine gave me the how? The why? Well, that's down to Creavey and his games. Like I said, I know him of old."

Mark sat back down, nursing his drink, as he contemplated what he had learnt.

"The plane?" He muttered.

"How best to get rid of me, without creating suspicion?"

"And the rest?"

"Well, lets say Creavey never was never subtle. And, he knew where to find me, through you. And, without me around? Well, I'm guessing he had his own man to go into Afghanistan. At least, that's what I expect, from what I know of the fellow," She explained slowly, to Mark who was having problems keeping up with her reasoning.

"And... you know this because?"

"Because of a keylogger programme I found, hidden away in your registry..." Kristen told him, turning back to the laptop, with a grin.

"So... why do you seem so cheerful Kristen?"

"Well," she started, turning on her seat to face him again, "until now, I had no idea who my enemy was..."

"And, now you know?" Mark quizzed, as he stood, to pour himself a second drink.

"All those dead and, two attempts on my life? What do you think?" She asked, patting her jacket, over the slight bulge that betrayed her weapons place.

An hour later Kristen had returned to Marks room, having already gone to her own covertly, to acquire what she needed.

And Mark watched, fascinated, as Kristen's appearance changed radically, in under two hours.

First she changed her hair colour, becoming a blonde; then contacts gave her blue eyes; and then fine latex skins laid over each fingertip, thereby changing her prints to that of a Jane Doe from the hospital mortuary.

Finally, her normal casual, but smart clothing, gave way to something completely different; a figure-hugging red and blue horizontal striped woollen dress, rose coloured tights and, black shiny boots with an inch-high Cuban heel.

Round her waist she worse a four inch wide belt, that matched the boots; and over the ensemble, she wore a blue-denim jacket, with the bottom half cut-off and, the collar worn standing up.

Turning to Mark, she grinned and in a mock cockney accent, asked him; "Got a cigarette mister?"

She even gave a quick twirl, causing mark to give vent to a small groan, as she finished, with her left leg crooked, her right hand on her hip and she blew him a kiss.

"You're good," he told her with a smile, which acknowledged with another twirl, during which she swung her hips provocatively.

"Yep, you're good," he murmured.

And Kristen smiled, she couldn't help it: 'After all, what girl doesn't like receiving the odd compliment?'

"So, what's the plan?" Mark asked, eyeing the remains of the scotch.

Chapter seven

"The plan Mark? That's easy my young gofer..." She said playfully.

She noticed the look on his face, as he heard her funny and abruptly she felt ashamed, "I'm sorry Mark, that was uncalled for."

Head lowered, he muttered into his hands, "It's all right, there are spies for the front office and, there are the one's who do the work. They let me know that often enough."

"Hey fella, get your head up," Kristen told him, draping her right hand over his shoulders, "right now, you're in the back office."

Mark lifted his head and, allowed the glimmer of a smile, as she cradled the back of his head in the crook of her arm.

"And the fella's in the back office have a plan..." she told him with a smile.

"So, what is the plan?" He asked, again; filled with an urge to stand, pick up the bottle and slug down those dregs, he'd been ogling.

"Simplicity itself..." Kristen explained.

"You take me in as a suspected terrorist," she added.

"And then...?" He enquired, suddenly a feared of his realized involvement.

"Then I remove the problem," she told him simply.

"Remove?"

"Mark, you don't need me to draw you a picture, do you?" she began with a smile, "'coz if I do, there'll be a lot of red in it."

Mark put his right hand to his mouth, suddenly feeling very stupid: "Oh."

Kristen turned to look in a wall mirror, "You know, when this is over and I'm gone, you'll have to debrief Markham?

Mark looked baffled.

"You're helping me. Yeah-huh? Well, once we're done, Marshall Markham is the man to talk to. Ask for him and no-one else, alright?

Smiling a little, Mark nodded, to illustrate that he understood.

"And," she added, drawing out each word, "make very sure you mention my name in full, Kristen Eloise McNamara. Remember that, alright Mark?"

And without waiting for an answer, Kristen pursed her lips and applied a purple lipstick, which she lined in black.

Turning back, to face Mark, Kristen told him: "There's ties in my bag."

Kristen pointed to the black holdall that had provided the clothing and equiptment she had used to transform her appearance; "Ties. Plastic ties. After all, you can hardly get me passed security looking like a tourist, now can you?"

Mark considered this, then said, "Oh", as he rapidly came to the conclusion that 'maybe, just maybe', he wasn't cut out for field-work.

And, as he poured himself that last glass of whiskey, he'd been yearning for, he told Kristen as such.

She laughed, "Darling, when it gets as messy as this, it's not field-work any longer, its wet-work..."

Chapter Eight

As Mark adjusted the ties around Kristen's wrists, behind her back, he asked her, "What's wet-work?"

"Bloody work, the sort you can slip in and, make a mistake, if you're not prepared," she assured him: "and, in my line of business, mistakes get you killed."

Looking up, into Kristen's vibrant green eyes, Mark could see her excitement reflected back to him, from the open iris and the colour of her cheeks, suffused with blood.

"We can't just wade into his offices..." he reminded her, "If I've arrested you, we'd need a reason.

"Oh, there's a reason," she informed him, teasingly.

"Okay, what's that?" He asked curiously.

"There's a bomb in the laundry," she told him with a smile and, a kiss to the forehead, as she stood and handed him the phone, "do you want to tell someone?"

"There's a...?"

"Well, of course there is," she said with a smile, "after all, if there wasn't, you couldn't arrest me, with extreme force..."

"Wha...?" He exclaimed, mouth open.

"Do you want to phone then?" Kristen teased.

"But... but, extreme force...?" He asked with incredulity.

"Uh-huh," she responded, letting her hand holding the phone to fall to her side.

Then staring at Mark, she brought the phone back up toward her face, fast and hard and a cut on her left eye-brow opened and blood flowed copiously, down her face.

"Oh..." he expressed dully, as she passed him the phone, then put her left hand out, palm flat, against the wall.

"Oh-boy that smarts," she told him, with a weak smile.

Then she asked, "How does that look?"

Mark stood and draped his left arm around her, to offer support as he led her to the bathroom, where they stood before the mirror there.

"You tell me," he told her, pouring cold water on a face-cloth, which he went to place on the wound, already growing puffy and darkening in colour.

"Ah, that looks ideal..." she muttered, dabbing the excess blood away from her eye, pleased with the result of just one blow.

"Now tell me about the bomb, please!" Mark asked, concern evident in his voice.

"The one you defused?" She enquired, smiling.

"Huh?"

"You defused it, moments after we fought and you got me unconscious. If you're asked... that is." Kristen added.

"And where is it?" He queried, feeling somewhat relieved; "I should know that."

"Uh-huh... I guess you should..." Kristen replied, suddenly turning very pale; and with both hands holding the towel stand by the shower, she said to Mark, "I think that I need some sugar and, five minutes rest, before we go any further..."

With that, she sank to the floor and her knees.

Mark crouched by Kristen's side and wrapping his right arm under her armpits, he helped the woman up: "You're a nut," he told her, as he took her through to his bedroom and gently lay her down on the bed; "you've been through so much in the last few days and now, you do this!"

Smiling wanly, Kristen muttered, "It's in the first drum."

"Huh?"

"The bomb... It's in the first washing machine... big thing... can't miss it..."

"The washing machine?" He queried, to which Kristen laughed.

"No silly, the bomb. It's not a small one, so you won't be able to miss it."

Kristen was surprised that one small cut had floored her like this, but she was not Supergirl and, maybe he was right, she had been through a lot recently.

"Now please," she began, "can you get me some chocolate, or something... there's a distinct chance I'm going to pass out... and, I need to eat something, soon."

Mark turned and left the room frowning.

She was hardly one to let you know what she was planning before she did it; and, he found that ever-so annoying. But the lady requested something sweet, so something sweet she would have.

He returned to the bedroom minutes later with a Mars Bar for Kristen, who lay back on the bed, propped up somewhat by three pillows.

A little colour had returned to her pallid cheeks and she accepted the sweet confectionary with a smile: "Thanks," she muttered, "I need this."

Mark sat at her side, placing the back of his left hand on her forehead, "Well, you feel alright Kristen. So, how'd you feel?"

She shifted a little, to sit straighter: "I feel tired. Can you go to my bag of tricks and bring me the small silver case, please?"

"Uh-huh, sure mistress," he mumbled and stood.

When he returned, Kristen was lying on her left side, her skirt hiked up and, her tights and panties pulled down, just below her full, shapely buttocks.

"You'll find a syringe in there, with a green circular sticker on it..." she told him and added, "Can you see?"

Mark opened up the small metal case and saw three syringes, each full. One had a yellow sticker on it, another green and the third blue. He took the syringe out with the green label on it and, placing the case next to the half eaten Mar Bars on the locker next to the bed.

"Now what?" He asked.

"Now what?" She asked with a smile, as she looked over her right shoulder, "Now you give me a little prick!"

Her smile widening she patted her left butt cheek, as she asked, "You can do that?"

Chapter Nine

Mark smiled at the pun, as he approached the bed and the needles target, "Yes that I can do," he told her, kneeling by the side of the bed and pressing the plunger down a little, ejected enough liquid, to remove any air bubbles.

He slapped her flesh twice, the injected Kristen, asking her, "What is?"

"Amphetamine... and, whoa... adrenaline..." she told him, exhaling.

Moments later, she sat up, swung her legs round and pulling her tights and panties up, she smoothed her skirt down.

She grinned.

"Well then, there's my head where it need to be... Now time to get moving... alright?" Kristen asked.

Looking up, Kristen noted his doubts were apparent, through the furrows on his forehead.

"What's the matter?" She asked, with genuine concern, for him and, for the plans well-being. Much depended on him.

"This is getting like your definition of wet-work, isn't it Kristen?" he said to her, whilst behind his back, he wrung his hands.

With clasped hands between her knees, Kristen looked too him, a bitter smile playing on her lips, "Somehow I think like what a word means died with the innocents, that I hold Creavey responsible for."

Feeling suitably admonished, Mark looked to the tips of his Italian-made shoes, for several long seconds and asked, "You sure about Creavey?"

In answer, Kristen grinned, "Am I sure?"

Mark nodded, still feeling his complicity filling him with a case of raging guilt.

"Well I am," she informed him, "because killing, to get what he wants, is what Creavey was good at," she finished, with certainty.

"And why does he want you out of the way?" Mark countered.

"Knowledge of black ops gone wrong? Fields of poppies being financed by his office?" Kristen suggested as she stood and straightened the creases from her dress and, she grinned broadly, "With him, it could be any of a half dozen things I know about him..."

"Really?" Mark queried, "That bad?"

Making her way to the lounge, Kristen stopped and turned to look at Mark, "With hundreds dead, just to get to me, what do you think?"

"Erm..." he began, hand to mouth, "I guess I need t know what I do next, I guess!?"

"That's the spirit," she told him jovially.

"Don't say that, I still need another drink..." he joked, semi-seriously.

"Any left?" She asked.

"No," he answered, with his lower lip and all aquiver, in a mock sulk.

"Well," she told him, crouching by her holdall: "I don't have whiskey, but I do have brandy," she informed him, getting a third size bottle out of the bag.

"Any use too you?" Kristen asked. She wanted him calmer than he was.

"I need my head together, don't I?" He asked, doubt still evident in his voice.

Though complicit in her plan, Mark still felt responsible: after all, he had been on the lane and, had been the one to present her with the mission, that would have taken her to Afghanistan."

"Consider it medicinal" she told him, as she stood and walked across to the cupboard on the side of the room. She rooted out a clean glass and, pouring a heavy slug, she turned to with the glass in hand, "To your health!"

She swallowed the brandy all-in-one, then poured another glass for Mark.

"Here," she said to him, as she proffered the glass, "Get this down you, we still have an hour to go. So please, try and relax; a little."

"An hour?" He quizzed and, Kristen sighed.

"Uh huh," the idea is to make our move when most of the front of house staff have gone home. The idea is Mark; all we'll have to deal with is Cravey and his men. So yes, I do need your head together, as you say, but I need you to work with me more..."

She placed her right hand on his left shoulder and asked, "Can you do that?"

Mark swallowed the brandy, as she had, all-in-one, then he placed the empty glass down on the floor and, turning to Kristen he asked, "So what now?"

'An hour to wait - and Mark seriously needed to relax...' Kristen thought, her smile widening as she ran her right hand through the side of her hair. She turned to look at him and, noticing her smile his brows furrows deepened further.

"An hour to pass the time," she reminded Mark, left finger to her lower lip, as she batted her lashes.

He gazed at Kristen, her curves, her moist-looking lips, slightly parted; and her beautiful eyes and, he gulped: "You mean?"

Kristen took the few steps needed, to stand just in front of him and her smile now a grin, she told him, "I mean..." she pulled him up from where he sat by her right hand: "I mean that we have time to ... kill and, I find you attractive."

Chapter Ten

Kristen had no compunction about using a weapon, if it were needed:
'And some say, sex is a weapon,' she thought wryly. She needed Mark "mission ready" and, 'if sex was needed,' she mused, 'at least, it should be pleasant.'

Kristen led him to his bedroom and, with speed, undid the buttons on his shirt.
Kneeling down, she unfastened his belt buckle and the fastener on his trousers.

Briefly she ran eager fingers over the defined shape of arousal evident in his black Calvin Kleins.

"Yes, you're nearly ready..." she said, then laughed, as she pushed him backwards.
His legs caught on the beds base and, he fell back.

Before Mark could say or do anything, his shoes and socks were off his feet and thrown to the floor, as were his underpants, just moments later.

As they were removed, his erection slapped against his belly and, moments later was in her left hand.

Kristen enveloped his seven inches of cut manhood in her mouth, smearing it with her lipstick and, Mark groaned with pleasure.

As she slurped and sucked, her own burning for sexual release gnawed at her, deep inside.

Mark gazed down at her with stark hopelessness in his eyes. He felt helpless, as she continued to take control.

As his excitement rose, a frenzied Mark slumped his head wearily against the pillows and, he sighed with pleasure.

Then briefly, she drew her mouth from his shaft, and then lathed his length with her tongue, covering his skin with her saliva.

"Now this is what I call wet work," Kristen told her looking up a moment, with wild feline eyes.

And the, Kristen sank back down onto his warm tumescent flesh once again, as she shifted her hips, to ease out of her tights and panties.

The boots were a struggle, but Kristen was now as lust-driven as she assumed Mark was, to judge from his moans of appreciation.

Lifting her mouth from him, Kristen purred, "Are you ready?"

"Are you taking the Michael?" He quizzed in response, stroking her face with his right hand, while with the left he held the base of his blood-engorged flesh, covered in her saliva and standing proud.

"Good," she told him..." And, so saying Kristen slid onto Mark's body so she could straddle his left thigh leg. Then she began to grind her wanting pussy slowly back and forth along his leg.

Mark began running his hands sensuously all over her smooth, body, wantonly roving them over Kristen's unblemished skin; stroking, rubbing, exciting.

Kristen could tell that Mark was getting hot by his heavy breathing as she began humping his leg, undulating her wet open sex against his flesh.

Then Kristen wrapped her arms around Mark's neck and hugged him tight. She placed her lips directly on Mark's and began kissing him passionately.

Mark responded immediately, his mouth opening wide as Kristen's long pink tongue snaked deep inside, tasting his saliva on her tongue.

His ravenous hunger to kiss Kristen so totally possessed Mark and represented his repressed need; a need that he had suppressed since they had first met; and now he could release it to it's fullest extent, as he returned her ardent kisses.

And placing her hands on his shoulders Kristen eased herself, up and reaching back with her left hand she grasped his erection and directed it to her warmth. She lowered herself down slowly, moaning with her eyes closed as he entered her and groaned.

Then she sough his lips once more, as her hips worked on him and lips fused as if they were one, as she took possession with her tongue.

And, as the kiss continued, Kristen toyed with his stiff nipples, grinding down on him, mashing their bellies together and giving her clitoris the friction was needed, as their well-lubricated flesh rubbed together.

Again she parted from him, to look down with wild eyes, as she placed her hands on his chest and rode Mark, quite lust-driven herself.

Then she felt the tremors begin in his thighs, announcing his climax: so clamping her thighs tight against his, she rode him harder and faster, as Mark gasped aloud.

"Oh gawd Kristen, I'm cumming..." He cried out, as he clutched at her hips.

And, as she delighted in the feelings of his seed shooting deep inside, Kristen held him as tight as he had her, whilst her own climax swept through her, from where they met, to her toes and throughout her body.

Finally they broke apart each lying spent on their backs, breathing heavily. Then briefly stroking his face, Kristen murmured, "I'm first in the shower, I need to get changed again."

Mark blinked, breathing hard, "Yeah sure..."

Then caressing her face briefly, she told him, "You can join me, if you want?"

He sat up quickly smiling, "Do I want?"

His eyes followed her naked derriere as she made her way to the bathroom and turned the shower faucet on and, Mark smiled, feeling relaxed.

Chapter Eleven

"Water's ready!" He heard Kristen call from the bathroom and rising from the crumpled sheets Mark padded across the room, suddenly aware of how thick the carpeting was.

They showered slowly, their hands caressing; then they dressed fast, as each of them stared at the other, with eyes that still spoke of their time together.

Finally, Kristen poured her coffee from the flask on the sideboard and, turning to Mark she smiled, "Time to phone the manager and, tell him there's a bomb on the premises..."

"We are running late Kristen," Mark told Kristen looking at his watch, his voice sounding panicky.

"Well, maybe we spent longer in the shower than we should have; but it was pleasant wasn't it?" Kristen responded with a smile, as she crossed her legs.

And Mark blushed, 'he actually blushed,' she thought with a grin.

"Don't worry 'bout it fellow," she said, the grin widening; "we just go with plan 'B'"

"Plan 'B', what's that?" Mark queried.

"Well, it starts the same as Plan 'A'" She answered.

"And that is...?"

"You phone the manager and, tell him there's a bomb on the premises..." Kristen responded, enjoying her moment of levity.

Mark's eyes opened wide.

"Ah yes," he sighed, "that."

"That... is the first step, alright?" Kristen explained slowly.

Mark nodded and picked up the receiver: "Put me through to the Manager."

The call lasted less than five minutes.

Needless to say, he had been pleased to find that the device reported to be in his laundry was defused, 'but a bomb?' That happened to other people.

The Manager, Brian Weston phoned security within seconds of putting the phone down, well aware that soon homeland security would be on his door; and there were things he needed tidied first, monies that needed to be hidden quickly and, guests who needed their privacy, informing as quickly as possible.

He picked up the phone, with the intent of phoning one, a famous film star and his male friend, as Mark finished trussing Kristen up.

"Now what?" Mark quizzed, as he stood away from the chair and the bound Kristen.

"Now you phone the blues and tell them you have a bomb and the bomber. Use our names: and make sure you tell them where the bomb is..." she explained; "And, make sure you tell them I'll only talk to Creavey..."

"Uh-huh..." he nodded.

"And there's one thing Mark..."

"I'll have to look like you captured me..." She clarified.

"Huh?" He quizzed.

"Hit me," She told him, "and, make it look good..."

"I can't..." He looked at her, recalling their love-making.

"You've the police to phone..." She reminded, "now man-up and hot me!"

It was the last thing he wanted to do.

But, before Kristen could instruct him again, he launched the first of two blows to Kristen's face, her lovely face.

The first blow caught the corner of her right eyebrow and, the second caught the right side of her lower lip.

Kristen smiled at Mark, tasting the blood that flowed into her mouth and down to her chin, where it dripped down onto her skirt.

"Now, gag me and phone the police..."

"The police?" Mark repeated, picking up the scarf he intended to gag her with.

"And hurry, you didn't know whether the hotel manager has already done so!"

Adjusting the material to suit, Mark queried: "And, what makes you think Creavey will be listening?"

"I told you earlier Mark, I know him..."

"He'll have ears on every band, won't he?" Mark queried, in response.

Less than twenty-five minutes later Mark had his answer. He had phoned, as instructed, then ensuring that Kristen's gag was in place, again, he paced the room, while downstairs a mêlée took place, as sirens announced the blues arrival.

Then the police held back the public, as the bomb-squad made their way into, then out of the laundry, where Kristen had planted, armed then disarmed the bomb.

The alarm continued it’s keening shrill and, got momentarily louder.

The door to the room gave a click, just prior to opening and a man entered, who Kristen knew only too well: sharp suit, sharp face, with piercing blue-eyes over a hawk-like nose and, hair swept back and oiled.

Then the door closed shut again.

Mark looked round and, Kristen's eyes swung sharply to the right.

It was Creavey.

"Mark Field, who'd have thought you'd have brought this one in and, defused a bomb?" He opined, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"How'd you get in?" Mark queried, his anxiety levels rising.
And, once again he thought, 'Field work is not for me.'

"Handy thing these. Opens up almost anything in this hotel. Such are the joy's of modern technology..." He explained gleefully, as he held up that plastic card, that acted as the hotel pass-key.

"Uh-huh," Mark acknowledged, with a shrug of his shoulders, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

"And, you got McNamara?" He exclaimed, as he stepped forward, then ran a couple of fingers across Kristen's chin.

And, Creavey would have wondered, if he'd been able to see beneath the gag, 'why is she smiling?' As it was, he couldn't see beneath it, so the question remained unasked.

Yet, she did smile.

"Now what?" Mark asked, recalling that there was a bottle of a reasonable brandy, not too far away.

"Now?" Creavey began, one hand clasped over the other, behind his back; "Now you leave the room for fifteen minutes or so. When you come back, things will be sorted..."

Mark looked to him, then to Kristen, who blinked once, which he seriously hoped meant, 'yeah, go for it. I'm alright.'

Yet, he didn't know she'd be alright. All that Mark was sure of, was that he was so far over his head, it was stratospheric.

"Certainly Sir," he told James Creavey, his hand on the door-know, hoping that Kristen really did know what she was doing.

At that moment, the alarm ceased ringing and Creavey smiled, 'his sharks smile', Mark thought.

"Well you can use the lift now... if you need it," Cravey informed Mark, while rubbing his hands together: He felt good.

"Yeah, might go to the bar Sir. It's been a really long day..." Mark told his superior, as he opened the door, trying to remember the name that Kristen had given him earlier. It seemed there was a phone-call to make and, either way, he had fifteen minutes to wait.

And, as he caught the lift down to the ground-floor and, the bar where he'd have his whiskey, the thought occurred to him that he was running out on Kristen. 'Yet it was what she seemed to want?' he told himself.

Back in the room, Kristen wondered whether having what she wanted was so good after all, after the second punch to her gut.

"Damn bitch," Creavey snarled, "why couldn't you just die like I wanted?"

He punched her again, harder this time and, Kristen doubled forward, groaning.

James Creavey was allowing his anger full reign now and, as the red mist descended, there were things missed, that he normally might have noticed.

He dragged Kristen up by her hair with his left hand, and then launched a powerhouse blow to her gut again.

Once more Kristen doubled forward, as far as her restraints would allow, restraints that gave way easily, beneath the keen blade she had palmed earlier.

She reached up slowly, her body covering her movements, as she found the small pistol she had secreted.

Suddenly she sat bolt upright, the drugs she had taken earlier providing the kick she needed, to throw herself and the chair to the left.

Kristen drew her legs free, then directed herself toward her enemy in a roll, which she came out of, as she lay on her back, the weapon directed at Creavey in a two-handed grip.

"What the...?" The startled man exclaimed, a mille-second before she pulled the trigger and crimson erupted from the wound in his shattered right knee-cap, with small shards of bone.

He screamed as he fell and, Kristen stood, the gun now pointed toward his other knee.

Snatching the material from her mouth, Kristen allowed the smile to take its place, as she fired the second shot.

"How many died James? Do you even care...? Just... tell me, why?" She queried of the man on the floor, already holding the fresh would, as blood spread through his fingers.

Creavey had already turned ashen and, his pain was apparent, but that wasn't enough for Kristen McNamarra: 'too many innocents had died.'

Placing her heel on his left knee, where the flesh was torn away and the bare bone was visible through the ugly wound, she ground down.

Again, Creavey screamed.

Kristen removed her heel and stood back, her arms crossed now, as she stared down at the broken man, she hated so much.

"I had... my own man.. ready... for the Afhan mission..." He told her, staring down at where he used to have knees, the pain almost unbearable, he thought.

Glancing at her watch, Kristen noted that the fifteen minutes were nearly up and Mark would be back soon: 'he won't be able to deal with this,' she thought, momentarily unaware that Creavey was edging back toward the door, dragging himself by his elbows.

As he tried to stand, Creavey groaned, as the pain he thought intolerable, grew up worse still.

And, watching him struggle, Kristen smiled.
She lifted her arm and directed the weapon toward Creavey once more...

"Bang bang," she began, then pulled the trigger a third time: "And, the problem goes away..." she murmured to no-one in particular, as the bullet entered through Creavey's forehead. And, as the bullet exited, it took away much of the back of the man’s skull, blowing his brains and blood and bone against the door.

As Creavey fell to the floor, Kristen stared blankly ahead, her lips moving, as she soundlessly repeated, 'too may innocents died' again and again...

Finally she stopped, knelt down and retrieved the keycard from Creavey's lifeless right hand, "Don't think you'll be needing this now."

She opened the door and, as she stepped out of the room, she turned right and, into Marks arms.

"Ah," he mumbled, "you're alright." Mark had noticed the gun in her right hand, held listlessly at her side, but didn't say anymore; instead he slid his arms around her waist and held her.

"And you are alright, arn't you?" He asked anxiously.

Kristen composed herself quickly, quite enjoying being held in Marks arms.
Finally she broke from his embrace and, noticed that he was blushing again.

"I'm alright," she told him, caressing his cheek; "but there's a vacancy in your office now..."

She grinned and, Mark returned the grin with one of his own.

"But, I guess I should phone Markham, just to put him in the loop..." She added.

"That's done..." he told her.

"Well then," Kristen began, as she linked her right arm with his left, "perhaps you'll buy me a brandy then? I could kill for a drink!"

And, as they walked to the lift, Mark sighed, thinking of all the paper-work that was going to follow on from this incident.

'Yessir,' he mused, 'there are spies for the front office and those for the back. And, field-work is definitely not for me.'

He pressed the button for the groundfloor, still linked to Kristen, suddenly feeling content, with his lot in life.

The End

... dissitate this

2011-01-06T15:43:00.000-08:00

The long-legged twenty-two year old stormed across the quad, her hands behind her back. She was livid, incensed with rage and, plain forgetful.

'And, it isn't necessarily in that order,' she considered, as she got to her destination and found that the library was closed.

It was closed and, her bag and study books were inside.

Scowling, felicia checked her watch.

"Oh..." she muttered, "I was distracted."

And, she had been.

There were those who considered her 'flaky', and others 'weird;' but they also considered themselves popular, so she didn't mind what they thought.

Those who knew Felicia and, she allowed some to do so, thought she was a little flaky, but also intelligent and a good friend.

And, it'd been one of that small group of individuals who had kept her talking, when she'd left the library, to go get a juice and something to eat.

Now, the library was closed and, Felicia doubted she'd finish her paper without the notes she had taken earlier.

Something had to be done, 'but what?' That was the question.

Felicia looked about, noting to her displeasure that there was no-one about.

"How... how... irksome..." the young woman muttered, her green eyes alight with annoyance; at herself and, the circumstance she found herself in.

And sighing briefly, she began to walk round the building, her mind still idling on the assignment they'd been set: "Can reality come from false concepts?"

'It was a good question,' she mused, idly checking each casement window she came to,

And though she hardly dare hope to find egress, felicia did.

On her fourth try, she found that one window was ajar, just.

She eased the window further up, then looked around once more.

'Still no-one in sight,' he thought, just a few seconds before she decided to act.

And, being careful to look for an obvious alarm she might set off, Felicia climbd through the window and entered the dark of the empty library.

"Now to find where I was sitting," she mused, as she set her feet down, allowing her eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom of the room she found herself in.

She looked around, noting the microfiche machines on a desk nearby.

"That's something I know..." she thought with a smile; "now I have my bearings."

Felicia had sat studying with her back to this very room.

So, being careful not to make any noise, she turned the door handle, thankful that it wasn't locked. She then made her way passed several sets of bookshelves, to the table where she had sat earlier.

There, where she had left them, were the papers on the table and her bag, by the chair leg.

As Felicia picked the papers up she saw a beam of light shining to her right: 'Security?' she wondered, ducking down by the side of the table.

Abruptly the light went out and she heard hushed whispers.

Felicia strained her ears, to hear what was said, but to no avail. And, with mounting curiosity, she made her way to where she assumed the voices came from, being sure to stay low, so as not to be seen herself.

But to her chagrin, Felicia found nothing.

Then, just as she had decided that it was a good time to go, something found her: and bright light shone on Felicia's face, momentarily blinding her.

"Who... who is it?" She asked, her anxiety evident in her voice.

"Who is it?" A deep voice asked in return, the merest hint of humour to his voice.

"Don't you know me?" He asked, in that rich Ghanian accent she recalled so well, ash he crouched by her side, stroking her face.

Felicia shook a little at his touch; touch that she recognized: 'Kellog?'

"Kellog, is that you?"

"Uh huh babe..." he acknowledged, drawing his right forefinger along her lower lip.

Felicia opened her mouth a little and he slid his right middle fingertip into her mouth and she began to suckle on it, as if it were the 'right thing to do,' as he caressed her face, with his left hand.

"Nice,' he murmured, his left hand moving down her neck to her collar-bone. And, undoing the top button on her blouse he eased his hand inside, to cup her right breast in hand, his thumb and forefinger teasing her nipple into hardness.

Felicia gasped aloud around her saliva-coated digit, as he continued his caress.

Then Kellog lowered himself to her side and, he began to finish undoing the buttons on her blouse.

Once the blouse was undone and her breasts were unveiled he eased the bra cups from her warm skin and began to suckle on her nipple, causing Felicia to gasp with pleasure.

Moving to her neck, Kellog kissed her flesh, then suckled at her earlobe; and, she wrapped her fingers in her hair as his lips found hers.

And, Felicia's mouth opened as he took posession of hers with his own and his fingers found the buttons on her skirt.

Kellog unfastened the button, undid the button then the zip and, moving aside a little he eased her skirt down.

Then he leant over her and began gently giving her belly, down to her belly button, as he inched her panties down her thighs.

Felicia drew her legs up, sliding the scant material from them and, she gasped again, as his right hand found her buttocks and eager fingers entered her liquid warmth.

"Here?" She asked unnecessarily, draping her long legs over his shoulders, as he lowered his face to her heated sex.

Kellog drew his tongue up and down, lathing her petals as he seemed to revel in her taste.

"Yes, here..." she murmured, turning her head from side to side, as he pleasured her, with fingers and tongue.

And Felicia undid his zip, searching for his erection, that piece of flesh she so wanted inside her.

Kellog groaned as she she drew him into the open, then continued to unbutton his jeans.

Both parted a moment, as he finished removing his jeans, then manoevred himself between her splayed legs.

Kellog looked into her face and close-to, she stare back, holding his face, as he entered her honeyed liquid warmth.

And, his hands on her cheeks, she held his, while he began to rise and fall.

Soon, they found a rythmn that suited them both and their coupling quickly became heated, as heated as their passionate kisses.

And, as their tongues duelled, Felicia's hands roamed over his broad shoulders, narrow waist and long back.

And, their kisses continued, as he drove his hard length in and out.

Then, as he thrust deeper, she wrapped her legs round his buttocks, in an effort to draw him further in.

Then their lips parted and, Kellog raised himself on powerful arms, as Felicia held him tight: and he began to the speed of his actions, to power-fuck his lover, staring deep into her eyes as he did so, sweat dripping off his brow.

And, Felicia grunted with each thrust of his hips, as Kellog continued to enjoy her body.

This was animal-lust and with wide-eyes they reached a mutual climax and, he collapsed upon his lover, sighing with satisfaction.

And, as he filled her with his seed, Felicia closed her eyes, her muscles suddenly very tired: She closed her eyes, only to open them seconds later, as from somewhere deep in the back of her brain, she heard a voice: "Libraries closing, in five minutes..."

'What the...?' her mind screamed, as she sat bolt upright in her seat.

"What the...?" She said aloud, looking at her watch.

It wasn't even evening, yet...?

Felicia stood collected her books her books and papers together and shoved them in her bag. If she hurried, Felicia knew she could make her date with Kellog.

Then as she stood, Felicia realized how damp she was: 'The dream had been so damned real.' And Felicia grinned, as she left the library, to get back to the dorm to get changed.

And with a smile, she told herself: "Perhaps I'll learn if a reality can be borne from a false concept?"

Crimson Commerce

2010-03-01T07:08:00.000-08:00

Crimson Commerce

She walked in the bar, having had to walk down four steep concrete steps to get there.
Then, crossing the pine floor-boards in high-heels, their click-clack sounding loud large room full of tables, largely empty.

It was early in he afternoon and those not nursing hangovers, or at work, or at the bookies. And, other than the barman, there were only four sets of eyes that followed the brunette, as she approached him.
[And, one of those sets of eyes weren’t complete.]

Aaron, the bald-headed young man behind the bar was polishing a glass as she spoke: “I’d like a white wine; and. I’d also appreciate some information.”

Aaron placed the glass and tea-towel down on the bar counter top. He turned to the bottles of wine, standing next to the optics stand and, retrieved a clean long-stemmed glass from the dryer.
“Information?” He quizzed pouring her wine, then turning back to her, glass in hand.

Dianna proffered a note, which he accepted, offering her the glass of wine, which she accepted.

“Information?” Aaron repeated, ringing up the order on the till.

As he handed Dianna her change, she said to him: “I’m looking for a man.”
She didn’t smile as she said, so neither did he.
But, he did notice how she was dressed.

The brunette was in a jacket and skirt in grey that would match that of any executive.
She had power-dressed, whilst he was dressed as he was everyday: tight sleeveless black tee-shirt and equally faded blue-jeans.

‘Out of my league,’ he mused for a thousandth of a second, then he asked: “And, would I know this gentleman?”

Left hand on the edge of the counter-top, left knee crooked, she rested the instep of her left heel on the brass foot-rail that extended the length of the bar.

“Well put it this way,” she began, “I was told it was safe, to come see you, to ask about him.”

An eyebrow raised, the barman asked, “That’s a very particular way of saying something.”

And, with a frozen smile, the well-dressed brunette stared deep into his eyes, as she retorted, “I had a very particular reason for saying it that way. That way Mister Hobbes will know that it’ll be ‘safe’ to do business with me…”

Across the room shoulders stiffened at the mention of the name she proffered and, chair legs scraped against the floor, as its occupant sat bolt upright.

The fellow sitting in the chair and now staring across the room had been resting, his shoulders against the wall chin on his chest, arms crossed just below, two chair legs supporting his weight.

At the sound of wood on wood, the barman’s eyes glanced to his left.

The well-dressed woman noticed, saying to him with a smile, “Thank you, you’ve told me what I needed to hear…”

She turned on her heels and strode purposely to where Cal Hobbes sat and at her approach he gestured with his hands for the two men sitting at his table to go.
“I think the ladies got something got something to say to me…” he mumbled.

He was proven right, as she stood jest before him, and took a business card from the top pocket of her jacket.

“Mister Hobbes? My card.” Cal hesitated a moment before taking the card from her.
But, he did take it.

“Dianna Carter…” He said, looking her up and down, then smiled very slightly.

“Why are you here?”

Dianna shook her head, then ran the fingers of her left hand through her hair.

“I was told you’re the man for me…” She told him, as she sat down and crossed her legs slowly, with her skirts hem rising a little as she did so.

And, she smiled herself, watching as an eyebrow arched somewhat.

“Wouldn’t have thought I was your type Ms. Carter…” Cal growled softly. He had already decided that being a ‘looker’, or not, this woman’s presence was an annoyance.

“Please Mister Hobbes…” she started, in a pleading tone, reaching out to touch the back of his right hand, trying her best not to recoil at the touch of his cold, cold flesh, “I need your help and my friend Cecilia told me young could help me…”

Recognition spread across the swarthy, hard-looking man’s face, as he took in what she’d just said, “Cecilia?”

“Yes, that’s my friend…”She told him quietly.

“Ah…” he sighed, sitting forward, “And what do you want?”

“I want the same as my friend. Like her, people are after me… and, I want to be like her now, so no-one can hurt me…”

“And you have enough money, to pay for my services?” Cal enquired, drawing his lips back from his pronounce canine teeth.

“Oh yes,” She assured him, “I’m in charge of purchasing loans, for the whole of the Mid-West…”

Red River Searchers

2010-02-27T14:59:00.000-08:00

‘I still remember how it was. That light-headedness, like a mild euphoria, as the blackness filled my vision. Then there’d been a stinging slap to the side of my face.
“Open your eyes an drink…” She had snapped at me, her light voice turning abrasive, as she drew me to alertness.
It had been her eyes that had drawn me back, not her command.
Her eyes, dancing with wildness, she’d told me in that light sing-song voice I’d heard from behind me in the alley-way, “Drink of the red river of Life…”
Abruptly, Mistress had put her hand to her bloody mouth as she suppressed laughter.
Then she’d bitten, and torn at her flesh…
And, supporting her left wrist, as she knelt to my left side, she offered me her blood, dripping from the wound she had rent open with sharp canine teeth.
“Drink… Drink of the red river of Life…” she had intoned.
I’d clutched at her hand and arm I’d brought the source of the red river to my lips and instead of sipping, I drank.
“He’ll take too much,” I’d heard another voice, a Londoner, “leave him Lover, we have to go before the Peelers come find us.”
And, as she drew her wrist from my grasp I look to see a young woman in silken finery kneeling by me: “As the child was Sired, she sired a child.”
Again, the sing-song voice.
At that was the night I’d been re-borne.
Oh yes, I’d had three nights of hell as the cramps turned my guts inside out. And then the journey’s had begun, as the two of them had dragged me across Europe, then onto a ship, where we’d travelled en state as it were, our coffins in the hold, as Mistress had dragged us to America, to continue her search for Her Maker, Her Angel.’

Afternoon Delight - the invitation

2009-06-06T15:46:00.000-07:00

Afternoon Delight – the invitation.

*Intended for adult readers.

Drury drew her legs up slowly in a languid manner, parted them, eyes closed: with her feet upon the duvet: and, ran her hands up the insides of her taut thighs.

He was on her mind again. And, this time, she didn’t mind.

She lay back on her wide double-bed, the curtains partially drawn against the bright mid-afternoon sun.

Her husband Lukas wouldn’t be home for hours. And, this time was hers.

Drury had been afeared of the dreams at first, particularly when they had begun to intrude on her waking hours.

But now, the sheer intensity of these lucid dreams had awakened something deep within: something innately primal.

The slim brunette trembled with the latent sexual thrill that had begun to rouse as she revelled in the sensations wrought by her long, slender fingers.

And, so intent was she on her own self-pleasure, that Drury noticed the slow insistent rapping on her window.

Her eyelids opened a second, and then closed again, as Drury continued to drive her fingers back and forth.

And, as her hips rose and fell, in rhythm with her pistoning motion, something, somewhere in her backbrain, heard the insistent rapping on the window-pane: as wind blew a branch upon it.

“Come in,” she called out softly, a sibilant whisper on the breeze.

And, on the edge of town, in a well-padded comfortable coffin, inside an ornate crypt, thin lips drew back into a rictus like smile, that bared two pronounced canine.

The vampire Lien was satisfied. The days of sending had proven fruitful. The invite was all he’d needed: and, tonight he would feed.

.

passive vengeance

2009-06-06T15:29:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, the 16th May, the fellow presenting the morning show on Radio Merseyside had starting by talking of ‘Coronation street’ and how Dev, the corner-shop lothario had finally had his come-uppance for his philandering ways, when a naked picture of him was displayed in the street, by his now ex-girlfriend.

He then asked for the listeners’s to phone-in with their own stories of vengeance attained. So, I had phoned in, with a story of my own, which dated back to 1976.

I say that, it had actually started in ’72, when a boy had stood up and betrayed a secret. The person the secret belonged to had been me. The other, the boy who had been so-mean, had seemed charming and very plausible: and my friend, till then.

Cut the chase, to two to three years later and the Geography room, which several of us fifth formers were using as a common-room during break-time.

Well, Yvonne had walked into where we were. Or the other Neil had, my memory isn’t clear on that. What I do recall well is the conflict that followed: and the order of those events, which is ironic considering what happened later and the opportunity for vengeance I was presented with. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Yvonne, had curves and though not tall, those curves were Junoesque: meaning she was very curvaceous and got the piss taken out of her goodstyle, by the mock-charmer.

She hadn’t taken his untoward remarks well and slapped him, somewhat justifiably in my opinion. But that hardly matters, as he blocked the move, then when she went to slap him a second time, the charming fellow head-butted her.

When she left the classroom she was fine, albeit tearful. But, she hadn’t been crying, not until halfway down the corridor and she pretty well walked into the Deputy Headmaster ‘Pop’ Roy. Then the tears had flowed: and needless to say, ramifications had followed.

‘Pop’ Roy had taken the two of them to the Headmaster’s Master and then the whole of the fifth year students, who Neil had said were present at “the incident”. And, soon there we all stood in a group before where the fellow sat behind his desk, reminding me somewhat of Captain Mainwaring from ‘Dads Army.’

Yvonne had said what had happened, when pressed. Then Neil had been questioned and his response had been, “She started it.”

‘Pop’ Roy is a stentorian and was the fellow who would generally do the caning’s for the Headmaster Mr. Bamforth: and, when he spoke people listened.

One by one he began to question the fifth year students. He had asked one fellow who Neil had made fun of his sister being killed on a bike. That guy took real pleasure in saying he knew nothing and said so with a straight face, as had each of the others.

Finally, ‘Pop’ Roy had got to the always smartly dressed fellow who Neil had considered his best friend at school. He too had said he knew nothing.

Then, both Mr. Bamforth and ‘Pop’ Roy had turned their gaze to me: “So what do you know Neil? Is he telling the truth when he says she started it?” I’d been asked.

Around me there’d been an air of expectation; people knew there was animosity between that scrot and me. So there wasn’t too much surprise I suppose from the fifth formers, when I’d looked Mr. Bamforth squarely in the eyes and said, “I don’t know anything about it Sir, I was talking to someone. I wasn’t paying attention.”

In essence, I had lied completely, just like several of the fifth year.

‘Pop’ Roy had turned to Neil and reminded him of the seriousness of the offence.
Then, after a moment’s deliberation they decided he would get the maximum punishment that a student would have had, during their tenure in their roles: six strokes of the cane, every day of the week.

So, as it happens, I had been presented the chance to obtain my vengeance, passively.

There, I finally told the tale. And though it’s taken awhile to do so, I think it was a good tale to tell…

red to blue, then black and red, again.

2009-06-06T15:22:00.000-07:00

Four and a half I would look up to my Mother, as we walked up the tree-lined Allport Road, crossed the green space with trees on the corner that we knew as The Common, then plodded onward, holding my Mum’s hand, a shock of blonde hair and inquisitive bright blue eyes.

I had walked to the school everyday, pleased to see people like Nicholas Butt, who could draw Thunderbird 5 better than me; and Linda Peters, who I would adore with love-struck eyes, over the sandpit.

I also recall a lad named Steve, the first to bully me with.

And, though there were many things I liked about that school, being bullied by that lad certainly took the shine of each day.

Then, all big brown eyes and dark hair, with chubby cheeks, my little brother had joined the same school: and, on his first day decided home was for him.

The reason for his decision had been a portion of baked beans on his plate at luch-time. And even now, I recall well the sound of his voice as he said, ‘Ugh’, in a rather loud voice, eyes wide as he’d stared at his plate, before yelling the walls down of the main hall, where people sat eating.

Yet little brother and friends aside, my days were made awkward by Steve, who would twist flesh, punch my arms and extort sweet money.

After a year or so, a new primary school had opened up near where I lived and no more did I have to trek up the road and my jumper turned from red to blue, with a change of uniform.

And, school was okay. I had my hassles, but nothing like I’d previously known. And, time passed, as it does…

One day I had been called to the Headmasters office. It seemed that a lad of eleven crying over his eleven-plus, when ‘everyone’ expected him to breeze-it through didn’t sit well with this little man, with heavy-framed glasses and a woollen green suit, who sat in a small office, with two understanding teachers standing by.

“So what do you want to do?” he had asked. “Do you want to go to a Grammar school, where you’ll probably be in one of the lower streams and have lot’s of pressure put on you? Or, do you want to go to a Secondary School, which is less academic and you’ll have less pressure put on you?” He had asked a very nervous, pale-faced boy, who was somewhat confused by these questions: “And, if you go to the secondary school,” he’d added, “you’ll be in one of the upper streams.”

To me, phrased like that, the answer was obvious: and, at eleven, I had chosen the least academic choice offered, the Secondary School.

Then, when I began as a first year at my ‘big school’, already very nervous, just to learn that on my first day, that Steve the bully I’d known, was there to meet me, as I’d walked through the gates.

Acre Lane was a Secondary School and it didn’t do to speak well, or take pride in the blazer, your Mother had made for you, in this case black, not blue like the second primary schools, unlike the first, which had been red..

It didn’t do, to speak proper [‘properly’] and carry a brief-case, when everyone else carried a haversack. It was also particularly awkward, if you didn’t like sport, or the latest pop-music.

And, the bullying I had got used to at Primary School had continued and, I remember a bully, who lived round the block from me passed by our bungalow one day on his way home: and, when I told my Mother about him, she had marched straight out the front door, collared him by the ear and took him to task. That had been one fellow who had never bothered me again.

Oh the school, like many, talked a good talk, about having an anti-bullying policy. In fact considering I am writing of the seventies, they were quite ahead of their time, for doing so. But, who wants to report someone, when after it’s dealt with; their mates will get you?

But the actual scale of the bullying escalated: a wooden cross tip fired into my ‘testicles’, is the worst I recall. Yet, the games master checking me out, ‘to see if you’re okay’ had augmented the pain and humiliation that sunny day during P.E.

But, I was still a loner, with a briefcase, a sheepdog haircut and stack shoes that made me even taller than I was, yet they were the fashion of the day.

There were many other incidents, but one afternoon in my fifth year, as I was hassled by a group of fourth years and one of them in particular, the cock of his year.

All those years of being picked-on had got to me, just a little bit too much: and, I’d exploded goodstyle.

I got beaten, once then twice, as people had gathered round and around us many shouted, “don’t get up’, but I had. Then I had dragged myself up the metal basketball goal posts, blood pouring from my face.

Turning to him, I had raised my fists again, in the stance that my Father had taught me. I wasn’t going down easily: that I’d decided.

And, though I got my face bashed yet again, so I ended up looking somewhat like a squashed strawberry - that was the day that I stopped being bullied at school, such was the respect I gained from those around me, including the one who had bashed me to the floor again and again, till the tarmac yard had been spilt by my blood.

massage

2008-03-09T05:48:00.000-07:00

massage

With two fiancée down and a t.v. lover who revelled in being my submissive love, whilst being a master to others, I had decided that I needed to know if I still liked to be with women. That’d been my starting point. But, where to go and what to do? Both of them were good questions. Yet, I’d been working and single, so my options hadn’t been few, that much can be said. So it was, I’d taken myself to a pub in Liverpool and downstairs, called ‘Atmosphere’ and the charms of a Thai lap-dancer, May. She’d a beautiful smile, great body and smelt good. But, there’s still been no contact. And, still the question had burned within: “Did I still like to be with women?” I’d needed, really needed an answer to my question. So, the Saturday after an evening of whiskey, too many cigarettes and looking at beautiful scantily clad and naked women, I had decided to do something about it. I went up the road and to the newsagents and bought a paper, The Sport. And, it hadn’t been the sports section I’d been reading, with my glasses perched on my nose, as I’d read through the personal ads. Eventually finding what I’d been looking for. The best bit? It was quite local. Then time had passed, about four weeks and another pay-cheque in the bank and I’d decided to act, or rather, I’d decided to phone.
“Hello, this is Kate, welcome to…” A welcoming voice had answered.
“I’ve not done this before. I want a massage and…” I’d started.
“Well, we’ll look after you,” she’d responded and I could just imagine her smiling as she had done so.
“This afternoon we have Shelley with us.” Kate had continued. “She’s a blue-eyed blonde, with er.. nice big boobies. She’ll appreciate a first-timer, I’m sure…”
“Er, how much?” I had answered with a quaver in my voice.
“Seventy pounds. Anything else is between yourself and the girl.”
I’d had a little more than that in my wallet, well quite a bit more.
“Er.. can you give me an idea please.. ? So I know how much to bring…”
There’d been a brief pause before she answered.
“About forty…”
I’d checked my wallet again, quickly.
“I’ll be there…” I’d retorted eagerly.
“About how long?” She had enquired.
“About an hour and a half,” I’d assured her, looking at my watch.
“Well, you just ring when you’re nearby, alright?”
“Uh-huh, certainly.”
“It’s the green gate. We’re above the sweet shop, off Poulton Rd…”
“Uh huh, I’ll be there…”
I’d crossed the road, feeling the light rain on my head as I’d done so: and, found the green gate to the left of the sweet-shop. I’d opened it and walked down the small pathway through the overgrown weeds, to the somewhat battered looking door.
Then I’d knocked and waited.
As the seconds had turned into a minute, I’d nearly turned and fled.
I hadn’t though; and when the door opened I’d been glad that I hadn’t.
“Hi, I’m Kate,” the slim to medium build, sandy-haired smiler had pronounced.
“And, I’m nervous.”
“Sorry for the delay ‘nervous’, but I was checking the camera…” She had said as she gestured for me to follow her inside: and I had.
“I’m Neil.”
“Hello Neil, some along then. This way…”
She’d led me up a carpeted flight of stairs and I’d happily followed her blue-jean clad buttocks.
“Shelley has someone with her right now. But, he’s a regular and I’m h won’t be long.” Kate had continued, as she led me to a lounge dash reception area and bid me to sit down. I had and loosened my topcoat.
“Nice boots,” I’d observed, having noticed them
“So this is your first time having a … massage?” Kate had asked.
“Oh, I’ve had a massage before,” I’d told Kate, as she glanced toward a t.v. monitor, “just never…
“One with extra’s?”
“Yeah,” I’d replied with a smile.
Kate undoubtedly had real people skills: I’d already started to feel comfortable.
“Do you want a coffee, or tea?” she queried, as she went into the kitchenette and begun to make our coffee.
“Coffee, black, please?” I had requested.
As I’d glanced round, I’d wondered whether Shelley would be a pleasant as Kate was. I had certainly hoped so.
Moments passed, and then finally she’d been back.
“So this is your first time?” Kate asked, as she had handed me my coffee.
“Well, like this…” I’d answered somewhat tongue-tied, “like I said on the phone.”
“And what’s ‘this’ like?” She’d asked with a light grin on her face.
“Much different than I expected,” I’d explained, then added, “but I didn’t really know what I’d expected.”
The room had looked like a residents lounge in a small hotel; and, comfortable.
My eyes had fallen to the monitor, on the floor, next to the phone. On the screen was an image in black ‘n white of where I’d entered a little earlier.
“That’d been a surprise,” I’d said to Kate, indicating it with a pointed finger.
“Well, like I said, we’ve had some weirdo’s around of late. And, I’m here till the when the girls go.”
“You don’t?..”
“Just answer the phone, take the booking’s and…” she’d grinned, “watch out for weirdo’s.
“Like me?” I’d asked with a light grin.
“Oh no, not like you,” she’d responded with a grin, “you’re different.”
‘Different,’ I like different.
Kate undoubtedly had real people skills: I’d already started to feel comfortable.
“Do you want a coffee, or tea?” she queried.
She’d immediately got into my goods books and we’d begun to talk about all sorts of things.
And one of the things we’d spoken of had been what had brought me there. That had been a good question to try answer. But, I’d made the attempt. At explaining something I’d found difficult to explain to myself. By so doing, I found reflection and didn’t notice the time pass at all.
Finally our chat was disturbed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
“Sounds like Shelley’s finished,” Kate informed me, as she had stood.
Shelley had finished with her client.
She’d been blonde, with blue-eyes; curvy in corselet and heels: and, not that tall. In fact, she was much shorter than Kate, even with her heels on.
“Oh-boy I need a piss and a drink. And not necessarily in that order,” she expressed with a long sigh.
She’d removed one shoe, rubbed her foot, as she supported herself against the wall.
“Damn heels. I need the height, but god they ache after awhile.”
“But they do look good on you,” I’d said with a smile as I’d looked at her shapely legs, encased in fully-fashioned stockings.
“Why thank you,” the blonde had said to me, on the way to the kitchenette.
“So who is the gentleman?” she had asked moments later as she had stuck her head round the doorway a bottle of blue WKD in her hand.
“Your next client,” Kate had told her with a grin.
I’d looked from one to the other and caught ‘the look.’
Call it what you will, but they had definitely shared, that look.
“Well give me chance to have a wash up and pee and I’ll be with you, ‘kay?”
Shelley had told me as she set her bottle on the floor and headed for the toilet across the passage-way.
Kate had stood up from the couch, away from where I’d sat.
“I’ll take him downstairs and get things ready hun…”
“Ta babe,” Shelley had responded from where she sat, as the sound of her peeing got louder.
“C’mon then Mr Nervous…” Kate had said, guided me to the stairway by the elbow.
She had led me to a small room, dominated by its bed. The only other furniture was a wardrobe, a nightstand and a chair by the closed curtains covering the windows.
The colours were all pastel shades, a variant on orange.
“Why don’t you get undressed while I get ‘things ready’?”
Undressed?
I’d done so slowly, folding my trousers and placing my shirt over the back of the chair, then my jackets over it. Finally I stood naked with my back to Kate, as she finished putting down two white towels down the length of the bed.
“Have you got the money at hand?” Kate had quizzed.
“Uh huh,” I’d responded, digging into the back of my trousers for my wallet.
I’d removed seventy pounds from it, which I’d handed to Kate, which she’d accepted with a smile.
“Do I give this to you?” I’d asked, as I’d hesitated with the other forty pound in my hands.
“No, you give it to Shelley.”
There I’d stood, naked, discussing finances and I’d been comfortable with it.
That’d been surprising.
‘Was I getting back to my old uninhibited self?’ I’d mused, as she had lit some oil lamps and a couple of joss-sticks.
Very quickly the room had smelt good and the room was warm.
“Now you relax lie down and relax Neil, Shelley will be with you in a minute…”
I’d lain down as she suggested; and it’d felt okay, lying there. But I’d felt those butterflies of expectation, as Kate’s footsteps could be heard on the steps.
Only a short while had passed, before the bedroom door had opened and Shelley had entered the room and stood at the end of the bed.
I’d looked over my shoulder and there she stood, long blonde hair, in black, stocking and heels, her hands on her hips.
“Do you like what you see?” She’d asked.
‘Did I like you see?’
She’d been all hips and thighs; and, her full boobs had pretty-well overspilled from the material.
Her pendulous breasts hung to her chest, seeming to emphasise further to curves.
Shelley had wide hips leading to shapely full thighs, then to quite defined calve muscles, from the high heels.
But, it had been the width of her waist that got me, it was tiny.
“You’re so slim.” I’d had to comment, as I’d stared at her body.
“This helps,” she had emphasized by caressing the corselets material, “But yes, after four kids, I figure I’m doin okay.”
“Well, I think you look great.” And, I’d meant it. Shelley hadn’t just looked sexy she was sexy.
Having wondered if I’d being with a woman again, like this; I’d liked what I had seen.
“Do you want them out or in?” She had asked, with a wide smile as she cupped them through the corselet top.
‘Oh-boy, a choice?’
“Out, please?” I’d asked, as if I were a child asking for sweets.
Staring at my intent gaze, Shelley had eased her voluminous breasts from her top. Magnificent.
My mouth had grown dry, as she had teased her nipples with her thumbs.
It had become a desert when she took her left breast in her hands and begun to lasciviously suck at her nipple, gazing at me.
“So do you want your massage then?” She had asked, allowing the breast to fall back to her chest.
“Oh yes please,” I’d enthused, turning to place my chin on my folded hands on the pillows.
Shelley had then walked to the nightstand, removed a plastic bottle and she’d spread oils on her hands.
Her hands had felt good on my shoulders and back and that’s where it had ended really. It wasn’t the best massage I’ve had, but it had felt good.
“Do you want ‘extras then?” She’d asked in a matter of fact way, as she’d rubbed the excess oil onto a towel, she’d taken from a pile on the floor.
“Er yes,” I’d responded eagerly, half-turning, so displaying my arousal, which I’d like to think she appreciated. She hadn’t even glanced my way.
“Did Kate discuss prices with you?” Shelley had queried.
“Yeah, I believe forty will be enough?” I’d asked.
Shelley did I’d requested and held up the money, two tens and a twenty.
“Is that okay?” She’d asked.
“Yeah sure,” I’d answered, as Shelley had poured reached into a bowl on the nightstand and removed a condom.
“We always use these, No matter what you want. Alright?” She quizzed.
I wasn’t going to gamble with my health.
“Sure,” I’d replied, aching to feel her hands on my body again.
Sighing, with my eyes closed, I’d relished the feel of her thigh as she sat next to me, really aware of the warm flesh above her stocking-top against me.
She was very much in control, as Shelley drove my flesh, her heavy breasts swinging in time with her pumping action on my tumescent flesh.
My thighs had begun to tremble as my climax began.
“Well, this isn’t needed,” Shelley had said, pulling the condom off.
Then, sliding her hands up my body, Shelley had increased her ministrations, her oily breasts a delight, as they slid up and down either side of man man-meat.
Finally I’d groaned loudly, as my back arched like an aroused feline, as I deposited Pulse after pulse of my cream over her breasts, coating them.
“Well, someone needed that,” Shelley had said as she stood, wiping her breasts down, with the towel she had used earlier.
That day I’d decided I still liked women, a lot.
Then, fancy-free and with money from my job, I’d passed through that green gate many times. Only once did I see someone other than Shelley. It’d been ‘a kid’, whose moves had been far too practised and business-like to me: and, just desirable.
So it was, I’d looked forward to seeing her and her massage.
One time had been really special.
I had had turned up as normal; and waited awhile talking, as normal.
The massage had been perfunctory, but pleasant. And, I’ll say this; her had felt good to me. That’d been interesting; and particularly pleasant when her hands kneaded my buttocks, thumbs ever so near where only a few men and fiancée had been before her. Okay, more than a few mean: and, my last fiancée. But, she’d been the best.
And, it wasn’t her at that moment; it’d been this lady, in a ‘massage parlour’, Shelley.
I’d clenched my sphincter muscles together involuntarily and groaned.
I just couldn’t help it.
And she’d smiled; I’d seen it, as I’d looked over my shoulder at her.
“You really like that, don’t you?” She’d quizzed me, thumbs just teasing me open a little.
And, I’d wondered how much Kate had told her of my experiment. Maybe she’d known all along what I wanted.
I’d moaned into the pillows, gripping the bedclothes, quite aroused, but very frustrated. I just couldn’t say what I wanted, need.
“Please,” I’d entreated, still seeking satisfaction, nay, need it.
“Just lie there,” Shelly instructed as she’d moved away, “I think I know where this is going…”
Shelley had returned to the bed, stretching the fingers of a doctor’s surgical glove, to fit the fingers of her right hand.
“MMmmmmm…” I’d felt languorous, yet needy.
At that moment I’d have done anything she wanted.
Then, staring into my eyes, as I’d looked over my shoulder, she liberally applied lube to the fingers.
“Well, we don’t want to hurt you, do we?” she’d said, with a particularly delightful wicked smile.
Shelley had then circled the bed and knelt on it, to my left.
With her left hand on my right buttock, she’d parted my cheeks, just as I’d turned my head to look at her.
Shelley’s face had borne a look of intense concentration, as she pressed the middle finger-tip, against the tightened muscles of my asshole.
“Oh yes,” I’d gasped, with pleasure, at that fingers slow intrusion. And, back and forth it slid, preparing me for what was to follow.
I’d just lain there, moaning with pleasure, as she’d taken possession of me with another three fingers.
In and out, she worked those fingers, filling me, as I’d wanted.
“Do you want more?” Shelley had whispered into my left ear.
Eyes closed in rapture; I’d only been able to answer in a hoarse voice.
“Oh yes please…”
With her left hand on my lower back, those fours fingers had pistoned in and out of me, slowly. They had stretched me, widening me further, so I’d be ready for what happened next.
Momentarily, Shelley had drawn those insistent digits from within me and left me hollow and feeling empty.
Then she had lubed her fist, much as she had her fingers earlier and she worked me slowly, at first.
Finally Shelley had been pumping that hand into my, well up to her wrist and as I’d gripped the bedclothes, I’d moaned my appreciation.
It was then that I’d realized that a woman could satisfy all my needs: including being taken, like Shelley had done so…

A Doctors.. Help

2008-03-09T05:45:00.000-07:00

A Doctor’s.. Help.

It was early evening and the teen was the last patient of the day.She had entered the teak panelled small office sucking slowly on a lollipop, wide eyes staring from side to side, at the framed certificates, a testament to his learning.Hello Doctor Winterton.. I’m pleased.. you could see me.. I’ve..” She said, removing the lollipop briefly, licking at her sugar sweet lips: “I’ve heard so much, about you.”He glanced up and smiled; looking at the short tartan skit, white sock srolled down to her practical brown sandals. Bespectacled and wearing a waistcoat and cravat, the man was in his early sixties, an unlit pipe in the crook of his mouth, between the greying goatee.He sat on a large winged red leather armchair, his notepad on his lap, legs crossed, right over left, drawing his trouser up to show his Simpsons socks.“Who from, Miss..?”“Yolanda Khan... Sir.” The teen told him, as she twirled a pigtail.“An unusual name Miss Khan.” Michael Winterton said distantly, his eyes drawn to her chest and how she filled her blouse: how it was apparent she wore no bra, the impression of her nipples clearly evident.“My grandfather was Indian.. and.. I was named after my Mother, from Yugoslavia.”“Yet you have such blonde hair, freckles and fair skin..” he said slowly, appraising the girls looks.“Why thank you,” she giggled; “I try to keep out of the sun.”Yolanda continued to giggle, as she walked slowly to him, again sucking the lollipop.“Well, do come and lie down and maybe I can help?” he told her, gesturing with his pipe, toward the black leather couch to the left of his seat and next to the wall.She sat, for a moment, swinging her legs back and forth, looking at Winterton straight in his eyes, pulling the lollipop from her sugar-coated lips, which she licked with the tip of her tongue.“Do I lie down, while we talk, like they do in the movies?”“Yes, that’s the idea,” he assured her gently, his hands on her shoulders as he helped her lay back, placing a read cushion beneath her head.Then Winterton sat as before, his concentration fixed on the teens pale thigh, as his pen hovered over the pad.He reached over with his left hand and lightly stroked her hair.“So, what brings you here?” The Doctor asked.“I told you, one of my friends said you helped her.. after her parents broke up,” she replied, talking into her chin softly, drawing her right leg up to a crooked position. The tartan skirt fell away at the side, where it’d been loosely pinned, exposing the side of her white cotton panties.Breathing hard, Winterton set his notebook and pipe down by the side of his chair and knelt at Yolanda’s side, his right hand on the teenager’s calf.“And was I able to help your friend?” He asked, feeling the flesh tremble as his fingers brushed the tartan skirt aside.Yolanda turned her face to the wall.“You helped her.. make a decision..” she told him, speaking from around the lollipop, her hands at her sides; the small fists clenched, knuckles showing white.He couldn’t help himself, Winterton thought, pressing his lips to her bony right hip, his right hand on her thigh now.“So what’s her name, the one I helped?” he asked, drawing back a moment.“Heather Cirrone..” She whispered, as he cupped her right breast in his left hand; the mottled flesh a contrast to the white of her blouse.He liked the feel of her pert bosom and easily mistook her rapid breathing for passion.‘Heather Cirrone?’ The name meant nothing to him; there’d been so many in here, on that same couch.“Do you remember her?” Yolanda asked, turning to watch the older mans mottled baldpate, as he pressed his face to her soft belly.She didn’t smile, as she queried him.“Yes,” he lied easily; as he undid his zip and drew his arouse manhood into the open.“I’m pleased you remember her, Doctor Winterton..” Yolanda expressed softly, smiling again, recalling exactly why she was here.“I’m very pleased.. you remember Heather..” she murmured, as the Doctor mauled her body.The smile widened as she drew strength from the Full Moon, allowing the power it instilled to course through her, as the change began.Yet obsessed as he was, with the nubile body before him, Winterton didn’t notice her eyes turn from blue to amber, as her pupils became elliptical: and she bared her canine teeth.He even smiled, as Yolanda leant over and ran her right hand over his back, upward, toward his neck.Abruptly he felt the pain, as nails turned talon long and sharp, tore at his flesh, cutting deep.She raked flesh from him and blood showered the black leather couch, as the teen leapt upon him, taut thighs round his back.Winterton fell forward groaning loudly, clutching at the wound in his neck; so was unable to fend away any further attack.“Help..” he cried out.Yolanda’s eyes burned with her rage, raking her claws through his shirt, ripping open his stomach, bloody entrails spilling forth.Still he lived.Turning, he looked up, at the lupine avenger.“Why?” He tried to ask around the blood frothing in his throat, choking him.All the sound he made though was a gurgle, as he rolled over into the viscous crimson mess that had issued from him.“Why?” Yolanda snarled as she stood: “Is that what you want to know?”Her blue eyes calmer, as was her demeanour, Yolanda crouched down to retriever her skirt.“I’ll tell you why. Your help led to a good friend killing herself.. Doctor Winterton.”He heard her words from a distance, as he watched her dress. And Michael Winterton remembered Heather Cirrone, moments before he died, as Yolanda walked out of the office and into the night; pleased, her coven sister would now rest easy.

Eight Till Late

2007-12-15T16:46:00.000-08:00

Eight till Late

Having read the graphic novel, I’d seen the film, ’30 Days Of Night’ with interest. Then I’d left the theatre, hyped: surprised it had ever had ever been written of, let alone made into a feature film
I’d thought those events had been suppressed. After all, they’d not set the story when they actually took place. It was plainly inaccurate. And, to my knowledge, that town of Barrow was quite literally wiped off the map. And yet somehow a film was made of it. Amazing.
Then later, as I’d sat with a scotch before me a re-run pf the first series of ‘Angel’ on the box and I can’t help but smile with wry amusement at Josh Wheedons take on the vampire. As if his character is the only one to have a mortal soul and feel angst, for all he’s wrought: The sheer naivety of it.
Of course there are those to whom humans are nothing but cattle, yet I’m certain they’re in the minority.
Grant you, I defer to those who write well. Yet, preferring an accurate representation of them, I do find some of the stories and myths, somewhat irritating, to say the least.
I suppose that’s why I’ve put pen to paper now, to speak of that of which I understand. All of which brings me to my tale, of a night like any other, spent looking for a meal.
It was the night before last and I’d decided to eat out, out of town that is. After all, what is it they say, ‘never shit on your own doorstep.’
Well, in my case, I don’t eat in my neighbourhood, most of the time.
Although as I suggest, I do make exceptions like the girl with haunted eyes and her lower arms bandaged. I’d thought I’d do her a favour.
Not one of my better ideas really, it seems she’d wanted to live and screamed far more loudly than I’d initially expected.
Yet, I’ve gotten myself distracted, already. I’d wanted to write of that particular night.
Having left the car in the garage for the night, I’d decided to use the train and take advantage of the pre-Christmas ‘eight-till-late’ shopping policy, of the season. With my lifestyle, public transport is a novelty; and a luxury for the senses.
There’s so much to see and appreciate, the people, the passing scenery, such as it is at that time of the late evening; and, of course, ‘the people.’
There’d been the woman idly flicking through page after page of a gossip magazine with an occasional sniff. You could just find yourself imagining she’s just passing time and wondered why she couldn’t find a handkerchief, as the rapidity of the sniffs increased.
Then there’d been the larger woman, sitting across the aisle across from me and opposite her. She had long black hair and all long black clothing, nose ensconced in a romance novel, seemingly oblivious to the world passing by. And then, there’d been the young man, shrunken into his jacket; hands shoved into side pockets as he furtively swept the carriage with a nervous stare. And, from nowhere, well a bag to her side, the largish woman began to extricate and consume a crisp, then another, as she read; cheese ‘n onion, I’d assumed from the manufactured aroma.
The young man had glanced toward me, I recall. So of course, I’d stared back. How could I not? Needless to say, within less than a minute, the young fellow had been looking out of the window.
Yet, it was the dye-blonde, with dark streaks and shoulder-length hair that had caught my attention as we had neared the end of the journey.
She’d been wearing a leopard-print mock-fur jacket and seemed to have her mobile phone glued to her left-ear, with her arrange to meet her boyfriend; then with her next call, ‘score a weed’, as she phrased it, occasionally glancing at the highly manicures scarlet nails of her clenched left hand.
I’d arisen slowly, as the train juddered to a halt and stood at the doors, with the young man, just to my left, a cautious look on his face.
Then I’d disembarked and found myself amidst a large crowd of people, many of them middle-aged women armed to the gunnels with their shopping bags, and the occasional rolled umbrella, their faces made-up a little too heavily.
I’d made my way upstairs, three at a time, with a desire to be away from the throng of heavily scented bodies, smells worn to impress: the many various smells acting to irritate my heightened sense of smell.
Within five minutes I’d found my way to the town, where smiling and worn faces and the shops I’d rarely seen, since the year before.
It’d been quite surreal; to do things I hadn’t for oh-so-long, like chewing gum, buying a donut, or even a coffee at Waterstones, the bookshop I used to like to frequent.
I’d even amused myself at one point, when I’d elected to help a young pregnant woman up a flight of steps with a pram.
I’m aware there are those who would be sneering at me, but this is just as it was, so er… you know the rest?
Yet, I digress. It had been after I’d helped the young mother toward the hole-in-the-wall that I seen her. And if my heart beat, it would have beat faster.
There she had been, just as I remembered her… well, almost.
She had the same almond-shaped eyes, olive complexion and height, about 5 foot, 5 inches or maybe 6 But, she looked harder, different somehow.
It’d been the crooked-smile that gave it away. Ava. It wasn’t Lita. They’d looked alike, both wide-hipped Latin lovelies, the same age. Same father’s? No.
The story is a ship came in of Venezuelan sailors and now, there’s several young women of Lita’s age in the area. Ah, Elizabeth Maria Gonzalez. Ava shared the same name and maybe a similar hard upbringing. Yet, whereas Lita did well though, at least while I knew her, Ava had not. Getting involved with one drunk after another, having several children on the way.
Thing was, when things had ended between Lita and myself, I found it hard to look at Ava. Now, here I was in town and here she was, standing just before me.
Now I could look at her with different eyes. Time hadn’t been as kind as it could have been to her. She has a few lines in her face more than I recall. Her smile was crooked.
And, I recall a bright sunny day when we’d met in town, much like recently. She’d told me of her toothache and pointed to a hanger, growing through the gum on the left. Ava had told me she couldn’t get on dentists list, so she was going to remove it herself. She had smiled then, as she did when stood before one another, her heavily painted lips serving to highlight that crooked smile.
Ava had worn a short black leather skirt, ending thigh-thigh, dark hose and knee-high slim-fitting black boots, with a high instep and slim heel of about two or three inches. Up top, she’d worn a loose white cotton blouse and a blue-jean jacket.
She must’ve been cold, I’d mused.
She must’ve been cold, I’d mused, taking on board the passers-by, many of them wrapped up well against the weather.
“You look good,” she’d said with a smile. And maybe she’s right. I’m slim, fair-haired, a little gaunt in the face, but my green-blue eyes, beneath the ‘John Lennon’ glasses are what hold the attention. Well them and my taste in clothes: black zip-up ankle boots, with a touch of a heel; black coal black jeans, white shirt, smart waist-coat and a blue-jacket; above which I’d worn a mock leather jacket, draping loose of my ensemble. I almost forget the Ankh, worn round my neck, it’s silver; so that blows another myth; and, hangs by a black bootlace.
And, she’d smiled, a warm smile, that’d touched the lines at the corners of her eyes. ‘A sign of hard living?’ Time had passed. A lot may have happened. But, oh-boy Ava had still looked good to my eyes. Of course, she looked like Lita: after all, that was why I’d hardly been able to look at her, let alone talk to her. That’d been way back though.
“So how are you doing?” I’d asked, trying not to stare at her thighs.
But, not too hard.
Like Lita, Ava had good legs and were certainly well worth looking at.
“I’m okay,” she had replied, as the smile had slipped from her face.
“Just okay? My query hadn’t been feigned. I had been interested.
That’d been somewhat of a surprise. But, hers had been a welcome face to run into, from a time before.
“Yeah, okay…” Ava had repeated, glancing quickly to her left, then right.
Even without my cognizant awareness, I’d have realized how anxious she was. As it was, it’d been glaring to me.
“So how about coming for a quick drink, so we can talk over old times then Ava?”
Panic had flit across her beautiful face, as she’d considered my suggestion.
“No, no… sorry, I can’t,” she’d told me, using her a lot, as she spoke.
People had passed, as I’d stared at her quietly and spoke with calm assurance.
“A drink and a chat. That’s all. Just fifteen minutes out of your day.”
She’d looked over her left shoulder, anxiously and flinched a little, as I lightly caressed her cheek.
“Please, don’t?” She had said, a crack in her voice, on the verge of tears.
As a gaggle of ladies passed behind us, I’d caressed her right cheek, drawing my thumb along her lower lip, with a featherlight touch.
She’d looked up, toward me, tears welling in wide eyes.
“I can’t, I need to…”
“Need to come with me is what you want to do…” I’d said to her in a commanding low tone: and, smiled broadly, hoping it looked sincere.
Wiping the dew-drop from her nose, with the cuff of her denim top, Ava had sniffed.
“Well… maybe, for a few minutes…” she muttered, looking down and using her sleeve again.
“Good girl,” I’d pronounced, as I took her left elbow gently in my right hand and led us both to the nearest watering hole.
My choice hadn’t been the best. The décor consisted of too much chrome, plastic and ferns, for my liking.
The staff seemed to comprise of one spotty young man, an Asian teen of miniscule height, with the widest smile I’ve ever seen; and a buxom blonde, all in white shirt and black trousers.
And, of the ninety or so circular smoked glass tables either side of the central bar, only six or seven had been occupied.
Ava had sat on the padded bench seat by the window at her request.
“So, what are you having?” I’d asked, as she tucked her bag into her side.
“Vodka and coke,” Ava had answered, absently gazing out of the window
Easing my through tightly packed seating I’d made my way to the bar and called the Asians attention to me with a glance.
“Voka and coke and a double scotch, house’ll do…”
“No house,” she had apologised, with a solemn expression.
“Okay, J.D., a double,” I’d responded. My treat, to me.
She’d brightened and been all smiles once more the moment she was serving, ensuring a good service and a tip.
“Keep the change,” I’d said, leaving far more money than the drinks cost.
I’d then returned to where Ava sat and presented her with her drink, to take the seat opposite. She had smiled briefly and then I’d reached across the table and covered her right hand with my left.
“You’re edgy. Evasive…tell me, what is it? What’s the matter?” I’d asked emphatically.
“I…” She began.
“I need…”
“Go on Ava, you need what?” I queried.
“I need some money…” She said finally, looking down at her drink.
“Uh huh, what for, or is that being impolite…?”
“It’s okay,” she sniffed, on the verge of tears.
“I don’t mind telling you. I guess…”
So, I’d waited for her to expand on this great dark secret, for which she seemed… ashamed? As it seems, that’d been an astute wondering.
“It’s for Tony. He’s stringing… so, he sent me out to…” She’d said it all at once, as if that made it easier for her to say.
“So he sent you out to earn it for him?” I’d added.
Tony: the latest waster in her life. I’d known the previous one, but knew of him. As alike as two peas in a pod those two… ‘and what was it she’d said she needed?’
Not much.
“I’ll give it to you…” I’d said, recalling the money in my wallet: then offered her four times the amount, to join me for the evening and, my pleasure.
Immediately her mood had brightened.
It’s just that it’s near Christmas and no-ones out… and…” She’d exclaimed, all in a rush.
“Shush,” I’d said, squeezing her hand gently, “it’s decided then. You’ll have it and more.”
We’d left the precinct and the desolate pub, to walk round the corner onto the kerbside and rank I recalled, then got a taxi back to my apartment block near the waterfront.
As we journeyed, Ava had looked at me anxiously, her eyes filling once more.
“Please, can I have the money Tony needs?? He’s needing it and well…”
“You’ll suffer…”
She’d nodded.
Plans forming subconsciously, I’d thought on what she said.
“Yeah sure,” I had replied, “and we’ll drop it off on the way to mine.”
So we’d motored, sitting quietly in the back of the cab, stopping off just outside their home, where I’d waited moderately patiently, as she unlocked the front door and ran inside, to pay the money to Tony.
A net curtain in the front windows twitched, literally, so I knew someone was watching me.
Then, finally Ava ran back to the car. I’d opened the door and she had stepped in.
“He’s okay with me now,” she had said to me turning to me and smiling.
“That’s good,” I’d replied with a light smile on my face, which hardly belonged there.
I’d taken her hand.
“So where to mate?” The driver questioned, as he turned to look over his shoulder.
Then squeezing her hand, to offer assurance I had smiled gently at Ava and then repeated the address when we’d first got into the car.
Although the traffic was quite heavy, it took less than ten minutes to finish our journey.
“Are you sure?” Ava had queried coyly glancing at me through the corner of her left eye, as she swept her hair from her face, as the car pulled into a turn.
For a moment, I saw this girl of my past as the little girl she had been, all dark hair and wide-eyed innocence: And, I’d seen her small, sitting there in the corner of the seat, a small frame, and bare legs…
‘Bare legs, encased in black-nylon and encased in knee-high black boots, with a narrow four-inch heels – and, here to let you partake of her’ I’d reminded myself hurriedly.
“Yes, I’m certain,” I’d replied decisively.
“I’m pleased,” she came back to me, turning her head to look out the window as she brushed at her hair with her fingers.
I’d paid the driver, leaving a reasonable tip and we’d walked across the few steps to the buildings entrance.
“Nice place,” Ava pronounced, looking at the red-brick and glass edifice where I live, the river at its rear.
My bedroom look over the view costs a lot, but there are times when it’s worth the money and that night had been one of them.
And yet again I digress from the thread, most remiss of me.
I’d keyed in the door code on the pad just to the right of the door and hearing the click of the lock opening I’d pushed the door inward.
“Come in…” I’d said to her, ushering her in with theatrical flair.
I’d gestured for Ava to enter first, telling her the floor and flat number, telling her I’d follow.
“I’m liking the view…” I had added with a grin.
The boots heels had served to exaggerate a distinct sway of her hips and her buttocks had been a sheer delight to watch, as she’d led the way.
Then, when she’d been six steps ahead of me on the stairs, I’d followed, enjoying the view.
At the top of her self-supporting, lace-edged stockings her flesh was mine to see; the shape of her full buttocks; and the succulent looking peach, split in half by the gusset of a pair of white bikini briefs.
The undulation of her backside and the inviting view of her hardly covered pussy entranced me: and aroused me highly.
Yet all too soon we’d been at my door, which I’d opened with the keys already in hand.
Once inside, I’d led us through the back hall to the main room, which like the bedroom, had a fine view of the river.
Igniting the fire I had poured myself a scotch; and Ava a stiff vodka and coke; well diet Pepsi actually. She’d taken the proffered glass with a flutter of her long dark lashes.
“My, its getting warm in here,” she’d told me, long seconds after taking a quick slug of her drink.
Ava had shrugged her jacket off, to throw it over the back of the black leather couch, sitting just to the left of the television, it’s back to the picture window and its view of the river.
Her skin looked good in the warmth, as she had looked at me with dark eyes and licked her lips.
“Now the blouse and skirt?” I’d suggested, suddenly having flashes of Lita’s face, every time I’d looked at Ava.
She had looked down to the tips of her boots for a moment, then lifted her gaze to mine.
“Now?” She had asked.
“Oh yes, now…” I’d told her, as I’d sat on the comfortable black seat, to watch.
She began to unfasten the top buttons on her blouse.
“Oh no. The skirt first,” I’d begun quickly, “stand, do it slowly. I want to enjoy watching you.”
She stood timidly and walked a few paces, to stand just in front of me.
Downing her drink and setting the glass down, Ava looked warily around the room a moment, before she reached behind herself and undid the button and zip at its back.
Ava eased the skirt over her full buttocks and wriggling her hips, it slid to the floor and she had stepped out of it. She kicked it toward the sofa then turned to face me, her hands on her hips.
“Do you like my legs?” She’d asked, with a slight frown. Thighs full, with shape, clad in laced-stockings and boots?
‘They look great,’ I’d thought.
“Nice…” I’d said.
“Some people say I’ve got fat legs.” She’d continued, as she turned her back to me.
“And my ass?” Ava questioned, running her left hand up from her thigh and the rounded swell of her buttocks: “Do you think it’s too big?”
Not a white girls bottom, or a black woman’s butt, Ava had a proper Latino ass.
“Uh-uh, I think it’s perfect,” I’d told her.
And realizing a personal preference of mine, Ava had cupped as much of her right buttock in her hand and did the same with the left.
Wearing just the white blouse, over which her long black hair fell Ava looked over her left shoulder and had smiled broadly.
“So you like my…?” She asked.
“Ass. Oh yes,” I’d replied, “I like your ass.”
I actually found this exposure of insecurities, as she tried to be seductive, very erotic; and, extremely arousing. There’s no question about it, a woman in a white shirt and little or nothing else looks good.
“Do you want another drink?” I’d asked, standing and breaking the moment.
“Er, yes…” She’d answered, after moments thought.
I’d stood, hoping my arousal wasn’t too apparent, as she covered her crotch with both hands and not been able to stop smiling, as I was again reminded that she was new to this. The evening had certainly been different from my so-called normal nights.
She had stood there, looking distinctly embarrassed, as I turned the lights to dim, and then turned to the dresser and the open door to the liquor cabinet.
I’d poured my scotch, and then as I began to pour hers, spoken slowly without looking back.
“Remove your panties and sit down on the couch, and I’ll bring your drink over.”
I’d heard her answer ‘sure’ quietly, as I turned from the cabinet to the stereo.
I’d found the album Sade, by the singer; and put it on, playing it from that track that’s almost guaranteed to promote romantic sex, combined with wine, hearthrug and warming fire.
As gentle full-sound filled the room, I’d turned back to Ava, our drinks in hand.
“Part your thighs a little,” I had instructed as I’d leant forward to hand Ava her drink.
I’d walked toward where I’d sat earlier, opposite where she sat, grinning as I’d stared at her, noting her self-consciously running her fingers through her hair, as she looked nervously around.
The action that decided for me that it was evident Ava was still new to ‘the game.’
That thought amused me as I had taken our drinks toward her and I’d sat to her right. She had turned to look at me, as I’d begun to undo the buttons to her blouse, my gaze holding hers.
“I want to see the rest of you,” I’d murmured, using a hard voice, as I’d slipped it from her shoulders, and then helped her off with the half-cup bra, which barely contained her ample charms.
“Sit back,” I’d instructed.
She turned back to me and sat back a little obediently, so I could look at her properly, her breathing faster, arousal evidenced by the erect nipples on each dark aureole. Lowering my face to her right breast, I licked softly, eliciting a gasp of pleasure.
I drew away a little, my hands on her shoulders and I turned her a little, to kiss her shoulders and back.
That had been when I’d seen the small circular scars on her flesh, well over ten of them, on her upper back.
“What are these?” I asked, after kissing two of the white indents on her skin.
“Erm…” Silence.
“What are these?” I asked again, using the same hardened commanding tone of voice I had earlier.
“They’re burns…” Ava had answered quietly.
“I can see that,” I’d assured her, “who and where did they come from?”
“A customer, a friend of Tony’s.” She answered with her head low.
‘Tony, her husband? Nice man.’
I’d wanted to hurt the fellow, there and then, but there she was, her flesh alluring, her blood my nourishment.
I’d kissed her scars some more with gentle kisses, then her right shoulder.
“Turn round,” I had told her softly.
Savouring the glow of lust in each other's eyes, we had melted into a passionate and pressed together. My left hand behind her head, my right on her left shoulder I drew her lips to mine and we both leaned back onto the sofa. My tongue snaked out and opened Ava’s accepting mouth and our tongues wrestled as I pressed my lips against hers.
Then I’d drawn away a moment to look into her eyes, as I had slipped my right hand between Ava’s legs parted to allow my fingers access to her, arching her hips as my fingers sank deep into liquid warmth.
I’d brought her left hand to my lips with mine and kissed the back of her hand.
Then quicker than her eyes could follow, I’d turned it, quickly severing the veins in her wrist as I withdrew my fingers from her quivering inner muscles.
Then lifting her hand, I’d brought the open wound to my mouth and I’d drunk of her, as Ava sighed, relaxing into my arms.
I’d watched Ava as I fed. With a dazed gaze, she reached to my mouth, as I drunk her lifeblood. With a look of disbelief, her fingers traced my lips, adhered to her bloody flesh.
“What are you…?” She’d gasped through pressed lips as I grasped her left buttock, enjoying the feel; ‘her body mine. Lita was… no, not Lita, Ava.’
My mind had whirled as I drank, feeding off her. There’d been that dichotomy in my mind: one had made me, the other I’d taken to feed from.
That’d been the key…
‘Poor girl,’ I’d thought, recalling the scars I’d seen earlier.
I’d eased away from the torn flesh of her wrist, holding it gently as I held her behind her lower back to give her support.
So I’d placed my thumb down hard on her wrist and stopped the flow of blood.
I’d had an idea.
Gathering her unmoving body into my arms easily, I’d carried Ava across to the sofa.
I’d laid her down, elevating the wrist with the wound.
Her head had lolled to the side, eyes dull: breathing light and ragged.
Moving swiftly, I cut at my right wrist, which I placed to her cold lips.
“Drink,” I’d instructed.
Initially unresponsive, she had licked her lips, and then drank.
As I said earlier, that was a few nights ago. At present, Ava rests in my spare-room. Tomorrow she should be ready to go on her first hunt. I know who our prey will be, the scumbag who sent her to work the streets.

The Right-Hand Man

2007-02-06T07:53:00.000-08:00

Michael levelled the rifle, with the stock to his right shoulder; and the ‘scope to his right eye. He closed his left, sighting the weapon so his target sat in the middle of the crosshairs: and Michael gently squeezed the trigger…… and, on the street below, a shambling, poorly dressed man with rheumy eyes, took the bullet in the back of his head.Blood erupted from his face, mixed with bits of white skull and grey brain matter. And, the man dropped to his knees: ending flat, on what remained of his face – as around him, people screamed: some ran.And, Michel smiled.His was a mission of overt religious zeal:For after having had his inspirational dream Paul Rooney had changed his name and become Michael Angel.He had awoken, already aware of the plan that his Lord had in mind for him.Then he had trained, both his body and with the tools of his new trade.Paul Rooney had disposed of rubbish; and he had thought he’d always be in work – thanks to man’s throwaway society.Then the recession had hit: and, his firms economic dictate had meant, ‘last in, first out’ and it hadn’t mattered that he was better at his job than other: he’d become unemployed …and it had torn at Paul.Michael stood, after his first kill, satisfied with the result.He slid the rifle over his neck, so the strap crossed over his chest; so it lay down the centre of his spine.Having assured himself it sat as he wanted, Michael pulled his old ‘poachers coat’ over the vee-neck, maroon cashmere jumper and straight-leg, coal-black jeans, content the weapon could not be seen.He stood, at peace with the world – having purged this Earth of one piece of human detritus. T here would be others: but, for now he would retire to his apartment, the boob-tube and a teevee meal.‘Its been a long day,’ he thought, walking through the melee that had gathered round his first victim.But, he felt content with the days work… and, that was good.“After all,” he mused aloud, “I’m sure He would approve…”

Bad Timing and a Good Time

2007-02-06T07:40:00.000-08:00

His right hand cradled his head upon the pillow – and fragmented memories swam into mind for the young man, as he lit a cigarette... and the sun shone through the barred window and directly on his face… recalling that days events. Four burly men had rushed headlong into the poolroom shouting.It had resembled a violent scene from the seventies cop show, ‘The Sweeny.’For moments time had frozen for the young man as two of the men had run toward him. Then he had found himself beaten and kicked, till finally he had been thrown backwards onto the pool table. A bearded face had leered into the bloodied young mans face and the aggressor had said: “We’re the police, you’re under arrest.”Handcuffs had been put on him an he had been sat out of the way awhile, as the man whose cannabis he had sold and his son were also arrested.*The police drugs raid had been costed for thirty days: a high tech operation.Several micro cameras had been employed, four plain-clothes officers and about ten uniformed officers.There had been three cameras located in the poolroom, where the operation had centred; one in the dartboard; another in the plaster feature above the door, whilst the last was located in the fan.The pub manager’s husband, already in trouble with the law over a motoring offence, had persuaded his wife to let the police in the pub, to ‘get the dealers.’The operation had been geared up for someone selling speed. But, for a couple of weeks prior to going to the bust he had stopped going to the pub, instead allowing someone to sell in his place.Then, on the last day of the surveillance, they had struck, early in the afternoon.Four officers had kicked and beaten a postman in his late forties of slight build; and a young man who was a care assistant ‘on the sick,’ with a stress-related disorder, due to in part to his relationship ending, to his best friend, as it turned out.Perhaps the police had waded in as they did because they wanted to portray a good image for the Granada television cameras stationed outside the pub, as was evidenced by several passers-by at the time: or, perhaps, their overt aggression was due to the four hours of drinking upstairs, which had later been corroborated by the ex-barman.Either way, both the men sustained quite a kicking and were soon subdued and in handcuffs.None of the footage taken by Granada television of the bloodied suspects led out of the pub, their heads covered by blankets, ever made it to the television screen.None of the kicking was on any of the one hundred and ninety two hours worth of videotapes surveillance, surprisingly.In fact, there was a man made blank on a tape just prior to it ending, just after they entered the pool room and one officer is seen to lift a polythene bag of foil wrapped weighed eighths of cannabis resin up to the camera above the doorway.The police had also arrested the father and son also charged: and eventually, after serving time on remand the young man had found himself out on police bail.The charge had been ‘conspiracy to supply cannabis resin’ and the young man wanted to oppose the charge as it stood, for while inside on remand, he had read up the book Archbold, one and two and had decided to go ‘not guilty.’The Crown Prosecution service would not accept a lesser charge and were pursuing, ‘conspiracy.’In Archbold, a legal textbook, he had read of how one had to have ‘intent to commit a criminal action.’ There had been no intent to supply and this was how he would argue, he had decided, there had been no ‘conspiracy.’Granted, he was guilty of ‘supply;’ but that was not what he had been charged with.Plus, on the depositions, it had been stated that sixty-eight wraps of cannabis resin had been found, whereas only forty three had made it into forensics … and, officers had hurt him, using ‘undue force; he wanted that known; he wanted his day in court.And, the young man, who I shall call Kevin, had returned to the place he grew up, fpr it was his parents who had stood surety for his bail; and, he was determined to make the best of every day of his freedom, until he had to go to court again.*Mrs L… or, Mrs Robinson, as I will write of her, was forty-seven when they had met.As the young man had learnt, her husband had been involved in an auto accident that he had recovered from, but that he had sustained some irreparable damage, that had left him impotent, or so he had been told…There were three children to Mrs Robinson, the eldest girl was married, the younger at university, whilst the lad was at college.She had a good home, comfortable, with every modern household convenience that could be used to ease her workload.She even had a part-time job, which gave her a break from the house and a little extra in his purse: and an interest in all things Italian, which manifest itself in her cooking and apparel.Being well provided for and wore her expensive wardrobe of designer label clothes to her best advantage, wearing long flowing dresses that billowed like sales as she strode out on her walks, clinging to the woman’s slender body and long shapely legs.As the young man had been a boy the woman had strode past his home and he had heard his father remark, “There she sales, the galleon.”The comment had amused the boy, who had thought it appropriate, but a tad inaccurate for the long-haired, straight backed woman had reminded him more of a teas-clipper out on the high seas, as she strode along the pavement.Yet, he hadn’t seen her for many years. Until that particular sunny afternoon.The young man had only just returned to his hometown and it had been on his third day out and about that he had met her again.The last time he had met her she had been the mother of the girl, her eldest, who had followed him everywhere, with the eyes of an adoring puppy.But, this time it had been summer and she was wearing light clothing.He was sitting near the back of the bus on the top deck when the slim brunette had stumbled up the stairs and down the upper aisle and toward him.He was on his own as she had stumbled a little on her high heels, giggling to herself as she did so…She was wearing a light tan summer jacket, white blouse and a dark coloured tight-fitting skirt that hugged her derriere and thighs.“Hello,” he had said to her, smiling brightly.Her heels had skittered slightly as the bus started up; and, grasping a support pole, she swung into the empty place next to him, sitting heavily, giggling girlishly.“Do ‘scuse me,” and giggled, adding, “we had the office party and I think I may of drunk a little bit too much…”And she had giggled once more, putting a hand to her mouth to stifle escaping wind, a burp.“Oops… pardon!?!”The young man turned to her at the sound and found he was looking down the brunette’s blouse, his gaze drawn to her deep cleavage. Her mauve lacy chemise fell away a little from her left, allowing the slightly drooping breast and the erect nipple to be fully in view.He was entranced by what he’d seen…With eyes slightly downcast, the older woman had turned towards him and caught the direction of his eyes.“You like what you see?” Elaine Robinson had asked Kevin, who had not heard her words, at all, only the sound of her soft voice.She was aware of him looking at her and with inhibitions loosened by the effects of alcohol, she had giggled once more, thrilling with the delight of the attention shown.“Haven’t seen you go past for awhile,” he said in turn and her voice turned sad a moment as the brunette said, “My dog died.”As she spoke, the young man heard little, for he was interested not in what the words said, but rather, what her body said, which showed her interest, as the nipple stood firm and erect: blood engorged and firm.She was wearing suspenders, he had realised, very aware of the suspender clasp pressing into his thigh as the bus turned a corner and Elaine pressed against him.“Good way to get to know one another,” he had said, smiling broadly.And, their eyes had met: her brown, his blue; as he had noticed her lips part, just a little, lips that looked oh-so-moist.They had stared into one another’s desires and he knew that she wanted him, as he wanted her; with a physical yearning for the contact of the others flesh.She shivered, with thoughts of anticipation, of possible pleasure of the flesh; and he noticed, asking her, “Are you cold?”“Oh no,” she had replied, aware that she was hot: burning with suppressed lust.The two looked at one another again, their eye contact steady; and the little distance between their faces closed further still.“I’m married,” she had said, very softly.“So?” He had replied, staring into her eyes.And, their lips had touched; only touched, at first.Then the kiss had developed, as the couple’s lips had ground together, as his hands had sought to traverse every contour of the brunette’s body.Brushing material away, he took the nipple between forefinger and thumb, as their eyes connected and her body thrilled with delight at his touch.His hand on her stocking-clad knee… till they had parted as he said, “This is my stop.”He had followed her backside down the stairs and they had both disembarked had walked in silence as he walked her homeward, until she said to him, “Don’t come any further.” She was worried the neighbours might see her with a young man.Though rebuffed, Kevin had walked home, on a fine spring day, with passion on his mind and thoughts of how her body felt providing the fuel that stoked the fires of his desires…And then several days later, he had increased his pace as he noticed her walking before him, a heavy bad full of shopping several days“Can I see you again?” He asked her brightly.He had taken the bags from her and they walked side by side as he carried her shopping much of the way home for her.“Why don’t you come in for a cool drink?” she had asked, fully aware that he had been devouring her with hungry eyes.They had entered and the back door to the garden closed; and the couple stood in the middle of the kitchen, very close, looking at one another.He had reached out his right hand and caressed her cheek… slid his fingers into her hair and clasped her head in his hand.Kevin found her dark brown, almond-shaped eyes feline; and quite entrancing.The stared deep into one another’s eyes; and both realized they knew the physical yearning that each felt was reciprocated by the other.He had drawn her to him and they embraced, kissing deeply, their tongues entwined.They turned and twisted, their passion unbound, as they fell against the table, the door and finally the cooker.Their tongues meshed together and Kevin hoisted her skirt high, to reveal her long, stocking-clad legs and bare thigh.Gently pushing her against the cooker-top, he withdrew from her arms a moment and sank to his knees, drawing down her black silk panties.She was trimmed and clean tasting he had discovered with his eager tongue, as Elaine ran long manicured painted nails through Kevin’s hair, saying, “Mia amore, that’s so nice.”Her eyes closed, as she had centred her mind on the tongue opening her, licking and pleasing her.Kevin took his hard, cut length out of his trousers slowly with his left hand, his right caressing nylon-clad flesh.Then had stood, lifting the brunette’s legs up and wide, so her backside rested on the cooker-top and he sank into her moist warmth.With intercourse, each sighed; he with pleasure at his conquest, she with the satisfaction that the pleasure of flesh upon flesh gave…As Elaine lay back, eyes closed, Kevin viewed the delight the she demonstrated with her wanton behaviour with relish, realizing that this might not be the one-off that he had thought it might be.The brunette opened her eyes, reaching down her index finger of her right hand, toward her glistening pubis, coating the digit with the young mans fluid: and Kevin watched this older woman, his own Mrs Robinson, savour with obvious pleasure, his ejaculated fluid.Panting with exhaustion, he helped her stand, sliding his hands over her nylon clad legs and the naked thighs, to grasp her buttocks firmly.“Let me?” She told him, sinking to her knees and licking clean his now flaccid manhood of any fluids left.Only when she’d drained the young man did the sated Elaine L. stand, a little unsteady on her black stiletto high heels.“Was that nice?” Elaine asked the young man, as she smiled and licked at her lips lasciviously, while Kevin finished dressing, smiling broadly.“I do hope I can call again?” He had asked.“Yes,” she’d responded, “and if you ring first I’ll try to arrange things for you...” “Anything special?” He queried, as he opened the door to leave.“Like dressing-up for you. That sort of thing… if there’s anything special you’d like?” she informed him, suggestively.“I’ll phone,” he assured her, then closed the door behind himself as he left.Kevin smiled a lot, as he’d walked home – already looking forward to calling again.And so, a pattern had been established: Kevin would have his lunch with his parents, then walk past the post-box and toward the telephone box on the green.He’d phone Elaine and say he wanted to ‘call round.’She’d considered her time spent with him special, acting as it did to mask her sexual repression. Besides which, she’d enjoyed herself.So, the summer had passed. He had told him of his crime and his expectation of ‘doing time:’ Kevin already had his tobacco and radio, ready to take with him from court, upon a ‘guilty’ verdict being given.Elaine didn’t deny how she felt, revelling in his attention – almost needing it.She’d considered her time spent with him special, acting as it did to mask her sexual repression. Besides which, she enjoyed it.

Black Diamond

2006-07-09T11:44:00.000-07:00

The sky was clear and Michaels could easily see the flight of the crafts above, as they weaved and dodged one another.He turned his gaze toward town, away from any thoughts of the building behind him.Michaels had just sat his flight theory exam, a third time.He could fly as well as any pilot in the federation, so he believed: as his Father had taught him from an early age, believing, ‘”it’ll be useful to you one day.”But, it was the exam – he knew he’d failed, again.He just knew it.And, Michaels sighed deeply.Just occasionally, he was glad his Father was dead: that meant he couldn’t see what an abject failure his son had become – a sky jockey, for a two-bit haulage firm, that just paid minimum.He sighed again, as he paused at the entrance to Harmony’s Bar.Now, Harmony preferred her own sex, Jan Michaels knew that. But, he tried.He always tried: although Michaels knew that that it would never be him she left with, come the end of the night.She would find someone though – and, Michaels wouldn’t have felt slighted, except that one or two of her partners hadn’t even of their species. Even knowing that, Michaels tried… ‘It was like… mandatory,’ he considered, pushing open the door to the crowded bar, which was exactly as he recalled from the last time he’d sat the test, heaving, smoky and noisy – and, ‘the right place to be, right now,’ he mused, bellying up to the bar which ran the whole length of the room, converted from an old container, left from the pioneer day’s.There were two bars in town, one at either end of the street, from which led two others; one that led to the river, then the mountains; and, the other, which led to the spaceport.Harmony’s Bar was not ‘his local’ – but, he did like the place.He felt comfortable there… he considered slowly – as his mind drifted back to the open test paper and the little black letters on it that had blurred somewhat as he stared at the pages.So, here he was, at Harmony’s Bar again; staring round at the lives others were leading, as they too passed time.He glanced briefly around himself: safe.There was no-one here from the base; no pilots, to remind him of yet another failure.Michaels finished his drink, in one, then ordered a second.He looked to the right and the crowd of men gathered together at the end of the barAbove the general hubbub of sound he heard several of the men jeering, as they moved aside, so a visual delight could pass – and, walk toward him.Michaels looked deep into the young woman’s eyes: fascinated with her smile, which he felt he knew from somewhere, sometime.Black silken hair framed the pretty face, of a young woman of the Asian race and he couldn’t help but stare ~ she looked lovely, to him and ~ he couldn’t help but stare.She was wearing a red and black pleated skirt, clinging to her hips, it’s hem ending mid-thigh.And she wore boots, of what seemed to be soft leather, with zips at the side and a sensible heel.Beneath the calf-hugging boots she wore black, knee-length socks.The expanse of leg exposed was toned, a natural golden colour; and most attractive to his eye.“They no want a dance...” she expressed, as she stood at the bar, next to Michaels and ordered a drink, still muttering.“They just want to look,” she continued with mock indignation.A white blouse, knotted at the waist and a tie loosely tied; exposing, the fleshof her belly ~ and, ‘the cutest,’ inward-sloping, navel, he thought.Abruptly she turned to him and smiled broadly.“Well ‘Hi’,” she began, proffering her right hand.“I’m May,” she announced, adding, “they call me Black Diamond.”“Okay,” Michaels responded, smiling, “now I’ve got to ask, ‘why do they call you Black Diamond?”Michaels held her gaze as their eyes met.“I’m Jan, Jan Michael,” he said, taking her right hand gently in his; and kissed her fingertips, gazing at her knees and the toes of her boots.May giggled, then replied, “You pay for dance, you might find out. You no do so? Well, you no find out.”Michaels grinned, broadly, “Call me curious … but …”But, before he could say anymore the young woman continued talking,“Well Jan Michaels, I dance for you, you learn. So, I dance, for you?”“Well I, er…” he stuttered.“You want dance?”“Er … yes.”“You not had girl dance for you before?” She asked him, intrigued.“Er … yes. Of course…”“You come with me…” she told him, grasping his right hand in her left and pulling him to an alcove seat.So they sat and talked and drank some more: and, slowly he relaxed, with May, until eventually she asked him, “I dance now?”“Er yes,” he replied breathlessly.She told him, ‘relax’ as she began to dance to the beat of the music.As May teased with her eyes and body, to the music; her every expression and move, pleased him…Then eyes cast downward, and slowly lifted back to his, she undid the blouse buttons, one-by-one.Then finally, the knot undone, she draped the blouse over his right knee; and then stepped forward to continue; and she cast her hair over her shoulder, then looked back, to see him watching her - and her every movement.Her back to him, buttocks just over his crotch and his arousal; May looked over her right shoulder at Michaels, as she gently caressed each breast, the nipples erect.And, she cupped her left breast, the darker flesh of her left nipple an enticement offered, then denied: as May turned once more, a wide smile on her face.Then, with her back to Michaels, May pulled her skirt up, to reveal a little wisp of white cotton in between her taut, proud cheeks.He licked his lips, as she swung her hips, toying with the waist of her skirt.And soon the red and black pleated skirt was gone the way of the shirt, to lie on the floor, where she dropped it.And she danced and pranced before him in just boots, with zips at the side and a sensible heel. Then, as she bent forward, she ran her left middle finger between her legs, looking to him as he gazed at May reflected in the wall mirrors.Her eyes alight with mischief; May seemed to delight in his obvious pleasure and apparent discomfort; as he stared, at her eyes and the pert shape of her derrière, as May continued to dance to the beat of the music. He watched May, naked, except for her panties ~ his attention held by the rise and fall of her pert buttocks, as she moved.In front of where he sat, May arched her back, rocking her hips back and forth~ her bottom almost grazing his crotch.Then, she turned once more, to wriggle her hips before him, the crotch of her white, embroidered, cotton panties, drawn tight around her shapely mound ~ as if, to emphasise perfection, to his eyes.And, still moving, May gyrated her hips, watching Michaels stare, as she slid the panties slowly down shapely thighs, to display her black pubic hair, cut down, almost to the skin – in the shape of a black diamond, one corner pointing to her navel, its opposite further downward.She watched him stare at the cleft of her sex, then she stood still, a moment, with her hands on her legs, which she parted slowly, as she began to sway her hips side to side.And, as he stared quite entranced, Michaels noticed there was a small tattoo on her inner right thigh, of a playing card, in black on white – an Ace of Diamonds.And, Michaels felt breathless, as he gazed, squirming where he sat and she turned her back to him.‘She looks great,’ he thought as she began to gyrate her backside, just inches before his eyes.Laughing, May placed her hands to either side of his thighs and began to lower her buttocks toward his groin, his arousal evident through the bulge in his trousers.She lowered further, till she ground down on him, swaying side to side.And, Michaels closed his eyes, thrilling at the circular motion rhythm of her buttocks.She ground down a little harder; and Michaels groaned his desire, for more.And then, the young woman stood, knowing the record was ending.May turned to him and said, “I want attention tonight. You want fun? You have place to go to?”Jan Michaels thought of the empty apartment he was to return to, then replied, “Yeah, I have a place.”“Well,” she enthused, as she began to dress; “We drink, then go. Okay?”*It was late in the night, or very early in the morning when Michaels returned to his small room in an apartment complex on the outskirts of the small town.“Well,” he muttered, “I gotta see her again…”He stumbled into the hallway, rather than walk in: ‘That was too easy,’ he thought.Then he remembered he’d left the keys in the front door.“Honey, I got keys for you,” Michaels heard, as he watched May close the front door“Perfect,” was his answer.As the young woman turned toward him, Michaels watched her stoop down to pick something up.“What’s that?” He asked May, who had placed a letter on a small bookcase set against the wall.“A letter,” she replied smiling.The young woman smiled a lot Michaels noticed again, as she watched his gaze, as she removed her small jacket, throwing it casually to the floor.She wore matching blue jeans and high heel boots.Beneath the jacket she had worn just a small black bra, which she hardly needed.And, Michaels smiled too, as May began to remove the bra, to reveal once more, her perfect, pert breasts.“It’s stamped delivered by courier,” he mumbled as he retrieved the letter.He stared at the envelope in amazement.It was his results, already.‘Impossible,’ he told himself, as he slid open the seal.He removed the contents and stared at the page: then, squinted and blinked several times, to bring the words in distinct shapes his brain could understand.He read the letter once, then again: in his drunken state his mind found it difficult to fully digest and understand its contents.“Jan Michaels, with a pass rate of 84%you are hereby awarded a place on a 12wk course designed to familiarize you with the Federation Cadet Force. You will attend…”He sat back against the wall, unaware of the naked woman trying to attract his attention, sighing and caressing her taut belly.“Cadet training and after initial training, it’s to Earth for the rest!” He muttered and smiled slowly, as realization dawned on him.Finally Jan Michaels turned to May, who was pouting and beginning to look bored.“By our Sainted Stars. I know why they call you Black Diamond. And, I don’t play cards! But pretty lady, you sure were lucky for me.”May smiled, opening welcoming arms…*

The Trembles

2006-07-09T11:42:00.000-07:00

Jeff Parkes had noticed ‘the shakes’ occur late one night.He had just put it down to the seven pints of best bitter; the two double scotches; and the three spliff’s he’d consumed earlier.‘Anyway,’ he’d told himself, ‘after some rest I’ll be fine.’Jeff was seventeen, nearly eighteen; and he worked as a shelf-stacker at the local Kwix, where he been since he’d left the care home, which it was laughingly called:Jeff Parkes hadn’t thought the home, or its staff very caring, at all.The work at the store wasn’t particularly arduous, but the shakes didn’t make life easy.The fourth time it had happened Jeff had been placing a can of baked beans on top of a pile of others.Then it had begun and the carefully constructed pyramid of baked bean tins had fallen around his feet, in a clatter.And then, little by little, it had got worse.The contents of a pint that should have found his mouth had been thrown over his right shoulder after ‘the shakes’ had begun: and found the man standing behind him.He lay on his bed, hands clasped loosely behind his head.Jeff smiled, in retrospect it was quite funny really.The fellow had been almost a foot taller than him, with well-built shoulders, that had led Jeff to wonder how he could get through the doorway straight on.“That got me,” he’d said, stating the obvious.And Jeff had just said, “How much for the drink? Not the jacket being cleaned?!”He’d intended a moment’s levity – which hadn’t worked, as his black eye had testified.But, Jeff had been worried, very worried: not only were the shakes becoming more severe, they were happening more often.He was scared ~ really scared.So, the doctors and specialists tested him: and, he’d had a brain scan, eventually ~ Jeff hadn’t wanted to admit he had needed help, but he had.Yet even when the shakes had taken place in front a room full of white-coats, nothing conclusive came forth.He smiled a moment, thinking ‘well it should have given them something to work with.’ Yet it didn’t help. They didn’t have an answer.“It wasn’t epilepsy,” they told him, “or, anything like it!”“It isn’t a tumour,” he’d been assured; then told, “but, don’t worry Mr Parkes, we have not given up on this. We’ll find an answer yet! We’re thinking of contacting …”But, he hadn’t heard the rest.Jeff didn’t want more tests and before the fellow had finished speaking Jeff had left the examination room.Then, that night as her lay on his bed, Jeff pulled his right hand from beneath his head, to stare at it.He’d felt it begin.His hand had begun to shake.It scared Jeff, yet intrigued nonetheless.Jeff watched his hand tremble, at first, then shake; and then, seemingly disappear.He stared with incredulity, at what wasn’t at the end of his right wrist, held before his eyes. And then the tremours began throughout his whole body.Finally Jeff awoke, feeling disorientated.He was alive, he thought.But, overhead was a very white light, just like he’d always imagined you would see when you were…“See it is possible…”He heard the voice, and then blinking, looked up, at several faces staring down, at him.Jeff wanted to ask, ‘what is possible?’ But, his mouth was too dry and his tongue too large.But, Jeff had no need to worry: information was soon forthcoming.“It’s always been our travellers recall that has proven difficult.”Jeff blinked, twitching his fingertips.‘If its some sort of anaesthetic?’ he mused, ‘then maybe it’s wearing off?’“So, we found these host, ugly as they are…”There were murmurs of agreement from the faces looking down at the last remark.“And by sending them through the dimension warp, in bodies that can develop, we’re able to learn more: before colonization.”Jeff licked dry lips, listening intently, as the voice droned on.“But, sometimes we lose a comrade, like our friend here…”Jeff realized immediately that it was him that was being referred to.“But, a little modification from one our top surgeons and he will realize once more that he is part of The Entity.”Knowing the operation was soon to take place Jeff blanked out, mercifully: as his mind could take no more and he had faded into unconsciousness…

“…and all the men and women merely players”

2006-07-09T11:38:00.000-07:00

He’d driven since early morning.When the sun above beat down directly above him Mark knew he had to find shelter. It was hot: that’s why his coat was in the boot of his pride and joy: a scarlet T-Bird. His favourite coat. The one he always wore. After all, it was him.But, he had a lot of miles still to cover and the midday heat had really got to him.An open-top looks good; and his moved well. But, even so, he’d been feeling the heat, which had caused sweat to run down his forehead and into his eyes.Furthermore, driving with one’s eyes’ permanently watering wasn’t easy. He had quickly found that out.So, when Mark Knight found the Ambleside Motel Bar & Grill, he’d pulled in to book a room, for the night. Not that he needed an excuse, but… he needed a rest.Just to sleep in a real bed; and, not the back of the car, as he had become used to.He’d pulled into the forecourt and parked the car.“It’s bloody hard to think pure,” sang Skunk Anansie, her resonant tones striking a chord with his mood.Everything had gone wrong.It had supposed be the road trip of a life-time.It’d been supposed to be his treat, after redundancy, after her.And now?Everything had gone wrong. Everything…He had lost much of his luggage to a car thief in Las Vegas, then mis-read a map and taken a wrong turn.Now, here he was, in the middle of nowhere, with one hell of a thirst.A break was needed.As he pulled up outside the bar & grill, Mark had looked around: there was little; a few petrol pumps; and, a few rooms; as well as the store and motel reception, as well as the few cabins, all of which needed more than just a lick of paint.Then, eyeing the drinks machine on the porch, just to the right of the entrance to the Motel reception Mark rooted in his pocket for change.Boy, did he have a thirst!Slotting coins into the machine, he acquired his Coke and began drinking it down almost immediately.Mark entered the ‘reception and General Store’ eyeing the fellow behind the desk through glasses that quickly darkened in the bright light outdoors.Very useful for driving, but he needed them to see with, as well.From the safety of the glasses he stared at the man behind the desk.He was a big man, his girth filling the seams of his grey shirt to bursting point.The apron he wore round him had been white, but was smeared now with something indefinable.He was a big man sweating profusely.“You got a room?” Mark enquired.“”Yeah, several…” the man replied in a gruff voice, obviously annoyed at being interrupted reading his paper.Mark looked at the flies, stuck to strips of brown paper hanging from the ceiling. Judging from the amount of bodies there, the strips hadn’t been changed for quite awhile.“I want a room.” He told the man.A plastic folded plate on the desk gave the man’s name as Delroy.“Ah, now that’s simple,” the man growled softly, carefully folding his paper and fixing his gaze on the young man.“You sign the book and it’s ten dollars registration, twenty a night… that alright?”A stand fan made an attempt at keeping the office cool.Yet obviously the room didn’t like the fan, as it remained far too hot and sticky in the small office, strips of brown paper dangling from the ceiling, the bodies of hundreds of dead flies stuck to it.“Yes, sure,” Mark muttered, anxious to be out of the stifling office and back into the heat outside.Mark wanted a bed and at that minute would have signed his life away for a comfortable pillow and a good sleep.As it was, he signed his name in ‘the book’ an old accounts ledger; then left the stifling office and got into his car, key in hand.Mark started up the engine and drove up to cabin number seven.And he’d slept well: (it’d been good to sleep in a real bed, instead of the back seat of the car, which he’d become accustomed to.)Then the next morning Mark had gone to the office, realizing that he needed change for the coke machine.He walked across to the office reception; his mouth dry and his caffeine levels low and asked, “You got change for the coke machine?”“You see a sign saying, we give change? Eh kid?” Delroy snapped, hardly looking up from the paper he was reading.“Er, no,” Mark conceded, somewhat quietly, still holding the note in his hand that he’d wanted changing.“Yeah well. Since you booked a room…” Delroy muttered as he opened the cash register and slowly counted out the change for a ten dollar note: nine notes, all torn, or tatty; and the change he needed.“Yeah well.” He muttered, “ I was just sayin, that’s all.”“Here kid,” the big man said, as he handed Mark his change.“Hot innit?” Mark stated quite unnecessarily.It was and since he’s left Las Vegas the radio had been his only company.Mark had wanted company, but it wasn’t hard to realise that he wasn’t talking with Mr Motormouth 2000.He chugged on his Coke, walking back to the car, muttering, and “Never could understand there were people who preferred Pepsi. I don’t…”Mark finished the drink and binned it, on the back seat.“Well, let’s see what the day holds?’ he mused, filling up the tank, so he would be ready for the rest of his journey, after something to eat in the Bar & Grill.Then as he was crossing the forecourt, walking toward his cabin he heard the sound of a powerful engine nearing. Mark turned his head to look to the road. In the distance, a speck on the horizon sped toward him, tearing the blacktop up at a fast pace.As it neared and became a yellow Cobra with black roof, Mark heard the police siren.On the horizon a second speck appeared.‘A black ‘n white?’ He’d mused idly.The Cobra spun into the forecourt doing a fast-spin, just before the pumps.Dust flew.And, down the highway the other car halted.For a moment the air seemed very still.Then, the drivers’ door opened and she stepped out with style.First, a well-shaped calf slowly eased out, encased in nylon, a black high-heel on the foot, then his gaze travelled upward, from her calves to her equally shapely thighs.She wore a sleeveless little black dress and there was a lot of thigh on show.“She wears that well,” He’d thought, staring.It was rude, Mark knew, but she did wear it well.“A-ha, here you are!” She expressed with a relived sigh, which confused him.“Here, take this,” she had continued, urgency evident in her voice, as she thrust a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper toward Mark.When he was slow to take the proffered item the brunette barked at him, “Look take it, quick will you? They’re coming for me, so I don’t want to be here any longer than I need, okay?!”It was evident from the tone of the woman’s voice that the package was important to her.He looked at it as it was thrust into his hands, then back to those eyes, of the darkest brown.Then he stared down at the package in his hands.It was a box, Mark could tell, from its shape and didn’t weigh much, as he held it carefully: About the size of a photograph and about two fingers deep, if you’ve got narrow fingers, he guessed.And, then she was gone.The doors had closed.She had started cars engine and it had screeched away in a plume of dust. *Mark had an omelette and a beer, although he had been going to have a whiskey chaser, he didn’t.Mark knew he needed to keep a clear head.He had been given the box and asked to look after it.So, as far as he was concerned, a whiskey might be wanted, but it wasn’t needed.Mark knew he had to have his responsibility chip fully engaged if he were going to do as he’d been asked.The ashtray on his bedside locker was soon overflowing and he was still nowhere near making a decision.Wrapped in brown paper and cross bound with string it sat there on the dresser, defiantly.Turning the boobtube back on Mark found himself watching a re-run of ‘Gilligan’s Island.’It didn’t distract him.So, he raided the room’s mini-bar, all his previous good intent forgotten.Mark needed distraction, so he could relax.“Why had there been a police car following her?”“Why was a police car following her?”“Just what had she done wrong?” That was a good question.They were good questions.Mark couldn’t relax, he just couldn’t: there was just too much to think about.Pouring a scotch he found himself musing on the concept of honour versus curiosity.After all, the box had been entrusted to him.He sat, picked up the remote and began to surf channels.Having emptied the ashtray and having consumed five miniature bottles of whiskey, he finally felt tired; and pulled the duvet over himself.But, Mark had slept fitfully; so that in the morning he was still tired and needed an instant caffeine hit he thought, before even thinking of hitting the road once more.And, one cup turned into two, then three and still the thoughts that dominated were of the woman’s face, as she handed him the parcel.“It’d almost seemed like she knew me,” Mark mused aloud, causing the waitress to stare in his direction briefly, before she moved away, as she cleaned another tabletop.Chapter TwoWading into shore he approaches the small jetty cautiously, rifle held above the water, his pack strapped at shoulder height.At the end of the jetty is a small shed: he was sure there’d be guards in there.The beach was floodlit.Continuing his approach, he switched his goggles to infrared, so as to search for heat signatures.There were two, so he slid his remaining ammo home and brought the rifles stock to his shoulder.Sighting his prey through the shed walls, he looked through the rifles scope and gently, gently, squeezed the triggerIt’s a headshot and he fell immediately, his accomplice running back and forth, in seeming confusion.One down.Abruptly the shed door opens and all it takes is an accurate headshot and his companion lay dead as well.And, having altered his perspective, Mark began to view Sam Fisher from third person, whilst he traversed the jungle undergrowth, as he continued his mission.Abruptly a head shot, from a unseen enemy, brought Sam to his knees, in a shower of blood.Mark sighed.He’d known they were in the in the underbrush, having played this level many times.“But,” he reminded himself, “a covert operative I’m not.”He wasn’t Sam Fisher, the games protagonist; nor was he Tom Clancy, the games writer; or a dedicated gamer.He was just Mark Simon Knight: and, right now, it was time to call a halt to the game.*The trip of a lifetime was over and Mark was back in his ground floor flat in New Brighton, overlooking the River Mersey.His redundancy money was nearly gone and soon he’d be claiming unemployment benefit. But, until he had to do anything like that he fully intended to live out his last few weeks of financial freedom as best as possible.And, today that meant sitting in on a Sunny day playing games on his Xbox.Mark arose from where he’d sat for two hours, forty-two minutes.As he stood mark rubbed at his thigh muscles.‘Sure,’ he thought, ‘it’s a good game, but I still don’t know what prompted me to get it out.’It wasn’t the sort of game he usually rented.‘But,’ he conceded, ‘Pandora Tomorrow is a good title.’Mark walked across the room to the kitchen, briefly looking to “the box”He smiled.Mark still hadn’t undone the string that held together the brown paper since he had arrived back home.The box sat where it did; and somehow (of late) Mark knew it was right to have it in plain sight, as it were.“Grant you,” he mused, having poured his well-needed coffee, “it was strange the way I got it.”*after Mark had finished his coffee he rinsed his mug clean, as he contemplated what he might do with the rest of his day.He went into the lounge, picked up the phone handset and with the press of a few buttons, discovered that there were three missed calls listed.Mark played each in turn:“You have something of value that isn’t yours…” then; “We know where you are Mark Simon Wright; and we’ll be there soon… Don’t be foolish and run with it, like she did.”And, finally… a woman’s voice: “Mark, they’re coming for you. You must believe me? I never expected that to happen. I’m so sorry… ”Mark had listened with growing unease.The man’s voice in the first two messages was quite anonymously mid-American.It’d been the menacing tone of the second that prompted his mounting fear.Yet, when he had heard the woman’s apologetic tone, Mark’s curiosity was piqued.‘How did she know his name? How did she know his phone number?’He assumed it was the same woman who had given him the box.‘After all,’ he thought, ‘given what she’d said, that was a fair assumption.’Mark left the kitchen and began to pace the hearthrug.Since he had moved into the flat with the intention of her moving in, that hearthrugHad been their place, on a dark night; and day, on many occasions.It was their special, mock hur rug.He sat, cross-legged on the rug, his brown furrowed: “We know where you live…” didn’t sound good, at all.Drawing his knees to his chin, Mark wrapped his arms around them and began to rock back and forth: there was tension tightening his gut and his head felt like it would explode.This lasted but minutes, but provided Mark with the time he needed to think.Finally, after several minutes he stopped and stood:“This is stupid,” Mark muttered, “things like this just don’t happen. Not to me.”And, a continent away, his desperation was felt.And then the phone rang.The phone rang incessantly – as Mark continued packing a holdall with essentials having taken up smoking again a short while after he began, a packet of Rothman’s Royale discovered in a old jacket not worn in months.The phone stopped ringing and Mark sighed with exhaustion: he’d left the virtual world, to re-enter one that had become radically different from the moderately safe world he had left behind.Mark found it all very tiring.He had been drinking cup after cup of strong black coffee, as he made ready to leave, having already decided to take the box with him.Mark was unsure as to why it felt imperative that he still looked after ‘the thing’ as he had grown to called the small brown paper wrapped cuboid.Yet he knew it would accompany him, when he left his little comfortable house in Wallasey, overlooking the River Mersey.But, he had to go, Mark knew that.So, bags packed, Mark locked the front door, wondering when, or if he would be back.Then, as he turned to go – the phone rang.He could unlock the door. Mark could.He could have answered it, if he wanted, he assured himself as he walked away, to seek his twelve-year-old Ford Escort, parked at the kerbside.Mark opened the back doors, through his cases inside and opened up the driver’s door. He got in and having seated himself comfortably placed the key in the ignition and turned it.But, nothing happened. There was no life to the engine.And panic began to rise, again.Then, he heard ringing, in the car.‘A phone?’ A mobile, it was a mobile; he realized.“But, where is it?” he said aloud.Mark leant over the seat and listening over the seat and listening for the ring, rooted among several jackets on the back seat.He found it eventually, on the back seat beneath a jacket that he’d not seen for an aeon, not since she left, without her phone obviously.“Now what’s that doing here?” He queried aloud as he looked at the display to see who was calling: ‘Number withheld’ it said.Yet, as it continued to ring, Mark slowly felt compelled to answer it.And, he did.“Do you know who I am?” A voice asked, as he pressed ‘answer.’“Yeah, I guess.” He muttered.Mark knew who she was: it was the woman who had given him the box: he knew it.Somehow he knew it, like he knew it’d been her who rang at the flatAnd, he still had not asked how she got that number, or this.Now he asked: “How did you get this number?”“A lot of things are possible,” she answered cryptically; then added, “you’ll find out.”There was a moment’s silence, before announce dramatically, “They’re coming!”“They’re coming?” he repeated.“The hunters,”“What! The hunters?” He quizzed, his anxiety levels rising once more.“You going to repeat everything I tell you? If so, they’ll be here by the time I’ve finished! Lord I do wish you’d shut up!”He pauses a second, then before he can take a breath she says hurriedly, “If you must know, my names Amanda. I get called Mandy and I don’t like it being shortened to Mand; I come from Ohio and I’m a freelance artist.”She pauses momentarily, then begins once more, “Now, other than maybe my bra size, I can’t think of much else you could ask me. So will you listen to me, please?”Suitably chastened, Mark answered, “Okay, point made. I’m listening.”“You saw the hunters following me…”“The police-car?”“Oh, they weren’t the police… they were the hunters. They’re after what I had: what you have. The box.”Mark Knight was panic struck, at the idea of what might happen if the man from the phone-call was the man who had been in the police car in Arizona, chasing Amanda, who had given him … “The box?” He repeated, momentarily forgetting his surety.“This all sounds like the plot of a game,” he mused aloud.“You do have the box, don’t you?” Amanda asked, briefly panic struck at the thought he might not have it in his possession.With the thought that his life had become no more than a game, like the one he’d been playing earlier, Mark reminded himself that he wasn’t Sam Fisher; and wouldn’t rise again if her were hurt, or worse“Yes,” he replied finally after a long silence, “of course I do.”“Good,” she told him, “get it. I think it’s time you opened the wrapping. And then maybe you’ll understand a lot more.”“Understand what? This all sounds so unreal.”“Ha!” she exploded, “we could have a debate about the nature of reality until the cows come home, it won’t help this situation, her and now. You can’t trust, can you?”He thought hard, about his bitterness and her words, ‘trust me, I’m not like all the others.’ She had said that, then proven that she was, like ‘all the others.’No, he didn’t trust. Mark knew that.“You need proof,” she accused, “don’t you?”“I… I don’t know what I want…” Mark responded, having trouble finding any answers, which made sense. Like… “How did you get this number?”“Take the wrapping off the box and see what’s written there. Alright?”“Alright.”He sat back into the front seats and placed the phone next to himself; opened his holdall and found the small parcel, which he began to unwrap.“But… don’t open the box!” Mark heard shouted from the phone: a small voice, distant; as he undid the string holding the parcel together; and unwrapped the brown paper carefully.The box looked old, very old.It was made of a hardwood and possessed two hinges and a clasp made of iron.And, with the box was a small white card.Mark picked the card up and read the message written on it, in dark blue ink, in a hand that used many swirls and flourishes.‘To Mark Simon Knight,Guard this with your life. But, don’t open it.The fate of the world is in your hands.~ Amanda’His eyes wide at the sight of his name on the card, which he’d unknowingly carried with the box, Mark picked up the phone as he heard Amanda speaking once more:“…can you hear me?”“Yes,” he replied in a small, quiet voice.“Do you know what the box is?”“Er.. I’m not sure…” he replied.“Well, start the engine and think about it while you drive, okay?”“Er… like, er… it won’t start,” Mark assured her.“It will.” She responded, simply.“It won’t start,” Mark repeated.“Just have faith, okay?”“Yes, sure…” he muttered, remembering past pains.“I’m sorry I drew you into something you don’t seem ready for. But…”She paused, for long seconds, “…get over it and trust me.”He turned the ignition key, albeit reluctantly; and the engine fired into life.“Good,” she told him, “you showed faith in me, thank you.”“No, thank you,” Mark told her, pleased with his newfound strength.“We’ll talk again…” Amanda assured him, as the phone connection ceased; and he steered the car into traffic.And, as he drove, Mark looked to the passenger seat, where the box sat; and, with a little faith, Mark carried hope, with confidence.

A Walk In The Wood

2006-06-11T06:55:00.000-07:00

She walks in a regal fashion, this slim, light-skinned woman with long blonde hair that reaches almost to the base of her spine; out in the her haired Red Setter running a little ahead of her. The dog, Gatsby, is usually on a long leash bar it is a fine summer's day and Elin has allowed him his free rein, as long as he is within sight. Her white cotton dress, covered in small light blue flowers, billow a little in the light breeze. Morning dew still sits on the long grass that springs tip at the sides of her sandals as she walk. Above the sky is blue, almost cloudless - she can see this through the overhanging foliage as she looks up the dog runs ahead. As he does, the young woman calls out: “Go on boy, enjoy yourself.” She thinks to herself he doesn’t know how lucky he is; he doesn't have to find money for bills; or go out to work to put for a roof over his head. No, she considers, he has all that paid for him; and he has his lady-friend down the road and can’t even find a date with a nice man who doesn't turn out to be married.She recalls the previous night and the ‘she doesn't understand me’ routine that he pulled and then had the cheek to try and invite himself in for coffee. She smiles as she remembers the hurt look on his face just before she had closed the door on him. At least the night hadn't been a complete waste of time, she thinks.It was once she had been atone again, with Gatsby being attentive having sensed her mood, that she had re-opened tile bottle of red wine in the fridgeThen this morning with a terrible hang-over, Elin had come for this walk with her loyal companion Gatsby, and she thinks; drawing herself from her reverie, where was he?The dog had caught a scent that interested him, becoming momentarily alert. He ran ahead a little, then stopped at the foot of a tall tree as the squirrel that he followed scampered up its trunk, where it sat awhile on a branch as Gatstby pawed at the tree. Finally, tired of teasing the dog the squirrel leapt to another one nearby, leaving Gatsby very frustrated until his receptive nose caught another a scent on the wind that interested him. Intent on the fine day and her own thoughts, Elm had not noticed her dog run out of her sight. Now she panics “Gatsby where are you?” she calls again and again.She hears answering barks to her calls in the far distance, where fir trees thin out and the path carries across the bottom of several fields to the left and the small stream to the fight. Then, as she walks on and the noise of the dog barking fades away, Elin finds herself alone and she turns full circle calling in all directions, but to no avail The dog does not answer, or return, so, following in the direction the animal had taken, she begins to walk, most anxious to find her friend and loyal companion. She ignores the brambles that catch at the hen of her dress and tear at the skin of her feet, causing small trickles of blood to run freely.While Elin continues her walk a young man sits on the top of the wooden foot bridge, dressed all in khaki-green bar bar heavy black boots that he wears, swinging his legs a little as he looks down at the meandering stream beneath him. He looks at the water, taking time to appreciate the sunlight as it dances upon its surface, listening to the rhythm it produces as the water flows gently beneath the small footbridge.He listens well to the lyrical music that nature is playing just for him and distracted from his current train of thought, he allows himself to smile a little.The young man briefly muses on the stream's eventual passage to the sea and the long journey that would take it there, woeful once more at how hard the critique had been.What was it that his friend Ritchie had said about his latest work?‘Some characters are okay, but it’s bland and lacks substance.'As an indictment of his work he thought that was damning, as that story had been wholly his, for a change."Sure," he said aloud, “water moves on, endlessly toward the sea…”He throws a stick into the middle of the stream and wonders at its final destination.Will it find its way eventually to the sea, he wonders, or will it become entangled and become part of a dam that might slow the water's egress? He saw the twig as himself, and the stream his life moving onward and now he was at an impasse.And, it the silence of the wood, the woman’s lament wits heard on an ethereal breeze that blew through the leaves of a mighty oak which her hand glanced upon as she walked quickly in pursuit of her canine friend.There is silence amongst the green of the wood as tears begin to flow silently down the woman's cheeks. Then, breaking this silence on a level that mortal ear cannot hear, a small voice proclaims: “It is sad.”Lifting her hand away from the large, old tree the woman begins to follow the path that Gatsby had taken. Slowly small sparkles of light dance in the sunlight as it shafts through the green of the wood. They swirl and spiral and slowly coalesce, taking a form that is recognizably human The same voice speaks as moments earlier, although this time in a tone that a mortals could hear, albeit if that is, they ever listened to anyone other than themselves.“She is beautiful. She shouldn’t be so sad.” The voice is still light as the breeze, and the speaker is now almost solid, having taken the form of a young woman, seemingly in her early twenties. She has a head of curly, green-brown hair that reaches to her shoulders in front, whilst cascading half way down her bark Her almond shaped eyes are the colour of darkest green, almost black, and twinkle as she looks all around herself. She has full freckled cheeks, a pert nose and full bow lips that pout as she calls: “Corwen, where are you?”Her clothing is sensible office wear, albeit all green; the diaphanous blouse, tight A-line skirt and the nylon and heels. All clothing visible is green. “Corwen, I want to help her”Once again sparkling light dances in the sunlight, shafting through the green of the wood, swirling and spiraling, until it also coalesces into human form; “You always say that and what happens?" the mouth, set m the front of what would be the front of fir head, atop the green body says to the young woman. That is all then is; a body, limbs and the mouth set in front – all are green.“Finish,” she tells her companion, “I want the visage to be correct."“Derryn just say that you want me to look human.”“I want you to look human," she says with a voice that is almost musical in sound.A face forms around the mouth, a young bright face, alert to the possibility of mischief“I will look like one because I can, but I’m not one of them. I'm not like you,” he says, wagging a finger as his friend dances around him in a fashion that seems impossible in the high heels that she wears. “I don't want to be one of them."“Qh, but they can do so much,” she tells him, draping a transparent scarf of the lightest green over the side of his face as clothing begins to form on the body that is now complete.“They destroy our planet and give nothing," he say's to his friend in disgust.“Oh, Corwen,” she says, still dancing around her companion; “they do build and they do create."“They have wars and kill," he tells her, trying to stare at her with a fixed eye, but his friend will not stay still.“But Corwen," she says, her toes moving fast, back and forth, right arm extended gracefully from her body as she dips at the waist running her left forefinger gently down his face, they know how to love.”“And that's it, isn't it Derryn? That’s it. You want to be human" His face betrays his anger at the idea of losing his friend to the human-kindFor a moment the young woman's voice saddens. “Don't be so cruel Corwen, you know it's my greatest wish.”"Why? We love, can love, do love."“They are tall," she asserts, knowing that he will have an answer for this as well.“We are small," he says, stroking at the tip of a stem of grass as a ladybird passes by, “but we can grow to their height, if it is needed.” And then, as if in triumph, be adds, “And humans cannot become small like this, like us, the folk of the wood, no matter how they try.”Again Derryn pouts, as she knows that her friend is right. But there is something about them that she covets - their human like essence that makes them as one with the worst and best of all that her world is; where a caring she-cat will kill to provide for its young, whilst often finding pleasure in the thrill of the hunt. This is how Derryn sees mankind, rather than as it is.“I’ll look like one for you, if that's what you want. But I won't be like them, they're the destroyers," he announced, clothing his now completed body with a skin-tight netting that appears as though it may have been woven by a Spider? Which, knowing some of Corwen's haunts, was likely.“There is a side to humans that I like Corwen,” Derryn tells him, “they have compassion.”Then she adds sharply, “Which is more than you’ re displaying now.”He crosses his arms find looks to his friend, saying, “All right, nor subtle. What do you want me to do?”“Help me, to help her."“How?" he asks, with a hint of suspicion to his voice."I want to help her find direction, that's all.”"So what do you want from me?""Well, you’re more adept at becoming things than me." she says slowly."I don't like the way this is going," he begins, adding, "so what do you want me to become?”With a wide smile forming on her face, Derryn replies “A white rabbit.”"A what?”“Well, I can't do it. I never learnt and you’re good at transmogrification. So you keep telling me.”“Er… “ Corwen stands open mouthed, hands on hips, "that's true! But…”"Oh,” she pouts, then smiles the widest of smiles just for him, "Go on, for a friend.”"But a rabbit,” Corwen says in reply the merest hint of a sulk to his voice, "'and a white rabbit at that"' he adds, with his hands in deep trouser pockets which have appeared for the purpose of having hands thrust into them…"All I want to know " his voice drifts on the wind as his height begins to reduce and his colour begins to change, “is why do I do these things for you a Dryad who loves humans?”Derryn smiles as her friend continues the transformation. Then, as white fur begins to emerge from his body, she tells Corven: “Perhaps it is because you want to please me, my friend?”Finally, almost a full minute later, the rabbit Corwen makes a sound of derision as he looks to her, with his nose twitching as he waits to be told what she wants of him next.“Now,” she tells him, “we’re going to play a little.”Corwen tilts his head, staring with baleful pink eyes as if to say, 'Now what?'“I want you to find the dog and then have him chase you so you bring him back this way.”He continues to stare for a second or two, before turning to hop in the direction that the woman has taken, moving faster than her and as fast as the wind that now carries her mournful cries.Once her friend has disappeared down the path past Elin and into the bushes, Derryn turns a full circle on her toes in delight, telling herself this is a good idea."Games and fun, games and fun. There isn’t enough - not never for me." She sings as she turns again and again, her voice rising and falling as she chants out the lines.Down by the stream, the young man who had thrown the slick into the water mutters to himself “it’s not fair~ I did try to be original. But really, I suppose that he was right"Then he sighs as he stands, kicking at a stone and sending that into the stream. He watches the ripples on the water's surface for a moment, and then begins to walk towards the entrance to the parkland and his journey home.From some hawthorn bushes ahead a small grey rabbit emerges and passes by his ankles, then a larger white one and, smiling a little, he mumbles: “curiouser and curiouser” which he repeats a second time as a large Red Setter follows both.He stares ahead as a disheveled woman runs towards him, calling out: “Gatsby!"At his feet the rabbits run in a circle around him, and the dog continues running after them both, barking joyfully with the thrill of the chase.“Er miss,” he shouts, reaching down wit bat hands to grasp the dog's neck, “Is he yours?”Elin is breathless as she takes hold of the animal's collar. “Yes, he is mine and..." she manages to say before falling to her knees with Gatsby's face in her hands.With the rabbits gone, they are quickly forgotten as he greets his mistress, licking her hands, as if to tell her that he has missed her.Slowly Elin regains her composure find she looks uptlo the young man saying, “I’ve got to say 'thank you', haven't I?”“Er, no not really, miss," he tells the blonde, as he turns his head away from the scene of reunion, feeling awkward and very embarrassed.On her knees, Elin picks at the leaves find small burrs that cover the animal's once smooth coat, "How could you run off and leave me like that?"“It could have had something to do with the rabbit he was chasing," the man suggests as he pats Gatsby on the back, looking around for either, or both, of the rabbits, and seeing neither.“And who are you?" Elin asks, resenting this man whom her dog seems to like as he stands still for the attention being shown to him.“Well right now I'm a nobody," he tells her, still feeling sorry for himself.“You don’t mean that,” she retorts, hearing a tone in his voice that speaks volumes to her, "after all 'they' say that everyone’s somebody."'Yeah, right,” he snaps.“C’mon, what's your name?” Elm persists, finger-combing her dog’s hair and adding, “After all, I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, so my mother used to say"“My name's Brian.""Well, hello Brian," she greets him, extending her right hand. “I'm Elin and this …” she says, gesturing to her dog, "is my companion, Gatsby.”Brian takes the proffered hand and they shake hands in mock solemnity."So why do you sound so glum?" she asks brightly."Because I can't write," he informs her. "And who told you that?""The guy who reads my stories,”"And is he the only one to read them?" she asks. "Er, presently, yes -"“Well, don't take it to heart whatever it is, I'm sure it isn't really that bad," she assures him."So you say."“Grief Brian, you’re hard on yourself. Why beat yourself up like that? Surely there are enough people around willing to do that for you?” she asks, smiling.“Oh, you don't know, you haven 't read the latest one. That stinks."“It can't be that bad.”He sees her smile and slowly he returns it with one of his own, albeit very hesitantly.“Thanks for that. And, yes, you’ re right, there are plenty.”"So,” she tells him, “don't be another one.”“Er, yes miss," he responds with mock humility as she stands up, Gatsby between them.Then, as he looks into her eyes a moment Brian catches sight of a long silken thread dangling from a branch just behind the young woman"Tell me,” he begins, “what is green and yellow and has lots of legs?""Er, I know, is it a caterpillar?” she asks, a fearful edge to her voice."That's right," he says with certainty, adding, "and there’s one in your hair."“Eeargh” she bawls, waving her arms about, “Get it out, get it out I hate them.”"Hold still," he tells her calmly, “and then I will he able to get it out for you.”Abruptly the blonde stands stock-still staring fixedly at Brian as he reaches toward her long blonde hair with his right hand. Then gazing into her ice-blue eyes, he delicately picks the caterpillar out of her hair between his forefinger and thumb, before turning away from Elm to deposit the small creature on the tree nearest to himself."There you go little fellow, there you go.”As he turns back toward Elin he isn't aware of Derryn's annoyance as she walks up the trunk and then away from the couple, irked that she could be mistaken for a male caterpillar. But, at least it provided that initial contact, she thought, resuming her human-like appearance well away from their presence, wondering where on earth her friend had got to."You must think I'm stupid coming into a wood being scared of caterpillars”' she heard the woman say.“Of course not Elin," he had answered as Corwen stepped behind her, repeating in I mocking tone: "Of course notThen, as he takes his friend's hand in his, he says to her “I see, you become I caterpillar and I get the rabbit, and I get the feeling that I got conned.”“Why?” Derryn asks her companion.“Did you know that the grey was female?”“Er,yes.”“Ah, then thank you for nothing.""Why?” Derryn asks, a slight smile to her face."Let’s put it this way, as a caterpillar you have urges to spin silk threads and eat leaves, don't you?”“Er, yes," Derryn replies smiling, already able to see where this is heading."Well, somewhere in this wood there's a very contented small, grey rabbit.”And as Brian and Elin continue to talk and walk slowly out of the wood, with Gatsby at their heels, light musical laughter echoes through the wood on a zephyr breeze.

The Night Caller

2006-06-11T06:45:00.000-07:00

Earlier that day he had wandered into the small study that they once shared and stood in the middleof the room, turning slowly, surveying the several small heaps of salvage littered around.Stuffed between one stack of her books and the skirting board he found a small red hardback book, with the word ‘DIARY’ embossed in gold on the front.Dusting the months of dust front the small book, he had crouched down to read it, with the spine resting on the palm of his right hand, his fingers holding the cover.And as he looked at where the book had fallen open, his eye’s caught a line of text …‘…and he just touched the back of my hand. It was at that moment I knew that he and I would …’He could read no-more, as his eye’s had slowly filled with tears at the sweet memory of the short years that they had spent together.He had been her first, she had told when they had met that fine summer in Cornwall …They had met on the beach, as the sun had slowly set.His shirt was loose, he had shorts on and was carrying three cans from a six pack.Walking toward him, a girl with copper hair, sarong skirt, small blue bikini top and a decidedly tacky pair of Dame Edna style sunglasses.“Give us a go …” she had said smiling, as he had opened the can.‘She is all of seventeen, or perhaps eighteen,’ he had said to himself.He had thought long and hard before giving his answer, all of ten seconds ‘and gorgeous,’ he had thought, passing her the opened can.“Thanks,” she had said smiling brightly. She had drunk heartily, then handed him the can, saying, “Thanks, I’m Charmaine Masters. I’m here for two weeks …with my mum and dad.”“This is my second week,” he had said, noting the freckles across the bridge of her pert nose and covering her shoulders.He then recalls the sunset and how they had sat in the sand dunes, sand in their toes, watching it slowly set. And, with his eyes misting over, he slowly closes the book. She had moved to study Humanities at the local University and their relationship had blossomed.And, it had seemed sensible for her to move in with him, to save money.She had been his life and world and just knowing Charmaine had given his life meaning; her kisses made even his bad day’s good.Then, one day he had got back from work to find that she had gone, leaving just a note, saying … Don’t be bitter !I had to.Take care,CharmaineSuddenly, the flat they had shared seemed empty and the future he had planned for them was gone.Yet he had his job and that gave him a reason to get up in the morning … and that was enough, just. Then, with tears rolling down his cheeks he places the book back on the shelf, to join the many dust-covered volumes already there, wishing that he could close the book on their relationship, as he had the diary and her description of that first meeting with him.He had sat with the radio before him, crackling into life once or twice through the hours, as the night-driver had called through his response to the jobs given out.There had been one or two base fare’s, mainly stragglers from the Casino, closing at three o’clock.‘Other than that, it was a quiet night,’ the young man mused, as he sat in his usual seat, in his usual bar, dwelling on the events of the previous night, sipping on his early morning whiskey, that he hoped might help him sleep.Absorbed with thoughts of work, he did not notice the changeover of bar staff take place.As he looks up to ask for a refill he is momentarily taken aback by the face of the young blonde before him. “Don’t I ... know you face?” he asks, aware how lame this sounds.The blonde smiles, brushing at a loose strand of hair with her right hand, whilst twitching her pert nose.“I don’t think so ... ” she says, a little doubtfully, then says brightly, “What can I get for you sir?”“Er ... a whiskey.” He answer’s. ‘Her face is very definitely familiar,’ he decides.The young man turns and finds a seat at a small table opposite the bar, to nurse yet another ‘bedtime whiskey.’Granted, he thinks, it’s a bad habit, but it does help me to get to sleep.He looks over to the barmaid again, musing, I can’t be wrong, I know her face, I’m sure of it.He left the bar after ten minutes, very tired, still feeling that he knew the girl … certain of it. It had a week before he had had seen the barmaid again, as he hadn’t returned to ‘his bar’ since, in fear of further embarrassment.He had been working nights for four weeks and his body-clock still hadn’t returned to his accepted norm and was totally out of synch, hence the early morning drink, ‘to help him sleep.’He sat, nursing his second glass, dreading returning to his flat, that was so cold and empty now. The blonde catches him staring and smiles, quite automatically.That smile, he thinks, I know that smile.And he recalls the weekend previous and the stormy night, when a soaked and shivering base fare had pushed open the door to the taxi-office …The building was located near the middle of town, so attracted a lot of club-goers on their homeward journey’s, whether on their own, or with the respective partner they had met that night.She had found the middle of the three chairs, opposite the perspex box that Kevin Foster sat inside, where he sat on an old swivel chair, a single-bar electric heater inches away from his feet, with the crackling radio and two telephone’s on the counter before him. She had a pale complexion, a small face with high cheekbones, slight freckles over a pert nose and piercing slate blue eyes. She has her hair centre-parted, drawn behind the ears into a foot long, bushy pony-tail and two errant wisps of hair fall down her cheeks, which she toys with, as she speaks.“Wanna go home …” “Okay love, I’ll get you a car,” he says, then asks, “So where’s it going?”She tells him and then was gone.Then day’s later, as the as the last of the basefare’s had been picked up, there she was again and she was the same blonde and she was very drunk … and she even sat in the same seat.“I can’t go home and face my parents, not in this state …” she had said, placing her hands to her face. And, he thought, she looks so forlorn, then finds himself thinking of the motherless young deer Bambi, from the Disney film of the same name.Then the young woman had started crying, softly at first, then louder, as she sobbed from the heart.He immediately found himself feeling protective toward the young woman, perhaps in her late teens; with tears in her eye’s, her thin rouged lips quivering. She had looked small and vulnerable, as she sat, all hunched up, cold and wet; and, he wanted to take her in his arms and say, “Don’t worry, it’ll be alright.”He arose from his seat and walked toward the girl saying, “How about I make us a coffee and you can talk to me?” then adds, “if you wish, that is …”She had looking up at the mention of coffee and smiled. As the blonde looks up at the sound of his voice, Kevin looks at the young woman’s face and she wipes at her tears, saying to him, “Thanks, that’d be nice of you ...”He had gone to make the coffee, leaving the night driver with the address 10 Rossington; the last job that was left outstanding, from a list of three, each person being quoted with a time of ‘within ten to fifteen minutes.’The young man walks across the room and turns to the hall, just off the waiting area, where there is a sink opposite the back door; and, at the end of the passageway, what some … in humour … call a toilet … and Kevin fills the kettle, switching the power on at the wall, noticing the blonde twirl at her hair quite unconsciously and he smiles, appreciating her ‘little girl lost’ look. Rinsing out two mugs, he asks, “one sugar, or two ?” She looks directly at him, through tear-filled, piercing blue eyes and replies, “Just one please, I’m … ”‘I know …’ he says to himself, the very moment before she says each word, ‘I’ve got to look after my figure.’He turns the kettle on, wondering, how she can wear a dress so short, on a night as cold and drizzly as this ?“You don’t gave to worry about your weight,” he says … embarrassed when she says through a sniff or two, “Pardon ?”“I’d said that you didn’t have to worry about your weight,” he told her nervously, putting a good heaped teaspoon of a good instant coffee into the two cleaned two mugs that he had found and gives the young woman the un-chipped mug.As he stirs the coffee Kevin, hears wracking sobs coming from the blonde. He walks across the waiting area, to where she sits, asking, “C’mon love. What’s the mattter ?”She has her face in her hands and pressed to the chest, sobbing loudly, “C’mon love, it can’t be that bad. Just talk … it might help … ”The blonde drops her hands a moment and looks squarely at Kevin, through tear-filled eyes and asks,“And what would you know ?”“Well you’re right, I don’t know what you’re problem is,” he begins, “but, I figure I know enough to guess that it’s a man … ”“It is,” she replies, sniffling into a moist hanky, “how’d you guess ?”“Had to be … that’s all. So go on, what’s the matter ?”“What’s your name ?”” the young woman asks, slurring her words a little.“Kevin … Kevin Foster,” he had told her.“Well Kevin,” she had begun, sitting up a little, to show how little of her the bugundy slip dress she wore hardly covered, “take it from me,” and she made an expansive gesture with her left hand in the air, to emphasise her words, “never, never go out with an ex …”“Why ?” he asked knowing that was the question that he was supposed to ask.“ ’Coz they tell everyone that you’ve together again and just ‘coz you dress to look nice they spend the whole night pawing you and …” she has finally runs out of words, until she sniffs again, looks up and adds, “I don’t often drink like that, but it wasn’t a good night … and he …”“And what’s your name ?” he asks the young woman, smiling gently.“Jane ….” She replies and sniffs again.He stands, finds his small backpack and locates a small bag of kitchen roll sheets, “Here,” he says to her, “take what you need.” And he offers her the bag.The blonde takes a tissue blows her nose, wipes her face with a second, then looks at Kevin with wide eyes and says to him, “You’re nice, you know ?”She smiles a little and reaches out to gently stroke his left cheek.“And you’re drunk,” he replies, blushing a little in embarrassment.“Let me get you that taxi …” he had said, standing and walking to the small booth he worked from.Kevin had picked up the set’s mike, keyed it and spoke, “Zero Seven .. Les?”Seven Les was in his fifties, a big man with a kind manner, that endeared him to many of the punters. ‘And,’ Kevin thought, ‘if you were to need an Uncle figure at a given moment like this one, then who better?There is a crackling of static from the speakers, then his drivers voice, “Seven … go on Kevin?”“Les, that last job, it brings you near to the base …”It didn’t, they both knew it didn’t, but the two had worked together long enough to realise that if a favour were being asked, then there had to be a valid reason.“Er … yes. So what do you want Kevin?”“Seven, Les?”“Yes?”“Will you put it on the door for me … and take a young lady home?”“Certainly …” he had said, then added, “couple of minutes, no more.”And pleased that the young woman would get home, Kevin smiles and says, “Cheers Les …”The next day he had gone to the pub, as had become his custom … and he had sat trying not to stare … and, failing miserably. Then, taking his glass back to the bar, the young man notices a loose strand of hair fall from the bang hanging in front of her left ear.He places his glass down and says, ‘thank you,’ then almost as an afterthought, he leans forward and then brushes the loose strands back behind her ear.The blonde steps back towards the stand of optics behind herself, saying indignantly, “Excuse me …” He blushes madly and replies fast, “I’m sorry, I’m … I didn’t mean to annoy you … I just saw the loose hairs … and …” He stops talking , realising how foolish he sounds and looks at the blonde, who is now smiling and says to him, “Don’t worry none. I’ve known far worse, believe me … ”And embarrassed, by his own forthright behaviour, Kevin leaves the bar, to return to his empty flat.He felt a little foolish, but still, in his heart he knew that he knew her. He was sure of it: it was a simple as that, he thought to himself and so, did not sleep for hours, as he tried to recall the girl’s name.Kevin played music, counted sheep, even did both, though he was sure that it would work … and the ‘leccy would run out: but he did not need to worry, as he stayed awake to turn his sounds off … just before he set off for work.That night, his mind very weary and needing sleep … he had sent four bookings out an hour early … those from the second page in the bookings book … and totally ignored any that might have been on the first page.‘And what is her name ?’ he had even wanted to bellow into the mike, but he hadn’t.He hadn’t visited his usual haunt once he finished work, as he couldn’t face her again. But, once home a myriad thoughts had whirled through Kevin’s mind … the majority of which centre on his dislike for his own bad memory. He lies back on his bed, with his hands behind his head, mising, “Sheesh, … I should remember her name … pretty face, nice legs and, she was no plain Jane …”And Kevin opens the thick curtains to his bedroom, allowing light to flood in … he looks at the clock and notes that it is two thirty; she will be working.So, lighting a cigarette, he rises from his bed and pads to the dinette, to make a coffee, or three … before he finally says aloud, “That’s it … I’ve got it.” He walks to the bar with a degree of assurance that he hasn’t felt for awhile, not since …Kevin asks for his whiskey and sits at his usual seat, pleased that at last he knows her name.From where he sits, he has watched the bar on several occasions, trying to wrest memories from the back of his mind … but, not today though. Today he sits at ease, his frustrated memory satisfied … and, he sips at his whiskey slowly, savouring the taste and revelling in his new found memory … while behind the bar, Jane stands confused, trying to recall the name of the tall, slim fair-haired young man at the table before her … and she thought, ‘I know him … I know I know him.’Then, when Kevin finished his drink, he left the bar, smiling brightly, saying “Bye …”and the blonde brushed at a stray hair, looking at him leaving, still somewhat perplexed.It took him twenty minutes to walk home, and for some reason his empty flat didn’t feel quite so lonely … And finally he was able to sleep, for the first time, in such a long time …Then, once more, as the as the last of the basefare’s had been picked up, she was there again, the same blonde and in the same seat. But there was something different, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.This time she looked different and he couldn’t fathom out how … as she sat up straight and smiled brightly, straight at him. Gone was the little dress that covered little and left even less to the imagination. Instead, she was dressed in a white blouse, tight black jeans and black Doc Marten boots, with bright yellow laces.She smiles again, then says to Kevin, “Hi, do you remember me?”The blonde asks the question, one hand over her mouth as she giggles nervously.Did he remember her? Of course he remembers her, he thinks.I remember everything about you and how you twirl those strands of hair and how we spoke and …“Yes, I do …” he answers, unable to put into words how he actually feels and how he would adore to spend more time in her company.But all he adds is a very feeble, “You were a bit squiffy lass.”“A bit squiffy, is that what you call it?” she says giggling once again.Then she adds, “I didn’t remember that much about the night, but, I did remember talking to you and when you used my name the other day … I finally remembered where I’d met you. So here I am.”“Er … why?” Kevin asks.“You listened …”“It was nothing.”“Don’t say that … Kevin, “ she tells him, suddenly recalling his name; “because not enough people are prepared to listen …” she stands up and walks toward his both.“but,” she says opening the door, “you did listen … I remember that, very well indeed.”“Er … did you have a good night ?” he asks nervously, as the young woman walks toward him and runs gentle fingers down his cheek, saying, “I had a good evening … and, thank you for asking.”“Er … do you want a taxi … Jane ?”“So you do remember my name.”“I couldn’t forget it, Jane. Or you,” he says automatically, then immediately regrets being quite so open, as it isn’t at all normal for him to do so, but he found there was something about her … “Aw, that’s sweet, ” she says, running fingers through his hair.“Do you want a taxi ?” he asks again, quite embarrassed now.“No,” she tells him smiling, “I’ve got the car, so there was no drinking.”“So why are you … ”“… here ?”“Er .. yes.”“Ah, you are sweet,” she says, kissing his forehead, “I’m here because I wanted to be. Simple as …”“Pardon ?” he replies, stunned at the woman’s forthright approach.“I’ll try again,” she tells him slowly, “I’m here, because I wanted to know, what time With wide open eyes, his mouth opens, as he asks, “So it you don’t want a taxi, why are you here ?”Again she kisses his forehead saying, “You’re sweet.”Once more she strokes his face, “Because I wanted to say thank you … and well, maybe we could go somewhere when you finish work … and have a coffee, or something to eat?”She then adds quickly, “If you want to, that is … ?”“Er … “ he gulps audibly, then says, “are you sure ?”“I’m sure,” she tells him, smiling, “so how about it?”“Er … where … when?”“Like I said, after work, if you’d like. You could come straight to the bar, have a coffee and … chat.”He thinks quickly, unused to a woman taking the lead like this, then after a few moments pause says to her, “Yes thanks, I’d like that.” “Good,” she says to him opening the door to leave, then adds, “I’ll be expecting you then, okay?” “Er … okay.” He says to the closing door as she leaves, his heart thumping so fast he wonders momentarily if it will burst. * * *Work finished at seven in the morning, when the other operator took over.When he had been late coming in, Kevin’s heart sank.He lit a cigarette, took a booking and looked at the door: still no-one.“I’ll give it another five minutes, ‘an if there’s no-one here by then, well … I’m locking up, booking or no booking.” Kevin knew the at it had to be passed over, but he also knew that she might, just might actually be waiting and he had to find out, he just had to.He found it difficult to believe that someone liked him, just for him and not for … what he could provide,‘like some I’ve known,’ he thought quite cynically; remembering Debbie, who’d got the house; and Val, who’d got so much of his money.He smiled thinking, ‘someone wants me … for me …’ as the door opened, drawing him from his reverie.“Why haven’t you got your bag packed?” Mark, the day-operator asked, looking at him with a beaming smile on his ageing cherubic face.“C’mon, outta my seat,” he said, running his right hand over his forehead, toward his remaining, greying curly hair, “and it’s warm outside, so you won’t want your coat on, okay?”“Okay Mark … Thanks Mark … I’m gone.” Kevin said, packing his bag, with his tapes, pens and flask, then disappearing out of the front door.Jane had told Kevin that she would meet him at the bar when he finished; but, that would be early.‘Had she realised just how early he finished?’ Kevin wondered, as he knocked on a closed door, minutes after leaving work.When the lock sounded and the door opened he was relieved to find that Jane was there, waiting for him, a smile on her face.She is wearing a sleeveless white cotton blouse, tight-cut faded blue denim jeans, and on her feet she wears black suede zip-up boots, with pointed toes and a half-inch heel.The blondes hair is tied, as usual, though worn a little more loose than is custom; and, she is wearing just enough make-up to emphasise her features, rather than detract from her natural beauty, he thinks.And, though tired, Kevin finds himself feeling more alert, very quickly.“Hi,” he says, in a small quiet voice.She stands at the private side door to the bar, smiling.“C’mon in, I can’t hold this open much longer.” Then she adds, “Anyway, the coffee’s on,”And already he can smell the rich aroma of freshly brewed filter coffee wafting toward him.“Thanks,” he says simply, still unused the mere idea of a woman making the running, like this.But, he follows, as Jane leads him to a quiet alcove in the bar, where she already has a full jug of the steaming brew waiting for them, ‘with cream and sugar, if you want, he is told.“Thanks,” he says again, feeling very self-conscious, as he sits on the cushioned corner bench seat behind the table. The young blonde sits beside Kevin, to his right, smiles and saying, “ shall I be mother ?” pours the coffee.As she pours their drinks, Kevin asks, “So, how come you’re here now ?”“To see you,” she replies.“Yeah, but …”“Go on … why?”She asks for him.“Er … yes,” he responds, hesitantly.“So we could talk … and, perhaps get to know each other …”“Oh …”“Is that it … ? Oh … ?”“Well yes … I’m … well, surprised would be an understatement to say the very least …”“Look Kevin,” she says slowly, “I got the keys to open up so we could talk, okay? Nothing complicated, alright?”“So talk to me now …”“Er … what about?” he asks, feeling very foolish.“Anything,” she replies, teases him, smiling, then she adds, “… so okay, you’re a little tongue-tied. So, how about trying a little word association then …?”And the blonde smiles a broad smile, that leaves him feeling quite breathless.“Okay,” he replies, “now, that’s were you say something and I say something in reply, isn’t it?”“Well, something like that.” she says, “I say something and you answer with the first thing that word makes you think of … For example, good, bad … Okay ?”“Yeah, okay …” he says to her hesitantly, “I’ll give it a go, so. Good … bad that sort of thing, eh?”“Yes,” the blonde tells him patiently, “that’s right, now try …”And Jane pauses a moment for effect, then says, “Light?”“Er … dark ?”“Okay Kevin, now you’ve got the idea, let’s try a few more …”“Okay.”“Oh c’mon, at least try and sound a little enthusiastic then …”“Er … okay,” he says a second time, in a lighter, brighter tone of voice.“Well, at least that sounded like you’re a little interested …”“I am … I am …” Kevin tells her quickly, in his own defence.“Okay then, she says smiling, “Sun ?”“Er … Moon ?”“By George,” she says, throwing her head back and laughing aloud, “I think he’s got it!”“Er, Jane?” he asks quietly, in a serious voice.“Yes Kevin?” she asks in similar tone.“Are you taking the Michael ?”“Me ?” the blonde exclaims in a tone of righteous indignation; after which she smiles and asks of him,“Now would I do that ?” She smiles, then adds, “Now would I ?”“I’m claiming the fifth amendment, on the grounds that it’s answer might cause me problems,”Kevin says with a wide smile on his face.“Uh-huh,” Jane says, “so, while we’ve got you talking, let’s try another one, eh ?”“Yeah okay … go on !”“Venus ?”“Mars ?”“Good one,” she commends, “so let’s try another then … love?”“War ?”“Okay … Blake?”“Uh-huh … Avon !”“Very good … so, what about, experience ?”“Ha …” he exclaims, quite loudly, “I’ve got one for that … me and my ex … I’d say that was definitely an experience !”And as she slowly pours two more coffee’s Jane says, “I guess that’s a lot like the others, really …”“Huh, explain that one Jane, please … ?” Kevin inquires, his curiosity piqued.“Well, I suppose that in a way, they all down to a matter of conflict – all life is about conflict and the many tensions created by conflict …”“Explain that please Jane ?”“Look,” she begins, “naturally most significant pairings revolve around the tensions of light and dark; the metaphysical, morality and immorality …”“Huh ?”“Good and bad, basically …”“Oh well, if you’d used a few less big words, then I might of understood that.”“Ouch …” she says, “sorry.”She smile’s gently at him and touches the back of his right hand with feather light fingertips.“And we’re talking now, aren’t we?”“Er … yes ,” he answers, gulping a little in embarrassment at her touch … yet, still enjoying it nonetheless.Then sensing his discomfiture, Jane withdraws her hand and sits back a little against the seat asking,“Do you mind if I smoke“Of course not,” he replies, “I smoke.”“Okay …” she says to him, beginning to search in her black shoulder bag, emblazoned with white logo. Jane withdraws from it a packet of twenty Regal King Size and a yellow clipper lighter.“Want one?” she asks, offering the opened pack.“No … er, yes …” he says, pausing before accepting a cigarette.“I don’t usually smoke these …”Immediately, Jane picks up on what Kevin has said and asks him, “So, tell me then, what do you normally smoke?”“Er …” he begins, then says after a delay of a few seconds, “rollies …”“Is that all ?” she asks, with an engaging smile on her face.“Er, like I said earlier … I’m claiming the fifth …”And at almost the same moment in time they both start laughing, at an openly shared secret.He accepts the cigarette and places it between his lips.The blonde flips at the wheel of the lighter, ignites it and lights her cigarette, then offers him the flame. Kevin leans toward her to light his cigarette from the small flame, smelling the light scent of vanilla as he nears the young woman.Sitting back in his seat Kevin inhales on the acrid smoke, “You know … ?” he begins.“What ?”“This is …” and he smiles wistfully as he speaks, “one of the best ends to a day that I’ve had for awhile …”“Thank you kind sir,” she says to him, “I think I’ll take that as a compliment.”“Please do … please do …” Kevin tells her, looking straight into her eyes and smiling.With a small grin on her face, Jane replies, “Alright then, I will take it as one, if that’s how it was meant ?”“Er …” he begins, “that’s how it was meant.”“Then, I thank you Kevin.”He looks at her, then downward, his face flushed, very embarrassed: he finds it difficult to take to women he finds, but this was all so fast … so different and unexpected, that the young man now found it it difficult to say anything more, let alone instigate further conversation.She can sense his unease, which is also made apparent by his close body language, as he hunches his shoulders and clasps his hands in his lap, with his knees pressed tightly together …There follows a long period of awkward silence between the couple, until Jane broke it by touching the back of his hands gently with her own and saying softly, “Kevin …”He looks up at the sound of his name and Jane asks, “There’s a lot of pain still, isn’t there ?”Looking down into his coffee Kevin answers, “Yeah, I guess …”“Me too, sometimes,” she tells him, the smile lost from her face.And, looking up and straight in the blondes bright blue eyes, he asks, “Why are you being so nice ?”“Hmmmm …” she says, the smile on her face once more, “why am I being nice?”Jane looks thoughtful a moment, then smiles; and, twirling her hair with her left hand, she tells him,“Because you listened, when I needed someone to listen.”Dumbfounded by the answer, Kevin opens his mouth a little, as he cannot think how to cope with the very simple honesty of her statement; she is being so open with him and he is unaware, after all this time.Such honesty from a woman, for it is completely against all his current expectations.Finally, he looks down at his caffeine again, then back to his companion and asks uncertainly,“Do you like me?”She sits back against the cushioned seats padding and claps her hands together laughing, “Kevin, are you slow, sweet, or stupid … ?”Feeling a little deflated by her response to his question; he opens his mouth to answer, but finds once again, no words are forthcoming.Jane leans forward, saying in a quiet, almost conspiratorial manner, “They’re going to open up soon.”And, he looks at his watch and the time, wondering, ‘where on Earth has the time gone?’He says quickly, “Please Jane, you didn’t answer my question ?”“Maybe just sweet,” she says in response.“Kevin,” she continues smiling, her fingertips on his, “let me explain this you slowly, I like you.”Again his mouth opens and closes twice, as Jane clasps her hands together, saying, “C’mon, coffee-bars closed …” then she stands, standing to usher him to the door he had entered hours earlier; and she says,“C’mon, they’ll be opening up soon.”“He rises, saying, “But … but …”“What is it?” Jane asks him, standing by the open door.“You can’t do this …” Kevin tells her, dejectedly, as he stands in the doorway to the street.Earlier, when he had arrived, the street had been empty, now it was already milling with people passing-by.“I can’t do what ?” Jane teases.He steps onto the street and looks back at her saying, “You can’t tell me you like me, then just …”“Just what?” The blonde enquires, with a broad smile on her face, as she stands in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.“Well he continues, “just get rid of me like this …”Kevin looks as dejected as he feels, until she giggles, twirling a loose strand of hair, saying …“So you’re not coming for coffee tomorrow then ?”He turns toward Jane and smiles, saying just, “Oh.”Then after a pause Kevin adds, “So you do want to see me again … ?” “Sweet … and stupid. Of course I want to see you …” Jane tells him, as he walks into a bright blue day, a broad grin on his face … and, he turns back toward her, saying confidently, “See you tomorrow !”Kevin walks down the street, listening to the twittering bird-life, as he returns to his home and bed, still smiling; and wonders at whoever could have written this meeting for him and this beautiful blonde … not thinking of his own behaviour and attentive nature, that had attracted her … and looks at the sky above, mouthing quietly, “Thank you, whoever …”Although physically tired, he felt more alive than he has for many years and walks home to his flat feeling good about himself, for the first time, in many months; struck by the fact that she had listened to him, in a way that no-one has previously.… And he sleeps well, looking forward to seeing his new friend again.* * *A Beginning …

Frustration

2006-06-11T06:41:00.000-07:00

From the moment the half South American, half English beauty had arrived at his studio; the artist stared at his model with an intense desire to possess her."Ah, to lay claim on such a loveliness," he had muttered, turning his head from his easel to gaze at the young woman standing before him.Such was his immediate lust for the dark-haired, wild eyed half-caste, that his inspection of her form, prior to committing her image to canvas, was to gluttonise upon her lithe body, with such passion that he imagined he could hear the very beating of his own heart as it began to race.Looking at the shadow, just below her perfect jutting, rose-tipped breasts, the artist had tilted his head somewhat, so as to view the high multi-paned windows and the shaft of light that served as his main source of illumination; highlighting her young flesh to further emphasise the impact her vista made upon him.That she had arrived late was not important to the artist, that she was there was indeed his delight though; standing naked before him, the perfection of her form his to view. He had to render a likeness of her, subject to his skill, that would enshrine her beauty forever.'Yes,' he had considered, a melancholy yearning for more time wrenching at his gut, 'there has to be enough light for me, as no false light could do justice to this creature, this Venus risen, whose flashing eye's beguile me with their seeming innocence. Yet if the light changes, just a little, those same eye's seem to hint at the possibility of depths unknown and perhaps a rapacious appetite that could be tapped into.'The artist, consumed as he was, had found that it was imperative to him, that there was enough light to emphasise the need he felt, to see what his hidden and present this facet of her upon canvas, with line and brush stroke.And as she moved with languid grace, the model had walked round the lofty garret, taking her measure of the artist through his previous works, in an attempt to learn something of him and his nature. Then, as she had stood in the pose that his adroit hands had chosen her to adopt, she had felt his eyes upon her, though it was not through an ocular sense, rather an awareness of him, the artist and his deep longing for her.Viewing the canvas before him and the emptiness of it, the artist had turned to scrutinize her once more. Then as he had put the black of charcoal on the white, making his first mark, slowly, very slowly her form had begun to take shape.He had been enthralled with the effortless nature in which his line captured her, her face and body in his mind, his eye and hand.Yet, her image sought reproduction though, he considered.His image muse has vanished and all that is left is a talent less fraud, he is sure of that and he slashes at the painting with his frustration.Then, seeing no other recourse, he begins to paint once again.With every stroke of brush to canvas the artist looked to his memory and those long sittings, where she had endured long periods of stillness for him and the lens of his eye…

Three Nights In The Big Easy

2005-12-14T05:37:00.000-08:00

Most of the people out promenading the sidewalk would not meet his gaze, when he did lift his eye's from the toes of his black lace-up boots.
There was something deep, intangible and dark to him, which unnerved passers-by.
He did not mind, it meant that 'they' left him alone.
He'd become uncomfortable with his self-imposed solitude and he was often viewed as aloof. He was not.
He walked with shoulders hunched, as if against the weight of the world, clenched hands shoved deep into the side pockets of his knee-length black coat worn unbuttoned, to expose the maroon vee-neck sweater, made of the softest wool, tight against his muscular chest; worn with dark trousers - he liked to look good, which included his short dark hair, gelled and styled - there had been a time when he'd stopped caring, about his appearance ... but, that was not now. Yet Angel disliked the criticism of his favoured choice of colour – 'as it didn't have meaning,' he kept insisting.
Yet, Whistler persisted, which had made him feel uncomfortable - as it hit too far to close to home.
Black suited him, it suited what he was - someone who spent his time in the shadows, preferring the dark, where he was safe; where he could hide from those who wished him harm; and where he felt at ease.
Yet as an emissary of The Powers That Be, Whistler realized that he needed Angel's cooperation, not his belligerence, so hadn't pursued the matter any further.
"Be yourself," Whistler had declared, as they'd sat atop the cornice stone surrounding the skyscraper, that dark starless evening, weeks ago.
"After all, how can you help others, if you can't feel good about yourself?'
Angel hadn't an answer for that.
He had spent years seeking redemption for the actions of his former self, Angelus; and in that time he had tried many ways of doing so.
Now, to atone for the past, Angel was to help others; and to do that successfully, he'd been told that he would have to 'feel good' about himself.
'Time out, relax.' Even the very idea seemed strange and alien to him.
Yet, that is what had been suggested, 'Take time out, relax. Find yourself.'
So, Angel travelled, to where he'd sought understanding.
Now he was here, in New Orleans once again - and twenty years had passed.

* * *

Night had fallen and little light permeated the route he followed.
His sense of direction was unerring - he liked the bar.
He'd turned off Bourbon Street and it's milling crowds - into the small alley's that he recalled walking.
For a moment he thought of the young woman, Jane Bresnen, who had sent him to a literary agent with his memoirs, and he sighed - she had meant well.
Angel paused at the bars entrance and wondered briefly, what changes twenty years, or so, had wrought.
He walked down the steps, from street level, remembering way back then, and the Media Arts Course, one of the first of it's kind, that Jane had talked of, with so much enthusiasm.
He recalled well, the agent he'd spoken to, as his right foot had found the last step.
Angel had found the man's lack of encouragement disappointing - in his opinion the story was just that, a novel, about a myth, that no-one would find at all interesting in the nineteen seventies
He had lost his temper and the little man, behind the desk, had nearly lost his life. Yet, Angel would not kill.
Instead, he'd chosen to leave the man's office and the city, to try once again, to find a life for himself amongst the anonymous crowds of a big city - this time New York, which is where Whistler had found him.
He had left his memoirs with Jane though, as a souvenir of his explanation of 'life' as one of the undead.
Angel smelled the air, catching the smell of sweaty bodies, stale perfume, cigarettes, beer and masking much of the worst, scented candles, which were located in old wine bottles, dotted here and there around the room.
The smell of the candles - it triggered a memory, from years ago, when he'd been known as Angelus; and many nuns in a convent lay dying, or dead, whilst he had enjoyed his fill, watched by Druscilla, who had grown quite mad, watching him; and her prescient knowledge of his intentions toward her.
She had cowered, from him, as he drank. Then he's turned, to see the fear on her face - fear which he remembered, to this day.
His eye's raking the bar, he wondered briefly about what might have happened to his young protégée, who'd been so afraid of being what he was - until after the change.
To his immediate right was the long bar, it's surface awash with the overspill left from a busy afternoon; and to his left were five booths, each partitioned with a glass panel with an art-deco design on it.
Each booth had bench seating around a small round table; and at the centre of each table was an old wine bottle with a lit candle in it.
Scattered about the bar were several small tables, with four chairs around each - again, there was a lit red candle, in a wine bottle, at the centre of each.
He sat where he had, all those years ago, sitting on a stool and facing the steps from street-level.
The bar wasn't full, nor was it empty. It was busy though and as Angel watched the young woman behind the bar, he considered how little she had changed.
Her hair was auburn, quite straight, with a light wave to it, but cut so it flicked over her ears, down to her alabaster shoulders.
She also had a long fringe, which parted from left to right and hung in her eyes.
Her dress sense was as had been in the seventies, tight and revealing - the tee shirt dark blue, almost black and had a rounded neck and no sleeves. It was a front and a back, laced at the side, halfway.
On the front was a silver and red silhouette, of a naked woman with long hair, her legs drawn beneath her, hands above the head, with the palms together.
Beneath the figure, in silver and red script was the legend, 'Playboy Bunny.'
Her back was as long as he recalled, the waist as slim as he remembered.
Her jeans were blue and tight and hung from bird bone hips.
She walked the length of the bar, a smile on her face, sweeping hair away from her eyes, "Long time, no see..." Jane said to Angel, a light smile on her face.
"Yes," he agreed quietly.
"Still as talkative as ever?" She asked, smile widening, dimples in her cheeks - and teeth more pronounced than he recalled.
"Whiskey?"
"Yes, thank you, Jane."
"Hmmm," she snorted, "so you do remember my name? I thought you'd forgot all about me the way you left like you did, then not contacted me, at all."
"Oh, sorry," Angel was surprised that she'd wanted to remember him, because she obviously had - hence her tone of voice, filled with her ire.
"So, how are you?" He asked, as she poured his drink.
He didn't need to drink, or eat - but if you wanted company, you went where it was. After all, that's why he'd come here originally.
"I'm fine," she replied, turning to serve a customer to his right.
The mirror was gone, he noticed.
Angel remembered a mirror, that he'd had to be wary of, located just over the bar. It wasn't there.
"Time has treated you well Angel. You look the same, just the same," she said to him, a light smile on her face.
"Are you surprised?" He responded in earnest tones, "After all, you read my story and you know what I am."
Hands on the bar, Jane stared into his eyes, "Yes Angel, you're right. So am I!"
He stared into her eyes, as so few men would have the nerve to do.
Finally, with his left eyebrow raised in surprise, he said, "You are?"
Angel realised that he should of known. He should have known.
She was changed and that should not have been a surprise to him, yet he had found it so, which Angel also found a source of annoyance.
He should have felt her aspect, as he'd entered the room. Yet Angel hadn't and found it disconcerting, as that sort of lack of awareness could get him killed.
There were the sounds of several footsteps and five men and two women, all in various modes of dress enter the bar.
As each person passes where Jane stands, they look at her, one after the other, before walking towards the end of the room - and a door, painted black, inset a wall the same colour, deep in shadow.
"So, tell me, what happened then Jane?"
"More customers coming in." Angel observed.
"And going out?"
There is the sound of more footsteps.
"Someone else...shush," she says, urgency in her voice.
For a moment they allow themselves to be one with the life of the bar - the music; the trite conversations; the sexual banter; and acting as a catalyst, for much, the liquor.
"You know, I hadn't expected you to be here," he tells her, ending the silence.
"Why not?" She asked him, responding quickly to his statement, thankful for this opportunity to change their current topic of conversation: "I finished the Media
Course, got my certificate. But, getting work wasn't easy. The industry wasn't ready for women, not then. So I came here full-time... then..."
A big man, dressed in a well-fitting grey suit walks down the steps and looks at his wristwatch. He looks up and down the long room and steps up to the bar.
As if to an unspoken question, Jane looked at the tall, muscular suit, then turned her head to direct her eyes toward the back of the room.
The man tapped the glass of his watch, shook his head and turned away.
"And?" Angel prompted once again.
She looks over his shoulder at the bar's newcomer, as he follows the path taken by the small group earlier.
"Not here, not now. Wait awhile, okay?"
Jane doesn't wait for a reply instead she turns from him, picks up a rag and begins to clean the bar-counter, occasionally looking toward Angel, eyes darting back and forth.
His friend was nervous, that was obvious.
Now he felt the hairs at the back of his rise - Whistler had told him to get involved.
'Is this what is felt like to feel, concern for another, like this?' Angel wondered, as he sipped at his drink, slowly, not willing to drink faster - he knew he needed to keep his wits about him.
Jane returned to stand in front of him, rag still in hand.
"It's quiet, then it's all rush, what can I say?"
"It's alright, I understand." Angel responded, adding, "So, you were going to tell me about working here, afterward."
"Well, let's say, 'after' there weren't that many job options, for someone who can only work nights, so I stayed here. When the Manager died, I took it over."
"And you're still here." He added.
"Yes, as you can see..." she spread her arms wide, "still here and just as lovely!"
"True pretty lady, true..."
There was a long, uncomfortable pause, broken by a customer saying, "I don't want to disturb you two, but I would like a drink tonight and not tomorrow."
She had smiled as she had made the comment and was served but Jane who then returned to stand near on the opposite side of the counter, she wanted to talk.
Much as he had expressed himself through his writing, which she'd read, Jane wanted him, particularly him, to understand.
Angel placed his right hand on her left gently, staring, for a moment, deep into her hazel and blue eyes, that were showed flecks of green that weren't always there.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked her softly.
"Yes," she declared, "but not now. When we're closed, okay?"
"Sure," Angel responded.
So, time passed slowly, until at ten past two, the door at the back of the room opened again and the group of people left, one by one, again looking toward Jane individually as they did so.
She looked at her watch, smiled and called out, "Time folks. Time for you all to go bed - and time for me to eat."
Angel smiled, as the last of the patrons left the bar.
Jane walked from behind the bar, the damp cloth once more in hand.
She extinguished candles wiping down tables - and noticing that Angel, who had waited so patiently, was a bout to speak - she put the tip of her right forefinger to her lips, mouthing, “the toilet.”
Angel stepped down from the stool where he'd sat since arriving and walked in the direction she pointed, toward a door, with a stick-man black symbol of a male on it.
He opened the door quickly and went in, trusting her, as he would so few others.
There was a light, which he didn't use, with his senses it was hardly needed.
Entering the small half-tiled room - large enough for a cubicle, urinal, wash-basin and mirror, no more - he entered the cubicle, stood on the top of the toilets white enamel pedestal, being careful not to put a foot inside - and the very murky water.
Angel closed the toilet door ... and waited patiently, alert for anything that might happen - such had been one of his life lessons: 'always be prepared,' Darla, she had taught him that.
Suddenly Angel heard voices outside the door.
Then abruptly it was silent, until he heard the toilet door creak.
He saw the cubicle door in front of him inch open, slowly.
Angel tenses, readying himself for combat.
The door opened fully - and there she stood, Jane the young woman that he'd been waiting for. She looked at Angel, poised for a possible fight - standing on a toilet ... and grinned.
"You can come out now," Jane informed him, "they're gone."
"So, are they?" Angel asked, stepping down from the toilet pedestal.
"Friends of a friend..." she responded defensively, briefly looking at a slim watch on her left wrist, mumbling: "a very good friend."
He had heard Jane, yet didn't acknowledge it - instead he chose to file the somewhat cryptic comment away, in his back-brain, 'for future reference.'
He knew that it meant something of special interest - 'but after all,' he reasoned, 'the last time I saw her was twenty years ago and a lot has changed, for us both.
She beckoned him with a crooked finger and he followed her, back into the bar, now devoid of any human presence.
Angel followed Jane silently; as she led him out of the toilet and toward the first booth they came to.
"Sit down," she said, gesturing a wooden straight back chair, "and we'll talk, okay?"
They sat either side of the small table, the solitary lit candle in a bottle between them.
There was a very uneasy silence, which Angel broke, asking, "So, what happened
then?"
She spoke calmly in answer, yet he perceived the disquiet hiding behind her words, "I learnt of what you wrote about..."
"Go on please, tell me more?" He encourages, in a soft voice, almost soothing.
"I remember dying. I remember drinking from her... and I remember the taste, that first time. Oh, how I remember that... " Jane sighed as she finished speaking.
"When was this then?"
Smiling, Jane looked at her slender wristwatch, with a small face, replying to him: "About ten years, I think."
"Ten years?" He queried.
"Yes," She replied, "ten years. And nothing you wrote of could have prepared me for what I learnt myself."
She paused a moment, drawing her breath.
Placing his right hand over Jane's left, he asked, "What do you mean?"
"The thirst... that all-consuming thirst..."
"And?" Angel prompts.
"Never seeing daylight again."
Hearing her speak, he'd heard the sadness in her voice - for more than just the loss of being able to watch the sun go down.
"So, who was she?" He asks.
"How did you know it was a woman who made me?" She asks, her curiosity piqued,
"You said you remembered the taste of her, don't you recall?"
"Ha!" Jane laughed, "I guess you could say the seventies caught up with me?"
"So?" He prompts again.
"Her name was... is... Su... maybe older than you. I think."
Jane told him, quietly.
"Tell me about her" Angel asked, sitting back a little, to appear relaxed.
She looked at her watch again; and Angel noticed, but did not say anything.
"It was through her I learnt of the things you wrote..."
"Tell me more, please?" Angel prompted her, in a gentle voice.
"She walked in with friends one night. Just sort of swept in. And for a moment I felt as if I'd been caught in the eddies surrounding her..."
As she spoke, with passion, her eyes turned from blue to almost green, the pupils wide and pronounced.
One hand over the other, Angel leant forward, obviously listening, as she stared into his brown eyes.
"I'd read your story..."
"Yes?"
"Well, after you left, without a word, I'd read your story - your memoirs again and again." She told him all at once, her words running one into the other.
"I wanted to know more... I wanted to understand..." She tells him flatly, in a quiet voice.
Her touches her face with gentle fingers, "Talk to me."
Smiling suddenly, she answers, "A woman, a customer. Very special. I'd recognized something about her... and..."
"Go on?" He persists.
"I read it time, time and again. I'd wanted to understand you see.
"What?"
"A cursed vampire, with a soul, that's what..."
"And?" Angel felt frustrated; he hated these meandering conversations, which went nowhere.
"Well, it was in '82, or '83, I'm not sure really."
"Go on?"
"Well that's when I met her..."
But, she is deep in reverie and appears lost to him for a moment, lost in her memories.
"She was so commanding... so, compelling."
Angel smiled: "There are those of us, with that power."
She lowered her head a moment.
"She spoke of things she would show me..." Jane tells him, quietly.
'Darla?' Angel mused. 'Could it be her?'
He recalled her using a phrase much the same very similar, when he too had been spellbound, captivated by she who had made him.
"Having read what I had, I'd had to do something when she walked in."
"So, what did you do?" Angel asked slowly, aware he mightn't like the answer; but, curious as to the re-birth of another, someone he had grown to like.
Looking down a little shame-faced, Jane informs him, "I showed her the manuscript."
"You what?!" He exclaimed in surprise.
Jane reached for his hands with hers, saying to him: " I needed that connection."
"I understand." He told her, very quietly.
Slowly Angel stood and walked toward the stairs, where he looked back.
Jane still sat at the table, once again looking at her watch.
"Will I see you again?" She called to him.
"Tomorrow, perhaps," Angel told her. Then he was gone.
Jane stood and turned off the bars lights, muttering to herself in the empty bar, "Come back tomorrow night, then maybe I'll tell you the rest."
She walked up the steps and entered the night, sighing.

* * *

The next night he ventured out from his low-rent hotel to visit he bar again.
Angel had descended the stairs wary of attack, unaware of why he anticipated trouble.
He just did. That had become his way.
Jane smiled at his entrance.
"You scared off the customers!" She scolded him, looking around herself, to illustrate to him just how empty it was.
Other than himself there was only Jane, behind the bar and one other customer, a man in a light grey suit, with straight blonde hair and a distinctly slurred voice: "Hey Jane," he called out, "wanna brew."
He'd found a place at the bar and been there since work had ended, hours before.
Angel had sat where he liked to sit and had been presented with a drink.
"Sorry Kev," She said, turning toward the heavy-lidded customer, his cheeks suffused with blood, his forehead dripping with sweat.
"What do you want, before home and bed?"
He hiccupped, then ran the back of his right hand across his mouth.
"No-one at home. So, was that an offer?"
"Goodnight Kev, no more for you."
The man stood away from the bar, still leaning on it, wobbling a little.
"Hmmm... yeah, mebbee your right..." 'Kev' looked to Angel, then to Jane, smiling, as he walked to the stairs - and out of the bar.
At the head of the stairs, leaning against the doorframe, he called down, "Have fun!"
Angel looked to Jane and asked, "Are you having fun?"
She grinned and looked at her watch before relying: "He's alright - harmless really."
Then, she added, "Anyway, it'll start getting full... soon."
An eyebrow raised in surprise, Angel responded, "Yes, really?"
As his question ended a young man came down the steps, an amp in his arms and
walked to the back of the room.
He was joined by a second a third young man, each of them carrying either electrical equipment, or a guitar, or bits of the drum kit, which slowly grew into a full-kit.
As the band began to set-up Angel watched, over his shoulder.
"There's a band on tonight Angel..." Jane told him, cleaning a glass.
"Really, no kidding?" He responded with uncharacteristic sarcasm.
For a moment they looked at one another across the bar counter, their faces earnest. Suddenly they were both laughing.
"Well I guess it won't be as quiet as a grave any longer!" He said.
"Hey, less of the deadpan humour!" She responded, throwing a cloth at him, which
she'd been using to clean glasses.
He caught the cloth and was about to return it, when the sounds of many feet coming down the stairs caught his attention.
The bar was crowded within minutes and soon Jane was busy, very busy.
Angel picked up his glass, raised it as if to make a toast to his friend, then brought the glass to his lips, sipping at the amber liquid.
"We'll talk later," he said quietly. With her aural enhancement, Jane heard him easily above the noise in the bar.
Across the heads of the couple she was serving, Jane looked to him and smiled.
'Well,' he mused, 'let's see what they're like?"
He turned on his stool, to watch the band play, ignoring the rest of the room.
The music he heard reminded him of the past, as so many things did.
But, this evoked the time he'd met Jane, over twenty years ago; when hair was worn longer and fashion was louder.
At nearly ten-thirty the band, known as Tendons, took a beer-break.
Angel turned on his stool again, to order another drink, to find it already waiting for him and another woman working behind the counter with Jane.
Like the music played, the young woman working the heaving bar with his friend was a reminder of the past, dressed in blue-jeans and waist-coast of the same material.
On her feet were a light brown open toed sandals, he noticed, as she moved rapidly from one person to another, filling their orders.
Jane walked over toward him and stood facing him, her hands on the counter-top.
"She new. She's good... I think. But, she's a few hours to go. Let's see how she's doing by the time we close-up."
"What's her name?" He asked.
"You interested?" Jane enquired, a light smile on her lips.
"Interested... I'd say interested, that's all."
"Okay... if you say," Jane responded quickly trying to suppress her building laughter: She knew he rarely did more than look.
After a moment, Jane added with a smile, "Her names Elizabeth. She tells me that’s what she likes to be called. Anyway I needed someone to work a few shifts. Remember, I don't work days? And like I did, she's seeing herself through college. That's how she got the job. Besides, I'm told she cooks a mean Court Boillion: and I'm sure it'll go down will on the lunch-time menu. That, and say, some Grillades..."
Angel knew of the spicy fish soup, but 'Grillades?'
"What are they?" He mused aloud.
"Thin slices of beef, served with a tomato roux." Jane informed him.
"Ah-hah," he quipped, "Now, that sounds good. So, she makes a good bite, to eat."
They both grinned at one another - and shared humour. "
Behind him, a guitar sounded, then the drums kicked in and the bands singer began to give voice to lyrics they remembered.
It was obvious that Jane too, remembered the song, as she stared into his eyes and they both mouthed the words together:
As they accompanied the singer, Angel recalled the words to follow.
He reached out to Jane, and across the bar, he held her hands, her right in his left, her hand in his right.
Looking directly at her, he sang the words, softly, for Jane- and her pupils opened wide, the iris turning green, as she heard the meaning in the words sung:

"You have always got
something to hide
something you just can't tell
and the only time that you are satisfied
is with your feet in the wishing well."

More people slowly filled the bar, intent on alcohol fuelled enjoyment with seventies rock music, played loud and live.
Tendon played on, music from the past, whilst people drank and laughed; and a few women, more flesh on display than they're clothing covered, danced frenetically, just in front of the band.
Elizabeth busied herself, serving customers and Jane cleaned glasses, as she and
Angel continued to talk, softly, their words unheard over the music, too quiet for mere mortal hearing.
They chatted, rather than talk at depth, neither wanted to talk too openly in a crowded bar - yet, both wanted the companionship of someone who would understand, them and their lives.
Elizabeth interrupted them, "Jane, I need assistance."
Behind her, several frustrated customers stood at the bar, empty glasses before them.
"Now you can see why I need help Angel," Jane said, turning quickly to Elizabeth and saying to her, "I'll be with you in two minutes, okay?"
Quickly, she returned her gaze to him, adding, "Gotta go - talk later. Okay?"
Angel returned to his drink, as she returned to her work.
It was obvious she wasn't going to say anymore, just yet.
At the end of the bands set, Tendon was encouraged to play two encores, before they finished, to exuberant applause.
"Okay folks," Jane boomed out, "drink up. I'm closing up."
The drums were dismantled, amp: and speakers disconnected and taken out to
Tendons black van, parked nearby.
One by one the bars patrons left, some staggered, most laughing.
Elizabeth collected and cleaned glasses, as Jane wiped down tables, emptying ashtrays.
All the while, Angel sat on his stool, content with the area of free personal space that had been provided for him by the bars clientele all evening - imposed in part by his sheer dark brooding presence; and the familiarity of his face.
His right hand was clasped loosely around a shot glass, containing his second drink of the night.
He didn't need it - and hadn't needed the first.
But, he knew it looked strange: sitting in a bar, without a drink before him.
So, he sat, sipping at a drink, to enjoy the company of others, not of his kind.
He was a night-walker, cursed with the gift of humanity: they were not.
Angel had been told, along time ago, that his kind was the top of the food-chain: that mankind was theirs, to provide for their sustenance.
He recalled how the same blonde had added how she had taught him to kill; yet, moreover, to enjoy the hunt.
"Hey, Mr Faraway?" He heard Jane's voice, as if from a distance.
As it was, she stood just behind him.
Angel turned toward the sound of Jane's voice, annoyed for his lapse of awareness. He drew himself together and said, "Hello pretty lady."
Then he added, "Are we alone?"
Smiling, she responded, "Why sir, is that a leading question?"
"I just wanted to know..." he spluttered, a little embarrassed - which he found surprising.
Grinning, Jane put her hands up, the palms facing him.
"Yes Angel, we're alone."
"No-one in the back room?"
The look of humour dissipated from her face for a moment, then she said:
"We're alone. Well... except for... my cat... and one or two rats!"
He smiled back and once again she was smiling.
Then Jane sat on the stool next to his - and crossed her legs.
"Elizabeth left almost an hour ago Angel, I've cashed up - just where have you been?"
He picked up his glass, slowly brought it to his lips and sipped at its contents.
Thoughtfully he asked, "You're pleased to be what you are?"
"I am what I am..."
"Yes, but are you pleased to be... a vampire?" He persisted.
Standing and walking behind the bar, Jane reminded him, "So are you!"
He back was to him as she spoke.
"Yes Jane, I am..." he finished his drink, "but, I'd change that if I could. Would you?" There was silence.
He wanted her to say 'yes:' he wanted there to be another of his kind who understood.
Instead, he heard her repeat in a hollow voice, "I am what I am."
"And what's that?" Angel asked unaware of the tears rolling down her cheeks - tears that were tinged with blood.
He saw her left arm rise - and he surmised, correctly, that she was looking at her "I'll sound like a broken record if I answer. And..."
Jane turned toward him, so he saw the twin lines of red that ran from the corner of each eye and down her cheeks. He saw her sadness: he felt it.
"Angel, I think it's time you went. I've talked enough. And I'm tired. Goodnight."
Her eyes were narrowed, the colour now a dark green, almost black.
Jane's voice was firm, resolute and he didn't know what to say - so he stood brushing at imaginary dirt on his coat.
She'd dismissed him - 'So, what else was there to say?' He mused.
"Goodnight Jane." He said simply, left the bar, hands sunk deep in his coat pockets.

* * *

Jane left the bar, moving fast, lithe as any cat.
Angel watched at a distance, as he followed quietly.
He stayed in the shadows as much as possible, intent on keeping up with her, unseen.
It was obvious to him that she had a destination - he considered, as he watched her, being careful to avoid any passers-by.
Finally she stopped, looked both ways - and entered a door, in darkness, recessed from the main street.
Angel followed. He pushed at the door - it didn't creak.
It looked old, he thought it would and he had expected it.
He pushed at the door slowly, till it opened enough for him. Then Angel entered, into darkness that mattered not to him, due to his preternatural senses; he did so sideways on, to present a small target, if he were to be a target - that was.
He entered a small dark corridor and followed the sound of her footfall, on wooden flooring.
Angel came to a door, light shining beneath.
He pushed open the door, newer than the first - and found himself in a large room, its ceiling supported by several pillars; a long bar to the right and tables and chairs to the left.
Stepping further into the room Angel followed the bar round, and then turned right - where he found Jane.
Ahead was a mixer-unit and twin turntables, enclosed on three sides by wood-panelling, painted black.
To his right was a black and white chequer board dance-floor, slightly raised- above which hung a large mirror ball.
A man, dressed in black, with his shoulder-length slick back, his eyes fixed in her, played vacuous loud dance music on the decks; as a projector inset a wall danced multi-coloured light around the dance-area, some of which bounced off the mirror ball.
Angel stepped back from the edge of the wall, until his back rested against the edge of the bar, as bright coloured light shimmered round the room.
Jane stood in the middle of the dance-floor, in the midst of the dance-floor; while before her a figure hung upside down from the ceiling, a thick chain wrapped round his ankles.
One hand on his shoulder, to prevent the body swinging too much, she pushed his head to one side, opening further the congealing open wound in his neck.
He watched another feed, as he had fed himself, in times past.
He watched, as she had fixed her mouth to either side of the wound, sinking teeth into flesh, to keep a good hold on him.
He watched as Jane drank from him, her eyes' closed in ecstatic pleasure.
The man in black, with slick-back shoulder-length thick white hair, watched her feed, as he, with an intense gaze.
Angel noticed him and the look of almost benevolent satisfaction as he stared.
Momentarily Angel thought of Darla; how she had taught him to feed; and enjoy his everlasting life.
He knew that in her own way she had meant well - which was why he had continued feeding, after he'd been cursed with humanity, on those he considered somehow, less than human and unworthy of the gift of life.
Angelus of old was no more though and Angel would not kill, to live.
For a vampire, that was his curse - he would not feed from the living, not even for himself of his conscience would not allow it.
For a vampire such as he, that was not eternal life - it was an eternal torture.

Everyday of his life was about this dichotomy, which resolved around his own need for survival he thought, as she finally finished feeding and stood away from the body, now a corpse, emptied of blood; swinging on its chain.
Angel stood back, as the man who at the music decks stood himself.
Behind the decks, deep in shadow, was a doorway; and from there he felt a presence, that wasn't human.
From behind where he'd sat, a tall woman stepped forward.
'She's impressive,' Angel thought.
Black leather coat billowing, she walked with slow grace, toward the dance area and Jane.
She was tall, yet her thigh-high P.V.C. boots, with pencil-thin heels made her taller; possessing a generous figure.
She wore a green and black tartan skirt, split to show an expanse of thigh, and the top of black, fine nylon hold-up stockings.
Her belly was flat, the naval pierced, with a red jewel on the ring going through it; above which, she wore a boob-tube of denim blue, that covered her ample bust; and the long dark hair was tied back, with a clasp over her ears, through which it flowed down the mid-point of her back.
She reminded Angel of a Navaho Indian, with a dark complexion and sharp features; with thin lips, set in a determined line, she stared straight ahead, at Jane, who turned from the body, blood dripping down either side of her mouth - stared at the woman and smiled.
"Was I better Su?" She asked in an eager voice.
In the voice of a schoolteacher with a slow learner, Su told her, "You drank well and now you are sated. That is good..."
There was a frisson between the two women he recognized - it reminded him, of all he'd shared with Darla, when he'd been her student.
Gently she stroked the side of Jane's face, caressing her cheek.
"But," she began saying, as the hand continued its light touch.
To Angel's surprise the woman abruptly struck Jane face, hard, exclaiming,
"I still bring you food..."
She held Jane by her left shoulder, tight.
A second open-handed slap brought tears to Jane's eyes.
"I want to..." she spluttered.
Falling to her knees, hands clasping her Mistress, Su's nylon-clad thighs.
"Please," she entreated, "understand, I know what you've done for me..."
The grip on her hair was tight and she gasped, wincing in pain; "I know... I know that I need to feed... It's just that..."
Tears, of blood, welled in her eyes.
Jane had disappointed her maker, her Mistress, Su - and it hurt, as much to her, as the pain being inflicted upon her.
Leaning down, her face inches from Jane, Su grasped her jaw with her free hand.
"And to feed... you need to... kill, don't you?"
At each third word, Su nodded Jane's head up and down.
"Oh, you're useless!" She exclaimed angrily, standing erect, relinquishing her hold grip on her student; and then pushing her down with a hard open-palm blow.
She turned quickly, as Jane beseeched in supplication, "Please...?"
Without looking back, Su walked away from her, toward the shadows from which she'd emerged.
Angel thought he knew how Jane felt: Belittled, for not being what you were supposed to be. He recalled China - and a child he would not kill and the look on his makers' face, when he'd refused.
She had wanted him to prove himself to her – but he could not. He'd been cursed
with humanity and could not, would not, take the life of an innocent.
Angel watched the man behind the decks leave the console, to walk toward Jane, was supporting her upper body with her left arm, head hanging low, breathing heavily.
He knelt slowly by her side, reaching out a gentle hand.
Moving to caress her face, the man asked, "Are you alright?"
Jane wouldn't allow him to touch her.
Instead, she lifted her gaze to meet his, eye's blazing with fury.
"Leave me," she hissed raising her right hand, as if to push him away.
The man recoiled a little in surprise, stumbling backwards.
Then, regaining his composure, he stood erect, turned and followed the path taken earlier by Su.
As he left Jane began to gently sob.
Angel wanted to say something - do something.
But, what was there to say - what was there to do?
He didn't know enough, for any intervention to be successful - this he realized.
Yet, it was so frustrating - and Angel disliked restraint, he always' had.
Yet he knew that is what Whistler would preach to him, at that very moment, "...show restraint."
He heard the words and saw the smile, for a moment, in his minds eye.
Whistler, he gave sage advice- but, he was so irritating... so, persuasive.
Angel turned away from the scene before him and walked quietly into the night, muttering to himself, "I must do something... but what?"

* * *

Angel left his hotel with a degree of trepidation.
It was his third night in New Orleans and he'd already learnt many things, the sum of which left him feeling perturbed.
He could not understand why she was as he: a vampire without the desire to kill, to eat, and to live. It did not make sense. She too seemed to feel as he - and that had to be investigated.
With this in mind, Angel walked fast, towards Jane's bar, as he'd come to think of the place.
It had been raining, hard - and there weren't as people out as the previous nights, which suited him as it made his passage toward the bar easier without crowds to manoeuvre.
As Angel mused on the myriad possibilities that might follow from his actions, he found that he had to side-step a young couple, so in love their path took them directly toward him.
"So, it's true," he said smiling lightly, "love really is blind."

* * *

A note pinned to the half-open door proclaimed, 'No passing trade.'
"Well I'm not passing," Angel told himself, pushing the door open and walking down the stairs.
'Get involved,' he heard Whistlers words again. He was.
Yet, as a poet needs pain, as a catalyst toward the act of creation - he sought answers, before seeking action.
He left the street and it's few revellers, this dank night.
Walking down the stairs Angel saw Jane, leant forward at the far end of the bar.
She wore a black calf-length, figure-hugging woollen skirt, that hung from bird-bone hips; and, a small black cashmere cardigan, with arms, that left her lower back and midriff exposed.
On her legs were black woollen black tights; on her feet, black ankle boots.
Gone were the blue jeans and the coloured tops.
Around the room there were few patrons to the bar; and whether they sat or standing, those there were chatted amiably - oblivious of Jane's doleful expression.
Angel was aware though: even though he couldn't feel as she. He could read her body language. Angel thought, 'She looks sorrowful.'
He saw a man he'd learnt was a regular walk over, asking, "Are you okay?"
She'd replied, "Yeah fine."
Then man loosely shrugged his shoulders, turned and walked away - so, Angel felt it was safe to approach, to ask a question that'd occurred to him as he'd entered the bar.
Her back was to him as she spoke: "Hello Angel."
Jane had recognized his footfall on the steps.
She had expected him.
The room was darker than previously, with none of the main lights being used; with only the candles set in a bottle, placed on the small tables, providing illumination.
She had leant over the bar opposite from where he liked to sit.
Her elbows were on the bar-top, chin in her hands.
"I'd wondered if you'd be in tonight."
She had not turned round as she spoke, but stayed as she was.
His voice sounded hollow, as he asked his question: "So where's the help? Elizabeth is it?" Angel knew the name - obviously he did, he forgot little: which sometimes became problematic.
"That's a good question!" She replied sadly, turning to look at Angel.
"Place doesn't look too busy," he said, looking around.
"I suppose you're right" she responded.
"So, you're free to talk now, aren't you?"
"I guess... I only really opened up for the band. They're in the back practising."
"So..." he drawled looking around the room, at the few people sat, at the tables or, stood at the bar amiably chatting, drinking slowly, the sound of Tendon practising swamping much of the general hubbub of conversation: "Where is she?"
Again she didn't answer his question, instead she said, "Angel can you help me?"

* * *

'There,' he thought, 'she said it.' He'd wanted to be asked to interfere.
"What can I do?" He asked, softly as he sat on the stool.
Jane lifted her head from her hands, turned and walked toward the optic stand, pouring him a drink, a whiskey, as if on a reflex action.
She said very softly, "I don't know, really..."
As she brought it to him, he said: "Talk to me. I'll listen."
Disappointment evident in her voice, she told him: "I've never made a kill."
As dramatic as it was, Jane had expressed what she had as a statement: it didn't brook a question, so instead Angel asked, "So what's that to do with you losing your smile?"
She tried to smile - he saw it, although the attempt wasn't successful.
"Jane, a brewski eh? With a bourbon chaser!" The order came from a large fellow at the far end of the bar - another regular, he recognized.
As Jane went to serve the customer, Angel considered her answers: all they provided were more questions?
Having served the man Jane returned to face him.
"I told you about Su?" She asked in a sibilant whisper, knowing she had. Jane needed his response - needing his encouragement to prompt her, to say more.
She didn't find it easy - asking for help, even though she realized it was needed.
"Well... She knows someone who calls himself Deckmaster..."
"White hair?" Angel queried.
"Yes?" Jane replied, puzzled by what she'd heard, "Do you know him?"
"I know of him," Angel told him, sipping at his drink.
"How?"
Angel thought carefully before answering. Finally he answered.
"I was at the club, where you fed last night Jane..."
She gasped at this information, hand to her mouth
"You weren't supposed to," he assured her, "I'd wanted to help - I just didn't know how."
Both hands at the bar top, Jane leant forward and said with a ferocity that surprised him: "If you want to help me, then help Elizabeth. I don't want to feel like this..."
Angel heard real pain in her voice, as she tried to express how she felt.
"Tell me," he queried, "what do you mean?"
"I've a conscience - I don't want her to die!"
She did feel as he, Angel realized - he had to help.
"So, what can I do?" He asked, reaching out to touch her hand.
Quietly, she told him - "Deckmaster's a hougan, so Su says. She's told me he'll slay the white goat, tonight... and..."
"Slay the goat, what does that mean?" Angel queried.
"It means to make sacrifice. He's going to summon the Loa, the gods of vaudaun!"
"Vaudum?"
"Don't you know anything Angel?" She pronounced disdainfully.
To which he responded defensively, "Sorry..."
"It's alright, I'm just hyper. Y'know?"
"It's okay," he assured her, adding, "Carry on, please?"
"She told me he'd make me complete. That went wrong when she made me would be
put right..."
"How?" He asked, suddenly realising what all this meant.
"I told you. He's going to make sacrifice and it's..."
"Elizabeth?" he asked.
"Yes?" She replied breathlessly.
"Whoa, slow down. It's going to be alright. I promise!"
Jane looked into his eyes - and saw that as far as he was concerned, he'd spoken the truth, 'it would be alright!' She'd been right he did mean what he'd said.
He felt his decision to help was a good one. It made him feel complete.
'Maybe Whistler was right about helping others?' He'd had often told him, 'you have a destiny to fulfil; so many times; and 'The Powers That Be' have something in mind for you..."
He knew Whistler would be pleased.
"So, tell me," he began, "where is this going to happen?"
In a hushed tone Jane answered, "St. Louis No.1, the cemetery. The tomb of Madame Laveneau, Do you know it?"
He knew it.
Angel rose, repeating his earlier promise, "It'll be alright. I promise!"

* * *

Angel left Jane, to find that it had been raining: there where puddles on the ground and the clouds had parted, to reveal a full moon, shining amidst a starlit sky.
Beneath the streetlamps, on the rain-slick streets Angel walked, tentatively at first. Although he realized that if were doubtful, he'd felt as though he were being followed several times.
On Numerous occasions he would stop, to 'look in a shop window' and it's reflected view of the world; or detoured completely, 'just to be sure.'
Angel was tense. He was in a situation that he didn't wholly understand.
He had tried to follow a pattern, toward a solution; and found himself immersed in something else instead.
'Is this what happens when you get involved?' he mused.
But, he knew where Madame Laveneau was buried, he began to walk, at speed to the cemetery; and though New Orleans had changed much over the years, yet Angel still knew the area well and was aware of where he was going, of that he was sure.
He made his way to Bourbon Street, where he passed through crowds of people out enjoying the many pleasures of its busy nightlife; he ignored the aroma of café au-lait and beignets from the Café du Monde; and the fortune-tellers and street performers of Jackson Square, as he headed toward the waterfront.
Thoughtfully, Angel paused for a moment, to stare at a distorted image of the moon in the shimmering waters surface.
Darla's teaching had been one thing: It'd been a way to follow - for him to be.
Yet, if he were to exist with this curse of his, then he had to find another way to be, himself, whatever that was. 'Perhaps Whistler was right, in saying "Find yourself" he considered.
He had been in The Big Easy for a short while and through his construed involvement had found a purpose: Angel had discovered that he found purpose in helping protect, rather than kill, the weak and defenceless.
'Perhaps that is what The Powers That Be want from me, to atone for being Angelus?'
Yet, that was a thought for another night: and focussed once more, he turned back to this nights' task, at cemetery No.1

* * *

Having pushed open the cemetery gates, Angel paused momentarily.
He was greeted by decorative rusty ironwork and sun bleached tombs, vaults and
mausoleum, constructed on a series of interconnecting pathways: which, viewed from ground level gave the appearance of a city.
He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, allowing his vampire aspect to rise to the surface as he flexed, then inflexed his fingers - as the transformation took place and he felt power coursing through him.
Finally the metamorphosis was complete and he opened his eyes again.
His entire visage was darker, his pupils wider, the iris dark red, almost black: and, having released his inner demon, to save the life of an innocent, Angel was ready, to enter this city of the dead.
But the graveyard was immense and Angel toured the avenues between the tombs and mausoleum with growing frustration, scanning the area with heightened senses.
He found that although there were several human hearts beating within the range his senses could function, Angel surmised only one of them would be Elizabeth's.
As far as he knew, the others could be muggers, ready to accost an unwary tourist.
'They'd be surprised if they met me' he mused, the moon full, the mist thickening. Yet, he had to hurry, time would be running out for Elizabeth, he was aware of that.
As he deliberated, a shrill sound suddenly broke the quiet of the night, only to be silenced abruptly. It was a woman's scream, nearby.
'Elizabeth?' he wondered.
Angel stepped off the pathway, leapt over a wrought iron railing, and then powered himself upward, toward the top of a large mausoleum.
Crouching on the other side of the roof, he looked down and saw Deckmaster lie Elizabeth down on the graffiti covered tomb of Madame Laveneau.
Angel noticed, briefly, a series of symbols, in red and black, leading from the pathway, up toward Elizabeth's prone body; he also saw the large knife tucked into Deck-master's coat-belt.
The girl was unconscious - her limbs limp as he undressed her.
Angel leapt down from his vantage point and crossed the path toward the Deckmaster and his victim.
He moved fast toward his prey, grasping him by the shoulders and pulled him away from Elizabeth.
Angel spoke quietly, his every word edged with menace.
"Where is she?"
"Who?" The man asked, his voice quavering with fright.
Angel shook the man, hard.
"Your mistress, where is she?" He snapped.
"I'm here... vampire!" Angel heard from behind him.
Relief showed on the Deckmaster's face at her appearance. Only to be replaced by wide-eyed fear, as Angel opened his mouth, to display his pronounced canine teeth.
In a fluid motion, Angel lowered his mouth to the man's neck and sank his teeth into his flesh, ripping at the jugular, tearing it open.
As his lifeblood spurted in a fountain, the Deckmaster tried to scream, but his throat had filled with a thick froth of his own blood and he gurgled, his limbs flailing wildly, as Angel cast him aside, then turned toward Su. Spitting out a chunk of bloody flesh, Angel stared at her.
"So you're Su?" I've heard of you..." He said, looking his adversary up and down.
Blood dripped down the corners of his mouth as he spoke: "You look... good."
He admired style.
Beneath her long coat, she wore a black corset, cinched tight, to emphasise her waist and bust. Over her sex she wore a simple, black leather thong.
She stood smiling, tall in her boots; her hands on her hips, legs apart.
"And... you're Angel? Well, I can return the compliment... so do you!"
He'd dressed, as he liked to dress, in good, expensive clothes - all in black.
"I've heard of you, the cursed vampire with a soul!"
Angel stood erect, then bowed, with a grand theatrical sweep of hand.
"Thank you, it's so nice to be appreciated."
He stared at Su, smiled, then said, "But, as to the soul, what's the difference between your child and I? Explain that to me, if you can?"
"I can't," she told him, sighing.
"How about... There is no curse." he began, moving to her left: "it's a virus, that some are immune to? Had you thought of that?"
Turning her head to face him, Su told Angel, "It would've been cured..."
"A supernatural cure... as an antidote for what? Contagion?" He smiled.
Suddenly Angel was not where he had been, again.
"Confused?" He asked, sharply, his hands on the lapel of her coat, his face inches from hers, as he snapped, "You'd have killed an innocent. You have no conscience."
Briefly Su looked across his shoulder, to the Deckmaster's corpse and she said to him, "You seem to enjoy the hunt?"
"Sometimes..." he hissed close to her face, "the victim is worth killing!"
"They all are, that's why we're here," she retorted pushing him away, tearing her coat.
"No," Angel told, as she divested herself of the remains of her coat, "they are human, as you were, as I was - human. Until..."
Again he moved fast, light on his feet, circling where she stood.
"A bite, an exchange of fluid. And..."
She turned to face him, power surging throughout her body, "I don't need a biology lesson Angel. Not from the likes of you! You're not one of us."
"And there's times when I think that not too bad."
"You killed him..." she snarled, as they neared one another.
"Why did you kill him?"
Angel recognized that she was perplexed.
"I didn't want him to hurt an innocent, that's all..." He told Su, staring into her eyes.
"They're food," she told him, moving sideways, as he had.
"No," he reiterated, "they're not! I've tried your way - it's not mine..."
There was little space between the two vampires, as Su held his gaze.
Then, his hands were at her throat and hers were at his.
They circled slowly, teeth bared as they played out their dance of death, beneath the bright full moon, mist at their feet. He could feel that she was strong; as muscles tensed, while they turned - each waiting and watching for the other to weaken, just a little.
"You will die Angel," she hissed, her teeth nearer to his neck than he'd have liked.
"No, he won't!" A woman shouted to his side, as Su began to bite.
It was Jane.
Jane gripped Su by the hair and pulled her from Angel; Jane who growled, "If anyone is to die here tonight, it'll be you."
Su turned toward her attacker, smiling, "You, don't make laugh, you kill me!"
She laughed maniacally, which ended as Angel grasped her wrists in a vice-like hold.
Pushing back against him, Su kicked outward - and Jane flew backward; and again they turned in a slow circle, as he held her and she attempted to pull away.
Suddenly, Jane leapt, cat-like, hands formed into claws.
She clutched at Su's throat, drew back her right hand - and then, brought it back down in a wide arc.
Jane swiped at Su's flawless skin, her long nails acting as talons; and blood welled up immediately, from four wide rents in her flesh.
"You can't do this..." she screamed.
"Do what?" Jane questioned, a holding Su's hair once more, the other gripping her right shoulder tightly.
"This, you mean?" She asked, smiling. As one, Angel and Jane leant forward; toward their prey's long neck.
Struggling she screamed, in fear, "No, you can't do this... not to me..." as the two began to rip at her flesh with their teeth, curtailing any further sound.

* * *

Covering Elizabeth with his coat, Angel effortlessly picked her up.
She seemed so light in his arms, he'd considered, 'so very small.'
"Did you mean all you said to her back there?" Jane queried, as he made it look as though she weighed nothing at all.
"Did I what?" He answered, knowing full well what she'd meant.
"That bit about vampirism being a virus, a contagion, nothing more than that?"
Angel smiled at the question, as they began to walk away from the tomb of Madame
Laveneau and onto the path, which would lead toward the exit.
"It's a theory I've heard my friend. And surely any theory is as good as another, until its been disproved that is," he told, delighting in how obscure he sounded. At least he'd retained some mystery - and that pleased his sense of the dramatic.
"Now, let's get back," he said, "I could do with a drink."
He could see that his friend was shaken.
"I had to help," Jane pronounced, in a small voice.
"I know," he responded dryly, walking ahead toward the gates.
"I had to do something, I couldn't leave you to fight alone..." she told him, softly, guiltily.
"I know," he told her, "and I'm glad you did."
"Will she be alright?" Jane questioned, now walking at his side, stroking hair away from Elizabeth's face.
"She's breathing... As for whether she'll be alright, who knows!"
He'd made an effort. Angel had wanted to help and had. He felt... good.

* * *

Tendon was practising in the backroom, loudly, when they returned to the bar.
Jane closed the doors on them, on her entrance, to allow Angel and her some quiet, so they could unwind a little.
Elizabeth had stirred several times during their journey, but still not woken. He placed her on the bench seat in the first alcove, laying her down very gently.
"Maybe drugged?" Angel mused; listening carefully, to ensure her breathing was normal. It was a little rapid, he noticed. But, she was safe - and could sleep it off. He felt pleased.
"I've got a question to ask Angel." Jane said, as he straightened and turned.
She stood at the bar, pouring them both a drink.
"Go on?" He prompted.
"Back there you killed a human. I'd thought you wouldn't..."
"Moi, I don't know what you mean!" It was obvious that he was being sarcastic:
"Like I told Su, sometimes the victim is worth killing..."
He paused, thinking on the answer he'd just given.
"Anyway," he continued, "I thought you wouldn't kill..."
"It's true Angel," she told him, handing him the drink she'd poured; "But it's like you said, sometimes the victim is worth killing!"
Angel smiled at her response and then drank.
Placing his glass down, he told her, "It's what I've learnt - yet, there's so much, to learn..."
Jane began to speak, slowly, distantly: "I couldn't kill... not for myself. And I wouldn't kill, just to please her..."
She looked down at her own drink a moment, then back at Angel: "But, I would... for you and for... Elizabeth."
Suddenly the door at the end of the room, deep in shadow, opened.
The room was silent, except for the chatter the band members discussing the merits of their sound.
Light spilled out, as a young woman, with short-cropped hair - in black leather and blue jeans, walked toward the bar.
"Need beer for the band Jane," the girl pronounced.
"Yeah alright Lee," Jane told her, sounding very tired.
"Angel, this is Lee, she's roadies for Tendon," she explained.
"You okay?" Lee questioned her.
"Yeah," Jane grinned, as the band found voice, "I'm just feeling...dead, tired."
Angel could hear that Elizabeth was breathing normally; and his friend Jane was telling bad jokes.
He recognized the track Tendon were playing and remembered the song well.

“All right now, baby
it’s all right now.
All right now, baby
it’s all right now.”

They shared a bond that only themselves - and, perhaps Whistler - could understand.
It was enough, for now.
"Jane, have you change for the phone?" he asked, an idea slowly taking shape.

* * *

Contacting Whistler, Angel had asked his favour dubious at first as to whether it was possible. The young man had been sent as his link with The Powers That Be, not hers.
Now here was his charge asking him to be her mentor.
"They'll never go for it!" he'd told Angel. But, to his surprise, they had.

*

When he'd arrived in The Big Easy, Whistler had been apprehensive, as to how a homey from his patch in Manhattan would fit in. Yet, after a short while he no longer yearned for the ugly beauty of New York. Although the buildings were amazing, they were so grey and everywhere stank of exhaust fumes.
There was more of everything he liked in New Orleans - and it was all much brighter, including the nightlife. Moreover, the favour that Angel had asked of him wasn't an onerous one: to look after someone much as he, although feminine and much younger.
"This could be why you came here," he'd told Angel as he opened the door to his red and white rental Mustang, "to find your own path to follow and a guide for this one."
He had left behind the City Of The Dead - and now the car was pointing toward L.A., 'The City Of Angel's' where he'd start his 'life' afresh.
"It could be," Angel answered simply, as he gunned the engine.

* * *

Roadside Muse

2005-12-14T05:30:00.000-08:00

The End. Just the two words together looked good.
“But,” he mused, “I do like the full stop.
Paul Torvino was satisfied.
He had final finished his novel, started after a writers block that had lasted for nearly six, very frustrating months.
Paul saved the story to his hard drive, then a copy to floppy disc and another to his pen drive. He wasn’t taking any chances.
“What is it?” He muttered, “Better safe than sorry.”
Then he closed Word and powered down his p.c.
The monitor had been the rooms only light source for three days, in which time his family had not seen him; during which time he had written continually, stopping only for coffee breaks and thee occasional glass of malt whiskey.
He had started smoking again, much to his wife’s disapproval: and, the large onyx ashtray, sitting to his right,
The curtains were drawn together, and the room smelt stale.
Paul stood and stretched, before crossing the room and turning the lights on, to stare into the mirror, once more.
His wife Helen had run the house and seen to the children, whilst he’d shut himself away, since his last drive.
He still recalled that first time; and a desire for a smoke, after several hours spent staring at a blank screen, again.
It had almost become a routine, as Paul found that each time he went out driving he found the motivation he’d been seeking, as each journey had acted as a catalyst to prompt his further writing.
Yet that first drive he had told himself he was after ‘petrol and fags.’
But, once both had been acquired Paul had continued driving, just for the enjoyment of it; and, being away from his computer and the pressure to write its presence created.
Torvino had driven with his windows down, elbows on the sill: down Rowson Street, through King Street and then Church Street, Seacombe, where he’d taken the Birkenhead Road leading onto the Four Bridges; cruising for the pleasure of it.
It’d been a sunny day, with a blue sky and only a light wind.
“Perfect,” he recalled thinking at the time.
In the town centre he had parked the car – to wander, eventually buying himself a packet of cigarettes.
Then, on his return he had taken a road he seldom used. And, as he had continued driving, Torvino had noticed as much as possible: simply pleased to be away from four walls and his computer.
And, with his eyes alert, for anything and everything, he had noticed an altercation occurring just ahead of him, to his left, between a young woman; perhaps in her late teens and a young man, somewhat older, wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans; old red and white baseball boots on his feet.
They’d been arguing loudly outside a pub at the end of a row of terraced housing.
And, as he’d driven toward the pair on his left the shouting had become louder – the younger man’s face contorted with anger.
“It isn’t enough,” the fellow had, “not for you and me…”
Torvino had slowed down.
She’d looked small and vulnerable, he had thought: and, Torvino had wanted to help.
Yet, Paul Torvino didn’t relish conflict, he never had.
Even so, he’d stopped alongside the couple, as the young man had continued his verbal tirade,
“Goddamn girl, I send you out. And, after four hours that’s all you have… Goddamn… you are…”
Paul had opened his door; then, with the engine still running, he had rushed round the car, shouting, “Get off her!”
“This isn’t your business,” the young man had snarled, snapping his head round to face Torvino.
Then, sounding far more courageous than he’d felt, Torvino had retorted, “It is my business, that’s my niece you’re with…”
Momentarily stunned by what he’d heard, the youth had loosened his hold on the young woman.
The girl had struggled and squirmed within his tight embrace and then she’d been free.
“C’mon honey…!” Torvino had encouraged, offering her his left hand, as he opened the passenger car door with his right.
The young woman had sat quickly and Torvino closed the door, then turned to the young man, whose face had been red with anger.
“I don’t know what you got going with my niece sunshine; but, go now. Or, I swear down, I’ll rip you in two.”
And, perhaps it had been the quiet menace behind his voice: or perhaps it had shown that Torvino had not been prepared to back down?
But, either way, the young man would not hold his gaze.
Snarling beneath his breath, “She ain’t worth it…” he’d turned, spat to the floor and begun walking away.
Yet, he had thought she was worth it.
Paul turned from the mirror and crossed the room toward the drinks cabinet.
He poured himself a scotch, a double; and sat in his favorite armchair, waiting for the approaching dawn and the beginning of a new day.
He closed his eyes for a moment; yet that was all that was that moment’s relaxation was all his memory needed, as it brought to his mind the young woman once more, whose presence in his life had given him so much.
Since meeting her he had poured his soul into his writing in order to reach where he had and those to words, ‘the end.’
Yet now there was a hole inside that needed filling.
Paul stood and began pacing the room.
After writing continually for nearly two days, lack of sleep had led to his current state,
Overtired and hyper,
He had to do something: and thinking of her, Torvino knew what to do.
Looking into the mirror, at his disheveled appearance, staring back at him: pale blue eyes and tousled hair; even his shirt untucked and crumpled, much as he felt.
Torvino placed both his hands on his hands and stretched to his left, right; then, gently backwards.
He’d finished the story, which had been the bane of his existence, for months now.
Torvino smiled at the satisfaction found from his act of creation: and once again he thought of his roadside muse. Without her he never would have finished.
And, he left the house, so as not to wake the Helen, or the girls, Gina and Jennifer.
Breathing in the cool early morning air and watching his breath as he exhaled, Paul Torvino found himself wishing for a moment that he’d worn a jacket.
But, as he walked toward his Maroon Lexus he thought, ‘The heater will warm me up soon enough.’ His pride and joy, the Lexus GS 400 had been his gift to himself when his youngest, Gina, was born.
Smiling, Paul remembers his wife remember asking what her present was.
And, he’d just had to say to this post-natal woman, his wife, ‘You had yours, a beautiful, healthy baby girl.’
He let the car roll down the drive, still conscious of waking the family.
Starting the engine he grins, recalling how Helen hadn’t spoken to him for several hours, before finally relenting and deciding to forgive him.
Even then it had taken flowers and chocolates, in order for her to consider his apologies.
And as the car warmed, he recalled the admiring looks the girl had given his car.
“Is this yours mister?” the teen had asked Paul as she’d entered the car.
Taking his own seat, Torvino had turned to answer proudly, “Yes.”
“It’s a nice motor,” she had told him approvingly, as he had started the engine and pulled away from the curbside.
“Thanks mister,” she’d said, after long moments of silence, “I’d thought he’d never do that to me, not again. Not after last time.”
“You mean he’s done it before?” he’d asked with incredulity.
“But, you can’t blame him, really. He’d done without since breakfast and I figure he was just starting to gag for it. You know?”
Paul had realized he should say ‘no’ but, hadn’t. He’d let her continue talking.
Then she’d added, “But whatever… I appreciate what you did.”

And he remembers that smile she had smiled then.
“I’m Lucie,” she’d pronounced, in a sing-song voice, the previous altercation seeming already forgotten.
“Er, I’m Paul. Paul Torvino,” he told her looking from the road, to her.
And, he recalls still, how his mouth has suddenly turned dry.
As she had shifted in her seat to make herself comfortable, her skirt had ridden higher, to put her bare legs on display, as far as her hip.
And he’d like d the way she’d dressed.
She had worn calf-length black boots, a short orange and black shirt and a white shirt, which had been tied off at the chest, leaving her midriff bare.
And, he still recalled how appealing he had found her face.
Her black hair had been worn tied back in a high ponytail. She’d possessed wide eyes, full cheeks; a small pert nose; and full lips, heavily painted red.
Even with her sitting next to him as evidence of what had happened, Paul Torvino had been shell-shocked, as his actions had been so out of character for him.
He just didn’t do things like that – yet he had.
‘Furthermore,’ he’d thought, ‘I’m glad I did.’
He felt good having done what he had.
Turning his eyes and his attention back to the road ahead, Torvino spoke:
“So, where to?” He finally asked, after driving, just driving, in silence.
“So, where to Lucie? She had reminded him.
Then, smiling, she had reached into her capacious black bag, with two handles, a shoulder strap; and a zipped up middle pouch.
Lucie had undone the zip, pulled out a clear plastic self-seal pouch; and looking at its contents,, she had declared, “If he hadn’t been so nasty I would’ve shared my stash with him…”
Torvino had wanted to ask, ‘where to?’
He’d realized how late it had become and Helen would have the evening meal ready.
Yet, his curiosity had been piqued; and, insisted he ask: “Who was he?”
“My boyfriend,” she’d replied simply, which had only acted to arouse Paul Torvino’s curiosity further still.
“Your boyfriend?” He’d queried, “But he was about to beat on you, wasn’t he?”
“Maybe, maybe not…” she’d informed him blithely, adding, “but, he loves me.”
“What!” Torvino had exploded, “But how can you say that? By your own admission he might’ve been going to beat you up!?!”
“He’d not had any since eleven this morning and business was bad this afternoon.”
“Whoa,” Torvino had begun, “let’s get this right, you work the streets to keep him supplied with? Heroin?”
Her eyes flashing brightly with anger, Lucie had snapped at him, “”What are you, a bloody social worker?”
And, feeling suitably admonished, Torvino had quietly repeated his earlier question:
“So, where to?”
And, with her smile back in place, Lucie had directed him where to drive.
Torvino remembers her smile well, musing; ‘It’s time for a cigarette.’
The early morning air was cool and crisp: and the roads free of traffic as he pulled over a moment, to light a cigarette, recalling that he had taken her where she’d asked, content to drive, Helen and the children momentarily forgotten.
He had parked the car as Lucie had suggested, by the curbside, in a side-alley behind an old derelict building.
Torino had locked the car, after an assurance that she thought it would be safe, then he had followed her, as instructed.
They had passed through a break in a wall surrounding the brick strewn overgrown yard.
Then she had led him; her small hand in his, through the darkness.
The air had smelt dank; and, Torvino had felt it confining; the darkness; and, no sense of where he was.
And then there had been her voice, gentle, insistent, as she pulled him forward.
“I won’t be a second…” she had told him; and he’d been alone… his hand empty…
Then, one by one, Lucie had lit a multitude of candles around the small room, providing enough illumination for him to easily see.
He’d been standing at the foot of a mattress, made up with several blankets and a coverlet thrown over it. There’d also been two pillows, side by side; both in pillow cases, blue with gold stars and moons on them. On the walls had been posters, of neo-classical romantic imagery; and a couple of semi-naked men, dipping with sweat, or baby oil.
And, as Torvino had looked round himself he’d noticed just two other items of furniture, other than the bed: a small wooden locker, either side of it; other than that, just two suitcases. The candles had sat on every available flat space around the room, including the floor.
Lucie had stood in the middle of the bed, bounced, then gestured around herself:
“Welcome to my little boudoir!”
Back on the road, Paul smiled at the memory of what had happened next, as Lucie had shared more of herself with him.
“You okay?” She had asked, concern evident in her voice.
She had begun to unfasten the zipper to the short tartan skirt, which she had slid down slim pale legs and her black boots, to the floor.
Torvino had watched, open-eyed, as Lucie stood in the middle of the mattress, then opened her blouse and lifted the bra away from the petite mounds of her breasts with no trace of inhibition.
Then, she had reached up and unfastened the clasp in her hair and shook her hair loose.
As long black hair framed her face as her tresses fell, Lucie had quickly turned from a sexy teen, to a sultry vamp, in his eyes, as he’d gazed with longing once again.
Then, as candlelight had danced around the room, Torvino had stared, mesmerized, at the rosette teats, of her ever-so slightly, elongated nipples.
He’d gazed with longing once again, at her breasts now naked.
Eyes riveted to the rosette tips of each breast, the nipples hard: ‘Perhaps with the cold?’ he had mused, aware that it wasn’t too cold.
And, for a second, the silence that had followed her disrobing was uncomfortable.
Then, as she had sat cross-legged, wearing just the briefest of white cotton briefs, Lucie had asked him, “Are you okay?”
“Yes fine,” he’d assured her with a dry mouth.
But, Torvino hadn’t been ‘okay.’
He’d felt uncomfortable that he felt caught out, peeping, at a young woman, not that much older than his eldest daughter.
He’d felt very uncomfortable and his mouth had felt very dry.
“It’s my place,” Lucie had told him, as she had sat cross-legged, to pull off her boots and socks and adding, “I do like to feel comfortable.”
Wriggling her bare toes she had sighed, “Ah, that’s better!”
Torvino had stared still, at the sheer white cotton drawn tight across her pubis, so that through the sheer material he’d easily been able to tell that she shaved.
And, he’d drawn his eyes back to hers, mumbling, “Maybe I should go now?”
“You don’t have to,” she had told him, rooting beneath the mattress, “unless you want to?” He hadn’t known what to do, so instead of making a decision, had muttered, “Dunno.”
Then he had sat on the end of the mattress, watching; and said to her; “Not yet. If you don’t mind? I don’t want to go, just yet. I s that okay?”
He’d felt nervous, very.
“Nah, I don’t mind,” she’d assured him grinning: “In fact, I’d like the company. I get real lonely, sometimes…”
He recalls how Lucie’s face had darkened somewhat as she had spoken.
Then, almost as quickly as her manner had changed, it changed again.
“Sit down will you,” she told had him tersely, and then added in a kinder voice, “You’re just too big and I need the light. So, sit down, will you?”
Paul had sat where she had gestured, at the end of the bed.
Then, having rummaged in the bag once more, to retrieve the small plastic bag, Lucie had rooted beneath the mattress.
And, Torvino had watched, fascinated, as she had laid out the equipment needed for he habit: a piece of cooking foil of ; a small mirror, just a little smaller; a small tube of card, taped together either end; and a Clipper lighter.
To the stuff laid before her, Lucie had added the bag, which she’d placed upon the mirror. Finally, seemingly satisfied that thing’s were in order, Lucie had run the fingers of her right hand through her hair and she had looked up at Paul and asked:
“Hey mister straight head, you want a blow back? ” She’d asked him, adding, “I’m good at giving ‘em.”
“I’ll try anything once,” he answered boastfully.
Lucie had beamed a wide smile as asked, in return, then she had leant forward, over her stuff laid out, resting her weight on her left hand.
She had then trailed the tip of her left forefinger down Paul Torvino’s left cheek, saying in a mock little girl voice, “You’ll try anything once? Really?”
As Torvino had blushed profusely, Lucie had sat back, quickly adopting the cross-legged position she’d sat in earlier.
And, grinning broadly she’d asked him once more, “You want a blow back?”
He’d been tempted. Very. But, guessing his driving might be impaired by a ‘blowback,’ he’d replied, “No, thank you…”
“S’okay,” she had replied, “and anyway, you don’t hold it in so long if you’re not going to give. So, er… thanks.”
Lucie had picked up the piece of kitchen foil, which she held between forefinger and thumb. And then, using her Clipper, she had burnt either side of the foil.
Looking up at the Torvino briefly she’d explained to him, “Getting rid of the crap.”
“The crap…” Torvino had repeated parrot-like.
“The aluminium,” Lucie had clarified, finishing her task.
Then having straightened out the ‘cleaned’ foil Lucie picked up the bag she had shown
him earlier.
“I mean,” she had continued, “you don’t get that sort of thing with a Kit Kat.”
Torvino had watched fascinated, as the teen unsealed the bag and tipped a little of it’s
content onto the foil and held either end of the foil between forefinger and middle-finger She had then pulled a taut crease down its midpoint and then opened the foil out and held it carefully at a corner between forefinger and thumb.
And then placing the foil tube between her lips, Lucie had applied heat beneath the foil.
Very quickly the white powder had turned to a bubbling blob of oil, which gave off a blue-grey smoke.
Lucie had inhaled upon the smoke, tilting the foil as she had, so allowing the oil to travel up and down the foil.
Torvino had stared at her lips, heavily coated in a thick rich red gloss; and, at their centre a four inch tube of foil, turned at its ends ‘to catch any residue,’ as he had later learnt.

He had looked into the brunette’s eyes… as she used the tube, to inhale the fumes produced by slow burning the flame beneath the foil she held carefully between forefinger and thumb.
She had drawn in a slight breath, and then continued to apply heat again beneath the foil, drawing the flame from one end of the foil to the other.
As the smoke drifted upward, she drew it in, taking the bittersweet tasting smoke deep into her lungs, which she held deep into her longs for long seconds, before exhaling slowly.
She had refolded the small packet very carefully. Then Lucie had leant forward, both hands on the bed, breathing heavily.
After several seconds Lucie had sat erect and smiled; and she had sighed with pleasure.
“Oh yes,” she’d murmured, “that was good, that was clean.”
“You okay, Paul Torvino?” She had asked him, slurring, a little.
“I’m going to go sleepy – soon,” she’d told him, wavering a little from side to side.
Then she asked him, “Am I gonna see you again?”
“Would you want to?” He’d queried.
“Yes.” She’d assured him, with certainty; and then added, “So, can I have your number?”
“What about your boyfriend?” He’d asked.
And she’d laughed, assuring him, “It’s not my boyfriend you’re giving it to.”
Then, she had crawled cat-like, toward him, breasts swaying, eyes glinting with mischief.
Lucie had picked at the buttons on his shirt, and then opened several.
He had watched every movement; and then closed his eyes as he sighed at her touch, as she had run a nail down the middle of the flesh exposed; and inclining her head a little in curiosity, she had run the nail of the middle finger on her right hand across his right nipple, causing him to moan a little, with the unexpected nature of his first taste of the conundrum of pain and pleasure.
“You accept me, as I am…” she had said softly, and then added, “you don’t judge me, or ask me stupid questions.”
Lucie had smiled, and then with glazed eyes, begun to undo his shirt buttons, one by one.
“What are you doing?” Torvino had queried of her, as he had looked down at Lucie, as she had stared up at him.
“Isn’t it obvious?” She had asked, a light mischievous smile on her face, as small dexterous fingers had undone the last shirt button, leaving his chest bare.
Lucie had placed her hand on his hips and leant forward, to kiss his right nipple.
Then she’d drawn the nubbin of flesh into her mouth and began to suckle, gently.
And Torvino had sighed with a pleasure; he enjoyed a sensation he’d not with Helen.
Then, she had wavered a little. And, sitting back to the middle of the bed once more, Lucie had declared, “I think… I’m going to crash…”
Then making an effort to focus on Paul, Lucie had straightened her back.
“You okay, Paul Torvino?” She had asked him, her words running one into the other.
She had sat back and looked at Paul with a fixed, glazed stare.
“Yes, I’m okay,” Paul had assured her.
Then, as her eyes had dulled, Lucie had asked in a slurred voice: “You want my mobile number, Paul?”
And, before he had answered, she had reached into her capacious bag once more, to retrieve her phone.
Punching at some numbers, Lucie brought her phones number to the screen, which she’d hastily written down on the insert from a discarded cigarette packet near the mattress.
She ripped the card around the number she’d written and then Lucie had leant forward and passed it to him, saying; “Do keep in contact, okay?”
And he smiles, as he recalls that on instinct he’d given her his own mobile number, never really thinking that he would see her again.
Paul remembers, that with closing eyelids, she had muttered, “You okay getting home. I think I’m going to crash…”
He had felt uncomfortable: no longer able to view her naked body sexually.
And, Paul had pulled the sheets and blankets over her small body, as he would Gina, his youngest.
He had looked down at Lucie for a moment had seen his eldest, Jennifer, in her place.
‘There was only a few years difference,’ he had reminded himself sadly.
He hadn’t extinguished the candles before leaving.
But, he had tidied away her ‘kit.’
As Lucie had lain curled into a fetal ball beneath blankets, Paul had left the damp smelling derelict building.
He had stepped carefully each step of the way back to the car, conscious that he no longer to act as his guide.
Then, having found his way back to the main road and his car, Torvino had driven home, to his wife and the girls.
And, she had phoned him the next day, during the early hours, while his family was asleep. Paul had been busy at work, sitting before the monitor; and, finding words and meaning, whereas just two days earlier his mind had been as blank as any piece of A4 paper, sitting in the printer.
She had phoned ‘for a quick chat,’ as she’d told him.
Then, after about half an hour, she had asked him to phone her back, “ ‘coz my credits nearly gone.”
Paul had done as she had asked, pleased she had phoned; pleased he could be there for her. And, he had grown to look forward to and appreciate her early morning phone-calls, made when she had felt alone: and, lonely.
They’d talked about anything and everything, rarely flirting: but, they had.
And then early one morning that he’d heard his mobile ring before his wife, thankfully.
“I need company, she’d told him simply.
So, still bleary-eyed, Torvino had dressed.
He’d driven to meet her, of course.
Then, when he’d arrived at her ‘home,’ Lucie had met him at the curbside, her eyes far darker than usual.
Paul hadn’t been prepared for the change he’d seen in his young friend.
“You know Lucie,” Torvino had said as he began to drive, “ “you’re caught in a process of self-destruction.
It’d been the first time he’d criticized her lifestyle.
She wasn’t his daughter, she was Lucie: but, he had cared and had to say something.
“I know,” she’d answered, sounding very tired.
And, with a desire to see her smile, Paul Torvino had continued to drive, to Blackpool.
Both of them had spoken little during the journey, each of them pleased that they were traveling, content to have the others company.
And Torvino smiles as he remembers taking Lucie to the fair, paying for Lucie to go on several rides. It’d pleased Paul to see her laugh as his daughters had when he taken them, just the summer before.
And then, at the end of the day they had parked up at the prom; and Torvino has watched the sun set, with Lucie’s head resting on his shoulder as she slept.
But that had been the last time that he had seen Lucie.
She had rung though.
He’d been going round the shops with Helen, so hadn’t answered the call.
Yet, Paul had her of her though, when the local police had phoned him.
They had said it was important that they talk.
So, Paul had attended the interview, as requested.
He’d learnt they’d contacted him as his number was on the phone of ‘one Lucie Harris, deceased.’
His guts had churned at the discovery of her death.
And, of course he’d asked, ‘What happened?’
They’d told him, ‘She hit up something bad.’
And, Paul had left the interview, weeping.
To the police she had just been ‘another junkie.’
Yet, she’d been more than that, to him, so much more.
‘And anyway,’ he’d considered, ‘she never used a spike. She chased.
He’d felt there was something wrong: and continued to cry as he had driven home.
That had just been two, or three days ago.
He didn’t know.
Now, as he drives, Paul recalls the fear in her voice the times she had told him of Kevin, her boyfriend. And, with a tight smile Paul realized where he was driving.

It wan’t… the end.

The Urge ...

2005-03-23T07:46:00.000-08:00

The Urge… By Neil Kendrick

There was thought.
‘Why?’ He questioned, aware that he shouldn’t be.
Yet, he was. There was conscious thought ~ and a driving passion, much as before.
‘Why?’ He asked himself, as he clawed through the hard-packed soil, on and upward, finally breaking through to the surface, as deep inside him the craving grew.
When he can stand without wavering to and fro, soil falls from his clothing, as he begins to walk toward a distant memory, recalled.
A few other early risers pass him as he walks street-lamp lit streets, his gaze fixed ahead. He has an urge to satisfy.
As each person passes him they avert their eyes from his.
Finally he sees the light ahead and knows that he will find the satisfaction he has been seeking since he arose.
And he leaves the dark, to enter the light, his feet propelled by his desire.
Yet as he tries to find voice, he cannot, as his lips are cracked, his throat dry.
Then after a, dry, hacking, cough, he finds he can speak, albeit the words sound harsh to what is left of his ears, as he speaks to the young man, with the ashen face and a blue-checked shirt:
“I want a Big Mac and a coke…”

* * *

Emergence

2005-03-23T07:45:00.000-08:00

Emergence By Neil Kendrick

I claw upward, breaking through wood, in my desire to be free of my earthen confine: and I begin to tunnel.
Inch by inch I excavate the soil before me, until finally I part turf.
With not a little effort, I seek egress to the night air ~ and my freedom.
So, I stand, brush soil from my clothing and survey my surroundings.
All is quiet, except for… a heartbeat, a human heartbeat.
I turn my gaze toward the sound of my first meal.
Then she comes into sight: slight, young, with long blonde hair.
“Ha Xanda!” She exclaims, pointing to me, “it’s another one!”
There is a male with her: and he’s passing her something.
He’s passed her a stake and a memory stirs ~ of my last encounter with a slayer.
She leaps at me.
We struggle, violently.
And, as I bring my teeth to her neck I feel something pressing hard against my chest.
The stake ~ it’s the stake in her hand.
And for a split second, I find myself thinking: ‘It’s not fair ~ not my first night back!’

Fini.

Mackeral For Tea

2005-03-23T07:42:00.000-08:00

Mackerel for tea

Between Llanbedrog and Abersoch is a headland, over which, that fine summer I had decided to walk. I had decided to find a short-cut. So, after an ice-cream at the small café by the beach, I had walked along the tides edge and onto the rocks that had been exposed by the receding tide. Slipping and sliding on mussel and seaweed covered rocks, I had negotiated a path o the larger rocks, over which I had intended to climb, to take me round the headland and back onto the Warren Beach.
Finally I had reached them, only to discover that the incoming tide then prevented me from getting any further.
I had decided to then see if I could get from where I was on the rocks, with the water lapping over my feet, to climb over the headland instead.
It was getting late in the afternoon, there had been few people in the clear water of Llanbedrog Bay and little traffic on it, as I started up the shoal incline that led toward the top of the headland.
It had been a steep climb and as I had neared the top and the stones beneath my feet got smaller and smaller I had found myself using my hands more and more to advance any higher,
Then my feet had lost traction and there had been nothing to use as a firm hand hold.
Scrambling for my life, two-thirds of the way up the slope, with rocks looking up at me, my heart had beat faster and so loud I had thought it were audible to all.
At that moment I had looked downward and noted the red two-man canoe in the water, twenty-five yards or so away. Aboard the canoe, a man and a young boy, were pointing toward me and were both laughing at my misfortune.
‘I wish you dead,’ I had thought, momentarily, at the idea of them finding my situation amusing.
I had managed to move sideways a little, before finding that once more I could go no further.
Knowing I was slipping and about to fall, I had found myself thinking quite inexplicably of the smoked Mackerel my mother had intended to cook for tea.
Suddenly I had slipped and tumbled very fast down the slope until I stopped just short of the rocks.
The light blue denim jeans I had been wearing had become green from the grass and red from myself.
I had stood a little unsteadily, checked myself over and found that except for some scrapes and bruises there had been no real damage. However, I had decided not to attempt any further short-cuts that year and, instead I had chosen to walk back to the Warren Caravan Site via the road.
And, sure enough, back at the caravan I had eaten smoked mackerel for tea.

Two days had passed and I’d been in the site shop looking at the latest Spiderman comic, when I overheard two elderly women gossiping. It seems that a couple of days previously, late in the afternoon, a man and his young son had drowned in Llanbedrog Bay, whilst out in their red canoe…

Dark Writing

2005-03-14T04:06:00.000-08:00

Dark Writing – An Angel Story By Neil Kendrick

Introduction:

He found it difficult to explain the compulsion that drove him.
It was impossible to describe to another, yet through his many journals he had tried, countless times.
There was a desire within that he needed to communicate to another, who understood.
His writings had been part of that endeavour; scribbling down words that told of his passion, that few could understand; and those few who could, rarely read.
He wanted to explain, why he did as he did: existing, rather than living, always on the periphery of everyday life, finding it hard to reconcile his present existence with that of his past life.
Then he had been human.
But, that had been before he had been made.
So, he had gone to the trouble of finding an old typewriter that suited his needs.
There was much to say and he knew this.
Angel sat for hours before the typewriter with his fingers dancing over the keys, telling his story, only referring to his journals when his memory would not recall certain dates:
he remembered faces; he’d always remembered their faces – his victims, his food.
So, he poured all that he knew into his fingertips and they told of everything he had learnt, since encountering she who had made him into what he was.
But, man is by nature a social animal and no matter how we seek our own company, there are occasions when we might find that we need the company of others.
He had the soul of a man; and no matter how much he tried to ignore his compulsion to seek their company, the feeling grew, until one night, he found himself drawn to a bar.

* * *

His elbows on the beer-slick surface; right hand clasping the left, he rested his chin upon his hands, as he sat on the stool at the end of the bar, facing the entrance.
“A whiskey,” he asked, with his voice and taste in drink still betraying a hint of his Irish heritage, even after all these years.
Briefly, there was urgency to his gaze, as he looked round the room, to ensure he was safe.
‘Each of us has our demons within and for some of us there will always be an inner-turmoil, of which is good, or evil.’
This was his curse, he considered, not that he possessed a soul and so by definition he was part of humanity: rather that he had the capacity to dwell on that.
With a look of sadness he looked at his whiskey, muttering,
“Everyone wants to be understood…”
His glass was half empty, but he wanted it to be full, so drank what was there and then asked for another.
He sipped at this drink, before setting it down, musing; “I came here, to be alone and be around people, yet I sit here in silence. That doesn’t make sense, does it?”
After he’d considered this, he ordered his second drink, his eyes drawn to the long-legged brunette who served him: she was fast and efficient he noticed, always chewing gum; and, constantly on the move, hardly still for more than a minute.
The young woman, whom he’d heard called Jane, fascinated him.
Although mildly androgynous at first glance, she was, he quickly concluded, decidedly feminine.
She interested him, from her long slender neck, which initially attracted his attention, down the long, curved line of her back, leading down to where the denim she wore fit the tightest.
“There is a sight to behold,” he said softly to himself, admiring the woman’s derriere and watching her walk away to serve another customer, thinking to himself:
‘Some women are truly meant to wear blue jeans.’
Angel had a third drink, as he watched patrons enter the bar; mostly burly men, tarnished by brutal city life; and a few ladies, some white, some black, some half-caste; wearing ultra-tight denim shorts and little up-top, but, what there was, was brightly coloured.
He noticed that Jane had a pierced navel and when this began to interest him, he decided to look for other things of interest, to stop him thinking of himself; like, the two dimples at either side of the base of her spine, just above her jeans waistband.
Angel observed all that happened: and as hours past, little by little, he found a modicum of acceptance from the bar’s clientele.

* * *

The next night he left his motel room, to walk the back streets, to locate the same bar he’d chanced upon.
He entered with his coat-collar drawn up and his hands sunk deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, as if against the ills of the world.
Angel he walked into the bar his body became a little less tense; and he lifted his head.
Again eyes watched him warily at first, as he sat staring forward, seemingly into nothingness, his gaze fixed- aware of all that happened around himself, whilst maintaining his guard against possible threat.
This became a pattern. Angel would finish his writing for the day with the shutters drawn against the light; then, come evening, as the twilight passed into night-time, he sought the bar once again.
He’d sit on what had become his stool and over the nights, then weeks, until he became a fixture in the bar.
One Friday evening, as he surveyed his surroundings, Angel continued to watch the slim brunette, with flicked and layered shoulder length hair.
Finally she threw her hands to her sides, crying out to the crowd before her, of five faces, “That’s it, I can’t take anymore!”
Although it was difficult for Jane to stomp in heels of more than two inches, she stomped from one end of the bar to the other.
She clenched her fists at her sides, roaring aloud her frustration;
“Aaarrgghhh…”
Then gripping the counter tightly, Jane looked at the customer in front of her, saying, “Sorry, I had to…”
She turned to another customer, to the right of the first and asked, “Have you got any gum?”
He shook his head.
“I’m bored,” she declared, walking up and down the bar.
“And, when I’m bored, I want chewing-gum, a weed, or wild sex.”
Jane knew a weed was out of the question, as she was working;
she knew wild-sex also wasn’t an option – as she was behind the bar, it’d be inconvenient, especially if someone wanted serving.
“Aw c’mon,” She begins, looking to either side of the bar, “anyone got any gum for me? I’m cracking here!”
She looked to every customer, including Angel, to ask if they had gum, when a young woman, wearing tight tie-die jeans walked up to the bar, a pack of Juicy Fruit in hand.
“Here sister, take one, I know the craving.”
The remark brought a splash of yellow to a world normally black, causing Angel to smile briefly: someone understood ‘the craving.’
Yet this was unusual, for although he had found a measure of acceptance in the bar, Angel was still a curiosity to most of its clientele, simply because of his generally dour expression.
But, this night, the few regulars who knew his face acknowledged his entry – two with a nod of the head; and, one with the flick of a match against his front teeth. In return, Angel had given a nod of his head as he had mounted his stool, to watch and learn.
So he had sat, watching, as Mandy had walked in.

Mandy, looked like a Navaho Indian, he thought, with her long-dark hair, parted in the centre, reaching half-way down her back.
She had just walked in, to join Jane, for the Friday late-shift, which was in theory very busy, yet hadn’t been this night.
“Sorry I’m late, buses and a fella, you know how it is?”
She was dressed in tight–fitting, ribbed, black-tee shirt, coal-black jeans and heavy boots. In comparison to her work colleague, she was dressed sombrely.
Jane was dressed in a simple, but garishly pattered, lime-green and bright yellow waist-coat, over a pea-green tee-shirt cut short, so the lower swell of her breasts were more that hinted at as she busied herself sweeping a damp rag over the bar-top.
She had been working since three that afternoon and now her tiredness was beginning to show a little.
“No, I don’t know how it is…” The brunette muttered, staring briefly at her toe-nails. Being on her feet most of the time, she wore sandals, with toe-nails that were painted blue, this Friday: they made the standing up bearable, at least.
“These double shifts are killing me…”
“Yeah, I suppose the pay packet’s too heavy at the end of the month, isn’t it?”
“Ha, in my dreams!” Jane expressed, laughing mockingly.
She had been working one day less a week and a double shift on a Friday since term-time begun. Sometimes she wondered whether it was worth it.
“So, how is the world of Media Studies?” Mandy asked, as she stashed her personal belongings on a shelf below the long bar; “Have you decided to stay on?”
Jane lifted the counter-flap to access the other side of the bar.
There she stood, the hatch lifted, cigarette in her mouth.
She drew the acrid smoke into her lungs and held it there, for several seconds, before exhaling: “Lord, I needed that…!”
Briefly she looked at the No Smoking sign over the bar, musing whether the owner was actually a sadist, or not.
Then as her colleague began washing glasses, she saw who was in the bar and smiled:
“I see laughing boy is in.” Mandy sneered, noticing his intent gaze, fixed on Jane.
Jane looked to where she was staring, frowned momentarily and hissed to her: “Shush, he might hear you.”
“Doubt it,” the brunette espoused, “he’s got that faraway look in his eyes, that says, ‘Hey folks, I’m not on this planet!’”
For the first time that day Jane smiled.
“That’s cruel,” she whispered, turning the stereo on.
“Ah, cruel but true…” Mandy responded in a knowing, sing-song voice, drying one of the six glasses before her.
He had been drinking there for several weeks now; always arrived as the sun had set and always sat so that he could see the entrance to the bar.
Both women found him a cause for amusement.
He watched everything, spoke little; drank a lot, yet never seemed to get drunk.
There was something very strange about him, they’d both decided, at different times.
They both turned to look at him, staring down at the double-malt, held in two hands.
“He is interesting.” Mandy told Jane, walking to the end of the bar nearest the stairs and away from his hearing, she thought.
“Yeah,” Jane responded smiling, “In a dark and mysterious way… But…”
“But? Go on, what’s the ‘but?’”
“Well…” Jane thought. “He’s…” She began.
Then thinking of how often she had heard him talk, she said, “He’s so introverted, I’m surprised he’s out at all…”
“I think he’s spooky.” Jane stated simply.
“Why?” Mandy asked.
“He sits there… staring… sort of… well, brooding…”
“I used to know a fella like that,” Mandy told her, smiling.
“Like what?” Jane asked, distracted, noticing that he appeared to be listening to every word spoken, even though he was at one end of the bar, they were at the other and between them there were a few people talking.
‘No-one’s hearings that good,’ she thought: ‘it’s impossible, isn’t it?’
“Brooding… No, it was broody. He was definitely broody… Not at all like mister talkative over there…”
Angel was sat where he usually did, on his stool facing the entrance, his brow furrowed.
A large man, dressed all in denims, walked down the stairs.
He appraised the stranger to the bar, before his gaze returned to the two women.
“He’s looking at you Jane…”
“Don’t say that.”
“He is…”
“Ladies, don’t wanna spoil your conversation, but any chance of a beer?”
“Yeah, sure John,” Mandy told the customer, going to the pumps and pouring one for him, leaving Jane standing alone, feeling vulnerable.
“An ‘ave summat fer yerself.”
“Cheers John.” The young woman responded, turning to face Jane again.
“It’s them eyes,” Jane expressed, right forefinger and thumb together, forming a circle and held over her own right eye;
“They just seem to follow me everywhere!”
“He’s looking over this way, again.” Mandy told Jane, who noticed that he was.
“Well, go on…” she goaded Jane.
“Go on, what?”
“Go and ask him how he is…” Mandy dared.
“Well, I…” Jane began, turning and taking a couple of paces toward where Angel sat.
“Hi!” Jane said brightly, “How are you doing?”
He looked to her, from the nothingness he’d been staring into.
Yes, she was talking to him.
“Oh, hello.” He responded lamely, looking up slowly from his drink, to the woman before him that he had learnt was called Jane.
“You’ve been coming her several weeks now and I’ve been meaning to say ‘hello.’”
As she spoke, the brunette swept a damp rag over the bars surface by where he sat, as if to suggest that was why she had walked over in the first place.
“Why?” He asked.
“To be sociable. You know sociable?”
He wanted to tell her that he didn’t any longer. Instead he just looked at her.
“So how are you?” Jane continued, just as cheerfully, although she wondered why she was doing this. He seemed such hard going.
“How am I?”
“Yes, how are you?”
“I am well,” he answered, adding, “Thank you for asking.”
“That’s okay,” she told him, then asked, “Penny for your thoughts?”
“You seem a nice person,” he told her, “you don’t want to know>”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked, now would I?”
Then she offered her hand, saying very formally,
“Hello, I’m Jane.”
“I know… Jane Bresnen. I’m Angel.”
She appears querulous at his use of her surname.
“I overheard someone use your fist name and another time I heard someone use the surname, so…”
“I get it.”
“Hmmm… Is it right that you do Media Studies?” He asked Jane absently, considering that as she had spoken to him, perhaps it was acceptable to do so…
“Yes,” she replied hesitantly, her curiosity piqued.
“Tell me,” she asked, “why mention Media Studies?”
“Your friend mentioned your course,” he answered.
“Hang-on, we were at the other end of the bar. How did you hear what she said?”
“Well, I suppose that there would be some who night say that I have extra-ordinary hearing, for a human.” He smiled, almost, at what to him seemed a funny joke.
“Would you say literature is still part of the media, even now?” He asked, with genuine curiosity she sensed: this wasn’t a line.
“Er… yes,” she replied, a little hesitantly.
“Well I have written something, would you look at it?” He queried of her, his brow furrowed.
“I don’t know,” she responded, “I don’t know you.”
“I know, he replied, that’s the beauty of it. You don’t know me, so who better to ask what they think of my work than someone who doesn’t know me?”
“Hmmm…” she considered, thumb and forefinger gently supporting her chin, the elbow supporting the palm of her other hand.
“Yes, okay then,” she told him after a little deliberation, “I’ll read it. But, you only recently started coming here? So tell me, why are you here?”
“For company,” Angel replied, already having thought of the same question and its answer.
Then he added, “Sometimes I find I need to seek out humanity.”
She was puzzled by this and somewhat intrigued by his response.
“Strange sort of place to choose…” She said in response, looking around.
“It’s just a place, like any other with people in it…”
“It seems like you’re talking about the nature of existence?”
“I don’t know about that,” he responded. “But, I am talking about my own.”
There was a silent pause and then she asked, “So, when do I get it?”
“I’ll bring it tomorrow,” he told her, finishing his drink and leaving the bar.
The next night he took her his manuscript, which he had been working on for so long and handed it to her nervously.

* * *

Then, the night after he did not go to the bar, hesitant of facing her while she was looking at his piece, instead chose to walk the dark streets, aware of all that could be lurking in the shadows.
He could’ve walked toward the main thoroughfare but he didn’t,
Instead, Angel had chosen to take the side-alleys, where the shadows were the darkest.
He hated waiting: but he had to, there was no other option.
So he walked, listening to every little sound, whether it be a rat scurrying, or a dog nosing for scraps amongst the trash.
All the sounds were rendered louder by the quiet of the alley and its distance from the crowded streets; and, heightened further by his aural sense.
There was nothing in sight, or within earshot; that was reassuring he had thought, as it meant, there was no threat to him and for a moment, he could almost imagine that his curse was something of the past.
Then, from ahead, to his right, came a noise, that didn’t belong, not in a quiet alley – the gasp of a woman, perhaps young; but, definitely scared, very scared.
Angel stopped walking and stood still, his head to one side, as he listened to the sounds intruding the quiet.
“C’mon give it here and ya won’t will get hurt!” A mans voice.
Then there was a second voice, again male and again it sounded aggressive: “So, hand it over will you?!”
Angel didn’t want this: didn’t want to feel compelled to intervene – but, he knew that he would.
After all, he reasoned quickly, ‘If you have a human soul – and you have, then you’ve got to be prepared to relate to the needs of other humans.’
The thought took seconds, the action several seconds longer.
Angel ran ahead, turning right, to find himself standing in the mouth of another alley, looking at two men threatening a young woman for her shoulder-bag, which she clutched tightly.
“It’s got the shop takings. You can’t have it!” She yelled at the man approaching her, as if ignoring the other, who had a knife to her throat, one arm round her waist.
The bloodlust rising within, Angel thought of Darla’s rancour at his choice of victims.
He could feel his aspect changing, which he did not want.
Yet, his options were few. There were two of them and he could see the fear in her face, as she struggled to get free.
“Enough,” Angel hissed, his appearance not what it had been and he looked at his adversaries, a smile on his face.
Now he would kill, if he needed to.
The thug who had spoken second was still approaching the couple, knife in hand. He turned as Angel spoke – just in time, to see him leap through the air, his right foot and fist weapons.
The foot hit the man squarely in his chest, the fist landing on his jaw and then he fell to his knees and crumpled to the floor, many of his bones broken.
Angel snatched the knife that the other man held, his movements a blur, hissing at him, “Now, go… or, die… I don’t mind.”
Snarling, the young man cast the woman to one side, so that she landed on some cardboard boxes, groaning loudly.
He heard the noise she made, turned to face the ashen male and smiled broadly: “You shouldn’t have done that!”
“Why? You pug-ugly…” Mock bravado sounded hollow coming from him, so Angel ceased his words, as he brought both hands down onto the man’s collarbones, shattering them instantly.
For a moment he held the limp form, by the windpipe, in one hand, before dropping him and turning toward his victim.
Angel walked across to the woman and offered her assistance in standing. She took his hand and stood, looking closely at his face as she did. Then she screamed, “You’re not human.”
Angel looked at her – she was all right.
Then, as he walked away he looked back at the thugs, both quite unconscious and he reminded the young woman, “But, they were!”

* * *

Angel entered the bar after two weeks later sat where he had, soon becoming oblivious of his surroundings, as fresh thoughts entered his head; thoughts that confused him with their simple complexity; such as to why was he there?
And, what was he seeking?
All these were thoughts that he could not answer immediately. But, that did not matter. He was here now and he wanted to know what she thought of his work, which was important to him.
And he waited, fairly patiently; pleased that she had smiled when she’d noticed his face.
As usual, she had been serving a customer, turned round… and then, there he was…
As he asked for a whiskey she was entirely unaware just how nervous Angel actually was.
Although he had encountered much in over two hundred years, here he was, facing a truly harsh enemy – invited criticism.
Finally, when the few customers in the bar had been served, the lithe brunette walked across to the customer, sitting on his own: “Hi Angel.”
In response to her greeting, he looked down, sweeping his left hand through the tufted fringe he found in his eyes.
Angel looked up to face the young woman slowly, then fixed his gaze on her.
“A whiskey please and then tell me, what did you think of it?”
“Of it?” She asked, teasing.
“The story, my story…” He responded, feeling very uncomfortable.
“Oh, that?” Jane said in a light voice, turning to the stand of optics, to pour his drink, asking, “I assume it’s a whiskey?”
“Yes, thank you,” he replied, almost quietly.
She turned, placed his glass on the bar, smiling warmly.
“You surprised me, y’know?”
“Why?” Angel responded.
“Well, you wrote of being a vampire?”
“Yes and?”
“Well, that can’t be true, can it?”
“Did you read it properly?”
“Yes, of course!” She replied, a little affronted that he had needed to ask that.
“So, you know?” He said, slowly.
“But, it read like fiction?” She asked, doubt in her voice.
There is a pause, as Angel thought of a suitable response.
Finally, he said, “Don’t you think that sometimes life is stranger than fiction? Come to that, I’ve heard it said, often…”
With her right fore-finger resting on a lightly-dimpled chin, Jane thought carefully about this for a moment: “Yesss… perhaps! But, it’s all so incredible, all of it…!”
“For instance?” He queried.
“Grief, right from the start. I mean, a vampire… that’s… unreal!”
Angel smiled.
“Just think Jane, a hundred years ago man wrote about walking on the moon. Now he’s done it. A hundred years ago there were those who would have said that Jules Verne’s story was, unreal!”
The brunette persisted, “But what about all the stuff about stakes and coffins and stuff like that?”
“Part of it is myth; some of its fact,” he stated simply.
She thought a moment, then asked, “A stake through the heart?”
Angel smiled: “A stake through the heart will kill anyone!”
“And the other stuff?”
“Other stuff?”
“Y’know,” the young woman queried, “stuff… Like, sleeping in a coffin. Stuff like that!”
As if he were a teacher and she a child, Angel slowly explained,
“There are vampires who believe in the legends, just as there are humans who write of them.”
She smiled at his response: that sounded reasonable.
Then a thought occurred – “All you wrote, it was really real?”
He smiled, “That’s what I’ve been telling you…”
“Yes, I know. But, it all sounds so…” Momentarily, she was silent, looking for a suitable word, that wasn’t ‘unreal.’
Jane thought back to all that she had read in the manuscript –

* * *

Liam, known as Angel - and later, as Angelus – had been made in Galway, Ireland, in 1753.
A friend and Angelus had been thrown out of an inn; and as his friend lay drunk on the cobbled streets, Angelus had looked with bleary eyes toward a stone archway, where he saw a beautiful blonde lady.
“What’s a lady like you doing out on a night like this?”
He had asked her, in a cultured Irish brogue.
“I can show you the world,” She’d responded.
Then seductively asked him, “Do you want to see?”
He’d told her, “I want to see.”
They had embraced and she bit his neck, drawing his lifeblood.
Then she etched a talon-nail across the flesh of her breast-bone, drawing a line of blood which Angelus drank from.
Once he was as she, Darla showed Angelus ‘her’ world, teaching him her ways and of the hunt. To impress her, he killed his family, his father last.
It was his younger sister who had greeted him, prior to this killing, who had named him Angel, ‘her Angel.’
This was also how she had greeted him at the door, prior to him committing bloody fratricide.
Very soon Angelus had been introduced to ‘The Master’ of The Order Of Aurelius, Henrich Joseph Nest.
It was he who made Darla in 1609 in the Virginia colony, as she had lain dying, riddled with Syphilis.
Angelus had scorned The Master for his ways – living in squalor, in the sewers and Angelus had taken Darla away from that.
Then for 150 years they had existed together, taking the lifeblood of whomever they chose.
In 1898 Darla had brought Angelus a present, which he’d found waiting for him, lying on the carpet, before the open fire.
He’d pushed up her long skirts and pressed his teeth into her thigh and taken the girl, only to find out awhile later that she’d been a Romani gypsy of the clan, Kalderashe.
A curse had been issued from her family that rendered Angelus a vampire like no other, a vampire with a human soul.
Considering he stank of humanity, Darla had chased him away.
Then, in China, in the year 1900 during the chaos of a religious war, Darla was calmly packing, whilst outside fighting took place, when suddenly she had felt hands on her face.
Angel had surprised Darla, seeking redemption from her.
“You never could resist a religious war...” He’d said.
“Is that why you’re here? So I can end it all, remove that stinking soul? I can still smell it you know. And, that’s not all… You reek of vermin. Is that what you’ve been living off. ”
She had said, as she stood in front of him, a sharp blade to his throat. Then she’d asked, “What do you want?”
“A second chance.” He replied, adding: “I want things to be like they were, you and me together. I want the view.”
“Impossible. You have a soul.”
“I’m still a vampire.” He assured her.
“You’re not,” Darla replied:
“Look at you. I don’t know what you are anymore.”
“You know what I am. I’m Angelus. You made me.”
“You almost made me believe you.” She replied.
“Believe me…” He’d told her, “We can have the whirlwind back.”
They’d embraced and kissed.
Awhile later, Angelus, now Angel, was out on the streets, amongst the fighting.
He saved some missionaries, then met up with Druscilla, Spike and Darla.
She had scorned his choice of victims, being mindful of the fact that since the curse of humanity bestowed on him, he had only taken the lives of those he considered unworthy of life.
“Since the curse,” she had to him, “you have only drunk from… evil doers”
The she alleged:
“You said if you came back you’d prove yourself to me.”
“And I will,” he’d replied.
“Good,” she had told him; “Now’s your chance.”
Darla revealed her present, a young baby, the child of the dead missionaries that Angel had attempted to save.
“I went back before dawn… they were still praying… not knowing their only saviour was down on the waterfront, dining on rats!
I won’t be made a fool of Angelus, not by you… While Spike was out killing a Slayer you were saving missionaries, from me!”
“Sorry.” He had told her.
“No, no more words…” Darla responded.
He had looked intently at the child, as it looked back at him, with wide innocent eyes.
Angel stared at the child, then at Darla.
Then she had told him to ‘Act’ and he had.
Darla had offered Angel the life of an innocent, wanting it to be Angelus who took that life.
Realising he could not be what he was not, Angelus had taken the child with him, as he’d left Darla, again.

* * *

Jane thought long and hard about all she had read and having served another customer, she returned to where Angel sat and said to him, “Much of what you’ve written is about regaining lost humanity, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied simply.
“Tell me,” Jane began, “Is that what you feel?”
“Yes,” he answered, then swiftly added, “But, anyway, it’s my problem, not yours…”
“Hey, don’t say that…” She snapped: “You say it’s your problem… But, when your problem affects others, it becomes theirs…”
Angel looked at the young woman intensely for a moment, before saying,
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“I think you do…”
Angel peered into the nothingness ahead, before turning to look at Jane.
“So, how do my problems affect others?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.
“In your manner and the way that affects others.”
“And?”
“Well, look at it this way, you came here to be around people, didn’t you?”
“Hmmm… yes.”
“Well, knowing what I’ve seen of you, why?”
As he considered the question, the brunette was called away to serve another customer.
Smiling, she returned to face him, saying, “Go on then, why?”
Finally, he spoke: “Recently I’ve found a restless spirit within, a need to communicate – as if there’s a desire, or compulsion… to connect… If you know what I mean…?”
Jane looked hard at him, she knew what he meant: “Like I said, I’ve read it. I know what you mean. You want to, well, validate your own existence.”
“Hmmm… maybe,” he considered.
“Well… yes. And that explains why this is so important to you.”
“And you did like it?” He asked, seeking further reassurance, over her opinion of his work.
“Oh, I like it…” she told him, “but, if you want to know more about the style and quality of the piece, then you should take it to a literary agent and see what they say about it…”

* * *

So it was that Angel found himself sitting in a large leatherette armchair, facing a small man, behind a very large desk.
“Normally I wouldn’t stay in the office at this time,” he muttered,
“but, she asked. And your only niece doesn’t ask things of you too often. So, if she asks, you…”
He very briefly looked at the clock on the wall, before returning to what he was reading.
The ashtray full to overflowing, he lit another cigarette, offering one to Angel without even looking up.
Finally he looked up from the manuscript, his eyes boring deep into Angel’s, eagerly awaiting hearing what he had to say.
Instead of talking though, he coughed into his right hand.
With furrowed brow, Angel looked to the little man, asking, “Why? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
The little man in the lightweight grey suit sat back, steepled his fingers together, so the tips pointed upwards:
“Let me put it this way,” he began, drawing breath, “Just who would believe that there is a vampire walking amongst us here in twentieth century New Orleans? There isn’t even a Gothic setting for much of it…”
He paused a moment, then hissed through his teeth and said:
“Shee… it, you’ve set in the modern day. Vampires are dead, if you’ll pardon the expression son?”
Angel was quiet.
He hadn’t expected this – and, for the first time, in a long time he wanted to taste a man’s blood, this man’s blood.
And still he spoke – the artery in the side of his neck pulsing with the movement of his lifeblood, as it flowed through his body.
Angel’s eyes were fixed to his throat.
It had been recommended that he come here.
“You will find out if people want to read it,” he’d been advised.
Besides which, he’d been told that the man ‘knew about books,’ so there might be something to learn here. But, now he was here and Desmond Miles still hadn’t finished talking: “It’s that British outfit, Hammer. I blame them…”
Slowly he allowed the man’s droning to become words again.
Then, because he surmised that he was supposed to, Angel asked “Why?”
“Well, think on it, in their later film they had vampire in our times. But, what experience does a vampire have of now?”
He pauses to find breath, “Answer? Nothing. They’re creature of the past. Now, it’s all new, y’know? Science-fiction, that sort of thing, that’s all that matters to today’s readers.”
Again he paused, “Believe me son,” he began, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands clenched, “no-one is going to be bothered reading about a vampire that has feelings, not today.”

Fini.