Crank up your whining
drown out my thoughts
spare me no stillness to ponder my lot
Crank up your neediness
consume all my time
leave me no moments to feel my fatigue
Crank up your selfishness
decimate my self respect
no courage should I have to raise my head
Crank up the adrenaline
be the master of my life
Alas! there is glory in lording over the dead
Baby-sitting an acres large property out in the wilderness – as a poor near starving student on a sabbatical this was a dream job. The old caretaker/conservationist had passed on and till a new one was appointed, this was to be my gig.
The quarters were actually a quaint old cottage perched on a clearing near the woods, run down, but the stuff on postcards none the less. The isolated road lead up to a rock wall cottage that had ivy creeping up its walls, with little violet flowers peeping from between. There were hedges and vines and honeysuckles all around. A little dirt path with pebbles led down to the forest at the rear. The windows were rickety and the insides sparse, a tiny stove, two small wooden chairs, a circular table, a not-so-large mattress and that was all. But there was heat and electricity and it was a tired yet happy camper who went to bed that night.
When my eyes opened it was sometime really early, like before daybreak. I was not one of those wake at the crack of down from sheer ingrained habit types, so I knew it was something that had roused me. Suddenly there is a rattling on the windows and I look out to see hundreds (OK maybe a little less) of golden eyes looking in on me. I let out a scream, which I knew was pretty futile. I mean, it’s not like there was another person within screaming distance. The eyes disappeared. I sat there rocking myself, awake, desperately needing to pee, but too terrified to get out of bed. I mean, who knew what lurked under the bed in this crazy place.
Years passed, although my watch showed it as just an hour, and I finally got the courage to get up and go to the bathroom. But as I passed by the window I glanced out. Hanging gracefully from the tree with her unblinking eyes focused on me was a white almost translucent form. A white lady!
That was when I pissed myself.
*
Eventually the sun did come out to disperse the shadows and restore a fraction of my courage and reasoning.
I was a student of science. I did not believe in ghosts and ghouls. I was not a coward who was going to cry spook and give up a very comfortable paying job, especially not when I had spent a part of the salary upfront.
With those words of self-motivation I resolved to venture out into the woods.
Prudence made me stick to the pebbled path which eventually led to a grove of old trees that appeared to encompass what was probably a sink-hole. Curiously enough the area around the grove had been cleared, as if people had frequently walked about.
There was nothing special about the trees, so logic dictated that it was the sink-hole that attracted visitors. I looked around, picked up a pebble and with great temerity aimed for the opening.
Before I could fathom what was happening, with a great big whooshing sound that seemed to arouse the entire habitat, a furious Swarm of creatures charged out. I was knocked back on my butt and just about managed to curl up in a fetal position with my arms over my face. Around me there was furious wind and storm. What had I unleashed? Would I even survive this? Dang, I was far too young to die.
Eventually the sounds subsided and I meekly uncoiled to look around. It was then that I saw the sign board…
The Bat Cave & Conservation Foundation – Bat Hole No. 2
***
To see The White Lady please click here
Photos Courtesy Monfort Bat Cave & Conservation Foundation
Picking up the telephone extension without noticing the blinking red light had been his undoing.
Is that what she really felt? Why didn’t she ever tell him instead of complaining to her friend? And all those times….O Lord she had been faking it. He was the fool for believing that they had the perfect marriage.
Fool…fool…fool.
Fool for loving her… Fool for trusting her. All the times he had dropped her off at the yoga studio, happy in the knowledge that yoga made her happy. But it wasn’t the yoga, it was the damn yoga instructor! And what did that make him? A pimp and a damn fool.
He needed to get out of the house, get away from her, get away so that he could think again. Plan. But his stupid brain was not cooperating. It kept reliving that overheard conversation again and again.
Boring. She had called him boring.
The buzzing was beginning to give him a full blown headache, his insecurity growing steadily until it dominated his emotions.
Andy got into his car and started driving.
He was no bore. He would show her. He was a sexy virile man and just because he had taken himself off the market did not mean that he was no longer desirable.
What started out as a timid placation became a continual chant, I am not boring, my life is not boring, a chant so strong that he resolved to break out of his comfort zone, do something uncharacteristic, hit the bar perhaps, get drunk, and maybe, yes maybe even pick up a girl.
Yes, that’s what he needed. One night of debauchery to make him feel like a man again.
At the outskirts of town he spotted the perfect little bar. Cheap and sleazy. Not the kind of place where he would have to worry about bumping into anyone from work, the kind of place where the girls looked easy. Perfect.
Perched on a barstool, he ordered a vodka straight, and looked around. It was a rustic country bar, old blues music played, smoke permeating the air, couples making out unabashedly, and then he saw her. Blond hair, shy smile, a plunging neckline making her almost transparent top look even sexier, short skirt, and legs that went on forever and ended in 6 inch fuck me heels. Drop dead gorgeous.
She sashayed up to him, shot him a coquettish smile, and perched on the stool beside. I’ll have what he’s having, she told the bartender. For the next hour they drank, and flirted, and eventually when it looked like he was never going to summon up the courage to make a move, she decided to take matters into her own hands. Are we ever going to get out of here or do you just want to pass out drunk with a sexy woman next to you?
Despite the blood rushing to his groin, Andy hesitated. This was not him.
Until he remembered the phone conversation and the chant started playing in his mind again. I am not boring. My life is not boring.
With that the decision was made.
They got into his car and he couldn’t hold back any more. Like a man possessed he grabbed her hair and pulled her forcefully towards himself, meeting her mouth in a frenzied clash of lips and teeth, breathing in her aroma, tasting the sweetness of a willing woman after a long long time. His eyes closed tightly he was lost in his desperation when suddenly he heard the bang of the rear door. Startled, he jerked around to see the man who had simply plopped into his car.
“What the hell man, this is not a cab you just get into. Get out. This is my car.” Andy screamed.
“And now it’s my car,” was all he heard.
He didn’t hear the gun fire. He didn’t see the blood. He never even realised that she was the one who had pulled the trigger.
Poor Andy! He lived a boring life, but at least he saw an exciting end.
The blank page glowers at me from the screen. I revel in its vast emptiness. Here before me is the vessel that will hold my invaluable thoughts and words and preserve them, perhaps for posterity. But an awkward silence hangs in my head, stifled like a hot summer noon, twiddling its thumbs.
I jiggle the cursor around, making imaginary doodles on the page, trying to churn the vacuum, searching for the words that live on the edge of the precipice, but nothing comes to fruition.
The extraordinary, someone once said, was rarely found in the obvious, but in the hidden recess of what remained unconsciously observed and consciously unremarked.
I start typing, one word after another, filling the void with random thoughts, emotions spilling over from my imagination.
I pause to commune with my vessel and can almost feel the page’s disappointment at my feeble attempt. It had poised itself for loftier accomplishments, philosophical introspections, a classic novel or great poetry perhaps; instead all it had achieved in its short inglorious life was to have its virgin surface sacrificed to a novice’s ramblings, like untidy clothes strewn on a pristine floor. Its despondency is almost palpable.
I teeter in this fugue state until a sudden effervescence in the stream of time snaps me out of my cogitation.
I am the brightest star in my mind’s galaxy and I am OK with that.
Don’t call me baby
Not in front of my friends
I’m all grown up
I’m almost ten
Knock on my door
Before you come in
Don’t treat me like a kid
I’m already a teen
I have an opinion
You can’t just make plans
In a year I’m off to college
You need to treat me like a man
I smile through the phases
I’ll try I say, maybe
No way to convince him
That I am not crazy
Boy or man
Eight or eighty
In my mommy eyes
He’s always my Baby
Chores are done and the kid off to school
I sit down with hot coffee my mind to cool
But the sip freezes at the unused plate
I wonder if perhaps it isn’t too late
Once again the familiar trepidation
I push open her door with anxious hesitation
Step in and softly whisper out, “mum?”
I keep on staring feeling a light pain in my chest
Watch for the rhythmic rise and fall of her breast
Wait for the murmuring cadence of her snore
My heart at ease I step out the door
The aroma of coffee does once more beckon
But first I send a quick thank up to heaven
I was not aware
is no excuse
A claim of ignorance
is no recuse
You
left me alone
You
were late coming home
Be there when I return
was my simple entreaty
You thought I was being unreasonable
selfish and silly
Were you that bad a mother
or was I not worth the forfeit
that you could not tell
a tantrum from an appeal?
Did he do something?
I really don’t know
Him I can forgive
but you were my own
From you I expected
protection and care
When his hands were on my body
All I could think was that you were not there
This I remember
This I can say
The scars that run deepest
Weren’t those he gave
You
were my own
You
should have known
Now I’ve found another crush
The lush life’s given me a rush
– Zara Larsson
I know it’s weird, but I’m in love with the idea of falling in love.
I’m in love with the crazy unpredictability of it all, the thrill of the find, the bated breath hope that could he be the one, jumbled with the anxiety of am I good enough for him, the insecurity, will he notice me, the subtle hints, blushes, laughter, witty retorts, the primeval mating dance, now I want you now I don’t. Stealing glances, the static, that crackling in the air that happens whenever we get within a foot of each other, like, if his hand brushes mine, one or both of us will be instantly electrocuted. I love the discovery, noticing every little thing about each other, the shades in his hair, the flecks in his eyes, the moods in his smile, the exchanging of little stories. Then the courtship, dressing up for him, planning special gifts, celebrating milestones only we both know, the constant teasing by friends, pretending not to be bothered by the jealousy of others, the satisfaction of knowing that I got him. I yearn for that fluttering at the feeling of his body pressed against mine; sinking into his heat and feeling the flush permeate my senses and pulse in my core, like the room was warmer somehow, and my future within its walls a little less bleak.
But then slowly and inevitably the feeling starts to slip away, getting lost in the maelstrom of insecurities and miscommunications. The endearing gestures start to suffocate. Tendrils of lies start crawling out of hidden crevices until I know, I know that sooner or later he’s going to hurt me, leave me, and I won’t endure that, I won’t. The empty feeling is starting again. I need my fix. I need that rush of being in love. But it’s not there. He’s not the one. I turn and walk away.
*
I find myself seated across from him admiring his strong nose and the eyes that light up as he talks about his job. He smiles a lot and there is something light and happy about him. He’s tracing my fingers as he talks. Slowly his fingers move to my palm. I close my hand around his, deeply inhaling his clean fresh scent, feeling that familiar rush creep up again, wondering…
Could he be the one?
Constructive criticism
an oxymoron
A verbal massacre
destroying the I in me
chipping away
to make the bricks on the wall
Posted in response to Daily Post Prompt – Criticize
A little bit of darkness and a little bit of light come together to make a whole lot of beautiful…
Posted for the Daily Post Photo Challenge – Shadow
Leaking Ink 
