Paige’s soul sleeps somewhere numb, somewhere cold. Her dark, disturbed visions summon her to the razor. With every cut, she bids her blood to run. With every failed seep, she utters her mantra.
“Life won’t let me go. I cannot respire. I cannot perish. Forever, I shall suffer.”
©2012.alittlebirdtweets
‘Isaac, shortly you will enter your desired dream. Now you must ensure that your body is in a relaxed state, and that you allow my first few words to sink slowly into the alcoves of your mind. For several minutes my words will introduce you to the setting, and thereafter, the path you take, the characters you encounter, will be of your own design. Should you feel uncomfortable with the dream at any stage, be sure to tap my palm three times, and I will talk you back into reality. I cannot stress enough, the importance of these taps. Failure to react in good time, can lead to violent nightmares, confusion, and more than often, seizures. It can take patients weeks to recover psychologically; while some never do. Ok, are you sure that you are ready to proceed; to pursue your answer?’
‘Yes Dream Maker,’ Isaac replies, ‘I’m ready.’ His body lays stiff on the surgery bed. His dark-rimmed eyes speak of months of sleepless nights, brought on by the frustration, of never knowing who had murdered his dear wife, Irise.
‘Isaac, then we shall begin.’ The Dream Maker places his bony fingers on Isaacs’ forehead, and as he begins to speak, blue vapours spiral from his mouth, and slowly fill the room.
‘Now… relax… breathe slowly… and let your five senses open. You are walking towards the peaked horizon of earths’ circular soul… you see cerulean skies rotate into silver-watercolour-curls in the far distance… they are inviting you… and you step in… you are now strolling towards the end of a rainbow… there you smell the colours of crimson and coral, of cobalt and ochre… and you see that the rainbow is a bridge… that it has a sign… the sign bears an arrow… you are following the arrow… you are walking over the rainbow… you have suddenly stopped at the start of a silver path… and it is here, Isaac, that you make your dream your own.’
Isaac shuffles on the bed. His eyes twitch, as he accepts this new, vivid world; and he continues to dream of his own accord.
Coldness hits me… it’s nearing dusk… time is ticking… I need to find Irise… I’m sprinting along the silver-winding path… insidious trees overhang and attempt to reach out… to touch me… to stop me… but I’m too fast. I arrive at the end of the path… it opens out onto a floral yellow carpet… I walk over it… I can hear weeping… the weeping is coming from behind a tree… I sprint to the tree… there’s a woman with flowing, auburn hair… she is standing in a yellow robe… her face is pale… her eyes are hollow… she tells me she is a lost angel… that she’s my lost angel… she is opening her hands to reach me… to touch me… I am confused… this is not Irise!… this is not my Irise!… I need to escape… to run…
Isaacs’ body twists violently on the bed. His eyes have moved to the back of his head. The Dream Master stands up ‘Isaac, tap my palm three times!’ he urges. But Isaacs’ body continues to distort, uncontrollably.
She tells me that she is my Irise… she is gripping me… pulling me towards her… I try to break free, but my feet are floating helplessly… she is putting her face close to mine… it is Irise!… her face had been distorting into the faces of others… of her family… her friends… I hadn’t recognised her… Please Irise! Stop pulling me! I have come here to help you! To identify your murderer! To kill him, when I return to earth! So we can both be at peace, when he dies! She is laughing at me… she tells me I don’t remember anything… that I am a fool for coming here… that we can never be at peace… she loosens her grip on me… I fall to my feet… my feet are sinking into the floral carpet… she is walking away… I try to follow her… but my feet are grounded… Come back Irise! Tell me who killed you! She looks over her shoulder… she tells me that she will weep forever… that her distorted faces… the ones I have seen… were the faces of the people that miss her… love her, down on earth… that my face will never be seen in hers… because I never loved her… I am confused! I love her! I thought she loved me? She doesn’t love me! She can’t love me, for she is walking away! Leaving me here! Come back Irise! I love you! I have always loved you! Why do you run from me? She is laughing… she tells me I am strange… she tells me how I hated her for years… that I had resented her… for sending me to a shrink… that I had struggled with sanity for many years… that I’d go through depressive states…manic highs… that I’d made her afraid to be around me… that she couldn’t take any more… that she wanted to leave… that I wouldn’t let her leave… that I’d hated her but wouldn’t let her leave… she tells me that I was the one that killed her…
she is weeping… she is smiling at me… she is walking away… she looks behind her shoulder… she tells me that my ears will forever hear her weeping… she is fading into the horizon… my body is shivering… it’s cold… so cold… I am trying to move my feet… to follow her… to tell her I love her… again… but they are stuck… it’s nearing dusk… I am standing here… alone… grounded… and her weeping haunts my ears…
‘Isaac, tap!’ The Dream Master shouts, as the bed flips to the floor. The Dream Machine moves from low-to-high-alert in seconds; its high-pitch deafens the Dream Maker. He flees the room, where the blue vapours have turned into hot amber billows. And in that moment, Isaacs ’heart stops beating.
©2012.alittlebirdtweets
From the corner of my eye, from the softness of my pillow, I see him sleeping; his mouth is ajar, silently breathing in dust motes that float erratically above the quilt. He looks peaceful, beautiful, somewhat angelic, in slumber; a wonderful contrast to the lovable beast that inhabits him, in consciousness. He opens his eyes; did he sense me looking at him, I wonder? Does he know I look at him this way every morning, and think such things? He smiles at me; the creases of middle-age have formed in the corners of his lips, the lips I would kiss, every morning, adoringly and without hesitance. We pillow-talk, reflect on our past, until the dust motes settle. We speak of our families, our friends and of our two beautiful teenage children – but our conversation always fails to lead to the one, difficult-to-ask, forever-grinding, question, Why have you been cheating on me?
©2012.alittlebirdtweets
The aroma of dim sum penetrates the streets of Soho; arrow neon lights point to seedy downstairs basements, offering the lonesome fellow an offer of three-for-two on adult magazines and videos; and Margot watches the world pass by, teary-eyed, from behind a café window. She glimpses her tired reflection, and thinks, Who am I? How did I become this person I despise? Will I ever escape the tangle of this dark underworld?
She is broken from her thoughts and reflection by her mobile vibrating wildly, next to her half-finished latte; she checks the caller ID and answers.
‘Kelly?’
‘Hey Margot, I’m sorry for such short notice, but we had a call from Fi this afternoon; she’s had to cancel tonight. Are you able to cover?’
‘Yes. Sure, Kelly. No problem.’
‘Great. I’ll see you at eight? Oh, and Margot, bring some silver-sequin nipple pasties; it’s tonight’s dance theme. The men can’t get enough of them!’ She beams.
After their goodbyes, Margot turns back to the window to face her reflection. Who am I? She thinks. How did I become this person I despise? Will I ever escape the tangle of this dark underworld? Maybe one day, I’ll find the courage to pack my bags, wave down the nearest black cab, and leave this place; but for now, I need to earn; it’s all about the money, isn’t it always? She finishes the last dregs of her latte, gets up, and exits the café.
©2012.alittlebirdtweets.
‘All beauty is devoured by darker entities, eventually, Ambrellia. Look at this blood-orchid; see how the kernels are crackling in the new Autumnal chill, and falling into the mouths of these young wing-backed mottles?’ Lacharus pointed to the miniscule creatures; their mouths were stretched open, savouring the musky-scented beads. ‘…after several days, several feedings, they will flee the nest to navigate the soils.’
‘So, if mottles eat blood-orchids, then do we eat mottles?’ she asked her Master, curiously.
‘Mottles are our only needed source of nutrition, dear child; without them, the Sappens would surely become extinct. In several days you may eat one whole, but for now, you must eat them pulverised; for your tubular intestinal is not yet prepared to endure such richness.’
©2012.alittlebirdtweets.
‘Hello? Who the hell is this? Will you please stop calling me?’
Heavy breathing penetrates the phone receiver, whilst keyboard taps meld with sounds of spittle. Then silence.
Marian’s heart thumps; she drops the receiver, flees the house, stands in the road and stares witlessly at every unlit window surrounding her.
In an apartment, ten blocks away, he hangs up and types.
©2012.alittlebirdtweets.
From a bird’s-eye view, through an open roof, you’ll glimpse me alone; strumming a guitar, in the attic of a house, in a tired seaside town. I scribble lyrics to melodies; sing to backing tracks of seagulls’ cries; they perfectly mimic the beats of my disjointed heart; the one you nurtured, tasted, threw out to sea.
#Ships they sail away,
The lovers disappear,
They hold on to nothing,
We hold on to fear#
Notepapers escape my hands, as they‘re lifted up to the skies by the salty-air breeze; and I wonder if the Universe will ever hear my love song.
You were Isobel Isaac to the world; to me, you were Little Doll. Your enchanting smile would leave paparazzi hypnotised at the lens; they failed to detect the cracks in your face; the heavily overworked Maybelline eyes, that were merely a make-up-of-the-season disguise for the early morning Napoleon brandy drinking sessions, we so often spent.
©2012.alittlebirdtweets
Jesse, tonight the light on the stairs fails to illuminate my presence. My milky body is enveloped in a torn chiffon chemise; that no married woman would ever dare wear. But you don’t see me, do you? I see a bed with a hole where I once laid; a telephone that no longer rings for me; a wedding photograph that is fading in time; don’t you see the days sunlight bleaching us? I guess life was so much more intricately woven for me, than it was for you.
©2012.alittlebirdtweets
‘The artist had depicted Eloise’s portrait a thousand times, but none had seized her essence quite as beautifully as the ‘Lady of Darkness’, dated 1949. The artist would repeatedly draw, paint, erase and collage; reworking the image in his desire to capture her myriad of emotions. This overworked process not only reflected his obsessive-compulsive nature, but also the subjects’ taunted, troubled mind. Heavily applied pencil marks portray her self-inflicted facial scars, with loving precision. She is encapsulated by an abundance of charcoal; reflective of the depressive world in which she existed. A bandage appears to adorn her forehead; but it is merely the result of overworked paper that became abraded and torn which required patching. Now, before we move on to the next piece, does anyone have any questions?’
‘How did Eloise die?’
‘She committed suicide. In his memoirs, the artist describes Eloise of having been infatuated with him; a desire he could never nurture.’
©2012.alittlebirdtweets
Lydia, as I sit in our garden, I am reminded of you. The orange-blossom scent of the tree, the one you planted two years ago, does so echo the deceitful musky fragrance of your skin. I wonder if the roots have consumed your ashes, and if your scent has been carried up through the branches to be radiated out through the buds. The thought of your scent fusing with the Spring oxygen, leaves me sickly. Tomorrow, at dawn, I shall chop the tree; that once was a symbol of our love. John.
©2012.alittlebirdtweets.
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