Tag Archives: Up to 200 Words

Separate Ways

‘So you think that listening to those bland records over again and drinking yourself into a stupor is a good way to live your life then, Danny? Because it certainly isn’t the life I want to join you in.’

‘Yeah I do think it’s a good way to live my life as it happens, Anna! I enjoy myself, alright?! All you ever seem to do is drift around me like I’m invisible, or nag me with that annoying voice of yours! Why do you think I turned to drink in the first place, eh?! Come on Anna, let’s face it, you don’t enjoy life, do you? You don’t sing or dance or have a laugh anymore! Seriously, what happened to the fun-loving Anna I knew back in the day? Where’d she go?’

‘The Anna you once knew disappeared a while back, Danny; when she realised that her husband would never change and would always choose drink over her. I think that’s enough to stop any woman from singing, dancing and having a laugh, don’t you think?!’

So why don’t you fuck off then, Anna, if I’m that bad?’

‘Oh, I am. I have a cab booked. I’m fucking off today.’

©2013.alittlebirdtweets

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The Dying Swan

The haunting notes of Tchaikovsky satiates the emotions of its listeners; and as the dancing swans pirouette effortlessly and transversely upon the stage, the spectators will gasp in horror as the one I love falls to her death. I have witnessed her demise a thousand times; and my heart never fails to be wounded. Her blood seeps through layers of tulle and feathers, in the same moment that her dark-shaded eyes close and the curtains fall. As I rise from my seat for what will be the last time, I enter the dark streets alone; knowing that her gaze had never met mine, knowing that she never knew how enthralled I was by her beauty.

©2013.alittlebirdtweets

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Lovable Beast

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

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Lady of Darkness

‘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

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