Saturday, August 11, 2007
Somewhere Safe
Alex was all wrong. Apparently the woman with grey curly hair was his mother, the gangly teenager his brother and the pooch at his side was the family dog.

“You didn’t just put them somewhere safe.” The boy suddenly screamed. “You had an accident, you nearly died, you were in a coma for weeks, that’s how you lost your memory.”

Alex sat in the armchair gripping the sides, his nails digging into the fabric as if he could extract his memories and then he stood up and walked away. At the door Alex attached a lead to the curious dog and looked at the keys. “Car keys,” a voice in his head piped up. He could drive, he knew.

Alex pulled out the driveway smiling at the woman chasing after the car then looked down tenderly at Pooch.

The song on the car stereo irritated him; its familiarity was sufficiently discordant to tell him that this was not the song he thought he remembered. The white lines in the middle of the road, however, kept no secrets from him and he knew when he had arrived. Pooch leapt out the car pleased by Alex’s choice. They bounded between trees and through brambles until they arrived at a spot where strands of sunlight pierced through the leaves forming a perfect circle.

“Just where I left them!” Laughing Alex picked up a filament of light, closed his eyes and coiled it around him, the true melody of the song filling his head.

©copyright, 2007. Verilion


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Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Orange Squash

Do you remember the day
you put up the garden fence?
I ran up the stairs
and down the stairs
over and over
with the glee that only a child can muster?
One at time
two at a time
three at a time.
Sometimes there was a glass of orange squash
waiting for me,
sometimes there was a glass for you.
Who were you working with?
I only remember you
and the brilliant blue sky.
At four at a time
I tumbled round and round.
When I opened my eyes there was a halo of heads looking down.
You all seemed very tall
for I was very small.

©copyright, 2007. Verilion

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posted by Michele Helene at 9:44 am ¤ Permalink ¤ 1 comments
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Part III

Photo ©copyright, 2002. Frantisek Staud

Read Part I

Lunchtime, Mark thought happily snapping his bag shut. “See you in an hour,” he trilled to no one in particular.

Summer was Mark’s favourite time of year. Each day he left for lunch fifteen minutes later until he reached the witching hour of one thirty, when he would start at twelve again. In this way he was ensured a slightly different crowd each day.

He stopped off at Mama Brown’s to pick up his sandwich and from there he would positively skip to the little park behind the church where he would meet his flock. There he would unfurl his sarong and worship at the altar of the Sun and Good Looks God.

While he ate he cast an alert eye over the good and the bad taking extra care to turn his nose up just as the bad were looking. By the time he carefully folded away his sandwich wrapping he had already decided which direction he would lie in order to appreciate the art.

Today Art was directly opposite him; a little on the skinny side, but tall. Now what was Art reading? And why on earth was his phone ringing? Never mind, he took the call as a chance to stare a little more overtly over at Art. Periodically he cast his glance elsewhere, whereas Art was now staring across intensely, his stare punctuated by odd glances at the leather bound book he was reading. By the end of the phone call a strange thought crossed Mark’s mind. He had the impression that Art was not overcome by lust, but a strong desire to kill him.

Mark put his phone away and stared at the sky, every now and again turning his head to fish elsewhere. Then Art stood up. Mark watched him slip on his sensible black shoes, shrug on his charcoal grey shirt and finally affixing the white collar. Mark fought to repress a deep guffaw.

©copyright, 2007. Verilion

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Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Part II

Photo ©copyright, 2002. Frantisek Staud

Read Part I

Camille fiddled with the antique dress ring she had picked up in the market that weekend as she waited for her document to open.

Buh dup: Hiya Camille. A little box in the corner of her screen bleated.

Ros!!! Camille typed back

Her phone began to ring. “Camille Delon,” she answered.

“Cammy darling, I can’t find the Triston Report.”

“I sent it last Thursday.”

Buh dup: Come down for a cigarette.

Give me a few minutes.

“I know, but I don’t know where I saved it. Send it again.” The voice whined down the phone.

Buh dup: It’s important.

OK. Wait.

“OK. I’ll just send it now.” Camille assured her boss.

Buh dup: Have you seen the news?

Ros! I’m working!

“Are you sending it now honey?”

“Yes.” Camille clicked open a new mail message and typed in her boss’s address.

“And can you check with the printers to see if the Dalware brochure is ready?”

Buh dup: I’m sending you the link.

Buh dup: Then come for a cigarette.

Camille flicked through her overstuffed diary. “Dalware is due Thursday Sara.”

“Yes, I know, but just so the printers don’t forget us.”

YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM ROS popped up in the corner of her screen.

“The report?” Sara asked.

“Shit!” Camille muttered as she accidentally shut down her own mail message and somehow opened Ros’s. “Shit!” She said louder as her eyes widened. “Sara is Karen in today?”

“No! And the little bitch hasn’t even phoned in. Do you know something?”

“Meet me and Ros downstairs, now.” Camille clicked on the little printer picture.

On my way down now.

Camille and Ros were smoking furiously when Sara arrived. “Where’s the fire? You didn’t send me my report?” She nudged Camille’s arm. Camille handed over the print out.

“Promising Career of South West graduate ended in Jack the Ripper style killing.” Karen’s photo smiled out at Sara. “Well, I think saying that she had a promising career is a bit rich!”

©copyright, 2007. Verilion

Read Part III

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Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Part I
Photo ©copyright, 2002. Frantisek Staud

He was looking into the not so distant past as he ploughed through his fried eggs and ham. He was still annoyed with Keeler: Keeler the middle aged, middle grade, middle sized lump who couldn’t stand the fact that he was better at the job.

“Kid what makes you think it’s the same killer?” Keeler leered at Kid with that big fat sarcastic smile all over his face, while his caustic blue eyes froze on Kid. Kid leaned languidly against the door frame and rolled his eyes. He looked young, that much was true, but he was no kid. He’d seen stuff and the gore didn’t shock him, whereas Keeler stood with his back to the body. “This girl has her guts spread all over the room.” That much was true and the killer must have hit an artery from the spray all over the place. “That last one we found on the hill and that girl in the alley, she just took a bad beating. Different see?” Keeler heaved his belly up and tucked his hands into his belt to keep it up. “And...” Keeler always had to hammer away his point. “Black girl, Chinese girl, blonde girl. Nothing’s the same. See?” Kid stared off into the distance, somewhere just beyond Keeler’s left ear. “Rape, no rape, beaten up, not beaten up. See?”

Tyler, the forensics guy brushed past Kid into the room. “Geez!” He exhaled slowly. “What a mess.”

Kid unfolded himself from the door frame and snapped a rubber glove from his pocket and leaned over the disgorged corpse. He carefully moved away a strand of blood hardened hair away from the girl’s face. Tyler looked down to where at the nape of the girl’s neck a chunk of hair had been hacked away unevenly. Tyler sucked in his breath then reeled off a few shots. “And?” Tyler turned to Kid impatiently. Kid lifted the left wrist and turned it to reveal a perfectly manicured hand bar the little finger where the top of the nail was torn off.

“Shit man!” Tyler gasped snapping away frenetically. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” He said in time to every shot. “We’ve got a serial killer on our hands.”

©copyright, 2007. Verilion

Read Part II

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Sunday, June 24, 2007
Unshackle that Body
The secret struggles to escape,
held down by the immeasurable weight of fear,
constricted by empty lungs,
silenced between the bars of chords,
knocking on the immobile tongue,
pleading for release behind wide open eyes.

Prise open those lips,
loosen that tongue,
sing harmony through the chords,
breathe trust into those lungs,
provide a clear path,
fill openly with the lightness of sharing.

©copyright, 2007. Verilion.

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Wednesday, June 20, 2007
From Hurucan

When Hurucan sparked into existence
did you know that one day I would be with you?
When you first looked into my golden eyes
did you question how I came to be?
As your hands caressed my very force,
did you feel the crackle of unity
skip along your every fibre?

We are connected now, you and I.
We were connected then, you and I
though we did not know it.
A filament so fine joined us
through time and history
drawing us closer together,
though embroiled in other tragic stories.

Travelling closer than further apart,
until the cord between us uncoiled.
Lost in a swirl of confusion
we reached out, caught hold, drew in.
You explore me with your eyes
boring into what is beneath the skin,
the landscape of my very existence.

What did you feel standing before me?
Your soul engulfed in emptiness.
Regret that you were not aware
of my closeness.
Indifferent coincidence brought us together,
the union of senses and being
now holds us in our place.

©Copyright, 2007. Verilion

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Saturday, June 09, 2007
A way of Being

Through waves of exhaustion
eyes are drawn to bright shiny things.
Tales of full moon aggressions wane.
Saints and sinners blend into one.
Passion requires an energy that cannot be sparked.
Put life on hold till the bags can fade away
and summer’s rich glow replenishes wasted stock.

Copyright, 2007. Verilion

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Monday, June 04, 2007

The fire within burns vibrant on her skin,
tattooing vague patterns of blazing dragons
across her flank.
Wild imaginings bursting forth,
swirling to indefinite
beginnings, middles and endings.
Prowling forth into uncertainty,
her radiance undiminished,
her force yet unrealised,
her soul a rich muse
of consciousness.

Copyright, 2007. Verilion

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posted by Michele Helene at 7:25 pm ¤ Permalink ¤ 0 comments
Monday, May 28, 2007
brooding need twisted
in a screaming arid host
tacitly phrased.

Copyright, 2007. Verilion

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