This page contains extracts from some of my works
Ignorance....
They don’t know. They can’t. That is their curse.
And their blessing.
The open window was outlined in crimson – drapes so red the light within seemed to bleed its own frame.
I needed no direction – I could find her well enough now even in a crowded city. But the effect pleased her dramatic tendencies, so I did not complain.
She was at her dressing table, brushing her hair, again as she felt befit the night. Six months ago that hair had only known the tug of a comb and the ministrations of an expensive salon, but since… knowing… me, she’d allowed it to grow. At least it was past the awkward stage now… if only she, herself, had kept pace.
Yet, for all that, here she was – and here was I.
So strong is suggestion that she started when I spoke my good evening – my face was plain enough to see in the glass, but she saw it not. For, of course, everyone knew I could cast no reflection.
Her greeting was, as always, delightful. But I held her off for the moment.
“Ah, my love, how pale you are in the moonlight! But have you done as I asked?”
She moved, then, trying to take her wrists from my hands – but of course, she could not. That much, at least, is true.
Abandoning the half hearted attempt to free herself, she nodded, and looked to the dressing table, where a small slip of paper waited.
“There – her name’s Samantha – she works.. Used to work next to me”. Again, that catch in the voice – for you no longer work, do you, my dear? “Signed off”, you say you are – too ill to work.
And of course, you are. Too ill by far to rejoin the office where you once whiled away your shortened days. You tell me – you told them – it was only a break, a hiatus for healing.
We know better, do we not, my dear? But you do not admit it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
But you have done as I asked – you have found me a new place, a new face. You didn’t like doing it; your petulance shows that much. But my dear – did you never wonder how I came into your life? Did you think it was kismet, blind fate that drew us together?
Of course you did. Because you are not like the rest, we are not like the rest. You – we – are unique, unheard of, once in a lifetime.
Just like all the rest.
But to be sure, my dear, you are correct in part – this will be once in your lifetime.
And perhaps – looking at you – yes, this will be the last in your lifetime.
And so – as a reward for Samantha’s details, and as a farewell present, I take you once more in my arms – carry you once more to your ornate, overly romantic bed, lay you gently on the silken covers you bought to please me (though whatever made you think I would welcome black silk, I do not know), and for the last time… feed.
You rise under my hands, as you always have done, my dear – but weaker, so much weaker than at first. Then – oh, then – you were a lusty companion. But now…
Sated, I settle you back and – yes – I was right, this has been the last time. And, as so often, clarity at the end. Your eyes wide, you name me one last time, as you look in horror at what you have become… what you really are.
I would have spared you that, but death is as it will be.
Picking up the paper from the dressing table, I take one last look, and yes, my dear. When they find you in the morning, they will marvel that it’s been so long. Did it never occur to you odd that you didn’t mind being out of work, not being paid? That you bought no food, needed no heat? It’s only just come home to you, my dear – but you’ve been dead quite some time.
Pocketing… yes, Samantha, that’s the name… Pocketing Samantha’s details, the window affords me as much exist as it did entrance, as I think on the oddity of humans.
They don’t know. They can’t. That is their curse.
And their blessing
IGNORANCE is the first of the short stories in Tales in Vein. Other examples of my writing - poetry, essays and fiction - can be found on my blog, here
Poetry
Nicely-nicely
I’m “nicely-nicely”
What a wonderful phrase:
It aptly describes
That in-between phase
Between drunken and sober
Twixt proper and not
When the sun is just up
And the tea is still hot.
“I’m nicely-nicely” -
not sober or drunk;
Because liquor’s quite pricey
And the bank account’s sunk
Quite low, in response
To my frolics of late
So I’ve cut right back to
Just one o’er the eight;
Just one o’er the sober
Just one for the road.
(And now – strip me naked
and paint me with woad).
What’s that, then, you say?
No, you must have misheard
In the clear light of day
I speak clear sober words
I’m gentle as lambkins
And neat as a steeple
(Let’s all put on lampshades
and scandalise people)
I’m just “nicely-nicely”
I’m not really drunk
(And who, then among us
shall we paint as a skunk?)
Because I’m really still sober
Still calm as a judge
(But if I fall asleep here,
just give me a nudge)
Oh, I’m just nicely-nicely
Come join in my song
Because I’m really NOT drunk yet
(But it won’t take too long)
The Elder, bereaved
Oh, for the love of all the gods
Give me permission to weep
Give me leave to mourn
To cry, to rant to wail
Ancient convention demanded it
Sanctioned it
Supported it
But I can not allow it
I stop myself
Arrest the tears
Move on, move up, away
The luxury of grief is one
I will not allow myself
Oh, for the love of all the gods
Give me permission to weep
These are two of the examples of the poetry found in Dancing God which can be purchased from Neos Alexandria
Children
The two young women were the recipients of a number of only vaguely covert stares; the social convention, “thou shalt not stare” seemed to be, for those breaking it, of much less import than the heinous, grievous crime committed by the pair.
And what was their crime?
During a four hour train journey, the two young mothers had failed to keep four small toddlers absolutely silent. The sound of their conversation, of their incessant questioning of their surroundings and of life in general, of their laughter seemed to be an entirely unwelcome intrusion.
What struck me most, as I paused to speak to the mothers, saying how well I thought the children had behaved (and they had been well behaved – it was laughter and enthusiasm drowning out the apparently all important sounds of the railway) was the cowed expression on their faces. “Thank you” one said, “But not everyone seems to agree with you”. As she spoke, the young woman lifted one shoulder slightly and shrank back, for all the world like a school girl expecting a reprimand.
The cause was interesting – and to me – disturbing. But it was due I believe to the fact that the disapproving glances and glares came entirely from older women. The few younger people on the train seemed permanently attached to ear phones, and none of the business suited men seemed to care one way or the other.
Yet the matrons – now including me in their displeasure, as some sort of traitor to the cause – seemed united in their disapproval. This was manifest at every opportunity, in a sort of unspoken roster between the different (and I am sure, unacquainted) women. Every squeal of childish delight merited its sniff of disdain – they were good at making people feel bad, these grannies.
And the mothers, of course, were on a hiding to nothing. Short of sleep, there is little that would keep the run of the mill toddler quiet for four hours. And if they talk – and toddles can talk – we’re going to hear them. That’s one reason they have high voices, so we do hear them. And, at least according to some scientists, the grannies are hardwired not only to pick out a child’s voice but to find such a voice very difficult to ignore. It’s part of what the old women of a group of humans were for, and it ain’t gone away.
Yet.
Years ago, I was struck by a point Germane Greer made in a far too ignored tome called Sex and Destiny (Greer 1984). Whole areas of our cities, she said, are off limits to children. You do not expect, for instance, to see a two year old among the bowler hats of London’s financial district.
Have we really “progressed” (word used advisedly) to a stage wherein the voice of a healthy, happy child is a disturbance? Do we really want to live in a world where children are not welcome?
The word here is “segregation”. I’m fascinated by the fact that for most of us, the concept of segregation by race or ethnic group is anathema, and even segregation on the basis of sex is often derided. Yet segregation on the basis of age is so much a part of our lives that we don’t name it for what it is.
The very fact that one sees moots, open rituals, etc., labelled as “family friendly” or “children welcome” highlights the issue. How would we react if those same signs said, “Black people welcome!” or, “Women allowed!”.
We’d react with indignation, if not horror – the very idea of putting such a welcome there points to the fact that it is not always extended. We would instantly demand to know what moots did not welcome Black people and which did not usually allow women to attend.
Yet we greet, “children welcome” with either relief (“something we can all do together!”) or disdain (“I’m not going there!”).
Arguments will now be raised, “But there are some things you can’t do around children!”.
Oh?
What, precisely, was being planned to happen in a group of adults, that must be hidden from people – solely on the basis of age?
Have we become so fragmented, so self centred, that the joyous laughter of a child disturbs us because it is not our laughter? That the piercing, demanding tones of an infant’s cry evoke from us not a desire to soothe the babe but to silence it?
Do we really hold our future to be an inconvenience?
What hubris.
What pride.
What self centred, short term vision.
I would hope that one day our grandchildren will look to the signs, “children welcome” with the same perplexity that we greet relics of the era of racial segregation.
I fear it is a forlorn hope.
(First published (2004). "Children." Immrama 4(4).)
Contact me at:diotimasph@gmail.com