This is how it begins

It took you three full days.  Then the little red flag and your name. ‘hi’ ‘hi …’ ‘Did you get home alright the other night?’ ‘Sure did’ ‘I was thinking. I should have walked you home …’ ‘Oh ha, that’s okay. I can take care of myself’ ‘I’ve no doubt.  Still, I probably should have.Continue reading “This is how it begins”

I am not supposed to like this woman

I am not supposed to like this woman. I am not supposed to admire her selfishness or her hunger, a greed that has taken to demolishing all that gets in her way. I should hate the destruction she causes, not least of all to herself.  I have been taught to admire women, find my musesContinue reading “I am not supposed to like this woman”

The dream is always the same.

The dream is always the same. It is always about reach, about skin and breath and compacted air, how any distance between you pulses with the memory of touch. There is a softness to the desire, and a recognition, because in dreams it is about return, about visiting the caves of your sub-conscious and finding the little piecesContinue reading “The dream is always the same.”

You touched my wrist (or how it began) …

I caught it, fleeting as it was. A rare moment where you know exactly what is happening to you, and how. It was only this on that first night but I felt your hand on my wrist all the way home and I sat up and stared at the wall until the moon disappeared. ItContinue reading “You touched my wrist (or how it began) …”

This is a work of fiction … and yet …

I have always believed that in every beginning, an ending is written.  The idea that right from the first moment the story expands to include all that will come from the encounter, and then simply waits for you to catch up. It is a desire to believe in the fates, in muses, in gods throwingContinue reading “This is a work of fiction … and yet …”