THE FLOWERS in her hair


The flowers in her hand fell to the floor in bunches of salmon and creamy white. Her heart crashed through the polished rosewood floors to the reception room downstairs, when she walked into her dressing room for her veil, and found her groom beneath his best man in haste fervence. She covered her mouth, shook her head and chastised, ” You couldn’t wait until after the ceremony? Ahh, pass me a faggot while you’re at it. ”

Her groom groped for the box of cigarettes, and threw it at her. She lit it, watching as the two pulled up their trousers.

“You want a green card Louie and I want my family off my back about marriage . Let’s get to this. Bye Steve. He’ll see you later.

She stomped out the cigarette , put her veil on and went to the edge of the marble stairs as the music began.

Hands up


He shouted, cigarette resting on his lips , as his girl watched. Her blush rose to her cheeks. She knew well that boys like him would never grow up. They were the Peter Pans Of reality. They would never think themselves too old to prove their masculinity… point a generational gun at another man’s head. He was the type of boy that promised to kill , with the kiss of silver bullets to flesh. His kisses were frequent and arbitrary , but always worth it to him.

His girl watched, leaning on his stolen cadillac shuddering yet fascinated. He was a powerful beast- disloyal to everyone, candid, deluded, young, pretty , and his own way. He was the only person she doted over, though he rarely told anyone that that she was his.

But still  she stayed. The allure of his nonchalance and his fervent fury about life beguiled her. He was perfect danger. So she stayed leaning on the door of the caddy as he blew death into his victim’s throat.

Con Amoure

I tell you that the sun sets on your eyelids and the moon rises on your lips. The wind shivers in your arms. Trees bend at your kiss. The ground quakes when you laugh and lava erupts when you frown. Rain falls gently as you cry and thunder strikes when you bleed. Mountains shift when you cringe and clouds depart when smile. You motivate my world; make it spin forever.


The story told in the house.



   The house was lit up like sparkling fire crackers in the kitchen and living room of a blacked out one story house. Inside, an older sister, whose twinkling eyes were lights of their own, told her younger brother and sister a mysterious suspenseful tale about lovers tango-ing under a well lit moon. They shook with happiness, waiting for the plot to unfold. Ann, the babe sister kissed her knuckles, the romance of the story having the effect of a drug on her. She twisted her hair and bit into her lip milking ruby red . The older sister spun her story in a way, that never ended, long after she was silent.

To breathe in experience

     The young coquet’s heart stopped when she remembered that she used to be a sweetheart. A darling girl, eager to see the world and experience it. The trouble was that her parents kept her locked in her books with a pen on her left palm. She peered out at the world through other people’s lives. When her parents disappeared, leaving only careful memories of warnings, she breathed in experience- good or bad, as fast as she could, before they returned her to her open solitude. She knew it was wrong. But she was the youth gone wild. She kissed one of her boys’ full soft lips and smiled.


One of them

A September morning

My twin’ s music blares out from her speakers. It entrances and annoys me simultaneously. The voices promise love, yet I know I have nothing to gain from the quickly beating rhythm of my incarnate heart. So , I ignore the meticulously whispered promises, like a priest ignores the omnipresent desires of his loins to germinate. I separate my self from my ears, so my soul is untouched by desire this early morning.
I’m heading to a place where pleasure is taken and given for granted. Where hearts break and mend in seconds..And fulfilment  of  desire is the currency …the middle of young conquets and paramours. A temple where the mind is infiltrated by thoughts unlike any other..the kinds that are pleasuring , teasing and sorrowful, deceiving. The ones that lead to a haven of orgiastic passion.


Ice cream Parlours

There is something surreal about icecream parlours: the low clear music , the pleasant hum of friends confabulating, the coffee cafè scent that percolates the place, and the occassional sound of a blender creating a smoothie. It all unites to form this atomsphere that you must always be happy in, or at least content with. Ice cream parlours, with their eternally amiable workers , inhaling the creamy fumes, are revered for the peace they bring.

Tell me, what flavour of icecream makes your tastebuds sing songs of praise?

The Red sandaled writer and the swiss boy

A voluptupus girl with a red ribbon tied in her hair, wearing red sandals – hurried down the street. She passed a young Swiss man, nearly dropping his coffee. He stared at her feet recognising them. He tilted his head, observing the arch of her soles and the daintiness of her toes.She was Melanie, the girl who had given him the most glorious night he had ever known. Sevi had a strange fetish. He  found women’s feet attractive ,the way other young men were attracted to breasts and rear ends. He had licked Melanie’s small toes and she moaned delightfully loud. Her back arched and her toes curled.He chuckled happily, pulling her legs towards him again. He had placed her feet on his phallis, and told her, ” Give me a footjob.”
Melanie smiled, absolutely ecstatic. As a writer, she had a passion for adventures and exploring the unknown. She came a little closer…


Stupid..stupid. oh :'(

Today i listened to a woman complain about people who write in journals and keep diaries. I thought it was the most thoughtless tirade I had ever been subjected to. Obviously, her life is so uneventful and prosaic..she couldnt see how others would benefit from it. But apart, from her personal feelings, she took it upon herself to disrespect ALL PRIVATE JOURNALISTS and repeat …’stupid, I find its soo stupid’ , and ‘People who keep journals are stupid. If you have a thought, keep it in your brain. ‘

And I responded, “Yes, sometimes that IS the best choice.”


Maritime Winds visit May’s Abode


Maritime Winds

Before the rain fell, maritime scents washed over the shingled roof of May’s house. It came in through the open windows, percolating the old house, refreshing the stagnant air.The crisp cool breezes kissed her cheeks and danced under her nostrils. She inhaled gratefully. It was sweet and salty and ominous, yet hopeful. She knew , could be assured, that  the grey clouds would pass soon and that brightly colored flowers and sweet fruit would bloom and fall when the clouds parted. In that she trusted.