Blue Seas

I walk into the room and throw my stuff unceremoniously on his bed. He doesn't even look up from the book he is reading, some dialogue on philosophy, the usual nonsense he reads. Philosophy. As if real people like me, who have real jobs, can just afford to sit around reading poetic discourses written by some two thousand year old Greek. "You're back," he mutters. I don't bother replying. I walk to the fridge instead. I dig past behind the bottles of beer and find a pastry. There are eggs, I could cook them for dinner, I process mentally as I stuff the pastry into my face. I turn around to look for my laptop. There's no point in wasting time. Might as well get to work. "Why are you here?" he asks, this time looking up from his book. Because I'm stupid. Stupid. I think to myself. "Because I owe your mother a favour," I say aloud, shortly. "So you've come here, to watch me, as a favour for my mother?" he says, rolling his...

I watched him as he took a long drag on the cigarette and exhaled slowly. I watched him lift his other hand and run his long, spidery fingers through his dark, curly hair as I fought the urge to wave the cloud of smoke away from my face. "I thought you quit..." I said. "Extenuating circumstances," he said, exhaling deeply again, keeping his eyes fixed away from my face. "I'm sorry," I blurted. I didn't what to say. He shrugged. I felt so bad. He looked so broken. I tried to look away from him. I blinked my eyes rapidly. I didn't want him to notice my tears. "I thought you had left," he said slowly. "I did," I said quickly. "And yet, here you are..." he said inhaling another long puff, all the time looking away from my face. "Extenuating circumstances," I mumbled. He let out a short, rasping laugh. I didn't find it funny. Not one bit. "You should leave," he said matter-of-factly, t...

The leaves wither and fall. The sun fades. The snow melts and turns into annoying, slippery, icy patches. Winter turns into spring. And I am revisited by the same dream. The haze of colours, unknown people. A house I have never seen before, but I know for sure that I have been there, even lived there. The same staircase, the high ceiling, the painting by the landing. The mosaic stone floor, the french windows, those faceless people. Mere bodies, shuffling. What are their names? So many images. Crowded streets, umbrellas, traffic noises. The house. A feeling that this was somebody's home once. And yet again, one sinking feeling keeps coming back to me. Every time I make yet another new acquaintance, every time I discover yet another face to politely smile at. I remember. That one person who I would rather see than any one else in the world. My dreams are not haunted. They are invaded by unwanted feelings and images, unknown and foreign to me, yet achingly familiar. Through all ...

I waited for you. Long after you were gone, I stood by the window Overlooking the trees And the white cross On the steeple of the Local church. The dark grey clouds Came and thundered And it rained. Then the storm cleared, And you didn't come back. I waited for you. I knew it was foolish, Everyone said so. How I wished They were wrong, For once. I left the window And the house With the wooden floors And creaky stairs, And sought my fortunes Elsewhere. You didn't come. I should have known. Nobody comes back. They promise, And they leave. And then the storm clears, And the sun comes out, And you think you see them On the horizon. But it's empty. They have gone. And you're left alone. My new life is mine. It's in a land far away. Sometimes I think That you will find that house, And the window Overlooking the trees And the white cross On the steeple of the Local church, And think to yourself, "Why did I let her go?" But I know you ...

From the flames of heaven was born a demon, From the ashes of earth, a phoenix arose. All would hail the former, it would seem, and The phoenix, not a person chose. A struggle a day, a lifetime spent Looking for something and losing yourself. The demon engulfed everyone in its flames And before nighttime, quietly fell. The phoenix flew and sometimes staggered. Not a person there was, to help it on its way. 'Life is not easy,' the phoenix figured, 'Sometimes it's cold and lonely at night, Sometimes its's unforgiving during the day.' It matters not from whence you came but What you chose to make of it. The demon spoiled for choice, it was, Chose to fall, wrongly, and fell to death. The phoenix took flight. Not one, but hundred shackles held it back, It broke free. It chose to fly, and die it may have, but It chose to live again, it chose to see. The demon, blinded by love, it was, That people every day showered it with. The demon never learnt to...

Katie sat down on the sofa and frowned unhappily at the side stitch marks on her thighs made by her skin-tight jeans. She poured a little bit of Japanese Cherry Blossom body lotion in her cupped palm and began rubbing them onto her legs.  Paula turned her head to look behind her and then continued to stare down the balcony. Yesterday, in a fit to get into the holiday spirit, the girls had strung little fairy lights along the balcony railings. They were gleaming red and yellow and blue and orange and green in an alternating fashion now. Paula sighed. Alexa looked up from the floor where she was sitting and cleaning out her DSLR lenses.  "What's wrong Paulie?" she asked good-naturedly. "Nothing." said Paula absentmindedly, still staring out from the balcony which overlooked a street below. It was empty. "OOH YE-AH..." Music blasted in from the kitchen where Sandrine was cooking. She stuck her head out from the kitchen door, 'I'm making a...

The stove goes click-click-burn under Juanita's fingers as she turns on the electric fire. A frying pan is placed on the stove.  Out comes the cutting board.  Outside, the clouds began to gather and rumble. Juanita pays no attention to it. She slams the vegetables on the cutting board and looks for the knife.  The knife is nowhere to be found.  She tucks a loose curl behind her ear and instead pours a cap full of oil into the pan, followed by a pinch of cumin. The oil starts to hiss and the cumin starts to pop. Juanita steps back a little. The spicy, acrid smell of cumin and heat from the angry, hissing oil combined with the humidity from the cloud-covered sky infused another throb to her already paining forehead. Juanita turns to hunt for the knife again.  This time she finds it, in the same place she had looked minutes ago. She begins to dice the beans and carrots in quick, alternating hand movements, her knife smacking the wooden cutting board, mak...