The one

The sky has dressed for night. Her elegant black dress shimmers with a trillion crystals. I long for their light to lace me. White, almost translucent curtains hang from cold steel rods. They dance towards then spin away from the circling ceiling fan. A curvaceous red lamp solicits the earthy wall. The heat of her womb entices him. Another lamp, of black and blue plastic, separated and gouged through by two rods of steel, stands in the opposite corner of the room. He spews white light onto the still, dark brown book case. All the people shelved there are closed in and quiet. My right hand is wrapped tight around the black butt of the butcher's knife. The naked petals of my left hand millimetre away from each bludgeoning cut into the excoriated breast.

“Where is the heart that once hid behind you?”

The cut and bump of steel through breast onto board beats in my ear. A fine smoke rises as the oil in the pan begins to burn. The gutted tomato halves stand silent. Decoratively sliced to look like lotus flowers, beautifully bloodied. I lift the board of war and wipe clean the plains of battle with the edge of my knife. The ravaged breasts fall into the fire of oil. A denser plume of smoke rises from the pan. I turn the shreds over, coating them in hot oil. The clock lives on the wall. My friend will be here soon. Is she the one I've been waiting for?

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Lizard boy

Sitting at a coffee shoppe, working. There's a little boy here, speaking to a lizard he has on his arm. He doesn't seem to notice me.

“They paid the bill,” he tells the lizard, his eyes bouncing from lizard to bill. He gets up, lizard glued to forearm, bill on the table and disappears through the door.

I smile, “Cute!” I think, another thought quickly follows, “ If he were an adult I would have said crazy instead of cute.”

The lizard boy magically reappears and saunters up to me, little lizard lazing on forearm. “ Nice laptop! “ he comments, his lizard in my face.

“Lizard or laptop?” I think about which he would prefer. “What's that I say?” ogling the lizard, fingers still on the keyboard.

“A lizard.” he says curtly.

“Oh!” I remark, “Where did you get it?”

“In the park.” he says, his eyes fixed on his little pet.

“What's its name?”

“Kristy,” he answers and then laughs a little.

I wonder if he is mocking the little lizard.

“Kristy? How do you spell that?” 

He laughs again, “Well I don't know, that's too hard.”

I can see the little lizards heart pounding hard against its chest, it still has its tail. “And what's your name?”

“Sky.”

I don't bother asking him to spell that. “How long have you had Kristy?”

“I just got it now.”

“And for how long are you going to have him?”

“Oh forever,” he says, then leaves me with my cold laptop.

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Ends of the Earth

Tar and water sandwich bleached sands. The sands run from here, all along the west and east coasts, to the tops of Africa. The mountain holds the clouds like a skirt, skin close as if ashamed of her rocky flesh. At her feet the worlds lights go out and people wake from their dreamy sleep. I watch the waves roll in. Wave after wave they crash into the shores, breaking as if though a rope hid beneath her skin were suddenly pulled tight. The sun warms my back as the wind lacerates me and everything in her berth. Billions of little white horses leap up, running from the chasing wind. Their aquamarine feet beat the ocean, their white mains flailing behind. Tired, they disappear into the depths or into the heights. Who can tell? Behind me, the incessant drone of all sorts of vehicles thunders ever louder. The cold faces of high rise buildings, still grey in the morning light, loom down on them. I have no part in that. I mount a horse and head for the great waterfall at the ends of the earth.

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Canola Field Secrets

He knew at that moment that he loved her. That he would never love another. The wind caressed the canola with its warm hand. She was standing facing him. Her hair was as blonde as the canola fields were yellow. The fields spread as far as he could see, except to the left of him. There, fallen leaves, fresh or mulched, decked the ground. And there, trees as old as the earth itself, climbed, branch by branch, into the sky. “To get from the secrets buried there,” his father said. And there the canola stopped, not wanting to venture into the deep, dark woods. Ziggy slipped her hand into his and gave a slight tug. Then she was running. Chasing the wind where it combed, stroke after stroke, through the golden fields. Gerson watched the wind and her and the lithe canola plants dancing. She giggled as she ran and jumped and spun around, her arms stretched wide to hold up the heavens. The wind whistled as it led her to the forest. And there, at the edge of the woods, behind a tree stood a man, mesmerised. “I must have her,” he thought. Closing his eyes, he propped his head up against the elephantine trunk, “I will have her,” he whispered.

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