I can poof your ass to kingdome come!
Ah, please do. I could do with some ass action. In either ass. :twisted:
Janine - I reckon you should do it! It would probably win with ease. You know, some of the threads on this forum are fantastic, witty and intelligent (except for anything Terri* says of course, the dimwit :wink: ). Maybe we should compile it into a book. We could call it:
My psychologically repressed sexual fetish repertoire
Tee hee. Why do things like that make me laugh? Sigh.
Anyway, now that I've free to indulge myself, I wrote another chapter of 'My House on the Fjord' last night. Now, is it just me, or am I starting to indulge myself a little too much....without knowing it, I seem to be veering towards some kind of lovey-dovey psychoanalysis (disclaimer) stuff....what do you think ? Of course, I demand an immediate reply. But please bare in mind, sentimentality is only sentiment that rubs you up the wrong way.... :twisted: (I read that in a book)
It was a few days before I saw my girl in red. Days where the waters of the fjord became grey and chilling to the touch, where the moss on the jetty yellowed and died, where the sky tumbled with irritated clouds and no miraculous sightings of any note. Was I to be Raoul and my girl a pensive Christine Daae?
It was one morning as I lay in misery, contemplating these thoughts of unrequited love, the seal-fur duvet itching my skin and a howling gale bending the hinges on my door, that I heard a shuffle of feet outside. I leapt out of my bed in thoughtless expectation; at last, at last I could redeem myself with the girl. I threw open the door, ignoring the shower of pebbles and shingle that stung my face, to find myself looking into a face from the gutter.
?It?s cold,? it said, for surely it couldn?t be my lady. Before me stood a wizened old woman, cloaked and hunched, eyes sunken in dried out hollows, cracked lips and flesh stretched so thin that her cheekbones almost pieced her skin. ?It?s cold,? she repeated.
The voice was still hers, but little else was. ?Yes, it is,? I agreed.
Tears of salt ran down her cheeks, which swept off her face in rivulets of milky fluid. A shrivelled hand emerged from her cloak and reached out to me. In that hand was held a dull pink balloon, bouncing madly in the wind. Instinctively, I took it.
?Can I come in??
I looked at the balloon then back at my girl. ?Sure.? I stepped aside and let her, this thing, hobble into my house. I closed the door and my girl sat down painfully on my bed. The balloon shrivelled and drooped in my hand, like a forgotten Christmas decoration hanging limply in the corner of a room. I was at a loss, a mute fool in his own home. I stood there as the balloon expelled the last of it?s rancid air; surely not the sweet breath of my girl, with a creeping feeling of certainty that it was me, here in what was once paradise, that had brought her to this state.
?It?s ok?, she said. ?Come sit next to me.?
I dropped the balloon, which farted like a collapsed lung, and sat down gingerly beside her. ?Are you OK?? I said.
From beneath that hood came the same savage laugh I had come to know. ?Do I look ok??
?No, to be honest, you don?t.?
Another laugh. ?You were always honest, I?ll give you that.?
I thought about removing her hood but by the way she kept her head titled away from me, in shadow, scolded me otherwise.
?Have you decided what you want yet?? she said, as I looked down at the pencil thin legs that poked out from beneath her cloak.
?Of course,? I replied. ?I want you.?
She shifted a little on the bed. ?That?s not enough.?
?Yes it is, I told you so, out on the boat.?
The thing, my lady, turned her haunted face towards me. ?No, you said it?s never enough.? She coughed nastily into her hand. ?Correct me if I?m wrong.? Something spiteful and malicious danced in the vacuum of her eyes.
I sat in silence, unable to legitimise a reply.
?Don?t you think,? said my girl, breaking the uneasy hush, ?that it?s rather bizarre that people associate balloons with fun and merriment??
Again, I sat mute. My eyes flicked to the flabby balloon crawling across the floor in its death throes.
She continued. ?Because really, people are terrified of balloons. Almost everyone, except children and the innocent.?
?What?? I said, ?Everyone likes balloons. Don?t they??
?Ah they think they do, but secretly, they are terrified. Shall I tell you why??
Unlike the balloon, my lady seemed to swell a little under her cloak. ?Think about it, silly man.?
She called me ?Silly man?. It echoed around my head like the memory of something briefly forgotten.
?No, you tell me. I?m intrigued.? In truth I felt troubled, agitated, like this was leading somewhere I didn?t want to go.
?Think about it,? she repeated. ?You go into a room full of balloons, slowing bouncing around the floor ? like they almost have a life of their own. Yes??
?Ok,? I said.
?And you will, without really realising it, start to tread very carefully in case you step on one and make it go bang. Before you?ve inflated a balloon, it?s nothing, but once it?s inflated it?s a thing of horror. A skulking bag of,? she clapped her hands, ?noise.?
?It?s the expectation of the noise, the sudden blast that scares people.?
?If you say so.?
She continued as if in rapture. ?We secretly fear balloons like we might fear, well, I don?t know, hearing the click as we step on an unexploded mine. And the way they always seem to end up under your chair, or lurking in a corner, or rolling towards a cactus with murderous stealth. One minute it?s sitting harmlessly in the middle of the room, then you look back at it?s inches from?BOOM!?
I nodded again. ?Fair enough. Your point being??
?Yes, dread. The dread of these horrid little bouncing things, full of potential fright. Things of our own creation.?
?That?s slightly over the top isn?t it??
?Is it?? she replied. ?Haven?t you noticed how we, as adults, cheer when watching a balloon float off into the sky, and only children cry??
I stood up and walked to the middle of my room, brooding. ?Is this some kind of metaphor?? The trapdoor creaked under my weight. I looked down at my feet and sighed, a little too extravagantly. ?Ok, I see. You want to know what?s down in the cellar??
?I already know.?
I laughed viciously. ?I very much doubt that.?
?Trust me,? she said. ?I know.?
I thought I was beginning to see her point. ?You?re saying that I dread whatever is in the cellar??
She said nothing.
?And this thing in the cellar is my creation? Correct me if I?m wrong,? I said, with deliberate sarcasm. ?My monster from my
My girl stood up and made for the door. I put my hands to my temples, wanting to scream, to calm the rage boiling inside my skull. Everything was so wrong; everything was rotting, decaying, my paradise falling apart around me. And it was my fault. All my fault. I collapsed onto the floor. ?I?m sorry,? I wept. ?I?m so sorry. I just want things to go back to how they were before.?
A brief scent of lemongrass filled the room. ?It?s not that easy.?
I looked up with soggy eyes. It was my girl in red. My beautiful girl in red. She smiled and took my hand. ?Don?t worry, I?ll be with you.?
?Not forever. Always."