Short Stories

Bliss

The mirror reflected her bare body.

It was a raw perception, all angles of her were exposed and she couldn’t help but review herself critically.

It was always scary the first time you let someone new see you naked. The feeling felt intrusive and also exhilarating. She didn’t know why she found her cheeks flushed red as she climbed into the blood red teddy.

It clung to her, all lace and floral patterns outlining her in a perfect silhouette. If only she could stay hidden in it, masking what was beneath. Her imperfect skin laced with blemishes, old scars and stretch marks.

“You can do this.”

It was bizarre to think that she was coaching her own reflection as she slicked on the Russian red lipstick. Her eyelashes were thick with mascara and framed her emerald green eyes which held a glimmer of excitement and anxiety. Pinching her cheeks for the last time she swept herself into her long silky dressing gown in a attempt to hide the nakedness beneath.

She crept out of the room and let the door shut with a dull thud behind her. She grimaced, shaking her long auburn hair in front of her face whilst silently praying that none of her fellow flat mates would come out.

It was all very secretive. She felt undercover, reduced to nothing more than skin and bone. With the light fabric enclosing her she ran out of the door and charged up the stairs without a backwards glance.

There was no turning back now.

She arrived at his flat, out of breath, stopping for a moment before knocking on his door. It was a hesitant knock, light and fluttery like a butterflies wing lightly brushing the peeling blue wood.

She would be surprised if he had even heard it.

The door abruptly swung open revealing a boy with messy dark locks, brooding eyes and tanned smooth skin wearing nothing but a pair of dark blue boxers. His skin was dewy and glistened in the light betraying his recent shower.

They stared at each other. Eyes locked, the only sound being that of their synchronised shallow breaths and the trill of the fan behind them.

Time stopped, her muscles froze as she took him in, paralysed by the boy in front of her. How had this happened? How had it taken this long? He was built like a Greek God, no flaws only perfect imperfections.

She felt a single bead of sweat form at the nape of her neck before then trailing down her back. This single movement suddenly spurred her back into action, like a film that had been paused the instance before a climactic scene she found her hands were suddenly on his body.

She didn’t even remember doing it, she was a puppet and her libido was pulling all the strings. Her subconscious knew what she wanted even if her brain was too coy to comply.

Her mouth found his and hungrily kissed him as though he was the air and she was starving for oxygen.

She pushed him towards the bed, completely in control. The dressing gown had slipped off revealing the scarlet lingerie underneath.

His breath caught in his throat and she felt a tingle of excitement run through her as he trailed a finger down the back of her spine. Her skin as alive and on fire, as though it were the 5th of November and her fuse had been lit.

He was on top of her then, kissing every part of her body. Skin on skin, it was everything she could have wished for and more. His dark conker brown eyes were warm and earnest and she found herself lost in them, trying to discern what he was thinking in that moment.

The feeling of his hands on her was something she had been wanting for so long but could never admit to herself. All those times she had caught herself looking at him, and for him, out of the corner of her eyes.

He was a mirage to her and she to him.

“How did this even happen? You’re so… perfect…. everything about you….” He rasped, his deep voice filled with longing.

“I’m really not believe me,” She blushed hard and tried to cross her body in an attempt to hide herself from him. It was so difficult to hear him say those things, nobody had ever responded to her like that lest a man that was the equivalent to Adam he was so perfect in his design.

Like a fisherman’s line he cast a gaze over her body as if taking it all in. And she happily took the bait and let him reel her in.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” He asked with incredibility. His eyes met her own and he held her gaze for three everlasting beats.

“Green rare eyes, a smile that makes my heart leap, sculpted legs, the perfect hips… your stomach… your breasts… your neck… A laugh like liquid gold….”

“Everything.” He whispered before suddenly filling her. She opened up like a spring flower, uncurling, relaxing and giving into him finally.

She felt new, she felt whole, she felt wanted.

It was everything about the man. How he smelled like lemongrass and tasted like sunshine. How when she was with him, she was eternally in summer regardless of the season or weather. He was the living embodiment of her happiness, wrapped up and presented to her with a coy smile and a veiled, thoughtful gaze.

She liked discovering him, his body and his mind. She felt unified with him in that moment as they both reached their climax. She was uncovering every inch of his personality, observing him anew and uncensored.

She was learning of every scar, dimple and birthmark that mapped out the story of his life. And she liked his temporary vulnerability. The look of ecstasy and concern on his face as they suddenly realised that this was the beginning of a new chapter for both of them.

They understood each other perfectly and without words as she synchronised her movements to him and knew that all their stars had finally aligned.

It was honest, it was fate….

It was bliss.

 

THE END.

 

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Self Image, Short Stories

Writers Block

She was feeling sub-optimal.

Like she was peeking through a copse of trees in the woods and observing someone else’s picnic.

And yet she was meant to be one of the guests.

Everything was laid out in front of her. A buffet of opportunities, people and equipment and yet her brain wouldn’t let her put the puzzle together. It didn’t want her to solve her own riddle.

No. Instead it wanted to tell her that she wasn’t good enough. That she didn’t deserve the kind of happiness that came with fluttery first loves and the yellow reflection of a buttercup on your chin.

Her summer nights were becoming winter ones in mere moments. And with the dusty tomes that littered her bookshelves, their stories so much more interesting than hers, her writing that would never compete with these magnum opus’ -she deemed her life worthless

And these thoughts plagued her, like rats gnawing at her lifeless corrupt body believing her to be dead when really she was just comatose.

With the pages of a thousand would-be-could-be novels littering the floor she sat and cried, smudging the ink and scrapping her efforts before she had even started.

She was constantly comparing herself to others and had a habit of turning everything into a competition. If she could just muster up some of that tinker bell fairy dust to fill her with optimism and motivation then the sandstorm of words that were inside of her might one day come tumbling out onto paper.

And that was the day that the half written chapter of her life became finished. It was when she finally looked up at the paper sky, breathed life into a balloon and flew up to cloud nine.

It was there that the girl found an empty notebook and a pen. With these tools she looked down on the blank empty abyss that she had been stuck in for so long and wrote herself out of it. She created a new world of sunshine and bliss with the occasional thrilling twist thrown into prove it to be a riveting roller coaster read.

She sunk into the pages of her new reality, dusting the cobwebs from her lonely corner of her old universe and making it anew.

 

-E

 

 

 

 

 

 

Short Stories

Dandelion Dust

It swirled around me, twirling and gliding in the wind like miniature ballerinas.

It was like summer snow.

Dandelion Dust.

As I sit here staring at it on the overgrown, flaking green bench, with the slight shudder of the trees being the only audible noise as they sighed in the wind- I am struck by the sudden simplicity of my life these days.

Like the dandelion dust, everything was settling into place, the natural order of things it would seem.

The baby blue sky loomed overhead, dappled with fat puffy clouds rolling with ease – never threatening to open up and pour their heart out onto my pedestrian head.

I had the feeling that all my emotional disorder,too, was also non-threatening.

A memory struck me.

This same route and bench, just a little less overgrown with the more emotionally unstable clouds  no longer rolling,  but rather wrestling to take over every last blue patch.

But it hadn’t mattered then.

Because it was one of the seldom precious days that I got to spend with him, alone.

Walking to the canal had been our thing and something that I had been fiercely protective of.

Back then if anyone had so much has hinted that we liked each other I would have flipped out.

Why? Because I had a boyfriend and I might be many things but I certainly wasn’t a cheater.

I was a firm believer in if you no longer loved someone then you should be honest and break up with them – but not cheat. Never cheat.

And I never did.

I never let it happen.

Ignorance is bliss, and we were both mighty good at pretending. However, the more days that passed the less real he began to feel, that boy who was waiting for me somewhere two hours away. It became more like a pen friend, someone that was a calming memory, a friendly looking boy with a big quirky grin.

And while I would never dare admit to myself let alone another living soul  that I was beginning to fall for a boy that looked as though he had been carved from marble and had as many different sides and interests to him as a multi faceted diamond- I just couldn’t break the other ones heart.

But whilst walking along the canal we drifted in and out of conversation so seamlessly and with the ease of a sewing machine running along fabric. It was something I had never experienced before and I remember feeling a warm fuzziness infect my bloodstream and creep into the cavities of my heart.

One of my favourite times was when we had found a park and I nearly made him sick from spinning on the round-a-bout too much.

And how could I forget the suspicious looking builder who walked through the park, eyeing us uneasily before disappearing behind a tree to do his business whilst on his break.

All the times we’d gone into shops together, all the while sub-consciously going through the motions of appearing like a couple.

A fragment of memory flashes through my mind like a land mine suddenly going off and I am transported to the first time we met. When our hands had accidentally drifted together on a bar crawl. We were both young and drunk and I remember the shame I felt the next morning for that split second- because I knew then that I was unshakably attracted to him.

It had been clear from the start that I should have ended things with Mr Long Distance….

A great husky dog just lumbered past as I wrote that, nosing his way up to my knee as if to push my pen, momentarily idle in my hands, onward.

Looking up, I can hear the trills of several different birds chattering away above me. They remind me of the rumour mills I left at home and their busy noise as they set about spreading the news of the break up.

I don’t regret my past because it guided me to my present. And my previous relationship hadn’t been bad per say, it had its bad qualities but that goes the same for most people’s first relationships.

It was just different.

After the big event that summer and when we got back together everything started to take on an eerily artificial quality. When we went out for walks over Christmas, I took hundreds of photos as if to convince myself that everything was fixed. That I was fine.

I stopped noticing things and was in a constant state of panic. Constantly aware of my past actions and events. And that’s not to say that anything was explicitly his fault, the mistakes that were made on both of our parts were sentiment to the bubble we had been living in. The whirlwind of first love, of feeling untouchable -when really we were just as vulnerable as everyone else.

Towards the end when we walked I stopped noticing things. Like the birds singing or the way the sunlight caught the leaves of the billowing willow tree whose limbs stretched out, casting shadows of shimmering curtains.

When you’re young you fall in love with the first person whose nice to you and you think that’s your eternity. In reality you get bored, little things start to annoy you over time and after a while it gives you a rush just to have an argument – because at least it’s a response.

You never think that the person you share your stories with, walk with, drink with- the witness to every shade of you that exists in the palette of the world could possibly reciprocate your carefully packed away feelings.

A couple of days ago we took this very route and had a picnic in the graveyard in Attenborough.

I like the graveyard best for writing and reading and always insist on going there whenever I have the chance.

There’s certainly something comforting about old churches.

They tend to be in old parish villages created hundreds of years ago (or so I like to think) in the middle of nowhere- away from the humdrum of everyday life.

The gravestones all lean-too alike the Indian bean tree I saw in Lewes, Brighton over Easter. This makes them appear as though they’re trying to get closer, as if the dead are all huddling together to take a peek at what I am writing.

Most of the graves there are from the 1800’s – miners or war victims and a couple of children which fills me with melancholy.

The flowers and grass have claimed the little church as their own, and I like to imagine that the waves of greenery have swept them away. The vines wrapping around their now skeletal ruins and dragging them down to some heavenly underworld- floating in a sea of roots and flowers. The living  walk overboard, dipping their toes into their world, skimming the surface alike how they skim the names on the old stones.

I don’t like the idea of being stationary, which is why when I die being buried -if there is no afterlife- feels so permanent and damning.

He said something a while ago that really resonated with me. He said that human beings are obsessed with taking shortcuts even if it only shaves off a second of time.

And, although I did love him truly I feel as though the other boy I left behind was my short cut.

My safety net.

And it was suffocating. For the both of us although I think it will take him a while to see that.

Now, as the sun wraps itself in clouds and I watch the dandelion dust continue to float away – carried hitherto, I realise that all along all I have ever wanted and ever will want is the freedom to take as many alternating paths as I want.

The simplest yet most difficult life goal is to imitate the very freedom of the nature I see all around me.

-To be like dandelion dust and simply just float away.

THE END.