Grab your raincoat, honey!

Expect massive amounts of random precipitation across the globe, as this naughty writer has started writing a new story, with characters and plot and everything.

It is a fairy tale of sorts, as yet untitled. Snippet to follow later this week.

The return of the Words

After weeks and months of no words, I suddenly find myself working on not one, but two stories. It feels great to be writing again.

I am not sure where these stories will take me, or what format they will end up in. The first story is, for now, a middle-grade story that I am calling Lori’s dad, and I think it is a spy story. The other I am calling Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and it seems to be a chick-lit story. Both were, as always, inspired by dreams and random thoughts, and both are screaming to be written.

So far, I have written just on 500 words on Lori’s dad – a slow start – and just about 2000 words on Snow White.

I am so glad the words are back.

Medical Mews

Here is the beginning of my WIP for the Medical Mews challenge. I am still struggling with the ending. I know which direction it must go, but every time I write it, it just sounds so clichéd. This still needs a fair amount of work, but this is a good start, considering I haven’t written anything for a while.

I opened my eyes and looked up at the face hovering over me. The whiskers poking through the green mask looked out of place.

I tried to push myself up, but a firm hand held me down.

“You need your rest,” the mask said.

“Wh-where am I?” I asked.

“In hospital.”

The last thing I remember was... actually, I don’t remember anything before waking up. No bright light, nothing. I was in bed. Yes. I switched off the light to go to sleep and then... this.

I tried to push myself up again. No resistance this time. My head felt dizzy.

“How did I get here,” I asked, my eyes scanning the room. I could see no further than my bed. Everything beyond was fuzzy.

“That’s a very good question,” the masked face said. It was outside my line of vision. “One of our attendees found you in a little pile on the pavement outside our door a couple of weeks ago. You were pretty broken.”

Weeks? Weeks! How? I could not vocalise the thoughts flitting through my head.

The masked face returned. The shape of the face looked wrong. Strong hands pushed me back and I didn’t resist this time. I rested my head on the soft pillows and closed my eyes.

“My name is Reina,” the voice said softly close to my left ear. “What’s your name?”

I frowned. My name. I had to think about it for a moment. “Josh,” I finally said. I was sure that was right. It felt like it could be my name. I heard a soft scratching, like pencil on paper.

“Very good, Josh. Now, do you remember where you come from?”

“Uhm,” I said.

“Not to worry. When you remember. No rush right now.”

I tried to smile. It hurt.

“What exactly is wrong with me?” I asked.

“Like I said, when you arrived here, you were broken. Almost every bone in your body was broken, and you looked like you had been beaten up pretty badly by someone far bigger than you. Do you maybe remember who...” her raspy voice broke off.

I tried to shake my head – it hurt too much – and said softly “No.” I turned my head away from her and could feel sunlight on my skin. I tried to open my eyes again, but the light hurt too much.

“Just take it easy,” Reina said softly. I felt her pull the sheet up to my shoulders and she patted down the blanket gently. “Are you hungry?”

I nodded slowly.

I lay in silence for several minutes, enjoying the heat of the sun on my face.

I must have dozed off, because I didn’t hear her return. “Josh, do you think you can sit up,” she said suddenly. I tried to push myself up again, but the pain was too much. I shook my head. “Not to worry,” she said, “Turn on your back and I will raise your bed. Just tell me if it hurts.”

Gently, she helped me up and raised the bed so I could sit. The shape of her head still worried me, as did the amount of hair on her arms. I could not put my finger on why, and didn’t have enough time to think about it either.

Lunch was steamed fish and a glass of milk. It tasted like heaven.

Reina sat quietly in the corner, just on the other side of the blur-line while I was eating. When I was done, she whisked away the tray and returned to my side.

“How are you feeling now?” she asked. Her green eyes were sparkling, pupils thin slits in the light.

“Please take off your mask,” I asked.

She shook her head and said “It is better for both of us if this mask stays where it is for now.”

I frowned but said nothing.

She sat down in the chair next to my bed, leaned back and said “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

“I remember switching off my bedside light and going to sleep.” I sighed.

“And where was that?” she prodded patiently.

“At home, of course.”

“And where is home, exactly?”

I closed my eyes and thought about it for a while. I could see the familiar terracotta walls, and the city skyline beyond. “I live in the city, in one of those security complexes,” I said. I could see a name on the wall. “I think it is called Willow Hill.”

She nodded, and said “Do you live alone?”

“I think so,” I said. I could not remember anyone living with me.

“I see. And you remember nothing thereafter?”

I shook my head slowly. “Nothing,” I whispered.

“And, just so we are clear on this,” she said, “which city do you mean when you say the city?”

Surely I would not be that far away from home? The unease in my stomach grew as I said “Jozi.”

She tilted her head to one side and said “Jozi?”

“You know, Jo’burg? Johannesburg. Egoli. City of Gold?” My heart started racing.

She cleared her throat politely, and said “I see.”

 

My daughter posted hers here.

The (almost) NOVA story

I wrote this story for the NOVA short story competition, but simply could not get it over 2000 words, and then ran out of time. So, I have decided to post it here instead. It is an expansion of this snippet, and, honestly, I kinda love it. Comments and crits are most welcome and invited.

Play

“Please, I need to be able to see,” she says, her voice soft in the early evening air, her hot breath visible as it escapes her lips . I can smell the fear on her, and it drives my hunger.

“No light,” I smile. It is lost on her in the dark. Panic flits across her face. She has played for me before, but it has been a long time since I have needed her.

“Just a single light,” she pleads. “I cannot do your bidding without my sight.”

“A single candle,” I concede. I lean back into the dark and disappear. We always play this game at the beginning of our time together. She nods quietly and drags the bow across the strings.

She looks so vulnerable, the candle flick-flickering next to her, licking up all the fresh air in this small room. The first time I met her, the first time she played for me, she was nothing more than a gutter rat with a piece of wood.

I close my eyes again. I can hear her fingers fingering the strings, her laboured breathing as she holds it between her legs and slowly slides the bow backwards and forwards. I can almost smell the sound now. Deep, rich, like black coffee.

I should not have needed to feed again so soon. It ambushed me. Waited for me in the dark behind my very own door, and wrapped its long arms around me when I least expected it, the serrated edges cutting into my flesh as it tightened its grip. Even now, I can feel its foul breath – like dank water - on my skin.

I drink in the sound. I can feel my vitality washing slowly through my weary body, but it will be hours before I am whole again. We sit in darkness for a lifetime, just her and her wood, me and my broken self, drinking in the melancholy flowing from her fingers.

She has stopped playing. I can hear her heart pounding, and then her inner scream when I say play.

Ambushed. I should have known better. His request caught me by surprise, and I said no in a hurry – I had a storm to catch. I thought I would set the abatwa on me, but, instead, he sent... that thing. I got off lightly, I should have been dead. I can still feel the creature’s blood on my fingers, even after I scrubbed with sand and honey. Only beer will remove this evil from my skin.

I can smell the blood from her fingers. The strings are taking their toll. The smell, vividly red like the setting sun, swirls through my head. I find my foot tapping to the beat she drums out with her hand on the wooden body in between the subtle glide of the bow. It reminds me of home.

It was such a simple request. A simple bag of thunder. One single thread of lightning. His laugh rings through my head again, and I shiver. Unconsciously, she shivers with me, pain streaked across her face.

I didn’t even ask why he wanted it. Does anyone really need to ask? His long standing feud with the Modjadji, and with me, is reason enough, but this goes beyond sibling rivalry. No, Chitauli has something else up his sleeve, and I have had to pay the price for it, as always. Me, and that creature he sent after me.

His voice, the angry threat of revenge, echoes through my skull. He had my sisters heads, tied together with blue and green ribbons, hanging around his neck, the blood of his recent meal smeared across his face.

Mantisssss, it hissed its own name, swinging its arms wildly at me, taking a pound of flesh with every contact. It was touch and go for a moment, but I was older than this creature and my sword was sharp.

We have been doing this dance for so many years; I have forgotten all the steps. In circles we go, across savannah and under the high mountains. I pull my jacket in closer, and catch a waft of the veldt. It has been many centuries since I have slept between the reeds, but the mud is still under my fingertips and the rain on my breath.

I run my tongue across my lips, traces of old whiskers tickling the tip, my sharp teeth cutting into the flesh. I get lost in the taste of my own blood. I hear her voice pleading with me through the euphoria.

“Just one more,” I whisper, “just one.”

Maybe I should return to the country of my bones. I have been in the cold lands for too long. My mother’s heartbeat, the beating drums of her children, can heal me in an instant. But I am not ready yet. My body will not yet survive the long journey. Maybe I have grown too old.

I feel sorry for her, but I need to heal. I lean back and click my tongue. My handmaiden appears at my feet. I whisper in her ear, and she nods.

I close my eyes again and before long, I am swimming the great river, feeling the current through my toes. The music stops.

I open my left eye, and see her hands pinching the contents of the bowl and quickly bringing it to her mouth. The candle, now short, casts long dancing shadows across her round pale cheeks as she smiles. They are damp, but I pay no attention. I know that she is tired, but she will be well compensated.

I remember the fog in Uhlanga like it was this morning, the sun glittering through the moist air. That was where we all met for the first time, where our mother gave birth to us and held us to her bosom between the reeds and rolling hills. We were each given a piece of this rich planet to take care for, gifts glittering like gold under the big sky. My first sister was given her bag of rain and my second sister the rivers, tied around her ankles like ribbons, shimmering in the sun as she danced through the lands. And me, I was given my basket filled with thunder, woven from lightning. He, being who he was, was not happy with his meagre gift.

Words, he roared to the skies, what good is words when you gave them the heavens and the ground?

The words gave him a magic none of us would ever know or understand. But it was not enough, never enough. He has killed my sisters over and over to steal their gifts, their continual rebirth fuelling his rage against our mother. But each time they died, they needed to drink from the land to regain their strength. My sisters were thirsty often.

I shudder again. Those black, teardrop shaped eyes pleading with me when Chitauli’s spell wore off and the pain from our battle finally set in. I had to take mercy on it, and dealt it a swift blow, sending its small head flying, feathered feelers twitching one last time. I could have fed on its spent body, but I swore off the flesh before the words spread through the people and not a drop of blood has passed my lips since. I have found other ways to quench my thirst.

I can hear the scratching at the door. He has sent an army after me. Maybe this will be my last song, after all. I laugh to myself.

“Is something wrong?” she asks in between mouthfuls.

The scratching is even louder now, but only I can hear it. I shake my head, and again realise it is lost in the dark. Maybe I have not escaped the abatwa after all. I am tempted to open the door, but resist. I need to regain my strength before I face them.

“Nothing wrong dear. Just play, please. Play,” I smile softly in the dark. “Play one more for this old man, before the cold sets deep into my bones.” My voice sounds foreign in my throat. Old, like river sand, stretched, like mother’s golden beaches.

She nods eagerly as she cleans out the bowl with her fingers. She licks them gingerly, and wipes them on the cloth my girl hands her.

She picks up the instrument, and sits in silent, as if waiting for permission to play.

The candle splutters in its dying moment. I click my tongue again; my faithful girl brings another candle. The ivory skinned girl struggles to light it, her fingers atrophied from hours of playing and smiles gratefully when the flame licks up the air again and glitters off her sandy hair.

“I promise, this is the last one,” I say again to reassure her.

She slowly drags the bow across the strings again. In the dark, the sound of the cello heals all my wounds.

A dazzling challenge

I have been challenged dared invited buggered by Parenthesis to Dazzle her, which I had no option but at least try. Post with instructions can be found here. This was fun.

---

Children of Iris

We bobbed and curtsied all afternoon, while the Watcher walked up and down in front of us with pursed lips. Then, she towered in front of us, arms folded, skin white like a statue. She nodded. As one, we dropped to our knees, heads to the ground, caring not if our white frocks were covered in mud or if the course fabric scratched our skin.

She touched me on the back of my head. I raised my eyes slowly, carefully, no higher than her jewelled knees. The bright morning sunlight sparkled through the gossamer fabric of her robe and I could feel the rays dancing on my face.

“Raise child,” her voice boomed through the open corridor.

I raised my head high enough to see her nod.

In a smooth movement that I have been practicing for days before in the small hours of the night I straightened my body and stood eyes forward, looking straight into her navel. A giant ruby sat where her belly button should be. Her lady, half her height but still a head taller than me, stepped out of her shadow and reached out her hand to me. This was my cue. I slipped my small hand into the lady’s and we walked, in small rapid steps, following the Watcher. I heard the girls chatter under breath as we turned the corner.

Jasmine filled my nose when we walked into the courtyard beyond the wall. The lady led me to a pool filled with crystal water and ordered me to strip. This too I had practiced, and disrobed in one small movement. Two girls, even smaller than me, scurried in from behind one of the painted pillars on the far side of the courtyard, gently helped me into the pool and scrubbed me from head to toes.

We were careful not to laugh or splash a drop of water, and soon enough, they had me dressed again. The indigo fabric was smooth on my skin, and the perfume they brushed through my long hair made me feel lightheaded. But I kept my head – like I have been trained.

The Watcher didn’t even notice me enter and stood motionless in front of the tall, open window for several minutes, her wings wrapped tightly around her body. Her lady wordlessly touched me on the shoulder. I didn’t sense her until she stood right behind me. Then she whispered in my ear “It is time, child.”

I nodded.

I took a deep breath, careful not to release a sound, and stepped forward a couple of paces, until I stood next to the Watcher. She looked down at me, smiled and returned her gaze to a point outside the window. My eyes followed, and then I saw Them. Five tall figures, dancing in the sunlight, casting their lights with their smooth movements on the landscape surrounding them. The Guardians.

“Do you miss your home, child,” the Watcher asked me. Her lips hardly moved and yet, the words boomed through my head.

I shook my head, the jewels in my hair jingling with the movement.

She nodded once, and said “Your new sisters will be along soon.” She rested her large hand on my head for a moment and closed her large, black rimmed eyes. I stood quietly bearing the weight until her lady whispered in my ear again “Come.”

I curtsied and followed the lady. When we reached the door, I turned around. The Watcher had resumed her position at the window and stood motionless. The afternoon sun glowed on her skin and sparkled like jewels on her hair. The lady’s hand tightened around mine. I turned and followed her again.

“Wait here,” she whispered.

I nodded, and sat down on the low bench against the midnight wall. One by one, she brought in my new sisters until we were seven and then did not return to us for a long time. We sat, side by side, quietly holding the hand of the sister on either side of us, waiting for the lady’s return. Finally, just before sunset, she returned and told us to follow her again. We walked out of the gate and along a small cobbled path, one behind the other, careful not to let go of the hand in front of us. We walked all night long until we arrived at a dark door. The lady tapped on the door seven times and waited. A tall figure, cloaked in darkness, opened the door. The lady stepped aside, and whispered “This is where I leave you.” We nodded as one, and followed the darkness. She showed us into a large room, layered in fabric and strewn with pillows.

“This is your room for the evening,” she said, and shut the door behind us.

We clung to each other until we heard the call of the morning chimes announcing the return of the sun. This was it. It was time. We lined up in front of the door long before it was opened for us, the anticipation flowing from every pore. I silently hoped the lady would return, but a new face greeted us when the door opened. We filed out hand in hand and followed the silent figure – as tall as the dark figure last night – out through the door and along a moss-covered path. We walked until the morning sun baked the earth and we finally reached a clearing in the dense woods.

They were there, dancing, like I saw them yesterday, to an unheard beat. My sister next to me held my hand tighter, her short sharp nails digging into the soft fleshy part of my hand. “It will be all right,” I thought and hoped the words would reach her. She nodded quietly and loosened her grip. Our guide took us into the centre of the clearing, carefully avoiding the dancers, and left us there. When she was gone, they danced a tighter circle, until we could feel their fingertips brushing along our backs as they spiraled past.

I let out a loud audible breath. It was the first noise I had made since the previous morning. I felt safe with my new guardians.

Not once did they stop dancing, but we knew what were expected from us soon enough. Later that afternoon, dark clouds thundered on the horizon and the smell of Rain danced through the hot summer air. The Guardians danced taller, faster, hands woven together into a canopy over our heads when the first drops left craters in the dust. We watched them dance, mesmerized, until, one by one, we nodded off to sleep.

My sisters and I awoke to the sound of the morning chimes and found our Guardians still dancing in a mad frenzy. The sky was dark, and Rain was stretched across it like the cloak of a starless night. She was no longer dancing, but rather lazed and laughed, mocking us, and the Watcher, and the Guardians. By the end of the second day, anger crept into the Guardians’ dance, breaking their concentration and large drops broke through the canopy and hit us in the eye.

By the morning of the third day, one of the guardians untangled her hand from the woven canopy and spun away from the frenzied dance. She danced taller and taller, until her hands reached into the clouds and touched Rain herself. She took hold of Rain’s hands, and pulled Rain down to the ground to join her dance. Faster and faster they danced around the rim of the clearing until we could no longer tell them apart. Rain’s laughter turned to a high pitched whine which stopped when she was released from the dance and spun away, over the distant hills.

The fifth guardian returned to the dance as if she had never left. We were pulled into the dance, slowly because it was our first, and, as we danced, the light from the Guardians’ hands reflected off our robes and stretched our bow across the clear blue sky. They smiled down at us and danced the words straight into our heads “You did well, little ones. You did well.”

The Guardians of the rainbow don’t like those who get in the way of the sun.

Wordle: Play

I found the link to Wordle via this post by Jim Murdoch and decided to see what it would do with one of the shorts I have written here. I chose Play, because it is one of my favourite pieces at the moment.



(click on the picture to view the full sized map)

Play with your food

He stands in the doorway, a big man. I smile and licke my lips. He won’t not be expecting me.

I raise my head, sniff the air. He had garlic for supper. Perfect. These silly hoomans, they think we are afraid of a little garlic. I lean in a bit, sniff again. I can smell the wine in his sweat. But there is something else too.

He is relaxed. And he is waiting for someone.

He stretched out his arm, and brings his wrist closer to his face.

His companion is late.

I kick the body behind me. It is empty.

He clears his throat, and pulls his phone from his pocket. I can hear a muffled ring behind me. He sighs as there is no answer. He inspects his wrist again.

I can smell his tension now.

His companion is not coming. I will have to do in her place.

I wait for the right moment, before I saunter up and say “hello honey.” I can see a vein throbbing in his throat. “Go away,” he says.

“Waiting for someone?”

“None of your business. Go aw-“

I don’t let him finish. It is not polite to play with your food. Well, not too much anyway.

---

Yes, I know. Bit of a vamp theme going on at the moment. I need to get it out of my system, until I have time to write more on Adam – and that is at least 4-5 months away.

sunday

i wrote this story in my second year at varsity (1993), inspired by a boy i really liked.

Sunday

She awakens with the ringing of a phone, maybe in her dream, maybe in reality. After a while she realises it's in reality. Answers. Wrong number. Drags herself back to bed, stares at the ceiling, then the wall. Too much white. Switches the T.V. on with a remote control, flips from channel to channel, nothing to watch, nothing interesting. Leaves the T.V. on one channel, vegetates. Remembers. Last night.

The club, the band. They played, he was on stage, singing, performing, staring, seducing. Every single girl in the club was worshipping him. Then he dedicated a song. Only later did she realise it was to her. Only later still did she realise that he changed the lyrics. But her friends, sitting at a table at the back of the club heard it. "What did he say? Is it... our friend... are they...?" "They used to, sort of, long time ago..." Yes, long time ago he destroyed her, created her and called her just a friend. Slowly she recovered, till tonight. She might even have forgotten.

She switches the T.V. off, rolls over, scribbles something on a piece of paper... "Until I almost forgot your name..."

An angel almost walks into her room, just specks of angel-dust falls onto everything. A young girl sits playing with her dolls. The one's a rock star... She gets bored, drops everything and runs away. There's a crack in the wall. She stares at it, as if she notices it for the first time. It's bleeding, so it seems, green blood flowing from the crack in the wall... Think of ways to mend the hole, to make to whole again. Thoughts drift off, remember the first time she saw him...

The club is an interesting place. Someone once called it the most hectic place in the world, the people are freaks. Circus music. She dances in the middle of the floor, spotlit. Almost like a central attraction. Freakshow. She turns to get a drink, there he is. A distant sun rises behind him like a golden aura, a halo around his head. She blinks her eyes, he swings his hair and disappears. Touched, she goes and returns a week later...

Parties. Dreadful events. Crowds, meeting people with names and faces that don't match now, and won't ever match in the future. False smiles the whole night, like they expect something from you. Pretentious artists who want to paint you or write your life story or cast you, when they know you can do all those things yourself. "Have you read... have you seen... have you heard...?" and then you mention a name that they haven't heard before and they think it must be "totally uncool" because no-one's seen/heard/read it, or it must be radical, because you've seen/heard/read it. And they all want to get together sometime, to start a new publication, "let's publish..." And then around the corner someone shouts, "I want you to meet someone..." She goes, thinking it will be another one of them. Looking up she stares into the most angelic face she's ever seen in real life. She recognises him by the swing of his hair. Long blond hair falling over his muscular shoulders like a wig, eyes so sparkling they can't be real and features so white and perfect, they seem to be carved out of white marble, or cast in plaster of Paris. An angel flies over, more angeldust, covering him in a golden glitter. He speaks, she's dumbfounded and invited to his star appearance...

The shop is just about to close as she runs in and buys a book. A thick black book. And a pencil. Paying with her last money, she feels content. She sits down on the pavement, and starts to write. "disintegrating touch/ am i asking too much/ we are so good together/ like rain in stormy weather/ i wanted to ask/ i knew i must/ but my words/ crumbled to dust..."

"Until I almost forgot your name..." She places the piece of paper in the black book, now almost full and falling apart. Every single piece of writing in the book is for him, about him, dedicated to him or tearing him apart. Every night she dreams about him, every day she thinks about him. In the morning when she wakens, she'll read the poem she wrote about him the previous night, in the afternoon she'll draw or write something about him, read it at dusk, in the evening she'll write about him again. She used to go out, and meet with friends, write in the park, drink tea at a street café down the road, or walk around the block. Then she met him, and made friends with him, made something and lost him...

"Didn't I see you that one night at the club? You looked like an angel in the spotlight." He touches her heart with his soul. Angeldust falls from nowhere onto the scene in his memory, her spotlit dressed in white, covered in dust. The clouds part over them and a bright shaft of sunlight comes through, almost putting them in a spotlight. Later she's more comfortable, tells him her fears, he's more uncomfortable. She's like a young girl talking to her imaginary friend, and he's like a disinterested old man, thinking about things she won't understand. One day, she looks in the mirror, sees the image of him and her, see it change and shatter. The inevitable is to happen. The little girl sits on the side, playing with a doll, gets frustrated when it changes into a car, throws it down and runs away. They sit and talk again, his soul is turned away from her. Her heart breaks without him noticing. She cracks a joke, and laughs, while her soul wipes away the tears. Clouds form again, and it starts to rain over her. She runs away, soaking wet.

The memories of last night still haunt her. He changed the lyrics of the song he wrote for her. The song he wrote to break her heart... "Iron walls once more surround me... I feel smothered..." and now he's gone and changed the words..."I feel so guilty now... I feel the same as you...I'm so lonely" And he dedicated the song to her.

He's never dedicated a song to her. And he always dedicated songs to friends, in places where only friends went to listen to them... Last night they played in front of strangers, and he only dedicated one song. Confused, and hurting she ran out of the club after they played the last song. Before they went on stage, he came to talk to her, and she could cope. She told herself that she was over him. But after the dedication, she was so confused. She tried very hard, but she had to stare at him. And she looked straight into her eyes, into her soul the whole night. Around her the people danced, and cheered at the end of each song. Some of her friends were sitting at a table, watching everything, staying there for her benefit. She ran out before the end of the last song, when the seducing got too much. She hid when he ran after her in thought. She kept quiet on the way home, even when her friends asked her why he dedicated the song, or how she felt. She stared out the car window, trying to see through the rain. She gets wet anyway, and runs into her house, soaking wet. Walks around in the house, sees a clock, it's almost sunrise, she still can't sleep. His eyes are haunting her. The devil sitting on her shoulder creates a new image for her, another containing both of them, looking as happy as they were when they were so far away. He looks down from where he's sitting, smiles at her... "I'm very nervous, come and calm me down...', talking always works, she thinks, sitting down next to him. He lies down on the bed, and pretends to look very nervous. "Talking won't work, you sound like my mother. Lie down next to me..", and she obeys, lying down in his strong arms, head on his shoulder, feeling his hot breath on her forehead, his tense body next to her soft one, his arms around her. An angels and a devil sit on the windowsill, shaking hands on their wager, black-red and golden dust covering the two shy bodies laying still on the bed... They carry drums and guitars into the venue, she sets up the stands and arranges everything. Lights candles all over the place, dims the lights. She moves into the background as the fans pour in, and they start to play. Throughout the act he looks at her, but for one song. He closes his eyes and sings the only lovesong in the world.

She rolls over, changes channels with the remote and realises that there's nothing to watch. She switches the T.V. off with one smooth move, puts on some music, goes to sit in her shower to listen to it for the full effect... "You'll make this all go away... I just want something I can never have...". The pain returns, the pleasured memories return... "How can you turn me into this, just when you taught me how to kiss you..." Fleeting images of empty hallways, candles blowing out, someone crying out. The little girl runs through the passage, crying, someone took her doll. The insecurity returns, who the hell is she, where can she go now, what can she expect from him. After he broke her heart, they became really good friends. But a week or two before the concert, he started to phone her again, from payphones, and talk to her for hours. And before the concert he sat down talking to her, asking her when he'll see her again, etc. His sop-called girlfriend sat down with them, and he ignored the girlfriend. And when they went on stage, the girlfriend danced right in front, while she danced at the back. And he stared at her the whole night...

The crack in the wall is even bigger now, and it stretches across the ceiling as well. She takes some white mixture and applies it to the wound. There is just enough to cover the crack, to hide it from visibility. She puts on clean clothes, opens the door, steps outside. Takes a walk in the park. Sits on a bench in the park, starts to write in the book again... is there ever an end to the pain he causes" Maybe one day she can recover, or run far enough, hide away deep enough, for him never to find her again. People walk past, smile almost sympathetically, almost like they know what happened last night. To think, after all she's done for them, for him...

The girlfriend tries to talk to her, she tells the girlfriend how much she's missed hearing the band. Says that when it gets too much, she'll listen to the demo-tape, or read the lyrics. The girlfriend says, with a green voice, The girlfriend doesn't even have the lyrics, or a demo-tape. She says she's special... very special. The girlfriend says, in emerald voice, she must be... then the girlfriend pretends to lose interest in the conversation, tries to tell her something that will make the girlfriend seem important again, fails, walks away, pretending to look for someone, actually to sulk. She turns around and runs toward the stage, standing on the dancefloor, listening, singing along to all the words... "Satisfy my soul, I want you to know that I'm not here...", pain, memory fails and she has to smile. Later only will she ache again. People around her dance as if it's just another really rocking band, little do they know. And they all look so out of place. Where is the freakshow now? They would appreciate this much more than the crowd here would... And she stares up at him, to see him smiling at her, singing along, they would make a good duet, if she had the voice... she knows the songs as well as he does. Next song, her song... "This song is called... I'd like to dedicate it to...". "Can you believe it... is it really? Our friend...? the one we know...?"

And she can't even hear the questions. She can't hear anything but the music. She's dumbstruck, not even really realising what he said.

Halfway through the song, when she realises he's changed the lyrics, she knows that what she heard was true, he did dedicate it, she blushes embarrassed, and tries to hide her face. Fails. She has to look...

Where is he now, when she is all alone? What can he do now to inspire her, to make her write again, what can he do but make memories wash over her like a bucket of water? So many good and painful drops burn through her skin, melt away her brain till all that's left is a hole and a crack, remembering nothing, feeling nothing, thinking nothing. She tries to get up from the bench, and tries to make her way home. Forgets how. Gets lost, ends up at his house. Sits on the pavement, tries to write, forgets how. closes the book when she forgets how to read. The young girl tries to take the doll's dress off, but can't, throws it down, and plays with her shoelace. He comes out of the house, sees her, picks her up and carries her into the house, makes her watch T.V. while he sings in the background. She comes to, realises where she is. Gets up, wants to walk out, run away again. He runs after her, in reality this time, throws another bucket of memories into her face, it rots away her morality, she wants to grab him and tell him just what he's doing to her. He closes his eyes and sings the only lovesong in the world. Circus clowns come through the back door, and dance around them, juggling eggs and her ego. She sees the words written on the wall, and realises it means her. Mene, mene, tekel, upfarsin...