She refuses to be possessed. Still, you should be wanting to possess her. To conquer her. As far as what man can accomplish, not many moments can topple the exhilaration of reaching where you by nature’s design shouldn’t really be setting foot.
Silence of Things Better Left Unsaid
Man and woman sit on the opposite sides of the same table. Close, an outstretched arm’s distance away from caressing each other’s cheek. Yet the distance appears longer. They sit in silence. Unable to talk. Unwilling to take the first step. Unknowing, perhaps, how to bridge the absence of sound. Or have they exhausted all possibilities?
Irretrievable Shard
There is a place where the thousand fragments make a grander whole. Like a mosaic, collected and punctiliously pieced together over many years. Today I found it is missing a tile, however. The flaw is barely visible, holding up to even the closest scrutiny. Not to mine, though, but of course I know where to look. No matter how many new pieces I glue in place, expanding the whole, the shard gone missing is irretrievable. And like any such previously lost tiles (for there have been many), it is irreplaceable.
Nocturne
At night, the world shines at you differently. Leaning against the balcony of my apartment terrace, I can pick out the ingredients of the spell it throws at me with my eyes blindfold. I inhale the mixture of light and sounds. It’s intoxicating, in its own neon way. In the artificially lit dark, what you choose not to see during the day takes on a whole new, sharper form. Perhaps I see it precisely because I’ve always been a nocturnal person.
A Musicless Matinee
It was the first morning of a new era. The sun shone a shade brighter, it appeared so. A lungful of fresh air never tasted so sweetly before. Senses multiplied overnight as if by magic. Suddenly, people saw their world in an entirely different light. And they were right to do so, of course. There was an effervescence in the air, hope in people’s hearts, the notes of revolution still fresh on everyone’s lips. Yesterday evening, the world changed to the tune of thundering cannon-fire and sorcery. Today was a matinee deserving of new music.
The Smell of Hay, Oil and Clouds on the Horizon
The noon heat was at its suffocating best, the sun busily going about baking people’s scalps, when Talya’s father called a break from the labor. Everyone had been waiting for the whistle, signaling the pause. Men dropped their scythes. On cue, the women stashed the pitchforks and left the hay bales, then brought out baskets laden with food for the midday repast. The rhythmic hum of harvest was replaced by a tune. Its first lilting notes, sung by a maid, were soon picked up by a choir of men and women. Their voices carried the joy only work well-done could procure. The gaggle of children running merrily around, spurred by the joyous song, completed the tableau.
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Her Majesty, the Queen of Gorgons
There were three of us, once upon a time, but only one that mattered. I, Medusa. The youngest of three sisters, the Gorgons. Mortally beautiful, so the tales tell. Or beautifully mortal, depending on who was looking. I got more than I ever bargained for, however, in exchange for my beauty. I caught a god’s eye. Crowned by a goddess, I was. The very one I served loyally and without question. A crown of living snakes was my reward. And eyes that could turn to stone.
Un Momento di Leggerezza
It is a special moment, a moment of leggerezza, levity in Italian, a moment long sought after, sipping my hot cappuccino on the deck of the ship just out of port. The bar of our ferry is packed with tourists, yet I smirk knowingly, almost a local, I think. As an Italian explained to me once, you do not drink cappuccinos after noon. It’s 10 am or so and I count my cup a small, well-earned victory. Naught but a private joke shared between us. A notch on our oft-traveled belt no one will notice.
Azure Vistas of a Time Long Gone By
I rest on this beach. It has become a ritual, see, sitting every day in the exact same spot. It is perhaps a stone’s throw to the sea (if there were any lying around), yet I do not bother leaving my resting place. Quite content to remain where I am. Been here for what feels like an eternity now. And I most certainly am a creature of habit, if nothing else.
King
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Or so they say.
I beg to differ. Never quite noticed the weight. Until it no longer sat on my brow, that is. Like a maimed man, I feel now, without it. Phantom pain is my sole companion, when we used to be one, before. Would anyone argue I miss the comfort of my crown, then? The cool touch of metal. The weight of wealth. Power, too. The piercing, dazzling realness of it only a hundred different cut jewels can bestow. Aye, crowns always suited me. Felt right at home, seated atop my hair of silver.