April 5, 2012 Comments Off on Dirty Aubade by Nikki Magennis
5 am, all still
Remember this, all this, all the years? The early mornings, the wood smoke and the red-eyes and creeping around trying not to wake him, even though my skin was roughed with excitement, and the day outside was breaking.
I might slip out the window. Careful not to snag.
We would stand outside, then, in the wet grass, while the pigeons cried. Our feet would go numb, remember? We would kiss under the elder tree, even though it was forbidden, even though we were drowned by the noise of the river and nothing we said was right. Your hand over my mouth.
5.30 am, day breaking
And the rose clouds bloom overhead, and the trees soften. So quiet I hear your breath, the pull and push, the warm bellows. Now it’s a blackbird, that inquisitive song, that rushing, flowing tumble of brittle voice.
I met you in the gap between night and day, in the opening of a shell, in the sliver between knowing and choosing.
Ugly word, choosing. Like something lewd. Something coy, a word that hides its obscenity behind frilly lace curtains, a word that lies about itself.
The birdsong we think is so pretty — it’s all fucking and fighting, after all.
6 am, the world turns
Nobody will remember this. Nobody will witness the redness of your mouth, or how it’s both tender and cruel.
Even as the gold starts pricking the sky, I’m forgetting. Even as you settle into that rhythm, that old back and forth, as the tree above us rocks and the fruit hangs and the legs split, mouths cleave, eyes close, the hearts beat out into the day the same old song, the same old song.
And afterwards everything is spilled, and we’re too old to play, and we’re losing everything in spite of ourselves, but oh, god, was it worth it.
© 2012 by Nikki Magennis
Nikki Magennis is an author and artist. She lives in Scotland and writes when she can, as hard as she can. Visit her at http://nikkimagennis.com/
August 15, 2011 Comments Off on Tomcat Tale by Valery Petrovskiy
Snowflakes flight is alike Tomcat purring, lulling they affect the same way. In a moon night Tomcat purring in or snowflakes whirl out is like the same. In a day light snowflakes don’t draw much attention; they remind one of office girls that hurry to a bus stop in the morning. They nudge each other in hurly-burly and brush their eyelashes against men, troubling them. Women eyelashes are alike snowflakes then, they go up and down while snowflakes float but round. Afterwards the snow is lying underfoot in a lacy coverlet. I don’t dare to march on the just fallen snow, it seems blasphemous. One is not to step on a white tablecloth, and I’m waiting for anybody to tread a hasty chain of footsteps.
Thus I follow Tomcat, extremely patient when needed. But it happen Tomcat to carve a way for me in a winter morning; he teaches me to overstep the limits, my grey brother Tomcat. He is running leisurely against me, and he never would stop and rub his furry neck against my leg. He is my brother, that’s enough. Every morning he hurries to me drawing a fresh pass. One never knows which side he crops up next. Only his traces display me my daily course.
Tomcat neglects ladies. But they attract me, unknown creatures in a cloud of snowfall, vanishing in wreaths of perfume. Ladies leave a trail of scent long like Tomcat’s tail when he is marching against me to pass the door. I am holding back my door every morning when we meet.
I open him the door; it’s just a trifle to me, and Tomcat reveals me a day pass. I never tread upon his track on the snow, and never cross it. I walk along the rosary of his pace and always get to an open spot. It seems to me, Tomcat is an astronaut descending to the ground and starting with a scratch his beaded pace to my door. I can imagine Tomcat to advance on the snow in night twilight, he knows his way and I don’t.
I had watched his trace after a sudden shower in summer. People left wet prints and Tomcat left a dry track on a wet pavement. I watched it after every rain, so Tomcat strikes me even more. Не is my brother and I can leave bare traces as well, I believe. But I never glance back at my traces, particularly when in a downpour.
And I don’t pay notice at women in rain, only in a snowfall.
© 2011 Valery Petrovskiy
Valery Petrovskiy is a journalist and short story writer from Russia. Не studied English at Chuvash State University, Cheboksary and journalism at VKSch Higher School, Moscow. He has been writing prose since 2005. Some of his Prose has been published in The Scrambler, Rusty Typer, BRICKrethoric, NAP Magazine, Literary Burlesque, The Other Room, Curbside Quotidian, DANSE MACABRE, WidowMoon Press in the USA and one in Australian Skive Magazine as well. http://www.proza.ru/avtor/valerka