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via The Road
Love That Lasts
She leaned in for a kissā
my angel,
a flower petal herself.
My closed eyes
ticklish
with her breath.
With abated breath,
I waited,
as I felt her tender fingers,
touch my rouge hair,
wind around
my neck and heart.
Then, she snapped it.
Well! At least,
I never felt the pain.
Guest Post: Skyline Figures by Dara Lafayette
Alone at dusk I connect the dots,
stars and memories in my mind.
Because I cannot see the future, only feel,
I might as well imagine
and dip my head into the dark sky, awake.
-by Dara Lafayette
Dara Lafayette is a fellow writer from Ireland, a musician and a budding artist. He is a dear friend and my favorite critic who has helped me articulate my thoughts in words.
This is why he writes: “My creative energy draws me to write with passion; to create a scene full of tone and story, and mystery and mastery of words. Writing is breathing to me. It helps me accept the simple and intricate bittersweet beauty of life as I breathe in the woods, forests and beaches. I’m a member of a non-fiction writers group and have done several public readings. Currently, I’m editing the first draft of my debut book of poetry.”
You can find his other pieces of poetry on his writer’s group: https://corknonfictionwriters.blogspot.com/search?q=dara
Photo byĀ Ivan ManiĀ onĀ Unsplash
Guest Post: Sound by Dara Lafayette
How can one man be so happy,
with so little,
All you have is,
books and friends and food,
The sun only guides your footsteps
during daylight
Fire of night
is made of simple wood
And even now your lifelong heart
is only just beginning to forgive
Your sights
are only strands and streams,
though fitting
Seats that do not creak
are dry and solid sitting
Toast of thin honey,
and butter slender spread
Distilled life
into only
One body
One heart
One head.
-by Dara Lafayette
Dara Lafayette is a fellow writer from Ireland, a musician and a budding artist. He is a dear friend and my favorite critic who has helped me articulate my thoughts in words.
This is why he writes: “My creative energy draws me to write with passion; to create a scene full of tone and story, and mystery and mastery of words. Writing is breathing to me. It helps me accept the simple and intricate bittersweet beauty of life as I breathe in the woods, forests and beaches. I’m a member of a non-fiction writers group and have done several public readings. Currently, I’m editing the first draft of my debut book of poetry.”
You can find his other pieces of poetry on his writer’s group: https://corknonfictionwriters.blogspot.com/search?q=dara
Photo by Cameron VaughanĀ onĀ Unsplash
The Penthouse
So far, he had avoided sitting on the pristine bed, as if it carried a disease.
Earlier, when she had flirted with him during the meeting in her penthouse, he had gone along with it. She was a tough client, and the deal was too important. When, she asked him to spend the nightāan opportunity to please herāhe didn’t think twice.
Now, he wondered why it made him uneasy. They were both consenting adults and none in a relationship. He’d had casual relations before for fun.
But he was interested in those women.
This time, she was just…a cheque.
Pleasure for moneyādoes this make him a prostitute? Why hadn’t he accompanied her in the bath like he usually did with women? Why was he already planning to leave before dawn to avoid the ‘walk of shame’? Why was he still hoping she’d change her mind?
The faint sound of the bathroom doorknob made him choose quickly.
Hastily, he gathered his most charming smile, ready to serve his master…in every way.
Photo by Febrian Zakaria on Unsplash
All in My Head
Before I met you,
I always wondered
If you had meant
More than your words.
When you took my name
On the call,
I dreamt of the sparks
You’ll send with your first touch.
I longed to meet you
So that
You’d look at me
With eyes full of love.
I trusted when
You found me alone
That you would care
If I get hurt.
But now that I’m hurt,
I know
It was all in my head.
It was all in my head.
Bird Watching
The story is now part of a short-story collection available in black-white and coloured prints and as an ebook. I will share the links soon.
A Tough Assignment
Lately, my nearly-3-year daughter has taken to creating ‘bouquet’ of animals.
Ever so often, she asks me what animals I want. I give her a random list. Then she asks me which color I want them in. After half an hour of hard labor, the bouquet is ready and it looks something like this.
Or this.
Now the daunting task is to label each animal accurately without hurting her feelings. But by now, I have already forgotten the list and color code, not that she follows it anyway.
Since I am a small-town woman and her paintings are on more of the experimental side, I am at a loss most of the time. So, I try to get the information from my only source without showing my confusion. I admit, I rely heavily on flattery and treats.
“Oh! What a pretty animal! Such pretty wings!”
(Flattered and pleased) “Not wings, they are feet.”
This is my first clue that it is not a bird.
“Oh yes, it has a nice long tail. Very beautiful.”
(Even more flattered and pleased) “That’s the trunk.”
Mystery solved. “Such a cute elephant!”
I write its name next to it.
But being a small-town woman, I am bound by the old-fashioned thoughts and, at times, make monumental mistakes. “Let’s add his ears.”
(A little annoyed now) “But it already has ears.”
“Of course! How silly of me! Here, take a Chocolate chip.”
Placated, we begin with the next animal. After a week of labeling these mysterious animals, you would think I’d get the hang of it. But I’m a simple woman from a small town. Modern art eludes me.
The Witness
The story is now part of a short-story collection available in black-white and coloured prints and as an ebook. I will share the links soon.
Prayers Late at Night
We call him
Over and over again,
Sitting next to the phone,
Waiting
And praying,
And crying,
And praying again;
That he had reached home safe
And fallen deep asleep;
Or switched off his phone
After our fight last night;
Or run away
With the guy
His father is so against.
Anything’s better than
What the Police states…
They’ve found a body
In the bottom of the lake.
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 