Morning and the suns barely touch the new day’s sky; she resentfully arises to find she’s up the duff, to continue proverbially, up shit creek with out a paddle and a slight leek in the boat. She knew in a way this was inevitably bound to occur, we laps in judgement upon protective sex, I had suspected her breasts had swollen to busty mounds beneath her shirt evermore adding to her already natural beauty. What was she meant to do now, unprepared and unaware of how to cope, except that it must be done alone. Tell the father? Sure, eventually but not before the fateful decision was made, a point of no return. What about my opinion? Don’t you care or is it that you think I won’t? The date was set, as was her mind to go through with killing what was mine. It shall reassure you to know she procrastinated her vote, with the phone to her ear and a shaky hand hovering over the dial pad listening to what would have felt like an eternity to the sound of a dial tone; you had a chance then however so slight, but it was there and that means something to me, means my chance even though true be it slight, of being able to hold your small fame in my arms, stroking the fragility of the soft spot on your head and drawing in the scent of what was to be you.

She refused food, an attempt at punishment, they say you are what you eat….so what if you eat nothing? It was subtler that the twenty lashes that I whished she received when she told me, a noticeable occurrence behind the glazing eyes of a full grown man. I’m sorry. I’m not thinking of the torture you endured previous to the torture my stare gives you, isolation nay it be willing it was not necessary, to be place into a slumber and gouged and tussled unbeknown to you and awaken with a piece of you, nay a piece us missing. There could have been complications, I could have lost you too; we hold each other tight “I love you”

The Deck

Savage grew up as his name proclaimed him to, he was a beastly child according to his mother and grew up with little to no parenting advise or direction, he was left to his own devices and had to figure most things on his own, which forced him to quickly learn to rule with an iron fist. if only there was someone kind in his life to tell him you catch more flies with honey that you do vinegar, never the less his rebuttal would be somewhere along the lines of 'What the fuck do i want with flies?" so it was to be a life of crime starting off with petty theft and rocketing its way down the dust road to wheeling and dealing, in and out of prison 3 times, would have been an even 4 if it wasn't for Delwah, an ex prison officer put out to pasture as a local shopping centre security guard, Delwah had heart and still managed to keep it even after working for 30 years with some of the hardest of men, but now his life is quiet, it suites him, his not as young as he used to be...
Savage was cruising the streets, a usual day, nothing really to do except hope to score at the local shops, he was your regular run of the mill loiterer these days, keeping his head down, for a while now his managed to rent a small place in a quiet town on the north coast at a steel with the money he receives from the government and enough left over for weed. Its tuesday 3pm and Delwah is doing his rounds of the shops, his known by all the tenders for his infectious smile, easing his ability to shoo away young loiterers. its now 4:10 and Delwah's lower back is starting to ache, its time for him to rest for just a minuet or 2. before Delwah's rump was able to even have a second of rest on the seat Mrs Mett from the coffee shop had run over and placed a tea and biscuit in front of him, "Bless you Mrs Mett".
It wasn't an overly busy shopping day rather quiet in-fact, those few minuets turned into 10 and 10 into 20. Delwah's entire attention had been trained on a single person, a young boy, dressed as if he had never been taught how, clothes miss-matched and miss-shappen, walking with the gait of a 90 year old, a slow place of which would make a snail seem track worthy, it saddened delwah to see such a young man aimlessly wondering the mall waiting to be taken to his final resting place, he was almost out of sight, so he follows him, like a shadow, not for any reason but his own curiosity. Savage continued to wander, passed a shoe shop with a discount bin out the front, he picks one up to try one on, delwah does the same thing, un-interested by the outcome savage moves on and so does delwah. This happened over and over again from the fruit store admiring the lemons, passed the jewelry window, a flick through some cds at hum, between the both of them they almost looked at every possible item within the shopping center without taking much notice of what they were picking up, until savage picked up a deck of cards at a discount store and attempted to put them in his pocket, thats all it took delwah had to intervene, he gently placed his hand on savages arm, neither spoke, the eyes say it all, savages pain of being alone with no one who cares for him and delwah himself having no-one to care for. slowly delwah took the cards from savage's hands, paid for them and came back, savage stood still not really knowing what to make of it all, stuck in a limbo of awe "come on son" and delwah motioned for him to follow, he led him outside into the court yard, "take a seat" delwah pulled out a chair and began to deal the cards "you know how to play bullshit?" with a cheeky grin savage sits "of course i do..."

My resistentialism or hers?

I’m not sure what you would call this thing, I hold it my hand, first thing that comes to mind is an over indulged paper weight although this object means so much more…

I have been a dancer my whole life, my name is Piotr Tchaikovsky, and this is my intimate object.

I started dancing before I was ever conceived, my mother once pregnant with me had no doubt in her mind that my kicks and restlessness inside the womb was the making of a world famous ballet dance, she had no one to dispute her opinion, as my farther was merely a donor to a lonely woman, she was to be left with me and only me, there was to be no gender bias if I was to be a girl- dancer if I was to be a boy- dancer, I hadn’t even been born yet not even drawn upon my first breath and I had already secured myself a life career. From the moment of my first step, it was places every one! Constant inexorable lesson after lesson my child hood twirled away with the blink of an eye, from being home schooled I made no friends, from a harsh practice schedule I got not toys, all I seemed to inherit from this misshapen lifestyle was misshapen feet that looked like torn apart pig hocks torn to pieces by a ravenous dog, a bar and full length mirror my only comforts, but I did it all for her, to see the look on her face when she watched me dance, was like looking at life at its purest form an ambient glow of reassurance. All my hard work and training was thundering me towards my sworn goal a places held only for the prestigious and elite at Vaganova Academy, Saint-Petersburg, Russia. Without fault my 13year old frame carried me to perform my best performance to date as well as that of my last. My mother was over whelmed with joy she burst out in tears and held me ever so tight, stricken with emotion my mother relaxed her stance on distracting toys and whisked me off to the shopping centre to buy me a token of her appreciation, the token of which I hold in my hand as we speak, a novelty item that when you turn it up side down bubbles race to the surface in a swirl, on the other side to the bubbles blobs of black spiral their way down with accurate feyness, toys were never allowed in my house as they posed as a detraction and this was the closest I had to a childhood, what ever I was to receive I would have accepted with the upmost joy. She said ‘you deserve it’, to any other child it wouldn’t look like much and would loose most attention after a minuet or two, not for me I loved it with all of my heart, mesmerised by the small black blobs dancing their own way from top to bottom, it was always somewhere I could see it, I carried it every where with me, even came up with a game to play for during practice. One turn and I would race the bubbles and blobs to a duel of pirouettes before they were all disappeared I would reiterate this obsession over and over again endlessly breaking records. 27 full pirouettes was to be all I was or ever would be able to do, for on my 26 turn my toe caught the leg of the table where my beloved toy was positioned, the slight jolt caused my toy to fall from the table and roll ever so quietly to under my planted foot and on the 27th revolution, I was tripped to the floor by the only thing I ever truly loved other than my mother, by the only act of material kindness I was ever shown. The fall had me land awkwardly onto my hip where it cracked and dislocated. My mouth didn’t utter a sound, as I lay there with what must have looked like a misplaced smile, I thought to myself… it’s finally over, I would never dance again.