More Beautiful Still

nude-photographer-bob-carlos-clarke-06[1]
Bob Carlos Clarke
My fourth (and final, well for the moment anyway) recording from my recently published collection Motion No. 69My other recordings The AnswerMy Evil is Stronger and Curvature can be heard by following the links. Of course to get the full works you will have to buy the collection available from Amazon.

Happy Christmas and Holiday Season to all my lovely, loyal readers.

 

More Beautiful Still

You are the bride
stripped bare by the
vestal bachelors, even.
I would strip you down
to the very bone,
to burn myself
on the upside-down flame
that is your heart.

For you, to me
are as beautiful as
a lipstick-stained cigarette
held between trembling fingers;
More beautiful still
than the parted legs
of an architect’s divider
bisecting a wearying,
unwavering straight line.
Even more beautiful
than a roiling dark cloud
pregnant with heavy rain.
As beautiful as
a string of zeros and O’s.
Still more beautiful
than the city in summer—
festering like an open wound.
Still as beautiful, even
as the angle
between two walls.

Will the conjunction
in the heavenly zones
between your beauty
and my uncertain,
flickering self
result in a happy ending?

 

 

Advertisements

The Answer

Max Ernst-Un Chant d'Amour 1958
Max Ernst-Un Chant d’Amour 1958

Here is another teaser, read by myself, from my recently published collection Motion No. 69 which can be purchased in both paperback and e-book formats here and across  Amazon regional sites. If you want to buy directly from myself just drop me a line signifying your interest and I am sure we can come to some arrangement.

The Answer

Whatever the question,
I probably have the answer,
for I have my tricks and techniques.
I know how to entrance and enthrall,
to hypnotize and bewitch,
to persuade and seduce.
Just come over here,
and look into my eyes.
Bend down and I will whisper
softly into your ear,
everything I know,
everything I’ve ever learned
about want and need,
and about the desire born
in the darkness of a heart
filled with a hate more vast and compelling
than the night before the Last Judgement.
This ravening appetite can never be sated,
though I long to return to the primal source
and its pristine innocence.
Drink me and I will eat you —consume you—
and you gorge on me and my love,
for love is rapture—
a rupture between Heaven and Earth.
Love is ecstasy—
a nerve flaying glimpse of dizzying possibilities.
Love is an acid, corroding the identity,
dissolving the ego.

Acid is the answer.

The Announcement

FullSizeRender (3)

I am very pleased to announce that my collection of 69 inter-related poems and short fictions, Motion No.69  by Alex Severs  and fulsomely illustrated by Thea Kiros is now available for purchase here (as well as the various regional sites), in both paperback and e-book formats. I do trust that you will enjoy and any feedback, whether good, bad or indifferent is most desirable.

The Beach

DSC00453
The Beach-Thea Kiros

In approximately 6 hours and 9 minutes both formats of my collection of 69 inter-related poems and short fictions Motion No. 69 will be available for purchase here. At the present moment only the e-book is available, somewhat ahead of schedule for a change.

Rather like its author, this collection is slim, elegant, charming and darkly attractive. Motion No. 69 shows also that there is truth in advertising after all. A must read for a rainy day on the beach, whether it is a Blue Monday or not.

Dreams of Desire 66 (Courbet)

courbetsommeil1
Le Sommeil-Gustav Courbet 1866

The publication of Les Fleurs Du Mal by Charles Baudelaire in 1857 can rightly be judged as the birth of Modernity. Baudelaire’s innovation wasn’t in style or technique, but in the bold, shocking subject matter, (that would lead to obscenity trials) and its depiction of a sordid, urban milieu. As well as the poems themselves, Baudelaire as a perceptive art critic would have a great influence upon emerging young artists determined to break with convention and tradition, notably Edouard Manet (see Olympia Press: A Brief History of DBs which features his groundbreaking painting Olympia from 1863).

The great realist Gustave Courbet was  directly inspired by Baudelaire’s poem Femmes damnees Delphine et Hippolyte (Damned Women Delphine and Hippolyte) from Les Fleurs du mal in his masterful  erotic painting Le Sommeil (The Sleepers) from 1866. This provocative depiction of lesbianism  with its compelling, and at the time completely new, realism led to a police report and removal for display when first exhibited  in 1872. Le Sommeil was not subsequently allowed to be publicly shown until 1988.

1866 was also the year that Courbet completed a commission for his most famous erotic painting L’Origine du monde (The Origin of the World) with its graphic close up view of a naked woman’s genitals and abdomen. In February 2016 a Parisian court ruled that Facebook may be sued in France for removing the image from users pages.

Origin-of-the-World-Gustave Courbet 1866
The Origin of the World-Gustave Courbet 1866

(This is a revised version of a post that originally appeared here September 2016, in order for to fit in with the Dreams of Desire Series. If you like this post or my many other stories, poems, essays then my collection Motion No. 69 will be available for sale on 30th November 2017.)

The Illustrated Unmade Again

My good friend and talented artist S.R has illustrated my erotic short story Unmade Again. Her distinctive drawings have previously graced An Illustrated Promise of Paradise. If you like the below story, my collection Motion No. 69, fulsomely illustrated by T.Kiros will be available this Thursday November 30th, 2017.

unmade-car

Murky, very very murky, decidedly, definitely so –how else could I describe my motives for not fucking Margot. Before getting in the car I stared up at the window where I had just left Margot lying unclothed and spread-eagled on the mussed-up bed. That thought made me hesitate for a moment, but I got in the car anyway and started the ignition.

As I drove at speed through the somnolent streets of her neighbourhood I was in considerable physical discomfort. Pressing my crotch against the steering wheel afforded some relief but what I really needed was the release that can only be obtained through the agency of the other, the rapture of bodies mingling and dissolving in unison until the mutual, desired annihilation of orgasm.

So why the fuck hadn’t I? I thought to myself bitterly as the car jolted over a series of speed bumps. Of course, I could try to convince myself that I was being virtuous by remaining faithful to my wife, but it was going to be a hard sell as the taste of her salty, yet curiously perfumed secretions were on my tongue and coated the inside of my mouth.

Besides, there had been that episode with the plump girl at the chemists even though that had been something of a disappointment to all concerned.

I couldn’t return to work in this state and going home was out of the question, so I merged onto the freeway and headed north towards the suburbs.

Really the whole situation was ridiculous. Here I was driving pointlessly past the strips malls and industrial parks with the semen slowly seeping out of my penis and staining my boxers when I could be enjoying a post coital nap in the arms of a pretty girl.

However, it was absurd that I had somehow become entangled with a girl almost half my age in the first place. That’s not to say that Margot wasn’t smart and precocious for her age but at the end of the day she had just turned eighteen. I pretty much guessed from the start that she was looking for someone to have her first time with before leaving for college. First time with a man that is. From the texture of her kisses and the evasive answers she gave to my leading questions I knew she wasn’t as innocence as she made out, however I figured her experience didn’t extend beyond dormitory romances in that fancy all girls boarding school of hers. Which only increased my attraction to Margot, I’m sorry to say.

Mind you I liked her looks from the moment I saw her. For a split second I almost mistook her for a boy although this was partly due to her been kitted out in the runner’s uniform of black shirt and trousers. She looked so young and frail that her presence amidst the heat and noise of the kitchen of the Mahogany Rooms seemed completely incongruous. What was she doing there? Obviously working but a more unlikely candidate for the position of runner could not be imagined.

Intrigued I sauntered slowly up to the table where she was methodically cutting up a loaf of crusty bread and arranging the slices in metal baskets. Composing my features to look enigmatic I breathed a deep hello. She looked up briefly and gave me a hard stare before returning to her task without saying a word. So much for elective affinities I thought and carried on home.

After a couple of rather more circumspect approaches that yielded the exact same results I gave up trying to engage her. Yet on several occasions I caught her intently staring. She would immediately lower her eyes and would pretend to be absorbed in whatever mundane task she had in hand. What was her problem with me?

I tried not to think about her, but her image always appeared while I made love to Sarah. Brief fantasies of her slender body, her long fingers clumsily grasping my penis, those staring eyes boring into my soul and reading there my polluted desires immediately culminated in a climax of hitherto unknown intensity. Afterwards as Sarah sought the perfect position in her sleep and she tossed and turned I would lie unmoving, staring into the darkness, completely devastated by an aching sense of utter dissolution.

unmade-girlThis wasn’t the first time I’d had an unreciprocated crush of course, but never before had I been so possessed with want.

I had hoped that as this lustful itch was just another diseased product of my overactive imagination which I would tire off when nothing happened. I knew that given time this too would pass before fading away even from memory.

She had other plans however. She’d been waiting all along.

Is there anything more exhausting than driving without a set destination? I had no place to go but home, yet I had to do something that would delay my arrival for as long as possible without being too late or in too much of a state as to arouse suspicions. I stopped at a strip mall coffee shop. Maybe caffeine would straighten out my endlessly circling thoughts.

*

Yes, Margot had plans. At some point she had decided to include me in these plans of hers. Of course, I was totally oblivious of all this when I came across her struggling to fill the ice bin while I was completing my stock take. Being at heart an old-fashioned gentleman I offered and proceeded to shovel the ice for her. Margot (though at that point I was still unaware of her name) came out with from 1984 and so, me being the argumentative person that I am, countered that I always preferred Brave New World. She asked me why as she hadn’t read that particular book, but would make a point of keeping a look out. Eager, so very eager and so easily impressed. I made a quick mental note to tread carefully, yes sir, very carefully indeed.

But of course, I didn’t. I rushed in like I always do and without hesitation agreed to see her outside of work and after that I suppose you could say that one thing led to another but that’s not how it seemed during the moments we shared. It felt more like I had found a fellow traveller; an accomplice to guilty pleasure, a partner in grubby crime. Which made ours a gloomy affair, intensely focused on the inevitability of its dissolution and the rapidly diminishing amount of time left available to us. Even on those languid afternoons when I would kiss and caress her neck, breasts, navel, cunt and the minutes would stretch and expand into a preview of eternity I was still oppressed by the knowledge that this was going to end sooner rather than later.

I couldn’t postpone my homecoming any longer. Hopefully the coffee and the constant cigarettes would mask the taste of Margot on my breath but to be doubly careful I brought a pack of mints which I rolled around my mouth while I was caught up in the constant snarl ups.

unmade-mirror (1)Sarah was busy preparing dinner when I arrived home, enabling me to go upstairs and brush my teeth and change. When I came down she launched into a long-detailed account of her day. At the appropriate moments I would insert what I guessed where the correct comments but all the while I was re-staging my latest encounter with Margot, the sensation of satiny smoothness as my fingertips tracing intricate patterns on her inner thigh, the willowy wands of her arms outstretched over her head, the miracle of firm youthful flesh yielding against the weight of my own body, skin on skin, world without end, amen.

After dinner when we were comfortably entwined on the sofa watching TV Sarah remarked that I seemed rather distant tonight and asked me what was troubling me. I made a feeble excuse about a hard day at work which, thankfully, she didn’t ask me to elaborate on. I made sure to pay attention after that, even though I was developing a dread of the moment when we finally turned in for the night and went to bed.

I knew that Sarah was definitively in the mood by the way she took me by the hand and led me upstairs. I, however, was torn. On one hand my balls had been aching all day long after the frustrations of the afternoon and there was nothing more I longed for than to bury my prick deep inside Sarah and yet on the other I felt that such an act would be a betrayal. A double betrayal in fact. I would be betraying Margot by jumping into bed with my wife and by doing so, as a means to assuage to my lust for Margot I would be betraying Sarah.

Before, admittingly, I had derived a dubious delight in whispering in Margot’s ear full details of my latest couplings with Sarah while I stroked Margot’s slick clitoris and then to gain further devious pleasure later on when I would re-imagine the whole scene as Sarah straddled my hips with her eyes averted as I talked non-stop of touching, kissing, licking, fucking another girl while she watched until she came with a heart-rending sigh and I would shudder at her unwitting complicity. However now that Margot was leaving and there was no knowing when we would next see each other again, if ever, I felt a bizarre sense of loyalty for the girl as well as the stirrings of a probably long overdue guilt towards Sarah.

In bed Sarah made her intentions clear by sweeping her hair back and exposing her slim neck. unmade-womanHaving her neck kissed was always the prelude to sex. As my tongue and lips travelled downwards towards her shoulders I knew I could put an end to her amorousness by simply sinking my teeth into the delicate skin and bite down hard. Sarah didn’t like me to play too rough except on specially designated occasions. I couldn’t bring myself to do it however, some rogue scruple had taken hold of me and instead I suggested that we try something different.

 

Sarah was initially coy but soon relented when I said that it would be like the old days again when the first flush of love had led us to try everything every which way.

Propping herself up with right arm Sarah raised her body over mine, her knees either side of my closed legs, her cunt just centimetres above my erect penis. At my urging she wetted her middle finger of her left hand and placed it inside herself. Studying her closely I put my right hand on my cock and gently pulled my foreskin down and then up. Soon we were in a rhythm set by my words. When I could see that Sarah was approaching orgasm I would slow the tempo down, dragging out the climax until the tension became unbearable. Towards the end I broke my own rule and raised my left hand to her mouth. She grabbed my wrist and brought my fingers into her mouth which she proceeded to suck and nibble. I remembered from somewhere that this was a sign of orgiastic tendencies.

Afterwards as I drifted to asleep with Sarah in my arms I wondered who hadn’t heard the call of the orgy at some point or another in their lives. Liberation from the self-amidst the writhing bodies. Endless replication in a succession of mirrors. Tender, trembling virgins laid out star-wise within sacrificial circles. An abstracted conceptualization of the act in of itself, divorced from any affect. Recently I had become obsessed by the idea that I would never be really be satisfied until every conceivable act of sexual intercourse in the world had occurred; until the very idea of sex itself was spent. When that day did dawn, though, surely it would herald the apocalypse?

Lovesick and haunted by all the disappointments that attend a failed betrayal I pretend to be sick so that I could stay at home for the rest of the week.

Lying in bed desperately seeking the oblivion of sleep that managed to elude me I realized that Margot wasn’t the first girl I had treated in this fashion. In fact, it was a trait of mine not to sleep with women that I truly craved.

I had tried to forget about them but now the memories returned to taunt me, all my lost loves, those unfulfilled romances, the unmade girls.

Susannah with her depthless blue eyes, delicate ankles, translucent Nordic skin that bruised so easily and so beautifully. Nadine whispering in the taxi as I fumbled with her bra-strap that her fantasy was to be raped. Sharon and her heavy breasts, blood coloured knickers and neurotic hesitation. Rebecca who I shared a flat with for a time and always held my eye as she was being fucked by her Australian boyfriends. Elizabeth and the swish of the riding crop. Georgina, poor little rich girl Georgina at 5:15 am in her massive, empty apartment in Cromwell Gardens after a coke and vodka fuelled night, asking me to stroke her hair, but even this contact was almost too much for us in our brittle state. Brooke, but I try not to remember Brooke in case my heart breaks all over again, even after all this time. However, I cannot escape the knowledge that I have tried to suppress for a while now, that in many ways Margot bears an uncanny resemblance to Brooke; and not just in looks either.

All those girls, where have they gone, and do they think of me like I think of them? What we could have been and what have we become? So how I come I still remember them when I forgotten the girls I did sleep with? Is my nature that perverse?

Yes, it is. Deep down I always knew it, but it took Margot to bring it to the surface. She has unwittingly led me to a place within that I had no desire to explore, into a dark alley where hell is always around the corner.

No doubt her leaving has left me feeling aggrieved and bruised. Like a fluffer after she has finished getting the cast ready for the action that is commencing elsewhere, or like a pimp that has studiously groomed his girl in preparation for turning her out only to find that some bolder, badder pimp had stolen her and beaten him to the punch.

Undoubtedly, I had done my damnest to subtly corrupt her. Otherwise what was the point of all the dirty talk, libertine novels and artful erotica if not to seduce her? But what exactly had I achieved? Was her body to be a banquet and I alone denied a taste of her succulent sweetmeats?

Visions of her kept me up at night. Looking in the mirror after going to the toilet I saw that my brown eyes had gone grey in hue.

In the small hours I really started to lose it. I pictured Margot as some divine slut, the beloved whore of my heart. I could imagine her eyes closing as her mouth closed around the flaccid member of some aging professor… been spied on in the changing rooms of an upscale department store by a handsome middle aged lady store clerk…in the showers after a morning swim been soaped between the legs by a pretty baby dyke with blank doll like features…taking home smooth faced incipient queers from the student bar…on her hands and knees being ridden from behind…her fist inside the womb of a sad-eyed woman with large breasts…and most compellingly of all Margot, just Margot legs wide open with her fingers moving across the inverted triangle of hair searching for the hollow opening…the mark of rapture on her features…

After a few days I returned to work to avoid a trip to the doctor. For a while I thought about visiting Margot but decided it was a little early at my age to have a full-blown mid-life crisis. I promised to Sarah that I would help more around the house. Soon, perhaps I will re-read Crebillion fils Les Égarements du coeur Et de l’esprit.

Dreams of Desire 65 (Ingres)

jean-auguste-dominique-ingres-the-turkish-bath[1]
The Turkish Bath-Jean Auguste Dominque Ingres 1862-1863
The French Revolution had swept away the frivolous excesses of Rococo (see Dreams of Desire 64 (Boucher’s Odalisques) and two competing tendencies dominated French during the first half of the Nineteenth Century: the wild grandiose Romanticism of Delacroix and the somber, stately Neo-Classicism best personified by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres.

Ingres painted a number of important erotic paintings including the Valpinçon Bather of 1808, La Grande Odalisque of 1814 and L’Odalisque à l’esclave from 1839, however his most famous painting is The Turkish Bath from 1862-1863, completed when Ingres was 83 years old.

Portraying a group of nude women in a bath at a harem, The Turkish Bath is suffused with a lush hothouse atmosphere that heightens the erotic charge of the painting. Ingres erotic works would have a major impact upon the Modernists including Picasso and Matisse while the Post Modernist German artist Gerhard Richter would base his painting Bathers upon Ingres’s masterpiece.

the_valpincon_bather[1]
The Valpincon Bather-Ingres 1808
Jean_Auguste_Dominique_Ingres,_La_Grande_Odalisque,_1814[1]
La Grand Odalisque-Ingres 1814

Odalisque_with_Slave_-_Ingres
Odalisque with Slave-Ingres 1839

(Just a reminder to inform you that my book Motion No. 69 is available from November 30th 2017 from Amazon).

 

 

Not a Black Friday Promo

The Red and the... ...Black
The Red and the… …Black

I am firmly of the ‘When in Rome’ school, so during the time I lived in America I would observe the annual hype, hysteria and the footage of grown adults trample toddlers underfoot in their rush to obtain the latest must have thingamajig or yoke that seems to attend every Black Friday with bemused indulgence. After all we used to have the January Sales over here back in the day, which was something similar, if slightly more restrained and less in your face.

But that was in America. Now Black Friday has now officially an event everywhere, without even the context and excuse of Thanksgiving. The January Sales start on Boxing Day/St Stephens Day (or, as it known in America, the day after Christmas) though with all the once in a fucking lifetime extravaganzas and bonanzas that we are incessantly informed about every waking moment it has been somewhat diluted. But then Mammon really is the God of the world, possessing an all seeing eye that never sleeps, constantly weighing our worth.

So this is definitely not a Black Friday promo, however I suppose it is good a time as any to remind readers that my collection Motion No. 69 will be published in six days, that’s right, just six days on Thursday November 30th 2017 at 3:23PM GMT.

I could say that the below clip has some connection with the post, (maybe something about group conformity and/or temptation) but that would be stretching it even by my relaxed standards. So just enjoy a clip from the 1973 movie The Wicker Man which features a haunting and yet bawdy (a maid that milks a bull?) song.

Olympia Press: A Brief History of DBs

olympia[1]
Olympia-Edouard Manet 1863
On James Joyce’s 40th birthday, February 2nd 1922, the Paris based American owner of Shakespeare and Company Sylvia Beach published Joyce’s controversial novel Ulysses, excerpts of which had already been the subject of obscenity trials in the United States. It was immediately banned in both the US and the UK, a ban that was to remain in force for over a decade. However in France, where the book was printed and published, Ulysses was freely available as the French authorities had decided that they couldn’t possibly rule on the possible obscenity and artistic merits of a book in a foreign language.

Jack Kahane, born into a wealthy industrialist family of Jewish origin in Manchester, England and living in Paris with his French wife saw a business opportunity. Kahane was himself a novelist of mildly racy lightweight novels, however he had bigger ambitions and so he founded the Obelisk Press (with a suitably phallic logo).The business model was simple; he would buy out the rights of a novel that was encountering legal difficulties at a bargain basement price and then issue his own edition, with half the cover emblazoned with a BANNED IN…thus ensuring healthy sales from the prurient and/or curious travellers passing through Paris. Mixed in with the heavyweight avant-garde novels that included works by Cyril Connolly, Lawrence Durrell, Anais Nin and re-issues of D.H Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Radclyffe Hall’s early lesbian novel The Well of Loneliness were novels of a much more dubious literary pedigree, in other words pornography. Kahane’s greatest succes de scandale however was undoubtedly the publication in 1934 of Henry Miller’s  Tropic of Cancer, with its bold language and sexually explicit descriptions.

Kahane whose health was ruined by his experiences in WWI died on the day that WWII was declared. His son Maurice stayed in Paris and changed his name from the Jewish Kahane to his mother’s maiden name Girodias and took over the family business of publishing DBs (dirty books). It is not sure how he survived the war in occupied Paris, though it was probably a combination of his wily charm and his instincts as a born survivor, instincts that there were to serve him well in his eventful and strife-filled life.

After the war Girodias expanded operations of the Obelisk Press, however the publication of Henry Miller’s Sexus set off a storm of outrage in France that resulted in obscenity trials and imprisonment. Although he managed to get out of jail Girodias was bankrupt and he had to surrender control of Obelisk. This setback, however, only spurred Girodias on and soon he was launching a new venture entitled Olympia Press, so-called because of its similarity to the name of his father’s Obelisk Press and the famous Manet painting of 1863 (see above) of a courtesan whose bold stare confronts the viewer that caused such a sensation on its first showing.

After a particularly cold and difficult winter Girodias came across a group of hungry British and American expatriates writers for the literary review Merlin. He suggested that the best way for them to earn a crust was to write DBs (under preposterous pseudoymns) for his new series the Traveller’s Companion. The group included the brilliant Scottish writer and later Situationist Alexander Trocchi, John Stevenson, Iris Owens and Christopher Logue. Girodias would pay $500 upfront and a further $300 if the title was reprinted. There was no question of the author getting royalties.

Following in the tradition established by his father Girodias also published avant-garde fiction. As well as works by Henry Miller he published Samuel Beckett, Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, William Burrough’s The Naked Lunch, Pauline Reage’s (pseudonym of Sadean scholar Jean Paulhan’s lover Anne Desclos) The Story of O which is undoubtedly the classic text of sado-masochism, Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg’s erotic romp Candy, Jean De Berg’s (a pseudoymn of Catherine Robbe-Grillet, wife of the founder of the nouvelle roman Alain Robbe-Grillet) The Image. The Olympia Press also commissioned the first English  translations of De Sade’ s 120 Days in Sodom and Philosophy in the Boudoir.

Unsurprisingly, given the incendiary, explicit and subversive nature of the work published and Girodias’s unfortunate habit of failing to pay his authors, resulted in numerous, ruinous legal difficulties. He was involved in protracted disputes with Nabokov, Terry Southern and the author of The Ginger Man, J.P Donleavy who eventually brought the Olympia Press after a twenty year legal battle in a supposedly closed auction. The collusion of the French, British and American authorities led to his prosecution in 1964 for publishing The Story of O that led to a year in prison, a $20,000 fine and a ban from publishing for twenty years, the most severe penalty ever imposed in France.

After a brief spell as a nightclub owner he moved operations to New York where he holed up in the Chelsea Hotel (where else) and published Valerie Solanas radical feminist pamphlet the  S.C.U.M Manifesto. Solanas became convinced that Girodias and Warhol were in a plot together to screw her out of money and on the day she shot Warhol she first appeared at the Chelsea Hotel intending to shot Girodias, but as he was out she then went in search of Warhol (this is at least Girodias’s account, however as a natural self-promoter and consummate con-man  it is not necessarily to be believed).

Girodias was 71 when he suffered a heart attack while giving an interview for Jewish Community Radio in Paris, resulting in Girodias dying on air. Although Girodias undoubtedly was a deeply flawed and somewhat unscrupulous individual, he published books no other publisher would even look at and he dared to take on the courts and the censors. Girodias, carrying on the work of his father changed the cultural landscape of the mid-twentieth century inexorably.

p04d9qw6[1]
Maurice Girodias (Trouble-maker, womanizer and undoubted bon vivant)

An Illustrated Promise of Paradise

As I have been writing about birds in art, film and literature this week I am rather cheekily including my own short story A Promise of Paradise, which has been published on here before, however now including brand spanking new and rather wonderful illustrations by sueblackpenart.

If you enjoy the story, my collection Motion No. 69 will be available for sale November 30th 2017 (3:23PM GMT to be precise), fully and marvellously illustrated by T.Kiros.

A Promise of Paradise

promise of paradise header

1.

Sara was sickening for something. Every day Alex had noticed that she was a little more drawn, a little more drained. Upon awakening he saw that her pale skin was flushed with fever. He felt her forehead and nudged Sara awake.

“You’re burning up, baby,” he whispered.

“I know, I don’t feel so good,” she replied drowsily. Her breathing was a ragged gasp, sweet with distemper.

“I should really get you to a doctor,” Alex suggested.

“I don’t have a doctor down here. The only doctor I know is the family doctor back home. I have never really needed one, apart from my bout of anaemia.”

“Well I think you need one now Sara, I’m worried about you. Don’t they have to take you on as a patient if you turn up at the practice?”

“Not sure about that really. Look it isn’t that serious, just a touch of the flu. A couple of days in bed will see me right. Besides, I hate doctors, they give me the creeps. The only person I want examining me is you, Alex.”

Alex felt that Sara was deluding herself as to the extent of her illness but was relieved at the same time that she didn’t want to see a doctor. He shared her aversion to the medical profession; found their probing of orifices and suggestive personal questioning highly intrusive. He doubted if there was a career more suited to people who held a deep-seated grudge against the human race. “Well if you say so. But if it gets any worse you will have to go. And while I’m at work you need to look after yourself. Fags and fever don’t mix so now would be a good time to give up. Plus, only one drink a day, a hot whiskey before you go to bed. And certainly nothing else. Do you understand me, Miss Essein? Now don’t go making that face at me Sara.”

Sara’s grey eyes had clouded over further while she put an elegant hand over her mouth to cover a large yawn.

“Aye aye Captain,” she saluted Alex, as he rose from the bed.

“I’m serious Sara. Do you want me to be worried sick about you all day, so worried that I wouldn’t be able to concentrate?”

“Do you have to go to work today? Can’t you pull a sickie and stay home to look after me? Please, Alex, you know that we would have such fun.”

He found the cigarette pack and took two cigarettes out. He lit the first with a yellow disposal lighter and lit Sara’s from his own. He passed the cigarette over to her.

“Thanks, well, I thought I wasn’t supposed to smoke.” Sara said as she drew on the cigarette, her eyes half closing.

“Sorry, well one wouldn’t kill you I suppose. You know I can’t take off; things are dicey enough at the moment without going AWOL. I promise I will call as soon as I get a chance. Please don’t pout baby. How about I make you a nice cup of tea and a bit of toast before I leave?”

“Honestly Alex I don’t know why you bother. You’re far too intelligent to be doing that job and be taking orders from that pig Wilkinson. It’s not like they pay you that well either.”

“You know I can’t stand it Sara but it’s only for the time being. As soon as something better comes along I’m on it. In the meantime, we have to have money coming in, don’t we?”

“You worry too much about money. You know my father would be more than happy to contribute to his little girl’s well-being.”

“I don’t want to go down that route Sara. I know I that I have never had any money, but I also have my pride to think of. I look after my own.”

“Does your precious pride mean that you have to neglect me, when I’m so sick? Fine, just go on to your job then,” with those words Sarah buried her face into the pillow.

“Do you want that tea and toast before I go?”

Sara lifted her face up for the pillow. “If it will ease your conscience, certainly.”

*

Out on street, though, Alex started to fret. Already he was missing her. He hated not having Sara in his sights. He felt at a loss and incomplete.

Although he had left only five minutes ago he felt a sickening nostalgia for the airless atmosphere of their bedroom.

I really must concentrate, he thought. You can’t live on love alone; you have to earn your crust, contribute to society, so they’ll leave you in relative peace; be a worker bee, a drone.

The train was overflowing as usual and Alex found himself squashed between an old African lady and an attractive pony tailed blonde who bore a passing resemblance to Sara. The old anxiety descended upon Alex, his mind overwhelmed by the undisclosed contents of all these other personalities with no relationship to himself. What, exactly, was the Sara clone thinking right now? Did she feel that her undoubted looks set her on a level above the nobodies surrounding her, who could only gawp and gape? Or maybe she was just thinking about her lunch hour. And the old biddy who was disintegrating as she rocked back and forth in her much-prized seat; was she remembering the time when she was young and pretty and had no knowledge of the inevitable decay and dissolution that faced her?

These projected imaginings of other people’s thoughts temporarily coloured the terrifying blankness of Alex’s mind but quickly became draining. What would they say if they saw into his own internal landscape? Would they see only an empty world with a cloudless blue sky; a place as vacuous as an award-winning ultra-modernistic glass office block? Or are other people simply too self-absorbed to concern themselves with the unanswerable enigma of other people?

His thoughts quickly returned to Sara; these days they never strayed far for long. A vague premonition (aren’t they always vague, but no less disturbing for that?) that her illness was far more serious than either of them suspected haunted his mind. It wasn’t just a cold or flu or some other common or garden ailment. It was something else, some other illness. Exactly what, he had no idea, however he knew, just knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had to return home straight away. The hotel would just have to carry on without him today. Wilkinson wouldn’t be happy, but he felt sure that he could talk him around in time.

At the next stop Alex got off but instead of going over to the opposite station that would take him back towards home Alex heading towards the station exit. Maybe a spot of fresh air would do him good; make things appear in a clearer light. He went to a café and ordered a cup of coffee and sitting outside at a patio table smoked two cigarettes end to end. Perhaps he was exaggerating Sara’s condition. It wouldn’t be the first time that his imagination had run away with him. At school every teacher had seen fit to comment on his over active imagination. This time, though, he felt that his instincts were right. He stubbed out his third cigarette half way though and returned to the station and caught the train home. Before returning he stopped by the supermarket and stocked up on essentials, mainly drink as they had been going though their supplies rather rapidly lately.

As he opened his building’s door and walked through the lobby with its dulled chessboard marbling, he dimly realised that now that he was home again that there would be no going back from here on out.

*

Sara was dead to the world; the bedclothes had been kicked restlessly to the floor. Alex unpacked the groceries, poured himself a stiff drink as there was nowhere he now needed to be today and sat down in the decrepit bedroom chair. He always enjoyed watching Sara sleep. Her guard was down, and her vulnerability was on view. The childish habit of sucking her thumb explained her slight overbite which he found so endearing. Her shallow breathing highlighted her ribcage. Alex could count the ribs; usually he got to eight but lately with the illness the flesh had melted off her already slender frame so now ten ribs on either side were exposed.

The telephone started ringing from their small living room and Alex tensed.

He was certain that it was Wilkinson calling about his absence; however, he was in no mood to talk to Wilkinson, so he let the machine get it. He was more concerned that the ringing would wake up Sara who quite obviously needed her rest. After the third call he disconnected the cord from the wall.

He would plug it back in tomorrow.

With the silence in the flat Alex had been about to nod off in the chair when Sara cried out and sat bolt upright in bed. Alex noticed her confusion as she looked around the room and noticed that he was there.

“Alex, you’re here. What time is it?”

“I don’t know, about one I think.”

“How come you are back home Alex, what happened to work?”

“Didn’t go. You were right; they can do without me for a day or two. I couldn’t leave my darling all alone when she’s sick could I? Even though you don’t seem that happy to see me.”

“I’m so happy to see you Alex. I was so miserable when you left this morning. It’s just that I had the most horrible dream,” she shivered at the memory.

Alex went over to the bed and after gathering a sheet from the floor wrapped it around Sara’s naked shoulder and pressed her close.

“Look at you, you are shivering. It’s OK baby, I’m here, I’m here.”

“It was so awful Alex. I’m so glad that you came home. It’s terrible to have a nightmare in the middle of the day. I know other people’s dreams don’t make any sense but if I tell you it might make it go away.

“I was walking on a deserted platform of an underground station. I was wearing my grey winter coat; you know the one, the one with a patterned lining.”

Alex nodded.

“Well it was stiflingly hot down there, especially with my coat, so I sat down at one of the benches. The indicator was down as usual. The tunnels kept zooming in and out before shutting up like a telescope. The only other living thing on the platform was a beautiful white dove. Its whiteness was so pure compared to the dingy yellow of the walls and the impenetrable blackness of the tunnels. I felt that if I could follow the dove to where it had come from that I would find a wonderful place without pain or sickness or fear. That dove was like a promise of paradise.

“I waited for a long time and nothing happened. No other passengers, and no train came, and the dove remained perched on one of the other benches, motionless.

“Coming from nowhere Alice sat down next to me. She looked different, she had gone all gothicky. She was wearing all black, her hair was dyed black and she wore thigh highs. What with the bright red lipstick and nail polish and her pale skin the effect was rather striking. She looked like a vampire dominatrix. Well you know what Alice is like.”

Alex did indeed know Alice was like and hated her for it. It wounded him that Sara was dreaming of that bitch.

“Daaarling, my god it has been a long time no see. Have you been avoiding me,” Sara continued, mimicking perfectly Alice’s plum posh accent. “I didn’t know what to say; after all I have been avoiding her somewhat, so I said that of course I haven’t, just been busy with one thing and another.

“Alice forgives you, this time and this time only. You are lucky I’m so sweet-natured. It is fantastic to see you again, even if I had to go to such extraordinary lengths to get even just a peek at you again.”

“This seemed a strange thing to say but I put it out of my mind.

“Are you heading up West, Alice? When is the train coming? I feel like I have been waiting forever.”

“No Sara, I’m going nowhere but here. Don’t you know where we are?”

“At the train station,” I answered.

“Yes Sara, the station where the train never stops. Not ever, ever, ever…”

“As Alice was speaking I noticed red bumps appear above her right eyebrow. Soon they joined together and formed an ugly-looking blotch. Alice did not seem aware of anything, just went on talking but I wondered how she could be unaware of such painful seeming hives. She was gesticulating wildly, the heavy silver bracelets flailing. At this point the dove flew over and perched on Alice’s left shoulder. Alice paid the bird no notice even when it started pecking at her temple. Soon her forehead was nothing more than a bloody gash as the dove kept on pecking. With impeccable timing the dove’s beak pierced a twitching vein causing a shower of blood to drench my coat and face, I wanted to scream but couldn’t. How could Alice remain so composed, she hadn’t missed a beat, when all this was happening?

The face consuming splotch had reached her cheeks. Hesitantly, almost tenderly the dove drove its beak into Alice’s left eye. It plucked out the eyeball and swallowed before proceeding to do the same to the right eye. Its purpose served the dove flew away lazily, its blood-stained plumage shimmering exotically. I wanted to escape but the sight of Alice’s face, which was now completely red, competing rash and blood stains with accents of smeared lipstick, not to mention the horror of absent eyes paralyzed me.

promise of paradise sarah

“But this was too much.” She had grabbed hold of my wrists and she leans towards me with her tongue, which resembled a piece of under cooked veal, protruding obscenely from hemorrhaging lips.

“We were rocketing above the city now, thousands of streets and millions of people streaming beneath our feet. I just wanted my feet back down on the ground but Alice’s grip on my wrists was so tight that little crescents of blood had formed beneath her fingernails and there was no avoiding that devouring mouth no matter how I twisted and turned, except to fall…

“At that I woke up, Thank God, and found you here.”

After Sara had finished Alex was silent. She obviously needed to be comforted after such a nightmare, but he couldn’t think of anything to say that would assuage her terror. He kissed her softly on the forehead.

“What do you think it means?” she asked hopefully.

“Nothing Sara, it’s just a dream. You’re ill and you have a fever. Fever dreams are often particular vivid. It’s only a dream and nothing more. Anyway, you have nothing to worry about now. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

II.

A Promise of Paradise Salon

After a sleepless night Alex stirred from bed to call Wilkinson to tell him that he wouldn’t be back at work for a couple of days. He remembered pulling the cord out from the wall but couldn’t recall cutting it. It had been completely severed. Obviously calling was out of the question, he would have to walk three blocks to the nearest phone box and it would probably be vandalised anyway. He could ask the neighbours, but he had never met them, so he presumed his request would be met only with blank stares. Oh well he thought that’s that job gone then. They would be OK for money for a little while, they probably had enough in the bank to cover the rent and bills for two maybe three months. As for being without a phone, Alex was actually quite relieved. Who did they need to speak to apart from themselves? Not Alice or Wilkinson or her father or his mother certainly. Sara must feel the same otherwise she would not have cut the cord. At last they would be alone together without any outside distractions.

Although Sara’s worsening condition was a cause of considerable concern for Alex in the following days he secretly welcomed it for several reasons, though not without guilt. For now, Sara had real need of him in her weakened state and relied upon him for everything. He cooked all her meals and administrated her medicine. He dressed and bathed her. This coolly perfect woman was totally dependent upon him and he in turn was her willing servant, slavishly satisfying even her most bizarre whims. The second reason was the sex. The fever had unlocked something inside Sara and now she made love vociferously, urgently. Their previous kisses and embraces seemed polite, formal; almost abstract in contrast to the intensely wanton caresses Sara now lavished on Alex. Never had Alex known such rapture. Every passing day and night confirmed Alex’s initial revelation upon first seeing Sara; that he had to possess her totally, whatever the cost. As she gazed down upon him, smiling her slightly asymmetrical smile, the one flaw that in the manner of a baroque painting made her perfection unique he knew that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep hold of her. Alex wanted Sara to stay down here with him forever.

It was inevitable really that Alex would succumb to the sickness in time, given that she never left his side or that his body had absorbed all her secretions. Every salty drop of her blood, sweat and tears.

A Promise of Paradise Illness

The sickness started with the world dividing itself into a complicated grid except for the centre which was a black and white tunnel. The peripheral pattern consisted of various nauseating clashes of neon primary colours. To escape the electric disturbances of the periphery he descended down the tunnel. Alex’s head exploded with the pain. Every sense impression was an infernal torture. He didn’t move for two days. Then the fever began. Alternating periods of equatorial heat and arctic chill. Nightmare ridden delirium or a disturbing lucidity. Pre-occupied as Alex was with his own condition, he could hardly fail to notice that Sara was rapidly deteriorating. She would spend hours in the bathroom eking out the last strand of bile from her shrinking stomach. An angry rash had appeared on her left arm constantly screaming to be scratched. Laying his head on her breast and listening to Sara’s heartbeat he had detected a definite arrhythmia. With these proliferating symptoms and his own sickness Alex knew that they had to see a doctor but the thought of venturing outside the flat brought on severe panic attacks that resulted in spells of hysterical blindness. In his mind their mutual illness was forging a bond that could never be broken. Soon he wouldn’t be able to tell where he began and Sara ended.

Diurnal time had ceased. The heavy blackout curtains cut out all light, so it was neither night nor day just an unceasing now. Time without season, without reason or rhythm, in retreat they made their own weather. Their disintegration was reflected in their surroundings. The kitchen roof sagged with the rain. Sections of the support beams in the bedroom ceiling were exposed as parts of the panelling fell. The sinks drained on some glacial time scale; a millimetre every millennium. The toilet had to be constantly plunged. Bags of rubbish were strewn around the kitchen floor. Every inch of counter space was covered with haphazardly stacked dirty dishes and glasses in constant danger of toppling. Even the television had turned a strange shade of blue, a cause of paranoid consternation. Alex became convinced that it was leaking radiation, which resulted in mutations to their basic genetic structure which was the cause for their various afflictions. However, no improvement was apparent after Alex had kicked the screen in. Most seriously of all they were almost out of food; even taking into account their decreased appetites Alex knew their supply could not hold out for much longer. Sooner rather than later something would have to give, one way or another.

III.

“Can’t you sleep either?” Sara asked.

“No, yet I am so tired. I haven’t slept for ages,” Alex replied.

“It’s this itchiness with me, God I just wish I could scratch this arm.”

“Don’t Sara. You don’t want scars all over your arm, do you? And it will cause it to spread.”

“I know. It’s just really hard not to. Why can’t you sleep?”

“Well, apart from feeling absolutely awful, I’m afraid to go to sleep. I keep having this nightmare about my father.”

“But you never knew your father Alex. Didn’t he die when you were a baby?”

“Yes, when I was nine months old. I often wondered about that coincidence. Officially the verdict was misadventure, but my mother told me that it was definitely a suicide.

“In the dream I am at my old house, my mother and step father have since moved. For some reason, although I am my current age I am wearing my school uniform, short trousers and a blue blazer with a stag’s head crest.

“On the dining room table is laid an open coffin. Inside is my father, although I have no recollection of his appearance I recognize the body from the one photo my mother kept. Though it is his funereal my father is not dead. However, I seem to be the only one to notice the fact. Nobody else is paying attention to the wide-open eyes roving back and forth. All my relatives and the other guests are too busy enjoying the champagne and the food served on trays by the exotic waiting staff.

A Promise of Paradise Dream 1

“Somebody passed by and told me a joke. I was already quite drunk and found the joke so funny that soon I was coughing. I coughed so hard that I coughed up some phlegm that landed on my father’s face. He glared at me through narrow eye slits. At first there was silence but then somebody started clapping and soon there were raucous cheers. My grandfather summoned a waiter to bring me a bottle of whiskey.

“In great spirits I went outside to the back garden with grandfather. From somewhere my grandfather had got hold of a double-barrelled shotgun and proceeded, with unerring accuracy, to despatch every bird in sight. He collared his son Chris to act as retriever, who on all fours would go lolloping across the suburban gardens and over fences to pick up the carcasses in his mouth and bring them back to deposit them at his father’s feet. Soon there was a hastily constructed pyramid of slaughtered pigeons, starlings, swallows, tits, orioles, pheasants, thrushes, grouse, peacocks, eagles, guinea fowl, sparrows, ravens, albatrosses, a dove, vultures and birds of paradise. When Chris placed a dodo on top of the heap it collapsed and entombed my grandfather.

“Back inside all decorum had been lost. Guilty as I felt about unleashing such fury against the defenceless remains of my father I could understand how the sheer helplessness of the corpse provoked everyone to commit further outrages. My mother tried to pull off their wedding ring, but it was struck fast. Next, she tried to lubricate the ring by sucking on her dead husband’s finger, but it still wouldn’t budge. I suggested cutting the finger off, after all what use did my dead dad have for it? Somebody went into the kitchen to get the knife.

“Even my stepfather, usually so gentle and placid, was affected by the atmosphere, stubbing out his cigarette in a pool of spit on my father’s cheek. The cigarette sizzled as it slowly extinguished, filling the air with an acrid smell of burnt, embalmed flesh.

“The revellers, for that is what they were really, were now engaging in the kind of senseless atrocities that marked the latter days of the Borgias. I would have been loath to witness such acts if I hadn’t somehow instigated them.

“This question haunts me though. I keep on thinking throughout that my father would have been better off dead. All the time, better off dead.”

*

When Alex saw Sara leaving he was afraid that their protective magic circle had been broken and that all the denizens of the lower depths would be let loose.

He had been too exhausted to stop her. As she packed her backpack and told him that there was a world outside these four walls, that she missed her family and friends, that she was better now, he had done nothing but lick his dry lips. He wasn’t sure if she was really preparing to depart or if it was just another hallucination. He was becoming increasingly prone to visions whose vividness made him question what was really happening anymore.

It was only after the front door had closed that he realised that she had really gone. Sara would return he reassured himself. She was far too ill not too. She had convinced herself that the illness was abating and that she was on the mend, but Alex knew that it was all wishful thinking, merely a brief respite.

Sara would return, but in the meantime Alex was tormented with jealously. He imagined her in increasingly perverse situations with a wide selection of men and women stroking and fondling her yielding flesh. Try as he might he couldn’t stop thinking of Sara in a variety of obscene postures. Her body was a banquet which the whole world feasting on; he alone was denied a taste of her succulent sweetmeats.

Most of all the image of Alice plagued Alex. Sara greeting Alice with arms wide open, their lips meeting and merging, fluttering tongues probing. He’d always known what Alice was after. He pictured her whispering in Sara’s ear; stroking her long blonde hair to reveal the exquisite swan neck before kissing and then sinking her teeth into the snow-white skin, drawing blood.

Alex realised this was the quickest route to insanity. Sara had only been gone an hour, what if she never came back? Then he would have to find her. Of course, it would be better if she returned of her own volition but if not then he would have to bring her back. How long could he wait before he ventured out onto the streets? Not long but he decided to give her a while yet. In the meantime, he had to do something. What exactly? He paced around the flat going from room to room. In the bathroom he searched the medicine cabinet which was still well stocked considering the number of pills they had been taking. He found a bottle of sleepers but rejected them as he wanted to be wide awake when Sara returned so chose instead some uppers. Closing the cabinet door, he caught his reflection. Alex had to admit that he looked dreadful. Unshaven with sunken eyes entrenched beneath the violet and purple circles. Before the sickness Sara had always shaved him with his old-fashioned cutthroat razor, the only possession that had been passed down to him from his father. He enjoyed the feeling of powerlessness that being shaved by Sara with a wickedly sharp razor blade brought. A moment’s distraction, a slip of the wrist and he could end up with a nasty cut at the very least.

*

He heard the key turn in the door and Alex forced himself to remain calm. She had come back of her own accord. But what if she was just returning to collect the rest of her belongings?

One look at her face as she entered the bedroom and Alex knew that he didn’t have to worry. Her shattered expression and the wan little smile that played upon her lips told Alex that Sara would never leave again.

He went over and gently embraced her. She rested her shoulder in the bony hollow of his shoulder. He stroked her hair while she cried.

“There there my love, don’t worry, you’re home now. No need to cry, you’re with daddy now.”

“Do you forgive me Alex?”

“Nothing to forgive my darling. You are back now, that’s all that matters. I wouldn’t let anything, or anybody ever hurt you again. I promise. You believe me, don’t you?”

“Of course, Alex. I will never leave you again. It was so strange out there, all the people rushing around and the noise and all the traffic. What’s it all for? I don’t think I could ever begin to understand. There must be something wrong with me; other people seem to get on just fine. What’s wrong with me Alex?” Sara had composed herself somewhat and looked into Alex’s eyes beseechingly.

“There is nothing wrong with you Sara. If there was something wrong with you then that would mean that I am messed up as well, because I feel the same. It’s just that we are not of this world, we feel things differently. There is nothing for it, Sara, we are what we are, and the world just is, and nothing will ever change.”

“I feel so sick. I thought I was getting better, but I feel worse than ever. Are we ever going to feel well again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we left it too late. Perhaps it will pass in time. I doubt it though.”

“So, what do we do now, Alex? I want to be with you forever but where do we go from here?”

Alex looked at Sara. Soon she would realise the inevitable.

“We could go travelling. I have always wanted to see Rio and we could go gambling in Vegas. I hear Hong Kong is wonderful. Wouldn’t that be lovely Alex? A change of scenery might make us feel better” Sara said hopefully.

“Of course we could Sara, but in the end it would only disappoint. We have already been there many times in our dreams and the reality will pale in comparison. At first it would be exciting and new but after a while every place becomes the same, just another hostile environment full of strangers. No amount of sunshine is going to cure us. The sickness is inside us. Besides wherever we are in the world we would still be ourselves. I suppose we could always get married.”

“Oh Alex, I want to be with you but not like that. Could you bear to see me aging: losing my looks, so that you have to take to drink, both of us numb and insensible to the point of stupidity. Our eyes dimming and the fire inside us quenched. No thank you. You have to come up with a better solution than that.”

“We could go our separate ways after all, but would it really be the same with someone else Sara?”

“No, I could never pretend that it would be Alex.”

“There is nothing else for it then, is there?”

“Just like we discussed that one time”

“Exactly like.”

“When?” Sara asked.

“Soon. Tonight,” Alex replied.

“Let’s push out the boat first, O.K., I am so exhausted, I don’t think I have the energy without something to keep me going.”

“Of course, a little artificial stimulus never hurts.” Alex went to the bathroom and ransacked the medicine cabinet. He selected a handful of violet pills which he hoped would be conducive to the mood and returned to the bedroom where Sara ate the pills from his hand. He swallowed the rest and they settled down to wait.

“How long now do you think?”

“Not long now. Don’t worry; just enjoy.”

passion

The hours rushed by. The moment came, and they knew. They rose at the same time and kissed before walking hand in hand to the bathroom.

Sara ran the water for a bath while Alex got out from the cabinet his shaving kit. Then he positioned the rickety chair so that he could see his face in the mirror. When the bath was full Sara took off her clothes. She mixed up the shaving soap and with the horsehair brush applied the lather to Alex’s face and neck.

“You remember what I told you don’t you Sara”

“Yes, always downwards never crossways.”

“That’s right. Don’t be scared, everything’s going to be alright” Sara hesitated. “Why do I have to wait? Couldn’t I go first?”

“Believe me it has to be this way. I couldn’t bear to be alone without you ever again. Before I met you, I was alone for my entire life. You already tortured me with your absence once today. I can’t be alone. Besides I don’t have your courage. Trust me, it won’t take long, and we will be together again soon.”

Sara nodded. She started shaving Alex’s cheeks. He watched her beautiful face in the mirror studying his face. Soon he was clean-shaven. Sara paused. He took her hand which held the razor and pressed it against the skin of his throat. This was the moment of truth. He was surprised to see himself sweating. He nodded upwards towards Sara and held her hand as she moved the blade. The razor blade broke the skin and the blood started flowing as Sara cut across his throat, going deeper. Alex willed himself to not utter a sound as the pain became unbearable. He saw that Sara’s face was tear-stained as she continued to slice with the blade. Before long she succeeded in severing an artery. He heard her cry out. Before losing consciousness, he saw Sara step into the steaming bath, the razorblade encrusted with blood poised ready in her left hand.