Short stories, articles and small novells covering a large range of subjects.
PROSE
In The Shade
The Soul of Writng
The Whisper of Immortal Poetry
White Iced Shores
Promise
Urban Amazon - Fighting With Pride
Urban Amazon - Ride the Wind
Urban Amazon – Respect all Beings
The Wedding
No Diamond Ring to swear On
Don’t Want to Grow Up
When I’ll Die
ARTICLES
The French
In the shade of a kiss and eclipsing lips you spread your mind on your morning pancake. Coffee, milk makes you feel life came out of an old movie with no sound. You plot it out sweeping the dust off your eyes and jam gets swallowed by colouring light. Heart inside out your coquillage for a few blinks, life and smiles pearl out your eyes.
Good morning sunshine.
It all starts here, between the Black and the White. Sugar’s brown.
Another white page stands up and you know in few hours you'll cover it up with this black ink you sometimes like to call your own blood. Flowers bloom on the corners, twisting and dancing along the border, along the words you wrote and re wrote over nights, words you crossed and released.
You write until the page curls up and refuses to lay flat anymore, so soaked with ink it wavers under your fingers. You learn the curves as well as the body of your lover, so touchable, so alive.
Words live. Words breath. They don't fit on one line all of a sudden or you don't do it the right way. Let them live. They are here to play, they are here to stay, and they’re here to meet. Intertwined to create new ways of telling yourself and others something else than what they see.
Write. First with your heart... then with your mind. The feeling will stay genuine and your mind will accomplish the prophecy of art though oxymoron, emphasis, graduation, metaphors... Don’t leave them draft or you don’t love them enough to be a writer. For all the love you have never given, give it to them and they will return. Always. As long as your pen will slide and ink won’t run dry, let it sail on this new ocean to be your creation. Your own creation. Your words. Life.
Whatever it takes, it does not matter anymore, you will split yourself and your guts on the walls of your own shelter and learn to feel this rush, grabbing your fevered heart so it can be left on the edge of your lips and become; Become the passion and the vital organ of one’s life beating deep within. Words. You run out of breath on this faithful love, tainting your eyes because its already burning into your veins and your soul, as a never ending burst of fire.
This print of your soul, The One you have long yearned for, is here before your eyes. This is who you are.
This is me.
It was the day I loved the sun, that I met him for the first time. I was walking along the green nature path following the rainbow of colours flowers had to offer with their own little wild life. It was warm, the stones were hot to the touch from the unceasing sun of the day. The great smell of delicious candy and waffles was floating in the air, bringing to my mouth the irresistible childish need of a blackcurrant icecream. I sat on a warm bench to enjoy its freshness when…
"Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt."
William Shakespeare just whispered in my ear. I did not look, I closed my eyes and listened to that voice as if I was listening to a story only I could hear. The euphoria of words made me drop my icecream on the floor but I did not feel it. It just slipped naturally. I let this deep voice read me poems and stories with no misspelling, in a gold perfection I had never heard, until the slightly fresh air came tickling my hair to let me know it was time to return home. The words never stopped as I walked away from the bench, the voice slowly fading away step by step, leaving me dreaming on my favourite cloud.
All night those words wandered in my mind, and I could find no sleep at all. They were too much of an ecstasy shared with a mystery. So I decided to go back on that bench the following day and sit there waiting for the divine voice to talk to the wind. And he talked to me, once again, until I was too far to hear it anymore, as if he didn’t know I was gone.
Since that first day he waited for me on that same bench in the park. Or maybe he waited for something else. He read me poetry until dawn, he was the only one to talk, and I listened to his words flowing in my soul.
Each day he knew I would come to meet him and sit next to him without a word or a glance. It was not indifference, it was just that I did not need to know anything else. I did not know his name, and he did not know mine – he was Shakespeare, he was Dante, he was Poe. He changed every day. I knew nothing at that time but the sound of his voice. “To imagine is everything, to know is nothing”.
Autumn chased the sun down faster than on summer nights. The light became distant as trees wrapped themselves into their orange-red dresses. The path was no longer sheltering the world of butterflies but it was an endless dance of warm colours on the ground. For two months now I had been coming every day at the same time to sit on that bench with a man I did not know. So one night, before the last rays of sunshine disappeared on the horizon, I looked the bearer of my voice, my knight, and I did not understand.
He did not hold a book in his hands. No book, nothing, but his voice kept sailing on thousand poems and words. He was looking down. My eyes settled on him ad he did not make a move. His thin lips kept moving onto “A dream within a dream” as if he could read unwritten lines on the leavess underneath our feet.
“-Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,…” he stopped.
My lips parted, as I was about to talk when for the very first time he talked to me in his own words.
- Can you hear ? It is starting…”
What was starting ? What did it mean ? All in a sudden the immortal writers of all time he read to me overflowed my mind as I realized these might not have been just random pieces of literature but they really meant something to him. For me. All that time I listened to him, he gave me a part of him through his voice.
A tear fell on my cheek but it was not mine. The sky seemed to slip, making plants shiver and dead leaves sing. He got up as to reach above and turned his face to the clouds. Rain drops began adding their melody into this scenery that was only me and him. I stood up reaching for his hand as I also looked at the sky; eyes closed and mind wide open.
Those tears were his tears for all times. I felt small capsules of water crashing on my face, rolling onto my cheeks and to my neck. I held his hand tighter. The air changed to a wet smell of nature, revealing its tastes and secrets. My questions didn’t really matter anymore, I did not want to know any answers. I opened my eyes to look at his lips giving birth to a wide smile. He took a step forward.
“
- Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend.
- Who are you, Camus ?
- I’m the cold skin
Blushing against yours
For I’m an eternal virgin of
Endless bare skin sins
- I do not know that poet.
- At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.
- Does Plato knows about love ?
- Nunc scio quit sit …
- … Amor ?”
At that very moment I wished he would have looked down to me for once. I would have liked to drown myself in his eyes as I was starting to love that man. I knew he never looked at me because I never felt that uncomfortable feeling of being watched on you when I was with him. He just knew as if pixies were coming to him to whisper in his ears that he could start reading.
“
- What is your secret ? Why don’t you hold a book in your hands ?
- Books are useless, he answered calmly.
- No they aren’t. There must be some you never read.
- I could never do it.
- Why not ?
- Because I am blind.”
I took his face into my hands and rested his forehead on mine. His hands came slowly wrapping my face with his warmth and exploring each line of my wet face with softness. This cold autumn evening, under the streetlights of the park, on the bench where everything started, he could see me as I could see him. That’s how I fell in love with the blind man who spent his night learning books of Braille to forget his loneliness. But no longer.
Snow falls from the sky and I stare at the spiral it draws on the dark sky. Tonight's the night. There used to be a time I walked the streets at night just to feel my cheeks fall off, scattered by the warm tears digging in their ice. There used to be a time when I used to wrap myself into the warmth of my own body heat and just stand under a too perfect beam on the sidewalk, watch the ash of the sky fall on me and feel naked. Naked to the world and naked to myself, so purely me in that cellar light, the spotlight where I felt no one could see me. There used to be… but no longer. I have learnt now that reality doesn’t suit me, I prefer to wear my dream and believe. Until the dream becomes reality.
There are walls inside my temple I painted with the finest colours you could never find. Yet, some remained plain burn bone black and ivory white. The early morning autumn’s sunshine coming through the scattered colours of stain glass made me see. Life and its reflection are two different things separated buy a wide gap called reality waiting for you to awake.
The sleeper waits endlessly to awake from its dream so he can jump off the cliff and fly thousand oceans. There’s a time when the wings of the angel need to spread. There’s a time for everything. A time for snow, a time for feathers and a time for believing in love. When reality doesn’t suit me, I prefer to wear my dream and believe. Until the dream becomes my reality. Becomes you. Blood dripping from angel’s hands seal the wounds and diseases. Warmth intertwined when fingers cross for the ultimate spell rushing within. Vanilla skin finally meets the spirit of One never loved bleeding off its last feelings.
My footsteps print myself onto this white softened floor and disappear behind me as their image gets buried into the night. I walk along in silence; I can hear stars whispering as they touch me when my eyelashes catch another flake before melting it away. My eyes slide on the white sand shores they offer me.
My emerald Iceland of eternal flames owns a purple sky.
You wonder why I stand there in the shadow's den even when the sun is down. You want to understand how I can wear feelings behind the mirror of my soul. You want to know why I run away only to love you more day after day, thinking I will not stay.
I wear my feelings on my lips because one day they will be deserved un-wasted. I believe in myself before I believe in any God, before I believe in Love. So I will stay no matter how many thundering storms and snowing tempests clouds will bring in its waves along. I am the light over the clouds, and there is no sun that remains in the shrine of my eyes but the one you give me with your insight. Please, do not have me wasted, but turn me inside out. Let's share the glitter of the night every time we can. I will always prefer to stay in the dark because reflecting lights on what I am had me blind too much time. I'm scared to be, scared to run, scared to walk further if I'm not in your arms. It's already too late to walk backward because my life is. Now.
I will tell you what I wish to hide if you promise you will not break my heart. I still need you to purify my blood so I can stay alive.
So promise. Proomise you will not let me go when I will try to push you aside so you ban me from your life. Promise you will still let me love you after I make both of us cry. Promise you'll make love to me when I'll oblige you to hate me, when I will tell you I want to leave and have nowhere to go. Promise you will not dig the distance between us every time I'll hand you a shovel. Promise you will hurt me but never break me. Promise you will hold my hand when I won't want you to touch me, even your hands know me all too well. Promise the cold drop of my vital beat will slide down your arms until you can reach it. Yes, reach me. Please. Promise you will not fail. Promise you will be here. Promise you will be true. Promise you will hug me and kiss my forehead good night before you turn the light off days. Promise you will love me and take all that I have to give.
Promise you will take what I offer without asking anything. Promise you will let me
wake you up in the middle of the nigh to because I will want to make love to you. Promise you will own me whole, and not just the part you want to see. Promise you will take all my "I love you" and my joyful tears without fears. Promise you will be the husband and the father to my kids. Promise you will let me add some of your blood to mine another time so we become one. Alive.
Promise we'll go walk under the rain and let the thunder shake all that we are until our clothes stick to our skins and lost ourselves in wet laughs. Promise we will watch the sun running down the hill on the top of our roof and hold each other when cold night will wrap us in her arms. Promise we will share the same bed today and tomorrow until the end. Promise we will forever lay in our grave engraved of the same name.
Promise me not to promise anything. I do not have want to ask you all that.
We can afford no lie. I love you.
Her naked body has been on the cold tiles of the floor for couple hours hands tied around something she cannot tell. She must have been unconscious for a little while and her head hurt as if she was waking up after a bad trip on some random drugs. Everything seems so white in here. Hospital white. The reflect of the sunlight hurts her eyes. It's cold, empty, distorted and suspiciously too pure.
The heavy metallic door slowly opens without a noise. She raises her eyes, looks at him as he enters the room. She knew it was him from the way her handcuffs were gripped around her wrist. He is just so the same once again. So predictable and meticulous. Steel, as hard as he is, is bumping onto her wrist's bone because of it’s excessive tightness. After couple of hours without a move, it almost seemed the metal was already penetrating her flesh. He does not care. He did it in purpose to remind her he was the one leading this stupid game. It will go far. She will fight with pride. He sits next to her and stubs out his cigarette on her nipple as if she was a vulgar ashtray to fill up one more time. It burns. She doesn't shiver, no feelings of pain appear in her eyes. She is too proud. Her arms are numbs, she refuses to feel pain, he spits on her once more yet she keeps her head straight. No words come out of her mouth. No complains. She smiles.
"You know it's the end," he says
"It seems you're right, for once in your pathetic life."
"Shut up cunt, you're mouth is only good at sucking my dick until you jaw drops on the floor"
"Ho really..." she answers amused. " Too bad you'd have to clean it up afterward."
He looks at her, naked, helpless. She dares. It smells like burned skin. Her skin. He slides his finger in between her legs to reach the crack of her upper tights and slowly slides it into her. It's warm. It's wet. It's dirty and deceased, and if not, it's going to be. In his contemplation of the silence, he takes his fingers to his lips and sucks them as a ritual he was always respecting.
"It's time to play my game".
He pulls her ankle slowly to lay her down and start his violent requiem to impregnate her. Once more or one less, now it makes no difference, always the same sick mind far from admitting she is winning already. He's scared, he does not want to know, he prefers to ignore and calm his sexual urges down. He pulls, further and further, twisting her shoulders even more, until they can no longer. She's tied up too high on the radiator. Hence there is no time to waste into finding the keys, she'll lay on the ground anyways; there are only couple of centimetres keeping her from touching the ground, hanging in the air.
I am so used to pull you down, he thought. You always dare and you think you'll never be paid back for that. I'm sorry for your arms. I meant to hear your shoulder's crack.
Nothing holds her on the radiator anymore. Lost in her endless smile, she gazes at the ceiling as if it was a blue sky. She released from him, at least both of her arms are, and she does not even feel them anymore. Is he fucking her ? Yeah he is yet she is lost in another lust. She would not be in here if he wasn't fucking her so hard thinking it's one more thing to make her cry. He is so wrong, she enjoys every of those little moments when he thinks he owns her by fear and pain, and actually does not at all. She smiles. She would scream her pain out feeling her bones breaking up and slowly cutting them off her body. An invisible inner blade slitting her last ligaments. Another deaf crack. Although they were here still, becoming longer than they have ever been, they were lost. No complain, no scream, no pain showing in the corner of her eyes. A tear or a word would show his victory and would make him so happy to see her finally suffering. There were no ways he would ever see that happening in his life, even if it had to be the end.
She could hear how her bones breaking once again and her blood flowing when he was scarping her back's skin on the roughcast floor going back and fourth into her. Harder, always harder, with this anger he had to jerk off. She was not crying but smiling, letting her dying arms fall on the side of her hips as dead branches fall from their trees. They are so heavy. She only feels the pain it brings but no longer knows their length. May they are laying on the floor as she is no longer. May they stay there on the blank cold tiles. On more piece of this ivory wood maintaining her body straight cracked with another of his lower back's slam. She doesn't mind. The more pain reaches her heart through her spine, the more she feels the laugh coming out of her throat. She cannot stand straight anymore. If there wasn't this scratching and bloody wall behind her, she would surely fall down. Far down, with her arms. She understands she is close to pass on the other side. Everything looks blurry; something is slowly strangling her short breath making her head spin. He does not understand. He never does. Blood seems to enjoy itself better in his dick than in his brain. She sees the anger in his eyes because he knows he failed : She does not even care. He keeps going faster and harder as if now he just wanted to slice her in two. It's been hours they are here and her skin ripped away letting her broken spinal bones scraping against the roughcast wall. This slight noise echoing in her head is herself breaking down. It makes her laugh even more. Her nerves are no longer sending informations to her brain, it's over, and in her delirium, she kept her pride and won her battle.
His last thunder look could have killed her if she was not already so close to death. She always wins the battle yet this time is the last.
"The one being fucked is not the one you think" She smiles. And dies.
She's standing there, under a curtain of rain rolling down her cheeks. She's the light, she's the joy, she's the rainbow protecting gold, she is life in the grey shades surrounding her. Grey stone buildings raised into playgrounds. Everyone wears masks to wall their feelings only visible through their eyes.
Water drop slide in the curls of her hair and suicide when they reach the black final trampoline of each bang. There are no tears of rejections mixed with the tears falling from the sky. She's proud of who she is whatever they think about the mould she conforms to. She does not care if hers is round and theirs is square. If nothing is true around her at least she is herself and true to herself. Its hard to believe exclusions exist even inside boarders. She knows our entire life is squared and we better not stay in the angles. Exclusion is basically when you don't conform what they call the human kind. Because according to them, there is only one kind because masses are easier to manipulate. The only judge is indirectly what you see on television every night. Medias teaches them how to be all nice and clean and how to be like their messiah and patriarch. It works better than violence as you can see, probably because they think its more moral. That's what it's all about. They are able to judge trough anyone. If not they will call themselves henchman of a god they've never seen thus you will not wait for heaven to know your ultimate trial. This god for whom they kill and fight since the beginning of time because other dare saying he is not the only one. They teach you how to respect in order to oblige others to respect you. It makes less money to tell people that before believing in anything else, they should start believe in their selves. If you Believe in my god I will respect you, if you don't you are out of the human kind in my mind... is that how it works for real ? She wonders what woke her mind when she grew up. Was she meant to be like that since her first day. Something made her stay on her own guns yet she never used them. A gift of clairvoyance maybe.
She's cold, she's wet, but she likes what nature gives her. She's been told by her grand father how clouds become droplets. Nobody looks at her or everybody does. Some turn around, some don't. This person turns around with bubbling eyes. She continues her walk. It's the illusion of caring and the ignorance of blindness that divides the puppets passing by. It's more toys to play with and brake in the name of society's belief. It's so easy to manipulate a crowd when you have a tear to cry. Same if you have apology or even better if you have a responsible. She watches those washed minds passing by and find their pure white innocence funny. People trust technology and development enough to feel safe yet their dependence make them better praise to brainwash. She does not dare, she does not say a word, she smiles, as she always does when she acts the same as they are. Uncaring. Blind.
She enters the bar she's used to go to for her first coffee of the day. Surely not the last. She sits at the same table she always does and opens the newspaper. There are no need to order anything, her steaming black coffee with be on her table in a little while. It's still raining outside. People overflow in the street, rushing to escape the rain as if time was a train they were still able to catch. One more mind victim of the value judgment, sold and consumed passes by barefoot on the wet ground asking for a penny to eat. Difference was a word created to be banned in their silicon brain. She rushes to the door and opens it for the lonely poor guy begging. The first gift he found was in her broad smile. This morning he will find a warm place, safe from the rain, sitting at the table of a young woman offering him something warm to drink and something to eat. A stranger out of the kind.
Her hot coffee lands onto the table with a jar of milk and a sugar box. A hot chocolate and croissant and generously offered to the poor wet guy in front of her. She smiles. There is nothing to say. The smile he has on his face and his eyes almost crying says it all. There is no better person to talk about the truth of what is going on. How does someone needs to come to the point of surviving when human rights are such a big deal nowadays ?
White or brown sugar ? It does not matter. She knows what she considers as a choice has already been pre valued and pre chewed by the giant mouth of whoever rules the planet. The dirty see thru newspaper spills his injustices and lies onto the table. The dark liquid she drinks is like this dirty ink soaked into water, bitter and hard to swallow for her. Another way to convince and model the massive clay naivety offers is right in her hands. Nothing else but another aiming at turning what is not normal into what has to be banal. As a consequence, when they claim war for peace, nobody understands that it's all about revenge or financials issues. They can accuse the underdeveloped countries of betraying human rights by keeping prisoners of conscience but even for the most powerful nation, they exist just like the poor man sitting in front of her.
She opens her journal and starts to write.
This world is so full of forbidden lines based on values totally invented by people ruling while they keep crossing them back and fourth. It's call traditions, stereotypes, beliefs, values, religions, manipulations, brainwash, lies. What they create only aims at destroying. What they call evolution is a decade.
That's what she thinks, that's what she hides because there are no better enemy than fake friends. Before the day she will stab, she dresses in black, just to fits the kind.
Louna is always home when her friend comes back home. She gets all exited recognizing the sound of the key spinning in the lock of the apartment and runs to the door ready to be pet when Crystal comes in. The young woman knows from the sound of the cat jumping on the wooden floor that she is waiting on the other side. Unlike all other cats that are so gracious and quiet, Louna seems to tend to do her own little thing by making as much noise as a kangaroo would when she jumps off the bed after her nap.
Crystal's best friend - a Siamese cat. They share everything from the apartment to boyfriend's lap. What Louna likes in particularly is when they share chocolate cakes and tuna fish mixed all together on the couch. She also likes to share long conversations. Yes, conversations. She is the kind of cat that talks and listens. She also complains quite a lot, whines and makes comments close to the order. When she is in the mood to spend the morning outside and realize its freezing and too late to go back home, it seems it's Crystal's fault if she spends all day long outside. Human never spend full days outside when it is snowing. Why cats would ? They do not walk on the wet ground bare foot ! Crystal often looks at the window of her office on those "mood days". When it starts raining or snowing, she thinks of her friend outside and hope she finds a safe place to stay until she comes back home from work. She knows Louna will not be that happy and will be meowing to death when she returns.
Some kind of meow almost aggressing her when she would be down the street. She knows she will find her at entrance of the building screaming out her meow as if somebody tried to wax her body hair. The translation of her yelling would surely be something like "Open the fuck up this door dumb ass !" with a devil grin on her little muzzle. That makes Crystal smile to see how much of a brat it makes of her.
Louna often sits on the carpet next to the radiator in the corner of the room, static, gazing at Crystal and all she says. The heat flowing on her fur warms her up and she starts to purr. Tonight is a girl crisis night it seems, judging from the agitated mood of the human one. The kind of night you are supposed to eat chocolate in front of a depressing love movie and cry over your pathetic love life. However, humans never wait for the movie to start crying. Louna noticed that. She also noticed they wait the end of the movie before feeding her. Thus, she does not like movies all that much.
"He is so selfish, I hate it. How can I date someone like that, I hate all that he is and the disrespect he shows toward me. I cannot believe he… "
Crystal always pretends to be talking to Louna. She actually does talk to her but does not expect an answer to all her questions. Or she is talking to herself, which is also one of the typical human behaviour that makes no sense. A cat knows you need to meow at somebody else than you to get food.
Crystal treats Louna equal to any other human being and understands that the mystery hides a deep soul inside. Nevertheless she is confused, Louna is the only one that feels secure to talk with and the only one that seems to understand her. It is like the best friend she would never have but way better with way much fur.
Louna spins her left ear a bit and bend her head on the right. It seems she was not getting the right channel and tries to catch another satellite so she can understand what really is going on. She must have been listening to Dawson's Creek in Japanese for the past minute. That maybe why it felt like the sound did not match what she was seeing or maybe just was just wandering in her inner world. Now she needs to focus on what is really happening in the room. Crystal keeps arguing with herself through the cat. An interesting way to auto critic herself without a word from someone else. Human can’t take critics, they cannot admit they are not better than cats, because cats are perfect. Finally, after quite along time staring at her agitated gestures, she stops talking and turns around.
"What should I do ?!"
The cat blinks twice. Only the end of her tail seems to be slightly moving. They look at each other, the answer hanging in the air until one of them decides to answer.
"Meow"
Nobody really understood the meaning of the "meow" but what counts is that she made her point here. Even if nobody understood it, she gave an answer because she knows. Cat are so perfect they know everything. Crystal thinks its better Louna is not a heavy talker because if she were she would probably have huge phone bills. The cat sometimes answers the phone when she hears voices talking in the answering machine. She tries to dig under it so she can see who talks. She does not understand how humans can fit inside such a small black box on the hall's table. Usually the answer machine crashes on the floor before the voice mail is done recording. She digs too fast. Then she sits where the answering machine was settled up at the first place, looking interrogatively from above at the black box crashed and its battery rolling until the hit a wall. She wonders if the human is gone, may it is still here, or may it killed it to fall from the table. One thing is sure; he is not here anymore because the silence is back in the apartment.
Sometimes Crystal does things the animal does not like very much. The bigger controversy between them is about music. The tall one listens to the radio and punk rock, sometimes trips over psychedelic trance and hard techno tracks. She likes dancing and hearing the music all around the apartment so she puts it too loud and the furry one hates that. The only music Louna likes is the music of the canned opener and the tuna frying. She likes the smell too, that is an important plus, because human music does not smell like anything. In addition, their music is not eatable. Louna knows cause she tried to eat a Linkin Park CD once. The extra goodies plan did not work out that time. The CD still works as well, bad luck. Crystal also sings in the shower. Louna hates it too, but she prefers to hear it than go scratch some legs under the water. She cannot help it, she is just like that. Cats and water don’t really match, plus you make bubbles for weeks afterwards every time you try to wash yourself.
Louna used to like when Crystal was still dating Andrew. She could get twice what she was usually getting once. However, Crystal did not like her cat around the bedroom when he was there. The cat would surely not like to get in anyways judging from the weird noise coming out of the room. Both humans also did not like to see Louna standing here sitting in the corner of the room watching them making love pretending to be sleeping. It disturbed her too many time, so once she decided to close the door one night she did all the following nights Andrew was around. Yet, the little animal was not stupid. She knew that two human meant twice more fun bothering them.
When Louna would wake up, at 6am or 11am, she would go in front of the door and listen to what was going on inside. Usually nothing at that time but still, she focused her attention on their moves in the bed. When Crystal was alone and leaving the door open, the cat would manage to jump on the bed right in Crystal's face and it would be enough to wake her up even if she didn't like it. Humans don't like morning hugs. But when Andrew was here it was way different from usual. She was inventing new tricks all the time. As soon as she would hear the bed cracking, she would jump on the doorknob until it opens to lets her in. No need to say she was making a lot of noise on purpose jumping on the door, just so they would know she was coming in. She liked to bother Andrew because she would not have to deal with him all day long like she had to with Crystal. Hence he was often the main victim of the furry ball's treats. Louna liked to stay on the short table next to the bed, sitting right next to the clock, nose-to-nose with Andrew so she knew when he would move even a little. Of course Andrew made sure he would not make a move, but its was a bit hard to hold it for too long. He always opened his eyes at one time or another. The biggest mistake he could ever do. As soon as Louna knew he was awake, she was starting to purr loudly and get into his face to sniff at his nose. Then she would get onto his pillow and walk all the way around his head, something that he could not bear. Sometimes he got up to give her breakfast, sometimes not. If he was not, she was walking down to his feet and would start licking his toes. It usually made him get up and leave Crystal in bed. Then the cat was all proud she managed to wake up a big tall guy and had him all for her. Nevertheless, Andrew had better not try to pet her when she was taking a nap or she was being aggressive. Nobody wakes up the cat unless it is to open the front door for her.
Andrew was gone for a while. He would not come back anymore. Not a bad thing for Crystal at all. Not a bad thing for Louna either. It is his loss anyways; he had two girls all for him. They do not care anymore. They feel great with each other's. They seem to be friend forever, and they surely will.
A cup of milk hits the kitchen floor and makes the cat run. It is breakfast time. Crystal looks at her lapping up the milk, looking satisfied and happy. She takes a bite in her croissant thinking nobody will ever be as faithful as this particular friend in her life. After all they need no man, they are doing good on their own.
The church is quite and heavy charged with emotions. The white roses left in the corners of the hostel look like orchid. The priest starts his requiem, the one they will swear on for the end of time. It's the death of what used to be their wild life. Friends, who you knew is no longer. You will only see the corpse of what they used to be. Yet they will always remain in your memory. With a ring they chose between heaven and hell today. Hands in hands, just like life and death. She wears a gorgeous creamy dress, the last silk in which she will remain before the silk of her coffin. She does not realise she is already six feet under the grass. It's over, both of them are all grown up. Her mother cries. His mother is holding her sorrow. It's hard to see her son passing away to another life where she is not his most important woman. The requiem is almost over when the crowd blesses them both, leaving them to the hands of God. Amen. They slowly flow to the couple one by one to see them one last time, give them their goodbye forever kiss. The ring they wear already changed them, their faces already seem to become distorted with wide smile.
It’s a cold December day. The ash sky is emptying itself on the surroundings. As the snow stays on the edge of trees, he deduces the temperature is below zero degrees Celsius. It’s one of those days he wishes he would have stayed in bed with her cause the show he is assisting to is desolated. He will surely not do any extra hours tonight; he will leave right away at 5:00pm because night will already be there at that time. He just wants to go home. She is waiting for his return. Every single of his unstopping glance at the clock seems to make time feel even longer than it actually is. Seconds run. Finally the five and the zero are reached. Time to leave.
The cold wind feels like it is slicing his cheeks as a blade. Coldness hurts. With his luck will get stacked into the traffic for hours. Luckily, he gets safe at home in a shorter amount of time he was expecting. Yet, it is still freezing outside. He runs to the door grabbing his keys on his way so he will not wait in the cold too long. She hears the lock turning open. He grabs the doorknob in the urge. Stops. The door stays static. She can assume he noticed his surprise, and silently runs upstairs. A plain white paper perfectly folded in four is tapped on the wooden door. No name attached. Nothing. This time there is no hand to hold, no cheek to run his fingers on to thank her. May she is just gone. His heart starts to run and grows as cold as the outside temperature. He just feels its one of those bad days. He tears the paper and unfolds it quick.
“ Follow your heart…”
That’s her writing, he recognizes it. He looks around, but he sees nothing but the endless white of snow. She may be unpredictable though he always understands her and he knows she had no reasons to go. He is used to find note from her stacked anywhere he would notice - his cell phone, the computer screen or the fridge. She is a writer, he knows it since the first day as he enjoys to read her as a book he would never get bored to read again. Sometimes she is even leaving love words on the mirror written with her lipstick when he has to get up on early morning while she is still lost in her dreams, lying in the bed they are used to make love in. Since the spring day they decided to share his place those little folded colourful notes seemed to grow all over the place until they fall on the ground like dead leafs. Nevertheless, her words never die. They are always as alive as her feelings for him. He usually does not know how to answer those written attentions but with a kiss sealing her lips.
He rushes in. Finally. As usual, it is warm and welcoming him back. Home sweet home. His place is haunted by the scent of her perfume. He likes it. It wanders in the rooms as something that has always been, floating like a dream. Yet today, he immediately notices her imposing scent is a little washed away by something sweeter. He gets rid of his jacket and his shoes then hangs his keys next to hers on the side of the mirror. She recognizes the jingling of them swinging against the glass. She knows it so well for all the times she wish she would have heard them. He is back. The little note from the door is still in his hand, crumpled on his right palm.
It is dark but he knows his house enough to see clear, even in the dark. He knows where the sweet scent comes from as soon as his bare foot hits the floor on his first step in. Rose’s petals are spread all over the floor. It looks like under a cherry tree during springtime. It’s even snowing inside today. It draws a smile on his face. She wishes she could see it. It is a better welcome home he was expecting. She wants him to follow the white roses’ petals line twisting in the stairs leading to their bedroom. She hears his steps following the scent as she lights a third candle on her side. Just the thought of him in makes her shiver of pleasure. She lies down. He slowly opens the door on the bedroom she lays in, her naked warm flesh under a waterfall of flower sweetness. They are spread all over her body just like they are all over the floor, but it looks cuter on her because they are half hiding pieces of her satin skin. One petal settled upon the rising mountain of her chest, tempting him to blow it away in order to see the half-nipple it hides. She is playing with them like a child, fitting her just as if she was wearing another skin.
She looks at him and lets her arm fall into his direction, her fingers trying to reach him. It is the ultimate invitation he cannot refuse. He takes her hand as if it was something fragile and slides his fingers along hers to kiss them tenderly. She smiles. In between all the dancing flames surrounding them, the one she loves the most is the one reflecting in his eyes. She loves the depth of the look they give at each other, she feels like his eyes go right through her to reach her inside. Deep inside, in her hearth. That’s how candle’s warm lights fall in his eyes. Her skin smells good. A bit arrogant just like she is sometimes, that’s her way to show her presence. And he knows better than ever she is here right now, with him, ready to be picked. He releases her hand. He owns her. She owns him. Couple petals are prisoners of her hair. He slowly picks them out one by one with a cute smile she wishes she could kiss. His feelings tell him she does not need any artifice because her inside is as beautiful as her outside. He knows he is the luckiest man on Earth because she has his heart since he has hers. For the same reason, she often tells him how his skin is addictive because it tastes as sweet as his mind.
Their bodies speak for their minds; they don’t need to exchange words. They are one. They know. She knows he is the one. She feels it every time her hand brushes his. Her slightly shaking legs slide on the satin sheets of the bed just as if her body was liquid. Her arms sneak around him until her lips come caressing his cheek. Her body is consuming itself. He can feel the waves of warmth of her body crashing on his neck and his face. That is what he misses on those cold days. That is just he and she now. Nothing else around them counts. Nothing but them. She shivers when his cold right hand tenderly grabs her knee to calm her light shaking. It is not the first time he sees her naked. It is not the first time they are overtaken by this rush passionate feeling for each other. It is not the first time desire sets the candles of their mind on fire. It is just the first time they live for a reason: their love.
Their shadows on the wall kiss and intertwine matching their skins together. They kiss. They touch. They feel. They simply love each other. She wipes the pillow out of the bed so she makes him lay down next to her. She is as delicate as a flower dress. There is nothing to compare. She wants to taste him as for their first time thus she gets rid of all the superficial. She undoes button one by one, let his clothes fall on the ground on the side of their bed. He likes when she takes care of him, but he craves their kisses more than anything. Theirs shapes fit each other perfectly. Her breasts are made to fit his hands. His shoulders are made for her to cling on. Their lips are made to fit their kisses. They are simply made for each other.
They make love in the sweetness of rose petals. They always make love because it means something. None of their gestures and behaviours are out of meaning. Each attention proves how much they care and how much they share. He always holds her hand while making love to her, so she knows it is not out of feelings and caring for him. It almost makes her cry every time they lay upon each other in the bed because she loves him too much. Yet love knows no limits. She cries in bed ans he wipes her tear away by caressing her wet cheek with a kiss.
“I love you” one says. “I love you too” the other answers.
He does not like to make her cry even if love knows it is kinds of tears and these are the very good kind - the very precious kind to his heart. She is so thankful for all he is and more. She feels she is more secure in his arms than nowhere else in the world just because the love she gives away is vain. They truly make love. He slowly slides in between her legs with tenderness and attention. They never rush the process. That is how they make sure they both want it. He noticed her lips are always parted when they make love, always ready for a kiss he surely gives when she does not reach him first. The heat mixes their breath and even they don’t know where one start and where one ends. She squeezes his hand hard. He wears her as his second skin. Always. Their hot fusion burns them with passion, sharing it hand in hand, for couple of seconds. Couple seconds out of time they hold in their hands like a treasure. They reach it together, because they are one.
He holds her face in his hands gazing at the dizziness they left in each other’s eyes. They kiss again a last time before he falls on his back next to her. Both left short-winded. He twists his fingers through her long hair and plays with its wide curls. They are the kind of kisses overwhelmed with a delicate tenderness they let play on their tired bodies. She lays her head on his chest so she can hear his heart’s beat slowing down. He slides his arm around her and holds on tighter. That is the moment they know they belong to eachother’s arms.
When their mind and body tempest leave waves back to calm, they start to talk about their respective day. He tells her how his day was boring and sad, how bad he wanted to be home with her and how it is worth it. She listens to his voice echoing in his chest falling into her ears, it’s so deep it makes her body and his slightly tremble. The phone rings once, twice, but they do not hear it. He feels very special. She wants him to feel very special. There are no particular reasons she did all that today but she thinks Valentine’s Day should be every single day. And he knows it is with her.
She rolls herself to the edge of the bed and takes a bowl she must have left there earlier. He grabs one of the pillow they threw on the floor and place it against the wall so she can rest her back on it without hurting herself. She bends her legs up halfway to her chest, feet flat on the bed, so he can lay his head on her stomach, cradling between her lower stomach and the tops of her soft thighs. He looks at her. She is beautiful with her hair down and messed up by their lovemaking. She says she found dark raspberries in a store in town this morning. He grabs one out of the bowl and caresses her parted lips with it before letting her eat it. She prefers to wear them on her fingertips before eating them. He stops playing with her hair to warmly grab her wrist and lead her finger to his lips. He kisses it and sucks the raspberry out of her fingertip.
She loves his smile. That is why she makes him smile. She loves it even more when it’s a smile of contemplation when he loses himself in her eyes. He squeezes her hand and feels like tears of joy roll on his heart. She is the one. No need to give her diamond ring to both swear on it forever. They love beyond all material meanings. They are already one. Together. Simply in love. Forever.
Don't wanna grow up, don't wanna know. There use to be a time everything was easy…
No matter what I'll miss, I don't want to let you go. Sweet ignorance I used to believe in, I never meant to find out half of the truth was hiding behind a wall of love. Please bring me back to this mystical magic world of colourful dreams. Where no limits were stopping my endless imagination. Half blind of what was the real world, I was protected.
What's going on now that my disillusion shelters me. I never meant to go so far. I don't want to grow, I want to stay away from the troubles of life. Don't leave me here with the responsibilities that I'll soon have to condemn.
I admire you Mom, I admire you Dad… I was your biggest challenge ever. Yet I don't want to find by myself all the answers to my endless questions. I don't care what it's like to be out there. There, where only pain of experience will teach me the good lessons.
Where's all the time I didn't even suspected where life aims at, When I thought it would never end ? Sometimes I wish I'd have the strength to face all this on my own, but I feel so weak.
No, I don't want to grow up and see things disappear. I don't want to grow up, I swear I'll never hurt you again. I don't wanna be anything but that little brown haired girl that own the whole words in her green eyes.
Before I’ll die I’ll ride all shooting star and offer you a colourful firework in the far away and mystical land of my dreams shared with you. I’ll hold your hand not to lose you, I’ll hold your hand not to leave you any time. I’ll wipe away all frontiers and pain and get you everywhere on the planet and universe - spin in the middle of a galaxy, go to the highest mountains and scream our freedom of living with all our energy… and simply be with you.
When I’ll die, I’ll steal the dark blue sky from above and bring it down on earth, just to lay it down in the depths of your eyes. When my blood, this sweet poison of you, will stop flowing in my veins, I’ll dedicate you my last breath because I lived this life for the pleasure of being with you. I want no tears, no blame, cause wherever a life stops another begins. Remember mine was all sweetened and light by the broad smile you offered me, lost in the silence of meaningless words. Babe, your velvet touch and your eyes always said more than you expected to say with simple words.
I’m not dead and my life is just beginnings to roll like a water drop on the cheek of our lives. Yet I still want to share some with you because you know how to be yourself and true. Even if we live only once, I would never regret what you gave and still give to me. The secret of your kindness is a priceless crystal that shines under the moon beam as it shines under bright light. Before I’ll die of pleasure thousand times in your arms, I’ll kiss your hand and tell you that my heart is hanging on each of your words.
I love you enough that it keeps me alive.
I am pretty international girl, I had the opportunity to travel a lot and in all my wandering, I must say I have been the “victim” loads of stereotypes only for being… French. “Cool ! You’re from France ! … Where is it ?” must be the general idea this article is about.
People generally look at me like a phenomenon, and it has nothing to do with my bra size. Just because I am French, I am cool... so be it ! It’s my luck that probably attracted to me the dumbest persons in the world just to test my patience and how mean I can be. You sitting, in front of your computer, I am pretty sure you are dying to ask me something you “heard” about the French. So I will now tell you the complete truth about the French mystery.
Do I take Showers ? Here is a good question ! Us French obviously stink. That also probably explains why our country is the first high fashion and perfume manufacturer in the world : We need to cover the smell. As a matter of fact I don’t remember walking into a store that has less than 100 sorts of shower gel and shampoo, what a waste ! Not even that but we also tend to import brands from other countries. I suppose lot of people think we buy them just to put them on a collection shelf and stare at it for days. I recon half of France’s population doesn’t know you need to take the lead off the bottle before using cause they still live in a cave.
The other line goes toward that. Somebody is going to take me to the kitchen sink and turn the water on asking me “Do you guys have this in France ?”. Of course NOT ! A metal tube from which water comes out of. WOW ! Funny how people think we use firecracker to light up the fire in our caves every night. Everybody knows France does not have electricity or light or water or even clothing. We still hunt animals dress up into their fur. As a mater of fact I AM wearing my one and only fur onto my bio’s picture. A wild tiger I kill of my own hand by hitting stones together, because we do not have matches or lighter either, of course.
Falls under the logic to ask then, since cave women don’t, do I shave ? I am very tempted to respond to this that way : No I don’t because it is cold in the cave every night so I need to keep on myself all the fur I grow. You’d be surprise how many people believe it ! Unfortunately, we do live into a developed society ( we do but you never heard of it ! ) and I … do not shave. Too much hassle, too much time. I’m not that much of a pussy, I wax !!
These are the main questions, the first to come out because they die of curiosity. Then comes another sort of question about food and language.
“French is a romantic language”. Ask anyone who was bound to learn it fluent if, between getting lost into the non-sense grammar, they think that having the choice between ten words to say one thing IS romantic.
“The French are so romantic”. Who said we all had to be ? If the fact the Eiffel tower and Paris is in our country makes us all love-retarded then I suggest you take it in your own country and see what happens.
“French men are so sexy and romantic”. Here again, sorry to put it this way but men, anywhere in the world, stay men. The only thing they look forward is to get laid.