Category Archives: Blues Buster

Blues Buster: Into the West

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A haunting, lilting song accompanies this piece…‘I am Going to the West’ by Connie Drover for this week’s Blues Buster at The Tsuruoka Files.

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)
Into the West
Cobwebs undulated in the chilled breeze in the dark corner of the kitchen. She hugged her knees to her chest and squinted at the luminescence from the fridge. The glow disappeared abruptly as he slammed the refrigerator door and opened a can with a malicious hiss. His boots clomped across the linoleum and he callously stepped over her feet. The lounge door clicked shut releasing only a thin strip of yellow light to invade her gloom.
The television blared, her heart pounded and thunder growled throughout her head. Her ears buzzed a high-pitched, tinny sound that threatened to drive her mad. Her body hurt, pain seared through every muscle, every sinew, and her fingers clasped tight around her knees, holding herself together.
She slowly unfurled her fingers, intensely aware of pain. She looked down and bent her index finger, crunching the bones as she righted its angle. Anguish and agony clutched, sinking its ready talons into her fading heart. She stared vacantly at the grease-spattered kitchen tiles, the overflowing crockery in the sink, the broken plate on the floor and her shattered dreams, crushed and ground into the bloody lino at her feet.
A sliver of white light glanced through the grimy window and she cast her gaze towards the beam. She rose, slowly, nervously, and stepped lightly towards the window, her bare feet treading numbly across the splintered china. At the window she pressed her cheek against the cool glass and stared up at the shimmering moon. 
Clouds drifted across the night sky and she stared into their depths, imagining mountains and valleys, and sparkling streams. Starlight sprinkled oceans that swam across the sky and she dived into the glittering deep. She swam, embraced in velvety water, warmth seeping into her cold bones, releasing seized muscles and soothing tension. The moon moved west, casting rays of hope across the navy night, and she burst out of the ocean, wandering on soft pillows of cotton-wool. She danced across waves of green, rolling between the clouds, burying her feet in meadows of everlasting flora and rivers of swaying grass.
She gazed across the firmament, dipping into her dreams, renewing hope. Her bower waited, a copse wreathed within mists and emerald green. She stepped lightly across the night, and settled, resting beneath heaven’s verdant canopy and wind’s gentle blanket, her mind at ease and pain long gone. 
Cobwebs undulated in the chilled breeze in the dark corner of the kitchen. A draught blew through the grimy window and ruffled the hair of her broken shadow that lay cold and still.  
(428 Words)

Blues Buster: Missing

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Didn’t think I had time this week, but the song spoke to me: Everything But The Girl ‘Missing’…so here’s my Blues Buster for Jeff over at The Tsuruoka Files.

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook and Pixromatic (please do not use…it is me)
Missing

I stare at the thin sliver of yellow light in the upstairs window as it escapes from behind the drapes. Tears smart and a silver coil swirls from my lips as I rub my gloved hands together. I run my finger along the rusted gate, watching shards of frost gather and drop. The pounding in my chest threatens to fell me and it takes every ounce of resolve to move my leaden legs and walk away.
My boots clump on the glittering, early morning pavement, as they have every day this week. I retrace yesterday’s footprints to the end of the street and slide round the corner. There, against the rows of garage doors, I give in to my tears and feel the sting of warmth roll down my frozen cheeks. Dark spots appear on my mackintosh, and my hands shake as I lift them to my face.

I gather wits and wipe away tears, and push away from the wall. I walk a familiar path, decorated with the ghost of my little, pink bicycle speeding uninhibited around the corner, and I smile. Children’s voices dance in my recollection and thirty-year-old pictures invade the street, warming up the cold morning, bathing the pavement in tinged faded memories of childhood.
As I reach the gate, upstairs curtains shift. A tempest whirls within my heart as I stand by the gate. The curtain drops and I push the gate open. Metal screeches against the ground, like it always did, and I flinch as it echoes across the sleepy neighbourhood. I drag my feet up the path and try not to slip on my rubbery legs. The door is new, white and plastic, not blue and broken.

A light snaps on behind the door and it takes everything I have not to turn and flee. Nausea rises, my stomach churns and I’m breathless. My hands shake, and I shiver with more than the frosty morning chill.
I imagine her face, lined and old, but familiar and…and what? It had been almost twenty years since I left; my soft, compliant hand in the firm grip of a social worker. I’d gone without a fight, because I’d had no fight left.
Now the door opens and I stare. She stands in a stark flood of light. I swallow, my throat as dry as the desert, and choke out something incomprehensible.
She places a hand on my arm. “Are you alright?” she asks in an alien voice.
I nod.
“You’ve stopped outside every day this week,” she continues.
I nodded again.
“Have you got the right address?” Her face is gentle with concern. “Come on in, you look shattered.”
I shake my head. “Mrs Fenwick…”
She shakes her head. “No one here by that name.” She gazes past me. “Maybe…several tenants ago.”
“Do you know where..?”
She shakes her head again. “I’m sorry my love, past my time, and old Mrs Davies, next door, passed away, so she won’t know, and the Andrews are gone too…”
I step back, my feet almost tripping over each other.
“Won’t you come in? It’s so cold out there.”
I shake my head and sniff. I want this lady’s arms around me.
“Who was she?” asks the lady.
I shake my head again and I rush away down the old familiar path, the words barely making it out of my mouth as I run. “My mother…”

(566 Words)

Blues Buster: Rumble in Brighton

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This week’s song prompt for Jeff’s Mid-Week Blues-Buster is The Stray Cats and ‘Rumble in Brighton’. So, I come from Brighton, I’m not missing a chance to write about it, lol!

Photo and texture by Lisa Shambrook – Madeira Drive, Brighton
(Please do not use without permission)
Rumble in Brighton
Tanya stared down at her fingernails peeling off a chipped strip of Constance Carroll’s ‘Shimmering Twilight’. She flicked it and watched it glint and flutter like a cheap butterfly in the morning sun. She looked up and gazed at the river of cubic zirconia cast across the ocean by the early morning sun. She peeled away more nail polish, until an inhibiting hand rested gently on hers. Tanya sighed and tucked her hands between her thighs, deep in her lap. She gazed out across the promenade, between the green, seafront railings and watched the glittering water. Morning’s breeze blew away the fog.
***
“Tanya, come here.” Steve’s wet kiss smeared her cheek as she avoided him. “No, a proper one!” He caught her chin and planted his lips squarely on hers. She hoped her smile was an accurate portrayal of devotion, but her stomach crawled and knotted with disgust. 
“Let’s parrrrtay!” Gary grinned and pinched Zoe’s bum. Zoe slapped him and Tanya’s smile broadened. 
Steve grabbed Tanya again and the smell of cheap beer soured his lips. “Tan, you’re mine tonight. I’m not doing this without my girl.” He looped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, his stubble grazing her neck. “We’re gonna have some fun tonight.” 
The sound of mopeds buzzed along Madeira Drive and Gary whooped. “C’mon, let’s go!” He straightened his leather jacket and stroked his skinny jeans suggestively. “I need lubrication, got any Brylcreem?” he quipped. 
Steve laughed and flicked his cigarette. “No, but I did shave just for the occasion!” He ran his hand across his newly bald scalp. “Like it Tan? ‘Cos I sure like what you’re wearing tonight!”  
Zoe snarled. “I thought Brylcreem was the fifties, not seventies?”
“Don’t matter!” Gary shook his head. “We’re re-enacting and it’s the eighties, who cares about accuracy?”
“It’s a party!” Steve twirled Tanya. “So let’s do it!” He raised his can of Stella and showered Tanya. 
The party broke down when bicycle chains and razor blades appeared, and all hell broke loose. Blue lights and sirens lit up the strip and Steve dragged Tanya through the heaving throng. “Don’t want no trouble…” he said, “Let’s have fun on our own…”
They stumbled across the railings and Volk’s railway track, and onto the dark beach. Tanya fought to stay upright in her white stilettos.  Away from the anarchy Steve pushed her against the concrete groyne and chuckled. “We’ve got a ringside seat for this…it’s going mental up there!” He stared wide-eyed up at the raucous on Madeira Drive then he spun back and grabbed Tanya’s hand. He kissed her fingertips then thrust her hand down to his belt. He pinned her against the groyne and pressed his lips against hers. Tanya’s head began to swim. “Steve, don’t…” she tried to speak. 
Steve pressed his mouth harder and drowned out her words, instead his hand slid up her thigh, beneath her denim skirt, and Tanya shifted sideways. Her foot twisted on the pebbles, her heel snapped and as she slipped Steve forced her down onto the stones. She tried to cry out, but the noise up on the strip was too loud. Steve came down on top of her and began unbuckling his belt. Tanya fought, and pebbles bruised her spine as he held her down. 
Tanya’s head whirled and she fought the urge to throw up. Instead she rolled her hand up Steve’s leg and moved her fingers towards his groin. He moaned in anticipation as she slipped her hand inside his pocket, feeling for the bulge she knew was there, caressing exactly what she was looking for.
***
Tanya stared absently across the beach and untucked her hands. The wind raised goose bumps across her flesh and she lifted her chipped fingernails to her face. She began to pick at her nails again, and the WPC beside her shook her head. “Forensics need to examine everything, even your nails,” she said. Tanya watched as policemen clambered across bloodied pebbles, and she smiled as a cop finally raised his arm, holding Steve’s own blood-stained flick-knife aloft. Tanya sighed and the morning sun sparkled on the handcuffs entwining her wrists.       
(695 Words)    

Blues Buster: Stay

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Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)

Stay

He let his fingers drag across her shoulder, drawing lazy circles over her silky skin. He shivered, goose bumps erupting as the cool breeze danced across the beach, and he held her close.
She moved her head to gaze into his dark eyes, and her lips curled into a smile as she pulled his arms tighter across her breast. Her lips parted and she licked them, and the salty taste of desire flared within his soul. She shifted slightly, leaning into the crook of his arm and back against his bare chest. Her hair tickled his chin and emotions rose within his belly; desire tinged with yearning and a splash of regret.
He closed his eyes, emptying his mind of sorrow and pain. Seagulls rose and fell on the currents and cawed at the water spread before them, and he knew time was running out. The moon had faded into the sapphire sky many hours ago and dawn peeped over the horizon, a sliver of pink against the black ocean.
She sighed, a tiny, contented sound, and he wrapped his arms around her. His eyes flickered open and he rested his chin upon her head, and felt her body relax between his thighs. His chest shuddered as emotion overwhelmed him and his embrace tightened as if he’d never let her go. She stroked his forearm, leaning forward to kiss the upstanding hairs on his arm, her breath mingling with the cool, salty air.
Salmon pink infused the sky, painting the underside of heavy, drifting clouds. Moments later, fat drops of rain fell and he felt her change. Electricity surged and he buried his face trying to delay the inevitable. He could barely hold himself together and left a dozen kisses in her silky tresses. Horizon’s pink blush deepened, as did the ache that penetrated his entire being. She shifted again, her body waking and stretching, and he slowly released her.
She wriggled away and turned to kneel against him. Her arms embraced his slick shoulders, her wet cheek pressed against his face, her lips sought his, and the rain fell in a shower of kisses.
They broke apart, and she cupped his face in her hands and whispered words of love. He kissed her back, his lips melting against hers and his tongue teasing the fire that blazed, but she pulled away, slowly, leaning back on her heels and stood.
He stared at her silhouette, black against the rising morn, and his heart burst with love.
“Stay…” he whispered, barely audible above the wild horses of the ocean.
She shook her head and waited. The fiery clouds wandered and he sucked in a deep breath. Her gaze never left his face as she smiled in the rain and waited, patiently, and then he reached behind him and drew a silky fur across his legs. He stroked it gently, and dawn’s light shimmered across the glistening pelt, as he rested it across his arm and rose, taking her hand.
Down at the ocean’s edge, he wrapped the skin around her shoulders and held her close, kissing her with everything he had. She turned in his arms and reclaimed her pelt, shimmying skilfully into it, and then she dropped away and returned to the sea.
If she stayed, if she ever stayed, it would be her choice…and, for now, he let the ocean swallow his heart.

(564 Words)

Written for Jeff’s Blues Buster at The Tsuruoka Files. I listened to the song ‘Stay’ by Hurts and loved it…so had to write!

This story is dedicated to Sophie Moss…for obvious reasons! And to Miranda (Purple Queen) because she loves Hurts! x

Blues Buster: The Seasons of Enchantment

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Grabbed a quiet hour or two to myself and put this together for The Tsuroka Files Blues Buster, the prompt song is a beautiful tale of Ireland Eireann by the Afro Celt Sound System.

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook Tree Man Clyne Gardens, Swansea
(Please do not use without permission)
The Seasons of Enchantment
As autumn’s chill spread through the gold, and scarlet, and dying green, her voice still wandered across the dewy grass, lifting up into the fading leaves, searching for her lost love. My bursting heart sang and my breath fluttered on the autumn symphony, and in her hair, and I watched as Bronagh moved like a sylvan through the forest. The song on her lips, a mournful lament, matched only by the black she wore from head to toe. I urged and whispered, and she searched.
Winter snow swathed the forest floor, and ominous clouds hung in the sky, and still she walked, soft-footed and lone. Her fur-bound feet crunched through the flurry, and her hands brushed snow from low, bare branches, and I shivered as she moved softly through the trees. She walked like a shadow, dark against white, and I listened, my heart breaking as “Odhran…” slipped from her mouth. 
Light, crepuscular rays shone down through the emerging canopy. Honey-green leaves unfurled and broke through, stretching in spring’s embrace.  Bronagh, still dressed in mourning, welcomed the early sun, gathering bluebells and pale sunshine primroses.  Her feet danced lightly on the green sward. I breathed and my heart swelled like the buds on the boughs. 
When summer brought its glittering jewels, and deep verdant life, she moved soulfully through the forest, resting beneath its emerald awning, taking time to catch her breath. I waved and beamed as the sun bore down, and my heart leapt as she still whispered my name in the breeze “Odhran…” I yearned to touch and hold her, but I waited.
Autumn’s return brought crimson and bronze, and jade and brown, and the slow falling leaves matched her new attire. My heart dimmed and my hearing dulled as the wild, winter wind blew across the fields and into my life. She still wandered, lonely, through the trees, still searching, and I still whispered in her ear, but she no longer heard me.
As winter froze the ground and water the colour of her ice-blue eyes hung from my boughs, I knew she was gone. Only deer wandered, hooves crushing the hoarfrost and bruising the grass like the purple shroud that veiled my heart. I shivered beneath the black, night sky and listened to my splintering heart.
Spring’s warmth failed to reignite my soul. It stiffened and darkened, until I was a shadow of myself, until I became blind. I could not stop the burgeoning joy of new growth, my new cloak of leaves, but my heart was finally stilled. 
Frozen amid summer’s heat, I stood silent and cold, my soul as hard and as callous as the wood I wore.
When she reappeared with recognition, and ruddy, autumn cheeks, and a heart full of joy I felt nothing. Her arms embraced me, but my stone-cold heart was lost and my waters frozen. She cried, rivers of tears like a weeping willow, but there was nothing left of me, the man she once loved, just a lonely tree, tall and strong, but forever bereft of love.
(508 words)

Blues Buster: Run

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I struggled with conflicting ideas for this week’s Blues Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files. In the end I went with a rewrite of a scene from last year’s NaNoWriMo…which fit the song so perfectly for me. The song, a classic from Amy Winehouse “You Know I’m No Good.” This version of the scene may find its way into the manuscript… (I’ll keep my second story for another day!)
Photograph by Bekah Shambrook (please do not use)
Run

Dad’s days had turned into marathon internet searches and desperate attempts to scroll through his wife’s social media, page after page, looking for clues. Hours of reading online blogs and lengthy research into the reasons why women run. His fingers ran through his unwashed hair and his three-day-old shirt creased like his forehead.
Meg perched on the edge of the sofa debating lunch, which was, as she stared at the clock, rapidly turning into dinner. She shook her head, even if she made food, he’d just refuse it. She glanced at Dad, her eyes roving across the room, taking in the photographs on the mantle, happy family pictures, smiling at the world. Her hands clenched in her lap, and she fought the tears that welled behind her eyes. Her heart thudded and her bottom lip wobbled.
“Am I like Mum?” Meg released her question.
Dad turned to her. “Why do you ask?”
“Because she’s broken, and I might be too…are we both no good?”
Dad slumped at his computer, and Meg spoke anxiously rising from the sofa, “Dad?” Her words no more than a whisper but filled with a hopeful plea of desperation. “Dad, if I ever run away, will you come and find me?”
Tears illuminated his red, swollen eyes and a quivering sigh escaped his lips as he swung his chair round and took Meg in his arms. He crushed his daughter to his broken heart. “Sweetheart, if you ever run away and you want me to find you, no matter how far or how long it takes I will find you, I’ll walk every road and sail every sea until you’re back in my arms, I will find you, I’ll always find you.”
She tightened her arms around him, there was no need to worry, no matter how much she wanted to run, to run until her feet were sore, until her legs could barely carry her, she would never hurt her father.
She was not her mother.

(331 Words)

Blues Buster: Night’s Fury

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This week over at Blues Buster we have a song that’s just not my cup of tea…but hey no one said we had to like them just write for them as a prompt…so here’s my Drunken Sailor by Captain Tractor tale:

Photo by Lisa Shambrook (please do not use without permission)
Night’s Fury
Agnes flinched as the wind roared around her tiny cottage at the top of the hill; it whistled through every nook it could find and the candle flickered wildly in the window.  She stared, trying to see past the driving rain, out across the ocean, but the thick wall of falling water obscured everything in its path.
The little boat struggled against the thrall of the storm, threatening to capsize with every roll of a wave, but Ned’s experience and nerve lead his vessel on. Waves boomed as they smacked the prow and water surged across the deck, but Ned’s booted feet stood firm. He and his crew fought the ocean, as she threw her frightful tantrum throughout the inky night. 
Harbour walls waited as the gale danced across her arms, and she lingered until the squall had quietened enough to allow the fishing boat home. When they finally crossed her threshold she hugged them close, and the twinkling lamps of the inn kissed them with friendly cheer. 
Heavy rain drove the sailors into the ‘Harbour’s Hold’, where relief was quickly offered as they stripped off their oilskins and sank onto wooden stools, and allowed sweet nectar’s warmth to feed life back into their weary and aching bones. 
Hours later and boisterous, jovial men traipsed back out into night’s blustering rage. 
Ned’s stomach churned with the howling wind and the stench of the catch, and he stumbled into his first mate. A drunken slap on the back and a push down the road was all he needed, and he was back on his way home. Liquor roiled in his belly and he stopped at the road. Waves crashed behind him, against the pier, and nausea rolled up into his throat. He clenched his hands and pitched forward in the rain, hurling his night’s consumption into the gutter. There, he followed it, collapsing into the ditch on all fours. 
The relentless wind bayed at Agnes’s window, mocking the flame in its golden glory. Agnes wiped her shawl across the condensation, peering out again into the blackness of oblivion.
Ned lie, propped up in the ditch, as the rain emptied its buckets upon his head.  He gurgled and vomited again, and surrendered his body and mind to exhaustion.
Agnes checked her clock and sighed as the rain battered the roof. She opened the front door and squinted through the downpour into the village at the bottom of the hill. Lights had begun to go out and Agnes knew the haul was safely in. 
As Agnes waited, Ned awoke to the rain’s attempt to drown him, and with his head thumping as if he’d been walloped with an anchor, he attempted to stand. He swayed and lurched, and began to blunder forward. 
Several hours of worry boiled inside Agnes’s head, and now as the storm started to abate another began anew. When all the lights below had been extinguished, Agnes knew the sailors were home and safe, but where was Ned? She knew with absolute certainty where Ned had been while she agonised over his return, and anger stirred in her gut. Hours later and anger was long gone replaced by cold fury, and Agnes rose from her chair and moved to the window. With shaking hands she licked her fingers and snuffed out the candle’s flame. 
Morning arrived with a crimson sky and cotton wool clouds dancing on the horizon. Agnes woke alone and stepped out onto her doorstep, her husband’s absence summoning stinging, salty tears. Waves crashed below, at the foot of the cliff, embracing Ned’s broken body as the climbing sun rose in glorious defiance to night’s violent turmoil.  
(609 Words)

Blues Buster: Paroxysm

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This week’s Blues Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files is red hot this week, and we’re not talking about the current heat-wave… The prompt track is Right Now by The Creatures.
Scan of hand by Bekah Shambrook manipulated by Lisa Shambrook
(Please do not use without permission)

Paroxysm

The din splintered Jericha’s head, every clang reverberated through the metal against her back and the heat seared her flesh.  “Charter!” she called again, trying to be heard above the screech of creasing and folding aluminium.  “CHARTER, Number One, where are you!” she screamed, squinting beneath the blinding strobes.
She ducked sideways to avoid a steel shard, crashing from the floor above, and slid back round the corner. Her heart pummelled her ribcage as she drew shallow breaths which stopped dead as she stared down the collapsing corridor.
A body lie, prostrate, beneath a sheared off door, and a crimson river ran down the listing deck. Jericha released a primal growl and lost her balance as the ship pitched. She fell into soft, but sturdy arms and the two bodies crashed down to the floor.
Jericha ignored the arms that held her and writhed free, racing off back down the corridor to the body beneath the door.  Within moments she was back in his arms, restrained, and this time she turned fury seizing her mouth.
His face quietened her.
“Damn you Charter!” she hissed driving her fists into his chest, “I thought you were following me, I thought that was you dead on the floor!”
Their eyes locked and the eerie echo of pulverising steel churned their stomachs. “Let’s go!” he cried grabbing her fist and taking off down the empty passage.
Their feet clanked down the metal floor, echoing their presence, but no one would pursue them now. When Jericha set the self-destruct, she knew there was no hope, she knew escape was impossible, but with Charter, maybe, just maybe she could make it to the escape pod on time.
Numbers flew through her head, a countdown ringing in her brain and suddenly she pulled up, yanking her hand out of his.
“What are you doing?” Charter’s eyes bored into her. “Why are you stopping?”
She stood, red-faced, grease bleeding into her wound and laughed. She shook her head, her dark curls sticking to her cheek. She placed her hands on her hips and stared candidly.  “We’re not going to make it…”
Charter shook his head, lurching forward to grab at her hand. “C’mon Captain, we’re not giving up!”
She stepped out of his reach. “It’s too far, any minute now the ship’s going to blow – even in the pod we’ll never be far enough away from the blast!” she yelled above the whine of her complaining vessel. “Let me just look at you, one last time – before it’s too late…”
Her eyes slaved across him, across his heaving chest, and she watched him run his fingers through his bloody hair, his outstretched forearm rippling with muscle and frustration.  She threw herself into his arms and pushed him up against the metal wall. Her sudden strength and ferocity caught him by surprise, as did her mouth against his. The aroma of oil and fear and sweat mingled with orange blossom felled him, and her tongue betrayed her need.
For a moment he fought her, fear conflicting with passion, but as detonations ripped through the ship’s inner sanctum, he gave way to base desire.
Jericha’s hands followed his hard contours, feeling rippling flesh beneath his torn shirt, and she rested her head against the hot wall as his mouth devoured her neck and their smouldering bodies cleaved together.
Screaming, shattering metal flew down the corridors and burning, acrid smoke engulfed them, but Jericha and Charter were past caring, and as the ship exploded they had already risen far beyond.

(591 Words)

Blues Buster: Yearning

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Depeche Mode gives us this week’s Blues-Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files with ‘Home’. I decided to go with love and yearning…

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)

Yearning

She dragged the back of her hand across her forehead, and wiped the sweat on the edge of her skirt as she stared into the distance. The road fizzled into a mirage of haze on the horizon and Loren leaned back against the fence post.
She’d heard the rumours, word spread fast in a small town, and she waited.
Slowly she slid down the wooden post, smoothed by wild prairie winds and rain, and settled in the long grass. She closed her eyes and let the sun beat down upon her. She glanced quickly to her side and smiled at the swathe of ox-eye daisies bobbing their heads at her in the breeze. The morning sun moved slowly overhead, and shadows glided lazily across her skin.
The midday bus ambled past in a cloud of dust, but Loren didn’t stir. She knew he’d walk.
Daisies anchored her, their nodding flowers brushing her leg where the breeze had ruffled her skirt.
Then she saw him. On the far horizon a figure broke through the haze and Loren got to her feet.
Her heart skipped and her breast rose and fell beneath her thin cotton, summer dress. Down on the floor a daisy brushed her leg and she smiled at its touch.  Her breathing quickened as the figure grew slowly bigger and her heart began to unlock the bars that encased her soul. She could feel her blood coursing through her veins, and the rising flood threatened to break the dam of emotions now throbbing within her head.
She lifted one foot and rested it flat against the fence post, her knee thrusting forward, her skirt flapping in the breeze, and she flexed her fingers and swallowed. The summer wind rippled across her collarbone and she inhaled slowly. She cast her eyes downward and stared at the grasses then raised her head, following the rolling grass, until she focused solely on the silhouette walking down the vast road.
His pace lifted, and it was all she could do to stay rooted to the ground. He was no longer a blurry image, but a man, putting one exhausted foot in front of the other.
She could hear nothing but the crunch of his footfalls on the dusty gravel and the thump of her heart. She stood, ignoring her weakening legs and damp palms, and turned her face toward her man. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but still she did not move, choosing instead to remain anchored and savour the sweet approach of her love. Her hands shook and the empty years rolled away.
His face was dark and tanned, his stubble raw, and his hair swept in curls about his face as he locked his black velvet eyes with hers. His hand reached forward and unsteady fingers moved a strand of golden hair from her cheek and then his lips were on hers, and hunger bled through their bodies.
She melted into his frame and fingers entwined, legs leaned close and bodies moulded into one, and beneath the hot summer sun, for a few moments, they were lost within each other.
Flushed and quenched she ran her fingers down his prickly cheek and gently pushed him away. His eyes pierced her through and black, lusty pupils drowned in her gaze. She smiled and cast her eyes down toward the flowers and grasses at her feet, her anchor. He followed her gaze and his face crumpled.
He fell to his knees and whispered softly, “God grant me grace…and forgiveness…”
Loren watched, her heart soaring with pride and love as he held out a trembling hand, and beheld his own eyes.
The five-year-old smiled, a shy curl of her lips, and black velvet eyes regarded him with curiosity. Then as tears streamed down his face his daughter held out a small hand and presented a daisy, a broken daisy with a snapped stem and missing petals. He took the flower and raised it to his lips, then stuck it in the button hole of his moth-eaten, four-and-a-half-year-old, woollen suit.
He took his daughter’s hand and stood. His voice caught as he stared into Loren’s eyes, “I’m home.”

(692 Words)

Blues Buster: My Lost Siren

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A stomping tune in the form of John Legend’s ‘Who Did That To You’ brings us retribution for The Tsuruoka Files Mid-Week Blues-Buster.

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)
My Lost Siren

She walked the surf-tormented shore, every day, and every day I watched.
Sometimes she walked and her sodden robes trailed behind erasing her footprints, and sometimes, like today, she ran. Sometimes her hair flew out behind like spray from angry waves, and her feet splashed as she sprinted across wet sand, and urgency rang out in her echoing sobs. Sometimes she stood, like a pillar, staring, with eyes already laden with salt, and I watched, my own eyes brimming with briny tears caused by wind and sorrow.
Today she arrived with dawn’s breeze and fear caught in her throat. Her skirts billowed and she ran. The wind lifted her tears from her cheeks, swirling them like tiny pieces of sea-glass, before dropping them into the glittering waves.  She ran, blinded by tears and the glistening sun, until the ocean wept at her feet. There she stopped to catch her breath. Her toes sank into sand and icy ocean swells licked her ankles, and I reached out my hand. Noisy sobs echoed across the bay, and I yearned to take her in my embrace.
But I sank back as hooves rang out, and an ebony stallion charged across the beach.
She fell to her knees, her face in her hands and she sang to me like a lost Siren.
The horse halted beside her and its rider slid off, his boots splashing into the sea, and he grasped her arm lifting her to her unsteady feet. Waves crashed and his horse stomped and whinnied, and I clenched my fists. His fingers tightened around her fragile, purple-ringed wrists and her shoulders shook in his hold.
I felt tension build, and anger roil.
His words spat into her face like surf whipping off a wave and she fought to pull away. His black steed neighed and churned the sand in agitation, and he tried to swing her up onto his horse. She baulked, resisted, and his hand stung her cheek, and as her head swung back and an anguished cry carried on the wind, I rose.
Her wretched Siren song of misery carried across the waves and there was no holding me back.
I whipped up my army and my white horses galloped forward, crashing and dancing, and tossing their bleached manes and tails. As we advanced, his ebony charger reared and knocked him to the ground, before screaming and circling in retreat.
Nursing his bruised ego more than his winded chest, he held onto his prize and ignored her cries of protest and fear. Waves rolled over the couple and I rushed closer, my white horses carrying me on. His fingers held tight as water drenched them both, until he finally threw her aside as he struggled to prevail.
My horses thundered into him, rolling across his body and dragging him back into the pitching surf. They showed no mercy and, as he writhed and grappled with the ocean, my breakers thrashed and tore his breath from his worthless throat. They pummelled and pounded until he lie broken in death beneath the waves…and I turned to her.
She knelt at the shore, her hair falling in soaked strands about her face, and her tears falling into my salty embrace. She raised her head and gazed at me, her lips glistening in early morning sun. She sang…and the Siren, who could not win against him, sang to me. The girl who could not beat her human nemesis sang and calmed an ocean, and I, Poseidon, knew I would watch her forever.

(588 Words)