Tag Archives: Photo fiction

Wake Up.

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— Wake up. Please don’t sleep. The danger isn’t over.

Helplessly, I hang above my prone body, trying to communicate an urgent message to my brain. I’ve come so far, endured storms that threw me from the boat to struggle and choke in chilling water, sun that seared and flayed my salty skin, thirst that forced me to drink my own urine. My food supply was washed away even before I lost count of the days. Sometimes my grip on sanity has drifted off on the monotonous waves that can turn so suddenly into evil monsters determined to drag me down to the bottom of the sea, to become a fishes’ feast.

Yes, I’ve come so far, and survived many perils, and now, unconscious of any danger, I sleep soundly on the beach, lulled by the slipping solidity of sand, as the waves sneak relentlessly closer to me.

— Please wake up. Don’t sleep. Please.

They’re intent on stealing me away. See how they swell, snapping at my flaccid ankles. A huge breaker approaches, building in size and strength as it comes closer. Like a giant claw, it curls above my body, crashes over the whole of me, drags me toward it, shifting the fine sand, before losing its grip. In an instant I’m back inside myself. I wake as my spirit returns to that hidden place within me.

Salt water stings my eyes and burns my throat, making me retch. An urgent scrabble, on hands and knees, conveys me up the beach.

From the safety of a sand dune. I watch the ocean carry away the broken remnants of my boat.

Written for Michelle’s Photo Fiction #98.

©Jane Paterson Basil

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Private Show

WARNING! DISTURBING CONTENT
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………………daddy
………………….daddy holds
……………………daddy holds a
…………………….daddy holds a private
…………………….daddy holds a private show
……………………………….holds a private show
……………………………………….a private show
………………………………………private show
………………………………………………show

………………………………………………..uncles
…………………………………………..uncles come
………………………………………..uncles come and
…………………………………. ….uncles come and pay
……………………………… …..uncles come and pay to
…………………………………uncles come and pay to see
………………………………………. .come and pay to see
…………………………………. …….  …and pay to see
…………………………………  …………..pay to see
………………………………………  ………..to see
…………………………………………………..see

………………………………………………….my
…………………………………………………my poor
……..;;……………………………………..my poor life
………………………………………….my poor life bleed
………………………………………my poor life bleed away
……………………………………poor life bleed a
……………………………life bleed a……………w
………………….bleed a…………..w…………….a
………………………….w………….a……………..y
………………………….a…………..y
………………………….y
……………………………………………………………..away
………………………………………………………………………

.

Written for Michelle’s Photo Challenge, this poem is designed to be uncomfortable and difficult to read, to cause visual distortion, and to shock, since the subject matter is horrific.  

©Jane Paterson Basil

Rumbled

Photo fiction

Mate; you’ve been rumbled –
you’re not crushed and humbled,
or stumblingly blushing in shame.
It’s the same old game that you play whenever
I catch you together with a weathered coquette,
in flagrante delicto – you know it’s a no-no,
but you will not forego your fumbling foreplay
or illicit delight; you go weak at the sight
of each flighty whore,
and by now you’ve had more
loose women than I’ve had hot dinners.

You may think you’re a winner, but I can resist
your lithe, virile flesh as you writhe and twist.
Don’t pretend to repent; my patience is spent,
you sick, silly nitwit, you’re ticked off my list.

Thank you  Michelle. I had a lot of fun with Photo Fiction #89

©Jane Paterson Basil

Fickle Cupid

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Alas; his tickling fingers
……shall no more set my innards aflame,
…………pulling exquisite music from my hidden strings.
They have found a new tune to play.

It’s true I am humble,
……no graceful Steinway,
…………but I adored him all the same.
He said he loved my plinkety-plonk,
……then plumped for aristocracy, (plump being the operative word)
…………seduced by those sumptuous curves, and that persuasive lilt.
.I have been jilted.

Why does he want Miss Steinway?
……True, she sings kinda sweet, and her body may gleam
…………but it’s pretty near the size of a football team,
………………………………………………….…and she’s one leg short.

This upright piano may be poor,
……but I have four legs, and if you showed me an average door
…………at least I could fit through it…
………………………………………………..…as you saw.

I stand deserted in a forgotten room,
……gathering dust and spiders webs
…………beneath a leaky roof.
Raindrops take the place of his caress,
…….and they never hit the spot
…………where beautiful music is made.
The missing slate is above my A flat,
……leaving me longing…
……………maybe if you could move me a little,
the drips would work their way to the G.

Oh fickle cupid, bring him back;
I’m wilting from a damp attack.
Play me gently, soft and low,
then raise me to a cre-scen-do.

Written for Michelle’s Photo Prompt. This week’s image is a little bit naughty… or maybe it’s just my interpretation…

©Jane Paterson Basil

Dinnertime

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Showered and fragranced, she slips into well-chosen clothes; clothes with the perfect mix of sexy and casual, as if it’s only by chance that she looks that way. She smoothes down her hair and applies the right amount of make-up – not too much; she doesn’t want her look to appear contrived. She checks in the mirror, and sees the reflection of a naturally alluring woman with a lovely figure. Her disguise is perfect. She leaves the house, and walks slowly down the road, with the merest suggestion of a wiggle, a carefully designed expression of uncretainty on her face.

She catches the eye of every man she passes. They look interested, but always, something startles them, and they recoil in horror, before making a wide berth – sometimes even crossing the road to avoid walking past her. She’s getting hungry; it’s been days since she’s managed to lure anybody back to her lair.

Presently, clouds cover the sun. Shadows fade. She spots a meaty giant of a man walking her way. He sees her lost-little-girl look, and pauses to ask her if she is OK. She gives him her well-worn story about only having moved into the area the previous day, and not being able to remember her way home; it always works. He asks for her address, and offers to walk her there.

Her sensitive nose picks out aftershave, lemon soap, coffee, fresh bread, ham, the ingredients of coleslaw, an encouraging tang of lust, and knows she’ll have no trouble. Beneath those ugly scents is the delicious perfume of blood type A, rhesus positive; her favorite flavour.

She sighs in anticipation of her feast.

Written for Michelle’s Photo-Fiction Challenge

©Jane Paterson Basil

Nicotene kiss

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So long ago… an image of clear, cascading water… green leaves and virginal blossom… a happy couple with fresh faces… those tempting words, “Cool, fresh Consulate, cool as a mountain stream.”

The advertisement beckoned temptingly from magazines, forever whispering in my ear, suggesting that I, too, could find myself scrambling up mountains, sharing jokes and smiles with a male soul-mate, if only I smoked menthol cigarettes…

And you, the truth behind those pretty lies, your handsome face half-hidden by the shadow of night-time trees in a city park, smoke from your cigarette curling upwards, forming a half-frame which drew me ever back to your sensuous lips. How could I resist the offer of one of your narrow, nicotene-filled tubes, so stylishly flicked from the interior of the pack? My foolish heart lurched at the intimacy of your lighter igniting the end of my cigarette…

Those times I spent with you, in the corner of a cloudy nightclub, drinking doubles, while I smoked like a grown-up, never once smudging my make-up, feeling, oh, so sophisticated… I was young, and in love… We never climbed mountains, meeting only at night, under those city lights sometimes sneaking into the park, to make the only kind of love I had ever known. Afterwards you would want a drink… a cigarette… soon, so did I…

I lie here, in the slippered silence of this hospice, listening to my rasping breath, feeling the alien growth take over my lungs… I press a button on the gadget in my hand, and feel the swift relief of morphine haze. If only you were here with me, but I’m on my way to you…

I wish we could share one last nicotene kiss…

Written for Michelle’s Photo-Fiction Challenge.

©Jane Paterson Basil