short story

My Sunshine

My Sunshine
My Sunshine

 The minute you came into the room, my heart skipped a beat… or two, three, four, five… I did not count. You were exactly the woman I was looking for my entire life. You were exactly what I needed all my life. You were… ‘G-ddess all mighty’, I said to myself, ‘it can’t be true. You’re not real. It is just my eyes deceiving me and she is not truly flesh and blood, this woman is not real’.

I called you Sunshine and it does not matter that it was not your real name, since for me you were like sunshine. Sexy, astonishing, beautiful, and the warmth that beamed from you – was the real thing. I was always telling myself that love at first sight is not for real. I was sure that it can’t be happening in real life. Certainly not to me. But it seems that life is much more real and correct, than we could ever imagine.

I had a bad time. Nobody loved me, I lived by myself and climbed on walls. I dared not dream. I lived in margins, the days passing over me in vain, in emptiness, shirking through my longing fingers.

You “caught” me, the horrible loneliness that surely reflected from every move I made. I could not believe, but it happened. You approached to me and introduced yourself. And your name was not Sunshine, but I kept calling you that, as for me you were a sunbeam, a ray of light, a flame, that spark that lit my life.

I desperately needed motherly warmth. The enormous craving for a caressing soft hand, to calm my fears, was unbearable. I wanted to feel warm lips hover over my yearning forehead. To experience again the delight of innocent childhood…

You were very experienced and did not make any mistakes. You read me immediately with your sensitive senses and knew exactly what I needed. You massaged my aching back with such tenderness, that if I had tears of joy in me, they would surely burst from my eyes.

You made me feel completely comfortable. When you asked me to roll over on my back, I put my soul in your experienced hands. I laid supinely, disassembled into tiny chips, my mind is floating somewhere. Your hands moved lightly, stroking my brow and temples gently, kneading my breasts, sending electric currents into the tiny electrons that were my body, and then… your tongue, so soft, so sweet… and I didn’t know myself. All those flowing atoms that I was, the molecules moving in circles, scattering around the room, began to accelerate, moving toward an unseen centre, ascending, descending, turning around, streaming, combining… and through my short breaths, my confused, turning upside world, soft clouds embroidered, uniting into one sweet molecule…

And afterwards… Afterwards… you cradled me in your arms, putting my head between your soft breasts, your lips humming silently as if to calm a restless baby.

 

You were already married and my hopes had no chance to be fulfilled. For you, I was another flower, like the others, amongst whom you fluttered like a butterfly and scattered over them your nectar and honey. But also your stings. Despite this, I knew I came home. I felt that I found my soul mate whom I was searching for my entire life. During that night, I fantasized how we would live together in health and wealth happily ever after. Those walls, on which I used to climb with frustration, became filled with stars.

But then, morning has broken and you said that you must be off. I could not separate from you. My heart told me that you are not coming back. But what could I do? You were married and your wife was waiting for you at home. I gazed at your back with a pierced, heavy heart, how you deserted me after such a night full of magic and I was hurting all over…

Your hand was already on the doorknob and then… before my blood threatened to burst and drown me in an eddy of pain, you turned towards me, sent your warm gaze, like a sunbeam, and it was filled with love.

 

I’m trying not to think about the woman you deserted and wish her to find new love, a more suitable one. You and I rise every morning, gaze with love into each other’s eyes. What do you see in mine? I don’t know, but you are my sunshine, a beam that lights my life.

Hallucinating words

Flowers

Ploughed field
Ploughed field

 

She picked flowers. Perhaps her beloved woman will come to her tonight.

She picked flowers. Shabbat is standing on the doorstep. In a while, evening will fall.

The field was almost ploughed. Long furrows stretched towards the horizon, some straight, others not. She wasn’t sure. There’s always this doubt. There are nights, saturated with love, nights with soft fullness. But these are so isolated. Isolating. The rest, when her lover doesn’t come to her. No, she doesn’t wish to think about it. Tonight she’ll come. Perhaps. If only!

 

She picked flowers.

A tiny tractor, like a children’s toy, buzzed in the distant horizon, hurrying to finish its work prior to nightfall. The soft pale blueness, wrapped with yellowish-pinkish rays of light, peeped down towards this lonely huwoman, forlorn upon the face of the earth, nodded to her its colours and began to swallow the orange fireball.

She picked flowers.

Earlier, the man driving the tractor passed her, big and thundering, filling her field of vision, preventing her from breathing, forcing her to turn sideways towards the barbed wire fence, leaving a veil of dirt behind him, encasing her in dust. He gave her a brief glimpse, estimating his odds. It was obvious from the expression on his face that he was in a hurry.

 

She picked flowers.

How can one pick flowers when there are none?

 

Anemones
She picked flowers

Hallucinating words

 

 

No Woman Ever

Sweet cheese cake, very sweet!

 

I hoped. Expected. Yearned. Craved for you. I didn’t know what your thoughts were. Do you want me too, as much as I want you? Who can read someone else’s mind? You were a whole world to me. A new world I did not know. I never imagined I would ever know. You were a special woman.

We met in a crowded coffee shop. I was sitting at my regular spot, trying to fill in a blank paper with words for my column. The hustle & bustle around me did not disturb my concentration at all. I was used to it. It was something else. A feeling that something is going to happen in my life had nibbled inside me. Some unexplained craving was in the air. Perhaps because of the thick smoke, or maybe my efforts to seal my ears from the noise, I did not hear you at first. I was staring at my paper, trying to gather my scattered mind. ‘Must concentrate’, I said to myself, ‘otherwise it’s not going to work’.

My throat was dry. I reached for the glass and held the air. I was surprised. A minute ago it was still here. Where did it go? I raised my eyes and there you were standing, holding my glass in your hand, smiling.

“Hello,” you said. I was speechless. My tongue was stuck to my palate and couldn’t move. “Good manners is not your strongest point, ha?” You said kindly, putting your soft hand on my shoulder. A sweet shiver rushed over my body and I hoped that in the darkness you wouldn’t notice my blush.

I forced myself to come to my senses. “That’s not so,” I whispered the best I could, “it’s just that my throat is dry…”

You leaned towards me and brought the glass to my lips. I sipped, trying hard to stabilize my tremble. I didn’t know how to “digest” you. It never happened to me before that a strange woman took my glass and after a minute watered me, her breasts exposed in front of my face, her hand rests calmly on my neck. Did I imagine a stroke? I tried to drink slowly, so it won’t drip on my blouse, to avoid an unpleasant incident.

“Finished?” You asked, your face so close to mine. “Should I get you some more?”

“That’s OK,” I replied, “I’m OK now, thanks.” Some OK… My whole body was running wild. I couldn’t take my eyes off your exposed breasts. “May I help you?” I was trying to collect myself.

“I wanted to know, if it wouldn’t bother you me sitting at your table. It’s quite crowded here. Do you mind?”

Did I mind? How could I not? I have never felt like this when first meeting a woman. Never before, no woman caused me this sensation all over. Secretly, I gazed at you. You sat yourself down calmly on the chair beside me, making yourself comfortable.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” The words filtered through your lovely lips which held the cigarette, while your hands brought the burning match closer. Did I mind? So what? I was in an abstaining period and felt quite disturbed by smokers, but did not wish to drive you away. ‘A smoker’, I said to myself, ‘it’s not healthy’. Again I lowered my eyes to the paper. Is there any hope that I’ll finish the column tonight?

“Don’t pay any attention to me,” you said, your dark eyes burning at me like two fireflies, “I don’t wish to disturb.” I smiled. Maybe you don’t, but you already have. My whole being is running wildly, my heart is pounding in a rough Tam-Tam beat. I am in a trance. All my senses are alert and ready to absorb you. Your perfume surrounds me. My nose cannot be satiated enough… My eyes, instead of clinging to the paper, are constantly moving in your direction and stick to you when you are not looking. My body, as if it has a will of its own, is alert and wants you. My brain is scattered… ‘Calm yourself. Calm down! Otherwise, it won’t work’.

“I’m going to bring more drinks. Would you like some? Maybe a snack?”

I held out a bill of 50. “I would like a sandwich and some orange juice, thank you,” I forced the words out of my mouth. You could not possibly guess my wishes. If only you could read my thoughts… Goddess, it had never happened to me with a woman before!

“Here.” You open my hand gently and put the change in it. Who could imagine me daring to touch a strange woman’s fingers? Your hand lingers in mine and I begin to withdraw, embarrassed. “It is lovely touching a woman’s hand, isn’t it?” You don’t let go. The skin on my arms turns to gooseflesh. You caress the bumps, smiling to yourself. Did you catch me? The chair and me become one entity. A strange fairy touches me and turns my being upside down. My underwear is wet. It is advisable for me to run away and freshen up in the bathroom.

You allow me to flee. You know I’ll come back to you. The mirror reflects my gaze. My face is like a tomato, if I wet them, will it go away? Never… OK, I got it – no woman has ever made me feel like that until now. So, what should I do? Should I consent? Should I go for it? What? The mirror refuses to reply. My mouth curves with a hesitant smile. Would I dare?

“What is with you? Is everything all right?” Your worried eyes are attached to mine. Could you hear my heart beating? My gaze is stuck to your lips. They are so close. So inviting… I wish I could flutter gently on them. Sense them. Sense you… You look at me. The magic spell nails me to my seat. You bring your chair closer to mine. Your knees touch mine. Should I move? No chance. It is not possible. My body is utterly paralyzed.

“What is your name?” You ask, and I answer, as if in a dream: “Me? Or.”

“Nice name,” you say, “want to know mine?”

“Yes,” I barely answer. The hoarseness in my throat hurts.

“I’m Orly. Or and Orly. Nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is…”

“Your lips are so dry,” you observe and bring your tongue closer. My face is held in your hands. My breathing quickens. My lips are trembling, closed with passion on your tongue, unable to let go. That softness… Was it a kiss?

Long ago I forgot the world. So there won’t be a column for tomorrow. The world wouldn’t collapse. Neither will the newspaper.

“I live nearby,” you whisper to me, “would you like to come and see my place?” Of course I would! You could lead me anywhere you like. I’m in your hands. As yours are in mine. I see them holding your hips, caressing, sensing you, unable to depart…

“Please,” you stand beside the door and invite me in. I am inside. Small hesitant steps. My feet are heavy. You close the door and turn to me. Your arms interlace around me. My arms are around you. A hug. My lips are searching for yours. I am in a dream… “Want to take a shower? It’s hot, isn’t it?” You ask.

“OK,” I reply. The water runs calmly. You move your hands on my back, massaging gently. It is pleasant. You turn me towards you. My hands on your breasts, caressing, my palms sense how your nipples harden. Mine too. My hand slides slowly, submerged in you. “More,” you whisper to me and cling closer. My tongue moves on your nipples. It is tasty. And then… the groaning that your body releases… Like a present.

You take me to bed. My body craves for you. I never thought it is possible to feel such passion for a woman. You flow towards me. I flow towards to you. You study my body. I entrust my soul in your hands, moving to the rhythm you dictate.

No woman has ever made me feel like that.

 

Hallucinating words

Tobacco

Cold low brick wall
Cold low brick wall

Yesterday, my lovely spouse and I went strolling to one of the markets in Kingston Upon Thames, London, the Monday market, hoping to find some bargains. My partner is sheltered in the car and I am going out to feed the parking meter. A Japanese couple, perhaps Koreans, dressed casually (they are not tourists, they are locals – my brain notes the useful information) pass near me, the man glimpses at me momentarily and moves on, my image does not engrave on his eyeballs.

“Excuse me”, I ask him in a strictly kosher Israeli accent, as I realize I cannot understand what the parking meter demands of me without my reading glasses, which I left in my bag in the car. Well, clearly, it wants money, but under what conditions? “Can you please assist me?” The couple stops, glances at me surprisingly. “I can’t read the machine. What do I have to do, how much money should I put in?” I send him the helpless gaze of a distressed female, which I keep for times like this, including the need to change a tire, because why get dirty, when there is always a male who rushes to assist in order to feel superior? Indeed, I don’t mind letting my fellow-man feel good, as long as it helps them to assist me…

That person adjusts his belt, sticks out his masculinity and draws near to study the secrets of the appliance. He scratches his forehead, while his docile quiet wife stands behind him politely and tries not to stick out. After studying the complicated instructions of the device thoroughly, he repeats the directions loudly, for me. The words pass over me, without entering my consciousness. It is a foreign language, not my mother tongue.

“You see”, the person explains slowly and patiently, noticing my empty gaze. “It says here, you should put two pound per hour, OK?”

OK. I thank him, bending towards him with a wide bow, according the custom of his people, sending an apologetic smile to his patient spouse. The woman curved her lips slightly. Sadly, we parted with 4 pounds in favour of parking lawfully, hoping that two hours would be enough.

I’m going back to my spouse. Obediently, she sticks the sticker onto the car’s window. Should a parking warden arrive – s/he won’t give us a ticket, G-d forbid. It’s better to pay 4 pounds instead of the threatening 100. Reflecting in the car’s window, a woman’s silhouette goes beyond me, advances heavily, dragging her feet one after the other, heel to toe, very slowly. My consciousness does not pay her any attention; I forget her existence within a split second.

Although the air stood still and the wind didn’t blow and the promised rain had not yet drizzled on our heads (it started to fall heavily in the afternoon), it was colllldddd! Before leaving the house, I wisely wore my wool warm gloves and a matching hat, which covered my ears that usually freeze, without paying attention to my beloved’s remark that I look strange, as “the English do not wear hats in this time of year, only when it’s really cold and this weather is not considered as such.” What do I care about these Englishmen or women? My ears are very important to me, certainly more than what these strangers will think about me.

We are walking leisurely, arm in arm (despite the hat on my head), anticipating spending a pleasant day, browsing the goods and purchasing. “Poor thing”, my merciful spouse whispers to me at the sight of the stranger, crawling with measured steps, “she has surely had a stroke, see how she drags half of her body.” I was busy capturing the sights with my camera. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the slim woman, wearing a thin shirt and brown trousers, made of delicate cotton. I nod my head. The woman stopped, slowly turned to the side, casting her coat on the cold low brick wall on the sidewalk nearby, with the berry bushes behind, seating herself.

“Crow-Crow”, a big raven lands near her, crows loudly, stamps his legs, waiting to be fed. I guess they were old friends.

We are getting near, my camera clicking. The raven flies, taking off and finds shelter on the highest pole in the neighbourhood. Our eyes meet. The woman smiles at us politely with her weary lips. Casually, she took out, from somewhere, matches, an elongated, gold faded colour tobacco box, with cigarette paper, and punctiliously started to arrange them, entirely concentrated. I look at her hands, her exposed fingers playing with the stuff.

“Colllldddd!” I complain to my beloved. She smiles at me and teasingly censures why I left my warm country precisely at this time and came to this damp and gloomy place. The unfamiliar person stopped her activity, her ears straightened when she lifted her head towards us. “She’s from Israel”, my spouse hurried to explain to the stranger, ignoring the security instructions for the Israelis abroad, she never got. With all my heart, I hope the unknown person is not a potential terrorist and she will not draw a knife on me. I don’t have the energy for street fights, especially not in this freezing cold.

“Oh, Israel”, the local woman drags her words, leaving them to ice up in the cold air. I don’t have a clue what she is thinking about. Her tone of voice did not give it away. At least she didn’t attack me.

We continue walking, leaving the mysterious lady to her own devices. The market appeals to me, I’m sure I’ll find my heart’s desires there, mainly some bargains. I didn’t find any. My spouse explains that the recession affects the displayed merchandise. It is just a market. I was looking for cheap, bargain, souvenirs of England, but nada, nothing at all. I didn’t look for quality, but didn’t expect rubbish either. In Israel, at the Carmel market in Tel Aviv, we have better quality. I was quite disappointed.

******

Two hours later, our legs are weary. Fine rain, annoying, starts to fall, threatening to wet my camera. I put it back to its case. I am done with the photo shooting for today. We rush to the car. The raven is running in panic, back and forth, passing his gaze from us to the road, seeking an explanation, its eyes try to understand what they see: a silent ambulance stood in the middle of the street, its lights flashing, it loads into its belly a zipped plastic body bag.

An orphaned box, its black edged mouth open, shreds of tobacco on the berry bushes moving in the wind.

 

Hallucinating words

Nyctophobia

TW: Gore (a few descriptions of light gore)

 

Why are people afraid of the dark? Because things live in the dark. The darkness is its own world full of evil and monsters. You must think I’m a child, but have you been in the dark recently? Have you walked down your hallway at night, having that feeling that someone’s watching you? That flicker of movement in the corner of your eye? It’s not your mind playing tricks on you. No. It’s something much worse.

***

“Yes, sweetheart, I’m on my way home, I got stuck closing out the register…I’m in Macey’s parking garage right now…Yes, I’ll bring home something for dinner…I love you too. Okay. Bye.” I hung up my cell phone and continued walking towards my car. It was about 9:30 at night here in Manhattan. Luckily, spring had just arrived, so it wasn’t too cold out. However, everything in the vicinity was closed for the night, so it was rather desolate and quiet. For the city that never sleeps, it sure was fucking dark. I hated the dark. I never liked it, even now, as an adult. Especially in the city, where crime was high. But it wasn’t muggers or rapists that made me uncomfortable, it was the fact that I had no idea what was out there. And that was when my mind began to go into imagination mode. I’d create things in my head that would come out to get me and make myself paranoid. I shook my head. There was nothing out there.

180°

 

 

A Short Story by John Boughton

 

Jenna paced her room, wondering how the conversation would go. Would they accept her? Would they disown her? Would she be sent to an orphanage or forced to live on the street? All of these were questions racing through her head on a quiet, cold Wednesday evening. She rehearsed what she would say to her parents. She wanted desperately to tell them who she truly was. She had stalled through the car ride home, she stalled all throughout dinner, and she continued to stall through the night as she did the “homework” she didn’t really have.

 

The time was approaching. She couldn’t bear to continue the life she was living. She had a partner at school and they loved each other very much. They had been secretly dating for about three months and all she wanted was for them to meet her parents. But first, her parents needed to know the truth. That was the hard part. She thought it would be easy, like any other kind of conversation. Like talking about what to eat for dinner, or whether she interested in going to her brother’s concert on Saturday night (she wasn’t). But nonetheless, she was frozen, Whenever the words approached her lips, her tongue became paralyzed and she would blurt out some fun fact about the African Savannah or Eleanor Roosevelt. It was bad. But tonight she knew she had to tell them because the Winter Formal was this Friday and her parents had been begging her to ask someone out. Just not who they expected, or frankly, wanted. It didn’t matter though. She loved them with all her heart and whether her parents liked them or not, it was her choice and her life.

 

She gathered her strength, took a deep breath, and exited her room. As she walked down the stairs her hands were hot, clammy and vibrating. It felt like the Heat Miser was giving her a vigorous handshake. Her parents were downstairs watching the News. They were both in the PJ’s and about to turn in for the night. This is was it.