Kafez

Literary

My Photo
Name:
Location: Dublin, Republic of, Ireland

Tuesday 26 June 2007

My new blog

My amateur new site (it is only 1 page) is with me now on my new writing journey. It's called: Writing Palette Part I..

It's still a learning curve and I'm fighting for time these days so will slowly find my way around the links.
This blog with everything in it is to be preserved.
If my new place is not your kind of thing and you choose not to visit, I'll say goodbye here and wish you all the best. It's been fun; sentiment, memory & all. I just have to keep moving on.

My new blog

My amateur new site (it is only 1 page) is with me now on my new writing journey. It's called: Writing Palette Part I..

It's still a learning curve and I'm fighting for time these days so will slowly find my way around the links.
This blog with everything in it is to be preserved.
If my new place is not your kind of thing and you choose not to visit, I'll say goodbye here and wish you all the best. It's been fun; sentiment, memory & all. I just have to keep moving on.

My new blog

My amateur new site (it is only 1 page) is with me now on my new writing journey. It's called: Writing Palette Part I..

It's still a learning curve and I'm fighting for time these days so will slowly find my way around the links.
This blog with everything in it is to be preserved.
If my new place is not your kind of thing and you choose not to visit, I'll say goodbye here and wish you all the best. It's been fun; sentiment, memory & all. I just have to keep moving on.

Post-it Sticker. Competition & story submission notices.For new posts, see below.

NEW!! The Jane Air Poetry Website, UK Stylish! Sassy! Environmentally Super-Conscious! Catch the E-Book - a love story for a savvy look! *Skint Writer's Skint Writer Writing Competitions.Poetry, Fiction & Non-Fiction. Exciting Prizes. Closing date is August 31, 2007. Welsh-based. Contest open to all nationalities. Don\'t miss! *The Wandering Author blogsite invites short stories including flash fiction holding the theme of a child without a voice. Selected stories will be published into an anthology to be sold on Lulu. The mission is in aid of charity, prompted by a little boy called Red who suffers from apraxia & cannot talk. For the original project idea, read HERE & for an update, please read HERE

Labels: , , ,

Post-it Sticker. Competition & story submission notices.For new posts, see below.

NEW!! The Jane Air Poetry Website, UK Stylish! Sassy! Environmentally Super-Conscious! Catch the E-Book - a love story for a savvy look! *Skint Writer's Skint Writer Writing Competitions.Poetry, Fiction & Non-Fiction. Exciting Prizes. Closing date is August 31, 2007. Welsh-based. Contest open to all nationalities. Don\'t miss! *The Wandering Author blogsite invites short stories including flash fiction holding the theme of a child without a voice. Selected stories will be published into an anthology to be sold on Lulu. The mission is in aid of charity, prompted by a little boy called Red who suffers from apraxia & cannot talk. For the original project idea, read HERE & for an update, please read HERE

Labels: , , ,

Post-it Sticker. Competition & story submission notices.For new posts, see below.

NEW!! The Jane Air Poetry Website, UK Stylish! Sassy! Environmentally Super-Conscious! Catch the E-Book - a love story for a savvy look! *Skint Writer's Skint Writer Writing Competitions.Poetry, Fiction & Non-Fiction. Exciting Prizes. Closing date is August 31, 2007. Welsh-based. Contest open to all nationalities. Don\'t miss! *The Wandering Author blogsite invites short stories including flash fiction holding the theme of a child without a voice. Selected stories will be published into an anthology to be sold on Lulu. The mission is in aid of charity, prompted by a little boy called Red who suffers from apraxia & cannot talk. For the original project idea, read HERE & for an update, please read HERE

Labels: , , ,

Monday 25 June 2007


The Shamless Lion Writing Circle founded by the creative maestro, Seamus Kearney of Shameless Words

Lion No.28

Mr. Mellow Yellow

Mr. Mellow Yellow from Lyons, playacted he was in Pompei. He discussed intimate matters only in spa baths while eating grapes handed by his hmmm...chambermaid! This smooth talker has guest starred on the telly's Hustle as the classy con-lion. He steals Christmas wines.


The Shamless Lion Writing Circle founded by the creative maestro, Seamus Kearney of Shameless Words

Lion No.28

Mr. Mellow Yellow

Mr. Mellow Yellow from Lyons, playacted he was in Pompei. He discussed intimate matters only in spa baths while eating grapes handed by his hmmm...chambermaid! This smooth talker has guest starred on the telly's Hustle as the classy con-lion. He steals Christmas wines.


The Shamless Lion Writing Circle founded by the creative maestro, Seamus Kearney of Shameless Words

Lion No.28

Mr. Mellow Yellow

Mr. Mellow Yellow from Lyons, playacted he was in Pompei. He discussed intimate matters only in spa baths while eating grapes handed by his hmmm...chambermaid! This smooth talker has guest starred on the telly's Hustle as the classy con-lion. He steals Christmas wines.

My new blog

My new blog is called Behind the Curtain.
Please come. It's only a couple of hours old. Please give me time to link you all up, friends.

I've got 2 short posts up. One is an older piece, another I wrote today. I want to capture the heart and spirit that holds me so graciously as a writer. I want to capture that part of me - that very inner being of when I was 5 years old that dared to imagine and dream. I want to engage with my writing as one. Hopefully, you won't get bored. But I'll understand if you do.

I chose Wordpress because it offers categories for my stories and poems. I really am dim-witted where the Internet is concerned I'm afraid, so it may look a little plain and amateur. But I love it. :-)

This blog is preserved so all the links and references stay on the search engines. From time to time, I'll still use it. The competitions advertised are running. I still owe this blog a couple of obligatory entries. Will visit you all tomorrow.

My new blog

My new blog is called Behind the Curtain.
Please come. It's only a couple of hours old. Please give me time to link you all up, friends.

I've got 2 short posts up. One is an older piece, another I wrote today. I want to capture the heart and spirit that holds me so graciously as a writer. I want to capture that part of me - that very inner being of when I was 5 years old that dared to imagine and dream. I want to engage with my writing as one. Hopefully, you won't get bored. But I'll understand if you do.

I chose Wordpress because it offers categories for my stories and poems. I really am dim-witted where the Internet is concerned I'm afraid, so it may look a little plain and amateur. But I love it. :-)

This blog is preserved so all the links and references stay on the search engines. From time to time, I'll still use it. The competitions advertised are running. I still owe this blog a couple of obligatory entries. Will visit you all tomorrow.

My new blog

My new blog is called Behind the Curtain.
Please come. It's only a couple of hours old. Please give me time to link you all up, friends.

I've got 2 short posts up. One is an older piece, another I wrote today. I want to capture the heart and spirit that holds me so graciously as a writer. I want to capture that part of me - that very inner being of when I was 5 years old that dared to imagine and dream. I want to engage with my writing as one. Hopefully, you won't get bored. But I'll understand if you do.

I chose Wordpress because it offers categories for my stories and poems. I really am dim-witted where the Internet is concerned I'm afraid, so it may look a little plain and amateur. But I love it. :-)

This blog is preserved so all the links and references stay on the search engines. From time to time, I'll still use it. The competitions advertised are running. I still owe this blog a couple of obligatory entries. Will visit you all tomorrow.

Saturday 23 June 2007

another old prose but one of my favourites that will follow me to the new blog

And After... by Suzan Abrams

AFTER WE HAVE MADE LOVE, I BECOME THE CLEVER, BRIGHT OWL nesting quietly on your shoulder. Perched comfortably and cuddled up close. Breathing the strong close smell of your neck with its tiny diamond scar and hiding in the long damp locks of your hair. I am a happy prey, craving this entrapment. I am the owl, I tell you, just watching and waiting like plastered wood...for the swing of an iron mood; adjusting my smile and always wanting more.

Wanting more of a strange fresh mark that says to everyone, you kissed me. A bruise I wish would never sink into oblivion but would instead rise to power, like a warm ripe flower. Or perhaps the needle-sharp marks of your fingernails from where you have held me in a steely embrace, that now winds itself around my arms in neat straight rows like a spiders' legs.

I am so frail, don't you know that I will break?

You hold me close and smile comfort. And yet in the next moment, you smash me like thin glass onto a hard wooden floor, again and again. Then you wait to count the splinters, measuring my recycled limbs and dismissing my damaged soul. Or perhaps it's all in my imagination.

I know that you love me. When I see you with eyes closed and pretending to sleep, I dream of a rippling orange lake long soaked by the burning sun. It makes me see strange twirling shadows everywhere. The lightning has now passed and I smell the blossoms. If you become angry, then I change my wings to sneak into your pocket. All gossamer gloss and with a shine to enthrall.

Sometimes, you grab me and hold me so tightly I cannot breathe. Sometimes you pounce suddenly to see if I am really all there. I sit tiny and huddled in your pocket, curled into my matchstick fairy legs. You scold me and ask me not to make a noise, not to whisper a sound and not to turn around. And whatever happens, I musn't wave my wand for anyone to see. I oblige.

Yet you hold me tightly, threatening to take whatever is left of my breath away. My eyes cannot turn to anyone else. I look straight at you, while you bind me up carefully in a mummified bandage of emotions. Your hands around me masquerade as a straitjacket. I am in love and so I smile contentedly.

Sometimes believing we are all wrong for each other, you say you want to crush me with your fist. Instead, you command me to behave and insist I rise to my feet before you kiss me. I sink, bending backwards like a rubber doll. Would the heavens break open just for me? I am the owl, I tell you. I am the owl just watching and waiting.


And yet, when I pretend to be asleep, I see you watching me. Wanting to wake me up to beg for more. Your face moves stealthily across the pillow to cover mine. The quiet stalker, like a panther in the dark. Inching your way closer and closer. My eyes already closed, I shut them tightly yet again. And then I breathe your breath like the way a destitute would swallow up an oasis. In this new darkness,I catch the light.

another old prose but one of my favourites that will follow me to the new blog

And After... by Suzan Abrams

AFTER WE HAVE MADE LOVE, I BECOME THE CLEVER, BRIGHT OWL nesting quietly on your shoulder. Perched comfortably and cuddled up close. Breathing the strong close smell of your neck with its tiny diamond scar and hiding in the long damp locks of your hair. I am a happy prey, craving this entrapment. I am the owl, I tell you, just watching and waiting like plastered wood...for the swing of an iron mood; adjusting my smile and always wanting more.

Wanting more of a strange fresh mark that says to everyone, you kissed me. A bruise I wish would never sink into oblivion but would instead rise to power, like a warm ripe flower. Or perhaps the needle-sharp marks of your fingernails from where you have held me in a steely embrace, that now winds itself around my arms in neat straight rows like a spiders' legs.

I am so frail, don't you know that I will break?

You hold me close and smile comfort. And yet in the next moment, you smash me like thin glass onto a hard wooden floor, again and again. Then you wait to count the splinters, measuring my recycled limbs and dismissing my damaged soul. Or perhaps it's all in my imagination.

I know that you love me. When I see you with eyes closed and pretending to sleep, I dream of a rippling orange lake long soaked by the burning sun. It makes me see strange twirling shadows everywhere. The lightning has now passed and I smell the blossoms. If you become angry, then I change my wings to sneak into your pocket. All gossamer gloss and with a shine to enthrall.

Sometimes, you grab me and hold me so tightly I cannot breathe. Sometimes you pounce suddenly to see if I am really all there. I sit tiny and huddled in your pocket, curled into my matchstick fairy legs. You scold me and ask me not to make a noise, not to whisper a sound and not to turn around. And whatever happens, I musn't wave my wand for anyone to see. I oblige.

Yet you hold me tightly, threatening to take whatever is left of my breath away. My eyes cannot turn to anyone else. I look straight at you, while you bind me up carefully in a mummified bandage of emotions. Your hands around me masquerade as a straitjacket. I am in love and so I smile contentedly.

Sometimes believing we are all wrong for each other, you say you want to crush me with your fist. Instead, you command me to behave and insist I rise to my feet before you kiss me. I sink, bending backwards like a rubber doll. Would the heavens break open just for me? I am the owl, I tell you. I am the owl just watching and waiting.


And yet, when I pretend to be asleep, I see you watching me. Wanting to wake me up to beg for more. Your face moves stealthily across the pillow to cover mine. The quiet stalker, like a panther in the dark. Inching your way closer and closer. My eyes already closed, I shut them tightly yet again. And then I breathe your breath like the way a destitute would swallow up an oasis. In this new darkness,I catch the light.

another old prose but one of my favourites that will follow me to the new blog

And After... by Suzan Abrams

AFTER WE HAVE MADE LOVE, I BECOME THE CLEVER, BRIGHT OWL nesting quietly on your shoulder. Perched comfortably and cuddled up close. Breathing the strong close smell of your neck with its tiny diamond scar and hiding in the long damp locks of your hair. I am a happy prey, craving this entrapment. I am the owl, I tell you, just watching and waiting like plastered wood...for the swing of an iron mood; adjusting my smile and always wanting more.

Wanting more of a strange fresh mark that says to everyone, you kissed me. A bruise I wish would never sink into oblivion but would instead rise to power, like a warm ripe flower. Or perhaps the needle-sharp marks of your fingernails from where you have held me in a steely embrace, that now winds itself around my arms in neat straight rows like a spiders' legs.

I am so frail, don't you know that I will break?

You hold me close and smile comfort. And yet in the next moment, you smash me like thin glass onto a hard wooden floor, again and again. Then you wait to count the splinters, measuring my recycled limbs and dismissing my damaged soul. Or perhaps it's all in my imagination.

I know that you love me. When I see you with eyes closed and pretending to sleep, I dream of a rippling orange lake long soaked by the burning sun. It makes me see strange twirling shadows everywhere. The lightning has now passed and I smell the blossoms. If you become angry, then I change my wings to sneak into your pocket. All gossamer gloss and with a shine to enthrall.

Sometimes, you grab me and hold me so tightly I cannot breathe. Sometimes you pounce suddenly to see if I am really all there. I sit tiny and huddled in your pocket, curled into my matchstick fairy legs. You scold me and ask me not to make a noise, not to whisper a sound and not to turn around. And whatever happens, I musn't wave my wand for anyone to see. I oblige.

Yet you hold me tightly, threatening to take whatever is left of my breath away. My eyes cannot turn to anyone else. I look straight at you, while you bind me up carefully in a mummified bandage of emotions. Your hands around me masquerade as a straitjacket. I am in love and so I smile contentedly.

Sometimes believing we are all wrong for each other, you say you want to crush me with your fist. Instead, you command me to behave and insist I rise to my feet before you kiss me. I sink, bending backwards like a rubber doll. Would the heavens break open just for me? I am the owl, I tell you. I am the owl just watching and waiting.


And yet, when I pretend to be asleep, I see you watching me. Wanting to wake me up to beg for more. Your face moves stealthily across the pillow to cover mine. The quiet stalker, like a panther in the dark. Inching your way closer and closer. My eyes already closed, I shut them tightly yet again. And then I breathe your breath like the way a destitute would swallow up an oasis. In this new darkness,I catch the light.

Friday 22 June 2007

Today is my birthday, which always gets me hopeful and thinking. There are major changes happening for me in my life right now & the year that waits, is hardly going to be as sedate as it was in the last one.

I have tried to like this 11-month old blog once more but find it very difficult. In these next couple of days, I'm going to open a new one on Wordpress that will feature my writings. I'm going to stop being so lazy about my art. I love writing in all its forms and I want to experiment with my own philosphies. I'm not getting any younger after all and my time of silence to publish anything, should end.

I want to write a piece of obscure and marginalised fiction...that really reflects who I am as a writer and woman today with no thought of materialism at all...in my mind as I write it. I want to find new worlds in my words. Perhaps something in the bizzare vein of Angela Carter. I'm thinking of dolls. I also want to write more modern stories. Shorter and longer excerpts. Please don't worry if you don't feel inclined to read me but I really want to find a new journey. My half-finished play is still on. :-)

If anything gets accepted by trade, magazines or the like and I intend to pursue this, I may remove that particular story from the net. I will leave this blog as it is...I owe someone a review, an interview and also a poem on the lion for the writing circle. I will leave all the references and links as they are. Give me a couple of days to open the new blog and my blogroll will start again with those who read me seriously. Better just a few readers who like my work then many who are only faintly interested.

Also, tomorrow, I will make it a point to visit everyone.

Today is my birthday, which always gets me hopeful and thinking. There are major changes happening for me in my life right now & the year that waits, is hardly going to be as sedate as it was in the last one.

I have tried to like this 11-month old blog once more but find it very difficult. In these next couple of days, I'm going to open a new one on Wordpress that will feature my writings. I'm going to stop being so lazy about my art. I love writing in all its forms and I want to experiment with my own philosphies. I'm not getting any younger after all and my time of silence to publish anything, should end.

I want to write a piece of obscure and marginalised fiction...that really reflects who I am as a writer and woman today with no thought of materialism at all...in my mind as I write it. I want to find new worlds in my words. Perhaps something in the bizzare vein of Angela Carter. I'm thinking of dolls. I also want to write more modern stories. Shorter and longer excerpts. Please don't worry if you don't feel inclined to read me but I really want to find a new journey. My half-finished play is still on. :-)

If anything gets accepted by trade, magazines or the like and I intend to pursue this, I may remove that particular story from the net. I will leave this blog as it is...I owe someone a review, an interview and also a poem on the lion for the writing circle. I will leave all the references and links as they are. Give me a couple of days to open the new blog and my blogroll will start again with those who read me seriously. Better just a few readers who like my work then many who are only faintly interested.

Also, tomorrow, I will make it a point to visit everyone.

Today is my birthday, which always gets me hopeful and thinking. There are major changes happening for me in my life right now & the year that waits, is hardly going to be as sedate as it was in the last one.

I have tried to like this 11-month old blog once more but find it very difficult. In these next couple of days, I'm going to open a new one on Wordpress that will feature my writings. I'm going to stop being so lazy about my art. I love writing in all its forms and I want to experiment with my own philosphies. I'm not getting any younger after all and my time of silence to publish anything, should end.

I want to write a piece of obscure and marginalised fiction...that really reflects who I am as a writer and woman today with no thought of materialism at all...in my mind as I write it. I want to find new worlds in my words. Perhaps something in the bizzare vein of Angela Carter. I'm thinking of dolls. I also want to write more modern stories. Shorter and longer excerpts. Please don't worry if you don't feel inclined to read me but I really want to find a new journey. My half-finished play is still on. :-)

If anything gets accepted by trade, magazines or the like and I intend to pursue this, I may remove that particular story from the net. I will leave this blog as it is...I owe someone a review, an interview and also a poem on the lion for the writing circle. I will leave all the references and links as they are. Give me a couple of days to open the new blog and my blogroll will start again with those who read me seriously. Better just a few readers who like my work then many who are only faintly interested.

Also, tomorrow, I will make it a point to visit everyone.

Wednesday 20 June 2007

Sorry I've been so bad with visiting. I'm trying to catch up with a few bloggers a day, but going throught too, with the posts I missed. Also, PJ, no I did not get your email. Do write your initials on the header so I know it's you and not spam. And Ray, Maria, Addy, Wolfbaby, Jason & all the others. I will visit soon.

Sorry I've been so bad with visiting. I'm trying to catch up with a few bloggers a day, but going throught too, with the posts I missed. Also, PJ, no I did not get your email. Do write your initials on the header so I know it's you and not spam. And Ray, Maria, Addy, Wolfbaby, Jason & all the others. I will visit soon.

Sorry I've been so bad with visiting. I'm trying to catch up with a few bloggers a day, but going throught too, with the posts I missed. Also, PJ, no I did not get your email. Do write your initials on the header so I know it's you and not spam. And Ray, Maria, Addy, Wolfbaby, Jason & all the others. I will visit soon.

Interlude (also an older bit of prose - just let me get my breath back)


Sometimes...

by Suzan Abrams

I may turn around the clock to a time that I imagined when I was little, when the hour forgot to move but held me in its midst, to embrace me on the brightside. Then lost in the beautitude of its sumo arms, I could not escape but instead faced the chance of a solaced fate.

Sometimes, the past invites me to a remembered dance of the bride. It waits like a stalking shadow, curled and twisted into the corners of the unspoken light. Sometimes, its dark jagged edges may leap at me from behind and shout boo. Or otherwise, it may simply waltz me to the swing of a caress on the side.


Image Credit: Doll Repair Shop

Interlude (also an older bit of prose - just let me get my breath back)


Sometimes...

by Suzan Abrams

I may turn around the clock to a time that I imagined when I was little, when the hour forgot to move but held me in its midst, to embrace me on the brightside. Then lost in the beautitude of its sumo arms, I could not escape but instead faced the chance of a solaced fate.

Sometimes, the past invites me to a remembered dance of the bride. It waits like a stalking shadow, curled and twisted into the corners of the unspoken light. Sometimes, its dark jagged edges may leap at me from behind and shout boo. Or otherwise, it may simply waltz me to the swing of a caress on the side.


Image Credit: Doll Repair Shop

Interlude (also an older bit of prose - just let me get my breath back)


Sometimes...

by Suzan Abrams

I may turn around the clock to a time that I imagined when I was little, when the hour forgot to move but held me in its midst, to embrace me on the brightside. Then lost in the beautitude of its sumo arms, I could not escape but instead faced the chance of a solaced fate.

Sometimes, the past invites me to a remembered dance of the bride. It waits like a stalking shadow, curled and twisted into the corners of the unspoken light. Sometimes, its dark jagged edges may leap at me from behind and shout boo. Or otherwise, it may simply waltz me to the swing of a caress on the side.


Image Credit: Doll Repair Shop

Monday 18 June 2007

Also, older fiction

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us
by Suzan Abrams

By the light of the sunset, we relish in this watchful setting. Lying together in bed with legs clumsily entwined, we clutch hands in a mad desperation like anxious but obedient twins awaiting the maternal goodnight kiss.

We talk in low intimate tones.

You whisper softly into my ear, reciting my name like a passionate guitar strum while pulling at my heartstrings without warning, and dropping hymns into the soft wounded core of my being. You will me not to cry while holding my face tightly within yours, as I sob uncontrollably feeling quite beside myself.

You hand me a tissue.

This simple act makes me forget my tears and practised hysterics. Once, in a quiet growl under your breath, you warned me to stop or you would slap me hard. Another time, you screamed while standing close to my face and yet another, shaking me until I turned a cold blue. At the height of its most painful; was the time when you abdandoned me for a week until you felt quite rightly, that I "had come to my senses."

Then in my heart, I had fallen victim to the rain, ice and cold.

And all the time, you watched me from the window, your face never leaving mine as you lit cigarette after cigarette, while emblazoned in your anger like a notorious Greek statue.

But now, seeming unable to exercise that caution, you embrace the tireless role of the compassionate prophet.

You stroke the unruly strands of my long hair and reassure me that everything will be alright.

Unconvinced, I stare upwards at the ceiling.

My head appears encased in stone as I lie immovable. You pretend not to mind as you engagingly brush away the loose curls until you can see my breasts again.

Then you touch the heavy flesh of me, commanding them to rest slightly against your face. You tickle my palms and I smile. You trace the faint outline of my lips with your fingers and follow your imaginary lines all the way up my eyes. You pretend to write something on my cheeks. You want to paint me, you say, you want to crayon my soul.

Two artists wanted to paint me once. Yes, this is all true.

One commanded a hasty charcoal sketch as I sat to dinner at a little roadside stall in Kuala Lumpur. Yes, of all the places too. I was embarassed as a crowd quickly gathered.

"Please..." he pleaded as I got up to leave. I stared, a little hesitant. He looked unkept and slightly nervous. Amused onlookers watched curiously willing me to a dare. I sat with a friend who appeared faintly envious. Slowly, I sunk once more into my chair while cradling my thoughts with clumsy astonishment.

Another time someone asked if he could paint me. I knew this artist and I had strolled past his gallery. He was often in the news and featured in credit card magazines. That kind of thing. He came running out. I would have to pay a fee, he added apologetically but it wasn't always that he wanted to capture faces on canvas. I would be so pleased, he promised as a last resort.

Now, I continue to lie still without moving. I am thrilled, intrigued and at the same time, terribly sad. You smile; all the time watching and waiting for a reprive. We move into a closer alcove; covering every gap of our bodies with skin that stretches and glues us together all the way into eternity.

We have become quite nicely now, Siamese twins, head on head and chest on chest.

Already your words have crawled for sweaty miles across the desert stream to meet me in a mirage of light and love. Now, an oasis sparkles from my wound. Soon we must part but there is no turning back for me and I must face whatever comes!
Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us


Image Credit: Talullah

Also, older fiction

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us
by Suzan Abrams

By the light of the sunset, we relish in this watchful setting. Lying together in bed with legs clumsily entwined, we clutch hands in a mad desperation like anxious but obedient twins awaiting the maternal goodnight kiss.

We talk in low intimate tones.

You whisper softly into my ear, reciting my name like a passionate guitar strum while pulling at my heartstrings without warning, and dropping hymns into the soft wounded core of my being. You will me not to cry while holding my face tightly within yours, as I sob uncontrollably feeling quite beside myself.

You hand me a tissue.

This simple act makes me forget my tears and practised hysterics. Once, in a quiet growl under your breath, you warned me to stop or you would slap me hard. Another time, you screamed while standing close to my face and yet another, shaking me until I turned a cold blue. At the height of its most painful; was the time when you abdandoned me for a week until you felt quite rightly, that I "had come to my senses."

Then in my heart, I had fallen victim to the rain, ice and cold.

And all the time, you watched me from the window, your face never leaving mine as you lit cigarette after cigarette, while emblazoned in your anger like a notorious Greek statue.

But now, seeming unable to exercise that caution, you embrace the tireless role of the compassionate prophet.

You stroke the unruly strands of my long hair and reassure me that everything will be alright.

Unconvinced, I stare upwards at the ceiling.

My head appears encased in stone as I lie immovable. You pretend not to mind as you engagingly brush away the loose curls until you can see my breasts again.

Then you touch the heavy flesh of me, commanding them to rest slightly against your face. You tickle my palms and I smile. You trace the faint outline of my lips with your fingers and follow your imaginary lines all the way up my eyes. You pretend to write something on my cheeks. You want to paint me, you say, you want to crayon my soul.

Two artists wanted to paint me once. Yes, this is all true.

One commanded a hasty charcoal sketch as I sat to dinner at a little roadside stall in Kuala Lumpur. Yes, of all the places too. I was embarassed as a crowd quickly gathered.

"Please..." he pleaded as I got up to leave. I stared, a little hesitant. He looked unkept and slightly nervous. Amused onlookers watched curiously willing me to a dare. I sat with a friend who appeared faintly envious. Slowly, I sunk once more into my chair while cradling my thoughts with clumsy astonishment.

Another time someone asked if he could paint me. I knew this artist and I had strolled past his gallery. He was often in the news and featured in credit card magazines. That kind of thing. He came running out. I would have to pay a fee, he added apologetically but it wasn't always that he wanted to capture faces on canvas. I would be so pleased, he promised as a last resort.

Now, I continue to lie still without moving. I am thrilled, intrigued and at the same time, terribly sad. You smile; all the time watching and waiting for a reprive. We move into a closer alcove; covering every gap of our bodies with skin that stretches and glues us together all the way into eternity.

We have become quite nicely now, Siamese twins, head on head and chest on chest.

Already your words have crawled for sweaty miles across the desert stream to meet me in a mirage of light and love. Now, an oasis sparkles from my wound. Soon we must part but there is no turning back for me and I must face whatever comes!
Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us


Image Credit: Talullah

Also, older fiction

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us
by Suzan Abrams

By the light of the sunset, we relish in this watchful setting. Lying together in bed with legs clumsily entwined, we clutch hands in a mad desperation like anxious but obedient twins awaiting the maternal goodnight kiss.

We talk in low intimate tones.

You whisper softly into my ear, reciting my name like a passionate guitar strum while pulling at my heartstrings without warning, and dropping hymns into the soft wounded core of my being. You will me not to cry while holding my face tightly within yours, as I sob uncontrollably feeling quite beside myself.

You hand me a tissue.

This simple act makes me forget my tears and practised hysterics. Once, in a quiet growl under your breath, you warned me to stop or you would slap me hard. Another time, you screamed while standing close to my face and yet another, shaking me until I turned a cold blue. At the height of its most painful; was the time when you abdandoned me for a week until you felt quite rightly, that I "had come to my senses."

Then in my heart, I had fallen victim to the rain, ice and cold.

And all the time, you watched me from the window, your face never leaving mine as you lit cigarette after cigarette, while emblazoned in your anger like a notorious Greek statue.

But now, seeming unable to exercise that caution, you embrace the tireless role of the compassionate prophet.

You stroke the unruly strands of my long hair and reassure me that everything will be alright.

Unconvinced, I stare upwards at the ceiling.

My head appears encased in stone as I lie immovable. You pretend not to mind as you engagingly brush away the loose curls until you can see my breasts again.

Then you touch the heavy flesh of me, commanding them to rest slightly against your face. You tickle my palms and I smile. You trace the faint outline of my lips with your fingers and follow your imaginary lines all the way up my eyes. You pretend to write something on my cheeks. You want to paint me, you say, you want to crayon my soul.

Two artists wanted to paint me once. Yes, this is all true.

One commanded a hasty charcoal sketch as I sat to dinner at a little roadside stall in Kuala Lumpur. Yes, of all the places too. I was embarassed as a crowd quickly gathered.

"Please..." he pleaded as I got up to leave. I stared, a little hesitant. He looked unkept and slightly nervous. Amused onlookers watched curiously willing me to a dare. I sat with a friend who appeared faintly envious. Slowly, I sunk once more into my chair while cradling my thoughts with clumsy astonishment.

Another time someone asked if he could paint me. I knew this artist and I had strolled past his gallery. He was often in the news and featured in credit card magazines. That kind of thing. He came running out. I would have to pay a fee, he added apologetically but it wasn't always that he wanted to capture faces on canvas. I would be so pleased, he promised as a last resort.

Now, I continue to lie still without moving. I am thrilled, intrigued and at the same time, terribly sad. You smile; all the time watching and waiting for a reprive. We move into a closer alcove; covering every gap of our bodies with skin that stretches and glues us together all the way into eternity.

We have become quite nicely now, Siamese twins, head on head and chest on chest.

Already your words have crawled for sweaty miles across the desert stream to meet me in a mirage of light and love. Now, an oasis sparkles from my wound. Soon we must part but there is no turning back for me and I must face whatever comes!
Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us


Image Credit: Talullah

Saturday 16 June 2007

Thanks for all the comments. I'll answer each of yours when I put up a new post sometime tomorrow or Tuesday. Thanks. :-)

Thanks for all the comments. I'll answer each of yours when I put up a new post sometime tomorrow or Tuesday. Thanks. :-)

Thanks for all the comments. I'll answer each of yours when I put up a new post sometime tomorrow or Tuesday. Thanks. :-)

Friday 15 June 2007

Slightly older fiction


In The Blue

by Suzan Abrams

The rush of sudden raindrops cry blue murder as they chase and pounce on
my lithe frame. Weary as I am, the stubborn rain demands a piggy-back ride.
It trickles down my skin like a slippery slide. It searches my curves and tears open my quiet dark corners; then belly-dances down my body like a tangled strand. It paddles my bottom. It makes ripples in strange places, turning me into a tired wrinkled infant. Yet, inside of my own fluid, I feel even more of a drowning swimmer then someone diving into a merry waterfall.

My skin is so soft now it feels like a sponge, ready for scrubs, scratches and grazes.
Let me be the wounded for if I were the wire gauze, I would have turned into an embittered old lady, too brittle and cynical for her own good.
For a lifetime guarantee on my fragile self, just squeeze and soak. Just squeeze and soak. One wetness meets another. I introduce them now; a woman tickled pink with passion and clutching her work-of-progress in the art of romance.
In the rain, I huddle under a tiny awning and thirst greedily after my own lust.

I use my long slender fingers to gently wipe the water off my face like the way a cat would amuse itself licking on its own paws. I swing my hips with an air of smug satisfaction in the same clever way it swings its tail. With just that bit of la-di-da, a toodle-ooo and what have you!

Of course, I carry no umbrella and wear no hood on this summer of a London afternoon. The violent thunderstorm threatens to drench me yet again while the fire inside of me, spits, burns and hisses like a jamboree celebration. I see you now under your
favourite golf umbrella.
I remember how sore I still am and yet, I hunger for more. I smile to myself, like a bewitched animal, awaiting its hunt. I am shameless and have not yet learnt my lesson. I see your eyes searching mine and wait to see if you will hold them spellbound when you catch me looking. When you see me, you smile gently as if understanding my shyness and you beckon me with a raised hand to come to you.
You call out, "Come, come..." and that is enough.

Then I forget everything.
I run and stumble, almost slipping and falling into muddy puddles. You stand while staring intently at this unholy spectacle, with just that faint trace of a small smile. I see your lips curl with tender amusement. You don't move a muscle and even your pulse is stangely silent. You wait and watch. Lost in your own thoughts almost as I would suspect, as if you enjoyed seeing my clothes hold tightly to my body, - the tautness of my shocked skin - it is a few seconds later that you realise I've no brolly. "Oh my darling," why didn't you say, you scold.

It's too late, I've reached your side.
I am dripping wet. My hair lies langurously on my shoulders, like snakes coilded in its dark dampenss. My cleavage now clearly visible on the street, has forgotten I wear a brassiere. Rainwater trickles all the way up and down my showy breasts like a pattern of Grand Prix rivulets. You bend a little and touch my welcoming navel. Already, I feel the brush of your sharp gaze and blush. You pull crossly at the slight glimpse of a lacy panty and ask me if it's necessary to show the whole world how I look like.
Feeling defeated, I say nothing and look up at you.
Mesmerised and hoping...Mesmerised and hoping...
Perhaps you worry that I may cry.

Because...
then you draw me close to you and you kiss me. We were to have talked at a cafe but now all you want to do is to slowly walk me back to your apartment to change into warm dry clothes.
Warm dry clothes.
I savour that feeling of smoke on water and fire on ice.
I savour your touch and the closeness of your weight on me as we amble along together. I hide in your shirt and seek refuge under your arms. I am no longer a spying cat but a woman in love. In my heart, the hours swing on a twirling carousel, unseen and untouched like long, drawn shadows on a promising night.

Slightly older fiction


In The Blue

by Suzan Abrams

The rush of sudden raindrops cry blue murder as they chase and pounce on
my lithe frame. Weary as I am, the stubborn rain demands a piggy-back ride.
It trickles down my skin like a slippery slide. It searches my curves and tears open my quiet dark corners; then belly-dances down my body like a tangled strand. It paddles my bottom. It makes ripples in strange places, turning me into a tired wrinkled infant. Yet, inside of my own fluid, I feel even more of a drowning swimmer then someone diving into a merry waterfall.

My skin is so soft now it feels like a sponge, ready for scrubs, scratches and grazes.
Let me be the wounded for if I were the wire gauze, I would have turned into an embittered old lady, too brittle and cynical for her own good.
For a lifetime guarantee on my fragile self, just squeeze and soak. Just squeeze and soak. One wetness meets another. I introduce them now; a woman tickled pink with passion and clutching her work-of-progress in the art of romance.
In the rain, I huddle under a tiny awning and thirst greedily after my own lust.

I use my long slender fingers to gently wipe the water off my face like the way a cat would amuse itself licking on its own paws. I swing my hips with an air of smug satisfaction in the same clever way it swings its tail. With just that bit of la-di-da, a toodle-ooo and what have you!

Of course, I carry no umbrella and wear no hood on this summer of a London afternoon. The violent thunderstorm threatens to drench me yet again while the fire inside of me, spits, burns and hisses like a jamboree celebration. I see you now under your
favourite golf umbrella.
I remember how sore I still am and yet, I hunger for more. I smile to myself, like a bewitched animal, awaiting its hunt. I am shameless and have not yet learnt my lesson. I see your eyes searching mine and wait to see if you will hold them spellbound when you catch me looking. When you see me, you smile gently as if understanding my shyness and you beckon me with a raised hand to come to you.
You call out, "Come, come..." and that is enough.

Then I forget everything.
I run and stumble, almost slipping and falling into muddy puddles. You stand while staring intently at this unholy spectacle, with just that faint trace of a small smile. I see your lips curl with tender amusement. You don't move a muscle and even your pulse is stangely silent. You wait and watch. Lost in your own thoughts almost as I would suspect, as if you enjoyed seeing my clothes hold tightly to my body, - the tautness of my shocked skin - it is a few seconds later that you realise I've no brolly. "Oh my darling," why didn't you say, you scold.

It's too late, I've reached your side.
I am dripping wet. My hair lies langurously on my shoulders, like snakes coilded in its dark dampenss. My cleavage now clearly visible on the street, has forgotten I wear a brassiere. Rainwater trickles all the way up and down my showy breasts like a pattern of Grand Prix rivulets. You bend a little and touch my welcoming navel. Already, I feel the brush of your sharp gaze and blush. You pull crossly at the slight glimpse of a lacy panty and ask me if it's necessary to show the whole world how I look like.
Feeling defeated, I say nothing and look up at you.
Mesmerised and hoping...Mesmerised and hoping...
Perhaps you worry that I may cry.

Because...
then you draw me close to you and you kiss me. We were to have talked at a cafe but now all you want to do is to slowly walk me back to your apartment to change into warm dry clothes.
Warm dry clothes.
I savour that feeling of smoke on water and fire on ice.
I savour your touch and the closeness of your weight on me as we amble along together. I hide in your shirt and seek refuge under your arms. I am no longer a spying cat but a woman in love. In my heart, the hours swing on a twirling carousel, unseen and untouched like long, drawn shadows on a promising night.

Slightly older fiction


In The Blue

by Suzan Abrams

The rush of sudden raindrops cry blue murder as they chase and pounce on
my lithe frame. Weary as I am, the stubborn rain demands a piggy-back ride.
It trickles down my skin like a slippery slide. It searches my curves and tears open my quiet dark corners; then belly-dances down my body like a tangled strand. It paddles my bottom. It makes ripples in strange places, turning me into a tired wrinkled infant. Yet, inside of my own fluid, I feel even more of a drowning swimmer then someone diving into a merry waterfall.

My skin is so soft now it feels like a sponge, ready for scrubs, scratches and grazes.
Let me be the wounded for if I were the wire gauze, I would have turned into an embittered old lady, too brittle and cynical for her own good.
For a lifetime guarantee on my fragile self, just squeeze and soak. Just squeeze and soak. One wetness meets another. I introduce them now; a woman tickled pink with passion and clutching her work-of-progress in the art of romance.
In the rain, I huddle under a tiny awning and thirst greedily after my own lust.

I use my long slender fingers to gently wipe the water off my face like the way a cat would amuse itself licking on its own paws. I swing my hips with an air of smug satisfaction in the same clever way it swings its tail. With just that bit of la-di-da, a toodle-ooo and what have you!

Of course, I carry no umbrella and wear no hood on this summer of a London afternoon. The violent thunderstorm threatens to drench me yet again while the fire inside of me, spits, burns and hisses like a jamboree celebration. I see you now under your
favourite golf umbrella.
I remember how sore I still am and yet, I hunger for more. I smile to myself, like a bewitched animal, awaiting its hunt. I am shameless and have not yet learnt my lesson. I see your eyes searching mine and wait to see if you will hold them spellbound when you catch me looking. When you see me, you smile gently as if understanding my shyness and you beckon me with a raised hand to come to you.
You call out, "Come, come..." and that is enough.

Then I forget everything.
I run and stumble, almost slipping and falling into muddy puddles. You stand while staring intently at this unholy spectacle, with just that faint trace of a small smile. I see your lips curl with tender amusement. You don't move a muscle and even your pulse is stangely silent. You wait and watch. Lost in your own thoughts almost as I would suspect, as if you enjoyed seeing my clothes hold tightly to my body, - the tautness of my shocked skin - it is a few seconds later that you realise I've no brolly. "Oh my darling," why didn't you say, you scold.

It's too late, I've reached your side.
I am dripping wet. My hair lies langurously on my shoulders, like snakes coilded in its dark dampenss. My cleavage now clearly visible on the street, has forgotten I wear a brassiere. Rainwater trickles all the way up and down my showy breasts like a pattern of Grand Prix rivulets. You bend a little and touch my welcoming navel. Already, I feel the brush of your sharp gaze and blush. You pull crossly at the slight glimpse of a lacy panty and ask me if it's necessary to show the whole world how I look like.
Feeling defeated, I say nothing and look up at you.
Mesmerised and hoping...Mesmerised and hoping...
Perhaps you worry that I may cry.

Because...
then you draw me close to you and you kiss me. We were to have talked at a cafe but now all you want to do is to slowly walk me back to your apartment to change into warm dry clothes.
Warm dry clothes.
I savour that feeling of smoke on water and fire on ice.
I savour your touch and the closeness of your weight on me as we amble along together. I hide in your shirt and seek refuge under your arms. I am no longer a spying cat but a woman in love. In my heart, the hours swing on a twirling carousel, unseen and untouched like long, drawn shadows on a promising night.

Thursday 14 June 2007

And After ...

by Suzan Abrams

The hours flow silently like running water into my enticing night. I lie embedded hard and fast like fastened cuffs. Your fingers are so strong, they have twisted my shoulder blades into a demented perfection.

To keep me quiet, you cover my mouth with your hand and stare closely down into my eyes. Your hand feels like iron and your stare resembles a bullet-filled gun. I worry that you may smash my teardops though perhaps, you are too kind for that. I take no risk. I sigh and stop struggling. I am a newborn and still blindfolded in its cot. I am a cub looking for cover.

All the time, my eyes move along with yours, never once leaving your face. We see what we see. We touch what we can. I stare with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. I try to smile a little nervously, then give up. You don't seem to mind. For survival, I struggle in an ocean from where I have coloured its seabed with lipsticks for corals and my shame for seaweed.

Your ring to me is the treasure chest from where past shipwrecks have toppled into the wells of my heart. Now, I swim inside of myself; straight up and down and roundabout. I thrust my tail and fan the possibilities like a goldfish looking anxiously for a new love.

I taste the texture of your skin with melody from my lips. Your kisses make an orchestra. I look for new continents as I float about on your body, dressed in nothing but a skimpy raft. I pray for no siren and wave no flag. If I could light a match, it would be for a mountain of desire to engulf me in its rescue and nothing more. Passion alight!

For a moment, I close my eyes to the heat and the damp. I am basked in sweat. Flesh buried in flesh. Fold encircling fold. I remember the eternal smell of your quick heavy breaths, the slow warm unfolding of your unexpected smile. I want to keep soaking myself in this strange new aura of bliss. Beddy-byes and all that and a sweet goodnight!

I am once more a girl as virginal as an imp. I am the mindless urchin...naked, hungry for more and feeling suddenly cold. I am a plank of wood, colourless and straight on my bent back. Will you let me go?

This morning, on a crowded pavement, I have to close my eyes and pretend. I am the wilted flower from yesterday with petals not yet dead and begging for more. I am so drunk with love, I cannot walk in a straight line.

And After ...

by Suzan Abrams

The hours flow silently like running water into my enticing night. I lie embedded hard and fast like fastened cuffs. Your fingers are so strong, they have twisted my shoulder blades into a demented perfection.

To keep me quiet, you cover my mouth with your hand and stare closely down into my eyes. Your hand feels like iron and your stare resembles a bullet-filled gun. I worry that you may smash my teardops though perhaps, you are too kind for that. I take no risk. I sigh and stop struggling. I am a newborn and still blindfolded in its cot. I am a cub looking for cover.

All the time, my eyes move along with yours, never once leaving your face. We see what we see. We touch what we can. I stare with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. I try to smile a little nervously, then give up. You don't seem to mind. For survival, I struggle in an ocean from where I have coloured its seabed with lipsticks for corals and my shame for seaweed.

Your ring to me is the treasure chest from where past shipwrecks have toppled into the wells of my heart. Now, I swim inside of myself; straight up and down and roundabout. I thrust my tail and fan the possibilities like a goldfish looking anxiously for a new love.

I taste the texture of your skin with melody from my lips. Your kisses make an orchestra. I look for new continents as I float about on your body, dressed in nothing but a skimpy raft. I pray for no siren and wave no flag. If I could light a match, it would be for a mountain of desire to engulf me in its rescue and nothing more. Passion alight!

For a moment, I close my eyes to the heat and the damp. I am basked in sweat. Flesh buried in flesh. Fold encircling fold. I remember the eternal smell of your quick heavy breaths, the slow warm unfolding of your unexpected smile. I want to keep soaking myself in this strange new aura of bliss. Beddy-byes and all that and a sweet goodnight!

I am once more a girl as virginal as an imp. I am the mindless urchin...naked, hungry for more and feeling suddenly cold. I am a plank of wood, colourless and straight on my bent back. Will you let me go?

This morning, on a crowded pavement, I have to close my eyes and pretend. I am the wilted flower from yesterday with petals not yet dead and begging for more. I am so drunk with love, I cannot walk in a straight line.

And After ...

by Suzan Abrams

The hours flow silently like running water into my enticing night. I lie embedded hard and fast like fastened cuffs. Your fingers are so strong, they have twisted my shoulder blades into a demented perfection.

To keep me quiet, you cover my mouth with your hand and stare closely down into my eyes. Your hand feels like iron and your stare resembles a bullet-filled gun. I worry that you may smash my teardops though perhaps, you are too kind for that. I take no risk. I sigh and stop struggling. I am a newborn and still blindfolded in its cot. I am a cub looking for cover.

All the time, my eyes move along with yours, never once leaving your face. We see what we see. We touch what we can. I stare with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. I try to smile a little nervously, then give up. You don't seem to mind. For survival, I struggle in an ocean from where I have coloured its seabed with lipsticks for corals and my shame for seaweed.

Your ring to me is the treasure chest from where past shipwrecks have toppled into the wells of my heart. Now, I swim inside of myself; straight up and down and roundabout. I thrust my tail and fan the possibilities like a goldfish looking anxiously for a new love.

I taste the texture of your skin with melody from my lips. Your kisses make an orchestra. I look for new continents as I float about on your body, dressed in nothing but a skimpy raft. I pray for no siren and wave no flag. If I could light a match, it would be for a mountain of desire to engulf me in its rescue and nothing more. Passion alight!

For a moment, I close my eyes to the heat and the damp. I am basked in sweat. Flesh buried in flesh. Fold encircling fold. I remember the eternal smell of your quick heavy breaths, the slow warm unfolding of your unexpected smile. I want to keep soaking myself in this strange new aura of bliss. Beddy-byes and all that and a sweet goodnight!

I am once more a girl as virginal as an imp. I am the mindless urchin...naked, hungry for more and feeling suddenly cold. I am a plank of wood, colourless and straight on my bent back. Will you let me go?

This morning, on a crowded pavement, I have to close my eyes and pretend. I am the wilted flower from yesterday with petals not yet dead and begging for more. I am so drunk with love, I cannot walk in a straight line.

A fictitious snippet


I SEE YOUR FACE

painted by sunsets and shadowed by ghosts in the mindset. I hang your silhouette, an illumination of a lantern near the bleed of a cut in my heart. I touch you; the skin on my finger burrowed in the bliss of your kiss. I wait on tiptoe, reluctant for this loving moment missed. I see at once if something is wrong…I ask you about a scar from a mark that stayed too long…or perhaps of how your face beautiful in the morning light…would trace a blight that settles tenderly on the tip of a lip. You say it’s nothing…why am I so moved by a change in something of an expression…in anticipation of a haphazard arrangement so annoyed if I see your sideburns trimmed in a way to turn a destiny true, in a way that simply does not suit the majestic you. Perhaps it’s because I want your face chiselled awhile from its furrowed brows to a handsome smile…sculptured in my memory where youth holds on to its shaky, mirrored fantasy. - by suzan abrams -

A fictitious snippet


I SEE YOUR FACE

painted by sunsets and shadowed by ghosts in the mindset. I hang your silhouette, an illumination of a lantern near the bleed of a cut in my heart. I touch you; the skin on my finger burrowed in the bliss of your kiss. I wait on tiptoe, reluctant for this loving moment missed. I see at once if something is wrong…I ask you about a scar from a mark that stayed too long…or perhaps of how your face beautiful in the morning light…would trace a blight that settles tenderly on the tip of a lip. You say it’s nothing…why am I so moved by a change in something of an expression…in anticipation of a haphazard arrangement so annoyed if I see your sideburns trimmed in a way to turn a destiny true, in a way that simply does not suit the majestic you. Perhaps it’s because I want your face chiselled awhile from its furrowed brows to a handsome smile…sculptured in my memory where youth holds on to its shaky, mirrored fantasy. - by suzan abrams -