You seize the stallion by its mane. Waves of titian hair cascade from poll to withers. Nose nudging, a purr of warm breath washing over your face. It's what you know. It's what you remember. You hoist your leg over his long torso and settle in circus-style. The beast pulsing with energy. A smouldering energy worming its way inside of you. An impulse, feverish and giddy, awakening. It's what you know. It's what you dream about. Strands of flaming hair clump in your fist. You press your body closer into the beast. Dig your heels into his barrelled chest. You move effortlessly, in tandem. Thundering hoofs spark torrents of milky way. The long black tresses whipping in the slipstream are your own. The wind is wild. The wind is fierce. It's what you know. It's what you crave. You leave the city behind. Its depravity and corruption, its bustle and alienation. A metropolis filled with dead zones. Ruins that have kept you caged, your soul crying out for more. The night is awash in a filmy haze. Air turning sweet with manna grass, bull thistle, lavender and sage. The tableau a shade of eerie. You flow like water, chart as a comet. —The winding arpeggios of the erhu, kora, and dudek, envelope you in an hallucinatory splendour. Liquid Senegalese melodies and gauzy synthesizer tones transport you, open your mind's eye. The calliope pulsing and pushing its hypnotic tempo. —You are mercury, rising. You are equine. You are free. It's what you know. It is who you are. For an instant, you look back. The carousel is spinning. Its neon lights still aglow...... Ahead, the neverlands. Published in Sledgehammer Lit, July 2021
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Murmuration of starlings again this morning. The sky holding back, just a bit, as thick menacing clouds squeeze into place. We prepare for a deluge, slicker and wellies by the door. Sophia is racing around, shrieking, long golden tangles whipping, frenzied, as I neatly lay out her undies, pedal pushers, t-shirt, socks and shoes. My banshee daughter is attacking the day. Never soft, gentle, slow; her movements a blur. At seven, she still doesn't speak; it's all guesswork. The sea is a calming influence. It entertains her, teaches her, embraces her. We descend along the well-trodden path over boulder, shale, and timber, to our little stretch of beach. Rain and blustery winds never a deterrent. The cove a safe haven for exploration and release. The view, a never-ending vanishing point. Sophia hunches over, red wellingtons wedged deep in the tide pools. Her pink plastic shovel prods and jabs into crevasses, hunting for snails, mussels, anemones, urchins, and sea stars. High-pitched wails morph into sing-song as she focuses, digs, tormenting tiny crustaceans. Her skin a healthy rosy glow. I hang back a few meters leaning against the fallen Douglas fir, grown too tall and heavy for its rocky mooring. Lesser trees still standing, dead and broken. The area is secluded, and I don't worry about noise and commotion disturbing the neighbours. In the distance a solitary loon issues a melodious tremolo. I disengage, take an unhurried drag on my cigarette. It takes an instant for the rogue wave to barrel in, roaring. The vertical wall of frothing water stinking of brine and decay, towers over Sophia. It lunges, like a Rorqual whale—its gigantic mouth gaping wide over its prey—swallowing her whole, carrying her off into the churning black sea. It is all over before I have a chance to react. My chest lurching as I gasp for breath. The turbulent surf reverting flat like carpet. My burden gone, forever. I snap the elastic, hard. It leaves a welt on my wrist, as the image dissolves. My hairs still staggering. I give it another snap, banishing the intrusive thoughts. I am exempt from culpability, I am told. It is my subconscious working through my fears, giving me some semblance of control. It doesn't reassure. I feel depraved, ugly, a bad mother. I snap the elastic over and over, as the dark murderous images resurface. I stamp out my cigarette. The shoreline is littered with pebbles, knots of seaweed, crushed hermit crab shells, and barnacled driftwood. I tease out pointed shards of dolphin-blue sea glass and deposit them in the yellow plastic pail next to Sophia. She doesn't notice. The waves lapping and lipping, ever so close. 442 words Published in JMWW April, 2021
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