The Poor Sod

He looked in the mirror and admired his muscular posture, turning round and round. People might call him vain but he disagreed; looking well after oneself, wearing expensive and timeless cloths, had nothing to do with being vain. He was a proud person and showed it to who ever was interested.

   Yes, it was important to him how people looked at him, their thoughts. He demanded respect for who he was and how he lived.
His life had never been easy looking after his dominant parents, fighting all their marriage long. He hated their fights, their voices and the way they treated each other. And him, particularly him, their only son, the one and only product of a night that turned out to be the biggest mistake of their life. Oh, never they failed to rub that in!

   They involved him in every row between them, ever since he was a toddler. He never understood why they stayed together. Well, he did understand because his mother told him more then once that his father would never support them financially, how would she herself and him?
And they continued to destroy everything that could have been labelled 'love' or 'friendship' or...... 'sympathy' maybe?

   It was a relief when they both passed away, shortly after one other. A time he did not want to recall. It happened as he had wished for and he never doubted the strength of his wish. But it made him aware there were forces he could use. And in the years following he also learned how to use them. At least, that is what he thought.

   He was very tidy and soon the house and garden looked nice, he received lots of compliments from his neighbours who - but he did not even questioned this - never entered the house. Peeping through the windows is what they did when he was out.
Punctual he was too, time was important to him and every part of the 24 hours per day, had it's own time limit, was time phased.
   He was not a hermit, he went out quite often. Although an excellent chef, he loved dining out, sitting quietly in a corner, observing the ladies. Carefully, not to upset them.
He loved women, their soft features, their hair, beautiful dresses and excellent manners. He could not believe his good luck when two ladies also showed interest in him.
No doubt it must have been his good manners, his broad and solid shoulders, his trustworthy confidence in life.

   He saw these ladies quite often and when he fell in love, he knew it was from both sides. He did not think of it as complicated. Why should he not be in love with two? Or maybe more if he had the chance? And of course, he was irresistible so why not more then one lady in love with him?
To get to know them better, he invited them (separately of course) for lunch in different places. Invitations they only accepted occasionally but they never accepted his offer to hire a taxi for them; they preferred their own transport. He did not want to argue, he knew too well this could cause fights and he wanted a happy relationship.

   Relationships which developed in his mind, not in real life. In his mind he had two fiancees but he never mentioned them together when he proudly talked about the love of his life. No, he talked about 'my fiancee', the lovely caring beautiful lady that had chosen him to look after her.
He went out to buy them presents, to cook them exquisite dinners, maintained the house and garden immaculate. And never questioned why they never arrived or even excused. In his mind they were faultless. They were caring and loving, always in his favourite. He knew he was always on their mind and in their heart.
Slowly but surely he lived more and more in his own world, his own fantasy. And when the shopkeeper in the village dared to ask him why he bought so much food being on his own, right? He answered his fiancee was coming for dinner.

   With the table set for two, he ate and talked, kept a lovely and amusing conversation going. He smiled and laughed, was the perfect host. Held the tiny hand to kiss it, looked deep into blue or green eyes (depending who was visiting him) and dreamt of cosy nights in the arms of his woman. Dreamt of making love, tender and slowly but soon as the passionate lover he was. He slept with her in his arms, discussing a life together, a marriage even.

   Waking up alone did not bother him, he understood that his beautiful lady left hours before, not to be seen by the neighbours. She fulfilled his dreams which was very satisfying on its own.
And every morning he watched the beautiful brass alarm clock he bought for her. The soft golden glow, the tiny little feet, the bell on top which tingled when he touched it. The elegant clock face set to an appropriate wake up time.

Photo: @beautifully_derelict ©

   He questioned if his ladies ever understood how important this clock was to him. The rhythm of the tic-tac was in pace with his heartbeat. The beat that conquered the long cheerless years with his parents, the loneliness, that kept him alive to dream of what he really wanted: true love. Ensuring him his emotions were not dead. He was still capable to live a good life, to make love, to worship, to give and to receive. The beat which went faster and faster, thriving him to ecstasy, an ecstasy which pumped his blood through his vanes. Which blew his mind, which cramped his body, which silenced him forever.

   The funeral of the little man that had lived on his own long after his parents died, was sober. His skinny posture was laid to rest at the local cemetery with only a very few people to sing a simple hymn, a few words that did not do his self image of being the tall handsome lover of two women, any justice. But who knew about his dreams?

   With no next of kin, the house stood empty and slowly rotted away. Nobody dared to enter it, gossip went round that the most precious item in the derelict house, the alarm clock, had stopped at the time the little man passed away. And was therefore haunted. Nobody dared to touch it and slowly dust nestled behind the glass, covering the hands in a grey powder, like ash, until the time of death faded together with long forgotten memories.....

Word of thanks: the photo of @beautifully_derelict (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use it as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you so much Jules, luv yah X

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @beautifully_derelict

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

Roses (short story)

    The music she heard was composed by the sea.
Its whispering sound louder when the waves born at the horizon, grew on their way to the beach to die at the wet sand. After their temporary death there was a moment of silence and the sand beneath her feet moved as if it called her to the dark water where a lost moonbeam- disturbed by black clouds flying through the sky - lighted the splashing froth on top of the rolling waves.

   She listened to the music, her arms folded around her body. The wind played a game with her long white dress that could not decide to fly with the wind or to protect her.
From a distance she looked like a ghost, floating above the shore. But there was no one to watch her.
She was alone with her memories which went back a long time. Happy memories that made her smile and forget about the wind.
   Instead of the cold wind, she felt the warm sunshine at her skin. Of course she had a beautiful lace parasol that protected her. A lady was supposed to have a pale complexion, a tanned skin was for the girls working on the fields. But she loved the sun so much and did not understand why a tanned skin was not fashionable.

   She heard the voice of her little brother running after his beach ball of which the coloured stripes whirled in the Summer light. It was warm and the sand in her elegant white button boots was sharp. She wished there were no other people so she could walk bare feet. What a shock this would cause!

 She envied the farmers daughters with their rolled up sleeves, not tormented by the many rules for Victorian girls, pardon... ladies!

   She remembered her mother sitting on a white chair sipping tea form a porcelain cup and eating delicate sandwiches; a large parasol planted in the sand. Her mother's large hat with the ribbons and flowers moved softly in the wind from sea. The warm sun did not seem to bother her mother who looked relaxed, with a cool attitude that never left her, regardless the circumstances, emotions or weather.

   Being young, she had secret thoughts about the love life of her parents but did not dare to ask about it of course. This was so not done! Like her mother never talked about the intimate details to her daughter. She sighed and knew she had to rely on the stories from her friends who heard their stories from other friends and so on. And not all stories were romantic!
   Or maybe she would know intuitive when the right man was there. From all the men that were interested in her as a future well brought up and beautiful wife there was not even one she considered to be the lover who was going to show her the secrets of love. Hopeless situation if money was more important than love.

   But it was that day at the beach that she met Anthony, the love of her life who also received, and this she always treasured, the approval from her parents. He was from an excellent family and rich with good perspectives for a future together.

  And he was very handsome! Tall and slim, beautiful intelligent hazelnut eyes above a straight nose, a masculine mouth partly covered by a fashionable moustache. She never understood why he set eyes on her, she did not think of herself as exceptional beautiful nor ladylike as expected. Deep down her heart she felt locked up within the boundaries of her upbringing.

   Right now, a life time ahead, she knew that it was this part of her that he recognized. It answered her question why he wasn't married, regardless the suitable young ladies his parents approved on before he met her.
   While she watched her little brother playing at the beach, she knew she was observed but although she loved to turn her head, she did not and waited. It did not take long before the tall young man walked by, raising his hat to greet her mother who replied with a slight nod of her head.

   The following days he was there when they were at the beach. He took his time to approach them for a sociable talk but from there he spent more time with them and met her father who joined his family for the weekend.
As soon as his parents arrived, he introduced them to her family and both parties knew there was love in the air.
   They were never left alone until that particular warm evening when she walked on her own in the garden of the Hotel. Candlelight lit the dark trees but did not reach the corners where secret whispers reached her ears. She felt lonely and wondered where Anthony was and if he felt lonely too. Did she occupy his thoughts as much as he did hers? She learned to recognise the twinkle in his eyes, to appreciate his sense of humour. Or his love for books, nature and travelling. She knew he had a good and well paid position at his father's company and how contentious he was about his future.

   But she also learned the wicked and naughty side of his character; seen in his eyes and the expression of his mouth.

   At that very moment, the man of her dreams stood in front of her and called her by her name. He did not frighten her, her heart expected him. He took her by her hand and walked from the garden to the beach where he guided her to a dark corner behind a dune. He spread his jacket and helped her to sit down.

They looked each other in the eyes but did not speak. The air around them vibrated, the voices from strollers faded away as did the sound of the waves when he laid his right hand in her neck, softly stroking her skin. And when he lowered his head, she was not afraid of the very first kiss.

When his lips touched hers, she opened her mouth and welcomed him; this is what she had been waiting for. His kiss was so familiar still so exiting. His hand moved from her neck to the back of her head and with his left arm he pulled her softly against his warm and longing body.

   Never had she forgotten about this moment where both knew that their lives were for ever connected.

She also never forgot the first roses he gave her. Not as flowers in a vase but as leaves, soft as velvet, scattered throughout the house as a delicate path up the stairs to their bedroom.
Making love surrounded by the scent of roses, leaves touching their skin, was a sensation forever locked in her heart. Even now, after he had to leave her; not in tears but in memories.

She laid in his old and wrinkly arms, her hand on his now skinny chest, feeling the rising of his ribs until he was silent. She stayed with him till the next morning when it was time to inform the family.

Photo: @soul_mining (Instagram)

   And now it was time for her to go. She was old and stiff and would never be young again.

Before she walked to the beach, she scattered all the preserved rose leaves through the house and on top of her diaries which were the witnesses of a life as happy as she had never imagined.

   While she obeyed the call of the moving sand under her feet, her mind and heart left her house; it was not important who was going to find her life and intimate thoughts.

The darkness dissolved her old body, the retrieving waves her shadow in the sand.

Word of thanks: the photo of @soul_mining (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Dan!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @soul_mining

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen