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para site
you feel it
don’t you?
it lives there
lodged
in your bones
bonded
to cells
calcium
marrow
and mineral
now
until end
of days
grey dread
in your
meat
hot angst
burns
branding you
with
searing scars
j'accuse!
lead weight
knowledge
shouldered
a justice
will inevitably
be dealt
and hard
…but…
for now enjoy your
daily ablutions
coupled with
ignorance
and
trepidation
habitual checks
served with
tea, toast and fresh
creeping fear
Murder Most Posh - Chapter 2. Written by @KrissieB
Ethan was charming, aloof. He wasn’t the type to fawn. He had depth to him but he didn’t give much away. That first night I enjoyed him ripping my clothes off before he peeled off his own. I ran my tongue along his neck, his shoulders, I kissed his chest hungrily. The smell of his skin had me in rapture and the taste of his tongue against mine was sweet and smoky, like a deliciously cured meat.
Who am I who am I who am I
Clarissa Clarissa Clarissa
The Winged Hog. That’s where I first met him. Correction, that’s where he first met me.
What was I doing there? He was too slack-jawed an overawed to question it.
The likes of me don’t drink alone in pubs like that. Don’t get me wrong, it had its charm, in fact, I felt fantastically at home perched on my bar stool and making eyes at him over my whisky mac. If I were to be found alone drinking, it wouldn’t be here - but needs must when in pursuit.
I let the ice cubes fall into my mouth and sucked on them one by one, my lips remaining expertly dry.
‘You’re no good’ by the Swinging Blue Jeans was playing as I slipped from my bar stool and walked right up to him. My nipples were hard from sucking on ice and I wasn’t wearing a bra under my t-shirt. My demeanour was serene enough and my face bare enough that the nipples played off as a mere accident. Maybe I’d even have blushed had I known.
‘Do any of you have a cigarette? - I’m in dire need.’ I said, looking directly into his eyes.
The other men were blurred to me. It was Ethan who I wanted.
He had a presence, he owned the space around him and the attention of his friends. Not by jeering and leering, he wasn’t loud or brash. He had a calm confidence about him, and when he spoke they listened, knowing his story would be worthwhile. He was a mystery to them, and to me.
When a wolf hunts they test their prey, sensing any weakness or vulnerability through visual cues, hearing and scent. They have stamina, they will happily pursue their prey over long distances and can assess their prey as they hunt.
Of course, wolves hunt more successfully in packs, but they will do it alone if they have to.
wisp and wishes
Heated air once more pressed caressing fingers to his sticky eyelids, stomach flip signalled crushing almost-sleep, sat there, upright in a plastic chair that pooled sweat at the base of his aching spine. Too much early summer for this teetering pile of to-dos. Mayfly thoughts scatter. Just a fuzzy fug. A cool room, a nirvana only dreamed of. Crisp air conditioning affording mere frosty glimpses and tasters, before succumbing to oppression as temporary relief inevitably is snatched away. Keep it. He focused on the screen, then pulsing eyes slid off the words he was unable to add to; yet desperate to add to. Tinkling fresh laughter outside the window, summer dresses made sheer by rays, lithe thighs and secret underwear hinted at. They look so clean. Shapes, grooves and downy hairs draw saliva. A veritable pathway for tongue trail adventures. Dull thud pulse, engorging thoughts offer him up to himself, primal and in tune with prehistory. Slack jawed and afar, he pawed at them with fiery stares, dumb lust laying bare the animal and pumping base blood. Licked dry lips, shaken head, view wrenched away and back to toil. Doppler takes the siren's giggling away. Ah, summer. You undulating, dancing, mercurial temptress. We crave you in your absence, yet rarely do we have room for you.
silent paradox
I got forty two thousand reasons
this sullen silence ain't so golden
new voices emulating false rebels
empty ink, dead pads a-holding
we stickin' it to the man, you yell
just origami ethics, honour folding
you became the man, go to hell
shit from shinola, ignorance boring
man up, big boy pants, final bell.
Murder Most Posh. Part I.
Asking for the gravy had never before felt so entrenched in danger.
It should have been a simple act, one not laced with menace. Instead, delicious, thick gravy with a generous side of abject dread. And I certainly shouldn’t have felt the prickling of fear at the back of my neck whilst sat in such pleasant surroundings, the overwhelming sense of being trapped in Instagram-worthy opulence. I can see it now - #murder
So, I just styled it out to the best of my abilities. Theatre studies from way back in college finally coming to some use. I plumped for Stanislavski's approach, naturally. I was sure they didn't have any sort of inkling as to my rumbling of their cunning game.
I assume it’s some sort of game. That’s what it sounded like when I accidentally happened to eavesdrop upon them reiterating the rules to each other, huddled and cohesive in their bitter and bloody resolve. If it hadn’t been for my combination of good manners and forgetfulness, I’d still be oblivious of attack right now.
They’d thought the flushing toilet was a sign that I was still in the bathroom washing my hands. That I was still cloaked in the swooshing, all-consuming watery noise; that it provided a brief, yet safe time for a guaranteed spy-free family collusion. But I’d actually forgotten to flush in the standard pee/flush/wash hands/leave way and, having already washed and dried my hands like the good lad I am, I simply leaned back in through the still open doorway, flipped the handle on the toilet and walked away from the sound.
And that was when I walked past the slightly ajar door of the study where they were discussing how to kill me. Correction – how to kill me fairly. In line with the rules.
Ok, let me back up a bit. I’m being confusing. Tad vague thus far.
It all started with the sublimely beguiling Clarissa Hamilton. A stunning young woman that had seen, or so I had thought, some potential in the slightly older, and much rougher human that was me. Clarissa is my girlfriend. Was my girlfriend. Well, we’ll see how that pans out after today. Tall, elegant, long chestnut coloured hair that she seemed to always effortlessly pile on top of her head in a messy, yet damn sexy way. Delicate features, a smattering of freckles and a face that rarely needed make up. Athletic build, long legs. As sexy dressed down in jogging bottoms as she was dressed up, or even better, undressed.
Man, she was my type. Toned, slim, naturally pretty, and posh.
OK, she was one of my many types, but she fit perfectly the mould of my favourite type.
She was posh and gorgeous. She was also bloody funny, hugely intelligent and damned sexy when she wanted to be. Which was nearly all the time behind closed doors. She was fairly filthy, in fact. Finger up the bum filthy to be precise. Too much too soon? Sorry.
Anyway, I’d been riding a wave of euphoria and disbelief in the three months since she approached me in the spit-and-sawdust pub down the road from me. I love an empowered woman and I delight in being pulled by them. She had plucked me out of my OK life in front of my slack-jawed beered up mates and led me away to hedonistic times involving matching underwear. Bra and knickers that were the same pattern!
I had tried to take each day as it had come, and not get too hooked; believing it was a finite thing, doomed to fail. Yet it had burned brighter each day, the bond both mentally and sexually growing ever permanent. I had thrown entire weekends away, previously planned with mates; guiltless eating, drinking and fucking up a sweat in her beautiful pad. Somewhere along the line I’d fallen hook, line and sinker for her and had readily agreed to meet her parents at the city apartment on this fateful day.
Yes. Specifically their city apartment. They were so damn rich that each of their properties had a prefix. City apartment. Country house. Holiday home. Spanish villa. Needless to say, I’d felt like a pauper just knowing that and had rocked up this morning with Clarissa, more than a little nervous, yet armed with all of my Ps and Qs. Dressed in my best ‘grown up but not staid’ cloth and finery. Shiny brogues. Best face. Manicured and neat. My phone had been confiscated so that I didn't slip off somewhere to check Twitter or some such thing. Clever, that. I was a buffered, smart and phone free suckling pig to the feast.
“Just be yourself” Clarissa had reiterated downstairs as I craned my neck looking up at the huge slab of prime London bricks and mortar that towered in front of me. Gargoyles peered down, mocking my social standing. A supercar roared by, voicing its throaty disapproval at my very presence in this choice postcode. I was pond life writ large.
“Ha. Yeah, that’ll do it” I muttered back, overawed, despite Clarissa’s gentle unfolding of the facts regarding her family’s wealth over the previous few days. She had very unhurriedly eased me into the full story, and I thought I’d got it, that I’d got my head around the huge them-and-us-ness of it all. I’d thought I could get by in their company, using the charm and wit that were my tools. That was until I’d seen this building, this huge block of apartments, each of which was easily worth seven figures. No, I really hadn’t got it up until I stood agape at the front of the affluent edifice.
Still, I slapped the grin back on my face, and scattered my charm bullets as if from a Gatling gun at each person I came across. The doorman. The lift monkey. The housekeeper. And then finally, Daddy, Mummy and Bro. Even at 27 that is what she called them all.
Posh girls, eh? They'll be the death of me.
My fears were soon made smooth in a gentle tide of perfectly polished social etiquette that engulfed and embraced me. Daddy (call me Johnathan, old boy) had rained upon me many a friendly back slap and chumly arm punch. Mummy (Eddie, shot for Edwina, sweetie) had held my gaze with an almost flirty, mischievous glint, a constant subtext of humour or horniness. Robert (call me Bobby, buddy, everybody does) had engaged in energetic talk of music and gigs that we’d both been to. Common ground deftly found.
Nicely done, bro.
To put it simply, bonding had been extremely swift and efficient. Craft beer and heady, good wine had flowed freely, lubricating the afternoon through to evening, and I was held in a bubble of bliss. But then the sobering smack around the face as I’d slid past the door, when their errant words of skulduggery had befallen my ears. Talk of your imminent death will do that to a good mood. Bit of a buzz kill.
The subsequent immediate and logical doubt at what I’d heard had been crushed when I saw them reflected in a mirror beside them, all brandishing their chosen weapons. The angle of their heads meant they hadn’t seen me; but I had certainly seen them, and more importantly, the large butcher’s knife, lethal looking ice pick, what I assumed was a nail-gun and a bloody metal baseball bat. Who even has those in England?
There was none of that “..and I was rooted to the spot in fear” malarkey you read so much about. No, screw that. The human brain moves damn fast when it needs to. Without another thought I’d slid away, plush carpet footfalls almost soundless toward the front door, only to find it bolstered and bolted through with two huge metal bars that spanned the door’s width and disappeared with a sense of finality, into the door frame.
Necessity is the mother of invention, so I’d decided at that point to play it out and have the element of surprise on my side. What else could I do?
Their false smiles matched mine as we congregated back in the lounge when dinner was announced with a demure shake of a hand bell. And here we were, sat in front of chestnut, stilton and truffle soup with a cloud of expectation raining silently down upon us. The tinkle of fine cutlery on lavish crockery accompanied our perfectly poised small talk and soothing laughter. We existed under a mist of treachery, time ticking by toward inevitability.
Clarissa sat next to me with her hand on my left thigh, and I would wager, the butcher knife in her left hand. We were sat on the long section of the slab of mahogany that was the dining room table, as was her brother, sat opposite us. He’d had the contraption that I’d clocked as a nail gun. He’d have to go first if I was to stand a chance. Mater and Pater were at each head of the table either end, so unless they had swapped, I had a baseball bat to my right and an ice pick to my left, on the other side of my beautiful and treacherous Clarissa. I looked at her angelic face. Fucking evil bitch.
Time stretched languidly, laden with untold duplicity.
Staff silently took the soup smeared bowls, and replaced them with plates of what would normally have had my taste buds in rapture. Talk around the table took a turn towards what was done in the name of fun. Or rather, what I did. Did I do any sports? Did I lift weights? Any martial arts? Could I handle myself when the great unwashed inevitably rioted down the pub on a Friday night?
Of course, I could see where it was going, but kept an innocent air about me and my abilities. They didn’t need to know that I could handle myself. No one really knew that.
Sideways glances and meaningful looks cut through the airspace above the table, missiles over the slick small talk that bounced around beneath, superficially innocent, rolling below the razor steel peeks.
I was a coiled spring below my neck. A powerful engine, warmed and ready to roar. I was a storm coming. A smile played on my face, words, flowing and friendly fell from my mouth, maintaining the frothy pretense that all was well; my head lighthoused those assembled and armed around me. All five of us were talking, yet saying nothing. Eyes darting. Looks meaningful. Hands busy. The air felt as if it was crackling.
I asked for the gravy.
It was like the puff of dust that lifts off the ground and seems to hang, suspended momentarily, when a nuclear weapon detonates in the distance. A sign that all hell was about to break loose.
And then the lights went out. And all hell broke loose.
...
meaty heft
Here, take this. Go on. What is it, you say? Why, that's me, of course. A piece of me. A part of my flesh and blood, to be brutally frank. It weighs in at around a pound. Feel the meaty heft of it. Go on. Thaaaat's it, get it while it's hot, and still a tad fresh. Shit, man, it ain't fresh, it hasn't been for years; but you get my drift. A term of phrase and all that. Anyways, there's still a few lumps left of me to go round, so spread the word. While I have this knife. You know what they say - when it's gone, it's gone. And it is nearly gone.
