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Constant Companion


pain 1

You arrived in a flurry of blood red cloak, wielding smouldering knives. I watched as your body came to a stop. You were used to making extravagant entrances. I looked into your blank face, turned and ran through deserts which blistered my soles and left an aching dryness in my throat; through forests so thick the darkness was impenetrable, through cityscapes teeming with blind humanity. I shouted for help, yet no one came.
My journey stopped where it had begun, I knew I could never outrun the inevitable. Home would never be the same once you entered and took up residence. Desperately, I still tried, running through the house, slamming doors in your face, but like a scarcely remembered childhood dream, you walked through every defensive wall I hastily threw up. I stood in the center of my bedroom, my safe haven, and turned around. You were leaning against the doorjamb, your hands slid nonchalantly into deep pockets.
“You thought you could run,” he smirked. I nodded, unsure of whether my voice could ever be found. My heart was beating wildly in my chest; I put a quivering hand over it to steady its beat.
“No one escapes.” It was merely a statement and I watched helplessly as he threw his head back and laughed uproariously. He stopped abruptly, his gaze sought mine and in their brown, muddy pools, things moved and screamed silently.
“Ready or not, here I come,” he whispered and padded towards me.
“Do you realize what will happen?” he asked. I knew that he needed me to vocalize the inevitable; every soul sucking vampire needs their own form of invitation.
I nodded, forcing my vocal cords into the semblance of a voice.
“I know you are going to stay,” my voice sounded as hopeless as I felt.
“Welcome, Pain, my constant companion, I know that your visit will be agonizingly long. I never really had a choice, did I?”
He merely shook his head and took up residence.


Gardner-diamond syndrome: a real bruiser


'Who gave you that black eye?'

I guess I would once again put on my Super Woman cape and come to the aid of the odour distressed voices in my head.
“I am sorry. It’s me,” a shy voice answered. I looked around but failed to find the owner.
“Down here,” it said. At my feet a tiny syndrome lay helplessly.
“I am Fish Odour Syndrome. Sorry to trouble you, but could you please return me to Syndrome Lake? The odour will disappear if you do.” It was a disgusting slimy green colour and I hesitated to pick it up with my bare hands.
“Not to worry, a kick will do fine,” the voice reassured me. I kicked at it.
“Wheeeee,” it screamed as it plopped down into the lake and by Jove the smell had indeed dissipated.
Everyone applauded.
‘Excuse me, but none of the syndromes deserve this disrespectful behaviour! You are herby ordered to appear before the Syndrome Council within 24 hours,” the rude voice continued.
“And who the hell are you to issue orders? I am the one in charge around here,” the muse said and I could hear the sudden anger in her voice. No one had ever challenged her in this manner.
“Calm down, I was the one who booted the syndrome into the lake,’ I said. I hated conflict and felt that it rested upon my shoulders to calm the choppy waters.
“You me, me you we are interactive are we not?” I could not argue that this was indeed the case; she was my alter ego and I hers.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Gardner-diamond syndrome at your service,” it answered haughtily. It could best be described as a giant bruise. Purple, green and yellow covered its entire quivering body.
“We have kindly allowed you to take up residence in this crowded brain and yet you dare to command me?” The muse was clearly on the war path. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Lexicon Dragon, Sir Laughalot, the book worms and the Craggy Spiders run for cover.

Boobaliscious-are those boobs real?



“Has that alien hand of yours calmed down yet?” she asked. Bows and butterflies covered her fiery curls as she bounced into the room.

“Uhm,” I answered glancing down at the twitching appendage. I slapped at it with my left, urging it to behave.

“What the hell are those?” She was glancing over my shoulder again.

‘Let me rephrase that, what the hell was she thinking? I was born with these babies- all natural,” she said as she rudely thrust the 36 DD mammaries in my face.

“Will you stop doing that,” I said. The alien hand flapped futilely.

“Not a fan of bounteous boobs, I take it?”

“I’m busy doing research about medical anomalies.”

“Yeah, those are two huge, floatable anomalies I’d say. How does she live with those hanging from her chest? I don’t even want to know the physical complications she has. She needs a bloody towtruck to get those from point A to B.” She was gesticulating wildly and nearly knocked a sleepy Sir Laughalot from his wheel. He merely glared at her, sighed as if the world had fallen on his shoulders and trudged forward.

“Why do women feel that they are not beautiful and need the intervention of plastic surgery and unnatural enhancements?

“Societal and peer pressure,” she said. I looked up to find that she had her intelligent face on; the horn rimmed spectacles, behind which huge, owlish eyes appeared, the haughty air and the outrageously purple tweed suit.

“How accountable are the surgeons that perform these surgeries repeatedly? She has had a load of enlargements done. Is there a point where the doctor should say hell no?”

“In my learned opinion, they should do no harm and those are weapons of personal destruction. They look like large bombs, ticking and ready to go kaboom at any moment, blanketing the world in silicone.”

“Ewww, gross,” I said imagining myself swimming through rivers of the gooey stuff.”

“Don’t worry, if you had those you would never drown. Never stand on your head though as they are bound to suffocate you.” I grinned, visually imagining death by boob suffocation.

big boobs

A is for Alien Hand Syndrome



They were looking at me rather strangely. The muse was rapidly scrolling through the numbers she had accumulated for the various shrinks I had seen during the last ten years.
“I cannot control it,” I wailed. My right hand had developed a will of its own and was throwing around signals and semaphores which would cause crash landings at any airport. I would have made a chameleon on a multi-coloured box, quite nauseous.
“Melodrama,” the muse sniffed and turned away to resume sunbathing on the French Riviera.
“I actually think something is the matter with her,” piped up Sir Laughalot.
“I haven’t fallen off the wheel once today. What you see is the genuine article, in my honest opinion,” he added shyly.
My right hand was defiantly grasping at any straws it could find in the room. Tiring of this it devised ingeneous ways to pluck a cat and fluff a pillow at the same time. Moments later, everyone within the confines of my mind was ducking for cover as I threw random objects around the room.
“Crazy woman,” muttered the muse as she reached for her zebra striped cell phone. Agitatedly the dreaded right reached for the cell phone and flung it into Syndrome Lake. This was where all the maladies my various characters suffered from would surface odiferously from time to time. I saw wide, nut brown buttocks in a glittery g-string dive after it. Most of the maladies landed on the floor with a soft thud. She resurfaced ten minutes later with various minor afflictions clinging to her well endowed body.
“Not now,” she demanded and sent the bashful words skittering for cover whilst frantically dialling.
“Hello, yes, we need an extra large straight jacket NOW,” she thundered down the line.
“But, it’s just my hand, everything else seems in good working order. If I didn’t know any better I would think it’s alien.”
“Well, give it something to do then,” she suggested.
I grabbed a broom and swept the disorders back into the lake. They sighed in relief, for as we all know, misery loves company….

The case of the broken laptop (part 1)



She was standing over me with her magnifying glass which made her look like a bad rendition of a Cyclops. I squinted at the huge eye which suddenly filled my vision. The lady herself was larger than life and being accosted by her giant eye, left me feeling confused and a bit more frightened than I would have cared to admit.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked the frustration (fear driven) in my voice hanging in the air like smog.

“I’m investigating, Watson.”

I had to ask, “What exactly are you investigating?”

“It’s elementary my dear Watson.”

Of course she was going to use the line, how stupid of me not to have foreseen it. I sighed and decided to play along.

“Well, Holmes if it is that elementary why don’t you shed some light on the subject, please.” It was the only way to get her to go back inside my head; she was stubborn that way and insisted on having her share of the limelight.

“The case of the broken laptop of course,” she stated boldly.

“You heard about that, did you?”

“Well, dear, your bawling was loud enough to wake the sloth and he is buried deep within your childhood memories, you know.”

“What sloth?” I asked, taken aback by her statement, “and I wasn’t bawling.”

“Sure, you weren’t dear,” she said rolling her eyes and sighing melodramatically. She ignored my question and started investigating more clues through the magnifying glass.

“I asked you a question, about the sloth…”

“Oh yes, well, you conjured him up when you were two or thereabouts,” she said concentrating her efforts on the desk. Talking to her was infuriating to say the least.

“I think I may have found a clue! Eureka! Hmm, it seems someone has been eating chocolate when they know they shouldn’t.” She looked at me over the rim of the magnifying glass. Her nose had suddenly gown to the size of a pitted asteroid.

“No. I have not,” I declared angrily. I still haven’t gotten used to the fact that my sugar levels pretty much did as they pleased, despite vigorous (or less so) efforts on my behalf.

“Well the Kit Kat wrapper says yes!”

Musings of a frustrated writer




This week I was supposed to get some serious writing done. Edit my short stories and work on the *&%$^$# crime novel which seems stuck in the fourth dimension. No, I haven’t killed all my characters….yet…but boy do I sometimes want to slap them silly with a snoek (a South African fish which is quite large and bony and would do nicely as a weapon of mass destruction on the planet Terrorix).

Anyway, thus I am diligently applying aforementioned ample butt to chair and proceeding to open a vein when, you guessed it, life inevitably interrupts. Why, oh why can I not be one of those authors who get offered a villa in Spain to finish their book? Even a farmer’s cottage in Wales would do for Pete’s sake, even if I have to wade in sheep doody to get there.  My strangely soap opera like life intervenes and there go the next Pulitzer prize winning sentences; out the door and wave them goodbye as they disappear into the sunset never to be seen again.

“Where are my socks?” my youngest son’s voice stridently calls from the room.

“Where all socks go to vacation, get a new lease on life and emerge clean and fresh; the washing machine,” I answer flippantly.

“Haven’t you done the washing yet?” he retorts.

“Nope, still busy writing the next great novel, sorry.” Which translated in my mind to: really you couldn’t switch on the washing machine, add detergent, and wait for the harmonious tune to alert you to the fact that the washing is done and saunter down the steps to the washing line and hang them out? Really?

So, being who I am, I add a huge dollop of guilt to my already burdened psyche and get up to do it. I grumble as my sanity flies once more over to the damn cuckoo’s nest and lays an egg; it’s a huge spotted one and who knows what might emerge from it. I think my house people need to be careful of this one!


A flabbergasted Skipping (daily prompt, mad libs) part 1




A flabbergasted Skipping:

The metallic, blue space ship whistled out of the stratosphere and nimbly landed on the planet. Six light years ago the memory banks were encoded with the precise co-ordinates of this exact world; Planet Potential X. The Skippings’ planet had lost nearly all of its gravitational pull and Skippings could be seen deflecting off Rope (this was their planet’s name) like rubber balls. Every Skipping had to be anchored by heavy iron boots, which made life decidedly unpleasant and cumbersome. This was the exact reason why the council of elders decided to send their most level headed scientist to test the waters, so to speak, of the planet on which their space ship had landed barely five minutes ago.

The Skipping scientist, upon whom the doubtful honour fell, was named Oxblood Red Skipping Rope. All Skippings carried the surname Rope to signify the planet on which they were born; obviously the middle name Skipping was their race and the colour Red was appropriate to one of the trillion phases of their fifteen moons. Hence each Skipping knew the exact date and time to the second on which he or she had been born. As you have no doubt gathered, Skippings were not your normal, run of the mill race. They were sentient, intelligent beings who were never ever flabbergasted by anything at all. Their expressions were much like those of a Hollywood starlet who had received one too many Botox injections; making their faces rather like blank canvases, really. Concepts like surprise, shock or incredulity did not even exist in their language which primarily consisted of random blips and beeps with the odd burp thrown in for emphasis. Skippings had ropy, twisted hair, purple skin and four legs with appropriate foot appendages (the iron boot business was booming). The rest of their features were fairly humanoid.

It bears mentioning that Rope had no reflective surfaces, no mirrors, no shiny materials and no lakes. The Skippings got their water from tree like plants which shimmered into existence at exactly five nuts past moon ten. A nut is approximately ten minutes of earth time. They had managed over the eons to capture a tree for every household. To be able to tap the tree, Skippings carried a wooden spigot around their necks which they inserted into the trunk, turned the handle and viola, water would be on tap so to speak. In this way large wooden tanks were filled to provide daily water for washing and cooking. The point we were trying to make before we got carried away with a watery issue, is the fact that nary a Skipping in Rope had an inkling of what they looked like.

Meanwhile, inside the space ship, Oxblood Red Skipping Rope prepared to disembark. He inserted the translation bug into his inner ear and felt the ten legged creature squirming for a foot hold. It emitted a low frequency buzzing which caused four seconds of vertigo before its suction pads attached itself to Red’s (for brevity’s sake, this is what we will call our reluctant hero) stereo cilia. Red packed his spectrometers, graphs, microscope and various finicky devices into Bag. This was his Second Bag as he had worn the previous one out by either demanding that she carry too many items or that she kept track of precisely where each item had been stored. She was currently being treated for stretch marks and depression. Second bag, having heard of Red’s scatter brained approach to baggage, was blatantly sarcastic and quoted several of the trade union’s laws regarding use of Bags at the top of its voice at every opportunity. Red had learned by default to under burden Bag; it was the best thing to do to get it to shut up. He also treated it to the odd polish.

Confessions of a farmchick- Some plumbers are hot Part 3




Tracy loved her job. She took everything with a pinch of salt: the good and the bad. She smiled most of the time, which was difficult to do for people in the lab, because of the hard work and long hours. Tracy also had a soft spot for Jane; she felt sorry for her and fervently wished that Jane would find the type of love that she was looking for. To help her along, Tracy thought, she might just give Jane the necessary tools for making things happen: a spell to conjure love. She quickly wrote out a spell containing an amethyst stone, a red ribbon and a chant. She gave Jane strict instructions on how to carry out the spell, where to bury the stone and where to tie the ribbon. Jane accepted the spell, the note, the ribbon and the stone as a gift and appreciated the fact that Tracy had done her best to help, but would never be able to tell her that she never intended using the spell. Jane thought it best not to manipulate unseen forces to her own advantage, you never knew when the meddling would bite you in the ass and besides, love should come naturally after all.

Along with the spell, Tracy had news to tell; news which would make Jane’s balloon pop and fall to the ground in a miserable heap.

“Jane, I need to tell you something. I’m sorry that I have to break this to you, but…..” Tracy said with a significant pause, “I saw Hank the other day at the movies…he was holding hands…with another…. guy!” 

The color drained from Jane’s face; as the fantasy world she had built around Hank slowly came tumbling down.

Jane decided to pluck up the courage to speak to Hank that very afternoon. She anxiously waited for him and as soon as his feet crossed the threshold, she pounced.

“Hank, do you like boys better than girls?”

Hank nodded and said:”I am particularly fond of men, I most certainly am not a paedophile.”

The words hung in the air between them and a tiny part of Jane died. She felt as if she was stuck in an alternate, topsy turvy world; in need of years of therapy.  What love struck girl in her right mind, would fall for a gay guy?  Was the writing on the wall written in invisible ink or what? Her face and feelings matched her mood 99% of the time; the remaining one percent she used to fake happiness.

From that day forward he was known to Jane only as Hank the gay plumber. Of course he was still Hank the hot plumber, to other guys, Jane guessed, but for her the word “gay” became Hank’s identity and “hot” flew out the window never to be seen again. The Sally Williams’ nougat never made its way into Hank’s hands, instead Jane threw it in the trash, symbolically destroying every piece of emotional evidence she had of The Big Crush. She vowed to pay close attention to telltale signs of homosexuality, to hide her feelings until she was sure and to never, ever submit to the influence of The Big Crush.  Jane asked the all knowing Google whether she was the only girl in the world who had ever fallen for a gay guy. Within seconds Google informed her, to her relief, that she was not the first, nor would she be the last. As soon as word spread through the lab and studio, sniggers and mocking whispers followed her.  She kept silent and hung her head. Whenever Hank came into Head Office, Jane merely smiled, greeted him cheerfully enough and continued her work. His presence reminded her of the embarrassment of falling for Hank the hot, GAY plumber.



Confessions of a farmchick: Some plumbers are hot part 2



Hank didn’t have to say much whenever he came round, for as her crush grew to epic proportions she was happy to provide all necessary conversation. Jane learned that Hank’s father, also a plumber, had passed away, leaving Hank the business and his mother and sister to take care of. In her head she heard a maternal voice whisper quite loudly:

“Oh, poor Hank, how sweet. What a man; I can just imagine how loving and caring he must be toward his mother and sister; what an angel!”

She looked around, just to ensure that nobody else had been privy to the thought.

Unfortunately, Jane didn’t possess a model figure or expensive clothes; neither did she know much about how to apply make-up correctly. She had to make do with what she had and wore it with pride, hoping to attract more of Hank’s attention.

The following Wednesday Hank returned, much to Jane’s delight. He greeted her and immediately set to work. He had been working for at least half an hour when disaster struck. He had an accident involving a nail and a hammer. Jane, miraculously having no work to do at all, witnessed the accident and stood by in complete shock as the blood ran in tiny rivulets to the tile floor. In her mind a switch flipped to the “ON” position and she metamorphosed into efficient, Capable Nurse Jane.

She quickly disinfected the wound with Dettol, stopped the bleeding with cotton wool and applied band-aid.  This is what happened on the calm exterior, her psyche however was in turmoil. Her head spun in dizzying circles, her stomach flipped, her hands were sweaty and her knees shook uncontrollably. That night she slept like a baby, dreaming in the most intricate details, of how she had had the privilege of holding the hand of a hot, sexy plumber. Not a lot of single ladies could boast about that, could they?

Jane knew that Hank loved Sally Williams’ nougat, wrapped in delicate, transparent tissue paper and buried in a white box decorated with golden, embossed twirls and swirls. She stood there for a while, staring at it as it lay innocently on the bottom shelf, wondering whether Hank had a girlfriend; if he would be offended if she bought it as a gift. What the heck, she thought, grabbed the nougat and paid for it, before she could reason herself out of it or drown in a pool of self-doubt.

She secretly carried the nougat in her handbag for days, never knowing when and if he would be coming. Like all women, she sometimes took the nougat out of her bag, and thought of eating it herself, especially when she had a bad day at work, but she never did.  She held onto the hope that he would be there to appreciate the gesture.

That Friday, obviously the date is of no importance as dates are nothing but mere numbers in time, Jane’s love boat with Hank on board, crashed into a loveless cold and craggy shore.

Earlier that day, Jane received a call from Hank that he would pop in later that afternoon. The news left Jane in high spirits and she sauntered over to the lab to chat about life, love and everything else with wise, old, toothless Uncle Jo and red headed super witch, Tracy.

Uncle Jo was unhealthy, presumably from years spent from dusk till dawn in his cubicle which was rife with chemical agents used in developing and printing. He was fond of Jane, because he could see the true nature of her heart, because she treated him with kindness and respect and at times she made him laugh despite his circumstances. His skin color was irrelevant to the friendship.  He lovingly called her Purple Chicken; due to a hilarious lunchtime conversation spent imagining what it would look like if he was the only one in the township that owned purple chickens. Uncle Jo was therefore the first person Jane spoke to about the events of the past weeks, including Hank. Uncle Jo slowly replied:

”Purple Chicken; don’t be so hasty, in time you will find the right man”.

That was just fine and dandy, but the question Jane thought, was when? Jane grew freakishly anxious about ageing. Each and every tick of the clock indicated the inevitable passing of time. She grew older by the second, by the minute, by the hour, by the day for goodness sake! It would be truly ironic if she found her true love in the old age home, when time had done her in for good and vitality leaked from her pores. Of what use would she be if her lust for life and sensuality had been stripped by the inescapable passage of time? For a moment she imagined herself as an old, grey crone, sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of the retirement home, watching as the sun crept slowly over the lawn;  without any human or false teeth for that matter in her mouth, because seriously  what’s the use at that age. They invariably cut up your food into tiny chunks, thinking that ageing and child- like regression accompanied each other like comfortable partners.

She imagined a shuffle, a slight thud onto the creaking rocking chair immediately beside her, a low moan, a cough, a wheeze and then a cold, almost lifeless, manly hand reaching out to hers and holding it, her fingers entwined with his. That would be love right there, fingers entwined, holding hands and staring into space with watery, bleached eyes. Can old men still get frisky without the use of Viagra? Or would Viagra kill them? Jane wondered, before wilfully erasing the whole sordid image from her mind.