I contemplated publishing this short story for a long time, but a very good friend of mine reminded me today that I should embrace my creative writing again and get back into it, without the fears of publishing the unexpected (and possibly the shocking).

This short story was inspired by a painting : Dreams made Flesh 2009 Artist: Heidi Yardley.

Never be afraid of what you compose, as our deepest darkest emotions can create something beautiful. It's a little raunchy, however, the interpretation is different for every individual. Thank you to my special German friend K. See you in Europe soon xoxox


The click of my blue zippo resonates in my sweaty palms as the lighter’s flame ignites the tip of my Winfield Blue. A habit which still consolidates my every waking moment.

Heavy tobacco scent pollutes the air around my face, gifting me with its life force. Some would disagree; however, for me, the pollution of smoke is my only freedom, relaxing my spasmed muscles every time I inhale.

Funny that, how with one breath we sustain ourselves with needed oxygen, and with the same breath we pollute our lungs and poison our own human minds and souls.

Through the smokescreen I watch her. She, in her cerulean cashmere sweater, long black tights glued to her thin thighs. Her brunette pony tail swaying within the contours of her back as she rearranges her treasures in her little antique boutique in New Farm.

Delicate palms gripping a blue chux wipe in one hand, Mr. Sheen in the other. Ivory coloured fingers move gracefully, reminding me of delicate keys on a baby grand piano just like my grandmother’s fingers once did when she played for me in another world that no longer exists.

Fragile limbs smear the chemical concoction over a candelabra, eradicating dust build up. Such a divine heirloom. The girl, not the candelabra. Although you could compare the two. Both having a delicate structure currently silhouetted on the cobalt blue velvet walls as the afternoon sun creeps its way into her little store and body. Perfection in a way. The girl, not the candelabra. Or possibly both. Here is the one girl that could chase away the demons inside my warped mind. And yet, I can’t tell her.

I tap my Doc. Martins against a brick wall and contemplate my youth. Wild days when my brother and I drank Johnny Walker Blue Label as the dawn imprinted upon our lips. We watched western sunsets kaleidoscoping through spectrums of indigo shades over the sky above our drunken heads. A goldmine of coruscating colours kissing the wayward sky.

A time when cattle was our only dream. When drongos waltzed over the unforgivable land, circling above the sea and surrendering their freedom. When we were loaded with money and didn’t have a care in the world. Our brotherly camaraderie happily shared.

Now, ten years on, my brother gone. Yet here I am. Middle aged high school teacher in Brisbane, teaching girls at one of the most prestigious schools in New Farm. Part of the inner east. Café central. A place luminescent of Australian settler's history. For that very reason I visit Newstead House once a month and try to inhale its historical encumbrance.

When I say that, I’m talking of all the trials and tribulations settlers once went through just to survive here. Newstead is alive with historical tragedy and hardship; as am I.

Darkness descends, bestowing its delusional greeting as it did the night before. She would be padlocking the front entrance soon. A wrought iron grill that told its tales of a bygone era. Its rusty hinges spitting their shards of bruised metal whenever opened.

Over the months that I had watched her, I pondered why such a fragile flower lived alone amongst the depressive history of the building. Why she didn’t have a husband, children, and why such a pretty little antiquated beauty never smiled. Why did she sell junk most people would throw away? I couldn’t help myself, I had to get closer. All those months watching her burnt within me. An uncontrollable desire to touch her.

In a split second I made a decision that will haunt me. It changed everything.

She went out the back so I entered her little Idaho of antique trinkets, hiding behind a grandfather clock.

I began to panic but before having the chance to rethink my ridiculous notion of what I was doing was completely sane, she reappeared in her angelic state, heading for the entrance. I remained as still as deadwood washed up on the Gold Coast seashore after a majestic storm. She pulled the curtains closed, padlocked the grill and dead bolted the door. I expected her to go upstairs, but she didn’t.

For a minute I thought that she may have sensed me there, but she hadn’t. Her shadow crept over the blue velvet wall and I could see her intricate silhouette. The divinity of her graceful frame overwhelmed my senses and I wanted to drop to the floor upon my knees to thank god for this wondrous moment. I couldn’t move. Then, she entered. Naked. Breathtaking. My heart pounding. I was a mess.

She laid down on a fur rug and sighed. A lyrical flare resonating from her intricate throat. I wanted to crawl inside her heart.

She began touching herself with elongated fingers, creating such graceful fragmented movements. The impression that she barely touched the surface washed over me. I wanted to jump out of my skin. I couldn’t breathe and I wanted to consume her. I was numb, and on fire, its flames swallowing my deepest darkest fantasies as my tainted eyes devoured her consummation.

She continued to caress her limbs with her bone like fingers, reminding me that moments like these were sonnet worthy.

I was suddenly overcome by my irrationalness. Of the disturbing choice I had made. If she knew that I was invading her secret atmosphere of pleasure, it would have shattered her brilliance. Shattered everything that made her exquisitely beautiful.

I was ashamed, and yet I couldn’t look away. So lovely, reminding me that pure beauty still existed in this disgraceful and disfigured world. I began to weep. Silently I wept as she experienced ecstasy. For the first time in twenty years, tears stained my cheeks. The simplicity of her pleasure exonerated me. Complete lack of inhibition within her made me envious. It was too much for me. I let go, as she let go. Her ambrosia engulfing me.

Hours passed, I wasn’t sure. I was still lost in her world when she got up, turned the lamp off and went upstairs. She completely unearthed me. I knew I had to leave. I couldn’t take that breathtaking moment away from her. She deserved better. She deserved the world. Joy, happiness, a fruitful life. It was something I could never give her.

Leaving, I inhaled once more to embed her sweet essence into my memory’s abyss. It would have to continue to feed me. I couldn’t return for a while. I couldn’t leave my safety zone of the pathetic little world I had made among simple little schoolgirls I mostly detested. Time was needed. To build courage up to see her, smile at her and hope by some miracle she would still remember me. And that I would have the courage to ask her for forgiveness if she did.

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