Laura poured it all down her throat, honey glazed pork, roast chicken, pasta with tomato cream sauce. Her slurping and smacking of lips mingled with the heavy smell of food held back by the velvet curtains. It all conspired to make the air in the room practically solid even though there were many meters to the ceiling. Reaching for the potatoes, she saw Henry standing beside the table, hands folded in front. There were marks from his toque where his straw coloured hair was plastered to his forehead. His half worried half hungry eyes followed each morsel from her plate to her voluptuous lips. She decided to throw him a bone and beckoned. He blinked at if woken up mid-dream and came closer, shoulders hunched.
‘The chicken is especially good,’ she said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, ‘well done, Henry.’
‘Thank you my Lady,’ Henry bowed his head.
She beckoned again and when he bent closer, gave him a smooch on the cheek.
‘Thank you, my Lady,’ Henry’s eyes shone, ‘thank you.’
‘You can return to the kitchen,’ she said and he backed away from her bowing, one protective hand over the wet mark she had left on his cheek. Her chuckles sent ripples down her chins, across her breasts, over her stomach to her thighs enveloping her chair. Then she felt a rumbling which had nothing to do with her laughter.
‘Gary, the bucket,’ she said. He was there at once and up came pork, chicken and pasta with tomato cream sauce and honey.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 27, 2015
May was warm that year and gentle on his heart. A few women came knocking; he even let one of them in. Just as he braced himself for the pangs of refurbishing, she simply slid inside and settled into his heart as it was. She told him she hoped he would never change, and she promised him that she never would. This made him sigh with relief.
Several months later, he grew slightly bored with the daily routine, so he signed up for a climbing course. He discovered that something was wrong during the very first climb. Then he noticed what it was; she was there in his chest like a lump of lead, weighing him down.
Well that was that, he thought, she would have to go. However, when he thought he was ready to remove her, he found that she had grown on him, into him; sitting in the wall of his heart like a tumour.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 17, 2015
’Oops,’ she said looking at the shards on the floor, ’I think I broke it.’
‘Just sweep it under the carpet,’ he said, turning over speed of hair growth in his hands.
‘What if it was an important one?’ she lifted up the carpet and scraped the shards under with her shoe.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he said, pocketing the possible creation processes of gold, ‘in all probability no one will even notice.’
The next day on earth ten people thought themselves the new Spiderman when they discovered that they could walk up vertical walls.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 13, 2015
I’ve missed a couple of updates lately, so now I’ll try changing the update days to Wednesday and Sunday instead of Wednesday and Friday. I’m not sure whether it will help or not, but in general I do seem to be more busy on Fridays than on Sundays.
Hopefully I’ll see you around!
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 13, 2015
It was like telling herself not to think about polar bears and having them swimming and running and hunting down all the other thoughts in her head. Did her thoughts taste like seals? And then they popped up again; the eyes. Eyes all around her. Only seldom did she catch the people on the street looking straight at her, but she could feel them always. And if she closed her own eyes, they only grew bigger in her mind.
So she fixed her stare on the cobble stones in front of her feet and strode on until she left the town and the sun went down. It did not seem like anyone followed her, but still she kept walking all through the night and the next day too.
When she reached an old battlefield, she let herself heave a sigh of relief; here were only scorched grass, dirt and bones. With the sigh, the strength left her body and she slumped to the ground. She rolled onto her back ready to finally sleep soundly, but then utter horror gripped her. The eyes, there were millions of them, strewn across the heavens they glinted down at her and she knew there was no escaping their judgement.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 6, 2015
Swaying to the flute and the breaking waves and the voices of the invisible singers in the branches.
I am not sure what made me begin, but it feels right to sway, like a reed nudged by a gentle breeze.
And the slate coloured sand wash away into the grey water which mingles with the iron sky and I think that I too could be part of it all, of something greater, if I just let myself. As the cold water seeps into my shoes I shiver, but it is not long before the numbness comes and some large hand is already smudging all the remaining contrasts into uniformity.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 1, 2015
She burst out from the towering pines and found herself in a clearing with slender crab apple trees with flowers in their hair. The white blossoms scattered a few petals in welcome and spread their sweet aroma to her. Stars glinted through the branches like jewels.
She fell to her knees and sobbed, clutching her wounded stomach and looked back at the uneven spatters of red behind her. Crawling, she reached the nearest maiden and rested against its bark. Through half closed lids, she saw it bending down and stroking her cheek. She released a sigh and the blossoms turned pink.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 25, 2015
The creation of a sentence might begin with fish flying through one’s brain or a photograph of dolphins from that last vacation one had with one’s sister. The one where one well and truly realized that one did not wish to see her again. Ever.
It can begin with the scent of roses or the reek from under one’s arms after going three weeks without a shower. It might begin with the pain from stepping on a thistle with bare feet or half-melted snow running down one’s back as one’s so called “love” is laughing his head off.
In either case, the creation takes place and afterwards there is something where there was nothing. The strange and wonderful jump from zero to one has occurred, and although it might not feel like it at the time, there is beauty in that.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 22, 2015
It’s not for fun that I put up my sign. And no, it’s not enough for you to just be quiet, you have to be not there at all or your loud, clumsy thoughts might shatter the fragile crystals forming in my mind. Why you ask? Isn’t beauty its own reason? Are we not all enriched just by beholding? You would take that from me and the people I could share it with?
And yes, I will need that bottle of whiskey, thank you very much, and the cigars. No, you cannot take one with you. Be off with you and leave me to my books and my papers or I’ll show you how old children’s rhymes deal with the likes of you.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 17, 2015
You don’t seem to realise that there is a war between us. I’ve considered telling you of course, but I’m worried it might damage my chances of winning.
I keep you unbalanced with my capriciousness and make sure to forget your birthday unless I’ve found something you hate; I know you’re too polite to refuse a gift. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve insinuated that your weight is above average. When our colleagues are around I am always very careful, and I make sure to make them like me more than they like you. With my allies and my cunning I’m certain to get back at you someday.
Someday I’ll get back at you for saying “irregardless”.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 15, 2015