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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Fight for Peace.

Straight talkers sending machines,

To defend by all means, necessary.

Rats in stone age hats caging cats,

For doing just that.

Fuelling us four percent,

Then going ballistic when, aggravation.

Forcing us not to stray,

And to laugh away,

Quarrels sent.

But the real irony comes,

When they unload their guns,

And tell us to fight for peace.

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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Fight for Peace.
Straight talkers sending machines,
To defend by all means, necessary.
Rats in stone age hats caging cats,
For doing just that.
Fuelling us four percent,
Then going ballistic when, aggravation.
Forcing us not to stray,
And to laugh away,
Quarrels sent.
But the real irony comes,
When they unload their guns,
And tell us to fight for peace.

#fantasy  #scifi  #fiction  #nonfiction  #romance  #horror  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #science  #philosophy  #mystery  #film  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #lyrics  #opinion 
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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Web of Hyper Truth.

Have you seen horror?

Have you encountered untimely death?

Have you witnessed innocent life lost?

Have you been terrorised by extreme minds?

Have you stopped your happiness in exchange for tear stained cheeks upon discovering their hearts have been stolen?

Of course you have, we all have.

We have, no choice.

The narrative of now, and then.

But then they didn't have this.

Yeah this, cyber reality, cosmos of code, brain invading addiction that doesn't care who you are.

Can we switch off?

Can it end?

Can we fuck.

Will it fuck.

Strap in and keep you mind inside the ride...

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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Web of Hyper Truth.
Have you seen horror?
Have you encountered untimely death?
Have you witnessed innocent life lost?
Have you been terrorised by extreme minds?
Have you stopped your happiness in exchange for tear stained cheeks upon discovering their hearts have been stolen?
Of course you have, we all have.
We have, no choice.
The narrative of now, and then.
But then they didn't have this.
Yeah this, cyber reality, cosmos of code, brain invading addiction that doesn't care who you are.
Can we switch off?
Can it end?
Can we fuck.
Will it fuck.
Strap in and keep you mind inside the ride...
#nonfiction  #science  #philosophy  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #opinion 
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Written by WistfulThinker in portal Poetry & Free Verse

My sad attempt at a song

Do you remember 

When everything seemed permanent

When moments felt like years

We were foolish then

Too young to understand

Time won't stop for us

It will slip through our fingers

Grasp at it as you may

Time won't stop for anyone

Call me 

When you need to feel that everything is temporary

I'll slow time down

For you

Time won't stop for us

It will slip through our fingers

Grasp at it as you may

Time won't stop for anyone

Minutes, seconds, hours

They're all the same

A precious currency

No one seems to consider 

Time won't stop for us

It will slip through our fingers

Grasp at it as you may

Time won't stop for anyone

Time won't stop for anyone

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Written by WistfulThinker in portal Poetry & Free Verse
My sad attempt at a song
Do you remember 
When everything seemed permanent
When moments felt like years
We were foolish then
Too young to understand

Time won't stop for us
It will slip through our fingers
Grasp at it as you may
Time won't stop for anyone

Call me 
When you need to feel that everything is temporary
I'll slow time down
For you

Time won't stop for us
It will slip through our fingers
Grasp at it as you may
Time won't stop for anyone

Minutes, seconds, hours
They're all the same
A precious currency
No one seems to consider 

Time won't stop for us
It will slip through our fingers
Grasp at it as you may
Time won't stop for anyone

Time won't stop for anyone



#poetry  #lyrics  #opinion 
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In Inspiration of my new book : "Midnight Memos About Love by Nokulunga Mazibuko" What is the ONE truth/opinion/question/quote you have about Love??
Written by NyxNight

Life is too cruel, if we cease to believe in love, why would we want to live.

Love is a belief that fills our hearts with hope that even when we're in darkness, there's always going to be stars to guide us back to the light. 

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In Inspiration of my new book : "Midnight Memos About Love by Nokulunga Mazibuko" What is the ONE truth/opinion/question/quote you have about Love??
Written by NyxNight
Life is too cruel, if we cease to believe in love, why would we want to live.
Love is a belief that fills our hearts with hope that even when we're in darkness, there's always going to be stars to guide us back to the light. 
#romance  #opinion  #quote 
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Written by Winterreign

Lazy squad

Lazy squad where you at?

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Written by Winterreign
Lazy squad
Lazy squad where you at?
#opinion  #laziness 
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Written by Winterreign

Why so mad?

I try so hard to spread positivity everywhere i go and online. And try to encourage people to love themselves and doesn't matter what you look like. Then i come across those people saying things like " you need to lose weight" " you need to exercise and take care of your body to be healthy" or " you need to take of yourself and blah blah blah" basically saying to love yourself you need to lose body fat. Like I try to be nice but they are sitting there being mean and judging me. Loving yourself does mean you have to lose weight! Why people so obsessed with body weight. What's wrong with someone not caring about what others think of them? It's my body and i will do what i want with it. If I want to remain fat i will, it's so hard for me to lose my belly fat. Like I try and exercise but I get ibs and etc whenever I try to be healthy . I want to be comfortable in my skin. Don't ever call me fat, I am not even that fat.But do not sit there and tell me in order for me to be considered beautiful. I need to lose weight to fit in with society standard. News flash, i'am not trying to fit in anywhere. I don't care if you don't like my body or me.i don't care if you hate the way i dress or what i post. People will hate you for everything even the little things. This world cares too much about someone's look. News flash i am not dating you, I am not trying to impress you. I am trying to impress myself . I don't look good for anyone but me. Take your negativity and get out of my life. You talking about supportive community but you keep putting others down. I am really tired of hearing people say to someone " you should lose weight and blah blah"and all those suggestions and advices i didn't ask for. Let them live how they want. This world is dead and i have lost faith in humanity.

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Written by Winterreign
Why so mad?
I try so hard to spread positivity everywhere i go and online. And try to encourage people to love themselves and doesn't matter what you look like. Then i come across those people saying things like " you need to lose weight" " you need to exercise and take care of your body to be healthy" or " you need to take of yourself and blah blah blah" basically saying to love yourself you need to lose body fat. Like I try to be nice but they are sitting there being mean and judging me. Loving yourself does mean you have to lose weight! Why people so obsessed with body weight. What's wrong with someone not caring about what others think of them? It's my body and i will do what i want with it. If I want to remain fat i will, it's so hard for me to lose my belly fat. Like I try and exercise but I get ibs and etc whenever I try to be healthy . I want to be comfortable in my skin. Don't ever call me fat, I am not even that fat.But do not sit there and tell me in order for me to be considered beautiful. I need to lose weight to fit in with society standard. News flash, i'am not trying to fit in anywhere. I don't care if you don't like my body or me.i don't care if you hate the way i dress or what i post. People will hate you for everything even the little things. This world cares too much about someone's look. News flash i am not dating you, I am not trying to impress you. I am trying to impress myself . I don't look good for anyone but me. Take your negativity and get out of my life. You talking about supportive community but you keep putting others down. I am really tired of hearing people say to someone " you should lose weight and blah blah"and all those suggestions and advices i didn't ask for. Let them live how they want. This world is dead and i have lost faith in humanity.
#rant  #bodyimage  #opinion  #tired 
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Written by BenCoulter in portal Nonfiction

22

Disorder universal order.

The only gospel is your own.

Loneliness defends pride.

Love is only half the truth.

Good men stand far between.

Music is a vessel of nature.

Change the set for a growth.

Never leave love with hate.

Good food fattens the soul.

Life is faith to the dying.

This reality is only a home.

None can bar the ebb of time.

Fame will not fasten a void.

Injustice requires quiet.

Drugs are bad for your mind.

Never cower for cowardice.

The time is always here now.

Crave nothing enjoy it all.

Forgive never ever forget.

Nothing to say so walk away.

Our sunlight is a true king.

Number is a genesis tongue.

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Written by BenCoulter in portal Nonfiction
22
Disorder universal order.
The only gospel is your own.
Loneliness defends pride.
Love is only half the truth.
Good men stand far between.
Music is a vessel of nature.
Change the set for a growth.
Never leave love with hate.
Good food fattens the soul.
Life is faith to the dying.
This reality is only a home.
None can bar the ebb of time.
Fame will not fasten a void.
Injustice requires quiet.
Drugs are bad for your mind.
Never cower for cowardice.
The time is always here now.
Crave nothing enjoy it all.
Forgive never ever forget.
Nothing to say so walk away.
Our sunlight is a true king.
Number is a genesis tongue.
#nonfiction  #philosophy  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #opinion 
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Written by WistfulThinker in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Youth

I've watched my years of youth fade.

Time never seemed to pass fast enough before,

but now I can never seem to get enough.

The longing for the life passed

has endured and attached itself to me throughout the years.

There was a light I used to believe I could see when I was young,

perhaps it was only ever make believe.

Everything is fading now.

Everything is fading now.

I'm fading,

and there's nothing I can do to stop it. 

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Written by WistfulThinker in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Youth
I've watched my years of youth fade.
Time never seemed to pass fast enough before,
but now I can never seem to get enough.
The longing for the life passed
has endured and attached itself to me throughout the years.
There was a light I used to believe I could see when I was young,
perhaps it was only ever make believe.
Everything is fading now.
Everything is fading now.
I'm fading,
and there's nothing I can do to stop it. 




#poetry  #philosophy  #opinion 
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Written by Ethereal in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Different Artists I've Met

Behold! 

Here in my quiet life, 

I've met different kinds of people 

People that inspire, anger or make someone cry 

But, since I observe people 

I've noticed that we are all artists 

We all create art even we do or not know 

These were the products of my profound contemplation 

First, we've got the "artists" 

These folks can bring their imagination 

Come life through the pencil and the paper 

They tell stories, metaphors,  and poems through pictures 

Second, we've got the "photographers"

You can recognize them almost everywhere you go 

Taking pictures of the every moment that they deem precious 

With every photograph they capture are the art that they tell the world 

Third, we've got the "writers" 

Armed with words, they hit you in the heart 

Eloquent, delicate that's how they craft they work 

With every tale they tell; the world and it's folks smile a little 

Fourth, we've got the "dancers" 

Nimble, graceful, mysterious that's who they are 

They allure the folks with their ethereal movements 

Really, with each motion they make tells a different story.

And finally, the "musicians" 

As opposed to the mentioned above 

No words or visuals needed for their narrative, 

Their work needs not sight, but hearing the notes

Well, I may have forgotten some 

But whatever, these are the people I've met 

Various people are artists, expressing themselves 

Painting  their saga in either

 a piece of paper,

movements,

 photograph, 

 canvas, 

or music

...So which one are you? 

A/N: I don't do poetry but when I thought of this I wanted to do it this way so ya excuse my crappy poetry skills lol. 

BUT ANYWAYS YA, This is dedicated to us, artists since Idk I felt the urge to just write about this and words were flowy and some shiz Idk about loloololol. 

Also, no bias in making musicians the last one since before I'm a writer, I'm a musician and I do think they have the hardest way to tell the story (like dancers) coz ya the audience need to be uhm sensitive and all 

So ya. Thanks for indulging me. Have a good day.

 

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Written by Ethereal in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Different Artists I've Met
Behold! 
Here in my quiet life, 
I've met different kinds of people 
People that inspire, anger or make someone cry 

But, since I observe people 
I've noticed that we are all artists 
We all create art even we do or not know 
These were the products of my profound contemplation 

First, we've got the "artists" 
These folks can bring their imagination 
Come life through the pencil and the paper 
They tell stories, metaphors,  and poems through pictures 

Second, we've got the "photographers"
You can recognize them almost everywhere you go 
Taking pictures of the every moment that they deem precious 
With every photograph they capture are the art that they tell the world 

Third, we've got the "writers" 
Armed with words, they hit you in the heart 
Eloquent, delicate that's how they craft they work 
With every tale they tell; the world and it's folks smile a little 

Fourth, we've got the "dancers" 
Nimble, graceful, mysterious that's who they are 
They allure the folks with their ethereal movements 
Really, with each motion they make tells a different story.

And finally, the "musicians" 
As opposed to the mentioned above 
No words or visuals needed for their narrative, 
Their work needs not sight, but hearing the notes

Well, I may have forgotten some 
But whatever, these are the people I've met 

Various people are artists, expressing themselves 
Painting  their saga in either
 a piece of paper,
movements,
 photograph, 
 canvas, 
or music

...So which one are you? 

A/N: I don't do poetry but when I thought of this I wanted to do it this way so ya excuse my crappy poetry skills lol. 
BUT ANYWAYS YA, This is dedicated to us, artists since Idk I felt the urge to just write about this and words were flowy and some shiz Idk about loloololol. 
Also, no bias in making musicians the last one since before I'm a writer, I'm a musician and I do think they have the hardest way to tell the story (like dancers) coz ya the audience need to be uhm sensitive and all 

So ya. Thanks for indulging me. Have a good day.

 

#nonfiction  #poetry  #opinion  #writers  #artists 
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Written by PaulDChambers in portal Simon & Schuster

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.

...

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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by PaulDChambers in portal Simon & Schuster
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.

...
#fiction  #horror  #culture  #murder  #opinion 
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