'Bridge Over Remagen' and 'Pots and Pans' ~ Revised16:28 Mar 18 2010
Times Read: 927
Bridge Over Remagen
There are certain events in ones Life that changes you forever. One of mine occurred one Saturday afternoon, half-way through a showing of the afternoon matinée; the film, ‘Bridge over Remagen.’
I’d been sitting in my armchair, in the sunlit backroom, which had then been my bedroom.
As I recall, the Americans had been defending the bridge: but, at that point of the story, I’d had my eyes closed, as I’d held the chairs arms tightly, with Deborah Jane, sweet Deborah Jane, knelt between my splayed legs, her hands on my thigh’s, as she sought to pleasure me with her mouth.
“Oh God, you’re good,” I’d cried out, then added; “How did you get to be this good?”
Kneeling back onto my haunches, she’d looked up at me and replied with utter innocence, “My Father taught me…”
Well, that’d killed the mood somewhat.
* *
Pots and Pans
Debbie and I had got a home in Kirkdale Liverpool, so as to be near where she worked as a nurse and, on a train route that would take me over the water, to Hoylake as a care assistant
Just before we’d closed the front door of our terrace-home on the world, her Father had brought the last of belongings to us: a pile of pot and pans.
Shaking my hand, he’d looked me straight in the eyes and said to me, “Look after her, as I would…”
And, taking in mind all I knew of how he’d looked after his daughter, my gut reaction had been a strong desire to hit him, square on the nose.
But, that wouldn’t have gone down well with Deborah Jane.
So, I hadn’t…
Self, reflected
00:33 Mar 12 2010
Times Read: 936
The too-slim brunette stared into the bathroom mirror, as she shimmied out of her yellowed cotton panties.
With her hands on the edge of the sink, she peered closely, pleased that the puffy yellowed flesh beneath her left eyes was fading.
Gentle fingertips traced the small circular scar an inch from her right nipple, near the under swell of her underdeveloped right breast.
“It’s true,” she mused, smoking is bad for you.
She ran her hands down her across her prominent ribcage, then further down to the top of her thin coltish legs.
Like her Mother, Mark had an obsession with weight and dieting, he liked her to be a size six and, look good for him.
Yet she could hardly recall an occasion, during their time together, when he had taken them out for the evening, and she could dress-up, as she used to do.
She looked down, to where hands rested.
And briefly she smiled, thinking, “Well, at least I won’t have to shave ‘down there’ anymore.”
She finished washing her hands, thankful that the blood had come off as easily as it had. And, for a moment she stared glassy-eyed at her reflected self, idly wondering if Mark’s blood would come off the carpet as easily.
Crimson Commerce
14:39 Mar 01 2010
Times Read: 946
She walked in the bar, having had to walk down four steep concrete steps to get there.
Then, crossing the pine floor-boards in high-heels, their click-clack sounding loud large room full of tables, largely empty.
It was early in he afternoon and those not nursing hangovers, or at work, or at the bookies. And, other than the barman, there were only four sets of eyes that followed the brunette, as she approached him.
[And, one of those sets of eyes weren’t complete.]
Aaron, the bald-headed young man behind the bar was polishing a glass as she spoke: “I’d like a white wine; and. I’d also appreciate some information.”
Aaron placed the glass and tea-towel down on the bar counter top. He turned to the bottles of wine, standing next to the optics stand and, retrieved a clean long-stemmed glass from the dryer.
“Information?” He quizzed pouring her wine, then turning back to her, glass in hand.
Dianna proffered a note, which he accepted, offering her the glass of wine, which she accepted.
“Information?” Aaron repeated, ringing up the order on the till.
As he handed Dianna her change, she said to him: “I’m looking for a man.”
She didn’t smile as she said, so neither did he.
But, he did notice how she was dressed.
The brunette was in a jacket and skirt in grey that would match that of any executive.
She had power-dressed, whilst he was dressed as he was everyday: tight sleeveless black tee-shirt and equally faded blue-jeans.
‘Out of my league,’ he mused for a thousandth of a second, then he asked: “And, would I know this gentleman?”
Left hand on the edge of the counter-top, left knee crooked, she rested the instep of her left heel on the brass foot-rail that extended the length of the bar.
“Well put it this way,” she began, “I was told it was safe, to come see you, to ask about him.”
An eyebrow raised, the barman asked, “That’s a very particular way of saying something.”
And, with a frozen smile, the well-dressed brunette stared deep into his eyes, as she retorted, “I had a very particular reason for saying it that way. That way Mister Hobbes will know that it’ll be ‘safe’ to do business with me…”
Across the room shoulders stiffened at the mention of the name she proffered and, chair legs scraped against the floor, as its occupant sat bolt upright.
The fellow sitting in the chair and now staring across the room had been resting, his shoulders against the wall chin on his chest, arms crossed just below, two chair legs supporting his weight.
At the sound of wood on wood, the barman’s eyes glanced to his left.
The well-dressed woman noticed, saying to him with a smile, “Thank you, you’ve told me what I needed to hear…”
She turned on her heels and strode purposely to where Cal Hobbes sat and at her approach he gestured with his hands for the two men sitting at his table to go.
“I think the ladies got something got something to say to me…” he mumbled.
He was proven right, as she stood jest before him, and took a business card from the top pocket of her jacket.
“Mister Hobbes? My card.” Cal hesitated a moment before taking the card from her.
But, he did take it.
“Dianna Carter…” He said, looking her up and down, then smiled very slightly.
“Why are you here?”
Dianna shook her head, then ran the fingers of her left hand through her hair.
“I was told you’re the man for me…” She told him, as she sat down and crossed her legs slowly, with her skirts hem rising a little as she did so.
And, she smiled herself, watching as an eyebrow arched somewhat.
“Wouldn’t have thought I was your type Ms. Carter…” Cal growled softly. He had already decided that being a ‘looker’, or not, this woman’s presence was an annoyance.
“Please Mister Hobbes…” she started, in a pleading tone, reaching out to touch the back of his right hand, trying her best not to recoil at the touch of his cold, cold flesh, “I need your help and my friend Cecilia told me young could help me…”
Recognition spread across the swarthy, hard-looking man’s face, as he took in what she’d just said, “Cecilia?”
“Yes, that’s my friend…”She told him quietly.
“Ah…” he sighed, sitting forward, “And what do you want?”
“I want the same as my friend. Like her, people are after me… and, I want to be like her now, so no-one can hurt me…”
“And you have enough money, to pay for my services?” Cal enquired, drawing his lips back from his pronounce canine teeth.
“Oh yes,” She assured him, “I’m in charge of purchasing loans, for the whole of the Mid-West…”
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