Water, by Annabelle Jane Palling

I did not knock at your door on a feverish night,

Parched and asking for cool, cool water or
Even just an ice cube to slide down your
Supple spine and – burning –
Refresh.

Yes, the bursting hydrangeas outside
Spoke of rich, rich soil ripe with life,
But I did not raise my hand
To knock.
I answered, though.

Anyway.
I poured, and we laughed and we drank and we
Thanked each other for soothed throats and bodies revived.
And soon we were skinny-dipping in the oceans of those tall glasses,
Splashing, sleek and alive.

Until you had drunk your fill, then
Your feet could not find the bottom, and
Your eyes lost the shoreline of your glass’s rim.
And we swam perhaps a bit too
Close.

So.
I am still holding the pitcher, and
The door is still open,
And I am unquenched
But hesitate to drink.

Hard To Get Hard, by Georgia Kelly

It's hard to get hard

as your breath catches thick

in the lining of your throat

when you're weak at the knees 

only for having fallen

for yet another pack of

brightly coloured chloresterol.

Your wife says nothing these days.

Broken promises and lies

lie deep in the blue marbled

sheet that clouds her hazelnut eyes

as she hides in her chair

hung, drawn and quartered

on some pill or other - smarties.

You visit her from time to time

but you'd rather see her through a screen.

It's hard to get hard.

as perspiration pushes out of pores

maybe she's blonde today?

you always had a thing for blondes, didn't you?

Sweat drips.

Perhaps she's got caramel skin and

a sweet, aching crush on her step-brother?

Ham-handedly, you move without care

she could be anyone.

It's hard to get hard

when you can't see your worth

over the swell of your stomach

until you catch your reflection

a moment squeezed tight

in the limp, black second of a video

it's hard to get hard.

The Robing Room, by Peter Morford

My friend Petronella’s two marriages had been conventional enough.  Number one was in the village church, 20 guests, reception in the pub.  Number two was a bit more lavish, reflecting her social promotion.  A marquee on a National Trust estate, 200 guests, honeymoon in Kenya. And now, number three, on her new man’s yacht moored in Cardiff Docks, crewed and provisioned for the long haul.

            I, as one of her special friends were to, officiate in costumes which she would provide.  She fixed the appointment with the costumiers for me.

**

            I rang the bell twice before anyone came. A tall rather imposing woman opened the door.             “Yes?”

            “I’m Martin Black, guest of Petronella Parker’s wedding.”

            “You’d better come in.  If you sit here I’ll bring you a coffee. Then you will proceed to the robing room,” she said.

            I sat down. She returned with coffee and biscuits for two, put them on the little table and sat opposite me.

            I looked her. Perhaps fifty or even sixty. Slim in her ankle-length black dress with dozens of buttons from neck to the floor.   Greying hair piled high on her head.  Long nose, thin lips. Veined hands. Wedding ring. An imperious rather impressive Victorian lady. I supposed that I would impersonate a 19^th century gentleman. She had the look of someone who didn’t want conversation so I said nothing.

            Suddenly she stood up. “I’ll fetch your costume. You may go into the robing room now.”

            I’m not sure what I expected but it certainly wasn’t what I saw.  The room was about 15ft square.  The only furniture was a pair of bentwood chairs, a hat-stand and a cheval mirror covered by a velvet cloth. 

            The walls were papered with flock and the room smelt of dust.

            She returned with a small case. “I’ll leave you to change.  Call me when you’re ready.”

I opened the case.  Inside was a striped bathing costume, a neck to knee woollen thing vintage 1920s. Feeling silly I changed and uncovered the mirror. What I saw shocked me. I looked aghast.  I’m not a vain man but this kit was ridiculous.

            I called.  She came.  Said, “Are you sure that Petronella wants me to attend her wedding in this?”

            “Those are her instructions Mr Black.”.

            “And will the other ushers be dressed the same way?”

            “I’m not at liberty to discuss the others.”

            I turned back to the mirror. It had changed.  I saw my ungainly striped figure and behind me, an automated  car assembly line.  Orange robots were assembling Range Rovers. I looked round but the wall behind me was just a wall covered in flock wallpaper.   I looked back at my reflection.  Cars were slowly progressing. Robots were delivering bonnet tops and fitting the doors.  I turned round very fast again.  Flock wallpaper.

            “How’s it done?”

            “What are you talking about Mr Black?”

            “Look at the mirror,” I said

            “I see myself.”

            “But the background looks wrong.”

            “Have you been drinking Mr Black?”

            “Only your coffee.”

            “That would account for it.  I think you’d better leave.”

            Back on the A5 I was stopped by the Police. They didn’t believe a word of it either

A Fine Romance, by Martin White

I always suspected it might end in tears. 
My friend had such high hopes: a new relationship!
   Her name is Hannah. He tells me she is American, probably from the east coast, mid-50s. She has a no-nonsense style that he finds very alluring. A bit domineering for my taste, but it takes all sorts. If she has any children I think she must be estranged from them, since her career takes her away from home for weeks on end. That, of course, is what brought them together: their love of travel.
    He'd been feeling lost for quite some time; not sure what direction to take; feeling lonely. So when he was introduced to Hannah he thought life was really going to take a turn for the better. And so it did, for a while. Lots of new places, new adventures. Everyone remarked how much happier he looked, with a new spring in his step. He was always saying, "We went there; we saw that". He was never at home. You should have seen his garden!
  Then .... it was bound to happen. He started to notice that she had quiet spells, not saying anything. He wondered if he had done something to annoy her: forgotten her birthday perhaps. He began to suspect she had moods. Then one day as they were driving around she said, "Turn right", and he found they had turned onto a dirt track, and after a mile or so of increasing anxiety on his part they entered a farmyard. Well, my friend was naturally very upset, and he stopped listening to anything she said. 
   He soon became very depressed. I wondered about suggesting he wrote to Marinella Forstrup in the "Guardian": perhaps she could give advice? But who knows where that might lead?
   So I've given him a new road atlas for his birthday. He'll be better off with that.


In the car
a new voice
she who must be obeyed

Goodbye in November, by J.C. Almain

The leaves that are falling now
will be renewed next year;
but she,
she will never return

Lorraine, by June Pettitt

Gerald had been known as Gerry to his friends: not that he had many of those since his divorce - a messy affair, where all their dirty linen had been aired in public. Since then he had more or less kept himself to himself.

  He was exhausted. It had been a tough week negotiating terms and prices with a new customer for the building company of which he was a partner.   ‘Thank goodness it’s the weekend,’ he thought as he packed his briefcase and closed his laptop. He could not wait to get out of the office. Every weekend he would drive to the Lake District where he owned a small cottage. It was in woodland in Grizedale National Park and was quite isolated. It had been left to him after his mother and father had passed away; his father first after a short illness. His mother, who was devoted to her husband, died shortly after from a broken heart. Luckily, if you could call it luck, it was after he had been divorced and a settlement had all ready been agreed, or the greedy whore would have claimed half of that.

  Unlocking the car door he put in his briefcase and laptop, he had packed his weekend case before leaving for work that morning. Gerald loved his Jaguar, often reverently stroking its blue metallic bodywork.  When he sat in the cream leather driving seat it was like sitting in a warm bath. ‘At leased the bitch hadn’t taken my car,’ he thought.

   He could hardly wait until he reached the cottage where Lorraine would be waiting for him. ‘Lorraine. Lorraine, my beautiful Lorraine.’ He repeated her name over and over again, sometimes even making up a song about her. At times, in his eagerness to see her, he would drive too fast. ‘I must be careful. If I got killed, what would happen to my Lorraine then?’

   It was dusk when he reached the cottage. No lights shone from the windows, but he hadn’t expected there to be. Lorraine always liked him to switch on the lights when he walked in. 

  Leaving his briefcase and laptop in the car he grabbed his weekend case. Just in time he remembered to lock the car, although there was very little crime in the area. ‘You could never be to sure,’ he thought. That was why he always told Lorraine to keep the door locked when he wasn’t around.

  Eagerly, he ran up the steps to the cottage and unlocked the door. Putting his suitcase down in the hall, full of anticipation he opened the door to the lounge and switched on the light. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her sitting on the settee waiting for him. She looked so beautiful dressed in a scarlet chiffon and satin evening gown. Slowly he walked towards her, savouring every moment before putting his arms around her.  ‘Darling, darling, you look wonderful,’ he whispered as he pulled her close to him. He kissed her cheek then her pouting lips. He did not want to hurry this first encounter.

  Sitting her back on the settee he asked if the champagne was in the fridge. ‘I knew it would be,’ he said, going to fetch it. He poured two glasses and lifted his, saying, ‘Here’s to the most beautiful woman in the world.’

  He sipped his drink slowly, devouring her body with his eyes. His gaze travelled from her long blonde hair to her brilliant blue eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes. Her lips smiled invitingly. ‘They could wait,’ he thought. He wanted to take in the rest of her beauty. His eyes went down her slender neck to her half exposed taut breasts, their nipples aching to be touched. Her suntanned legs were crossed provocatively; his fingers itched to stroke them.

  She sat there not saying a word. She knew that’s how he liked it: quiet and submissive, not like his ex-wife, who had the language of a fishwife. Lorraine knew how to please him.

  Gerald carried her into the bedroom where he slipped her evening gown over her slender shoulders.  She wore no bra - there was no need with her firm breasts. He removed her red thong leaving her standing before him naked. Gently he laid her on the bed, stroking and kissing her all over. Gerald loved the taste and smell of her body.

  When he was fully aroused he pulled her on top of him. This was the way she liked it. Lorraine’s eyes gazed unblinking into his.  This always unnerved him a bit, but because of all the other wonderful things about her he pushed it to one side. Grabbing her, he moved her up and down. Oh, it felt so good. She put up no resistance; he could do what he liked with her.

  After he had climaxed he lay back exhausted, both of them wet with perspiration from their love making. Lying by her side, he pulled the duvet over them and fell into a deep sleep.

  The sun streaming through a slit in the curtains awoke Gerald. He thought of last night and of how wonderful it had been. He put out his arm to touch the now deflated latex body of Lorraine.

Sicily, by Annabelle Jane Palling

What land is scented quite like this?
Of sun-drenched lemons, pepper, thyme,
Almonds, stone, baked earth, azure,
Sea and salt, and honey wild?

Murmuring skin that speaks
To mine, and in a tongue
I love to learn?