Beyond The Wall

The morning mist cleared leaving inky puddles in its wake. Three roman soldiers passed through the wall gate and trudged out on their usual morning patrol.

'You've got to curse old emperor Hadrian for building this bloody thing' Decimus remarked to his two comrades as he tightened the clasp on his cloak.

'I can't believe we've been stationed up here with these fucking savages over yonder' moaned Carbo picking a pebble out of his sandal and pointing northwards to the hills.

'Yep at least the town garrisons have women, all we got here is wailing tribal banshees taunting us before disappearing back into the woods or mist … but have you seen them close up eh lads? Real women, feisty with plenty of fight, may the god Bacchus bless my cock and grant me a stab at one of those bitches!' laughed Fabius. His two comrades laughed as they hopped over the stones of a hissing hill stream and continued on their patrol.

The sun lazily climbed and as birds began to rustle about in the heather chirping contentedly at the warmth of the day. The three roman legionnaires followed the stream eastward and weaved in and out of the trees cautiously realising they were away from the safety of the wall and firmly in hostile territory. Decimus who was slightly ahead suddenly stopped and removed his helmet, cocking an ear upwards and waving back for the others to slow down and approach with caution. All three roman's crouched cat like in the undergrowth, each one a veteran of many an ambush. Gingerly Decimus eased his way back to his two comrades.

'There's two men and a woman washing just around the bend in the stream, I think I recognise the woman from a couple of weeks back when they tried to raid our section of the wall, she has fire in her belly, that's for sure.' Whispered Decimus with a salacious grin.

'Shall we take them?' asked Carbo, his excitement evident.

'Why not!? Besides I'm gagging for a fuck and the barbarian bitch will give us some sport' chortled Fabius quietly.

The three hastily hatched a plan. Fabius was to approach them alone and act unaware whilst Carbo and Decimus would hide in the undergrowth and attack from the rear when the three barbarians moved in, and as the three roman's knew, if the barbarians sensed they had the upper hand they would attack, kill and loot the corpse before disembowelling it, such was their hatred of the romans.

Fabius walked on making as much noise has he could, aimlessly hacking the heather with his sword as he seemed oblivious to the known dangers ahead. Three blood curdling screams went up as the barbarians noticed the lone roman legionnaire, feigning surprise Fabius raised his shield and raised his sword aloft which glistened in the morning sun. Within moments the three long haired pict barbarians were almost upon him, shouting an ear shattering war cries as they approached. The two males came first hurling their spears in primal anger. The first spear whistled overhead whilst the second lodged squarely in Fabius's shield, shivering as it did so under the ferocity of the throw. The barbarian woman stood behind whistling a primitive club above and around her cascading locks of red hair, screaming and taunting as she did so.

Then the trap was sprung, Carbo and Decimus appeared out of the undergrowth and in turn threw their roman pilum spears. Carbo's found its mark, impaling a barbarian in the vitals, he went down with a blood curdling shout, his bloody hands frenziedly trying to remove the spear but to no avail.

Decimus missed his target but had drawn his sword and was now charging the stunned barbarian nearest to him. It was all over quickly, roman stoic discipline versus barbarian raw anger. The barbarian swung a huge club, Decimus ducked the blow and stabbed upwards with his short sword under the savages rib cage. A blood curdling scream issued from the barbarian followed by crimson fluid gushing down through his yellowed teeth down over his chin as he slumped to the ground. This only left the barbarian woman who seeing the loss of her kinsmen charged Fabius who had now plucked the spear from his shield.

Red curly hair flew in all directions as the barbarian warrior woman rained blow after blow with her primitive club down upon the roman's shield. The other two roman soldiers closed in, grinning as they did so, savouring their moment. The barbarian woman became more hysterical but the ferocity of her blows became less vigorous as she noticeably tired. Soon Carbo saw his chance and sidestepped behind her, bring down the pommel of his sword down on the back of her neck.

The barbarian woman crumpled to the floor. In the silence the three roman soldiers methodically cleaned their weapons and began to unfasten their leather armour, smiling at each other in satisfaction as they did so.

'Strength and honour comrades!' gasped Carbo still trying to regain his composure.
One of the two barbarian males still flailed in the undergrowth blood gushing from his wound. Decimus ended it quickly with another sword thrust to his throat before wiping his blade on the heather.

'So what shall we do with her?' asked Fabius sporting a sardonic grin.
'why fuck her of course!' replied Carbo, parting the leather fronds of his tunic and sporting an erection for the other two to see.

The three soldiers dragged their captive to a clearing under the shade of a tree binding her wrists tightly with coarse rope from one of their back packs. Decimus then emptied the contents of his animal skin flask over the barbarians woman's face.

She came around with a piercing scream and realising she was bound flipped and jerked on the ground like a tormented animal, much to the amusement of her captors. A few minutes of struggling passed till her strength gave out, she lay panting, eyes widened and roving, still looking for a chance to escape.

'Pick her up Decimus, lets get a better look at the bitch.' ordered Fabius calmly.
Decimus helped by Carbo grabbed her arms and roughly hoisted her to her feet. Fabius hung back, knowing her feet were still unfettered and a kick to his balls was likely. His prediction proved right and the red headed woman vigorously kicked out with her remaining strength. Carbo jabbed her heavily in the ribs, she buckled and the two roman's holding her swiftly secured her ankles with rope.

The barbarian woman slowly regained her composure and stared defiantly ahead, her scarlet hair matted to her forehead that was now brimming with a patina of perspiration. With mock affection Fabius gently teased a coil of hair away from her face, smiling as he did so. He then raised a dagger and began to cut the green tunic away from the warrior woman, within seconds she was naked before the three men and still staring defiantly ahead. Fabius stepped back to appraise her naked form.

'I'd say she's about 23 summers old lads, looks a virgin too, no way would this savage bitch let anyone easily fuck her, except us eh ?!'

Fabius's eyes roamed over her naked form, full red ruby lips adorned a proud but pale northern face framed by swathes of red hair, her full half melon breasts heaved in anger still. His eyes lowered and noticed wide child bearing thighs, strong legs tapering down punctuated by a dense thatch of red pubic hair.

'Boys, she'll fetch a hefty bounty if we take her back and she's sold as a slave' remarked Fabius.

'But I need a fuck' replied Carbo with some urgency and feeling no shame as he caressed his throbbing cock under his tunic.

'She'll fetch thrice the normal rate if she's a virgin' interjected Decimus who was struggling to contain the slightly rested captive.

'Settled then lads, we'll fuck her arse, wash her down in the stream and take her back a virgin.' Fabius said flatly, knowing full well the bounty would be a welcome bonus to his normal earnings.
Carbo delved into his marching pack and produced four tent pegs from a side compartment, and then the roman's tied the barbarian woman face down spread eagled in the grassy glade, taking liberty to grope their captive as they did so. Fingers explored and delved roughly, nipples were pinched harshly as the roman's secured her firmly to the ground.

'Remember lads, try not to mark her too much or she won't sell for as much' ordered Fabius.

The roman's then drew lots using blades of grass to see who would fuck the hapless barbarian woman first. Carbo won and with a cackling noise mounted his squirming victim from behind. Decimus stood on the edge of the clearing watching out for any more babarians, after all they didn't want to be caught with their tunics down so to speak.

'Hell fire, by Mercurius she's not letting me fuck her arse easily' rasped Carbo who eased off, sat back and let a dribble of saliva enter the valley of barbarian woman's ample and ripe rear.

Decimus jumped suddenly as the barbarian woman let out a wail of misery, he looked back to see Carbo heaving hurriedly up and down on her, his cock shuddered, soon it would be his turn as the others kept a look out.

Fabius now knelt before the red head, his turgid column parting through the tunic, his bulbous end was now dotted with a sliver of pre-cum, he roughly grabbed her tousled hair and forced his cock against the woman's mouth. She grimaced with clenched teeth unwilling give her tormenter any quarter. Fabius drew his dagger and held the point at her throat whilst holding her nose, soon she gasped and with reluctance allowed his cock to forge past her lips and slide along her cushioned tongue rhythmically.

It was going to be a long morning for the pictish barbarian woman.....

Dislocate the Heart

Dislocate the heart
Keep those eyes wide shut
Right at the very start.
It goes in revolutions, around and around
Pulling you deeper in
There’s no absolution here
Though maybe a sad fateful grin

Drawn to somebody even though it isn’t clear
Struggling, trying to fight it, and knowing what’s ahead
Beneath the veneer
Who am I?
Maybe part of me is already dead.

I want clarity, reasoning and identity
Solitude and a quiet place
Needing her lips on mine
Wrapped in each others arms
Seeking our dark solace

I sense sadness and tears in time
Yet I crave our darker moments
In blackness and blood entwined
Feeling her soft touch
The firmness of her body against mine

A Meeting Of Minds

Dames…..

They can be so fickle.

It’s a lousy night, in a lousy town, in a lousy back street bar. My heart has that sledgehammer feeling, the one that numbs your whole chest.

Dames, they have a lot to answer for.

I sip on a cold gin and a shiver caresses my spine as rain meanders down the murky window panes, it’s a cold bleak night out there, though not as bleak as my heart. There’s just me and the barman, some soft jazz music that I hardly pay attention to drifting about in the background and I decide to get another drink, the fire as it slides down my throat giving me some comfort at least. The barman seems indifferent, like me he doesn’t want to be there either, he wants to be in the arms of a loved one on a cold night like this. I know the drink isn’t the answer but I get him to leave me the bottle and stare into the clear shimmering liquid, at least I’ll sleep later.

Then the door opens, the cold rainy night air streams in and engulfs my face, the barman looks up, we both turn and regard her as she walks in. The soft lights hide her visage in the shadows momentarily, she takes off her long coat, does the woman thing and ruffles with her hair as she walks towards the neon bar area, the lights accentuating her feminine curves as she gracefully strides over, her curvy hips swinging as she does so.

She’s an amazon, a full bodied goddess, I drink in her beauty and try not to make it obvious but she’s already clocked my gaze, I turn back to my drink and crawl back inside myself.

‘What would a curvy goddess like her see in a two time loser like me?’

I didn’t really catch a glimpse of her face but soon she is asking me for a smoke, I tell her I don’t indulge but she keeps the conversation running, I look at her, see her features framed by thick long tresses of dark hair – she has a face like I imagine angels to have but I sense something else about her. Leaning in close the bar lights reflect from her lip gloss, she wants to chat, it’s obvious – so reluctantly I play the game and pour her a gin.

I never was that good with drink, and soon I’ve loosened up, spilling my sorry life story out to her but she listens all the same, she smiles and I begin to lose myself in her spectacled framed eyes of hers. My eyes move around her ample contours, I feel I’m losing myself to her as my gaze rests on her cleavage, down over the sweep of her hips and resting on her large firm arched bottom as she leans forward to sip her drink.

Dames, curse them.

The time comes when I need to use the washroom, I shudder inside, the amazon is way taller than me, the moment of truth as I climb down from the bar stool. I look at her waiting for her face to change;

‘Don’t worry honey’ she states.

‘It’s a meeting of minds’ she purrs.

I look at myself long and hard in the washroom mirror, then splash cold water over my face from a grimy wash basin. I muse to myself she’ll be gone when I get back; I’ll have lost her to the rain soaked ebony night. Pacing up and down in the washroom I try and drag it out, avoid rushing back to the curvy creature that is beguiling me, try to look composed. Soon I can’t help myself and I’m heading back, heart beating hard, that jack hammer feeling that only a dame can give you.

The curvy goddess is still sat there, lustrous long dark hair draped over her shoulders, she peers at me over the rim of her glasses, her eyes twinkling brightly, her smile warmer than a thousand furnaces, her lips offering a thousand promises.

We talk late into the night, the bar man falls asleep and I leave a folded bank note in his hand as a tip. I realise as we take a cab back to mine through the dimly lit rain washed streets I’ve been talking to her all night and don’t know a god damn thing about her.

When we get back to mine I fix us a hot cup of java, she goes to do her thing in the bathroom but suddenly returns jangling some handcuffs with a wicked grin.

‘You left these hanging around in the bedroom honey’ she says in a seductive teasing voice
‘Shit’ I try and smile, hiding my embarrassment.

‘You like to play rough honey, you like a little fun?’.

‘I love the feel of these things against my skin’ she says swinging the cuffs with a glint of mischief in her full orbed eyes.

I guess we both wanted escapism that night … and we got it.

When I awoke she was gone, I expected her to be curled up next to me, my hand cupping, firming and stroking her ample curves as we both awoke slowly, our games to continue, our fires both burning into the day.

I sighed and smiled softly, thinking of our night of passion, an amazon and a little guy like me, having so much fun, my smile broadened as I recalled her words in the bar when I got down from the stool.

‘A meeting of minds’.

And it was.

A Memory

The night air was cold and invigorating, the belligerent sea swept in, defiantly lapping over the sea wall and the wind seemed to tear into the very fabric of my existence.

I felt stoic against it all though, intoxicated by contentment - for the first time in months I felt alive.

We stood there and smiled at each other, warm expressions against the elements, beacons of happiness in the chilled night. We embraced; to my left was a wall of shimmering neon, to my right a raging ebony sea and before me was a creature with the most amazing eyes looking back.

Then we kissed and for a moment and time stood still, the wind and sea receded and raw emotion coursed through my veins.

As we parted the elements all rushed back, the sea roared, the wind caressed us, briefly they complimented my feelings.

I looked at her incandescent visage, we smiled and headed home.

We held hands, the sea sang, the wind whispered and a fire burned in my heart.

Yet, tomorrow would be a different day.

Out of the Dark

The knife slipped silently out of the dark.
She felt the cold touch of metal against her neck, slim and razor sharp.
Then his breath from behind upon her skin.

She could sense his closeness, his power.
Her breath rose and fell in her chest, rapidly increasing it’s pace.
Her blood pumped faster through her body, racing now.
But she was unable to move, his very presence holding her fast.

She could hear his heartbeat increase, his breathing deepen.

Slowly the knife was drawn across her neck, raising minute drops of blood that welled up and converged, forming a threadlike ribbon that slowly ran down towards her chest.

A sharp intake of breath behind her and a gentle laugh.

The knife was drawn down, lightly, not breaking the skin, following the thread of blood, finally coming to rest above her breast.

She felt him lean in.
The warmth of his body raising the hairs upon her back.
She sensed him smile.

Then felt the tip of his tongue reach out toward the ribbon of blood,
leisurely travelling the length of the wound, savouring the taste.
A gentle moan of pleasure from him, barely audible.

Still not a word.

A tingle rose up through her, igniting fires within.
A shiver travelling up her spine
Her breath catching in her throat,
Every part of her body suddenly alert, alive, waiting…

Stillness. Just the rapid beat of her heart and the rushing of blood through her veins.

A brief touch of his lips upon the nape of her neck
and then he was gone.

Move on man

This was composed on my last night at work, a little ditty based on the lyrics from the Mark Knopfler song 'Why aye man' from the Private Investigations cd.

We had no way of staying afloat
We had to leave the corporate ferry boat
Economic refugees, now without a care
On the run to who knows where
We had the back of the company’s hand
Times were tough in Mansfield land
We cleared our desks and got our gear
Not to worry lets get down the pub and have a beer

Move on man, move on man
Move on man, move on man

We're the nightshift tribe, happy go lucky boys
Who worked in the emergency call centre noise
The military, banks and high street suited slicks
Wanting a window boarding up or someone laying bricks
There's English, Asians, Irish, Scots, the lot
United Nation's calling us is what we've got

Move on man, move on man
Move on man, move on man

Brickies, chippies, every trade
People calling us to moan about British-made
But today the phones fall silent, we’ve gone
It’s for the best though, time to move on
Well do whatever it takes, whatever we can
Its time to move on man

Christmas Grumble

Christmas comes but once a year
It’s a time of mortal fear
For we all worry and fret
Because there’s always someone
We forget

Consumerism reaches fever pitch
And nothing goes without a hitch
So much to do, it all seems a bind
As we all forget the reasons
For Christmas time

So here’s my poetic weak attempt
Where my opinion I try to vent
Now Christmas seems such a bummer
Like the Australians
Can’t we have it in the summer?

Bang! - Chapter 3

Have you ever noticed that you can never get a perfect picture when you try to freeze-frame a video? Well, that is the closest I can get to describing the end of my relationship with Isabelle. I’m breaking more rules here – I should be explaining everything in chronological order, numbered and indexed, shouldn’t I? I should tell you about where we met, how she took my breath away when I first caught sight of her at that swimming pool. But if I did that…well, where would the fun be then? Where would the intrigue, the puzzle be?

Isabelle and I had been going out so long that we no longer argued about our anniversary. We used to do this a lot. Was it from when I first saw you? Shall we count it from the first kiss? What about the first time I came inside you? Was it perhaps the first awkward date, when we went to see Ghostbusters II, and then went to Burger King and discussed how bad sequels always were? This sort of conversation started good humouredly, but was eventually undermined when I tried to mark the occasion in some way, for posterity. A bunch of flowers met with derision, “It’s not even the right date, you idiot! It’s next week!”. Ditto the box of chocolate, with love poems attached (I must add that it wasn’t one of MY poems, even I am not that sad). Ditto the on-air local radio request. In the end, we both gave up this pointless display, and didn’t mention it anymore. In company people would ask “So, how long has it been for you two?” and we would uniformly shrug our shoulders and embarrassingly mumble “TOO long.” or something equally lame, as if it were some kind of in-joke.

I can’t tell you when it all changed from being perfect to being less-than, it was one of those gradual creeping things that is, before you know it, on top of you. I was hurt by small things, I had become hyper-sensitive. The main bone of contention – she hadn’t taken me to meet her parents. Why? I knew that her family was well off and mine was not, but I couldn’t see how this was a problem. I was not a farm boy who had stolen the virtue of their innocent Jane-Austenlike daughter. In fact, I hadn’t even had a sniff of virtue for some time. I didn’t think I had too many embarrassing habits – I remembered to wash my hands before dinner, I didn’t swear in mixed company, I almost never trod in dogshit and walked it through someone’s hallway. What was her problem? We had been seeing each other for over a year, yet I had no idea what her parents were like. Suspicious.

Of course, when I finally invited myself up to the big house, it all became clear. I finally knew the reason I had been kept away from her family. Fifteen years old, with her hair in bunches, Philla came bounding down the steps of the grange to meet me. Suddenly I came into focus for her, and she stopped dead in her tracks. If she were in mid-jump she would’ve been left hanging in the air, like a cartoon Wile E. Coyote when he steps off a cliff. Her eyes widened as she looked at me, and that was it. The fuse had been lit, the countdown had started, and there was nothing to do but stand back and wait for it to happen.

Bang! - Chapter 2

First of all, let me tell you some things about Philla, things that even I don’t know. Wait! How can I do that? Aahhh! A contradiction! Am I breaking some kind of literary rule here, by explaining things that my character wouldn’t possibly know? No matter.

Philla liked eighties music. Not specific bands – she didn’t prefer say Culture Club to Visage – but more the whole genre of it. She tuned in her clock radio so that the first sounds she would hear in the morning would be something eighties. It soothed her, made her feel nostalgic. Her obsession for eighties music didn’t creep into other aspects of life. She didn’t read eighties books, or wear eighties fashions. She wouldn’t, for instance, be seen dead in a ‘Frankie Says’ t-shirt and legwarmers. In the end though, she would have no say in the matter – for when it came, she would in fact be seen dead in the charred remains of a pink flannelette dressing gown and slippers.

What else? She was the sort of girl that would carry the duvet from the bed around the house with her. She would take it into the living room, where she would settle in front of the TV, and probably spill something on it. She would carry the duvet to the stairs, where she would cocoon herself whilst talking to her best friend on the phone. She would drag it with her when it was time to sit up to the table to eat. It wasn’t even that she was particularly cold or anything, it was more of a comfort thing. Security.

Philla liked to take control of her relationships. Not her friendships, but her proper male/female let’s-have-so-much-fun-that-we-mark-each-other’s-bodies type relationships. She would decide where things were going – whether it was time to get closer, more romantic, or whether it was time for them to fuck off. In nine cases out of ten, it was time to for them to fuck off. But then, that’s teenagers for you.

I’m telling you little things, things that aren’t necessarily relevant to the story. I’m painting you a mental picture of her, and this is the colouring-in bit. The easy bit that normally you should leave until last. I like it this way though, it almost makes me care for her even more. I’m just whetting your appetite, making you want to know her for yourself. She seems more real the more I tell you, doesn’t she?

The final interesting thing to know about Philla was this: she had an older sister, Isabelle. And this is the loose connection with me. I knew Isabelle, therefore I knew her younger sister Philla.

Except that I didn’t know her. Not yet.

Bang! - Chapter 1

The third time Philla saw me, she exploded.

I’m not being metaphorical. We often hear of someone “exploding with emotion” or we read that “he exploded with anger”, but in this case it was much more literal: she simply exploded. In pieces. Within about a fifteen foot radius. There was no warning to this sudden detonation – no ticking, no countdown, just well…bang.

Why am I telling you this? What has it got to do with me? You see, I’m responsible. I’m guilty. It’s all my fault really, I should have seen it coming. But it is fair to say that this time, love actually was blind. I’d willingly hold my hands up, yell “It was me” from the highest rooftop, but to tell you the truth I don’t even feel sorry. Had it been the second time she saw me…well, maybe then, but not now. Now all I feel is a faint tinge of regret and slightly cracked ribs where a portion of her shoulder hit me. Nothing more.

Have you ever fancied someone so much that you treated them badly?

You don’t know what I mean, do you? What I mean is, do you remember that person that you were friends with, but secretly fancied? The old story of the one that wants to be just friends, and you make out that this is in some way a good idea. You go out to pubs and cinemas and things like that, and all the time you’re hoping they will suddenly turn round and say “Hang on! You’re bloody lovely” I’d never noticed you before!”. Of course in the ‘Real World’ this never happens, and instead you follow them round doggedly, trying to please them, and being told that you’re “so nice”. After a while, you become frustrated by this, even annoyed that they haven’t fallen in love with you, or even noticed you in that way. If you saw them with someone else you felt betrayed, despite the fact that you have absolutely no claim on them. And so one day you turn. You snap. You bawl at them for no reason. Perhaps you pick a fault in them, tell them they’ve always been selfish. In short, you treat them badly. Would it be fair to say that you always hurt the one you love, or would it fit better to say that you always hurt the one you’re secretly infatuated with?

What does this seemingly private rant have to do with anything? If we were at a party, would you back away politely to go and get another cheese-and-pineapple-on-a-stick? I’m telling you all this because it’s how we started. Our relationship was only three dates long (and the third was pretty instantaneous – “BANG!”), but in my mind we had been together for years.

You see, really, this isn’t about her exploding, and it doesn’t make any difference that they had to use three separate plastic bags to carry her away. Or that you can still see the stain stretched out across the kerb. No, this is a story about love. The power of love. And that’s where the story starts.