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Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
The Market, a Story of Love by Sarnia de la Maré
Mabel had always known she was odd and so had everyone else. She was born with eyes that wandered in different directions and this seemingly small detail on her face had only made her seem even weirder than she was. It alienated her from school friends and added to her overall peculiarity. Furthermore, when she had matured she had grown buxom and had developed a small downy shadow above her top lip.
Then there was the issue with communications or rather her lack of them. Her parents, keen to get Mable to fit in, had sent her to various therapists and life coaches in an attempt to increase her friendship ring. Alas, the friendships remained around level zero. At best people did not like her, thinking her rude, and at worst they were petrified. Sometimes, people crossed the road when they saw her clomping down the street in her 6-inch steel-toed boots with her black hair structured high above her like a pair of bird’s wings. The piercings and tattoos added to the overall effect of being just kooky. Mabel liked weird dissonant music, wore bizarre clothes, played satanic ritualistic games, and had been expressing a high level of sexual deviancy since an inappropriately young age. Her mother was forever finding effigies under her bed and the rat skins were the final straw. Mabel had had to move out. But Mable wanted love. It was time to find the one, a one just like her, who would eventually help her make another one just like them. Mable had overheard a conversation between two yummy mummies in the library. Their children, all snotty and hipster white, with those clothes that look like rags but cost a packet, played in the soft play area sharing the germs of the town. Mable thought about plague.
‘Where did you meet your husband?’ asked the one in the linen trousers. ‘At the market, answered the one in the yellow bandana, smugly ‘It was love at first sight.’
Love at first sight was something that excited Mable greatly. Mostly because it would, by definition, avoid the chance of anyone having second thoughts.
The market was abuzz with the activity of buyers and sellers exchanging requests, ideas, deals, and greetings. Mable was not sure how to interact amidst such diverse people as communication had always been difficult and strained. However, she had researched all week in the run-up to market day, how to engage and impress people. She had also swotted up on jargon and definitions of things that may be sold on market stalls. She was prepped and ready for love.
First was the fishmonger stall. Apart from the obvious smells, which may or may not be conducive to love, depending on viewpoint, Mable was unsure if the fish stall would be an inspiring venue to catapult feelings of lust. There was ice though, and Mable liked ice very much indeed. She edged her way towards the counter, pressing her black leather coat hard against it. She spotted a suitable target, tall with that slightly vacant look some young men wear so well. The only props were fish; and one, a large rainbow trout, with its white eyes still intact and staring at her, seemed to egg her on.
It was mouthing ‘go on’ with its pouty lips.
She coughed and stroked the cold wet fish scales making eyes at a young man on her right buying prawns. Then she took her fishy cold finger and licked it with the tip of her tongue from bottom to top whilst staring intently at her victim, both her eyes looking in opposite directions.
‘Fucking freak,’ he shouted, barging past her and mumbling various other expletives as he made good his escape. He didn’t look back.
Not one for ever giving up, Mable made her way to the household stall. With her finger still smelling of the trout she remained hopeful and deduced, as it was a place of domesticity and homewares, it represented family, home and stability. Hoovers, kettles, bed linen, the type of things people gave at weddings. Items filled with hope that couplings would last, that life would be shared, that there was future.
‘Come on, who wants one o these then?’ Shouted a rotund man with a working-class demeanor and a cockney lilt. ‘You won’ get this any cheaper anywhere else my darlins’ he continued.
Mable found herself amidst a small crowd of women all rummaging through their purses for the tenners. The only man at the stall was the fat cockney. He was really not Mabel’s type and, in the panic, Mable bought a pink toaster of Chinese origin. She put it in her black back and hoped no one saw. The next stall was the vegetable stall. It was a veritable party of colour and texture with every possible variation of phallus imaginable. Mabel's heart skipped a beat. There was a cluster of men of varying heights and widths but one in black drew her attention between the courgettes and the aubergines. It was the most perfect scenario for flirting Mable could have hoped for.
She brushed past the man and grasped a courgette with one hand and aubergine in the other, shouting, 'Which one would you recommend?' The man turned to look at Mabel, but it was not a man, but rather a lady of manly style. The woman raised an eyebrow and licked her lips, remarking, with a Mae West intonation, ‘Well baby, depends on how much you can take.’
Mabel dropped the vegetables and hurriedly removed herself from the sniggering group of customers.
By now Mabel was beginning to lose hope. There was one stall left before she would just give up this silly experiment. It was a bad idea after all. Only yummy mummies could find success and everlasting love at the market.
But the last stall filled her with an unexpected anticipation, like surprise foreplay, an emotional aperitif. It was a DIY Hardware stall. It was butch. It exhibited hardness and strength. Power. There were tools that looked like guns. There was metal and black. There was oil and grease. There were things that sawed, cut, clasped, pinched, poked and drilled. There were things that would hurt and things that would repair. Mabel found herself in a place of extreme arousal.
There were things that would electrify, shock, bind and clamp. It was almost too much and she began to turn to leave.
‘Hi,’ said a gentle voice.
Mabel turned to see a slender soft-faced man of around twenty staring at her with his lips slightly parted. His lips may have quivered, she couldn’t be sure.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, coyly.
‘Yes,’ said Mable. Gaining inner strength from his fear. ‘If I was to have a date with a man and I wanted to impress him, is there anything you sell here that may swing his favour, you know, persuade him that it was a good idea.’
‘Yes, said the man coughing nervously and throwing shy glances at Mable’s leather coat and boots, there is a lot I can provide you with, Madam.
The man was more beautiful than any man Mable had ever seen. He was as vulnerable as a baby rabbit. His wide eyes were green like pools of glass and she wondered how he would cry. He began collecting things from the stall and putting them in a pile in front of Mable.
He started with a large roll of black gaffer tape, then pliers, sandpaper, candle wax, a pole and finally an industrial tub of petroleum jelly.
‘That should be about perfect for a first date, with the right person, of course, if you have found him.’ ‘Oh Yes,’ said Mable, ‘I found him right here in the market.’
© 2019 Sarnia de la Mare
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The Riverbank by Sarnia de la Maré
Great Aunt Katherine had been seemingly on her last legs for about thirty years. Since I could remember she had been shrinking and creaking and swaying in the wind. Finally, she was gone and was currently residing in a casket for public viewing before burial later in the day.
We had never gotten along.
She was caustic and bitter and complained about everything. She irked me to the core.
None of us liked her and we seldom got in touch. Mum had fallen out with her years back and the connections rusted and corroded like old batteries. Damage had been done with emotional weaponry and unrepentant intent.
But in death people rally together to do their duty and triumphantly, one hopes, they ignore the fallout from the battleground.
The undertaker had worked a treat. Great Aunt’s hair was spruced and pompadoured like a grand poodle and someone had done a great job on her makeup. In repose, I thought I saw in her some beauty. I had never seen it before in her. How, I wondered, had I not seen it before? Perhaps then, it had been the light.
It was stuffy and death makes me nauseous so I took myself off for some air in the Lancashire sun.
The Riverbank
The grounds of the estate were rambling and pretty, cared for by a team of gardeners and gamekeepers. I followed a winding road, then a desire path through an accidental arch of higher foliage. Birds sang and I noticed the accidental grace of an untouched place.
‘You wanna be careful down there luv,’ said a man with a thick accident and clobber befitting a man who works on the land.
‘Oh, where does it go, this path?’ I asked.
‘Just by the riverside, it’s dangerous if you lose your footing; and don’t be tempted to swim in it, there’s wild currents, people ‘av drowned.’
‘Ok,’ I said, ‘I’ll be careful’.
‘Make sure you are, shout if there’s a bother’.
I objected to be being told and marched arrogantly on.
The riverside was a reedy unkempt place and the water seemed almost still. I doubted anyone had drowned there. I followed the bank upstream for some minutes and saw a beautiful glade just inland covered in bluebells. The blue-purple velvet tones in the late sun were breathtaking and I stopped to take a photograph on my phone.
I misjudged the bank and as I stepped back, cascaded down the steep slope, twisting my ankle as I landed with little room to spare before the water’s edge. It was a close shave. I would probably have to eat humble pie after all.
I stroked my foot; it was sore and I assumed I had twisted it. Reluctantly I called for help without trying to sound panicked.
Something had stabbed on my way down, something sharp. I was bleeding quite badly from my thigh.
I looked up the bank amongst the flattened grasses and saw something. It shimmered in the sun’s rays.
A bellowing voice broke the silence.
‘Are you alright? I told you to be careful din I?’
It was the gamekeeper doing his job, thank goodness.
‘I was trying to take a photograph,’ I explained feebly. ‘I hurt my ankle’.
‘Stay put, if you think you can follow a simple instruction. I will get my car and the first aid kit.’
The gamekeeper muttered several gripes and made his way to prepare for an overly dramatic rescue mission.
I waited as instructed and looked at the shiny object, it was a large red and gold brooch with an open bent pin. I must have stabbed myself as I tumbled down the verge.
It was tarnished and dirty but I could see it was gold. The stone looked like ruby, but I cannot profess to be an expert. It wasn’t paste, that much I knew. It was big and I was pleased to have found it immediately wondering if it was worth anything.
I began to polish it on my skirt, breathing hard on it and trying to remove the muck. As I did so I could see a small clasp and a hinge.
I tried to prize it open but it seemed to be stuck. After some brute force, the clasp was released.
Inside was like a locket, squared off. There were two photographs. One side, a picture of a young woman, a beautiful young woman and a young man with dark eyes. The woman’s hair was mounted in pompadour fashion on her proud dignified face. They were lovers, you could tell.
The other was a picture of an infant in swaddling clothes.
I tried to take out the photos but the baby picture was stuck fast. The other came out easily and inscribed on the reverse in tiny handwriting was my great aunt’s name, Katherine Baltimore and a date, 1938.
I looked again at the beautiful woman in the photograph and there I saw her as I have never seen her before.
‘Alright, old tight!’ shouted the gamekeeper.
The rescue mission passed off with ease and we trundled along the road towards the house in a four by four that looked and smelled like things were growing in it.
‘How long have you worked here?’ I asked.
‘Nigh on sixty years,’ said the gamekeeper.
‘Did my Aunt ever marry?’
‘No no, she was broken-hearted as a young girl, so they say. Had a love, apparently, died in the river there. I told you dint I?....don’t get close to the river, it has a jinx it does, I’m tellin’ ya, and your ma’ld never forgive me should out ‘appen.’
We arrived at the house to a general fuss about the state of my health and I was taken to be ‘fixed up.’
Mum was not pleased and came to my room to reprimand me in that maternal way mums do.
‘Why did you go to the riverside? People have drowned there!’ she exclaimed.
‘I wish people would stop telling me that’ I said in disgruntled fashion, ‘and who was it, Great Aunt Katherine’s boyfriend? I can’t believe she ever had one, looked like she hadn’t ever been laid with that scowl.’
‘That’s unkind,’ said mum.
‘Oh yeah sorry, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But she was such a bitch.’
Mum sat down on the bed next to me.
‘Well, I may as well tell you, it won’t do any damage now, I suppose.
Your Great Aunt was such a rebel. She had this red hair. My great-grandma used to say it was the hair was the problem. There was a boy here, employed. He was rough, son of the gamekeeper who rescued you.’
I raised my internal eyebrows at the word rescue but listened intently.
‘My great-grandma knew he was going to cause trouble because he had those eyes.’
‘What eyes?’ I asked
‘Ones that make you want to lie down and take your clothes off, that’s what eyes.’
‘Oh. Those eyes......’ I said, knowingly.
‘Well,’ mum continued, ‘they struck up a very intense relationship but it was never going to work. Everyone was up in arms about it. They were different people, different classes, different upbringings. Those eyes were not going to solve the problem.’
‘So, what happened? I asked, desperate now for the full story.
‘Well, your Great Aunt ended the affair but he took it badly. They say he jumped off the bridge upstream where the two rivers meet and his body was washed up here, by the bluebell glade. He had been drinking, no one really knew what had happened.’
‘But she had a baby,’ I said.
‘Yes, how did you know? It was stillborn. At the time it was all for the best.’
I went downstairs to look at the coffin and say farewell to a great aunt who had felt such pain and loss. I looked at her face embraced in the sumptuous cream satin. Great Aunt Katherine looked content, different from when I had seen her this morning. I wondered if she would have wanted me to keep the brooch and considered its value. But I knew that that would be wrong.
She would want to be reunited with her baby and her love with the lay-down eyes.
I put the brooch on her lapel and kissed her forehead. Then I apologized and said farewell.
© 2019 Sarnia de la Mare
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View All 35 Artworks“The Monk: A Romance” by Matthew Gregory Lewis, a Gothic Novel audiobook version and essay
Let’s delve into the dark and captivating world of “The Monk: A Romance” by Matthew Gregory Lewis. This Gothic novel, published in 1796, weaves a tale of corruption, forbidden desires, and supernatural forces. Buckle up as we explore its twisted plot, memorable characters, and enduring impact.
Overview and Context
- Title: The Monk: A Romance
- Author: Matthew Gregory Lewis
- Genre: Gothic novel
- Publication Date: 1796
Plot Summary
“The Monk” has two intertwined plotlines that keep readers on the edge of their seats:
Ambrosio’s Downfall:
- Ambrosio, a celebrated monk in Madrid, is the central character. Abandoned at an abbey as an infant, he grows up to be virtuous and revered.
- His closest friend, Rosario, reveals her true identity as Matilda, a woman who disguised herself to be near Ambrosio.
- Matilda nurses Ambrosio back to health after a serpent bite, and their relationship takes a dark turn. She tempts him into forbidden desires, leading to a secret affair.
- When Ambrosio becomes infatuated with the virtuous maiden Antonia, Matilda offers him a sinister solution: witchcraft.
- The consequences of Ambrosio’s choices spiral into murder, lust, and damnation.
Raymond and Agnes:
- The subplot follows the romance between Raymond and the nun Agnes.
- Their love story unfolds against the backdrop of Ambrosio’s downfall, adding depth and complexity to the narrative.
Themes and Elements
- Gothic Horror: “The Monk” epitomizes the Gothic genre, emphasizing horror, suspense, and the supernatural.
- Forbidden Desires: Ambrosio’s inner struggle with desire, lust, and temptation drives the plot.
- Intriguing Characters:
- Ambrosio: Initially virtuous, he succumbs to darkness.
- Matilda: The enigmatic temptress who leads Ambrosio astray.
- Antonia: The innocent maiden caught in the web of intrigue.
- Witchcraft and the Occult: Matilda’s involvement with Lucifer and her use of magic add an eerie dimension.
- Moral Decay: The novel explores the corruption of virtue and the consequences of sinful choices.
Legacy and Adaptations
- Influence: “The Monk” left an indelible mark on Gothic literature. Its scandalous plot and vivid characters inspired countless imitations.
- Stage and Screen: The novel has been adapted for theater and film, capturing its dark allure.
Conclusion
“The Monk: A Romance” remains a haunting and influential work. Lewis’s ability to blend horror, passion, and the supernatural ensures its place in literary history. So, dear reader, immerse yourself in this twisted tale—it’s a journey you won’t soon forget.
References:
Betrayal Protocol Shorts and Text adult literature series by Sarnia de la Maré FRSA #spies #love #betrayal
Betrayal Protocol
Part 1
Under Cover
Tara Jones was the pride and joy of her seemingly ordinary parents. They lived in a beige house with beige art and had spent their careers as rather beige civil servants.
A string of good public schools had strategically set Tara’s path in life.
She had excelled as a student and attended Cambridge University, rather more to please others than for any personal ambition. But Tara had become a modern woman with an independent and assertive mind determined to set her own path in life. It remained inevitable that she would be head hunted by the secret services due to her pedigree and a tip off from one of her tutors that she could be useful for the security of Great Britain.
(2)
Even as a young teenager Tara had known the ins and outs of MI5 and MI6, whilst never really knowing her parents’ true involvement as spies.
Secrecy had been drummed into her as a toddler. ‘We do not speak of our work roles outside the home,’ father had regularly stipulated.
But Tara had been in her cosy desk job for far too long and was itching to get out into the field.
It was imminent. There had been a nod from her superiors at Scotland Yard that there was something coming up.
Tara woke with a spring in her step. She had been made aware that someone from Thames House was arriving and her interview had been booked in for this morning.
‘Oh Taz, don’t go yet, suck my dick babe!’
James was good looking, that was undeniable. But he worked in the city as a lawyer and did too much coke on Fridays when he and his lawyer mates would pleasure themselves over gin, feasting in self satisfaction and case law.
(3)
Tara’s friends referred to him as TAT, a rather derogatory acronyms for ‘the arrogant twat.’
‘Not today James.’ Tara winked and touched her pussy, meowing with a grin.
Today I have a very important interview with somebody from Thames House as I am about to be elevated to a very important person!’
James considered a wank but thought better of it. He was punching above his weight with Tara and she was, in his mind, ‘the one’. He was already twenty-eight and his mother had started those awful hints that mothers without grandchildren give.
‘I’ll make breakfast,’ he shouted as he watched Tara in the shower trying to get his designer boxers over the biggest member in West London.
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