Friday, 31 December 2021
Excerpt from "A Sliver of Skin"
She is immersed in that unbelieving moment even as more figures stumble in, and around her, a maelstrom of activity erupts. She is stillness until a voice screams: “Nurse, you bitch! I fucking need you, right here!”
Leila turns slow as agony turns away from Joseph-is-dead to lend her hands to another who is yet alive.
“NURSE! Stem this hemorrhage! NOW!” Her hands sink into the soft yielding mass of ruined flesh, she presses down. Against her fingers, she feels the malignant stubborn spurt of arterial blood. She presses down. It slows to a sullen trickle, then there are other hands pressing on hers, and she draws away, turns away.
She looks for him, for Joseph-is-dead. The boy on the stretcher has two legs, but his chest is the wrong shape for life. She sees it at a glance and goes to him. Joseph-is-dead, the droning voice in her head says. Joseph-is-dead.
Finally, they stop coming, they stop dying. Those that can be saved are borne away, and she walks outside.
Maybe outside, far from the sweet ripe odor of torn flesh and gangrene and death Joseph won’t be dead. She steps outside and sees the thin man sitting on the ground.
There is blood on him, blood and dust. He looks up at her.
“I saw you once, at Solomon’s shop…With him. The American.”
Leila nods. “Yes.”
The thin man whispers “This is not real, did you know? I discovered that at the camp. None of it is real. There is no death or dirt. I sing a song and it goes away.” He starts humming something off-tune, in a guttural tongue. He nods his head in time, wobbling it from side to side on his long thin neck.
Leila turns away, falls back into the nightmare, wakes up still remembering, still sane.
Leila turns slow as agony turns away from Joseph-is-dead to lend her hands to another who is yet alive.
“NURSE! Stem this hemorrhage! NOW!” Her hands sink into the soft yielding mass of ruined flesh, she presses down. Against her fingers, she feels the malignant stubborn spurt of arterial blood. She presses down. It slows to a sullen trickle, then there are other hands pressing on hers, and she draws away, turns away.
She looks for him, for Joseph-is-dead. The boy on the stretcher has two legs, but his chest is the wrong shape for life. She sees it at a glance and goes to him. Joseph-is-dead, the droning voice in her head says. Joseph-is-dead.
Finally, they stop coming, they stop dying. Those that can be saved are borne away, and she walks outside.
Maybe outside, far from the sweet ripe odor of torn flesh and gangrene and death Joseph won’t be dead. She steps outside and sees the thin man sitting on the ground.
There is blood on him, blood and dust. He looks up at her.
“I saw you once, at Solomon’s shop…With him. The American.”
Leila nods. “Yes.”
The thin man whispers “This is not real, did you know? I discovered that at the camp. None of it is real. There is no death or dirt. I sing a song and it goes away.” He starts humming something off-tune, in a guttural tongue. He nods his head in time, wobbling it from side to side on his long thin neck.
Leila turns away, falls back into the nightmare, wakes up still remembering, still sane.
MC
My Support Group For Expectant Mothers Helped Me Survive My Problem Pregnancy
I must admit that I was really starting to wonder how I was going to cope with the challenges of becoming a Mom for the very first time.
I am 42, and most of my friends had had their kids in their early twenties while I had pursued a high-profile career in advertising. Now I was sporting a burgeoning tummy while they smugly lay by the pool sipping cocktails in bikinis. Their kids were off at College, married, travelling the world, and one or two had even produced a grandchild.. They patted their slim, tanned, liposuctioned bellies and smirked at my swollen feet and gargantuan stomach.
Well, a girl needs someone to confide in, and I felt that connecting to a group of women facing the same experience would help me no end. The Nurse at my OB gave me the contact for a support group called "Happy Mommies, Lovely Tummies!"
It sounded so up-beat, so cheery and empowering! I called them and was informed that the next meeting was that very afternoon.
I dragged on the only thing that still fit - a grey shapeless tunic hanging glumly in front of a slick high fashioned (and wildly expensive) maternity dress that I had worn for 50 seconds 6 months ago. I slipped on some low and wide extremely ugly but comfortable shoes and lumbered off to what was to be a defining moment in my life.
There was a semi-circle of very comfortable-looking armchairs and one tall throne-like Chesterfield in the airy and light-filled room in which the meeting was being held. Most of the chairs were filled. All the women were pregnant. Some women had a flushed, joyous countenance, others the weary expression of Atlas - if he’d carried the weight of the world balanced on top of his bladder instead of his shoulders...
One pretty twenty-something girl patted the empty chair next to her invitingly and smiled happily. “How far along are you?” she asked.
"Seven months...But they say the worse is over."
A cruel laugh interrupted us. "No, it isn't! They lie, lie..."
A tall offensively thin woman walked in and sat on the "throne".
"Now Ladies! Let's remember! Happy Mommies, Lovely Tummies!"
The women chanted this mantra dejectedly a few times, then "skinny" said, "Who wants to share?"
A very buxom girl said. “He cut me off. My doctor cut off my supply. He said I was putting on too much weight. Now my husband makes me walk for an entire hour every evening. It was just ice cream. A quart or two, of plain vanilla with walnuts and caramel, hot chocolate sauce, and those little marshmallow sprinkles on the top. That was all . . .” Tears ran down her face.
Everyone made these comforting noises and one tiny Asian girl with a gigantic belly said: “Try that with cottage cheese, or low-fat yogurt. If you put on enough chocolate sauce or caramel, you can hardly taste the difference..,”
“I don’t mind the food; it’s the peeing that gets me down.” Said one weary-looking girl and sighed. “I swear I never dreamed a human body could hold so much liquid. Every fifteen minutes I gotta go. I’ve still got two whole months left on my sentence.”
“Oh yeah? My boobs leak. No one told me about that. I’ve got three months to go.”
“Is that all? I leak, pee, AND on top of that, I puke every day at eleven like clockwork.”
“Well, I haven’t seen my feet in six weeks. The little shit is two weeks overdue already, and my doctor insists we wait on Nature. I wanna epidural and a Cesarean!"
"I want anesthesia," screamed a voice I recognized, "I want it now! I want a dress that fits, I want to look less like a blimp, I want to be sexy and thin, I WANT TO BE ME!"
That WAS me...My voice. At last, I was letting out all that steam the stress and strain of needing to be this glowing delightfully happy and PERFECT future mom had placed on me.
"I HAVE HAIRY LEGS!" I cried. " I haven't had hairy legs since I was 12! But I can't reach over my belly, the kid is in the way!"
I am 42, and most of my friends had had their kids in their early twenties while I had pursued a high-profile career in advertising. Now I was sporting a burgeoning tummy while they smugly lay by the pool sipping cocktails in bikinis. Their kids were off at College, married, travelling the world, and one or two had even produced a grandchild.. They patted their slim, tanned, liposuctioned bellies and smirked at my swollen feet and gargantuan stomach.
Well, a girl needs someone to confide in, and I felt that connecting to a group of women facing the same experience would help me no end. The Nurse at my OB gave me the contact for a support group called "Happy Mommies, Lovely Tummies!"
It sounded so up-beat, so cheery and empowering! I called them and was informed that the next meeting was that very afternoon.
I dragged on the only thing that still fit - a grey shapeless tunic hanging glumly in front of a slick high fashioned (and wildly expensive) maternity dress that I had worn for 50 seconds 6 months ago. I slipped on some low and wide extremely ugly but comfortable shoes and lumbered off to what was to be a defining moment in my life.
There was a semi-circle of very comfortable-looking armchairs and one tall throne-like Chesterfield in the airy and light-filled room in which the meeting was being held. Most of the chairs were filled. All the women were pregnant. Some women had a flushed, joyous countenance, others the weary expression of Atlas - if he’d carried the weight of the world balanced on top of his bladder instead of his shoulders...
One pretty twenty-something girl patted the empty chair next to her invitingly and smiled happily. “How far along are you?” she asked.
"Seven months...But they say the worse is over."
A cruel laugh interrupted us. "No, it isn't! They lie, lie..."
A tall offensively thin woman walked in and sat on the "throne".
"Now Ladies! Let's remember! Happy Mommies, Lovely Tummies!"
The women chanted this mantra dejectedly a few times, then "skinny" said, "Who wants to share?"
A very buxom girl said. “He cut me off. My doctor cut off my supply. He said I was putting on too much weight. Now my husband makes me walk for an entire hour every evening. It was just ice cream. A quart or two, of plain vanilla with walnuts and caramel, hot chocolate sauce, and those little marshmallow sprinkles on the top. That was all . . .” Tears ran down her face.
Everyone made these comforting noises and one tiny Asian girl with a gigantic belly said: “Try that with cottage cheese, or low-fat yogurt. If you put on enough chocolate sauce or caramel, you can hardly taste the difference..,”
“I don’t mind the food; it’s the peeing that gets me down.” Said one weary-looking girl and sighed. “I swear I never dreamed a human body could hold so much liquid. Every fifteen minutes I gotta go. I’ve still got two whole months left on my sentence.”
“Oh yeah? My boobs leak. No one told me about that. I’ve got three months to go.”
“Is that all? I leak, pee, AND on top of that, I puke every day at eleven like clockwork.”
“Well, I haven’t seen my feet in six weeks. The little shit is two weeks overdue already, and my doctor insists we wait on Nature. I wanna epidural and a Cesarean!"
"I want anesthesia," screamed a voice I recognized, "I want it now! I want a dress that fits, I want to look less like a blimp, I want to be sexy and thin, I WANT TO BE ME!"
That WAS me...My voice. At last, I was letting out all that steam the stress and strain of needing to be this glowing delightfully happy and PERFECT future mom had placed on me.
"I HAVE HAIRY LEGS!" I cried. " I haven't had hairy legs since I was 12! But I can't reach over my belly, the kid is in the way!"
Suddenly a gentle hand was on my head, another woman was holding my hands, and a murmur of comforting voices washed over me.
"Hush now," Said "skinny", "In a few months that kid will be out and you can start working on your revenge..."
Revenge? AH! Of course, so that was the secret behind that happy smile most expectant mothers sport!
They know they will have at least 18 years in which to subject their children to all kinds of trauma-inducing rules and regulations!
"Hush now," Said "skinny", "In a few months that kid will be out and you can start working on your revenge..."
Revenge? AH! Of course, so that was the secret behind that happy smile most expectant mothers sport!
They know they will have at least 18 years in which to subject their children to all kinds of trauma-inducing rules and regulations!
Broccoli, spinach, raw vegetable smoothies, curfews, and restrictions on Internet time!
Visits to strange and scary (though harmless) distant relatives, camping trips with no wi-fi....
Not to mention being affectionate and insisting on being "supportive" all through their teenage years! Maybe we can go retro and bring back cod-liver oil?
I must admit I felt a lot better for my rant. So we all held hands, chanted our mantra "Happy Mommies, Lovely Tummies!" to the tune of "Kumbaya" and went out for waffles with real maple syrup and vanilla ice cream and extra sugar-free chocolate sprinkles.
Next week we are shaving each other's legs! I can't wait.
I must admit I felt a lot better for my rant. So we all held hands, chanted our mantra "Happy Mommies, Lovely Tummies!" to the tune of "Kumbaya" and went out for waffles with real maple syrup and vanilla ice cream and extra sugar-free chocolate sprinkles.
Next week we are shaving each other's legs! I can't wait.
Don't live through those moments alone, Moms! Reach out and connect!
Friday, 23 April 2021
Serial Killer Serenade
So you think I'm pretty
So you think I'm hot
Want to get me on my back
Nudge my knees apart
But listen, listen baby before we make a start
I'm your cup of poison
I'm the hidden knife
Kissing me baby
Is tonguing the asp
So you think you're clever
So you think you're smart
Come close closer closest baby
Serve me up your heart
But remember, remember baby before we make a start
I'm your cup of poison
I'm the hidden knife
Kissing me baby
Is tonguing the asp
Step into the alley
Step into my parlor
Tear my stockings lift my skirt
Show me what you've got
But watch me, watch me, baby, don't close your eyes
'Cause
I'm your cup of poison
I'm the hidden knife
Kissing me baby
Is tonguing the asp
So goodbye godspeed goodnight baby
Ragdoll man with rain in your eyes
Saturday, 13 February 2021
Billionaire Blues
Joplin wanted a Mercedes Benz
But Lord won't you find me a billionaire
Like the one Grimes managed to snare
Make him fat, make him old
Bald, bony, hands cold, I don't care
Please Lord, just find me a billionaire
Like the one Grimes managed to snare
Maybe I'm no Anna Nicole
I'm kinda flat-chested, fat, and short
But I swear that in my soul
I'm blond and busty,
Sweet and funny, hot and lusty
So Lord, won't you find me a billionaire
Like the one Grimes managed to snare
I swear I'd love him if he were poor
But that wouldn't keep the wolf from the door,
Caviar on my spoon
My peach in bloom
So Lord, if you care
Lord if you're there
Please won't you find me a billionaire?
Like the one Grimes managed to snare
MC
Joplin wanted a Mercedes Benz
But Lord won't you find me a billionaire
Like the one Grimes managed to snare
Make him fat, make him old
Bald, bony, hands cold, I don't care
Please Lord, just find me a billionaire
Like the one Grimes managed to snare
Maybe I'm no Anna Nicole
I'm kinda flat-chested, fat, and short
But I swear that in my soul
I'm blond and busty,
Sweet and funny, hot and lusty
So Lord, won't you find me a billionaire
Like the one Grimes managed to snare
I swear I'd love him if he were poor
But that wouldn't keep the wolf from the door,
Caviar on my spoon
My peach in bloom
So Lord, if you care
Lord if you're there
Please won't you find me a billionaire?
Like the one Grimes managed to snare
MC
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